Drum (46 page)

"You've killed him." Calinda was down on the flagging, trying to lift Drum's body.

"We both killed him," Blaise answered. "And now I'm going to kill you. Drum was going to do it. I'll do it for him."

Calinda looked up at Blaise. ' "Yes. Thout Drum I don't want to live no more. Here." 5he pulled at the saw which was still deeply embedded in "!)rum's neck and handed it to Blaise, unmindful of the foun-'ain of crimson spurting out. "You killed Drum with this, f-et me die the same way." [ "Stop it! Stop it at once!"

They both looked up. Alix was teetering on her bare feet «eside them. "Is he dead?" she pointed to Drum.

"He's dead," Blaise answered. "I killed him. He was going 0 kill me so I killed him first." Alix' tiny white hand descended in a vicious slap on !alinda's cheek.

Get away from him! I suspect you're to blame for all lis." Calinda inched away on her knees and Alix knelt beside himi's dead body. Her hand lingered on his hair, combing it ack from his eyes. Slowly she heaved herself to her feet. Her loment of emotion had passed. She was now in command f the situation. 'There'll be no more killing here." The authority in her

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voice was not to be denied. "Drum was killed in a stree( fight, managed to make his way home and died here. Undeis stand? That's your story and you'll stick to it. I should havi you both sent to the Calabozo and flogged to death but 1 won't. I'm not losing two valuable slaves to avenge the dealt of one. But remember, one word of what has really han pened and I'll send you both. You, Blaise, heard a noise a the back door. You got up to investigate. You found Drui| with his throat cut. You dragged him in here and he died Repeat it."

"Yes, madame." Blaise hesitated. "I was sleeping. I hean a noise at the back door. I got up, found Drum with h throat cut. I pulled him in and called Calinda, but he wj dead when we got to him." \

"You won't be called on to testify anyway, but if othj slaves ask you, that's your story. From now on, Blaise, youl fight in Drum's stead. And you, Calinda, you'll be his worn an."

"Yes, madame." Blaise bowed his head.

"Calinda?" Alix was peremptory.

"Yes, madame."

"Tend to your child, he's crying. And you, Blaise, prepai» a cofiin for Dnmi." She turned and walked across the court yard to the stairs that led to her room. Halfway across, sh collapsed and fell. Blaise and Calinda rushed to her, think ing that she was dead, but Alix had only fainted. Betwe© the two of them, they carried her upstairs to bed.

When she came to and had regained possession of he senses, she dispatched Titine with a message to Blaise an Calinda.

"The silver chain that was around Drum's neck is not | be buried with him. It is to be brought to me."

book three

chapter i

The drowsy summer afternoon droned on at the Academy of Music, whose modest sign, now ahnost illegible with peeling paint and tarnished gold leaf, still hung before the house on Dumaine Street. Everyone in the house was asleep, except Drumson. Blaise and Calinda slept on the bed in the kitchen with their numerous progeny sprawled about on the floor. Madame Alix, her liver-splotched bloodless hands clutching the linen sheet like talons, slept in her big draped bed upstairs, her mouth open, her crude false teeth on the table beside the bed. The white girls slept on the second floor, and on the third floor, the octoroon and quadroon girls.

In the little room in the gargonniere, formerly occupied by Drum, a flashily handsome quadroon, with long black curly hair, was prostrate on the floor, and the narrow bed which Drum had once occupied held his son, Drumson, who was fully awake. He looked up at the same blotched ceiling and had similar thoughts to those his father had had before him. Uppermost in his mind just now was the fact that sleeping was a waste of time for a hot-blooded young man of eighteen years. There were far more interesting things he might be doing. For instance, he might, if he dared, creep across the courtyard and up to the third floor. One or two of the girls there had eyed him lately and he might ... he might. ... He wondered if his father had ever done just that. He'd bet he had!

He knew his father hadn't stuck around the place day and night, seeing other men enjoying themselves and having only the solace of his own right hand. Bah! He was sick of the place; sick of his life here; sick of taking drinks to rooms and seeing the pleasures that other men could purchase, which were denied him. Yes, he was sick of it all. He was sick of the swarm of half-brothers and sisters who were all blacker than he was. Sometimes he wished that old Madame would sell him oS. as she had sold his two oldest half-

brothers, Tom-Ned and Blazes, when they got to be fifteen.] He even envied Firefly who was next to be sold. Madamei had even threatened to sell that no-good quadroon bastardi who was snoring on the floor. He wished she would. Then perhaps she would let him take part in her melees. He was old enough now and he knew he could do a better job than Anatole. He'd peeked through the keyhole several times. Damn! If old Madame would let him do that, it would be almost as good as being a stud on a big plantation, which had lately been his prime ambition.

Being an old woman's slave sure was hell. What did she know of the sap that was rising in him? What fellow wanted to belong to an old woman who spent all her time in bed and almost never let him leave the house. He'd rather have a master—some young Creole gentleman who would treat him like a man. That's what he'd like. Man! That would be living, to have a young master and get out of this goddam house. He'd sure earn his keep for any master. He'd get him a hundred new suckers every year. A hundred? He'd get hin a thousand. He'd be like his pappy. He'd be like Drum.

His hand wandered up to the thin silver chain with tin pendant silver box attached to it which hung about his neck As long as he could remember he had always worn it. Twic( during his lifetime the chain had worn so thin that it hac broken and old Madame, stingy as she was, had had it re paired for him. She sure was stingy. Wouldn't get him a sui of clothes like his pappy's—all he had was just a plain ok black suit. Uncle Blaise had told him about those clothe; and how his pappy had looked in them, and said his papp} had been buried in them. Uncle Blaise's suit had long sinc< worn out but he still kept it, ragged though it was, and hi let Drumson look at it once in a while.

He stretched out on the narrow bed, his eyes searchinj the stained spot on the ceiling. With a little imagination thi two round spots could resolve themselves into a pair of worn en's breasts and Drumson often pictured them as such. Thaj damned Anatole! What a bastard he was—always bragging Madame let him out on Sundays and he went to Cong( Square. When he came home he'd always tell Drumson tal tales of what had happened and how because he was so good looking, so light-skinned and had such a reputation as stud boy at Madame's, all the women chased after him and evei offered him money to go with them. Of course, Anatole wa good-looking and upstanding—that's why Madame ha*

bought him—^but secretly Drumson thought himself better looking than the brighter Anatole. Uncle Blaise had said that he was bigger than his father, taller and broader shouldered, and once Madame Alix had said that he was like his grandfather, only lighter. He lacked the long curly hair his father had had, his lips were thicker though well bowed, but he had the same straight, almost Grecian, nose, the same well-formed chin, and the same velvet-soft eyes.

He was tired but he wasn't sleepy. Uncle Blaise had given him a stiff workout this morning and all the muscles in his body ached from fatigue. Tired he was, but his mind kept going to the third floor on the other side of the courtyard. He'd like to try going across but Uncle Blaise would probably catch him . Uncle Blaise was a regular plantation overseer when it came to making him work. Said he was going to make a fighter out of him. That's why Madame didn't sell him. She needed a fighter now because Uncle Blaise hadn't fought for several years. He'd been champion of the city, so he said, for three years after Drum had gotten himself killed. Until he lost three fights in a row and had his arm chawed so badly in the last one the vet had to cut it off at the elbow. Now he was determined that Drumson would be as good a fighter as his pappy had been. Drumson knew his father had been the best fighter New Orleans had ever had. When ever men got together in Madame's salon and the talk turned to fighting instead of women, someone always started talking about the wonderful Drum who had never been beaten. Nobody had ever been able to imderstand how he could have been killed

I in a street brawl. Must have been ambushed by a gang. Had his jugular vein cut, so they said. Uncle Blaise said it was women who had ruined him. Bahl Drumson wished some woman would ruin him. Uncle Blaise said if he wanted a happy life, he should keep away from women, but how could a man be happy without them? Just thinking about them set his blood on fire.

"Who in hell's ringing that bell?"

Drumson sat up reluctantly, cursing the loud jangling that had intruded on his thoughts. He pulled on his trousers with some difficulty and with one hand pressed down in front of him, ran down the stairs and across the courtyard. He hoped it was no woman ringing the bell, but then women

'!\ never rang the bell at the Academy of Music except on those rare occasions when a white girl came to apply for work. He

4 stepped into the cool dampness of the porte-cochere and

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loosened the bar on the small door that was set in the big wooden ones. It creaked slowly on its hinges. Outside, standing on the banquette, he saw a smartly dressed but extremely untidy-looking young Negro coachman, and behind him a shiny new barouche with a white man sitting in it.

"Dis heah am de A-cademy of Music?"

"It is, but it's closed till evening." Drumson was disgusted with the fellow's appearance. The livery, obviously new, was stained, spotted and rumpled. It looked as though he had slept in it.

Drumson was about to close the door when the man in the carriage called out.

. "Ain' here fer that kin' of business, boy. The lady what keeps this place here?"

"The Madame is in." Drumson bowed respectfully.

"Here, Ajax, help me down."

Ajax ran to the carriage, and placed his shoulder so that the white man could get a good grip on it as he eased himself down onto the frail step and out onto the sidewalk. He limped across the banquette and over to the door wherei Drumson effectively barred his entrance.

"But Madame is resting."

"You got pretty damn poor maimers fer a nigger. Doii*i you know the proper way to 'dress a white man? If'n you don' I'll learn you, right now."

"Madame is resting, master, sir." Drumson didn't need toi be told a second time.

"Tha's better. Now, git yo'self in and present Mistah Hammond Maxwell's compliments to your mistress. Say that he craves a word with her about important business, if n sh© so favor him." The words, spoken slowly and with an obvious attempt at gentility, betokened the man's unfamiliarity with formal language. He was a gentleman. Drumson could see that. A gentleman . . . but not a Creole gentleman for he lacked the urbanity of the Creole, either city-dweller of plantation owner. He was about thirty, give or take a year,| with a face that was still handsome although furrowed byj deep lines of dissipation. The face was browned by the sun,; and its darkness made the blue eyes seem strangely light, Blond chin whiskers, cropped close, crept halfway down his' cheeks, terminating in a straight line where the razor had stopped them. He was not tall but he was well built, with the appearance of strength under his clothes, which were obviously expensive—a white linen suit, somewhat rumpled;

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a ruffled white shirt; a string tie, carelessly knotted, and a wide-brimmed, finely woven Panama hat. He was obviously not a city man and Drumson placed him as a plantation owner of considerable wealth. Instinctively, he liked him. Although the man had an air of authority about him, it was not hard to want to do his bidding.

"Will you please enter, master, sir. Come in out of the hot sun. Cooler in here."

The man placed one foot over the high threshold and drew the other stiffly after him, waited for Drumson to close the door and then preceded him into the brilliantly lit courtyard. Drumson motioned to a bench under a decorative banana tree, pulled his shirttail out from his pants and crouched down, carefully dusting it off.

"Sit down, master, sir, I'll go see if'n Madame will receive lyou." He turned to walk away but the man called him back.

"What yo' name, boy?" I "My name's Drumson, sir,"

j "Tell me, boy. You Mandingo?" Maxwell was studymg I Drumson carefully, a look of curious unbelief on his face.

"Mandingo, master, sir? Don't know about any Mandingo. Never had a nigger here named Mandingo. Why do you ask me if my name's Mandingo?"

"Whaffor you ask me whaffor?"

"No offense, please, master, sir. I just don't understand. My name is Drumson."

Hammond Maxwell continued to look at him long and jearchingly. He shook his head and sighed. When he spoke t was more as though he were speaking to himself—thinking Mit loud—rather than speaking to Drumson.

"Mandingo's a blood line, not a name, boy. Had me a Siandingo once. Named Mede. Finest goddamned nigger I jver owned. You look like him. Jesus Christ! You the spittin' mage of that Mede. Never saw two niggers look so much Jike, 'though you considerable brighter'n him. Was sure 'ou was Mandingo. Mighty scarce they are. Like to get ' ne another to breed to a Mandingo wench I got back home." jiis eyes seemed to penetrate Drumson's thin cotton gar-nents to the flesh imdemeath, "Tell me, you like it here, )oy?"

"I like it fine here, master, sir, but sure hope Madame ells me soon to some nice master like you. Don't like )elonging to an old woman, I'd like to belong to a man."

He grinned up at Hammond, showing a white, even row ( teeth.

"Rim along!" Hammond was himself again, his vok brusque, his manner commanding.

"The name again, master, sir?"

"Mister Hammond Maxwell of Falconhurst Plantation."'

Drumson kept repeating it over and over as he bounde up the steps two at a time. He ran along the balcony an rapped on Alix' door. She answered him with senile peti lance and he let himself in. She was sitting up in bee bolstered with a mound of pillows behind the white moi quito baire.

"Who's been ringing the bell?" she asked, adjusting th clvunsy, badly fitting false teeth. "Answer me! Who's bee: ringing the bell?"

"Gentleman by the name of Mister Hammond Maxwell Says he comes from Falconhurst Plantation. Craves to se you, madame."

She pulled back the transparent drapery. Alix at sevent had lost much of the flesh she had formerly had and he skin himg in loose folds from her chin. When she raise( her arms, pendulous white bags of skin drooped down fron the bones. Sagging breasts were outlined under her thi' nightgown. But her hair was as brassily blonde as evei red circles of rouge dotted her raddled cheeks and her eye^ brows were blackly penciled over eyes outlined in mascars! streaked by the tears from her rheimiy eyes. She shiftei her mouth, trying to ease her teeth. '

"Hammond Maxwell! Falconhurst Plantation? I know th name. Rich as all getout! Raises the finest slaves in th South. All the other plantations mortgaged to the hilt buj not Falconhurst. Has the good sense to raise niggers insteaj of cotton and Falconhurst niggers all prime stock. Brin; the highest prices. Scandal there some eight or nine yeai ago; I disremember what it was. But rich!" Alix was thini ing out loud, quite unmindful of Drumson who was listeniir attentively. "Never been here before as far's I know. Whi, brings him now? Funny time to come. Why didn't he wa till evening? Lives in Alabama, so probably doesn't kno, any better. What does he look like?"

"Yoxmg man, madame. Got a game leg. Drinking man to* Smell it on his breath. Asks me if I'm Mandingo. Am Mandingo, madame?"

"No, you're better than Mandingo. You're Royal Hausa

She sank back on the pillows. "Young man, you say? Must be the son. Seems to me I heard the old man died last year. Maspero called on me. Said he had a buck he thought I might want. Came from Falconhurst and Maspero wanted two thousand dollars for him. Said he would be a sensation here. Maspero said he'd heard the old man died rich. Now the son must have all the money. Probably wants me to put on a melee especially for him." She lifted her head. "That no-good Anatole still sleeping?" "Yes, madame."

"Go down and tell Mr. Maxwell to come up. Then go rout Anatole out of bed." Alix was already planning how much she would charge this rich young man and how much extra she would add to it for disturbing the routine of her home.

Married or single? Now she remembered. His wife had died in childbirth, baby stUlbom too, which in itself had not been too unusual, but there were some ugly rumors about it. Seems she had had a lover and he suspected the , child was not his. At the same time there had been the '. strange disappearance of a Negro slave, quite a noted fighter. ; She looked up at Drumson who was still standing there, \ awaiting her word of dismissal. "Get going, hurry." She clapped her hands weakly together. "Don't stand there gawking at me."

Drumson backed out of the door and ran down the stairs. Hammond was still sitting on the bench. Drumson helped him up. They went upstairs slowly. Drumson rapped on Alix' door and she called to them to come in.

"Mr. Hammond Maxwell?" Alix reached out a tiny hand, j to be held briefly by the big sunburned hand of Hammond i Maxwell. She withdrew it quickly, aware of the calloused J palm—most men's hands which had held hers had been soft and pliant. Her thin reedy voice quavered in an aged [[tremolo but even its feebleness had an accent of authority. "Mr. Hammond Maxwell of Falconhurst, yes?"

"The same, Miz. . . V Hammond was embarrassed by the fact that he did not know the old woman's name; em-' barrassed also by the fact that he was addressing a woman of such advanced years—one almost senile. Although he de-* spised white women, he retained an inherent respect for them, particularly elderly ones. He doubted now that he would ever be able to tell this superannuated old crone his

reason for coming here. Doc Redfield must be crazy, Hej had steered him to the wrong place.

"Call me Madame Alix." She smiled with an attempt a1 coquetry. "Everyone in New Orleans does. I have heard oli you and your father, Mr. Maxwell. Everyone in the South knows that a Maxwell slave is the finest money can buy; But I have never had the pleasvu^e of meeting either you ai your father."

"Papa's dead." Hammond's expression changed momentarily and the wooden mask of his features showed a fleeting expression of sadness. "He never was much a one for tht city. Crippled by rheumatiz, he was, these last years anc never left home. I've been in Texas nigh on to eight years Just came back to Falconhiu-st 'bout a year ago. I've beer tryin' to get things organized there, 'tho papa left ever'thin^ passin' well, Jes' arrived in New Orleans with a caffle o slaves, and an ol' frien' of mine. Doc Redfield, told me t( come here. Said you might be able to help me."

"And how can I serve you, Mr. Maxwell?" Alix scente( a customer who, being a bit out of the usual, might pa^ more money for the unusual. "Tell me frankly what yoi have in mind. I've been catering to the young men of thi South for many years—too many." She essayed a little moue "But I assure you, whatever you want, I can supply."

"You have white women here?" Hammond had decidei to break the ice.

"But naturally." Alix now felt on safer grounds. "And beautiful selection if I do say so. The prettiest girls in Nca Orleans and all real ladies. My girls could take their place anywhere in the world,"

"That's jes' what I'm a-lookin' for," Hammond seeme relieved. "Wants me a good-looking one, good dresser, an one that's got a few brains in her head. But," he paused t give particular emphasis to his words, "don' want none thi drinks. Cain't stand a likkered up woman. If'n you have wht I wants, willin' to pay your price, ifn it's fair."

Alix was puzzled. Certainly any woman, for a few houi in the afternoon, need not meet such exacting specification That she must be good-looking was readily understandabl but what difference would it make if she were a good dress< when her appearance in clothes would be only momentary As for having brains—the conversational ability of her giri was certainly not what her clients came for. And althoufl she might understand an aversion to liquor, it hardly seemel

in keeping with the man whose very breath proclaimed his indulgence.

"And I wants me a yella-haired one too." Hammond was most emphatic. "Don' wan' me no black-haired girls. Light complected is what I wants."

Alix took the last specifications as a subtle compliment to her own golden hair. "I think I can satisfy you, Mr. Maxwell. Do let me call my girls in and you can take your pick. There are several blondes and I'm sure you will like one of them. It's a rather unusual hour and they may not have completed their toilettes. But it can be arranged, yes, it can be arranged. Will you be staying the rest of the afternoon or all night? I could suggest an intimate little •'champagne supper a deux, and then after that perhaps you would like to see one of my famous melees."

"Ain' a-staying' at all, Miz Alecks. Stayin' at the HO-tel, so don't need to stay here. Eatin' there too so don't require none of your malays." Hammond was certain that the unknown word betokened something to eat.

Again Alix was nonplussed. Just as things had been progressing nicely, he had thrown her off the track. Obviously the man was drunk. Perhaps she had better ask him to leave. If he made any trouble, she could sunmion Blaise and Anatole and even Drumson.

Hammond sensed her confusion.

"Les' get down to business, Miz Alecks. I came here for you to help me. Need somebody's help and Doc Redfield, he tol' me you might be able to help me git a white woman like Maspero might help me, was I lookin' fer a fancy."

Calloused by years in the business, Alix was not easily shocked; but she was now. Her words were touched with anger.

"Mr. Maxwell, this is no slave market. My girls are for hire not for sale."

"Knows that, Miz Alecks, but cravin' yo' to help me jes* the same. If'n you cain't help me, p'raps you know who kin. Willin' to pay fer that, too. Man like me 'custom'd to buying what he wants, that's me. I wants a nigger wench to sJeep with, I goes out and buys me one. Wants me a fancy like a quadroon, goes to Maspero's and buys me one. Got the money to buy 'em. But this is different, Miz Alecks. Needs me a white woman now. Not to wife! Ain't gonna marry her but needs one to run my house. Built me a new house and needs a white woman to dress it up. Cain't have no

fancy yella wench a-sittin' at my table. Wants one with manners, good dresser, good talker."

Alix regarded him. He was a fine-looking man, young and attractive. Outside of the slight limp he was sound and hearty. His face was coarsened by drink but he was clear shaven and well dressed. More important still, there waf, something about him which women were sure to like. Perhaps it was his blondness, or his limp, or his very ingenuousness, or it might have been the combination of all of then: but he was a man whom women would instinctively mother.,

The man was not drunk. Alix realized that now, although^ his request was most unusual.

"You should get married, Mr. Maxwell."

He shook his head and smiled as though sharing a secret with her. "That's easy, Miz Alecks. Sence I come back fronc Texas, all the mamas 'thin two days' ride of Falconhursi been invitin' me to frolics and dancin's and partyin's. Othen been a-droppin' by Falconhurst, with their gals all prettiec up. 'Jes' a-passin' by, Mr, Maxwell, jes' a-passin' by am dropped in to condole with you on the death of yo' father. None of them would-a known papa from a mule had the] met him on the road. No more marryin' for me, Miz Alecks Don' wan' none of these high family gals, all prettified out side and rotten inside. A-wavin' their fans and a-battin their eyes, whilst their mamas set back and grin as mucl as to say 'how much you offerin' fer my little gal, Mi Maxwell?' Wouldn't let one of 'em into my house."

Alix was beginning to understand. Evidently the man ha« been cuckolded once and was imwilling to try marrying i second time,

"But you could get an older woman for a housekeeper,' she insisted,

"Don' want no old hens a-eartrumpetin' aroun'." He wa beginning to like the old woman and his smile was f(A lowed by a wink.

"Then, do I understand you have come here with th idea of taking one of my girls home with you?"

"Pays you well if n you got what I wants."

Alix leaned forward. "But ... do you know what m; girls are?"

"Whores." He nodded. "Knows exactly what they are. A least they's honest about it. But all white ladies is whores barrin' present comp'ny of course. I knows. But cain't liv on a plantation like Falconhurst with a big new hous

'thout having me a white lady. 'Druther get me a white lady that I knows is a whore than to get me some young quality miss and find it out later. I wants one I kin buy, jes' like I buy me a nigger wench, altho' she'd be no slave, of course. Got me a daughter to bring up in the new house. Leavin' a passel of colored brats behind me in the ol' house. This new house jest a show place for my daughter when she grows up."

"How old is your daughter?" Alix had become interested in this man and his proposition. It intrigued her and she scented a good fee. "Do you really think a woman from my house would be a fit companion for a yoimg girl?"

"She's twelve," Hammond answered, "an' I figures a woman who's a-been a-whorin' probably wouldn't want a young girl to go that a-way. She'd be a lot better than one of these hoity-toity misses who'd been a-spreadin' her legs even fer her brothers."

"Your opinion of white women is not very high," Alix said, "and perhaps you are right."

"Know damn well I'm right." Hammond nodded emphatically. "Doc Redfield says your girls are aU ladies even if n they do be whwes. Figured out in my own mind a girl from here, given a chance to be a real lady, might do a lot better than a real lady given a chance to be a whore. You're right about my 'pinion of white women. Don' trust 'em. But gotta have me one. Cain't let my daughter come up by herse'f with jes' Lucretia Borgia and Ellen over her. Runnin' wild she is. No better'n a nigger wench. Only place I knows to git me a woman is here and only way I know to git one is to buy one."