Drum (60 page)

"Whar Clees?" Hammond demanded.

"Ain' here, Masta Maxwell, suh." One of the boys pointed to an empty pallet with a neatly folded blanket that had not been disturbed.

"Then fin' him. All o' you start lookin' fer him. First boy that fin's liim gits two bits."

They tumbled out of the house, running in different directions while Drumson waited beside Hammond. His head, was throbbing, the cut on his face pained him and every breath he took was difficult. Although he was distressed with the bodily pain, he was more disturbed over the fact that I Hammond was angry with him. He knew he was innocent of i any wrongdoing but he had had no opportunity to justify himself and he doubted if Hammond would listen to him if he tried.

One of the slaves came running in, followed by Clees.

"I foun' him, Masta Maxwell. Foim' him a-sleepin' in de: hay in de boss barn. Here he is, Masta Maxwell, suh. Does II git de two bits?"

Hammond reached in his pocket, found the piece of silveri and flipped it to the boy. He looked at Qees. It was impossible not to see the swollen and discolored eye where Drum-son's fist had landed.

"Where you bin las' night? Why'n't you sleepin' here?** Hammond demanded.

Clees was truculent, big with bravado.

"Gets back from de barn too late. Foun' de do' here locked,i So's I sleep in de bam."

"You knows 'nuff to be here at closin' time. You knows. Whure you bin las' night?"

"Ain' been no place, Masta Maxwell, suh. Jes' been a-sittin' in de barn, a-puttin' neatsfoot oil on de paddle. Kinda gettin* dry 'cause we ain' had no whuppin' here fur a long time. OUin' it up good, I was, case it needed fur them two you got in de pen."

"You bin a-fightin' wid Drumson las' night?"

Clees shook his head more positively than necessary.

"Ain' never a-fightin', Masta Hammond, suh. You knows I never fight. Knows you don' 'low it here. Ain' never a fightin' man, I ain'."

"Then were did you get that black eye?"

Clees' fingers slipped up to his eye. He had felt the pain but he was unaware that it showed.

"Runs into a rake a-settin' on de flo'. Pops us and hits me in de eye. Da's all, Masta Maxwell, suh."

"You're a goddam liar, Clees. You were out a-pesterin' Clytie last night, down by the crick. And you was fightin' with Drumson." '

"Oh no, Masta Maxwell, suh. If n he say so, he's a-lyin*. He couldn't see me, he couldn't. So dark there he couldn't see who a-hittin' him."

Clees was not very quick-witted but now it suddenly occurred to him that his words were even more incriminating than a confession. For the first time that morning Hammond smiled.

"Yo' ain' a-goin' to whup me, Masta Maxwell? Ain' a-goin' to whup me fer takin' a li'l poke at that Drumson boy? We jes' a-foolin', Masta MaxweU, suh. Didn' hurt him, did I, Drumson? We wasn't mad—^jes' a-fightin' fur fun tha's all. Him and me good frens, Masta Maxwell, suh."

Clees towered a head over Hammond, but Hammond reached up and slapped him across the face.

"Shet upl Take a-hol' of his arms, boys." Hanunond called the slaves to him. "Take him down to the bam." He waited until six of them grabbed hold of Clees. "And take this un too." He pointed to Drumson. "Coin' to whup both of 'em. Ain' goin' ter have no mo' fightin' here. Wants ev'y slave, man and boy, down to the bam. Any of you feels like fightin' you jes' remember what you a-seein' today." He waited until they had secured Drumson, then looked around as though trying to identify one particular person amidst the sea of black faces which confronted him.

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"Whure's that Hannibal boy?" he demanded.

"Here I is, Masta Maxwell, suh." A big fellow, lacking perhaps an inch of Clees' height but even more heavily muscled, stepped forward.

"Think you can put some beef into that paddle? Think you kin made the blood spurt out o' Clees' ass?"

"Sure think I kin, Masta Hammond, suh."

"Then go, git 'em ready. Five strokes for Drumson and do him first. Then, let him down and hist that Clees up. Give him thirty strokes and if'n he still squealin' after thirty strokes, give him five more for lyin' to me."

"No, Masta Maxwell, suh, no please suh." Clees struggled to turn toward Hammond. "Not thirty strokes suh. Never fight 'gain suh. Never lift a hand to nobody. Jes' trust me, Masta Maxwell, suh. But don' give me thirty. Jes' give me five like you a-givin' Drumson."

"You've whupped 'nough othems. You kin take it. Ifn they took it, so kin you. Take 'em both away boys."

Drumson felt the iron grip of hands aroimd his arms as they propelled him up to the bam. He knew it was useless to plead with Hammond. When they reached the big wide bam doorway, he was led inside, stripped of his clothes and thrown down flat on his back on the floor. He could not see exactly what they were doing, but he felt straps being tightened around each ankle. One of the fellows, a mustee by the name of Rex and and a great friend of Clees', stood on a box in the doorway and pulled down a rope that led through a p\jlley block. A similar rope on the other side was pulled down and Dmmson realized that the ropes were being fastened to the ankle straps.

"Pull 'im up!" Hammond was standing just outside the doorway. Rex and the other man yanked viciously at the rope.

Drumson felt his back scrape along the rough wooden floor. There were twinges of pain as his flesh picked up the splinters. Then his feet were up in the air, his legs being spread-eagled out. Up he went, his head dangling down, his arms falling below. At first he was able to support his weight by his hands but he was yanked up so high even the tips of: his fingers did not touch the floor. He swung helplessly.

"Careful now, Hannibal." Hammond was talking. "Don" hit 'im on his back. Don' wan' any scars on his back. An* don' hit his knockers. Just on the fat part of his rump. 'Member now, only five strokes, only lay 'em on good.

He'll swing after the first one so let him stop swingin' 'fore you lay on the second. Mayhap you won' bring blood in five strokes and all right if n you don'."

Drumson saw the sun shining on the floor, lighting a patch of the dirty boards with brightness. He saw the tips of Hammond's boots and noticed that there was mud on them. He could see the bare black feet of the slaves and he could even see a small, red-backed ladybug walking sedately along a crack in the floor, trying in vain to cross it It was very quiet. His head ached and he thought he would split open from the spread-^art position of his legs.

Then it landed. It was as though a thousand hornets had stung him at once—as though a building had fallen on him. His body swung forward and the breakfast he had so recently eaten descended from his stomach to his mouth and spewed out on the boards. His body stopped swinging and it came again. This time he screamed.

"Masta Hammond," he tried to call out but he choked on the vomit in his throat

"Three," someone was counting. Drumson did not need anyone to coimt—^he knew how many there were.

"Four." This one seemed worse than all the other three combined. He couldn't take another. He couldn't But he did.

"Five." It was over. The arc of his swinging body slowly diminished. Once again his hands were on the floor. He welcomed the feeling of the rough boards under his fingers. Jle sank lower, resting on his elbows. His chin touched, then his chest and finally his whole body, wrapped in fi^e, sank onto the boards. The ankle straps were removed. Hands reached down to help him up. He stood naked and tortured before Hammond, feeling Hammond's eyes upon him but seeing only pity and compassion there. Now he realized there had been a motive in his punishment. It was necessary that both he and Clees be whipped. When two men fought there was blame on both sides. But Drumson realized that Hammond accepted his innocence. Five strokes, although they caused a hellish amount of suffering, were only a token pimish-ment. It was Clees who was to receive the full lamount.

Drumson reached his hands around back to feel of his smarting rump. They came away dry. There was no blood.

Clees was up in the air now. Although he was to blame for this, Drumson felt sorry for him. Clees was hollering, writhing from the ropes, trying to lift himself up to face Hanmiond while he begged for mercy, promising in one

breath that he would never do such a thing again and in the next protesting that he had never done anything. His mouth-ings were cut short by the smack of the thick, perforated cowhide paddle against his flesh. What had been words were now only incoherent screams. Again the paddle descended. Again there was a scream. It continued. Now there was blood running down Clees's back. It trickled down his neck into his hair and dripped off onto the floor. As he swung from the force of the blows the blood spattered far out, making a line of shiny crimson on the floor.

The blows continued. Rex, Clees' mustee friend, was scowling, mumbling to Big Archer, another of Clees' friends," but Hammond did not notice them. Someone said twenty-three. Then it was twenty-four. Clees had ceased to scream. The only sovmd that came from him was a low moaning. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Even the moaning stopped. Thirty. The swinging body slowly came to rest. The ropes were lowered at a signal from Hammond and Clees slimiped onto the floor. He was unconscious and they rolled him over onto his stomach. From the waist down he was a mass of blood and pulpy shreads of meat, and the paddle in Hannibal's hands was as gory as Qees' backside.

"Now, you all see what happens to fighters?" Hammond reached down and picked up Drumson's clothes and threw them at him. "Guess there'll be no more fightin' from now on. Never mind rubbing the pimentade into Clees. He's had 'nuff now. Throw a bucket of water over him. Carry him down to the shed and lay him on his bed. He don' have to work today. And you, Drumson, git yo'self dressed. You ain' bleedin'."

Drumson found it almost impossible to bend over sufficiently to draw on his trousers but he managed. He stuck his arms into the shirtsleeves and managed to get the shirt on, then the thin gray alpaca coat over it. He forgot about the string tie in his pocket.

"Kin you walk?" Hammond asked him.

"Guess so, Masta Hammond, suh."

As they passed the cemetery, Hammond halted for a moment to look at one of the tombstones. Drumson could not read the words on it, but he noticed that it stood quite a distance from the others. Then he saw Hammond do a strange thing. He reached down, picked up a handful of the raw dirt and approached Drumson.

"Hoi' out yo' hand, boy."

Dnimson held out his hand and Hammond dropped the raw dirt into it.

"Tha's Mede there," Hammond said, pointing to the dirt in Drumson's hand. "Best nigger I ever had."

chapter x

Drumson's wounds were quick to heal and left no damaging scars or disfiguring welts on his body. Fortunately they left no scars on his spirit either. The five strokes of the steerhide paddle which he had received at Hammond's orders, althou^ excruciatingly painful at the time, had served to bring him even closer to his master. A new rapport now seemed to exist between them, a greater intimacy than before. Although their status as master and slave had never been more clearly established, each now felt a bond of mutual ownership. Hammond possessed Drumson as a slave but, equally important, Drumson possessed him as a master. It increased his desire to serve and he came to anticipate Hammond's wishes even before they were spoken.

Although he still desired Regjne, the fact that she belonged to Hammond and was therefore sacrosanct negated any animosity. The slave mind was conditioned to accept without questioning that which was permitted and that which was not possible. It made it easier for a slave to exist if he could sublimate his desires to those of his master. If he could do this through affection he foimd it much easier. Rebellion made life more difficult for any slave. Drumson was learning the philosophy of slavery. Why beat his head against a stone wall, only to bloody it and accomplish nothing? Things were as they were—it was impossible to change them. By accepting Hammond as his master, by loving him, by making a veritable god of him, he was able to get through his days easily and avoid punishment.

He knew his lot was far better than most. While other slaves toiled day after day without respite in the hot sun, he , was inside in the shadowed coolness of the big house. Where other slaves walked barefoot in the dust of the fields, his feet, shod in shoes of soft leather, walked over polished floors and thick carpets. Not for him were the corn-husk pallets or the folded blanket on the hard floor of the slave

barracks; his bed was as soft and as comfortable as Hammond's own and he had Elvira to share it. If he behaved himself and minded his manners, he would never have to suffer the indignity' of having strange men poke at his body, nor would he have to moimt the block for men to buy him. Although he was subservient to Hammond and also to Augusta, he himself had his own little kingdom and his subjects were Brutus, Ajax, Merc, Jupe, Elvira, Balsam and now even a grudging Clytie. Since Qees' punishment she had become more tractable and her hostility to Drumson was less marked.

When Clees recovered, Clytie continued to slip away from the house at night to meet him, but Drumson did not feel it necessary to report her absence. She, in gratitude for his forbearance, entered into an unspoken truce with him and as a result conditions in the kitchen were far more harmonious.

There had been an exchange of letters between Augusta and various correspondents whose identities were unknown to Drumson for, although he was often sent into Benson to mail letters and bring back others, his inability to read kept him from deciphering the addresses. He suspected, however, that the letters had something to do with Sophie's departure for school, as did also the frequent visits of the dressmaker from Benson and the packages of cloth and trimmings which arrived by post from New Orleans and Mobile.

Sophie resented Augusta's suggestion that she go away to school and her father's approval of the idea. It meant an end to her iminhibited hfe and her carefree comings and goings on the plantation. But Augusta had painted a most attractive picture of the life of a young lady at school—a minimum of study, and new friends, new dresses and, most important of all, an opportunity to meet the many brothers, cousins and yoimg imcles of her schoolmates during holiday visits to other plantations. In the end she was won over despite the continuous battle between her and Augusta over the latter's choice of dresses. Sophie favored flamboyant silks and satins, gussied up with all the superfluity of laces, artificial flowers and passementerie which she saw illustrated in the steel engravings in Godey's Ladies' Book. It was useless for Augusta to point out that these were not fitting for a young girl. Sophie insisted. Finally a compromise was reached. Sophie was allowed her choice of two ball gowns for formal events at the school. The other dresses, however, were to be chosen by Augusta. The net result was a collection of simple cottons