8.Blacks for Sale
Against the unfavorable odds of winter, the first warmth of spring sun brought life again to the Louisiana countryside. It was a tune to clear away the debris of autumn, to plow the fields for planting corn and cotton, to sow the vegetable gardens, to clear the underbrush from the orchard and mend the split-rail fences. Spring was a time to resume old work on the Star and begin new cycles that would see the labors for both summer and autumn.
The people of the Star, the black men and women of Niggertown, slowly shook away their drowsiness of the winter months, and as the spring sun began to thaw their bones, their hopes for life became revitalized. Being companionable by nature, the plantation Negroes happily joined together into gangs to clear the fields of stones and bramble bushes, working together more diligently on these demanding chores than they had done hi isolation on the less tedious jobs of grayer days. The warm sun unified the people of Niggertown.
Always in the springtime there was a scramble in Niggertown for the young faces whom Mama Gomorrah sent from the Shed. The veterans of Niggertown pulled and yanked at the maturing boys and girls, examining their smooth bodies, questioning them for details, finding which ones they wanted to work beside them during the day and take under their roof at night. These rough-and-tumble inspections had nothing to do with parentage. No mothers or fathers looked for their offspring. The springtime scrambles were conducted on the 133.
frankest physical level. Al1 family ties had been cut long ago, with each umbilical cord.
In the big house, Storky resented the number of people who came to her in the springtime, arriving at the kitchen door to seek her advice. Storky had to answer questions and settle arguments for the people of Niggertown, solving jealousies between the black men who had not been raised to the position of drivers in the field and those who had, and trying to explain the intricacies of sexual fidelity to young black girls who were beginning to feel a surging devotion for one man in particular.
Back in Africa there had been no problems of monogamy. African women learned from an early age that the male could choose as many women as his wealth allowed. But here in Louisiana, where there was no system of hierarchy, the black people were confused by the mating examples set by white people and frustrated by the social restrictions imposed upon them by slavery. Storky found herself patiently explaining the bitter facts of a slave's life to strange black people, Africans whom members of her own tribe, the Ashanti, would have killed rather than helped. In the springtime at the Star Storky became both chieftain and hougan, leader and priestess, and all these infringements on her precious time were done at a point when house cleaning was reaching its zenith.
Storky had her own problems of romance, too. When the gray branches of the trees first began to pop with green buds, a brawny Negro called Samson would desert the blacksmith shop in favor of hanging around the kitchen door, waiting for Storky to beckon him inside.
But Samson could not abandon his work to visit Storky. She would not allow that, because in the springtime the blacksmith was needed more than ever on the Star.
Storky made Samson obey two rules if he wanted to be her .lover. He must arrive at the kitchen door only when the rest of the plantation was asleep, and he had to leave when Storky arose early in the morning to light the fire in the cookstove. No matter how adeptly Samson had pleasured Storky the night before, she would give 134.
the big black man a swift kick with her foot if he lay on the floor snoring a moment too long.
This particular morning in the spring of 1800, the sky outside was still dark. Storky knew that she had to cook breakfast and have it on the table extra early today. Master Selby was taking Peter to New Orleans, and they would be leaving at sunrise.
Storky had not slept much last night. Samson had been in an overly amorous mood, and without admitting the fact to her hulking lover, Storky had felt a definite desire for him, too, having let herself be persuaded into repeated acts of physical pleasure. When Storky set her mind at ease and allowed her body to follow in unison, she enjoyed these moments with Samson. Down here in the kitchen, the two large black people could thrash around on the plank flooring all night, making as much noise as they wanted. But despite Samson's towering size, he was quiet and smooth-moving, lying with Storky on the pallet and performing with an athletic facility. This trait of Samson's pleased Storky's sense of neatness as much as it thrilled her, and always when she felt Samson's hardness come pushing deeply into her, she felt as much pride over his dexterity-his sexual manners-as she felt from the delight of its effect.
Samson had been particularly praiseworthy last night. He had brought Storky to an ecstatic climax no fewer than five times, two of which had nothing to do with his phallus but with the adept tricks he had done with his serviceable big mouth and knowledgeable fingers. Now, as the plantation blacksmith lay curled on the pallet beside Storky, she lay staring into the darkness above her, planning the morning's work ahead of her. Apart from breakfast, she had to prepare a hamper of food for Selby and young master Peter to take with them in the wagon.
Thinking how Selby was taking Peter to New Orleans to buy a groom, Storky's white teeth glistened in the darkness as she grinned. She doted on the ten-year-old boy as if he were one of her own people. And she could not believe he was old enough to have his own groom.
Storky respected Peter as a white person. But she had 135.
learned the secret that Selby had bought him by mistake as a Negro slave. Nothing could be kept for long from Storky. On hearing that story, though, Storky felt even closer to Peter. She knew that he had had as little control of his life as a black person had over his.
To Storky's manner of thinking, Peter possessed the warm heart of a Negro. He was not loud and boisterous like so many young white boys whom she had seen at the Star.
Storky reflected on how lucky she had been with white people. Or, at least, with some white people. In her secret thoughts, she hated Rachel Selby, but because of Rachel's sickness, Storky saw very little of her in the kitchen. She only heard Rachel's rantings through the thickness of her bedroom door. Privately, Storky chuckled that a woman so strict and religious as Rachel Selby had been reduced now to muttering indecencies. Storky did not understand the white people's god, but she suspected that this might be that god's way of punishing a woman who had caused so much misery in other people's lives. Such prudishness was as unnatural as the sorry condition from which Rachel now suffered.
Storky's thoughts were suddenly disturbed by the faraway call of a rooster. She bolted to her feet. She had to hurry and make preparations for Selby's trip to New Orleans with young Master Peter.
By five o'clock in the morning, Selby and Peter were seated at the table in the dining room eating fried eggs and ham by candlelight. Storky was back in the kitchen busily putting the finishing touches on the hamper she was packing for their journey. She had prepared them fried chicken, thick slices of cold ham, boiled eggs, carrot sticks, and a small basket of lemon cakes. She also included a jug of coffee for Selby and a jug of milk for Peter, plus a large jar of water.
Storky was pleased to fix special treats for them, but she was sorry to see them leave the Star-even for three days.
Barely two hours had passed since Selby and Peter left-rattling down the driveway in tne rough wagon- 136.
when Biddy rushed into the kitchen. Melissa and Storky were working side-by-side at the kitchen table. They were rolling pastry to make fresh rhubarb pies.
Waving her small brown hands as if they were on fire, Biddy excitedly exclaimed, "Miss Melissa! Miss Melissa! Your mama's asking to see you right away in her bedroom, Miss Melissa."
Reaching for a towel, Melissa quickly wiped the dough from her hands and said to Storky, "Mama. It's the first time Mama's asked for me in weeks. I better hurry see."
Behind Melissa's back, Storky narrowed her eyes at Biddy. She was angry at Biddy for bringing this message. Everybody had been trying to keep Melissa as far away as possible from her mother's room. Melissa might be fifteen years old, but she was too young to hear the foul words that Rachel Selby often said.
Rushing from the kitchen, Melissa held her skirts as she ran up the first flight of the circular staircase. She was happy that her mother felt well enough this morning to see her. For so long, Rachel had not wanted to see anybody.
Rapping lightly on the mahogany door, Melissa called, "Mama. It's me. Melly."
The answer was sharp. "Come in."
Two weeks had passed since Melissa had last seen her mother, and entering the room, she was surprised to see how well she was looking this morning. Rachel did not show any of the signs of infirmity that Melissa had expected. Her eyes were sharp. Her hair had been brushed back from her face. And there was even some faint sign of color in her gaunt cheeks.
Rushing to the side of her mother's bed, Melissa grabbed her cool hand and said, "Just you and me are in charge now for three whole days at least, Mama. Won't we have fun? Just us."
Turning her head away from Melissa, Rachel stared at the lace curtains gently flapping on her window and answered sourly, "They made enough noise leaving."
Melissa fortunately caught herself in time and did not say why her father and Peter had gone to New Orleans. Selby had warned Melissa not to tell her 137.
mother that they were going to buy a groom, another slave for the Star. Melissa said now, "Peter was so excited that Papa is taking him ... on this trip. Wasn't that good of Papa to do?"
Rachel laughed bitterly. "So you think it's good for womenfolk to be left alone!"
"But, Mama, we can take care of ourselves. Nothing can happen to us."
Looking back at Melissa, Rachel mocked, "Nothing can happen to us, girl? Well, how about all those niggers out there?"
Melissa stared at her mother. Instead of appearing well to her now, Rachel suddenly looked shriveled and old and cantankerous. Her shaggy eyebrows hung over her piercing eyes like clumps of gray moss. Her mouth was pale and drawn as tightly as a string purse. The only thing that Melissa could say to her was, "Storky will take good care of us, Mama."
"Storky? Ha! She's as black as the rest of them. She would join in with them no-good niggers and help hold us down!"
"Hold us... down?"
Rachel asked, "Girl, how old are you?"
"Fifteen, Mama."
"Has that boy tried to catch you yet? That Peter?"
"Peter? Catch me? We play together, Mama, but-"
"Play! I don't mean play. I mean has he tried to rape you?"
"Rape me?" Melissa was stunned. She knew what the word "rape" meant. The girls at her school spoke about it in whispers. That was what had supposedly happened to a Witcherley woman a long time ago; she had been "raped."
Rachel was oblivious of the serious effect that the word had on her young daughter. She continued maliciously, "Those black men, Melissa? Have they tried to show themselves to you, too? Have they tried to get you to hold what they've got, to take it in your hand?"
Slowly rising from the edge of her mother's bed, Melissa said slowly, "Mama, I don't know what you mean.".
"Hmmph! At fifteen, I'm sure you know exactly what 138.
I mean. Don't you try to hide anything from me, young lady, by saying that you don't know what I mean. If you tell me that, I'll just think you're trying to hide something from me and the Good Lord Almighty."
"Mama, I'm not trying to hide anything from anyone. I do not know what you're talking about. Now, if you want to say something, please come right out with it, please! Please, Mama, let us be friends. I see so little of you, Mama, and . . ." Melissa moved to sit on the edge of her mother's bed again, reminding herself that she had been very ill, and probably still was.
Curiously, this confrontation with Melissa seemed to serve as a tonic to Rachel. She readjusted the pillows behind her back, and sitting higher in bed, she said briskly, "You wonder why I stay in my bedroom, don't you? Well, I'll tell you why. I lock myself up in here so they don't rape me, that's why! So those niggers won't get wild ideas in their heads and try to rape me. Yes, white ladies are what those niggers really want, you know. Black men don't like pestering with Storky all the time. They would rather be with us white womenfolk. You and me. Me! They would rather have me than stinking black sluts like that Storky. Or Biddy. Oh, ho, ho! I know what that Biddy likes to do! I know what that whiny little black wench ..."
Melissa had risen from the bed again in horror. She had been retreating from her mother's side during the diatribe against the blacks. Finally, having listened to as much as she could bear, she interrupted, "Mama, please! 1 like Storky! And whatever you say about her, Mama, whatever you believe about Storky, she does not . . . smell! I like Biddy, too! And you can't talk about them like that. You can't."
Calmly Rachel accused, "I suppose you're sweet on those big nigger bucks, too. I suppose you already got started on that nasty business. Oh, ho, ho! I've seen what those niggers got in their pants. No pants can hide what those niggers have. And being that we're on that subject, little Miss Nigger Lover, I might as well tell you the whole truth about them now. Those niggers aren't brought from Africa to work! They don't have an energetic bone in their bodies. They're lazy and slothful and 139.
dirty. But what they do have, what those niggers do have is a big prick! A prick! That's why we white people bring them here. For their pricks. We all want those niggers' big black pricks!"
Melissa's head was spinning. She had not heard talk like this ever before in her life. She had not heard the facts of life so specifically discussed. And wanting to stop it right now, but also wanting to remain respectful of her ailing mother, she glanced around the bedroom, looking for some distraction for her.
Suddenly her eyes seized upon a pile of letters, an-nouncements, handbills, and petty circulars that had arrived at all houses in the neighborhood. When such useless messages arrived at the Star, they were usually sent up to Rachel's room to keep her occupied in her infirmity, to amuse her into thinking that she was being useful.
Quickly seizing the pile of papers, Melissa thrust them onto the bed and said to her mother, "Before we say another word, Mama, you must open your mail to see if someone is coming to call on us today! Oh, wouldn't that be terrible, Mama! Wouldn't that be absolutely awful if, say, if Reverend Briggs came calling today and we had nothing in the house to serve him? No scones or fresh bread or strawberry cakes, or . . ."
Next Melissa snatched a silver letter opener from the bedside table, and holding it to her mother, she said, "Now, open the letters. And what can I bring you while you're opening your mail, Mama? Would you like some . . . coffee? Or, how does a nice pot of mint tea sound to you?"
Grudgingly examining the first sealed piece of brown paper, Rachel Selby mumbled, "Tea. But not mint tea. Mint colors my urine." Looking up at Melissa, she coldly explained, "It makes my piss yellow and stinky."
Melissa stifled her blush. Hearing her mother talk about toilet habits in such a blatant way was as shocking as having heard her refer to a Negro's genitalia.
"Then plain tea it shall be, Mama," Melissa said meekly, bending to tuck in the blankets before she left the bedroom.
Rachel suddenly shrieked.
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Standing upright, Melissa stared at her mother.
Having opened the first announcement, Rachel waved the brown sheet in the air, shouting, "So now any trash can buy niggers, can they? Look! Lynn and Craddock's! Look! They used to be restricted to quality folk. They used to be on our side! But now any common muck can buy niggers there!" Dropping her trembling hands to the counterpane, Rachel tossed her head back and forth on the white pillows, wailing, "Oh, what will 1 do? What will I do? Niggers everyplace! Every white trash in the territory having niggers! Niggers all over the place! Niggers raping me! Niggers jumping on me! Niggers grabbing me by the throat! Niggers holding me down on my bed! Niggers biting my breasts! Niggers giving me babies!"
"Mama! Mama!" Melissa begged, struggling to calm her mother. But as Rachel continued to writhe, screaming on her bed, Melissa left her side and ran from the room. She must get her mother that pot of tea from the kitchen, but it would be a pot of tea strongly laced with laudanum-a drug to sedate her.
By midmorning on that day, Claudia Tucker was sitting in the doorway of her shack. As Selby had gone to New Orleans, Chad Tucker had abandoned his work and taken Monk catfishing with him.
Basking alone now in the spring sunshine, Claudia thought how Monk had changed since he had first come to her as a choreboy. He had been a sassy but bright little sapling. He was quick to learn. Monk had thrown himself into his role both in the Tuckers' bed and in Chad Tucker's private venture of selling slaves to the poor farmers.
But then something had happened to Monk. And Claudia sat now in the sun puzzling what exactly had changed him. Monk no longer seemed to have any life to him. To Claudia, he was turning into just another dreary nigger.
Claudia's secret lovemaking with Monk had not lasted very long. She had lost interest in him when she had seen how nervous he was of Tucker discovering them. Monk had not tried to be defiant.
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Reflecting now, Claudia saw that Monk had been like a colt that she had broken more easily than she had expected. She had broken him, too. Monk's whole spirit had changed, collapsed.
And what this meant to Claudia now was that there was only one man in the world who could keep her happy; that was her husband. Chad indulged her fantasies. Claudia even suspected that he had known that she and Monk had been screwing. But he had not stopped them-Claudia grinned to herself-because Chad knew that she was really the boss of the family.
Chad Tucker was not entirely without any faults himself these days, though, Claudia thought as she sat in the sun. He had sold only one nigger in the last twelve months, and not more than twenty in the last eight years. She remembered when he had sold all the bucks that he could get his hands on. Even her favorites. But now ...
Claudia's thoughts were suddenly disturbed by a young black boy crouching in the yard a short distance away from her.
Looking toward a flock of chickens pecking at the dirt under a chinaberry tree, Claudia saw a young Negro child kneeling among them. The child looked to be about nine years old and was dressed in a white osnaburg shift. But Claudia could not tell if the child was a girl or a boy.
She called, "Hey, nigger?"
The child raised its cropped head.
"Nigger, you a gkl or a boy?"
"I'm Posy," the child called.
Studying the child's smooth brown skin and delicate features, she said, "That's no answer for a white lady. I'm 'Miss Tucker, ma'am.' "
"I'm Posy . . . Miss Tucker, ma'am," the child answered, holding up a handful of chicken feathers. "I'm gathering these for Mama Gomorrah."
Claudia called, "What's that old woman wanting my chicken feathers for? She ain't asked me if she could have them."
"She wants them for magic, Miss Tucker, ma'am."
"Magic!" Claudia let out a breath of disgust. "Ain't 142.
that old critter got better things to do with her time than . . . magic?" Gaudia shook her head. She had heard the stories about Mama Gomorrah and voodoo. But she had discredited the rumors. Qaudia considered the voodoo stories to be the same kind of foolishness as the stories about the sinners of Gomorrah. Claudia thought that Mama Gomorrah was crazy. Loony.
The child called, "Mama Gomorrah is the best nigger in this whole world, Miss Tucker, ma'am."
Studying the delicate build of the child's body, Claudia slowly began to get an idea. She had heard tales about fancies-special Negroes that sold for very high prices. She wondered if perhaps this child could be sold as a fancy. She could see that the child was not normal.
She called, "You living at the Shed?"
"I help run the Shed, Miss Tucker, ma'am."
A smile covered Claudia's fleshy face, and raising a pencil-thin eyebrow, she warned, "Better not say that word, nigger kid. Better not say 'run,' or somebody might hear you. Lots of niggers like you talk about running, and then they get caught and they get whipped."
Posy stared at her with confusion.
Claudia continued, "Fact is, I just heard you with my own ears, didn't I, bragging about 'running'?"
The child stared at Claudia and then glanced down to his handful of white feathers. The way in which Claudia was twisting his words puzzled him.
"Do you know what would happen to a nigger like you if a white lady like me says she heard you talking about running?" she called.
Studying his handful of feathers, Posy shook his head.
Resettling herself in the doorway, Claudia said, "Well, you just wouldn't have more chance than cowshit in a swarm of flies, that's what. Now, if you're going to run anywhere, you better run back to the Shed, nigger. You stole enough feathers from my chickens for one day." Staring at him, she asked, "How'd you like some nigger brat to come along and steal your feathers?"