The Confessions of Nat Turner Part 2

Jeremiah Cobb, the judge who was about to sentence me to death, and into whose earlier acquaintance I was led by a complicated series of transactions which I must here try briefly to describe.

As I told Mr. Gray, I was born the property of Benjamin Turner, about whom I remember only a little. Upon his abrupt death when I was around eight or nine (a miller and dealer in timber, he was killed while felling a cypress tree, having turned his back on the monster at an improvident moment), I pa.s.sed by bequest into the possession of his brother, Samuel Turner, whose property I remained for ten or eleven years. These years, and those preceding them, I shall return to in due course. Eventually Samuel Turner's fortunes declined, and there were other problems; at any rate, he was unable to continue to operate the sawmill he inherited, along with me, from his brother, and so for the first time I was sold, to Mr. Thomas Moore-a sale which a weakness for irony impels me to remark was effected at the moment I reached my manhood, during my twenty-first year. I was the property of Mr. Moore, who was a small farmer, for nine years until his death (another bizarre misadventure: Moore broke his skull while presiding at the birth of a calf. It had been a balky delivery, and he had wrapped a cord around the calf's protruding hooves in order to yank it out; as he sweated and tugged and as the calf mused at him soulfully from the damp membranes of its afterbirth, the cord snapped, catapulting him backward and fatally against a gatepost. I had very little use for Moore, and my grief was meager, yet at the time I could not but help begin to wonder if owners.h.i.+p of me did not presage a diminution of fortune, as does the possession, I am told, of a certain kind of elephant in India), and upon Mr. Moore's demise I became the property of his son, Putnam, who was then fifteen. The following year (that is to say, last year) Mr. Moore's widow, Miss Sarah, married Joseph Travis, a childless widower of fifty-five desirous of offspring, who lived in this same country region of Cross Keys, an expert wheelwright by trade and the last person so luckless as to enjoy me in the pride of owners.h.i.+p. For although under law 39.I was Putnam's by t.i.tle, I belonged also to Travis, who had the right to exercise full control over me until Putnam reached his majority. Thus when Miss Sarah wed Joseph Travis and became domiciled beneath his roof, I turned into a kind of twofold property-not an unheard-of arrangement but additionally unsatisfying to property already half deranged at being owned even once.

Travis was moderately prosperous, which is to say that like a few of the other inhabitants of this backwater, he managed to eke out slightly more than a living. Unlike the hapless Moore, he was adept at that which the Lord had him cut out to do, and it was a great relief for me to be able to help him at his trade after the long years at Moore's and the monotony of toting his water and sopping his feverish, languis.h.i.+ng pigs and alternately baking and freezing in his cornfield and his cotton patch. In fact, because of the circ.u.mstances of my new employment-which was to act as a general handyman around the wheel shop-I had a sense of well-being, physical at least, such as I had not felt since leaving Samuel Turner's nearly ten years before. Like most of the other property owners of the region, Travis was also a small farmer, with fifteen acres or so in corn, cotton, and hay, plus an apple grove whose princ.i.p.al function it was to produce cider and brandy. Since the relative success of the wheel shop, however, Travis had cut back on his farm holdings, leasing out his acreage to others, and retaining just the apple orchard, and a small produce garden and patch of cotton for his own use. Besides myself, Travis owned only two Negroes-a number, however, not unusual in its smallness, inasmuch as few white people in the region could any longer afford to support more than five or six slaves, and it was rare indeed to find a citizen prosperous enough to own as many as a dozen. Travis himself had recently owned seven or eight, not counting several unserviceable children, but as his acreage diminished and his solitary craft flourished, he had no need for this obstreperous pack, indeed found so many fat mouths to feed a burden on his capital, and thus, three years before, with great moral misgivings (or so I heard) sold off the whole lot-all but one-to a trader specializing in labor for the Mississippi delta. The one left was Hark, who was my age lacking a year. Born on a vast tobacco plantation in Suss.e.x County, he had been sold to Travis at the age of fifteen after the tobacco sucked the soil dry and the land went to rack and ruin. I had known him for years and had come to love him like a brother. The other Negro, acquired subsequent to the Mississippi sale, was Moses, a husky, tar-black, wild-eyed 40.boy of twelve or there-abouts whom Travis, finding himself belatedly short-handed, had bought at the Richmond market several months before my arrival. He was strong and strapping for his age, and bright enough, I think; but he never quite got over the separation from his mammy; it left him bereft, stuporous, and he cried a lot and peed in his pants, sometimes even when he was at work, and all in all was a nuisance, becoming a great trial to Hark especially, who had a mother's soul in the body of a bull, and felt compelled to soothe and nurse the foundling.

This then was the population of our household at the time when I first encountered Jeremiah Cobb, almost one year to the day before he sentenced me to death: three Negroes-Hark, Moses, myself-and six white people-Mr. and Mrs. Travis and Putnam, Miss Maria Pope, and two more besides. The last were the previously mentioned Joel Westbrook, fifteen years old, a budding wheelwright whom Travis had apprenticed to himself; and Travis's child by Miss Sarah, an infant boy of two months born with a purple blemish spreading across the center of his tiny face like the single shriveling petal of a blighted gentian. The white people, of course, lived in the main house, a modest, plain but comfortable two-storied structure of six rooms which Travis had built twenty years before. He had hewn the beams himself, planed the timbers, made it all weather-tight with pine gum and mortar, and had been wise enough to leave standing round it several enormous beech trees which offered shade from any angle against the summer sun. Adjacent to the house, separated from it only by the pigpen and a short path through the vegetable garden, was the wheel shop, converted from a one-time barn: here was the center of activity on the farm, here were the stores of oak and ashwood and iron, the forge and anvils, the bending frames, the modeling hammers and tongs and vises and the rows of chisels and punches and all the other equipment which Travis employed in his demanding craft. Doubtless at least in part because of my repute (decent albeit somewhat ambiguous and suspect in a way that I will soon explain) as a kind of harmless, runabout, comic n.i.g.g.e.r minister of the gospel, I was later made custodian of the shop; in fact, prompted by Miss Sarah's avowal of my integrity, Travis gave into my keeping one of two sets of keys. I had plenty enough to do, but I cannot honestly say that my work here was toilsome; unlike Moore, Travis was no task-master, being by nature unable, I think, to drive his servants unreasonably and already having been well 41.provided with willing help in the person of his stepson and the Westbrook boy, who was an eager apprentice if there ever was one.

Thus my duties, compared to what I had been used to, were light and fairly free of strain: I kept the place clean and added my shoulder to a job when extra strength was needed, such as bending a wheel rim, and frequently I spelled Hark as he pumped at the bellows of the forge, but generally speaking (and for the first time in years), the tasks I encountered were those calculated to tax not my muscles but my ingenuity. (For instance, the loft of the shop since its conversion from the status of a barn had still been infested by bats, tolerable enough when the place was the abode of cattle but an insufferable plague of drizzling bat s.h.i.+t to humans laboring daily below. Travis had tried half a dozen futile measures to rid himself of the pests, including fire and smoke, which nearly burned the place down; whereupon at this point I went out into the woods to a certain nest I knew of and plucked a blacksnake out of hibernation, wrenching it from the tail-end of its winter's sleep and installing it in the eaves. When spring came a week later the bats quickly vanished, and the blacksnake continued in friendly, satisfied residence, slithering benevolently around the circ.u.mference of the shop as it gobbled up rats and field mice, its presence earning me, I know, quiet admiration in Travis's regard.) So, all things being equal, from the beginning of my stay with Travis, I was in as palmy and benign a state as I could remember in many years. Miss Maria's demands were annoying, but she was a small thorn. Instead of the n.i.g.g.e.r food I was accustomed to at Moore's, fat pork and corn pone, I got house food like the white people-a lot of lean bacon and red meat, occasionally even the leavings from a roast of beef, and often white bread made of wheat-and the lean-to shed adjoining the wheel shop where Hark and I shared housekeeping was roomy enough, with the first bed elevated above the ground that I had slept on since the old days with Samuel Turner; and I constructed, with my owner's blessing, an ingenious wooden vent leading through the wall from the forge, which was always banked with charcoal: the vent could be shut off in the summer, but in the winter its constant warmth made Hark and me (the poor boy Moses slept in the house, in a damp kitchen closet, where he could be available for errands night and day) as snug as two grubs beneath a log. Above all, I had quite a bit of time on my hands. I could fish and trap and do considerable Scriptural reading. I had for going on to several years now considered the necessity of exterminating all the white 42.people in Southampton County and as far beyond as destiny carried me, and there was thus available to me more time than I had ever had before to ponder the Bible and its exhortations, and to think over the complexities of the b.l.o.o.d.y mission that was set out before me.

The particular November day I met Jeremiah Cobb is clear in my memory: an afternoon of low gray clouds scudding eastward on a gusty wind, cornfields brown and sere stretching toward the distant woods, and the kind of stillness which comes with that time of autumn, the buzz and hum of insects having flickered out, the songbirds flown south, leaving the fields and woods to dwell in a vast gray globe of silence; nothing stirs, minutes pa.s.s in utter quiet, then through the smoky light comes the sound of crows cawing over some far-off cornfield, a faint raucous hullabaloo which swiftly dwindles off in the distance, and silence again, broken only by the scratching and scrabble of dead wind-blown leaves. That afternoon I heard dogs yapping in the north, as if they were coming down the road. It was a Sat.u.r.day, Travis and Joel Westbrook had driven that morning to Jerusalem on an errand, and only Putnam was at work in the shop. I was outside at the corner of my shed cleaning some rabbits from my trapline, when in the midst of this deep and brooding silence I heard the dogs yapping up the road. They were foxhounds, but not enough of them for a hunt, and I recall being puzzled, my puzzlement vanis.h.i.+ng just as I rose and looked up the road and saw a whirlwind of dust: out of the whirlwind came a tall white man in a pale beaver hat and gray cloak, perched on the seat of a dogcart drawn by a frisky jet-black mare. Behind and below the seat were the dogs, three flop-eared hounds yapping at one of Travis's yellow cur dogs who was trying to get at them through the spokes of the wheels. It was, I think, the first time I ever saw a dogcart with dogs. From where I stood I saw the dogcart draw up to a halt in front of the house, then saw the man dismount; I thought he came down clumsily, seeming for an instant to falter or to stumble as if weak in the knees, but then, instantly regaining control of himself, he muttered something half aloud and at the same time aimed a kick at the yellow dog, missed wildly, his booted foot fetching up against the side of the carriage with a clatter.

It was comical to watch-a white man's discomfiture, observed on the sly, has always been a Negro's richest delight -but even as I felt the laughter gurgling up inside me the man turned and my laughter ceased. I was now able to observe him for the first 43.time straight on: the face I beheld was one of the most unhappy faces I had ever seen. It was blighted, ravaged by sorrow, as if grief had laid actual hands on the face, wrenching and twisting it into an att.i.tude of ineradicable pain. Now too I could see that the man was a little drunk. He stared somberly at the dog howling at him from the dust of the road, then raised his hollow eyes briefly to the gray clouds scudding across the heavens. I thought I heard a groan pa.s.s his lips; a spasm of coughing seized him.

Then with an abrupt, clumsy gesture he drew the cloak about his gaunt and bony frame and proceeded with fumbling gloved hands to fasten the mare to the tethering post. Just then I heard Miss Sarah call from the porch. "Judge Cobb!" I heard her cry.

"Sakes alive! What are you doin' down this way?" He shouted something back to her, the cadence of his words obscure, m.u.f.fled against the gusty wind. The leaves whirled around him, all the dogs kept yapping and howling, the pretty little mare chafed and tossed her mane and stamped. I managed to make out the words: a hunt in Drewrysville, he was taking his dogs there, a grinding noise in the spindle box of his wheel. He thought the axle broke, split, something; being nearby he had come here for repairs. Was Mr. Joe to home? Downwind came Miss Sarah's voice from the porch, loud, buxom, cheerful: "Mr.

Joe's done gone to Jerusalem! My boy Putnam's here, though!

He'll fix that wheel for you, Judge Cobb, straightaway! Won't you come in and set a spell!" Thank you no ma'am, Cobb hollered back; he was in a rush, he'd get that axle fixed and be on his way. "Well, I 'spect you know where the cider press is," Miss Sarah called. "Right next to the shop. They's some brandy too!

Just help yourself and drink your fill!"

I went back to the corner of the shed, attending to my rabbits, and paid no more mind to Cobb for the moment. Travis had allowed me to have the trapline, and in fact encouraged me in the enterprise since by arrangement he was to get two out of every three rabbits I caught. Such an agreement was satisfactory to me, inasmuch as this game was plentiful in the countryside and the two or three rabbits a week left for Hark and me were as much as we cared to eat, and more; nor did it matter to me that Travis sold most of the rabbits in Jerusalem and retained the money, which was clear profit, since if he was to earn interest on the capital which, body and brain, I represented anyway, I was glad to be capitalized upon in one small way which I myself took pleasure in. For after all of the dull drudgery at Moore's, it was the greatest delight to me to be able to make use of some actual indwelling talent, to fas.h.i.+on the traps myself-box traps which I 44.made out of sc.r.a.p pine from the shop, sawing and planing the wood with my own hands, carving the pegs and the notched pins which tripped the doors, and uniting one after another of the neat miniature coffins into a single smoothly operating, silent, lethal a.s.sembly. But this was not all. As much as manufacturing the traps I enjoyed walking the trapline at daybreak in the silence of the countryside, when frost crackled on the ground and the hollows overflowed as if with milk in the morning mists. It was a three-mile hike through the woods along a familiar pineneedled path, and I devised a sort of cloth pouch to take along with me, in which I carried my Bible and my breakfast-two apples and a piece of streak-of-lean pork already cooked the night before. On my return, the Bible shared the pouch with a couple of rabbits, which I brained bloodlessly with a hickory club. A mult.i.tude of squirrels preceded me on these walks, in rippling stop-and-go motion; with some of them I became quite familiar and I bestowed names upon them, prophetic Hebrew names like Ezra and Amos, and I numbered them among G.o.d's blest since unlike rabbits they could not by nature be easily trapped and could not by law be shot (at least by me, Negroes being denied the use of guns). It was a silent, gentle, pristine time of day, and as the sun shone pale through the dews and the mists and the woods hovered round me gray and still in the autumnal birdless quiet, it was like the morn of Genesis with the breath of creation fresh upon it.

Near the end of my trapline there was a little knoll, surrounded on three sides by a thicket of scrub oak trees, and here I would make my breakfast. From this knoll (though hardly taller than a small tree, it was the highest point of land for miles) I could obtain a clear and secret view of the countryside, including several of the farmhouses which it had already become my purpose eventually to invade and pillage. Thus these morning trapping expeditions also served to allow me to reconnoiter and to lay plans for the great event which I knew was in the offing.

For at such times it seemed that the spirit of G.o.d hovered very close to me, advising me in this fas.h.i.+on: Son of man, prophesy, Son of man, prophesy, and say, Thus saith the Lord; Say, a sword, a sword is and say, Thus saith the Lord; Say, a sword, a sword is sharpened, and also furbished: it is sharpened to make a sore sharpened, and also furbished: it is sharpened to make a sore slaughter slaughter . . . Of all the Prophets it was Ezekiel with his divine fury to whom I felt closest by kins.h.i.+p, and as I sat there these mornings, the pork and apples devoured, the bag of brained cottontails at my side, I would for a long time ponder Ezekiel's words because it was through his words that the wishes of the Lord concerning my destiny (even more so than through the The Confessions of Nat Turner . . . Of all the Prophets it was Ezekiel with his divine fury to whom I felt closest by kins.h.i.+p, and as I sat there these mornings, the pork and apples devoured, the bag of brained cottontails at my side, I would for a long time ponder Ezekiel's words because it was through his words that the wishes of the Lord concerning my destiny (even more so than through the 45.words of the other Prophets) seemed most clearly to be revealed: Go through the midst of Jerusalem, and set a mark Go through the midst of Jerusalem, and set a mark upon the foreheads of the men that sigh and that cry for all the upon the foreheads of the men that sigh and that cry for all the abominations that be done in the midst thereof . . . Slay utterly abominations that be done in the midst thereof . . . Slay utterly old and young, both maids and little children, and women: but old and young, both maids and little children, and women: but come not near any man upon whom is the mark come not near any man upon whom is the mark . . . Often as I brooded over these lines, I wondered why G.o.d should wish to spare the well-meaning and slay the helpless; nonetheless, it was His word. Great mornings, filled with hints, auguries, portents! I find it hard to describe the exaltation which seized me at such times when, crouched upon my secret knoll in gray momentous dawns, I saw in the unfolding future-fixed there as immutably as Saul or Gideon-myself, black as the blackest vengeance, the illimitable, devastating instrument of G.o.d's wrath. For on these mornings as I looked down upon the gray and somber and shriveling landscape it seemed as if His will and my mission could not be more plain and intelligible: to free my people I must one day only commence with the slumbering, mist-shrouded dwellings below, destroying all therein, then set forth eastward across the swamps and fields, where lay Jerusalem. . . . Often as I brooded over these lines, I wondered why G.o.d should wish to spare the well-meaning and slay the helpless; nonetheless, it was His word. Great mornings, filled with hints, auguries, portents! I find it hard to describe the exaltation which seized me at such times when, crouched upon my secret knoll in gray momentous dawns, I saw in the unfolding future-fixed there as immutably as Saul or Gideon-myself, black as the blackest vengeance, the illimitable, devastating instrument of G.o.d's wrath. For on these mornings as I looked down upon the gray and somber and shriveling landscape it seemed as if His will and my mission could not be more plain and intelligible: to free my people I must one day only commence with the slumbering, mist-shrouded dwellings below, destroying all therein, then set forth eastward across the swamps and fields, where lay Jerusalem.

But to get back to Cobb, rather meanderingly I'm afraid, and again by way of Hark. Hark had a flair for the odd, the offcenter: had he been able to read and write, been white, free, living in some Elysian time when he was anything but negotiable property worth six hundred dollars in a depressed market, he might have been a lawyer; to my disappointment, Christian teachings (my own mainly) had made only the shallowest imprint upon his spirit, so that being free of spiritual rules and restraints he responded to the mad side of life and could laugh with abandon, thrilling to each day's new absurdity. In short, he had a feeling for the crazy, the unexpected; all in all, this caused me mild envy. There was for instance the time when our shed behind the wheel shop was still uncompleted, and our master paid us a visit during a roaring thunderstorm, gazing skyward at the water cascading through the roof. "It's leaking in here," he said, to which Hark replied: "Nawsuh, Ma.r.s.e Joe, hit leakin' outside. Hit rainin' rainin' in here." Likewise, it was Hark who gave expression to that certain inward sense-an essence of being which is almost impossible to put into words-that every Negro possesses when, dating from the age of twelve or ten or even earlier, he becomes aware that he is only merchandise, goods, in the eyes of all white people devoid of character or moral sense or soul. This feeling Hark called "black-a.s.sed," and it comes as close to summing up the numbness and dread which dwells in every Negro's heart as The Confessions of Nat Turner in here." Likewise, it was Hark who gave expression to that certain inward sense-an essence of being which is almost impossible to put into words-that every Negro possesses when, dating from the age of twelve or ten or even earlier, he becomes aware that he is only merchandise, goods, in the eyes of all white people devoid of character or moral sense or soul. This feeling Hark called "black-a.s.sed," and it comes as close to summing up the numbness and dread which dwells in every Negro's heart as 46.any word I have ever known. "Don' matter who dey is, Nat, good or bad, even ol' Ma.r.s.e Joe, dey white folks dey gwine make you feel black-a.s.sed black-a.s.sed. Never seed a white man smile at me yet 'thout I didn' feel just about twice as black-a.s.sed as I was befo'. How come dat 'plies, Nat? Figger a white man treat you right you gwine feel white-a.s.sed white-a.s.sed. Naw suh! Young ma.s.sah, old ma.s.sah sweet-talk me, I jes' feel black-a.s.sed black-a.s.sed th'ough an' th'ough. Figger when I gets to heaven like you says I is, de good Lord hisself even He gwine make old Hark feel black-a.s.sed, standin' befo' de golden throne. Dere He is, white as snow, givin' me a lot of sweet talk and me feelin' like a th'ough an' th'ough. Figger when I gets to heaven like you says I is, de good Lord hisself even He gwine make old Hark feel black-a.s.sed, standin' befo' de golden throne. Dere He is, white as snow, givin' me a lot of sweet talk and me feelin' like a black-a.s.sed black-a.s.sed angel. 'Cause pretty soon I know His line, yas angel. 'Cause pretty soon I know His line, yas suh! suh! Yas Yas suh suh, pretty soon I can hear Him holler out: 'Hark! You dere, boy! Need some spick and span roun' de throne room. Hop to, you black-a.s.sed black-a.s.sed scoundrel! Hop to wid de mop and de broom!'" scoundrel! Hop to wid de mop and de broom!'"

It is impossible to exaggerate the extent to which white people dominate the conversation of Negroes, and it is with certainty I can record that these were the words that Hark (who had come out of the shed to help me dress and clean the rabbits) had been speaking on this gray November day when, like the most vaguely discernible shadow, we felt simultaneously a presence at our crouched backs and again, half startled, looked upward to see the distressed and ravaged face of Jeremiah Cobb. I don't know whether he overheard Hark's words, it would hardly have mattered if he had. Both Hark and I were taken unawares by the man's magisterial, sudden, lofty figure looming above us, swaying slightly against the smoky sky; so abruptly and silently had he come upon us that it was a long instant before the face of him actually registered, and before we were able to let slip from our hands the b.l.o.o.d.y rabbits and begin to move erect into that posture of respect or deference it is wise for any Negro to a.s.sume whenever a strange white man-always a bundle of obscure motives-enters upon the scene. But now, even before we had gotten up, he spoke. "Go on," he said, "go on, go on," in a curiously rough and raspy voice-and with a motion of his hands he bade us to continue at our work, which we did, easing back slowly on our haunches yet still gazing up into the unsmiling, bleak, tormented face. Suddenly a hiccup escaped his lips, a sound incongruous and unseemly and even faintly comical emanating from that stern face, and there was a long moment of silence all around; he hiccuped again, and this time I was sure I sensed Hark's huge body beginning to shudder with-with what?

Laughter? Embarra.s.sment? Fear? But then Cobb said: "Boys, where's the press?"

47."Yondah, ma.s.sah," Hark said. He pointed to the shed several yards away, directly at the side of the shop, where the cider barrels lay in a moist and dusty rank in the shadows past the open door. "Red bar'l, ma.s.sah. Dat's de bar'l fo' a gennleman, ma.s.sah." When the desire to play the obsequious c.o.o.n came over him, Hark's voice became so plump and sweet that it was downright unctuous. "Ma.r.s.e Joe, he save dat red bar'l for de fines' fines' gennlemens." gennlemens."

"Bother the cider," Cobb said, "where's the brandy?"

"Brandy in de bottles on de shelf," said Hark. He began to scramble to his feet. "I fix de brandy fo' you, ma.s.sah." But again Cobb motioned him back with a brisk wave of his hand. "Go on, go on," he said. The voice was not pleasant, neither was it unkindly; it had rather a distant, abstracted quality, yet somehow it remained tinged with pain as if the mind which controlled it struggled with a preoccupying disquiet. He was abrupt, aloof, but there was nothing one might call arrogant about him.

Nonetheless, something about the man offended me, filled me with the sharpest displeasure, and it wasn't until he limped unsteadily past us through the crackling brown patch of weeds toward the cider press, saying not another word, that I realized that it wasn't the man himself who annoyed me so much as it was Hark's manner in his presence-the unspeakable bootlicking Sambo, all giggles and smirks and oily, sniveling servility. Hark had slit open a rabbit. The body was still warm (on Sat.u.r.days I often collected my game in the afternoon), and Hark was holding it aloft by the ears to catch the blood, which we saved to bind stews. I can recall my sudden fury as we crouched there, as I looked up at Hark, at the bland, serene glistening black face with its wide brow and the grave, beautiful prominences of its cheekbones. With dumb absorption he was gazing at the stream of crimson blood flowing into the pan he held below. He had the face one might imagine to be the face of an African chieftain-soldierly, fearless, scary, and resplendent in its bold symmetry-yet there was something wrong with the eyes, and the eyes, or at least the expression they often took on, as now, reduced the face to a kind of harmless, dull, malleable docility. They were the eyes of a child, trustful and dependent, soft doe's eyes mossed over with a kind of furtive, fearful glaze, and as I looked at them now-the womanish eyes in the ma.s.sive, sovereign face mooning dumbly at the rabbit's blood-I was seized by rage. I heard Cobb fumbling around in the cider press, clinking and clattering. We were out of earshot. "Black 48.toadeater," I said. "Snivelin' black toadeatin' white man's bootlickin' sc.u.m! You, Hark! Black sc.u.m! sc.u.m! " "

Hark's soft eyes rolled toward me, trusting yet fearful. "How come-" he began in an abrupt startled voice.

"Hush your face, man!" I said. I was furious. I wanted to let him have the back of my hand flush in the mouth. "Just hush, man!" I began to mimic him, hoa.r.s.ely, beneath my breath. " 'Red bar'l, ma.s.sah! Dat's de bar'l wid de gennlemen's gennlemen's cidah! I fix de brandy fo' you, ma.s.sah!' How come you make with that kind of talk, bootlickin' n.i.g.g.e.r suckup? It was enough to make me plain ordinary cidah! I fix de brandy fo' you, ma.s.sah!' How come you make with that kind of talk, bootlickin' n.i.g.g.e.r suckup? It was enough to make me plain ordinary sick! sick! " "

Hark's expression grew hurt, downcast; he moped disconsolately at the ground, saying nothing but moving his lips in a moist, muttering, abstracted way as if filled with hopeless self-recrimination. "Can't you see, miserable n.i.g.g.e.r?" I persisted, boring in hard. "Can't you see the difference difference? The difference betwixt plain politeness and bootlickin'? He didn't even say, 'Get me a drink.' He said just, 'Where the press?' A question question, that's all. And there you you is, already: scramblin' and scroungin' like a b.i.t.c.h pup, ma.s.sah this and ma.s.sah that! You enough to make a man chuck up his dinner!" Be is, already: scramblin' and scroungin' like a b.i.t.c.h pup, ma.s.sah this and ma.s.sah that! You enough to make a man chuck up his dinner!" Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom o f fools for anger resteth in the bosom o f fools. Ashamed suddenly, I calmed myself. Hark was a vision of dejection. More gently I said: "You just got to learn learn, man. You got to learn the difference.

I don't mean you got to risk a beatin'. I don't mean you got to be uppity and smart. But they is some kind of limit. And you ain't a man man when you act like that. You ain't a man, you is a fool! And you do this all the time, over and over again, with Travis and Miss Maria and Lord help you even with them two kids. You don't learn nothin'. You a fool! As a when you act like that. You ain't a man, you is a fool! And you do this all the time, over and over again, with Travis and Miss Maria and Lord help you even with them two kids. You don't learn nothin'. You a fool! As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly fool returneth to his folly. You a fool fool, Hark. How'm I goin' to teach you?"

Hark made no reply, only crouched there muttering in his hurt and dejection. I was seldom angry at Hark, but my anger when it came had the power to grieve him. Loving him as I did, I often reproved myself for my outbursts and for the misery they caused him, but in certain ways he was like a splendid dog, a young, beautiful, heedless, spirited dog who had, nonetheless, to be trained to behave with dignity. Although I had not yet told him of my great plans, it was my purpose that when the day came to obliterate the white people, Hark would be my right arm, my sword and s.h.i.+eld; for this he was well endowed, being 49.quick-witted and resourceful and as strong as a bear. Yet the very sight of white skin cowed him, humbled him, diminished him to the most fawning and servile abas.e.m.e.nt; and I knew that before placing my ultimate trust in him I must somehow eliminate from his character this weakling trait which I had seen before in Negroes who, like Hark, had spent most of their early lives on big plantations. Certainly it would not do to have a chief lieutenant who was at heart only an abject n.i.g.g.e.r, full of cheap grins and comic shufflings, unable to gut a white man and gut him without a blink or qualm. In short, Hark was for me a necessary and crucial experiment. Though it is a painful fact that most Negroes are hopelessly docile, many of them are filled with fury, and the unctuous coating of flattery which surrounds and encases that fury is but a form of self-preservation. With Hark, I knew I must strip away and destroy that repulsive outer guise, meanwhile encouraging him to nurture the murderous fury which lay beneath. Yet somehow I did not think it would take too much time.

"I don' know, Nat," Hark said finally. "I tries and tries. But hit seem I cain't git over dat black-a.s.sed feelin'. I tries, though." He paused, ruminating, nodding his head ever so slightly over the b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s in his hands. "'Sides, dat man he look so sad an'

mou'nful. Never seed such a sad an' mou'nful man. Kind of felt sorry fo' de man. What you reckon made him so sad-lookin'

anyways?"

I heard Cobb returning from the press through the weeds, unsteadily, stumbling slightly, with a brittle crackling sound of underbrush being trampled underfoot. "Feel sorry for a white man and you wastin' your sorrow," I said in a low voice. Then even as I spoke I made a sudden connection in my mind, remembering how a few months before I had overheard Travis speaking to Miss Sarah about this man Cobb, and the terrors which had beset him grisly and Job-like within the s.p.a.ce of a single year: a merchant and banker of property and means, chief magistrate of the county, master of the Southampton Hounds, he lost his wife and two grown daughters to typhoid fever on the coast of Carolina, whither, ironically, he had sent his ladies to recuperate from winter attacks of the bronchial ailments to which all three were p.r.o.ne. Shortly afterward his stable, a brand-new structure on the outskirts of Jerusalem, burned to the ground in one horrid and almost instantaneous holocaust, incinerating all therein including two or three prize Morgan hunters and many valuable English saddles and harnesses, not to mention a young 50.Negro groom. Subsequently, the unfortunate man, having taken heavily to the bottle to ease his affliction, fell down some stairs and broke his leg; the limb failed to mend properly, and although ambulatory, he was plagued by a hectic, mild, irresistible fever and by unceasing pain. When I first heard of all this adversity I could not help but feel a spasm of satisfaction (do not consider me altogether heartless-I am not, as you shall surely see; but the contentment a Negro takes in a white man's misery, existing like a delicious tidbit among bleak and scanty rations, can hardly be overestimated), and I must confess that now as I heard Cobb behind me toiling back through the noisy weeds I experienced anew the same sense of gratification. ( For the thing which 1 For the thing which 1 greatly feared is come upon me, and that which 1 was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came I quiet; yet trouble came . . .) A small thrill of pleasure coursed through my flesh. . . .) A small thrill of pleasure coursed through my flesh.

I thought he was going to walk past us to the shop or perhaps the house. Certainly I was taken by surprise when, instead, Cobb halted next to us with his boots practically atop one of the skinned rabbits. Again Hark and I started to rise, again he motioned for us to continue work. "Go on, go on," he repeated, taking a huge gulp from the bottle. I heard the brandy vanish with a froglike croak in the back of his gullet, then the long aspirated gasp of breath, the final wet smacking of lips. "Ambrosia," he said. Above us the voice was self-confident, st.u.r.dy, stentorian; it had an unmistakable vigor and force, even though the tired undertone of sorrow remained, and I felt the residue of an emotion, ever so faint, which I must confess was only the fear I was born and brought up with. "Am-ba-ro-sia," he said. My fear receded. The yellow cur dog came snuffling up and I hurled into his face a slippery blue handful of rabbits' guts, which he made off with into the cotton patch, groaning with pleasure. "A Greek word," Cobb went on. "From ambrotos ambrotos, that is to say, immortal.

For surely the G.o.ds were conferring upon us poor humans a kind of immortality, no matter how brief and illusory, when they tendered us this voluptuous gift, made of the humble and omnipresent apple. Comforter to the lonely and outcast, an anodyne for pain, a shelter against the chill wind of remorseless, oncoming death-surely such an elixir must be touched by the hand of something or someone divine!" Another hiccup-it was like a species of shriek, really prodigious-racked his frame, and again I heard him take a swig from the bottle. Intent upon my rabbits, I had not as yet looked up, but I had caught a glimpse of Hark: transfixed, with b.l.o.o.d.y glistening hands outstretched, he 51.was gazing open-mouthed at Cobb with a look of absolute attention, a kind of ignorant and paralyzed awe affecting to behold; straining to understand, he moved his lips silently in unison with Cobb's, chewing upon the gorgeous syllables as if upon air; droplets of sweat had burst forth from his black brow like a spray of quicksilver, and for an instant I could almost have sworn that he had ceased breathing. "Aaa-h," Cobb sighed, smacking his lips. "Pure delight. And is it not remarkable that to his already estimable endowments-the finest wheelwright in the Southside of Virginia-your master Mr. Joseph Travis should add another supreme talent, that of being the most skillful distiller of this ineffable potion within the span of a hundred miles? Do you not find that truly remarkable? Do you not not now." He was silent. Then he said again, ambiguously, in a voice which seemed-to me at least-touched with threat: "Do you now." He was silent. Then he said again, ambiguously, in a voice which seemed-to me at least-touched with threat: "Do you not not now?" now?"

I had begun to feel uncomfortable, disturbed. Perhaps I was oversensitive (as always) to the peculiar shading of a white man's tone; nonetheless, there seemed to be something pointed, oppressive, sardonic about this question, alarming me. It has been my usual exprience that when a strange white man adopts this florid, familiar manner, and when his listener is black, the white man is out to have a little fun at the black man's expense.

And such had been my developing mood of tension during the recent months that I felt I must avoid at all costs (and no matter how harmless the by-play) even the faintest premonition of a situation situation. Now the man's wretched question had deposited me squarely upon a dilemma. The trouble is: a Negro, in much the same way as a dog, has constantly to interpret the tone tone of what is being said. If, as was certainly possible, the question was merely drunken-rhetorical, then I could remain humbly and decently mute and sc.r.a.pe away at my rabbit. This (my mind all the while spinning and whirling away like a water mill) was the eventuality I preferred-dumb n.i.g.g.e.r silence, perhaps a little scratching of the old woolly skull, and an illiterate pinklipped grin, reflecting total incomprehension of so many beautiful Latinisms. of what is being said. If, as was certainly possible, the question was merely drunken-rhetorical, then I could remain humbly and decently mute and sc.r.a.pe away at my rabbit. This (my mind all the while spinning and whirling away like a water mill) was the eventuality I preferred-dumb n.i.g.g.e.r silence, perhaps a little scratching of the old woolly skull, and an illiterate pinklipped grin, reflecting total incomprehension of so many beautiful Latinisms.

If on the other hand, as seemed more likely from the man's expectant silence, the question was drunken-surely-sarcastic and demanding of an answer, I would be forced to mutter the customary Ya.s.suh-Nawsuh being impermissible in view of the simple-minded nature of the question. What was so disturbing about this moment was my fear (and these fears, one may be a.s.sured, are neither vagrant nor inconsequential) that the Ya.s.suh might very well be followed by something like this: "Ah, you do now. You do do find it remarkable? Am I to understand then The Confessions of Nat Turner find it remarkable? Am I to understand then 52.that you consider your master a dummox? That because he can make wheels he can't make brandy? You darkies don't have much regard for your owners these days, do you? Well, I want to tell you something, Pompey, or whatever your ludicrous name is, that . . ." et cetera. The changes on this situation are endless, and do not think me overly cautious: motiveless n.i.g.g.e.r-needling is a common sport. But at this point it was not the possibility of humiliation I wanted to avoid so much as the possibility that having recently vowed that humiliation would never again be a constraint upon me, or a repression, I would be forced to surmount it by beating the man's brains out, thus completely wrecking all my great designs for the future.

I had begun to shake, and I felt a stirring, a kind of watery weakness in my bowels; just then, however, came a fortunate distraction: nearby in the woods there arose the sound of a cras.h.i.+ng in the undergrowth, and we all three turned to see a tawny mud-streaked wild sow lumber out of a thicket, snorting and grunting, trailed by her squealing brood; now as quickly as they appeared pig and piglets seemed to dissolve back into the sere and withered forest, the s.p.a.ce of sky above silent and gray and desolate with low-hanging, tattered, wind-driven clouds like smudged cotton through which faint sunlight seeped yellowish and wan. Distracted, our eyes lingered on the scene for a moment, and then came a slamming noise, very close, as the door of the shop opened suddenly, and caught by the wind, hurled itself on screaming hinges backward against the wall.

"Hark!" a voice called. It was my boy owner, Putnam. "Where you, Hark?" The child was in a foul mood; I could tell this from the blotches on his pale white face: they grew prominent and rosy whenever he became exercised or hara.s.sed. I should add that Putnam had more or less had it in for Hark ever since the preceding year when, out hunting hickory nuts on a balmy afternoon. Hark had innocently but clumsily ambushed Putnam and Joel Westbrook in some tangled carnal union by the swimming pond, both of the boys naked as catfish on the muddy bank, writhing about and skylarking with each other in the most oblivious way. "Never seed such foolishness," Hark had said to me, "But 'twarn't like I was gwine pay it no never mind. n.i.g.g.e.r don' care 'bout no white boys' foolishness. Now dat daggone Putnam he so mad, you'd think it was me dat dey caught jackin'

off de ole bird." I sympathized with Hark but in the end I couldn't take it too seriously, as it simply typified an uncorrectable condition: white people really see nothing of a Negro in his private activity, while a Negro, who must walk miles out of his 53.path to avoid seeing everything white people do, has often to suffer for even the most guileless part of his ubiquitous presence by being called a spy and a snooping black scoundrel.

"Hark!" the boy called again. "Get in here straight away! What do you think you're doin' out there, you no-account n.i.g.g.e.r! Fire's gone plumb out! Get in here, G.o.d durn you lazy wretch!" The boy wore a leather ap.r.o.n; he had a coa.r.s.e-featured, sullen, pouty-mouthed face with flowing dark hair and long side whiskers: as he shouted at Hark, I felt a brief, fleeting spasm of rage and I longed for the day to arrive when I might get my hands on him. Hark scrambled to his feet and made off for the shop as Putnam called out again, this time to Cobb: "I think you have someways broke a axle, Judge, sir! My stepdad will fix it!

He should be here afore too long!"

"Very well," Cobb called back. Then so abruptly that for an instant I thought he was still talking to the boy, he said: "As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. That of course is most familiar, but for the life of me I am unable to place it within the Scriptures. I suspect however that it is one of the Proverbs of King Solomon, whose delight it was to rail at fools, and to castigate human folly . . ." As he went on talking, a queasy sensation crept over me: the customary positions were reversed, the white man this time had caught the n.i.g.g.e.r at his his gossip. How did I know that my own black blabbermouth would betray me, and that he would overhear every word I had said? gossip. How did I know that my own black blabbermouth would betray me, and that he would overhear every word I had said?

Humiliated, ashamed of my humiliation, I let the sticky wet rabbit corpse fall from my fingers and braced my spirit, preparing for the worst. "Was it not Solomon who said the fool shall be the servant to the wise? Was it not he too who said a fool despiseth his father's instruction? And is not the instruction of the father, through Paul the Jew of Tarsus, manifest even to the fools of this great dominion, to wit: Stand fast therefore in the liberty Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage! with the yoke of bondage! " As he continued to speak I slowly stood erect, but even at my full height he towered over me, sickly, pale, and sweating, his nose, leaking slightly in the cold, like a great scimitar protruding from the stormy and anguished face, the brandy bottle clutched in one huge mottled hand against his breast as he stood there in a limping posture, swaying and perspiring, speaking not so much to me as through and past me toward the scudding clouds. "Yes, and to this comes the reply, to this mighty and manifest truth we hear the response"-he paused for an instant, hiccuping, and then his The Confessions of Nat Turner " As he continued to speak I slowly stood erect, but even at my full height he towered over me, sickly, pale, and sweating, his nose, leaking slightly in the cold, like a great scimitar protruding from the stormy and anguished face, the brandy bottle clutched in one huge mottled hand against his breast as he stood there in a limping posture, swaying and perspiring, speaking not so much to me as through and past me toward the scudding clouds. "Yes, and to this comes the reply, to this mighty and manifest truth we hear the response"-he paused for an instant, hiccuping, and then his 54.voice rose in tones of mockery -"to this irresistible and binding edict we hear the Pharisee cry out of that great inst.i.tution the College of William & Mary, out of Richmond, from the learned mountebanks abroad like locusts in the Commonwealth: 'Theology must answer theology. Speak you of liberty? Speak you of the yoke of bondage? How then, country magistrate, do you answer this? Ephesians Six, Five: Servants, be obedient to Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ. Or this, my hayseed colleague, how answer you to this? One Peter, Two, Eighteen: Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the forward only to the good and gentle, but also to the forward. There, friend- there there-is not that divine sanction for the bondage of which you rave and prattle?' Merciful G.o.d in heaven, will such casuistry never end! Is not the handwriting on the wall?" For the first time he seemed to look at me, fixing me for a moment with his feverish eyes before upending the bottle, thrusting its neck deep into his throat, where the brandy gulped and gurgled. "Howl "Howl ye, ye, " he resumed, " " he resumed, "Howl ye: for the day of the Lord is at hand: it shall come as a destruction from the Almighty. shall come as a destruction from the Almighty. You're the preacher they call Nat, are you not? Tell me then, preacher, am I not right? Is not Isaiah only a witness to the truth when he says howl ye? When he says the day of the Lord is at hand, and it shall come as a destruction from the Almighty? Tell me in the honesty of truth, preacher: is not the handwriting on the wall for this beloved and foolish and tragic Old Dominion?" You're the preacher they call Nat, are you not? Tell me then, preacher, am I not right? Is not Isaiah only a witness to the truth when he says howl ye? When he says the day of the Lord is at hand, and it shall come as a destruction from the Almighty? Tell me in the honesty of truth, preacher: is not the handwriting on the wall for this beloved and foolish and tragic Old Dominion?"

"Praise G.o.d, mastah," I said, "that sure is true." My words were evasively meek and humble, with a touch of ministerial sanctimony, but I uttered them mainly to cover up my sudden alarm. For now I was truly afraid that he had identified me; the fact that this strange and drunken white man knew who I was smote me like a blow between the eyes. A Negro's most cherished possession is the drab, neutral cloak of anonymity he can manage to gather around himself, allowing him to merge faceless and nameless with the common swarm: impudence and misbehavior are, for obvious reasons, unwise, but equally so is the display of an uncommon distinction, for if the former attributes can get you starved, whipped, chained, the latter may subject you to such curiosity and hostile suspicion as to ruinously impair the minute amount of freedom you possess. As for the rest, his words had spilled from his lips so rapidly and wildly that I was as yet unable to get the exact drift of his thought, which seemed nonetheless mighty precarious for a white man; and I still could not get over the sensation that he was trying to bait 55.me, or lead me into some kind of trap. To conceal my dismay and confusion, again I mumbled, "That sure is true," and I chuckled idiotically, gazing toward the ground while I slowly wagged my head-as if to indicate that this poor darky understood precious little if indeed he understood anything.

But now, bending down slightly, his face drifted nearer to me, the skin close up not flushed and whiskey-pink as I had imagined but pale as lard, utterly bloodless and seeming to grow even whiter as I forced myself to return his gaze. "Don't play dumb with me,"

he said. There was no hostility in his voice, its sound was more request than command. "Your mistress pointed you out to me just now. Even so, I would have known, I could have distinguished between you two. The other Negro, what's his name?"

"Hark," I said. "That's Hark, mastah."

"Yes, I would have known you. I would have known even had I not overheard you. 'Feel sorry for a white man and the sorrow is wasted:' Is that not what you said?"

A s.h.i.+ver of fear, old and habitual and humiliating, pa.s.sed through me, and despite myself I averted my eyes and blurted: "I'm sorry I said that, mastah. I'm dreadful sorry. I didn't mean it, mastah."

"Poppyc.o.c.k!" he exclaimed. "Sorry that you said you're not not sorry for a white man? Come, come, preacher, you don't mean that. sorry for a white man? Come, come, preacher, you don't mean that.

You don't mean that, do you?" He paused, waiting for an answer, but by now my distress and embarra.s.sment had so unsettled me that I couldn't even force a reply. Worse, I had begun to despise and curse myself for my own slowwitted inability to deal with the situation. I stood there licking my lips as I gazed out toward the woods, feeling suddenly like the most squalid type of cornfield c.o.o.n.

"Now don't play dumb with me," he repeated, the voice edged with a tone almost gentle, curiously ingratiating. "Your reputation precedes you, as it were. For several years now there has come to my attention wondrous bruit of a remarkable slave, owned at different times by various masters here in the vicinity of Cross Keys, who had so surpa.s.sed the paltry condition into which he had been cast by destiny that- mirabile dictu- mirabile dictu- he could swiftly read, if called upon to demonstrate, from a difficult and abstract work in natural philosophy, and in a fair hand inscribe page after page of random dictation, and had mastered his numbers as far The Confessions of Nat Turner he could swiftly read, if called upon to demonstrate, from a difficult and abstract work in natural philosophy, and in a fair hand inscribe page after page of random dictation, and had mastered his numbers as far 56.as a comprehension of simple algebra, and had so attained an understanding of Holy Scripture that such of those few adepts in the science of divinity as had examined his knowledge of the Bible came away shaking their heads in wonder at the splendor of his erudition." He paused and belched. My eyes moved back again toward his, and I saw him wipe his mouth with his sleeve.

"Rumor!" he resumed quickly. Now his voice had risen to a kind of impa.s.sioned runaway singsong, his eyes were wild and obsessed. "Astounding rumor to emerge from the backwoods of Old Virginny! Astounding as those rumors which in olden times came back from the depths of Asia-that at the source of the River Indus, I believe it was, dwelt a species of mammoth rat, six feet long, which could dance a lively jig while accompanying itself on a tambourine, and when approached would sprout heretofore invisible wings and fly to the topmost branch of the nearest palm tree. Rumor almost impossible to entertain! For to believe that from this downtrodden race, the very laws governing which bind it to an ignorance more benighted and final than death, there could arise one single specimen capable of spelling cat cat is asking rational intelligence to believe that balmy King George the Third was not a dastardly tyrant or that the moon is made of clabber cheese!" He had begun to jab his finger at me as he spoke, a long bony finger with hairy joints, sending it forth into my face in quick thrusts like a snake's darting neck. "But beyond this, mind you, beyond this-to imagine this . . . this prodigy, this is asking rational intelligence to believe that balmy King George the Third was not a dastardly tyrant or that the moon is made of clabber cheese!" He had begun to jab his finger at me as he spoke, a long bony finger with hairy joints, sending it forth into my face in quick thrusts like a snake's darting neck. "But beyond this, mind you, beyond this-to imagine this . . . this prodigy, this paragon paragon, a Negro slave slave-oh, perish the vile word!- who had acquired the lineaments not just of literacy but of knowledge, who it was rumored could almost speak in the accents of a white man of breeding and cultivation; who, in short, while still one of this doomed empire's most wretched minions, had transcended his sorry state and had become not a thing but a person person-all this is beyond the realm of one's wildest imagination. No. No! The mind boggles, refuses to accept such a grotesque image! Tell me, preacher, how do you spell cat?

Come now, prove to me the reality of this hoax, this canard!" He kept jabbing his finger at me, the voice cajoling, amiable, the eyes still wintry-wild and obsessed. The smell of applejack was around him like a sweet vapor. "Cat!" he said. "Spell cat cat. Cat!"

I had begun to feel surely that he was not being sarcastic, that he was somehow trying to express mad, hulking, terrifying feelings beyond anyone's surmise. I felt blood pounding at my temples and the cold sweat of fear and anxiety clammy beneath my arms. "Don't mock me, mastah, I pray you," I breathed in a whisper. "Kindly please, mastah.Don't mock me." Time crept 57.past and we were both silent, gazing at each other, and the November wind boomed behind us in the forest, cras.h.i.+ng like giant, diminis.h.i.+ng footfalls across the graying waste of cedar and cypress and pine; for a moment my compliant lips trembled on a broken wisp of air, faltering- 'Ca-, Ca-"-and a grief-haunted sense of futility, childish, lifelong, n.i.g.g.e.r-black, welled up in me like a sigh of pain. I stood there sweating in the bl.u.s.tery wind, thinking: So this is the way it is. Even when they care, even when they are somehow on your side they cannot help but taunt and torment you. The palms of my hands slimy, and my mind roaring, thinking: I do not want to, but now, now if he forces me to spell the word I will have to try to kill him. I lowered my eyes again, saying more distinctly: "Don't mock me, mastah, please."

Yet now Cobb, adrift in his brandy haze, seemed to have forgotten what he had said to me and turned away, staring madly toward the forest where the wind still thrashed and flayed the distant treetops. He clutched the bottle as if with desperation at a lopsided angle against his chest, and a trickle of brandy oozed out against his cloak. With his other hand he began to ma.s.sage his thigh, holding the leg so tightly that above the knuckles the flesh grew bone-white. "Almighty G.o.d," he groaned, "this everlasting mortal ache! If a man live many years and rejoice in If a man live many years and rejoice in them all, yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they them all, yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be many shall be many. G.o.d, G.o.d, my poor Virginia, blighted domain!

The soil wrecked and ravaged on every hand, turned to useless dust by that abominable weed. Tobacco we cannot any longer raise, nor cotton ever, save for a meager crop in these few southern counties, nor oats nor barley nor wheat. A wasteland! A plump and virginal princ.i.p.ality, a cornucopia of riches the like of which the world has never seen, transformed within the s.p.a.ce of a century to a withering, defeated hag! And all to satisfy the demand of ten million Englishmen for a pipeful of Virginia leaf!

Now even that is gone, and all we can raise is horses! Horses 1"

he cried as if to himself now, stroking and kneading his thigh.

"Horses and what else, what else what else? Horses and pickaninnies!

Pichaninnies! Little black infants by the score, the hundreds, the thousands, the tens of thousands! The fairest state of them all, this tranquil and beloved domain-what has it now become? A Little black infants by the score, the hundreds, the thousands, the tens of thousands! The fairest state of them all, this tranquil and beloved domain-what has it now become? A nursery nursery for Mississippi, Alabama, Arkansas. A monstrous breeding farm to supply the sinew to gratify the maw of Eli Whitney's infernal machine, cursed be that blackguard's name! for Mississippi, Alabama, Arkansas. A monstrous breeding farm to supply the sinew to gratify the maw of Eli Whitney's infernal machine, cursed be that blackguard's name!

In such a way is our human decency brought down, when we pander all that is in us n.o.ble and just to the false G.o.d which goes 58.by the vile name of Capital! Capital! Oh, Virginia, woe betide thee! Woe, thrice woe, and ever d.a.m.ned in memory be the day when poor black men in chains first trod upon thy sacred strand! " Oh, Virginia, woe betide thee! Woe, thrice woe, and ever d.a.m.ned in memory be the day when poor black men in chains first trod upon thy sacred strand! "

Groaning in pain now, fiercely stroking his thigh with one hand while with the other he elevated the bottle to his lips and drained it to the dregs, Cobb seemed, for once, oblivious of me, and I recall thinking that wisdom dictated my stealing out of his presence, if only I could find a decent way to do it. In scattered, disordered riot, all manner of emotions had run through me as he had spoken; not in years having heard a white man talk in this crazy fas.h.i.+on, I would not be honest if I did not admit that what he said (or the drunken gist of it, stealing in upon my consciousness like some unreal ghostly light) caused me to feel a s.h.i.+ver of awe and something else, dim and remote, which might have been a thrill of hope. But for some reason I cannot explain, both awe and hope swiftly retreated in my mind, dwindled, died, and even as I looked at Cobb, I could only smell the musky scent of danger-flagrant, imminent danger-and feel a sense of suspicion and mistrust such as I had rarely ever known. Why? It is perhaps impossible to explain save by G.o.d, who knows all things. Yet I will say this, without which you cannot understand the central madness of n.i.g.g.e.r existence: beat a n.i.g.g.e.r, starve him, leave him wallowing in his own s.h.i.+t, and he will be yours for life. Awe him by some unforeseen hint of philanthropy, tickle him with the idea of hope, and he will want to slice your throat.

Yet now before I could make any kind of move, a cracking noise sounded behind us as once again the shop door opened, swung wide, and drove itself with windy force against the wall. And as we turned then, Hark emerged with s.h.i.+rttail flying, scrambling away from the shop, plunging in panicky headlong flight toward the fields and the woods beyond. Legs churning, his great black body moved at a furious gallop; his eyes rolled white with alarm.

Scant yards behind him now came Putnam, his leather ap.r.o.n flapping as he brandished a stick of lightwood, bawling at the top of his voice. "You, Hark, come back here! Come back here, you dad-dratted no-good an'mal! I'll get hold of you at last, black b.a.s.t.a.r.d !" Fleet as a deer, Hark scampered across the open lot, bare black feet sowing puffs of dust, the barnyard cat fleeing his approach, goose and gander too, c.u.mbersomely flapping their flightless wings, emitting dismal honking sounds as they waddled from his path. On he came past us, looking neither left nor right, eyes round and white as eggsh.e.l.ls, and we could hear the voice 59.panting ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah as he sprinted for the woods, moving now with such nimble-footed speed that he seemed whisked forward like a sail on the wind. Far behind, losing ground each second, came the pimpled boy, still howling. "Stop! You, Hark! Black wretch! as he sprinted for the woods, moving now with such nimble-footed speed that he seemed whisked forward like a sail on the wind. Far behind, losing ground each second, came the pimpled boy, still howling. "Stop! You, Hark! Black wretch!

Stop!" But Hark's great legs were churning as if propelled by steam; vaulting the pump trough, he soared through the air in a gigantic leap like something suspended by wire or wings, struck the earth with a thumping sound, and without breaking stride, bounded on toward the distant forest, the inside of his bare soles flas.h.i.+ng splendidly pink. Then all of a sudden it was as if he had been felled by a cannon ball: his head snapped back, and the rest of him including his pinwheeling legs sailed out and forward, and he came down flat on his back with a bladdery, sacklike thud, directly beneath the clothesline which, at gullet level, had intercepted his flight. But as Cobb and I stood watching, watched him shake his head and try to rise up on his elbows, we saw now not one but two forces, though equally sinister and somber, converging on Hark from opposite directions: Putnam, still waving his lightwood stick, and Miss Maria Pope, who had appeared as if from nowhere like some augury of frustrate b.i.t.c.hery and vengeance, bearing down upon Hark with a hobbled spinster's gait amid black snapping yards of funereal gingham.

Blown back on the wind, her voice already was hysteric with shrill malevolence. "It's up the tree for you, n.i.g.g.e.r!" she screeched. "Up the tree!"

"Now," I heard Cobb murmur, "now we are about to witness a ritual diversion indigenous to this Southern clime. We are about to witness two human beings whipping another."

"No, mastah," I said. "Ma.r.s.e Joe don't 'lo