as though at some good joke which he thoroughly enjoyed. 'Say, you oughta hear her when she got a real head o' steam. My stars! Course, tain't often.'
Not more than twice a day, and three times on Sundays, I would say to myself. Serve the clown right for marrying out of his class.
'Say, but don' get me wrong! Here, have 'nuther drink. Don' get me wrong — she a real lovin' gel. Yes-suh. She the lovin'est little creatur' you ever did see. When I say she sometimes bored, don' think I mean she goin' short! Ho-ho, I guess not!' And he would nudge me, winking ponderously, with a lewd leer. 'I tell you, I'm 'bout wore out pilin' inter that li'l darlin'! Fact. She cain't seem t'get enough o' me. 'Do it again, Johnny lover, do it again.' That what she say. An' don' I do it? Oh, I should say not! I should jus' 'bout reckon not. An' don' she know how to rouse a man on, hey? Why, I see some men — like Parkins, down at Helena, an' young Mackay, who got the Yellowtree place — they jus' itchin' for her, jus' at the sight of her. Why, I could see you fancy her you'self — no, don't fret you'self, don't fret.
It was from drunken meanderings such as this that I formed my conclusions about the Mandevilles — an obvious one being that they didn't bed together, and probably never had. Well, that could explain a lot about Madame Annette's behaviour, and in other circumstances I would probably have Set myself to supply her want, for she was a trim little half-pint, bar her shrew face. But she was so damned unpleasant that the thought didn't cross my mind; when we met she either looked straight through me or treated me as though I were no better than the blacks. If I hadn't needed the work I'd have taken the rough side of my tongue to her, and as it was I gave her back sneer for sneer as far as I dared, so that before long we hated each other as cordially as man and woman can. And mind you, I don't like this sort of thing; it ain't usual to find a woman who isn't prepared to be civil to me, and I'd grown my whiskers long again, and a rakish little black imperial, too.
However, I had my own affairs to attend to. I was working quietly away towards the day when I'd have enough saved to be able to move off north again. I reckoned two or three months would see me set and ready, and by that time all the haroosh caused by my flight from the
So I laboured away, whopping niggers, mounting the occasional black wenth in my quarters, and counting my dollars every fortnight, and never gave a thought to Annette Mandeville. Which was foolish of me; equally foolish was the way in which I allowed a sense of security to grow on me as the weeks passed and no hue and cry came to disturb the peace of Greystones. Picking time passed and with less to do I got restless, and impatient to be up and away for England; I suppose that made me more thoughtless and short-tempered than usual, all of which was to lead to my undoing.
It was the approach of Christmas that finally broke my patience, I think. I suppose everyone's thoughts turn home then, whether they really wish they were there or not. I had only Elspeth to miss — and the baby I'd never seen. Not that I've any use for brats, mind you, but any excuse will do for a self-pitying weep when you're alone in your quarters in a foreign land, with two inches left in the bottom of the corn bottle, and the rest gurgling in your belly and making you feel sick and miserable. I imagined Elspeth, fair and radiant, bending over a crib and shaking a rattle at its Occupant, and looking adoringly across at me with that lovely pink bloom on her cheeks, and myself toasting my arse at the nursery fire with my coat tails pulled back, and a fine helping of duff and brandy inside me, quite the proud papa, while waits sang in the street outside. Instead, here I was, half-foxed and croaking to myself in a draughty shack, with no Elspeth, but a black slut snoring open-mouthed in the corner, and in place of waits the eternal caterwauling of the field hands as they sang one of their morbid chants. I sat there blubbering boozily, trying to put the home picture out of my mind, and telling myself it was all a sham — that Elspeth would be back in the saddle with one of her gallants by now, and old Morrison would ruin Christmas anyway by whining about the cost of geese and holly. It was no good; I was homesick, bloody homesick, and the thought of Morrison was an added incentive. By God, I'd make the old scoundrel skip when I got back and flourished Spring's papers under his ugly nose. The thought cheered me up, and when I had finished the bottle, been sick, and thrashed the nigger girl for snoring, I felt more like myself again.
But I was still chafing to be away, and with only two weeks of my enforced sojourn to go I was in a thoroughly ill humour and ready to take my spite out on anyone — even Annette Mandeville or her soused clown of a husband. Not that I was seeing much of either of them by now, for Mandeville was absent more and more, and Annette kept to the house. But she had her eyes open too, as I was to discover to my cost.
I mentioned a black girl in my quarters; she was the least ugly and smelly of the field women whom I had taken as a carnal cook — a bedfellow-cum-housekeeper, that is. She was little use as either, but one has to make do. Anyway, it happened that one evening, after a long day down by the river where the slaves were cutting a ditch, I came home to find her whimpering and groaning on her mattress, with a couple of nigger girls tending her and looking mighty scared.
'What's this?' says I.
'Oh, massa,' says the wenches, 'Hermia she pow'ful sick; she real po'ly, she is.'
And she was. Someone had flogged her until her back was a livid mess of cuts and bruises.
'Who the devil's done this?' roars i in a great rage, and it was Hermia herself who told me, between her wails.
'Oh, Massa Tom, it the Miz — Miz Annette. She done tell me I's ins'lent, en she'd trim me up good. I don' done nuthin' Massa Tom — but she git Hector to whup me, en oh I's hurtin', hurtin' suthin' awful, massa. Hector he lay on 'til I's swoondin' — en ain't done nuthin'. Oh, Massa Tom, whut ins'lent mean?' Well, I knew Annette was hard on the niggers, who went in terror of her, and I'd no doubt this sffly slut had offended her in some way. So I gave no thought to it, but turned Hermia out, since she was of no use for anything in her present state. Next day I picked another wench to take her place, and went off to the fields in due course — and when I came home there she was, beaten black and blue, just as Hermia had been, again on Miz Annette's orders.
Now I can take a hint as fast as the next man, but I confess I didn't see all the way through this one, which was foolish of me. I took it that the spiteful little harridan was bent on denying me female companionship, but it never occurred to me why. Which shows what a modest chap I am, I suppose. In any event, I had to do something about it, for I was seething with anger at her malice, and since Mandeville was away in Memphis, I went straight up to the house to have it out with the mistress.
She was obviously just back from a canter round the plantation, for she was still in her grey riding suit, issuing orders to Jonah in the hall. When he had gone, I tackled her straight.
'Two of the field girls have been flogged, on your instructions,' says I. 'May I be permitted to ask why?'
She didn't even look at me. 'What concern is it of yours?' says she, taking off her gloves.
'As your husband's overseer, I'm responsible for his slaves.'
'Under his authority — and mine,' says she, and started off upstairs without another word. I wasn't having this, so I strode after her.
'By all means,' says I, 'but I find it strange that you undertake to discipline them yourself. Why not leave the matter to me — Since it's what I'm paid for?'
We were at the head of the stairs by now, but she kept right OR towards her room. I kept pace with her, fuming, and suddenly she snapped at me:
'What you are paid for is to obey orders, not to question what I do. Your place is in the fields — not in this house. Be so good as to leave, at once!'
'I'm damned if I do! You've had the tar whaled out of two of those girls, and I want to know why.'
'Don't be impertinent!' She wheeled on me, her face screwed up with fury. 'How dare you follow me in this way? How dare you take that tone? Get out, before I call the servants to throw you into the fields! Not another word!' And she flounced into her room — but she left the door open.
'Now listen to me, you vicious brat, you!' I was in a fine fury by now. 'If you won't tell me, I'll tell you! You had them thrashed because they were
'Your girls!' She spat it at me. 'Your girls! Since when could a penniless beggar like you talk of
I think the only reason I didn't strike her was that she was so tiny, snarling up at me, that I was frightened of
