Flash For Freedom!

10

Even today I can't feel anything but irritation and dislike for George Randolph. If he had only had the sense to keep his mouth shut and act humble for once, he'd never have been confronted by Omohundro that night; the odds are he'd have reached Canada without fuss and embarked immediately on a happy life as a professor at some liberal university, or the leader of a nigger minstrel troupe, or something equally useful. Instead his pride and folly had bought him a bullet in the belly and a grave in the Mississippi mud, as far as I could see; more important, he had put me in a highly dangerous and embarrassing position.

My wits must have been cleared by the water, for I had the immediate presence of mind not to swim for the Arkansas shore, a mere hundred yards away, but to strike out instead across the stream for the Mississippi bank, which was almost three-quarters of a mile off. I'm a strong swimmer, and the water was warm, so I made it easily enough; by the time I climbed out across a mud bank and plumped down among some willows, the Sultana had stopped at the next bend, but after half an hour she started off again, doubtless to stop at the next landing and start the hue and cry.

I blasted Randolph bitterly at the thought that I was a hunted fugitive once more, in the middle of a strange land with only a few dollars in my pocket. The one consolation was that they would scour the Arkansas side first, and I would have time to get inland in Mississippi unmolested. And then whither? There could be no going back south, with the Navy still doubtless on the look-out for me, and it would be madness to try to continue north along the river on foot. But north I would have to go eventually, if I were to reach home again; in the meantime I must find some place to lie up undetected until all the hullabaloo had died down, and I could work cautiously upriver to the free states, and so to the Atlantic seaboard and a passage home.

It was a damned tall order and depressing prospect, and I had a grand old curse that night at my folly in being bullied into this fearful fix by Crixus. My one hope was that Mississippi was such a big place, where I assumed news travelled slowly and uncertainly, that I ought to be able to find a bolt-hole; I reasoned that itinerant strangers must be commonplace in the western states, so I might escape remark if I was careful how I went.

I slept that night among the cottonwoods, and struck due east before sunrise, as I wanted to get away from the river as quickly as possible. And so began three of the most dam' dismal days of my life, in which I skulked through woods and along by-roads, living the life of a vagrant, stopping only at the loneliest farms and places I could find to buy a meal out of the few dollars I had left. The one thing that cheered me was that none of the people I saw paid me any close attention, which confirmed my belief that they were used to all sorts of odd fellows trudging about the country; I tried to speak as American as I could, when I spoke at all, and must have made a passable job of it, for nobody appeared to take me for anything else.

However, I realised that this could not continue. Soon I would be destitute, and since I've never been any hand at petty theft or highway robbery, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I must try and find work. It's a last resort, of course, but it seemed to me if I could get some employment in an out-of-the-way spot I could lie up and save money for my eventual flight at one and the same time, I made one or two cautious inquiries, without success beyond an afternoon's labour splitting logs for my supper, and I was in despair by the fourth morning, when by sheer chance I lit on the very thing I was looking for.

I had slept in the woods, and spent my last few cents on bread and milk at a run-down store, when a burly chap on a grey horse comes cantering up, roaring for the storekeeper that he had come to settle his debt.

"What's the row then, Jim? "says the storekeeper. "Where you off to?

"Headed west," cries Jim. "I seen my last load o' goddamned Cotton, I can tell you that. It's Calif orney for me, my boy, an' a pisspotful of gold. There's your four dollars, Jake, an' much obliged to ye."

"Well, that beats all," says the storeman. "Californey, eh? Wisht I could go myself, by thunder. Say, but what's Mandeville goin' to do without a driver, in the middle o' pickin' time?"

"Do his goddamned drivin' his goddamned self," says the other cheerfully. "I guess I'll worry about him, won't I, all the way to the diggin's. I'm off to see the elephant! Yeh-hoo! It's Californey or bust!" And he waved his hat and thundered away, leaving the storeman scratching his head in wonder.

I didn't inquire at the store; the less said the better. But I met a nigger up the road, found where Mandeville's place was, and after a four-mile walk came to his imposing front gates. They were made of granite, no less, and the place was called Greystones, an impressive spread of cotton plantation with a fine white colonial house at the head of a tree-lined drive. It looked a likely spot for me, so I strode up and presented myself as a driver in need of work.

Mandeville was a broad, bull-necked man of about fifty with heavy whiskers on a coarse red face.

"Who told you I needin' a driver?" says he, standing foursquare on his verandah and squinting down at me suspiciously. I said I had met his former employee on the road.

"Hub! That fool Jim Bakewell! Ups an' off in the middle o' pickin', cool as you please, to go to Californey. Ifn he ain't any better at diggin' than at drivin' he'll finish up cleanin' out privies, which is all he good for anyways. Triflin' useless bastard." He cocked his head at me. "Reckon you kin drive?"

"Anything that moves," says I.

"Oh, my niggers move," says he. "They move, ifn someone on hand to make 'em skip. You driven cotton-hands befo', I guess, by the look o' you." In the surprise of realising what "driving" meant, I overlooked the doubtful compliment. "Where you from, an' what your name?"

"Tom Arnold," says I. "From Texas, a while back."

"Uh-huh, the Texies. Well, no denyin', gotta have a driver. Dunno where I get one, this season, ifn I don't take ye. Ain't no slouch of a job, min' — you be th' only white driver on the place. Thirty dolla's a month, an' yo' keep. Satisfy ye, Tom?"

I said it would, and at that moment a nigger came round the house leading a fine white mare, and a lady came through the pillared front door, dressed for riding. Mandeville hailed her eagerly.

"Why, Annie dahlin', there you are! Fine, fine — jus' off a-ridin', I see. That's fine, fine." And then, seeing her eyes on me, he hurried to explain. "This here's Tom Arnold, honey; jus' hired him as a new driver, in room o' that no-good Bakewell. Right piece o' luck, I reckon, him turnin' up. Yes, sub."

"Is it?" said the lady, and you could see she doubted it. She was one of the tiniest women I've ever seen, somewhere under five feet, although well-shaped in a dainty doll-like way. But there was nothing doll-like about the sharp little face, with its pointed elfin chin, tight lips, and cold grey eyes that played over me with a look of bleak disdain. I became conscious of my bedraggled appearance and unshaven face; three days in the woods make a poor toilet.

"We may hope he is a better driver than Bakewell," says the lady coldly. "At the moment he looks as though he was more accustomed to being driven."

And without another word or glance at me she mounted her mare, Mandeville fussing to help her, and cantered off along the drive with the nigger groom trotting at her heels. Mandeville waved after her, his red face beaming, and then turned back to me.

"That Mrs Mandeville," says he, proudly. "She the lady o' my plantation. Yessuh, Mrs Mandeville." Then his eyes slid away and he said he would show me my quarters and instruct me in my duties.

As it turned out, these were easy enough; slave-driving is as pleasant an occupation as any, if you must work. You ride round the cotton rows on horse-back, seeing that the niggers don't let up in filling their baskets, and laying on the leather when they slack. Greystones was a fair-sized place, with about a hundred niggers working the great snowy fields that stretched away from behind the house to the river, and they were a well-drilled pack by the time I'd done with 'em, I can tell you. I vented the discontent I felt at America on them, and enjoyed myself more than I'd done Since my Rugby days, when lacing fags was the prime sport.

Although I had a couple of black drivers to help me, I became quite expert with my hide — you could make a sleepy nigger jump his own height with a well-placed welt across his backside, squealing his head off, and if any of them were short-weighted at the end of the day you gave them half a dozen cuts for luck. Mandeville was delighted with the tally of cotton picked, and told me I was the best overseer he'd ever had, which didn't surprise me. It was work I could take a hearty interest in.

After the first few days he left me alone to the job, for he frequently had business in Helena, about fifty miles away on the other side of the Mississippi river, or in Memphis, over the Tennessee border, and would stay away for nights at a time. He always went alone, leaving his wife in the house, which seemed damned indiscreet to me. I didn't realise, fortunately for my self-esteem, that while a Southern planter wouldn't have dreamed of leaving his wife unchaperoned in a house while there was a white man there, he'd never think twice if that man was a hired servant living in a cottage fifty yards away. However, she kept out of my way in those early days, and I out of hers.

Knowing me, you may think that strange. But all my thoughts at this stage were on my own plight; Greystones seemed to be just the kind of out.of-the-way spot I required; it was isolated in the woodland and marsh, and was seldom visited, but even so I had my heart in my mouth every time hoofbeats sounded on the drive, and I kept well out of sight when one of Mandeville's neighbours called. It didn't seem likely that if there was a search going on for me, it would reach this far from the river, and there was nothing to connect the steamboat fugitive with Mandeville's new driver, but even so I kept a sharp eye open at first for any hint of danger. As the days passed, and none appeared, I began to feel easier.

Another reason why I kept out of Annette Mandeville's way was that I disliked her, and she me, apparently. I had guessed twO things from our first brief meeting: one was that she was an unpleasant, arrogant little piece, and the other that she had her big, powerful husband on a string. He was more than twice her age, of course (she couldn't have been above two-and-twenty), and I've noticed that there are few things that a middle-aged man will go in such awe of as an imperious young wife; he'll face a wounded buffalo, or go headlong into a sabre charge, but he'll turn pale and stutter at the thought of saying, "I'd rather not, dearest." Well, I can understand it, when the wife holds the purse, or is bigger than he, or can get the law on him. But even without these things Mandeville went in awe of her.

And she knew it, and enjoyed using her power to torment him. She wasn't just spoiled and petulant — she was cruel, in a subtle ways and I say it who am a recognised authority. I saw enough of them together to judge the pleasure she took in fretting and hurting him with her ready sneers and icy disdain; the more eager be was to please her, this man who was so coarse and masterful in other things, the more she seemed to delight in making him uneasy and bewildered.

Much of this I learned from Mandeville himself — not that he dreamed he was instructing me. But he loved to talk, and there not being another white man on the place, he took to inviting me up to the house at night, after his wife had retired, for a booze and prose; he was a decent enough fellow, I suppose, in his rough way, and greatly given to foxing himself on corn toddy, and nothing pleased him more than to yarn away about his niggers and his horses, and — when he was well maudlin — about his wife. And this most often after she had set him down, which she did most days.

"Yes, suh," this infatuated idiot would say, smiling blearily at his glass, "I'm a lucky man, an' she a won'erful li'l lady. Yes suh, 'deed she is. Well, you kin see that, Tom; you a travelled man, I guess, you kin see she is. Course, she git a li'l short, time to time — like today, now — but it ain't nuthin' at all. My own fault, I guess. Y'see, the truth is, although this here's a pretty fair spread at Greystones, tain't altogether what she bin used to. No-suh. She come from one o' the best French families in N'Awlins — the Delaney's, likely you heard o' them, gotta tre-mendous big estate out to Lake Pontchartrain. Trouble is, ol' man Delaney, he a bit stretched, an' I helped him out over a couple o' deals. Five years ago, that was, when I married Annie. Here, Jonah, light a see-gar for Mist' Arnold; fill your glass, suh."

By now he would be well launched, convincing himself for the thousandth time, against all reason.

"Ye-es, five years ago. Happiest day o' my life, suh. But I'll admit — you take a gel who's bin brought up a real lady, who's got real blood, bin to convent, had a half-dozen yaller maids waitin' on her, an' who's used to livin' in the top so-ciety in N'Awlins — well, I do her pretty good here, I reckon, but it ain't the same. Not much society, even in Memphis, an' the local folks ain't 'xactly the kin' o' bucks an' belles she used to meet at home. So it's natural she gits these fits an' starts now an' then. But you 'ppreciate that, Tom. An' no denyin', either, me bein' older'n she is, a little, she get kinda bored. I don't talk quite her way, you see, an' I ain't got her — tastes, so to speak. So she get a mite res'less, like I say. An' boy, don' she dress me down then!" And he would giggle drunkenly, 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. I don't mind one li'l bit. It's only natural, ain't it? I don't take no offence, cos I know she never think o' no one but me. 'Do it again, Johnny lover.' That what she say. Talk 'bout your nigger wenches — pish!"

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 Sultana would have died down, and I'd be able to take the road in safety.

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 my girls, didn't you? You thought —"

"Your girls!" She spat it at me. "Your girls! Since when could a penniless beggar like you talk of your girls! My slaves, do you hear? And if I choose to punish them, I shall do it —" she was fairly hissing the words "— as I choose, and you will keep your place, you mongrel!"

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 breaking her. And even in my anger I saw a better way of hurting her — always Flashy's forte, as Tom Hughes has testified.

"Well, now," says I, holding myself in, "I don't think the word 'mongrel' is one that comes at all well from a Creole lady." I let it sink in and added: "I don't have to worry about my finger-nails."

It was quite false, of course; I don't suppose she had a drop of black blood in her. But it struck her like a blow; she stood glaring, her face chalk-white, unable to speak, so I carried on, amiably:

"You whipped those girls because I was bedding them, and no doubt you'll be prepared to go on whipping until you've halfkilled every wench on the plantation. Well, see if I care — they ain't my property. See if your husband cares, though; he mayn't like having his investment wasted. He'll maybe ask you why you did it. 'Because your overseer's covering 'em,' you'll say — using a lady-like term, I'm sure. 'And why not?' he'll say, 'what's that to you?' Why, he may even wonder —"

And there I stopped, for there, and only there, the light dawned. As I say, I'm over-modest; she had been so damned uncivil to me, you see, that it honestly hadn't crossed my mind that she fancied me. Usually, of course, I'm ready to accept that every woman does — well, they do — but she was such a shrew-faced pip-squeak, and so unpleasant …

I stared at her now, and noted with interest that from white her witch-face had turned flushed, and her breathing was slow and thick. Well, well, thinks I, what have we here; let's see if our manly charms have truly captivated this unlikely creature after all. And purely by way of scientific experiment I leaned forward, picked her up with my hands at her waist — it was like lifting a puppet — and kissed her.

She didn't struggle or kick or cry out, so I kept at it, and very slowly her mouth opened, and she gave a little sob, and then she took my lip in her teeth and began to bite, harder and harder, until I pulled her free, holding her at arm's length. Her eyes were shut, and her face tight set; then she motioned me to set her down, and she stood against me. Her head touched my top weskit button.

"Wait," said she, in a little whisper, and quickly closing the door she vanished into her dressing-room. I could have laughed, but instead I began peeling off my coat, reflecting that the road to fornication is truly often paved with misunderstanding. I was sitting on the bed, removing my boots, when she re-entered, and she was a startling sight, for she was stark naked except for her riding boots. That took me aback, for it ain't usual among amateurs; something to do with her French upbringing, no doubt. But it was the rest of her that took the eye; I'd known she was well-shaped, but in the buff she was an undoubted little nymph. Scientific research be damned, says I, reaching out for her, and she came with her mouth open and her eyes shut, straining at me.

"You silly little popsy," says I. "Why didn't you let me know before?" And so to work, which proved none too bad, bar one unexpected and painful surprise. I was settling into my stride when I discovered why she had kept her boots on, for she suddenly clapped her legs round me, and so help me, those boots Were spurred. Hair brushes (that was dear Lola) I was used to, but being stabbed in the buttocks is an arse of a different colour, if you'll forgive the pun, and it was fortunate the bed was a wide one or we'd have flown off it. There was no untangling her, for she clung like a limpet, and I could only wrestle away, yelping from time to time, until we were done. I was stuck like a Derby winner.

Then she pushed me away, slipped off the bed, and picked up a robe. She put it on, without looking at me, and then she said:

"Now get out."

And without another word she went into her dressing-room and bolted the door.

Well, I'm not used to this kind of treatment, and in other circumstances I'd have kicked the door in and taught her manners, but in a house full of niggers you can't conduct an affair as though you were man and wife. So I dressed, staunching my wounds and muttering curses, and presently limped away, vowing that she'd had the last of me.

But of course she hadn't. Mandeville returned next day, and I kept well clear of the house, but come the end of the week he was off to Helena again, to meet some fellows on business. With only a week of my time left I should have gone about my business, ignoring Madame Annette, but human nature being what it is, I didn't. No woman tells me to get out with impunity, especially a haughty dwarf who was no great shakes in bed anyway. This is illogical, of course, but those of us who study immoral philosophy are guided by some contrary rules. At all events, I came sniffing round the day after he left — well, she was white, and interesting, and apart from her face she was a well-set-up piece in a miniature way.

To my surprise, she didn't either rebuff me or welcome me with open arms. We discussed the piece of plantation business which I'd made my pretext for coming, and when I assailed her she fell to with a will — but never a word, or a smile, or anything but a fierce, cold passion that almost scared me. It was damned spooky, when I think of it now, and afterwards, when I tried to engage her in sociable chat, she sat moody and withdrawn, hardly saying a word. And not a stitch on, mark you — not even her boots. I'd taken good care of that.

I gave up, half-puzzled and half-annoyed; I couldn't fathom her at all, and I still can't. My experience with women has been, I dare say, considerable and varied; I've had them fighting to get at me and running for dear life to escape, all ages, shapes and colours, in beds, haylofts, thickets, drawing-rooms, palaces, hovels, snowdrifts (that was in Russia, in the cold spell), baths, billiard rooms, cellars, camps, covered wagons, and even in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, which is probably a record of some sort. I've sometimes regretted that the flying machine was invented so late in my life, but things move so fast nowadays it's difficult to keep pace.

Anyway, my point is that only three women that I can recall out of that darling multitude have refused to be sociable afterwards, provided there was time, of course. My Afghan lotusblossom, Narreeman, was one, but she had been constrained, as they say, and wanted to murder me anyway. Queen Ranavalona was another, but apart from being as mad as a hatter she had affairs of state to attend to, which is some excuse. Annette Mandeville was the third, and I believe she was neither mad nor murderous. But who's to say? I doubt if she'd have been an entertaining talker anyway; she didn't have much education, for all her careful upbringing.

She was avid enough, however, for pleasure itself, and since Mandevile seemed to be making a protracted stay in Helena I visited her on each of the next three days. This was foolishness, of course, for it increased the chances of detection, but when I voiced my doubts, remarking that I hoped none of the niggers would guess what brought me to the house, she laughed unpleasantly and said:

"Who cares if the whole plantation knows? Not one of these black animals would dare breathe a word — they know what would happen to them."

I didn't like to think what that would be, knowing Madame Annette, but since she seemed so unconcerned I saw no reason why I should fret, and consequently grew careless. I had been in the habit of opening one of her bedroom windows, so that we might hear if anyone approached the house from the road, but on the third day I forgot, so that we never heard the pad of hooves across the turf.

We had just finished a bout; Annette was lying face down on the bed, silent and sullen as usual, and I was trying to win some Warmth out of her with my gay chat, and also by biting her on the buttocks. Suddenly she stiffened under me, and in the same instant feet were striding up the corridor towards the room, Mandeville's voice was shouting:

"Annie! Hullo, Annie honey, I'm home! I've brought —" and then the door was flung open and there he stood, the big grin on his red face changing to a stare of horror. My mouth was still open as I gazed across her rump, terror-stricken.

"My God!" he cries, "Betrayed!"

Well, I'd heard the same sort of exclamation before, and I've heard it since, and there's no doubt it's unnerving. But I doubt if there's a man living who can move faster with his pants round his ankles than I can; I was off that bed and diving for the window before the last word had left his lips, and had the sash half up before I remembered it was a cool twenty-foot drop to the ground. I turned like a cornered rat just as he came for me, swinging his horse-whip and bawling with rage; I ducked the cut and slipped past him to the door, stumbing on the threshold. I glanced back in panic, but he was heading straight on for the bed, yelling:

"Filthy strumpet!" and raising his whip again, but Annette, who had sprung up into a kneeling position, just snapped:

"Don't you dare touch me! Drop that whip!"

And he did. He fell back before that tiny, naked figure, mouthing, and then he turned and hurled himself at me, with a face of apoplexy. I was afoot again by this time, dragging up my breeches and baring for the landing, and then a man's figure loomed up at the head of the stair. I heard Mandeville shout: "Stop him!" and although I tried to dodge the upraised riding crop I wasn't quick enough. Something smashed against my forehead, knocking me backwards; the white ceiling spun dizzily above me, and then I was falling into nothing.

I can't have been unconscious more than a few minutes, but when I came to my own leather belt was round my wrists, blood was caking one of my eye-lids, and there was an unholy pain in my brow. I was lying at the foot of the staircase, and a man was hestriding me, one of his booted feet planted on my ankle. There was a tremendous hubbub of voices, with Mandeville yelling blue murder and others trying to quieten him. I turned my head; two or three men were holding him back, and when he saw me conscious be waved his arms and shouted:

"You slimy bastard! You stinkin' hound! I'll have your heart's blood for this! I'll crucify you! Let me at him, boys, an' I'll tear his dirty innards out!"

They struggled with him, and one of them sings out:

"Get that feller outa here, Luke — quick now! afore he gits done a mischief! Damn ye, Mandevile, won't ye hold still!"

"I'll murder him! I'll butcher him 'sif he was a hog! Oh, turn me loose, boys! He's dishonoured me! He's bin an' tried to ravish my wife, my dear Annie, pore defenceless little critter! You got to let me at him!"

The man above me chuckled, leaned down and grabbed me by the waistband, and with surprising strength dragged me across the hall and threw me bodily through a doorway. Then he stepped into the room, shut the door, and growled:

"Now you just lie there easy, friend, or it'll be the worse fer you."

He had a whip in one hand, and I guessed he was the fellow who had hit me. He was a tall, rangy chap, with a heavy moustache and bright grey eyes which surveyed me sardonically as he went on:

"Layin' still oughtn't to be no hardship fer you; I reckon you're a right smart hand at layin'. Mandeville seems to think so, anyways." And he nodded to the door, beyond which we could hear Mandeville still roaring.

I was getting my wits back, and they told me that this fellow wasn't unfriendly.

"For heaven's sake, sir!" I cried. "Cut me loose! I can explain, I promise you! Mandevile is mistaken, believe —"

"Well, now, I reckon he is. Leastways, 'bout his little lady gittin' ravished. I seen her, an' a less ravished-lookin' female I never clapped eyes on. Say, ain't she a sight when she's nekkid, though; mighty trim little tail." He laughed, and leaned down towards me. "Tell me, friend — what she like in the hay? I often fancied —"

"Cut me free! I assure you I can explain —"

"Well, can ye now? I would doubt that, I really would." He laughed again. "An' if I was Mandeville, I wouldn't listen. I'd cut your goddamned throat here an' now, yessir. Hold on, though; sound like he's comin' to do it his own self."

I struggled on to my knees as the tumult in the hall increased; it sounded as though Mandeville's friends were still having to restrain him by main force. I knelt there, quaking, and pleading with Luke to cut me free, but he shook me off, and when I persisted he kicked me flat on my back.

"Didn't I tell ye to lay still? Any more out o' you an' I'll take this hide to ye." He laughed again, and I suddenly realised that his good humour was not at all friendly, as I'd supposed. He was just enjoying himself.

I didn't dare move after that, but lay shaking with dread, and then after what seemed an age the door opened and the others came in. Mandeville was in the lead, panting and dishevelled, but he seemed to have himself in hand for the moment. Not that that was any consolation; I hope I never see eyes glaring at me like that again.

"You!" says he, and it was like the growl of a beast. "I going to kill you! D'ye hear that now? Kill you for the sneakin' scum you are. Yes sir, I goin' to watch you die for what you done!" There was froth at the corner of his mouth; he was appalling. "But before I do, you goin' to tell these here gennehuen somethin' — you goin' to confess to 'em that you tried to rape my wife! That so, isn't it! You snuck up there, an' you tuk her unawares, an' try to ravish her." He paused, livid. "Now, then — you tell 'em it was so."

Terrified, I stared at the man, but I couldn't have spoken for the life of me, and suddenly he lost control and flung himself at me, kicking and clawing. The others hauled him back, and Luke says:

"It don't signify a damn thing, John! Hold him off, you fellows! You think you're goin' to get the truth out of him? Anyways, we know he tried to rape your good lady — don't we boys? We're all satisfied, I reckon."

He knew it was a lie, and so did they, but they chorused assent, and eventually it pacified Mandeville, at least to the point where his only interest lay in disposing of me.

"I ought to burn you alive!" he snarled. "I ought to nail you to a tree an' have the niggers geld you. In fact, that's just what I'll do! I'll —"

"Hold on there, fohn," says Luke. "This is jus' wild talk. You can't murder him thataway —"

"Why cain't I? After what he done?"

"Because word'd git out — an' it don't do to murder a man, even if he is a rapin', stinkin' skunk —"

"I'm not!" I cried. "I swear I'm not!"

"You shet up," says Luke. "Fact is, John Mandeville, while I don't deny he's got killin' comin' to him, I don't see how you can do it lessn you fight him, on the square."

"Fight him!" shouts Mandeville. "Damned if I do. He ain't deservin' anythin' but execution!"

"Well, now, ain't I a-tellin' you it cain't be done? Even ifn you hang him, or cut his throat, or shoot him — how you gonna be sure word ain't gonna git out?"

"Who's to tell, Luke Johnson? They's on'y us here —"

"An' niggers, with mighty long ears. No, sir, unless you fight him, which you ain't willin' to do, and cain't say as I blame you, for he don't deserve the consideration — well, then we got to study out some way of givin' him what's comin' to him."

They argued on, and I listened in horror as they discussed means of slaughtering me — for that was what they meant to do, not a doubt. God, the value men place on a rogered woman. I tried to intervene, pleading to be heard, but Mandeville smashed me in the face, and Luke stuck a gag in my mouth, and then they went on with their dreadful discussion. It was terrible, but all I could do was listen, until one of them motioned the others away, and they fell to talking in lowered voices, and all I could catch was snatches and words like "Alabama" and "Tombigbee river", and "very place for him", and "no, I reckon there ain't no risk — who's to know? ", and then they laughed, and presently Mandevile came over to me.

"Well, Mr Arnold," says he, smiling like a hyena, "I got good news for you. Yes sir, mighty good. We ain't goin' to kill you — how you like that? No, sir, we value you a mite too high for that, I reckon. You're a sneakin' varmint that took advantage of a man's hospitality to try and steal his honour — we got suthin' better for you than jus' killin'. You like to hear about it?"

I wanted to stop my ears, but I couldn't. Mandeville smirked and went on.

"One of my friends here, he got a prime idea. His cousin a planter over to Alabama — quite a ways from here. Now my friend goin' over that way, takin' a runaway back to another place, and he ready to 'blige me by takin' you a stage farther, to his cousin's plantation. Nobody see you leave here, nobody see you git there. An' when you do, you know what goin' to happen to you?" Suddenly he spat in my face. "You goin' to be stripped an' put in the cane-fields, 'long with the niggers! You pretty dark now — I seen mustees as light as you — an' by the time you laboured in the sun a spell, you brown up pretty good I reckon. An' there you'll be, Slave Arnold, see? You won't be dead, but you'll wish you were! Ain't nobody ever goin' to see you, on account it a lonely place, an' no one ever go there — ifn they do, why you just a crazy mustee! Nobody know you here, nobody ever ask for you. An' you never escape-on account no nigger ever run from that plantation — swamps an' dogs always git 'em. So you safe there for life, see? You think you'll enjoy that life, Slave Arnold?" He stood up and kicked me savagely. "Now, ain't that a whole heap better'n jus' killin' you, quick an' easy?"

I couldn't believe my ears; I must be dreaming the whole ghastly thing. I writhed and tried to spit the gag out — tried to beg for mercy with my eyes, but it was useless. They laughed at my struggles, and then they tied my feet and threw me into a cupboard. Before they shut the door, Luke leaned over me with his friendly grin, and said softly:

"Reckon you'll count it a pretty dear ride you had, friend. Was she good? I hope for your sake she was, 'cos she's the last white woman you'll ever see, you dirty Texian bastard!"

I couldn't believe what I'd heard — I still find it incredible. That white men — civiised white men, could doom another white man to be dragged away to some vile plantation, herded with niggers, flogged to work like a beast — it couldn't be true, surely? All I'd done was rattle Mandeville's wife — well, if I ever caught a man doing the like to Elspeth, I'd want to kill him, probably, and I could understand Mandeville wanting to as well — but how could he doom me to the living hell of black slavery? It must be their ghastly idea of a joke — it couldn't be true, it just could not be!

But it was. How long I lay in that cupboard I don't know, but it was dark when the door opened and I was dragged out. They had brought my coat, and it was wrapped over my head, and then I felt the horror of fetters being clapped on my ankles. I tried to scream through my gag, and struggled, but they carried me away bodily, muttering and laughing, and presently I was flung on to the hard surface of a Cart. I heard Luke say, "Take good care o' that valuable merchandise, Tom Little," and laughter, and then we were jolting away in the darkness.

I twisted in my bonds, half-crazed with the abomination of it, and then the jacket was pulled away, and in the dimness of the cart a woman's voice said:

"Lie still. There's no use struggling. Believe me, I tried struggling — once. It's no good. You must wait — wait and hope."

She pulled out the gag, but my mouth was too parched to speak. She laid her hand on my head, stroking it, and in the dark her voice kept whispering:

"Rest, don't struggle. Wait and hope. Lie still. Wait and hope."