My Name's Not Friday (16 page)

I guess we all must’ve looked shocked since there weren’t one of us who didn’t have a story ’bout that dreaded disease. Even Gil knew of it, though he weren’t certain of the name. ‘Is that the one that makes you scratch till you’re raw?’ he asks us.

‘That’s the one,’ says Sicely, placing a hand upon his head to comfort him in case he thought to start scratching immediately. ‘George had it. You’d be too young to remember,
Gil, but he did. I saw him covered with blisters. He had so many, they joined up with each other and I seen him lie on the floor like some big ol’ sac of pus with staring eyes and he weren’t good to do anything for a month.’

I could remember something similar: Mannie Western at the orphanage, put in a heated room of his own and told to vomit into bowls. Father Mosely made us all wear cloth across our faces for a week, and when they came to take Mannie away he had so many blisters up inside his mouth that he couldn’t have said goodbye if he’d wanted to, or at least that’s what we were told. We never saw him back again and, though I am relieved at the thought that Gerald won’t be making me read to the master after all, I wouldn’t have wished that disease upon a living soul.

We slaughter our pigs late in the season.

I bring ’em into the yard one at a time so Hubbard can slit their throats with the biggest knife I ever set my eyes on. He takes their heads off with a hand saw and we bleed ’em into buckets so Winnie can save the blood for sausages. I cut the whiskers from their snouts and tie ’em together with string, for the missus to sell in town to a man who makes brushes.

Hubbard opens up the carcasses and we hang ’em by their hind legs, stringing ’em up in a line along the fence and leaving ’em to drain into the gully that we dig in the soil beneath ’em. We carry the offal to the cookhouse, keeping some for the missus while we put the rest aside for the butcher, since he knows who likes to buy a bit of kidney or a heart for their supper on a Sunday.

We let the rain wash down the yard.

Come the morning we scald ’em and scrub ’em spotless. Hubbard butchers the meat and we settle the cuts into salt, turn ’em, then lay ’em up to rest in barrels marked with chalk, which we store for the coming year in the shed behind the cookhouse.

Those pigs take three days’ work. By the final evening I’m so stiff I can’t move and Hubbard joshes me, says a young thing like me should be able to do twice as much work as that and still have legs left to dance. He’s in a good mood now it’s done, and I lie on the floor by the fire and see him take out the pass I wrote him from his box on the shelf. He puts it in the pocket of his shirt and picks up the bag with his flask of water and a blanket for his shoulders. He puts on his hat.

‘You going to the Hope plantation?’

Hubbard nods and tells me he’ll be back by morning. But when I wake, he ain’t nowhere to be seen. That ain’t happened before, and when he don’t show up, I got a feeling something’s wrong. The horn’s still hanging over by the door and I wonder ’bout blowing it myself. I get up and take it off the wall, giving it a go softly, to see if I can get a sound from it, but some things are harder than they look.

I take it with me to Lizzie’s, knock at her door and hold it up, but she can already see the colour of the sky and she knows it’s later than it ought to be. ‘Where’s Hubbard?’ she demands.

I shrug. ‘He went to see his wife last night and I don’t think he’s come back.’

We cover for him as much as we can. I go knocking on the doors of the cabins to get everyone up and we start work by ourselves, each of us already knowing what’s expected of us. Mrs Allen comes into the field later that morning and she asks me where Hubbard is. I say I don’t know. There don’t seem no point in lying for him.

I’m up at the house when they bring Hubbard in, his hands strapped to a saddle in the same manner I was marched through town by Gloucester on the day he sold me at auction.

The men have got dogs, three of ’em, running on ahead with their tails wagging, all excited and pleased. It’s the noise of ’em that draws me out the house and I see the posse of men coming up the drive, two of ’em on horseback and three walking along to one side. Even from a distance there ain’t no mistaking the size of Hubbard. Those men come slowly up the driveway to the house. They ain’t in no hurry like their dogs.

Winnie comes bustling into the yard and she says for me to go fetch the missus and I find her bent over in a field with a hoe in her hands. I tell her the patrol has caught Hubbard and she better come quickly, so she comes to the house directly, the rest of us following on behind, knowing in our bones there’ll be no good that comes from this.

We fan out around the yard to get a view of what’s happening, though we don’t want to get close enough to become a part of it. Hubbard’s at the centre of us all, still tied to the saddle, a pile of fresh manure on the ground between himself and the hind legs of the beast he has followed. He still manages to look proud, standing tall with his chin held high, though he is bleeding and badly bruised around his left eye. A single line of blood tracks its way across his cheekbone and disappears into his short clipped beard though it shocks me more to see his trousers torn and filthy, because I’ve never seen Hubbard looking anything less than smart when he ain’t in the field. I notice he wears no hat and figure it must have been lost when they got hold of him.

There’s a pull on my sleeve and Gerald is there beside me. ‘What’s happened?’ he whispers. ‘Where’d they find him?’

‘I don’t know.’

The posse of men is led by Peighton. Chepstow’s there too, dressed in his black shirt and priest’s collar, but I don’t
recognize the others. They might be soldiers. Two of ’em have got tunics and another wears braided trousers, though there ain’t a Confederate cap to be seen between ’em.

They’re relaxed though, standing by the steps to the house, drinking glasses of water, their dogs laid out at their feet with their tongues hanging out. It’s obvious to everyone that Peighton’s in charge and he watches us, his mouth just aching to break out into a smile as he waits for Mrs Allen to come to him. ‘Good day, Mrs Allen,’ he calls out eventually. ‘This here’s one of yours, ain’t he? I thought I recognized him as your driver. Am I right? I am, aren’t I?’

‘We don’t use a driver here, Mr Peighton. But, yes, he is my foreman.’

Peighton offers his hand to the missus and she shakes it, but then he turns his hand over and inspects the dirt she’s left there. ‘I shake the hand of a lady and get a palmful of dirt? Oh my Lord. Is that what this war has done to us?’ He rubs his fingers together briskly. ‘It’s a shameful day when women such as yourself are forced to work the fields, Mrs Allen.’

Mrs Allen takes a look at her own palms. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong in getting your hands dirty, Mr Peighton. God didn’t mean for the earth to be unpleasant. You can find water in the kitchen if you wish to wash.’

Peighton tips his glass of water over his fingers and quickly rubs ’em together. ‘Why, that’s all right. I don’t want to be no trouble.’ He wipes his hands against his thighs, then looks over at Hubbard. Mrs Allen looks at him too. She walks across to him, circling the front of the horse to which he’s tied, all the time trying to catch his eye, though Hubbard won’t look at her and stares at the side of the barn as though it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

The missus turns back to Peighton. ‘Where’d you find him?’

‘Over by the Paradise plantation. They grow mostly tobacco out that way and it’s hard work so we get a lot of niggers taking leave of the place. There’s a wood to the south of it that’s a favourite spot for runaways, though I don’t believe your man was running away. He’s got family abroad, that’s what I heard, a wife and a girl who live over on the Hope. That’s the next one along from Paradise.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Peighton.’

Sicely opens up the back door and walks steadily down the kitchen steps carrying a large enamel bowl filled with water for the dogs. Mr Chepstow scolds her as she sets it down. ‘I asked you for a pitcher so we can refill our glasses.’ Sicely bows her head and apologizes. ‘Sorry, sir. I was just getting it. I won’t be a moment.’ She hurries back up the steps and Mrs Allen calls after. ‘Sicely! Be kind enough to bring another glass, would you?’

Chepstow says, ‘I remembered you had forbidden any leave to your Negroes, Mrs Allen, so I knew Hubbard’s pass must be a fake.’ He takes a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his left breast and walks across the yard, opening out the pass I had written for Hubbard and handing it to the missus.

I panic, every nerve in my body getting ready to run, cos I’m sure she’ll know straight away that it was me who wrote it. But she looks at it a long time, probably concentrating on my sad attempt at her signature. Chepstow pats the head of the horse to which Hubbard is tied. ‘One wonders how they get hold of these things when none of ’em can write.’

The missus looks across at me and she must see me jump out of my skin as I begin to pray to the Lord, muttering away under my breath for Him to help me, telling Him I’ll do whatever He wants if only I ain’t caught. I did a bad
thing when I wrote that note, and I knew it too. It don’t do to lie and cheat, even if it’s in a good cause, but if God’ll forgive me, if He’ll only get me out of this, I’m sure I can make things better and I’ll make amends for all that I’ve done wrong.

Mrs Allen comes up close to Hubbard. She holds the pass in front of his face. ‘Who gave you this?’

He won’t say.

She brings it right up close to his chin. ‘I forbade anyone to leave this plantation and that included you, Hubbard. You knew that. Now you tell me where you got this.’

Hubbard ain’t the kind of man who finds it easy to lie, and he says as much. ‘I won’t lie to you,’ and the missus says, ‘I hope not,’ and then Hubbard says, ‘So I can’t tell you, ma’am. I’m sorry.’

I let out the breath I been holding in, and it’s loud enough that Gerald hears and he looks at me.

Peighton comes across to Mrs Allen. ‘We brought him back for you, Mrs Allen, but we ain’t punished him. You should know that. We thought it only proper for you to decide yourself what should be done with him.’ He steps closer to Hubbard and looks up into his face. ‘If you’d like, we can whip him till he talks. We can surely do that for you, if that’s really what you want?’ He looks back over to his men. ‘I wouldn’t let Cormack do it. Last nigger he whipped never lived to see the next morning, and that would be a shame, seeing as how the man belongs to you ’n’ all.’ He inspects a fingernail, then smiles. ‘I wouldn’t want to see you out of pocket.’

Sicely comes back out through the kitchen door carrying a wooden tray set with a pitcher full of water and a single glass. She puts the tray down nervously on the steps and
takes the pitcher around the men, filling their empty glasses.

Peighton comes across and has her fill his glass too. He lifts the clear water up and takes a look at it. ‘No. I would have to do it myself, Mrs Allen. You can be reassured on that. It’ll take but half an hour, then we can be on our way and you can all get back to work.’ He tips back his head, empties his glass and puts it back on the tray. Then he returns to the horse to which Hubbard is tied. It has a whip on the saddle and Peighton takes it and flicks the length of leather out upon the ground.

Mrs Allen holds her own glass of water up to the light. ‘How long has my foreman been without a drink?’

Peighton chuckles and puts a hand to his chin while he considers the question. ‘Well, we found him last evening. Kept him in my own barn overnight and brought him out here this morning. I don’t recall him drinking anything during that time.’ He calls back to the men. ‘Any of you boys let the nigger drink?’

Mrs Allen puts the glass up to Hubbard’s lips. ‘Drink the water,’ she tells him.

Hubbard drinks from the glass as the missus tips it up and the water goes half in his mouth and half down his chin, moistening the hairs in his beard and dripping down into the dust at his feet. He swallows hard. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he says, and looks at her properly for the first time since they brought him in.

Mrs Allen pulls at the rope tying Hubbard’s hands together. ‘I can look after my own slaves, thank you, Mr Peighton.’ The rope comes loose, dropping to the floor, and Hubbard rubs at his wrists under the sleeves of his green shirt.

But Peighton still has the whip in his hand. ‘You ain’t gonna go soft on him, are you, Mrs Allen? These niggers
only need the slightest indication of leniency and before you know it …’

Mrs Allen looks over at me again, she fixes her eyes on me and it sends a shudder through me, cos there ain’t no mistaking it this time. She definitely knows it was me who wrote that pass, and I oughta make a run for it. I oughta set off now and go like the clappers cos the good Lord has abandoned me, I know He has, cos I can’t feel Him anywhere around here. Not right now. He ain’t nowhere about.

Mrs Allen turns back to Hubbard. ‘Take off your shirt.’

Hubbard hesitates. He looks down at her with those big brown eyes of his, then undoes the two buttons down from his collar, pulls the shirt up over his head and lets it fall at his feet. I have a sudden urge to pick it up and fold it for him as he stands before us, half naked and waiting without protest, his bare chest goose-pimpled from the cold midwinter air, and I swear I’ve seen smaller muscles on a horse.

Suddenly Mrs Allen turns and walks over to me and I might have died right then and there, ’cept I’m wrong again.

‘Gerald, come out here.’

He doesn’t move from my side, so she says it again. ‘Come out here, Gerald.’ It’s clear to us all that she ain’t asking him, she’s telling him, and then I realize she hadn’t been looking at me at all. No. She was looking at Gerald, who is stood right next to me. She must assume it is him that faked the pass for Hubbard, since she believes there ain’t no one else here can read and write, ’cept for Gerald and herself. And now he looks like a six-year-old who’s been caught stealing biscuits from the jar. He must know it was me who wrote the note. He must’ve worked it out and he’s bound to give me up. Ain’t he?

He steps out into the circle and I’m expecting him to
point the finger at me, to tell Mrs Allen it was me all along, and I pray a little harder, asking the good Lord to somehow get me out of this.

‘Mr Chepstow?’ Mrs Allen turns back to the preacher. ‘Would you be so kind as to instruct my stepson on flogging his slave? I would appreciate it, seeing as I lack the knowledge to do it myself.’

The preacher puts aside his drink. ‘I’d be happy to, ma’am.’ He steps forward, taking the whip from Peighton, who picks the rope up from the floor saying, ‘I’ll string him up for you, Reverend. Make it easier.’

The whip they got is made from two different leathers, one dark, one light, plaited together to make a pattern along its length, like the skin of a snake. The preacher puts the whip into Gerald’s hand and he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, first one arm, then the other. ‘This here’s a bullwhip, son.’

I’m looking at Gerald, thinking he won’t do it, thinking that he can’t do it, not with all the things he says he believes. But he swallows hard and lets the length of the whip fall out across the yard. He’s got his back to Hubbard as he looks up into the preacher’s face.