Black Ajax. George Fraser MacDonald
yes, it was when old Molineaux died that Master Richard made Tom a “fightin’ nigra” an’ began to match him ’gainst the bucks f’m other estates. I know nothin’ of such things, but all the talk was that Tom was the meanest fellow with his fists in the whole Dominion, an’ I was mighty proud of him, tho’ I never saw him fight until … that night in Awlins. I didn’t know what nigger-fightin’ was, hardly, but I was glad for Tom, an’ Master Richard makin’ much of him, pettin’ him an’ givin’ him fancy clothes an’ sayin’ he would be the mos’ famous slave in the Southland.
Mos’ nigras would ha’ put on airs ’bove theirselves to be so tret by their masters, but not Tom. Truth to tell, he didn’t have the gumption to get above hisself; he was jus’ quiet, dull Tom as ever, an’ I was the only thing could bring a light to his eye an’ a smile to that big, ugly nigra face. Young Master Richard saw how ’twas with us, and gave Tom the freedom o’ my company – an’ only my company. “You want to pleasure yo’self, they’s wenches a-plenty in the cabins,” says Master Richard. “Mollybird she pure, an’ stay that way. Maybe one o’ these days, I let you have her, when yo’ champeen nigra fighter of America. How you like that, Mollybird? You like this big go-alonger for yo’ man?”
He would laugh as he said it, and cuff Tom’s woolly head, and Tom would grin an’ shuffle an’ look on me like I was the Queen o’ Sheba. I was grown enough to toss my head and look sidelong an’ say nothin’, like the white misses on their verandas, tho’ I hardly knew what Master Richard meant ’bout Tom havin’ me, or bein’ my man. Oh, I knew what he an’ the other bucks did with the wenches in the cabins, but I was the li’l Princess an’ far above the doin’s of the common slaves. My love fo’ Tom was different; I yearned to have him with me, ’cos he was big an’ brave an’ would never let harm come to me, and if you’d asked me what I meant by lovin’ him, I couldn’t ha’ said more’n that. I was innocent an’ foolish an’ fifteen, an’ thought in fairytales. Nowadays I lay no claim to innocence or gi’lish folly, am three times as old, an’ the only fairytales I read come in yellow covers … but I still can explain no better what I felt for Tom, then. Maybe it was true love, like he said.
Heigh-ho … yes, I think jus’ a wee touch more brandy would be acceptable, when I come to think back on that night in Awlins. Master Richard had brought this little sailor-man to Amplefo’th, to brisk Tom up for ’nother fight, ’gainst a nigra called the Black Ghost. Ev’yone allowed it would be Tom’s sternest trial yet, an’ the sailor-man goaded him on to run an’ leap over rails an’ split kindlin’, with Master Richard fussin’ an’ runnin’ after them, an’ the sailor-man cryin’: “It’s his legs, guv’nor! Got to make them legs like mainmasts!” I remember he said that, over an’ over, in that cracky English voice. I didn’t know what a mainmast was, or what jumpin’ an’ splittin’ wood had to do with prize-fightin’. I jus’ found it all mighty amusin’, but Tom didn’t care for it. The sailor-man made him a big sack o’ corn-husks an’ bark, an’ Tom had to whale at it with his fists, an’ he liked that well. Master Richard had me down to the yard to watch him beat the sack, an’ when Tom flagged, Master would point to me an’ whisper in his ear, an’ Tom would lay into the sack till it bu’st wide open. Lord, what a lovin’ fool he was! An’ I would clap an’ cheer him on, an’ feel the butterflies inside me as I looked on those splendid limbs a-gleam in the sunlight.
Yes, suh, indeed. You are f’miliar, I don’ doubt, with those Greek an’ Roman statues which are thought to show the ab-solute p’fection of the male form? I have viewed them, too, as well as – you may set this down – a great many livin’ examples also, an’ I am here to tell you that Tom Molineaux’s was the most beautiful human body I have ever seen. M’m-h’m! Oh, his features were homely, like I said – fact, I can’t recall many uglier – but that frame o’ his was fit to melt a gal’s legs f’m under. Talk ’bout heroic! Bein’ young an’ simple at the time, I did not rec’nise the feelin’ I was feelin’ then, tho’ I can put a name to it now … but I shan’t. Jus’ say that if I’d been Queen Cle-o-patra an’ seen him up fo’ auction, the other bidders would ha’ gone home dis’pointed.
It was that time Master Richard hinted ’bout Tom an’ me bein’ wed. Maybe he meant it, I can’t tell. Mos’ folks would say the reason he an’ old Molineaux had been at such pains to keep a beautiful high-yaller gal virgin, was so they could get a real fancy price fo’ her when she bloomed, ’round sixteen – seventeen, but I don’ know ’bout that. They looked down their V’ginia noses at nigra-traders, so I can’t be sure what they intended by me. All I know is what Master Richard said, an’ I was the happiest l’il chucklehead in the state.
An’ then the snake came wrigglin’ in. M’sieur Lucie d’Estrees de la Goddam Guise, with his silk coat an’ gold-topped cane an’ eye-glass, fingerin’ his dandy moustache an’ scented like a female. He was Master Richard’s cousin, an’ we stopped at his fine house out by Pontchartrain the day before Tom’s fight in Awlins. I was called to be shown off to him, an’ had to hide my laughter, for I had ne’er seen such a picture of a popinjay, so bedecked an’ ruffled an’ languid fit to die. He looked old to me, so I guess he was forty, maybe, an’ when he called me close to pet me I was still strugglin’ not to laugh right out.
Then I saw his eyes, an’ my laughter died inside me. They were sleepy and chill, an’ as they looked me over, with that mean smile on his pretty little mouth, I fell a-tremble with fear, an’ felt shamed and unclean somehow, to be so regarded. He stroked my cheek with his soft fingers all scented with rings on ’em, an’ it was as though a slimy critter was leavin’ its track on my skin. When he said, in that lispin’ voice, how pretty I was, an’ slipped a candy in my mouth, I near gagged it out, an’ when he asked Master Richard what my price was, an’ Master Richard said I wasn’t for sale, I near swooned with relief. I could think of nothin’ more horrible than to be owned by that mincin’ exquisite with his gentle voice an’ clammy touch and evil eyes. I didn’t know why he was wicked, or why his gaze defiled me; I just knew he was vile in ways I couldn’t understand.
You don’t need me, thank God, to describe Tom’s fight with the Black Ghost, an’ I would not if I could. To me, a child, it was a first glimpse into Hell, with a chorus of yellin’ fiends transpo’ted in cruel delight as they watched my love bein’ tortured an’ mangled by that monster. I stopped my ears an’ eyes, an’ thought I must go mad, an’ when I saw his poor body broke an’ dyin’ (as I thought) on the ground, I threw myself on him wishin’ only that I might die with him. Worst of all was to hear his own master, who I s’posed loved an’ cared for him, threaten to have him killed by inches, an’ to see Tom, all bloodied an’ beaten, drag himself up again to be sacrificed.
Then the serpent de la Guise came whisperin’ at my ear, lispin’ of freedom for Tom an’ me, an’ how I might put spirit in him. Between my crazy grief an’ wild hope I did as he bid me, with no thought of my fear an’ loathin’ of him. An’ Tom won, I can’t say how, for I could not bear to see it. Then I knew such joy – for he was free an’ would make me free also. I would have blessed de la Guise an’ kissed his foot in gratitude, but he went quickly away.
Ganymede, who was de la Guise’s yellow valet, put me in a carriage with Tom, to take us back to de la Guise’s house, for Master Richard was in such an ecstasy at his vict’ry that he must stay behind to celebrate, I s’pose, with his cronies an’ such. I didn’t care; I was with Tom, weepin’ for happiness as I kissed his awful wounds an’ comforted him, tellin’ him of de la Guise’s promise, an’ how we would be free together – I, who hardly knew what freedom meant. Even Tom, dull Tom, knew more of it than I, for he put his great strong arm, with its cruelly broken hand, ’bout me, an’ kept sayin’ over an’ over: “Free! Free! Free! Oh, li’l Mollybird, you my own woman now! My li’l princess, my true love!”
Yes, if there has been a moment in my life to call blessed, it was then, in that carriage rumblin’ home to Pontchartrain, an’ freedom.
They took Tom to the slave quarters to tend to his hurts, an’ Ganymede gave me in charge of a tall mulatto woman who I guess was chatelaine.