Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [99]
The man reached down for the whip, and the slave shoved him away. As the man stumbled back onto the green the slave rushed to the bewildered horse, taking up his reins and running a hand across his mane.
Which gave the silver-haired man in black time to pick himself up and grab his instrument and advance to the slave, slashing the African across the back of the neck. Still holding the reins of the horse, the slave turned again.
Whup! The whipper slashed again. Blood spurted from the black man’s head, and he dropped the reins and grabbed his hands to his neck.
Whup! The slave staggered, the horse gave a whinny and walked away, leaving the black man to take yet another slash, this time across his hands and face.
“Enough, sir!” shouted my cousin, standing on the carriage box. “Enough!”
The whipper turned, and gave us all a broad smile, showing us his bright teeth, and, seeming to recognize me, making a little bow before turning to give the slave—amazing that the poor wretch still stood upright—one more slash of the whip before the black man fell to his knees, and then fell further, face forward upon the grass.
Another man came running across the green wearing nothing but trousers, a white shirt, and suspenders.
“Dastard!” he called out.
Upon reaching the horse, he took up the reins and looked down at the fallen slave.
“You have done injury to my property! I shall have you in court, sir! Do you understand me?”
The two men began to quarrel, and Jonathan sat down again on the box and coaxed our horse into moving.
“Stop,” I said, “we must stay and assist him.”
“It is not our business,” Jonathan said.
“We are witnesses,” I said, looking back to where the two men stood arguing over the fallen slave—blood gathered about his head—while the horse had taken to nibbling again as the grass. “I know that man.”
“You know him? We will be impugned,” Jonathan said.
“Why?”
“Because we are Jews,” he said.
“We are men first,” I said.
“Speak for yourself,” said my cousin, laughing again that same strange laugh as he urged our horse to pick up speed. I myself wanted to race away, oh, I wanted to put all of this strange land behind me. [For a number of reasons, of course, I did not send this letter.]
Chapter Forty
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Study
In the short time I have spent at The Oaks I have learned a number of interesting things about life here, beginning with the hierarchy of the slaves. In the house Black Jack ruled, like a ship’s captain, and Precious Sally, though she had many privileges, stood just below him in rank. Then came Liza, who served my aunt as a personal maid, and attended to such other chores in the house as Black Jack and Precious Sally called upon her to do, which apparently gave her the freedom to move about the house and grounds at all hours. Like members of the family itself, all of them were always present, passing in and out of the rooms, particularly at mealtime, but certainly visible and moving about the house most other times of day.
And it was clear, from the way they carried themselves, that they held positions of authority, even though it was just as apparent that they remained servile to the wishes of my uncle and aunt, and Jonathan and Rebecca, and even young Abraham. They hardly ever spoke, except when spoken to, and never ever raised their voices the way a normal person might, if engaged in a serious conversation with someone about a moment of apparent importance, not even when Abraham raised his.
Although sometimes they found their patience tried.
As when, say, I heard my aunt, who was speaking to Liza while unaware that I was sitting on the veranda reading just outside the door, say to her in a tone usually reserved in our New York society for coachmen speaking to their horses or parents to recalcitrant children.
“Now you know how I like to see this silver?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you see your reflection in the knife?”
“Not clearly, ma’am.”
“And should you see your reflection in the candlesticks just as bright