The Prophets(103)

Out of his mind and back to himself, James got up from the table and walked over to the spittoon he had left lying on the floor. He picked it up and spit a huge wad into it. It was still slippery from the spill. He placed it down on the table and the clank against the wood almost disguised the sound of barking coming from over the fence.

The bloodhounds’ noise meant that stirring somewhere in the thick void was a quail or an unfortunate nigger. James grabbed the lantern and retrieved the rifle from his bed. His heart beat vigorously. He spit the rest of the tobacco juice onto the ground as his boots trod the last step of his porch. The woofing continued, and it was coming from somewhere over by the barn.

The barn was a source of vexation and an interest to almost everyone on the plantation, but James wasn’t even the smallest bit stunned by what went on between those two young niggers, Samuel and Isaiah. He couldn’t tell which was which, but the orphanage taught him to recognize animals when he saw them.

For this particular purpose, the whippings would only make them devious, deceitful, he told Paul. It wasn’t like a fit of laziness or an eye that dared to lay itself upon the face of a white woman. No, it was a blood mark and one that was relatively harmless. It was best to just let them be. All that mattered was that the work get done. And, by all accounts, the work wasn’t done better by any other niggers in the state of Mississippi.

“It’s ungodly, James. If I allow that here, without punishment . . .”

“Silly to be concerned with that when you have this,” James said as he looked around the plantation. He had finally paid attention to the vastness upon which they stood.

“Have this even longer if I breed them,” Paul responded.

“Greed is a pitfall, Cousin.”

“Ability, Cousin. A man does what he is able to.”

James shook his head. He could see his cabin in the distance.

He quieted himself. For all Paul was doing to sabotage those two animals, did he know that he had one living right in his own house? Paul and Ruth had so protected their only surviving child that they softened him and had the audacity not to notice. Had they let his strength develop unhindered by their fear and sadness, perhaps he would have had the chance to be a man. Instead, he followed after one of the barn animals, grinned insufferably, painted nature’s nonsense, and had the same desperate eyes as all malnourished people.

He didn’t envy Timothy’s fascinations. He wanted terribly to be as far away from niggers as he could—except when they sang. For when niggers sang, it was something that no white person could imitate, not even the ones like him, who suffered and were miserable. What the folks in Paul’s church did were birdcalls compared to what the niggers did in the tree circle. One hundred wolves howling at the moon in perfect pitch. A fleet of ships creaking simultaneously at sea. He gladly stood in the trees and listened, occasionally rocking with the rhythm and humming, keeping his rifle close.

“Sell them, if it makes it any better. I know a few folks who will give you more than they’re worth.”

But it wasn’t singing that James heard now; it was the sound of dogs barking. He put the lantern down, but not the rifle, and climbed the fence. He grabbed the lantern through the post and trod slowly toward the slave cabins. Nothing stirred. But as he got closer to the barn, he saw the horses running free. The pigs were meandering about. Chickens were perched on the fence. The other overseers ran from around the back side of the barn.

“What’s going on here?” James demanded. “Get these animals back in their pens. Wake the niggers and have them help you. Get Zeke, Malachi, Jonathan, and the others to come out. Need as many guns as possible.”

“They getting paid for coming back out during their sleep time?”

“Don’t worry yourself with that now. Do what I tell you to. I’ll go check on Ruth.”

James ran toward the Big House.

His lantern at his side, he ran into the house and saw Paul. He was covered in blood. The hounds were in the house, woofing and pacing in crooked lines. There was a trail of blood leading down the stairs. On the floor, at Paul’s side, a nigger with more blood on him than Paul.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” James yelled.

Paul said nothing, didn’t so much as twitch a finger. He stared ahead at the tree that could be seen through the doorway behind James.

“What’s the matter with you? You hurt?” He looked at Paul, held the lantern up to his face. “Paul? The animals are loose. I got some of my men waking niggers to help round them up.”

James took a step toward him and Paul flinched.

“What?” James asked.

Paul mouthed some words.

“Speak up!” James shouted. “What happened to you?”

Paul said nothing. He swatted for James to move out of his way and headed toward the door. He dragged the nigger’s body out of it, onto the porch, then down the steps, and toward the willow tree.

“Paul, goddamnit! The animals!” he said, following Paul, reaching the porch and refusing to step on the blood trail that he knew no amount of scrubbing would remove. “What’s going on? Paul!”

Paul stopped. He straightened his back and then sank into himself again.

“In the house,” he croaked.

“Ruth?” James shouted.

He ran back into the house and up the stairs. He looked around. He heard nothing but saw shadows. He ran down the hall. The floor was wet. There was a light coming from up ahead. Timothy’s door was open. He walked inside. The room was ransacked. Ruth was on top of the bed, writhing, weeping to herself, mouth agape, but barely a whisper coming from her.