Yellow Wife(60)

Once satisfied that my daughters were settled in with July, I found Abbie. Thankfully, she had her full mind today and could help me dress. She buttoned me into a light-blue-and-white printed gauze dress. My hair she pinned into elaborate rows at the nape of my neck, and then covered it with a matching bonnet. I felt sickened, prettying myself for such a barbaric display of power, but recognized my tasks. When I descended the stairs, the Jailer waited for me by the front door. The sight of his face lit like it was Christmas made bile rise in my throat.

“You look lovely, my lady.” He took my arm.

We walked side by side to the courtyard. The crowd clapped and parted to make room for us. When we reached the stage, the Jailer reached for my hand and escorted me to the top of the platform. I folded my wrists in front of me, hoping that when Essex laid eyes on me he did not feel betrayal.

The Jailer looked out onto the audience and grinned. “Mighty men and women of the South, we will not stand idly by and let our niggers run away to the North. The Bible says that all slaves shall obey their masters.”

Cheers roared from the crowd.

“I am here today to demonstrate what will happen to those who disobey the law and God’s plan.”

More cries of joy.

“Punishment to the highest extent for those who go against our institution. Let the flogging begin.” He raised his hands and the crowd shouted.

“Justice! Punish him! Show no mercy!”

The door to the holding cell clicked open, and two white men dragged Essex in. His hands were in irons in front of him, feet chained together, and he only had on one shoe. My throat filled, and I lowered my head to hide my dismay. The Jailer stood stiffly on the stage as they dragged a limp Essex up the steps and onto the platform. When he reached the top, he glanced over at me. His eyes narrowed a bit; then they widened in recognition.

Sissy and Tommy approached the stage. Sissy carried a big, steaming pot. As I moved out of their way, I saw boiling pods of hot peppers. What was this man planning? I silently prayed for Essex’s safety as I stepped past the crowd of slaves and over to the side where the white women stood with babies. Close enough that if the Jailer called to me I could come, but not front and center to Essex’s misery. The mob continued to shout and taunt. When the two white men stood Essex on his feet, he raised himself to full height and looked the Jailer square in his eyes.

“You better look away, boy.”

Essex did not budge.

“Very well, you want to be a show-off nigger. Let the punishment begin!” he called out.

The crowd clapped and whistled. Men stood shaking their fists in the air and the women shouted out until their faces were inked red with hatred. I felt alone in my repulsion at their glee at human suffering and searched the crowd for a kind eye, but there were none.

The Jailer pointed to the pole that stood in the center of the stage, and the two white men holding Essex pulled his arms above his head and fastened him by his thumbs to the pole. Essex grunted as he was raised so high the big toe of his shod foot barely scraped the ground. His shirt was then cut away from his body and his back on view to the crowd. He had a smooth and strong back that showed no signs of previous whippings. Even though I stood in the shade, the heat felt excruciating.

Tommy presented the Jailer with a tray of three weapons. He reached for his cowhide whip and snapped it between his fingers. Then he twirled it in the air and crashed it against Essex’s back. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

The Jailer paused, and then Tommy dipped a rag into the steaming pot of hot peppers. He then washed the rag across Essex’s gashes. The scalding liquid bubbled in the wound. Essex cried out in such violent pain that I instinctively moved forward, but then just as quickly I was jerked back.

“Best not ’rupt Marse’s work. Don’t want no more trouble on your boy,” whispered Elsie.

“Where is he?”

“I told him stay in the barn. Ain’t want him seeing this.”

I thanked her for protecting him. The whip sang through the air, and he was at it again. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

I counted twelve lashes. Tommy again washed the gashes with boiling water. The scene played out again. Twelve lashes. Scalding hot pepper water poured into his skin. Again. Again.

Again.

Essex sounded like an animal being slowly slaughtered; each time the guttural noises became fainter and fainter, as if he were drifting toward unconsciousness. His one toe had stopped reaching for the ground and his arms went limp.

Again. Twelve lashes. Hot pepper bath. Twelve lashes. Hot pepper bath. Twelve lashes. Again. Again. Again.

I turned my head, but that did not exempt me from counting each lash. It seemed that even the crowd had had enough. Children started crying. Women walked away with their babies, covering their ears. The men only grunted. Then the Jailer finally stopped. If my count proved accurate, Essex received ninety-six lashes, but the hot pepper bath probably made it feel like five hundred.

“Take him.” The Jailer dropped his whip.

The two white men took Essex down, his body like a rag doll.

Blood ran in every direction.

“He needs to be nursed,” I said to Elsie.

“Marse will send for us when he ready.”

As soon as the men and Essex left the stage, Tommy washed the floor down, and then a local band stepped onto the platform. In a matter of minutes, they were playing festive music. The scene transformed from beastly to boisterous in the blink of an eye. House girls approached their families with picnic baskets. The entertainment girls walked around giving out licorice to the children and ale to the men. I stood back and watched as the Jailer received pats on the back from his colleagues for his fine performance, his hands and shirt still splattered in Essex’s blood. While he remained occupied, I returned to the house, where I found the girls in the drawing room.