Whiplash (2 page)

I craned my neck to try and see what was going on, but it was too hard to see over all the top hats and parasols.  I heard the auctioneer belting out figures faster than what could be easily understood, and every few minutes loud cheers erupted from the crowd as another slave was sold. 

The afternoon dragged on slowly under the hot, Carolina sun.  It must have been one hundred degrees in our enclosure, and one of the younger girls had already started having fits and was passed out in the corner.  I was starting to go stir-crazy in that steamy pen, and I’d even become hopeful that our turn on the block would come up soon just so I could get out of there.

By the time the sun was an hour or so from setting, the crowd had thinned out to only a few dozen people.  It was obvious that they were the richest of the slavers that had come to market that day.  Their clothes were a cut above anyone else’s I’d seen that day, and the women all wore big, extravagant baubles on their neck, fingers, and wrists.

A fat man with a monocle and a key ring came to unlatch our pen.  He left the girl who’d passed out lying alone in the dirt, and the rest of us were walked over to the central square.  We were lined up on the steps leading up to the platform, and one-by-one we were sold off to a new Master.  A man named St. Clair bought me for five hundred dollars.  His wife seemed pleased with the purchase, and when I was taken down off the pedestal to stand by her side, she clapped her hands together with delight.

“You’ll do just fine” she said to me.  The way she smiled at me made my stomach sick.  I didn’t like having to stand there while she sized me up like livestock.  But, I knew better than to protest or create a stir.  For more than eight years, I’d dreaded nearly every minute of my life; but that didn’t mean I wanted to die. 

The St. Clairs hung around the square for a while after they paid for me, chatting up some of the other slavers - all showing off their latest purchase.  The way those men leered at me made my skin crawl all over.  We were just about to load up into the St. Clair’s carriage when the pen Mercy was locked in was opened, and the girls in it were put up for sale.

They were all stripped naked and paraded around the platform, turning this way and that way for everyone to get a good look at all of their most private parts.  There was Mercy, the two other girls from Bowden Plantation, and three more I’d never seen before.  Six girls – their genes ranging from Mulatto to Mestizo to Black – all put up together as a single lot.

The girls in Mercy’s lot were sold off as concubines, and they went for top dollar.  They were sold for thirty thousand dollars to a man with coppery hair and a fat wife.   The girls were yoked together by the neck with iron collars and loaded into the back of a wagon.  I saw Mercy’s face, completely expressionless as her new Master started the horses on a slow trot out of town. 

I knew that was the last time I’d ever see my sister, and I wanted her to know that my anger from the day before had since been replaced with undying love.  She needed to be strong and to know that I’d love her forever and a day.  It was my last chance to tell her, and I risked being punished when I yelled out over the square.

“Mercy!  Mercy, here!”

Her eyes brightened and she looked frantically around for me.  She found me, just as her wagon was rounding the corner out of town.  She reached her arm through the bars of the wagon and held it out toward me with her palm open, waving her final goodbye. The last I saw of her was the glimmer of her diamond-encrusted barrette in her hair. 

Before I’d even turned nine, my heart had been hardened to life.  Living just wasn’t an option, and I became a mere survivor in an instant.  I rode to Biloxi, Mississippi with Master and Mistress St. Clair, all the while thinking of Mercy and Mama.   

Master St. Clair had taken a particular interest in me once I’d begun working as a house servant.  True, I wasn’t as fair as the others, but I suppose he found me pretty enough to want to have around the house all the time.  I’d always catch him looking at me in the most inappropriate way, but I rested easy at night knowing that we weren’t sleeping under the same roof.  I was a house servant during the day, but in the evenings I went back to the slave quarters to eat and sleep.

For over eight years I worked as a house servant; when I was barely seventeen, Master moved me to the big house permanently, as a housegirl.  With more of an all-day duty to Mistress St. Clair, I was always around the house – during the day and through the night – just waiting for her to tell me to cook, or clean, or do something else she’d rather not have done for herself.  She didn’t do
anything
for herself, and she took up most of my time every day.  Master took note of when Missy had me busy; when I wasn’t occupied by her, he’d put me to use in his own way.

At first, there wasn’t even any concern about me getting pregnant.  Master St. Clair would only use my vagina
sometimes
.  Most of the time, it was my mouth and anus being subjected to his wrath.  It was during my last summer at his plantation that Master St. Clair raped me brutally, impregnating me in the process.

When the Mistress first saw my baby – my fair-skinned, Mulatto baby - she was consumed with jealousy.  The next week, she came into my room one night and smothered him with his own blanket.  I pretended to be still sleeping as I watched his legs kicking frantically.  She held the feather-filled quilt tight against his face and chest, and when he’d stopped struggling, she lifted the blanket and my son out of the cradle and exited the room.   

Not even a month after that, I was sold away from Master and Mistress St. Clair.  I didn’t know where I’d be carried off to or what I’d have to do when I got there.  There was nothing left for me at St. Clair except for the constant reminders and painful memories of my slain son. So, I couldn’t have cared any less when Master St. Clair came into my room early one morning with the leg irons and collar.

We traveled west for several days, stopping at several stations to change out the horses and sleep. We also passed through lots of small towns where auctions were taking place. Within a couple of days, the wagon’s load had increased from one girl to ten; all of them different shapes, sizes, and shades of brown. We made it to the Mississippi River three days after our departure from Biloxi.  Crossing the river took quite a bit of time, as the bridge was shoddy and weathered. 

With the river crossed, we’d only a couple of hours left until our destination – the Devereaux Plantation – was reached.  Master St. Clair and his son, Claude, were motivated by the promise of turning a large profit in the sale of the ten of us.  They’d bypassed several rest stations since crossing the river, opting instead to deliver their cargo earlier than was expected.   The city limits were bustling with activity, and people all stopped what they were doing to witness the cartload of living, breathing money being driven through town. 

The sounds of commerce faded as we rode deeper into the countryside.  We turned off the main road and onto a winding path that was lined with pecan trees on both sides.  The smell of ripe sugarcane traveled over the marsh with the wind, and in the distance I could see my new prison.  Any questions I’d had about what was in store for me were about to answered.  My only hope was that my new Master wasn’t any more cruel than my former ones. 

Chapter One

When the horse and cart stopped at the front gate of the Devereaux Sugar Plantation, I have to admit that I was initially in awe.  Not in a hopeful way mind you, but I was just overwhelmed by the absolute beauty of the gate itself.  It towered and gleamed golden in the bright light of the sun.  Bittersweet, it was; that something so gloriously beautiful could be a portal to such horrific things.

Master St. Clair stepped down off his perch at the front of the cart and went to ring a big, iron bell.  Shortly thereafter, two Negroes came out of a small wooden shack to unlatch and pull the gate open. Claude grabbed the horses’ reins and led us on through the opening. We rode in about 30 yards and stopped outside a little cottage.  Master caught up to us and stalked along the side of the cart, allowing his eyes to pass over everyone inside. He was counting us - again.  He pulled out a tattered piece of paper, scribbled something down on it, and then stuffed his pencil back in his pocket. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw something stirring behind the sheer curtains of the cottage – a shadowy figure, traipsing slowly toward the door.  It stopped at the last window and pulled the curtain back just enough to be able to see outside.  A few minutes passed before the curtain swooped back into place and the figure made its way to the door. I wondered what it must be like to be able to move at one’s own leisure; not at all mindful of whom might be waiting, and even less mindful of the consequences of such blatant sloth.  I kept my eyes fixed on the front door.  I wanted to be the first one of us on the outside of that cottage to see what came out of there.

What I saw was unlike any other thing, living or not, that I had ever laid eyes on.  It looked like strength and malice; like fear, personified.  Sandy-red, curly hair sat on top of the most hardened face I’d ever remembered seeing. The creases in his forehead and around his eyes were evident even though he wasn’t frowning.  Those eyes, so alluring and wicked, were so green they made the hundreds of leaves on the trees overhead seem colorless. Lifeless.  They were like two brilliant emeralds shining on top of a craggy mountainside. 

The man had on a full suit, complete with a shiny silver pocket-watch which he pulled out and looked at before coming down the stairs of the front porch. He was a big man - easily the biggest white man I had ever seen - and he covered the distance between the porch and the cart in just a few strong, purposeful strides.    When I heard the first rumblings of his voice, I raised my eyes and stared directly into his face.

“Well… I wasn’t expecting y’all ‘til tomorrow.  Y’all must have made good time crossing the river and -”

He stopped in the middle of his sentence when his eyes met mine.  For a moment his jaw went slack and I swear his eyes changed color to the darkest black.  He quickly looked away, furrowing his eyebrows and muttering something to himself.  Clearly, he’d been shaken at the sight of me. I wondered why, but didn’t hold onto any hopes of
discovering
why.

He cleared his throat roughly and continued, “coming through the town.  Pardon my manners, won’t you? I’m Julian Devereaux.  And you are…”

“William St. Clair of the St. Clair Plantation and my riding companion is my oldest son, William, though we all call him Claude.”  Julian acknowledged the younger man with a nod, prompting Claude to dismount the perch.  The three men shook hands, and then Julian pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his palm.  He returned the cloth to his coat pocket without apology or explanation.  Judging by the look on the faces of the St. Clair men, I’d not been the only one who thought Julian’s behavior was peculiar.

“Well, William…Claude… Would y’all like to come in to sit for a spell before we start our trade?  I’ve got some top-shelf bourbon and hand-rolled cigars if it suits you gentlemen.  Also, if y’all need somewhere to lodge for the night, I’m sure you will find the guest house to be more than adequate.  I also have several nigger gals that can cater to your
manlier
needs.  All of them are at your disposal, free of charge, while y’all are here.  That is of course, with the exception of Vivian.  Vivian I’m afraid, is all mine.”

Julian stood there with his hands in his pockets, waiting patiently for a response from either of them.  William took a moment to consider Julian’s offer, and then made an attempt at a gracious declination. 

“We certainly do appreciate the offer.  But, if it’s all the same to you, Claude and I really should be going sooner than later.  We’ve other business affairs to attend to at home, and we may not be as fortunate crossing the river on the way back.  We can stay tonight, but we’ll be moving on at the first hint of dawn.  Besides, it’s not much a practice of mine to mix business with pleasure.”

“Hmm…pity” Julian replied dryly.  “Well then, y’all come on inside the cottage and we can get right down to it.  By the time the sun sets, we should be finished with our business; then you and Claude can have the rest of the evening to yourselves.” 

With that, Julian motioned to one of the two Negroes that had opened the gate to come and tie up the horses.  William gave us one last count before he and Claude followed Julian up the porch steps.  Julian ushered them into the house, and just before he turned his back to go inside he looked right into my eyes. 

His glare froze me in place, and my eyes were drawn to the sinister grin playing across his lips.  He licked them slowly - his tongue sliding deliberately over first the top, then the bottom.   He reached down and adjusted the front of his pants brusquely. Instead of waiting for my reaction, he just turned his back and went inside.

At nightfall we were unloaded from the cart.  My riding companions and I were stripped bare, right there on the dirt path, and immediately chained to each other by our necks to form a line.  William made his way down the line to tie our wrists down behind our backs while Claude made his way down the line blindfolding us.  After they were done binding and blinding each girl, the men took turns groping, squeezing, and slapping her most sensitive parts.  Once my wrists were cinched together and my blindfold was knotted, I waited for them to dishonor
me
as well. Instead I heard the deep, rich tone of Julian’s voice.

“Alright now, you nigger gals listen up.  I don’t know whether or not y’all are aware of why you’ve been brought here to my home. Quite frankly, I do not care.  I do not care if you are tired.  I do not care if you are hungry or thirsty.  I do not care if you are sick or hurt.  The fact of the matter is I do not care if you are even alive - so long as you do as I say.”

I could hear the faint jingling of chains as the women bound in line with me began to shudder and quiver in terror.  I concentrated on my breathing and balance, as I was becoming more disoriented and terrified by the second. 

My senses had become too acute with my increasing fear.  Every sound of the countryside was magnified in my ears.  The smell of the dirt and grass was potent, almost sickening.  I felt a mosquito land on my right cheek, and the sensation of it piercing my sweat-slicked skin was almost enough to make me cry out in pain.  The air was heavy and thick, and I couldn’t quite breathe in enough through my nose to satisfy my lungs.  I opened my mouth to take in more air with the hope of calming myself. After what was probably only a few seconds, Julian continued his charge to us.

“As of right now, you are no longer the property of Mister William St. Clair.”  He chuckled to himself and his voice dropped down real low, almost to a growl. “As of right now, you black bitches belong to me
.
” 

I heard a whimpering sob come from one of the girls toward the front of the line.  Quick footsteps shuffled through the dirt before coming to an abrupt halt.  There was a startled yelp, and our whole line shifted to the right as the iron yokes around our necks were jerked.  I caught my bearings just before I fell to my knees – some of the other girls weren’t so lucky.  In the quiet of the night, I heard the distinct ‘clink-clink’ of a buckle followed by another yelp.

“Well, it seems as if someone is not quite ready to say goodbye to you gentlemen.  William, I grant you the opportunity to bid her a proper farewell.”  Julian said those chilling words so charmingly, and it was even hard to hate him.  He was like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and the warmth provided by wool trumped even the most blistering cold.

“It would be my pleasure, Julian.  I’ll make it quick.”  William grunted a few times in frustration before groaning with pleasure.  Our chains began jostling violently around our necks, only partially drowning out the sounds of that poor girl’s gurgles and gasps for air.  A few minutes later, William hissed and shouted an expletive.

“Now my lovely,” William said breathily, “I know it’s hard to say goodbye, but I really must insist that you go with Mister Devereaux.  But don’t fret, child, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”  Shortly thereafter, I heard the St. Clair men’s footsteps retreat into the night.

I was so relieved at their departure, but that feeling was short-lived.  Julian ordered us to fall into line, shoulder-to-shoulder, for a head count.  He instructed us to count ourselves out, one at a time, down the line.  It was to be no ordinary head count, however; Julian had a flair for exacting punishment whenever possible.  That night, we got our first taste of it.  The unmistakable sound of a leather whip being uncoiled assailed my ears, and then came the first air-splitting crack of it.

“ONE!”

The first girl in line cried out her number in a pain-laden voice.  Every chain on that line began clattering after that.  I fought to maintain my standing position, but my knees had started to buckle and were threatening to give out at any second. 

I pushed all thoughts of where I was out of my mind, and went to a place hidden within the depths of my mind; a place where there were no more Masters, or whippings, or pain, or loss.  With my eyes closed behind my blindfold I let the cool, soothing breeze of that place caress my bare skin. 
Ahhhhhhh…

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!” I hollered out from the pain that reached right down to the depths of my spirit.  Fire burned across my chest and down to my navel, leaving me unable to catch my breath.  There were little stars bursting in front of my eyelids, and a river of sweat trickled down my spine. 

My knees hit the dirt with a bone-jarring
‘THUD’, causing the iron collar around my neck to tighten as the girl next to me struggled to stay on her feet.  Hot tears soaked my blindfold as rolling sobs escaped my mouth.  As the fog cleared from my mind, I realized that it’d been my turn to count; I simply hadn’t been paying any attention.  Having no idea which number I was supposed to call out, I maintained my crouched position, and bowed until my forehead rested in the dirt. 

“I...I’m sorry, Master.  Please, have mercy.”  It was all I could do to try to save myself from the fiery bite of that whip.

I heard a low, animalistic growl come from Julian’s throat, followed by his heavy footsteps approaching me at an agonizingly slow, steady pace. 
THUMP… THUMP… THUMP… THUMP-THUMP.
He kicked up a cloud of dust as his boots stopped mere inches from the right side of my face; so close I could smell the leather from which they’d been made.  He stood there, right beside me, not moving or saying anything. 

I waited for the sound of that whip snaking through the air again before it slashed across my exposed back, but it never came.  I felt a firm grip on my elbow pulling my body upwards and my face out of the dirt.  My blindfold was removed in one smooth motion; a precursor to the tip of his left boot coming to rest on my right shoulder.

“Focus your eyes on me,” he demanded.  I did.  The moon was bright enough to illuminate his face with a shadowy, bluish glow.  His eyes reflected the light and made him look predatory.  His tongue peeked out to lick across his bottom lip before slithering back into his mouth, which was now set in a wide, toothy grin.  “Now, I understand that you are sorry for breaking my head count.”  He paused and sighed deeply, rolling his tongue around his mouth. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

He coiled his whip onto the ground, and reached into his right coat pocket to produce a small, black, velvet pouch.  He dug around in there for a few seconds, and then pulled his hand out with his thumb and forefinger pinched together.  The contents of the pinch were then deposited into the groove between his bottom lip and teeth. He worked it around a bit with his tongue before spewing a brown glob right onto the boot he’d perched on my shoulder. 

“Clean it.”

I said nothing.  I didn’t move.  I didn’t even breathe.

“Clean it,” he said again, with his growing aggravation evident in his voice. He ground the toe of his boot into my skin while scooting it over another inch or two, until it rested right under my chin when I turned my head to look at it.  I looked back at him in disbelief, only to be met with a raised eyebrow and an expectant smirk. He wasn’t asking; he was demanding that I do it.  I closed my eyes and began to tentatively flick my tongue out over the stinking, brown mess.  I was trying to gather it all up and avoid it at the same time. 

“NO!” he bellowed. “Look at me, and do it with
feeling
.  You’ve got but one chance to satisfy me, gal, so you’d best make it count.”

I pushed my tongue back out of my mouth and greedily lapped up his disgusting sputum.  It tasted like tobacco, spices, and something akin to death.  I slid my tongue all over the top of his boot and far down the instep, ensuring I would get it all.  When I finished licking off his putrid waste, I closed my mouth and swallowed, trying not to keel over and heave at the bitter, smoky taste.  Once the final drop passed down into my throat, I shuddered and began panting for air.  All the while, his eyes had never left mine, and that grin of his got wider and wider until I could see clear back to his molars.