Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

She whispers into his ear, Wait for me here.

He hears.

Cut that out. She squeezes his hand affectionately. Don’t talk so loud.

He knows from experience that she will only be so long. So he stands and waits for her to return in the coolness of the shade, sunlight noisy around him. Heat transforms into hay under his feet. Wait for me here.

Despite the caution with which he advances — he has been learning to slow down, their soft voices aiding him in this — despite running a hesitant hand along the barn wall, not anticipating any obstacles, he sends a pail crashing to the floor. Hanging empty. But the cows hang full. He leans his head on her shoulder. He gently probes her udders — this is a word he does not know — with his fingers. Cows and trees have branches. He gets on all fours and crawls into the cave beneath the cow, the animal spreading her legs farther apart to facilitate him, his entire body fully under the belly now, letting the soft branches above trail along and across his face. He pulls and squeezes and sucks. In a low voice the cow encourages and supports him. More.

Milk spreads across the barnyard floor. More. He feels milk warm around his ankles. Hears it rising around him in the hall-filled barn.

Truth be told, General Bethune is neither the best nor the worst man to serve under. Many pluses in his favor. He maintains an unimpeachable position in the public mind, among his own kind, for his continuing service to country, his advocacy of their national cause, its voice both in print and at the platform, his flair for coming up with the right ideas in laymen’s terms. Not just this — many think him a kind man, as he rarely speaks dark sentences to his wife, children, employees, or slaves. Rumors that it is enough for a man to express a desire and the General will take pity on him and help in whatever way he can. Has she not seen this herself? Perhaps this aspect of his personality, his shining and noble sentiments, feelings of generosity and altruism, might help her now. Knowing also — what is most important for her — he is a man from the outside who has neither understanding of nor affection for plantation life. But she must not feel tranquil standing before him as she is now. A white man — a master — has limits. Through experience she well knows that a good servant (nigger) must be able to cross both fire and water.

So when — yet again — the General confronted her about her little Thomas, she gave the answer she thought he wanted and waited for him to reply as she thought he would — he did — and dismiss her for the night. She started for her cabin, her bosom swollen and heavy. She remembers how her Little Thomas would nurse with unexpected pauses and interruptions, a herky-jerky rhythm. He would stop sucking every so often, quiet and still. Then it occurred to her — or it occurs to her now — that he was actually stopping to listen to the sounds of his nursing. And if she, Mingo, or one of the girls spoke or made any sound he would pull his lips from her breast altogether, leaving the uncomfortable impression that the family, her included, were intruding on his feeding.

By the time she entered the cabin she had recovered her outlook. Mingo was sitting on the bed, Little Thomas and the girls conspicuously absent. In his face she saw uneasiness and anticipation, but this time he did not ask her about the outcome. Her own nervousness and expectancy gave her a painful sensation in her chest. What if she were to tell him her feelings, namely, that she cannot think of any solution to gain time? How often noted the silent conversation between husband and wife, air itself projecting words that need no tongue to speak them. She was unable to acquaint her husband with the thoughts that had been passing through her mind for the last hour or more, so she sought to minister to his pleasures before the children returned.

With something of the feeling of the night before a decisive battle, she was unable to sleep. This night, and the next, and many upon many. She is part mother, part more.

Tell it fresh, she says to her oldest daughter. Not the same ole lies.

The three lined up before her, elbow to elbow, like links in a chain. The expressions the same, threatening and at the same time afraid. (Was the fear of one the fear of the other?) Was she being unfair? Her own eyes told her that only the voices of the Bethunes, master and mistress, for whatever reason seemed to give Thomas pause. She suspects that the girls are willing to engage in the lowest imaginable tactics to manage their brother, bring him under control. Then too the more painful thought, the possibility of vile means for vile intentions, anger, spite, and ill will pushing the girls to punish him for all of his trouble, transactions of skin — she has not spared the rod — repaying in kind all she has paid them. He is bruised, black areas in the skin. He draws back from her touch. He wiggles out of her arms when she tries to hug him, a frantic animal chewing off a limb to limp free of a trap. What punishment will suffice? Her daughters (or is Thomas to blame?) have suddenly returned her the thoughts, the feelings, and the black griefs, which from her earliest childhood she had permanently entrusted to her white owners.

She holds her most severe admonishments for her oldest daughter, whom she believes — she must believe something — is leading the other girls astray by the contagion of example.

The girl watches her, hard-eyed and defiant. Don’t know why they always blaming me.

She gives her a bold and specific instruction. (What alternative does she have? Plans, chances, undertakings. Hard questions, harder choices.) Starting tomorrow, tether Thomas to a post or tree. She goes so far as to suggest a location. The order fails to surprise the girl.

Silently and with solemn slowness Mingo continues to eat his supper. Knife and spoon are instruments of wonder in his hands.

Which tree? her daughter asks.

In outrage Mingo allows the utensils to spill from his hands then pounds one fist on the table, the table splintering in the center, spreading an infectious silence, all in the room, all words, sound and language, caught in the web-like splinter. Startled too perhaps at this quiet man who rarely displays anger, who loses all of his powers of reasoning at the sight of violence. He gets up from the table and leaves the cabin.

She goes out to check on him, to comfort him. Finds him sitting in the grass a few feet from the tub. She takes the tub and flips it over to use the bottom as a stool. Facing one another across the night. The first thing she does is to take his hand gently in hers and check it for signs of injury. I should send for the Doctor to inspect you, she says.

Better you send fo God, Mingo says.

No appeasing him. What tone will first light assume?

The following day, she travels to the printing office with the General in customary fashion. Nothing different about this day except he doesn’t speak a single word to her. Come evening, together they return to Hundred Gates, the General to his white mansion and she to her knotty cabin, and after she has finished feeding her family, the new girl, Antoinette, all speed and efficiency, shows up at her cabin door; she stretches out a hesitant hand and meets Charity’s hand on the way; informs her that the Bethune —those exact words; what she always calls him, them — would have her up at the house.

She finds herself in a vast green drawing room. General Bethune speaks her name. Then he says something about his regrets at having to impose a better discipline. Instructs her to fix a pallet in the back pantry off the kitchen. Tom will live and sleep here from now on.

She stares directly into the face of her master.

I suppose my wife will have to look after him, he says. Count yourself lucky, he says. Note my generosity. What might another man, a lesser man, have done in this circumstance? Always remember that. And be thankful.