Windy August (1840s; Chapter 2: "The Vanquished Plantations")

Chapter Two (to: "The Vanquished Plantations")


Through the smelting hot and windy August forenoon hours, the aftermath of thirty-days, scorching days you could cook an egg on the Ozark city sidewalk quicker than you could cook one in the frying pan, and nobody, and I mean nobody wanted to listen to anybody especially if all they made was nonsense, and bickering, over an alleged negress’ rape.
The gossip was about Miss Ashley Walsh (fifteen-years old), something about her, the young Negress lived on the Smiley Plantation, worked in the kitchen, while her mother worked for the Hightower’s, the plantation next to the Smiley’s, as the cook, some twelve or so miles outside of town (Ozark, Alabama).
Some white boys attacked and insulted her, someone mentioned rapped her, and because she said she was rapped, but was unsure of whom it was, who assaulted her, attacked her—just unsure of who the rapists were in total, and there was more than one—alleged rapists.
No one claimed the rape, none of them Ozark boys anyhow, no one wanted to admit doing it to a nigger, so Tom Banister said; and Ashley was blacker than the ace of spades.
We all had gathered into the town’s main grocery store that Friday forenoon, the one where Jordon Jefferson worked, the nigger son of Josh Jefferson, who worked at the Hightower plantation outside of town, some fifteen- or less miles.
Tom Banister, the city’s Post Officer, supervisor, suggested we ponder on it, if indeed it was necessary or worth pondering on, and he really didn’t think it was necessary, but we all did.
It was a hot, hot Friday forenoon, the air was stale in that store but we didn’t want to talk about it out of doors, lest someone create more gossip, and there was enough of that.
“Could be one of those Ritt boys, could be…” said Too-drunk Henry, who had both Indian and white book mixed.
“Sure could be,” replied Mr. Smiley, he was an elder gentleman, plantation owner (a tall thin man with mud-brown hair). “I doubt it is those Ritt boys though, they hate niggers as much as their paw and grandpa do,” he remarked.
“I know the Ritt boys,” said Tom Banister, “they don’t take a liking fer those blackies.”
“Just what do you know, or think you know about those boys?” said Mr. Smiley.
“Who they be…, they aint that kind of folk, ef-‘n youall know what I mean!” said Tom.
“Yessum, he’s right!” Hell, them there boys hate Niggers, aint no kind of nigger they like, female or male, no better than a mule to them there boys, I believe they done whooped her some, but not no rapin’.”
Said Arnold Wills (saloon keeper), adding, “what be all the fuss, she aint no belle anyhow!”
“I don’t believe any white man in town her’, or boy for that matter, would rape her anyhow,” said Mr. Smiley—“she be skinny as a bean and aint got much on her top, and naught on her behind! I knows her mama, she be Minnie Mae Walsh, and she’s mad as a hornet, stir up those blackies, so we best put this to rest, and maybe send a few boys out to quiet things a bit!”
“She ‘bout fifteen, aint she?” asked the proprietor.
“I reckon she is,” said Tom.
“I reckon she jus’ a nigger whore,” said Too-drunk Henry, “but she dont make anyone any trouble round here.”
“Why we all making such a fuss over a nigger anyhow…” said the Sheriff (Jordon Jefferson was peeking around the storage room door, listening, it was his brother Silas who used to go out with Ashley some).
“Wont youall take the white boy’s word over niggers, the Ritt boys said they insulted her, but that be it…!” said the Sheriff.
“I dont believe the Ritt boys did it,” said Tom Banister, “she’s not a bad nigger gal anyhow, who said the boy’s did it anyway?”
“Maybe you know who did it Tom?” asked Mr. Smiley, now gawking into the eyes of Tom, and Tom a little taken back; Smiley now a little suspicious, “maybe yous a Niggerlover after all! We-all got to make sure she don’ give us good folks down here a bad name!”
“I wash my hands of this mess!” said Tom, ready to walk out the door.
“You are a hell of a white man,” said Mr. Smiley, ef-‘n youall dont want to know who did and said what?”
“You folks just lookin’ fur a pound of flesh,” said Tom.
“Yessum,” said Henry “nigger flesh!”
The proprietor held a gun up towards the ceiling, half cocked, “Go on home all yous folks I had enough, we aint gettin’ anywhere but insulting one another now!”
And he shot the gun; put a hole in his ceiling, and everyone left.
And Tom Banister went home, and shot himself in the head.