its web of curving lines with ease and convenience.
One sweltering afternoon–it was the first day of July, 1830–
he was at work over a set of tangled account books in his workroom,
which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation
outside disturbed him. It was carried on it yells, which showed that
the people engaged in it were not close together.
“Say, Roxy, how does yo’ baby come on?” This from the distant voice.
“Fust-rate. How does _you_ come on, Jasper?” This yell was from close by.
“Oh, I’s middlin’; hain’t got noth’n’ to complain of, I’s gwine to come
a-court’n you bimeby, Roxy.”
“_You_ is, you black mud cat! Yah–yah–yah! I got somep’n’ better to do
den ‘sociat’n’ wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper’s Nancy
done give you de mitten?” Roxy followed this sally with another discharge
of carefree laughter.
“You’s jealous, Roxy, dat’s what’s de matter wid you, you
hussy–yah–yah–yah! Dat’s de time I got you!”
“Oh, yes, _you_ got me, hain’t you. ‘Clah to goodness if dat conceit
o’ yo’n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho’. If you b’longed
to me, I’d sell you down de river ‘fo’ you git too fur gone.
Fust time I runs acrost yo’ marster, I’s gwine to tell him so.”
This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of
the wit exchanged–for wit they considered it.
Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not
work while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow
in the pelting sun–at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only
preparing for it by taking an hour’s rest before beginning. In front of
Wilson’s porch stood Roxy, with a local handmade baby wagon,
in which sat her two charges–one at each end and facing each other.
From Roxy’s manner of speech, a stranger would have expected her to
be black, but she was not. Only one sixteenth of her was black,
and that sixteenth did not show. She was of majestic form and stature,
her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements
distinguished by a noble and stately grace. Her complexion was very fair,
with the rosy glow of vigorous health in her cheeks, her face was full
of character and expression, her eyes were brown and liquid, and she
had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was also brown, but the fact
was not apparent because her head was bound about with a checkered
handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it. Her face was shapely,
intelligent, and comely–even beautiful. She had an easy, independent
carriage–when she was among her own caste–and a high and “sassy” way,
withal; but of course she was meek and humble enough where white people were.
To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one
sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and
made her a Negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her child was
thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of
law and custom a Negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his
white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell
the children apart–little as he had commerce with them–by their clothes;
for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace,
while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached
to its knees, and no jewelry.
The white child’s name was Thomas a Becket Driscoll, the other’s name
was Valet de Chambre: no surname–slaves hadn’t the privilege.
Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her
ear, and as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling.
It soon got shorted to “Chambers,” of course.
Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wits begun to play out,
he stepped outside to gather in a record or two. Jasper went to work