The last member of Major Quarrels's branch of the family died last year. Before his granddaughter died, I was handed the key to the trunk that held Major Quarrel's journals, both commercial and private.
"Daddy told me not to read grandpa's journals," she said. "He said it wouldn't be good for me to see them. But not to destroy them unless I couldn't find a strong-minded man remaining in our family. I think that's you, Cousin Marcus. Look at them, then do as you wish. But don't publish them, if you so decide, until I have been in the ground a year, if you would."
I have read Major Quarrels's journals and have decided not to burn them. In fact, I'll publish them now that the year's up. Major Quarrels was a man who lived in his own time and did what he felt that he had to do with no apologies asked or given. People who live now have no right to judge him unless they are first willing to examine, then unburden themselves of, the hycrocracies they live by today. I am not morally qualified to change history by deleting embarrassment or shame.
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January 27, 1858. The Reverend Judge Henry sent for me today. I call him Judge Henry because I'm not a church-going man. Judge Henry told me that he had a number of elderly nigras that he couldn't afford to keep. That one of the older wenches, Eliza by name, was getting uppity and spoiling the rest. Was I still in the business of buying slaves?
I told him that I was, but that as usual he would have to pay me a good deal of money so that I could find the old nigras a good home. It would be cheaper for him to simply feed the ones who weren't giving him a problem. It costs about $35 a year to upkeep a nigger several counties away here in Mississippi so they never give another problem to the old master, and even more in Virginia and the Carolinas.
Judge Henry said no, he wanted to get rid of three of them, an old couple and that damned Eliza. That the nigra couple were old and wouldn't live too long, not over five years.
So we haggled about a bit and since Judge Henry lives in my county and has done me no harm and is a man of both the cloth and the law (he preaches to the Methodists on Sundays and Wednesdays), we came to a deal suitable for both -- $500 to take the late middle-aged Eliza off his hands and $400 for the couple.
As he was handing me the money and the bills of sale Judge Henry asked, "They will find good homes, won't they Captain Quarrels?" People call me Captain Quarrels since I raised a county company for the Mexican war, even though we never saw battle, and I never got over the rank of lieutenant.
I looked at him levelly. What a hypocrite! He suspicions what I'm gonna do with the nigras. Why does he think I offered him such a good deal if not to have an official eye averted to what I do? Can't have a single nigra on my place, not that I'd want one, because of the way they talk. So he wants an assurance so as to wash his hands of them, does he? I'll give him one.
"You and the nigras need never worry about their final home, Reverend Henry. I always find suitable accommodations for the worn-out sons and daughters of Ham. Of course, if you are worried about their welfare, here is your money back." I made as if to return the money and the bills of sale.
"No, no," Judge Henry said while making negating motions with his hands as if to dry- wash them. "I'm sure you'll do right by them."
I gave him my best deadpan glance as I stuffed the money and bills in my pocket. When I strode out of the Judge's fine white mansion I found that the elderly couple were sitting in my wagon with their pathetic amount of worldly possessions wrapped in a blanket. The wench Eliza was bound and gagged like a trussed-up Sunday-dinner chicken in the back.
"She's a fearful blasphemer and cusser, Capt'n Quarrels," said Caesar, Judge Henry's major-domo.
Why is it that every lawyer with pretensions for Latin names his head house nigger Caesar? I idly wondered as I surveyed the scene before me.
Caesar was sweating in the January chill and avoiding my eyes. "That's why we trussed her up. You can turn her loose if you want, but I wouldn't advise it. Old Toby and Mary won't give you any problem. They'se good niggers."
"I'm sure they are," I said as I walked down the steps toward my saddle-horse tied to the back of the wagon. "You, Toby, drive the team to my home. I'll direct you at the crossroads. Savvy?"
"Yessuh, boss," Toby said, in the dignified way that some of the old darkies have. He turned about and clicked for the mule to move while unfurling the reins onto the mule's haunches. His wife Mary sat up straight on the seat of the buckboard beside him. Eliza looked up at me, her eyes glittering with fear and hate.
We made it to my plantation just before dark. I call it a plantation although I have no slaves to pick non-existent fields of cotton, because I am an infinite step above the white trash who farm a few acres. I have over two thousand acres of land with a small river running through it, most of it cypress and pine swampland, all of it taken from the Creeks and Choctaws by my father. I shackled the slaves to an iron ring set in the barn, then unsaddled and unhitched the stock. My wife had supper on the table. She didn't say a word to me. She doesn't approve of what I do, although she doesn't mind helping me spend the proceeds. I took the food out to the slaves, ungagging and untying Eliza. Eliza was not grateful for her release.
"You're gonna kill us, ain't you, Capt'n Quarrels? We've heard about you. You are always buying nigras but nobody ever heard of you sellin' one. And you have none here. What happens to all the nigras you buy? You're gonna kill us tomorrow, aren't you?" Eliza screeched. Old Toby and Mary looked fearful, but said nothing.
"Gonna kill you tonight if you don't shut-up and eat," I said. "Get my Colts pistol out and put an end to your mouth." Eliza subsided a bit, although she was still breathing hard.
She looks a bit good still, probably used to be a handsome wench when she was younger, I thought. She has a bit of a coppery tint to her hide, probably got a bit of Choctaw or Creek in her. Makes for a handsome breed, but one as treacherous as crossing a panther with a rattlesnake. Good thing that I never bring my pistol or knife into the barn when I have nigras in here.
"Cause me any more trouble, I'll sell you further down river, and to a bad master, instead of Virginny way." I looked at Toby and his wife. "Don't listen to her. She'll only cause trouble. Eat your food. Get your rest. You have a long trip tomorrow." I turned away and closed the barn door. Let them get a good night's sleep, I thought.
The next morning I performed a number of necessary chores for the day. Then I fed the nigras. They looked like they hadn't got much sleep, but I had better things to worry about. I unshackled Toby's and Mary's leg irons and said, "Nobody wants to buy slaves in the wintertime. They have no need to carry a useless mouth over the winter. So I'll see if I can't get some work out of you in the next month or so. Can't trust that Eliza, so flop her over the mule and let's git to it."
I strapped on my Colt's revolver. After a moment's thought, I decided not to carry my rifle. I set out for the swampland, motioning the slaves to follow with the mule.
We walked down to the river, where the river flows over the bottom land every spring when it rains hard. The bare ground was covered with bark litter and deadwood piled up by the river's flow in the spring. There were a few sycamores and cypress scattered about the pine trees along the river banks. I called a halt. Mary and Toby helped Eliza off of the mule and to her feet. I sat down on a deadwood log left by the river the previous spring. There was a shovel nearby, that I had placed there this morning.
"What do you nigras say about me at Judge Henry's? I heard something about it last night," I said.
Toby and Mary blanched and held each other. Eliza spat onto the ground. There was a long moment's silence.
"Capt'n Quarrels, we never harmed you. You could let us go, give us our bill of sale. We would be free, and we'd never come back here," Toby pleaded.
"It's tempting to do as you ask," I said. "But I took money to take care of you. I can't turn you loose to roam in a hostile countryside. Only nigras allowed down here in Mississippi, the whole country for that matter, are slaves. I advised Judge Henry to simply let you, Toby, and your wife live out the remainder of your days, but he was determined to get rid of one rebellious old slave, so he threw your lives in the heap with Eliza. I certainly can't shoot her and let you two live." I drew and cocked my Colts. "Could I do anything for you, like give your belongings to someone back at Judge Henry's after I kill you? Would you like a few moments to make peace with God?"
"We have a daughter at Judge Henry's. Give the things in the blanket to her and tell her that you sold us to an nice old white woman in Virginia who needed medical care and someone to work her garden," Mary said.
I nodded and said, "It will be done as you ask."
The couple knelt facing away from me, holding each other's hands as they prayed. I kept a close eye on Eliza as I drew a bead on the back of Toby's head. I squeezed the trigger and as the revolver fired, re-cocked and fired again into Mary's back. Never did meet a woman who liked being shot in the face. They are such vain creatures.
The pistol chain-fired and liked to sprain my wrist. The second shot had set the other three chambers off in the cap-and-ball revolver. I would have to reload, but I had no time.
Like a panther, Eliza charged towards me. She took short, quick steps until she got the shovel. As I dodged away, she forgot her shackles and fell as she aimed a blow at me with the sharp shovel. A tendon back of my left knee got cut as I fell away from her. She got up as I dropped the worthless revolving pistol and drew my knife. I threw it at her overhand and caught her at the base of the throat. If I hadn't rolled aside at the last second she would have sliced open my chest with her final stroke of the shovel. That bad black bitch damn near killed me that day.
I rolled aside the deadwood log and buried the three nigras under it. I camouflaged my handiwork. Later in spring, the floodwaters from the river would wash away all evidence, not that I really need worry just so long appearances are kept up.
I reviewed what I learned to my hurt while I dug. In the future, I will kill the baddest nigra first. And to forestall more than one chamber firing at one time, I wouldn't load as much black powder in any one chamber. Sure, the Colts won't fire as fast or as far, but at least I won't have all my shots gone. They say Remingtons are even worse for misfiring like that.
When I got home, my wife told me the big news of the day. Seems that the Supreme Court decided in the Dred Scott vs. Sanford decision that nigras aren't human, they're property. The black man has no rights that the white man need respect. Well, I knew that all along. Of course nigras are just property. We simply cannot afford to acknowledge their humanity. I'm just annoyed that I didn't get an additional $100 to take care of Judge Henry's defective property. Since I need not truckle to such as Judge Henry anymore, perhaps I can demand a bigger fee next time. But on the other hand, perhaps I won't get paid as much if other people simply are allowed to dispose of their property as they wish. This matter will bear more thought.
Notes by Marcus Quarrels 12/8/93: Major Quarrels never changed his mind about what he had done during his life. He ran for sheriff and got the reputation as a man who never brought in a prisoner. He would find the alleged culprit, talk with the man for a short while, and then either turn him loose unmolested or kill him. There never was much crime in the twelve years that he was sheriff. Paradoxically, there weren't any lynchings either. Major Quarrels seems to have gotten resigned to the idea that the black race would remain in America, so he would talk quietly with the elders of the colored community whenever there was a problem and a solution would be reached acceptable to all. He would walk down the street, like a wolf on a mission, and no one, certainly not a judge or preacher would get in his way or look him in the eye.
Major Quarrels's last entry is dated December 12, 1918.
I have gotten tired of life now that I have lived nearly a score more than my allotted threescore and ten. They have recently fought a "war to end all wars" with the end result that the new century will be far more savage than the one in which I have lived most of my life. I freely admit to those who might read these journals that I had two eyes with which to clearly see evil and two hands to strongly do it with. I did what I did for reasons that seemed good to me at the time. I repent for none of it. Men like me will always be necessary to those in power for as long as human beings possess human nature.