A Woman for Titus

January 19, 1856

My dear cousin Lyle,

Well, it's all over. Titus was publicly hanged this morning in the courtyard behind the city jail. The law is the law, and these examples must be made for the protection of the white population, but in a way, I'm sorry. He was a superb manservant, quite the best in town, and in addition to everything, Nonny is going to have his baby. The doctor confirmed it yesterday, but she's obviously a born troublemaker, entirely capable of harming herself for spite, so I shall be forced to sell her off.

Still and all, I'm lucky. I shudder to think what might have happened. Titus came (continued on page 102)Woman for Titus(continued from page 93) at me, you know, quite suddenly, as he was about to take my hat, and if it hadn't been for my ivory-handled walking stick--the one that belonged to Poppa--he would have strangled me on the spot. As it was, I was forced to hit him hard enough to break the bridge of his nose before the other servants were able to tie him up. What possessed him, I can't imagine. "Struck stark-raving mad" is Henry Mill's explanation, and I'm inclined to agree, although if Titus had been one of Mill's mistreated field hands, it'd be easier to understand.

It's all completely bewildering. Sheriff Benson tells me that in the six weeks that Titus spent in jail, he didn't seem half as afraid of the rope as of eternal hell-fire for what he'd done. Yet when the Reverend Dover--a close friend of Momma's for many years--was kind enough to offer him the consolation of religion, he refused, saying that even if I forgave him--which I do, if only for Momma's sake--the crime he had committed against himself was even worse, and best left to the judgment of Almighty God! He mounted the scaffold quite calmly, stumbling on the top step because his feet were bound too tight.

I thank God that Momma didn't live to see it. If you recall, Titus was originally hers. She bought him when he was 15 or so from a dealer in New Orleans, and trained him first as a houseboy and then, as I grew older, a personal servant to me. You could almost say that we grew up together. He was always as docile and polite as you could wish, but rather quiet. As with all of them, it was hard to say what he was thinking.

He was never beaten, though; there was never any occasion for it. Poor Momma tried to give him at least the rudiments of a Christian education. Every Sunday the whole household staff was invited to take part in services with the family. We would gather in the parlor, where Momma would play the organ, and Titus learned to lead us all in singing hymns. As a matter of fact, it was almost the only time I can remember him opening up. As it turned out, he developed a beautiful baritone. He loved to sing, sometimes with the tears streaming down his cheeks. Momma, of course, was delighted; as a reward, if he did particularly well, she would allow him a cup of molasses to eat with a spoon.

"Am I a Christian, mistress?" he once asked her.

"If you believe in Our Lord Jesus, yes," she said.

"Oh, I do. I do."

"Then you are."

"Then I got a soul, too?"

"Why, of course, Titus," she told him. "All human beings have souls."

He got down on his knees in front of the fireplace and kissed her hand. Once in a while, on a Sunday night, she would read to him from the New Testament, and he would sit on the parlor floor with his legs crossed, listening to the Sermon on the Mount, or the story of the raising of Lazarus. It's hard to say how much he really understood, but he could listen for hours without moving a muscle.

At the time, she was already ill, and reading aloud was a strain, so she began to teach him his ABCs so he could read the Bible for himself. But when Poppa found out, he forbade it. It was against the law, he said, and would only lead to trouble. Momma thought it over and said that, as always, he was right.

When she died, may God rest her soul, Titus burst out crying and did so for days, sometimes in the middle of polishing my boots or tying my cravat. He never cared much for Poppa, though. None of the servants did. I think his deep voice frightened them, along with his friendship for Mill, who was forever describing how he urged his overseer to lay on the cowhide just to keep his field hands in their place.

Yet, when Poppa passed away and the servants found out that I had no intention of selling any of them off, Titus asked permission to lay a wreath of roses from our garden on his grave. Come to think of it, it was the same day that all the trouble began. And it was Mill who started it. He had just come in from the country with a load of tobacco, and stopped off at the house to pay his respects. When he caught sight of Titus picking flowers in the garden, he put down his drink.

"That's a handsome buck you've got there," he told me.

"Thank you."

"How old is he now?"

"I don't know. Twenty, twenty-one."

"It's about time you got him a wife."

"I suppose so."

"It's a good investment. A man's got to think of the future."

"I suppose you're right."

He took a sip of his bourbon and lit a cigar. "You've got what? Eight niggers here?" he wanted to know.

"Six."

"Yes, that's right, I remember. Three women and three men. The trouble is, of course, your women are too old."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"I'm thinking about Titus. You can't give him Aunt Henny or Caroline. And what's her name--the cook--must be near fifty."

"Then what do you suggest?" I asked.

"Well, I've got an eighteen-year-old mulatto you can have for fifteen hundred dollars."

"That's a little high."

"Don't say that. She's a good breeder. Already had twins."

"No, it's too much money."

"It's an investment, son. Look at it that way. She and Titus will have at least one kid a year."

"I'll think about it."

"I tell you what I'll do. I'm coming back to town next Thursday and I'll bring her along. You can see for yourself."

"That's fair enough."

"Good."

We shook hands on it. I can remember thinking that there was no sense in telling Titus to get his hopes up until we made the deal. On Thursday afternoon, Mill brought Nonny, all done up in a blue calico dress with a red ribbon in her hair. She's a good-looking high yellow, with a thin nose and beautiful white teeth. Mill told me that her twins had been weaned six months before and, as is customary on plantations in the county, taken away from the mother and given into the care of an old woman who could no longer do anything else. The girl appeared not to care one way or the other. She was wearing shoes--perhaps for the first time--and her feet hurt. I noticed that when she thought we weren't looking, she bent down in a corner and massaged her toes.

By this time, as you can imagine, all the servants in the house had an idea what was going on. I could hear them laughing in the kitchen. When Titus brought in the drinks, all he could do was stare, openmouthed, at the girl, who finally straightened up and laughed in his face.

"An investment, son," Mill repeated. "Both of them are light. The kids'll be worth a fortune."

To make a long story short, we made a deal for $1200--$500 down and the rest to be paid out in two years. But there was trouble right away. I put Titus' bed in the attic, but on the first night, she locked him out, and he slept outside the door like a dog.

"She's no good," he told me the next morning. "She's no Christian, Master George."

"Well, she comes from the country. It'll take time. You can teach her."

"No, sir. She says no God would have taken away her babies."

"Then tell her that's what she's here for. She can have as many more as she wants."

"Yes, sir."

For almost a week she wouldn't let him near her. The servants razzed him, of course, and you could see him getting more excited and ashamed every day. I was right about the shoes. She went around the house barefoot, helping Aunt Henny clean up, and Titus followed them around. The girl slapped his hand (concluded on page 197)Woman for Titus(continued from page 102) every time he tried to touch her. By that Thursday, when the attic door was still locked, I decided to do something about it. At first I thought a good whipping would do the trick, but it occurred to me it would be a shame to spoil her skin. It was much easier to just have the lock taken off and wait outside on the stairs every night until they were in bed.

Poor Titus. You could hear them wrestling from the front hall; great thumping and rolling on the floor. She's as strong as the devil. Those beautiful teeth almost tore off one of Titus' ears, and one night she almost knocked him unconscious with a blow to the stomach that left him gasping for breath. But he was as strong as a horse himself, and I knew it was only a question of time before he'd break her in. Aunt Henny agreed.

"It'll be a boy, master," she cackled. "A boy, you'll see."

When things finally quieted down, the servants laughed more than ever--but now because Titus would drag her off to bed right after supper and sometimes, if I didn't need him, in the middle of the afternoon. She bit and scratched, but off they went. Yet something was the matter. I had never seen him more morose. He would hurry through his chores to take her upstairs, but without so much as a grin. In the mornings, when he laid out my clothes, it was "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" in response to my questions, and that was all. Whatever was eating him had turned his skin green. Yes, I swear it--a light brownish green that made him look as if he was being slowly poisoned. I thought that was actually the case, but Aunt Henny said no.

"Then what's the matter?" I asked.

She shrugged.

The only time Titus seemed his old self was on Sunday mornings, when we all gathered in the parlor for the services that I had continued after Momma's death, according to her wishes. I'd read a chapter of the Bible aloud and then, like old times, Titus would throw back his head and lead us all in hymns. Nonny always lingered in the doorway, glaring at the servants.

"She's got the evil eye," Aunt Henny told me.

"Nonsense."

"No, master, you look at her."

To be honest, I always thought her eyes were particularly beautiful; dark brown, with little flecks of yellow in them. Mill had trained her never to look a white man in the face, but when she stared at the servants, they absolutely quailed. She tried it on Titus, too, but while he was listening to me read, or singing, he never noticed. He fixed his gaze on Momma's old Bible, with the silver cross on the cover, that was kept on the table near the sofa. The cross seemed to fascinate him. After services, he invariably threw himself down on his knees and kissed it, muttering under his breath.

"He's praying," Nonny laughed.

Aunt Henny now tells me he'd sneak into the parlor and do it on the sly once or twice a day during the week. It was always the same way, on his knees in front of the Bible, with his eyes shut tight, and concentrating so hard the sweat would pop out on his forehead. And when he finished, he always kissed the cross.

"If I could only read," he confessed to her, opening the Book.

"What for?"

"It's the Word of God. He could tell me what to do if I could only read what He says."

"Do about what?" Aunt Henny asked him, but he refused to answer.

If I had known what was really on his mind, I would have sold him off to the Georgia traders. But, as I've written, the attack came out of the blue. It's only now that it comes back to me with such peculiar vividness. It was a Tuesday afternoon. I had just come home from paying a call on some neighbors--the Fields, do you remember them?--whose oldest child was down with scarlet fever. Caroline answered the door, and as I took off my hat and cloak, Titus stepped up behind me, dressed in his blue velvet butler's jacket with the brass buttons that I had bought him last Christmas. My walking stick, luckily, was still in my left hand. He took my cloak and put it in the closet, and suddenly, with a little moan, sprang at my throat.

My reaction was instinctive. I slashed at his face with all the strength I had, and then again, across the shoulders, when the blow knocked him down. Caroline screamed, and Nonny and Aunt Henny ran in from the kitchen, where they had been having lunch. Actually, it was all over in an instant. The crack across the bridge of his nose had knocked him senseless. By the time he came to, my coachman and stableboy had tied him up to the hitching post in the yard.

The blood was still streaming down his face, but as soon as he realized I was bending over him, he tried to speak. It seems to me now that the wild look that I had glimpsed in his eyes a few moments before was gone and that he had fully recovered his sanity. But it's hard to say. He licked his lips and grimaced with pain.

"Why, Titus?" I asked him. "Why did you do it?"

"Nonny," he whispered.

"What's the matter with her? You ought to be proud. She cost me twelve hundred dollars."

"No," he said. "They took away her children. She didn't want no more, but I forced her. I'm a Christian, but I forced her. You made me force her, and I liked it. God help me, I liked it, do you hear?"

He shut his eyes. In a half hour or so, by the time the bleeding stopped, Sheriff Benson and two deputies came and took him away. It was the only explanation he ever gave me. "I liked it." And why not? She's put on some weight and is prettier than ever. "I liked it," he told me. To tell you the truth, it's got me completely stumped.

But it's almost eight o'clock, and I must get dressed for dinner. Do write, and send my very best to Carter, Charles, Linda and Paul.

Your affectionate cousin, George