Addio zio Tom Page #10

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The black pearl of the ranch.

Seven sets of twins in six years.

And I'm sure that this time, too,

there are two inside.

This heifer alone

is worth a fortune.

Come in, come on in.

Damn, you're in luck.

Come inside and see

how a little bastard is born.

Fine, isn't he?

He must be six or seven pounds at least.

You know something? I'm going to

dedicate this one to you guys.

I'm going to call him ''Macaroni''.

Bravo, Cleopatra.

Who's the male?

- Me no know.

- What do mean you don't know?

Me no know.

They breed me first with Pluto,

then with four other males.

Me no know.

It doesn't matter.

You've done a good job.

See what respect the master has?

It's the reward.

One dollar per pup.

Family tradition.

Another beloved tradition

among breeders

is presenting new prized breeds

every year at the big fair in the south

which, like fine horses,

carry the name of their family.

The Bighorn breed, celebrated for

the precociousness of its females

which can be bred

by their 1 0th year

earned its owner two gold medals

at theJackson fair.

Hey, bring me Poppea.

I said Poppea!

No, you imbeciles.

That one's pregnant.

Drop her.

No, that one.

Here in Louisiana, the breeding ratio

is one male to every five females.

But in Virginia,

a great specialist of the time

declares the ideal ratio

to be one male for eight females.

In fact, on this basis Virginia produced

more than 6000 Negroes per year.

It was the Golden Age

in which the great breeding plantations

such as the famous North Carolina planter

were even quoted on the stock market.

Now tell me if it doesn't take talent

to invent a breed like this.

You see, to create a hybrid,

the breeder combines the various races

as an artist does

with the colors of his palette.

A little white here,

a little black there

a pinch of red

and the smidgen of yellow.

Until something comes forth

that's not black, not white,

not red, not yellow.

It's a masterpiece.

Get him!

A slave trying to escape.

No, he's afraid

of the branding.

It always happens

with the new stallions.

At the 1 8th birthday,

on the eve of his first services

the new stallion is branded with fire

with a conventional mark

that prevents mistakes and confusion

in the breeding registry.

- Are you ready, Wilson? Can we go?

- I was waiting for you.

- And the heifer?

- Ready.

Okay then.

Bring her along.

Get back!

Fine, Casanova, fine.

These stallions!Just let them

catch the scent of a female!

They have more semen

than four teams of oxen.

Did you know they offered me

$4500 each?

Here he is,

our oldest stud.

Two hundred pounds of muscle

and not a single ounce the fat.

And this devil's good for at least

20 shots a day.

With these tanks!

- Is the heifer ready, Wilson?

- Ready, Mr. Bighorn.

Okay, then, bring her in.

Hey, Wilson.

I told you.

Be careful.

But it's your business.

Don't you worry.

I'll take care of it.

That's enough,Jason.

Stop!

Get some water.

Quick!

''Your honor,

my name is Nat Turner.

I intend to provide you

with a full confession of my crimes.

On August 21 st, 1 831 ,

5 5 whites were massacred

as a result of my doing

and that of 7 0 other slaves.

My deep-seated hatred

of the whites was--''

''My deep-seated hatred

of the whites was--''

Damned idiots!

''Deep-seated hatred came from God,

who ordered me to kill them.''

Let's see, 1 831 .

If Cleaver, LeroyJones, Malcolm X,

had lived 1 40 years ago

they too, like Nat Turner,

would have fallen into hating whites

men, women, children who were there

by God's orders.

The slave Cleaver, like the slave Turner,

certainly never would have dared imagine

that the order would come to them

directly from within.

''The evening of August 21 st,

we lined up single file in the cornfield.

We came out

right in front of the Travis house.

The night before,

God had clearly given me the sign

that this would be our first target.

We knew that inside

was the little Travis,

his wife Sarah,''

Who knows if the whites in those days

were like those of today?

Or rather,

who knows if the whites of today

would have been like those back then

if Nat Turner had never existed?

Would they have allowed me

to attend their schools,

to become a doctor,

to earn $2000 a week,

to have a beautiful house, a wife,

a healthy, well-fed baby?

''Nelson, Sam,Jack, Hark and I silently

climbed in the living room window.

Will, who was bringing up the rear,

took a false step

and tumbled onto the table

that was still set.

I was afraid old Travis had woken up

since Will kept making

an infernal racket.

Instead, old Travis was still asleep

next to his wife

when Sam and Jack

moved forward on tiptoe.

His sleep was deep and peaceful

as evidenced by

that deep, rhythmic snoring

that I had known since my childhood.

So Sam and Jack moved forward.

That old man

who had practically raised me

and had been

a tolerant and kindly master

was nevertheless a white man

and, as such, had to die.

Grandpa Travis, like all whites,

had never dreamed that a slave,

a meek creature

without courage or dignity

could ever one day

rebel against a master.

So it was perhaps only disbelief

that dominated his mind

still clouded with sleep, when--''

''We were about--''

''We were about to leave the house

when Hark, on the run was called--''

''was called back by the cry

of the children whom we had forgotten.''

''After the murder of the Travis family

our second goal was

the extermination of the Reeses.''

Oh, it's those idiots again.

''After the murder of the Travis family

our second goal was

the extermination of the Reeses.

Reese was a dull-witted, cruel master

who amused himself

by tormenting his Negroes...

with every sort of stupid prank.

His wife and sister-in-law,

two dull-witted, insignificant women

encouraged those vapid stunts

with little hysterical--''

Buffoon!

''With little hysterical, shrill cries

that pierced the ears like daggers.

It was in front of their house that I

swore to never again disobey God's orders

and to also spill my share of blood.

I hated Reese

and one day he involved me, too,

in one of his humiliating, vulgar pranks.

I could have refused to rebel.

But how could I, a slave--''

''I could have refused to rebel.

But how could I, a slave?

Reese was a dull-witted, cruel master.''

Nat Turner didn't kill out of hate.

He killed out of love

between the columns of that big house.

Who knows why, for us Negroes,

this story never loses its value?

Well, Nat Turner,

the pious Nat Turner, biblical fanatic

almost a tutor to little Margaret,

but nevertheless a Negro

and thus not suspected of desiring that

white girl who hung around him all day,

who excited him in a thousand ways

without even realizing it.

Where are you, Nat?

Come here, Nat.

Here's something new.

It's beautiful!

Come on, Nat.

Get me that rose.

No, no.

Not the silk one!

The bright one, Nat.

There, see!

Now here we are, the two of us.

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