They caught up with the scallywags on the banks of the Guyandotte where they had set up camp and were barbecuing meat on an open fire. The Owner was very friendly. He joined the pair while his mulattos stayed mounted a short distance away. He introduced himself as The Owner of Fairfield Farms where they had so kindly sold their wonderful potion. Unfortunately he had been away on business, otherwise he would have loved to entertain them for the good service they were providing to the slave breeding industry. As the biggest slave breeder in the region he needed more of their wonderful potion. That was why he had followed them. He wanted to buy all the stock in their possession and order more for future delivery. Quigley was pleased to hear this. Most of his customers only bought small quantities to experiment with the potion first. He was surely going to strike it rich. He invited The Owner to join him at his meal. The slave was ordered to serve the two masters and then stand aside while they ate. He would have the bones afterward. The slave did all that willingly for he knew why the whole charade was necessary.
“Oh, I have lotsa whiskey for you,” said The Owner. He stood up and walked to his mulattos, who were still on their horses. He called the slave to come and take the bottles and bring them back to his master.
Quigley did not ask himself why they spent such a long time taking out whiskey from the saddlebags or what The Owner was talking about with the slave so animatedly or why the mulattos broke out laughing and the slave displayed such a big toothless grin. He was preoccupied with counting the tens and even hundreds of dollars he was going to receive for the bag of baking soda mixed with salt and any other white substance he could find on the cheap. He was already planning how he was going to use the money. The first thing he would do would be to celebrate with his trusted slave at the nearest bordello they could locate. Or perhaps the wise thing would be to buy two horses first, and maybe a cart, and then the bordello, and then find the nearest big city where he would buy more baking soda, and then cross the border to Kentucky to find new customers.
He was lost in this beautiful dream of a beautiful future when The Owner returned with the slave and two bottles of imported Irish whiskey. The Owner invited the slave, who had become timid all of a sudden, to join him and his master for a drink to celebrate the great transaction that was about to be made.
Barbecued meat went very well with whiskey and soon Quigley and The Owner were singing Irish and Appalachian songs. The slave was clapping and the mulattos looked on in amusement from their horses. Over the hills and far away, the drunken pair sang, and after an out of tune rendition they burst out laughing and shamelessly embraced each other. Then they lunged into the next song. By the time they got to singing Black, black, black is the color of my true love’s hair; her lips are like a rose so fair, Quigley’s eyes were misty. There was a deep longing in them. When the song came to an end the singers broke out laughing again and the slave couldn’t help but jump up and perform a stupid jig that nevertheless increased the volume of the masters’ laughter.
“Tell you what, mate,” said The Owner, “I wanna buy your slave.”
“Can’t sell him, mate,” said Quigley. “He’s a great help on the road.”
“I am talking to him,” said The Owner pointing at the slave. “I am buying you from him. You are the slave, ain’t you?”
Quigley laughed at the joke.
“It ain’t no joke, you ninny,” said the slave. And then to The Owner: “What’s your offer?”
“For how much are you selling me, you ninny?” asked Quigley, getting into the spirit of the joke. The whole situation was indeed funny and he burst out laughing once more. This new friend was proving to be such a bundle of fun. All of a sudden the friend was no longer laughing. And the mulattos had dismounted and were slowly walking toward the revelers.
“Ten dollars,” said The Owner.
“Fifty,” said the slave.
“Twenty,” said The Owner.
“Thirty,” said the slave.
“Sold,” said The Owner.
Things were looking serious. The mulattos closed in. They grabbed him. He fought back and kicked and scratched and bit. They pinioned his arms tightly behind him with a rope. He watched as The Owner counted thirty dollars and gave it to the slave. The Owner asked the slave to sign a receipt. Since he could not write he made a cross.
“He ain’t no free black,” said Quigley. “He’s a slave. He won’t get far.”
“You’re the slave,” said The Owner. “I’ve got his manumission papers.”
He reached for the papers in the saddlebag.
“What’s your name, fella?” asked The Owner. When the slave hesitated he turned to Quigley and asked him the name of his former slave. It was only then that Quigley realized that he never really knew his slave’s name. He was just a slave. He should have given him a name. The saying goes that you can never exercise full power over anything until you name it. If he had named him he would not have betrayed him like this. He would have owned him totally. The property would have been in awe of the master.
The slave had no memory of a name that ever belonged to him. The Owner named him John Tyler after the President of the Union and signed the papers. He also wrote John Tyler next to the X the slave made on the receipt.
“You’ll never get away with this, you ninny,” screamed Quigley. “I am a white man born and bred. I can’t be a slave.”
“You ain’t no white man, you ain’t,” said The Owner. “You are a mulatto. You are a fugitive from my plantation and now I am taking you back.”
When the mulattos got mahogany chips from their saddlebags and boiled them in water on the very fire on which he had roasted his meat and then forcibly washed his face and hands with the concoction until he was brown, it became clear to him that The Owner had planned this whole thing even before he left his plantation. With the same fire The Owner heated an iron rod and the mulattos used it to curl the new slave’s hair to imitate the African kink.
The look of his erstwhile master as a brown man with nappy hair brought a burst of toothless laughter to the erstwhile slave. He emptied all the white powder into the Guyandotte, took the bundle of clothes and provisions that previously belonged to the master but were now obviously his and bade everyone goodbye.
“Fare thee well, Mr. President,” said The Owner, giving him a mock salute. The mulattos stood to attention and saluted as well. They watched him hobble away until he disappeared in the woods. Then they rode back to Fairfield Farms with their new slave securely tied with ropes.
The Fairfield Farms community marveled at the new lackadaisical slave, a mulatto who kept on insisting that he was a white man. There were stories that he had been purchased from Alabama, though he kept on insisting that he was tricked and sold by his own slave to Mr. Fairfield. How could a slave have a slave? It was obvious to all that he had delusions of grandeur. That was why he had cultivated a white man’s accent. And that was why he did not want to mix with other slaves.
From the time he arrived deep in the night and was chained to the wall in the guardroom, black slaves had made overtures of friendship toward him, as they always tried to assist the new arrivals to adapt to life at Fairfield Farms. They attempted to talk to him, but he sneered at them and faced the other way. Even when they brought him something to drink he gulped it grudgingly and did not even say thank you. When he was unchained after three days or so, and was assigned his duties, they continued to try to make him feel at home. They were rebuffed at every turn.