They Are All Going To Be Sold
SLOWLY we pass through the precious scenes, hoping our readers will indulge us with their patience.
Five days have passed since Clotilda's departure; her absence is creating alarm. No one knows anything of her! a general search is instituted, but the searchers search in vain. Maxwell has eluded suspicion-Franconia no one for a moment suspects. Colonel M'Carstrow-his mind, for the time, absorbed in the charms of his young bride-gives little attention to the matter. He only knows that he has signed a bond for fifteen hundred dollars, to indemnify the sheriff, or creditors, in the event of loss; he reconciles himself with the belief that she has been enticed into some of the neighbouring bright houses, from which he can regain her in the course of time. M'Carstrow knows little of Clotilda's real character; and thus the matter rests a time.
The sheriff,--important gentleman of an important office,--will give himself no concern about the matter: the plaintiff's attorney acknowledged the deed of release, which is quite enough for him. Graspum, a perfect savan where human property was to be judged, had decided that her square inches of human vitality were worth strong fifteen hundred; that was all desirable for the sheriff-it would leave margin enough to cover the cost. But M'Carstrow, when given the bond, knew enough of nigger law to demand the insertion of a clause leaving it subject to the question of property, which is to be decided by the court. A high court this, where freemen sit assembled to administer curious justice. What constitutional inconsistencies hover over the monstrous judicial dignity of this court,--this court having jurisdiction over the monetary value of beings moulded after God's own image! It forms a happy jurisprudence for those who view it for their selfish ends; it gains freedom tyranny's license, gives birth to strange incongruities, clashing between the right of property in man and all the viler passions of our nature. It holds forth a jurisprudence that turns men into hounds of hell, devouring one another, and dragging human nature down into the very filth of earth.
Marston's troubles keep increasing. All the preliminaries of law necessary to a sale of the undisputed property have been gone through; the day of its disposal has arrived. The children, Annette and Nicholas, have remained in a cell, suffering under its malarious atmosphere, anxiously awaiting their fate. Marston has had them taught to read,--contrary to a generous law of a generous land,--and at intervals they sit together pondering over little books he has sent them.
What are such little books to them? the unbending avarice of human nature, fostered by slavery's power, is grappling at their existence. There is no sympathy for them; it is crushed out by the law which makes them chattels. Oh, no! sympathy, generosity, human affections, have little to do with the transactions of slave dealing; that belongs to commerce,--commerce has an unbending rule to maintain while money is to be made by a legalised traffic.
We must invite the reader to accompany us to the county gaol, on the morning of sale.
The "gang"-Marston's slaves-have been ordered to prepare themselves for the market; the yard resounds with their jargon. Some are arranging their little clothing, washing, "brightening up" their faces to make the property show off in the market. Others are preparing homony for breakfast; children, in ragged garments, are toddling, running, playing, and sporting about the brick pavement; the smallest are crouched at the feet of their mothers, as if sharing the gloom or nonchalance of their feeling. Men are gathering together the remnants of some cherished memento of the old plantation; they had many a happy day upon it. Women view as things of great worth the little trinkets with which good master, in former days, rewarded their energy. They recall each happy association of the cabin. Husbands, or such as should be husbands, look upon their wives with solicitude; they feel it is to be the last day they will meet together on earth. They may meet in heaven; there is no slavery there. Mothers look upon their children only to feel the pangs of sorrow more keenly; they know and feel that their offspring are born for the market, not for the enjoyment of their affections. They may be torn from them, and sold like sheep in the shambles. Happy, free country! How fair, how beautiful the picture of constitutional rights! how in keeping with every-day scenes of southern life!
"I'ze gwine to be sold; you're gwint to be sold; we're all gwine to be sold. Wonder what mas'r's gwine t'buy dis child," says Aunt Rachel, arranging her best dress, making her face "shine just so." Aunt Rachel endeavours to suit her feelings to the occasion, trims her bandana about her head with exquisite taste, and lets the bright-coloured points hang about her ears in great profusion.
"Da'h 's a right smart heap o' dollar in dis old nigger, yet!-if mas'r what gwine t'buy 'em know how't fotch um out; Mas'r must do da'h clean ting wid dis child," Rachel says, as if exulting over the value of her own person. She brushes and brushes, views and reviews herself in a piece of mirror-several are waiting to borrow it-thinks she is just right for market, asks herself what's the use of fretting? It's a free country, with boundless hospitality-of the southern stamp,--and why not submit to all freedom's dealings? Aunt Rachel is something of a philosopher.
"Aunte! da' would'nt gin much fo'h yer old pack a' bones if mas'r what gwine to buy ye know'd ye like I. Ye' h'ant da property what bring long price wid Buckra," replies Dandy, who views Aunt Rachel rather suspiciously, seems inclined to relieve her conceit, and has taken very good care that his own dimensions are trimmed up to the highest point.
"Dis nigger would'nt swop h'r carcas fo'h yourn. Dat she don't," Rachel retorts.
"Reckon how ye wouldn't, ah!" Dandy's face fills with indignation. "Buckra what sting ye back wid de lash 'll buy ye old bag a' bones fo'h down south; and when 'e get ye down da' he make ye fo'h a corn grinder." Dandy is somewhat inflated with his rank among the domestics; he is none of yer common niggers, has never associated with black, field niggers, which he views as quite too common for his aristocratic notions, has on his very best looks, his hair combed with extraordinary care, his shirt collar dangerously standing above his ears. He feels something better than nigger blood in his composition, knows the ins and outs of nigger philosophy; he knows it to be the very best kind of philosophy for a "nigger" to put on a good appearance at the shambles. A dandy nigger is not plantation stock,--hence he has "trimmed up," and hopes to find a purchaser in want of his specific kind of property; it will save him from that field-life so much dreaded.
The property, in all its varied shades, comes rolling out from all manner of places in and about the gaol, filling the yard. It is a momentous occasion, the most momentous of their life-time. And yet many seem indifferent about its consequences. They speak of the old plantation, jeer each other about the value of themselves, offer bets on the price they will bring, assert a superiority over each other, and boast of belonging to some particular grade of the property. Harry--we mean Harry the preacher--is busy getting his wife and children ready for market. He evinces great affection for his little ones, has helped his wife to arrange their apparel with so much care. The uninitiated might imagine them going to church instead of the man shambles. Indeed, so earnest are many good divines in the promotion of slavery, that it would not be unbecoming to form a connection between the southern church and the southern man shambles. The material aid they now give each other for the purpose of keeping up the man trade would be much facilitated.
However, there is a chance of Harry being sold to a brother divine, who by way of serving his good Lord and righteous master, may let him out to preach, after the old way. Harry will then be serving his brother in brotherly faith; that is, he will be his brother's property, very profitable, strong in the faith with his dear divine brother, to whom he will pay large tribute for the right to serve the same God.
Harry's emotions-he has been struggling to suppress them-have got beyond his control; tears will now and then show themselves and course down his cheeks. "Never mind, my good folks! it is something to know that Jesus still guards us; still watches over us." He speaks encouragingly to them. "The scourge of earth is man's wrongs, the deathspring of injustice. We are made bearers of the burden; but that very burden will be our passport into a brighter, a juster world. Let us meekly bear it. Cheer up! arm yourselves with the spirit of the Lord; it will give you fortitude to live out the long journey of slave life. How we shall feel when, in heaven, we are brought face to face with master, before the Lord Judge. Our rights and his wrongs will then weigh in the balance of heavenly justice." With these remarks, Harry counsels them to join him in prayer. He kneels on the brick pavement of the yard, clasps his hands together as they gather around him kneeling devotedly. Fervently he offers up a prayer,--he invokes the God of heaven to look down upon them, to bestow his mercy upon master, to incline his ways in the paths of good; and to protect these, his unfortunate children, and guide them through their separate wayfaring. The ardour, grotesqueness, and devotion of this poor forlorn group, are painfully touching. How it presents the portrait of an oppressed race! how sunk is the nature that has thus degraded it! Under the painful burden of their sorrow they yet manifest the purity of simple goodness. "Oh! Father in heaven, hast thou thus ordained it to be so?" breaks forth from Harry's lips, as the criminals, moved by the affecting picture, gather upon the veranda, and stand attentive listeners. Their attention seems rivetted to his words; the more vicious, as he looks through grated bars upon them, whispers words of respect.
Harry has scarcely concluded his prayer when the sheriff, accompanied by several brokers (slave-dealers), comes rushing through the transept into the yard. The sheriff is not rude; he approaches Harry, tells him he is a good boy, has no objection to his praying, and hopes a good master will buy him. He will do all he can to further his interests, having heard a deal about his talents. He says this with good-natured measure, and proceeds to take a cursory view of the felons. While he is thus proceeding, the gentlemen of trade who accompanied him are putting "the property" through a series of examinations.
"Property like this ye don't start up every day," says one. "Best I'ze seen come from that ar' district. Give ye plenty corn, down there, don't they, boys?" enjoins another, walking among them, and every moment bringing the end of a small whip which he holds in his right hand about their legs. This, the gentleman remarks, is merely for the purpose-one of the phrases of the very honourable trade-of testing their nimbleness.
"Well!" replies a tall, lithe dealer, whose figure would seem to have been moulded for chasing hogs through the swamp, "There's some good bits among it; but it won't stand prime, as a lot!" The gentleman, who seems to have a nicely balanced mind for judging the human nature value of such things, is not quite sure that they have been bacon fed. He continues his learned remarks. "Ye'h han't had full tuck out, I reckon, boys?" he inquires of them, deliberately examining the mouths and nostrils of several. The gentleman is very cool in this little matter of trade; it is an essential element of southern democracy; some say, nothing more!
"Yes, Boss!" replies Enoch, one of the negroes; "Mas'r ollers good t' e niggers, gin him bacon free times a week-sometimes mo' den dat." Several voices chime in to affirm what Enoch says.
"Ah, very good. Few planters in that district give their negroes bacon; and an all corn-fed nigger won't last two years on a sugar plantation," remarks one of the gentlemen dealers, as he smokes his cigar with great nonchalance.
While these quaint appendancies of the trade are proceeding, Romescos and Graspum make their appearance. They have come to forestall opinion, to make a few side-winded remarks. They are ready to enter upon the disgusting business of examining property more carefully, more scrupulously, more in private. The honourable sheriff again joins the party. He orders that every accommodation be afforded the gentlemen in their examinations of the property. Men, women, and children-sorrowing property-are made to stand erect; to gesticulate their arms; to expand their chests, to jump about like jackals, and to perform sundry antics pleasing to the gentlemen lookers-on. This is all very free, very democratic, very gentlemanly in the way of trade,--very necessary to test the ingredient of the valuable square inches of the property. What matters all this! the honourable sheriff holds it no dishonour; modest gentlemen never blush at it; the coarse dealer makes it his study,--he trades in human nature; the happy democrat thinks it should have a co-fellowship with southern hospitality-so long and loudly boasted.
Those little necessary displays over, the honourable sheriff invites his distinguished friends to "have a cigar round;" having satisfied their taste in gymnastarising the property. Romescos, however, thinks he has not quite satisfied his feelings; he is very dogged on nigger flesh. The other gentlemen may smoke their cigars; Mr. Romescos thinks he will enjoy the exercise of his skill in testing the tenacity of negroes' chests; which he does by administering heavy blows, which make them groan out now and then. Groans, however, don't amount to much; they are only nigger groans. Again Mr. Romescos applies the full force of his hands upon their ears; then he will just pull them systematically. "Nice property!" he says, telling the forbearing creatures not to mind the pain.
Messrs. Graspum and Romescos will make a close inspection of a few pieces. Here, several men and women are led into a basement cell, under the veranda, and stript most rudely. No discrimination is permitted. Happy freedom! What a boon is liberty! Mr. Romescos views their nice firm bodies, and their ebony black skins, with great skill and precaution; his object is to prove the disposition of the articles,--strong evidence being absence of scars. He lays his bony fingers on their left shoulders-they being compelled to stand in a recumbent position-tracing their bodies to the hips and thighs. Here the process ends. Mr. Romescos has satisfied his very nice judgment on the solidity of the human-flesh-property-he has put their bodies through other disgusting inspections-they belong to the trade-which cannot be told here; but he finds clean skins, very smooth, without scars or cuts, or dangerous diseases. He laughs exultingly, orders the people to stow themselves in their clothes again, and relights his cigar. "If it 'ant a tall lot!" he whispers to Graspum, and gives him a significant touch with his elbow. "Bright-smooth as a leather ninepence; han't had a lash-Marston was a fool, or his niggers are angels, rather black, though-couldn't start up a scar on their flesh. A little trimmin' down-it wants it, you see!-to make it show off; must have it-eh! Graspum, old feller? It only wants a little, though, and them dandy niggers, and that slap-up preacher, will bring a smart price fixed up. Great institution! The preacher's got knowin'; can discourse like a college-made deacon, and can convert a whole plantation with his nigger eloquence. A nigger preacher with Bible knowin, when it's smart, is right valuable when ye want to keep the pious of a plantation straight. And then! when the preacher 'ant got a notion a' runnin away in him." Romescos crooks his finger upon Graspum's arm, whispers cautiously in his ear.
"There 'll be a sharp bidding for some of it; they 'll run up some on the preacher. He 'll be a capital investment,--pay more than thirty per cent. insinuates another gentleman-a small inquisitive looking dealer in articles of the nigger line. When a planter's got a big gang a' niggers, and is just fool enough to keep such a thing for the special purpose of making pious valuable in 'um," Mr. Romescos rejoins, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his little hawk's eyes, and looking seriously indifferent. Romescos gives wonderful evidence of his "first best cunning propensities;" and here he fancies he has pronounced an opinion that will be taken as profound. He affects heedlessness of everything, is quite disinterested, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, assumes an air of dignity that would not unbecome my Lord Chief Justice.
"Let us see them two bits of disputed property,--where are they?" inquires Graspum, turning half round, and addressing himself to the gaoler.
"In the close cells," is the quick reply,--"through the narrow vault, up the stone passage, and on the right, in the arched cell."
The gaoler-good, honest-hearted man-leads the way, through a chilly vault, up the narrow passage, to the left wing of the building. The air is pestiferous; warm and diseased, it fans us as we approach. The gaoler puts his face to the grating, and in a guttural voice, says, "You're wanted, young uns." They understand the summons; they come forward as if released from torture to enjoy the pure air of heaven. Confinement, dreary and damp, has worn deep into their systems.
Annette speaks feebly, looks pale and sickly. Her flaxen curls s............