Chapter Eight
________________________
Fear, hope, love, hate, illusion, dismay boiled up in the Charleston market, known as the center for slave auctions in the region. Buyers and sellers came from far and wide to attend. And sell and buy. A large crowd wrestled about in the interior of one of the low brick market buildings, and my cousin feigned surprise. There were no longer any fresh shipments of Africans, as he explained, so this was only local chattel, slaves from farms in this county, neighboring counties, and other southern states, some of them—he tried to make a joke—from almost as far away as Africa itself.
“I myself,” he said, “have not come here for a rather long while, since we have most of our needs taken care of by our own slave families. That is, breeding and such for new hands. The boy, Isaac, who carries your bag, he was bred on our property. But now and then we do need to come here, and the prices, I have to say, have risen quite sharply since the African trade ended.” He paused and stood in quiet thought amidst the din. “Now, do not worry if you feel struck almost by a physical blow as you watch. I recall the first time I came here, Father had me accompany him when I was a boy, and it struck me that way.” He then fixed me with a stare, as though he were a scientific investigator of some sort, straining to detect my response.
I did respond. I felt myself becoming overtaken by the noise, by the sight of the bare-backed blacks, men and women, standing in chains, some of them muttering to themselves, a few of them praying aloud, one or two of them even singing, as if no one else could hear. It reeked in here something together like a sick room and a back street after a hot rain in summer. Given the sweat pouring out of me, I had to imagine the other men milling about here were effusing doubt and worry as much as the slaves were sweating in fear. I had a mad impulse to rush up to the manager and grab the keys that dangled from the belt at his waist, and unlock each and every lock on every chain and set these people free. Especially the women. It seemed so cruel to keep these females in chains, as if unchained they might do someone harm. And it was quite astonishing to me that most of the slave men and women remained so calm, and that the free people in the room were acting in such a frenzy.
The white men, some of them of a company arranging the sales, shouted the blacks down, while other whites milling about, studying the wares, or poking and pinching Africans here or there so that black flesh suddenly turned white before the mark faded, kept their silence.
I looked over at my cousin, the sweat running down my forehead into my eyes and stinging, stinging.
“Is it always so hot in here?” I asked.
“The heat aside,” my cousin said, “what do you think of this?”
I shook my head, my entire body feeling inflamed by all that went on around us, blacks led around in their chains, white men shouting.
“I can see,” he said, “that you have not prepared yourself for this. Here.” My cousin reached into his coat pocket and came up with a silver flask, proffering it to me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Have a sip, sir, a sip only, and that will restore you.”
“Very well,” I said, and took a sip from the flask, feeling even greater heat and the heady moment afforded by the fine brandy contained therein.
I handed the flask back to my cousin, and he took a long swallow from the container, and, just before returning it to his coat, another.
“Tell me,” I said, over the din, “How much does it cost to buy a slave?” From another pocket he took out a piece of coarse paper on which some printing had been made and handed it to me.
OFFER OF SALE
OFFERED BY CHARLES TRISTMAN THE FOLLOWING SIX SLAVES:
MAREE, BLACK GIRL 16 YEARS OLD AT $1250.00
MARYAN, BLACK GIRL 16 YEARS OLD AT $1250.00
LUCY, GRIF GIRL 14 YEARS OLD AT $1150.00
BETTE, GRIF GIRL 14 YEARS OLD AT $1150.00
JANE, BLACK GIRL 12 YEARS OLD AT $1000.00
JAMES, BLACK BOY 14 YEARS OLD AT $1200.00
ALL OF SAID SLAVES ARE WARRANT SOUND AND HEALTHY IN BODY AND IN MIND AND SLAVES FOR LIFE…
“What is a ‘grif girl’?” I asked.
“A slave of mixed blood,” my cousin said. “That is, white and African. A mixture that always improves the stock.”
My stomach turned at his words. While my cousin talked to me of high prices, of dollars, and the cost of a hardy male and the cost of a breeding female, I felt my temperature rise. After a few moments I thought I might, like some fragile female, fall to the ground in a faint.
“I am afraid I am feeling somewhat ill.”
“You are here to learn about our business,” he said, “and this is the first part of the first lesson.” Once more he offered me a drink from the flask. I hesitated, and he thrust the container at me, refusing to bend until I took another sip.
“Now,” he said, after taking another drink for himself and giving me a bullying stare, “New Yorkers are famous for being bold, are they not? Stand tall, Cousin. Look and listen.”
Thus, despite my fear that I might succumb to my growing misery, we stayed. With my mind abuzz from the powerful brandy I watched and groaned as the noise grew louder and the bosses urged first one and then another and another black in chains up onto the platform in the center of the building, shouting out names and prices and qualities. Vile sweat and fearful breath drenched the air and as bodies glistened in the heat men moved forward to press and study the flesh and bones of the darker people—some with mouths open in silent prayer, others muttering curses, most of them silent, mouths clenched.
One man bid a slave to raise his arms, one at a time, over his head. Another asked a woman to turn and turn as he gazed at her breasts (and I gazed at him gazing and then gazed back at her, feeling myself become aroused, and scolding myself for that). And there in the middle of it I saw an unwanted if familiar figure, the man from New Jersey, still cloaked all in black, moving in a studious manner from slave to slave, the young black boy tagging along behind him. As if he felt my eyes on him he turned and stared directly at me.
“Young New Yorker!” he called out. “We have some things to discuss!”
“Do you know that man?” my cousin said.
“From the voyage here,” I said.
“I have seen him before,” my cousin said.
The din grew louder as my cousin appeared to study the man for a few moments, and then turned to me. I felt even more unsteady on my feet and motioned to my cousin, himself with eyes downturned, that I did truly wish to retreat.
“Perhaps it was a mistake to come here first,” he said when at last we left the market for the sweeter, fresher air of the pier-side. “But do not judge what we do by what you just witnessed. If you went into a hospital surgery and saw the surgeons sawing off limbs you might be disturbed but you would not think all surgeons did such things to all people they knew.”
“I am not here to judge anyone,” I said, remembering the business of my purpose. “I am here to learn about the workings of the plantation.”
“Of course,” said my cousin, leading me, flask in hand, from the place of misery.
“Was it awful?” Rebecca said as we approached.
I nodded.
“It makes me want to run away from here,” she said. “Nathaniel, they do not do things like this up north, do they?”
“No, no, they don’t,” I said. “Up north everyone’s free.”
“Jews are free, I know.”
“Of course,” I said. “Everyone is free. Or most everyone.”
“Then I cannot wait to visit the North.”
“Yes,” I said, “you two must come and visit us in New York.”
Lapsing into polite chatter, punctuated by further sips from my cousin’s flask, I bathed copiously in my own sweat, and soon we made our way to the carriage. I confess that the memory of the auction crowd, bathed in brandy, quickly faded from my mind.