 | CHAPTER XXX.
THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE.
A slave warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers conjure
up horrible visions of such a place. They fancy some
foul, obscure den, some horrible Tartarus “informis, ingens,
cui lumen ademptum.” But no, innocent friend; in
these days men have learned the art of sinning expertly and
genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of respectable
society. Human property is high in the market;
and is, therefore, well fed, well cleaned, tended, and looked
after, that it may come to sale sleek, and strong, and shining.
A slave-warehouse in New Orleans is a house externally not
much unlike many others, kept with neatness; and where
every day you may see arranged, under a sort of shed along
the outside, rows of men and women, who stand there as a
sign of the property sold within.
Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and examine,
and shall find an abundance of husbands, wives, brothers,
sisters, fathers, mothers, and young children, to be “sold
separately, or in lots to suit the convenience of the purchaser;”
and that soul immortal, once bought with blood and
anguish by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the
rocks rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased,
mortagaged, exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the
phases of trade, or the fancy of the purchaser.
It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie
and Miss Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen
others of the St. Clare estate, were turned over to the loving
to await the auction, next day.
Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as
had most others of them. They were ushered, for the night,
into a long room, where many other men, of all ages, sizes,
and shades of complexion, were assembled, and from which
roars of laughter and unthinking merriment were proceeding.
“Ah, ha! that 's right. Go it, boys, — go it!” said Mr.
Skeggs, the keeper. “My people are always so merry!
Sambo, I see!” he said, speaking approvingly to a burly
negro who was performing tricks of low buffoonery, which
occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these
proceedings; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible
from the noisy group, he sat down on it, and leaned his
face against the wall.
The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and
systematic efforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a
means of drowning reflection, and rendering them insensible
to their condition. The whole object of the training to
which the negro is put, from the time he is sold in the northern
market till he arrives south, is systematically directed
towards making him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The
slave-dealer collects his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and
drives them to some convenient, healthy place, — often a
watering place, — to be fattened. Here they are fed full daily;
and, because some incline to pine, a fiddle is kept commonly
going among them, and they are made to dance daily; and he
who refuses to be merry — in whose soul thoughts of wife, or
child, or home, are too strong for him to be gay — is marked
as sullen and dangerous, and subjected to all the evils which
the ill will of an utterly irresponsible and hardened man can
appearance, especially before observers, are constantly enforced
upon them, both by the hope of thereby getting a good
master, and the fear of all that the driver may bring upon
them, if they prove unsalable.
“What dat ar nigger doin here?” said Sambo, coming
up to Tom, after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was
a full black, of great size, very lively, voluble, and full of
trick and grimace.
“What you doin here?” said Sambo, coming up to Tom,
and poking him facetiously in the side. “Meditatin', eh?”
“I am to be sold at the auction, to-morrow!” said Tom,
quietly.
“Sold at auction, — haw! haw! boys, an't this yer fun? I
wish't I was gwine that ar way! — tell ye, would n't I make
em laugh? But how is it, — dis yer whole lot gwine to-morrow?”
said Sambo, laying his hand freely on Adolph's
shoulder.
“Please to let me alone!” said Adolph, fiercely, straightening
himself up, with extreme disgust.
“Law, now, boys! dis yer 's one o' yer white niggers, —
kind o' cream color, ye know, scented!” said he, coming up
to Adolph and snuffing. “O, Lor! he 'd do for a tobaccer-shop;
they could keep him to scent snuff! Lor, he 'd keep
a whole shope agwine, — he would!”
“I say, keep off, can't you?” said Adolph, enraged.
“Lor, now, how touchy we is, — we white niggers! Look
at us, now!” and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of
Adolph's manner; “here 's de airs and graces. We 's been
in a good family, I specs.”
“Yes,” said Adolph; “I had a master that could have
bought you all for old truck!”
“Laws, now, only think,” said Sambo, “the gentlemens
that we is!”
“I belonged to the St. Clare family,” said Adolph,
proudly.
“Lor, you did! Be hanged if they ar' n't lucky to get
shet of ye. Spects they 's gwine to trade ye off with a lot o'
cracked tea-pots and sich like!” said Sambo, with a provoking
grin.
Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary,
swearing and striking on every side of him. The rest
laughed and shouted, and the uproar brought the keeper to
the door.
“What now, boys? Order, — order!” he said, coming in
and flourishing a large whip.
All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presuming
on the favor which the keeper had to him as a licensed
wag, stood his ground, ducking his head with a facetious
grin, whenever the master made a dive at him.
“Lor, Mas'r, 'tan't us, — we 's reglar stiddy, — it 's these
yer new hands; they 's real aggravatin', — kinder pickin' at
us, all time!”
The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, and distributing
a few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and
leaving general orders for all to be good boys and go to sleep,
left the apartment.
While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room,
the reader may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding
apartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various
attitudes over the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms
of every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to white,
and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep.
Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold
nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose
thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be
sold to-morrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for
her; and some forty or fifty others, with heads variously
enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched
around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest,
are two females of a more interesting appearance than common.
One of these is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman
between forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleasing
physiognomy. She has on her head a high-raised turban,
made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first
quality, and her dress is neatly fitted, and of good material,
showing that she has been provided for with a careful hand.
By her side, and nestling closely to her, is a young girl of
fifteen, — her daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen
from her fairer complexion, though her likeness to her mother
is quite discernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, with
longer lashes, and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown.
She also is dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate
hands betray very little acquaintance with servile toil. These
two are to be sold to-morrow, in the same lot with the St.
Clare servants; and the gentleman to whom they belong, and
to whom the money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a
member of a Christian church in New York, who will receive
the money, and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord
and theirs, and think no more of it.
These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had
been the personal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of
New Orleans, by whom they had been carefully and piously
instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and
write, diligently instructed in the truths of religion, and their
to be. But the only son of their protectress had the
management of her property; and, by carelessness and extravagance
involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One
of the largest creditors was the respectable firm of B. & Co.,
in New York. B. & Co. wrote to their lawyer in New
Orleans, who attached the real estate (these two articles and
a lot of plantation hands formed the most valuable part of it),
and wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B.,
being, as we have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a
free State, felt some uneasiness on the subject. He did n't
like trading in slaves and souls of men, — of course, he did n't;
but, then, there were thirty thousand dollars in the case, and
that was rather too much money to be lost for a principle;
and so, after much considering, and asking advice from those
that he knew would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to
his lawyer to dispose of the business in the way that seemed
to him the most suitable, and remit the proceeds.
The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan
and Emmeline were attached, and sent to the depot to await
a general auction on the following morning; and as they
glimmer faintly upon us in the moonlight which steals through
the grated window, we may listen to their conversation. Both
are weeping, but each quietly, that the other may not hear.
“Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you
can't sleep a little,” says the girl, trying to appear calm.
“I have n't any heart to sleep, Em; I can't; it 's the last
night we may be together!”
“O, mother, don't say so! perhaps we shall get sold together,
— who knows?”
“If 't was anybody's else case, I should say so, too, Em,”
see anything but the danger.”
“Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and
would sell well.”
Susan remembered the man's looks and words. With a
deadly sickness at her heart, she remembered how he had
looked at Emmeline's hands, and lifted up her curly hair,
and pronounced her a first-rate article. Susan had been
trained as a Christian, brought up in the daily reading of the
Bible, and had the same horror of her child's being sold to a
life of shame that any other Christian mother might have;
but she had no hope, — no protection.
“Mother, I think we might do first rate, if you could get
a place as cook, and I as chamber-maid or seamstress, in some
family. I dare say we shall. Let 's both look as bright and
lively as we can, and tell all we can do, and perhaps we
shall,” said Emmeline.
“I want you to brush your hair all back straight, to-morrow,”
said Susan.
“What for, mother? I don't look near so well, that
way.”
“Yes, but you 'll sell better so.”
“I don't see why!” said the child.
“Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if
they saw you looked plain and decent, as if you was n't trying
to look handsome. I know their ways better 'n you do,”
said Susan.
“Well, mother, then I will.”
“And, Emmeline, if we shouldn't ever see each other
again, after to-morrow, — if I 'm sold way up on a plantation
somewhere, and you somewhere else, — always remember how
you 've been brought up, and all Missis has told you; take
faithful to the Lord, he 'll be faithful to you.”
So speaks the poor soul, in sore discouragement; for she
knows that to-morrow any man, however vile and brutal,
however godless and merciless, if he only has money to pay
for her, may become owner of her daughter, body and soul;
and then, how is the child to be faithful? She thinks of all
this, as she holds her daughter in her arms, and wishes that
she were not handsome and attractive. It seems almost an
aggravation to her to remember how purely and piously,
how much above the ordinary lot, she has been brought up.
But she has no resort but to pray; and many such prayers
to God have gone up from those same trim, neatly-arranged,
respectable slave-prisons, — prayers which God has not forgotten,
as a coming day shall show; for it is written, “Who
causeth one of these little ones to offend, it were better for
him that a mill-stone were hanged about his neck, and that
he were drowned in the depths of the sea.”
The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly, marking
the bars of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping
forms. The mother and daughter are singing together a wild
and melancholy dirge, common as a funeral hymn among the
slaves:
O, where is weeping Mary?
'Rived in the goodly land.
She is dead and gone to Heaven;
She is dead and gone to Heaven;
'Rived in the goodly land.”
These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy
sweetness, in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly
despair after heavenly hope, floated through the dark prison
breathed out:
O, where are Paul and Silas?
Gone to the goodly land.
They are dead and gone to Heaven;
They are dead and gone to Heaven;
'Rived in the goodly land.”
Sing on, poor souls! The night is short, and the morning
will part you forever!
But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the
worthy Mr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is
to be fitted out for auction. There is a brisk look-out on the
toilet; injunctions passed around to every one to put on their
best face and be spry; and now all are arranged in a circle
for a last review, before they are marched up to the Bourse.
Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his
mouth, walks around to put farewell touches on his wares.
“How 's this?” he said, stepping in front of Susan and
Emmeline. “Where 's your curls, gal?”
The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the
smooth adroitness common among her class, answers,
“I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smooth
and neat, and not havin' it flying about in curls; looks more
respectable so.”
“Bother!” said the man, peremptorily, turning to the
girl; “you go right along, and curl yourself real smart!”
He added, giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand,
“And be back in quick time, too!”
“You go and help her,” he added, to the mother. “Them
curls may make a hundred dollars difference in the sale of her.”
Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving
to and fro, over the marble pave. On every side of the circular
area were little tribunes, or stations, for the use of
speakers and auctioneers. Two of these, on opposite sides of
the area, were now occupied by brilliant and talented gentlemen,
enthusiastically forcing up, in English and French commingled,
the bids of connoisseurs in their various wares. A
third one, on the other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded
by a group, waiting the moment of sale to begin. And here
we may recognize the St. Clare servants, — Tom, Adolph,
and others; and there, too, Susan and Emmeline, awaiting
their turn with anxious and dejected faces. Various spectators,
intending to purchase, or not intending, as the case
might be, gathered around the group, handling, examining,
and commenting on their various points and faces with the
same freedom that a set of jockeys discuss the merits of a
horse.
“Hulloa, Alf! what brings you here?” said a young
exquisite, slapping the shoulder of a sprucely-dressed young
man, who was examining Adolph through an eye-glass.
“Well, I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare's
lot was going. I thought I 'd just look at his —”
“Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare's people! Spoilt
niggers, every one. Impudent as the devil!” said the
other.
“Never fear that!” said the first. “If I get 'em, I 'll
soon have their airs out of them; they 'll soon find that
they 've another kind of master to deal with than Monsieur
St. Clare. 'Pon my word, I 'll buy that fellow. I like the
shape of him.”
“You 'll find it 'll take all you 've got to keep him. He 's
deucedly extravagant!”
“Yes, but my lord will find that he can't be extravagant
with me. Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times,
and thoroughly dressed down! I 'll tell you if it don't bring
him to a sense of his ways! O, I 'll reform him, up hill and
down, — you 'll see. I buy him, that 's flat!”
Tom had been standing wistfully examining the multitude
of faces thronging around him, for one whom he would wish
to call master. And if you should ever be under the necessity,
sir, of selecting, out of two hundred men, one who was
to become your absolute owner and disposer, you would, perhaps,
realize, just as Tom did, how few there were that you
would feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom
saw abundance of men, — great, burly, gruff men; little,
chirping, dried men; long-favored, lank, hard men; and
every variety of stubbed-looking, commonplace men, who pick
up their fellow-men as one picks up chips, putting them into
the fire or a basket with equal unconcern, according to their
convenience; but he saw no St. Clare.
A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscular
man, in a checked shirt considerably open at the bosom,
and pantaloons much the worse for dirt and wear, elbowed
his way through the crowd, like one who is going actively
into a business; and, coming up to the group, began to examine
them systematically. From the moment that Tom
saw him approaching, he felt an immediate and revolting
horror at him, that increased as he came near. He was
evidently, though short, of gigantic strength. His round,
bullet head, large, light-gray eyes, with their shaggy, sandy
eye-brows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned hair, were rather unprepossessing
items, it is to be confessed; his large, coarse
mouth was distended with tobacco, the juice of which, from
time to time, he ejected from him with great decision and
freckled, and very dirty, and garnished with long
nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded to a
very free personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom
by the jaw, and pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth;
made him strip up his sleeve, to show his muscle; turned him
round, made him jump and spring, to show his paces.
“Where was you raised?” he added, briefly, to these investigations.
“In Kintuck, Mas'r,” said Tom, looking about, as if for
deliverance.
“What have you done?”
“Had care of Mas'r's farm,” said Tom.
“Likely story!” said the other, shortly, as he passed on.
He paused a moment before Dolph; then spitting a discharge
of tobacco-juice on his well-blacked boots, and giving a contemptuous
umph, he walked on. Again he stopped before
Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, dirty hand,
and drew the girl towards him; passed it over her neck and
bust, felt her arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her
back against her mother, whose patient face showed the suffering
she had been going through at every motion of the
hideous stranger.
The girl was frightened, and began to cry.
“Stop that, you minx!” said the salesman; “no whimpering
here, — the sale is going to begin.” And accordingly
the sale begun.
Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to the young gentleman
who had previously stated his intention of buying
him; and the other servants of the St. Clare lot went to
various bidders.
“Now, up with you, boy! d 'ye hear?” said the auctioneer
to Tom.
Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks
round; all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise, —
the clatter of the salesman crying off his qualifications in
French and English, the quick fire of French and English
bids; and almost in a moment came the final thump of the
hammer, and the clear ring on the last syllable of the word
“dollars,” as the auctioneer announced his price, and Tom
was made over. — He had a master!
He was pushed from the block; — the short, bullet-headed
man seizing him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one
side, saying, in a harsh voice, “Stand there, you!”
Tom hardly realized anything; but still the bidding went
on, — rattling, clattering, now French, now English. Down
goes the hammer again, — Susan is sold! She goes down
from the block, stops, looks wistfully back, — her daughter
stretches her hands towards her. She looks with agony in
the face of the man who has bought her, — a respectable middle-aged
man, of benevolent countenance.
“O, Mas'r, please do buy my daughter!”
“I 'd like to, but I 'm afraid I can't afford it!” said the
gentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young girl
mounted the block, and looked around her with a frightened
and timid glance.
The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless
cheek, her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans
to see that she looks more beautiful than she ever saw her
before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates
volubly in mingled French and English, and bids rise in
rapid succession.
“I 'll do anything in reason,” said the benevolent-looking
moments they have run beyond his purse. He is silent; the
auctioneer grows warmer; but bids gradually drop off. It
lies now between an aristocratic old citizen and our bullet-headed
acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, contemptuously
measuring his opponent; but the bullet-head
has the advantage over him, both in obstinacy and concealed
length of purse, and the controversy lasts but a moment; the
hammer falls, — he has got the girl, body and soul, unless
God help her!
Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation
on the Red river. She is pushed along into the same lot with
Tom and two other men, and goes off, weeping as she goes.
The benevolent gentleman is sorry; but, then, the thing
happens every day! One sees girls and mothers crying, at
these sales, always! it can't be helped, &c.; and he walks
off, with his acquisition, in another direction.
Two days after, the lawyer of the Christian firm of B. &
Co., New York, sent on their money to them. On the
reverse of that draft, so obtained, let them write these words
of the great Paymaster, to whom they shall make up their
account in a future day: “When he maketh inquisition
for blood, he forgetteth not the cry of the humble!”
| CHAPTER XXX.
THE SLAVE WAREHOUSE. Uncle Tom's cabin, or, Life among the lowly | |