University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE VENDUE.

ABOUT a month after the explosion of the Pontiac, a select
company were assembled, one beautiful morning in June,
under a stately palmetto-tree in front of the auction store of
Messrs. Ripper & Co. in New Orleans, and on the shady side
of the street. There was to be a sale of prime slaves that day.
A chair with a table before it, flanked on either side by a bale
of cotton, afforded accommodations for the ceremony. Mr.
Ripper, the auctioneer, was a young man, rather handsome,
and well dressed, but with that flushed complexion and telltale
expression of the eyes which a habit of dissipation generally
imparts to its victims.

The company numbered some fifty. They were lounging
about in groups, and were nearly all of them smoking cigars.
Some were attired in thin grass-cloth coats and pantaloons,
some in the perpetual black broadcloth to which Americans
adhere so pertinaciously, even when the thermometer is at
ninety. There was but one woman present; and she was a
strong-minded widow, a Mrs. Barkdale, who by the death of
her husband had come into the possession of a plantation, and
now, instead of sending her overseer, had come herself, to bid
off a likely field-hand.

The negroes to be sold, about a dozen in number, were in
the warehouse. Mr. Ripper paced the sidewalk, looking now
and then impatiently at his watch. The sale was to begin at
ten. Suddenly a tall, angular, ill-formed man, dressed in a
light homespun suit, came up to Ripper and drew him aside to

where a young man, dressed in black and wearing a white
neckcloth, stood bracing his back up against a tree. His
swarthy complexion, dark eyes, and long nose made it doubtful
whether the Caucasian, the Jewish, or the African blood predominated
in his veins. A general languor and unsteadiness
of body showed that he had been indulging in the “ardent.”

To this individual the tall man led up the auctioneer, and
said: “The Reverend Quattles, Mr. Ripper; Mr. Ripper,
the Reverend Quattles. Gemmlemen, yer both know me.
I 'm Delancy Hyde, — Virginia-born, be Gawd. ('Scuze me,
Reverend sir.) None of your Puritan scum! My ahnces'tor,
Delancy Hyde, kum over with Pocahontas and John Smith;
my gra'ffther owned more niggers nor 'ary other man in the
county; my father was cheated and broke up by a damned
Yankee judge, sir; that 's why the family acres ain't mine.”

“I 've but five minutes more,” interposed Mr. Ripper, impatiently.

“Wall, sir,” continued the Colonel, “this gemmleman, as I
war tellin' yer, is the Reverend Quattles of Alabamy.”

The Reverend Quattles bowed, and, with fishy eyes and a
maudlin smile, put his hand on his heart.

“The little nig I 've brung yer ter sell, Mr. Ripper, b'longs
ter the Reverend Quattles's brother, a high-tone gemmleman,
who lives in Mobile, but has been unfortnit in business, and has
had ter sell off his niggers. An' as I was goin' ter Noo Orleenz,
he puts this little colored gal in my hands ter sell. The Reverend
Quattles wanted ter buy her, but was too poor. He then
said he 'd go with me ter see she mowt fall inter the right
hahnds. In puttin' her up, yer must say 't was a great 'fliction,
and all that, ter part with her; that the Reverend Quattles,
ruther nor see her fall inter the wrong hands, would sell his
library, and so on; that she 's the child of a quadroon as has
been in the family all her life, and as is a sort of half-sister of
the Reverend Quattles.”

“O yes! I understand all that game,” said Ripper, knocking
with his little finger the ashes from his cigar.

The Colonel, in an aside to the auctioneer, now remarked:
“The Reverend Quattles, in tryin' to stiddy his narves for the
scene, has tuk too stiff a horn, yer see.”

“Yes; take him where he can sleep it off. It 's time for the
sale to begin. Remember your lot is Number 12, and will be
struck off last.”

The auctioneer then made his way across the street, jumped
on one of the cotton-bales, and thence into the chair placed
near the table.

“Come, Quattles,” said Hyde, “we 've time for another horn
afore we 're wanted.”

“No yer don't, Kunnle!” exclaimed Quattles, throwing off
that worthy's arm from his shoulder. “I tell yer this is too
cussed mean a business for any white man; I tell yer I won't
give inter it.”

“Hush! Don't bawl so,” pleaded the Colonel.

“I will bawl. Yer think yer 've got me so drunk I hain't
no conscience left. But I tell yer, I woan't give in. I tell
yer, I 'll 'xpose the hull trick!”

“Hush! hush!” said the Colonel, patting him as he might a
restive beast. “Arter the sale 's over, we 'll have a fust-rate
dinner all by ou'selves at the St. Charles. Terrapin soup and
pompinoe! Champagne and juleps! Ice-cream and jelly! A
reg'lar blow-out! Think of that, Quattles! Think of that!”

“Cuss the vittles! O, I 'm a poor, mis'able, used-up, good-for-northin'
creetur, wuss nor a nigger! — yes, wuss nor a
nigger!” said Quattles, bursting into maudlin sobs and weeping.
The Colonel walked him away into a contiguous drinking-saloon.

“Brandy-smashes for two,” said the Colonel.

The decoctions were brewed, and the tumblers slid along
the marble counter, with the despatch of a man who takes
pride in his vocation. They were as quickly emptied. Quattles
gulped down his liquor eagerly. The Colonel then hired
a room containing a sofa, and, seeing his companion safely
bestowed there, made his own way back to the auction.

On one of the cotton-bales stood a prime article called a
negro-wench. This was Lot Number 3. She was clad in an
old faded and filthy calico dress that had apparently been
made for a girl half her size. A small bundle containing the
rest of her wardrobe lay at her feet. Her bare arms, neck,
and breasts were conspicuously displayed, and her knees were

hardly covered by the stinted skirt. Without shame she stood
there, as if used to the scene, and rather flattered by the glib
commendations of the auctioneer.

“Look at her, gentlemen!” said he. “All her pints good.
Fust-rate stock to breed from. Only twenty-three years old,
and has had five children already. And thar 's no reason
why she should n't have a dozen more. I 'm only bid eight
hunderd dollars for this most valubble brood-wench. Only
eight hunderd dollars for this superior article. Thank you,
sir; you 've an eye for good pints. I 'm offered eight hunderd
and twenty-five. Only eight hunderd and twenty-five for this
most useful hand. Jest look at her, sir. Limbs straight; teeth
all sound; wool thick, though she has had five children. All
livin', too; ain't they, Portia?”

“Yes, massa, all sole ter Massa Wade down thar in Texas.
He 'm gwoin' ter raise de hull lot.”

“You hear, gentlemen. Thar 's nothin' vicious about her.
Makes no fuss because her young ones are carried off. Knows
they 'll be taken good care of. A good, reasonable, pleasant-tempered
wench as ever lived. And now I 'm offered only
eight hunderd and — Did I hear fifty? Thank you, sir.
Eight hunderd and fifty dollars is bid. Is thar nary a man
har that knows the valoo of a prime article like this? Eight
hunderd and fifty dollars. Goin' for eight hunderd and fifty!
Goin'! Gone! For eight hunderd and fifty dollars. Gentlemen,
you must be calculating on the opening of the slave-trade,
if you 'll stand by and see niggers sacrificed in this way.
Pass up the next lot.”

The next “lot” was a man, a sulky, discontented-looking
creature, but large, erect, and with shoulders that would have
made his fortune as a hotel-porter. Laying down his bundle,
he mounted the cotton-bale with a weary, desponding air, as
if he had begun to think there was no good in reserve for him,
either on the earth or in the heavens.

“Lot Number 4 is Ike,” said the auctioneer. “A fust-rate
field-hand. Will hoe more cotton in three hours than a common
nigger will in ten. Ike is pious, and has been a famous
exhorter among the niggers; belongs to the Baptist church.
You all know, gentlemen, the advantage of piety in a nigger.

Ike's piety ought to add thirty per cent to his wuth. I 'm
offered nine hunderd dollars for Ike. Nine hunderd dollars!”

Here a squinting, hatchet-faced fellow in a broad-brimmed
straw hat, who had been making quite a puddle of tobacco-juice
on the ground, leaped upon the bale, and lifted the slave's
faded baize shirt so as to get a look at his back. Then, putting
his finger on the side of his nose, the examiner winked at Ripper,
and jumped down.

“Scored?” asked an anxious inquirer.

“Scored? Wall, stranger, he 's been scored, then put under
a harrer, then paddled an' burnt. A hard ticket that.”

The nine hundred dollar bid was as yet in the imagination
of the auctioneer. But, with the quick penetration of his
craft, he saw the strong-minded widow standing on tiptoe, her
face eager with the excitement of bidding, and her words only
checked by the desire to judge from the amount of competition
whether the article were a desirable one.

“A thousand and ten! Thank you, sir, thank you!” said
Ripper, bowing to a gentleman he had seen only in his mind's
eye. Nobody could dispute the bid, all eyes being directed
toward the auctioneer.

“A thousand and twenty-five,” continued Ripper, turning
in an opposite direction, and bowing to an equally imaginary
bidder. Then, apparently catching the eye of the competing
customer, “A thousand and forty!” he exclaimed; and so, see-sawing
from one chimerical gentleman to the other, he carried
the sham bidding up to a thousand and seventy-five.

At this point Mrs. Barkdale, pale, and following with swayings
of her own body the motions of the auctioneer, her heart
in her mouth almost depriving her of speech, waved her hand
to attract his attention, and, rising on tiptoe, gasped forth, “A
thousand and eighty!”

“Thank you, madam,” said Ripper, politely touching his hat.
Then, apparently catching the eye of his imaginary bidder on
the right, “Monsieur Dupré,” he said, “you won't allow such
a bargain to slip through your hands, will you? Voyez! Où
trouverez-vous un mieux? Thank you, sir; thank you! A
thousand and ninety, — I 'm offered a thousand and ninety for
this superior field-hand. Goin', — goin'. Thank you, madam.

Eleven hunderd dollars; only eleven hunderd dollars for this
most valubble piece of property. I assure you, gentlemen, 't is
not often you 've such a chance. Goin' for eleven hunderd
dollars! Are you all done? Eleven hunderd dollars. Goin'!
Gone! You were too late, sir. To Mrs. Barkdale for eleven
hunderd dollars.”

The widow, almost ready to faint, made her way to her
carriage, and was driven off. Some of the company shrugged
their shoulders, while others uttered a low, significant whistle.
Ike, who maintained his dogged, sulky look, picked up his
bundle, and was remanded to the warehouse, there to be kept
till claimed.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “I have to call your
attention to the primest fancy article that it has ever been
my good fortin to put under the hammer. Lot Number 5 is
the quadroon gal, Nelly. Bring her on.”

Here a negro assistant led out, with his hand on her shoulder,
a girl apparently not more than eighteen years of age, and
helped her on the cotton-bale. She was modestly clad in
an old but neatly-fitting black silk gown, and, notwithstanding
the heat, wore round her shoulders a checked woollen shawl.
Her hair was straight. Evidently she derived her blood chiefly
from white ancestors. She was very pretty; and had a neat,
compact figure, in which the tendency to plumpness, common
among the quadroons, was not yet too marked for grace.

It was apparently the first time she had ever been put up for
sale; for she had a scared, deprecatory look, strangely accompanied
with a smile put on for the purpose of propitiating some
well-disposed master, if such there might be among the crowd.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Ripper, “here is Lot Number 5.
It speaks for itself, and needs no puffin' from me. But thar is
a little story connected with Nelly. She was the property of
Miss Pettigrew, down in Plaquemine, and always thought she 'd
be free as soon as her missis died. But her missis fell under
conviction jest afore her death, and ordered in her will that
Nelly should be sold, and the proceeds paid over to the fund
for the support of indigent young men studyin' for the ministry.
So, gentlemen, in biddin' lib'rally for this superior lot, you 'll
have the satisfaction of forruding a most-er praiseworthy and
pious objek.”

“Make her drop her shawl,” said a gray-haired man, with a
blotched, unwholesome skin, and with dirty deposits of stale
tobacco-juice at the corners of his mouth.

“Certainly, Mr. Tibbs,” said Ripper, pulling off the girl's
shawl as if he had been uncovering a sample of Sea-Island
cotton.

“She has been a lady's maid, and nothin' else, I can assure
you, gentlemen. Small hands and feet, yer see. Look at that
neck and them shoulders! Her missis has kept her very strict;
and the executor, by whose order she is sold, warrants you,
gentlemen, she has never been enceinte. A very nice, good-natured,
correct, and capable gal. Will never give her owner
any trouble, and will ollerz do her best to please. Shall I start
her at a thousand dollars?”

Here Mr. Tibbs and two other men jumped on the bale, and
began to give a closer examination to the article. One pinched
the flesh of its smooth and well-rounded shoulders. Another
stretched its lips apart so as to get a sight of its teeth. Mr.
Tibbs pulled at the bosom of its dress in order to draw certain
physiological conclusions as to the truth of the auctioneer's
warranty.

“Please don't,” expostulated the girl, putting away his hand,
and with her scared look trying hard to smile, but showing
in the act a set of teeth that at once added twenty per cent
to her value in the estimation of the beholder.

“You see her, gentlemen,” said Ripper. “She 's just what
she appears to be. No sham about her. No paddin'. All
wholesome flesh and blood. What shall I have for Nelly?”

“A thousand dollars,” said Tibbs.

“You hear the bid, gentlemen. I 'm offered a thousand
dollars for this very superior article. Only a thousand dollars.”

“Eleven hundred,” said Jarvey, the well-known keeper of a
gambling-saloon.

Tibbs glanced angrily at the audacious competitor, then
nodded to the auctioneer.

“Eleven hundred and fifty is what I m offered for Lot
Number 5. Gentlemen, bar in mind that you air servin' a
pious cause in helpin' me to git the full valoo of this most-er
excellent article. Remember the proceeds go to edicate indigent

young men for the ministry. Mr. Jarvey, can't you do
su'thin' for the church?”

“Twelve hundred,” said Jarvey.

“Twelve fifty,” exclaimed Tibbs, abruptly, in a tone sharp
with exasperation and malevolence.

Nelly, seeing that the bidding was confined to these two,
looked from the one to the other with an expression of deepest
solicitude, as if scanning their countenances for some way of
hope. Alas! there was not much to choose. To Jarvey, as
the less ill-favored, she evidently inclined; but Tibbs had
plainly made up his mind to “go his pile” on the purchase,
and the article was finally knocked down to him for fifteen
hundred dollars.

“You owt to be proud to bring sich a price as that, my gal,”
said Ripper, in a tone of congratulation. Nelly made a piteous,
frightened attempt at a smile, then burst into tears, and got
down from the bale, stumbling in her confusion so as to fall
on her hands to the ground, much to the amusement of the
spectators.

The lots from six to eleven inclusive did not excite much
competition. They were mostly field-hands, coarse and stolid
in feature, and showing a cerebral development of the most
rudimental kind. They brought prices ranging from seven
hundred to nine hundred dollars.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Ripper, “I have one little fancy
article to offer you, and then the sale will be closed. Bring on
Number 12.”

The colored assistant here issued from the warehouse and
crossed the street, bearing a little quadroon girl and her bundle
in his arms. Simultaneously a new and elegant barouche, drawn
by two sleek horses, and having two blacks in livery on the
driver's box, stopped in the rear of the crowd. The occupant
got out, and strolled toward the stand. He was a middle-aged
man, with well-formed features, a smooth, florid complexion,
and a figure inclining to portliness. Apparently a
gentleman, were it not for that imperious, aggressive air, which
the habit of domineering from infancy over slaves generally
imparts. He carried a riding-whip, with which he carelessly
switched his legs.

As he drew near the stand, the auctioneer's assistant placed
on the cotton-bale the little quadroon girl. She was almost an
infant, evidently not three years old, with very black hair and
eyebrows, though her eyes did not harmonize with the hue.
She was naked even to her feet, with the exception of a little
chemise that did not reach to her thighs. Her figure promised
grace and health for the future. In the shape of her features
there was no sign of the African intermixture indicated in the
hue of her skin. With a wondering, anxious look she regarded
the scene before her, and was making an obvious effort to keep
from crying.

“Now here is Number 12, gentlemen,” said Ripper. “Jest
look at the little lady! Thar she is. Fust-rate stock. Look
at her hands and feet. Belonged to the Quattles family of
Mobile, and I 'm charged by the Rev. Mr. Quattles to knock her
down to himself (though he can't afford to buy her), rather
than have her go into the wrong hands. She 's the child of
his half-sister, yer see, gentlemen. What am I offered for this
little lady?”

“A hundred dollars,” said a voice from the crowd.

“I 'm offered two hunderd dollars for this little tidbit,” said
Ripper, pretending to have misunderstood the bid.

Colonel Delancy Hyde stepped forward, and, taking a position
at the side of the auctioneer, addressed the crowd: “I know
the Quattles family, gentlemen. It 's an unfort'nit family, and
they 'd never have put this yere child under the hammer if so
be they had n't been forced right up ter it by starn necessity.”

“Who the hell are you?” asked a tall, lank, defiant-looking
gentleman, who seemed to be disgusted at the Colonel's interference.

“Who am I? I 'll tell yer who am I,” cried the latter.
“I 'm Colonel Delancy Hyde. Anything to say agin that?
Virginia-born, be Gawd! My father was Virginia-born afore
me, and his father afore him, and they owned more niggers
nor you ever looked at. Anything to say agin that, yer despisable
corn-cracker, yer!”

“Hold yer tongue, Colonel; you 're drivin' off a bidder,”
whispered Ripper. The Colonel collapsed at once, quelling
his indignation.

“I 'm offered two hundred dollars for Number 12,” exclaimed
the auctioneer, putting his hand on the little girl's
head. “If there 's any good judge here of figger an' face, he
won't see this article sacrificed for such a trifle.”

“Two twenty-five,” said Tibbs.

The gentleman who had descended from the barouche here
drew nearer, and examined the form and features of the little
girl with a closer scrutiny.

“Two fifty,” said he, as the result of his inspection.

Tibbs, irritated by the competition, made his bid three hundred.

“Four hundred!” said the man with the riding-whip.

“Five hundred!” retorted Tibbs, ejecting the words with a
vicious snort.

“Six hundred,” returned his competitor, with perfect nonchalance.

“Seven hundred and fifty,” shrieked Tibbs.

“A thousand,” said the other, playing with his whip.

Tibbs did not venture further. Mortified and angry, he turned
away, and consoled himself with an enormous cut of tobacco.

“Cash takes it,” said the successful bidder, putting his finger
to his lips by way of caution to the auctioneer, and then beckoning
him to come down. Ripper exchanged a few words with
him in a whisper, and told his assistant to put the little girl with
her bundle into the barouche, and throw a carriage-shawl over
her.

As the barouche drove off, Hyde asked, “Who is he?”

“Cash,” replied Ripper. “Did n't you hear? I reckon
you see more of overseers than of planters. You 've done
amazin' well, Colonel, gittin' such a price fur that little concern.”

“Yes,” said Hyde; “Mr. Cash is a high-tone one, that 's a
fak. I should know him agin 'mong a thousand.”

The company dispersed, the auctioneer settled with his customers,
and Hyde went to find Quattles, and give him the
jackal's share of the spoils.

Let us follow the barouche. Leaving the business streets,
it rolled on till, in about a quarter of an hour, it stopped before
a respectable brick house, on the door of which was the
sign, “Mrs. Gentry's Seminary for Young Ladies.” Here the
gentleman got out and rang the bell.

“Is Mrs. Gentry at home?”

“Yes, sir. Walk in. I will take your card.”

He was ushered into a parlor. In five minutes the lady appeared,
— a tall, erect person with prominent features, a sallow
complexion, and dry puffs of iron-gray hair parted over her
forehead. A Southern judge's daughter and a widow, Mrs.
Gentry kept one of the best private schools in the city. On
seeing the name of Carberry Ratcliff on the card, which Tarquin,
the colored servant, had handed to her, she went with
alacrity to her mirror, and, after a little pranking, descended to
greet her distinguished visitor.

“Perhaps you have heard of me before,” began Mr. Ratcliff.

“Often, sir. Be seated,” said the lady, charmed at the idea
of having a visit from the lord of a thousand slaves.

“I have in my barouche, madam, a little girl I wish to
leave with you. She is my property, and I want her well
taken care of. Can you receive her?”

Mrs. Gentry looked significantly at the gentleman, and he,
as if anticipating her interrogatory, replied: “The child came
into my possession only within this hour. I bought her quite
accidentally at auction. She has none of my blood in her
veins, I assure you.”

“Can I see her?”

“Yes”; and, walking to the window, Ratcliff motioned to
one of his negroes to bring the child in. This was done; and
the infant was placed on the floor with her little bundle by her
side, and nude as she was when exposed on the auction-block.

“A quadroon, I should think,” said Mrs. Gentry.

“I really don't know what she is,” replied Ratcliff. “I want
you, however, to take her into your family, and raise her as
carefully as if you knew her to be my daughter. You shall be
liberally paid for your trouble.”

“Is she to know that she is a slave?”

“As to that I can instruct you hereafter. Meanwhile keep
the fact a secret, and mention my name to no one in connection
with her. You can occasionally send me a daguerrotype,
that I may see if her looks fulfil her promise. I wish you to
be particular about her music and French, also her dancing.
Let her understand all about dress too. You can draw upon

me as often as you choose for the amount we fix upon; and
the probability is, I shall not wish to see her till she reaches
her fifteenth or sixteenth year. I rely upon you to keep her
strictly, and, as she grows older, to guard her against making
acquaintances with any of the other sex. Will seven hundred
dollars a year pay you for your trouble?”

“Amply, sir,” said the gratified lady. “I will do my best to
carry out your wishes.”

“You need not write me oftener than once a year,” said
Ratcliff.

“Not if she were dangerously ill?”

“No; not even then. You could take better care of her
than I; and all my interest in her is in futuro.”

“I think I understand, sir,” said Mrs. Gentry; “and I will
at once make a note of what you say.”

“Here is payment for the first half-year in advance,” said
Ratcliff.

“Thank you, sir,” returned the lady, quite overwhelmed
at the great planter's munificence. “Shall I write you a
receipt?”

“It is superfluous, madam.”

All this while the child, with a seriousness strangely at variance
with her infantile appearance, sat on the floor, looking
intently first at the woman, then at the man, and evidently
striving to understand what they were saying. Ratcliff now
took his leave; but Mrs. Gentry called him back before he had
reached the door.

“Excuse me, sir, there is something I wished to ask you?
What was it? Oh! By what name shall we call the child?”

“Upon my word,” said Ratcliff, “I have forgotten the name
the auctioneer gave her. No matter! Call her anything you
please.”

“Well, then, Estelle is a pretty name. Shall I call her
Estelle?”

Ratcliff started, came close up to Mrs. Gentry, looked her
steadily in the face, and asked, “What put that name into your
head?”

“I don't know. Probably I have seen it in some novel.”

“Well, don't call her Estelle. Call her Ellen Murray.”

“I will remember.”

And the interview closed.

After the gentleman had gone, the child, with an anxious
and grieved expression of face, tried to articulate an inquiry
which Mrs. Gentry found it difficult to understand. At last
she concluded it was an attempt to say, “Where 's Hatty?”

Mrs. Gentry rang the bell, and it was answered by a colored
woman of large, stately figure, whose peculiar hue and straight
black hair showed that she was descended from some tribe distinct
from ordinary Africans.

“Where 's the chambermaid?” asked Mrs. Gentry.

“O missis, dat Deely 's neber on de spot when she 's wanted.
De Lord lub us, what hab we here?”

“A new inmate of the family, Esha. I 've taken her to
bring up.”

“Some rich man's lub-child, I reckon, missis. But ain't
she a little darlin'?” And Esha took her up from the floor,
and kissed her. The child, feeling she had at last found a
friend, threw its arms about the woman's neck, and broke into
a low, plaintive sobbing, as if her little heart were overfull of
long-suppressed grief.

“Thar! thar!” said Esha, soothing her; “she must n't
greeb nebber no more. Ole Esha will lub her dearly!”

Mrs. Gentry opened the bundle, and was surprised to see
several articles of clothing of a rich and fine texture, all neatly
marked, though somewhat soiled.

“There, Esha,” she said, “take the poor little thing and
her bundle up-stairs, and dress her. To-morrow I 'll get her
some new clothes.”

Esha obeyed, and the child thenceforth clung to her as to
a mother. To the servant's surprise, when she came to wash
away the little one's tears, the skin parted with its tawny hue,
and showed white and fair. On examining the child's hair, too,
it was found to be dyed. What could be the object of this?
It never occurred to Esha that the little waif might be a slave,
and that a white slave was not so salable as a colored.

Mrs. Gentry communicated the phenomenon at once to Mr.
Ratcliff, but he never alluded to it in any subsequent letter or
conversation.