NOT far from Canal Street, in the city of New Orleans, stands a large
two-story, flat building, surrounded by a stone wall some twelve feet
high, the top of which is covered with bits of glass, and so constructed
as to prevent even the possibility of any one's passing over it without
sustaining great injury. Many of the rooms in this building resemble the
cells of a prison, and in a small apartment near the “office” are to
be seen any number of iron collars, hobbles, handcuffs, thumbscrews,
cowhides, chains, gags, and yokes.
A back-yard, enclosed by a high wall, looks something like the
playground attached to one of our large New England schools, in which
are rows of benches and swings. Attached to the back premises is a
good-sized kitchen, where, at the time of which we write, two old
negresses were at work, stewing, boiling, and baking, and occasionally
wiping the perspiration from their furrowed and swarthy brows.
The slave-trader, Jennings, on his arrival at New Orleans, took up his
quarters here with his gang of human cattle, and the morning after,
at 10 o'clock, they were exhibited for sale. First of all came the
beautiful Marion, whose pale countenance and dejected look told how
many sad hours she had passed since parting with her mother at Natchez.
There, too, was a poor woman who had been separated from her husband;
and another woman, whose looks and manners were expressive of deep
anguish, sat by her side. There was “Uncle Jeems,” with his whiskers
off, his face shaven clean, and the gray hairs plucked out, ready to be
sold for ten years younger than he was. Toby was also there, with his
face shaven and greased, ready for inspection.
The examination commenced, and was carried on in such a manner as to
shock the feelings of any one not entirely devoid of the milk of human
kindness.
“What are you wiping your eyes for?” inquired a far, red-faced man, with
a white hat set on one side of his head and a cigar in his mouth, of a
woman who sat on one of the benches.
“Because I left my man behind.”
“Oh, if I buy you, I will furnish you with a better man than you left.
I've got lots of young bucks on my farm.”
“I don't want and never will have another man,” replied the woman.
“What's you name?” asked a man in a straw hat of a tall negro who stood
with his arms folded across his breast, leaning against the wall.
“My name is Aaron, sar.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Where were you raised?”
“In old Virginny, sar.”
“How many men have owned you?”
“Four.”
“Do you enjoy good health?”
“Yes, sar.”
“How long did you live with your first owner?”
“Twenty years.”
“Did you ever run away?”
“No, sar.”
“Did you ever strike your master?”
“No, sar.”
“Were you ever whipped much?”
“No, sar; I s'pose I didn't desarve it, sar.”
“How long did you live with your second master?”
“Ten years, sar.”
“Have you a good appetite?”
“Yes, sar.”
“Can you eat your allowance?”
“Yes, sar,--when I can get it.”
“Where were you employed in Virginia?”
“I worked de tobacker fiel'.”
“In the tobacco field, eh?”
“Yes, sar.”
“How old did you say you was?”
“Twenty-five, sar, nex' sweet-'tater-diggin' time.”
“I am a cotton-planter, and if I buy you, you will have to work in the
cotton-field. My men pick one hundred and fifty pounds a day, and the
women one hundred and forty pounds; and those who fail to perform their
task receive five stripes for each pound that is wanting. Now, do you
think you could keep up with the rest of the hands?”
“I don't know, sar, but I 'specs I'd have to.”
“How long did you live with your third master?”
“Three years, sar.”
“Why, that makes you thirty-three. I thought you told me you were only
twenty-five?”
Aaron now looked first at the planter, then at the trader, and seemed
perfectly bewildered. He had forgotten the lesson given him by Pompey
relative to his age; and the planter's circuitous questions--doubtless
to find out the slave's real age--had thrown the negro off his guard.
“I must see you back, so as to know how much you have been whipped,
before I think of buying.”
Pompey, who had been standing by during the examination, thought that
his services were now required, and, stepping forth with a degree of
officiousness, said to Aaron,--
“Don't you hear de gemman tell you he wants to 'zamin you. Cum,
unharness yo'seff, ole boy, and don't be standin' dar.”
Aaron was soon examined, and pronounced “sound;” yet the conflicting
statement about his age was not satisfactory.
Fortunately for Marion, she was spared the pain of undergoing such an
examination. Mr. Cardney, a teller in one of the banks, had just been
married, and wanted a maid-servant for his wife, and, passing through
the market in the early part of the day, was pleased with the young
slave's appearance, and his dwelling the quadroon found a much better
home than often falls to the lot of a slave sold in the New Orleans
market.