The thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night--the thousand and
one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear--the theoretic tentation
of a hundred projects--all passed before my waking spirit. Yet when
morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, I had
advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding. All my hopes centred
upon D'Hauteville--for I no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail.
To be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, I once
more sought the banking-house of Brown and Co. The negative answer to
my inquiry was no longer a disappointment. I had anticipated it. When
did money ever arrive in time for a crisis? Slowly roll the golden
circles--slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly
parted with. This supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail;
yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands I had intrusted my
affairs, had made some cause of delay.
Never trust your business affairs to a _friend_. Never trust to a day
for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of
sending it. So swore I, as I parted from the banking-house of Brown and
Co.
It was twelve o'clock when I returned to the Rue Saint Louis. I did not
re-enter the hotel--I walked direct to the _Rotundo_.
My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under
the shadow of that spacious dome. I remember no fooling akin to what I
experienced at that moment.
I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the
solemnity of religious awe--I have passed through the gilded saloons of
a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt--pity for the
slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants
who surrounded me--I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with
feelings of pain--but remembered no scene that had so painfully
impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.
Not sacred was that spot. On the contrary, I stood upon _desecrated_
ground--desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. This was the famed
_slave-market of New Orleans_--the place where human bodies--I might
almost say _human souls_--were bought and sold!
Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. Oft had
the husband been here severed from his wife--the mother from her child.
Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement--oft had that
vaulted dome echoed back the sigh--nay more--the cry of the anguished
heart!
I repeat it--my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within
the precincts of that spacious hall. And no wonder--with such thoughts
in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.
You will expect a description of that scene. I must disappoint you. I
cannot give one. Had I been there as an ordinary spectator--a reporter
cool and unmoved by what was passing--I might have noted the details,
and set them before you. But the case was far otherwise. One thought
alone was in my mind--my eyes sought for one sole object--and that
prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.
A few things I do remember. I remember that the Rotundo, as its name
imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an
arched coiling, and white walls. These were without windows, for the
hall was lighted from above. On one side, near the wall, stood a desk
or rostrum upon an elevated dais, and by the side of this a large block
of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. The use of these two
objects I divined.
A stone "kerb," or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. The
purpose of this was equally apparent.
The hall when I entered was half filled with people. They appeared to
be of all ages and sorts. They stood conversing in groups, just as men
do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting
for the affair to begin. It was plain, however, from the demeanour of
these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any
feelings of solemnity. On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been
anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter
that from time to time rang through the hall.
There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds.
Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down
upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude,
were the individuals of this group. Their black and brown skins, the
woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red "brogans," their coarse
garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of "nigger cloth" died cinnamon
colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree,--these characteristics marked
them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall--a distinct race
of beings.
But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion--even without
the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell
that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances
from these who strutted over the floor. While these talked loudly and
laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. These moved about with the
air of the conqueror--those were motionless with the passive look and
downcast mien of the captive. These were _masters_--those were
_slaves_! They were the slaves of the plantation Besancon.
All were silent, or spoke only in whispers. Most of them seemed ill at
ease. Mothers sat holding their "piccaninnies" in their sable embrace,
murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to
rest. Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the
maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. Fathers looked on
with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which
bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate--
no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches
around them.
Not all of them wore this expression. Several of the younger slaves,
both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours,
with flounces, frills, and ribbons. Most of these appeared indifferent
to their future. Some even seemed happy--laughing and chatting gaily to
each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the
"white folks." A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea,
after the usage they had lately had. Some of them rather anticipated
such an event with hopeful pleasure. These were the dandy young men,
and the yellow belles of the plantation. They would, perhaps, be
allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard--
perhaps a brighter future was before them. Dark must it be to be darker
than their proximate past.
I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon
them. A glance was enough to satisfy me that _she_ was not there.
There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for
that of Aurore. She was not there, Thank Heaven! I was spared the
humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! She was, no doubt, near at
hand and would be brought in when her turn came.
I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and
insulting glances--perhaps insulting speeches--of which she might be the
object. And yet that ordeal was in store for me.
I did not discover myself to the slaves. I knew their impulsive
natures, and that a scene would be the result. I should be the
recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to
draw the attention of all upon me.
To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men
that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the
entrance, watching for D'Hauteville. In him now lay my last and only
hope.
I could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in. Of
course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety. There was the
regular "negro-trader," a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer
features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat,
coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide,--the "cowskin,"--fit emblem
of his calling.
In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of
claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter
"bootees," laced shirt, and diamond studs.
An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen
jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his
short-cropped snow-white hair.
The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp,
New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black
satin, shining like glaze--trousers of like material with the coat--
boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.
The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy
ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There,
too, the snug smooth banker--the consequential attorney, here no longer
sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned--the captain of the
river-boat, with no naval look--the rich planter of the coast--the
proprietor of the cotton press or "pickery"--with a sprinkling of
nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the Rotundo.
As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built
man, with florid face, and dressed in a green "shad-bellied" coat,
passed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers,
and in the other a small mallet with ivory head--that at once proclaimed
his calling.
His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I
could hear the phrases, "Here he comes!" "Yon's him!" "Here comes the
major!"
This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual
in the green "shad-belly." The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself
was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B--,
the celebrated auctioneer.
In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the
rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale
began.
Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders
pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs
as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as
if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one
or the other.
Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor
fellow; but my heart was too full--there was no room in it for Scipio;
and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.