THE SLAVE MARKET
"What! mothers from their children riven!
What! God's own image bought and sold!
Americans to market driven,
And barter'd as the brute for gold."--Whittier.
NOT far from Canal-street, in the city of New Orleans, stands a
large two story flat building surrounded by a stone wall 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 resemble cells in a prison. In a small room near the
"office" are to be seen any number of iron collars, hobbles,
handcuffs, thumbscrews, cowhides, whips, chains, gags, and yokes.
A back yard inclosed by a high wall looks something like the
playground attached to one of our large New England schools, and
in which are rows of benches and swings. Attached to the back
premises is a good-sized kitchen, where two old Negresses are at
work, stewing, boiling, and baking, and occasionally wiping the
sweat from their furrowed and swarthy brows.
The slave-trader Walker, on his arrival in New Orleans, took up
his quarters at this slave pen with his gang of human cattle: and
the morning after, at ten o'clock, they were exhibited for sale.
There, first of all, was the beautiful Althesa, whose pale
countenance and dejected look told how many sad hours she had
passed since parting with her mother at Natchez. There was a poor
woman who had been separated from her husband and five children.
Another woman, whose looks and manner were expressive of deep
anguish, sat by her side. There, too, was "Uncle Geemes," with his
whiskers off, his face shaved clean, and the grey hair plucked
out, and ready to be sold for ten years younger than he was. Toby
was also there, with his face shaved and greased, ready for
inspection. The examination commenced, and was carried on in a
manner calculated to shock the feelings of any one not devoid of
the milk of human kindness. "What are you wiping your eyes for?"
inquired a fat, 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 stools. "I s'pose I have been crying." "Why do you cry?"
"Because I have left my man behind." "Oh, if I buy you I will
furnish you with a better man than you left. I have lots of young
bucks on my farm." "I don't want, and will never have, any other
man," replied the woman. "What's your name?" asked a man in a
straw hat of a tall Negro man, who stood with his arms folded
across his breast, and leaning against the wall. "My name is
Aaron, sir." "How old are you?" "Twenty-five." "Where were you
raised?" "In old Virginny, sir." "How many men have owned you?"
"Four." "Do you enjoy good health?" "Yes, sir." "How long did you
live with your first owner?" "Twenty years." "Did you ever run
away?" "No, sir." "Did you ever strike your master?" "No, sir."
"Were you ever whipped much?" "No, sir, I s'pose I did not
deserve it." "How long did you live with your second master?"
"Ten years, sir." "Have you a good appetite?" "Yes, sir." "Can
you eat your allowance?" "Yes, sir, when I can get it." "What were
you employed at in Virginia?" "I worked in de terbacar feel." "In
the tobacco field?" "Yes, sir." "How old did you say you were?"
"I will be twenty-five if I live to see next sweet potater digging
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, and those who
fail to pick their task receive five stripes from the cat for
each pound that is wanting. Now, do you think you could keep up
with the rest of the bands?" "I don't know, sir, I 'spec I'd have
to." "How long did you live with your third master?" "Three
years, sir." "Why, this makes you thirty-three, I thought you told
me you was 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 as to his age, and
the planter's circuitous talk (doubtless to find out the slave's
real age) had the Negro off his guard. "I must see your back, so
as to know how much you have been whipped, before I think of
buying," said the planter. Pompey, who had been standing by
during the examination, thought that his services were now
required, and stepping forward with a degree of officiousness,
said to Aaron, "Don't you hear de gentman tell you he want to
zamon your limbs. Come, unharness yeself, old boy, an don't be
standing dar." Aaron was soon examined and pronounced "sound";
yet the conflicting statement about the age was not satisfactory.
Fortunate for Althesa she was spared the pain of undergoing such
an examination. Mr. Crawford, 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 purchased her, and
in his dwelling the quadroon found a much better home than often
falls to the lot of a slave sold in the New Orleans market. The
heartrending and cruel traffic in slaves which has been so often
described, is not confined to any particular class of persons. No
one forfeits his or her character or standing in society, by
buying or selling slaves; or even raising slaves for the market.
The precise number of slaves carried from the slave-raising to the
slave-consuming states, we have no means of knowing. But it must
be very great, as more than forty thousand were sold and taken
out of the state of Virginia in one year. Known to God only is
the amount of human agony and suffering which sends its cry from
the slave markets and Negro pens, unheard and unheeded by man, up
to his ear; mothers weeping for their children, breaking the
night-silence with the shrieks of their breaking hearts. From
some you will hear the burst of bitter lamentation, while from
others the loud hysteric laugh, denoting still deeper agony.
Most of them leave the market for cotton or rice plantations,
"Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon-strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air."