part 1 chapter

17

january 1863. from mary.

tom, do you remember mr. shumate’s girl sukie? a year before the war, we spied

her along the road clutching a handwritten pass that permitted her to leave her

master’s property. she balanced a knobby bundle on her head under a sky that

dumped buckets of rain. pa offered her a ride on the back of the wagon. she seemed

about my age and had a quiet nature. i recently saw her in the awfulest circumstances

and have no one to confide in for fear of our parents’ wrath.

pa encouraged me on new year’s day to accompany him on one of his usually

futile visits to town with his sack of smoked possum and rabbit to trade for salt to

preserve what meat we trapped. the government now distributes small quantities to

the few shops, but salt is fetched up quick as a blink when set out for sale. any

diversion was welcome, and i had not been on such a long jaunt since that time

several summers ago—you must remember it—when we rode into staunton for that

traveling minister’s tent revival.

as pa would be a while, i thought to stroll around by the train station. but as i

neared the courthouse, i could hear a hubbub from as far away as two blocks. a

crowd of finely dressed strangers milled around at the foot of the wide stone steps and

stretched out down along augusta street. law, i never heard such deep southern

drawls as they hailed one another. the street was a sea of black stovepipe hats that

bobbed alongside felt bowlers. they were atop gentlemen dressed to the nines in sack

coats, vests, and matched trousers. some streamed from the american hotel and must

have arrived the previous night by train, come all this way north in such perilous

times.

a crimson cloth banner bound to one column rippled in the air as i climbed the

porch steps to read the small bulletins pinned at all angles to it. there was much

jostling and elbowing to get a good view, and i had only a minute to see the headlines:

“negroes to be disposed of today,” and then the lists. “patience, fine seamstress

with small boy child; moses, rented out for hotel waiter; joseph, excellent carpenter;

james, fine cook; and stephen, strong field laborer.” and there was sukie’s name next

to the description “girl aged 19, good laundress.”

“what are you doing here, miss? a refined young lady doesn’t belong at a slave

auction. go yonder back home with your family where you belong,” an uncivil fellow

in a white silk scarf growled as he shoved his way in front of me to better read the

notices.

you know we have never witnessed anything of this kind, and i had an untoward

inquisitiveness as well as being sorely vexed about sukie. the man was correct. i wish

i had heeded his rough counsel. before i could think whether to leave or stay, a fellow

next to me gestured, “look there, josiah. here comes the coffle, straight from the jail

behind the courthouse. it’s about time we get to see the merchandise. i hope there’s a

strong buck there worth my traveling from south carolina.”

well, tom, that was just the beginning of the most miserable sights you could ever

imagine. down augusta street out of barrister’s alley came rows of black men, two

abreast, shackled at the ankle by iron cuffs linked by heavy chain. the chains clanked

on the cobblestones as the men stumbled along and the cuffs bloodied their ankles.

slowly behind them marched the women, arrayed in their finest calicoes with red

bandanas wrapped on their heads, clasping children by the hand or against their

breasts. hemp rope tied one hand to that of another slave woman, and the ones with

babes made the most pitiful cries. certain of separation, they implored the heavens for

mercy. two stocky white men preceded and followed, each with a twitching cat-o’-

nine whip. i was searching the lines for sukie when a frantic scuffle ensued. when the

lead slave was released from his fetters, he kicked and screamed, then shoved and

punched the white men who rushed to detain him. out came the whip, and down

lashed the strips of knotted leather against his back until his shirt oozed red. he

uttered not a sound during it all, but if looks could kill, that man with the whip would

have died on the spot. i expect his owner thought the black man’s value as a

marketable commodity was reduced then and there, and he was borne off with loud

blaspheming to be sold another day to an unsuspecting set of customers.

i know i shouldn’t have been tempted, but i was repulsed and yet craved to learn

more. i sidled along the wall behind the stirred-up crowd to a crude warehouse door

where some female slaves were being confined until their time for sale. just as i pried

the heavy door open a crack, i saw sukie. four potential buyers were ogling her when

one drew her by the arm into light from a square, barred window across the empty

brick space. another pried her mouth open and jammed his finger inside to inspect her

teeth. the third drew down her bodice and pinched and poked her breasts. and the

one named josiah pulled at her blue-checked skirt. he commented on the width of her

hips and their potential for carrying a child. her glance locked with mine over their

heads as their uncouth hands pawed her. scalding anger flashed my way. confounded

and dismayed, i realized that i too was a target of her rage in this heinous

circumstance. only later did i understand.

outside, the auctioneer warmed to his task. clad in stained, brown-striped pants, a

grimy white shirt, and a moth- eaten green topcoat, he was the very picture of

unwholesomeness as he paced around a strong, young black man. the slave was

mounted upon a wooden block for all to appraise easily. “who will offer the first bid

for a strong negro of good color? i am told he’s industrious, so let me hear $200 in

federal greenbacks. now do i hear $250 for this prime worker?” he did not write

anything down, but just held up two fingers to signify sold when the raucous bidding

finally reached $1,600. even if i had some money, i would never have enough to buy

sukie and free her. i know for a fact that this sum is three times pa’s yearly income at

the mill during the best of times. it would take years for a hardworking man to earn

enough money to buy one slave, and that without spending a cent on his family,

foodstuffs, and shelter.

but the worst was yet to come. sukie and other women were displayed on the block

with their chests exposed, blouses scrunched around their waists, afforded no more

consideration than beeves at market. i was horrified for them, shocked at such a

circumstance, and then finally outright shamed to be in such a situation surrounded by

those men. i sheltered my eyes with my hand and turned away while those poor

women were on the block. even more grievous, a number of buyers declared the

children an irksome burden, and the little ones were auctioned separately from their

mothers to other bidders. the children howled piteously with arms stretching toward

to their wailing mothers as the distance between them grew. it cleaved the heart right

out of my chest.

by this time, i thought to flee then and there. but having come this far, i struggled

to pull myself together and to endure until the bitter end. coffles were formed up

under direction of the new owners, with slaves again shackled and paraded this time

up augusta street to the train station. others gathered for who knows how long a

march to locations far from a rail line. the sun was dropping, and i knew pa would be

most anxious if i didn’t hasten to beverly street where we had agreed to meet, so i did

not linger around the courthouse as the crowd dispersed. a few freed blacks were

scattered in the group. they solemnly wandered off down the street after their own

desires, in heart-wrenching contrast to the coffles marching away.

my somber silence and downcast eyes were hard to ignore as we started on the

tedious ride home, now after sundown. pa finally asked, “what ails you, mary? i’ve

seldom seen you so sore-hearted.” i mumbled a non-response, and he turned back to

manage the wagon, its bobbing lantern casting brief patches of yellow onto the

emerging landscape. do you ever wonder about all the articles in the spectator that

quote this slave and that about how good their lot is, and how few could hope for a

better life and kinder masters? do you think the newspaper is in the sway of

businessmen who make their living from the slave trade? and the politicians who

depend upon them? i have only met slaves in town who serve as waiters, shopkeepers,

and blacksmiths’ helpers. i had no idea of the falsehoods and deceptions those

newspapers promulgate, and i’m sore ashamed to say i had never given the slaves’

situation much thought.

finally, through the dreary silence, i said, “pa, why didn’t you tell me about slave

auctions in staunton, and that one would be held in town today?”

“i plumb forgot it was today. i guess it is new year’s eve, after all. it’s a once-a-

year tradition.” he hesitated and then said, “and as a girl, it’s not something you

needed to know.”

“you do me no favors by hiding such things from me. i’m old enough to know lots

of things,” i told him, drawing myself up tall on the wagon seat.

“you reckon so, now?” he said. “well, staunton is a major stop on the rail line,

easy to get to and leave. which is why plantation owners and their managers come

here from all over down south — though not as many as come to the richmond

auctions. yes, indeed, selling slaves is mighty lucrative business. i’ve heard said that

their value in augusta is more than eight million dollars, and the slave trade is as

profitable an enterprise as any merchandise slaves might produce. that’s what’s

driving this war, you know. people in power don’t want their incomes threatened.”

i asked him, “but what about lincoln’s emancipation address in gettysburg that

everyone is talking about? didn’t that have any effect?”

“no. none at all here in virginia. the state hasn’t been defeated. won’t have any

effect until that happens. as i understand it, that proclamation is legal only where the

feds are in control,” he answered, and then fell silent.

the day presented me with an abundance to contemplate. i have been guilty of a

failure to imagine a slave’s plight. why had i never conjured myself in their place? i

couldn’t bear to think of sukie’s future somewhere far away in the deep south. where

is her family now? what about those little children? how could they endure such a

terrible separation from their mothers and home? what kind of scars would they bear

for the rest of their lives? and then another question occurred to me. where in the

practice of slavery is the christian compassion taught in sunday school? have you

ever pondered this? now i hadn’t the temper for more conversation during the bumpy

ride home. please don’t let on to beards about my day in staunton. he might think

badly of me for going to the auction.

i remember how my hands shook after reading this letter the day the postmaster handed it

over. i had barely noticed sukie when pa gave her a ride that rainy day before the war, and

neither mary nor i had witnessed an auction at that time. only a vague knowledge of slave

auctions had hovered on the edges of our awareness. but mary’s account had filled me with

shame and grieving for those people.