Read Online Song of Slaves in the Desert by Alan Cheuse - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Cheuse
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together like a sick room and a back street after a hot rain in summer. Given the sweat pouring out of me, I had to imagine the other men milling about here were effusing doubt and worry as much as the slaves were sweating in fear. I had a mad impulse to rush up to the manager and grab the keys that dangled from the belt at his waist, and unlock each and every lock on every chain and set these people free. Especially the women. It seemed so cruel to keep these females in chains, as if unchained they might do someone harm. And it was quite astonishing to me that most of the slave men and women remained so calm, and that the free people in the room were acting in such a frenzy.
The white men, some of them of a company arranging the sales, shouted the blacks down, while other whites milling about, studying the wares, or poking and pinching Africans here or there so that black flesh suddenly turned white before the mark faded, kept their silence.
I looked over at my cousin, the sweat running down my forehead into my eyes and stinging, stinging.
“Is it always so hot in here?” I asked.
“The heat aside,” my cousin said, “what do you think of this?”
I shook my head, my entire body feeling inflamed by all that went on around us, blacks led around in their chains, white men shouting.
“I can see,” he said, “that you have not prepared yourself for this. Here.” My cousin reached into his coat pocket and came up with a silver flask, proffering it to me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Have a sip, sir, a sip only, and that will restore you.”
“Very well,” I said, and took a sip from the flask, feeling even greater heat and the heady moment afforded by the fine brandy contained therein.
I handed the flask back to my cousin, and he took a long swallow from the container, and, just before returning it to his coat, another.
“Tell me,” I said, over the din, “How much does it cost to buy a slave?” From another pocket he took out a piece of coarse paper on which some printing had been made and handed it to me.
OFFER OF SALE
Offered by Charles Tristman the following six slaves:
Maree, black girl 16 years old at $1250.00
Maryan, black girl 16 years old at $1250.00
Lucy, grif girl 14 years old at $1150.00
Bette, grif girl 14 years old at $1150.00
Jane, black girl 12 years old at $1000.00
James, black boy 14 years old at $1200.00
All of said slaves are warrant sound and healthy in body and in mind and slaves for life…
“What is a ‘grif girl’?” I asked.
“A slave of mixed blood,” my cousin said. “That is, white and African. A mixture that always improves the stock.”
My stomach turned at his words. While my cousin talked to me of high prices, of dollars, and the cost of a hardy male and the cost of a breeding female, I felt my temperature rise. After a few moments I thought I might, like some fragile female, fall to the ground in a faint.
“I am afraid I am feeling somewhat ill.”
“You are here to learn about our business,” he said, “and this is the first part of the first lesson.” Once more he offered me a drink from the flask. I hesitated, and he thrust the container at me, refusing to bend until I took another sip.
“Now,” he said, after taking another drink for himself and giving me a bullying stare, “New Yorkers are famous for being bold, are they not? Stand tall, Cousin. Look and listen.”
Thus, despite my fear that I might succumb to my growing misery, we stayed. With my mind abuzz from the powerful brandy I watched and groaned as the noise grew louder and the bosses urged first one and then another and another black in chains up onto the platform in the center of the building, shouting out names and prices and qualities. Vile sweat and fearful breath drenched the air and as bodies glistened in the heat men moved forward to press and study the flesh and bones of the darker people—some with mouths open in silent prayer, others muttering curses, most of
The white men, some of them of a company arranging the sales, shouted the blacks down, while other whites milling about, studying the wares, or poking and pinching Africans here or there so that black flesh suddenly turned white before the mark faded, kept their silence.
I looked over at my cousin, the sweat running down my forehead into my eyes and stinging, stinging.
“Is it always so hot in here?” I asked.
“The heat aside,” my cousin said, “what do you think of this?”
I shook my head, my entire body feeling inflamed by all that went on around us, blacks led around in their chains, white men shouting.
“I can see,” he said, “that you have not prepared yourself for this. Here.” My cousin reached into his coat pocket and came up with a silver flask, proffering it to me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Have a sip, sir, a sip only, and that will restore you.”
“Very well,” I said, and took a sip from the flask, feeling even greater heat and the heady moment afforded by the fine brandy contained therein.
I handed the flask back to my cousin, and he took a long swallow from the container, and, just before returning it to his coat, another.
“Tell me,” I said, over the din, “How much does it cost to buy a slave?” From another pocket he took out a piece of coarse paper on which some printing had been made and handed it to me.
OFFER OF SALE
Offered by Charles Tristman the following six slaves:
Maree, black girl 16 years old at $1250.00
Maryan, black girl 16 years old at $1250.00
Lucy, grif girl 14 years old at $1150.00
Bette, grif girl 14 years old at $1150.00
Jane, black girl 12 years old at $1000.00
James, black boy 14 years old at $1200.00
All of said slaves are warrant sound and healthy in body and in mind and slaves for life…
“What is a ‘grif girl’?” I asked.
“A slave of mixed blood,” my cousin said. “That is, white and African. A mixture that always improves the stock.”
My stomach turned at his words. While my cousin talked to me of high prices, of dollars, and the cost of a hardy male and the cost of a breeding female, I felt my temperature rise. After a few moments I thought I might, like some fragile female, fall to the ground in a faint.
“I am afraid I am feeling somewhat ill.”
“You are here to learn about our business,” he said, “and this is the first part of the first lesson.” Once more he offered me a drink from the flask. I hesitated, and he thrust the container at me, refusing to bend until I took another sip.
“Now,” he said, after taking another drink for himself and giving me a bullying stare, “New Yorkers are famous for being bold, are they not? Stand tall, Cousin. Look and listen.”
Thus, despite my fear that I might succumb to my growing misery, we stayed. With my mind abuzz from the powerful brandy I watched and groaned as the noise grew louder and the bosses urged first one and then another and another black in chains up onto the platform in the center of the building, shouting out names and prices and qualities. Vile sweat and fearful breath drenched the air and as bodies glistened in the heat men moved forward to press and study the flesh and bones of the darker people—some with mouths open in silent prayer, others muttering curses, most of
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