another.
Joanna stayed out of the talk, knowing it would do her no good to sham illness just to spite the Georgia traders. The little bit of injury she would do them was not worth ripping open her back again. But before the plotting could begin in earnest, the smell of their long-delayed rations cut through the filth of the prison, and the group pressed forward against the bars. Joanna made sure the two young brothers received their share of bread and cold salt pork before settling down with her own portion. It was the best meal they had been offered in weeks, and the barracoon was silent except for the sound of ravenous eating and the distant sounds of the city on the other side of the wall.
It seemed only minutes later that the traders took them fromthe cell and back outside. Blinking in the sunlight, Joanna shaded her eyes and regarded the busy street corner with only a small stirring of the nervousness that had struck her the previous day. The colored folk passing by were better dressed here than in the country; some carried the tools of their trades, some wore tin or brass badges engraved with names and numbers pinned to their jackets, and others walked with the confidence of free men. Perhaps they were free, Joanna thought, remembering her old plans to earn enough money with her needle to buy her freedom. Perhaps such dreams were possible here.
“Where they taking us?” she asked the older man with gray in his hair as they were led toward a building with a high arched entryway flanked by octagonal pillars.
“Do it matter?” he retorted as they passed through a large iron gate and entered the market proper, a single large room with a high ceiling. “This here’s Charleston, and this here’s the auction block.”
“But…” Joanna glanced from the trader at the head of their group to the one following behind. Neither paid her any attention, and she did not want to call attention to herself, so she looked away despite her misgivings. “I ain’t supposed to be here.”
The older man snorted. “I ain’t supposed to be here neither. I’m supposed to be in my cabin in Virginia, with my wife cooking me up something from her garden. But here I am, and here you are, and that’s that.”
Her heart pounding, Joanna expected to find a crowd of eager buyers waiting for them, but the market was empty except for one slave boy who sat on the ground cradling a drum. At a signal from one of the traders, the boy began to beat out a rhythm, and the slaves were ordered to dance and jump up and down.
Bewildered, Joanna complied, watching the Georgia tradersthrough downcast eyes and shying away from the strange paddle they used instead of a whip on any slaves who did not exert themselves sufficiently. Less than an hour later, she and the other slaves were herded back into the barracoon, where rations were brought to them, more food than she had been given at one sitting since leaving Elm Creek Farm. While they devoured the meal, a doctor came around and inspected them, one by one. The doctor’s cool gaze lingered on her scarred cheek, but he told the Georgia traders there was nothing he could do for an old burn. After the doctor left, the slaves were left to themselves until evening, when they were again taken to the market and made to exercise, and again brought back indoors for a full if plain meal.
Day after day they were put through the same routine. The wounds the cuffs and chains had left on Joanna’s ankles healed, and her dress no longer hung slack. Looking upon the others as they danced and jumped to the sound of the beating drum, their muscles toned and skin gleaming, Joanna saw few lingering signs of their journey south with the Georgia traders, and she knew that potential buyers were not meant to know how roughly the slaves had been treated.
Then a day came when the Georgia traders inspected them carefully, ordered gray hairs plucked from some of the older slaves, oiled the young girls’ hair, and gave
Joanna stayed out of the talk, knowing it would do her no good to sham illness just to spite the Georgia traders. The little bit of injury she would do them was not worth ripping open her back again. But before the plotting could begin in earnest, the smell of their long-delayed rations cut through the filth of the prison, and the group pressed forward against the bars. Joanna made sure the two young brothers received their share of bread and cold salt pork before settling down with her own portion. It was the best meal they had been offered in weeks, and the barracoon was silent except for the sound of ravenous eating and the distant sounds of the city on the other side of the wall.
It seemed only minutes later that the traders took them fromthe cell and back outside. Blinking in the sunlight, Joanna shaded her eyes and regarded the busy street corner with only a small stirring of the nervousness that had struck her the previous day. The colored folk passing by were better dressed here than in the country; some carried the tools of their trades, some wore tin or brass badges engraved with names and numbers pinned to their jackets, and others walked with the confidence of free men. Perhaps they were free, Joanna thought, remembering her old plans to earn enough money with her needle to buy her freedom. Perhaps such dreams were possible here.
“Where they taking us?” she asked the older man with gray in his hair as they were led toward a building with a high arched entryway flanked by octagonal pillars.
“Do it matter?” he retorted as they passed through a large iron gate and entered the market proper, a single large room with a high ceiling. “This here’s Charleston, and this here’s the auction block.”
“But…” Joanna glanced from the trader at the head of their group to the one following behind. Neither paid her any attention, and she did not want to call attention to herself, so she looked away despite her misgivings. “I ain’t supposed to be here.”
The older man snorted. “I ain’t supposed to be here neither. I’m supposed to be in my cabin in Virginia, with my wife cooking me up something from her garden. But here I am, and here you are, and that’s that.”
Her heart pounding, Joanna expected to find a crowd of eager buyers waiting for them, but the market was empty except for one slave boy who sat on the ground cradling a drum. At a signal from one of the traders, the boy began to beat out a rhythm, and the slaves were ordered to dance and jump up and down.
Bewildered, Joanna complied, watching the Georgia tradersthrough downcast eyes and shying away from the strange paddle they used instead of a whip on any slaves who did not exert themselves sufficiently. Less than an hour later, she and the other slaves were herded back into the barracoon, where rations were brought to them, more food than she had been given at one sitting since leaving Elm Creek Farm. While they devoured the meal, a doctor came around and inspected them, one by one. The doctor’s cool gaze lingered on her scarred cheek, but he told the Georgia traders there was nothing he could do for an old burn. After the doctor left, the slaves were left to themselves until evening, when they were again taken to the market and made to exercise, and again brought back indoors for a full if plain meal.
Day after day they were put through the same routine. The wounds the cuffs and chains had left on Joanna’s ankles healed, and her dress no longer hung slack. Looking upon the others as they danced and jumped to the sound of the beating drum, their muscles toned and skin gleaming, Joanna saw few lingering signs of their journey south with the Georgia traders, and she knew that potential buyers were not meant to know how roughly the slaves had been treated.
Then a day came when the Georgia traders inspected them carefully, ordered gray hairs plucked from some of the older slaves, oiled the young girls’ hair, and gave
Similar Books
