the most raggedly dressed among them new clothes. Joanna’s dress was washed and returned to her, and she submitted to having her hair neatly braided. Two of the Georgia traders studied her scar glumly, shook their heads, and agreed that nothing could be done.
Again they were led from the barracoon and through the high arched entryway of the market. Joanna’s heart pounded, for this time she heard a babble of voices within. As they passed through the octagonal pillars, the older slave, his gray hair now dyedblack, took her elbow and spoke close into her ear. “You a pretty, yellow thing except for that scar. You maybe got a chance. You look out for a nice-looking gentleman, one who got his wife with him. If he’s gentle and kind to his wife, he might be good to his slaves. You be sure to smile nice and tell him you a good worker. If you cry and moan and say you don’t want to go, well then he won’t take you, and you end up with some surly fellow who beat you day and night.”
Before Joanna could reply, the slaves were lined up near the wall and told to face the center of the room, where white men and a few white ladies had gathered. In the midst of the crowd, a man with a loud, booming voice invited the whites folks to inspect the slaves as thoroughly as they wished before the auction began. As the prospective buyers approached, Joanna glanced around frantically for the Georgia traders and spotted them climbing the stairs to a long platform on the far side of the room opposite the entrance. Engrossed in their preparations for the auctions, they had forgotten her.
All around her, white men—some dressed in fine suits, others in sturdier clothes, but all in their best whatever their station in life—examined likely purchases. Their ladies looked on from a discreet distance, apart from the fray, murmuring to one another, offering a deferential opinion to their husbands when asked. Joanna’s companions were ordered to show their teeth, to walk back and forth, touch their toes, stoop and bend, while the whites studied them sharply for hidden defects. Some of the white men looked coolly indifferent as they inspected the merchandise; others looked stern or suspicious as if wary of being cheated. One portly middle-aged gentleman wearing a gold watch on a chain strolled past the line of slaves with his wife on his arm. Laugh lines creased the corners of the woman’s eyes, and when she stumbled on a loose stone, her husband quickly steadied her and said something to make her smile warmly up at him.
Beside her, the man from Maryland drew himself up and stepped forward. “Look at me, sir,” he called to the portly white planter. “Name’s Elijah. I got a strong arms and a stronger back. You won’t find any man here better than me, and that’s the truth, sir. I pick tobacco nearly twenty years, since I was a boy, and I done a little smithy work too.”
The portly planter had only glanced his way at this declaration, but at a word from his wife, he stopped and looked Elijah over. “You’ve worked as a smith, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Little bit of carpentry too. This here’s my wife, Sarah.” Urgently he beckoned her forward; she bobbed a quick curtsy and gave the couple a trembling, apprehensive smile. “She’s a fine cook and a laundress.”
The planter shook his head regretfully. “We’re only in need of a strong field hand or two.”
“Sarah’ll give you a full day’s work in the fields good as most men,” Elijah burst out before the planter could move on. He reached behind his wife and pulled their young daughter to the front. She seized her mother’s hand and peered up at the planter fearfully. “This our girl, Molly,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “She’s just a little thing now but she’s strong. She already know how to hoe a garden and mind babies. She’s a good girl, sir, and she don’t eat much. Please, marse, sir.”
Suddenly Joanna felt a sharp pinch on her arm as a
Again they were led from the barracoon and through the high arched entryway of the market. Joanna’s heart pounded, for this time she heard a babble of voices within. As they passed through the octagonal pillars, the older slave, his gray hair now dyedblack, took her elbow and spoke close into her ear. “You a pretty, yellow thing except for that scar. You maybe got a chance. You look out for a nice-looking gentleman, one who got his wife with him. If he’s gentle and kind to his wife, he might be good to his slaves. You be sure to smile nice and tell him you a good worker. If you cry and moan and say you don’t want to go, well then he won’t take you, and you end up with some surly fellow who beat you day and night.”
Before Joanna could reply, the slaves were lined up near the wall and told to face the center of the room, where white men and a few white ladies had gathered. In the midst of the crowd, a man with a loud, booming voice invited the whites folks to inspect the slaves as thoroughly as they wished before the auction began. As the prospective buyers approached, Joanna glanced around frantically for the Georgia traders and spotted them climbing the stairs to a long platform on the far side of the room opposite the entrance. Engrossed in their preparations for the auctions, they had forgotten her.
All around her, white men—some dressed in fine suits, others in sturdier clothes, but all in their best whatever their station in life—examined likely purchases. Their ladies looked on from a discreet distance, apart from the fray, murmuring to one another, offering a deferential opinion to their husbands when asked. Joanna’s companions were ordered to show their teeth, to walk back and forth, touch their toes, stoop and bend, while the whites studied them sharply for hidden defects. Some of the white men looked coolly indifferent as they inspected the merchandise; others looked stern or suspicious as if wary of being cheated. One portly middle-aged gentleman wearing a gold watch on a chain strolled past the line of slaves with his wife on his arm. Laugh lines creased the corners of the woman’s eyes, and when she stumbled on a loose stone, her husband quickly steadied her and said something to make her smile warmly up at him.
Beside her, the man from Maryland drew himself up and stepped forward. “Look at me, sir,” he called to the portly white planter. “Name’s Elijah. I got a strong arms and a stronger back. You won’t find any man here better than me, and that’s the truth, sir. I pick tobacco nearly twenty years, since I was a boy, and I done a little smithy work too.”
The portly planter had only glanced his way at this declaration, but at a word from his wife, he stopped and looked Elijah over. “You’ve worked as a smith, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Little bit of carpentry too. This here’s my wife, Sarah.” Urgently he beckoned her forward; she bobbed a quick curtsy and gave the couple a trembling, apprehensive smile. “She’s a fine cook and a laundress.”
The planter shook his head regretfully. “We’re only in need of a strong field hand or two.”
“Sarah’ll give you a full day’s work in the fields good as most men,” Elijah burst out before the planter could move on. He reached behind his wife and pulled their young daughter to the front. She seized her mother’s hand and peered up at the planter fearfully. “This our girl, Molly,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “She’s just a little thing now but she’s strong. She already know how to hoe a garden and mind babies. She’s a good girl, sir, and she don’t eat much. Please, marse, sir.”
Suddenly Joanna felt a sharp pinch on her arm as a
Similar Books
