Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [22]
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 them silent, mouths clenched.
One man bid a slave to raise his arms, one at a time, over his head. Another asked a woman to turn and turn as he gazed at her breasts (and I gazed at him gazing and then gazed back at her, feeling myself become aroused, and scolding myself for that). And there in the middle of it I saw an unwanted if familiar figure, the man from New Jersey, still cloaked all in black, moving in a studious manner from slave to slave, the young black boy tagging along behind him. As if he felt my eyes on him he turned and stared directly at me.
“Young New Yorker!” he called out. “We have some things to discuss!”
“Do you know that man?” my cousin said.
“From the voyage here,” I said.
“I have seen him before,” my cousin said.
The din grew louder as my cousin appeared to study the man for a few moments, and then turned to me. I felt even more unsteady on my feet and motioned to my cousin, himself