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Part 2
The Wilderness
Chapter 4
Auction—1800 A.D.
Auction—1800 A.D.
When Moses started up the steps to the auction block, the chain binding his ankles caught and he nearly fell. Large hands grabbed him from behind and yanked him upright.
"Watch your step, boy," a gruff voice said. "You won't fetch much with your head busted wide open."
Moses looked up the steps. Taking a deep breath, he drew in the sweet, spicy, tang of cured tobacco. He couldn't see anything but the roof beams high above, where bundles of tobacco leaf hung every fall. But the New Year had come and the latest crop was gone, barged down the Pasquotank River to the Albemarle Sound for shipment to England and points beyond. The rafters were bare.
Between Moses and the ceiling, shafts of brilliant sunlight pierced through wide chinks between the wallboards, illuminating the interior of the large building. Dust motes sparkled as they danced in the air currents, like moths in firelight. For a moment, Moses had the sensation of standing in dense woods, sunbeams dappling through rustling leaves. He almost expected to hear the trilling of birds as he started up the steps.
Numb with bone-aching stiffness from sleeping on the cold ground, and weak from not having had anything to eat that morning, nothing seemed real to Moses. The smell of tobacco leaf—the smell of home—made him feel safe, as though he was truly in that pleasant grove of dancing sunbeams.
His head came up level with the platform. Wispy white clouds rose from the other side. From somewhere, he heard a soothing murmur, like rain on the roof of Mama's shack. Was he dreaming?
Another step, and he saw the heads of many white men. The murmur of falling water turned out to be their low-voiced conversation. The clouds were cigar and pipe smoke, rising in the cool air.
The men milled about in front of the auction block, talking, gesturing, spitting, and smoking. Most wore the sturdy clothing and floppy hats of farmers, but a couple of them wore coats and ties—Sunday go-to-meeting clothes Mama called them. Moses recognized a few of the men, those that had holdings near the Grandy farm, but most were unknown to him. He went up the last two stair treads and stepped off.
A small, gangly boy with chestnut-colored skin, Moses was the last of the slaves put on the block today. He stared at his feet, as he always did in front of whites, but someone reached up from behind the block and popped his pants leg with a switch. "Keep your head up, boy."
At the sound, many of the men turned and looked up at Moses. Most seemed disinterested, but some stared appraisingly.
Moses was being put up "for hire." The hiring-out auction was always held at the beginning of the year. The year 1800 had started the day before, Moses knew. All the whites had been talking about the new century for weeks beforehand. It was supposed to be important for some reason.
Moses took small comfort that they weren't selling him "down the river," to join the labor force in the deep south, where cotton plantations needed more slaves because of some new invention called a "cotton gin." Being sold away to the Deep South was akin to going to Hell, the older slaves said, because no one would ever come back from either place.
But even though he was only going to be hired out, just being on the block was enough to scare the begeesus out of him. Not to mention having shackles on his legs, the sheriff's way of making sure he didn't run. Moses couldn't help but think of all his older brothers and sisters, sold in years past. Moses had always known he was property; Mama had told him often enough. But being appraised by the callous eyes of prospective masters hammered it home.
Moses had hoped never to be on the auction block at all. But old Master Grandy had died a couple of years back and Moses had been left to Master James. Since Master James was a minor, he wasn't judged fit to handle slaves, so the state had taken over.
North Carolina law required that the slaves of a minor be hired out, year-by-year, until the young master reached adulthood. The white men of Camden County had gathered here today to hire slaves for a one-year term; the money would be paid to the young masters—minus the state's auction tax, of course.
Not all the slaves belonged to minor masters, though. Some were the slaves of adults who wanted the cash money from hiring their workers out, rather than work the slaves themselves.
The auctioneer, a bald, portly man with a gray goatee, had been talking to another man below the action block, but now he brought himself to the business at hand.
"Gentlemen, may I have your attention please," he called out to the men. When they'd grown quiet, he continued. "Last on the block, we have a slave belonging to young James Grandy. This is his first hiring-out, but you can see he's a sturdy lad, sure to give good measure for the money you put up. Who'll give forty dollars to get a year's work out of him?"
No one spoke up. Some of the white men smirked and raised their eyebrows to show that they considered forty dollars too steep, although some of the bigger, stronger slaves had brought nearly a hundred, earlier in the day. Moses noticed that several of the men were walking away. They had little interest in a scrawny boy.
"Come now," the auctioneer said. "I realize this slave is a bit on the young side, but you can see he's strong and hearty. He's from the Grandy farm and you know they take care of their slaves."
"Mollycoddle them, you mean," a man called. Laughter ran through the crowd.
"Be that as it may," the auctioneer answered, "this boy stands before you today without a lash mark on his hide, sound in body and ready to work. Who'll start us out with a bid of thirty-five dollars a year?"
No one spoke and Moses began to hope. What would happen if nobody wanted him? Would he be allowed to go home?
"Hell, I'll bid thirty," a man said. "He's not worth a cent more."
The words cut into Moses like a whip. He glanced down to see who had bid on him and his stomach curdled. Jemmy Coates! A big, fat farmer, he was said to be quick with a boot, fist, or whip.
"Thank you, Mister Coates," Moses heard the auctioneer say. "I have a bid of thirty, who'll give me thirty-five?"
With a screech, one side of the big double doors of the warehouse swung outward and several men walked out, leaving the door ajar.
"Come, gentlemen," the auctioneer said. "Surely this boy is worth thirty-five dollars."
Over the crowd of white men, through the partially open door, Moses could see a line of trees to the northwest. Beyond, he knew, was the Great Dismal Swamp. Moses wished he could run away to the swamp, like Mama had used to do when Master Grandy wanted to sell one of her children. Once in the swamp, maybe Moses could have joined the maroons. They did all right, he'd heard. They camped out on hummocks above the mire, living on nuts, berries, muskrats, terrapins and frogs, drinking the brown, bittersweet water that was said to stave off most diseases and give long life.
"Come now." The auctioneer's impatient voice brought Moses back to the auction. "Who'll give me thirty-five for the services of this fine young buck? Let's hear from someone who can use such a boy. Step forward, if you wish and check his teeth, feel his muscles."
Moses didn't like to be reminded of how the men had come to the outside pen earlier, inspecting the merchandise. He had been poked and prodded every which way.
"Tarnation, Luther," a well-dressed, weasel-like man called out. He scratched the crotch of his trousers and grinned. "I'll bid thirty-five just to shut you up."
Everyone in the crowd laughed and someone clapped the speaker on the shoulder.
"It'll take a mite more than thirty-five dollars to shut me up, Enoch Sawyer," the auctioneer said.
Again there was laughter and the auctioneer, Luther, swung right back to the same pitch, this time asking for forty dollars.
Moses had heard of Enoch Sawyer, another hard man—the worst of the lot, according to rumors.
Time and misery dragged on and nobody else bid. The auctioneer said, "Going once!" He paused. "Going twice!" A lump grew in Moses' throat. He would end up going to Enoch Sawyer, it appeared. But, at the last minute, a graying, heavy-set man with a thick mustache said, "I'll pay thee thirty-eight, Luther. He's small, but I have use for him."
The man looked odd, wearing a black frock coat over a gray shirt with a white collar. He also wore a round, broad-brimmed hat. Moses wondered why the man dressed so differently. His face was all angles and harshness.
Luther acknowledged the bid and then went back into his spiel, asking for forty dollars. No one was willing to go that high. He banged a hammer down and said, "Hired out for thirty-eight dollars to Mister Joshua Kemp."
As Moses climbed down from the block, he found himself trembling. He'd never seen nor heard of this man who'd bought his services for a year. He wondered if his mother was still crying, as she'd done when they'd taken him away.
After paying the clerk who sat near the auction block, Moses' new owner walked up and appraised him with flashing, green eyes that took the harshness from his face. "Dost thou have a name, boy?"
"Moses, Master," he mumbled. Why was the man talking so funny?
The man's eyes went cold and he drew back as though Moses had insulted him. "I am Mister Kemp. Thou art never to call me 'master,' for the Society of Friends disapproves of slavery and I would never own a slave. Hiring a slave is different, however, in my opinion. I could do with an extra hand at my place, and have decided to take thee on."
Moses nodded to show he understood. He felt like he should say something, but had never had the chance to talk to white folks other than the Grandys, and didn't quite know what to say. Especially since he was confused about Mister Kemp's funny way of talking.
Mister Kemp gave a fleeting, thin-lipped smile. "Good. Thou wilt do."
Then he looked down at Moses' legs and his eyes went hard again. He turned to the nearby deputy and said, "Remove this boy's shackles." Moses noticed that Mister Kemp's fists were clenched as though he was mad about something.
The deputy gestured to a a nearby white man, who came toward Moses with a large key. Spitting a stream of tobacco on the dirt floor, the deputy turned and walked away, muttering, "Damn nigger lover."
After the shackles were off, Mister Kemp led Moses from the warehouse and took him to a building he had often seen, but never entered. Mister Furley went into the town's only store and came back out with a small, paper-wrapped package, topped off with a pair of shoes. He handed everything to Moses and said, "Go around back, boy, and put these on. Thou art about to bust out of thy pants and thou art too old to be going about where ladyfolks might see."
It took Moses a moment to realize what was happening, since no one had ever given him anything before. Then he remembered that, when a white man hired a slave for the year, he was required to buy clothing for the slave.
On unsteady legs, Moses hurried around to the rear of the store, set the shoes on the ground, and ripped open the bundle. He found package contained two new shirts, new brown pants, and a soft, floppy hat. The shirts had long sleeves, so maybe Moses wouldn't be as cold this winter. He stripped and donned the only new clothing he'd ever had, and then pulled on the shoes. They weren't new, but hand-me-downs. Still, they made him feel grown up, since they were the first shoes he'd ever worn. Being hired out might be a good thing after all. He rolled up his old clothes, though, just in case.
When he got back to the wagon, a white boy stood next to Mister Kemp. He looked to be about two years older than Moses, and a lot bigger, with a body like a solid log. His brown eyes were close-set below heavy brow ridges, his nose large and bulbous above full, pouting lips. He wore farmer's clothes, so Moses figured him to be Mister Kemp's son.
As Moses neared, Mister Kemp gestured toward him.
"Chadwick, this is Moses. I've hired him to help thee with the mules."
Chadwick's jaw dropped. He had been looking at Moses like he was rotting meat, but now he whirled to look at Mister Kemp. "You hired a nigger?"
Mister Kemp raised a finger. "I have told thee not to use that word. Thou should say, 'colored,' or, 'Negro.'"
Chadwick ignored the rebuke. "I don't need any help. Not somebody like him."
"Never thou mind, Chadwick," said Mister Kemp. "I have hired him and that is the end of the matter."
Minutes later, Moses walked behind Mister Kemp's wagon as it rolled out of town. Chadwick rode up on the seat with Mister Kemp, looking back every now and then with contempt clear on his face.
They went in the opposite direction from the Grandy farm, so the rutted dirt track was foreign to Moses, even though it didn't look much different from any other road. He'd never been farther than town—gracious, he'd only been to town twice before and he'd never been in any of the stores, though he'd looked in the windows. He'd seen piles of fancy goods, stuff only rich people could afford. Mister Kemp must be rich; he'd not flinched about the cost of dressing his new worker. Besides, his loaded wagon was drawn by two matching brown mules, two of the finest animals Moses had ever seen. Mules were new to the county, and cost more than most horses, he had heard.
By the time they'd gone a mile or so, Moses' feet hurt. The shoes were too big and rubbed below his anklebones with every step, where the shackles had dug in earlier. It chafed him something terrible. He would have liked to take them off and go barefoot for a while, but wondered if that might be disrespectful of Mister Kemp, him having bought these shoes. And Mister Kemp had said to show respect at all times.
So he trudged along, wincing at every step, hoping Mister Kemp would feed him when they reached wherever they were going.
"Watch your step, boy," a gruff voice said. "You won't fetch much with your head busted wide open."
Moses looked up the steps. Taking a deep breath, he drew in the sweet, spicy, tang of cured tobacco. He couldn't see anything but the roof beams high above, where bundles of tobacco leaf hung every fall. But the New Year had come and the latest crop was gone, barged down the Pasquotank River to the Albemarle Sound for shipment to England and points beyond. The rafters were bare.
Between Moses and the ceiling, shafts of brilliant sunlight pierced through wide chinks between the wallboards, illuminating the interior of the large building. Dust motes sparkled as they danced in the air currents, like moths in firelight. For a moment, Moses had the sensation of standing in dense woods, sunbeams dappling through rustling leaves. He almost expected to hear the trilling of birds as he started up the steps.
Numb with bone-aching stiffness from sleeping on the cold ground, and weak from not having had anything to eat that morning, nothing seemed real to Moses. The smell of tobacco leaf—the smell of home—made him feel safe, as though he was truly in that pleasant grove of dancing sunbeams.
His head came up level with the platform. Wispy white clouds rose from the other side. From somewhere, he heard a soothing murmur, like rain on the roof of Mama's shack. Was he dreaming?
Another step, and he saw the heads of many white men. The murmur of falling water turned out to be their low-voiced conversation. The clouds were cigar and pipe smoke, rising in the cool air.
The men milled about in front of the auction block, talking, gesturing, spitting, and smoking. Most wore the sturdy clothing and floppy hats of farmers, but a couple of them wore coats and ties—Sunday go-to-meeting clothes Mama called them. Moses recognized a few of the men, those that had holdings near the Grandy farm, but most were unknown to him. He went up the last two stair treads and stepped off.
A small, gangly boy with chestnut-colored skin, Moses was the last of the slaves put on the block today. He stared at his feet, as he always did in front of whites, but someone reached up from behind the block and popped his pants leg with a switch. "Keep your head up, boy."
At the sound, many of the men turned and looked up at Moses. Most seemed disinterested, but some stared appraisingly.
Moses was being put up "for hire." The hiring-out auction was always held at the beginning of the year. The year 1800 had started the day before, Moses knew. All the whites had been talking about the new century for weeks beforehand. It was supposed to be important for some reason.
Moses took small comfort that they weren't selling him "down the river," to join the labor force in the deep south, where cotton plantations needed more slaves because of some new invention called a "cotton gin." Being sold away to the Deep South was akin to going to Hell, the older slaves said, because no one would ever come back from either place.
But even though he was only going to be hired out, just being on the block was enough to scare the begeesus out of him. Not to mention having shackles on his legs, the sheriff's way of making sure he didn't run. Moses couldn't help but think of all his older brothers and sisters, sold in years past. Moses had always known he was property; Mama had told him often enough. But being appraised by the callous eyes of prospective masters hammered it home.
Moses had hoped never to be on the auction block at all. But old Master Grandy had died a couple of years back and Moses had been left to Master James. Since Master James was a minor, he wasn't judged fit to handle slaves, so the state had taken over.
North Carolina law required that the slaves of a minor be hired out, year-by-year, until the young master reached adulthood. The white men of Camden County had gathered here today to hire slaves for a one-year term; the money would be paid to the young masters—minus the state's auction tax, of course.
Not all the slaves belonged to minor masters, though. Some were the slaves of adults who wanted the cash money from hiring their workers out, rather than work the slaves themselves.
The auctioneer, a bald, portly man with a gray goatee, had been talking to another man below the action block, but now he brought himself to the business at hand.
"Gentlemen, may I have your attention please," he called out to the men. When they'd grown quiet, he continued. "Last on the block, we have a slave belonging to young James Grandy. This is his first hiring-out, but you can see he's a sturdy lad, sure to give good measure for the money you put up. Who'll give forty dollars to get a year's work out of him?"
No one spoke up. Some of the white men smirked and raised their eyebrows to show that they considered forty dollars too steep, although some of the bigger, stronger slaves had brought nearly a hundred, earlier in the day. Moses noticed that several of the men were walking away. They had little interest in a scrawny boy.
"Come now," the auctioneer said. "I realize this slave is a bit on the young side, but you can see he's strong and hearty. He's from the Grandy farm and you know they take care of their slaves."
"Mollycoddle them, you mean," a man called. Laughter ran through the crowd.
"Be that as it may," the auctioneer answered, "this boy stands before you today without a lash mark on his hide, sound in body and ready to work. Who'll start us out with a bid of thirty-five dollars a year?"
No one spoke and Moses began to hope. What would happen if nobody wanted him? Would he be allowed to go home?
"Hell, I'll bid thirty," a man said. "He's not worth a cent more."
The words cut into Moses like a whip. He glanced down to see who had bid on him and his stomach curdled. Jemmy Coates! A big, fat farmer, he was said to be quick with a boot, fist, or whip.
"Thank you, Mister Coates," Moses heard the auctioneer say. "I have a bid of thirty, who'll give me thirty-five?"
With a screech, one side of the big double doors of the warehouse swung outward and several men walked out, leaving the door ajar.
"Come, gentlemen," the auctioneer said. "Surely this boy is worth thirty-five dollars."
Over the crowd of white men, through the partially open door, Moses could see a line of trees to the northwest. Beyond, he knew, was the Great Dismal Swamp. Moses wished he could run away to the swamp, like Mama had used to do when Master Grandy wanted to sell one of her children. Once in the swamp, maybe Moses could have joined the maroons. They did all right, he'd heard. They camped out on hummocks above the mire, living on nuts, berries, muskrats, terrapins and frogs, drinking the brown, bittersweet water that was said to stave off most diseases and give long life.
"Come now." The auctioneer's impatient voice brought Moses back to the auction. "Who'll give me thirty-five for the services of this fine young buck? Let's hear from someone who can use such a boy. Step forward, if you wish and check his teeth, feel his muscles."
Moses didn't like to be reminded of how the men had come to the outside pen earlier, inspecting the merchandise. He had been poked and prodded every which way.
"Tarnation, Luther," a well-dressed, weasel-like man called out. He scratched the crotch of his trousers and grinned. "I'll bid thirty-five just to shut you up."
Everyone in the crowd laughed and someone clapped the speaker on the shoulder.
"It'll take a mite more than thirty-five dollars to shut me up, Enoch Sawyer," the auctioneer said.
Again there was laughter and the auctioneer, Luther, swung right back to the same pitch, this time asking for forty dollars.
Moses had heard of Enoch Sawyer, another hard man—the worst of the lot, according to rumors.
Time and misery dragged on and nobody else bid. The auctioneer said, "Going once!" He paused. "Going twice!" A lump grew in Moses' throat. He would end up going to Enoch Sawyer, it appeared. But, at the last minute, a graying, heavy-set man with a thick mustache said, "I'll pay thee thirty-eight, Luther. He's small, but I have use for him."
The man looked odd, wearing a black frock coat over a gray shirt with a white collar. He also wore a round, broad-brimmed hat. Moses wondered why the man dressed so differently. His face was all angles and harshness.
Luther acknowledged the bid and then went back into his spiel, asking for forty dollars. No one was willing to go that high. He banged a hammer down and said, "Hired out for thirty-eight dollars to Mister Joshua Kemp."
As Moses climbed down from the block, he found himself trembling. He'd never seen nor heard of this man who'd bought his services for a year. He wondered if his mother was still crying, as she'd done when they'd taken him away.
After paying the clerk who sat near the auction block, Moses' new owner walked up and appraised him with flashing, green eyes that took the harshness from his face. "Dost thou have a name, boy?"
"Moses, Master," he mumbled. Why was the man talking so funny?
The man's eyes went cold and he drew back as though Moses had insulted him. "I am Mister Kemp. Thou art never to call me 'master,' for the Society of Friends disapproves of slavery and I would never own a slave. Hiring a slave is different, however, in my opinion. I could do with an extra hand at my place, and have decided to take thee on."
Moses nodded to show he understood. He felt like he should say something, but had never had the chance to talk to white folks other than the Grandys, and didn't quite know what to say. Especially since he was confused about Mister Kemp's funny way of talking.
Mister Kemp gave a fleeting, thin-lipped smile. "Good. Thou wilt do."
Then he looked down at Moses' legs and his eyes went hard again. He turned to the nearby deputy and said, "Remove this boy's shackles." Moses noticed that Mister Kemp's fists were clenched as though he was mad about something.
The deputy gestured to a a nearby white man, who came toward Moses with a large key. Spitting a stream of tobacco on the dirt floor, the deputy turned and walked away, muttering, "Damn nigger lover."
After the shackles were off, Mister Kemp led Moses from the warehouse and took him to a building he had often seen, but never entered. Mister Furley went into the town's only store and came back out with a small, paper-wrapped package, topped off with a pair of shoes. He handed everything to Moses and said, "Go around back, boy, and put these on. Thou art about to bust out of thy pants and thou art too old to be going about where ladyfolks might see."
It took Moses a moment to realize what was happening, since no one had ever given him anything before. Then he remembered that, when a white man hired a slave for the year, he was required to buy clothing for the slave.
On unsteady legs, Moses hurried around to the rear of the store, set the shoes on the ground, and ripped open the bundle. He found package contained two new shirts, new brown pants, and a soft, floppy hat. The shirts had long sleeves, so maybe Moses wouldn't be as cold this winter. He stripped and donned the only new clothing he'd ever had, and then pulled on the shoes. They weren't new, but hand-me-downs. Still, they made him feel grown up, since they were the first shoes he'd ever worn. Being hired out might be a good thing after all. He rolled up his old clothes, though, just in case.
When he got back to the wagon, a white boy stood next to Mister Kemp. He looked to be about two years older than Moses, and a lot bigger, with a body like a solid log. His brown eyes were close-set below heavy brow ridges, his nose large and bulbous above full, pouting lips. He wore farmer's clothes, so Moses figured him to be Mister Kemp's son.
As Moses neared, Mister Kemp gestured toward him.
"Chadwick, this is Moses. I've hired him to help thee with the mules."
Chadwick's jaw dropped. He had been looking at Moses like he was rotting meat, but now he whirled to look at Mister Kemp. "You hired a nigger?"
Mister Kemp raised a finger. "I have told thee not to use that word. Thou should say, 'colored,' or, 'Negro.'"
Chadwick ignored the rebuke. "I don't need any help. Not somebody like him."
"Never thou mind, Chadwick," said Mister Kemp. "I have hired him and that is the end of the matter."
Minutes later, Moses walked behind Mister Kemp's wagon as it rolled out of town. Chadwick rode up on the seat with Mister Kemp, looking back every now and then with contempt clear on his face.
They went in the opposite direction from the Grandy farm, so the rutted dirt track was foreign to Moses, even though it didn't look much different from any other road. He'd never been farther than town—gracious, he'd only been to town twice before and he'd never been in any of the stores, though he'd looked in the windows. He'd seen piles of fancy goods, stuff only rich people could afford. Mister Kemp must be rich; he'd not flinched about the cost of dressing his new worker. Besides, his loaded wagon was drawn by two matching brown mules, two of the finest animals Moses had ever seen. Mules were new to the county, and cost more than most horses, he had heard.
By the time they'd gone a mile or so, Moses' feet hurt. The shoes were too big and rubbed below his anklebones with every step, where the shackles had dug in earlier. It chafed him something terrible. He would have liked to take them off and go barefoot for a while, but wondered if that might be disrespectful of Mister Kemp, him having bought these shoes. And Mister Kemp had said to show respect at all times.
So he trudged along, wincing at every step, hoping Mister Kemp would feed him when they reached wherever they were going.
AND REMEMBER THAT I AM A MAN
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