“You don’t need to lick me none, masser—you gots de law wid you,” Dock said. But before he answered, he measured his new owner with his eyes, saw that the Rivington man meant exactly what he said and could back it up without the law. He nodded, more man to man than slave to master, but respectfully nonetheless.
Caudell thought the Negro sensible to submit—if he was submitting and not shamming. If he was shamming, he’d likely regret it. Caudell had seen that the Rivington men were uncommon fighters.
More slaves went up on the block. Some did have scarred backs. A couple of them showed the marks of bullets. One black, when questioned, said he’d belonged to the 30th Connecticut and had taken his wound at Bealeton. That made Caudell frown, for Lee had ordered captured Negroes treated like any other prisoners. Someone had seen a profit in disobeying.
The Rivington men bought most of the slaves with bullet wounds, and got them cheap. The ones they didn’t buy, the Texans did. Caudell suspected they would try to unload their purchases on fellow westerners who were desperate for labor and who might not recognize a bullet scar when they saw one.
“Seventeenth on the list,” Josiah Beard said presently.” A fine tanner and bricklayer, named Westly, a griffe aged twenty-four years.” Westly, who stood beside him, was slightly lighter of skin than most who had preceded him; griffes carried one part white blood to three black.
The bidding was brisk. Raeford Liles raised his hand again and again. Caudell understood why: a slave with two such desirable skills as tanning and bricklaying would quickly be able to learn what he needed to help out at a general store, and would make Liles extra money when he rented him out around town.
But when the griffe’s price edged toward two thousand dollars, Liles dropped out with a frustrated snarl of disgust. A Rivington man and a fellow from Alabama or Mississippi bid against each other like a couple of men holding flushes in a poker game. Finally the man from the deep South gave up. “Sold for $1,950,” Josiah Beard shouted.
“Masser, you lets me keep some o’ my pay when you rents me, I works extra hard for you,” Westly said as his new owner came up to take him off the block.
The Rivington man laughed at him. “Who said anything about renting you, kaffir? You are going to work for me and for nobody else.” The griffe’s face fell, but he had no choice save going with the man who had bought him.
More field hands were sold, and then a prime bricklayer and mason, a black man named Anderson. The auctioneer beamed like the rising sun as the Negro’s price soared up and up. Again Raeford Liles bid, again he had to drop out. The fellow from the deep South who had bid on Westly ended up buying Anderson for $2,700 when the Rivington man who had been bidding against him abruptly quit. He did not look altogether happy as he went up to pay Josiah Beard. Caudell did not blame him. As someone in the crowd remarked, “Hellfire, you can buy yourself a Congressman for cheaper’n $2,700.”
After Beard disposed of an the male slaves on his list, he sold several women, some field hands like the men, others Cooks and seamstresses. “Here’s a Negro named Louisa,” he caned as yet another wench climbed up beside him. “She’s twenty-one years old, a number-one cook, and a prime breeder. Tell the gentlemen how many little niggers you’ve already had, Louisa.”
“I’s had fo’, suh,” she answered.
“She’s good for many more, too,” the auctioneer declared, “and every one pure profit to her owner. And she’s a good-tempered wench, too.” He turned her around, pulled down the top of her dress to display her clear back. She fetched Josiah Beard almost as much as Anderson had, and looked smug when the Texan who had bought her led her away. Some Negroes, Caudell knew, took pride in the high prices they brought. It made more than a little sense: an owner with a large investment in his animate property was likely to treat it better.
The slave trader looked out at his audience. A smile stole across his face. “Now, gentlemen, as the piece de resistance, I have to display for you a mulatto wench named Josephine, nineteen years old, and a fine hand with a needle.”
Caudell caught his breath as Josephine climbed up onto the platform beside Beard. He let it out again in a sudden, sharp cough. So did most of the men who saw her. She was worth every bit of that vocal admiration, and more. She might have had a trace of Indian blood as well as white and Negro; her cheekbones, her slightly slanted eyes, and the piquant arch of her nose argued for it. Her skin, perfectly smooth, was the precise color of coffee with cream.
“I’d like a piece o’ that, resistance or no resistance,” a man close by Caudell said hoarsely. The schoolteacher found himself nodding. The slave girl was simply stunning.
Instead of simply showing Josephine’s back, as he had with the other wenches, the auctioneer unbuttoned her dress and let it fall to the boards. She was bare under it. The coughs from the crowd doubled and doubled again. Her breasts, Caudell thought, would just fill a man’s hand; their small nipples made him think of sweet chocolate. Josiah Beard turned her around. She was as perfect from behind as from the front.
“Put your dress back on,” the auctioneer told her. As she stooped to obey, he called out, “Now, gentlemen, what am I bid?”
To Caudell’s surprise, the auction started slowly. After a moment, he understood: everyone knew how expensive she would be, and everyone was hesitant about risking his money. But Josephine’s price climbed steadily, past $1,500, past $2,000, past $2,500, past the $2,700 that had bought the skilled bricklayer and mason, past $3,000. Bidders dropped out one by one, with groans of regret.
“Three thousand one hundred and fifty,” Josiah Beard said at length. “Do I hear $3,200?” He looked to the Alabama man who had stayed in the auction all the way. The man from the deep South stared hungrily at Josephine, but in the end he shook his head. The slave trader puffed out his lips in a small sigh. “Anyone else for $3,200?” No one spoke. “Thirty-one fifty once.” A pause. “Thirty-one fifty twice.” Beard clapped his hands together. “Sold for $3,150. Come forward, sir, come forward.”
“Oh, I’m coming, never fear,” said the Rivington man who had just bought Josephine. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to show respect for someone who would pay so much for a chattel. The Rivington man reached into his knapsack, pulled out a paper-wrapped roll of gold coins, then another and another. “There’s a hundred and fifty ounces of gold,” he said, then opened yet another roll and counted out thirteen more. He passed the money to Beard, roll by roll and then coin by coin. When at last he was done, the slave trader had more than thirteen pounds of gold and a slightly sandbagged expression. Still matter-of-fact, the Rivington man said,” Along with the wench, you owe me eleven dollars.”
“Yes, sir,” Josiah Beard said, not even questioning the calculation. He peeled the money from the fat roll of bills he had collected over the course of the afternoon. “Let me have your name, sir, if you please, for the bill of sale.”
“I’m Piet Hardie. P-i-e-t H-a-r-d-i-e. Spell it right.”
“Let me have it again, sir, to make sure I do.” Beard wrote, then straightened and turned to Josephine. “Go on, girl, go to him. He bought you—you’re his.”
Moving with a grace that matched her beauty, Josephine descended from the auction block. Piet Hardie slipped an arm around her waist. She stood very straight, neither pulling away nor pressing herself against him. A collective sigh of envy went up from the crowd. The fellow from Alabama who had been the next-to-last bidder said, “Tell me, sir, what are you going to do with her now that you got her?”