CHAPTER VI.

FREEMAN'S INDUSTRY--CLEANLINESS AND CLOTHES--EXERCISING IN THE SHOW

ROOM--THE DANCE--BOB, THE FIDDLER--ARRIVAL OF CUSTOMERS--SLAVES

EXAMINED--THE OLD GENTLEMAN OF NEW-ORLEANS--SALE OF DAVID,

CAROLINE AND LETHE--PARTING OF RANDALL AND ELIZA--SMALL POX--THE

HOSPITAL--RECOVERY AND RETURN TO FREEMAN'S SLAVE PEN--THE PURCHASER

OF ELIZA, HARRY AND PLATT--ELIZA'S AGONY ON PARTING FROM LITTLE EMILY.

The very amiable, pious-hearted Mr. Theophilus Freeman, partner

or consignee of James H. Burch, and keeper of the slave pen in

New-Orleans, was out among his animals early in the morning. With an

occasional kick of the older men and women, and many a sharp crack of

the whip about the ears of the younger slaves, it was not long before

they were all astir, and wide awake. Mr. Theophilus Freeman bustled

about in a very industrious manner, getting his property ready for the

sales-room, intending, no doubt, to do that day a rousing business.

In the first place we were required to wash thoroughly, and those with

beards, to shave. We were then furnished with a new suit each, cheap,

but clean. The men had hat, coat, shirt, pants and shoes; the women

frocks of calico, and handkerchiefs to bind about their heads. We were

now conducted into a large room in the front part of the building

to which the yard was attached, in order to be properly trained,

before the admission of customers. The men were arranged on one side

of the room, the women on the other. The tallest was placed at the

head of the row, then the next tallest, and so on in the order of

their respective heights. Emily was at the foot of the line of women.

Freeman charged us to remember our places; exhorted us to appear smart

and lively,--sometimes threatening, and again, holding out various

inducements. During the day he exercised us in the art of "looking

smart," and of moving to our places with exact precision.

After being fed, in the afternoon, we were again paraded and made to

dance. Bob, a colored boy, who had some time belonged to Freeman,

played on the violin. Standing near him, I made bold to inquire if he

could play the "Virginia Reel." He answered he could not, and asked me

if I could play. Replying in the affirmative, he handed me the violin.

I struck up a tune, and finished it. Freeman ordered me to continue

playing, and seemed well pleased, telling Bob that I far excelled

him--a remark that seemed to grieve my musical companion very much.

Next day many customers called to examine Freeman's "new lot." The

latter gentleman was very loquacious, dwelling at much length upon our

several good points and qualities. He would make us hold up our heads,

walk briskly back and forth, while customers would feel of our hands

and arms and bodies, turn us about, ask us what we could do, make us

open our mouths and show our teeth, precisely as a jockey examines

a horse which he is about to barter for or purchase. Sometimes a man

or woman was taken back to the small house in the yard, stripped, and

inspected more minutely. Scars upon a slave's back were considered

evidence of a rebellious or unruly spirit, and hurt his sale.

One old gentleman, who said he wanted a coachman, appeared to take

a fancy to me. From his conversation with Burch, I learned he was

a resident in the city. I very much desired that he would buy me,

because I conceived it would not be difficult to make my escape from

New-Orleans on some northern vessel. Freeman asked him fifteen hundred

dollars for me. The old gentleman insisted it was too much, as times

were very hard. Freeman, however, declared that I was sound and

healthy, of a good constitution, and intelligent. He made it a point

to enlarge upon my musical attainments. The old gentleman argued quite

adroitly that there was nothing extraordinary about the nigger, and

finally, to my regret, went out, saying he would call again. During

the day, however, a number of sales were made. David and Caroline

were purchased together by a Natchez planter. They left us, grinning

broadly, and in the most happy state of mind, caused by the fact of

their not being separated. Lethe was sold to a planter of Baton Rouge,

her eyes flashing with anger as she was led away.

The same man also purchased Randall. The little fellow was made

to jump, and run across the floor, and perform many other feats,

exhibiting his activity and condition. All the time the trade was

going on, Eliza was crying aloud, and wringing her hands. She besought

the man not to buy him, unless he also bought herself and Emily.

She promised, in that case, to be the most faithful slave that ever

lived. The man answered that he could not afford it, and then Eliza

burst into a paroxysm of grief, weeping plaintively. Freeman turned

round to her, savagely, with his whip in his uplifted hand, ordering

her to stop her noise, or he would flog her. He would not have such

work--such snivelling; and unless she ceased that minute, he would

take her to the yard and give her a hundred lashes. Yes, he would

take the nonsense out of her pretty quick--if he didn't, might he be

d--d. Eliza shrunk before him, and tried to wipe away her tears, but

it was all in vain. She wanted to be with her children, she said, the

little time she had to live. All the frowns and threats of Freeman,

could not wholly silence the afflicted mother. She kept on begging and

beseeching them, most piteously, not to separate the three. Over and

over again she told them how she loved her boy. A great many times she

repeated her former promises--how very faithful and obedient she would

be; how hard she would labor day and night, to the last moment of her

life, if he would only buy them all together. But it was of no avail;

the man could not afford it. The bargain was agreed upon, and Randall

must go alone. Then Eliza ran to him; embraced him passionately;

kissed him again and again; told him to remember her--all the while

her tears falling in the boy's face like rain.

Freeman damned her, calling her a blubbering, bawling wench, and

ordered her to go to her place, and behave herself, and be somebody.

He swore he wouldn't stand such stuff but a little longer. He would

soon give her something to cry about, if she was not mighty careful,

and _that_ she might depend upon.

The planter from Baton Rouge, with his new purchases, was ready to

depart.

"Don't cry, mama. I will be a good boy. Don't cry," said Randall,

looking back, as they passed out of the door.

What has become of the lad, God knows. It was a mournful scene indeed.

I would have cried myself if I had dared.

That night, nearly all who came in on the brig Orleans, were taken

ill. They complained of violent pain in the head and back. Little

Emily--a thing unusual with her--cried constantly. In the morning

a physician was called in, but was unable to determine the nature

of our complaint. While examining me, and asking questions touching

my symptoms, I gave it as my opinion that it was an attack of

small-pox--mentioning the fact of Robert's death as the reason of my

belief. It might be so indeed, he thought, and he would send for the

head physician of the hospital. Shortly, the head physician came--a

small, light-haired man, whom they called Dr. Carr. He pronounced

it small-pox, whereupon there was much alarm throughout the yard.

Soon after Dr. Carr left, Eliza, Emmy, Harry and myself were put into

a hack and driven to the hospital--a large white marble building,

standing on the outskirts of the city. Harry and I were placed in a

room in one of the upper stories. I became very sick. For three days

I was entirely blind. While lying in this state one day, Bob came in,

saying to Dr. Carr that Freeman had sent him over to inquire how we

were getting on. Tell him, said the doctor, that Platt is very bad,

but that if he survives until nine o'clock, he may recover.

I expected to die. Though there was little in the prospect before

me worth living for, the near approach of death appalled me. I

thought I could have been resigned to yield up my life in the bosom

of my family, but to expire in the midst of strangers, under such

circumstances, was a bitter reflection.

There were a great number in the hospital, of both sexes, and of all

ages. In the rear of the building coffins were manufactured. When one

died, the bell tolled--a signal to the undertaker to come and bear

away the body to the potter's field. Many times, each day and night,

the tolling bell sent forth its melancholy voice, announcing another

death. But my time had not yet come. The crisis having passed, I began

to revive, and at the end of two weeks and two days, returned with

Harry to the pen, bearing upon my face the effects of the malady,

which to this day continues to disfigure it. Eliza and Emily were

also brought back next day in a hack, and again were we paraded in

the sales-room, for the inspection and examination of purchasers. I

still indulged the hope that the old gentleman in search of a coachman

would call again, as he had promised, and purchase me. In that event

I felt an abiding confidence that I would soon regain my liberty.

Customer after customer entered, but the old gentleman never made his

appearance.

At length, one day, while we were in the yard, Freeman came out and

ordered us to our places, in the great room. A gentleman was waiting

for us as we entered, and inasmuch as he will be often mentioned

in the progress of this narrative, a description of his personal

appearance, and my estimation of his character, at first sight, may

not be out of place.

He was a man above the ordinary height, somewhat bent and stooping

forward. He was a good-looking man, and appeared to have reached about

the middle age of life. There was nothing repulsive in his presence;

but on the other hand, there was something cheerful and attractive in

his face, and in his tone of voice. The finer elements were all kindly

mingled in his breast, as any one could see. He moved about among us,

asking many questions, as to what we could do, and what labor we had

been accustomed to; if we thought we would like to live with him, and

would be good boys if he would buy us, and other interrogatories of

like character.

After some further inspection, and conversation touching prices, he

finally offered Freeman one thousand dollars for me, nine hundred

for Harry, and seven hundred for Eliza. Whether the small-pox had

depreciated our value, or from what cause Freeman had concluded

to fall five hundred dollars from the price I was before held at,

I cannot say. At any rate, after a little shrewd reflection, he

announced his acceptance of the offer.

As soon as Eliza heard it, she was in an agony again. By this time

she had become haggard and hollow-eyed with sickness and with sorrow.

It would be a relief if I could consistently pass over in silence

the scene that now ensued. It recalls memories more mournful and

affecting than any language can portray. I have seen mothers kissing

for the last time the faces of their dead offspring; I have seen them

looking down into the grave, as the earth fell with a dull sound upon

their coffins, hiding them from their eyes forever; but never have I

seen such an exhibition of intense, unmeasured, and unbounded grief,

as when Eliza was parted from her child. She broke from her place

in the line of women, and rushing down where Emily was standing,

caught her in her arms. The child, sensible of some impending danger,

instinctively fastened her hands around her mother's neck, and nestled

her little head upon her bosom. Freeman sternly ordered her to be

quiet, but she did not heed him. He caught her by the arm and pulled

her rudely, but she only clung the closer to the child. Then, with

a volley of great oaths, he struck her such a heartless blow, that

she staggered backward, and was like to fall. Oh! how piteously then

did she beseech and beg and pray that they might not be separated.

Why could they not be purchased together? Why not let her have one

of her dear children? "Mercy, mercy, master!" she cried, falling on

her knees. "Please, master, buy Emily. I can never work any if she is

taken from me: I will die."

Freeman interfered again, but, disregarding him, she still plead most

earnestly, telling how Randall had been taken from her--how she never

would see him again, and now it was too bad--oh, God! it was too bad,

too cruel, to take her away from Emily--her pride--her only darling,

that could not live, it was so young, without its mother!

Finally, after much more of supplication, the purchaser of Eliza

stepped forward, evidently affected, and said to Freeman he would buy

Emily, and asked him what her price was.

"What is her _price_? _Buy_ her?" was the responsive interrogatory of

Theophilus Freeman. And instantly answering his own inquiry, he added,

"I won't sell her. She's not for sale."

The man remarked he was not in need of one so young--that it would be

of no profit to him, but since the mother was so fond of her, rather

than see them separated, he would pay a reasonable price. But to this

humane proposal Freeman was entirely deaf. He would not sell her then

on any account whatever. There were heaps and piles of money to be

made of her, he said, when she was a few years older. There were men

enough in New-Orleans who would give five thousand dollars for such

an extra, handsome, fancy piece as Emily would be, rather than not

get her. No, no, he would not sell her then. She was a beauty--a

picture--a doll--one of the regular bloods--none of your thick-lipped,

bullet-headed, cotton-picking niggers--if she was might he be d--d.

When Eliza heard Freeman's determination not to part with Emily, she

became absolutely frantic.

"I will _not_ go without her. They shall _not_ take her from me," she

fairly shrieked, her shrieks commingling with the loud and angry voice

of Freeman, commanding her to be silent.

Meantime Harry and myself had been to the yard and returned with our

blankets, and were at the front door ready to leave. Our purchaser

stood near us, gazing at Eliza with an expression indicative of regret

at having bought her at the expense of so much sorrow. We waited some

time, when, finally, Freeman, out of patience, tore Emily from her

mother by main force, the two clinging to each other with all their

might.

"Don't leave me, mama--don't leave me," screamed the child, as its

mother was pushed harshly forward; "Don't leave me--come back, mama,"

she still cried, stretching forth her little arms imploringly. But

she cried in vain. Out of the door and into the street we were

quickly hurried. Still we could hear her calling to her mother,

"Come back--don't leave me--come back, mama," until her infant voice

grew faint and still more faint, and gradually died away, as distance

intervened, and finally was wholly lost.

Eliza never after saw or heard of Emily or Randall. Day nor night,

however, were they ever absent from her memory. In the cotton field,

in the cabin, always and everywhere, she was talking of them--often

_to_ them, as if they were actually present. Only when absorbed

in that illusion, or asleep, did she ever have a moment's comfort

afterwards.

She was no common slave, as has been said. To a large share of natural

intelligence which she possessed, was added a general knowledge and

information on most subjects. She had enjoyed opportunities such as

are afforded to very few of her oppressed class. She had been lifted

up into the regions of a higher life. Freedom--freedom for herself

and for her offspring, for many years had been her cloud by day, her

pillar of fire by night. In her pilgrimage through the wilderness of

bondage, with eyes fixed upon that hope-inspiring beacon, she had

at length ascended to "the top of Pisgah," and beheld "the land of

promise." In an unexpected moment she was utterly overwhelmed with

disappointment and despair. The glorious vision of liberty faded from

her sight as they led her away into captivity. Now "she weepeth sore

in the night, and tears are on her cheeks: all her friends have dealt

treacherously with her: they have become her enemies."

[Illustration: SEPERATION OF ELIZA AND HER LAST CHILD.]