“Just restin’ a bit, Lene,” I said. Better get busy. I got up and knocked the chair over. Righted it. Got to the microwave and finished it. Looked pretty good. The clock on the micro said 1:65. What? That ain’t no time. I looked again, the numbers dancing. 1:56, almost two. Better. Quittin’ time. Time to make my move. I belched… oops. Don’t do that with Leah, no no. Grabbed the door handle, but it wouldn’t work. Focus. Grab and twist. Belched. “You stop that, Benny,” I said to myself. Benny, that’s funny. Laughed out loud. Opened the door and walked to the counter, where Leah stood, a picture of beauty and grace.
“Grace... I mean, Leah, I need to talk to you.”
“Sure, Ben.” She looked worried.
“Don’t worry, it’s fine. Just...” I looked around. “Just sit in that chair.” I pointed.
Leah sat, slid her hair behind her ear, then put her hands in her lap. Here goes. This better be good. I decided to kneel in front of her, and put my hands on her hands on her knees.
“Leah, I—” I barfed all over her lap. “Oh, great.” Puke on my hands, all over her jeans... It stunk of stomach contents, chocolate, and bourbon. I fell backward onto the floor on my back. Leah stood over me.
“You... you—”
“Ben. I’m Ben.” Cut to the chase. “Leah will you go out wi—”
“What’s going on here?” Jolene. Oops.
Leah left in a huff and Jolene stood over me, two empty candy boxes in her hands. “You’re fired.”
“I can explain—”
“Get up.” I struggled to stand and Jolene grabbed me by the front of my shirt and dragged me to my feet. “Get out now. You can pick up your check tomorrow.” She half dragged and carried me to the door and I stumbled out and fell on the porch as she slammed the door.
I stood and looked back. “Wow, that didn’t go right at all.” I ran my hands through my hair. “Not at all.” My hands were wet. I looked at them. Right, I puked on them. I wiped them on the lawn, and hurled again.
The door opened and Ashley came out. She knelt by me and patted my back. “You okay?”
I tottered to my feet. “Yeah. I’m good. Except Lene... Jolene fired me. So wrong. No chance to ’splain.”
“I saw.” She nodded. “You want a ride home?”
I looked in her eyes. She understood. “Um, sure. You want to go to a movie?”
“Okay.”
Virginia
The Civil War and slavery were huge parts of the culture in the nineteenth century. We visited the Capitol and Fredericksburg, depicting the darkest days of our country. What would it be like to be a black man in the north? What would it be like to face possible freedom?
FREEDOM
Fredericksburg, March, 1863
The coach trundled to a stop and the teamster stepped down to open the door. Eliza Wentworth took the offered hand and stepped out, looking a bit peaked. She held her other hand to the side of the carriage, took a deep breath, and grimaced.
“What is that smell?” She swatted a flurry of flies that surrounded her.
“That’s the smell of war, ma’am. Gunpowder, dead men, and animals.”
“But surely they’ve cleaned them up. The battle...” She looked at her surroundings. Buildings bore missing walls, others wore acne-scarred walls from bullets and shells. Old men shoveled out debris from a damaged shop. And the smell...
“Yes, ma’am. But it takes time to clear, they say. Only been a few months.” He turned to the coach. “Boy! Hand those bags down.”
A horse, draped in black, ambled by, a pine box behind it.
A black man passed bags to him and he carried them to the sidewalk. “You might stop in at that tavern yonder and get a bit refreshed. They can probably get you a room, too. People been leaving, so chances are you can get a place.”
Eliza stepped toward the walk and into a puddle. “Oh, my. George, could you...?”
The black man stepped to her side and helped her to the walk. She shook the mud off her shoe. “Get Bertha and the children. Find a place to stay. They can find me here for accounts.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He returned to the coach and helped his wife and three children to the ground.
“George. First take the bags into the tavern.”
He tipped his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Eliza entered the tavern and found a table and chairs.
A woman walked up and said, “Looks like Cody done delivered another Yankee to our place.”
Eliza drew a breath. Perhaps I made a colossal mistake.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” she patted Eliza’s hand. “Happy to have any visitors here lately. Long as you ain’t a soldier.” She swatted at the flies.
“Certainly not.” But my husband is one.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Tea. Please.” She held her handkerchief to her face and scanned the room. Soldiers in gray uniforms lined the bar. Men and women sat at tables, their conversations muted. People swatted at the flies sporadically. The lady returned with a pitcher and cup.
“Mind if I sit with you a bit?”
“No, that would be fine.”
She offered a hand. “Kate Longstreet.”
“Eliza Wentworth. Very nice to meet you.”
“So what brings you here?”
“Well, I’m not sure where to start.”
“How about the beginning?”
She took a sip of tea and struggled not to grimace. Bitter. “I’m from Baltimore. We own a farm out there. My husband is away fight—he’s in the war.” The first sentence and you’ve disclosed you husband fights her men! She looked at Kate for a negative response, but she looked impassively at her.
“Go on.”
“Well, it’s a small farm and we have a few slaves. And with the war and all, well... we’ve encountered some financial setbacks. So my husband instructed me to—take them here and sell them.”
Kate nodded. “Probably a good move.” She leaned in and motioned for Eliza to do the same, then lowered her voice. “But you ain’t going to get much now. People worried that the North wins, the slaves get freed and so why would anyone pay much for a slave if he’s free in a year or so?”
“So you think the North may win?”
“That’s some speculation. Nobody’s sure, mind you.”
“Because back home, people anticipate the South to win. We received news that the army took a pounding here at Fredericksburg.”
“Ain’t that funny how people think?” Kate sat back. “Both sides convinced they’ll lose.”
“So I need to find an... a seller.”
Kate nodded. “Right. Auctioneer. Harvey Denman. Two blocks over. He’ll get you top dollar. He draws people from Alabama, Louisiana. They pay better than anywhere else. I hate the entire slave thing, but what can you do?”
“We anticipate selling the family and hiring help. And doing a lot of the work ourselves.”
“This war is killing us all, in more ways than one.”
~
Eliza opened the door marked, ‘Denman Slave Auction’ to the stench of sweat. She drew her handkerchief and held it to her nose. Along the back wall stood horse stalls. Looking more carefully, Eliza saw dark men inside them. Flies swarmed in the air around them. The men looked at her, impassive.
“Hep yew?” A man sat behind a desk, his feet crossed on it. He smoked a short black cigar, the smoke filling the room. She involuntarily waved it away.
“Excuse me?” She shook her head.
“Hep yew, ma’am?”
Oh, help you. “Yes. I have a family of slaves I’d like to sell.”
“Where?”
“From Baltimore.”
“Wheah is dey?”
Where is... oh, where are they. “Oh. They’re outside.”
“Let’s git a look atem.” He stuck the cigar in a big pan full of ashes and stubs, ash floating into the air. He stood, walked around the desk, and opened the door. Eliza blinked at the bright light.
“These?” He pointed to George, Bertha, and the three children.
“Yes.”
He stood with hands on his hips and looked George up and down, like a man inspecting a horse. “Open your mouth.” George complied. “Always tell a good ’un by their teeth. Good. Turn around.” He squeezed his shoulders. “Hands... You don’t work too hard, do you?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Not very calloused. Take off your shirt.”
George fiddled with the buttons and removed his shirt. He surveyed George’s back then turned to Eliza. “This boy ever been whipped?”
She felt the heat go up her neck. “I don’t know. I don’t get into the details of my husband’s affairs. You could ask him.”
He harrumphed. “They always lie. Speak, boy, you ever been whipped?”
“As a child, yes.”
The auctioneer turned to her. “Some won’t buy. Once you start whipping ’em at this age, they just break down.” He spoke to George. “What can you do?”
“Do, sir?”
“Yeah, do. Farming, horses, what?”
“I work on a farm and can handle a team. Done some blacksmithing.”
“Good. Let’s see her.” He pointed to Bertha. “Teeth... Hands... Take your shirt off.”
Eliza gave a start. “Sir, she will do nothing of the sort.”
“How do I know what I’m getting?”
“It is obvious to any observer what you are getting.” She stood with hands on hips, “and that would be indecent.”
“Your money. We’ll get less. Let’s see those kids. Here, boy.” He addressed the oldest. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
He squeezed his cheeks to open his mouth. “Nice teeth. Good back. You’ll do good. Can you dance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s ‘yez mazzah.’ These northern... So go on. Dance.”
“Need music.”
“No. Here, you. Girl. How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“You clap. You dance.” The children stood, confused. The man stood upright and shook his head. “Lady, if these kids can’t take simple instructions, they won’t get you anything.”
“I… uh… I don’t know what to say. We don’t treat them like this.”
“Yeah, well, look what you got. How about you?” He indicated the youngest, behind his mother’s skirt. “How old is he?
“Four,” Bertha said.
“Okay. Put ’em in the back.”
Eliza wrung her hands. “Could we... could I have some time with them?”
The man looked flummoxed. “For what?”
“Well... they have been in the family for decades, so I’d like to say goodbye.”
“Don’t take too long, I don’t want the entry blocked with these type. I’ll go inside and draw up the agreement, and when you’re ready, bring ’em in. Okay?”
“Actually, they are staying in the Miller’s barn. Can’t they stay there tonight?”
He stopped at the door. “No, ma’am. They need to be secured. Sure as the world, you leave them there, they’ll run off.”
“Fine.”
The man shut the door. George knelt at Eliza’s feet. “Please, ma’am don’t do this. They send us to Alabama... I hear stories... It’ll be real bad.” Tears rolled down both his cheeks. Bertha cried, then the kids got going, and soon everyone cried but the oldest boy.
“George, stand up, please.” Eliza dabbed at her eyes. “You know we wouldn’t do this if we didn’t need the money.”
“I’m beggin’ you, Mrs. Wentworth, if you would, we could go home, I join the army, get my freedom and after the war, I come home and we all work for you as free people. While I’m gone, Bertha and the kids’ll work hard for you. We’ll stay with you, we will, you have my word.”
“George, Mr. Wentworth and I have looked at this every which way, and this is our only alternative. We’ll pay off the mortgage and get another start.”
“What about us, Mrs. Wentworth? You heard him about Alabama, the whippings... what they could do to my wife.”
She shook her head. “I can’t think about that. You’ll be okay. You’re just afraid. There are many fine slave owners. The weather will be warmer. Now come on, let’s just get this done.” She walked to the door and held it for them.
“After you, ma’am.”
Eliza stepped into the doorway and shrieked as a man almost bumped into her.
Both his arms were amputated above the elbows.
~
“What’ll you give me for this fine specimen? Stand up on the block boy. This here is a thirty-year-old, can farm, handle a team of horses, and says he can do some blacksmithing.”
“Sure he can,” a man in the crowd laughed.
Eliza stood in the back. George’s black skin stood above the crowd as he stepped onto the stump, shirtless.
“Any bids? He started his mantra as the bidding commenced. “One hundred dollars.”
She gasped. So low! Then, like a cold slap to the face, she realized it. No. It cannot be! He was selling them separately.
She pushed through the crowd to the front.
“Four hundred and do I hear five?”
“Stop.”
“We are in the middle of bidding, madam.”
“I thought you sold them together.”
He took a drag of his cigar. “Read your contract.” He stood and resumed. “Sorry, folks. There’s five and five and do I hear six-six-six? Six and seven, now seven and eight, do I hear eight?
Eliza fell to the ground. A man helped her to her feet. “Nooooooo.” She pushed through the throng to the back, then stumbled across the street to a bench, sat beside a woman, and choked back tears.
“You okay, ma’am?”
“No. That was my slave family. They broke them up and are selling them separately.”
“I know. My husband’s bidding on the youngest. Boy. Cute little thing.”
Eliza struggled to her feet, tottered around to the side of the building, and vomited.
~
“There you are,” the man slid the check across the desk. “Twenty-five hundred and fifty dollars, after our commission. Six months ago we’d of gotten three times that, but what can you do?” He picked up the cigar and puffed on it, the cloud of smoke choking Eliza.
She took the check and put it in her purse. “You broke up the family.”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“You evil man.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You are an evil man, selling them separately.”
“Why am I evil?” He stood and pointed the cigar at her. “You gave them to me to sell. You wanted the maximum amount you could get for your property. And I did that. If I sold them together, you’d’ve gotten a check for fifteen hundred. So don’t come here on your high horse and call me evil. I gave you a written contract that spelled out how the sale would go.” He tapped the desk for emphasis.
“I’m only a middle man. I put you, the seller, with those buyers. If you didn’t sell them, I wouldn’t have a business now, would I? So take your money and do with it as you will. But don’t go telling me about morals. We’re partners in this deal, lady.” He puffed the cigar, set it down and leaned across the desk. “You got nerve. You come down here to sell those slaves while your man wears a blue uniform. Ain’t that true?”
Eliza’s blood ran cold. “Y-yes. It does. I mean, he is… does.”
“So he’s killin’ my people, all high and mighty, telling us how to live and you use us to trade slaves. Miss high and mighty.” He pointed his cigar at her. “So I suggest you git outa here. Hope nobody takes matters into their owns hands, you hear?”
Eliza ran out the door, wiping the tears off her chin and cheeks. She heard “they’ll remarry” as she slammed the door.
~
George sat in the stall and swatted at flies. Between the flies and the stench, he feared he would go mad. He rubbe
d at the skin under the steel ring at his foot. The front door opened, a beam of light piercing the darkness.
Mrs. Wentworth stood in the door, the light shining around her silhouette. She held a handkerchief to her face. “I’m here to see George.”
“He ain’t yours,” the auctioneer shot back.
“I just want to give him something.”
“This.” She showed him something that George couldn’t see.
“Go ahead.”
She came to the stall. “George.”
“Ma’am.”
“I’m... so, so sorry. You know why we did this, the need to get the mortgage paid, our struggles...”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Um, so I... well, here.” She handed a book to him.
He held it with both hands. “This is your Bible, ma’am.”
“Yes. For you. To give you comfort.”
“Ma’am, I can’t read.”
She wrung the handkerchief. “Perhaps you will. Or it could give you comfort, just having it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I sure do appreciate it. Thank you, ma’am.”
The silence hung between them. He swept flies off his face.
“I, uh... must go. Goodbye, George.”
“You was always good to me, Mrs. Wentworth.”
She wiped her eyes, turned, and left.
The time dragged, George limited in movement with the leg iron. The flies kept him occupied, but ready to scream as they relentlessly attacked him. After a few hours the door opened again. A man.
“I’m here for George and his family.”
George’s head shot up. Family?
The man got up and opened the stall door, then opened the others. He held out his hand. “All yours.”
The man led Bertha and the children outside and George sneezed in the light.
“Sir, I believe you’ve bought our entire family?”
He nodded. The auctioneer man handed the man keys and he knelt and unlocked their feet, beginning with George. “That’s right, George. Didn’t want to break up the family.”
“Well, I sure do appreciate your help, sir.”
“I’m John Sellers.”
“And I’m in your debt.”
“Let’s get out of here. Not a good place for Northerners.”
“Northern, sir? Where we going?”
“Newport, Rhode Island.”
Rhode Island! Land of the free. “Sir, we are at your service.”
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 2, The East Page 7