by Alex Myers
It was a brown, one-story brick building with bars on the windows. The building was marred with dirt, and several windows had been broken and not repaired. There was a professionally painted sign over the door that proclaimed, “Bolton, Brose and Company – Dealers in Slaves” and below that, in smaller type, “Auction and Negro Sales”. Next to the open door sat an elderly black man smoking a pipe.
“Are you a slave?” Jack asked.
Without looking up from his pipe lighting the old man said, “Nope, I be a freed man.”
“Are there slaves inside?”
“Nope, they all be at the auction block.” He pointed to the right side of the building.
Jack followed the sound of the noise coming from around the building. Twenty-five men were gathered around a large raised platform. While some of the men looked like they could be the owners of large plantations or their overseers, a good number of the men didn’t seem like they could afford a decent set of clothes.
Jack asked the nearest man, “Has it started yet?”
“Just fixin’ to get ready to start.”
Two rough-looking, large white men pushed an equally large black man up the stairs leading to the block. The black man was shirtless, barefoot and wore pants that looked like a burlap sack. There were shackles on his neck, hands and feet. His eyes were downcast and he moved like an automaton.
“Gentlemen, my name is Bolton and this is my partner, Mr. Brose. Welcome to this week’s auction.”
Many who sold Africans would often add a few household items to the sale so they would not to appear to be “slave dealers”, but not Dan Bolton and Billy Brose.
Jack could hear a few men in the gathering commenting about the black man’s size and muscularity.
“The first item of today’s auction is a field buck. He’s strong, healthy, and has never tried to run. As you can see,” the man named Bolton pulled the black man’s pants down and turned him so the crowd could see, “he has only been beaten a few times for minor offenses.” He made the man step out of his pants and continue turning.
The man introduced as Brose said something to the prisoner and he began to jump up and down. Saying something else to him, he began to dance like a drunken marionette. Several potential buyers approached the stage, poked, and prodded the slave, examining his feet and asking to see his teeth.
Bolton said, “Let’s start the bidding out at one thousand dollars.”
The man sold for $1650. Jack watched in horror as several more slaves were bought and sold, including an extremely dark-skinned man with flaring nostrils whose back had been so severely beaten that the scar tissue looked like a relief map. The past beatings branded him a troublemaker and runner, and subsequently he only sold for five hundred dollars.
Quite a few of the men paid their prices, picked up their purchases, and left. Obviously, they knew the program and it was that the best offerings went first. Ten prospective buyers, only half interested, were standing around the auction block when the last man was brought up and displayed.
“This old man’s name is Hercules,” the sweaty Bolton declared, “and he’s what you’d call a house and farm nigger. He’s not quite up to heavy manual labor anymore, but he’s extremely good with children and small household duties.”
The old man on the auction block stared deeply into Jack’s eyes—begging. An electric shock went through Jack’s body. It was the man Jack had seen at Mattie Turner’s place back over a year ago. Jack had never forgiven himself for not helping him then; he would make up for it now.
“What’s that?” Bolton said as he leaned over to Hercules. “He just informed me that he can even read and write a bit.”
The other buyers slowly wandered off and it was just Jack and a dirty, skinny man with bad teeth and liquor on his breath.
Without waiting for Bolton to announce the opening bid the man hacked and spit on the ground and said, “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for him. I’ve got me a ‘baccy farm and I could use that nigger’s help.”
He turned to Jack and said in a conspiratorial way, “Course he’ll have to sleep with the pigs, but what the hell, I’ll just work ‘em till he drops an buy me ‘nother hundred dollar nigger. Been through five in the last two years.”
Jack stepped forward and said, “I’ll give you $300 for him.”
His fellow bidder turned to him angrily. “What ye want to go and steal my nigger fer, mister?”
“I figured you could take your hundred dollars and spend it on a shave and a bath,” Jack said. “I wanted to save you the trouble of having to bury another slave you worked to death.”
“Didn’t ever bury a nigger—sleep’n with the hogs gives ‘em a chance to eyeball their supper in advance. Pigs love darky meat.”
Jack took a step in his direction and the man cowered and moved off, giving Jack a rude hand gesture of which he didn’t recognize the meaning.
Brose was at the squaring up table and motioned for Jack to approach, “That’ll be three hundred dollars.”
Jack didn’t think about it until the wallet was out of his vest pocket, he didn’t have three hundred dollars. He never thought he would need that much. He rifled through his wallet as if it held a secret compartment. He only had a hundred dollars, and needed at least ten for the stage and two for a boat to Norfolk from Hampton.
“I seem to be a little short,” Jack said.
“How much short?” the bigger and uglier Bolton asked, stepping up to the table.
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred? That’s more than short, that’s damn near nothing. Is there anyone in town you can get it from?”
“I live in Norfolk, I can get your money and have it back by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday and we’re closed. We’re pious Christians you know. Now why would a man from Norfolk come to Williamsburg to buy a slave—“ Bolton started.
“And not have enough money to pay for ‘em,” Brose finished.
“I’m Jack Riggs.”
“So?” Bolton said.
“You mean that inventor?” Brose asked.
Feeling a glimmer of hope Jack asked, “You’ve heard of me?”
“I’ve heard of this Jack Riggs fella, but if you’re ‘em, I’m the Queen of Sheba. If bullshit were music, you’d have yourself a brass band! Don’t think if you were Jack Riggs you’d be needing to borrow money.”
Brose and Bolton had a good belly laugh.
Getting serious again, Brose said, “The next auction is Monday morning at seven A.M., and if you aren’t back with all the money, ole nigger Hercules here will go to the highest bidder.”
“And I’m sure that piece of shit you were talking to at the end will be more than happy to pay a hundred dollars for ‘em,” Bolton said.
“By the way, it’ll cost you an extree fifty just for us to be hold’n him for ye.” Brose said winking to Bolton. “Got to feed and water him you know, and kindness don’t grow on no trees round here.”
“That’s two hundred and fifty dollars, three-hundred-fifty total,” Jack said.
“This is not a negotiation.”
“This is bullshit, I need money to travel. I’ll give you fifty bucks to hold him or you both can stick him up each other’s asses.”
“We’ll take it,” they said in unison.
“But remember if ye ain’t back by Monday morning with another three hundred dollars, you’ve lost your deposit money.”
“I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER 6
Saturday, June 27, 1857
The stagecoach was big, heavy, and sturdy, hitched to six horses. Twelve people could ride on its flat roof and six people inside. Today, however, just the driver and a man riding shotgun were on the outside and two people were on the inside with him. They were a young couple just married, he learned. The newlyweds, the man twenty-nine and the woman twenty-six, were all smiles, whispers, and giggles.
“We just had our honeymoon at the Ballard House,” the young
man said.
Jack just smiled and returned to the window, he wasn’t much in the mood for conversation.
“Have you ever stayed at the Ballard House?” he asked.
“No, I have never stayed there.”
“But you have stayed in Williamsburg?”
“Oh sure, plenty of times.”
“Where?”
Jack just answered automatically; suddenly he turned his attention from the window to the couple. “Excuse me?”
“Where have you stayed in Williamsburg?”
He had almost blurted the Holiday Inn Express. He had to take control of the conversation so he asked a question without answering theirs. “Do you two live in Norfolk?”
“North Carolina,” the woman answered excitedly. “Actually, we are just moving there from Indiana. A place called Kill Devil Hills. It’s so small, you’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Sure I have. It’s between Nag’s Head and Kitty Hawk.”
“Yes, we’re the Wrights. I’m Milton, and this is my new wife, Susan Catherine.”
“Milton,” Susan said, “was studying Theology, but now he’s going to be a famous inventor.”
“Actually, my wife is the inventor, I get my inspiration from her and she gets hers from the Lord.”
“My father was a carriage-maker, I spent a great deal of my time in my father's workshop,” the woman said.
“She’s developed considerable mechanical aptitude,” Milton said proudly, “She studied literature and science and was the top mathematician in her class. She frequently builds household appliances and toys. When people need mechanical advice or assistance, they come to Susan.”
“My husband is too kind, and modest. We are both inventors, divinely inspired—like that man—“
“Jack Riggs,” Milton finished for her.
“Yes, Jack Riggs, he’s something of a hero to the both of us.” She smiled and put her head adoringly on her husband’s shoulder.
“Not a hero to just us, but to a lot of the people back in college.”
“People are talking about Jack Riggs in college?” Jack asked.
“Of course. People are switching their majors from arts and humanities to the sciences.”
“We both recently graduated.”
“What takes you two to North Carolina?”
“We need plenty of room for inventing.”
“Room? What do you plan on building?”
“We have an idea for a flying machine.”
Jack looked at him. “Milton, what is your last name again?”
“Wright. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” The impact of whom these people were hit Jack. Milton would have eventually gone on in the church to be a Bishop and together, he and Susan would go on to have seven children, two of whom would have been sons Orville and Wilbur. Jack was effecting changes in this time that would have major impacts on his time.
“So, why inventing?” Jack asked.
“It’s just something we have to do, do while the inspiration is strong,” Milton said. “I believe that we are God’s instruments, and right now he’s telling us to proceed.”
They no longer seemed just the silly newlyweds in love. They were inspired and in love. Jack thought. “Do you have any drawings or plans for this machine of yours?”
“Well, ah, yes.” Milton said. He looked hesitant. This was the first time he looked wary.
“If you let me see them, I might be able to offer a few suggestions.” He extended his hand. “My name is Jack Riggs.”
The Wrights nearly jumped out of their skin they were so excited. Milton wasted no time signaling the driver to stop so he could fetch his valise from the roof of the coach.
Jack studied the plans for fifteen minutes with all the bumps and bounces of the rutted road. Jack didn’t say a word, while all the while Milton and Susan kept repeating they couldn’t believe what a divine sign it was.
Not revealing his impression of the schematic Jack asked, “What did you study in College?”
“I majored in Theology.”
“Theology?”
“My minor was in Science.”
“Ah, I see,” Jack said and went back to studying the plans.
“Is it bad, Mr. Riggs?”
Finally, Jack smiled and said, “On the contrary, Milton, it’s impressive. I think the wings need to be longer and more securely attached to the frame.” Jack looked closer, “Is this a Riggs Ryder?”
“I told you how much you’ve inspired me.”
Jack said, “And possibly move the propeller to the rear, so that it can push the craft versus pulling it. I think this might work.”
The happy couple looked on the edge of tears.
“I’ll make you two a deal; make the changes I suggested, try this out, and let me know how far you get along. Keep me informed of your progress, and I might have a couple of little surprises for you.”
“Surprises?”
“I’m working on this material called aluminum that’s stronger and lighter than wood. It would be for the wings and frame, and before too long I might have an engine ready for your airplane.”
“Airplane?” Susan asked.
“Airplane, aeroplane, this heavier than air craft is actually a cross between a glider and a biplane.”
“Everything I’ve read is true. You really are a genius!” Milton said.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jack said, “let’s just say I have an understanding of certain things and I’m inspired to share.”
“Divinely inspired?”
“I suppose you could say that.” Jack watched Milton and Susan hug, and felt good for the first time since he left Frances’s house three nights ago. “How are you two set up for funds?”
“Ah… we’re fine.”
“Milton!” Susan elbowed her husband’s ribs. “I don’t know why he would say that, Mr. Riggs. We sunk my dowry and his trust fund into this project. I’m not sure how we’ll even get along day-to-day.”
“We’ll do fine. I plan on getting a job on one of the fishing boats to help cover the incidentals.”
“Incidentals? He means like food and rent.”
“What if I was to help out?” Jack said. “I’ll do for you what I do for my other inventors—“
“The ones at your research facility in Norfolk?”
“Exactly. Let me ask you, how committed are you to North Carolina?”
“We haven’t even seen it yet,” Susan said.
“That’s not completely true, we’ve seen a picture.”
“I was thinking that there’s a large flat-topped hill right on the complex in Norfolk, plus it gets a good stiff breeze off the Elizabeth River. You’ll need that for plenty of lift.”
“Lift?” Milton asked.
“We can go into more detail on that later. We have housing right on the grounds and you wouldn’t have to worry about the incidentals. There’s a cafeteria, a school and even a church too. Plus you also could draw a salary while you work.”
“I would like that very much, Mr. Riggs.”
“Yes,” Susan said, “that would mean so much to Milton…” . . ..”
“I am talking about hiring the both of you.”
“Oh yes, let’s do it, Milton.”
“Alright, Mr. Riggs, we’ll go.”
When they arrived at Jack’s complex, he took them to manager Elisha Root, explaining he should see that the Wrights were set up with proper housing, the single family cabin closest to the big hill they had jokingly dubbed Mount Riggs and was the largest sand dune in all of Tidewater. He also wanted him to set up Milton with any material he needed to start his project. He asked Elisha to introduce them to Samuel Langley, a brilliant, self-taught astrophysicist—that one day, his steam-powered airplane would beat the Wrights’ sons in flight by seven days.
Jack said his goodbyes and left them in his manager’s capable hands. Jack had to get two hundred dollars cash in the next thirty-six hours.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER 7
Monday, June 29, 1857
“Where is he?” Frances asked.
Her father sat with Allan Pinkerton in the lobby of the Capital Hotel in Richmond.
Allan Pinkerton said, “He was in your Norfolk store yesterday morning.”
“But the store isn’t open on Sunday,” Frances said.
“That’s just part of the mystery,” Frank Sanger said.
“Is he all right?” Frances asked.
“From everything we know.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Frances,” her father said solemnly, “he was asking for money. Two hundred dollars, to be exact.”
“Money?” She swallowed hard. “He has money. Why would he borrow money from the store?”
“He said he needed it that day and, of course, the banks were closed. He went and got Pete Snider out of bed.”
“I’m sure there has to be a good reason,” she said.
Frank Sanger spoke up, “You know that I’m installing telegraph offices in many of our stores, the Southern stores first. Pete was scared to give him that much money, and so I got the telegram here yesterday. I sent a telegram back okaying the money. ”
“You never said what he needed the money for.”
“That’s the strange part,” her father said. “He said he wanted to buy--” her father hesitated, “buy a slave.”
Frances was shocked. “That doesn’t sound like Jack at all. Are you sure it was him?”
“It was Pete Snider, you know he knows Jack.”
“Daddy, I want to go there and I want you to go there with me. I told you about the horrible fight we had. Something doesn’t sound right. Maybe it has something to do with Kazmer’s disappearance.”
“Perhaps you both need a little time to cool off, you know, think about things.”
“Daddy, something’s wrong, I can feel it.”
“But Frances, how will you even find him?”