My Name's Not Friday

by Jon Walter

  The man frowns. ‘You’ve missed the viewing.’ He sounds bullish in comparison to Gloucester. ‘Most of the stock has been here for the past two days and the buyers have already assessed their options.’ He looks at me again, shrinking me by a couple of inches. ‘You know I don’t like to sell off the catalogue.’

  ‘I know that, sir. I do know that. I realize my situation ain’t ideal, but if you could put him on the list I’d be ever so grateful. It would be a favour that I owed you – I understand that – only I do need to realize my assets and there ain’t another sale around here for a while now.’

  Mr Wickham takes hold of my upper arm and squeezes hard on the muscle till I tense. ‘He from out east?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. His name is Friday. I got papers for him.’

  Mr Wickham don’t look impressed. ‘He’s not a good age for a nigger.’

  ‘No, sir. He isn’t. But he’ll grow up fine. He’s from good stock and he’s been well looked after. I can vouch for that. He ain’t no trouble, I can assure you. I got his papers right here.’ Gloucester shakes ’em out so Wickham can see the details.

  The marching band passes by the end of the street and the sudden music makes me glance behind.

  ‘Is he educated?’

  ‘Not so you’d know it, sir, no, although he speaks well enough and he’s bright. I’d say he has a noble temperament. He won’t be no embarrassment to a lady or a gentleman if they decide to keep him in the house.’

  ‘You’ll have to be satisfied with what you get for him.’ Wickham waves me inside without taking his eyes from Gloucester. ‘You’re familiar with my terms?’

  Gloucester touches the rim of his hat. ‘You’re very kind, sir.’

  I take a step inside the door, then stop. Ahead of me is a long shed with wooden boxes for cattle and bales of hay that have been lined up along the edges of the open walkway. It’s gloomy, the only light coming from beams of sunlight that make their way down through the roof. By the door there’s a single dusty window with bars across it. Wickham steps inside and sweeps past me with my papers in his hand. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ he announces to the doorman, who slides the bolt back into place. And then he is gone and I’m left where I stand, unsure of where I am or what I should do.

  I take a few more steps inside the shed. I can’t see anyone else hereabout and yet the place don’t feel empty. I sense a movement, maybe hear a breath, and I figure I must be in with livestock, maybe cows or something, but there’s a voice, a low murmur, and it’s answered by a whisper. I take another step into the gloom, my hand out ahead of me, ready to take hold of the first stall I come to, and it’s their eyes that I see first, the eyes of men and women, sitting on bales of hay with their children lying on the floor at their feet. There’s eight of ’em. A family, I reckon. And in the next stall there’s another six and after that there’s more, a whole lot more, all of ’em sitting quietly.

  I can’t find a place to sit down, and no one wants to talk with me as I creep by them in the half-light. None of ’em is here alone. Not that I can see. Everyone but me has got someone – there’s whole families together, or men who might be friends leaning towards each other and talking quietly. They keep themselves to themselves and I don’t bother ’em. I find a free bale and sit down, tucking my legs under me, making sure I won’t be in the way if someone were to walk past, making myself so small they could probably tread on me and not notice.

  I got a hollow feeling in my chest. I’m all empty. And I know for sure this ain’t no limbo like I thought it might be. No. This is hell right here on earth.

  *

  I am not alone when they bring me to the auction hall – there’s a girl a few years older than me and a man in his twenties. They lead us out into the bright light of a real big hall made with proper brick walls and pillars of stone set every ten paces around its edge. It has tall windows with bright clear glass that let in a fair bit of sunlight, and it’s full to bursting of people, both men and women, all standing and chatting.

  The three of us are stood at the edge of the hall, close to some stairs that lead up to a platform. I watch the crowd. The air in the hall smells of tobacco from all the pipes and cigars. These people look rich to me. They keep their hats on their heads and there’s some fine-looking jackets hanging from their shoulders. And they’re all white folks. There’s only one black man here who don’t look like a slave, and he’s stood at the back by the door, dressed neatly in a brown jacket and a matching bowler hat. I can’t take my eyes off him cos he’s a proud-looking man, tall and strong with a short beard that don’t disguise the fact he’s got a good chin.

  Wickham catches my attention as he mounts the steps of the auction block and calls for some hush. The hall quiets down. ‘Lot 38 is a young man of twenty-three by the name of Cedric.’ Wickham flicks his head, his eyes darting in our direction. ‘Come on up here, Cedric, and let the folks see what’s for sale.’

  The man beside me walks out across the floor. He don’t hurry himself and he don’t lift his head any more than he needs to keep himself from stumbling. He drags a leg as he walks and looks to be in some discomfort as he mounts the steps to stand beside Wickham. ‘As you can see, the man claims to be lame, but my understanding is that this is a recent injury.’

  ‘He ain’t lame!’ A man with a pointed grey beard waves a hand in the air when he shouts out. He stands at the front of a group of men who have drawn close to the platform, intending to bid. ‘He only started limping when I said I was going to sell him. He’s fit and young. He’s a good worker. Pick you two fifty pounds a day and he’s handy as a carpenter too.’

  A man from the back shouts out, ‘Why you tryin’ to sell him then?’

  The owner shakes his head. ‘Why I’m selling him is my own business, but I tell you he ain’t lame. He’s putting it on. I tell you that for nothing. Trying to keep his price low. That’s what it is. Probably reckons he’s got a chance of buying his freedom with a lower price.’

  The man at the back shouts out again. ‘Either way, I don’t want no uppity nigger.’

  ‘Gentleman, please.’ Wickham holds up his hands. ‘This ain’t a debating society.’ He turns to the man beside him. ‘Take off your trousers, Cedric.’

  The slave don’t even seem surprised to be asked and he unbuckles his black leather belt, lets his trousers fall to the platform and steps out of ’em, his hand cupped in front of him to cover his shame. ‘Now walk the length of the block and back.’ Cedric steps along the platform in front of the men, his left foot dragging out to the side of him.

  His owner prods his cane at the man as he passes. ‘See? Look at his leg. Everything looks just fine. He ain’t lame. There’s no injury there that I can see.’

  A murmur of voices rises up around the hall but Wickham calls ’em to order. ‘Gentleman, please. You’ve seen the man and you have formed your own opinion. Can we get this started? Do I hear five hundred dollars? Can I start the bidding at five hundred?’

  It sure goes quick. They bid with a nod, sometimes with a raised finger, and the price goes up twenty dollars at a time, sometimes fifty. It’s Wickham’s voice that calls the shots, keeping a finger pointed at the highest bidder till another man comes in. Cedric follows the bids, flicking his eyes from one man to the next until Wickham finally calls out, ‘Going … going … gone!’ and Cedric is sold for eight hundred and fifty dollars. I don’t know whether that’s a good price or not. It’s just what it is. Cedric buckles up his belt. I can’t tell whether he’s pleased with who he got because his face shows no expression as he limps from the platform and walks away with the man who bought him.

  Wickham looks our way again and shuffles a sheet of paper to the top of his hand. He calls the girl up next, and it’s only when she’s stood on the stage that I take a good long look at her. She’s pretty. She sure is pretty indeed. I ain’t seen many girls who are around about my own age, but I know that she’s the prettiest I’ve ever laid my eyes on. That’s a fac
t. She don’t have the same cream-coloured Woolsey as the rest of us either, but wears a clean white pinafore dress, made of cotton, with a little blue bow on the front at the neck.

  The crowd of men draws closer to the auction platform. It seems like everybody wants a piece of this girl, whether they get to buy her or not. They’re doing more looking than talking and I can taste the anticipation hanging in the air. Wickham takes his top hat off and holds it in his hand. ‘Gentleman, this next lot is a rare opportunity to make a fine addition to your stock of slaves, but I have to remind you there is a condition of sale upon her that means she must be sold to a purchaser who resides outside of this state.’ A murmur of disapproval rises up around the hall. ‘I know, gentlemen. You’re bound to be disappointed, but there are plenty of you here that can still retain an interest. She’s a fine young woman, fifteen years of age, with experience working in the house as well as in the fields. I know her owner personally and I can testify that she has a personality as sweet as her looks.’

  A commotion starts up from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. I can hear a woman’s voice rise up above the noise: ‘I got a right to be there at the front. Come on and let me through. Make way. I’ll answer any questions you may have directly.’

  The tall black man I saw earlier is moving from the back of the hall to the front, his fine hat a good head and shoulders above the other heads in the crowd, but it ain’t his voice I’m hearing, that’s for sure. The people part to let him through and I look to the front in time to see a little lady with bright golden hair bunched up at the back. She’s about half the size of the black man who follows her, and she’s one of the women from the procession, wearing one of them blue sashes. She pushes on to the front of the platform and brings a boy with her, holding him by the hand, a little boy soldier with a grey cap and a wooden rifle slung over his shoulder. The black man comes through last and the lady turns back to him. ‘Help Gerald onto the stage would you, Hubbard?’

  The black man moves towards the boy, who turns away, saying he can do it himself, and reaches up and pulls himself onto the platform. Once he’s standing there, I can see he’s not as young as he looks and he’s got the confidence of a boy about my age or older.

  Cedric’s previous owner, the man with the grey beard, is still there at the front. He shouts out, ‘You gonna sell us your stepson, Mrs Allen?’ There’s some laughter in the hall. Someone else calls out, ‘This ain’t no place for a boy or a woman. I don’t know what the world is coming to.’

  There are a few guffaws of agreement, but the lady turns quickly to face her accusers. ‘The girl for sale is the property of my stepson. He’s got a right to be where he can see what’s happening, and he’ll do well to learn the business, seeing as his father won’t be back anytime soon.’

  ‘Damn right too.’ Wickham walks across and slaps the boy’s shoulder with a big hand. ‘Make a real man of him.’

  Mrs Allen shakes her head of yellow hair. ‘Oh, there’s not a real man left in this town; I can assure you of that, Mr Wickham.’ She stares directly at the man who had the nerve to make a joke of her. ‘Any man worth his weight in salt has already gone to war.’

  ‘And the sooner your husband whips those Yankees and gets back home the better.’ The man turns and pushes his way out through the crowd, shouting over his shoulder as he goes, ‘I remember a time when the women of this town knew their place.’

  But Mrs Allen won’t let him have the last word and she takes two steps up the stairs of the platform, pointing a finger at his back as he departs. ‘You can pick up a form to enlist at the door, Mr Peighton.’ She sweeps the room with a frosty glare. ‘That goes for any man here who still possesses the wits to fire straight.’

  Mr Wickham holds his hands up for peace. ‘Please, please, Mrs Allen. This here’s an auction room. Can we continue with the business at hand?’ He pauses till the room becomes quiet and all our eyes return to the girl. ‘What say we begin the bidding at one thousand dollars?’

  Mrs Allen nods her approval.

  Someone calls out from the middle of the crowd. ‘Mrs Allen? Say, Mrs Allen? Can you please tell your nigger to move to the side? I can’t see over him and I can’t see around him.’

  Mrs Allen looks over to the big black man who still stands at the very front of the stage. ‘Go on, Hubbard. Wait for me over there.’ He leaves the front of the platform and comes to stand next to me.

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’ Mr Wickham raises his voice again. ‘I believe we were about to start at a thousand dollars.’

  Now, that sure seems like a lot of money to me, but a man puts his hand in the air straight away and the price goes up fifty dollars. Another man bids against him. There are only a few men bidding, but they don’t give up and the pace of the auction is fast and furious, though the girl herself won’t even look at who is bidding for her. She stands with her chin bowed so low she won’t see no one, ’cept for maybe Mrs Allen’s stepson, stood there at the edge of the stage. He keeps his eyes firmly on the girl and it seems to me he looks sad.

  At the final bid her price is just under two thousand dollars. Wickham appears to be pleased with the result. I don’t understand how a young girl could be worth so much more than a fully grown man, even if his foot ain’t so good, but there it is, that’s the price she sells for, and she’s been bought by a man in a green waistcoat whose accent ain’t the same as the rest of ’em here. He leads her away to the back of the hall where there is a desk with an open ledger and a man who will make out her new papers.

  I’m watching how they do things when Wickham calls the hall to order again. ‘The next lot is off-catalogue, but don’t let that dissuade you because he’s a fine young man.’ Wickham looks my way and suddenly all thoughts of the girl leave my head. ‘Come up here, Friday. Come on and let everyone have a good look at you.’

  The people in the hall turn their heads towards me and I feel as though a hand has wrapped around my heart and started to squeeze. I’ve got to go up there on my own and no one’s gonna help me.

  Wickham holds his hand out, expecting me to join him, and for a moment I think that I could run for it. Maybe I could make it out of the door and away before they grab me. But my legs don’t dare to run. Instead they take me up the steps of the auction block and stand me next to Wickham and I don’t know why they did that. It’s like they belong to someone else already.

  Wickham sees me shaking and he places a hand upon my shoulder. ‘This boy’s been brought from Tennessee where he’s worked in a house, and he’s twelve now, so I reckon he could work the field if you had some lighter duties to mix into his day.’ He takes my chin and lifts up my head. ‘Keep your head high, boy. Let ’em see your face. He does have a pleasant face, don’t you think, ladies and gentleman? He’s got a gentle nature in those pretty eyes. I can see why the lady of his former house didn’t want to give him up.’

  I can see Gloucester here inside the hall. He’s come up close to the stage and is watching me like a bird of prey might watch a mouse from the air. I clench my hands together and remind myself to trust in the Lord and the goodness of His ways. I even say a prayer for my deliverance, and that’s when I hear His voice; I hear the voice of God telling me to look at the boy who’s still there on the stage, look him straight in the eye. Do it, Samuel. That’s what the good Lord tells me. Do it now.

  I raise my eyes and the boy holds my gaze. He’s got white knuckles where he holds the strap on his wooden rifle.

  ‘Shall I start at three hundred dollars?’ Wickham calls out over the crowd. ‘That seems to be a fair price. Anyone want to start us off at three hundred?’

  The boy puts his hand in the air immediately and it seems like everyone pauses. Wickham looks over at Mrs Allen. ‘Did you intend him to bid, madam?’

  ‘I did,’ she says, and there’s some shuffling of feet before Wickham points to a gentleman who raises a finger. ‘Three twenty, three sixty, four hundred.’

  And then we’re away, but I can’t
take my eyes from the boy as he bids for me, can’t help but notice how his tongue touches his top lip and moistens his mouth into a smile as the price goes up and the other bidders fall away till there’s only him and one other man left, but that boy keeps sticking his finger in the air. He’s determined he’s gonna get me, and he only looks into the crowd once, to see who’s still bidding against him.

  Five sixty. Five seventy. He thinks he’s going to win. I can see it in his face, a kind of tension at the corners of his mouth. I’ve got a lump in my throat that’s so large I don’t think I’ll ever get it out.

  And suddenly Wickham stops shouting and everything goes quiet. I don’t know what happened, and I look from Wickham to the boy and I see his mouth turn up into a smile so big I know he must have won. Yes, I’m sure of it. This boy has bought me. This white boy who don’t even look as old as I am. He owns me body and soul, and my worth has been set at six hundred dollars.

  PART 2

  Hell

  Chapter 5

  Gerald’s got golden hair, the same as Mrs Allen. I see it sparkle in the sun when he pushes his cap to the back of his head. It’s clean and bright, cut short at the back and sides, though longer at the front where a wedge flicks across his forehead as the wagon rolls us on along the dirt track. It’s just the two of us in the back of the cart, settled down against the rolls of cloth that Mrs Allen had us load before we left town.

  Gerald’s looking at me. I can feel it. But I ain’t looking at him. No. My guts are made of rope, all twisted up and tight, so I’m looking anywhere else but him and I ain’t said a word since he bought me. Not to him, nor anyone else. I don’t think my mouth works anyhow.

  He reaches out a foot. He’s wearing black leather shoes that are polished to a shine and he prods my shin with his toe. ‘You play baseball?’