The Woman on the Painted Horse

by Angela Christina Archer

  “No.” Not even with Sarah, the one person with whom I could talk about anything, did I wish to talk about any of the events of yesterday.

  I closed my eyes, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air. Basking in the scent, my frenzied, emotional mind calmed for a moment. Birds chirped loudly in the trees, their joy over the sunshine sounded hypnotic. I envied their sincere happiness, a life with no dilemmas, no fuss, just a genuine happiness for the sunshine and the chance to enjoy another day.

  “Not even a word?” Sarah hinted.

  “No.”

  “How ‘bout Mr. Graysden’s visit?”

  I ignored her. Exhausted and grumpy, my emotions were raw. Locking myself in my bedroom all day had been quite enticing given the circumstance, but the fresh air called me, hinting that its distraction would be better than reliving yesterday repeatedly. Sarah tapped Buck, the horse, with the whip and bit her tongue, thankfully, leaving me in peace for the rest of the ride.

  Town seemed busier today than ever seen before. Carriages filled the crowded streets, darting in different directions, nearly colliding with one another as the drivers yelled and waved their fists in the dusty air. Negroes tied to the carriages, ran behind, trying to keep from being struck by horses or wheels.

  Sarah drove cautiously through the crowd, at times a little too cautiously for my taste, allowing people to take pleasure mocking her. Already in a foul mood, I saw to it that their taunts did not go without retaliation.

  “Child, ya’re gonna get yaself in a heap o’trouble,” Sarah said, waving her finger and tapping it against my lips.

  “You may tie the horse over there,” I said, ignoring her forewarning.

  Before I could gather my skirt, Sarah shoved a ratted old envelope with her name written on the front into my hand. “Here, Miss Alexandra.”

  “What are these?”

  “My ownership papers. Ya might need’em while we pass the slave market.”

  Growling, I shoved the envelope into my handbag, gathered my skirt, and stepped off the carriage footstool. No wonder town was busy, full of nothing but a bunch of men, young and gluttonous and old and selfish, all gathered for the repulsive enjoyment of bidding money for the ownership of their next tortured souls. Today was rapidly turning into being a bad day to be in Montgomery.

  Sarah and I strolled down the cobble path toward the dress and millinery shops. Men tipped their hats, while women smiled as they passed me. No one paid any attention to Sarah, who tiptoed behind me, her eyes fixed on the ground. A few faces were recognizable, several weren’t. Perhaps, they once attended one of my parent’s many celebrations. I didn’t know, nor did I care.

  Suddenly, a hefty man stepped in front of me, grabbing my arm with his oil-stained hand. His dirty, old clothes hung off his arms and legs, and he reeked of sweat and whisky.

  “Is she with you?” the grungy man asked, pointing at Sarah.

  “Remove your hand at once,” I demanded.

  Begrudgingly, he released his grip on my arm and asked his question again.

  “Yes, she is with me.”

  “Do you have proof of her ownership?” His ghastly breath and greasy hair made me nauseous.

  “And why should I present you with proof? Do I look like a thief? Or do you doubt the word of a lady?” Annoyed, my tone oozed disrespect. How dare he question me?

  He crossed his arms and spit tobacco juice on the ground, scarcely missing my shoe. “Proof or I’m taking her to the market.” He licked his lips, staring at Sarah cowering and trembling behind me. “Or perhaps I’ll jus’ keep her for my own.”

  Giving him a foul glare, I yanked Sarah’s papers from my purse and shoved them into his chest with every ounce of force I could muster.

  “Thank you, Miss—Miss Monroe.” He gaped at me, petrified as he looked at Daddy’s signature. “I’m so sorry I bothered you, Miss Monroe. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

  I ripped the papers from his hand, and stomped away without saying a word, dragging Sarah behind me. While at times the name Monroe left a bad taste against my tongue, other times it did hold value, and this time was one of them.

  “Do you need to visit O’Brien’s this afternoon, Sarah?” I asked.

  “No, Miss Alexandra,” she stuttered. “Got the supplies I be needin’ from Mr. Graysden.”

  Why did she have to say William’s name?

  “Look here, Mas’r. Sho’ won’t find a better man den me,” a voice shouted across the street.

  I turned to face the voice and clutched my chest. Surely, I needed a distraction from the mention of William, but not the scene in front of me, a scene that angered and confused me worse than my thoughts of him could have imagined.

  The slave market.

  The voice had come from a slave standing by the fence line, selling himself and his family, encouraging a buyer to consider buying them together.

  “Not a bit too old neither, do more work den ever. Yes, Mas’r, ya better buy me, an’ my wife too, Joesy,” the slave said. I watched him motion for his wife. She stepped forward, carrying a child in her arms. “She good at cookin’ and cleanin’. Wha’er ya need, she do.”

  The suited man the slave was enticing glanced at the slave’s wife and nodded. He didn’t speak a word, but wrote a few words on the piece of parchment in his hand before walking off toward the auction platform.

  “We work hard for ya,” the slave called out to the man following him as far as he could.

  Two other younger slave girls ran for the now open viewing space in the fence line, dancing around and parading themselves for another suited man who was searching the group for slaves he wished to purchase. They laughed and batted their eyes as he watched, amused by their flirtatious deportment.

  I walked past the pen, and approached the sale platform, a very different scene than the one just witnessed. A few men wearing tailored uniforms strolled around a group of slaves, tapping long sticks with jagged hooks on the ground, and yelling at the herd of men, women, and children to remain close together. Heeding the warning, the huddled mass didn’t move, too scared to move an inch.

  John had attended a slave auction with Daddy once as a young boy, though his description differed from what I saw in front of me. Whether he lied because he didn’t want to scare me, or if he fell prey to the excitement of going with Daddy, I didn’t know, but neither mattered.

  Closer to the stage, the air was thick with the dirty stench of unwashed men sweating in the heat, women becoming sick upon themselves, and children peeing in their dirty pants. I yanked my handkerchief from the bottom of my handbag to cover my nose, hoping my perfume would mask the foul odor. Sarah didn’t want to follow me, but she couldn’t be left alone. She pressed her forehead in between my shoulder blades, whispering a prayer.

  “Next lot number 24. Again, lot number 24. Young boy, age eight years old,” the auctioneer called out. “We will begin the bidding at two hundred dollars.”

  One of the uniformed men shoved a small boy onto the platform. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at the crowd, shaking in fear. Several suited men lingered around the wooden stage. Conferring with one another, they pointed and debated over the crying little boy on display.

  “Mama,” the boy cried as he reached out for a young woman huddling with the group.

  “Be quiet and stand still,” the auctioneer yelled as he slapped the boy’s tiny hand with a cane, and the boy howled in pain.

  “I’ll give you two hundred dollars,” I heard Mr. Cole yell. The fat, lazy, drunk of a man obviously was here to replace the slaves stolen a week ago. I never did like him.

  The auctioneer acknowledged Mr. Cole and scanned the crowd for any other bids.

  “Two hundred and fifty,” another man shouted.

  “Two hundred and seventy-five dollars,
” Mr. Cole shouted.

  The other man shook his head and waved his hand, passing on a chance to outbid Mr. Cole once more. The auctioneer counted to three and slammed his gavel down onto the podium. “Lot number 24, sold to Mr. Avery Cole for two hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

  Mr. Cole collected the boy he had purchased, tugging on the rope around the boy’s wrists. My heart broke for not only the young boy, but for his mother as she wept for a son she would never see again.

  How many men and women would be forced to live without ever knowing what had become of their loved ones? Children taken from parents, and wives separated from husbands—families destroyed by these dreadful slave auctions. Just like Sarah.

  I remembered the horrifying image of Sarah on her knees crying and begging Daddy not to sell her children, thoughts that brought tears to my eyes watching this horrific scene. The memories were too painful to bear, and I grabbed Sarah’s hand and marched away from the crowd, finding solace in an alley way around the corner.

  “I’m sorry I forced you to watch the auction. I should have known you didn’t need to see it.”

  She buried her face in her hands, leaned up against a brick building, and wept. “I miss my babies.”

  “Sarah, I know you miss the girls, but you have to believe they are alive.”

  She wiped her tear-streaked face. “I’ve been ‘round long enough to know ‘em girls are dead. No one’s seen hide nor hair of ‘em. A few nights after Mr. Dankins bought ‘em, they dun got stole from his yard.”

  I know. I stole them.

  Of course, Sarah didn’t know, though. She could never know.

  At the time, I didn’t know the trouble of running children, no one did, neither Peter nor Clive. However, keeping two girls quiet, one being no older than a year and the other an infant, was the one run that had nearly cost Clive his life. Sarah’s daughters now lived safely in Tennessee with Sarah’s sister while a bullet lived in Clive’s arm.

  “I believe they are alive, Sarah, and you will not convince me otherwise.”

  She shrugged, and looked away from me, disinterested in furthering the conversation any longer as a group of slaves passed us, marching down the street handcuffed together. Most of them were excited, celebrating as the slave hands beat them with their sticks. I suppose, finding joy in new masters was easy when they felt as though they couldn’t receive worse than they already had.

  “No, Mas’r, please, no,” a child screamed.

  Mr. Cole passed the entrance of the alley way Sarah and I stood in, dragging the young boy down the middle of the road by the rope—the boys’ tear streaked face was now a muddy mess.

  “Get up,” Mr. Cole shouted as he kicked the boy several times. “I order you to get up.”

  “I want my Mama,” the boy cried.

  “I said get up.” Mr. Cole began hitting the boy violently with his wood cane. The wood cracked and popped as it struck the small body over and over again. The boy lay curled up into a pathetic little ball, screaming, coughing, and gasping for air. Horrified, I lunged for the scene, but Sarah blocked my way.

  “That’s nothin’ but trouble, Miss Alexandra. There’d be hell to pay if ya papa hear of ya gettin’ involved.”

  “I do not care, Sarah. I cannot watch Mr. Cole whip that boy.”

  “No,” she shouted as she pushed me against the wall of a building. “Ya don’t need that trouble.”

  A crowd formed around Mr. Cole. The boy screamed in horrifying helplessness before he began to cough up his own blood. Anger arose through every muscle, and I fought Sarah harder with every cough and every scream of pain heard.

  “Stop whipping that boy,” a man yelled from the crowd, and I gasped when William Graysden emerged between two men to confront Mr. Cole, his stance was rigid, and his fists were balled.

  “Who do you think you are, dog?” growled Mr. Cole. He pointed his cane at William, and waved it a few times as a threat. “This is none of your business.”

  “The boy is just a child,” William shouted.

  “He is a slave, and you are no better than him, boy. You, your father, all the members of your tribe should be run out of Alabama like you were thirty years ago.

  “I have every right to be here, if I choose.”

  “Go back to your village before I make you, dog.”

  Several men stepped down into the street, surrounding William and Mr. Cole.

  William’s father jogged over to William and grabbed his arm. “Son, this is a fight you cannot win.”

  He could not. But I certainly could.

  “Sarah, let go of me.”

  “Don—”

  I shoved past her, leaving her cowering by the building. I hated speaking to her the way I did, but I didn’t have a choice. She wouldn’t listen to me if I didn’t.

  “You better get your son out of here before—”

  “Mr. Cole,” I shouted, interrupting him and startling everyone as I pushed past the encircling men, stopping in front of William, and blocking him from Mr. Cole’s path. “I don’t believe the middle of the road is a proper place to behave in such a manner.”

  “You hush young girl. You think you can hide behind dear ole’ daddy and act disrespectful,” Mr. Cole said with a slurred tone. He was intoxicated. Lord, how I despised this disgusting waste of a man.

  I glanced from side to side and turned around before facing Mr. Cole once more. “I don’t see my daddy anywhere,” I mocked.

  A few men chuckled—further angering Mr. Cole. “You have no business in this, Miss Monroe, no business at all. You should run along before word of your cheeky behavior reaches your father, or Mr. Ludlow.”

  “Why should I hold concern for that? I doubt defending innocent people from your repulsive treatment would be considered cheeky.”

  “He ain’t people, he’s a slave and he’s a Muscogee, and they ain’t people, either.”

  “You are nothing but a crazy old man,” I shouted, instantly regretting my audacious disrespect. Ladies in the crowd gasped and covered their mouths while men gaped in astonishment. William snickered behind me, certainly, the only person to consider the situation slightly amusing. Clearing my throat, I straightened my sleeves of my dress, grasping for any composure left in me.

  “Listen here, girl. You’d do best to keep your little, pretentious nose out of my business. How dare you belittle me?”

  “Mr. Cole, this whole argument began because you chose to whip a child, not because of Mr. Graysden’s or my intervention. I simply don’t see why a man must resort to such behavior toward a child.”

  “I bought this boy,” Mr. Cole shouted, pulling the boy up to his feet by his ragged shirt. “I own him, and I can do anything I want to him.”

  Mr. Cole spat his tobacco onto my shoe and all reasonable thought escaped me. Without taking my eyes off him, I plunged my hand into my handbag, and plucked out a fistful of cash. After wiping my shoe clean with the dollar bills, I threw them onto the ground next to his foot.

  “Now I own him.”

  I grabbed the rope tied around the little boy’s hands, pulling him into me, and pushed through the crowd as quickly as I could. Sarah ran to my side, scooping the boy into her arms and running along behind my brisk pace.

  “You come back here, Miss Monroe. I’m going to tell your father,” Mr. Cole shouted.

  “Then I shall inform him to expect your calling card,” I called over my shoulder. Several men grabbed his shoulders, stopping him from following me.

  “Child,” Sarah said, shaking her head. “Ya jus’ bit off a heap o’trouble.”

  “I don’t care at this moment, Sarah,” I lied, walking along the street back to where we had left the carriage. Of course, I cared. How couldn’t I, knowing the wrath I faced when Daddy got wind of my behavior. Ne
vertheless, saving a young boy was worth the lecture on etiquette.

  “They ain’t followin’ us.”

  “No, they wouldn’t dare follow me. They will just inform Daddy of their umbrage with a demand for my punishment.”

  “Quite powerful man ya just shouted at.”

  “At times, fortunately for me, so is Daddy.”

  Sarah laughed as she helped the boy into the carriage, climbed in, and slapped the horse with the reins. The boy huddled in the corner of the seat. His shirt was covered in dirt and blood, his face was tear-stained and muddy, and his eyes were red and puffy. His already black and blue body shook as he cried.

  “What is your name?” I asked him.

  “Jackson, Mas’r,” he replied through shakes.

  “Jackson, I am not your master, and you will not call me as such. Do you understand? I’m Miss Alexandra and you’ll call me Miss Alexandra.”

  “Yes, Miss Alexandra.”

  “Do you know where you were born?”

  “Mississippi, Miss Alexandra.” He began sobbing again, clutching the seat with his little hands. “Can ya take me back to my mama?”

  “No, Jackson, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “Ya can’t comfort him for how he’s feelin’,” Sarah whispered.

  “I wish I could.”

  “Miss Alexandra, ya did good by that boy.”

  In my haste, in my impetuous, thoughtless haste, I ignored my morals, ignored my beliefs, and ignored the very essence of my life. My body swayed with the carriage as we rolled down the road. The reality of my actions set in and I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Did I?” I finally asked.

  “Why’d ya dare ask such a stupid question?”

  “Sarah, I did what everyone else in his life has ever done to him. I bought him. I bought him like he was an animal.” I inhaled deeply, letting it out slowly. “I just purchased a person.”