She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say
anything more; for Marie had an indefinite capacity
for hysteric fits; and, after this, whenever her husband’s
or Eva’s wishes with regard to the servants were
alluded to, she always found it convenient to set one
in operation. Miss Ophelia, therefore, did the
next best thing she could for Tom,—she
wrote a letter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his
troubles, and urging them to send to his relief.
The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen
other servants, were marched down to a slave-warehouse,
to await the convenience of the trader, who was going
to make up a lot for auction.
A slave warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers
conjure up horrible visions of such a place.
They fancy some foul, obscure den, some horrible Tartarus
“informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum." But
no, innocent friend; in these days men have learned
the art of sinning expertly and genteelly, so as not
to shock the eyes and senses of respectable society.
Human property is high in the market; and is, therefore,
well fed, well cleaned, tended, and looked after, that
it may come to sale sleek, and strong, and shining.
A slave-warehouse in New Orleans is a house externally
not much unlike many others, kept with neatness; and
where every day you may see arranged, under a sort
of shed along the outside, rows of men and women,
who stand there as a sign of the property sold within.
Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and
examine, and shall find an abundance of husbands,
wives, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, and young
children, to be “sold separately, or in lots
to suit the convenience of the purchaser;” and
that soul immortal, once bought with blood and anguish
by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the rocks
rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased,
mortgaged, exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to
suit the phases of trade, or the fancy of the purchaser.
It was a day or two after the conversation between
Marie and Miss Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about
half a dozen others of the St. Clare estate, were
turned over to the loving kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the
keeper of a depot on —— street, to
await the auction, next day.
Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing,
as had most others of them. They were ushered,
for the night, into a long room, where many other
men, of all ages, sizes, and shades of complexion,
were assembled, and from which roars of laughter and
unthinking merriment were proceeding.
“Ah, ha! that’s right. Go it, boys,—go
it!” said Mr. Skeggs, the keeper. “My
people are always so merry! Sambo, I see!”
he said, speaking approvingly to a burly negro who
was performing tricks of low buffoonery, which occasioned
the shouts which Tom had heard.
As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join
these proceedings; and, therefore, setting his trunk
as far as possible from the noisy group, he sat down
on it, and leaned his face against the wall.
