Twelve Travelers, Twenty Horses

Chapter 1

Pink and yellow maple leaves made light of the September of 1860 in Kentucky, where I lived. I was an American boy of African ancestry; I was also a thirteen-year-old slave.

For us slaves, the United States was taking turns blowing cold blasts to drive us to despair and warm gusts to help us hope. When would we be free?

The times gave us to understand that the November elections of 1860 would determine which way our lives would go. Voters would decide between Republican Mr. Abraham Lincoln or one of the three Democrats in the presidential race, including Mr. Stephen Douglas.

That week in September, Solomon, who was nine years old, Caesar, who was twenty years old, and I walked barefoot in chains on cold roads to be sold at auction. Along the way the salesmen added more slaves to our number, until we were shackled to about fifteen other men and boys.

At the auction house they kept us bound, lying on benches in the dark. The chains made me furious, and I felt humiliated. They caged my body in rusty iron, but my soul burned as a flame in the night.

Finally on the morning of the sale they removed my chains. They made me stand naked while they washed me with buckets of cold water. With a hand-size slab of pork fat, they greased my body until I shone. I dressed myself. The only reason I endured was because I had earned this sale, and I was proud of it.

They fed me well that morning, bacon rinds and corn bread. It wouldn't do for the auctioneer to have a slave faint on the auction block just as the bidding got good.

I was blinded as I stumbled out into brightlight. The sun was almost at noon as we walked to a grassy commons. Salesmen hawked us and other white people sneered at us. Buyers called us stupid, ugly, black face.

Although I looked at the grass as if I be ashamed, I wasn't. I felt sorry for them white folks. My mama had taught me that we were all equal children of the earth and loved by our creator.

We stood, some seventy-five "prize Negro slaves," barefoot in cold grass that smelled newly cut. The auctioneer said he never held a sale until he had at least seventy-five slaves. That's how I knew how many we were.

I wore a brown suit and a white shirt. We were dressed in showy clothes, which the auctioneers usually took back after we were bought. This was my third time being sold, and I had an understanding about auctions.

I searched for Solomon and spied him standing alone. When I walked near, he backed toward me. He was smart in some ways. We were free to move around now, but men with guns patrolled us. Any slave making a fast move to escape would be shot in a second. Big Caesar bumped my shoulder, but we didn't look at each other. No one must know that we were friends, because friends were always sold separately.

However, when Solomon started to rock and play with his fingers in front of this face, I held his hands down. Even so, he would never be sold. Who would buy poor Solomon? He was nine and as tall as me, but he had never uttered a word. Allow me to add that I was short for my age.

Reunited with Caesar and Solomon, I relaxed and looked around. We were being sold on a green commons in front of a redbrick courthouse of American justice. That fact brought tears to my eyes.

Solomon grew restless and pulled his hands free. He mustn't show how he was in the head. I knew how to make him stop. I whispered, "Stay still for the butterfly."

Solomon would stand for hours watching butterflies. He stared at the ground waiting. There weren't any flowers nearby, but the last butterfly of summer flitted past. As we watched the orange and brown butterfly sail off, who should I see among the slaves but mama.

I trembled in excitement. It had been three years since I last saw Eliza, my mama. I had thought that I would never see her again.

She hadn't noticed me, so I held Solomon by his hands and slowly stepped toward her. She caught sight of me, covered her mouth, and began silent crying. Tears rolled down my face too.

I had found Mama, my Eliza, after all these years. The last time I was sold, I had left her weeping on the auction block. Now we were together again, if only for a few minutes.

We dared not hug, but stood shoulder to shoulder. She wiped her eyes to stopping. When she squeezed them tight, I knew Mama was praying, thanking the Lord.

Caesar must have suspected that Eliza be my mama. Moving behind me, he squeezed my shoulder. For the past three years Big Caesar had taken care of me like a brother. He stood over six feet tall, and I heard tell he was over two hundred pounds. His voice was as deep as he was big. Like me, he was an honest worker, but Master sold us for setting fire to his barn.

Master had said, "I feel like shooting you two on the spot, but I ain't losing no money. The times are tight. You were both caught running away and now caught setting fires. You're off to be sold."

Since I had kept Solomon around me working at the Big House, Master had got rid of him along with Caesar and me. Although Solomon had been born on the master's plantation, his mother was dead; no one wanted a boy like him.

I heard a soft grunt, and Milo bumped me. I hadn't seen him in three years either. Eliza and Milo had been sold together again. Imagine meeting people I loved.

Milo was a team driver, about ten years older than Eliza. If she be thirty now, he must have been forty. They said he had hands like silk for mules or horses. Medium in size, he had a good heart and a bad habit: Milo gambled.

One New Year's Eve, I heard tell he lost all his clothes to gambling. He would have gone bare bottom and freezing cold if somebody hadn't shared a shirt and pants.

Next, when I looked over my shoulder, Kentucky Bob stood by us. He was fair of skin, with shoulder-length, straight brown hair, and was about thirty-five years of age. A curved scar, like a new moon, marked his pale tan face from forehead to chin.

In the neighboring county they said he was a violent man, quick to fight and sure to win. He had an angry eye, that Kentucky Bob. If I hadn't been leaning against Eliza, I would have moved away. I didn't take to trouble lessen trouble took to me.

Someone stepped on my bare toes to get my attention. It was Chloe, who lived on the horse farm next to Master's plantation. Slaves from both farms attended church

services together in the fields. I reckoned she was about my age. Her black hair was braided in neat cornrows. For the sale she wore a pink dress that made her round face glow. We had never said more than a word or two to each other, but I had heard good things about Chloe.

Seth followed Chloe. Because they looked alike, I figured he was her older brother, about twenty years old, like Caesar. He sang at church services in a voice like honey, and I remembered hearing about how his wife and child had died in birthing.

Seth was always protecting black womenfolk and getting in trouble with the masters for it. He was a decent man. Polly, the cook, wearing her red turban, and Hannah, the midwife and tender to the sick, followed behind Seth.

Those four -- Chloe, Seth, Polly, and Hannah -- were all from the neighboring horse farm, and I wondered why they were being sold. This was like a dream, meeting with Mama and friends.

All of us were dark -- coffee brown of skin -- except for Kentucky Bob and Hannah, who were cream-colored. The cook, Polly, and Hannah, the midwife, were older than Eliza, maybe in their forties, like Milo.

When Solomon again began to rock and hold his fingers in front of his face, Polly and Hannah took his hands. I guess all the slaves in the county knew about Solomon.

Poor Solomon. For three years I had taken care of him. I hated to think that we would be separated. What did they do with wrong-in-the-head slaves no one wanted to buy? It made me shudder.

Eliza felt me tremble and leaned closer. Tears welled in my eyes. It was so good to be by my mama. We stood in the middle of a group of slaves drawn together, I decided, by a kind of longing. My heart was full, my soul was singing. I took a deep breath and raised my eyes to heaven.

A maple with pink leaves laughed in the breeze, and golden oaks rustled giggles in reply. The noonday sun was high and glorious over seventy-five people about to be sold.

The open sky was free, but we were ten shivering slaves: Jacob, that be me; Eliza, my mama; Big Caesar, my friend; Solomon, the needy; Milo, the team driver; Kentucky Bob, the violent; Seth, the protector; Chloe, Seth's sister; Polly, the cook; and Hannah, the healer. Ten of us, I counted. Three children: Jacob, Chloe, and Solomon. Seven grown-ups. Aching needs held us together.

The slave auction hadn't yet begun when a young, rosy-faced white man no more than twenty, like Caesar and Seth, with bronze brown hair and brown eyes, walked over to us grinning. At first I thought he was a simpleton. His stovepipe hat was too big for him and sat loosely tilting on his ears.

Dressed like a dandy, he wore a black, cutaway frock coat showing a gray vest. Although it was hardly that cold, he wore gray spats over his shiny shoes and black leather gloves.

The white man strutted up and down in front of us. He was probably selecting slaves, but he seemed ashamed to examine us. Buyers often squeezed our arms and legs for muscles. Kentucky Bob's lip raised in a sneer. I hoped he wouldn't say anything, but Kentucky whispered, "Dang fool," into a breeze.

Stovepipe Hat seemed embarrassed about buying slaves. But that was better than the white man nearby who made an old woman run around in a circle, then pried open her mouth to tap on her teeth.

For a second Eliza held my hand, then let go. These might be our last moments. Could we ever be together again? Closing my eyes, I dared not ask God. It was enough that I could be near Eliza for a few minutes. I knew she was still alive. My beloved mama.

Caesar bumped my shoulder. When I opened my eyes, I saw Stovepipe Hat walking over with a salesman. Stovepipe seemed so young, maybe nineteen or twenty. Did this white man have money?

"How much for all ten of these fine slaves?" Stovepipe Hat asked.

Mama squeezed her eyes shut, Milo hissed softly, and Kentucky Bob gave a soft snort. I almost laughed. The auction hadn't begun yet, and this young master hadn't noticed Solomon. I squeezed Solomon's hands.

Ordinarily at that time a man-slave cost from one thousand to eighteen hundred dollars and women cost five to eight hundred, depending on age. Children cost three or four hundred, according to health and size.

Stovepipe Hat stood with arms open. What kind of slave buyer was he? He hadn't made us walk or run or jump. He hadn't squeezed our muscles or looked at our teeth. And what about Solomon?

Next the young master told the salesman, "I'm a very rich man, I'll have you understand."

Didn't Stovepipe Hat see the greedy grin on that salesman's face? Masters never told when they were wealthy. What a way to bargain!

"How about two thousand each?" said the salesman.

"Sold," said our new master.

Copyright © 2003 by Harriette Gillem Robinet