The Auction
The curious spectators and prospective buyers gathered around the crudely constructed wooden platform near the loading docks on River Street. The clipper ship Exeter's cargo, one hundred and eighty-three prime black slaves from Africa, was being kept in a large, well-guarded pen barely one hundred feet away from the platform. The heat of the Savannah summer day and the poor sanitary conditions in the pen created a sickening stench that made more than one planter feel ill.
Beauregard Pettigrew, owner of Pinehurst, one of the largest plantations in Georgia, sat in his fine carriage, holding a scented, monogrammed lace handkerchief in front of his nose to mask the foul odors that clung to the air. The gentleman planter had recently acquired three hundred additional acres of cotton land and now needed more slaves to work those fields.
Beauregard—never known to be a patient man—was anxious for the auction to start. He rarely left his plantation to journey to the city, but when he did, he always insisted on combining business with pleasure. Once he purchased the field hands he needed, he would then visit a certain house near Lafayette Square, where both the whiskey and the women were of the highest quality.
The planter looked at his pocket watch, frowned and brusquely called to the auctioneer.
"What seems to be the problem here, young man? The auction should have started twenty minutes ago. I haven't got all day."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pettigrew, sir, but there appears to be a discrepancy between the number of slaves in the pen and the number reported on the ship's cargo log," the auctioneer explained in his usual obsequious manner.
"Why hold up the auction over one slave? Surely the Exeter's captain has had to bear the expense of runaway slaves before."
"It's not that, sir. We have one slave more than we should have."
Beauregard gave a grunt of disgust.
"For God's sake, man! So, there's one more slave to sell. It just means a larger profit for the ship's owners."
"But, sir, we have records to keep."
"Listen to me. If you don't start this auction immediately, I shall leave and buy my slaves elsewhere."
The auctioneer apologized profusely and assured Mr. Pettigrew that the auction would commence at once.
Beauregard had gone to Savannah to purchase only field hands: strong, healthy men and women who could spend long, grueling hours bending over the cotton plants. However, he had not expected to encounter a jewel as rare as Ashanta. The ebony beauty was without doubt the most captivating creature he had ever seen. Her soft, flawless skin was the color of jet, her cheekbones were high and her eyes were slightly slanted, giving her an exotic, cat-like appearance.
Strangely enough, while it was common practice on many plantations for the white masters and their male relatives to bed the female slaves, up until the day he saw Ashanta, dark flesh had never tempted Beauregard Pettigrew.
When the slave handlers led her up the steps of the platform and placed her on the block, Beauregard was amazed by her regal carriage. She walked like a queen, as though the chains that dragged at her feet were nothing more than a train of a gown. Ashanta stood upon the block and held her head high. She did not lower her eyes in fear or shame as the other slaves, male and female, had but rather looked the white men in the eye defiantly.
Understandably, the bidding started at a high figure, for there were many men interested in buying the alluring girl, but none was as eager as Beauregard Pettigrew. He immediately topped each bid given by the other interested buyers. Eventually, the other bidders backed down. They all knew Pettigrew and were aware of how much money he had; if he wanted to, he could ruin them all. A slave—even one as rare and beautiful as Ashanta—was not worth incurring Beauregard's wrath.
"Sold," the auctioneer cried, "to Mr. Beauregard Pettigrew of Pinehurst."
His business over, the planter ordered his driver to take him to the house near Lafayette Square. There he would have a few drinks and then enjoy the company of a pretty, young, blond-haired, blue-eyed Dutch girl. He would wait until he returned to Pinehurst to sample the charms of the dark and mysterious Ashanta.
* * *
Upon Pettigrew's arrival at Pinehurst, his wife, Arabella, stepped out onto the veranda to greet him properly.
"Welcome home, Beau," she said, planting a chaste kiss on her husband's cheek. "How are things in Savannah?"
"Hot, as is to be expected," he replied, wiping the perspiration off his brow with his handkerchief. "And how have things been going here in my absence?"
"Running smoothly as usual."
"And have the new field hands been delivered yet?" he inquired.
"Yes, they arrived three days ago," Arabella replied.
"Good, I'll see to them in the morning."
He followed his wife inside, eager for something to eat before he went to bed.
"Oh, and by the way," the planter added casually, "I picked up a new house servant while I was in Savannah."
"Why? We have more than enough house workers now."
"I got an exceptional deal on her. I just couldn't pass up such a bargain."
This was a blatant lie since he had paid more for Ashanta than for any of the field hands he bought. He was not about to tell that to his wife, however. Neither would he tell her what had really motivated him to purchase the girl.
"Why don't you put her in the fields then? After all, you're always running to Savannah to replace the hands."
"Maybe I will," he said, pretending to agree with his wife.
Beauregard had no intention of sending Ashanta to the cotton fields where she would quickly lose her youthful beauty. If Arabella didn't need another house worker, then Ashanta would simply not have any assigned duties. The white women on Pinehurst rarely ventured near the slave quarters, so his wife would never know what Ashanta did or didn't do. As for the other slaves, they had absolutely no say in the running of the plantation.
* * *
In the quarters the slaves rested after a long, hot, exhausting day of backbreaking labor. Those from the Exeter who had recently arrived from Savannah were slowly adjusting to life at Pinehurst—all except for Ashanta, that is.
"I am no man's slave," she declared defiantly when one of the housemaids questioned her about her duties.
"You best change that uppity attitude right now," one middle-aged black woman told her. "If'n you don't, they'll keep on beatin' you down until you break."
"I will never break," she said more gently.
"You think because you're beautiful and the massah desires you that you will receive special treatment?"
Ashanta pursed her lips together and refused to speak.
"Mayhap you will for a little while, but it won't last. Massah Pettigrew's a hard man. He don't have an ounce of compassion in him. He'll whup you for any sassiness."
"There's no need for you to worry about me. I know how to take care of myself. No lash will ever break my skin."
The other slaves laughed and shook their heads. Then, one by one, they told Ashanta about the horrors they'd had to endure as slaves at Pinehurst. Most of them had, at one time or another, been beaten for some minor infraction of the rules, for being lazy or for pretending to be sick when they should have been working in the field or in the house. Some of them had been forcibly torn away from their spouses, their parents or their children. Worst of all, every one of them had lost hope of ever being free—at least on this side of heaven.
* * *
The following morning one of the plantation's less experienced cooks went into premature labor. Shortly thereafter both she and her female infant died in childbirth.
"It's fortunate that you bought that new house slave after all," Arabella told her husband during breakfast. "I do hope she can cook. But if she can't, I'm sure Jasmine or Aphrodite can teach her. Would you have Porter send her up to the kitchen as soon as possible?"
Later that day, when the aging mistress of Pinehurst saw the beautiful Ashanta, she hated the girl on sight. Arabella had been raised as a proper white, God-fearing lady, but she knew what went on in the slave quarters at night. After all, she had lived on plantations all her life. Her papa and her brothers had fathered several illegitimate children with brown skin, but she had hoped for better behavior from her husband.
When Beauregard saw how harshly Arabella treated the beautiful new house worker, he immediately guessed the reason. He thought it best that—for the time being at least—he show no interest in Ashanta. He would let his wife get over the worst of her jealousy before he approached the quarters to claim his long-awaited prize. Playing it smart, for the next few weeks Beauregard showered his wife with attention. Even when they were first married, he had not displayed as much love and affection toward her as he now did.
"You're behaving oddly lately." Arabella giggled, as her husband presented her with a diamond and emerald necklace that he had bought for her in Savannah. It had been intended as an anniversary present, but Beauregard decided now was the most opportune time to give it to her. The necklace had been quite expensive; he hoped that Ashanta would be worth it.
"Why odd? Can't a man show his wife that he loves her?"
"You haven't given me an unexpected gift since Robert was born."
"Now that he's away at school, we can pretend we're newlyweds. In fact, once things slow down around here, I think you and I might take a trip to Atlanta."
Arabella basked in all the sudden attention and looked forward to the promised vacation. It had been months since she had left Pinehurst and years since she had been to Atlanta. She was so happy at the prospect of what she saw as a second honeymoon that she even changed her attitude toward Ashanta. After all, why should she be jealous of a slave when she was the mistress of Pinehurst and wife of one of the richest men in Georgia?
* * *
Beauregard sat drinking a glass of sherry at the huge mahogany desk in his study. His wife was upstairs in her room attended by her personal maid and a local seamstress. For the next hour or so, Arabella would be immersed in dress patterns and fabric swatches. With uncharacteristic generosity, he had insisted that she have a whole new wardrobe for their vacation to Atlanta. In truth, he didn't care what she wore or even if they went to the city at all. He just wanted something to keep her out of the way for a few hours.
The master of Pinehurst finished the last of his sherry, stood up and headed for the door. Quietly, he made his way out of the house and across the yard toward the slave quarters. The field hands scattered as they saw him approach; the house workers nodded respectfully but said nothing.
"Where's Ashanta?" he asked Caesar, his carriage driver.
"She be in that cabin on the end, massah," the slave answered, pointing to a long row of small shacks.
Beauregard wouldn't have dreamed of thanking the man for his help, any more than he would have thanked his cows for giving him milk or his chickens for laying eggs. Neither did the master bother to knock; he just pushed open the door of the cabin and walked inside. Ashanta stood in the center of the room, unsurprised by his visit.
"Do you know why I bought you?" he asked in a lazy drawl.
"To be one of the cooks at Pinehurst," she replied with a smile, teasing him as if she were one of the white women from the house near Lafayette Square in Savannah.
In one way Beauregard was offended; slaves did not address their masters so disrespectfully. But in another way, her saucy behavior further enflamed his desire.
"Hardly! I could have gotten an experienced cook from one of the best restaurants in Savannah for a fraction of the price I paid for you. Hell, if all I'd wanted was a cook, I could have brought one of the women in from the fields to help in the kitchen, and she would have gotten down on her knees and thanked me for my kindness."
"But I get on my knees for no man, black or white."
Beauregard savagely slapped Ashanta across the face.
"Beautiful or not, you'll not talk to a white man like that."
"And what will you do about it?" she asked, laughing at his anger.
Beauregard hesitated. Was this slave insane? She seemed to have no fear of him at all. The master of Pinehurst—like the white minority at most plantations—lived in dread of a slave uprising. Was this how one started? With one insolent slave who would not bow down to her master? If she did not stop her insubordinate behavior, he would have no choice but to sell her.
"I'll show you who the master is here," he said, removing his belt and wrapping one end around his fist.
"Think before you act, for no lash will ever mark my skin," she said.
"How dare you speak to me like that?"
Beauregard swung his belt, but it never made contact with the slave's body. Ashanta moved quickly. Her hand shot out, and her nails raked his face. The master howled with pain. It felt as though the claws of a wild jungle beast had ripped his flesh. He screamed again as he saw those cat-like eyes glaring at him with hatred.
"Arabella," he cried for his wife, as he staggered from the quarters back toward the house.
Beauregard Pettigrew, the proud and wealthy owner of Pinehurst, never made it to the sanctuary of his grand home. Across the lawn, following in his tracks, raced a sleek black panther. When Beauregard turned to see the animal closing in on him, he tripped, fell on the ground and rolled over onto his back. In one graceful leap, the panther pounced upon its master who howled in terror and pain until death mercifully released him from his agony.
* * *
Arabella heard the commotion from inside her room and hurriedly raced outside, wearing a half-finished dress that was held around her with several dozen pins.
"Beau!" she screamed when she saw her husband lying on the ground, surrounded by slaves.
Arabella ran to him and knelt by his side. She cried hysterically when she saw the front of his shirt was shredded and covered with blood. Beauregard's chest was deadly still; he was not breathing. His wife's wailing came to a shuddering halt when she noticed the fingernail marks on his face. She instinctively knew how and why he'd gotten those scratches. The jealousy and hatred she'd suppressed for weeks erupted, more intense than ever.
"She killed him!" the lady of the plantation declared vehemently.
Grayson, the white overseer, had arrived on the scene and began issuing orders.
"You two men take Master Pettigrew inside and lay him out on his bed. Porter, go fetch Dr. Gordon at once. And you, Jasmine, go get a glass of brandy for your mistress."
"I don't want any brandy," Arabella screamed with rage. "I want you to punish the slave who killed my husband."
Silence momentarily fell on the crowd. Black slaves did not kill white men. They might all pay the price for Ashanta's crime.
"Do you hear me, Grayson? Find that new kitchen maid," Arabella commanded the overseer. "She's the one who did this to my poor husband."
Grayson nodded gravely. He didn't know whether or not Ashanta had anything to do with the master's death, and frankly, he didn't care. If it made the mistress feel better to blame her husband's death on a slave, he was not one to deny her the comfort and satisfaction of seeing that slave punished.
Two field hands entered Ashanta's cabin and dragged her out. She put up no fight, nor did she try to run. Instead, she regally walked across the field and up to the lawn. There she met the mistress' hate-filled eyes without flinching.
"Grayson," Arabella ordered coldly, "go get a strong rope."
The overseer hesitated briefly but then did as he was told. A field hand fetched a milking stool from the barn and placed it under a thick branch of the giant magnolia. Still, Ashanta showed no sign of fear.
"You will pay with your life for what you did to my husband," Arabella said, her voice dripping with venom.
"You cannot harm me. No, it is you who will die, Mrs. Pettigrew—you and this vile Southern aristocracy to which you belong. Very soon your world will be brought to its knees by your neighbors to the north. Then the masters and mistresses of these grand plantations will be humbled in the dirt of their cotton fields. My people will be set free, and your people will know the defeat and hopelessness from which we now suffer."
"That's enough, gal," the overseer said as he placed the noose around Ashanta's long, graceful neck. Then he picked her up and placed her feet on the milking stool.
"I curse you!" the beautiful black woman spat at the tear-stained Arabella. "You and your entire slave-owning society."
With one graceful movement of his leg, Grayson kicked the stool out from beneath Ashanta.
Arabella fainted, but the overseer, the field hands and the house servants stared in fascination at the empty noose that hung from the branch of the giant magnolia. Ashanta had disappeared.
* * *
When the captain of the Morning Star pulled into port at Charleston, South Carolina, he was anxious to unload his cargo of Jamaican rum and African slaves and return to his home in Boston. But the man at the customs house seemed intent on giving him a hard time.
"I'm afraid your papers are not in order, Captain Harris."
"What's one slave more or less? Why don't you just cross out the eight and change it to a nine? Won't that solve your bookkeeping problem?"
The clerk was a conscientious worker, however, and didn't like the fact that the Morning Star carried two hundred and thirty-nine slaves even though its records indicated that only two hundred and thirty-eight had survived the transatlantic voyage.
"Look, man, if you can't change the records then I'll just leave one slave on board," Harris logically suggested.
The captain turned and looked at a beautiful black woman. Her soft, flawless skin was the color of jet, her cheekbones were high and her eyes were slightly slanted, giving her an exotic, cat-like appearance. He took the girl by the arm.
"Just forget it," Harris told the young clerk. "I have to stop off at Richmond on the way home to pick up some tobacco. I'm sure I can get a good price there for such a jewel as this."
"That won't be necessary," the customs clerk concluded with a sigh, changing the books to indicate the receipt of two hundred and thirty-nine slaves.
Ashanta smiled slyly, for tomorrow there would be another auction.
Don't be frightened. It's not Ashanta; it's only Salem getting in touch with his feminine side.
