Point of No Return (22 page)

“Listen to me, son,” Clarence whispered. “You've got to learn to keep your mouth shut or you'll get sold to the worst possible master. You hear? Because none of the nicer masters will want a black who is too big for his britches. Keep your eyes down—never look 'em full in the face—and just say yes, sir and no, sir.”

“I'm afraid,” Matt said.

“We all are,” Clarence said.

Matt glanced around at the other slaves. They were men, women, and children of all sizes. Some clung to each other with tight fists and eyes wide and unblinking. They weren't dressed in the raggy work clothes that Matt expected, but had on clothes given to them for the auction. The men had on black fur hats and coarse corduroy trousers with nice vests and white cotton shirts. The women wore peasant dresses with scarves on their necks or over their heads. Clarence called them “market clothes”—which the slaves would be stripped of as soon as they were sold. That's why the three of them had been “dressed up”: to make a good impression and bring a higher price.

On a signal, the slaves entered through the gate into a narrow courtyard, where they were ranged in a semicircle for the white buyers to get a good look at them.

A woman fell to her knees and wept loudly, only to get a swift kick from the bearded man who was obviously in charge of the day's business. He turned to the white buyers as if nothing had happened. “Good morning, gentlemen! Would you like to examine this fine lot? It's as fine as ever came into a market!”

“This can't be happening,” Matt said to himself.

The buyers moved down the line of blacks, looking them over from head to foot and checking their teeth and muscles as if they were horses or cattle. The slaves stood perfectly still.

A man with a goatee stepped up to Clarence, looked him over, and passed his gaze down to Eveline and then Matt. “Is this a family?” he asked.

The bearded man nodded. “They are. For what service in particular did you want to buy?”

“I need a coachman,” he replied.

“I have an excellent coachman right here,” the bearded man said, stepping past Clarence to another slave. “He's strong and good-looking. A nice adornment to sit atop your coach.”

The goateed man leaned forward to look at the slave. “What's your name?”

“George, sir.”

“Step forward, George,” the goateed man said. George obliged him. “How old are you?”

“I don't recollect,” George replied. “I'm somewhere around 23.”

“Where were you raised?”

“On Master Warner's farm in Virginny.”

The man stroked his goatee. “Then you're a Virginia Negro.”

“Yes, Master, I'm a full-blooded Virginny.”

“Did you drive your master's carriage?” he asked.

The slave nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir. I drove my master's and my missus' carriage for more than four years.”

“Have you got a wife?”

“I had one in Richmond and wish you would buy her, Master, if you're going to buy me.”

The goateed man grunted indifferently then issued a series of orders like “Let me see your teeth and tongue. Open your hands. Roll up your sleeves. Have you got a good appetite? Are you good tempered? Do you get sick very much?” He seemed satisfied by George's answers and finally said to the slave trader, “What are you asking for him?”

“He's worth a thousand dollars, but I will take $975.”

The goateed man talked him down to $950.

Just as the deal was concluded, another man named Mason stepped forward and thumped Clarence in the chest. “He's a sound one,” Mason said. “I'll take him.”

The slave trader smiled and said, “Oh, he's a good one, all right. A hard worker and—”

Mason turned on the slave trader with a cold look. “Don't butter me up. I know this slave belonged to Mr. Ramsay and is notorious for running away. But I'll get that notion out of his head. I'll give you $850.”

The bearded slave trader looked over at Boss, who'd been standing quietly by the courtyard fence. Boss nodded. “Sold!” the slave trader announced happily.

“Come along, boy,” Mason said.

Clarence hesitated.

The slave-trader grabbed Clarence by the collar and pushed him along. “You heard him. Go.”

But Clarence couldn't go very far, because Eveline and Matt held firmly to his hands.

“What's this?” Mason asked angrily.

The slave trader punched out at Eveline and Matt to let go. He caught Matt in the side and knocked the wind out of him. Matt slumped to the ground.

“No, no!” Eveline cried out.

“Don't lose your head,” Clarence told her. “You know how to behave.”

Eveline stubbornly held on to her father's hand. “Please!” she cried.

The slave trader struck out at her with both fists, sending her to the ground. Clarence spun around with wild eyes. A whip cracked the morning sky like a gunshot, and all Matt could see was the expression of agonizing pain on Clarence's face.

“You're coming with me, boy,” Mason shouted as he prepared his whip for another strike. Clarence leaned down to his daughter and said only “Behave” before he stumbled after Mason.

“Lord Jesus, help me!” Eveline cried. Matt, still winded, crawled over to her and put his arms around her.

The slave trader stepped forward, his teeth grinding with anger. “You young ones need a lesson, I think.” He started to kick at them with his pointy-toed boot. Matt threw himself between the trader and Eveline to take most of the blows.

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” someone shouted.

The kicking suddenly stopped as the slave trader backed away. “Yes, Colonel,” he said obediently.

Colonel Alexander Ross knelt down next to Matt and Eveline. “Can you sit up?” he asked gently.

Matt nodded and, with aching ribs, sat up. Eveline wiped away her tears and did the same.

“What a brave boy you must be,” Colonel Ross said to Matt. Then he gestured to the slave trader and said, “I want them.”

Matt looked away to keep him from seeing the tears gathering in his eyes.

“For what service, Colonel?” the slave trader asked.

“House servants,” he answered. “What's their price?”

“Normally, I would ask—”

“I'll give you $500 for the two of them.”

Once again the slave trader looked at Boss. Boss slowly nodded. “Five hundred it is, Colonel.”

The colonel helped them both to their feet. “Come on, children. You're coming home with me,” he said with a smile.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

J
ACK AND
A
NDREW ARRIVED
in Huntsville close to noon. At the Liberty Hotel, a telegram was waiting for Andrew. He opened the envelope, read the message, and then leaned against the counter with a grimace.

“What's wrong?” Jack asked.

“My friend investigated Mr. Ramsay's stock of slaves and learned through the overseer that Clarence, Eveline, and Matthew were taken to the slave market.” He folded the telegram and shoved it into his coat pocket. “That's a setback. I wouldn't have expected Ramsay to dispose of them so quickly.”

“What do we do? We have to find them!” Jack said, his worst fear becoming a reality.

Andrew nodded and turned to inquire casually if the clerk knew of any slave markets taking place that day.

“I'm not entirely certain,” the clerk replied. He then held up his hand and turned to a black porter nearby. “How about it, Sam? Do you know of any markets going on today?”

Sam took off his glove. “Well, sir, Monday is usually a good day for buying. But I heard of only one market and that was this morning.”

“Are you sure?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, sir,” Sam answered. “My cousin Ishom was to be sold there.”

“Take us,” Andrew said.

Sam looked to the clerk for permission. The clerk shrugged and said, “At the usual rate.”

On the street, Sam flagged them a carriage, climbing up next to the driver while Jack and Andrew got into the back. They made their way through the city streets at a speed that Jack thought might drive him crazy. He kept looking out the window just in case he could spot Matt in the business-day crowds. At one junction he did see something that caught his eye.

“Look!” he shouted to Andrew.

Andrew leaned over. “What?”

“That wagon. Aren't those the slave hunters from Odyssey?”

As Andrew got into a better position to look, the wagon turned out of sight. “Missed it,” he said.

Jack wiped the sweat from his brow. “It was them. I swear it was.”

“Then perhaps we're closer than we could've hoped.”

The carriage weaved through the traffic to a less-crowded area of town. The driver pulled up to a cluster of brown buildings that Jack would've called shacks.

“This is the place,” Sam said, leaning down from the driver's seat. “That courtyard yonder.”

Jack and Andrew climbed down from the carriage. Jack nearly ran to the wide gate, but Andrew put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not so fast. You can't look too interested,” he whispered.

They walked to the gate, opened it on creaky hinges, and stepped into the empty yard. On the opposite end, a bearded man spied them and waved. “Hello!” he called and crossed over to them.

“Greetings,” Andrew said. “Is this the slave market?”

“One of them,” the man said. “The only one today.”

Andrew smiled. “I see. What time may we have the pleasure of seeing your…your slaves?”

“Nine o'clock this morning,” the man replied.

“We missed it?” Jack asked anxiously.

The man looked at Jack as if surprised that he would speak. “Yes, you did.”

“Did you have a man with a boy and girl about my age?” Jack asked quickly.

The question raised the man's eyebrows. “We have a lot of men, boys, and girls. Women, too. What's your interest?” The man's tone was suspicious.

Andrew cleared his throat. “We had heard of three particularly valuable slaves from Mr. Ramsay's plantation. We're sorry we missed the opportunity to buy them, that's all.”

The man eyed them carefully. “Well, they were here—and they've been sold.”

“Sold!” Jack shouted.

“Oh, dear. And we've come all this way,” Andrew said with mock unhappiness. “May we ask to whom they were sold?”

“I don't remember,” the man said, but he gestured so subtly that Jack almost missed it. He rubbed his fingers together.

Andrew sniffed casually, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and retrieved a couple of coins. He handed them to the bearded man.

Back at the hotel, Jack and Andrew entered their room. No sooner was the door closed than Andrew grabbed Jack by the arm.

“Hey!” Jack reacted, alarmed.

“Listen to me, young man,” Andrew said sharply. “Our lives—and the lives of many others—are dependent on being as unassuming as possible. We cannot draw attention to ourselves. No one must ever suspect that we're up to anything unusual or everything we hope to accomplish will be completely destroyed. For that reason, you must
keep your mouth shut
and
do only what I tell you to do
. Do you understand?”

Jack nodded his head. “Yes, Uncle Andrew.”

“Good,” Andrew said and let him go. “We'll have to pray that the slave trader doesn't run back to his customers and tell them about our questions.”

“But you paid him!”

Andrew unbuttoned his shirt and toyed with a necklace just beneath. “I paid him for some
answers
. I'm not so optimistic that it will also keep him from talking.”

Jack dropped himself into a particularly uncomfortable chair. “This is a disaster. They've been sold. And not just sold—they've been sold to two separate people! How are we supposed to rescue them now?”

Andrew tugged at the necklace, and Jack now saw that it held a small silver cross. “By faith, Jack. We'll rescue them by faith.”

Andrew turned away from Jack and poured water from a pitcher into a bowl. He began to wash his face and neck. Jack dropped his chin onto his fist and, as he did, suddenly felt a strange tickling sensation go through his stomach.
Butterflies
, he thought.
I'm feeling nervous about Matt
.

But the butterflies flew on and Jack felt that weird surge through his body as if he were on a roller-coaster ride. He tried to stand up but couldn't. Alarmed, he called out to Reverend Andrew, who suddenly spun away from him—along with the room and the light—into darkness.

“What's going on here?” a deep, warm voice echoed in the darkness.