Chapter 35: Jason

A day or two into our journey north the captain sent me out to scout up some food and a wagon to carry it in. He gave me some Continental paper and a couple of gold coins, telling me to use the paper if I could and the hard money if I must. I didn't tell him that I had a small cache of coins in my saddlebags, money taken off dead Redcoats from time to time. We looked at a map, found a crossroads village marked, and I set out with our rendezvous selected for two days later.

The village turned out to be a place where two trails crossed in the wilderness, but it was Saturday when I got there and a lot of men and few women were in town. The town consisted of five fame buildings and a few houses, cabins and outbuildings. The tavern was doing a booming business, and what I guessed was the village whorehouse had a line of men at the back door. A platform had been set up in the town square, and when I asked what that as about, I was told a slave auction and estate sale were planned for the afternoon. Some furniture was stacked nearby. It did not take me long to find a worn-out wagon I could buy cheap along with a pair of good-looking mules. I purchased five two-gallon jugs of the local corn whisky, twenty hams, ten bushels of corn, a few blankets and got something to eat and then went to see the slave auction since I had seldom seen one.

It was both interesting and depressing. An old farmer had died without a will and since his wife was dead and primogeniture was no longer the rule, his goods and chattels were being sold so his heirs could properly divide his estate. Five mature field hands were in the first group, strong, healthy, black men with blank looks who stripped off their loincloths when told to and looked out over the bidders until all were sold. I heard one man in the crowd call then "good breeders."

Then some younger men were sold, a few boys really, for lesser prices. Three older men who were said to have skills such as leather work or smithing brought reasonably good prices, but there were no bids for two elderly men who, I was told, would probably just be set loose to fend for themselves. Finally a slave in chains was pushed up on the platform, a mature man with a scarred face and well-muscled arms.

"This here's the runaway," the auctioneer said. "You heered 'bout him I 'spoze."

"Show us his back," one of the buyers yelled, and the big white man with the gavel tore open the slave's worn shirt and turned him around, with the fluttering cloth hanging from both his manacled arms. The man's back was a crisscross of welts and scars, some of them looking recent and others well-healed.

"He's a good plower and a skilled teamster, mule skinner," the auctioneer announced. "Who wants him?"

"Ten, local," someone called.

"Twelve, Continental," said another.

The bidding went slowly toward fifty pounds when the term "teamster" seeped into my brain and I took a good look at the man. He was strong, straight and his eyes searched the crowd rather than ignoring it. I caught his gaze, held it, and said, "A gold guinea."

The small group gasped, and I suspected I had overbid for gold in this outpost might have been worth a hundred or more pounds of paper money no matter its source.

"Sold," cried the florid man, bringing down his hammer and then pointing it at me. I paid, got a bill of sale and brought the man to stand beside the wagon after his chains were removed.

"I'm Jason," he said.

I told him my name and showed him my wagon. He examined it, shaking his head, showed me some things that should be fixed, and I told him to take care of it, pointing out the place an itinerant smith had set up his bellows. I gave him some coins and one of my old shirts to wear and went back to the sale after hearing some hoots. The women were being brought to the square, roped together at the neck.

The first group put up were the strong, young ones. All were stripped bare before they mounted the platform and then made to turn around several times. There were some comely wenches among them with jutting breasts and long legs and the comments flew, raucous and ribald, before the bidding began. Then the younger girls were sold off, both of them went to the same buyer whose motives were loudly questioned.

By the time the more mature women were led out, Jason was back. "Boss," he said to me. "My wife and chillun's in this bunch. You could buy them. She's a good cook, and I'd promise never to run."

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"I run from men what beat me," he said. "We been separated. You buy her, and I promise, even if you beat me, I won't run. That's her, the second one with the two little girls."

These three slave women were all with children and the auctioneer said buyers could bid on the families or separately. The first woman went to one man and her child to another, both of them wailing as they were led away. I checked my resources, looked at Jason again, and then easily bought his wife and daughters for fifteen pounds of Continental script. As I paid and got my receipt, a white woman was pushed up on the stand, at least I assumed she was white.

"This here's Hanna, one'a the old man's bond servants," said the auctioneer, waving a paper. "She's Welsh, got most a'four years left on her contract. She was a house servant and nursed the old man for the las' year or so. Y'all saw her sister las' week, remember, in the fust part a'this sale." The woman stood, shoulders slumped, her lank hair hanging in her face, her feet bare.

There was some mumbling in the crowd, and one man called out, "Les' see her, Boots, peel 'er out."

"Take off yer dress, gal," the auctioneer said, poking her in the ribs with his gavel.

"No," she said, clearly tossing her hair back and looking right at him. She had a strong chin and a good nose, and when she stood up straight she showed a fine, young body even though she was barely five feet tall. The man grabbed her plain, linsey-woolsey dress at the shoulder and ripped it from her.

The crowd howled with pleasure. She held a torn remnant between her legs and bowed her head again, her hands at her belly, her pink-tipped breasts poking out between her arms.

"Silas," asked the auctioneer, "you want this one, too."

The laughter, catcalls and small bids in shillings and pence ran around the crowd and slowly petered out. "What d'you know about her?" I asked Jason.

"Hard worker," he said. "Was two a'them."

"Hell," the man called Silas said, "I'll give y'a pound, local paper."

The girl's head came up, and she put her cloth draped hands to her mouth, leaving her crotch bare again. She had a sparse thicket between her legs.

"No," she said clearly, eyes wide, knees shaking.

"Awright," cried the auctioneer, "any more?"

"A guinea," I said clearly, "gold." I wondered what the captain was going to say. The girl stared at me and at Jason standing beside me with his wife and children. She covered herself as best she could, one hand high and the other low, and stood trembling in the chill breeze, her nipples growing hard.

"What the hell," said Silas, making his way through the crowd. "You big pecker, what 'chu want that piece fer?" He glared up at me, his fat belly touching my belt.

I tried to ignore him, pushed him aside to get the paperwork done. I was anxious to get out of town and back on the road. He put his hand on my arm and pulled me around to face him.

"I got that gal's sister on her back making ten, twelve shillings a day. What chu gonna do with her? I'll gi' you ten pounds, Continental."

"None a'your damn business," I told him, noting the long knife at his belt and the mean look in his piggy eyes.

"Damn fool," he said. "You'll regret this." He turned on his heel and disappeared. I got Hanna's contract, and Jason's wife threw her coat over the girl and led her to the wagon.

We sat at a rude table behind the tavern, the six of us and ate our supper. The girl now wore a new shift and thin dress and some crude pull-up boots I had bought her with the black woman's help. I also bought her children new dresses. The Welsh girl had raked her light-brown hair back with her fingers and tied it with some string, and was an altogether good looking young woman with a worried, pock-marked face.

"What wrong?" I asked her.

"That fat man," she said, "he's got m'sister Nell, out in a tavern somewheres."

I kept eating and felt Jason and his wife, her name was Ruth, watching me. Their children ate steadily as if they had not done that often in recent days.

"He bought her paper las' Saturday," the girl said. "Lord knows what he done to her."

"Told me he made a whore out'a her," I said between bites. "Wanted to do the same with you."

"That's what I thought," she said. "They been taunting me all week, saying what they was planning on doing."

"Nothing I can do," I said, catching some movement out of the corner of my eye. My heavy belt was on the table, and I slid my big bayonet, scabbard and all, across to Jason and pulled my pistol out and checked its load. "Cover my back," I said quietly to the man.

Into the dirt courtyard strode fat Silas in a leather coat and tri-cornered hat with two other men, both armed with muskets, farmers from the look of them. I stood to meet them, holding my pistol down at my side.

"We come for that gal," Silas said. "Here five shillings, silver, more'n she's worth." He threw the coins at me and I ignored them.