Clotelle; or The Colored Heroine | Page 8

chattel, "and remember
that you now belong to me."
The poor slave wiped the tears from his eyes, as, in obedience, he
turned to leave the table.
"My father gave me that boy," said Jones, as he took the money, "and I
hope, Mr. Thompson, that you will allow me to redeem him."
"Most certainly, sir," replied Thompson. "Whenever you hand over the

cool thousand the negro is yours."
Next morning, as the passengers were assembling in the cabin and on
deck, and while the slaves were running about waiting on or looking
for their masters, poor Joe was seen entering his new master's
stateroom, boots in hand.
"Who do you belong to?" inquired a gentleman of an old negro, who
passed along leading a fine Newfoundland dog which he had been
feeding.
"When I went to sleep las' night," replied the slave, "I 'longed to Massa
Carr; but he bin gamblin' all night, an' I don't know who I 'longs to dis
mornin'."
Such is the uncertainty of a slave's life. He goes to bed at night the
pampered servant of his young master, with whom he has played in
childhood, and who would not see his slave abused under any
consideration, and gets up in the morning the property of a man whom
he has never before seen.
To behold five or six tables in the saloon of a steamer, with half a
dozen men playing cards at each, with money, pistols, and
bowie-knives spread in splendid confusion before them, is an ordinary
thing on the Mississippi River.


CHAPTER V
THE YOUNG MOTHER
ON the fourth morning, the Patriot landed at Grand Gulf, a beautiful
town on the left bank of the Mississippi. Among the numerous
passengers who came on board at Rodney was another slave-trader,
with nine human chattels which he was conveying to the Southern
market. The passengers, both ladies and gentlemen, were startled at

seeing among the new lot of slaves a woman so white as not to be
distinguishable from the other white women on board. She had in her
arms a child so white that no one would suppose a drop of African
blood flowed through its blue veins.
No one could behold that mother with her helpless babe, without
feeling that God would punish the oppressor. There she sat, with an
expressive and intellectual forehead, and a countenance full of dignity
and heroism, her dark golden locks rolled back from her almost
snow-white forehead and floating over her swelling bosom. The tears
that stood in her mild blue eyes showed that she was brooding over
sorrows and wrongs that filled her bleeding heart.
The hearts of the passers-by grew softer, while gazing upon that young
mother as she pressed sweet kisses on the sad, smiling lips of the infant
that lay in her lap. The small, dimpled hands of the innocent creature
were slyly hid in the warm bosom on which the little one nestled. The
blood of some proud Southerner, no doubt, flowed through the veins of
that child.
When the boat arrived at Natches, a rather good-looking,
genteel-appearing man came on board to purchase a servant. This
individual introduced himself to Jennings as the Rev. James Wilson.
The slave-trader conducted the preacher to the deck-cabin, where he
kept his slaves, and the man of God, after having some questions
answered, selected Agnes as the one best suited to his service.
It seemed as if poor Marion's heart would break when she found that
she was to be separated from her mother. The preacher, however,
appeared to be but little moved by their sorrow, and took his
newly-purchased victim on shore. Agnes begged him to buy her
daughter, but he refused, on the ground that he had no use for her.
During the remainder of the passage, Marion wept bitterly.
After a run of a few hours, the boat stopped at Baton Rouge, where an
additional number of passengers were taken on board, among whom
were a number of persons who had been attending the races at that

place. Gambling and drinking were now the order of the day.
The next morning, at ten o'clock, the boat arrived at new Orleans,
where the passengers went to their hotels and homes, and the negroes to
the slave-pens.
Lizzie, the white slave-mother, of whom we have already spoken,
created as much of a sensation by the fairness of her complexion and
the alabaster whiteness of her child, when being conveyed on shore at
New Orleans, as she had done when brought on board at Grand Gulf.
Every one that saw her felt that slavery in the Southern States was not
confined to the negro. Many had been taught to think that slavery was a
benefit rather than an injury, and those who were not