by James Fearn
The midwife inspected Anna and her baby and pronounced everything to be in good order. Taking Molly by the hand, Mrs Gillespie departed leaving the new parents together.
Within the week, Jesse and John set out on the long journey to New Orleans. The wagon trip to Smithport and the steamboat cruised down the Red and Mississippi Rivers proceeded uneventfully. The two men arrived at the Crescent city anxious to complete their business and return home as quickly as possible to pursue their land-clearing venture.
Trade was this city’s lifeblood. Colourful steamboats and clumsy barges brought the produce of the north of the state down the great Mississippi whence the tall clippers took their cargoes to distant ports across the seas. It was a city of gaiety and culture, a product of French colonial times. Buildings with graceful overhanging balconies of lacy iron grill-work crowded the edges of the narrow street. Shady alleyways gave the passing observer a view of colourful patios with their fountains, baskets of flowers, and leafy banana palms which provided a cool respite from the hot New Orleans mid-afternoon sun.
After a good night’s rest, Jesse and John left their guest house for the sales. The younger man had somewhat unsettled feelings as he strode beside his employer towards a market of questionable morality. But his conscience was temporarily dulled by the pleasant surprise he received when he reached the Rotunda in the French Quarter. John had expected a dingy warehouse, but as he entered through the great oak doors of the establishment, his eyes opened in astonishment at the architectural splendour that surrounded him. He stood open-mouthed gazing at the huge domed ceiling, ornately decorated in bright colours. This was supported by ten huge Corinthian columns between which elegantly recessed windows admitted the natural light.
The Rotunda was renowned as a market place. There were three raised platforms on each of which stood an austerely dressed auctioneer with a wooden gavel in his hand. Small crowds had gathered below each of these in anticipation of the sales. Businessmen and prosperous farmers in broad-brimmed hats jostled for position as each lot was brought forward for auction. At one of these points of sale, estates were being auctioned; at another works of art, mostly the creations of local artists and sculptors.
Jesse and John stood amongst a crowd of thirty or forty in the area designated for the slave auction. The bondsmen and women, some individually and some in groups were paraded across the raised platform, which gave the potential buyers an excellent view of the ‘merchandise’.
An auction was already in progress when the two men from Mansfield arrived. A beautiful black girl, clad only in a flimsy slip, stood with bowed head while many of the men assessed her breeding potential. On many of the larger plantations it was common to find a number of breeding females. As soon as the babies were born, they were valuable as merchandise to some profit-hungry planters. But some planters allowed them to grow to maturity, like prize cattle, to realise their full value. The ‘fancy girl’ market, for example, brought prices well in excess of one thousand dollars for a good-looking female, while field hands or domestics usually attracted far less.
‘Lot number five!’ called the auctioneer, a short, plump fellow resplendent in the frock coat and top hat of an affluent businessman of those times. A crimson cravat was tied around his neck, and in his hand he held a leather-bound stick with which he prodded and poked the degraded wretches standing forlornly at one side of him.
John felt ill as two lads in their late teens, chained together at the ankles, were led forth for inspection. Clad only in torn and dirty trousers and barefoot, the boys’ eyes darted about fearfully, portraying the terror within their hearts.
‘Come now, gentlemen!’ said the auctioneer as if he was about to sell a herd of cattle. ‘Here we have two strong-lookin’ boys with a good thirty years o’ work in each of ’em, choppin’, weedin’, hoein’, and pickin’. That’s what they’re good for and yer couldn’t do better than these two. I’ll take two hundred dollars for the pair.’
There was a crisp exchange of bids from the crowd, taking the price up to three hundred dollars with just two bidders left in the field. Jesse raised his finger. ‘Three hundred and ten dollars, Ah’m bid. Do you want to match that, sir?’ The auctioneer looked straight at an affluent-looking planter on the opposite side of the crowd.
‘Three hundred and twenty,’ came the response.
‘Then Ah’ll raise three thirty for the pair,’ called Jesse. The people fell silent.
‘Three hundred and thirty dollars, Ah’m bid. Any advance on three thirty?’ The bidding had ceased. ‘Three thirty once! Twice! Goin’! Sold for three hundred and thirty dollars to the gentleman on my left,’ cried the auctioneer. ‘Congratulations, sir!’ he said. ‘You’ll find them good workers, Ah’m sure.’
Two days later, the two Mansfield men and their new slaves, still shackled, boarded the paddle steamer for the trip North up the great river. Heavy rains over the past few weeks had increased the speed of the current dramatically, and many uprooted trees and bushes floated past perilously close to the hull of the vessel.
John had just retired to his cabin for the night and was extinguishing his candle when the boat shuddered like a building in an earthquake, startling him. He ran out on to the foredeck as the boat began listing to starboard. Hissing clouds of steam enveloped him, and the spray of the exposed paddles drenched him to the skin as he groped in the darkness to hold on to something.
‘We’ve hit a logjam, and we’re takin’ water,’ yelled the Master of the steamer. ‘Abandon ship!’ Realising the danger of the situation, John frantically lurched from side to side along the slippery deck. ‘Jesse!’ he called. ‘Jesse!’ Jesse was nowhere to be found.
Donning a life jacket, John was about to take to the swirling waters of the river when he spotted the unconscious form of Godbehere on the deck. There was no time to wait for help, so gathering him up in his strong arms, John slid overboard. Supporting Jesse with his left arm, he struck out with his right towards the faint outline of the riverbank. The sinister river dragged at him relentlessly as if intent on taking both of their lives.
Reaching the bank, John spent his dwindling energy hauling his companion up through the marshy edge of the river towards dry land. Jesse stirred. ‘Where are we?’ he whispered in an agitated manner.
‘Don’t worry, we’re safe now,’ said John reassuringly.
John explained the circumstances of the foundering of the steamboat and the manner of their escape.
‘What about the slaves?’ asked Jesse.
‘They were in a locked cabin on the lower deck under police guard as far as I remember. The poor devils would have been trapped,’ said John.
‘Mr Godbehere!’ A voice was calling in the darkness.
‘Over here,’ called John.
A flickering lamp indicated the presence of others on the bank. As it approached, John could see the silhouette of a uniformed man and two others apparently chained together at the ankles.
‘Here’s your property, Mr Godbehere,’ said the officer.
‘Glad to see yer made it. We were lucky. We got away on a lifeboat,’ John mused upon the irony of the situation. God is no respecter of persons.
Chapter 7
The idyllic life of the white planters and farmers of Dixie in the 1850s was nowhere better demonstrated than in Northern Louisiana. The rich agricultural economy had for several decades produced for them a lifestyle of affluence and prestige. Indeed the social standing of the planters had tended to pull other occupations into their orbit rather than vice versa. The life enjoyed by many of the southerners was gracious indeed in this land, where cotton was king and the slaves were the living machinery of production.
‘Well, John, y’ve bin ’ere for a while now. What do y’ think o’ this ’ere country?’ asked Jesse as he and John rode side by side along the dusty tracks of his plantation.
‘Seems a fine place to me, Jesse,�
� responded John. ‘The place for a man to make a good living. Everyone seems contented with their lifestyle, even your slaves. There can’t be too many slave holders around here with your enlightened outlook.’
‘Well, the way Ah look at it, John, is this,’ continued Jesse. ‘We people o’ the South take a pride in our rural way o’ life. We’re not interested in the sordid ways of the industrial North with its grimy factories and smoky air. This is a noble way o’ life made possible by the labour of our slaves. When y’ treat ’em well, they work ’ard for yer. They seem t’ like it ’ere. They’re simple folk on the whole an’ need to be guided an’ protected like children. After a while, y get t’ like ’em. Take Moses and Molly, f’r’ instance. A fine couple, if ever Ah saw one! This is good country, John,’ said Jesse. ‘If y’ work it well, it’ll return up t’ 20 per cent a year on y’re investment. Some say that the South is the economic powerhouse of the world,’ he continued with a note of pride in his voice. ‘We’re an independent bunch, and we want it stay that way. The Union’s on shaky ground, when it starts talkin’ about imposin’ its will on us.’
John was coming to realise that North America had spawned two distinct cultures which seemed irreconcilable. Unwittingly John and Anna Francis found themselves once more in a society in covert turmoil.
The gravity of the political unrest in his adopted land became more apparent to John following a conversation that he overheard in the Mansfield marketplace one Saturday morning. A small group of local planters had gathered in the midst of the dusty market surrounded by the colourful stalls displaying Florida oranges and bananas; cotton garments from Virginia; flour, wheat and oats, pots and pans, chaff for the horses; and a myriad of other home and farm materials and utensils that contributed to the good life in Dixie. The glorious sunshine of the Louisiana Fall gave a balmy weather to the atmosphere enveloping both white and black alike. The relaxed ambience of this prosperous rural town belied the tensions that lay below the surface, and which were to spark a social upheaval unparalleled in the history of the United States of America.
For more than a year, Louisiana had delayed her decision on the question of secession from the Union, waiting to see how neighbouring States would respond to the mounting pressures. But Federal threats against the continued practice of slavery and the North’s refusal to purchase the southern cotton were forcing the conservative southerners towards secession.
John was interested to see that one of the debaters was Peter Moss, the fellow he had met at Jesse’s place the day he and Anna had arrived in Mansfield some months earlier. His large plantation was situated some four miles south of Mansfield on the Old Post Road that led to Natchitoches. He was making his point vehemently.
‘Lincoln’s policies will mean an end to life as we know it here in the South,’ he declared. ‘How can we continue t’ grow cotton for the world markets without black labour? It’ll be the ruin of us all and the economic downfall of this nation. I’ve even heard talk of a black Republican President,’ he exclaimed, dismissively.
The men sniggered. ‘Ah believe we can wait no longer. If the Federal Government won’t respect our wishes, then we oughta govern ourselves and be done with the Union.’
‘But, Peter,’ retorted Billy Walker, the Mansfield Postmaster. ‘Are you ready to fight for your rights for that’s what it might come to? Are you prepared to see your sons and brothers go off to war for what you believe in?’
Rumour of the formation of a Confederacy began to consolidate into a serious debate in the secessionist States. The decision to establish the Louisiana State Militia emphasised the seriousness of a situation whose implications were unbeknown to John soon to have a profound influence upon his life.
‘What’s your view, young man?’ called the Postmaster.
Turning to face the direction of the voice, John became aware that the question had been directed at him. He began hesitantly, not wishing to give the impression that he had been eavesdropping, but his natural eloquence soon dispelled the attempted deception.
‘The . . . er . . . fundamental question as I see it’, he began, ‘is the right of people to live as they believe they should. No distant unelected authority should have the right to impose its will on a free people.’ His erstwhile Yorkshire accent immediately intrigued his hearers.
‘Ah, guess y’re from England with that accent’, said the Postman.
‘Yes, originally. But I’ve spent some years on the Australian goldfields.’
‘Australia, eh?’ continued the Postmaster. ‘Is it true what they say? Can y’all really find gold nuggets in the streets?’
Before leaving, John gave a brief account of his life on the goldfields. He told them of his reaction to the colonial oppression he had encountered in those earlier years and of his involvement in the Red Ribbon League. These men of the southern plantations were spellbound as John recounted the Eureka Rebellion and its causes.
On the walk home, John thought carefully about the conversation he had overheard. The cotton fields were ready for harvest, and even now, the slaves were at work with the initial stages of the picking. As far as one could see on the eastern side of the Old Post Road, the cotton grew in profusion. But John’s mind was far from thoughts of crops and prices. He was preoccupied with the views that he had heard expressed back in the market. He thought over his response to the Postmaster’s question, but in the back of his mind, there lurked a disturbing uncertainty. He knew that he had not considered all of the issues related to secession, but simply the argument he knew those local men had wanted to here. His acute sense of intellectual honesty had been offended by his own reticence.
It had been widely reported that many of the poorer white factory workers of the North endured a form of economic slavery that made many of the black slaves of the South look comfortable. Was it not hypocrisy for the North to demand an end to the slavery of the South? While it was true that some planters who showed a scant regard for the well-being of their human ‘property’, there were many who cared for their slaves-like members of their own families. Indeed many bondsmen and women had developed such affection and loyalty towards their masters that the promise of freedom lacked any appeal at all. Was this relationship not worth preserving?
Then again, John could foresee the day when the North, because of its considerably greater population, would control government in the Union and impose northern ways upon the south. Had he not worked hard to establish his own farm and raise a family? Was it not his greatest priority to consider their security and their future? The South wanted its independence, and saw its freedom as being under threat from an avaricious North. Jack Moss’s argument had a lot of appeal for young, struggling farmers. The ordinary southerner might not have been able to articulate the finer points of the States’ Rights policy, but he felt strongly that he had a right to choose his own way of life and to defend it.
On the other hand, the perceived immorality of slavery disturbed John greatly. He recalled the biblical reference to slavery and St Paul’s exhortation to slaves to obey their masters cheerfully and to masters to treat their slaves with fairness and kindness. But that argument laid heavily upon John’s heart. St Paul, he reasoned to himself, was speaking in a radically different culture. Indeed it may well have transpired that the purely political differences could have been settled by democratic processes, but the moral argument brooked no compromise to the leaders of the North. Would it ever come to war as some had suggested? This was no simple issue. A myriad of conflicting questions raced through his wavering mind as he sought to find a view that he could hold with honour.
John could see Anna waiting at the gate as he reached the top of Crosby Street. She was now pregnant for the third time. ‘How nice it will be for little Anola to have a little brother or sister?’ he thought. The intimate affairs of home and family soon overtook the weightier matters of State that had preoccupied him.
‘Jesse wants
to see you, John,’ she called when he was within earshot. She had wondered why John’s employer had summoned him at the weekend. ‘You’d better go straight away,’ she said. ‘It might be urgent.’ John went immediately to Jesse’s study and knocked at the door.
‘Enter!’ came the command from inside.
John opened the door. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ he queried, somewhat apprehensively.
‘Sure do!’ replied the big man who was seated at his great oak desk.
‘Sit down! Ah’ve got a proposition t’ put t’ yer.’ John stared at him quizzically.
‘Son, Ah’ve bin thinkin’ to m’self that Ah oughta help you and Anna get y’selves set up in this farmin’ business. Ah know y’ve bin workin’ hard for this. John, Ah also know that y’ saved ma life some time ago in that steamboat disaster, and Ah want t’ thank y’all,’ Jesse continued. ‘How’d y’ like a couple of acres to grow some maize for y’self?’
John’s face lit up with obvious joy. ‘But I’m still short of funds, Jesse. I’ve got a bit behind me from the goldfields but not enough to purchase a property from you yet,’ he said.
‘Tell yer what Ah’ll do! Ah’ll sell yer the field and cottage at the bottom of m’ farm on Crosby Street for five ’undred dollars. That’s the deal,’ announced Jesse. ‘What d’ yer say?’
John had acquired some knowledge of property values in the district and knew full well that the property he as being offered was worth at least eight hundred dollars. This was a very generous offer. The unused cottage that stood on it had been built some years earlier for Charles before he developed a weakness for the gambling tables of Shreveport.
‘I’m very grateful for your offer, Jesse,’ responded John with enthusiasm. ‘Let me just talk with Anna about it and work out my finances. I’ll give you an answer in a day or two.’ Bidding goodbye as quickly as he could, John ran back to Anna to give her the good news.
