City of Dreams (34 page)

“There are, however, two things I do not leave to my dearest Tamsyn. I do not burden her with the obligation to pursue any quests or hold sacred any feuds, and I do not bequeath to her my slaves. Having come to believe that the danger of uprising and its terrible consequences will not depart this colony until we no longer affirm the peculiar institution, with this my last will and testament I manumit them all.”

That last could not be done.

Naturally enough, being a woman, his sister was unaware of the finer points of the laws of the colony. Will sat on Hunter’s council. He knew exactly how the statutes passed two years before were worded. Indeed, he’d been instrumental in making the argument that brought them into being.

It was not, he and a few others had advised the governor, so much the African blacks who were to blame for the revolt of 1712. The cause of the trouble was the presence of freed blacks, who owned land and lived where there were no decent Christian men and women to keep an eye on their behavior. They roamed the streets and gathered down by the waterfront and formed themselves into such gangs as the Smith Fly Boys and the Free Masons.

Blacks were not capable of looking after themselves. Every slave owner in the colony knew they were lazy and stupid. Manumission was bestowed by those who, against all logic and experience, held to the sentimental belief that savages could be made equal to whites.

Thanks to such arguments, the law Hunter finally signed did not forbid the direct importing of slaves from Africa as Massachusetts had done, nor place such a huge tax upon them that the trade was made entirely unprofitable, as had been the solution in Pennsylvania. New York’s new law forbade freed slaves to own real estate, however far from the populous part of the city it might be. The old Negro plots that surrounded the various swamplands were abolished. Moreover, every person who wished to manumit a slave was to pay twenty pounds a year to the slave for life, to insure that the freedman would not prove a burden on the public charity. Otherwise the manumission was null and void.

Under the circumstances, Bess’s attempt to free her slaves failed.

Old Hetje would soon be dead, but Bess’s estate would not cover the hundreds, nay thousands, of pounds involved in keeping the others to the tune of twenty pounds a year each for the rest of their lives. Will did not see that he was under any obligation to assume such a huge expense, nor did he have any reason to take in his sister’s slaves. He had five of his own. Tamsyn and Zachary were likewise completely provided for, and as a young couple newly starting out they certainly could not afford to pay the upkeep for Bess’s slaves. Tamsyn insisted she and her husband must make a place for Hetje, and in the interest of domestic peace Craddock agreed. The rest were to be sold.

There were five altogether: the three surviving blacks Bess had inherited from her husband, the African woman Bess had bought after the executions, and the child the woman had borne.

Damn Bess. Will had warned her back then it was a foolish purchase. Now he was saddled with trying to get rid of not just an obviously brooding wench (most buyers considered that a disadvantage) but a child not yet three, who would need food and a place to sleep for at least another two years before any useful work could be had from her.

The more he thought about the way Bess never listened to anything he told her, the angrier Will became. Anger always made him sweat. He was drenched in perspiration by the time he reached the slave market.

“Morning, Mr. Devrey.” The black who looked after the day-to-day operation of the holding pens and the washing sheds belonged to Burnett, who in turn hired him out for the job and charged the consortium a shilling a week for his services. Jebbo not only knew all the shipowners, he had a fairly clear idea of their financial dealings. “I hear how you got special business with us this day.”

“I do, Jebbo. Family business. My late sister’s slaves are to be sold. I believe they were brought to you last night.”

“They were, Mr. Devrey. And I seen to it that they were kept good and quiet and all proper like. And they was washed already this morning. Bring you a fair price, they will. Jebbo can promise you that.”

“Slaves! Black slaves! Prime slaves! Sale today! Slaves for sale!” The cry of the auctioneer echoed up Wall Street. “Slaves for sale! Gentlemen all come! Special today. Seasoned slaves today! And a cargo of prime Fantis just landed. Come and place your bids.”

The men leaving the Merchants’ Coffee House on their way to the auction did not move quickly. Though many were not New Yorkers—they came from all over the northern colonies—most had been before and knew the procedure. Slaves for rent would be offered first. The men of property from the upper reaches of New York colony as well as Rhode Island and Connecticut and Massachusetts had no interest in bondsmen for hire. That was strictly a local affair.

“Here’s Tom, a skilled cooper. Belongs to the Widow Drummond, who since her husband died has no need of his services. Offered for three pounds the year. Ah, a hand raised. Done, sir.” The hammer cracked on the table in front of the auctioneer.

“Belle now, a fine wench and a fine cook. Absolutely positively proven not to breed.” A wink followed on that remark. And ripples of laughter. “Rentable for six months only, while her master is away visiting his family in Providence Town. When he returns it’ll be nearing winter and cold and he’ll want her back.” Gales of laughter this time. “Four shillings the whole hundred and eighty days for Belle. A bargain, gentlemen. Am I not— Fine, sir, I see you. Done.”

The auctioneer’s voice droned on, punctuated by the smack of his hammer. And there were side deals being made all the while, men arranging among themselves the rental of slave bootmakers and bakers and carpenters and tanners and blacksmiths and chimney sweeps. Every conceivable trade was represented. The slave market did a brisk business in the hiring of workers trained by their owners in various skills, and hired out when those skills were no longer required.

“No surgeons, I note,” Christopher murmured to Jeremy. “At least I’m safe from that competition.”

“Hmm, it’s an interesting thought. Could you train a black to surgery? How about it, Chris, a wager? You try to—”

“Quiet, they’re about to start.”

“What do you mean? They have started. Oh, I see. That motley crew they’re marching out now. That’s what interests you?”

“Yes.”

Jeremy made a face. “Good God, why? There’s not a one of them looks as if— Hey! that woman at the end, the one carrying the child. Isn’t she the one who sa—”

“That’s her. Amba.”

“How do you know her—”

“Red Bess bought her the day after they burned the others. She was there when I did the operation.”

Jeremy winced. “I can’t bear to think of it. Cutting off the old girl’s tit like that, it makes my flesh creep.”

“Your flesh creeps all too readily, Jeremy. Now please shut your mouth for a few moments.”

The rental business was done with. The auctioneer was moving into the next phase of the sale. “Here we have an interesting assortment, gentlemen. Something you’re not likely to see many times again. A team of seasoned slaves all trained to work together to the highest degree of perfection, by a lady who demanded no less, as anyone in this town will tell you. Who will make me a bid for the lot of them? Come now, how often do you get such an opportunity? Five slaves who—”

“Hey!” A voice from the rear of the throng. “If we want to buy whole cargoes we’ll deal with the Queen’s slavers. Sell ’em off separate and let’s have done with it.”

The crowd laughed, but a few other voices chimed in. “He’s right. One at a time. That’s the point of this place, isn’t it?”

Indeed. Will Devrey and his colleagues sold their blacks individually, not by the cargo the way the English Royal African Company insisted on doing. Deal with the Crown’s own slavers, and you paid for the contents of the hold and took every one they unloaded, dead or alive. That was all right for southern plantation owners growing mostly rice, and for the Caribbean kings of sugar. They required huge crews of blacks for gang labor. Northern gentlemen came to the New York slave market at the foot of Wall Street for household help and farmhands. Frugal descendants of the Puritan pioneers, every one of them, not your New York free spenders. Upstanding and virtuous men who cared for their accounts with the same strict rectitude that informed their church. They expected to see what they were getting before they parted with their cash.

The slave trade underpinned the city’s entire economy. At least a thousand slaves a year were required in the colony of New York alone, and a prime black sold for as much as a skilled craftsman might earn in a lifetime. The slave trade was an enterprise worth hundreds of thousands of pounds annually, and the profits of the importers seeped down to the insurers, lawyers, clerks, and scriveners who handled the paperwork. Members of every class and profession supplemented their incomes with the part-time buying and selling of blacks. Those who made it their main endeavor, men like Devrey and his fellow shipowners, were growing fabulously rich from the Middle Passage. And in true New York fashion, they did not hoard their wealth, they spent it. Which in turn kept the town’s various merchants and craftsmen in business.

No one knew all this better than the auctioneer, whose job depended on running a smooth sale. It was midmorning by now, and when he was at last done with this small consignment of Red Bess’s leavings—used goods or seasoned goods, depending on your point of view—there were two pens full of recently landed Africans to get through. The auctioneer gave in to the desire of the crowd. Bess’s slaves would be sold one by one.

Cuffy went first. No surprise, for she was young and strong, had years of work left in her. A Connecticut gentleman paid four hundred pounds for Cuffy. A present for his newly married daughter, someone heard him say.

Bess’s cook was sold next, then her gardener. One went to Boston, the other to New Haven. They brought lesser sums. The auctioneer didn’t say that they were husband and wife, or that they were Cuffy’s parents, nor did anyone ask. Notions of family had no weight where slaves were concerned.

“Moving on, gentlemen.” The hammer slammed down. “Pay attention now. Here’s one you don’t want to miss.”

Amba stood on the block in the respectable dress Bess always made her wear. She held Phoebe in her arms and stared straight ahead. As if she were not there, Chris thought. As if this weren’t happening.

“She’s prime, gentlemen! Prime!” The auctioneer’s voice was filled with enthusiasm. “A wench strong as any man. Years of labor left in her. Come, gentlemen, what am I bid?”

“She’s the one was involved in the revolt!” a voice shouted from the rear. “Shame on you, Will Devrey, for putting her on the block. She should’ve died with the rest of the murdering bastards.”

Will had been standing at the rear of the crowd. His goal was to be rid of the slaves; whether the estate realized the last possible farthing on each was not important. Craddock was Tamsyn’s lawful husband; the proceeds of the sale would all go to the Scot in any case. But it wasn’t possible to ignore a challenge like the one that had been issued. Will was being accused of undermining the good repute of the market, a danger to them all and a crime the other importers might not forgive.

“The wench has been trained by my sister these two years,” Will shouted. “I can promise you she is entirely seasoned and well—”

The heckler wasn’t convinced. “She should’ve burned! Everyone knows as much.”

“Prime, gentlemen. Absolutely prime.” The auctioneer again, trying to calm the ruckus. “Come now, what am I offered? Seven hundred pounds? Six hundred?”

Standing as he was at the back of the crowd, Christopher could see the tops of the heads of all the buyers. Amba had to be purchased by someone who would treat her with some decency. She wasn’t a run-of-the-mill black. She was special. That was why he’d come today. To see if whoever bought her was someone who might recognize that fact.

The auctioneer was still soliciting bids. “Five hundred, gentlemen, a bargain at the price. Come now, start me off. What am I offered?”

“Two hundred,” a voice called out.

Christopher strained to see where the bid came from, spotted the raised hand toward the front of the crowd. He elbowed Jeremy. “The man who’s made the offer, who is he?”

“Comes from Massachusetts. Has a large estate on Cape Ann, owns fishing boats.”

“Is he a decent sort?”

“I suppose so. I never heard otherwise. Why do you—”

“Quiet. I want to hear.”

The auctioneer still held his gavel in the air. “Any advance on two hundred, gentlemen? No? Well, sir, looks like you’ve got a bargain.”

“Two hundred and I’ll take the wench,” the New Englander called out, “but not the child, mind you.”

Christopher sucked in a long breath. Sweet Jesus, they wouldn’t let that happen, would they? Surely the auctioneer was instructed to make the buyer take both.

The auctioneer tried. “The girl’s three, sir. Only another year or two and she’ll begin to earn her keep. After that you can look forward to a long life of hard work. I’m authorized to accept two-fifty for the pair of them. A bargain, sir. What say you?”