My pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as I stepped under the shadow of that s.p.a.cious dome. I remember no fooling akin to what I experienced at that moment.
I have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the solemnity of religious awe--I have pa.s.sed through the gilded saloons of a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt--pity for the slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants who surrounded me--I have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with feelings of pain--but remembered no scene that had so painfully impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes.
Not sacred was that spot. On the contrary, I stood upon _desecrated_ ground--desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. This was the famed _slave-market of New Orleans_--the place where human bodies--I might almost say _human souls_--were bought and sold!
Many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. Oft had the husband been here severed from his wife--the mother from her child.
Oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement--oft had that vaulted dome echoed back the sigh--nay more--the cry of the anguished heart!
I repeat it--my soul was filled with dark emotions as I entered within the precincts of that s.p.a.cious hall. And no wonder--with such thoughts in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as I then looked upon.
You will expect a description of that scene. I must disappoint you. I cannot give one. Had I been there as an ordinary spectator--a reporter cool and unmoved by what was pa.s.sing--I might have noted the details, and set them before you. But the case was far otherwise. One thought alone was in my mind--my eyes sought for one sole object--and that prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle.
A few things I do remember. I remember that the Rotundo, as its name imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an arched coiling, and white walls. These were without windows, for the hall was lighted from above. On one side, near the wall, stood a desk or rostrum upon an elevated dais, and by the side of this a large block of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. The use of these two objects I divined.
A stone "kerb," or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. The purpose of this was equally apparent.
The hall when I entered was half filled with people. They appeared to be of all ages and sorts. They stood conversing in groups, just as men do when a.s.sembled for any business, ceremony, or amus.e.m.e.nt, and waiting for the affair to begin. It was plain, however, from the demeanour of these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any feelings of solemnity. On the contrary a merry-meeting might have been antic.i.p.ated, judging from the rough jests and coa.r.s.e peals of laughter that from time to time rang through the hall.
There was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds.
Seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every att.i.tude, were the individuals of this group. Their black and brown skins, the woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red "brogans," their coa.r.s.e garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of "n.i.g.g.e.r cloth" died cinnamon colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree,--these characteristics marked them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall--a distinct race of beings.
But even without the distinctions of dress or complexion--even without the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circ.u.mstances from these who strutted over the floor. While these talked loudly and laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. These moved about with the air of the conqueror--those were motionless with the pa.s.sive look and downcast mien of the captive. These were _masters_--those were _slaves_! They were the slaves of the plantation Besancon.
All were silent, or spoke only in whispers. Most of them seemed ill at ease. Mothers sat holding their "piccaninnies" in their sable embrace, murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to rest. Here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. Fathers looked on with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate-- no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches around them.
Not all of them wore this expression. Several of the younger slaves, both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours, with flounces, frills, and ribbons. Most of these appeared indifferent to their future. Some even seemed happy--laughing and chatting gaily to each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the "white folks." A change of masters could not be such a terrible idea, after the usage they had lately had. Some of them rather antic.i.p.ated such an event with hopeful pleasure. These were the dandy young men, and the yellow belles of the plantation. They would, perhaps, be allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard-- perhaps a brighter future was before them. Dark must it be to be darker than their proximate past.
I glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon them. A glance was enough to satisfy me that _she_ was not there.
There was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for that of Aurore. She was not there, Thank Heaven! I was spared the humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! She was, no doubt, near at hand and would be brought in when her turn came.
I could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and insulting glances--perhaps insulting speeches--of which she might be the object. And yet that ordeal was in store for me.
I did not discover myself to the slaves. I knew their impulsive natures, and that a scene would be the result. I should be the recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to draw the attention of all upon me.
To avoid this, I took my station behind one of the groups of white men that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the entrance, watching for D"Hauteville. In him now lay my last and only hope.
I could not help noting the individuals who pa.s.sed out and in. Of course they were all of my own s.e.x, but of every variety. There was the regular "negro-trader," a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat, coa.r.s.e boots, and painted quirt of raw hide,--the "cowskin,"--fit emblem of his calling.
In strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired Creole, in coat of claret or blue, full-dress, with gold b.u.t.tons, plated pantaloons, gaiter "bootees," laced shirt, and diamond studs.
An older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen jacket of the same material, and hat of Manilla or Panama set over his short-cropped snow-white hair.
The American merchant from Poydras or Tehoupitoulas Street, from Camp, New Levee, or Saint Charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black satin, shining like glaze--trousers of like material with the coat-- boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands.
The dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white gra.s.s frock, snowy ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. There, too, the snug smooth banker--the consequential attorney, here no longer sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned--the captain of the river-boat, with no naval look--the rich planter of the coast--the proprietor of the cotton press or "pickery"--with a sprinkling of nondescripts made up the crowd that had now a.s.sembled in the Rotundo.
As I stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built man, with florid face, and dressed in a green "shad-bellied" coat, pa.s.sed through the entrance. In one hand he carried a bundle of papers, and in the other a small mallet with ivory head--that at once proclaimed his calling.
His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I could hear the phrases, "Here he comes!" "Yon"s him!" "Here comes the major!"
This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green "shad-belly." The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B--, the celebrated auctioneer.
In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began.
Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other.
Under other circ.u.mstances I could have felt compa.s.sion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full--there was no room in it for Scipio; and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.
CHAPTER SIXTY.
THE SLAVE-MART.
I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that pa.s.sed in. As yet no appearance of D"Hauteville! Surely he would soon arrive. He said at twelve o"clock. It was now one, and still he had not come.
No doubt he would come, and in proper time. After all, I need not be so anxious as to the time. Her name was last upon the list. It would be a long time.
I had full reliance upon my new friend--almost unknown, but not untried.
His conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect confidence. He would not disappoint me. His being thus late did not shake my faith in him. There was some difficulty about his obtaining the money, for it was _money_ I expected him to bring. He had hinted as much. No doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in time. He knew that her name was at the bottom of the list--the last lot--Lot 65!
Notwithstanding my confidence in D"Hauteville I was ill-at-ease. It was very natural I should be so, and requires no explanation. I kept my gaze upon the door, hoping _every_ moment to see him enter.
Behind me I heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and monotonous repet.i.tion, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his ivory mallet. I knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent strokes of the hammer, I could tell that it was rapidly progressing.
Although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, I could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that _her_ turn would soon come--too soon. With the fancy my heart beat quicker and wilder. Surely D"Hauteville will not disappoint me!
A group stood near me, talking gaily. They were all young men, and fashionably dressed,--the scions I could tell of the Creole n.o.blesse.
They conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them.
Perhaps I should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. The name was _Marigny_. I had an unpleasant recollection a.s.sociated with this name. It was a Marigny of whom Scipio had spoken to me--a Marigny who had proposed to _purchase Aurore_. Of course I remembered the name.
"Marigny!" I listened.
"So, Marigny, you really intend to bid for her?" asked one.
"_Qui_," replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly dressed. "_Oui--oui--oui_," he continued with a languid drawl, as he drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. "I do intend--_ma foi_!--yes."
"How high will you go?"
"Oh--ah! _une pet.i.te somme, mon cher ami_."
"A _little sum_ will not do, Marigny," said the first speaker. "I know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her--rich dogs all of them."
"Who?" inquired Marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, "Who, may I inquire?"
"Who? Well there"s Gardette the dentist, who"s half crazed about her; there"s the old Marquis; there"s planter Tillareau and Lebon, of Lafourche; and young Moreau, the wine-merchant of the Rue Dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich Yankee cotton-growers may want her for a _housekeeper_! Ha! ha! ha!"
"I can name another," suggested a third speaker.
"Name!" demanded several; "yourself, perhaps, Le Ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-b.u.t.tons."