Chapter: FREEMAN'S INDUSTRY--CLEANLINESS AND CLOTHES--EXERCISING IN THE SHOW
  ROOM--THE DANCE--BOB, THE FIDDLER--ARRIVAL OF CUSTOMERS--SLAVES
  EXAMINED--THE OLD GENTLEMAN OF NEW-ORLEANS--SALE OF DAVID,
  CAROLINE AND LETHE--PARTING OF RANDALL AND ELIZA--SMALL POX--THE
  HOSPITAL--RECOVERY AND RETURN TO FREEMAN'S SLAVE PEN--THE PURCHASER
  OF ELIZA, HARRY AND PLATT--ELIZA'S AGONY ON PARTING FROM LITTLE EMILY.


The very amiable, pious-hearted Mr. Theophilus Freeman, partner
or consignee of James H. Burch, and keeper of the slave pen in
New-Orleans, was out among his animals early in the morning. With an
occasional kick of the older men and women, and many a sharp crack of
the whip about the ears of the younger slaves, it was not long before
they were all astir, and wide awake. Mr. Theophilus Freeman bustled
about in a very industrious manner, getting his property ready for the
sales-room, intending, no doubt, to do that day a rousing business.

In the first place we were required to wash thoroughly, and those with
beards, to shave. We were then furnished with a new suit each, cheap,
but clean. The men had hat, coat, shirt, pants and shoes; the women
frocks of calico, and handkerchiefs to bind about their heads. We were
now conducted into a large room in the front part of the building
to which the yard was attached, in order to be properly trained,
before the admission of customers. The men were arranged on one side
of the room, the women on the other. The tallest was placed at the
head of the row, then the next tallest, and so on in the order of
their respective heights. Emily was at the foot of the line of women.
Freeman charged us to remember our places; exhorted us to appear smart
and lively,--sometimes threatening, and again, holding out various
inducements. During the day he exercised us in the art of "looking
smart," and of moving to our places with exact precision.

After being fed, in the afternoon, we were again paraded and made to
dance. Bob, a colored boy, who had some time belonged to Freeman,
played on the violin. Standing near him, I made bold to inquire if he
could play the "Virginia Reel." He answered he could not, and asked me
if I could play. Replying in the affirmative, he handed me the violin.
I struck up a tune, and finished it. Freeman ordered me to continue
playing, and seemed well pleased, telling Bob that I far excelled
him--a remark that seemed to grieve my musical companion very much.

Next day many customers called to examine Freeman's "new lot." The
latter gentleman was very loquacious, dwelling at much length upon our
several good points and qualities. He would make us hold up our heads,
walk briskly back and forth, while customers would feel of our hands
and arms and bodies, turn us about, ask us what we could do, make us
open our mouths and show our teeth, precisely as a jockey examines
a horse which he is about to barter for or purchase. Sometimes a man
or woman was taken back to the small house in the yard, stripped, and
inspected more minutely. Scars upon a slave's back were considered
evidence of a rebellious or unruly spirit, and hurt his sale.

One old gentleman, who said he wanted a coachman, appeared to take
a fancy to me. From his conversation with Burch, I learned he was
a resident in the city. I very much desired that he would buy me,
because I conceived it would not be difficult to make my escape from
New-Orleans on some northern vessel. Freeman asked him fifteen hundred
dollars for me. The old gentleman insisted it was too much, as times
were very hard. Freeman, however, declared that I was sound and
healthy, of a good constitution, and intelligent. He made it a point
to enlarge upon my musical attainments. The old gentleman argued quite
adroitly that there was nothing extraordinary about the nigger, and
finally, to my regret, went out, saying he would call again. During
the day, however, a number of sales were made. David and Caroline
were purchased together by a Natchez planter. They left us, grinning
broadly, and in the most happy state of mind, caused by the fact of
their not being separated. Lethe was sold to a planter of Baton Rouge,
her eyes flashing with anger as she was led away.

The same man also purchased Randall. The little fellow was made
to jump, and run across the floor, and perform many other feats,
exhibiting his activity and condition. All the time the trade was
going on, Eliza was crying aloud, and wringing her hands. She besought
the man not to buy him, unless he also bought herself and Emily.
She promised, in that case, to be the most faithful slave that ever
lived. The man answered that he could not afford it, and then Eliza
burst into a paroxysm of grief, weeping plaintively. Freeman turned
round to her, savagely, with his whip in his uplifted hand, ordering
her to stop her noise, or he would flog her. He would not have such
work--such snivelling; and unless she ceased that minute, he would
take her to the yard and give her a hundred lashes. Yes, he would
take the nonsense out of her pretty quick--if he didn't, might he be
d--d. Eliza shrunk before him, and tried to wipe away her tears, but
it was all in vain. She wanted to be with her children, she said, the
little time she had to live. All the frowns and threats of Freeman,
could not wholly silence the afflicted mother. She kept on begging and
beseeching them, most piteously, not to separate the three. Over and
over again she told them how she loved her boy. A great many times she
repeated her former promises--how very faithful and obedient she would
be; how hard she would labor day and night, to the last moment of her
life, if he would only buy them all together. But it was of no avail;
the man could not afford it. The bargain was agreed upon, and Randall
must go alone. Then Eliza ran to him; embraced him passionately;
kissed him again and again; told him to remember her--all the while
her tears falling in the boy's face like rain.

Freeman damned her, calling her a blubbering, bawling wench, and
ordered her to go to her place, and behave herself, and be somebody.
He swore he wouldn't stand such stuff but a little longer. He would
soon give her something to cry about, if she was not mighty careful,
and _that_ she might depend upon.

The planter from Baton Rouge, with his new purchases, was ready to
depart.

"Don't cry, mama. I will be a good boy. Don't cry," said Randall,
looking back, as they passed out of the door.

What has become of the lad, God knows. It was a mournful scene indeed.
I would have cried myself if I had dared.

That night, nearly all who came in on the brig Orleans, were taken
ill. They complained of violent pain in the head and back. Little
Emily--a thing unusual with her--cried constantly. In the morning
a physician was called in, but was unable to determine the nature
of our complaint. While examining me, and asking questions touching
my symptoms, I gave it as my opinion that it was an attack of
small-pox--mentioning the fact of Robert's death as the reason of my
belief. It might be so indeed, he thought, and he would send for the
head physician of the hospital. Shortly, the head physician came--a
small, light-haired man, whom they called Dr. Carr. He pronounced
it small-pox, whereupon there was much alarm throughout the yard.
Soon after Dr. Carr left, Eliza, Emmy, Harry and myself were put into
a hack and driven to the hospital--a large white marble building,
standing on the outskirts of the city. Harry and I were placed in a
room in one of the upper stories. I became very sick. For three days
I was entirely blind. While lying in this state one day, Bob came in,
saying to Dr. Carr that Freeman had sent him over to inquire how we
were getting on. Tell him, said the doctor, that Platt is very bad,
but that if he survives until nine o'clock, he may recover.

I expected to die. Though there was little in the prospect before
me worth living for, the near approach of death appalled me. I
thought I could have been resigned to yield up my life in the bosom
of my family, but to expire in the midst of strangers, under such
circumstances, was a bitter reflection.

There were a great number in the hospital, of both sexes, and of all
ages. In the rear of the building coffins were manufactured. When one
died, the bell tolled--a signal to the undertaker to come and bear
away the body to the potter's field. Many times, each day and night,
the tolling bell sent forth its melancholy voice, announcing another
death. But my time had not yet come. The crisis having passed, I began
to revive, and at the end of two weeks and two days, returned with
Harry to the pen, bearing upon my face the effects of the malady,
which to this day continues to disfigure it. Eliza and Emily were
also brought back next day in a hack, and again were we paraded in
the sales-room, for the inspection and examination of purchasers. I
still indulged the hope that the old gentleman in search of a coachman
would call again, as he had promised, and purchase me. In that event
I felt an abiding confidence that I would soon regain my liberty.
Customer after customer entered, but the old gentleman never made his
appearance.

At length, one day, while we were in the yard, Freeman came out and
ordered us to our places, in the great room. A gentleman was waiting
for us as we entered, and inasmuch as he will be often mentioned
in the progress of this narrative, a description of his personal
appearance, and my estimation of his character, at first sight, may
not be out of place.

He was a man above the ordinary height, somewhat bent and stooping
forward. He was a good-looking man, and appeared to have reached about
the middle age of life. There was nothing repulsive in his presence;
but on the other hand, there was something cheerful and attractive in
his face, and in his tone of voice. The finer elements were all kindly
mingled in his breast, as any one could see. He moved about among us,
asking many questions, as to what we could do, and what labor we had
been accustomed to; if we thought we would like to live with him, and
would be good boys if he would buy us, and other interrogatories of
like character.

After some further inspection, and conversation touching prices, he
finally offered Freeman one thousand dollars for me, nine hundred
for Harry, and seven hundred for Eliza. Whether the small-pox had
depreciated our value, or from what cause Freeman had concluded
to fall five hundred dollars from the price I was before held at,
I cannot say. At any rate, after a little shrewd reflection, he
announced his acceptance of the offer.

As soon as Eliza heard it, she was in an agony again. By this time
she had become haggard and hollow-eyed with sickness and with sorrow.
It would be a relief if I could consistently pass over in silence
the scene that now ensued. It recalls memories more mournful and
affecting than any language can portray. I have seen mothers kissing
for the last time the faces of their dead offspring; I have seen them
looking down into the grave, as the earth fell with a dull sound upon
their coffins, hiding them from their eyes forever; but never have I
seen such an exhibition of intense, unmeasured, and unbounded grief,
as when Eliza was parted from her child. She broke from her place
in the line of women, and rushing down where Emily was standing,
caught her in her arms. The child, sensible of some impending danger,
instinctively fastened her hands around her mother's neck, and nestled
her little head upon her bosom. Freeman sternly ordered her to be
quiet, but she did not heed him. He caught her by the arm and pulled
her rudely, but she only clung the closer to the child. Then, with
a volley of great oaths, he struck her such a heartless blow, that
she staggered backward, and was like to fall. Oh! how piteously then
did she beseech and beg and pray that they might not be separated.
Why could they not be purchased together? Why not let her have one
of her dear children? "Mercy, mercy, master!" she cried, falling on
her knees. "Please, master, buy Emily. I can never work any if she is
taken from me: I will die."

Freeman interfered again, but, disregarding him, she still plead most
earnestly, telling how Randall had been taken from her--how she never
would see him again, and now it was too bad--oh, God! it was too bad,
too cruel, to take her away from Emily--her pride--her only darling,
that could not live, it was so young, without its mother!

Finally, after much more of supplication, the purchaser of Eliza
stepped forward, evidently affected, and said to Freeman he would buy
Emily, and asked him what her price was.

"What is her _price_? _Buy_ her?" was the responsive interrogatory of
Theophilus Freeman. And instantly answering his own inquiry, he added,
"I won't sell her. She's not for sale."

The man remarked he was not in need of one so young--that it would be
of no profit to him, but since the mother was so fond of her, rather
than see them separated, he would pay a reasonable price. But to this
humane proposal Freeman was entirely deaf. He would not sell her then
on any account whatever. There were heaps and piles of money to be
made of her, he said, when she was a few years older. There were men
enough in New-Orleans who would give five thousand dollars for such
an extra, handsome, fancy piece as Emily would be, rather than not
get her. No, no, he would not sell her then. She was a beauty--a
picture--a doll--one of the regular bloods--none of your thick-lipped,
bullet-headed, cotton-picking niggers--if she was might he be d--d.

When Eliza heard Freeman's determination not to part with Emily, she
became absolutely frantic.

"I will _not_ go without her. They shall _not_ take her from me," she
fairly shrieked, her shrieks commingling with the loud and angry voice
of Freeman, commanding her to be silent.

Meantime Harry and myself had been to the yard and returned with our
blankets, and were at the front door ready to leave. Our purchaser
stood near us, gazing at Eliza with an expression indicative of regret
at having bought her at the expense of so much sorrow. We waited some
time, when, finally, Freeman, out of patience, tore Emily from her
mother by main force, the two clinging to each other with all their
might.

"Don't leave me, mama--don't leave me," screamed the child, as its
mother was pushed harshly forward; "Don't leave me--come back, mama,"
she still cried, stretching forth her little arms imploringly. But
she cried in vain. Out of the door and into the street we were
quickly hurried. Still we could hear her calling to her mother,
"Come back--don't leave me--come back, mama," until her infant voice
grew faint and still more faint, and gradually died away, as distance
intervened, and finally was wholly lost.

Eliza never after saw or heard of Emily or Randall. Day nor night,
however, were they ever absent from her memory. In the cotton field,
in the cabin, always and everywhere, she was talking of them--often
_to_ them, as if they were actually present. Only when absorbed
in that illusion, or asleep, did she ever have a moment's comfort
afterwards.

She was no common slave, as has been said. To a large share of natural
intelligence which she possessed, was added a general knowledge and
information on most subjects. She had enjoyed opportunities such as
are afforded to very few of her oppressed class. She had been lifted
up into the regions of a higher life. Freedom--freedom for herself
and for her offspring, for many years had been her cloud by day, her
pillar of fire by night. In her pilgrimage through the wilderness of
bondage, with eyes fixed upon that hope-inspiring beacon, she had
at length ascended to "the top of Pisgah," and beheld "the land of
promise." In an unexpected moment she was utterly overwhelmed with
disappointment and despair. The glorious vision of liberty faded from
her sight as they led her away into captivity. Now "she weepeth sore
in the night, and tears are on her cheeks: all her friends have dealt
treacherously with her: they have become her enemies."

[Illustration: SEPERATION OF ELIZA AND HER LAST CHILD.]

 The next day, the slaves wash and get dressed for the sales-room. They are to be smart, lively, and polite, and Solomon plays the violin. Many customers come to inspect the group. One old gentleman almost buys Northup, but Freeman will not take the price he offers. A planter from Baton Rouge purchases Lethe and the boy Randall. Eliza is hysterical and begs him to buy her too, but the man cannot afford it. Freeman threatens her to be quiet; the man, Randall, and Lethe depart. That evening in the pen, little Emily complains of feeling ill. It turns out that all of those who came on the brig Orleans have come down with smallpox. Solomon is blind for three days and almost dies. Though his circumstances are grim, death appalls him. Thankfully, he recovers. One day after the pox has passed, Freeman calls everyone to the room. There is a good-looking and cheerful middle-aged man there, and he moves about the group of slaves. He offers a sum for Solomon, Eliza, and Harry. When Eliza hears she is to be separated from Emily, she becomes hysterical again, weeping and clinging to the child. She begs the man to buy Emily, but Freeman asserts that the girl is not for sale because in a few years her beauty will make her a prime offering. Freeman tears Emily away from Eliza and takes his new slaves away. Eliza never hears of nor sees Emily or Randall after that. Her intelligence, information, and brief time experiencing a higher life make this situation utterly unbearable to her

