“Would either of you gentlemen care for a drink?” Hart asked now. “Perhaps a lemonade for Mr. Lazare?”
Joseph nodded weakly. His throat was certainly dry. He accepted a lemonade from the young slave. It was very sweet.
Hart continued: “Do you prefer dark-skinned domestics, or mulattos?”
“I’m not sure.” Frederic swirled his brandy. “I’ve a dark valet now, and he’s very faithful.” He took a sip and considered the young black boy, who was as still as a statue again. “Aren’t mulattos moretrouble? My father says they inherit only the worst of white traits. He says they become sick more often than pure-blooded negroes, and because they have alittleintelligence, they’re more likely to run away.”
Hart grasped his lapels and puffed out his chest as if he had been insulted. “Notourmulattos, sir. We offer a guarantee.”
“Do you offer them on trial as well? My mother is very particular about faces.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“I need someone young, but already trained.”
“Of course, sir,” Hart nodded. “What else are you looking for?”
“My family does not tolerate impudence,” Frederic emphasized his words with his glass, and the liquor sloshed in the wide bowl. “I want someone who knows his place.”
“If you’ll wait here, I have just the man.” Hart hurried from the room.
Joseph made himself drink a little more of the lemonade.
Frederic peered down at him. “You’ve never visited a slave pen before?”
Joseph shook his head. His father had purchased Agathe directly from her old master. Henry and May had been presents from Grandpapa, already installed at the house when Joseph’s parents moved back from Paris. Had Grandpapa bought Henry and May in a place like this?
Frederic stepped to the window behind the black boy and pulled aside the white curtain. Through its panes, Joseph saw the high white-washed wall surrounding the yard. It matched the wall around the jail on Magazine Street, where Denmark Vesey and his conspirators had been kept before they were hanged. Joseph remembered that slave pens were also called “nigger jails.” What had the slaves here done to deserve such imprisonment? “Where do they come from, the negroes who are sold here?”
“Hart sends agents out to the countryside—even to other states. They buy up negroes from masters who have too many or who need money, and the agents bring them here.” Frederic sipped his brandy as he stared into the yard. “Last year, one of Hart’s men took myfather and me on a tour of the establishment. They have a tailor’s shop, a kitchen, and an infirmary. Everything is very clean and organized.”
Joseph stepped closer to the window. Now he saw the tall iron fence dividing the yard down the middle. Men and boys waited on one side, and women and girls waited on the other. Some of the negroes were alone, others in groups, a few even playing cards; but all their shoulders drooped. They kept to the shade of the buildings and the high outer walls, except for five negroes who clustered in the full sun: a woman and two girls who clung to the fence separating them from a man and a boy. Even from this distance, Joseph could tell they were a family.
One of the little girls started to climb the fence. A white man appeared and pried her off. The negress took the girl, who was crying now, and the man ordered them all away from the fence. He did not carry a whip, but some sort of paddle.
Joseph lowered his eyes again. “Why do they separate the women from the men?”
His cousin chuckled into his brandy. “You know how these negroes are: animals constantly in heat.”
Hart returned with a tall mulatto who looked about twenty-five years old. “I think we can meet all your needs, Mr. Traver.” The dealer appeared pleased with himself and his merchandise. “And the tall ones are always impressive in livery.”
“They’re also more expensive,” Frederic grumbled, then addressed the mulatto directly. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Fred, sir.”
“Well, that wouldn’t do,” Frederic smirked. “We’d have to call you something else. My current valet is named Peter—that would be easy to remember.”
What would happen to the old Peter? Joseph wondered.
“You don’t have any family you’ll be begging me to buy as well, do you, Peter?”
“No, sir,” the mulatto murmured. “Master wouldn’t sell them.”
“Would you like me to be your new master? Would you like to live in one of the finest houses in Charleston?”
The mulatto glanced up for only a moment. “Yes, sir.” His voice lacked enthusiasm.
“You have experience as a valet, Peter?”
