(Letters of a Family during the War for the Union)
Abby writes to her cousin, Harriet Gilman:
Charleston, S. C., Feb. 6, 1859.
Slave auctions are of daily occurrence, and one of these we attended, seeing what perhaps no lady-resident of Charleston has seen. But for that sad insight we might have thought things had a pretty fair aspect, generally. Certainly nothing forced itself unpleasantly on our attention, only every black face in the street reminded us of the system. I enclose you the list of some we saw sold. It is the list of only “one lot” put in by one trader. I could not get a full catalogue of sale; it seemed very long, and the men who held them were marking off the names and the prices which they brought. One man, a great stout thorough African, ran up to $780, but that was “cheap.” The sale was in Chalmers street —a red flag indicating the spot—hardly a stone’s throw from the hotel. The slave yard was probably the largest in Charleston —a great empty square, with high walls on three sides and a platform where the auctioneer stood and around which the bidders were grouped. On the fourth side was a five or six-story brick building, dirty, ragged-looking, like our rear tenements, where the poor crowd were lodged. The gentlemen of our party, Mr. Robert Howland, and Mr. Charles Wolcott of Fishkill (who is here with his wife on a hasty tour), went in among the bidders. We ladies stood at the gate and looked in. Whole families of all ages were standing back against the walls, being questioned by purchasers and waiting their turn. A poor old woman, her head bowed, was sold with her son. They told us families are never separated except on account of bad behavior when they wish to get rid of some bad fellow—that this is so much the custom that the opposite course would not be tolerated. But mortgages, sheriffs’ sales, sudden death of the owner, etc., must often, as we can imagine, infringe on this custom. Among the saddened lookers on, all colored women except ourselves, was a middle-aged black woman, with a child in her arms. Mother had much talk with her. “Ah! Misses,” she said, “they leave me some of the little ones. They sell my boys away, but I expect that, and all I wish is that they may get a good Master and Misses. There! Misses, that’s one of my boys on the stand now! I don’t mind that, but its hard to have the old man (her husband) drifted away. But what can I do? My heart’s broke, and that’s all.” He had been sold some time ago, and was gone she didn’t know where. We turned home sickened and indignant. The bidders were gentlemanly-looking people, just such as we met every day at the hotel table. The trader had come down with this very gang in the cars with the Wolcotts the day before, and was so drunk then he could hardly stand. Isn’t Dr. Cheever justified?
