CHAPTER TWELVE

_The Slave Market_

Days passed and still he waited, still he watched, and still he listened, but in vain. And always he moved about distractedly. He had no plans, he had no hopes now, but was simply moving in a circle. At times he would utter stupidly, "Where is she? Where is Mildred?" And after that he would become silent; he would be thinking--yes, always thinking.

He ransacked the office; he made inquiries to ascertain where she stayed--but in vain. He knew not how to look for her; he knew not where to begin. But the work in the office--the result of her ability--continued to increase. Mail was brought four times a day, and in each, letters from far and near would contain money orders, express checks, cheerful letters, and still orders for more books. But they gave him no cheer, notwithstanding he mechanically went about the work, with the system he saw she had created.

And as the days went by, he grew more anxious, more worried in regard to her fate, and he grew determined to find her, if he could.

"Poor little girl. Poor little Mildred. Why has she done all this? And she is alone somewhere--always alone--and I know not where."

There came a day when he felt he could stand it no longer.

He took a walk; he knew not where it led to. Possibly it led nowhere. Yet he felt he must walk, not in the direction he was accustomed to go (to the river, where he had wandered many a night, and observed the mighty ocean liners, receiving and discharging their cargoes; or where, on the deck of packets, he listened to steam calliopes), but in a direction he had never gone before.

It was in one of the creole city's narrow ways, where he presently found himself. Sidney strolled along, oblivious to all whereabouts, and found that this part of the city was much unlike any part he had known.

He felt as one in a strange land, to be sure. On all sides he was greeted by little low houses, opening into the narrow streets. Peculiar people moved about and spoke in a tongue he could not understand, but he knew it was creole. They were quieter than those in the neighborhood he lived, and he understood. They were all Catholics, he had been told, and "obeyed" the priest. He was glad of it. He wished all his race would obey something other than their animal instincts.

He paused at last before a statue in a small square. Four rows of buildings faced it on that many sides. Only one side confronted him, however, and to this he finally went. He stopped before a large church, a cathedral, and read that it had been built almost two hundred years before. Next to the church, was the museum. Curious, and for a time forgetting his troubles, he wandered in. He went up a winding stairway to the second floor. As he passed upward, great oil paintings greeted him. All old, this he saw; for, under many were inscriptions, showing that many had been painted more than a hundred years ago. While he had never studied this art, he readily appreciated that many were wonderful. Elegant ladies gazed at him from the frames, their eyes following him strangely out of sight; for, no matter where he stood, whether in front or from either side, they seemed to scrutinize him.

He passed into the museum and began to examine, through the glass cases, relics of another day. That the city was old was shown by the age of papers and documents of numerous mention. Pictures of fond old mammies, gray and white-haired old uncles, grand dames (such as Dixie had seen), caught his attention everywhere.

An old, old man, scion of a decayed aristocracy, sat in a chair within this art room, and Sidney approached him. "Have you," said he, "any record of the sale of slaves, in this museum?" The other pointed to a room Wyeth had not observed, but spoke no word.

Wyeth wandered into it, and his gaze immediately encountered what he was curious to see.

"Know all men by these presents:

"Being the last will and testament of Joan Becuare.

"To my wife and life companion, I do bequeath to thee, all I have after death. To-wit:

"One thousand acres of land in Caddo Parish, unencumbered.

"One hundred niggers, of various ages and the following description:

"One mammy, age eighty. A better wench never lived. Name: Diana.

"One 'uncle', eighty-seven, beloved servant of his master, and faithful ever. Name: Joe.

"One wench, twenty-two, robust, healthy, a good servant of the house. Name: Martha."

And so on the description ran, which seemed strange and unnecessary in a will; then he recalled the sentiment of the southerner.

In still another case, he read a sale bill, written in long hand with an artistic flourish:

"Having sold my plantation, I will hereby sell to the highest bidder, at public auction, the following named property, to-wit:

"One nigger wench, sixteen years, hail and hearty, promises to be a good breeder, and is now with child by Ditto, a young nigger, strong as a lion, healthy and a good worker. Not 'sassy'.

"One nigger wench, twenty-three, name, Mandy. This is the most attractive wench in Gretna Parish. She is expecting a third child soon."

Wyeth wondered why the father was not mentioned. And then he thought of something, and knew.... His own father was the son of a master.

He read other such documents, and then observed that almost all sales were recorded to be held at the "slave" market. After an hour or more, he passed out.

He went up a street, which was narrow--like all those in the old section of the city, and walked on, whither he had no idea. Not far away, he could see the river and many great vessels moving up and down. Just ahead of him, appeared an odd, long, two-story building. The first glance revealed that, once upon a time, it had been a grand affair. "Wonder what it was?" he muttered idly.

And now he came up to it, and paused near one end. He viewed it many minutes curiously from across the street, but he could not make out what it had been. As he saw it now, it was evident that it had been empty for many, many years.

Presently, he crossed to where a door greeted him, only to find, when he had come to it, that it was bolted from the inside, while the heavy iron knob was rusted until it was hardly recognizable. He glanced up, and, straining his eyes, he read an inscription over the door:

ST. LOUIS--ROYAL HOTEL

SLAVE MARKET

"So this is the place," he whispered, observing everything before him now with a new interest. "Herein were sold, in the days of old, hundreds--aye, thousands of _my_ people." He passed to the street upon which the hotel faced for a block, and walked down this, observing the decaying structure with greater curiosity. The entire building was, apparently, empty. A porch, supported by massive iron pillars, reached over the walk, the entire length of the building. The large windows of the second story were without glass, and gaped darkly, seeming to tell a story which he would like to have known. The lower floor had evidently been given over to business purposes, judging from the wide windows that now were boarded over with two-inch planks. All this was decorated with stage announcements.

When he reached the other end, there was an opening; the door was to one side, and, more curious now than ever, he paused, and gazed into the dark interior. Soon he passed within. The place seemed almost as dark as a dungeon at first, and he stood for a minute, until he had become accustomed to it. He passed into the interior, and finally came into a room that was perfectly round. "An arch chamber, or what?" he conjectured. Out of the gloom a block arose. Something about it attracted him, and he crossed to where it was fitted into the wall. At one side he now read, "Sheriff's desk." On the other side he read, "Clerk." And now he looked at the block, and knew that it was on this _his_ people had been sold--at auction. He closed his eyes for a time, and allowed his thoughts--his imagination--to go back into the past, when rich planters, grand ladies, and harsh overseers once held sway. And before him rose a picture.

"Hear me," the auctioneer, "I now offer the best nigger that ever held a plow. A good, strong rascal, that is worth:--How much am I offered to start him? How much am I offered to start him? Five hundred! Who is insane, or jokes? Five hundred for a nigger like this? Nonsense! Now, here, come forward, and feel this nigger's muscles, examine his teeth, strike his breast." And, to emphasize his good, robust property, he struck the slave a resounding lick across the breast, that would have knocked over half the people before him. Wyeth could seem to see the man, the black man, merely smile at all the faces about him.

"And now I am going to offer you something that will arouse you. Bring forward the wench, the pretty young wench."

A young mulatto Negress now stood before the crowd. A stirring, a collecting near the front, a crowding about the block; some almost getting upon it, in their excitement. A murmur went the rounds, and words could be heard. "I'd like to own her!" There was a consulting of bank books, a figuring of credit, and then the auctioneers voice was heard again.

"Look at 'er, look at 'er! Ha! A fine one, eh? Yes, a fine one.... Look at her form.... Look at her face! Here, bright eyes, hold up, hold up, and let the boys see what I have got.... What am I bid?"

"$1000."

"Say! The man that made that bid ought to be hung! A thousand dollars for a wench like this? Why, by all the pious gods, she is worth that for a year...."

"$1500."

"$2000."

"$2500."

"$3000."

"Ah, sir," said someone, and Wyeth came back to the present, to look down upon and old, white-haired woman, who was standing, observing him from the doorway. He bowed apologetically, got down, and went toward her.

"I have charge of the building," said she, speaking in a little strained voice. "Would you not like to view the interior?"

"I should like to, I am sure," he replied.

He followed her back to the door through which he had entered, and up a flight of winding, iron stairs to the next floor. Even these, he saw, had once been most magnificent. His guide offered no comment, but caught her breath in gasps as she ascended. When the landing had been reached, both paused for breath, while Wyeth's attention was immediately caught by the decaying grandeur, that was evident all about him. "Wonderful," he said at last, in a low, respectful voice, and as though he feared to disturb some of those grand persons that once had frequented it.

"Wonderful, you say?" echoed the woman, and regarded him out of small, sharp eyes.

"Magnificent."

"And, be you a stranger in the city?" she now asked.

"Yes."

"And from where do you come?"

"The great northwest. Dakota."

"Ah, Dakota--m-m. That is far, far away?"

"Yes; far, far away."

"I have never been there. I have never been anywhere, but have always lived here in Bienville Parish. I was born here, a creole."

They now walked down the wide hall, and where he gazed into the deserted rooms on either side, all of which revealed a once great splendor.

"Here," she said, "is a room that once played a conspicuous part in the old south." She led him then into a large room, much larger than any other in the building. It was a round room, and he could see that it had been made to be used for convention purposes. She was explaining.

"It was once used as a temporary capitol, and later as a rendezvous for secessionists. And still later, after the war, Sheridan made a raid, and arrested many conspirators."

"I suppose," said Sidney, "that this place has seen many grand occasions?"

"Ah, indeed it has. All the aristocrats of the southland always stopped here, as well as counts and dukes and lords and great ladies, and still from South America and Mexico the best people stopped here."

They passed out of the room, across the hallway, and entered another room that was furnished. "I live here," said the woman, to his surprise.

"Here--alone?"

She nodded. "Yes, alone for many years."

He understood now, and, running his hands into his pockets, he pulled forth a half dollar, and handed it to her. She accepted it with many thanks, and gave him then, some pictures and relics.

"I suppose you have many visitors--tourists?" he inquired, starting toward the door.

"Well, no, I do not," she said, somewhat regretfully. "The people do not seem to wander down into this section. They do not appear curious for relics, as they used to be."

"That's too bad--for you," he said kindly.

"It is, since I am old, and have no other way of getting my living," and she sighed.

"How old are you?"

"Eighty-nine."

"And you have no--no children?" he asked now, with curious interest.

"None. And that--and that, perhaps, is why I'm like I am today...."

Wyeth listened kindly, patiently. The other appeared sad and reminiscent.

"No, I shall never seem to get over it, either. I am the last of a family that came here from France, many, many years ago--two hundred, to be exact. For many years, we were the richest family in Bienville Parish, and perhaps almost as rich as any other in the state. We owned land, and slaves, until we could hardly count them. Of course, the war meant--you can understand what we lost with the freedom of the blacks. But after that, we were still immensely rich. But, somehow, a curse seemed to come over the family. No boy babies were born to any. The girls became subject to consumption, until all had died but myself. Then I married. My husband was Spanish and French, very affectionate, and was good to me, and we were hopeful and happy--until I bore him no offspring. He grew crabbed, nervous and impatient.

"Before long, I came to see that he was intimate elsewhere. He began to drink, to gamble, and to carouse. He stayed out until all hours of the night, and then he got so he would not come home at all. For days I would not see him, and then for weeks." She paused long enough now to wipe a tear. "I began to fear for him, for, I recalled that his ancestors had come to abrupt ends, and I worried. Because I could bear him no children, I gave him freely of the fortune that was left to me. He ran through with his, and then with mine." She was weeping quietly now, and he felt inclined to comfort her, but did not know how.

After a time she was calm again. She took a seat by the window, and gazed with a tired expression out into the street, while he waited. "Well," she resumed, "they brought him home one day, dead, and I have been alone since."

"Too bad," said Wyeth, and shifted about, listening for more, for, carefully observant, he saw that she was not through.

"One day, there came a woman, an attractive colored woman, with large eyes and the most beautiful hair and skin and form I had ever, I think, seen. She led a little boy by the hand, and when he looked up at me, I screamed. I knew then, and didn't have to be told, that he was my husband's son.

"Strangely, I was happy. To know that my good husband--for he had been good in the beginning--had left his name, somewhat cheered me, and we agreed to educate and give him a chance.

"We placed him later, at my expense, in a good school, and he grew to be a handsome, bright-eyed young man. I watched him, however, with a slight fear--for I remembered. But he made a man of himself, a successful man, and with the last few thousands I could gather, I helped to start him in business, and in due time he had made a name that was an envy. He became the owner of much of the best property in the city, land in the northern part of the state, and, in the end, married one of the wealthiest and most attractive girls in the town." She paused again, and Wyeth listened without a word. Something remained yet to be told....

The woman was speaking again.

"Yes, he grew to success and happiness--and then, well, something happened."

"Something happened?" Wyeth echoed.

"Yes. Something happened." She was silent now, and gazed again out of the window.

"Heredity."

"Heredity?" And still he did not understand. He could not be patient longer. "Who was this man--that is, ah--what was his name. I don't think I ever heard of him--a colored man?"

She looked straight at him now, without a change of expression, and answered: "He was not colored!"

"Not colored?"

"I should have said," she corrected, "that he didn't go as colored.... He _passed_ for white."

"Oh...."

"But that was not it--heredity."

Wyeth said nothing.

"He ran around. He took up drink--and then he wanted--colored women."

After this, both were silent for a long time; but Wyeth was thinking. He was hearing over again what he had heard before--many times. "_Colored women!_" In Dixie, he felt that if he could keep his ears deaf to hearing of white men--and those who "passed" for white--wanting--and having--colored women, he could, he possibly might like the country; but everywhere he had heard this. The woman broke the silence.

"This city is possessed with that desire. Have you observed it--everywhere you might chance to look, you will see it?"

He sighed. She looked at him again, and then became silent.

Across the way, a large, municipal building rose far above St. Louis--Royal Hotel--Slave Market. Through the window from where they sat, busy clerks worked away over books. When their eyes glanced to the street, it was broken with automobiles, and busy people hurrying to and fro.

"I have a visitor," he heard the woman say. "She is a sweet, kind, but sad sort of girl. She has been to see me several times of late, and I have been talking religion with her. In all my days, no human being has interested me as she has. I love her. And while I can't object, I regret to feel in some way that she is going to enter the convent, and become a sister."

"Are you a Catholic?"

"All French are Catholic," she answered.

"Then you perforce sanction this intention of your girl friend?"

"Yes, I do; but, oh, how much I shall miss her!"

"Will she enter soon?"

"Very soon!"

"Have you known her long?"

"A few months; but it seems I have known her all my life."

"Is she--what is she, colored or white?" he asked.

"Colored."

"Indeed. Her name?"

"I have it; but I forget. I call her always Little Sister. I have her picture and will let you see it. She had it taken a few days ago, out there on that grass plot," and she pointed to the yard of the municipal building. She was a few minutes finding the picture, and then Wyeth was overcome by a strange feeling, with regard to what he had heard. A girl ... sad ... going to enter a convent.... Who was this girl? Who, who, who?

"Here is her picture," said the woman.

He took it, and saw Mildred smiling up at him.