The sun is at its highest point. The overseer is looking across at me, so again I bend down and start to pick. Already I have the hands of a woman twice my age, the skin beaten, bloodied and bruised, like worn-out leather. The overseer rides his horse towards me, its legs stepping high, prancing, almost dancing. He looks down at me, the sun behind him, framing his head, forming a halo. He raises his whip and brings it down on my arm. I don’t hear the words that fall from his mouth. I simply think, Master dead. What now? I bend down and again I start to pick. I can still feel his eyes upon me. And the sun. And now the horse is turning. It dances away from me.
I stand with the rest of the Virginia property. Master’s nephew, a banker from Washington, is now our new master. He has no interest in plantation life. He holds a handkerchief to his face and looks on with detachment. Everything must be sold. The lawyer grabs the iron-throated bell and summons the people to attention. Then the auctioneer slaps his gavel against a block of wood. I fall to my knees and take Eliza Mae in my arms. I did not suckle this child at the breast, nor did I cradle her in my arms and shower her with what love I have, to see her taken away from me. As the auctioneer begins to bellow, I look into Eliza Mae’s face. He is calling out the date, the place, the time. Master would never have sold any of us. I tell this to my terrified child. Slaves. Farm animals. Household furniture. Farm tools. We are to be sold in this order. I watch as Lucas soaks a cloth in cold water. He comforts me and places it first on my forehead, and then on that of his child. Last night he came to me, his eyes grown red with drink. He confessed that death would be easier. This way we are always going to be wondering. Always worrying. His voice broke and he choked back the remaining words. Then he took me in the circle of his arms and laid me down. Until the old horn blew to mark the start of a new day.
Farmers have come from all over the county. A fun-seeking crowd, ready for haggling, but amongst them I see the lean-faced men. The traders, with their trigger-happy minds, their mouths tight and bitter. I try not to look into anybody’s eyes. The auctioneer is dressed formally. Dark vest, colorful cutaway coat. He continues to yell. Now, as he does so, he motions towards us with his gavel. Then he slaps this instrument against the wooden block with a thud. Now again he gestures towards us. My throat is dry. Eliza Mae moves restlessly, so I take her hand. She cries. I pinch her to quiet her. I am sorry, but it is for her own good. The auctioneer beckons forward the traders. They look firstly at the men. A trader prods Lucas’s biceps with a stick. If a trader buys a man, it is down the river. To die. That much we all know. The families in need of domestics, or the farmers in need of breeding wenches, they look across at us and wait their turn. I am too old for breeding. They do not know that I would also disappoint. My Eliza Mae holds on to me, but it will be to no avail. She will be a prime purchase. And on her own she stands a better chance of a fine family. I want to tell her this, to encourage her to let go, but I have not the heart. I look on. The auctioneer cries to the heavens. A band strikes up. A troupe of minstrels begins to dance. Soon the bidding will begin. ‘Moma.’ Eliza Mae whispers the word over and over again, as though this were the only word she possessed. This one word. This word only.
Martha leaned against the woman and peered into the small, dark room. Still cold. Through the half-light, she saw the single bed, the mattress rolled back and revealing an ugly grid of rusty wire. Then she felt the woman’s gentle touch guiding her across the room and into a hard-backed wooden chair. Like a child. Martha sat and watched as the woman first lit the lamp and then quickly made up the bed, stretching a clean sheet tight like a drumskin across its length and breadth. Having done so, she helped Martha the two paces across the room and set her down to rest upon the corner of the bed. Martha’s right eye was clouding over, but she could make out the woman’s motions as she now attempted to fire some life into the pot-bellied stove. She failed, and bestowed a sad smile upon Martha. Girl, don’t worry. Don’t worry yourself. The woman reached for the pitcher and poured a glass of water. ‘Here, take it and drink. Are you cold?’ Martha dragged her tongue around her swollen lips. Then she took the water and held the glass between both hands. She swallowed deeply, and as she did so the woman knelt and began to remove the wet rags that swaddled Martha’s feet. No. Please. Martha closed her eyes.
She could only once remember being this cold. That was on that miserable December day that she had crossed the Missouri, riding in the back of the Hoffmans’ open wagon. When they arrived on the western shore, Martha, by now gaunt and tired, having traveled clear from Virginia with only the briefest of stops, stepped down into the iciness that was a Kansas winter. Did they buy me to kill me? All her belongings dangled in a bundle that she held in one hand. She no longer possessed either a husband or a daughter, but her memory of their loss was clear. She remembered the disdainful posture of Master’s nephew, and the booming voice of the auctioneer. She remembered the southern ladies in their white cotton sun bonnets and long-sleeved dresses, and the poorer farmers who hoped to find a bargain, their bony mules hitched to lame carriages. The trader who had prodded Lucas with a stick bought him for a princely sum. But Martha held on to some hope, for Lucas was a man who never failed to make friends with dogs. He charmed them with his dark, gentle voice. Lucas was not a man to let his body fetch up in flinty, lonely ground. Eliza Mae was sold after Martha. The Hoffmans could no doubt detect in their purchase a powerful feeling towards this girl, so they had bundled Martha into their wagon and left quickly. They had made their transaction, and the festivities would run their natural course without them. Goodbye, everybody. Once they had passed out of sight, the woman offered Martha a lace handkerchief, which Martha ignored.
Within the year, the Hoffmans had decided to sell up and leave Virginia. They had decided to settle outside of the city of Kansas, in a part of the country which was young and promising for pioneers. Good roads provided easy access to the back country, and new arrivants were permitted to purchase land from the United States government at a cost of two dollars an acre. Mr Eugene Hoffman intended to do a little farming on his five-acre homestead, and he had ambitions of building up a herd of forty cattle and a dozen or so hogs. Cleo Hoffman, her training having prepared her for a life of teaching music, mainly the piano, was equally optimistic. Deeply religious people, they were sadly without children. In this Kansas, Martha sometimes heard voices. Perhaps there was a God. Perhaps not. She found herself assaulted by loneliness, and drifting into middle age without a family. Voices from the past. Some she recognized. Some she did not. But, nevertheless, she listened. Recognizing her despair, Mr and Mrs Hoffman took Martha with them to a four-day revival by the river, where a dedicated young circuit rider named Wilson attempted to cast light in on Martha’s dark soul. Satan be gone. The young evangelist preached with all his might, but Martha could find no solace in religion, and was unable to sympathize with the sufferings of the son of God when set against her own private misery. She stared at the Kansas sky. The shield of the moon shone brightly. Still she heard voices. Never again would the Hoffmans mention their God to Martha.