When the Abolitionist learned Mr. Mills was a free colored, he rejected his accommodations and demanded his money back. Since there were no other rooms to be had in Charleston during Race Week, he finally accepted his, but he still wanted a refund. "Yankee principles are wonderfully flexible,”
John Haynes said. "Charlotte, you aren't yourself this afternoon.
Where is our Charlotte's sunny smile?”
"Charlotte's mooning over Andrew Ravanel," Grandmother Fisher said, tapping the picnic hamper peremptorily. "Cook does the finest chicken in the Carolinas.”
"Grandmother! I am not mooning!”
"Of course you are, dear. Andrew Ravanel is gallant, daring, handsome, charming, and bankrupt. What young lady could ask for a better suitor?”
After praising Cook's chicken, John continued: "I hoped I'd see Rosemary this afternoon. I begged for a waltz last night, but her dance card was full.”
Despite the efforts of Charleston's cleverest dressmakers, Charlotte Fisher was not attractive. Her hair was mouse-colored, her complexion unfortunate, and her waist more resembled the bee's than the wasp's. Charlotte set her lip. "I'm not certain Rosemary and I are friends anymore.”
"Charlotte, don't be a goose. You and Rosemary have been friends since you were five years old," her grandmother objected.
John Haynes sighed. "Why must Charleston's most charming belles vie for the same gentleman? An ordinary fellow like myself doesn't stand a chance. Though I've no grudge against Andrew, if he stumbled and broke his aristocratic nose — a slight disfigurement, I'd wish him no worse — I'd not grieve.”
Grandmother Fisher said, "John, you do go on.”
Haynes smiled. "I suppose I do. I must ask you ladies: Don't you think I would make an excellent husband?... Thank you, Grandmother Fisher, I will try a drumstick.”
Spectators and buyers drifted toward the long barn that housed the negro sale. Inside, buyers mixed freely with the merchandise. The negro women wore modest cotton dresses and handkerchief turbans, the men linsey-woolsey jackets, their trousers belted with rope. At each wearer's whim, the men's slouch hats had been shaped into dashing or practical or disreputable configurations. The negro children wore cleaner, newer clothing than their parents.
Novice slave buyers had that nonchalant, knowing expression men assume when out of their depth.
Cassius, the musician Andrew Ravanel coveted, leaned against a stall door, arms crossed and banjo slung over his shoulder. He was a smoothfaced, fattish, very black young negro, with a complacent air some whites thought disrespectful.
"Let me hear you pluck that thing, boy.”
Cassius tapped his banjo respectfully, as if it had powers of its own.
"Can't do it, Master. No sir. Auctioneer say I'm zactly like a fancy wench: I can't give nothin' away for nothin'! Who buys me, buys my music...
Master," he said solemnly, "I can make a Presbyterian kick up his heels!”
Most negroes made themselves agreeable, seeking kindly buyers and those who might buy a family intact. "Yes, Master, I a full-task rice hand.
Been in them rice fields since I was a tad. Got most my teeth, yes sir. My nose broke account of a horse kick me. I ain't no hand with horses. My wife, she a laundress, and my son, he a quarter-task hand and he ain't got all his growth.”
Field hands were commanded to bend this way and that so any ruptures would be apparent. Some were asked to pace rapidly to and fro or prance in place as shrewd buyers evaluated their stamina and wind.
"How often you get to the dispensary, boy?”
"You say you bore three live children? Hips like yours?”
The auctioneer was florid, jolly, and on the best of terms with the buyers.
"Say, Mr. Cavanaugh, you needn't bid on this lot. Lot fifty-two's what you want: light-skinned wench, fourteen years old, Lot fifty-two. Don't I keep you in mind? Don't I now? "Mr. Johnston, if you don't bid more than seven hundred dollars for this prime buck, you ain't as shrewd as I make you to be! Seven, seven, I say seven. Won't you help me out, boys? Seven, going once, going twice. Sold for seven hundred dollars to Drayton Plantation!" The auctioneer took a quick sip of water.
"I remind you, gentlemen, of our terms. The successful bidder pays one half the winning bid in cash and signs surety for the balance to be remitted no later than thirty days, secured by a mortgage on the purchased negro.”
He smiled broadly. "Now, let's get on with the sale. Lot fifty-one: Joe's a prime boy, twelve or thirteen years. Step up on the platform, Joe, so folks can see you. Now, Joe ain't one of your spindle-shanked boys; he's already putting on frame, and in a year or so he'll be a full-task hand. A sharp fellow" — the auctioneer put his finger to his nose and winked — "could buy Joe cheap, feed him up, and by next planting he'd own a man, having paid a boy's price! Joe, turn 'round and pull off that shirt. Anyone see a mark on that back? Mr. Huger, he was a fine gentleman, but he weren't scared of the bullwhip, no sir. Joe never needed no whip because Joe's a respectful nigger, ain't you, Joe? Do I hear two hundred, two hundred dollars? Two, two, five, I have five. Do I hear five fifty, five fifty, five fifty? ... Sold to Mr. Owen Ball of Magnolia Plantation.”
Andrew Ravanel leaned indolently against an empty stall. His horseman's sinewy legs were cased in fawn-colored trousers, his frilled shirt was framed by the lapels of a short yellow jacket, his broad-brimmed hat was beaver felt, and his boots had the deep transparent gleam of frequent polishing. Andrew raised one indolent finger to Puryear and Kershaw as they came near. Andrew had a nighthawk's complexion, his pale skin so transparent, one could almost see his moods. There was tension under his fashionable languor, as if the fop were a coiled spring.
Edgar Puryear struck a match to light Andrew's cigar and nodded at the high yellow on the block. "Fine wench.”
Henry Kershaw craned to identify the bidder. "That's old Cavanaugh.
I wonder if Cavanaugh's wife knows she wants a housemaid.”
"Maid she may be ..." Andrew drawled. Henry Kershaw guffawed.
Edgar Puryear said, "Isn't that Butler's man? Isaiah Watling? There, behind the stanchion.”
Andrew Ravanel said, "One wonders how he could remain at Broughton after Rhett killed his son.”
"Man's cracker trash," Henry Kershaw snorted. "Overseer's jobs ain't as easy to find as sons. If Watling wants more sons, he can go to the quarters and make 'em.”
Andrew Ravanel said, "But Watling is said to be pious?”
"Supposed to be. Him and Elizabeth Butler pray together every time ol' Langston's out of town. Course, there's prayin' and prayin'.”
"Henry, you are a vulgar fellow," Andrew said without animosity. "Lot sixty-one. That's my Cassius.”
Kershaw scratched himself where a vulgar man scratches and said, "My flask's dry. I'm off to the clubhouse. Edgar?”
"I'll stay.”
Andrew opened the bidding for Cassius at four hundred dollars.
"I have four hundred... Six? Sir, are you sure? Yes, sir. I have six hundred for this fine young negro. Banjo throwed in with the man — one price takes both of 'em.”
"Why's Watling bidding?" Edgar Puryear asked. "Langston has no need of a banjo player.”
At eight hundred, everyone had dropped out except Isaiah Watling and Andrew Ravanel.
Isaiah Watling bid nine fifty.
When Andrew Ravanel bid one thousand dollars, Watling lifted his hand until he had everyone's attention. He climbed onto a tack box, head and shoulders above the crowd. "Mr. Ravanel, sir. I have my instructions from Master Langston Butler. I'm to ask how, if you win this nigger, you will pay for him. Where's the cash to be paid today? Where's your five hundred dollars?”
Andrew Ravanel stiffened as if struck. Surprise, outrage, and embarrassment chased across his face. When Andrew turned to Edgar Allan, his friend was gone. Those closest to Andrew pretended they weren't looking at him. Those farther away concealed grins.