Sold Down The River

The newly formed social club was irregular in Kentucky. It solicited members not only from the county’s genteel class but also from the area’s merchants, writers, military officers, and politicians. Sometimes guests from far away places like Europe, New England and the West accompanied their hosts to the club. A unique institution developed with a reputation that invited open discussions. The house rule was that a gentleman who lost his temper in the company of friends was no gentleman indeed.

The club itself was an affair. The main room contained a lavish bar with card tables and only the best furnishings. A piano player took requests most nights playing quietly while pretty hostesses sold expensive liquor and cigars.
And tonight was special. One of the club’s charter members had returned from an eight-year voyage and a party was being held in his honor. The man was wealthy, educated, and from a well-respected family. Mr. Stith was his name and he was, at the moment, engaging a fierce slave owner named Mr. Stone about the various implications and consequences that selling elderly and infirm slaves down the Mississippi river could have on one’s soul.

It was Mr. Stone’s fault really. He had gloated, in a matter of fact way, that he would be recouping a sum of money the next morning by selling a grouping of elderly and infirm slaves down the river, as was his custom each year. Mr. Stone had always made his position clear on such matters.

Not every member of the club agreed, however, and several looked away as he recounted sums of money made from such transactions. Yet it was understood that this was the South and their way of life inviolate. Occasional changes could be tolerated, such as the Yankee talk that Northerners brought with them, but it was inconceivable that any change could be allowed that altered the very present fact of the relation of superior white to inferior Negro. Everyone in the room clearly understood this, as had their fathers before them and this belief was the very cornerstone of the South at that time. So it was quite out of the ordinary when Mr. Stith suddenly turned and asked Mr. Stone in a friendly yet serious tone what defined him.

“Our southern selves define us Mr. Stith,” he replied, “We are respectable people with respectable institutions. The slave is our property and as such bound to serve us. When their usefulness is complete, we are entitled to profit by selling them wherever it is legal to do so.” Mr. Stone took a puff on his expensive cigar daring Mr. Stith to counter.

“I see. Well Mr. Stone as a gentleman I don’t refute our respectable institutions whatsoever, however, what I was asking is much more intimate. What defines you as a person? What makes you so different than the slave, who is also human, that you have no responsibility for the extreme pain you directly and indirectly inflict on his body and soul? Is it simply money and the good fortune of being born into your present circumstances that justifies your actions, decisions, and behavior?” Mr. Stone looked lost so Mr. Stith politely paused for a moment before continuing.

“Is it inconceivable to imagine, for just a moment, that both the educated and yes even the uneducated slave is a human being with a soul as precious in the eyes of our Maker as we ourselves! That skin color aside, it is the slave’s unfortunate circumstance that makes them different. Furthermore, isn’t it obvious that their institutions, while different in outward appearance, are very similar in the manner in which they bind the social and communal fabric of the people together?”

“Inconceivable!” muttered the men around the table. “You are mad Mr. Stith. Your travels have unbalanced you,” Mr. Stone said. “Perhaps,” Mr. Stith replied, “but I really don’t believe so.” Mr. Stone stopped puffing on his cigar and tossed down a brandy. “You forget yourself Mr. Stith. You are a slave owner too. The same as us,” he noted. The others nodded in agreement.

“True. Very true,” Mr. Stith said evenly. “And as you know, my family places an emphasis on seeing their workers and slaves well fed and decently treated. Not just for their ability to produce and reproduce but also because they are human beings.” And the members knew it was true. The Stith plantation was a model one; the family wealthy and respected. Stiths held positions of importance in the state and several had a reputation as duelists not to be trifled with. All of which left those present at a loss how to respond. “Many of us do the same,” one finally offered
“Yes. However, many of you also sell these human beings down the river when they become injured or elderly, as does our friend Mr. Stone. Gentlemen, my conscience does not permit me to engage in the practice. Have you ever seen the camps you send them to? The truth should be respected.” The mood grew solemn.

The members were aware of the suffering and circumstances of those camps. Whips and clubs drove slaves with a reckless regard for life. If one of them stumbled and fell into a pit with his load the next would dump dirt on him and leave him there until he was eventually covered and forgotten. The bosses declared that a slave could kill another slave so long as he worked better than him, but for God’s sakes, he better not kill anybody who could work better than him. And there were worse things that happened in those camps: much worse. The members squirmed uncomfortably.

Mr. Stone broke the silence. “Nothing is the same to every person Mr. Stith, and I perceive that you do not really understand this,” he said. Unconsciously Mr. Stith played with his yet unlit cigar. “Understand what?” he replied, “That reality changes form to suit a man’s wishes. Not possible. Rather reality is truth and it is our perception of it that may or may not be skewed. I declare that the manner of discovery and accuracy of reality obtained, while imperfect, is more perfect in those who actually obtain it than in those who completely miss the mark.”

“Word games!” hollered Mr. Stone punctuating each word by hammering the table with his fist. He poured another brandy and began reciting all the arguments for Negro inferiority ending with “...and the good book says that they shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water forever!” Mr. Stith laughed.

“My Episcopalian education taught me to examine things to see if they are true Mr. Stone. I could never support such a misinterpretation of scripture for the sake of convenience. Perhaps a lesson contrasting Lazarus and the rich man might be more fitting for the purposes of our discussion. In any event, religious implications aside, have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things.”

The question roused Mr. Stone to his feet. He looked down at the still seated Mr. Stith. “The question, Mr. Stith, should be directed to you. Have you considered the consequences of tampering with the natural order of things?” The members sat spellbound.

Mr. Stith remained seated. “I cannot believe that kidnapping human beings, killing some and forcing the rest into a life of slavery, all the while reinventing and misinterpreting truth to justify such actions because they are economically profitable constitutes, in reality, the natural order of things. It’s more like an unnatural order of things which we have institutionalized because it is profitable and pleasing for us to do so.” Mr. Stone’s face turned red.

“In any event, I was alluding to a purely scientific argument. I was speculating that interfering with the cycle of life and the natural order of things to the extent that we have done here in the South might have consequences. It’s possible that we are pressing against the structure of reality so much that a correction of some sort will take place. Perhaps a war or political restructuring will change the South gentlemen. How and when this correction might take place I do not know. But I do believe we will be able to perceive it if it does. Furthermore, I can imagine that if stretched even beyond that condition by certain objects, a normalization process could take place resulting in an adjustment designed to negate the effect of those specific objects. We may or may not be able to perceive this and I can only imagine what form such an adjustment might take.”

Mr. Stone had heard enough. “Bah!” he replied, “this conversation has reached its conclusion. Fanciful conjecture on your part Mr. Stith.” He finished the last of the brandy, snuffed out his cigar and grabbed his coat. Pulling the slave contract from an inside pocket, he signed and dated it with great flourish in the presence of everyone in the room and then carefully replaced it and said goodnight. Mr. Stith and the others politely rose to their feet as he left. Climbing angrily into his coach he yelled at his attending slaves to take him home. When he arrived, he carefully set his coat aside and went to bed.

He was awakened the next morning by rays of sunlight that pierced through slits cut into the side of the Mississippi slave barge. He woke groggily and it took him a minute to realize that he was in leg irons amongst a row of slaves. He stared at his hands. They were black. In a panic he ripped off his tattered shirt. He was black. A black slave sold down the river. Dread overtook Mr. Stone as he struck his head against the side of the barge in a desperate attempt to wake up. But this was no dream. His involuntary scream brought an immediate and harsh beating from one of the pockmarked river bosses.

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