Dream: The Slave Market

I dreamed last night that my name was Sarah Francis, and the year was 1855.

I was a very wealthy plantation owner in the south. I think I lived in South Carolina or Georgia. I was already from an old wealthy family, and marrying my husband and moving to his plantation made us one of the wealthiest families in the state. My husband died only four years after we got married, leaving me a 23 year old widow.
For several years I was courted by men of all kinds from all over the south. One young man even came from as far as New York to pay a call to my house. After a few years, however, it became clear that I had no intention of re-marrying. My disdainful treatment of these gentleman callers became notorious, and I was known as a mean spinster by the time I was 26.

I was a slave owner. My plantation was vast, and needed many many workers to maintain it. I had a small staff of hired white workers running the household, but I owned as many as 30 slaves at any given time.

I was somewhat of a hermit. I was known to collect books from all over the world -a strange thing for a woman to do. Other than the booksellers, and the slave traders, I rarely spoke to anyone. Rumors started to spread about me through the nearby towns. Rumors of disappearing slaves, of scandals that took place in my household, of bodies appearing in the nearby river. I became an urban legend, and people maintained their frightened distance.

In the nearby city, a slave market was held once per month. I never missed a market. It was well known that I went home with 5-10 slaves from every market. I was a favored customer of slave traders, but even they had heard the rumors.
I went through slaves. Even though I took 5-10 home with me, I generally did not have more than 30 at a time. Rumors grew more gruesome about what happened to my slaves. Some say I killed them for fun. Some spoke about frightening sexual scandals. Some said I was a witch who sacrificed humans to the devil, using their body parts in gruesome concoctions.


One sunday, I had made my way all the way to Charleston to attend the slave market. I hardly spoke to anyone, but everyone knew who I was, and they maintained a curious, superstitious distance. A new shipment of slaves had arrived in Charleston a few days before. One group of slaves huddled together. There were 9 of them total, an older man, a young couple, and six kids ranging in age from infant to 12 years old. They were going to be split up. I told the slave trader that I wanted to inspect them. I looked them over, even holding the infant myself after it was taken from its mother.
It bought them all. Word of my purchase spread through the market, with fascinated speculation about what I would do with the children.

They were brought to my plantation. I ordered to meet them in my private sitting room, with my three usual strong guards keeping them together.
I closed the door and turned to the terrified family.
"I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what your family has been through. I am going to help you." I said to them. They stared at me.
My maid stepped forward and spoke to them in their language, translating what I had said. The adults eyes widened in surprise. The young woman turned to me and said "My children and I speak English."

I was relieved. This would make things easier. I told them the truth.
I had spread the terrible rumors about myself. I was an abolitionist, doing what little I could for individuals and families. The slaves who worked on my plantation, I explained to them, were paid workers. I attend every slave market, choose as many as I can without arising suspicion, and help them to find their way to a better life. Most stayed on my plantation for a while, doing a little work for a generous wage, while planning where they can go to be free, and a way of getting there. I helped them as best as I could. I was in contact with the underground railroad. I took a yearly trip to new york, bringing as many as I could to "sell" them to potential buyers, while really setting them up with as much as I could give them.
Many have decided to stay with me permanently. It wasn't a bad life on my plantation, and better than the risk of trying to make a life up north.

I explained to the family that if anyone found out what I was really doing, I would be stopped. But having them think I was a brutal murderer kept them from stopping me. Such was our society.