The Book of Andrew Durnford
Martin Marprelate
Womb Doom
Open Source since 1588
Ode to Sugar by Andrew.
When you take that spoonful of sugar, bless it for us…
Our lives depend upon the harvest. Connected to the cane, we prosper or fail with her fate.
The odds are against the sugar at every stage.
In the spring, we press the precious setts into the earth with a prayer on our lips and in our hands – a field of pegs three feet apart like an army ready to march.
Then we can do no more. Our vigil begins.
We pray for the sugar when it rains.
And pray for the sugar when it doesn’t.
Enough rain, we pray.
Not too much rain, we pray.
Enough. And no more.
God must get tired of our prayers.
We watch her grow: balanced precariously between hope and fear of hope.
But, when she grows, we curse too for she grows into a jungle fortress.
By harvest in fall, she has fortified herself against us.
From each cane planted 3 feet apart, sprout leaves that spread 5 feet across – tangled and twisted between the cane stalks to fill every conceivable space. A wall of sharp leaves more impenetrable than brick. Rising like a woven ceiling 20 feet in the air.
It’s dark and lonely in a sugar forest. A sole man in the middle of stubborn fibrous life, trapped by a cave of his own making, shredded leaves piled in his wake as he progresses towards that precious cane.
We hear others but cannot see them. Just the steady sound of the blade.
And, then, we finally reach the cane, stripped of its leafy protection. Undefended.
Its sweet sugar is sunk low in the cane, so we swing from our waist to bring that cane down low.
She resists with tough fibrous sinews strengthened by holding a 5-foot crown 20 feet high.
Swing low. Swing low.
It’s two deaths if a man cuts too high — the death of the stalk and the waste of its sweet syrup.
Swing low.
She resists, but the blade is patient.
Swing low.
The cane does not surrender quietly.
Swing low.
An average of five swings per stalk.
When she finally surrenders, we feel it first in our fingers — a heaviness as she surrenders, bends and falls.
Leaves ragged and torn all around her.
Children rush in with knives to saw leaves off the fallen cane. Their knives flying one thousand to a five thousand times per hour.
Other children run off with hands full of newly cut leaves.
And the women carry the stalk to the wagon, a bare stick stripped of her crown of leaves, dripping her precious juice.
From there, the soul is crushed out of her.
Huge cylinders, roll back and forth across the slender cane, back and forth until she splits apart and her juice is squeezed through the cracks and she is shredded, dissolves, and exists as a cane no more.
The precious juice is now ladled into tanks where it is cleansed and rinsed to ensure that there are no impurities. Strained, filtered, and rested, we cleanse the sweet liquid of its lingering skin until the final traces of earth have sunk from the surface.
Then we ladle it into large copper pots.
The fire must be not too hot and not too cool. If the temperature is wrong, the outcome is caramel, molasses or goop.
She must not be left too long. If she is left too long, she is scorched into caramel, molasses or goop.
We have just a few seconds to save her .
A chemical transformation: and the syrup becomes crystals which must be immediately taken off the fire.
One moment determines whether the cane becomes sparkling crystals of sweet sugar.
Or caramel.
Or molasses.
Or goop for the pigs.
One cane per pound of sugar.
Five hundred to a thousand canes per hour.
Bless your spoonful of sugar for us and bless us for your sugar.
John McDonogh and Andrew discuss the disputed ten acres.
John McDonogh scratched a brief note in reply and gave it to Noah: “Draw only as necessary and within the agreed sum. Be particular in your account, and let no transaction stand without proper entry.”
Noah departs and John McDonogh turns back to the ledger.
The page not full, so there is no subtotal, but John McDonogh automatically sums the column. Including the $101, Andrew had drawn $881 in the past two weeks:
A pair of oxen: $60.
A bull: $12.00.
Corn: $696.00
Potatoes: $12.00.
(Germans work well if they have potatoes, Andrew said. That had amused John McDonogh.)
Last month, John McDonogh bought straw hats for the slaves, a barrel of tar, a 200-lb. anvil, oil, shoes for the slaves, mackerel, several pairs of draft chains, a leather saddle, iron for the boiler, wood for the sugar, timbers for the mill, and 4 barrels of pork.
The pork, however, had no fat. Andrew said: “I am destitute for lard for my cooking and will trouble you for the last time as I begin to feel ashamed to intrude so often on your kindness to me. Will you get Davy to ship a barrel of good pork.”
In total: there were 5 barrels of pork – one all lard.
John McDonogh made intermittent efforts to curb the spending. But Andrew’s costs were never lavish. He did not demand that John McDonogh pay for expensive clothing or wine or entertainment. These were expenses related to the plantation that supported Andrew and 70 people who were his slaves.
Sometimes, Andrew did get a little overbearing.
When John McDonogh bought him the coachman with a fine coach and a matched pair of bays, Andrew asked for a new set of harnesses to match the coach.
True, John McDonogh had assumed that the ensemble would include the harness.
But the request for the harness still caused him to twitch a little.
Andrew was a Free Man of Color.
It was easier for everyone if John handled the money for the plantations.
No one ever refused to do business with John McDonogh.
John McDonogh was a rich man.
He had far more money than he would ever need.
But it was not his.
He was a custodian for it. Holding it on God’s behalf for the poor of New Orleans and Baltimore.
As a trustee, of God, no penny is worth less than another.
One cannot be frittered away just because another exists.
Yet the law, and Andrew, and the juries all believe his money to be worth less because he has so much. He is a miser because he does not give it away.
But, if he gave it away, he would not have any more to give.
The reason he has money is because he is a miser.
God entrusted him with this responsibility and he would keep control until the day he dies.
John McDonogh’s eyes hurt. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back. His chair squeaked. The candle started doing its dying dance – jumping in thin lines until it would fizzle away.
At least, the ten acres would be resolved. Tomorrow, he would bring Andrew to the notary and they would confirm the sale.
Not for Andrew’s absurdly low offer.
The sale price had to be reasonable. Nothing is more suspicious than low prices. No one questions rising values. People bid up willingly. But, for the suspicious: the only reason for an artificially low price is to cheat someone else out of the difference.
Andrew knows this. He knows how careful a rich man must be. Someone is always watching to see how his money can be taken from him. How could Andrew be Tommy’s boy? One was exquisitely nuanced. The other has the subtlety of an ox.
Love.
No way to put that on a ledger, is there?
It seemed more often a source of agitation than joy to him.
He couldn’t accept Andrew’s ridiculous offer. Frankly, it was insulting. And hurtful.
He has explained to Andrew, repeatedly, the importance of that initial tender. It sets the tone for all further engagements. A fair offer demonstrates value and respect. A high offer signals poor analysis and preparation. A low offer indicates contempt.
There’s an art to negotiation.
Andrew didn’t mean it to be insulting. John McDonogh knows that. He presented a careful calculation of his annual costs, including the land, the sugar, the slaves, the taxes and his profit.
On this, he based his offer.
The implication being that John McDonogh should sell him land at a price that allowed Andrew to make a substantial profit on his business.
Looking only at one part of the equation.
It had taken a lot of self-control, frankly.
“The profit of your business isn’t my business,” John McDonogh said sternly. “The land is my business. What is the land worth?”
Andrew had been outraged. “You said you would accept whatever I offered!”
John McDonogh had met his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I misjudged you.”
Fortunately, Andrew didn’t understand.
For Andrew, there was only one perspective:
He looks at everything from his own handsome face and through Tommy’s eyes, but sees nothing.
No harm done.
John McDonogh will put a high price on their contract and explain to Andrew how it is being manipulated so that Andrew’s original offer was actually accepted but not as it was presented.
The point is, after all, for Andrew to make a profit.
But not for John McDonogh’s books to reflect a loss.
Tomorrow, they would be done with this conflict. Though, he knows Andrew’s resentment will linger a lifetime.
Andrew believed that land was his.
It is true that the land was purchased with him in mind. That was what John McDonogh intended. And what Tommy wanted.
Intentions are useless without strategy.
And Andrew has no understanding of strategy.
But, now, the problem is finally solved.
Tomorrow they’ll go to the notary and Andrew will own the land.
For six percent interest paid annually – God, weather, and competence willing.
John McDonogh knows that he will never live long enough to see it paid.
John McDonogh closes the ledger and is about to pinch out the candle when the outer doors open and John McDonogh hears Andrew’s voice.
“Take this,” he says – probably to Nettie.
John McDonogh swivels his chair towards the door.
Without his cape, but with mud still on his shoes, Andrew stands in the open archway of John McDonogh’s study.
“I heard notice the court has ruled.”
“It has,” says John McDonogh.
“You told me I could have it. The land was mine at any price I named. I want it. You know that. I gave you a price.”
John McDonogh sighs. “I said I would transfer it to you when the title is clear.”
“And it is clear now, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you will now transfer the land to me? You have spoken thus before. Surely this time it will true.”
“A man cannot transfer property to which he has no title. I told you my intent and I explained my inability to perform.”
But Andrew said it again. “I have sugar growing on that land. It is almost ready for harvest.”
“You have long been aware that the land cannot be transferred to you without clearing title.”
“Yes. But you said I should claim the land as my own – and that is what I have done. Set up levies, placed fences, created roads, planted sugar… We’re looking at a first ratoon crop. I must be able to harvest it!”
John McDonogh continued. “I urged caution. I, if you recall, refused to fund any expenses on a land to which I had no clear title. If you, instead, gambled on winning, then it is not on my shoulders.”
“I didn’t think you’d lose.”
“Nor will I bear that yoke.”
“That’s right,” says Andrew. “Nor should you.”
Andrew walked to the large leather armed chair across from the desk and fell heavily into it. “Pardon me,” he said. “I have already bargained for the Germans next week. So time is of the essence. The harvest is ready.”
“The good new is that your father’s estate now has no claim. The court has determined that your father never had title. It reverted back to the Estate of Dugrey. Since your father owned nothing; your father’s estate owns nothing. There is no claim against the title. Title has been quieted.”
“But we lost.”
“You are assuming that we wanted your father’s estate to win.
“We did not?”
“Not at all. In fact, as DeGruy’s major creditor and most vociferous complainant, I insisted that we try this issue as soon as possible.”
“So we won?”
“Well, no, we lost. But Dugrey’s estate has title and I purchased the estate from him today.”
“You won? And I lost?” Andrew jumped up. “I have a field of sugar ready to harvest! Two years with no recompense!”
“No. I lost too.”
“You’re playing with me and this is not funny.”
“The Degruy creditors won; the land was returned to the court which put it up for auction and I have purchased it at auction and was paid that amount as a creditor. Basically, I purchased it from myself. I have paid for this land three times, now. Once to your father and once to myself via Dugrey. And lost my loan to Dugrey. And bought it again.”
“Was this planned? My father and you? Was Dugrey…?”
“Of course not…” John McDonogh says quickly. “But sometimes the law is less to be respected than avoided or ignored. Law is like one of those games: you set the goal and choose the path. Our goal does not make the path fraudulent.”
“But that means this is my land now, right? It is for me. That was why you did all this, right?
“Not the intent of the transaction, per se. Just a satisfactory result of the outcome.”
John McDonogh swiveled his chair back to his desk. He pinches out the dying candle.
“The title is clear, then?”
“Yes. The court’s ruling clears title against all other creditors. Including your relatives.”
“So now you can give it to me?”
“Whoa. After losing the lawsuit. I have now paid for this land twice. Once to your father and now to his creditors. And I didn’t get money I wasn’t already owed from Dugrey. I lost money.”
“But you promised the land to me. You said: Do with the tract as comforts best with your own interest in every way. Do you remember? Exactly that!”
John McDonogh swivels back toward Andrew quickly, the chair slipping. “And now the syndic is breathing down my neck because your men dug ditches across disputed acreage.”
“Well, you own it now so that doesn’t matter any more. Will you sell it to me as agreed?”
“You offered half what it was worth and that was before I had to pay for it twice.”
“The sugar will rot in the field! I have hired fifty-two hands to work double shifts. You saw the cane—twenty feet high, God himself couldn’t have grown it better. And you would have let it rot?”
“I couldn’t harvest what I didn’t own.”
“But now you do! You own it now.”
John McDonogh swivels his chair again towards the desk, his back to Andrew. “We shouldn’t discuss this right now. Go. Return at breakfast.”
“Look at you: Making me beg like this! You are doing it because I am colored. You would never treat a white man like this!”
“Andrew.”
John McDonogh has stopped moving. He sits at his desk, his back to Andrew. The candle is dark. The ledger open. A pen dry and unmoving in his hand.
“You call me your son, but I am no more than your errand boy! I am nothing more than your voice in a different face. I do not exist without you!”
Once started, Andrew couldn’t stop. “I go to a broker as Andrew Durnford and I am invisible. “I go as John McDonogh’s boy and I am courted and catered to. This – this you have done to me.”
Andrew is breathing hard. Gulping air. “Showed me what I will never have and can never be!”
“Andrew.”
“If my mother’s womb had been white, I would have been you.”
Andrew leaves the room, almost at a run, his muddy footsteps turning grey behind him.
“Andrew,” says the man at the desk to the desk. Softly. “My poor Andrew.”
It was wet and slippery outside. The trees still dripping. Andrew had not recollected his riding coat. His horse is stabled and bedded for the night. Andrew would not return to Plaquemines tonight. He was planning to stay in his room in John McDonogh’s mansion.
Noah gestured to him, but he waved him away.
The water trickled down the back of his neck and slipped into the first building he finds — a gardener’s shed.
Smells like mud.
He has not cried for many years.
But, now, he sat an overturned bucket in front of a small potting table. Sprigs lined in neat rows before the small window. His head was bent to his hands.
Andrew had begged a man who was his equal.
Begged like a debtor.
Like a child.
Now that the fire had passed, all that remained was ashes and the bitterness of broken pride.
Too familiar a sensation.
If they didn’t do it to him, he did it to himself. Like today. Roll over like a dog. Then wonder why you’re kicked.
He looked up through the cloudy window toward the rows of bean plants in the garden outside — black lines under the moonlight, rustling like water.
St. Rosalee Plantation would never be his.
Not really.
Not like it should have been.
Not like it would’ve been had he emerged from a different womb.
He would always owe something, or someone, or be owned in kind. F.M.C. Free man of color.
A conditional free man.
No one looking at Andrew Durnford would mark him colored outside of New Orleans.
But, here: People knew. And What is known cannot be unknown.
But Thomas—
Thomas, his son, was just a baby.
Still unmarked.
Born at home. Could be from any womb.
He could be anything.
Anywhere.
He could enter a room without explaining himself.
Without proving to brutes that he was civilized.
Andrew exhales slowly as a breeze arises, and, in the distance, the tall sugar stalks slap in the wind with him.
It is too late for him. This is where he belongs. This is where he wants to be. It comes with a cost and he is paying it.
But Thomas will not pay that cost.
He will never know anything but freedom.
Thomas will be a free man. Without color. Without condition.
Despite the black womb that carried him.
The slaves discuss Master Andrew.
The thing about Master Andrew is that he always tried to be so good. He always tried to help. He wanted us all to love him and it was so endearing that we did.
Obnoxiously confident.
And usually wrong.
Father had a certain look just for Master Andrew. Puzzled love, Minerva called it. He loves the man with all his heart but can’t figure out why…
None of us can really. Except he’s so good inside. And he tries so hard.
We complain about our side of the fence.
But those who straddle a fence are criticized by both sides.
And, even though he acts like you’d asked for the hat off his head, he always tried to get you what you wanted.
He tries so hard. You have to love him.
And its so easy to make him feel good. You just have to tell him you love him.
Funny. That’s why we do.
Andrew to Godfather: Fox and Chicken Letter
My dear Godfather:
Thank you for the pork you sent. It was short of fat, which we need for lard… I have sent Noah back to request that you also send a pound of fat.
Also, tuition for Thomas appears to be late. Expedite!
I also need you to order another engine for the steam roller. My latest one broke. I believe it was defective.
With this order, please advise Mr. Blasé that I may seem to be passive but: when the lion is slumbering he must not be teased. I expect the next engine to be pristine.
You have asked that I address my feelings about your project – the American Colonization Society. You will send your slaves to Liberia to establish their own colony – the way your ancestors founded Jamestown and Plymouth.
It is admirable. People need to believe in a future. Fifteen years seems like forever when there are 14 years to go, but there is an end to the labor with the contract and no end to slavery.
Those who claim you should extract no benefit from your slaves are not realistic. This is a fair compromise.
But slavery is not likely to end by asking slaveholders to simply give away their slaves. Slaves are often the bulk of the estate.
You say that slaves will earn enough money to replace themselves — that that’s how you base their value. For the slaveholders, this would appear to be no loss, and, therefore, attractive enough.
Even though you couch it in terms of benefit, in fact you are asking a planter to give up the remaining years of service to which they have a right.
Why should they pay for services they can get for free?
And the most profitable will be the least likely to be freed.
Dear Godfather, the slaves aren’t all the same. They’ll happily send your colony their weak, ill, and stupid.
The owners won’t give up the strongest, smartest and most skilled.
So, I can’t see a hook to make this sale to the planters — unless you want to colonize only the sick, the feeble, and the stupid.
And then you must ask — are the slaves capable of governing themselves? Of handling money?
You know how I care for my people. I truly do. They are as much my family as Thomas.
But they’re children.
Hardly two of them can save a coin from week to the next. They’re always needing something. They have no ability to control their impulses. If they get a coin, they’ve spent it on new shoes, or tallow, or a hat or a dress before it has become warm in their palms.
Superstitious. Incurious. Willing to accept whatever they hear to be true. Do what they’re told. Obedient. Children. Not all the way there.
Superior to animals but not all the way human, if one must be honest.
Look at all that African nonsense. Voodoo clowns instead of a real doctor. I know that for a fact. They cling to superstition like it was passed on in their cells.
Just last week, I was summoned to cure a boy. The squaws said the boy had “bone sickness.”
As if that has any meaning…
I recognized it immediately as rheumatismus acutus intermittens, complicated by debilitas generalis and possible incipient hydrocephalus internus. The fever had not yet progressed to febris continua biliosa, but it was close. His limbs were rigid, likely due to obstructio humorum along the spinal axis.
I consulted the Pharmacopeia and prescribed a strict regimen: bloodletting by lancet at the median cubital vein, followed by topical unguentum hydrargyri applied in circular fashion along the vertebrae. Administered a purgative dose of tinctura jalapae composita—two drachms diluted in one pint of boiled spring water—and later, an emetic of pulvis ipecacuanhae compositus for gastric evacuation.
I told them what I needed to do but when I lanced him, the squaws screamed. When I scowled at them, they retreated to a corner where they bobbed like Jews with their hands over their faces moaning.
You see?
Superstition is in their blood.
They have no appreciation for real science.
I calmed them, though. I used John Smith’s trick with the Indians. I pointed to words and I said that this was the source of my magic.
And, since their voodoo witch doesn’t know what’s in the book, no one can say it is wrong.
Perhaps I even have a taint of superstition in my blood.
Although, I have mastered reason and logic to overcome such impurities and weaknesses. As you know, I am often praised for my remarkable deductions and inductions.
And there are some clever Africans, indeed. David, of course. But one genius does not make a community. He stands alone among his people. The exception proves the rule. Most could not even conquer the knowledge of a preparatory student. If they could, wouldn’t they?
The Africans are good at mimicry.
They follow instructions well enough but cannot do what needs to be done on their own. They look where they are told to look, but do not see without a finger to direct them.
They offer no suggestions.
They nod their heads like bobbing ducks.
Sometimes they are very clever too. Almost smarter than me.
But that’s as far as it goes.
And, then, there’s the colony and your goal for a self-governing African America where everyone is truly equal and free. Where there are no kings or popes. But a people who want to thrive and grow together as a community.
Is your plan realistic?
Can a society really be fair?
Let’s face it: Society is made up of two distinct parts. Foxes. And chickens.
Chickens exist to feed the foxes – just as seeds are set aside for the chickens and the chickens for us.
That is the law of nature, Godfather.
That one devours the other so that the stronger can survive. Survival of the species is possible only through sacrifice of the weaker for the stronger.
Can a chicken become a fox?
Isn’t that really the real problem you face, Godfather? You’re trying to make a society without foxes. But the fox cannot survive without eating the chicken.
Someone has to be a chicken. It is just a fact.
So if your chickens become foxes, they’ll turn and eat the other chickens.
You’re trying to make foxes out of chickens and build a world where the foxes eat flowers instead of eggs.
It would seem, dear Godfather, that you simply do not accept human nature.
You want to change people and I fear you will be disappointed.
I may have their blood in my genes, but everyone has to choose a side.
I’m a fox.
Please rush the approval of funds.
With sincerity,
Andrew Durnford, F.M.C.
A day in the life of Andrew
Andrew awakens at 4:30 a.m. and says a brief prayer. It is still dark outside, but beginning to lighten. There’s a problem with the north field levy that haunted him all night. It had crumbled such that it is sure to break in the next big rainfall and Andrew spent the night hoping it doesn’t rain.
Before he is down the stairs, Nettie is telling him that they are still waiting for the cornmeal and has the salt pork been ordered, does he know when that will be coming in? She’s sorry to disturb him but they’re getting low on the potatoes too and the Germans really grumble when you don’t get them potatoes.
By then Noah has met him with his quill and fine memory. Noah will write down what Andrew approves once they’ve finished their rounds. Andrew long sense gave up remembering these things. And Noah could repeat, nearly word-for-word, everything that was said in a day.
He calls for Peter to discuss the levy but Peter’s already there with a crew and so he sends the boy Manny to get him an update and has his sister go along so that one of them might get the message right.
Then Jonah taps tentatively on the door to tell Andrew that a mule is lame. It’s hoof split with hauling on the wet surface. He is putting to service Old Jake who may not be able to do very much.
Nettie calls upon him to report that one of the seamstresses has taken ill. She has a fever. It is not serious, she says so he will go to her as soon as he has finished with his rounds this afternoon.
Adam, age 13 or thereabouts, stole a shovel from the shed and set out to dig a tunnel to escape. They want to know how he should be punished.
The goats have wandered from the west pasture. The fence needs mending. One of them was almost trapped in the swamp.
The blacksmith needs copper fittings and asks for a pass to go to New Orleans to select the parts for himself, so he can visit his mother.
A young woman from the quarters asks for cloth to sew a burial shroud—her grandmother passed in the night. She also needs a coffin. And asks for funeral rites and the mourning meal.
A messenger arrives with mail. A letter arrives from New Orleans demanding payment for last month’s barrels. A letter from John McDonogh advising him to make sure he draws “only as necessary and within the agreed sum. Be particular in your account, and let no transaction stand without proper entry.”
A boy from the infirmary says the fevered child is worsening.
A mother asks for permission to keep her son out of the field another day. His feet are bleeding.
A carpenter needs nails.
A washerwoman needs lye.
John McDonogh tells him to make sure he draws “only as necessary and within the agreed sum. Be particular in your account, and let no transaction stand without proper entry.”
John McDonogh’s fingers are squeezed so tight around money he can’t see all that Andrew does.
As if this measly $101 is nearly hurting him to release.
He played with that land and toyed with Andrew’s heart, holding the ten acres as long as he could… John McDonogh knew his father bought that land for him. He knew that was supposed to be the beginning of Andrew’s plantation.
John McDonogh could have procured that judgment at any time. His cases were always heard by a jury of debtors. People who relied on him — directly or indirectly — for their financial safety and security. Everyone knew he would collect all of his debts in full.
John McDonogh’s lesson was learned when the jury gave him only 10% of his due because — as they said — he was a rich man and did not need the money.
Andrew’s father, Tommy, said John McDonogh began talking with Billy Ireland and himself at that time. Asking questions they all needed to ask.
He said: I don’t need money. So why am I doing this?
And he said: I don’t like these people who believe they are entitled to bilk, cheat, or tax a rich man because he has earned more than they. I started as an apprentice and now I am a rich man but my pennies never changed. A penny is a penny.
Whether held by a rich man or poor.
And he said: Why have I been so fortunate unless it was to help people?
They concluded the Africans and the poor were worthy of their help.
They were as hard-working as he and as honest as he and willing to give everything to something worthwhile. These were people who had been blessed free of greed. The community shared its skills, food, wisdom, and children. They focused on only two goals for satisfaction: getting by with the masters and enjoying their families.
That case also made John McDonogh a most suspicious man.
He trusted no white man except Billy Ireland and Tommy. And he respected Christian Roselius, but wouldn’t do business with a man that honest.
With Andrew, he fluctuated.
Sometimes he was generous — like the horses and carriage that made Andrew and his wife as fancy looking as those who rejected them. But, then, of course, he refused to pay extra for the harness and the old harness they sent was useless.
John McDonogh trusted Andrew’s honesty.
During all the years they’d sparred, John McDonogh had never doubted the truth of Andrew’s word. Andrew never lied and John McDonogh knew it.
Whereas, John McDonogh’s promises — like that of the land — not always quite so trustworthy.
Though the old man would be furious to hear such a truth and no man — not even Andrew — would dare say it outright. It was the opposite of John McDonogh’s view of himself. He would be furious and hurt with no value achieved at all.
But the old man’s memory often depended upon his own rules. He never lied, cheated, or performed any blatantly illegal act.
As defined by John McDonogh.
Who also considered himself like a proud father to Andrew — glad to see the man flourish on his plantation.
And showed Andrew the ledger every time they were together.
A pair of oxen: $60.
A bull: $12.00.
Corn: $696.00
Potatoes: $12.00.
Bricks: $101.00
To be fair, he did not begrudge Andrew his profit.
He just deducted so much against it that there was scarcely independence in the remainder.
As if it were impossible to break-even with the man.
Andrew buys slaves from Virginia.
In 1835, after the sugar harvest, Andrew Durnford went to Virginia to buy slaves before the next sugar harvest.
He was disgusted by the prices.
A slave from Virginia was twice as expensive as one from Louisiana – though they didn’t look any different.
Apparently, the cotton plantations in Alabama were spoiling the market for everyone else. Ever since the importation of Africans was forbidden, they couldn’t get enough slaves for the cotton.
They were driving the price up for everyone.
As Andrew wrote to John McDonogh, it was only the “rotten people; diseased” who were available at a decent price. They were sitting on the hard hot dirt or leaning against walls like discarded dolls or tired dogs.
Who would take someone like that?
When he first approached the auctioneer, his card — Andrew Durnford, F.M.C. was ignored.
It was either that or the prices doubled.
Two theories. One, Andrew was at the auction to buy his family members — in which case, top dollar could be charged. Or, Andrew was a northern abolitionist and he was here to make trouble.
In any case, better not to deal with him.
Presenting his card as the agent of John McDonogh changed everything… They bow and scrape their feet while salivating to please him.
So here he was: Tied to a leash. Like a dog.
The beam was also the bane of his existence.
Mostly avoiding the public auction and working directly with brokers, Andrew purchased 24 people from Virginia. He specifically made a purchase of a woman and her child contingent on the broker finding and buying her husband.
The cost was $6876. An average of $286.50 per person.
The cost increased when they found he was John McDonogh’s agent and wanted only families. Suddenly the detriment of dependencies became the most valuable asset for sale. “Good breeder,” they assured Andrew.
Andrew avoided the babies. In Andrew’s view, it takes too long for babies to become useful. That first year you can hardly get a full weeks’ work out of the mothers unless you have grandmothers to take care of the babies.
Sometimes it causes problems. Apparently just because a woman is old, it does mean she wants to care for the children. She might have other things to do.
Either way, the cost is not recovered for a decade or more.
He spent almost $7000 for only 8 strong hard-working men. And also must support and house three times their dependents.
For some reason, Andrew had not anticipated the difficulty in transporting 24 people from Virginia to Louisiana. He, a Free Man of Color, did not have access to services available to those without such a tag. Even John McDonogh’s association did not break the color laws.
His slaves were offered two types of accommodation. The corral at the auction house. They’d be fed twice a day and let out for necessities.
Or a stable. Andrew rented a stable and they made beds from moldy straw and the tarpaulin sheets Andrew could procure. He bought blankets for pillows and had food brought to them from venders on the street.
Noah stayed to ensure no one escaped.
They were in Virginia, 920 miles from New Orleans. A month trek by land or a few weeks by boat.
Horror stories shared liberally, most men recommended boat. Less strenuous. The people would be ready to work on arrival. Less likely to get ill from bad water. Less likely to escape.
A flatboat was better for everyone. They would stay in the cage the whole time.
Andrew chose the flatboat. He and Noah accompanied his people. Being black, and a slave, Noah had to stay in the cage.
Among the slaves Andrew brought from Virginia was a mother, a son and a daughter.
Mary, the mother would die.
Wainie, the daughter, was to become Andrew’s favored slave – though she was 7 and he was 27 when she was bought.
David, the son would threaten to kill him.
Part of the Martin Marprelate Returns collection