‘Yes,’ she say, pulling out her pipe. ‘When a duppie come to visit, you sit up, take notice. Me was good to Jonnie, give him a good burial, send him cross to the Ancestors with dignity. Him not going lead me astray.’

And with that, like always, she refuse to talk any more bout it.

It going take us a few days to reach where the new massa have him plantation. Come the second day, Busha Davis lead us into a great big yard, with a high fence all round it. In the middle of the yard is a few wooden platforms with steps leading up to what must be a stage. Have a big table beside each one, where a clerk sitting with a big book, pen and ink. Off to one side is a large group of slaves chained, stripped and oiled, some with heads hung low, others looking round, a hollow look on them faces. We at a slave yard. I heard much bout it, but is the last place I think me going end up. Is like one big market, except instead of selling food, backra selling humans.

When Busha Davis see the troubled look on our faces, him explain that is only a resting stop. Is where him going sign the papers, make the transfer. Must wait for him to come back.

We there for only a little while when a bell start clanging, the wooden gates swing open and a flood of people come rushing in. They all dressed up, money bags jingling from them belts, and they looking at the slaves like them looking at a piece of raw meat.

The auctioneer, a fat-belly man, a top hat on him head, start the bidding.

‘This way. This way. Come this way,’ him call out. ‘Look over here. See, a good, solid, prime Negro.’

A well-dressed man in a green velvet jacket, ruffled shirt, holding a handkerchief to him nose as though him afraid him going catch something, call out, ‘Twenty-five pounds!’

A tall mulatto man step forward, open the slave mouth, turn him round, look him up and down like him buying a horse.

‘This one is not worth more than twenty-eight pounds,’ him say.

‘Strong muscles. Feel them,’ forcing the slave to flex him muscles while the coloured man feel them.

‘Thirty pounds!’ the well-dressed man say.

‘And properly seasoned,’ the auctioneer shout.

‘Thirty-five!’ the mulatto man say.

But the auctioneer not giving up so easy. ‘You can work him hard. Fetch a good price if you decide to sell him later.’

Then another man watching from the side step forward. Hold up a bag of coins. ‘I’ll take him for forty pounds sterling.’

The auctioneer lift him hammer look round for one last bid. The mulatto man step forward and say, ‘Forty-one pounds!’

The man watching from the side say, ‘Forty-two pounds and ten shillings!’

The hammer come down and the auctioneer say, ‘Sold, to Mister Findleyson!’