bed," said Thompson to his chattel, "and remember that
you now belong to me."

The poor slave wiped the tears from his eyes, as, in obedience, he
turned to leave the table.

"My father gave me that boy," said Jones, as he took the money, "and I
hope, Mr. Thompson, that you will allow me to redeem him."

"Most certainly, Sir," replied Thompson. "Whenever you hand over the
cool thousand the negro is yours."

Next morning, as the passengers were assembling in the cabin and on
deck and while the slaves were running about waiting on or looking for
their masters, poor Joe was seen entering his new master's stateroom,
boots in hand.

"Who do you belong to?" inquired a gentleman of an old negro, who
passed along leading a fine Newfoundland dog which he had been feeding.

"When I went to sleep las' night," replied the slave, "I 'longed to
Massa Carr; but he bin gamblin' all night an' I don't know who I 'longs
to dis mornin'."

Such is the uncertainty of a slave's life. He goes to bed at night the
pampered servant of his young master, with whom he has played in
childhood, and who would not see his slave abused under any
consideration, and gets up in the morning the property of a man whom he
has never before seen.

To behold five or six tables in the saloon of a steamer, with half a
dozen men playing cards at each, with money, pistols, and bowie-knives
spread in splendid confusion before them, is an ordinary thing on the
Mississippi River.

CHAPTER V

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

On the fourth morning, the Patriot landed at Grand Gulf, a beautiful
town on the left bank of the Mississippi. Among the numerous passengers
who came on board at Rodney was another slave-trader, with nine human
chattels which he was conveying to the Southern market. The passengers,
both ladies and gentlemen, were startled at seeing among the new lot of
slaves a woman so white as not to be distinguishable from the other
white women on board. She had in her arms a child so white that no one
would suppose a drop of African blood flowed through its blue veins.

No one could behold that mother with her helpless babe, without feeling
that God would punish the oppressor. There she sat, with an expressive
and intellectual forehead, and a countenance full of dignity and
heroism, her dark golden locks rolled back from her almost snow-white
forehead and floating over her swelling bosom. The tears that stood in
her mild blue eyes showed that she was broodi