William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

A guard saw Lora as she approached the column and turned toward the others. “You, you, and you ,” the Crusader said as he pointed at Cassie and the women who had assisted her. “Who’s responsible for this?”

It was impossible to tell if the guard saw the beating as a simple breach of discipline or understood the true nature of what had occurred, as Cassie stepped forward. “I hit the bitch,” Cassie said loudly. “She had it coming.”

Lora heard a collective intake of breath from the other prisoners and started to say no, but it was too late. The whip made a swishing noise as it passed through the air. That was followed by a cracking sound as it connected with bare flesh. Cassie uttered a cry of pain, staggered, and tried to free herself from the loop of tightly braided leather around her neck.

The guard kicked his horse into motion, jerked Cassie off her feet, and began to drag her across the ground. There was no telling what would have happened next if a second guard hadn’t intervened. He cut the first man off and ordered him to release Cassie. “We want to sell her, fool… not bury her. Stop this nonsense and chain up. We have ten miles to cover before nightfall.”

Lora was already connected to the main chain by then and turned to look at Cassie. “You look terrible.”

Cassie rubbed her neck. “You look worse.”

“Thank you.”

“I did it for your father.”

Lora began to cry then. But if any of the other women noticed, they didn’t seem to care. And why should they? All of them faced the same risks that Lora did and had the same fears.

Lora continued the march with one eye swollen shut. That, plus the pain, made for a miserable afternoon and evening. They spent the night in a town called Vaughn. It was a short walk from the interstate to the L-shaped school. A Crusader gave bullets to the locals so that the prisoners could sleep in the old gym.

Lora noticed that the doors could be locked from the outside. That plus the metal rings attached to floor were clear indications that slavers stopped there all the time.

The floor was hard, but being inside was better than being outside, and despite the pain, Lora fell into a troubled sleep after fifteen minutes or so. She awoke with a headache and the knowledge that she would be someone else’s property by the end of the day, the equivalent of a horse or cow. The prospect filled her with dread. She had to force herself to eat and could tell that the others felt the same way.

The next few hours were spent hiking through the ruins of Great Falls, Montana. If there were things to see, Lora couldn’t appreciate them. One eye was still swollen shut, and the other was blurry with tears.

Eventually, after innumerable twists and turns, they passed through a gate and entered a holding area outside what had been a ballpark, a place where people played a game called baseball. Now, though, in the aftermath of the second civil war, the notion of playing ritualistic games seemed unreal.

Judging from the sound of a much-amplified male voice and occasional bursts of applause, it sounded as if the auction was under way. Before the Crusaders could march their wares into the park and put them up for sale, they had to pay a fee to the local slave lord. Once that was out of the way, the women were forced to stand while prospective buyers trooped past. Some wore fancy clothing and some didn’t, but all of them had hard eyes.

In addition to the stares, there was a good deal of poking and prodding as the buyers sought to figure out which prisoners were in the best physical condition. Lora had to close her eyes and grit her teeth as a middle-aged woman felt her arms and legs. “She’s strong,” the prospective buyer said, “but what happened to her face? The girl is uglier than the back side of a barn door.” And it soon became clear that the male buyers shared that opinion—because Lora was spared most of the groping that many of the others suffered.

That process took the better part of three hours, so it was late afternoon by the time the Crusaders led the prisoners through a second gate and into the park beyond. The bleachers were filled with buyers, sellers, and spectators. A wealthy few sat in boxes separated from the rest, but most occupied bench-style seats. Vendors were hawking food and drinks, people were chatting with one another, and the whole thing had a festive feel. Some of the spectators were more serious, however, and took the time to eye the slaves through binoculars.

A raised platform occupied the center of the arena, with ramps to either side. The man standing next to the portly auctioneer had black skin and was stripped to the waist. He had long hair and a powerful build and was barefoot. As the auctioneer spoke into a microphone, his voice boomed through speakers located all around the park. “Need a field hand?” the man demanded. “If so, Jim here would do real fine…”

Lora felt sick to her stomach as bidding began, the column came to a halt, and the guards started to free them. “Stay here until you receive orders to walk up the ramp,” one of them said as Lora’s bracelet fell off. “Then do what you’re told.”

The wait began. Once the male slave was ordered off the platform, the Crusaders sent a woman up and the bidding began. Lora tried to understand what was taking place but soon gave up. The auctioneer was talking too fast—and it was difficult to tell who was bidding.

So Lora looked up at the flat-bottomed clouds that were scudding across the pale blue sky, at the flagpoles from which tattered pennants flew, and at the blur of faces in the stands. She could hear them as they applauded the winner of an especially heated bidding competition or booed what they considered to be subpar goods, completely oblivious to the horror they were participating in.

Then it was Cassie’s turn. As they sent her up the ramp, Lora wanted to shout, “Thank you! Thank you for making my father happy, thank you for being a friend, thank you for trying to protect me.”

But it was too late. Cassie was up on the platform by that time, her long hair whipping in the breeze, while the monsters in the stands judged her worth. Then, in a matter of moments, she was gone.

Tears were running down Lora’s cheeks as she made her way up onto the stage and the auctioneer started his spiel. It was hard to follow the singsong cadence of his words. But Lora heard occasional phrases like, “young woman of childbearing age,” “strong enough to work the fields,” and “knows how to read.”

The last came as a surprise. How did the Crusaders know that? Perhaps a prisoner had mentioned it. Or maybe one of them had been standing nearby as she remarked on a sign. “Sold,” the auctioneer said. “Send the next one.”

Lora made her way down the ramp on the other side of the platform to find that a man in western attire was waiting for her. He had a leathery face and might have been any age between thirty and fifty. Not a word was spoken as he led her across an open area, through a gate, and out into what had once been a parking lot.

Groups of slaves could be seen here and there and were waiting—for what? More people to join them? Their owners? That made sense, and Lora’s theory was confirmed a few moments later when she was delivered to the point where about sixty people were gathered around a pole. It stood about twelve feet tall with a piece of wood on top. The letter “V” was centered on the sign. And there were guards, about a dozen of them, all on horseback. They were watchful but made no attempt to organize the crowd.

It seemed as if some of the slaves knew each other, but most didn’t and were waiting to see what would happen. They were dressed in all sorts of clothes, many of which were homemade or pieced together from other garments. The group looked like a convention of scarecrows.