Avram Davidson: The Avram Davidson Treasury : a tribute collection

J. Bailiss, Attorney-at-Law (his worn old sign said), had a large practice and little competition. James Bailiss, Broker (his newer, but by no means new, sign), did an extensive business; again, with little competition. The premises of the latter business were located, not in The T, but in a white-washed stone structure with thick doors and barred windows, down in The Bottom — as it was called — near the river, the canal, and the railroad line.

James Bailiss, Broker, was not received socially. Nobody expected that bothered him much. Nothing bothered old man Bailiss much — Bailiss, with his old white hat and his old black coat and his old cowhide shoes that looked old even when they were new — turned old on the shoemaker’s last (the spit-and-whittle crowd claimed) directly they heard whose feet they were destined for.

It was about twenty-five years earlier, in 1825, that an advertisement — the first of its kind — appeared in the local newspaper.

“ Take Notice! (it began). James Bailiss, having lately purchased the old arsenal building on Canal Street, will henceforth operate it as a Negro Depot. He will at all times be found ready to purchase all good and likely young Negroes at the Highest Price. He will also attend to Selling Negroes on Commission. Said Broker also gives Notice that those who have Slaves rendered unfit for labor by yaws, scrofula, chronic consumption, rheumatism, & C., may dispose of them to him on reasonable terms.”

Editor Winstanley tried to dissuade him, he said later. “Folks,” he told him, “won’t like this. This has never been said out open before,” the editor pointed out. Bailiss smiled. He was already middle-aged, had a shiny red face and long mousy hair. His smile wasn’t a very wide one.

“Then I reckon I must be the pioneer,” he said. “This isn’t a big plantation State, it never will be. I’ve give the matter right much thought. I reckon it just won’t pay for anyone to own more than half a dozen slaves in these parts. But they will multiply, you can’t stop it. I’ve seen it in my lawwork, seen many a planter broke for debts he’s gone into to buy field hands — signed notes against his next crop, or maybe even his next three crops. Then maybe the crop is so good that the price of cotton goes way down and he can’t meet his notes, so he loses his lands and his slaves. If the price of cotton should happen to be high enough for him to pay for the slaves he’s bought, then, like a dumned fool”—Bailiss never swore—“why, he signs notes for a few more. Pretty soon things get so bad you can’t give slaves away round here. So a man has a dozen of them eating their heads off and not even earning grocery bills. No, Mr. Winstanley; slaves must be sold south and southwest, where the new lands are being opened up, where the big plantations are.”

Editor Winstanley wagged his head. “I know,” he said, “I know. But folks don’t like to say things like that out loud. The slave trade is looked down on. You know that. It’s a necessary evil, that’s how it’s regarded, like a — well …” He lowered his voice. “Nothing personal, but…like a sporting house. Nothing personal, now, Mr. Bailiss.”

The attorney-broker smiled again. “Slavery has the sanction of the law. It is a necessary part of the domestic economy, just like cotton. Why, suppose I should say, ‘I love my cotton, I’ll only sell it locally’? People’d think I was just crazy. Slaves have become a surplus product in the Border States and they must be disposed of where they are not produced in numbers sufficient to meet the local needs. You print that advertisement. Folks may not ask me to dinner, but they’ll sell to me, see if they won’t.”

The notice did, as predicted, outrage public opinion. Old Marsta and Old Missis vowed no Negro of theirs would ever be sold “down the River.” But somehow the broker’s “jail”—as it was called — kept pretty full, though its boarders changed. Old man Bailiss had his agents out buying and his agents out selling. Sometimes he acted as agent for firms whose headquarters were in Natchez or New Orleans. He entered into silent partnerships with gentlemen of good family who wanted a quick return on capital, and who got it, but who still, it was needless to say, did not dine with him or take his hand publicly. There was talk, on and off, that the Bar Association was planning action not favorable to Bailiss for things connected with the legal side of his trade. It all came to nought.

“Mr. Bailiss,” young Ned Wickerson remarked to him one day in the old man’s office, “whoever said that ‘a man who defends himself has a fool for a client’ never had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Thank you, boy.”

“Consequently,” the young man continued, “I’ve advised Sam Worth not to go into court if we can manage to settle out of it.”

“First part of your advice is good, but there’s nothing to settle.”

“There’s a matter of $635 to settle, Mr. Bailiss.” Wickerson had been practicing for two years, but he still had freckles on his nose. He took a paper out of his wallet and put it in front of them. “There’s this to settle.”

The old man pushed his glasses down his nose and picked up the paper. He scanned it, lips moving silently. “Why, this is all correct,” he said. “Hmm. To be sure. ‘Received of Samuel Worth of Worth’s Crossing, Lemuel County, the sum of $600 cash in full payment for a Negro named Dominick Swift, commonly called Domino, aged thirty-six years and of bright complexion, which Negro I warrant sound in mind and body and a slave for life and the title I will forever defend. James Bailiss, Rutland, Lemuel County.’ Mmm. All correct. And anyway, what do you mean, six hundred and thirty-five dollars?”

“Medical and burial expenses. Domino died last week.”

“Died, now, did he? Sho. Too bad. Well, all men are mortal.”

“I’m afraid my client doesn’t take much comfort from your philosophy. Says he didn’t get two days’ work out of Domino. Says he whipped him, first off, for laziness, but when the doctor — Dr. Sloan, that was — examined him, Doctor said he had a consumption. Died right quickly.”

“Negroes are liable to quick consumptions. Wish they was a medicine for it. On the other hand, they seldom get malaria or yella fever. Providence.”

He cut off a slice of twist, shoved it in his cheek, then offered twist and knife to Wickerson, who shook his head.

“As I say, we’d rather settle out of court. If you’ll refund the purchase price we won’t press for the other expenses. What do you say?”

Bailiss looked around the dirty, dusty office. There was a case of law books with broken bindings against the north wall. The south wall had a daguerreotype of John C. Calhoun hanging crookedly on it. The single dim window was in the east wall, and the west wall was pierced by a door whose lower panels had been scarred and splintered by two generations of shoes and boots kicking it open. “Why, I say no, o’ course.”

Wickerson frowned. “If you lose, you know, you’ll have to pay my costs as well.”

“I don’t expect I’ll lose,” the old man said.

“Why, of course you’ll lose,” the young man insisted, although he did not sound convinced. “Dr. Sloan will testify that it was not ‘a quick consumption.’ He says it was a long-standing case of Negro tuberculosis. And you warranted the man sound.”

“Beats me how them doctors think up long words like that,” Bailiss said placidly. “Inter’sting point of law just come up down in N’Orleans, Ned. One of my agents was writing me. Negro brakeman had his legs crushed in a accident, man who rented him to the railroad sued, railroad pleaded ‘negligence of his fellow-servant’—in this case, the engineer.”