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Charleston, South Carolina, July. In the sweltering summer heat of the Southern states, the air was almost unbreathable. A crowd had gathered in the square in front of the slave market for the weekly fair. A silhouette appeared among the shoppers.
Elizabeth Beaumont, 62, is the widow of wealthy plantation owner Jacques Beaumont, who died six months earlier. Elizabeth hasn’t been to this market in decades. Her husband personally arranged for workers to work on their cotton plantation. But today she came alone, dressed head to toe in black, her face covered with a lace veil.
As soon as they recognized him, whispering began. The auctioneer brought a young black boy onto the stage. He was barely thirteen, thin, with a blank expression. His mother had recently been sold to a Georgia plantation owner. The child was shivering, and not just from the heat. The buyers looked at him indifferently. Too young, too weak to work the land. No one seemed interested. “$30,” the auctioneer announced, opening the bidding. There was silence. “Then $40… still nothing?” The boy lowered his eyes, realizing that his future looked bleak. Slaves who could not find buyers often ended up in the mines or textile mills of the North, where life expectancy rarely exceeded a few years. “$100!” Elizabeth suddenly shouted in a clear voice.
All eyes were on her. The auctioneer blinked in surprise. “Madame Beaumont, did you say $100?” “You heard me right: $100 cash.” The deal was done in minutes. Elizabeth paid, signed the title deeds, and left the market, the boy following her with his head bowed.
Before she could even reach her carriage, the rumor had spread. Why would a sixty-year-old widow buy such a young and useless slave? What did she plan to do with him? In the carriage, Elizabeth noticed the boy sitting opposite her. “What is his name?” “Samuel, ma’am,” she whispered, without looking at him. “Samuel, that is a beautiful name.” “Can you read?” the boy shook his head in horror.
In South Carolina, slaves were forbidden to read. If they were caught reading, it could mean a whipping. “I’ll teach you,” Elizabeth said calmly. Finally, Samuel looked up at her in disbelief. But the old woman’s face remained motionless behind the veil. He didn’t dare ask any questions.
The Beaumont estate was on the outskirts of Charleston, an imposing colonial-style building surrounded by centuries-old oak trees covered in Spanish moss. Elizabeth now lived there alone, except for three elderly servants who had served the family for decades. When they arrived, she led Samuel not to the slave quarters behind the main house, but to a small room on the second floor, next to the library. The boy could not believe his eyes.