There were several regularly fought battles during the first day of the
sale.

One Thomas Ford, a large, muscular, ferocious-looking fellow, a good
specimen of a southern bully and woman-whipper, had been victorious
through the day in numerous fights and brawls; but he had to pay dear for
it when night came. Some one or more of the vanquished party, took
advantage of the dark night to stab him in both sides. The knife of the
assassin had been thrust into his thigh, tearing the flesh upward, leaving
a frightful and dangerous wound; but what is most singular, both sides
were wounded in nearly the same manner, and at the same time, for so
quickly was the deed committed that the offenders made their escape,
before an alarm could be raised for their detection; nor have I ever heard
of any one being arrested for the crime.

Ford's groans and cries were painful to hear, but his brother acted like a
madman; rushing hither and thither, with a heavy bludgeon in his hand,
with which he indiscriminately beat the fences and whatever came in his
way, crying "Oh my brother, my poor brother! Who has murdered my poor
brother?"

Physicians came to the aid of the wounded man who at first thought he
might recover, but in a climate like that of Virginia it was impossible.
His friends did all they could to save him, but the poor wretch lingered
a few days and died. Thus ended the life of a bad man and a hard master.

And who will wonder, if his slaves rejoiced to hear of his death? If they
must be sold to pay his debts, they could not fall into the hands of a
more heartless tyrant. Who then can blame those feeble women and helpless
children, long held as chattels in his iron grasp, if they are grateful