November 7th, 1849, Chattam County, Georgia. A woman stands on an auction platform in the center of Savannah’s public market. Her hands bound with rope that has already worn the skin of her wrists roar. She is 22 years old, 5 months pregnant, and she is about to be sold for 19 cents. Not $19. 19 cents—less than the cost of a pound of coffee.
The auctioneer, a man named Cyrus Feldman, holds the deed of sale in his hands, and his voice carries across the crowd with practice deficiency. But something is wrong with this auction, something that makes even the hardened slave traders in the crowd shift uncomfortably, something that will set in motion a chain of events so disturbing that the city of Savannah will spend the next 80 years trying to erase every record of what happened that day.
Tonight we reveal the truth they buried and we will follow this woman’s story to its shocking conclusion. A conclusion that involves murder, betrayal, and an act of resistance so brutal that when it was finally discovered in 1931, the authorities immediately sealed the evidence and forbade anyone from speaking about it publicly. This is the story they never wanted you to hear.
The woman standing on that platform has a name, though it appears in official records only twice, and both times it is spelled differently. In the bill of sale from her previous owner, she is listed as Diner. In the coroner’s report filed 6 years later, she is called Diana. For our purposes, we will call her Dinina because that is the name she used when she finally spoke. When she finally told her story to the one person who listened.
Dinina was born in 1827 on a rice plantation outside Charleston, South Carolina. She never knew her father. Her mother, a woman named Patience, worked in the fields from sunrise until long after dark, her hands permanently stained green from rice stalks, her back bent from years of labor that would eventually kill her when Dinina was just 11 years old.
After patients died, Dinina was sold to a tobacco merchant in Charleston, a man named Elias Cartwright, who needed domestic help for his growing household. Elias was 43 years old, married to a woman named Constance, and father to four children ranging in age from 6 to 15. He was also a deacon at the First Presbyterian Church, a member of the Charleston Chamber of Commerce, and by all public accounts, a respectable businessman who treated his property, human and otherwise, with appropriate Christian values.
That was the public account. The private reality was something else entirely. Dinina worked in the Cartwrite household for 3 years from age 11 to 14. She cleaned, she cooked, she cared for the younger children, she did everything that was demanded of her. And Elias Cartwright watched her. He watched her in that particular way that enslaved women learned to recognize—that predatory attention that signaled danger, that made survival require constant vigilance.
When Dinina turned 14, Elias’s attention became something more than watching. It became action. What happened between them, if we can even use that word “between,” as though there was any equality or choice involved. What happened was rape. Systematic, repeated, sustained over years. Diner had no power to refuse. Enslaved women had no legal right to deny their owners anything. The law did not recognize their bodily autonomy. The law considered them property and property cannot be violated because property has no self to violate.
Constance Cartwright knew. She knew because enslaved women who worked in close quarters could not hide pregnancy. She knew because Dinina’s body changed in ways that made the truth unavoidable. But Constance did not confront her husband. She confronted Dinina. She accused Dina of seduction, of tempting a good Christian man, of deliberately destroying the sanctity of a godly household. The blame in Constance’s worldview lay entirely with the 16-year-old girl who had no power to say no rather than with the 46-year-old man who had absolute power to take whatever he wanted.
In March of 1843, Dinina gave birth to a daughter. The child was noticeably light-skinned, her features clearly indicating mixed parentage. Elias Cartwright refused to acknowledge the child as his. He named her Ruth, had her registered in his property ledger as the offspring of his servant Diner, father unknown, and continued his life exactly as before.
Constance demanded that Diner and the baby be removed from the main house. They were relocated to the servants’ quarters, a cramped structure behind the main residence where six other enslaved people lived in conditions that barely qualified as shelter. Dinina raised Ruth while continuing to work in the Cartrite household. She nursed her daughter at night after 16-hour days of labor. She sang to her in whispers songs her own mother had sung, songs that carried memories of Africa, of freedom, of a world before chains.
And she watched as Ruth grew, as the child’s features became increasingly undeniable evidence of who her father was, as the resemblance to Elias Cartwright became so obvious that neighbors began to whisper, to speculate. To understand what everyone had always known, but politely ignored.
In 1847, when Ruth was 4 years old, Elias Cartrite sold her. He sold her to a slave trader named Marcus Pennington for $400, a standard price for a healthy child of that age. He sold her on a Tuesday morning without warning Diner, without allowing goodbyes, without permitting the mother even a final moment with her daughter.
Dinina was working in the kitchen when she heard Ruth screaming from the front of the house. By the time she ran outside, the child was already gone, loaded into a wagon that was disappearing down the street, her small hands reaching back toward the only home she had ever known. Dinina collapsed in the street. The other enslaved people in the household had to carry her inside.
For 3 days she did not speak, did not eat, barely moved. She had entered a state of grief so profound that it resembled death itself, and perhaps she wished it was, but she did not die. Her body refused her that mercy. Instead, she survived, and survival meant returning to work, meant continuing to serve the man who had raped her, and then sold the child born of that rape—meant functioning in a world designed to destroy her humanity piece by piece.
Two years later, in the summer of 1849, Dinina became pregnant again. The father was Elias Cartrite. There was no question about this, no ambiguity. Constance Cartwright’s fury was immediate and absolute. She could tolerate one incident, one child, one public embarrassment. But a second pregnancy made the situation undeniable, made it impossible to maintain the fiction that Dinina was a seductress and Elias, an innocent victim of temptation.
A second pregnancy revealed the truth that Elias Cartwright was a man who repeatedly raped an enslaved woman he owned, who had been doing so for years, who showed no intention of stopping. Constance gave Elias an ultimatum: “Get rid of her. I will not have that woman in my house bearing your children while I live under the same roof. Sell her, trade her, give her away. I do not care, but she leaves this household within the month, or I will make this situation public in ways that will destroy your reputation permanently.”
Elias understood the threat. His position in Charleston society depended on maintaining respectability. Wealthy men were expected to be discreet about their violations of enslaved women, whispered about perhaps, but never openly acknowledged. A wife publicly accusing her husband of serial rape of his property—that would cross a line that even Charleston’s tolerant attitude towards slavery could not ignore.
So Elias made arrangements. He contacted a business associate in Savannah, a merchant named William Hadley, who owed him money from a failed cotton investment. Elias proposed a transaction. He would forgive Hadley’s debt, approximately $800, in exchange for Hadley purchasing Diner and taking her to Savannah. Far enough from Charleston that she would never return. Far enough that Constance would never have to see her again. Far enough that Elias could pretend she had never existed.
Hadley agreed. The transaction was arranged for early November during Savannah’s regular public auction, where such sales occurred with administrative efficiency. But Elias added one specific condition to the sale, a condition so cruel that it reveals the depth of his vindictiveness. He set Diner’s minimum price at 19 cents.
The amount was deliberate, calculated to humiliate. In 1849, the average price for an enslaved woman of childbearing age ranged from $700 to $900. A pregnant woman carrying a child who would eventually become additional property should have been valued even higher. By setting the price at 19 cents, Elias achieved several goals simultaneously. He demonstrated that Dinina had no value to him whatsoever. He ensured that she would be purchased by someone who recognized she was being offered as damaged goods, someone who would treat her accordingly.
And most importantly, he guaranteed that Dinina would understand exactly how worthless he considered her, how utterly disposable she was in his eyes. William Hadley traveled to Charleston in early November to finalize the arrangement. He met with Elias in the man’s study, reviewed the paperwork, signed the necessary documents. The bill of sale was meticulously prepared, listing Diner’s approximate age, her condition, pregnant, approximately 5 months, and the agreed upon price, 19 cents.
Elias Cartwright signed his name with the same pen he used to sign church documents and business contracts. His signature was neat, legible, totally unremarkable, just another transaction in a life built on transactions. Dinina was informed of the sale the night before she was to leave Charleston.
She was given no choice, no opportunity to gather belongings because she had no belongings, no chance to say goodbye to the people she had lived alongside for years. She was simply property being transferred from one owner to another, and property did not require emotional consideration. The journey from Charleston to Savannah took 2 days by wagon.
Hadley hired a driver, a white man named Silas Burke, who specialized in transporting human cargo. Diner rode in the back of the wagon, her hands bound. A precaution against escape, though where would she run? 5 months pregnant in a region where every white person was empowered to stop and question any black person traveling without papers.
They arrived in Savannah on November 6th. The city was larger than Charleston, busier, filled with the sounds of commerce and construction. The port hummed with activity, ships loading and unloading goods from across the world, cotton and rice and tobacco flowing out, manufactured items and luxury goods flowing in, and human beings, thousands of human beings being bought and sold and traded like livestock.
William Hadley took dinina directly to the auction house, a large wooden structure near the waterfront where sales occurred three times weekly. The auctioneer, Cyrus Feldman, examined Diner with the practiced eye of someone who had evaluated thousands of people for sale. He noted her age, her condition, her general health. Then he saw the bill of sale, saw the minimum price of 19 cents, and his expression changed.
“Something is wrong with this one,” Feldman said to Hadley. “What is it? Disease? Injury? Mental deficiency?”
“Nothing like that,” Hadley replied. “She is healthy, able to work. The child appears viable.”
“Then why 19 cents?”
“The seller wanted her gone quickly. It is a personal matter, family dispute.”
Feldman understood immediately. This woman had done something or had something done to her that made her previous owner want her removed from his household. The low price was a signal, a warning to potential buyers. This property comes with complications.
“You will include that in the auction description,” Feldman said. “I will not misrepresent her condition and risk my reputation.”
Hadley agreed. He did not care how Feldman presented Dinina to the crowd. He simply wanted to complete the transaction, collect his compensation for the debt Elias had forgiven, and move on with his business. The auction was scheduled for the following morning, November 7th, at 10:00 a.m.
Diner spent the night in a holding cell beneath the auction house, a damp stone room where people awaiting sale were kept like animals in pens. She did not sleep. She sat with her back against the cold wall, her hands resting on her stomach, feeling the child move inside her—this child who would be born into slavery, who would never know freedom, who would belong to William Hadley or whoever purchased them at auction, who would live and die as property unless something changed, unless the entire system collapsed.
When morning came, Dinina was brought up from the holding cell and positioned near the auction platform. She could see the crowd gathering, perhaps 60 or 70 people, some serious buyers, plantation owners, and merchants. Others simply spectators who attended auctions as entertainment, who watched human beings sold, and found it no more morally troubling than watching cattle sold at market.
Cyrus Feldman took his position on the platform at exactly 10:00 a.m. The November sun was already warm, and the air smelled of salt water and tobacco smoke. Feldman began with furniture, several chairs, and a dining table from an estate sale. Then livestock, a pair of horses, some chickens, then human beings.
He sold a young man, approximately 20 years old, for $950. He sold an elderly woman, described as an excellent cook, for $300. Then he called for diner. She was brought onto the platform by Silus Burke, who positioned her in the center where everyone could see. Feldman read from the bill of sale in a voice that carried across the crowd.
“Female named diner, approximately 22 years of age, currently with child, estimated five months, experienced in domestic service, able to cook, clean, and perform household tasks. Minimum bid 19 cents.”
The crowd reacted immediately. “19 cents?” someone called out. “What is wrong with her? Is she diseased?”
“I am informed she is healthy,” Feldman replied. “The price reflects a personal matter between the seller and the property, not a deficiency in the property itself.”
That explanation satisfied no one. In the economy of slavery, price indicated quality. A woman offered for 19 cents must be fundamentally defective, diseased, or dangerous, or mentally unsound. No rational buyer would risk investment on someone being sold at such an insultingly low price unless they knew something others did not.
Several men who had been preparing to bid immediately lost interest. They turned away, focused their attention on the next items up for auction, but three men remained interested. The first was William Hadley himself. He had arranged this auction specifically to acquire diner to fulfill his agreement with Elias Cartwright. He stood near the front of the crowd, waiting for the moment to bid.
The second man was someone Hadley had never seen before. A tall, thin figure dressed in traveling clothes, standing near the back, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. The third man was local, a Savannah plantation owner named Thornton Graves. Graves owned a mid-sized cotton plantation about 15 miles outside the city, and he was known among enslaved people as one of the cruelest masters in Chattam County.
Graves had been watching Diner since she appeared on the platform, and something about this situation intrigued him. A healthy pregnant woman being sold for 19 cents. That kind of opportunity did not present itself often. Cyrus Feldman raised his hand to quiet the murmuring crowd.
“19 cents,” he called out. “Do I have a bid of 19 cents for this property?”
William Hadley raised his hand immediately. “19 cents.”
The crowd turned to look at him. Hadley’s willingness to bid gave Dinina a thin veneer of credibility. But before Feldman could acknowledge the bid, another voice cut through the crowd. “25 cents.”
Everyone turned. The speaker was Thornton Graves. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Hadley’s jaw tightened. He had not anticipated competition.
“50 cents,” Hadley countered.
Graves smiled. and it was not a pleasant expression. “$1.”
The crowd was riveted now. Two men bidding against each other for a woman being sold at refuge prices. Hadley hesitated. He had agreed to acquire diner for Elias Cartrite, but he had not agreed to engage in a bidding war. The debt Elias had forgiven was $800. If Hadley had to spend significant money to acquire diner, he would be operating at a loss.
“$2,” Hadley said, his voice tight.
Thornton Graves took a step forward. He was enjoying this. “$5,” Graves called out.
Hadley looked at Cyrus Feldman, then back at Graves. Finally, he shook his head and stepped back. Graves had won.
“$5 once,” Feldman called out. “$5 twice.”
Then the stranger in the back of the crowd spoke. “$10.”
Every head turned. The man had removed his hat now, and his face was visible, weathered, scarred along the left cheek, his eyes the color of winter sky.
“Who are you?” Feldman asked.
“My name is Jacob Marsh. I am new to Savannah. I have business in the city and require domestic help.”
“Do you have $10, Mr. Marsh?”
Jacob Marsh approached the platform. He reached into his coat and withdrew a leather purse. From it he counted out 10 silver dollars, placing them one by one on the podium where Feldman stood. “I do.”
Thornton Graves was staring at Marsh with open hostility now. “$15,” Graves said.
“20,” Marsh replied without hesitation.
“30.”
The crowd was enthralled. The price had escalated from 19 cents to $50 in a matter of minutes. This had become a contest of will, a public demonstration of power.
“$100,” Graves called out. The crowd gasped. Graves was making a statement.
Jacob Marsh met Graves’s stare. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he spoke: “$200.”
The silence that followed was complete. $200 exceeded the rational value of this transaction by any measure. Thornton Graves understood what was happening. This was no longer about money. This was about dominance.
“$300,” Graves said. His voice was hard now, angry.
“350,” Marsh counted.
“400.”
“500.”
The amounts climbed. “600… 700… 800.” When the bidding reached $1,000, William Hadley quietly left the auction house. At $1,200, Thornton Graves stopped bidding, not because he lacked funds, but because he suddenly understood that Jacob Marsh would continue bidding until Graves bankrupted himself.
“$1,200 once,” Feldman called out. “$1,200 twice.” He looked at Thornton Graves, giving the man one final opportunity to bid. Graves shook his head, his face flushed with humiliation and rage. “Sold to Mr. Jacob Marsh for $1,200.”
The crowd erupted in conversation. But Dinina, standing on that platform, her hands still bound, understood something the crowd did not. She understood that she had just been purchased by a man willing to spend a fortune to prevent her from being purchased by someone else. Either Jacob Marsh knew something about her that made her extraordinarily valuable or he knew something about Thornton Graves that made preventing Graves from acquiring her worth any price.
The paperwork was completed within the hour. Jacob Marsh paid the $1,200 in cash. Cyrus Feldman prepared the deed of sale. By law, Diner was now his property. Thornton Graves watched this transaction from across the auction house. When Marsh turned to leave, leading Diner toward the exit, Graves intercepted him.
“Mr. Marsh, a word.”
Jacob Marsh stopped. “Mr. Graves.”
“You have made a poor investment. That woman is not worth half what you paid.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then why did you bid so aggressively?”
“Because I wanted her and I have the means to pay for what I want.”
Graves took a step closer. “You are new to Savannah, so perhaps you do not understand how things work here. Certain people are accustomed to certain courtesies. When I am bidding on property, others generally defer.”
“Is that so?” Marsh said. His tone was mild, but there was something beneath it, something cold. “Then perhaps you should have bid higher.”
The two men stood facing each other and the tension between them was palpable. Finally, Graves stepped back. “Enjoy your purchase, Mr. Marsh. I am sure you will find her everything you hoped for.”
He turned and walked away. Jacob Marsh led Diner out of the auction house and into the street. They reached a wagon parked two blocks away. Marsh helped Dinina climb into the back, his touch impersonal but not cruel. They rode in silence through Savannah’s streets until they were well beyond the city limits.
“My name is Jacob Marsh,” he finally spoke. “You will call me that, or you will call me sir, whichever you prefer. I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to sell you, and I am not going to force myself on you. Do you understand?”
Dina said nothing. She had learned that words meant nothing without actions.
Marsh continued, “I know you do not trust me. I would not trust me either if I were in your position, but I need you to listen carefully because your life and the life of your child depends on what happens over the next few days. Elias Cartrite sent you here to die. Not immediately, but he arranged circumstances to ensure that you would end up with someone who would work you to death or worse. The 19 cent minimum price was designed to attract exactly one type of buyer: men like Thornton Graves.”
Diner’s blood ran cold. “How do you know about Elias?”
“I know a great deal about Elias Cartrite,” Marsh said. “I know he raped you repeatedly. I know he fathered at least one child with you, a daughter named Ruth. I know he sold that child. And I know he sent you here to ensure you would never return.
“Who are you?”
“A friend,” Marsh said. He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Read it.”
Diner unfolded the paper with trembling hands.
“Dinina, if you are reading this, you have been purchased by Jacob Marsh, and that means the first part of our plan succeeded. Jacob works with people who help enslaved people reach freedom. He has been preparing for your arrival in Savannah for 3 months. Trust him. Do what he says. He is risking his life to help you.”
The letter was unsigned, but at the bottom was a small symbol—a bird in flight, wings spread wide. Diner recognized it immediately. It was the mark her mother had taught her.
“Where did you get this?” Dinina whispered.
“From a woman in Charleston named Bethy. She is elderly. Works as a cook in Elias Cartwright’s household. When she learned you were being sent to Savannah, she contacted people she knew, people who operate what we call the Underground Railroad.”
“The Underground Railroad,” Dinina said slowly.
“Stories are true,” Marsh confirmed. “There are people, black and white, who help enslaved people escape to free states, to Canada. You are saying you are going to help me escape. I am saying I am going to try. The most immediate danger is Thornton Graves.”
“What about him?”
“Graves is not just a cruel plantation owner. He is also a slave catcher. He makes additional income hunting fugitives. And I just humiliated him publicly. He will investigation. And if he discovers that I am involved with the Underground Railroad, he will come after both of us.”
“Then we need to leave,” Dinina said.
“We cannot,” Marsh said. “Not yet. Graves will be watching the roads. We go to a place Graves would never think to look, and we wait.”
They traveled deeper into the forest. Finally, they emerged into a clearing where a cabin stood. Before he could knock, the door opened. A woman stood there.
“You got her,” she said.
“I did,” Marsh replied. “Any trouble?”
“More than expected. Thornton Graves was at the auction.”
The woman’s face hardened. “Graves. That man is a demon.”
Inside, Sarah and her daughter Hannah welcomed them. Sarah moved to Diner, took her hands. “What is your name, child?”
“Diner.”
“I am Sarah. This is my daughter Hannah. You are safe here.”
Dinina wanted to believe it. She lay down on the bed, and sleep pulled her under within minutes. When she woke, it was dark. Jacob Marsh was gone.
“Where is he?”
“He left an hour ago,” Sarah said. “He has arrangements to make. In the meantime, you are with us. Eat. You need strength for what is coming.”
“What is coming?”
“The truth,” Hannah said. “The truth about who you are. Why Elias Cartwright really sent you here and why Jacob Marsh spent $1,200 to save you. Because it was not just about saving you, Dinina. It was about stopping something much worse.”
Sarah moved to a wooden chest and withdrew a leather-bound journal. She placed it in front of diner. “This journal belonged to a woman named Abigail. She died 2 years ago. But before she died, she wrote down everything she had witnessed about what happens on Thornton Graves’s plantation.”
Diner looked down at the entries.
“March 1845. Today, I saw them bring in another one. Her name is Rachel. She is pregnant, maybe 6 months. Mr. Graves keeps her separate in the old tobacco barn. At night I can hear her crying. April 1845. Rachel is gone. They say she died in childbirth, but I heard the baby crying two nights ago. And then I heard it stop suddenly.”
Another entry from June 1846:
“There is a new one now. Her name is Margaret. Pregnant, bought cheap, kept separate. Mister Graves visits the barn every night. Margaret screams and no one is allowed to help her. August 1846. Margaret disappeared last week.”
Dinina looked up at Sarah. “What is this?”
“Over the past 10 years, Graves has purchased at least seven pregnant women at auction, always for suspiciously low prices. He takes them to his plantation, keeps them isolated, and within months they disappear. Some are reported as dying in childbirth. Others are claimed to have run away, but none of them are ever seen again.”
“And the babies,” Dinina whispered. “What happens to the babies?”
“That is the question we cannot answer,” Hannah said. “It is as though the babies vanish as completely as their mothers.”
“But Jacob stopped him,” Dinina said.
“Yes, and in doing so, he marked both of you as targets. If Graves starts asking questions, eventually someone will talk.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait for Jacob to return. He is arranging for you to meet a conductor named Thomas Garrett. He operates out of Wilmington, Delaware. But Wilmington is hundreds of miles from here. You will reach him by water. There is a ship leaving Savannah’s port in 5 days. A merchant vessel traveling to Philadelphia. The captain has agreed to hide you in the cargo hold.”
“And Jacob?”
“I disappear,” Brennan (Marsh) said, having returned. “My real name is Jacob Brennan. I am originally from Pennsylvania. I came to Savannah specifically because we received information about you from Bethy.”
The next evening, Jacob Brennan prepared the wagon. They reached the waterfront just before midnight. A man appeared from the shadows—Captain Samuel Porter. He guided them below deck into the cargo hold.
“This is where you will stay,” Porter said, pointing to a space behind some crates. “You cannot leave this space. Cannot make noise. The voyage will take approximately 7 days. Can you endure that?”
Dinina nodded. “I can endure it.”
Brennan pressed a cloth bundle into her hands. “This is for you—money for when you reach Canada. You are going to survive this, Diner. Take your freedom and live.”
The ship departed at dawn. For the first two days, the voyage was uneventful. On the third day, a massive storm hit. The cargo hold became chaos. Dinina pressed herself into the corner, praying she would not be crushed.
When the storm broke, Porter did not come with food. A second day passed. Then a third. On the third day, the crates moved. A younger sailor named Michael appeared.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. “There is actually someone here.”
“Where is Porter?”
“Dead,” Michael said. “He fell during the storm. Before he died, he told me about you. I am going to help you.”
The ship reached Wilmington. Michael and an older man with kind eyes—Thomas Garrett—carried Dinina off the ship.
“You made it,” Garrett said. “My wagon is waiting. We travel tonight.”
Diner’s journey to the Canadian border took seven weeks. She stayed with a Quaker family, then with Frederick Douglas in Rochester.
“Your survival is an act of resistance,” Douglas told her. “Every day you live free is a defeat for Elias Cartwright and Thornton Graves.”
By late January 1850, Dinina reached the Canadian border. She fell to her knees on Canadian soil. “I am free,” she wept.
3 weeks later, on February 19th, 1850, Dina gave birth to a son.
“What will you name him?” the midwife asked.
“His name is Jacob,” she said. “After Jacob Brennan, the man who saved my life.”
Dinina lived in Dawn, Ontario for three years. In 1853, she married Samuel Richards. But she never forgot about Ruth. In 1856, she received word that Ruth was alive on a farm in South Carolina. Dinina went back. On a moonless night, she found Ruth’s cabin.
“I am your mother,” Dina whispered. “I came back for you.”
They made it back to Canada. Dinina lived until 1891. In her final years, she wrote:
“I was sold for 19 cents because the man who owned me wanted me to understand that I was worthless. But I was never worthless. I survived because people were willing to risk everything to help me. Remember us. Never allow anyone to tell you that slavery was anything other than what it was: the greatest crime this nation ever committed.”
As for Thornton Graves, his crimes were finally unearthed in 1863 when Union soldiers occupied his plantation. Sergeant Isaiah Freeman discovered the concealed cellar beneath the tobacco barn. Inside were the remains of eight women and their infants.
Though Graves escaped justice and died in 1867, the discovery of those bones serves as a permanent testimony to his evil. In 1968, more remains were found. They were reburied in a Savannah cemetery with a marker that simply reads: “Victims of slavery. May they rest in peace.”
