Eze!”
Then he retched.
We saw less of him: three days, five, ten …
Surgeons on other slavers were paid Head Monev-pro rata pay for per capita delivery. A cash incentive to keep the cargo alive. But I don’t think performance-related pay was part of the deal with our drunken old ex-witch doctor.
IT WAS NEVER SILENT belowdecks. A cacophony of moans and groans, day and night, punctured by screams, which were contagious. If a screamer didn’t shut up, they were whipped until they did.
And if a passenger went insane, there really was only one solution-and it was final.
Bodies were tossed overboard and became dinner for the sharks.
They say the seabed of the Atlantic is paved with the skeletons of those who didn’t make it.
If they all got up and swam ashore, they could form their own country.
“Get them above hatches!” was always music to my ears. The fresh air made me so heady I’d almost faint. Some did. The ocean view was … dramatic and panoramic.
Buckets of salt water were thrown over us-a few moments of bliss.
We were forced to sing and dance in a circle, waving our arms vigorously, a cat-o’-nine-tails lashing at any feet that stopped.
The males of my species remained handcuffed and linked by a chain that was in turn bolted to the deck. Given the restrictions , their choreography was by necessity a flat-footed stomp. The deck shook.
It was almost as if they were angry.
UP THERE IN CLEAR, clean, sunny daylight the sailors could see what was to their fancy.
It was expected.
A perk of the trade.
Were not their women in some distant land?
Was life not tough for them at sea too?
Were not the female captives compliant?
Easy, so to speak.
MOST NIGHTS THE WOODEN HATCH creaked open. Women were eased off shelves. At first a scuffle might ensue, but as the journey progressed few had the strength to resist. When the hatch closed, I’d hear the rumblings of men helpless to protect their own. Most women returned after a few hours, or a few days: crying, bleeding, furious, mute. Some were never seen again.
Hildegaard twitched like mad whenever the hatch opened at night.
Still comely, she’d soon be cherry-picked. We all knew that.
Then one night they came for her.
I watched as they tried to remove her from the shelf while she turned herself into a dead weight, forcing them to yank her off it.
The bones of Samantha’s skeletal arms tightened around me as we watched.
As they led her away, Hildegaard rolled her hands into fists and jerked them about. She twisted her naked body, kicked out, spat, tried to bite them.
She was formidable, but I was so scared for her.
I wanted to say good-bye but when I opened my mouth, only a croak came out.
IF I CLOSE MY EYES, I can still feel Hildegaard’s warm, maternal body; how when she smothered me in her arms, I slept as if I was free.
THE PERSON ALLOCATED HER SPACE had been sitting for weeks in a passageway so crowded she couldn’t even lie down. Surplus slaves were stored there, or in the nose of the ship or where there was space toward the rudder.
Let’s call it steerage class.
Jane was thirteen. She wept with relief the first time she got to lie down on the shelf and stretch her whole body out. (Little did she know.) A prisoner of war, she had been incarcerated in a fort on the coast for months before being shipped out. Hundreds of slaves had been stuffed into an airless, windowless dungeon. She said she expected special treatment on account of her condition-pregnancy. How she prattled on for hours. Maybe her own cabin? A bed? Dress? Basin? Soap? Washrag? Comb? Blanket? Chamber pot? Plate?
Yes, any day now.
Jane had traveled so deep into fantasy she had lost her way back.
GARANWYN LAY ON A SHELF opposite mine. We found each other’s voices only if we shouted above the discordant choir belowdecks.
When his voice started to break, he told me he was becoming a man.
We discussed our destination, but no
Then he retched.
We saw less of him: three days, five, ten …
Surgeons on other slavers were paid Head Monev-pro rata pay for per capita delivery. A cash incentive to keep the cargo alive. But I don’t think performance-related pay was part of the deal with our drunken old ex-witch doctor.
IT WAS NEVER SILENT belowdecks. A cacophony of moans and groans, day and night, punctured by screams, which were contagious. If a screamer didn’t shut up, they were whipped until they did.
And if a passenger went insane, there really was only one solution-and it was final.
Bodies were tossed overboard and became dinner for the sharks.
They say the seabed of the Atlantic is paved with the skeletons of those who didn’t make it.
If they all got up and swam ashore, they could form their own country.
“Get them above hatches!” was always music to my ears. The fresh air made me so heady I’d almost faint. Some did. The ocean view was … dramatic and panoramic.
Buckets of salt water were thrown over us-a few moments of bliss.
We were forced to sing and dance in a circle, waving our arms vigorously, a cat-o’-nine-tails lashing at any feet that stopped.
The males of my species remained handcuffed and linked by a chain that was in turn bolted to the deck. Given the restrictions , their choreography was by necessity a flat-footed stomp. The deck shook.
It was almost as if they were angry.
UP THERE IN CLEAR, clean, sunny daylight the sailors could see what was to their fancy.
It was expected.
A perk of the trade.
Were not their women in some distant land?
Was life not tough for them at sea too?
Were not the female captives compliant?
Easy, so to speak.
MOST NIGHTS THE WOODEN HATCH creaked open. Women were eased off shelves. At first a scuffle might ensue, but as the journey progressed few had the strength to resist. When the hatch closed, I’d hear the rumblings of men helpless to protect their own. Most women returned after a few hours, or a few days: crying, bleeding, furious, mute. Some were never seen again.
Hildegaard twitched like mad whenever the hatch opened at night.
Still comely, she’d soon be cherry-picked. We all knew that.
Then one night they came for her.
I watched as they tried to remove her from the shelf while she turned herself into a dead weight, forcing them to yank her off it.
The bones of Samantha’s skeletal arms tightened around me as we watched.
As they led her away, Hildegaard rolled her hands into fists and jerked them about. She twisted her naked body, kicked out, spat, tried to bite them.
She was formidable, but I was so scared for her.
I wanted to say good-bye but when I opened my mouth, only a croak came out.
IF I CLOSE MY EYES, I can still feel Hildegaard’s warm, maternal body; how when she smothered me in her arms, I slept as if I was free.
THE PERSON ALLOCATED HER SPACE had been sitting for weeks in a passageway so crowded she couldn’t even lie down. Surplus slaves were stored there, or in the nose of the ship or where there was space toward the rudder.
Let’s call it steerage class.
Jane was thirteen. She wept with relief the first time she got to lie down on the shelf and stretch her whole body out. (Little did she know.) A prisoner of war, she had been incarcerated in a fort on the coast for months before being shipped out. Hundreds of slaves had been stuffed into an airless, windowless dungeon. She said she expected special treatment on account of her condition-pregnancy. How she prattled on for hours. Maybe her own cabin? A bed? Dress? Basin? Soap? Washrag? Comb? Blanket? Chamber pot? Plate?
Yes, any day now.
Jane had traveled so deep into fantasy she had lost her way back.
GARANWYN LAY ON A SHELF opposite mine. We found each other’s voices only if we shouted above the discordant choir belowdecks.
When his voice started to break, he told me he was becoming a man.
We discussed our destination, but no
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