was unlocked, followed by its clanking progress as it was pulled through the leg-irons of the men. Sometimes the chain caught and would not pass throu^ and then one of the sailors would have to free it, with a hberal amount of cursing and a few well-directed kicks at the slave involved to make him straighten out his legs. The collars were also removed, and this took even longer. But the men were deft in their work through long experience, and before many minutes had passed, Tamboura and his companions heard the Hausa words 'get up.' They tried to stand, clutching at each other to keep from falling with the roll of the ship, even more nauseated now that they were standing than they had been lying down. But it was a relief to change their positions, and when they heard the thimiping of a drum they fell into step as they had on the long trek before they reached the canoes. The chained wretches on the other side bemoaned the fact that their turn had not arrived to be freed, while the long line which included Tamboura slowly snaked along the deck. He had to duck his head to avoid hitting it against the crossbeams, for the space between decks was only a finger's breadth more than his height. His footsteps, paced by the drum, shuffled along in the dim light of the 'tween-decks, then up the steep stairs and out onto the main deck where the bright sun, shining on the white deck, dazzled him and caused him to put a shielding hand to his forehead.
Tamboura's control of his stomach was more difficult now and the vomit surged up in his throat, making it almost impossible to restrain it. His eyes sought the consolation of something steady and immovable but he saw only the prow of the ship, rising and falling, and beyond that nothing but water, white-flecked and bright blue, shimmering under the incandescent sky and the blaze of sim. He brought his eyes back to the sloping deck. A huge cauldron, with the embers of a dying fire in the pit beneath it, sent up clouds of steam. Standing beside it were two other sailors, one with a long wooden ladle and the other with a supply of wooden bowls. As the line shuffled past, each slave was handed a wooden bowl which he presented to the sailor with the ladle, who
filled it with a steamy mixture of boiled yams, thickened with manioc. The sight of the food was too much for Tamboura. With the wooden bowl in his hand, he reached out to have it filled but when the food was slopped into it, he could restrain himself no longer. The vomit that was in his throat gushed out, spattering the white trousers of the sailor and making a puddle of sour slime on the white deck.
"You goddam nigger bastard!" The sailor's face was purple with rage. "Puke on me, would ye, ye savage son of a bitch." The wooden ladle crashed against the side of Tamboura's head stunning him so that he fell to the deck. Omo, who had already filled his bowl and started away, turned quickly, slipped in Tamboura's vomit and lost his balance, the bowl spilling its contents to mix with Tamboura's defilement of the white deck. M'dong, his own bowl upraised, stood still, not daring to move.
The sailor, now incoherent from cursing at Tamboura, kicked at the recumbent form beneath him, and with each kick Tamboura yelped like a tortured dog. The confusion brought the blue-trousered man running.
"What's happened here, Belknap?"
"That goddam nigger puked all over me and I let 'im 'ave it across 'is bloody 'ead. Cain't let them get away with nothin' like that, Mister Moore. If they sees that one pukes on me, the whole fuggin' line will puke on me when they pass— jest fur spite."
"All right, Belknap." Moore, the second mate, reached in his red sash and drew out a silver boatswain's whistle, whose succession of shrill notes brought several sailors running.
They were a brutal-looking lot, recruited from the docks and shanghaied from the alehouses of Liverpool. Their quick response to the boatswain's whistle was prompted by their sadistic hope of
Tamboura's control of his stomach was more difficult now and the vomit surged up in his throat, making it almost impossible to restrain it. His eyes sought the consolation of something steady and immovable but he saw only the prow of the ship, rising and falling, and beyond that nothing but water, white-flecked and bright blue, shimmering under the incandescent sky and the blaze of sim. He brought his eyes back to the sloping deck. A huge cauldron, with the embers of a dying fire in the pit beneath it, sent up clouds of steam. Standing beside it were two other sailors, one with a long wooden ladle and the other with a supply of wooden bowls. As the line shuffled past, each slave was handed a wooden bowl which he presented to the sailor with the ladle, who
filled it with a steamy mixture of boiled yams, thickened with manioc. The sight of the food was too much for Tamboura. With the wooden bowl in his hand, he reached out to have it filled but when the food was slopped into it, he could restrain himself no longer. The vomit that was in his throat gushed out, spattering the white trousers of the sailor and making a puddle of sour slime on the white deck.
"You goddam nigger bastard!" The sailor's face was purple with rage. "Puke on me, would ye, ye savage son of a bitch." The wooden ladle crashed against the side of Tamboura's head stunning him so that he fell to the deck. Omo, who had already filled his bowl and started away, turned quickly, slipped in Tamboura's vomit and lost his balance, the bowl spilling its contents to mix with Tamboura's defilement of the white deck. M'dong, his own bowl upraised, stood still, not daring to move.
The sailor, now incoherent from cursing at Tamboura, kicked at the recumbent form beneath him, and with each kick Tamboura yelped like a tortured dog. The confusion brought the blue-trousered man running.
"What's happened here, Belknap?"
"That goddam nigger puked all over me and I let 'im 'ave it across 'is bloody 'ead. Cain't let them get away with nothin' like that, Mister Moore. If they sees that one pukes on me, the whole fuggin' line will puke on me when they pass— jest fur spite."
"All right, Belknap." Moore, the second mate, reached in his red sash and drew out a silver boatswain's whistle, whose succession of shrill notes brought several sailors running.
They were a brutal-looking lot, recruited from the docks and shanghaied from the alehouses of Liverpool. Their quick response to the boatswain's whistle was prompted by their sadistic hope of
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