Daniel Page 12

  It can only have been destined, I thought, as we left Bristol and took the Bath road. Some guiding power intended me to meet Hawkshot in that tavern this evening. It was meant, it was meant to be.

  * * *

  I need not say much about my parting from Lady Penelope and her household. Before I left, she spoke to me kindly, thanking me for my help and hard work. When she asked about my plans, I simply told her that I was sailing abroad. As we parted, she gave me two guineas.

  Hodges asked me whether Captain Hawkshot had spoken to me. I told him he had, and that I was considering what he had offered me. Hodges replied, “Well, if yer find yer don’t care for it, I dare say ’er ladyship would, employ you back ‘ere.” I thanked him for the good opinion of me that he had given to Captain Hawkshot, to which he replied, “Well ,s’pose y’aven’t bin so bad, for a darkie.”

  Fahdah and her brothers were waiting for me in the stable-yard. The dear girl had composed and memorised a little speech of farewell. “Dear Daniel, I want you have very good luck. I always remembering you. I hope one day you come back see us again.”

  I would have liked to take her in my arms, but remembered just in time that she didn’t really care for embraces, with good reason. She didn’t like anything pressing on her back. So I kissed her palm-pink hands and pressed them against my cheeks for a moment.

  The only other servants to say more than goodbye to me were Mrs. Beddoes and Paul Chester. Paul was the only person I had told about what I was going to do. “Be careful, Daniel,” he said. “I’m afraid it may be dangerous.”

  I told Paul how sorry I was to part from him, but that when I returned, I would come back to Clepton before going anywhere else. He wished me luck.

  And so we parted and Boynton drove me back to Bristol.

  * * *

  After a two-way stroll down the harbour-side, I found Captain Hawshot’s ship moored exactly where he had told me it would be. I had failed to notice it and walked past, for it did not in the least resemble the mental picture that I had formed. It looked as though it had had a hard life. From stem to stern it was battered and badly needed repainting. Although it was seaworthy and plainly capable of withstanding rough conditions, a smart appearance was clearly not something upon which the Captain cared to spend money. The only bit of new paintwork was the name, Frisky Shark, conspicuous on the bow.

  I had spent a minute or two in looking it over, when a voice called, “’Ere, Blackie, you comin’ aboard?” Looking up, I saw a bald-headed man staring down at me from the deck. He looked to be in late middle age and the lips of his brown, weather-beaten face were sucked inwards, presumably over toothless gums.

  The gangplank was down and I was close to it, so without replying I went aboard. He met me on the deck: he was taller than myself, and spoke with an air of authority.

  “You Daniel or Wilkins?”

  “Daniel.”

  He took out a list and ticked it.

  “My name’s Jarvis: I’m the mate.”

  “Captain Hawkshot himself’s in command, then, I take it?”

  “Well, ’course he is. Don’t be muckin’ stupid.”

  “He didn’t tell me when he took me on.”

  Without answering, Jarvis called to a man sitting near the wheel, smoking a pipe.

  “’Ere, Jenkins, show this nigger where to stow ‘is kit.”

  We were standing in the waist, and I waited while Jenkins — a hefty, muscular youth — came up to me. He gave me a nod but said nothing. I went forward with him and followed him down an open hatch that led directly into the mess-room. Here, with a bottle of whisky on the table, four more of the crew were playing cards.

  “Another muckin’ nigger, eh?” said one. “What’s yer name?”

  “My name’s Daniel,” I replied, “and it isn’t ‘nigger’.”

  The man stood up. He looked about forty, had a long scar down one side of his face and only one eye.

  “You lookin’ fer trouble?”

  I leaned across the table, gripped his right hand in my own and shook it.

  “Not in the least,” I said. “All I mean is that I don’t care to be called a nigger.”

  “Why not? Aren’t you one?”

  I made no answer, but remained facing him across the table. The other three men had not moved.

  “Oh, chuck it, Tom,” said one of them. “If Jarvis catches yer fightin’, Hawkshot’ll ’ave yer put ashore.” He looked up at me. “On board ’ere, yer’ve got to bunk down where yer can. Drop yer kit in the corner there. No one’ll pinch it. Yer can sleep on the floor.” And with this he turned back to the game.

  During that evening I gradually learned how squalid conditions were on board the Frisky Shark. Everything was shabby; everything you touched made your hands dirty. And the conditions were in keeping with the crew. There was hardly one who would have seemed out of place among the convicts that Lady Penelope used to visit. It was plain to see what Captain Hawkshot looked for. All were big and strong, but besides this, they gave the impression of being rough, unscrupulous men, if not brutal yet certainly callous; strangers to probity and having little regard for it.

  I went back on deck and returned to the waist. Four more men had come aboard and were being ticked off his list by Jarvis. Among these was Wilkins, the only other black member of the crew. Although I didn’t altogether like the look of him, we shook hands and exchanged our names.

  “Your first time on this trip?” he asked.

  “Yes. Yours too?”

  He nodded. “You English?”

  “Well, born in America. But I count myself as English. I certainly don’t mean to go back to America.”

  “’Think we’re going to enjoy this trip?”

  “I’ve no idea. But it’s good pay, isn’t it?”

  “From what I’ve heard it’ll need to be. What d’you make of that lot behind you?”

  Turning round, I saw what I hadn’t noticed before. Fastened against the wooden partition was a kind of hall-stand, with a double row of pegs, one below another. Across each of these lay a leather whip about three feet long from the leather-bound handgrip to the tapered, waxed tip. With each lay a pair of handcuffs.

  “Ready for use when required,” said Wilkins.

  Walking forward, we stopped beside a large pair of hatch doors. They were mounted on a wooden base, sloped somewhat upwards towards the port side and were closed together with a padlock and chain through their centre handholds.

  “Hatch to the hold,” said Jarvis, from behind us. “Tomorrow you’ll be going below to have a look at it.”

  Later, while we were eating, Captain Hawkshot came down the hatchway into the mess-room. Most of the crew did not trouble themselves to turn their heads. I was, naturally, expecting him to come out with some sort of general greeting, such as “Hallo, there!” or “Glad to see you all.” However, I was mistaken.

  “Where’s Jarvis?” he asked.

  Jarvis appeared from the galley, where he had presumably been eating by himself with the cook.

  “Here, Captain.”

  “Are all the crew aboard?”

  “All but two, sir. Hulbert and Foster.”

  “As soon as they come, tell them to report to me.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. What time are we sailing?”

  “Six o’clock, with the tide. See all the crew are on deck.”

  And so saying, Hawkshot went back up the hatchway.

  As soon as I had finished eating, I went on deck and found him in the waist, apparently about to go ashore.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” I said. “Can I –?”

  “What do you want? Be quick.”

  “I’ve been told to sleep on the floor in the mess-room. Can I ask whether —”

  “They’ve been making a fool of you, then. You should have realised that. Keep your wits about you. There are plenty of hammocks. See Jarvis.”

  There was nothing for it but to go back to Jarvis. Two or three of the crew, who had overhe
ard me, didn’t conceal their amusement; neither did Jarvis. However, he gave me a hammock and showed me where I could sling it.

  As soon as four or five of the crew had turned in for the night, I followed their example. I felt only too glad to be bringing the day to an end.

  I had never slept in a hammock before and found myself unable to settle comfortably. The man nearest to me was not only soon asleep but snoring loudly and steadily. Lying awake, I couldn’t help thinking that I hadn’t started off on the right foot and feeling apprehensive about the voyage ahead.

  In a while I did doze off after a fashion. I was awoken by the clatter and commotion of men near me swearing, getting to their feet and putting on the clothes they had taken off for the night. Not wanting to find myself in trouble for lagging behind, I was following suit when my neighbour, the snorer, turned over in his hammock and said, “’Ere, darkie, you ain’t crew, are yer?”

  “We’re all crew, aren’t we?”

  “Naow. Don’t be so muckin’ daft. Yer was took on as a slave-basher, weren’t yer?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Oh, for muck’s sake. Crew are seamen, lad, taken on to sail the muckin’ ship. But there’s ten or twelve, including you and me, as are taken on to get the slaves aboard and see to ’em on the way across. I know you’re a slave-basher ,cos Hawkshot told me. I’ve done this trip three or four times before, and I’m senior slave-basher. You ain’t never done it, ’ave yer?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye on yer. My name’s Wain – Jack Wain. And to start with, yer don’t ‘ave to work with the crew. Yer’ll ’ave plenty of work to do later, no muckin’ danger. But for now, yer can go back to kip.”

  There was no returning to sleep, but I lay in my hammock for the next hour or so, until I saw Wain turning out, whereupon I did the same. Two or three of the slave-bashers were already at breakfast in the mess-room and another four or five came in as we were starting on our meal. The ship was rolling — not heavily — but enough to trouble the stomach of a greenhorn like me. However, I managed to eat what I was given and kept it down.

  The meal finished, Wain knocked on the table for silence. “Right, now; all the lot of yer. We’re goin’ down to ’ave a look at the hold. All right, Rawlings, Simpson, I know yer’ve done it before, but yer’ll come with the rest, see?”

  We went on deck and gathered in front of the big hatch doors. Wain took a key from his belt and fitted it to the padlock. Having drawn out the chain, he told four of us to open the doors. Even with two men to each side, they were almost too heavy to pull up and rotate back and down on their hinges. Peering in, we saw a steep flight of steps leading down into darkness.

  “Right,” said Wain. “Where are the old hands? Hickman, Shergold, follow me down.”

  Holding the rails on each side, he went backwards down the steps. The two men followed. We heard him call out, “Get the muckin’ portholes open. You know where they are.”

  We heard Hickman and Shergold stumbling and cursing and then, with a metallic rasping and sounds of heavy slamming, the gloom below was dispersed — though not much — by daylight from four portholes. I was surprised to see how far apart they were.

  “Bloody hell!” said Wilkins, craning his neck beside me. “It goes across the whole damned ship!”

  “Right!” called Wain, now visible below. “Come down one at a time. Keep holding the rails. Anyone falls it’ll be their lot.”

  No one was in a hurry to be first. Wain had to call “Right, Cooper, Limbrick, get on with it!” before anyone moved. I myself, going last, was scared to find the steps even narrower and further apart than I was expecting. Once I stopped, trembling, while

  Wain swore at me from below. As soon as I was down, I became aware of a nauseating, mephitic stench that seemed to form part of the air I breathed. I choked on it.

  Wain addressed the group. “Now, understand this, all of yer. This is the hold where the slaves are goin’ and it’ll be your job — your job and no one else’s – to see they get here undamaged and in good condition. All right?”

  “But where do we put them, Jack?” asked the gigantic youth standing at my elbow.

  “Why, on the muckin’ floor, of course!” replied Wain. ‘Ter can’t ’ang ’em from the muckin’ ceilin’, can yer?”

  The youth frowned in perplexity, but said no more.

  “When yer done lookin’, I’ll tell yer ,bout ‘ow yer goin’ to do the job. And keep yer bloody wits together, cos it’s important.”

  I took a look round. The first thing to strike me was that the place was not lofty, as it had seemed when we were peering into it from the deck. The misapprehension must have been due to the obscurity and gloom. In fact the planking of the ceiling was barely five feet above the floor, so that it was not possible to stand upright except in the space immediately below the hatchway where we were gathered.

  What I next saw with surprise was the size of the place. Apparently Wilkins had been right: it seemed to comprise the entire space of the ship’s lowest level. Around the whole interior, about two feet above the floor, was a stout shelf some six feet wide. Two wooden partitions ran across the deck, supported by fitting into slots on each side. They were thin and light – almost flimsy – and plainly easy to move from one pair of slots to another.

  “Right,” said Wain, having satisfied himself that we had all got the measure of the place, “Now listen to me carefully, even them as ‘ave ‘eard it before. This is where the slaves are kept during the crossing to Jamaica. It holds four hundred, although we’ll be lucky to get that many. The first lot lie all round the bottom; that’s to say, on the floor. Feet to point to the centre. It’ll be your job to make sure they’re stowed tight together. They ‘ave to lie on their sides and not on their backs or their bellies. ’Ave yer all got that? On their sides, and as close together as possible. It’s you that’ll be seeing to this, not me, and it’s important. And you’ll manacle them together in pairs, left leg of one to right leg of t’other. ‘Ave yer got that? It will now be demonstrated. You, Hopkins, and you, Matthews, lie down close together on yer sides, under the shelf and heads right up against the wall. Come on, look sharp!

  “Right. Now I’m goin’ to put on the manacles. No, don’t move! And there’ll be two hundred of ’em, all the way round. Got it?”

  “What about food and drink, Jack?” I asked.

  “They gets a meal and water twice a day, and it’ll be your job to see to that, too.”

  “What about shitting and pissing, Jack?” asked someone.

  “That’s their business.”

  “What, on the floor?”

  “You ’ave to scoop it up, put it in buckets and wash the floor down with vinegar in water. What’s the matter with you, Townley? Turned your stomach? You took the muckin’ job on, didn’t yer? If yer don’t do it properly, y’know, I can report yer. ’Ope I don’t ’ave to.”

  There was a pause. Wain unfastened the manacles and the two men stood up.

  “I suppose some of ’em die, don’t they?” asked Wilkins.

  “’Course they do. Scores of ’em. You unfasten the body, pull it up on deck and pitch it over the side.

  “Now I ain’t done yet. You see that shelf as runs all round; there’s another two ‘undred goes on that, above them what’s on the floor.”

  We stared at one another, but no one said a word.

  “And what about those partitions across, Jack?” asked Hopkins.

  “They’re shifted as required, to divide the slaves up. Men forward, boys midships, women and girls aft.

  “Any more questions? No? All right, up yer go. Yer free to do as yer please until we reach the coast. Once we’ve got the niggers ready to be taken aboard, yer’ll all ’ave plenty to do, as you’ll now be aware. Now, one last thing. If anyone’s thinking of tryin’ to get out of it, yer can just ferget it, ‘cos the only way out is over the side. Or you can be stripped and tied up for a taste of Lady Lash. The way tha
t’s done —“

  At this moment there was a clatter from the top of the hatchway and Captain Hawkshot came down as easily as a nuthatch on a tree-trunk.

  “Everyone here, Wain?” he asked.

  “Yessir”

  “All learned what they’ve got to do?”

  “Yessir”

  “Now listen, all of you. Anyone who wants to can back out now, or later. Any man who does will be put ashore on the African coast without food or pay.”

  Hawkshot broke off. As though preoccupied, he took a short, pointed stick out of his pocket and began cleaning under his nails. No one spoke. When he had finished, he looked up. “Good. Then I’m relying on all of you to do honest work for honest pay.”

  He climbed back on deck and we followed him one by one. I went aft and leant over the rail, gazing down into the wake. With half a mind to jump overboard, I knew well enough that I wasn’t going to. I closed my eyes and tried to pray. But pray for what? God wouldn’t stop what was going to happen; I was sure enough of that. If You exist, I thought, how can You let this happen? And if I did jump overboard, it would go on happening just the same, wouldn’t it? There’s nothing I can ask You for. Nothing.

  I felt a touch on my shoulder and turned to see Townley. I had not particularly noticed him until Wain had spoken to him a few minutes before. He looked about twenty or twenty-one, big-built, and taller than myself. His expression, however, probably resembled my own, I thought, in being tense and apprehensive. He spoke first. “Were you praying?”

  “If I was, what about it? What made you think so?”

  “Your lips were moving. Do you reckon we’ve got something to pray for?”

  “Since you ask, yes, I do.”

  “When Hawkshot took you on, did he give you any idea of what we were going to have to do?”

  “He said he wanted me to come on a voyage to West Africa for slaves, that it was perfectly legal and he’d pay me a large sum.”

  “It was the pay that decided you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was what decided me, too. I wanted – well, I still want – to support my widowed mother.”

  “Then you had a better reason than I had. When you came up just now, I was realising that I’m too cowardly to kill myself.”