Daniel Page 13

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “That’s against the rules for Christians.”

  “And so, presumably, would be killing Hawkshot. So what can we do?”

  “We can’t do anything, except to pray and try to trust in God. I admit that in our position that’s virtually impossible, but I suppose other Christians must have found themselves in equally bad situations before now.”

  At this moment Wain, accompanied by two members of our group, strolled aft to the stern rail, leant his back and elbows against it and continued with what he had been saying.

  “A long way west, yer think, do yer?”

  “Yes, I do,” replied one of them, a man named Helm. “Only, I ain’t one of the bloody landlubbers what you’ve took on fer this trip. I’ve been nine or ten years at sea, and if we’re s’posed to be makin’ fer West Africa, we’re ‘alf way across to Venezuela by my reckonin’.”

  “Ah,” said Wain, “but then yer’ve never sailed with Captain Hawkshot, ’ave yer?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Captain Hawkshot’s a deal too canny to sail along the coast of Spain and the Portuguese African seaboard. We’re not carrying guns, but there’s plenty do – the French and the Danes and some of the Dutch as well. Captain Hawkshot has enemies, as you can guess. What we do as a rule is to sail west, then south and east and then head north for Lagos. That’s where we buy our slaves, at Lekki, east of the Gold Coast.”

  “Takes a lot of time, that detour, doesn’t it?”

  “What if it does? There’s always plenty of slaves: that’s an inexhaustible market, my lad. Besides, Captain Hawkshot pays well for ’is slaves — textiles, cowrie shells, rum, knives, and all such things as that. Most probably ’is usual agent for the tribal kings inland is waiting for us now. They don’t sell to anyone else, as far as we know.”

  “Are they hard bargainers?”

  “Get harder year by year. And you talk about wasting time, Helm. Those nigger dealers act as though they had all the time in the world. We make our offer and whatever it is they say it’s not enough and at that rate they’ll go elsewhere, find another white man, another buyer. And sometimes they really do go. Then come back four or five days later, see whether the white man’s changed ’is mind. Well, yer see, it’s a desperate place for illness, fever an’ ague and all that. Anyone can die there easy. We don’t want to ’ang around any longer than what we can ‘elp. Sometimes we ’ave to give in, say all right we’ll pay their price. But the boot’s not always on the one leg. All the time there’s no bargain struck, they’re stuck with their slaves, see; got to go on feedin’ ’em, keepin’ ’em alive. An’ of course the slaves, they die like flies, only they got nothing to live for, see? I remember one trip we lost eight men — white men — and it come to a case of payin’ what they was askin’ or goin’ away empty-’anded. That sort of bargaining’s an art in itself. You ‘ave to ‘ave a gift for it; and that’s what Captain Hawkshot’s got. He’s been at it longer than some of the black dealers an’ all. They mostly knows ’im by now, and knows better than try to cheat ’im.”

  That afternoon, Townley and I fell into talk with one of the crew, a Hampshire man named Thorn.

  “How far is it from Lagos to Jamaica?” I asked.

  “About 3,000-4,000 miles or thereabouts,” replied Thorn.

  “How long will it take us?”

  “Could be three months or could be longer, according to the weather. It’ll likely be fair weather this time of year. But then Captain Hawkshot’ll want to go roundabout. He usually does — to keep out of the way of the French and Spanish. They won’t be aiming for Jamaica, though. He’ll probably make for the coast of Brazil and then go north to Venezuela. Well, I’d guess it might take us two-three months to reach Kingston; that’s the capital of Jamaica. That’s where he’ll sell the slaves.”

  “What’s Kingston like?”

  “Hot; a lot too wet for comfort in the rainy weeks. White men run it, of course, and there’s any number of niggers, mostly slaves but a few free. Whatever you do, keep away from the women, unless you want the pox. Sugar, rum and tobacco — they’re what the plantation owners mostly go in for. It’s all nigger slave labour, of course. Sugar — that’s desperately hard work. Most of ’em don’t last long at that. That’s why Hawkshot sells in Jamaica. There’s always a ready demand for more slaves.

  “What are you two boys aiming to do? Do you mean to stay in Jamaica, buy land and set up in business?”

  “No money.”

  “You could afford to buy land with the money Hawkshot’ll pay you.”

  “Well,” said Townley, “we’ll make up our minds when we’ve had a look round.”

  “You could do a lot worse.”

  “We’re a long way south now, aren’t we? Shall we be going south of the equator?” asked Townley, changing the subject.

  “Not quite so far,” answered Thorn. “Was that the pipe? I must be going. Aye-aye bo’sun!” and off he ran.

  During the days that followed, as the heat became more and more intense, I was overcome, preoccupied to the exclusion of all else, by the invasive knowledge, imparted by Wain, of what we were going to do and the impossibility of avoidance. In my haunted imagination, the prospect took the form of a thick, dark cloud hanging squarely across our onward progress, impenetrable by the eye but not by the body being carried closer day by day until, upon entering the cloud, it would be drawn on to a destination too hideous to foresee; beyond envisaging by my cowering, trembling awareness. Again and again in my mind’s eye I approached that cloud, began to enter it and then snatched back my thoughts before they could take me farther. Whatever was concealed in that darkness was lying in wait. It would not disappear, being on familiar terms with Wain and Captain Hawkshot. In vain I dragged my mind away, trying to direct it elsewhere. It always returned. There was nowhere else to go.

  Three mornings later we were still sailing westwards, under a light north wind. Basil Townley and I were leaning on the starboard rail, watching a school of dolphins curving in and out of the waves a short distance away. They seemed unaware of the ship, keeping on a course almost parallel with us until something we could not perceive deflected them, making them turn away northwards, so that soon we left them behind.

  The two of us were gazing after them when suddenly we heard the cry of the lookout on the mainmast, “Ship ahoy!”

  There was a general rush to the rails. Basil and I, remaining where we were, could make out nothing to starboard. The lookout, of course, had the advantage of the mast’s height, but after what seemed to us a fair while, the horizon still appeared blank.

  We waited. “It must be on the port side,” I said, but I had hardly spoken when Basil pointed aft.

  “There she is — whoever she is.”

  Now we could both make out the ship, approaching us on the starboard quarter. About half a mile off, however, she changed course and began sailing parallel with us, due west.

  “She’s a Rhode Islander,” said the boatswain, behind us, closing his telescope.

  Indeed, it was clear that the American ship was going to overtake us. As she held on her way she drew level and we saw her deck more clearly. Incredibly, it was crowded with black men. At that distance I could not see what they were doing, but I could be in no doubt about their reality. At this moment we became aware of a foul smell borne on the wind, not strong but nevertheless revolting. Holding my nose, I turned to see not only Basil but almost everyone around us doing the same.

  The boatswain nodded in a patronising manner. “That’s the Yankee. ’Never smelt a slave-ship before, lads? Cheer up! We’ll smell worse ’fore we’re done.”

  The air cleared. Some of the sailors nearby were grinning, but to me it seemed more from bravado than amusement. Now that I knew what the smell was, to say that it was born of evil was no more than the truth. To me, it was part of all that Wain had taught us in the hold.

  Two weeks later, having turned south and then east,
we were approaching the African coast. Hawkshot was on deck, directing the man at the wheel. I had been expecting beaches, forests inland, perhaps mountains in the distance. As we came closer, however, all that I could make out was a line of green trees, widely broken here and there, stretching as far as could be seen in either direction. Mystified, I asked one of the sailors whether these forests formed the actual coastline or whether there were beaches too low-lying to be visible from out at sea.

  “That’s the Niger delta,” he replied. “Biggest delta in the world, they say. There’s two hundred miles of outfalls, north to south, behind those mangoes, all the way up to the Bight of Benin; that’s where we’re headed. There’s nothing much to see, though, so long as we keep as far out as this. We’ve got a shallower draught than most slave-ships and we can sail closer in: that’s if Hawkshot thinks there’s any need to. But as long as there’s no other ships to be seen, he’ll probably keep this distance from shore.”

  By the following evening, we were well clear of the delta, and headed north-west towards Lagos. Next morning I was woken by the sound of heavy surf, and having got on deck, where many of the ship’s company were already gathered, saw, not far from where we were anchored, great waves breaking on a low shore. Spotting Thorn nearby, I went across and asked him where we were and what he thought Hawkshot’s intention was now.

  “This is Lagos Island,” he replied. “And that there’s the European settlement. The Captain’s gone to report our arrival and pay for permission to take the ship down to Lekki. That’s where he’ll meet the tribal king’s agent, and buy the slaves we’ll be taking on board.”

  “Are we going to sail down close to that surf?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” replied Thorn. “Well be going through that and into the lagoon on the north side of the Island. That’s all still water, right across to the mainland shore, and there’s a regular chain of lagoons, best part of fifty or sixty miles, goes down all the way to Lekki.”

  We remained anchored until the afternoon, when Hawkshot returned and again stood by the wheel as we rounded a sandbar and came through the breakers to the lagoon. It was not only still water but shallow, with any number of mud banks, and the Captain ordered that we should sail slowly. He also put a man on swinging the lead and calling the depth.

  The two days we spent sailing down the lagoon chain to Lekki passed without mishap. Here, the Captain again made himself known to the authorities, and then took the ship across the breadth of the Lekki lagoon to the north shore.

  It was low-lying and desolate. Beyond the distant mangrove swamps there was nothing to be seen but dense forest. Its only feature, a little way up from the beach, was a dilapidated stone building that might once have been a fort.

  Ever since we had rounded Lagos Island, the air had become more and more close and humid, and we tyros needed no telling that the place was noxious and unhealthy. The sun was fiercer than anything I had ever known. We were drenched in sweat.

  Although there were several tanks of potable water on board, only a little, and that tepid, could be issued, since most would be needed for the slaves. For the moment there was no more work to be done. The only relief was to plunge into the warm shallow water, but upon coming out we were almost instantly dry.

  To myself I seemed to be groping through a miasma that I could scarcely breathe, in which each movement was an effort. To go below was no escape, for the very timbers, warm to the touch, seemed to give out the heat; and though all the portholes stood open there was never the least draught.

  At last, at sundown, the air began to cool and a faint breeze sprang up. The Captain ordered that the “slave conductors”, as he called us, were to eat before the crew, and that after the meal we were to gather on the forward deck. Meanwhile there would be an issue of rum. Wain was put in charge of the distribution and as far as I could see he acted honestly. Since there were not enough tin cups to go round (and this was typical of the Frisky Sharks amenities) we lined up in groups of four, drank off our tots and returned the empty cups to be refilled for the next group.

  Wilkins had been mistaken in thinking that the hold we had seen comprised the ship’s entire volume, for when we turned up to keep our date with the Captain, he began by telling Limbrick to open a forward hatch in the bows. This disclosed a second, smaller hold, which was filled to capacity with wrapped packages, sealed cartons and boxes covered with coarse black cloth.

  “These are the goods which are going to be exchanged for the slaves,” said the Captain. “All the parcels are numbered in white paint and I have a manifest here of the contents. You’re going to take them out one by one, refer the numbers to me for identification and then carry them aft and stack them on the stern deck. When you’ve taken one, come back here for another until we’ve finished.

  “Right, Daniel and Townley, you can start with that carton on top.”

  There was no getting down into the crammed hold, and we had to lean over from above and pull the heavy carton up; a fiendishly hard business that left us both gasping. When we had told the Captain its number, we manhandled it aft to the stern, stopping twice for breath. On the stern deck we found Jarvis in charge of the stacking. We put our load down where he told us and went back as slowly as we could. On the way we met Wilkins and Limbrick, staggering under a similar burden.

  Our next crate was not so heavy, but it was the leaning over and hauling up which cost the effort. After Basil and I had done three lots, the Captain stood us down and told us to go and help Jarvis. Jarvis evidently knew how many heavy items there would be, for he was using these, as they arrived, to form a base. Lighter lots had been dumped all over the deck, and Jarvis told Basil and me to build them into the stack according to weight.

  The Captain came down to approve the finished job, and we were dismissed. We stayed on deck, however, to watch the sailors constructing what they called a “house”. They had tied a spar between the masts to form a beam and were now occupied in securing other spars to run slanting from the beam to the deck. Over this framework of rafters they laid rush-mats and lastly, they divided the interior into two compartments with a wooden partition. They told us that one of these was for the Captain, to receive and bargain with the black tribal agent, while the other was for receiving slaves before they were moved down into the hold. The place was supposed to be proof against rain.

  It was raining next morning when the Captain told Wain, Basil and myself to join him in the ship’s boat to be taken ashore to await the tribal agent Ushumbo and the slaves. However, although we stood in the shelter of the fort for several hours, no one appeared from the forest and finally, in the afternoon, we were rowed back to the ship for a late dinner.

  “Why does the Captain feel he has to wait on the beach?” I asked Wain. “Couldn’t he simply put one of us there to tell him when the agent arrives?”

  “He always sees the slaves as soon as they’re brought to the beach,” said Wain. “He counts ’em and rejects the ones he won’t accept before the rest are brought aboard. If the Captain didn’t see them as soon as they arrive, Ushumbo would be quite up to sending the best ones back and substituting others he’s left in the forest. The Captain don’t want the bother of rejecting slaves once they’ve been put aboard.”

  Before next day the rain had ceased. Ushumbo, a big man dressed like a European in white coat and trousers, appeared about halfway through the morning with his consignment of slaves, who were controlled by three men with whips. With him were several hired Krumen fisher-folk, carrying their dugout canoes. He greeted the Captain effusively, but since they conversed in some African language, Basil and I could not follow the talk, though Wain, standing beside the Captain, seemed to be taking it in. Basil and I turned our attention to the slaves.

  The mere sight of them was enough to overwhelm any beholder with shock and horror. Their drawn faces — men, women and children alike — expressed a dreadful, flinching fear, together with despair. Most were naked; a few were half-clothed in filthy rags.
All looked famished and exhausted. Some clung to one another, trembling and looking about them as though expecting some further cruelty at any moment. Others had the appearance of warriors, but warriors defeated, prisoners, battered until incapable of further resistance. Several had injuries, untended wounds clearly causing them pain. There were young women who had once, perhaps, been attractive, their looks now a pitiable travesty of comeliness. A number, both men and women, had fallen prone in the mud, their heads buried in their hands. I saw aged, decrepit people, and others maimed, lacking a hand or foot. Basil, beside me, was close to weeping. “This is a picture of the end of the world,” he whispered. “God forbid,” I answered. I would have tried to say more, but we found Wain beside us.

  “Right,” he said. “Men stay here, women over there. Get on with it. Then count ’em.”

  Basil led a cowering, terrified woman by the hand and took up a position a short distance away, while I did my best to get the other women to join them. Some were beyond comprehending; others resisted, clinging to their men. I was struggling to pull a girl to her feet when Wain kicked me from behind.

  “Didn’t I say get on with it?” he shouted. “Think we’ve got all mucking night?”

  He tore the girl from me, slapped her face and pointed to where Basil was standing. Then he used some word in their language, at which she stumbled away, crying bitterly.

  Wain was carrying a whip, which he now handed to me. “Use this,” he said, “and don’t let me catch you buggering about again.” He pointed to a woman squatting on the ground nearby. “Hit ’er!” he said. “Go on, hit ’er!”

  “Jack,” I replied. “I can’t. I simply can’t hit her. Let me pull her up.”

  “You stupid bastard!” he shouted. “The whole point of hitting ’er is that the others see it and don’t need hitting theirselves.” He snatched the whip back from me and struck the woman twice across the shoulders. She sprang up screaming and was about to run away, but he caught her by the arm, pointing towards Basil and again speaking in their language.