by CP Patrick
Let me begin by saying the African slaves are oft hard to deal with. There are always those among the cargo who resist their inevitable fate. Slaves subjected to captivity for longer periods of time are the easiest to manage, but they resist when encouraged. For no man is born wanting to serve another. But, alas, God has already determined his fate. It is undisputed the Africans are preordained to a life of slavery. Yet still, there are those who continue to resist their lot in life.
You may be surprised to learn I think of the Africans as human. Do you think I have gone mad, as some of my comrades oft testified? The Africans are as human as you and I. Are they not flesh, blood, and bones just as we are? Less cultivated, devoid of religion, and unrefined, yes, this is true. But they are human nonetheless. This cannot be denied.
That being said, I do not believe they are equal to us. But I do believe they could be treated more humanely, especially as such an integral part of the trade. Why, the way the Jogue brothers pack the slaves in the cargo hold, so tightly they cannot move, is unsettling. The more slaves transported on each voyage, the more money the Jogue brothers can make. The slaves’ bodily functions mingle among them, and even when we toss buckets of sea water over them, nothing can wash away the stench.
What of these horrors you will see when it comes to the treatment of slaves? Do you think it is only aboard the vessel? Do you think their horror ends once we reach our destination? It does not.
In Saint Domingue I have seen slaves buried alive. I have seen their masters force them to consume their own feces and drink their own urine. One particularly cruel slave master I saw throw an unruly slave into a cauldron of boiling cane syrup. He invited those of us at dock to witness the event for entertainment, even serving spirits for the occasion. Can you witness such things, my dear Jean? I do not believe you can without it having a lasting effect on you.
I tell you the crying and moaning of the slaves is hard to endure. Day after day, night after night. You do not need to understand their words to know they are suffering. Soon, though, after many weeks at sea, the lot of the slaves becomes resigned to their fate. By the end of the voyage, there is little struggle, and oft-times no resistance. They accept the cruelty, for this is how the mind works. In time, even the strongest willed can be broken.
Slaves new to captivity pose the most danger. They seem quite certain if they bargain with us, beg and plead, we will reconsider their fate of servitude and remove their chains. And when their bargaining does not work, they resort to violence. It is these slaves who, if not properly watched, will kill a seaman with their bare hands. Such slaves provoke the others, even the most obedient, and can start an insurrection. And this is what happened aboard the Saint Philippe.
Everyone has focused on the short duration of the voyage, have they not? Celebrating our historic journey across the Atlantic in twenty-five days instead of the usual several months? They seem to care less about the uprising that left one of our own dead. There is no mention in the papers of those of us who almost lost our lives.
I can still hear the slaves chanting in their savage language. Their words make the skin crawl with fear. They know nothing of God, and you can hear the devil in their voices, feel the evil in the air. Hear me now as I write this. I have experienced many a frightening thing during my lifetime. But aboard the Saint Philippe, it was the first time I believed I might die.
There was a sailor who did indeed perish. A young man named Marceau. A rather good man but he was known to consume spirits heavily. And oft in his drunkenness, he forced himself upon the female slaves. Even some young girls not much older than my own dear Gillette. It is deplorable to even write these words, but this is the culture of life on the sea. No one would ever dare to stop him or any of the others who engage in such ungodly acts. It is merely for sport and pleasure. Simply a way to pass the time.
Those of us who do not condone such behavior would oft try to remove ourselves from the debauchery. But there were those who condoned, and believe me, there are many of our brothers who make allowances for such acts. Oft they would turn from spectator to participant and lay with the same poor slave, until the female or child was ravished unconscious.
The slaves who perish from such affairs are simply thrown into the sea. Indeed, after enduring such abuse, many are worth more dead than alive, for insurance covers such loss. There is an understanding all of the cargo will not survive the journey, which is factored into the cost, like any other commodity. For, again, I am one of the few who view the slave as human and not merely goods.
It is horrid, my dear Jean, but I assure you these words I write are true. I want you to know if you accept the Montaudoin’s offer, these are the circumstances you will face.
I have never participated in such ungodly acts with the slaves. Neither with the prostitutes waiting at our ports of entry and departure. As you know, I am faithfully married to my love Marguerite. And neither did your father participate in such sinful affairs, for he loved your mother dearly. But many sailors do. And you, being the son of a decorated seaman, may be forced to participate by your brothers at sea to prove yourself one of them. What will you do when this happens? Will you lay with an African slave child to prove yourself to your fellow brethren?
I shall never forget March 14, for this is the day Marceau went into the hold and selected a slave for the ungodly acts I referenced above. She was browner than the others, for as you know, the Africans’ skin can be as black as coal. But this happens from time to time—slaves who have a fairer complexion, most likely due to breeding with the Portuguese during their early explorations of Africa.
The mixing of the races is ungodly and oft results in slaves who looked like this female. Her skin was the color of honey, and her dark hair like silk, such as ours. These fairer slaves are always the most favored to be taken by our brothers.
When Marceau emerged from the hold with her, the other raucous sailors cheered. They were about to embark on one of their drunken escapades, and I knew this poor slave would be had by the lot of them. I could not bear to watch, and so I went to seek refuge in my cabin.
When I walked by, I made eye contact with the slave. This was something I rarely did, for I learned early in the trade it does something to your soul to look into the eyes of those you enslave. But I did look at her. And I will admit this only to you—she was quite beautiful.
This may all sound maddening, to hear me speak of a slave as beautiful. But I assure you this happens with all seamen from time to time. We are, after all, men. And beauty is beauty. And this slave, when I walked past her, and I am sure she could sense me admiring her, smiled at me. Hear me when I tell you the look in her eyes and smile was one of pure evil.
For some strange reason, even now unbeknownst to me, I could not remove myself from the setting. I stood and watched as they removed her chains and Marceau set upon her while the others cheered. She continued to smile as Marceau ravished her. And all the while, the sea rose and the waters became choppy. The skies darkened as a storm appeared out of nowhere.
And then, because he had removed her chains so he could be free with her, she attacked Marceau. Like a wild savage, she scratched and bit at him, handling him with unimaginable strength. Below in the hold there was chanting and disruption as the waves tossed the Saint Philippe. The skies opened, and dark clouds released torrential rain. Fear and panic set in among us all.
We were at all points on deck. Some were trying to pry Marceau from her grasp. Others were struggling to man the sails and keep the Saint Philippe afloat. We tried to protect ourselves from slaves who had somehow escaped. They rushed the deck, trying to kill us.
The Africans and their pagan beliefs. I would not believe it if I had not seen it time and time again. But when they pray to their devil gods, they are stronger than the average man. It is madness!
Eventually, we did regain control of the ship, but Marceau did not survive. His body was so badly damaged, it looked as though he had been mauled to death. The honey-co
lored slave was thrown into the sea along with the other slaves who had attempted insurrection. They were no doubt devoured by the sharks that oft followed our vessels. We fed them well with the bodies of the dead and defiant.
I must tell you, when we reached the shores of Saint Domingue, I could not wait to return to my dear Nantes. I longed for my lovely wife and darling, sweet daughter. I promised the good Lord if I were to return home safely, I would abandon this treacherous business of the trade forever.
And so now you know the reason I have retired. It is not because of an illness or because I have gone mad, or any of the other motives you may have heard through gossip and falsehoods. I learned firsthand no amount of money is worth one’s soul. There are times I cannot sleep when I think of the Saint Philippe. I oft dream of Marceau’s mangled body. I see the honey-colored slave’s smile as they tossed her into the sea.
The memories haunt me day and night. Even as I write this letter to you, I am perspiring and my hands are shaking. So I ask you, beg of you, for my sake and so your father’s soul can rest in peace. Reject the Montaudoin’s offer, and find a trade you can be proud of. One you can retire from with honor and not out of fear.
When you come to visit for the holiday, we can discuss this further. Do write back to me soon, my dear Jean. Do let me know of your decision.
Believe me yours faithfully,
Jacques
5
the pacotilleur
Le Cap, St. Domingue (1794)
I was eleven years of age when the pacotilleur came to the Vergennes Plantation. I had heard of these peculiar folk, freed slaves who travelled about the island. Pacotilleurs went from plantation to plantation, selling trinkets one could only acquire from Europe. When I opened the door, she asked,
“Might your mother be available?”
The pacotilleur’s dress was long and white, the hem embroidered with delicate lace. Polished black shoes peeked out from beneath the flowery stitching. The small, round buttons down the center of each shoe reminded me of hard licorice candies. She wore a large white hat, tilted so part of her face was hidden beneath the brim.
“Yes, missus,” I replied. And I ran to get my mother.
“Hello, pleased to meet your acquaintance,” my mother greeted the pacotilleur. Then she asked her directly,
“Do tell why you’ve come calling.”
“I have some things I’d like to show you. Nice things you might fancy. You’re not obliged to purchase a’thing at all. Take a look and see if any of my possessions might suit you.”
“Well, all right. Come in then,” my mother said.
The pacotilleur was fancy, her black case filled with shiny gems none on our plantation could afford. I took in every detail of her visit—the trinkets and her speech, which was proper as if she were one of the French. I could not wait to tell Cécile I had seen an actual pacotilleur.
Cécile and I played together since I could remember. She would come to the main house and take me away from my chores, walking boldly past her father to announce, “Francine and I are going to play now.”
Then Cécile would grab my hand and pull me toward her playroom. Master Vergennes smiled and said nothing, for his darling Cécile did whatever she wished.
Now we met in secret. I was a house slave, and Cécile the daughter of Master Vergennes. Our families told us to end the friendship, but our bond could not be broken. Cécile left her room, and I snuck out from the slave quarters. We met in the cane fields and talked most every night.
Cécile told me of girls and boys at her school. She shared stories of how other masters treated their slaves, always reaching the same conclusion:
“My father treats his slaves the best.”
I believed her, for Master Vergennes could be kind. Still, he did not want us to be friends.
My mother said Master Vergennes was my father too. That was the reason we worked in the main house. It was true Cécile and I had the same blonde curly hair. Her eyes were bright blue, mine a warm brown. My skin was a smidgen darker than her pale complexion.
But I was never to tell Cécile we were sisters, although we often called and treated each other as such.
“Don’t we look like sisters, Francine?” Cécile would ask.
“Yes. Let’s pretend we are sisters.”
Cécile tied her ribbons in my hair, my blonde tresses braided in two pigtails. We twirled in circles until we were dizzy with laughter.
Mother told me never to speak on the matter with Cécile or anyone else. And so, I said nothing, although I wanted nothing more than for Cécile to know I was her true sister. We belonged to each other, as sisters should.
When the pacotilleur returned the next day, I had a real good look at her. She was a beautiful woman, her complexion fair like my mother. Her eyes were the darkest brown I had ever seen, almost black. She watched me from behind the brim of her hat before asking my mother to speak in private. They walked to the front parlor room and closed the door.
Although I knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, I sat outside the large wooden doors and put my ear to the crack. My mother and the pacotilleur spoke in hushed whispers. The pacotilleur had no intention to sell her trinkets. She had a message for the slaves at the Vergennes Plantation.
“If slaves desire freedom, they must fight for it. Freedom will never be given to them,” the pacotilleur said.
“Of course there are many who wish to be free,” my mother responded, “but how do we begin to fight?”
“It has already begun. Mackendal is preparing for battle, and he will lead the slaves on Saint Domingue to freedom.”
I was surprised when I heard the name Mackendal. It was just the other day while serving Master Vergennes and our neighbor, Mr. James Mouge, the men had spoken of him.
“The authorities still have not captured this Mackendal,” Master Vergennes had said. “He is causing much trouble about the island. He continues to incite many of the slaves. They believe he possesses a magic that can free them.”
Master Vergennes’ last statement caused both men to laugh.
“Seriously, James, this may soon be no laughing matter,” he continued. “Many slaves have already escaped to join this Mackendal in the mountains. And they continue to flee by the day. Andrè Bandeaux lost five slaves last week.”
Master Vergennes looked at me and smiled as I poured his tea. There were times such as these where I believed he knew he was my father. He often looked at Cécile with the same adoration.
“These types like Mackendal—they are a real threat us,” Mr. Mouge agreed. “I am amazed none have been able to capture him, especially with the bounty so high.”
It was a warm day, and Mr. Mouge started to sweat. I fanned him so I could continue listening to their conversation.
He nodded in approval as he said to Master Vergennes, “We have to be careful. We must remember slaves are uncivilized and therefore dangerous. Especially since they outnumber us here on the island.”
This was news to me. Until that moment I had believed the French outnumbered us, for they controlled us.
Neither man showed any real concern for their own plantation. They believed none of their slaves would dare leave and join this wild Mackendal in the mountains.
At night I told my mother everything I heard that day. And she shared words with me.
“The pacotilleur did not come to sell trinkets,” my mother confirmed. “Her name is Awiti. And she will return in a few days. Mackendal is planning a révolution. Our lives on Saint Domingue are about to change.”
Awiti was lucky my mother was available the day she came calling. Had it been one of the others, such as Marion or Colette, they would have gone straight to Master Vergennes. They were loyal slaves to their master. But not my mother. There was nothing my mother wanted more than her freedom.
Awiti’s timing was fortuitous. Master Vergennes had recently purchased a new slave, François. He was tall, his physique strong and muscular. When he arrived, I could not help
but stare, for his skin was as dark as the night itself. If not for his kind demeanor, François was frightening.
François told us horrible accounts of abuse throughout the island. It was nothing for slaves to be hung upside down until they died, blood pouring from their ears. He told us of friends who had tried to escape. When captured, their master put them inside barrels with sharp spikes and rolled them down the mountainside to their deaths.
“What sort of life is this?” François questioned. “We work for the French, and they do nothing but mistreat us, torture us. I have seen slaves eaten alive by dogs as their masters stood by and laughed.”
François showed us his scars from burns and whips. He exposed his left hand, which was missing two fingers, taken by a cruel master when he was a boy. It was hard to believe François had endured so much. He looked stronger than two men. But even at my young age, I knew slaves were not ruled by strength. We were governed by fear.
Although we tried to assure François that Master Vergennes never treated his slaves so cruelly, he could not be convinced.
“It is only a matter of time before evil reaches the Vergennes Plantation,” François told us. “And I will not be here when it does. I will be with Mackendal.”
François did not wait for Awiti to return. He escaped a few days after he arrived.
At the time, the name Mackendal was somewhat foreign to us, but the injustices slaves endured were not. François was not the first slave to tell us of such horrific abuse. On Saint Domingue we knew some slaves suffered more than others. But suffering, more or less, was still suffering.
Master Vergennes had means to discipline us, with whips and such. But we never experienced the brutality we heard occurred on other plantations. And this Mackendal. We had not heard of him until the pacotilleur came to sell her trinkets, Master Vergennes mentioned him over tea, and François escaped to join him in the mountains. Collectively, this made many of the slaves curious to hear what Mackendal had to say.