The Voices of Martyrs

by Maurice Broaddus

  Amelia’s last words to me echoed in my mind: “Why not find another line of work?” What was I to do? Toil at her father’s presses? Be chained to a desk? Better yet, work in some field? I would rather risk being accused of not putting away childish things, a boy and his love of boats.

  A simple dream spoiled and tasting of ash in my mouth.

  §

  The 6th of June, 1651

  “The cargo is starving itself.” Mr. Hawkins delivered the news with an exuberance that belied its ill portent. He paraded in his patched trousers, topless save for the black handkerchief sashed about his neck. “This wasn’t totally unexpected.”

  “What do you recommend?” I asked.

  “Best to break the rebellion early, before the practice becomes widespread.”

  “As you will,” I turned from him. “And Mr. Hawkins? You can’t go about naked as a savage.”

  “I didn’t know this was a formal affair,” he muttered, still within earshot. His hard ways reminded me of my father; as did the way his eyes brimmed with disgust at my presumed softness. The challenge caught in my throat, but I needed his support to control the men. For now. After donning a black vest, Mr. Hawkins applied a special zealousness to disciplining the Cargo. About ten of the Cargo sat around each of the tubs scattered along the main deck, eating boiled yams and rice. Mr. Hawkins snatched a smallish man who abstained from his meal. Two of the crew held the man while the boatswain lit a nearby brazier. The flames of the brazier reflected in the man’s eyes. Mr. Hawkins pulled a reddened coal from the brazier with a pair of tongs, passing it to and fro before the hapless man.

  All activity ceased.

  The coal’s heat blistered the man’s cheek and his eyes bulged as he struggled to escape. He pressed the coal against the man’s lips, Mr. Hawkins smiled a serpentine leer. The lips sizzled like overdone, fatty steaks. The tortured man’s shrieks chilled me to my marrow. His arms pinned to his sides, he thrashed his head about. Tears streamed down his face. The smell of scorched flesh stung my nostrils. The hideous scalding and the incipient shrieks slowly subsided. Mr. Hawkins scolded the Cargo through the interpreter, though I doubt any was needed. He savored the moment like a tasty morsel.

  The rest of the Cargo ate without incident.

  §

  “The Cargo is ready for inspection,” Hawkins said.

  “Good.” I had arranged for a doctor to be part of the crew’s complement for fear of pox’d Cargo. “Before each morning’s breakfast, allow him to examine the privities of both men and women with the nicest scrutiny.”

  “We can tend to them as they do their exercises.”

  The doctor treated the Cargo’s sores as the crew washed and oiled the Cargo with the casualness of herding sheep. I had heard rumors of their savagery: child sacrifice, orgies to their pagan gods, necklaces of human teeth, cannibalism. Each tale I heard seemed more outrageous than the last. We saved them from their own heathenish ways. I shuddered at the thought of what monstrous brute could ever have performed such deeds against another human.

  My heart raced whenever they were on deck. The women and children freely roamed, but leg irons confined the men. The thunderous echoes when they stamped about was a haunting cacophonous jangling that jarred my men to their bones. Downcast eyes feigned weakness and submissiveness, yet I know they eyed the packs of spare harpoons and lances that lined the rear deck.

  Mr. Hawkins had peculiar notions of exercise; he forced the Cargo to dance. The display doubled as entertainment for the crew. Despondent countenances fixed on the Cargo during their somnambulant hops.

  A queer one drew my attention. With his burnt coffee complexion, his teeth a dazzling white in contrast, he had a noble bearing and fine stature. However, his eyes, joyless and obsidian, bored into my soul. He stood apart from the rest, almost unsure of his role. Mr. Hawkins clarified his role for him with a sting of the cat-o’-nine-tails. He hardly flinched, but his eyes intensified. A controlled burning, like an eclipsed moon, seethed in them.

  He began to dance.

  He stomped his foot, one solitary pound in tune to the drummer. A few measures later, he raised his other leg and hammered again to the beat of the drum. He chanted in a dialect unfamiliar to my translator, his dreadful drone in tune to the drummer’s rhythm. Another voice added itself to his. Then another. Before too long, a chorus of the men sang out. The women and children stopped to watch. He continued his steps, and only then did I realize that the rest of the Cargo synchronized their movements to his. He increased his methodical thumping, followed by the rest. My heart fluttered at the sight of them, alarmed by his energy. The crewmen, with the fear of a possible mutiny, stood back, paralyzed. The romp devolved into a mad frenzy of twisting and jumping—a fiendish, indecent writhing with an energy of its own, still chanting their pagan psalmody. The first man stretched out his arms beyond his chains, beyond his shackle mates, beyond the ship, beyond the seas, in his mind, touching the ends of the world. To touch home.

  “Enough, you muckies,” Mr. Hawkins screeched. He kicked the drummer over to gain everyone’s attention. With a gesture, he ordered the crew to return the Cargo to the hold. “I don’t blame you for standing windward, Cap’n. The lot of them smelled worse than rotten codfish.”

  “You seem to know these people well, Mr. Hawkins. What of that one? The dancer?”

  “Njinga. Future ‘ozo’ of the Igbo,” he said with a smirk.

  “It never occurred to me that they had names.”

  “I only know it because he was singled out to me by my procurer. I guarantee that one will be trouble.”

  “All he did was dance. Bring him to my quarters.” I could not be persuaded to entertain the thought of needless barbarity, especially to creatures who—except for their want of true religion—may have been as much the work of God’s hands as us. Heaven have mercy on us all, Presbyterian and Pagans. Mr. Hawkins brought Njinga before me, and his aged eyes peered into me. I placed my copy of the Holy Writ in his hands as I spoke to him. “Son of darkness, I must do my duty by you, concerned as I am for all the souls on my ship. I fear you cling to your pagan ways, but you could lead your people from the fiery pit that awaits you.”

  Njinga stared at the book in his hands with uncertainty, like it was a serpent threatening to strike. I thought for a moment that the light of understanding flickered in his eyes, and, for a brief moment, hope welled within me that maybe Providence had me here for a reason. That there was a purpose, a meaning, to this business.

  Then the black bastard dropped God’s Word, the Book landing with a slap. I shook with fury and reached for the nearest object to grasp. An unopened bottle of New England rum sat on my desk. I brought it down upon the man’s temple with as much force as I could muster. Mr. Hawkins burst in at the sound of the commotion and stayed my hand from further blows, before he removed the heathen from my presence.

  Alone in my cabin, my mind betrayed me with remembrances of the Cargo and our treatment of them. I wondered whether Mr. Hawkins was once a religious man. Compared to the eternality of their souls, what matter their physical duress. Besides, I have a responsibility to my crew, my backers, and my family. I feared that I knelt before a new altar, to this god of economics.

  That night I dreamt of Negro bodies bobbing around me, like jutting placards from wrecked ships, with capricious waves tossing me to and fro. I bound the bodies together by their loin clothes, shaping them into my own makeshift raft. Their mouths gaped, wordlessly screaming into the oblivion of waves.

  And I feared for my black-stained soul.

  §

  The 8th of June, 1651

  Great tragedy and waste ruined this night.

  The rigging creaked with the vitality of life at sea. The sails unfurled with the snap of freshly laundered sheets. With the blowing breeze, we made splendid time. I escorted a few of my crewmen for an inspection. The air below deck was stifling, close like a whale’s belly. When I reached the seventh step, the noxious stench of efflu
via overtook me. Had my men not received me, I would have collapsed into the hold. It was no wonder that the Cargo was in such high demand: Living in harsh climes made them a hardy lot. However, hardy or not, the hold needed fumigation. The possible danger of the tar igniting when it boiled over the tin pots had the crew of the mind that allowing the Cargo to suffer was better than risking destruction by fire. Though the operation would spread my crew thin, I ordered it anyway. The men filled small tin pots with tar and marlinespikes, then plunged glowing red irons into them. A dense smoke arose as the men scrambled from the hold, coughing into their tightly clutched kerchiefs. The hatches on the hold were sealed for two hours, time enough for the Cargo to exercise and eat while the tar smoke sweetened the air.

  A few days ago, we ran out of rice and yams and forced the Cargo to eat horse beans. They detested the boiled pulp, especially the “slabber sauce” we prepared them in: palm oil, flour, water, and red pepper. The Cargo sat with their pained grimaces and huddled postures around the tubs. Then shouting commenced. A man threw his beans at another, presumably for some wrong done to him during the night. My crew chuckled as one of the Cargo slapped at another while beans trailed down his face. The whole scene left me torn between laughter and wariness. During the brouhaha, about ten of them jumped up, their gaunt frames filled with renewed vigor. My lads took a few lumps as the Cargo lashed out—more an act of desperation, since none knew how to pilot my vessel—like the last gasp of a dying man who didn’t understand the nature of his death. A few men fired their muskets past them. Most of the rebels settled down. Two jumped overboard after yelling something in their native tongue. The remainder cheered.

  “Bring the ship to,” I said. “Mr. Hawkins, please have your men retrieve the Cargo.”

  “Cap’n, you may want to see this for yourself.” Hawkins called me to the edge of the ship.

  I pushed past the men staring at the sea in slack-jawed silence. The seas churned in white foamy billows where the men leapt in. We spotted an occasional shark fin, but I heard no cries. A maroon track extended shoreward, widening then fading.

  I don’t know if I can do this business much longer, I thought.

  “There go 100 guineas to the sharks,” Mr. Hawkins replied, winking at me as if we shared some common joke. The crewmen, after going through the trouble of fumigating the hold, seethed with undeniable anger. Mr. Hawkins gnashed his teeth with a spiteful gleam in his eyes. Mr. Hawkins related the tale of the last ship he served on. The ship dropped its anchor at its destination. The air was still, like the wind was attending its own wake. The cargo hold was silent. No sobs. No groans. Despite their bruises, sores, and other illnesses, they held their heads high. A woman emerged from the hold, an Igbo leader. She marched alongside her people, and they fell in step with her. Guards directed them toward the auction barracks, but she turned and marched into the sea. The entire cargo followed her: men, women, and children, preferring to drown rather than become slaves. “Cap’n, unless you want more trouble, some must be made examples of.”

  “Why do you rebel?” I asked, pacing in front of them, my translator doing his best to keep abreast of me. “Your treatment has been most humane. Not perfect, but humane. Some of you were in famine, but here you eat well. Most of you were captives of your own wars. I’ve heard tell what you do to your prisoners. We take you to where it’s in your owner’s best interest to give you the best possible treatment.”

  A voice shouted from the back. Without seeing, I knew it had to be Njinga.

  “What did he call me?” I asked.

  “Hard to translate,” the translator offered, “‘a great rogue,’ perhaps? Yes, you are a rogue to snatch them from their homelands.”

  “Is that what you think of me? A rogue?”

  “You see with the eyes of a crocodile, not seeing where your path takes you,” Njinga said through the translator. “Or us. Your magic may have stolen the earth, for there are no trails to follow in the water, but we can still find our way home.”

  “Don’t bother reasoning with them, Cap’n,” Mr. Hawkins said, “it’s only a waste o’ breath.”

  “Fine then, I’ll leave the matter to your hands.” I had prayed that the Cargo would have responded to our efforts to lessen their duress with some measure of gratitude. They had no idea how hard we worked for them.

  “I am your hands, sir, that way you don’t have to get yours dirty.”

  Mr. Hawkins seized Njinga. I doubt he was any more involved in the unrest than anyone else, but the others looked to him for guidance and strength. That and Mr. Hawkins held a special grudge against the African. The sailors hoisted Njinga up the mast, dangling him by his chains. Mr. Hawkins pranced along the deck, in his patched pantaloons and ridiculous black vest, stomping his feet below Njinga. Njinga’s dark eyes fixed on him, fierce, but cold. Mr. Hawkins twirled his whip with practiced ease. The tips of the tails glinted in the light. He had embedded shards of glass into them. The air crackled as the whip tore through it. The tips caught in Njinga’s back then ripped free. Stored cruelty vented to the cheers of his men. Njinga never cried out. His quiet defiance only aroused Mr. Hawkins’ passions and heightened his creativity for expending his vengeful energies. He took a thin plank of wood and tamped around Njinga’s wounds causing profuse bleeding. Mr. Hawkins splashed brine on the wounds until the man cried out:

  “May worms hatch inside your belly and devour you slowly from the inside,” my translator offered.

  A vicious grin crossed Mr. Hawkins’ face. He left the prince in his chains for an hour. By Mr. Hawkins’ reasoning, a living Njinga advertised the price of rebellion. In addition, the crew dared not object to his next action for fear of being next.

  Mr. Hawkins pulled two more men at random, one a presumed cheerer, the other a conspirator. He ordered them both decapitated and their bodies tossed to the sharks that trailed our ship like faithful dogs after their master. He lined the remaining Cargo up to return them to the hold. As each got to the door, he stopped them and placed one of the severed heads in their hands. He forced them to stare into the dead man’s eyes, grip the head by the still moist stump, and kiss the lips.

  I retired to my cabin. I filled a quarter of a cup with New England rum, studying the cup as if I divined dark clouds. In one swallow, the alcohol dashed against my skull, an anchor hitting sea bottom. I tossed about in bed, lost in the soft susurrus of sound as the rataplan of the pelting rain finished the day.

  This is how we bring heathens to Christ?

  §

  The 9th of August, 1651

  The black cloud formed gradually on the horizon, then galloped toward us like the fourth horseman. The heavens released a mournful downpour. Lightning pierced the darkness, streams of fire threatened to cage us. The crew had voyaged through their share of storms, but none like this judging by their confused shouts barely heard over the deafening thunder, the shrill wind, and the roaring sea—the elements taking arms against the ship. Spreading the awning, the men left the crowfoot halyards slack to catch the rain in its center. They filled eleven large casks to replenish our waning provisions, since the journey had lasted longer than we anticipated. The men, on short rations, grumbled about having to maintain the Cargo at all, but I’d be damned before I let this voyage be in vain.

  Steam trickled from the edges of the vents. The hold grew intolerably hot, its confined air rendered noxious by the effluvia exhaled from their bodies, but the air vents had to be shut during turbulent seas lest we take on water and it all be for naught. With the men scattered, busy about their duties amidst the fury of the storm, I couldn’t chance the Cargo on deck.

  The dreadful bang of thunder quaked the ship. The wind cast our ship on waves that foamed like a rabid dog until the wind our mast began to crack. Newly-freed rigging whistled past me.

  Then suddenly came the unnatural calm.

  A woeful cloud of melancholia draped the ship, an unseen funeral shroud while the men carried out their duties with a regretful mutene
ss. A sickening colonnade of bodies of the morning’s dead formed along the deck. Sharks, increasing in number with each day of the lengthening voyage, trailed in the bloody foam of the ship’s wake. Though the howlings of the cargo hold alarmed me, when we first set sail, its absence now haunted me.

  “Damned ignorant creatures,” Mr. Hawkins said.

  “Who, Mr. Hawkins?” I asked, though his deprecations were only ever aimed at the Cargo.

  “You don’t understand them like I do. This silence is something to worry about. They’re a troubling lot that needs to be broken.”

  Some of the women carried beads though a few of the women draped themselves with some of the crewmen’s kerchiefs. A somber woman—once one of the more ebullient women who often led the others in singing during the afternoon exercises—now wore a haunted look about her countenance. A striking woman, beneath the purplish bruises and despite the recent lash marks that striped her back. She cradled her kerchief with unbridled contempt. Spitting into the cloth several times, she then tied it around her long hair, and wandered the deck with a beguiling casualness. Without a sideways glance, she threw herself overboard into the waiting maws of the teeming sharks that cascaded after us—though she let out not so much as the slightest shriek as they rent her to pieces. The blood foam, the freedom of death, beckoned even to me. However, I had a job to do. When all was gone, the damnable job still called.

  “Mr. Hawkins, have your men construct a latticework of rope yarn to keep the Cargo from jumping overboard. There will not be a repeat of this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know why some of the women have the crew’s kerchiefs and trinkets?”

  “As either guilty or grateful payment, sir. A new day has a way of casting a different light on midnight reveries, eh, Cap’n?” Mr. Hawkins smiled like a contemptuous serpent.

  “If your … reveries were behind the incident today, we’ll put an end to them right now.”