by Tommie Lyn
Almost a year of imprisonment, insufficient food and no exercise had left the prisoners debilitated. Heavy chains on their arms and legs made climbing the rope ladder to the ship’s deck difficult. The sailors jeered at the prisoners’ inability to climb the ladder. Although the Gaelic-speaking Highlanders didn’t understand the curses and ridicule heaped upon them by the sailors, they understood the intent.
Ailean found the sunlight and the cool breeze off the loch a pleasant change after the stink and stale air of the cell. But it was short lived. The prisoners were herded down a ladder into the dank space at the bottom of the ship. Ailean stood still, blinking, trying to see in the darkened hold after the sunlit brightness of the morning, and he looked for a place to sit. One of the sailors swore at him and shoved him forward. He stumbled and fell sprawling across the dirt and stones of the ship’s ballast.
He crawled forward until he encountered a curved, wooden wall and sat with his back against it. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them to make room for the other prisoners being pushed into the hold behind him.
Ailean rested his forehead on his knees, and a sudden realization gripped his attention: he was being taken from his beloved homeland, from the place where he belonged. He had thought he was beyond feeling, but now, a dejected hopelessness engulfed his soul. Why hadn’t he died along with all of his loved ones? Why was he alone left to endure the unendurable?
For the first time since Mùirne’s death, Ailean prayed. Please, Heavenly Father, deliver me from this living death. Let me die, take me home to be with my family. I can’t bear this.
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Latharn stood on the shore and watched as the ship moved down Loch Fyne toward the open sea. The relief he had expected to feel at MacLachlainn’s removal eluded him. Instead. a hollowness made his chest an empty keg, barren, bereft of its customary contents, vacant, echoing. And his ever-present awareness of bereavement and loss joined his new-found guilt, roiled, mingled together and seeped in to fill the void.
He had sought, during the long months since Mùirne died, to relieve himself of his responsibility for her death. But no matter how hard Latharn tried to elude it, awareness of the fact that she’d died because of a ball fired from his gun stayed foremost in his mind. At times, the knowledge of his guilt smothered him, flooded him with feelings he couldn’t endure. His occasional bouts of drunkenness came more often as he sought to escape his remorse and regret through the forgetfulness the bottle brought.
During his lucid moments, he fed on his hatred for MacLachlainn, tried to shift the blame onto him. In Latharn’s tangled thoughts, it became MacLachlainn’s fault that Mùirne died. The man had caused all the pain Latharn suffered since the day he found MacLachlainn sitting with Mùirne in the glen by Loch Lomond.
When he learned MacLachlainn’s name had been drawn as one of the men to be hanged, Latharn interceded privately to have it exchanged with that of another prisoner. Hanging would be too fast, too easy. MacLachlainn’s troubles would be over, while Latharn would be left with his torturing memories. But if MacLachlainn was transported to the colonies and sold into slavery, he would suffer. He would pay.
PART TWO
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ailean thought he had borne all a man could stand. Life could not hold any further heartbreak or suffering than he had already endured. But the days and nights on the rolling ship brought new distress. Prisoners in the ship’s hold began to sicken from the unhealthy conditions of their confinement. Constant sounds of moaning, retching and prayers of supplication for relief muted the creak of the ship’s timbers and the whine of wind past the ship’s hull.
“I think that man over there is dead,” Ruairidh said one evening.
“Aye, he’s dead,” said a man to Ailean’s left. “He died this morning.”
No one spoke.
“Tell the Sasunnach. Ask them to take his body,” Ailean said to Ruairidh when the crewmen brought their small ration of bread and water.
Ruairidh spoke to the sailors. One of them pushed at the body with his foot. He said something to Ruairidh, climbed the ladder and left the hold.
“He said they’ll carry him out tomorrow.”
They remained silent then, each man occupied with his own thoughts. The next morning, crewmen removed the dead man.
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The days and nights and weeks became a long nightmare of stench, suffering and death from which Ailean could not awaken and from which he was not rescued by death. By ones and by twos, the numbers of Highland men held below decks dwindled as they succumbed to disease and starvation, until at last about one-third of the original number of men remained alive in the hold.
Each day, Ailean prayed death would end his suffering, but it eluded him. He felt as if he were suspended in a limbo of torture from which there would be no release, no escape, not even by dying, not ever. He beseeched heaven to be merciful to him, to let him drift from this life to the next, as he saw others find blessed relief in the comforting arms of death. But still he lived on, if his existence could be called living.
Ailean began to wonder why God had forsaken him, why his prayers went unheard.
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Ailean had no idea how long he’d been confined below decks, but his life before entering the hold was now a distant memory. He could barely remember Mùirne and was thankful for that small blessing. He didn’t want to be reminded of how much he had lost when Latharn fired the pistol. Thinking of the loss of his home and family only added to his misery, and Ailean was grateful for increasing periods of forgetfulness.
“Get up! Get up!”
Ailean raised his head. A sailor had descended a few rungs down the ladder.
“I said, get up!” the sailor shouted again.
One by one, the ten men nearest the ladder were made to climb it, and they disappeared from sight. The hatch was closed again, and Ailean shut his eyes.
Why did the Sasunnach take them? There could be only one reason: to kill them. If that was true, why didn’t they take Ailean, too? He was ready to die, wanted to die, wanted this misery to end.
But that must be our lot. Those who want to live must die, and those who want to die must live.
Soon the hatch opened again and ten more men were forced to climb the ladder. Ailean was one of the ten. He said a quick prayer of thankfulness that his prayers had been heard at last.
When he emerged from the darkness of the hold and crawled onto the sunlit deck, the glare of the sun made it impossible for him to focus or see anything at first. The boards of the deck were hot to his hands and knees, and the humid air, unlike anything he had ever experienced, pressed down on him like a heavy burden.
“Stand up. Hold your arms up,” the sailor told him.
After weeks of hearing Ruairidh translate the crewmen’s comments and instructions, Ailean had begun to understand some of the Sasunnach tongue. He obediently staggered to his feet and raised his arms as they instructed him.
A rope dropped from an overhead pulley, a crewman looped it around his body under his arms and tied it behind him. Two sailors pulled on the other end of the rope and lifted him from his feet. They swung him out over the water and lowered him into it.
“Clean yourself, you stinking piece of filth,” one of them yelled.
Salt water burned the open sores on his wrists and ankles where the rough iron bands had rubbed the skin away. The weight of his chains pulled him under the cold water, and he thought at first they meant to drown him, that his misery was at an end at last.
But they pulled him up, gasping and sputtering, and raised his head above the water. They held the rope taut and his body stayed submerged, dragging him through the water behind the ship.
Ailean squinted against the dazzling sunlight reflecting off the water. As his vision became clearer, he tilted his head back and watched sea gulls wheeling overhead, free and easy, gliding where the air currents carried them, or pushing themselves agai
nst the wind, their cries raucous and sharp. If only he could leave his body and fly away like the gulls…
“Make sure they’re clean. No one will want to buy them stinking like they do,” he heard one of the crewmen say. Ailean understood some of the words but didn’t know what the sailors meant.
They pulled Ailean from the water and swung him onto the deck. The ragged shreds of his once-white tunic were stained and still looked dirty, but his body felt clean for the first time in a year. He saw the first group of men from the hold sitting on the deck on the other side of the ship, the shackles on their ankles fastened to a long chain.
A sailor untied the rope from around Ailean and led him, tottering and shuffling, to the other side of the ship where the first group of men brought out of the hold sat in the shade cast by the sails. He told Ailean to sit, and he attached the chain between Ailean’s ankle bands to the chain which linked the men to each other.
Ruairidh was next to be dipped in the water. Ailean didn’t recognize him at first. When he realized the gaunt skeletal form with the mass of tangled gray hair belonged to Ruairidh, Ailean was stunned. He turned his eyes downward and stared at his own body, at the knobby knees and bone-thin shins beneath them. He looked at his ribs through the holes in his tunic, felt the hard, bony protuberances that ridged his sides. He could scarcely believe that a body such as his own could yet be alive.
Ruairidh was brought and fastened to the chain next to Ailean after his dip in the water. The two men got their first clear look at one another since they’d been placed in the darkness of the hold. Ruairidh slowly passed his gaze over Ailean’s body from his head to his feet.
“I don’t understand how we are still alive,” Ruairidh whispered.
“How, in the name of heaven, could they do such as this to a man, to any man,” Ailean croaked as he regarded Ruairidh’s sunken eyes, bony body and bleeding ankles.
“Quiet! And stop that Irish jabbering! If you have something to say, say it in the King’s English!”
Ailean fell silent. He stared at Ruairidh’s ruined body for a moment, and returned his scrutiny to his own pale, spindly legs.
Heavenly Father, why have You forsaken us and turned Your back on us? Why have You allowed our enemies to treat us this way? I’ve always obeyed You the best I knew how and always worshipped You. Why have You let our enemies trample us like this?
Ailean’s outrage and sorrow over all he’d gone through, which he had buried deep within himself, threatened to break free and overwhelm him. With his inner questioning, he began to build a shell around his distress, constructing it bit by bit to isolate his pain, to contain it, to form it into a small hard knot deep in his soul.
And within the knot was a core of anger and resentment toward God.
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After all the men had been dipped in the water and fastened to the chain, they each received a large piece of bread and a cup of water. Ailean held the bread in his hand, his stomach cramping and rumbling as he anticipated eating.
“Cap’n wants you to be able to walk off the ship,” the sailor told them as he went down the line handing out the bread. “Eat it up. Nobody’ll buy you if you can’t at least walk. And if nobody buys you, the cap’n might just dip you in the water. Permanently.”
The chunk of bread was more than the weekly amount Ailean had been given the entire time he’d been on the ship. He took a small bite, unable to swallow more than a nibble. He closed his eyes as the bit of bread traveled from his mouth to his stomach, savoring the taste and the sensation of eating.
He opened his eyes to take another bite and saw Ruairidh raise his own piece of bread to his lips with trembling hands. Ruairidh took a large bite and tried to chew it, but choked. He coughed and gagged. While he tried to get his breath, he dropped his bread and it fell onto droppings from the sea gulls.
Ruairidh regarded the ruined bread for a moment, then retrieved it. He raised it to his mouth, but Ailean took the bread from him and tossed it away. He took one more bite from his own bread and handed the rest to Ruairidh.
“Take small bites,” Ailean said.
“But you need your food—”
“I’ve had enough. Eat slowly, and it won’t choke you.”
Ruairidh nodded, and began eating again, one nibble at a time, resting between bites.
Ailean’s stomach churned and growled, clamoring for more bread. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the bulwark. Although he would have enjoyed another bite of bread, he was more grateful for the fresh air of the open deck than for the food. He could still smell the noisome reek of the hold, but it was endurable.
TWENTY-NINE
George Town, South Carolina, April 1747
The sun passed its zenith and descended toward the western horizon, and the ship’s crew began lowering the sails. They scurried around performing other chores in preparation for bringing the ship into port, and before sunset, it docked in the harbor of a small town. The crew tied the ship to the pier and let down a ramp.
Before sunset, a crewman brought bread and water to feed the prisoners again. They slept that night in the open air of the deck.
The next morning, near midday, after the prisoners had eaten, a crewman passed down the line of chained men, ordering them to stand. When all of them managed to get to their feet, he and another seaman led them down the ramp to the pier to which the ship was tied.
For the first time in weeks, Ailean was on a solid footing, not on a moving, rocking boat, and the effect was disconcerting. Dizziness made his head spin, and he almost fell. The line of fettered men staggered and stumbled their way to the end of the pier where the sailors stopped them, made them turn and stand side by side.
A group of obviously wealthy men stood talking to the captain of the ship. Ailean could only understand bits of what he heard.
“But these are wild Scotsmen,” said one of the men. “I wouldn’t pay that much for three of them, much less one.”
“They’d likely die before I got them home. Look at them! They’re half-starved! No. I don’t want any of them,” said another man, and he turned and walked away.
“Maybe we can work something out,” the captain wheedled. “I’m losing money as it is, even if you pay what I’m asking. I’ve only done this as a service to the king. You’ll be doing a service, too, if you take some of them.”
“They’re not in any shape to work. I’d be losing money,” a third man said.
“They’re Highland men. Give them a good meal or two and they’ll be ready to work,” the captain said. “The only reason we fed them so little was to tame them, make them docile. They are accustomed to hard work and little food. It would take no time at all to get them back in shape.”
A man standing to the side watching and listening, but who had not yet spoken, approached the shackled men and looked them over as he walked slowly down the line.
“Captain,” he said, “you are in luck. I lost a number of field workers to the fever last summer, and I’m pressed for time to get the rice planted.” He gestured to the prisoners. “I’ll take ten of these wild men off your hands.” He turned to the captain. “But not at your price.”
“I’m only trying to recover my expenses for transporting them,” said the captain. “You certainly pay many times that much for African slaves. These men would be a bargain for you.”
“These are indentured men, so you can’t expect me to pay what I would pay for a black slave.”
“No, you don’t understand. I was informed that this group of men were to be sold as slaves. And besides,” the captain continued, “at this price, you can use them to do whatever dangerous work you need done instead of risking your African slaves.” He laughed. “You wouldn’t be losing much if one of these men died.”
Mr. Hollingsworth ran his gaze down the line of chained men once more, appraising them, and turned back to the captain to haggle. Neither man made any concessions toward a compromise.
“That’s my final off
er. I will pay no more for them,” Mr. Hollingsworth said. “However, I will give you an opportunity to increase your profit.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’ll pay you to convey these men across the Sampit to the other bank,” he said, gesturing to the opposite bank of the river.
Captain Hawsey frowned, but he assented. He turned to other potential customers who stepped forward, ready to make purchases as well. After a long period of negotiation, the captain and two customers agreed on a price for the remaining men.
“At that paltry sum, you’ll have to provide your own shackles,” the captain growled, and he ordered the sailors guarding the prisoners to remove their manacles and chains.
He stalked from the wharf, leaving the first mate to complete the paper work. The amount of profit for this cargo would be far short of what had been promised. So many of the Highlanders died during the voyage, and now, the purchasers refused to pay a fair price for the ones who were left. If he hadn’t had the foresight to feed the prisoners on short rations, he would have made no profit at all.
The first mate wrote a bill of sale for each prisoner and dutifully recorded the sales in the ship’s log book.
Mr. Hollingsworth turned to a black man who stood at his elbow. “James, see that the men are transported across the river safely. I’ll be waiting there with the wagon.”
James supervised the ship’s crewmen as they removed the shackles from the ankles and wrists of Ailean, Ruairidh and eight other men. Ailean had never seen a person with skin so dark, and he wondered if exposure to the oppressive sunlight and heat in this place darkened the man’s skin. He looked at his own sickly, pale flesh, then at the black man again, and wondered if he, too, would become black-skinned.