“Huh! The sailors seem to be excited to return to their own women,” Afi said bitterly as she and Amari sat quietly on the deck watching the activity.
“What will happen when we arrive in their land?” Amari asked.
“We will be sold once more—perhaps many times. We no longer belong to ourselves, Amari.”
“What do you think it is like there?”
“The same sun shines upon their land. The moon and the stars glow each night. Trees grow green and tall in the sunlight. But I have a feeling it will be as different from our land as life is from death.”
“I’m afraid, Afi,” Amari admitted.
“So am I, child. So am I.”
Amari had very little time to worry about the future, however, for she heard Bill, the redheaded sailor, who was working on the tallest sail of the ship, suddenly shout, “Land ho!”
She wasn’t sure what the words meant, but by the loud, boisterous reaction of the sailors, who whooped in celebration, she knew it could mean only one thing. This part of their journey was almost over.
Amari could see seabirds flying overhead, and she looked with the rest of the women at the faint hint of green in the distance. She did not share in the joy of the sailors, however. Amari was overcome by fear.
12. WELCOME TO SULLIVAN’S ISLAND
KA-BOOM! THE SHIP’S CANNON FIRED SUDDENLY, sending the slave women on deck scurrying for cover. Amari cowered close to Afi, sure that her life was about to end. The sailors, however, seemed unconcerned, even cheerful, as they steered the ship toward its destination. Some of them whistled, a sound that Amari found to be particularly distasteful. She peeked over the edge of the ship, and suddenly, green and golden beyond the blue of the sea, the land appeared from the distant mists. Amari had had no idea what to imagine, but the land she saw was surprisingly beautiful, with lush green trees growing quite close to a long, sandy beach.
“Afi,” she whispered, “the land is lovely. I thought it must surely be an ugly place.”
“Yes, it is beautiful to look at. Remember that when the ugliness overtakes you,” Afi told her. “Find beauty wherever you can, child. It will keep you alive.”
“I could not have survived without you, Afi,” Amari told her, giving the older woman a clumsy hug.
“And you have been a gift to me as well, Amari. I’m glad we were together for this horrible journey.”
“What happens now?” Amari asked.
Afi had no time to answer, for a small boat came up close to the ship, and a balding white man climbed on board. He wore a cloth tied across his face. The captain of their ship laughed and welcomed him aboard.
The first thing Amari noticed was that the newcomer was clean, smelling strongly of the scent of too many flowers. He coughed and choked as if the very air of the slave ship would infect him with illness. It was clear he was reacting to a terrible odor.
Amari could make out only a few of the words between them. She could figure out the words “stink” and “slave” and “cargo” and that the man who had come on board was some sort of official from the land they were heading toward. Amari realized as she listened intently to their conversation that she and her fellow slaves were the cargo. Then she saw the captain hand something to the man. It was a small leather pouch that bulged with silver objects. The man took it greedily and stuffed it into his shirt.
The captain then laughed again and pointed to Afi and Amari and the other women on the deck. The man walked over to the slave women and rubbed his hands together. With a look that seemed to Amari to combine disgust as well as desire, he proceeded to examine each of the women slaves very carefully.
Afi was called first. Like the rest of the women, she was just about naked. He checked every bone and muscle of her body by running his hands over her, noting flaws or bruises. Afi’s back showed many scars, and he frowned with displeasure. He looked inside her mouth and checked her teeth. He checked her genitals. She kept her eyes closed. Amari knew that Afi’s mind was in another place.
“Good breeder,” she heard the man say as he smacked Afi on the buttocks. Amari did not know what that meant.
Afi was sent back to her place on the deck, and Amari was called next. Using Afi’s strength as an example, Amari stood quietly as she was touched and examined and fondled. Her impulse was to jerk away from him, but she forced herself to stand silently.
The rest of the women were checked next, then the men, who had been brought up on deck, were examined as well. The man scribbled some marks on a flat sheet he carried and gave it to the captain. Amari listened carefully to his words, and even though she did not fully understand their meaning, she knew that her life was about to change again. “Your cargo is approved to land, Captain. Welcome to Sullivan’s Island.”
13. THE SLAVE AUCTION
THE NEXT DAY THE SLAVES WERE TAKEN IN GROUPS from the ship. The women were placed in small boats similar to the ones that had taken them away from their homeland; fewer boats were needed to unload the surviving slaves than when they had started out.
As he helped her from the ship into one of the small boats, Bill refused to look at Amari directly. He mumbled into her ear, “Be brave, child. God have mercy on you.” Amari glanced back to see him, but he was gone.
The rowers were swift and the journey was short. It took only a few minutes to reach the beach on the place they called Sullivan’s Island. Chained and pushed, Amari was unloaded with the others. She tried to walk, but she kept falling onto the sand. Her legs felt like they were made of mashed fufu. She glanced around and saw that most of the slaves, and some of the sailors as well, had difficulty adjusting to land after such a long time journeying on the ocean.
A long, well-trodden path lay in front of them. Tall grasses grew in abundance on either side of it. Three solemn seabirds flew overhead. All was unusually silent.
When most of the slaves were able to walk, they were led to a large building about half a mile from the beach. It was made of wood and stone—a smaller version of the prison at Cape Coast. None of their captors spoke to them, except to yell or curse, nor did they try to explain what was happening. Talk surrounded them, however, as one slave was pointed to with great interest or another was laughed at.
The slaves were fed, given water, and even supplied with extra water in small basins with which to bathe. Their wounds were patched or covered, and they were oiled and prepared for whatever was to come next. The whole area was full of nervous tension.
A tall black man entered the room. He limped noticeably, and he was dressed in a ragged version of the clothing of the whites. He looked at them, shook his head sadly, then addressed the slaves in the white language, seemingly giving instructions. They gazed at him blankly.
Finally, as soon as all of the white men had stepped outside of the building, the black man switched to the Ashanti language, speaking quickly and softly. “Listen, my brothers. I know not all of you can understand me, but I can see that some of you are Ashanti and Ewe. I will be whipped if they catch me ‘talking African,’ as they call it, but I must tell you some things. You must learn their language quickly—it is called English—but try not to forget your own. Submit and obey if you want to live. You are at a place called Sullivan’s Island, where you will be kept for ten days, until they are sure you have no disease. Smallpox is the worst. Then you will be taken to a place called Charles Town, where you will be sold to the highest bidder.” A white soldier reentered the building, and the black man smoothly switched back to the language of the whites.
The black man, whom the soldiers called Tybee, passed out some rough garments for them to wear—a simple smock for the women, a shirt and trousers for the men. He told them the names of each item in English as he gave it to them—“shirt,” “shift,” “apron”—then pointed out other words they would need, like “massa,” “yes’m,” and “yessir.” Amari was surprised and pleased that she was able to understand quite a few of the words he said.
They stayed there on the is
land for several days, waiting for the unknown. During the day the slaves were fed and their wounds were treated, but at night fear was the blanket that covered each of them.
Amari lay on the ground one particularly hot night, trying to escape into sleep. She curled herself into a ball, but as she closed her eyes, memories assaulted her, so she sat back up, leaning against the rough wooden wall. She looked over and was surprised to see Besa, who had worked his way as close to her as he could in spite of his chains. She quickly lowered her head.
“My lovely Amari,” he greeted her quietly in their language, as if hope still shone in their sky. “How goes your day?”
“Better, now that you are here,” she said, remembering sadly that day that seemed so long ago. “But I am no longer lovely, and my days will never be happy again.” She tried not to cry.
“When you look at the sun and the stars,” he whispered, “I want you to remember me and smile. I want you to know that you will always be my lovely Amari.”
One of the guards noticed them talking then and slashed at Besa with his whip. Besa glared at him, but he understood the danger of retaliation. He allowed himself to be led back to the far side of the men’s area, where the guard kicked him fiercely. Amari had to look away.
Early the next morning the slaves were once again shackled and packed into boats. Looking healthier and feeling stronger than they had in a very long time, they were ready for sale.
The shoreline, Amari noticed as they were unloaded at the place her captors called Charles Town, was rocky and harsh rather than soft beach.
Amari looked then at an amazing sight. Tall buildings and people, seemingly everywhere, crowded the area. What has happened to the trees? she thought. And what are all these structures? Surely these white people must have great magic to make such buildings! And there are so many of them!
“Afi,” Amari whispered. “The faces of brown and black that I see—are they slaves?”
“I cannot tell for sure, but I think so,” Afi whispered back. “Most of them do not seem to walk with authority.”
“I think we have arrived in a backward world—where black skins are few and not respected and pale skins seem to rule,” Amari commented quietly.
They were taken to a place that Amari heard them call the “customhouse.” It was a big drafty building with a large door. Pushed into a small shed next to it, the slaves waited in silence on the dirt floor. The sun rose, the room began to get unbearably hot, the hours passed, and the sun set again. They were given food and water at the end of the day, then locked back in the shed for the night.
Amari, hot and sweaty, whispered to Afi, “What are they waiting for?”
“Buyers,” Afi declared. Amari’s stomach clenched with fear.
Early the next morning white men lined up the slaves, sloshed cold water on them, and had other slaves rub oil all over their bodies. The oil stank, and Amari coughed at the odor.
“Now it begins,” Afi said sadly.
By the time the sun had begun to shine brightly, the sale had started. Besa and a coffle of men were taken as the first to be auctioned off. As he and the others were led from the holding area, a great cry of enthusiasm could be heard from the crowd outside. Amari could hear loud, excited words tossed back and forth, much like the tones of bargaining her mother had used on market days. She heard someone say the word “Sold!” and she knew she would never see Besa again.
The rest of the men, some in sets of two or three, some singly, were sold as the morning went on. By midday it was time for the women.
In spite of the heat, Amari trembled. She gazed out of the shed’s single window at the sun, which glistened bright and harsh. No warmth. No soft shadows to hide her embarrassment. No hope. She wondered how the sun could shine so brightly on this land of evil people. Nothing made sense to her any longer—not days or nights, not past or present.
This was the summer of her fifteenth year, and this day she wanted to die.
More buyers had arrived. Afi and Amari and the other women were stripped naked. Amari bit her lip, determined not to cry. But she couldn’t stop herself from screaming out as her arms were wrenched behind her back and tied. A searing pain shot up through her shoulders. A white man clamped shackles on her ankles, rubbing his hands up and down her legs as he did. Amari tensed and tried to jerk away, but the chains were too tight. She could not hold back the tears.
Amari shuffled in the dirt as she was led into the yard and up onto a raised wooden table, which she realized gave the people in the yard a perfect view of the women who were to be sold. She looked at the faces in the sea of pink-skinned people who stood around pointing at the captives and jabbering in their language as each of the slaves was described. She looked for pity or even understanding but found nothing except cool stares. They looked at her as if she were a cow for sale. She saw a few white women fanning themselves and whispering in the ears of well-dressed men—their husbands, she supposed. Most of the people in the crowd were men; however, she did see a poorly dressed white girl about her own age standing near a wagon. The girl had a sullen look on her face, and she seemed to be the only person not interested in what was going on at the slave sale.
Amari looked up at a seabird flying above and remembered her little brother. I wish he could have flown that night, Amari thought sadly. I wish I could have flown away as well.
PART TWO
POLLY
14. THE SLAVE SALE
POLLY REALLY DIDN’T LIKE NEGROES. AS FAR AS she was concerned, they should all get shipped back to Africa or wherever it was they came from. They talked funny, they smelled bad, and they were ugly. How could the good Lord have made such creatures? Polly wondered as she glanced with boredom at the slave sale. Dark skin, big lips, and hair the texture of a briar bush—they were just plain unpleasant to deal with. Besides, Negroes made it difficult for regular folks like herself to get work. Who could compete with somebody who worked for free?
She scratched an insect bite on her arm, unrolled a sheaf of paper, and leaned against the wooden wagon of Mr. Percival Derby, owner of Derbyshire Farms. Proud of the fact that she could read, Polly looked over her certificate of indenture one more time.
She mumbled and moved her lips as she read, “‘His Majesty King George the Second, in the Year of Our Lord One Thousand Seven Hundred and Thirty-Eight, on this, the second day of June, in the city of Charles Town, colony of South Carolina, hereby sets the indenture of one Polly Elizabeth Pritchard, age fifteen years, to Mr. Percival Derby, for a period not to exceed fourteen years.’”
Polly frowned. She’d not been able to shorten the fourteen-year term. A normal indenture was seven years, but she had to pay off the debts of her parents, and the only way she was allowed to do that was to sign up for a double indenture. She’d have to work for Mr. Derby until she was an old woman—almost twenty-nine—but she was determined that long before that time she would have figured out a way to get out of the contract.
She looked back at the slave sale. The women were wailing and acting as if something terrible was happening to them. Polly snorted and turned away. Living here in the colonies had to be better than living like a savage in the jungle. They ought to be grateful she thought. She thought of the Negroes she’d known as a child—well-fed and happy slaves, with no worries about finding employment. No, she had no sympathy.
The sale was getting boisterous. Polly looked up. “Fresh from Africa,” the auctioneer told the crowd. “Mold ’em into what you want ’em to be. Look at ’em! All of them healthy and ready for childbearin’! Come on up and take a look! Feel free to inspect the merchandise.”
An unbelievably large white man who smelled of strong wine and an even stronger body odor waddled past Polly and up to the auction area. She covered her nose and laughed behind her hand. He seemed to have difficulty breathing. He climbed onto the riser where the Negro women stood and headed directly to the youngest one there—a girl about her own age. He opened the girl’s mouth and put his fi
ngers inside.
Polly grimaced, not because she felt sorry for the girl, but because the man was so repulsive. Then the fat man touched the girl’s breasts and ran his hands down her legs. “Nice,” Polly heard him rasp. “I’ll give ten pounds for the girl,” he said to the auctioneer, wheezing between his words. He ignored the woman standing next to the girl.
“Do I hear more than ten pounds for this fine example of African womanhood? Hardly a scratch on her. Bright enough to be taught simple commands, like ‘Come here’ and ‘Lie down’!” The crowd laughed at that, but Polly didn’t.
“Twenty pounds!” called a voice from the back of the crowd.
The fat man looked up in astonishment. “Thirty!” he responded loudly. He sat down on the edge of the wooden platform and pulled out a filthy handkerchief. He wiped his face, which was sweating profusely.
“Forty pounds!” called the voice from the back again. People turned to see who was outbidding the large man in the front.
“She’s not worth forty-five!” the big man yelled to the crowd.
“Is that your bid?” the auctioneer asked.
The fat man hesitated. “Yes,” he said then. “I want her!”
“I hear forty-five. Do I hear fifty?” The crowd waited in anticipation.
“Sixty pounds for the African girl,” the voice cried out at last. “I want her for my son. Today is his sixteenth birthday!” The crowd cheered. No one seemed to want the large man to win this one.
The auctioneer looked at the large man, who was still wiping his brow. “He can have her,” the big man said finally. “I’ll get me a young gal another day.”
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