Tomba took refuge behind the main mast. At best he could fire a single shot with each pistol. The guard who had survived rose to his knees, took his pistol from where it had fallen and crept up behind Tomba.
“Tomba, Tomba,” I cried, but it was already too late.
The revolt had failed. It was all over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zacharias
I don’t know what to say. I just don’t have words to react to this story. My Mother looks at me with her sightless eyes, the right one just an empty socket.
The eyes of sighted people often send you a message, either supporting the words they speak, or sometimes contradicting them; but the face of a blind person is more difficult to read.
“Kwame, are you there? Have you nothing to say?” she asks.
“Did my father kill that man?” I ask.
“Is that all you have to say?”
I think she expects me to praise their courage, hers and my father’s. But if that courage led to the death of an innocent man, what then?
“The Lord has commanded us, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’” I want to tell her, but the words stick in my throat.
“Read what you have written,” she says. “We still have to deal with what happened next.”
Ama’s story
The four of us were lined up before tables on which lay the bodies of the two dead white men.
“Before we consign the mortal remains of the unfortunate Hatcher and Baker to the deep,” Williams told the crew, “Dr. Butcher will make two incisions in their bodies and extract from each the heart and the liver. Two hearts, two livers. Each of the four criminals will be made to eat one organ.”
There was a buzz of conversation amongst the crew. I understood the words but the meaning escaped me. My fellow slaves, understanding nothing, were silent.
“The good doctor tells me,” Williams continued, “that this punishment does not conform to the norms of civilized society. I have explained to him that this is not a civilized society. These people are barbarians, devil-worshippers, cannibals. It might well be that consumption of a white man’s organs will have some beneficial effect upon them. I have had my say. Mister Butcher, please proceed.”
In my worst nightmares, I had never expected this. To be subjected to torture; to be shot or hanged; to be fed alive to the sharks, perhaps. But to be forced to eat human flesh! From where I stood, I could see George Hatcher’s face, no longer red, gray now. I was sorry that fate had chosen him to be one of our victims. After Knaggs’s attempt at rape, he had talked to me, telling me how he, too, had been forced aboard The Love of Liberty, press-ganged. He was a good man, drawn into all this, as I had been, by circumstances beyond his, and my, understanding. Like me, he had a story to tell; but his is lost forever.
I was consumed with a terrible anger at the injustice of life.
“Williams,” I screamed, “it is you who are the barbarian, the cannibal. It is you whites who eat the body and drink the blood of your god. It is you who buy human beings and sell them, sell us, as if we were sheep or cattle. It is you ...”
Williams’s face turned purple.
“Gag her. Gag her,” he screamed.
My words were cut off in mid-sentence as a cloth was stuffed into my mouth.
Butcher finished his operation. Then the two coffins were brought forward. The bodies were put in them and ballast added. The ship’s carpenter nailed the lids down.
“Go ahead,” Williams told Butcher.
Butcher looked up at him, appealing.
“Do what I say.”
The bloody body parts lay on the table.
“I cannot do it,” Butcher said, shaking his head.
He seemed close to tears.
Williams looked at him with contempt.
“Knaggs,” he called, “come forward.”
“You are to feed each of these criminals with one of those organs lying on the table. Do you understand?”
“Yessir. Will they take ’em ’ole or shall I cut ’em up in pieces?” Knaggs asked.
“I leave that to you,” Williams replied.
“I think we’ll start with Missis Plum Duff,” Knaggs said to me. “What’ll it be miss, liver or ’eart?”
I remained silent. I had been lucky to win my last clash with this man. Now I was at his mercy. My feet were fettered. My hands were manacled before me. A man had threaded an arm between my elbows and my back. Another held my head immobile. Knaggs cut one of the livers into slices. He held up a piece of the meat between finger and thumb, displaying it to the assembly.
“Let’s ’ave no trouble now, miss,” he said. “Open yer mouth.”
I clenched my teeth. Knaggs put the meat down and tried to force my mouth open. He failed.
“She won’ open ’er mouth, sir,” he told Williams.
“Butcher,” said the captain, “give him your speculum oris.”
With a wan look, the surgeon opened his black leather case and took out what looked like an iron scissors.
“Do you know how to use it, Knaggs?” asked Williams.
“Yessir.”
He turned a thumbscrew, bringing the two prongs of the instrument together.
“’Old ’er ’ead firm, now,” he told his assistant as he forced the pointed ends between my teeth.
There was a murmur of protest from the men who had been brought out to watch. It was silenced by a threatening flick of the whip. I strained every muscle in my body to resist, but my strength was no match for the three men who now held me. Knaggs turned the thumb screw. The prongs forced my jaws open.
“’Old hit now,” said Knaggs, turning to the table.
I had been clenching my muscles tightly against the irresistible force of the speculum. With Knaggs’s back turned, I relaxed; then I opened my mouth wide. The instrument fell to the floor. I clenched my teeth again.
There was a cheer from the slaves.
“Knaggs, you idiot,” said Williams, “I thought you said you knew how to use the cursed thing.”
Knaggs unscrewed the speculum and tried again.
“Go easy, man,” said Butcher, “You’ll break her jaw.”
I closed my eyes. I was on the point of losing consciousness. My head was forced back and I felt the raw meat slither down my throat. Involuntarily, I retched. The piece of liver shot out of my mouth and hit Knaggs in the face. The seamen laughed at his discomfiture. My body sagged and Knaggs’s assistants had to hold me up.
“Lay ’er on the deck an’ I’ll ’ave hanother go,” said Knaggs.
“Captain Williams, sir,” I heard Butcher say, “surely that is enough?”
Zacharias
My mother has been guilty of the most terrible blasphemy, the way she referred to the Holy Eucharist, but after hearing this story, how can I raise the issue with her now?
“My Mother,” I tell her, “I’m sorry.”
My words sound so inadequate.
“This all happened many years ago,” she says. “The pain has long passed; and yet it is still part of me. And if it is part of me, it is also part of you and part of your daughter Nandzi Ama. This story must not die with me. That is why I have asked you to write it down.”
“That Captain Williams,” I say. “You said he was the uncle of our Senhor Gavin?”
“Yes,” she says.
“And Senhor Gavin was on the ship? Did he see all this?”
“Yes, he was on board and saw it all.”
I shake my head in dismay but, of course, she cannot see me.
“But Senhor Gavin is a good man. He is a Christian. How could he have allowed his uncle to do this to you?”
“Kwame,” she says, “Miranda has protected you from the harshness of the real world. That is how things are. What, after all, could the Captain’s nephew have done? O
n board a ship, the captain is god. Let us proceed. You haven’t heard the end of this story yet.”
Ama’s story
When I regained my senses, I was propped up against the main mast with my hands manacled behind it.
Tomba lay on the deck before me. The men who had been brought up from the holds as witnesses had turned and were gazing upwards.
Tomba’s two accomplices had been trussed, and now they were being hoisted to the lowest yard on the foremast. From the women, there now came a dreadful lament. Determined not to watch the show, I looked straight ahead, blinking the tears away. As my vision cleared, I saw a line of seamen standing behind the barricade on the quarter-deck, each with a musket raised to his shoulder.
“Aim at their hearts,” I heard Williams say. “I want no bullets in their heads.”
A cry came from the seamen at the foremast, “Ready, Cappin!”
“Hold tight,” cried Williams. “Now, men … ready … take your aim … fire!”
Fire and smoke emerged from the barrels of the guns. The crew cheered. The bodies of the victims slumped in their harnesses. From our people, there rose an awful groan. From the holds came an echo of their lament.
The trussed bodies were brought down and laid on the tables, blood dripping from their wounds. I knew that it was now Tomba’s turn and mine.
But Williams said, “Firing squad, you may retire.”
I thought I had seen a glint of madness in his eye, but his orders were short and precise.
“Knaggs, another job for you. Take the cutlass and decapitate the corpses.”
“Sir?”
“Decapitate. Cut off their heads.”
Knaggs’s eyes opened wide. Then his small brain understood. Holding the cutlass in both hands, he raised it above his head. He turned to look at his fellow seamen. Then he brought the knife down, severing the corpse’s neck with a single blow. The head fell to the deck, rolled a short distance, and came to a stop. Blood trickled from each part of the severed neck. Again there came a groan of bottomless despair.
“Good,” said Williams. “They are beginning to get the message. And now the other one.”
“Well done, Knaggs,” he said when the second head lay on the deck. “Now I need another volunteer. You, Knox; you have volunteered. Step forward now.”
“Yessir,” said Knox.
“You will each take one head. Hold it between your palms like this.”
He demonstrated to them. Each man picked up a head.
“Now, Knaggs, you will start from the port side and you, Knox, from starboard. Present your head to each slave in turn. Make them kiss the lips. If force is necessary to achieve this, it will be used. Now proceed.”
As Knaggs pressed the head against the face of the first man, forcing him to kiss its lifeless lips, I shouted, “No, no. Don’t do it. Do not let them force you.”
“That woman is incorrigible. Knox, take the bloody head to her. Now make her kiss it.”
I shook my head from side to side, struggling desperately.
“Knox,” called Williams, “just press the end of the neck into her face.”
Zacharias
I wanted to throw up.
“My Mother,” I begged, “please, let us take a rest. It’s too much, all at once.”
“No,” she said, “I want to finish with this now. Today I feel strong. It might not be so tomorrow.”
We had a little fire going, just outside her door.
“Is the pot on the fire?” she asked. “I’m thirsty.”
While she sipped her maté, I asked her, “My Mother, why did the captain not kill you and my father, too?”
“Tomba was too valuable. Williams must have expected to make a good profit when he sold him.”
“And you?”
“Who can see into the mind of a madman? My guess is that he thought that death was too light a punishment for me.”
Ama’s story
When the obscene kissing was over, Knaggs challenged Knox. Their mates bet their rum allowances on who would win.
At a count of one-two-three, the two men ran to the gunwale and simultaneously threw the heads far out to sea. Time seemed to have stopped. As if in a dream, the heads floated in the air, spinning, so that one moment you saw the face, the next the unkempt hair.
Knox was the winner—his head struck the water further from the ship; Knaggs was in poor condition after the weeks he had spent in irons on the forecastle.
The two headless bodies were unceremoniously dumped overboard for the sharks.
Now Tomba was bound to the foremast. Williams descended to the main deck and swung the cat-o’-nine-tails at his back. He inflicted the same punishment on me. Then he returned to the quarter-deck and watched as each member of the crew took a turn at lashing us. Only Butcher was exempt; his job was to count the lashes, shouting out the number and making a tick in his record book for each. They took their time. The first lash hurt me most. Some of the knotted ends of the whip drew blood from my back; some wrapped themselves around my body and struck my naked belly and breasts. While I waited I closed my eyes and tried to discipline my mind, forcing myself to concentrate on Itsho, numbing myself to all else. Then, without warning, Knaggs threw a bucketful of sea water over my broken skin. The sting of the salt broke me and I wept.
At every stroke, the watching men and women raised their voices, calling down the wrath of our ancestors and sharing our agony. A moment later, there would be an echo from the holds.
In between the lashes, I was dimly aware of other events. The long boat swung out and the two coffins were lowered into it. A small crew rowed it out to sea. The ship’s flag was dropped to half-mast. A seaman blew a tuneless blast on a trumpet, while another beat a monotonous boom-boom-boom on a drum. From the long boat the chief mate gave a signal. Williams read from the Book of Common Prayer. Then he ordered the canons to be fired in honor of the two dead seamen. There were twenty blasts, one for each year of the life of Harry Baker, the age of George Hatcher being unknown. I would have put my hands to my ears, but my hands were not free.
After the burial at sea, the interval between the lashes became shorter. I tried to keep count. I was telling myself, fifty, fifty, fifty, when Knaggs’s turn came round again. He twirled the cat and swung high, aiming at my head. One knot tore at my left ear. A bunch struck the back of my head. The knot on the longest strand took out my right eye.
Zacharias
It is Saturday. Josef tells me that we are going to spend the night in the forest. He doesn’t tell me why, just to bring my sleeping mat and blanket, a plate, a spoon, and a mug. My mother will be coming, too.
We meet in the dark near the allotments. There is much shaking of hands. I gather that they do this several times a year, but it is a long time since my mother last went. We set off in single file. The dry leaves speak to our bare feet. My mother stumbles behind me, holding on to my backpack with both hands. As soon as we are out of sight of the big house, torches are lit and passed back along the line. Now it is easier for me to follow those ahead of us but, for my mother, the torches make no difference. They start singing quietly, songs that I have never heard before.
The moon has risen when we reach our destination, a clearing in the forest. The women light fires and start to cook. I have never been in the depths of the forest at night before. Beyond the perimeter of the moonlit, torchlit clearing, the darkness strikes me as malevolent, full of sounds I cannot identify. Josef calls me and tells me to take my mother’s hand. We follow him and Olukoya and a few others along the side of a shallow stream to another clearing nearby.
A gigantic tree, buttressed by its spreading roots, stands near the center, dominating the open space. Its trunk rises unseen through the darkness, stretching heavenwards. In the dim light, I see that its lower reaches are decorated with white ribbons and flags. The ai
r is quite still.
Silently, we arrange ourselves in a half-circle.
Unseen drummers beat a quiet, gentle rhythm.
Olukoya stands before the tree, barefoot and naked from the waist up. Gazing up into the dark canopy and then down into the shadows behind the roots, he speaks a few sentences in a strange language. Then, to my surprise, my mother steps forward and does the same. I realize for the first time that this is some sort of pagan rite.
I am afraid. I am a Christian. We worship one God. It is a mortal sin to take part in rites like this. This is the work of the Devil. I don’t know what to do. I turn my back and, unseen by the others, make the sign of the cross again and again.
Josef steps forward.
“Onyankopon Kwame, creator of all things, lord of the universe; Asase Yaa, spirit of the earth,” he says, speaking in Portuguese, “your children greet you. We have come to tell you that we are here. We have brought a visitor from Salvador, Sister Ama’s son Kwame. I speak to you in Portuguese so that he may understand. Before dawn tomorrow we shall return to praise your name and to honor the spirits of our ancestors. Tonight we beg you to protect us as we sleep. Protect us from Sasabonsam and all spirits of ill will which may live in this forest. Now we beg your permission to take leave of you. We shall go and come again tomorrow.”
The drums signal the end of the brief ceremony. In the gloom, I cross myself again, whisper Hail Mary’s and beg forgiveness.
I take my mother’s hand to lead her back.
She says, “Kwame, you are shivering. Are you ill?”
I say, “No, it is nothing.”
And then I turn on her.
Unable to control my voice, I say, “You have deceived me. You have trapped me, made me commit a mortal sin. My Mother, I am a Christian. Why have you done this to me? You are all pagans, devil-worshippers.”
I have been shouting. Now I break down, sobbing. My mother talks to me but I cannot hear what she is saying. Josef takes her hand from mine and leads her away. Olukoya puts his arm around my shoulders. I try to shake him off but he won’t let go.
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