Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons

by Ann Rinaldi

  They were very big and powerful, these Kroomen. They rubbed their bodies with palm oil. And their canoes were dug out of the trunks of cotton trees.

  They brought the man I now know as Captain Quinn to shore. With some others.

  "Koomi," someone murmured.

  Murmurs of fear went down the line. Koomi were white men who lived in a land across the water. They would eat us!

  There was much haggling then between Captain Quinn and Dahobar. Much pointing to us. Much shaking of Koomi heads.

  Men were separated from women and children. Captain Quinn made us take off our clothes. I shudder to remember how we stood there naked while he opened our mouths, and made us jump up and down and move our arms, and pinched our skin and felt our muscles.

  Some of Dahobar's captives he pushed aside. He did not want them. I heard him say a word I did not understand. "Diseased." He also pushed the other children aside. Not me. Dahobar insisted I be taken. And Obour clung to me, so they took her, too.

  When Captain Quinn was satisfied with the rest of us, he ordered the Kroomen to bring Dahobar's reward from the long canoe. Hogsheads of rum. Barrels of cowrie shells. Stacks of new muskets.

  Those of us selected were then branded.

  I was so frightened I think I have chased the memory of it from my mind, as Obour and I had chased the birds from the rice fields. All I recollect is seeing Captain Quinn's men come forth with the hot brand. Then I fainted.

  Mother was holding me when I woke up. They let her put a cloth of cold water against my hip, as was being done to some others. While she did this, she took her cowrie shell off her neck and put it around mine.

  "No matter what happens," she whispered, "stay quiet, keep yourself small, eat what you are given, and never make a sound. This cowrie shell will protect you. It is a giver of life."

  Soon the pain from the branding subsided. It was not a deep brand, but it brought blisters. And to this day I have the initials T. F. on my hip. Timothy Fitch, the merchant who owned the slave ship.

  It was years before I could bring myself to look at it.

  We were given back our clothes and herded into the canoe. All around us the great two-headed beast of the ocean screeched and gnashed its teeth at us.

  I hid, hunkering down into the side of the canoe. I screamed. I vomited. I clutched Obour. I yelled for my mother, who was at the other end, so far away I could scarce see her.

  "Keziah!" I heard my mother calling my name, even above the surf crashing around us as the canoe rode the waves. I heard her voice as from a great distance though a giant of a Krooman was standing in the middle of the boat and directing the rowers.

  "Mother!" I screamed until my throat was raw. But no one heard me. The time for hearing me was past.

  Two men jumped out of the boat. We could hear their screams as they were eaten by sharks.

  When the canoe finally made it through the waves to the ship, there was great turmoil to get us up the rope ladder. Another jumped into the sea, a woman. Sharks were circling around, waiting. As one of the Koomi carried me up the rope ladder I looked down to see the swirling waters below filled with blood.

  The men were immediately shackled and hauled off 'tween decks. We could hear their cries from below as they were packed into the hold.

  The women were put in another part of the ship.

  Later, I learned many things. My mother had only sixteen inches to lie on. But since the Phillis was a loose-packed slaver, Mother had two and a half feet of space overhead, instead of only twenty inches, as she would have had if we were tight packed.

  This was considered lucky.

  Obour and I were the only two children. We were also put in the hold, shackled down. All I recollect is a Koomi man over me nailing down my chain, the cries and wails of those around me, the stench of those who had already dirtied themselves. And the dimness.

  There was no air in the hold. Even the candles could not live there. They went out. And then, so did I.

  The next morning we sailed. I learned later that slave ships must leave immediately. Sickness can break out on board. If the crew takes sick, the cargo can mutiny.

  Slaves are more likely to form an uprising within sight of shore than out at sea. Once at sea, they are helpless.

  So we sailed. I cried, feeling the ship move under me. Because I knew I would never see my home again. All because I disobeyed my mother and went out alone. All because Dahobar hated my father.

  All because the leopard came.

  But again, I was lucky. The gods favored me. Or mayhap it was the cowrie shell I now wore around my neck.

  The second day out, I came down with a dreadful sickness. I was brought abovedeck. In my delirium, I did not know how or by whom. But I woke with the smell of salt air in my nostrils and a man shoving boiled rice down my throat. I was gagging.

  Captain Quinn stood over me. "You will eat!"

  I told him I wanted my mother. A nigra crewman who knew some of my language translated for him.

  "Your mother is with the women. She will soon be brought on deck for exercise. Eat!"

  I told him no. I was not hungry.

  "Do you think you have a choice? Do you want to be thrown to the sharks?"

  Wanting to show him I was brave, I said yes.

  "Do you want to be flogged?"

  I was not that brave. But I stared hard at him, holding my ground. "I want my friend, Obour," I said.

  The nigra crewman who was translating told Quinn that Obour wouldn't eat, either. Then he conferred with Quinn in their own language. Quinn looked thoughtful, as if he were pondering some great matter.

  "I shall have you both flogged," he told me. "My first mate, Kunkle, is good with the cat. Two small girls. You are of no profit to me, anyway. I was told to bring no young girls. They are useless. One whip will do. Fetch her!" he ordered the crewman.

  The man went to obey him. An idea came to me then, as Quinn stood before me, smiling and rocking back and forth on his heels.

  "I will tell Obour to eat," I said, "and I will eat, if you leave us both unshackled. Here on the deck. And not send us below again. Two small girls. What can we do?"

  "Tell me what she is saying," Quinn ordered the crewman when he came back with the struggling Obour. "She babbles."

  I said it again. The crewman translated. Then he and Quinn conferred again.

  Then I was told by Quinn to keep my part of the bargain. And he would keep his.

  So Obour and I ate our rice and millet.

  The next day I learned something.

  Quinn could have used a great tool he had to feed us. They called it the speculum oris. They forced it into a slave's mouth, then turned a screw, and the device opened, forcing the jaws apart. Then food was pushed in. I saw them do it the next day to a man who wouldn't eat.

  Obour and I stared at each other in wonder. And from that day on, I knew we would be all right.

  Why we were all right, I do not know. Quinn was not a man of good parts.

  He had his first mate, Kunkle, flog the slaves with a whip that he called "the cat." Once he had Kunkle flog one of his own men. The crew was a scurrilous lot, so I wasn't sorry when one was flogged.

  As for Kunkle, he didn't have to be pushed to carry out such orders. He was a small man, but mean and filled with venom, like a snake waiting to strike. He took special delight in setting the crew against one another. He enjoyed their bickerings.

  Kunkle roamed the deck with a whip. A large, ugly mastiff dog was always with him. We knew he would set the dog on us if we did not obey. If a slave went mad belowdecks, Kunkle had him brought above, hit over the head with a club, and tossed overboard.

  Quinn had Obour and me put in the storeroom on days when storms came and the sea was boiling. On nice days we were allowed to stay quiet in a small corner on deck. Betimes we had a canvas over us.

  From this corner we saw all the goings-on.

  We saw the men and women brought up from 'tween decks for exercise. Whic
h meant they were made to "dance" while some crew members played fiddles. And other crew members washed away the stench of blood and feces and vomit from 'tween decks. And the stench of vinegar in the sun was almost as bad.

  On these days I saw my mother. And I would stand up, weak as I was, so she could see me. I saw her dancing with the others. But she was not well. Her movements were clumsy.

  My mother. So close to me, yet so far away. Jeered at by the crew. They couldn't treat my mother like that. I wanted to kill them!

  I wanted to run from our corner and throw myself into her arms. Obour was hard put to stop me. She held me back, weak as she herself was.

  I lay, crying, against her. "I want my mother."

  "I want mine, too," she said. "And she isn't here. Be good and you'll have yours again. I never will."

  We saw the bodies of the dead thrown overboard.

  We saw the seamen sneak out in the middle of the night to the hogshead of beer Quinn had lashed to the rail, fill their mugs, and sneak off again.

  Obour had told me some hard truths, the day she was brought on deck at my request.

  "Too many are sick below. They will die," she said. "You were right to stand up to Quinn. He must treat us well. He is losing too much of his cargo."

  Was that why he was good to us? Or was it, as I found out later, because he had two little girls of his own at home?

  Or was it because I was so skinny and gap toothed that not even he, a hardened slaver, could have me flogged or used the terrible tool on me to make me eat?

  We moved up the coast. Captain Quinn had to work the slave markets of Sierra Leone and the Isles de Los before he could set sail for home.

  In two months he was finished and we had a full hold. We set sail from the Isles de Los.

  A week out, I awoke one night to my mother's screams.

  The night had been becalmed. Obour and I were sleeping on deck, under our tarp in our corner, to escape the terrible heat of the storeroom. The screams pulled me from my sleep. I sat up and shook Obour.

  In the half-light of the moon and the eerie glow of the ship's lanterns swinging on their gimbals, we saw two crewmen dragging something across the deck. At first we thought they were making off with the hogshead of beer.

  Then we knew this could not be. Because Kunkle was with them. And behind him came the mastiff.

  The thing they were dragging was a woman. My mother. I recognized her voice.

  My mother was begging for her life. I heard her begging. "No, please, I am not sick. I am well."

  "Throw her over!" Kunkle ordered.

  "Oughtn't we to ask the captain?" one crewman asked.

  "Throw her over!" What was Kunkle yelling? "He's drunk as Jonah in the belly of the whale! I'm giving orders here. You want her to infest the rest of them by morning?" What did it mean?

  Then I saw them heave my mother over the side. And I knew what it meant.

  I sat transfixed. My mouth opened, but no scream came out. Then I got up and ran across the shadow-flickered deck, Obour behind me, calling me back.

  I got there in time to see my mother clinging to the taffrail at the stern of the ship. The first mate cursed, calling her a vicious name. I did not understand the language yet, but I understood the viciousness of it.

  Then he gave more orders. And I saw one of the men climbing over the taffrail with a large knife in his hand.

  "No, no," I screamed. "Mother, Mother!" I began to beat at the man with the knife, just as he was climbing over.

  The mastiff growled and started at me. I felt his hot breath at my heels. Kunkle had him pulled away, then grabbed at me.

  I could hear my mother's screams as she clung for dear life onto the taffrail. I kicked Kunkle. I bit him so I could run to the rail and see my mother's face again. Her eyes were large and round.

  "Keziah!"

  Then the seaman was over her, chopping at her hands. The chopping sound was like that offish being cut.

  I flung myself at him, attacking. Again Kunkle grabbed me, and then I felt a blow to the side of my head. The last thing I heard was my mother's terrible screams, muffled by water. Then, like the candles in the hold, I went out.

  My head resounded with pain. There was a ringing in my ears. Someone bandaged my head and the ringing stopped. Then it was worse, because all I heard was my mother's screams.

  They did not think I would live.

  I was exhausted and weak, but every time I fell asleep I saw the horrible sight of my mother clinging to the taffrail and that man chopping off her hands. So I lay awake on the deck at night, hearing the sound of the sea, the low talking of the crew, the ship's bells, the scrambling of rats in its belly, the creaking of the capstan, the loud snapping of the sails. I stared up at the stars and thought of my mother.

  She was somewhere up there now. But where? The emptiness inside me was as large and as dark as that nighttime sky.

  Daytime, I just lay staring into space. And I did not eat.

  Obour nursed me as best she could. Sometimes all that meant was that she clung to me while I sobbed. Then when my tears were spent there was nothing else to do. So she talked.

  "Captain Quinn would tie Kunkle to the yardarm if he could," she told me.

  "Then why doesn't he?"

  "He can't spare the man. Kunkle keeps the crew in order."

  Another time she told me, "Kunkle told Quinn your mother had signs of the smallpox. But a woman brought abovedecks for air yesterday told me Kunkle had her thrown overboard because she would not allow him to take liberties with her."

  I did not answer, because I could not speak.

  "Your mother was a handsome woman," Obour said.

  Again I could not bring myself to speak.

  Quinn had a new pallet sent to me. It was clean and not wet and smelly like my old one. He also had special foods sent to Obour and me. Better food than rice and millet. Betimes yams. Betimes meat or pudding.

  From the few Koomi words we had picked up we learned that the crew was complaining about rancid meat and moldy biscuits. But everything brought to us was in good order.

  Still, I could not eat. I lay in a delirium of disbelief. Each morning as I woke from my nightmarish sleep, when I remembered what had happened the world came crashing down on my head.

  "You must eat," Obour said, "or you will die."

  "I want to die."

  "You can't."

  "Why? Give me one reason."

  "I have no reason. Except that it is better to live."

  "Who said this?"

  "Your mother would say it if she were here."

  "But she isn't here. And I'm responsible. So unless you have any other reason, I'm going to starve myself until I die."

  "Quinn won't let you."

  "I'm half-dead already. No good to him. I'm damaged."

  She left me and I lay alone under my canvas, planning my death. In a little while, she came back.

  "I have thought of a reason," she said.

  I listened.

  "I told the crewman who speaks our language what you said. He told Quinn. He sends me with this message. If you die, he will kill me."

  I just stared at her.

  "So you must stay alive for me, Keziah. Please! Do you want to be responsible for my death, too?"

  I roused myself. I ate. I did not want to be responsible for my good friend's death. There was weight enough on my heart.

  Living was harder than dying. I found that out soon enough. There is always something out there waiting to get you. Some unseen thing, like the leopard.

  At night I still had nightmares. But Obour helped me. We comforted one another. We became accustomed to the rhythms of life aboard the ship. Because if we did not, we would surely die. And we both had to live. I knew this now, though I did not know exactly why.

  I learned much later that Kunkle was charged with the murder of my mother. In Massachusetts. But he ran off and could not be found. They say Captain Quinn is still looking for him. A crewman told
Quinn she had no sore from smallpox, but that she would not let Kunkle take liberties with her. It seems by the rules of the slave trade that you are allowed to throw overboard the mad, the sick, the dying. But you are not permitted to murder a slave woman for your own reasons. It is not good business.

  Chapter Six

  My first view of America was of dirt and grime.

  The place we were kept when we were taken off the ship was like a pen. It had a high fence around it. We heard voices, laughter, the sound of movement, children playing, people calling in greeting to one another, the shouting of people who sold fish, hammering and building going on, even music betimes. But we could see nothing.

  We were kept to ourselves inside the walls of a building at night and brought out into the pen in the day.

  After two days of this a man came to see us. His name was John Avery. Those men amongst us who had picked up enough of the Koomi language on ship interpreted for us. They also told us he worked for the man who owned our ship.

  The man named John Avery stood in the middle of the pen with Captain Quinn, looking at us and sniffing something out of a gold box.

  "Meanest cargo I ever saw," he said.

  We were to be sold the next day!

  Word went around our compound and fear broke out like dysentery. We trembled from it. Obour and I clutched one another on that last night together. Tomorrow we would be separated. Likely we would never see each other again.

  It was midsummer and the nights were hot. So those of us who wanted to, slept outside in the pen. I remember looking up at the stars in the sky and wondering if they were the same stars that shone over our home in Senegal. How could the stars I had always considered so beautiful grace the sky over this land called America? Where people were sold like cattle.

  The next day, early, we were awakened and given some meal, and the women and men were washed. This was done by having buckets of water thrown at them. Then they were given osnaburg garments to put on.