The Abduction of Smith and Smith

by Rashad Harrison

  Tom sat next to him. “As I said earlier, we do not intend to suffer because of your troubles with money.”

  Dalmore was growing tired of this Tom West. “What do you know of my affairs?”

  “I know about your failed adventure in gunrunning.”

  Dalmore’s fingers tapped the table lightly. “It did not end so well.”

  “I also know that you cannot force your guns upon China as you did your opium.”

  Dalmore smiled. “Let me correct you on recent history, young Tom. It was the British that forced opium on China, not Americans.”

  Tom also smiled. “You are British, are you not?”

  Dalmore stared. “I was once. A long time ago. But what say you of the opium you peddle here? No one has forced you to do such a thing.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Dalmore, there is a surplus of opium back in China. So much of it that it all cannot be sold there. A great number of my people brought their dependence on opium with them across the great ocean. We provide them with whatever they need to tolerate the harsh realities of their existence, so that they may continue to work tirelessly for respectable white men such as you.”

  “I’ve grown weary of this,” said Dalmore. “What is it that you want?”

  “I want to be assured that our agreement shall be honored.”

  “It will, I assure you. Satisfied?”

  “Not quite,” said Tom West. “Our arrangement was an investment of sorts. I think that it would be best to make it official.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Gao Lin Imports will make an investment in the Dalmore Shipping Company. You need capital. Our money will allow you to continue building your ships—in return you shall give us a percentage of the profits and our people preference in hiring.”

  Dalmore thought of the Cressida, the ship of his dreams that had yet to be completed. Until that moment, he was not sure why he had been doing all of this. The boy in him had conceived that ship. She had to be finished.

  18

  In the cramped quarters, hammocks swayed between rows of two-tiered bunks on either side of the ship. It smelled of damp wood and men who needed a bath—stronger than one offered by sea spray. Kerosene lamps flickered, struggling to light the perpetually dark space. Among the crew of twenty men, there were none of the bonds commonly formed on a ship. Jupiter decided that, for his own safety, it must stay that way for him. He had learned that most of them, at one time or another, had been crimped.

  • • •

  It was backbreaking work. Rigging sails, scrubbing the deck—through work they fought off the seasickness within a few days. Archer faster than Jupiter: an opium eater’s equilibrium is used to being assaulted. Down in the galley they ate their meals. Jupiter and Archer forced themselves to eat the slop—each horrid mouthful.

  Archer threw a hateful look at Jupiter.

  “Ever been crimped before?” asked a grizzly old sailor.

  “What?” Archer wasn’t sure if he heard him correctly.

  “Crimped. They shanghaied you in ’Frisco. Ever happen before then?”

  “No, thank God.”

  The sailor swallowed a spoonful of slop. “They snatched me off a tit in Portland—and thank heaven for it. A day longer and I would have been cut to pieces and fed to the pigs. Overstretched myself at one of their fine brothels. Ever been?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Fine brothels, fine. The ladies have fire in their blood. It’s enough to turn an old seadog like me into a landlubber. Best of all there’s no malaria. Not like the damned African coast. Ever been?”

  Archer grew uneasy. “No.”

  “Gibraltar?”

  “No.”

  “Newfoundland? East Indies? Have you ever set foot on a ship before?”

  “No, no, and no.” Archer stared into the unctuous paste in front of him.

  “What’s the story ’tween you and the Negro?”

  “There is no story.”

  “I can tell by the way you look at him, or don’t look at him. Seems like he might not be with us for long if you had your way.”

  “I have had enough of the damned questions.”

  “Fine. I’ve grown sick of asking them.” He slid his tin plate over to Jupiter’s side of the table. “Feisty one, ain’t he?” he said, tilting his head toward Archer. “What ports you been through?”

  Jupiter thought about it. “None since the navy.”

  “Navy?”

  “Served on a gunboat at the start of the war, then left to fight on land.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “Why all the damn questions?”

  “Oh, you’re cut from the same cloth, the two of you. Not to worry, I’ll figure it out. One thing on this ship we got plenty of is time.”

  19

  Archer continued to learn coopering under Jupiter’s tutelage. Each day, Archer grew more dedicated to killing Jupiter. He couldn’t ignore how Jupiter acted as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t murdered his father. It gave Archer license to remove such a monster from the earth. Of course, Negroes weren’t fully men, but even a dog shows remorse after biting the hand of his master. But here was Jupiter, relishing in his new role as teacher and Archer as student, not ever mentioning the former roles they played in that old world, now so far away. Instead, he went on teaching Archer, teaching him and saving his life. It was enough goodwill to get a man killed.

  After a few days, Captain Barrett approached Archer with the rest of his men in tow.

  “Here’s your ring. Here’s your planks. Let’s see how many barrels you can make from them. Remember, I want a solid barrel. No leaks. Any leaks from these barrels, and my man Burns will see to it that your gut does likewise.” Burns gave Archer a menacing grin.

  Jupiter nodded at Archer. “You can do it. Remember what I taught you.” Some of the other men snickered, and Archer realized it was a show to undermine him. He imagined his hands around Jupiter’s throat, but he instead went about the business of putting the barrels together. He stared at them blankly, waiting for those lessons to overcome the rage he felt for Jupiter. Finally, they did come. He put the barrels together—five in all—from the materials that Barrett had laid before him. A good hour had passed, much too slow for normal coopering, but the barrels were constructed nonetheless.

  Barrett looked at Archer. “You’ve made fine replicas of barrels. Let’s see how they hold.” The men lifted heavy barrels of water, pouring them into the first barrel that Archer had made. Once finished, they inspected the new barrel for any leaks. There weren’t any to be seen. Barrett’s men stayed silent, as did Jupiter and their fellow captives. Barrett’s men lifted another barrel and poured it into one that Archer had constructed, and repeated this process on the third, fourth, and finally fifth barrel. The second, third, and fourth had not leaked a drop. They waited on the fifth, running their fingers across each seam where the planks met. None showed. The man nodded at Barrett.

  “Well, it seems you live to sail another day,” said Barrett.

  There was a spattering of applause from the crew.

  Archer was overwhelmed and quite surprised by just how overwhelmed he felt. “Thank you, Captain Barrett,” he found himself saying.

  “It seems that it is your tutor, and not me, that you should be thanking,” said Barrett.

  The glee left Archer’s face as he turned to Jupiter. “I do thank you kindly for all you have done for me.”

  20

  Jupiter felt relieved when Archer was spared. He thought back to their childhood, when war was just a game that boys played—how they chased each other on the sprawling plantation, commanding their imaginary regiments like diminutive General Washingtons. Strange how quickly war became such a bloody business when they fought each other on opposite sides of the battlefield.

  How
would he break the news to Archer that the Colonel had gone mad and died by Jupiter’s hand? He hadn’t said a word about it. He hoped that the time would present itself on its own.

  Jupiter hadn’t spoken to Archer much; it felt strange trying to forge a friendship now, given their relationship in that previous world. But he knew they would have to depend on each other in order to stay alive, even though only a few years ago they would have killed each other on sight.

  • • •

  Ship labor was even beneath his duties as a slave. At least in bondage he’d been Archer’s or the Colonel’s valet. He’d never engaged in field hand work. However, he went about his ship duties diligently, another means to survival, once again plotting his freedom.

  He thought about the day he went off to war. He had hoped to steal off in the night when no one, especially the Colonel, would see him. He’d managed to gather up his knapsack and make it past Sonya, but there, in the darkness of the road, he heard a voice speak to him from the shadows. “After all I’ve done for you, you can’t even say good-bye before you go off to fight in a war that would end our way of life?” He could not see his face, but he knew the Colonel’s voice.

  “Thought it best if I disappeared in the night without making a fuss.”

  “For your sake or mine?”

  Jupiter didn’t answer.

  “You’ve thought about what you’re getting ready to do? The South is the South. The North won’t win. You’re liable to die fighting for those liars up north. Despite what they tell you, they don’t give a possum’s ass about your people. Down here, you know where you stand. There is no paradise up there.”

  Jupiter thought about it. He wasn’t looking for paradise. He was looking for freedom. He had no illusions about freedom being a paradise, but he wanted it. Whatever hard times freedom brought, he wanted them. He wanted to experience living on his own terms, and no matter how disappointing, no matter how trying, it sounded like heaven to him. But he could never express that to the Colonel and make him understand. Instead, he offered a curt, “I know exactly what I’m doing,” and began to walk off into the darkness down the road.

  “I’m in my rights to shoot you! Your body is my property. You are my property. You are stealing my property!”

  Jupiter kept walking, and the Colonel kept raving into the night. His anger, verbal fireballs, illuminated the darkness and shadows in which he stood. He kept walking until the ravings grew faint and could hear nothing at all— Suddenly, he could see an electric light blossom in the night. It was strange to him because he had recalled this memory before and no such light was present. Yet here was this mystifying light, and now a constriction of his lungs and throat, and the wet coldness around his ears, mouth, and eyes; the weight of it pushing him down further and further into a blackness that surrounded his entire being.

  21

  Archer swung the pin against the back of Jupiter’s skull. He slumped and fell overboard, ever so quietly. Not even a scream or yelp. No blood anywhere, except on the end of the pin. Archer felt a sweet satisfaction in committing the act in front of all of those people, yet there were no witnesses. None. Or so he thought.

  “He’s down there! Man overboard!” screamed Burns, the first mate. “Man overboard!” Burns screamed again. No one moved. He did not repeat himself; instead he jumped into the murky waters, landing right on top of Jupiter. Archer and the other men ran to the edge. Both Jupiter and Burns were below the surface. Then, after what seemed like a long while, all of the men searched the water’s black slick surface for a sign of Burns, but only Jupiter’s face emerged.

  22

  All the crew stood on deck. Jupiter, soaked, angry, and Archer still touched with the look of the lunatic. No man said a word. They heard the footsteps, then saw Captain Barrett’s head appear from below.

  He approached them silently, taking the time to look each member of the crew in the eye. He lingered to register their response and reactions to his scrutinizing glare. He made his way to Jupiter and Archer, the boatswain keeping them apart.

  “Well, Mr. Clark, tell me what has happened here,” Barrett said while looking at Archer.

  “Aye, Captain. It seems the Johnny Reb struck the Negro in the head with a belaying pin. The blow sent him reeling overboard. Luckily he was able to hold on to something and we pulled him back on board quickly enough.”

  “What was this ordeal about?”

  Archer and Jupiter shared a look and held their tongues.

  Barrett pointed at Archer. “Tie him to the mast.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  • • •

  Barrett revealed a hinged case with two clasps at the opening. Out came the whip, thick and coiled like a giant snake. He brought the whip close to Archer, who could sense the weight of it.

  “I rarely put men to the whip myself,” said Barrett. “It is an art I do not have the knack for. An evil art, but necessary nonetheless. Peace must be maintained on a ship. We can’t go around harming one another at the slightest whim.” Barrett raised the whip as if he were about to crack it across Archer’s back.

  Clark wedged a splint wrapped with a rag between Archer’s teeth. He clenched his jaw.

  “This man will receive forty lashes for his actions. A small price to pay for attempting to kill one of us—one of your brothers for the duration of this voyage. We can’t have any man breaking the cohesion of this crew—this family. Understood?”

  Aye, Captain!

  Barrett handed the whip to Jupiter. “Give him the forty lashes he has earned . . . and be quick about it.”

  Jupiter observed the whip’s handle—embroidered, it had the look of snakeskin. He had never held a whip before. He was not one of those slaves who had doubled as an overseer for their master. Although during the war he had pulled enough triggers and handled enough knives, he had never held a weapon like this.

  “With respect, Captain, I will have to decline.” He presented the whip to Barrett.

  “There is no declining. I present the rules to the ship—once she accepts them they must be followed or she’ll fall apart and sink, taking us all down with her. Either you put the lash to him or we will all take turns putting the lash to you. Forty—from each of us.”

  Jupiter looked at the whip, then into Barrett’s eyes—shrewd and dispassionate, they were all too familiar. He dropped the whip, then removed his shirt and let it fall to the deck. Arms wrapped around the mast, he positioned himself next to Archer. Some of the crew gasped.

  Clark went for the whip. “You insolent black devil. I’ll beat the hide off you.”

  Barrett looked at Jupiter’s smooth, unscarred back. No whip had touched it.

  “On your word, Captain,” said Clark. “I’ll whip a lesson into him.”

  Jupiter’s ignorance of the whip was apparent. He stood with his arms unbound, as if once the whip made contact with his flesh, he could maintain the position and resist thrashing around like a fish snatched from the water. He had no idea how to prepare himself for the pain that was to follow. He just stood there, offering his back as if he were merely a child about to receive a spanking.

  Archer spit out the gag. “What are you doing? He’ll kill us both.”

  “You’re probably right. But if I die, I don’t want my last act to be whipping a man I’ve known all my life.”

  “Shall I count backward from forty, sir?” asked Clark.

  “That’ll be all, Mr. Clark.”

  “Captain?”

  “Enough, Mr. Clark.”

  Clark lowered the whip.

  Barrett walked over to Jupiter. “Put your shirt back on. If the two of you want to kill each other, have at it, but I’ll have no martyrs on my ship. It’s bad luck. Mr. Clark?”

  “Captain.”

  “Untie these men, and put Archer in the holding cell for ten days.”

  “Ay
e, Captain.”

  “And know this—if the two of you defy me again, I won’t make such a theatrical display about it. One night, when no one is watching, you’ll just disappear. The crew will just assume you fell overboard, and eventually they will struggle to remember your names.”

  23

  Since Burns died saving Jupiter, the men thought it was right that he should have whatever remained in the dead man’s bunk. Alone—the rest of the crew on deck—dark, and damp, the quarters felt like a tomb. Burns did not have a cabin to himself, just a thin sheet of muslin that separated him from the rest. Jupiter eased back the sheet. The bedding felt impossibly warm. Jupiter fought the urge to lie down and rest. He untied Burns’s sack and examined its contents. It was contraband, mostly: a knife, a pistol with a broken hammer, more biscuit and salt beef than he was rationed, rum, and a worn leather-bound journal.

  Jupiter set aside the rest of the contents and opened the journal—the pages yellow and warped from time at sea. These first pages were not written by Burns; the name Percival Stone was crossed out, as was the text he had written:

  . . . we were now at the base of the hill. The young man was quiet for a while. Fatigue was evident in his open mouth breathing.

  “Not long ago,” he said, using the stump that once bore a hand to wipe his brow, “I could have made such a journey with ease. But with part of my lung missing, even waking is a struggle. My attempt to escape has turned my body into a prison of sorts. But I do not regret a moment. I have experienced what only a select few have survived. It is obvious what the ordeal has done to my body. I have no hand or foot, and my lungs search for that missing piece with every breath. But my mind,” he said, tapping his stump at his temple, “my mind has grown many limbs.”

  Our journey continued. We trekked through the deep, green brush that covered the hillside. My young companion remained in a constant struggle with his body. There seemed no end to our quest, and I feared that exhaustion had affected the mind of my guide, and that he was leading us to a point of no return. Then, as if some demigod had intervened, we came upon some steps. Yes, they were crude: large stones ascending to, what seemed like, the heavens.