by L. A. Meyer
Shuddering, Annie and Sylvie relax a little. The crew is not pleased.
"Besides, in two months, this bunch will be off and sold and a whole new cargo of black women will be brought on board and you can have all the sport you want with them! Are we agreed?"
This time the sounds of agreement are louder.
"Good, then. I'll be off. Godspeed to you all!" Simon goes to the side, where a small boat is waiting to take him ashore, probably somewhere on the south shore, where he'll take a coach back to Virginia. As he goes over the side, he tips his broad-brimmed hat to us and says, "And ladies, I do hope you'll enjoy the extraordinary adventure I have so meticulously planned for you!"
"Awright, get 'em below!" bellows Captain Blodgett, and down below we go, the very minute Simon leaves. After the few remaining bonnets and shawls are taken from us and thrown overboard, we are shoved roughly down the hatch—very roughly, with rude hands pushing us between our shoulder blades, down the hatchway stairs, through a barred door, and into the very belly of the Bloodhound, down into the very pit of Hell, itself.
Chapter 18
To the horrified young ladies of the Lawson Peabody, the darkness and the vastness of the Hold are not the most fearsome things, nor is the suddenness of their abduction or the hopelessness of their condition. No, it is the stench that is the worst—the stench of a slaver, the stench from too many human beings packed over and over again into too small a space and denied even the most basic of human needs: the need for fresh air, the need for movement, the need even to turn over on the shelf on which you are confined, and the need to care for and protect your family.
The girls of the Lawson Peabody find, upon entry into this Hell, this nether world, a broad and empty Hold, so broad and so empty as to echo even the smallest, most timorous sound the girls make.
I am about the last one thrown down and it takes my eyes a while to accustom themselves to the gloom. As my vision clears, I am able to see that, in addition to the great hold, there are shelves built around the perimeter of the space, one being about eight feet wide, made of open wood slatting on which we all now stand. This shelf gets much wider, maybe by ten more feet, up where it meets the front part of the ship.
Probably that's where they cram the women and children on a regular run. Above us, at shoulder height, is another shelf, about six foot deep, made of the same open slatting. I know why it is made in such a way and I know the girls are going to find out the why of it for themselves real soon—the Bloodhound has heeled over and is heading for open water, and the ship is starting to rock and reel. It will not be long, as the smell is enough to get them gagging already.
The great Hold is like a huge theater, really, with the wide shelf area in the middle being the stage, its narrower portion going around the sides being like the regular seats, the shelf above that being like the balcony, and the dark massive hold below, the pit. There are ladders—stairs, actually—on either side of this stage, leading up to the balcony, and from the center of this stage, a larger, single set of stairs goes down into the pit. Light is coming from somewhere above the balcony and my eyes have adjusted enough for me to see that the great Hold is absolutely empty, except for two large cone-shaped containers that are about four foot in diameter at the bottom and have a hole at top, about ten inches across. I know what they are for and I know they are made that way so they won't tip over in rough seas.
And everywhere, everywhere—on every shelf, on every bulkhead, on every deck—hang chains, all of them clinking and clanking with each roll of the ship.
There are some chains that do not clank. They lie there on the bottom, stretched straight out along the sides of the hull. They're simple long chains with an iron neck collar every three or four feet. Even in my despair, I know what they're for—they're the chain train—they are for leading the captives in a line from the African slave pens to the ship, and eventually from the ship to the American auction blocks. I can stand no more, and I look away.
Down there and to the right is my seabag. Good. My kick must have sent it flying down the stairs to roll across the "Stage" and over its edge and into the "Pit." I'll have to go down and stow it someplace safe soon. But for now, I stand on the Stage and gather my wits, which are a bit hard to collect since, not only have I been kidnapped, I have also been twice personally threatened with violent death—first with a pistol, then with a club. Even for me, that is not an easy thing. And even for me, one who is used to cruel Fate sneaking up behind me and giving me a whack every time things seem calm and settled, the suddenness of the day's events is shocking, and I have to sit down and put my head in my hands.
For a while I let myself wallow in deep despair like the rest of the girls, and I add my wails and cries to theirs ... and Jaimy was gonna come over soon and get me and now, oh, God, now ... the Black Cloud...
I sit there, stunned, my head hanging, and my soul bereft of all hope for what seems like a long, long while. But, eventually, I force the Black Cloud back to the far side of my mind and rouse myself. I slap my face twice, once on each side, and say to the timid mouse that really is my innermost self, Ah, well, best get things going, girl, and first things first.
"Elspeth. Rebecca. Let me go. Move away from me for a while. I've got to go do some things. Here, cling to each other." They do it, very reluctantly, and I rise and go to the steps that lead to the bottom of the Hold and I descend into the gloom below.
I search about and my eyes pick out my seabag lying there in the shadows, but I do not move toward it till I scan the lit bars high above me to make sure none of the crew is peering down. None appears to be doing that, so, picking my way across the long neck chains lying on the deck, I make my way to my bag. I lay my hands upon it and haul it back under the platform that presently holds the very unhappy girls of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls.
I am grateful that my seabag is made of deep navy blue canvas, instead of the white duck that contains many a sailor's worldly goods. It is therefore not easily spotted in this dim light, as I hurry it to a place next to one of the heavy, thick oak knees that hold the planks of the hull together. It is the knee closest to the forward wall of the Hold and so it forms a bit of a cave between itself and the bulkhead. It is there that I tuck in my seabag.
There, I think with a small bit of satisfaction. Someone would have to actually come down here under the platform to spot it, and even then it might escape notice. I think about taking my shiv from the bag and sliding it into my sleeve, but then I think better of it: We might well be strip-searched tomorrow and I can't afford the loss of that knife.
Now to plan. I sit myself down on the rough boards of this lower deck and make myself think. Think, dammit! This is a profound mess we find ourselves in, and I'm afraid it's up to you and to no other to figure a way out. Let's see ... well, we've got to get organized first ... there's thirty-one, no, thirty-two girls, divide roughly by three, yes, three divisions, that's it, and...
After I've thought and plotted and planned for maybe an hour, I get to my feet, find the ladder back up, and go stand straight before the weeping and recumbent throng, and raise my voice.
"Listen to me, oh you, my sisters." My words echo through the Hold and crying eyes open and look to me. "We must begin to take control of ourselves here. We do ourselves no good by sinking into mindless panic. We have to organize. We must take things one thing at a time. It is about to get very rough and we must be ready for it. We need to get through one day at a time. Right now, we should plan to get through this afternoon and the coming night." I'm keeping the sentences short and simple on purpose, so they get it.
They quiet down some at this, and then Abigail Pierce steps forward and asks, "But what should we do?" She moves her hands nervously in a helpless way.
"Some of you know I have been to sea and thus know how things go out here. By dint of my experience, I think we should divide into three groups, so that we can be organized into fighting units and not be just a jumble of frightened girls
, easy for those lousy bastards to push around and manage as they like."
I find I have their full attention and I go on. "I have thought about it and think it should be thus: Division One will be led by Clarissa Howe and will consist of Lissette, Hermione, Abigail, Helen, Judith, Caroline, Hepzibah, Ruth, Christina, and Cloris."
I look out over their upturned faces as I pick out the particular girls. "Dolley Frazier will lead Division Two. In her group will be Minerva, Priscilla, Dorothea, Constance, Martha, Barbara, Catherine, Wilhelmina, and Julia." I hear no complaints, so I continue.
"In the Third Division, with me at the head, will be Rebecca, Elspeth, Annie, Sylvie, Katy, Frances, Sally, Rose, Beatrice, and Hyacinth."
I pause for breath and look about to see how this is taken. I really wanted to stand up and say that I was in charge of everything and this was the way things were going to be, but I knew that Clarissa and her crew would never follow me. So, putting Clarissa at the head of a division was the best way I could see to get things in some sort of order. And with Dolley as a counterbalance twixt Clarissa and me, well ... so far, so good, so I go on.
"I have tried to group particular friends together in these divisions, but that does not really matter—you do not have to group together in these divisions all the time, only when we muster to give out information or to take action. Is that understood?" Not only did I put girls I knew to be friends together, I also tried to balance out who I felt to be the strong and the weak across the divisions.
There are general murmurs of agreement. Then Clarissa steps forward and puts her fists on her hips and her face in mine and says, "What I don't understand is who made you boss? I know I sure as hell didn't!"
"I'm only the leader of my Division Three, Clarissa, should they choose to follow me. The same with your Division One, and the same with Dolley's," I say, knowing that we are all going to come together as a team right now, or else divide up into suspicious and powerless little cliques, which will be the end of us as freeborn girls. It's really up to Clarissa and she sure ain't helping.
"How convenient for you," she says. "All the servants in your division, and none for us?" She looks about in mock perplexity. "No one to do our wash? No one to comb our hair? No one to—"
"We are all in this together," I say right back at her. Count on you to think that way, Clarissa, in the midst of all this! Concern about who will serve you on your way into slavery. "There are no more ladies and no more serving girls here. Everyone will tend to their own selves. Right now we are all, lady or girl, just meat to be sold on the auction block. Do you understand that?" I put that as crudely as I could to drive the point home, and I guess the point was made, for there are more murmurs of assent.
"All right. Now listen to this. This level we are standing on will be called the Stage. The upper shelves there will be called the Balconies—the port Balcony on the left there, and the starboard Balcony there on the right. That space down there will be called the Pit. You will see, if you look down there, two large containers. They are called the necessary tubs. That is where you will relieve yourselves when you feel the need. I'm sorry that all the privacy you will have right now is your skirts lowered about you, but we will arrange for some sort of curtains to be—"
"But this is all so ... so foul!" wails Elspeth, her eyes wild. "I can't do it ... I can't..." Others join in the lament and I know I must stop it, right now.
"Oh yes, you will, Elspeth," I say, as gently as I can. "You will get used to it."
"No ... no ... this is all so wrong! I've got to get back! My parents will be missing me, they'll be wondering where I am ... Really, I've got to get back, I'm sorry, I can't stay, I'd really like to, but I really must..."
It is plain she is on the edge of hysteria. I go over and take her by the shoulders and give her a bit of a shake. "You must not worry about what your parents think now, Elspeth. You must concern yourself with what is best for you, and what is best for you now is to control yourself. Here, Annie, Sylvie, take her, hold her."
And they do, and they manage to soothe her, and she quiets. Again I address the girls.
"All right. Let us muster the divisions. Division Two on the starboard side of the Stage ... that's it ... and Division One in the center." I've got to give Clarissa's division that position—she'd never let me take center stage. "And Division Three over here on the port side of the Stage, by me. Come on, now, let's do it."
The girls are quieter now, as I knew they would be, having been given some direction and the feeling of belonging to a group. When they are all separated into divisions, I say, "Now your division officers will meet. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can. Those that need to use the tubs should do so now, for soon it will be dark and you won't be able to see your way down there. Oh, and another thing: This setting up of divisions is a secret from them. Everything we say or do is a secret from them. Understood?" There are murmurs of assent.
Dolley and Clarissa come up to me as a line of girls files down the ladder into the Pit. I know a natural protocol will be set up—all will look away as each one approaches a tub. Skirts will be lifted, then lowered, and all will be right, in that matter, at least.
"So," says Clarissa, "you've got everyone all divided up. Now what's the point of it? We're still trapped."
"It will give them some comfort, especially the weaker ones, to know that someone is taking charge and looking out for them," says I. "Now, let's go up on the Balcony and see what's up and make some plans."
With that, I lead the way up the stairway to the port-side Balcony. As I noticed before, this shelf is about six feet deep, and in spite of the overall smell in the Hold, it seems there was some effort made to clean it up after the last load. We are able to stand here and actually look out on to the deck of the ship. There's about three feet of wall, and above that are iron bars about six inches apart, the entire length of the Balcony. The bottom of the bars is on the same level as the main deck outside, so if a man were to walk by us, our eyes would be level with his knees. Looking across to the starboard side, I see that it's the same there, and across the aft side of the Hold, as well—I can see the helmsman at his wheel back there, and other men here and there about the deck. It's from these open bars that we will get our light. Above the bars is the flat hatch top that looms overhead and covers the entire Hold. Below the bars are the neck chains, hanging fourteen inches apart.
A breeze blows through the bars and all three of us suck it deep in our lungs, gratefully. At least we shall have some fresh air. I peek out and look up, and sure enough, there're wooden flaps on hinges that will be lowered in the event of rough seas or foul weather.
"What plans can we possibly make?" asks Dolley. "We are helpless."
"Helpless now, true, but it will not always be so," I say. "What we can do now is see how things lie, maybe do some exploring, and get the girls settled in for the night. Tomorrow we must—"
EEEEEEEEEEEEEUUUUUUUWWWWWWWWWWWW!
There is a scream from below and we look down over the edge of the Balcony. There is a flurry of excitement among the girls waiting their turn at the tubs, and it isn't hard to figure out the cause—rats, scared back into their hideyholes by our sudden entrance into the Hold, have become bolder and are scurrying around the edges of the Pit. There are a lot of them.
There are more screams and cries of Oh my God, no! and Please, God! Save us! and such from the girls in the Pit. I lean over and say, "Don't worry about them. They won't hurt you. We'll deal with them later. Calmness, now."
They do calm down some, but the ever pious Constance Howell sinks to her knees and stretches her arms upward and laments, "Oh, we have truly died and gone to Hell! Oh Lord, what sins did I commit to be sent to this place? What sins, oh Lord, could I have done that I deserved this?"
"Now, Connie, there's no use blaming ourselves, nor God, neither," I say down to her. "The fault lies entirely with those who have taken us, and many others before us, into bondage. They will pay for that with the lo
ss of their souls, and we all know there is no greater loss than that."
That seems to mollify them a bit, though there still are assorted cries of "Eeeek," and one of "Shoo! Shoo! Get back there, you!" from Rose Crawford, of my Division Three. That's the spirit, girl.
"Anyway," I say, turning back and looking out on the deck again, "tomorrow we'll know better how things are going to be, and we will make more solid plans then. I don't think they'll feed us or have anything more to do with us today. They'll probably want to soften us up a bit with the isolation and all. They'll—"
From the quarterdeck comes the ringing of six bells. Hmmm ... these curs at least keep that practice going. Good. It will help us to know the time, later on.
"They'll be by to see us in the morning, count on it," I say, continuing my casing of the deck. Through the tangle of rigging, I can see a large lifeboat swung out over the side, hanging from davits. I wonder why they keep it there ... On a regular ship, the small boats are stowed on the deck, upside down ... Ah, I bet it's to catch water when it rains. There're probably canvas collectors rigged inside the boats—'cause a slaver needs a lot of fresh water, much more than a regular ship. That's got to be it. "And that was six bells in the afternoon watch, which means it's three o'clock. My, my, it's been a long four hours since last we left the land."
"And all that we held dear," says Dolley, wistfully, but dry-eyed.
"Well, we hold each other dear, and we still have that," I say firmly, and that gets me a snort from Clarissa. "Now we should get the girls settled because soon things will get rough and many of them will be sick. We'll have them sleep up here on the Balcony, heads to the bulkhead, feet pointed to the Pit, so they don't roll over and fall off the edge. The air is better up here and it will be good for them. Dolley, why don't you announce that, and Clarissa, you address them and say that plans are being made and tomorrow we see about making demands to improve our conditions, and then I'll—"