FROM A SIMMER
TO A BURN
B. SNOW
EVERY man has a boiling point, the moment when he has been pushed beyond his limits and he loses control. Sule lives just under that boiling point, at a constant simmer.
Five years he’s known William, five years of William pulling him back from that red edge, but this time, it’s William who’s firing him up, William, and that stupid Dutchman dripping blood onto the street.
THE spark had been struck when Sule was taken, he and his brother snatched from their village in Africa and locked in irons in the hold of a ship. Fear kept that spark in check, and when his brother died three weeks into the voyage, grief nearly extinguished that spark of anger.
But by the time he arrived in Bahia, the anger was burning in him, clean and strong. He fought with the ship’s crew as they pulled him from the hold, trying to escape despite still being shackled. A heavy cane slammed onto his back again and again until he fell, the anger still there but the fight going out of him.
“Careful!” shouted the ship’s owner. The beating stopped as the man came up to Sule and squatted next to him, examining his face. “Visible marks lower the value of the merchandise,” he added, standing and placing his foot on the back of Sule’s neck, then gesturing for the beating to continue.
IN DUTCH GUIANA, Sule quickly learned how to speak Dutch and English and how to keep the flame of his anger low so it didn’t show in his eyes or on his face. Every day that he worked on the plantation or unloaded goods in town, he watched, studied, and planned his escape. Sometimes only that simmer kept despair from eating him up, but it heated his blood for five long years, kept him warm and alive and aware enough to recognize his opportunity and take it.
It heated from a simmer to a full boil as he ran and hid and ran some more, rationing his supplies and stealing more when he could; burning up as he bargained his way onto a British ship at New Amsterdam. When he finally set foot on Barbados, the sudden rush of knowledge that he was free fanned the flames into an inferno, and he swung his fist squarely into the face of the Dutchman who snarled “Stupid nigger!” when Sule, having lost his land legs, stumbled into him near the docks.
The Dutchman’s friends were quick to react, leaping onto Sule and holding his arms so their friend could mete out his revenge, but before the man could strike, Sule lifted his feet and kicked the man in the chest, knocking him backward, then twisted and kicked again, this time at the man holding his left arm. He managed only a glancing blow, but the man was so surprised that he loosened his grip on Sule’s arm. Sule pulled that arm free and swung it toward the man on his right, but the first attacker surged forward and threw himself onto Sule so that all three men went down in a heap. Sule felt a blow to the side of his face, then to the back of his neck before he could push away from the men and scramble to his feet. He crouched, moving back and forth on the balls of his feet in the smooth motion taught to him by other slaves on the plantation, behind their cabins late at night. As one of the other men ran at him, he dodged and kicked, sending the man sprawling, and spun quickly to face the other two.
Now he noticed that a crowd had formed around them, and for the first time since the fight had started, the buzzing in his head changed from fury to panic. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself, but after so many years of holding his anger tightly inside, he hadn’t been able to contain it a second longer.
The moment of distraction was all the Dutchmen needed. One grabbed him from behind, arm tight around his neck, and another dove for his legs, holding them so he couldn’t kick. The first man slammed his fist into Sule’s face and then his ribs, and then the men suddenly let go of him and ran off, leaving him to collapse onto the cobblestones at the edge of the wharf.
He gasped for breath, his face and body aching, rage at his own stupidity burning him up. No ship would let him on board with bruises from fighting right on his face, and most likely he’d be arrested and enslaved again. The forged papers that showed proof of his free status had been good enough for the merchant vessel that got him to Barbados, but they wouldn’t pass any sort of official examination. The Slave Trade Act of 1807 forbade capture and importation of Africans, but there had been no change to any other slavery laws in the seven years since then. He had to run again, hide again, escape again. As he struggled to get to his feet, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Easy now, lad.”
Sule looked up. A white man with red hair and a freckled face was smiling at him, but his blue eyes showed concern. Behind him, a huge dark-skinned man shook his fists after the fleeing Dutchmen, then turned to glare at the crowd that had gathered around the fight. They quickly dispersed, leaving Sule alone with the two men.
“Do you speak English?” the redhead asked.
Sule nodded warily.
“Are you badly hurt? We would have helped you sooner,” the man said, his smile widening, “but you were doing well enough on your own at the start of it.” He held out his hand.
Sule stared at it. No white man had ever extended a hand to him except to give orders or strike a blow. He hesitated, then turned his head and spit blood onto the street. When he turned back, the man was still standing there with that pleased-looking smile on his face, and he continued to hold his hand out until Sule finally took it and was pulled to his feet.
“William Shaughnessy,” the man said, shaking Sule’s hand. He grinned at his companion, who stepped forward to shake Sule’s hand as well. “Our crew could use a man with your skills. Would you like to get a drink and discuss it?”
FIVE years later, Sule is used to William’s offhanded cheerfulness. He’s used to being treated like any other member of the crew, treated better, even, since William became captain and chose Sule to be ship’s steward. Which is why he’s even angrier at William’s betrayal.
“I WILL not!”
“I’m captain, and I’m ordering you to do it!”
Sule snarled at William, who snarled right back at him, even as he kept one hand pressed tightly against the Dutchman’s side, trying to stop the bleeding. The Dutchman’s eyes jerked between the two angry men as they argued in English.
Sule felt the old rage bubbling up, burning through him like molten iron. He clenched his fists and tried to will it away, but just hearing Dutch brought back memories of the plantation, the life he thought he’d escaped. “Bill…,” he began, trying not to lose his head completely.
William sighed, the anger draining out of his eyes. He shook his head. “Do you know this man? Was he one of the men who beat you when you were a slave, or who fought with you the day we met?”
Sule looked away. “No,” he muttered.
“Then he deserves none of your ill will.”
“He’s Dutch!” The words spat themselves out of his mouth, and he started to step forward but stopped at the icy look in his captain’s eyes.
“Dutch bleeds the same as African. Right now, he needs our help, and we’re going to give it to him. So you will kindly extend my invitation—in fact, you will persuade him to come aboard the ship, at least until we can stop the damned bleeding. Do you understand your orders, Mister Okonjo?”
“Yes, Captain.” With a red haze in front of his eyes and a buzzing in his ears, Sule focused on the cut over the Dutchman’s right eyebrow and said that Captain Shaughnessy would consider it an honor to welcome him on board as their guest, and that their surgeon would be happy to see to his injury.
The Dutchman looked at William, who gave him a smile, then back at Sule, whose lips were pressed together tightly, then down at his blood-soaked shirt. He winced but nodded and let William guide him to the schooner.
WITH a mug of rum and six stitches in him, the Dutchman, who is no Dutchman, is nodding off in the sick bay, even though he doesn’t quite fit on the bunk. His left shoulder extends over the side and his feet over the end, and Mwata, the first mate, sympathizes. These bunks were not made for large men.
Mwata also sympathize
s with Sule, the only one on board who is able to speak with Olaf. The Dutchman turned out to be Norwegian, with a Dutch mother who taught him her native tongue. Mwata understands that it burns Sule up to have to speak the language of his captors, but Olaf claims to be a carpenter, and they need one. And if Sule could look past his anger, he could see that Olaf, as huge and bearded as he is, is young, no more than twenty-two, and moreover, has no malice in him. But Sule can’t look past it. If he’s not fuming, he’s not alive.
“MR. OKONJO?”
“What?” Sule didn’t look up from his inventory book, but he couldn’t concentrate anymore, not with the big blond oaf standing next to him.
“Sir, we’re running low on nails. Mr. Mercy said to let you know.”
“Is that all?”
“Um….”
“Spit it out, then!”
“Sir, the tools here are not good.”
This time Sule did look up. The Dutch—no, the Norwegian oaf was watching him as usual. “Is that your excuse for your poor work?”
A flush spread over Olaf’s cheeks above his beard. “My work is good. Sir.”
Sule slammed the book shut and stood up, pushing away from the desk. “Is that so?” He moved to stand almost chest to chest with Olaf, tilting his face up a fraction to meet Olaf’s eyes.
Although Olaf was nearly twice as broad as Sule, he blinked and took a step back. “Yes.” He hesitated, then opened his mouth, and out came more words in one sentence than Sule had heard from him since he had come on board two weeks earlier. “Everyone is happy with my work, they’ve told me, but I could do it faster if the tools were better quality. Sir.”
Olaf returned Sule’s stare for a long moment, but eventually he dropped his eyes. Sule watched his face turn a darker shade of pink, right up to the roots of his blond hair.
“What in damnation have you got to be angry about?” Sule shouted, making Olaf flinch. “You come here with no tools of your own, and now you have the nerve to get angry over what we’ve given you, you ungrateful bastard!”
Olaf muttered something. Sule leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”
“I said, I’m not angry, sir.”
Sule shook his head. “You’ll get your nails. Now get out.” Olaf opened his mouth to speak but nodded instead and left the cabin, quietly closing the door behind him. Sule threw himself onto his chair and pushed his fingers into his hair, gripping the soft, twisted strands, blood pounding in his ears, in his fingertips, under his scalp. The Norwegian was doing a good job, everyone on board was happy with his work, and truth be told, the tools were in terrible condition. The previous carpenter had been a liar and a drunkard, and if he hadn’t been killed in a New York alleyway, he probably would have sunk the ship by now.
The Norwegian wasn’t either of those things. He had to be coaxed into drinking enough rum to dull the pain of having his wound stitched up, and the next morning, when William asked how he’d come to be injured, he spilled out the whole story without trying to excuse his part in it. Afterward, William, Sule, and Mwata went to William’s cabin. William had felt a change in the wind shortly after bringing Olaf aboard, and as they’d be leaving port within a few hours if the wind held, they had a decision to make.
“I say we invite him to join the crew,” William began, leaning against the door he’d shut behind them.
“You believe him?” Mwata asked, sitting back on the bunk and stretching his legs.
“Yes. You don’t?”
“I didn’t say that,” Mwata answered. He turned to Sule. “Could you tell anything from the way he was speaking? Do you think he was lying?”
Sule snarled at the floor, aching to say yes, but he had never lied to Mwata or William and couldn’t bring himself to do so now. “I’m sure he was telling the truth,” he finally said.
“Then it’s settled,” William said, smiling, and turned to open the door, but Sule interrupted him.
“No, that makes it worse! Do we want someone in the crew who’s going to lose their temper that way and nearly kill someone?”
William frowned. “He was provoked. You saw the cuts on his face, his arms and hands.”
“Yes, and when he grabbed the bastard’s wrist and twisted until he dropped the knife, it should have been finished right there, but instead, and his own words, I’ll remind you, he put his hands around the man’s throat and nearly choked the life out of him. Took a knife in the side to get him to let go.”
William and Mwata looked at each other. Mwata raised an eyebrow. William shrugged. “Strong hands are important in carpentry.”
Mwata coughed to cover a laugh, but Sule clenched his fists and shouted, “God’s blood, Bill, this isn’t a joke!” He turned away from the other men and pounded the wall in frustration.
After a moment, he felt a hand on his back. “I know this is hard for you,” William said quietly. “If he’s lying and can’t do the work, we’ll put him off at the next port. But he’s young and scared and hasn’t anywhere else to go. And he’s not the only one around here who’s lost his temper before.”
Sule swore under his breath and hit the wall once more, but he knew he’d lost.
SULE decides that if he can push the Norwegian to his breaking point again, he’ll snap and do something stupid. The crew will agree he’s a menace and vote to expel him, and Sule will be rid of anything resembling a Dutchman.
For the first two weeks, Sule enjoys giving Olaf orders in the most insolent way possible. He had been ordered around in Dutch by white men for five long years; it feels good now to order a white man around in that language. But no matter how rude he is, he never gets a rise out of Olaf. Olaf listens, nods, and then does his job, and does it well. When he does speak, it’s always related to the task he’s been ordered to do. The grudging respect Sule begins to feel just makes him angrier.
A SUCCESSFUL raid on a Spanish brig near Boca Ratones produced a good quantity of nails. After the schooner was out of sight of the other ship, Sule went looking for Olaf. He found him in the galley, taking measurements for a spice rack.
“Here are your nails,” Sule snapped, dropping a small wooden box at Olaf’s feet.
Olaf looked down at the box. “You took that from the brig?”
“Yes.”
“You mean you stole it.”
Sule hissed out a breath and slammed his palm down on the table. “Yes, of course! Are you slow in the head? It’s how we survive! Not you, of course, carpenter’s too valuable to risk on a raid, but the rest of us sorry lot, we want something, we take it! That’s what we do!” He paused, head pounding, chest heaving. “If you don’t like it,” he added in a lower tone, feeling that familiar simmer under his skin, “you can get the hell off this ship at the next port.” He sneered at Olaf’s wide eyes and open mouth, then put his foot on the box of nails and shoved it until it hit the toe of Olaf’s boot. “Take them, or don’t.” He pushed past the other man and nearly ran into Mwata, who had been about to enter the galley.
“You’re being an ass,” Mwata murmured as Sule pushed past him.
“Shut up.” Sule hurried topside, where he breathed in the sea air, watching the red sun sink beneath the waves and feeling as if he were going down with it. Time to stop playing and finish it.
AFTER every raid, Sule went into the hold to catalog the new cargo and update his inventory book. The task could usually wait until the following morning, but he couldn’t sleep, his mind filled with the Norwegian’s surprised brown eyes and Mwata’s mild admonishment. He flung off his blankets, grabbed his book, quill, and ink, and headed down to the hold, where he swore loudly at finding Olaf.
“What are you doing down here?” Sule asked, looking around quickly to determine if any of the crates had been opened. If the man was a thief, he’d be thrown off the ship before he could blink.
“I was looking for a blanket, sir.”
“What did you do with the one you had?”
“No, sir, I was hoping to find anoth
er. It’s… I’m… never mind.” Olaf started to walk toward the hatch, but Sule grabbed his arm.
“What’s the matter, are you ill? If you’re ill, you’ll be put off this ship straightaway.”
Olaf shook his head. “I’m not ill, sir. I get cold at night. It’s all right, if there are no extra blankets—”
“Shut up.” Sule made his way through the crates until he got to a trunk stowed just inside the bulkhead. He opened it and pulled out two blankets that he threw at Olaf, who caught them. “Will that be enough? Are you quite satisfied?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Olaf nodded, but he didn’t leave; he just stood there, looking at Sule and clutching the blankets.
“What? Do you need something else?”
“No.” But still he didn’t leave.
Sule’s anger spiraled, spinning up through his body and out the top of his head. “Then why are you still here?” He slammed the trunk shut and moved to stand right in front of Olaf. “And why do you keep staring at me? You’ve been doing it since we raided that ship. Do I disgust you? Is piracy not to your liking? Do you think you’re better than the rest of us?”
“No! It’s not that. I’m, um, you’re….”
But now Sule was on a tear. “Then what is it? Why do you keep looking at me every time we’re in the same part of the ship? Don’t try to deny it, I’ve seen you.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I won’t do it again.”
“You didn’t answer my question, ox,” Sule snapped, and gave Olaf a shove, or tried to; it was like pushing against the stone face of a cliff. He snarled and shoved harder, this time causing Olaf to stumble just a bit.
“Stop it.” Olaf growled, frowning, his heavy blond brows drawn together.
Finally, a reaction. “Stop what? Stop this?” Sule asked, slapping Olaf on the shoulder, then on the chest. “This?” A kick with his instep to the side of Olaf’s calf. “This?” A cuff to his head.
“Stop!”
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