by Mat Johnson
If burning wasn't your thing, the city had other offerings. Less fortunate Africans were tied to a rack for a longer-lasting show, hands shackled above, feet below, their bodies stretched slowly until arms were pulled from their sockets, human legs pulled from their hips like one would a drumstick from a chicken. Those screams, now that was entertainment. Will they first faint or bleed to death, or simply die from the excitement of it all? It was hard to say, you just had to stay for the whole show. Make a little side bet on it, if you were the sort to wager.
Now, the fortunate Africans were gibbeted: hanged by the noose, to speed things along. A little death jig, suspended on the end of the rope, a broken neck, and you were done. Now that was the way to go. Mind you, the contents of your bowels now belonged to your bloomers, but it wasn't like you could smell it anymore. In mere minutes death could be yours. A merciful alternative provided by an enlightened society. Every splash of blood was a sign of order returned. Every scream of agony a declaration that what once was normal would pass for such again. The crowds roared, compensated for their fear with entertainment.
Behind the symbolic action of public execution, the judicial laws backed up this resolve practically. Slaves could now be punished by their captors without impediment, no beating too severe, no crime too small. No more than three slaves could legally gather without the presence of a white to oversee them. No black was allowed outside after nightfall without a lantern to clearly illuminate him. Any slave found in possession of a firearm would exchange it for several lashings. The few Africans that lived free on the island were no longer permitted to own land or a house upon it. Those slave owners who would see fit to free their human property would find themselves practically barred by the near impossible tax of two hundred pounds if they did so: four to six times the price of buying a slave outright, ten times the average yearly salary, a small fortune that hindered even the most generous intentions. So thorough were the Europeans in their plan of oppression, they even denied access to their own white god, going as far as prosecuting one of their own who dared to teach His name to the blackened race.
What very few rights the African captives maintained were summarily stripped, all hope for freedom dismantled. Those who had little now had much less than that, becoming a people without control of their owned bodies or the spirits they housed. The only say in their destiny being the greatest one—to choose to live the half-life prescribed to them or to choose not to live at all. The white colonist reacted not by simply squashing a rebellion, but by crushing the very people it represented. The blacks now had nothing. And what could be feared from just a memory of defiance?
To call the Slave Revolt of 1712 a failure is to assume that these enslaved ever had a chance at success. Nothing could come of it, other than the act itself.
But the act was important. The act was worth enough.
So at that G.E.D. class, this knucklehead says he'd just kill himself with a sword or something, maybe take a few crackers with him first, but then he'd end it.
"No, you wouldn't," I dismissed him. This cat, he didn't like that, he didn't like being dismissed. He said, "You don't know me, you don't know what I'm capable of."
This was true, I acknowledged, but I told him I did know this: you are the descendant of the slaves that didn't choose to end their lives. You are the descendant of the slaves that chose to keep their heads down, swallow their pride, and wait till the time was right. Even if it took centuries. You are the descendant of the slaves that chose to live.
But the stories in this book, these are tales of those other enslaved Africans. The martyrs among the millions of human lives destroyed by the European slave trade. The ones that chose meaningful death over the chattel life.
LOOSE CHANGE
SILVER HAS ALWAYS MADE GOOD stealing. You can hammer the metal down if you put your muscle to it, or melt it if you got the know-how. No matter what you do, it's still worth something. You take a silver spoon, right—it's worth the same even after it's been slipped up your sleeve, smuggled to a local blacksmith, and reverted once more to its liquid form. Best part, no one can lay claim to it afterward, prove you've been stealing. That's good investment, that is. Or, if you're lucky enough to get your callused mitts on actually silver coins, all the better, am I right? Instantly, you become a citizen of leisure. Mind you, this is the reason that it's important for those who already own silver to guard their own. For those with coins in their possession, that goes even more so.
Mrs. Hogg was a smart lady. A businesswoman, she knew to look after her own. Counting up Spanish coins as she worked the counter at her husband's general store that Saturday in late February 1741, it must have been with this particular weight in mind. Spanish coins: proof the Spanish were good for something. The English, they'd no desire to see their own currency drained across the globe, so their thirteen American colonies chose the silver coins of the Spaniards instead. Even with the two nations at war, this currency remained. Silver, hard tender, a one-pound coin being nearly as much as a seaman might make in a month. Focused on the import of the accounting at hand, making sure every last cent was duly noted, the weight of the monetary task must have pulled Mrs. Hogg's focus away from her physical surroundings. Still, it was that primal sense that told her there were eyes upon her. Someone is watching, Mrs. Hogg. There is more to this world than the money in your hand, Mrs. Hogg—there are also the people who want the money in your hand. Looking up from her accounting, Mrs. Hogg shot a glance across the store to see one of the patrons, a young soldier, Wilson of the Famborough man-of-war, staring directly back at her. Or more specifically, staring directly at the contents of her purse.
It was not fair to come to immediate judgments about soldiers. After all, were these not the men of England, their defenders in this savage new world? Somebody's got to be a soldier, who else would protect the citizenry from all the other soldiers? If not for these warriors, there would be no one to guard the colony against the whims of the red heathens, or more important, against those Spanish conquerors for the pope, the Papist enemies of freedom. Besides, Wilson was only a seventeen-year-old infantryman who'd made a friendly habit of stopping by the store to socialize with its employees. A harmless little bloke, weighing less wet than one of Mrs. Hogg's ample thighs. Still, there was a general morale of contempt among the troops who loosely protected the New York colony. Not exactly England's finest; they could be seen stumbling away from the island's many public houses more often than standing ground at their fort. Let's be honest—with all the good money to be made in business in this new land, usually the type of men who walked with the infantry were those who had no other path to follow.
So Wilson was looking. So what, Mrs. Hogg shrugged it off, thinking no more on the matter. Can't get bothered by every little thing. In fact, Mrs. Hogg left her Spanish coins right there in the store where they had been counted, the moment of discomfort decidedly forgotten, sent to the dull parts of the brain with the rest of the day's rubbish. It wasn't until Mrs. Hogg arrived at the shop the following morning and saw the front door splintered open, found the contents of her beloved store rifled through, goods knocked to the floor, picked apart, and missing, that the lingering gaze of young Wilson returned to her, and those doubts quickly, oh so quickly, came flooding back. Her body moving almost as fast as her mind, she rushed to the counter where she had secured her treasured Spanish silver coins, only to find them vanished as well.
A shrewd woman, a businesswoman, this Mrs. Hogg. Sure, it was her husband's store on paper, but everyone knew who really ran it. She knew how to deal with the matter. After reporting the incident to the constable, cleaning up the mess, and preparing for another day's commerce, Mrs. Hogg played it cool. Spent the day staring up at the door every time the bell went off with a patron's entry. Waited patiently the rest of that Saturday until she was rewarded, and young Wilson sauntered in as he made his social rounds. What else could he do but play this day like every other day, as if innocence was never even a que
stion.
Mrs. Hogg watched the door close behind Wilson, let him enter all the way into the shop before cornering him.
"Come on, boy. You saw me counting those coins, didn't you? Don't answer, I know you did. I saw you," she told him. "Only you saw where I placed them."
Despite Wilson's obvious guilt, Mrs. Hogg's tone was almost diplomatic. She needed something from him, and made clear that as long as he played along, her tone would not change timbre.
"Maybe . . . maybe you might have told one of your mates, am I right? One of your fellow soldiers about what you saw? There's room for absolution, boy. Nobody's saying you did anything yourself, but perhaps you might have been a little loose with your words. Taken advantage of, as it were. Maybe, Mr. Wilson, you might know a bit more about the crime that was committed right here where you're standing?" Mrs. Hogg hid the implied accusation and threat politely behind the question marks, where they wouldn't get in the way of the information needed.
"I did happen to see one John Gwin spending silver loosely, giving out cash to a slave named Cuffee at the Hughsons' public house," young Wilson offered nervously, his own culpability hidden behind the shroud of coincidence. Looking around as he confessed to see who was witnessing his betrayal.
John Hughson could have avoided disaster and history if he'd just kept his pudgy white arse in Yonkers, tilled the land in quiet obscurity, and enjoyed the tranquility that life had to offer (of course, our John was never much for peace and quiet). No, instead of playing it safe, John fell in love with a woman who wanted more, and he decided to want more with her. To come down to the city and have a go at fulfilling their hunger. Those first days down the Hudson started out honest enough, at first. Johnnie-boy was making his wages as a leather worker then, an honest trade if not particularly exciting. But the honest, simple life never really managed to pay the Hughsons' bills, did it? And really, in these days of endless opportunity of this great new land, what was the sense in not trying to grab a bit of the fortune it had to offer? This little settlement on the Hudson, it had real potential. Hughson, he saw that. Just wanted to get in on a bit of the action, really.
So Sarah and John Hughson opened a tavern instead. Two, actually. The first attempt, which thrived for a bit on the east side of the island, quickly died, succumbing to the complaints of neighbors that it served the worst sort of clientele. The second, on the west side, not far from the Trinity churchyard and the African burial grounds, proved more stable. There was always money to be made in spirits, on this thirsty island—whether dealing firkins of drink directly to the natives who came south to trade otter or beaver skins for rum, or setting up your own public house. The drink business was one you could count on. With the colony now a century old, and the population passing fifty thousand—sixty if you counted the Africans—fresh water was hard to come by within the limits of the city. It was always a safer bet (and a more enjoyable one) to take your drink distilled. At least to add to the water for taste, or to kill the bloody smell of that well sludge you got in town. Without a nice pint of hard cider in the cold months, many a lad would lack completely any nutritious fruit for his diet. They were long months before the meadows came alive in green again and you could grab a real apple in your hand. And regardless, even without issues of health taken into consideration, New Yorkers just liked a cup. New York drank more annually than even those in the bigger cities, north and south, Boston and Philadelphia. A taste left over from the days of New Amsterdam, perhaps, from decades before when the Dutch ruled. Back then, desperate to get any white people to populate this savage land, the colony was filled with a . . . a lower sort. Those that no other outpost would have accepted. Got so bad back then, the great Peter Stuyvesant himself tried to close the public houses at a mere nine o'clock, and keep the lower-class indentured workers out of the pubs altogether. But that was the Dutch, a more permissive sort. Not that the English could really talk; their colonies were now going through 7,750,000 gallons of whiskey a year, so there were very few sober fingers to do any pointing.
Honestly, no law or any of the other measures could get people to stop gathering at pubs for a drink and a laugh. Mar ket rule: As long as people want a product, someone will be willing to sell it to them. Still, the Hughsons faced all the normal difficulties of starting a small business; the competition for those thirsty patrons was fierce and countless. If the other drinking establishments were going to stay open past curfew, how could one humble owner close early and still stay in the black? So what if the Hughsons broke the law by selling to the Africans as well as to the Europeans? It is a rich man who would walk away from a coin just because he didn't like the color of the hand it dropped from. Yes, it was against the law to serve a slave, or for slaves even to congregate in a white establishment, but it could be argued (and was) that the more the Negroes drank in their idle time, the less likely they were to do anything dangerous. And if, on occasion, some of these dark men happened to obtain a few loose items of their master's property to pay for their tab, who can blame a struggling businessman for brokering a transaction that would have taken place regardless? Common Council law had been forbidding whites to entertain blacks in their homes, sell them liquor, or take goods, or money, from them since the 1712 incident, but really, the more restrictive the laws, the less people followed them. One couldn't always make a living just pouring Geneva and hosting cockfights. So the Hughsons did a bit of discreet matchmaking as well, between potential buyer and motivated sellers, taking a bit of tribute off the top to make ends meet. "Diversification" was the business term for it.
* * *
Young Wilson was in a spot of trouble. The constables surrounded him, and even more threatening was Mrs. Hogg herself, the wronged party, pushing him on. "Tell them! Come on, boy," Mrs. Hogg insisted. "Tell them what you told me."
"Well, right, I did happen to notice the mistress here with her coins, just admiring them. And, well, a few drams later at Hughson's pub and, well—"
"Come on!" Mrs. Hogg slapped the back of the boy's head. With the force of the blow, the rest of the confession seemed to pop right out of him.
"The bloke I was talking about it to, word is today that he's just come into some money, too. It was the one John Gwin," Wilson blurted. "The one what's a customer at Hughson's regular-like. In fact, he's there now. Mind you, if he asks who told you . . ."
John Gwin? The name meant nothing to the constables, but the mention of Hughson's pub was enough to arouse suspicion on its own. It was known to be one of the darkest of the many nuisance public houses across the city, where the laws of the municipality were routinely flouted. Where blacks and the lowest sort of whites came to get drunk on spirits and grumble and curse the gentle citizens who stood above them. Only a few months before, the tavern had been raided, and John Hughson found guilty of serving slaves. The only reason the fat bastard had been spared was that he was a first offender. So much for mercy. In the time since, Hughson's reputation for disrepute had only grown stronger, and the constables were just waiting for the opportunity to catch him committing the crimes of which they suspected him. "Suspected" is probably too light a verb, even. The scamp fenced so many stolen goods that the slaves had nicknamed his tavern "Oswego," in honor of that great trading hub to the north.
Hughson's door was thrown open, and the constables poured in, in full fury, ready to seize all present. Not much of a task, it turned out: Hughson's was vacant, chairs unoccupied, not a cup filled in the tavern, just the smell of stale drink and tobacco. There was not a man in sight, and surely no soldier named Gwin. Only one lone Negro stood in the hall, a man in his twenties leaning quietly against the chimney, casually smoking his pipe as he watched them until they left again. Negroes, of course, were not English soldiers, not even real men at all, so the man was paid as much attention to as the candles on the walls. Disappointed at their foray for justice being averted, the officers moped back out and turned their frustration back on the one captive they did have in hand, young Wilson.
<
br /> " 'Fess up, boy! You did the robbery yourself, didn't you? We've checked Hughson's, and there's no soldier name Gwin hanging about there."
"But I—wait, you say soldier? No, no, that's the problem. John Gwin the slave, sirs. You know, smokes a pipe, green coat."
Hurrying back, much to their surprise and relief, the brazen scoundrel was still there, his position unchanged. "Back so soon?" he had the nerve to ask with a smile. Presenting a calm pose before being thrown into irons.
* * *
"John Gwin" was how he was known to young Wilson, but he was "Caesar" to most else, a ranking officer in the Geneva Club, called as such by all those who would indulge the proper title and Masonic manners he and his African mates had appropriated. And once identified, this slave's dark history would become appropriated as well.
The Geneva Club was formed, or more accurately named, after Caesar and his group had been caught robbing barrels of Geneva (the Dutch gin so popular in the city) from a local inn. Despite the severity of this crime, Caesar, as well as his running partner, a fellow named Prince, had escaped the hangman's noose—as was often prescribed for such a transgression—and instead bore the incalculable pain of a good sound flogging instead. It was a wretched thing to be owned, but if you were it was a good thing to be enslaved by men too busy with their own lives to be overly concerned with the off-hours in yours. And powerful enough to keep their property (you) from being destroyed (killed) for its (your) transgressions (petty larceny, theft, burglary, distribution of stolen goods, etc.).
Now, looking for evidence in this new caper, the city constables immediately set about searching Hughson's for the stolen silver coins and the speckled linen that had also gone missing from Mrs. Hogg's store. The lucre had to be in there, somewhere. Where else could it be? There hadn't been enough time to go hide it in the woods. And, as such, they wasted the entire day searching, garnering nothing but mounting frustration and doubts for their trouble. Regardless, Caesar was held in custody, if for no crime other than being black and supremely arrogant.