The two men grasped him by either wrist and the muzzle of a gun pressed into his abdomen. They led him forward. He took small steps, thrown off balance by the heaving of the ship, his head dizzy and vision swimming. They walked around crates and between giant coils of rope, beneath the mainmast and through the taut lines strung vertically and reaching up into a web of angles and shapes and lines. They drew up before two other men, just behind the foremast. One was a small fellow, compact of structure but tightly built. His golden hair kicked out from his head in strange angles. When he saw William his hand went to the hilt of his dagger, a slim, curved weapon that dangled from his waist belt.
The other man turned and took William in with little visible sign of surprise. He was older and wore an intricate sailor’s hat, bent brimmed in the style of an earlier time. His face was craggy-featured, rough and multitextured. His eyebrows perched above his eyes, two thick lines drawn in coal. A similarly bushy beard spread downward over his jowls. His eyes were large even for his wide face, more bulbous than usual. William’s captors addressed this man, explaining where and in what condition they had found him.
The smaller man moved before they had finished speaking. He strode the space between them in two quick steps and punched William across the mouth. William reeled away from the blow, but was set right by the two men. “You’ll soon see you’ve made a mistake, my friend.” He signaled something to the men. One of them moved off, but the other one, with the gun, kept his grip on William.
“Captain,” the small man said, “we’d be within our rights to hang him ourselves.”
“Without a trial, Mr. Barrett?” the captain asked, his voice unhurried and nasal.
“What trial did his like give those men?” Barrett stepped forward and grasped William by the chin between his rough-gloved fingers. “What trial did you give those men before you rose and slaughtered them?”
“Please, Mr. Barrett, give me a moment.” The captain motioned the younger man aside and examined William from head to toe, taking in each feature of his body and clothing, lingering long on his tattered breeches and on the sad state of his brogans. He reached out as if to touch William along the jawline. William lifted his head before the man made contact with his skin. “You don’t have the countenance of a murderer,” he said, “but I of all people know that looks can be deceiving. God gave us the good sense to know the difference between the lion and doe, and he wrote the laws by which we punish the criminal among us.”
One of the other men returned, bringing with him the familiar clinking of heavy iron. William set his jaw against the sound. Tired and exhausted as he was, he would not stand before this man like a slave on the auction block. He set his gaze to the distance to show them that he was far away from all this, someplace else entirely, a place they could never own. For the first time it occurred to him how much there was inside of him that no white man could ever know. There were regions within him upon which no claims of ownership had hold. He thought about Dover and that rage of hers, and he felt closer to her than he had since that day in January.
“Forgive me if I sin against you,” the captain said, “but I have my ship and crew to protect. You understand …”
The captain motioned the man forward with the chains. William stared straight before him as the man clamped the iron over his scarred wrists. He watched the distant shoreline, a white line of sand behind which dunes rolled out of sight.
“I am not wholly without sympathy for your situation,” the captain said. “I abhor the institution that has enslaved you, and I even believe that the spilling of white blood may at times be justified. But, for the moment at least I must treat you as a criminal. You may, at will, make a case for yourself and I will hear you out.” The captain paused and expressed with his folded hands that he was ready to listen. “Have you anything to say in your defense?”
William didn’t answer. He didn’t want to listen to or engage with the man at all, let them do with him what they would. Given a moment’s peace he would again try to escape. And if caught, he would again escape. And if he was not meant to find Dover then he would die in the effort. Even if he was to die here he would not show an ounce of fear, for he had seen white men killed. He had seen their flesh unmasked and looked beneath it. If he never saw Dover again, at least he would die knowing she would be proud of him. She would find him beautiful in his anger.
“You are one of the fugitives from that coffle, one of those that rose in Virginia and massacred their keepers?” When he didn’t answer the captain sighed. “Perhaps no white man has ever asked for your thoughts before, but that’s just what I’m doing. I’m giving you the opportunity to speak for yourself. You would be wise to take it.”
Though William tried not to listen—not to engage with the man at all—the strange cadence of his words reverberated in his head. He gathered that the man knew of the massacre and knew that he was a runaway, but he couldn’t place what the man’s attitude to these things might be. If he had called for a rope just then it would’ve made more sense. If he knew the things he appeared to, then William would only live until a noose was fastened around his neck. Did he have anything to say in his defense? He had a million things to say but not one that a white man would care to hear.
“Sir,” the small man said. He crowded behind the captain.
The captain’s voice stayed calm. “You are one of those fugitives. You stowed away on my ship in such a way as might have compromised me to the authorities. Am I correct? Do you deny any of this?”
William pressed his tongue against his teeth.
“Your silence leaves me no choice,” the captain said. “Barrett.”
The small man sprung toward him, spun William around and shoved him toward the port side of the brig. The railing hit him at waist level and his upper body pitched forward. The water slipped past with incredible speed, the sleek back of the ocean and the ship carving into it. Barrett held him facing it for a few moments, his fist clamped around his collar. “The captain said talk!”
William wanted to wrench himself from the little man’s grip and look upon the captain again, to hear more of his questions and more of the voice in which he spoke them. He opened his mouth, but where and how to begin? What could he say that would stay the moment and grant him more time to think? Barrett pushed his elbow into the small of William’s back, making him gasp, a sound that came out like a curse.
“You hear that?” Barrett asked. “He sassing us. Listen to him.”
The captain moved in close to the two men. “I am sure you can perceive the extent to which Barrett is willing to go with this questioning. We must have answers, and if you’ll give us none I’ll give Mr. Barrett permission to submerge you. Do you understand? He’ll bind your feet with a long rope and toss you overboard and you will learn what it’s like to drown. It’s not at all pleasant. You lash out in the water trying to find some purchase. But the water is a thing with and without substance. You beat against it but it cannot be mastered. Your exhaustion is like none you have ever experienced. We pull you on like a fish on a line. You would cry out, but your head is beneath the water. You may lose consciousness, if you’re lucky. If you’re not lucky you’ll be very aware of the moment the water rushes in on you, filling your insides and choking the life out of you. And at that point Mr. Barrett would haul you back aboard and ask you the very same questions. Now …” He turned William’s face toward his. “… let us avoid all of that. Tell me, are you a murderer?”
William shook his head.
“You have no blood on your hands?”
For the first time that he was aware of, William vocalized his answer. “No.”
The captain asked the next question in simple, deliberate words spoken close to William’s ear. “Then give me the words … Speak so that I may know the truth.”
“I never murdered anybody. The others did that.”
“Typical,” Barrett spit. “Typical answer! Shall I dunk him, sir?”
“No. We d
on’t have time for that.” The captain drew himself up, folded his arms behind him and considered William from that posture of authority. “This is not a court. We shan’t hear this matter out here. He pleads innocence. That’s enough for now. See that the prisoner is locked away securely. We’ll turn him over when it suits us.” Barrett looked ready to protest, but the captain stopped him with a raised hand. “That’s my mind, now see it made true.”
With another motion of his hand the captain spurred several men into action. They wrestled William out of Barrett’s grip and began to drag him away. For the first few yards he walked as guided. He closed his eyes and let them lead him. The image of the shoreline came to him and he was filled with an urge to dive into the ocean, to swim for that shore or drown in the effort. He opened his eyes and saw the passage into the ship approaching. He jerked his arms free of the men that bound him and strode forward, turned and made for the edge. He lunged for the railing, but just as he touched it his feet were kicked out from under him and the men were upon him, grappling and kicking him. They hauled him up and dragged him onward. He tried to yank himself free, twisting to see the captain and to talk to him, suddenly willing to plead his innocence. But the captain was out of his view. As they dragged him to the portal his arms banged out against it to stop him. He yelled out Dover’s name, but his cry was snatched away by the wind across the deck. Then the ship swallowed him.
William sat fuming in his cell, wrists chaffing beneath the chains, buttocks sore from pressing against solid wood. It was a tiny room, too short even for him to stand, just wider than his outstretched arms. His chains were secured to a ring in the floor, though it hardly seemed necessary. There was not a chink of light to be seen in the cell, no moving air. It was a chamber of black, dripping wood. His captors had set a bucket near the door for him to relieve himself. But he didn’t need it. There was nothing inside of him to come out. At first he dreamed of escape. He imagined how he would manage it, scenes of blood and gore not natural to him but being learned. But his anger didn’t last. It seeped out of him and into the darkness around him. It was a relief almost, to give up hope, letting thoughts and schemes slide away, replaced by a numbness inside that mirrored that around him. How much could a man take? How much until he could give up with honor? Perhaps he was failing Dover and the child, but how much could he take before giving in?
When the door opened he snapped upright. A single candle shone through the crack. A moment later a face appeared beside it. For a second, William thought the candlelight was playing tricks on him. The face it illuminated appeared to be black, only the whites of the eyes clear and bright in reflection. The face vanished. The candle wavered. Then the door swung open and a man stepped in, candle in one hand, plate of food in the other. For some seconds the person’s face was hidden, but when it turned toward him again he realized he had not been mistaken. It was an ebony facade, that of a Negro, darker than he, with hair that—if the image in the candlelight could be believed—sprung from his scalp like black worms several inches long. For a moment William thought the face feminine. High cheeks sloped to a narrow, hairless chin. Eyes were wide set and almond shaped, tilted upwards at either end. But there was something masculine about the person’s movements, quick and assured and not the slightest bit nervous with their proximity.
The person set the metal plate before William, placed the candle next to it, and squatted a few feet away. He was dressed as any sailor, in dark breeches and a cotton shirt, but it was to his strange, angular face that William’s attention was drawn. His lips were a dark pucker below his nose. A series of black lines cut diagonally across his cheeks, scars or tattoos it was hard to tell. Despite the intensity of his visage, William felt no threat from it.
“Eat,” the man said. In a single word his voice conveyed its foreignness. It was spoken from the front of the mouth, just the play of the tip of his tongue on the backs of teeth.
William felt for the plate. Steam rose up from it and slipped across his features. He couldn’t smell it, but he knew what it was when he took a mouthful, hominy. He ate several mouthfuls, slowly, remembering how to eat. Before long, he forgot the man in front of him. He felt the food slide into his mouth and move around his teeth and slip down inside him. It woke a life down there that had been dormant for a long time. After he had scraped the plate clean of hominy he noticed the strips of meat lining the edge.
“Is venison.”
William’s head snapped up.
The man repeated the word. “Ven-ni-son.” He smiled and nodded his head, asking if William understood. He motioned with his hands, a pronged gesture that looked to William like that of a rabbit jumping. But then the man held them above his head, creating strange limbs there with his fingers. When William still looked confused, the man dropped his hands and thought. Eventually, he said, “Doe.”
“Doe?” William said. “Oh, you mean to say ‘deer.’” He had never eaten venison before. He tasted it. It was richer meat than he would have imagined, and thicker than seemed possible from such lithe animals. He glanced back up at the man’s grinning face. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
The man nodded and then asked, with no preamble or change in the expression on his face, “Who Dover?”
For a confused second it felt like the man had pulled the name from his head, had somehow robbed him of it. But as he stared he saw no guile written across his features, no evil intent, no sorcery. He simply asked a question and awaited an answer. William remembered that he had screamed her name on deck. He must have heard it then. “She … She’s my woman.”
“Your woman?” the other said, teasing out both words as if further meaning could be deciphered by saying them slowly. He nodded and said no more.
William continued eating. His seething anger was gone. It lingered back at the far wall of his conscious mind, but his thoughts were clear. Perhaps the food had helped. He wanted to ask this man who he was, what he was doing on this ship. Somehow—and it was not just because of his color—he seemed out of place. He seemed to hold serenity within himself, a peace with his physical body and patience with the quiet moments he was spending here in this dark cell. William decided he would speak again when he had finished the meat.
But just as he did so the man scrabbled forward in his squatting position and scooped up the plate. He motioned that he would leave the candle, and then he paused beside the door, looking at William once more. “The captain is here,” he said. He stepped out of the door, and the white man appeared in his place. He must’ve been standing just outside the whole time.
The captain entered the cubicle and set a lantern down near the door. The black man handed him a bottle and two wooden goblets. The black man glanced at William and then, at a nod from the captain, pulled the door fast behind him, leaving the two men alone.
The captain looked at the boards beneath his feet, taking some time before lowering himself down to sit. He shifted around into several positions before settling on one, legs folded before him, back straight. The captain watched William for a few moments, taking in his face and clothing, body and then face again. He pursed his lips as if to comment on his appearance but then thought better of it. He uncorked the bottle and filled the two goblets. “I am sure you are thirsty,” he said. “I have taken the liberty of bringing some wine for us to share. I’ve nurtured a great thirst all day.” He placed one of the containers within William’s reach, then tilted his own and drank.
William didn’t respond. He fixed his eyes on an area of shadowed darkness, trying to calm his heart, the pulse of which he felt in his palms.
The man wiped his mouth and took note of this. As he replenished his goblet he began to speak. He talked in that odd, meandering voice of his. He first detailed the weather of the past few days, then discussed the winds and how they favored them, even described the sheet lightning he had seen dancing across the distant sky the night before. William barely took in a word of it, waiting instead for him to get around to what he real
ly had to say, some decision about his fate, some news of when he was to be handed over. But, if the man did have such news to disclose, he was slow in getting to it.
“What do you think of Adam?” the Captain asked, indicating with a nod that he referred to the black man beyond the door. “I bought him, you know. He is as free as any man now. I paid silver for his liberty off the coast of North Africa. A trader in Tunis approached me, you see. I had been drinking, searching for amusements. I did quite a bit of this in those days. It gives a traveler heart, and we need heart in foreign lands. But, as I was saying, my mind sought amusement, and this trader made it known that he had boys to sell, boys who could be used for whatever purposes a demented mind might think of.” He paused and studied William. “I was curious, you see. The trader said he was taken from a pirate ship off the coast of Madagascar, but he may well have lied. I don’t even think Adam knows where he was born. In any event, he had suffered horribly in his short life. Not worked the way you may have been, but used for a different purpose. The trader had him stripped, and put on display each portion of his body. He was made to bend and contort and … It was very degrading, for both of us. I paid the boy’s price without haggling over it. I took him out of there, not to use as that trader suggested but to walk him to freedom. Do you understand why I did that? Some acts of men degrade all of mankind, not just the individual. I had watched as that boy was made to display himself, and that was a crime in its own right. I had the silver, and I sought to absolve us both. I was clear headed when I did it, and I shall never doubt it was one of the better actions of my life. He is not a slave, I tell you. He is free to go where and when he pleases. That he stays with me I consider a blessing of sorts. He and I have spoken many hours together. He is a good listener, and I am one who seems to need to talk. As I have just proven.”
Walk Through Darkness Page 10