Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  ‘Say goodbye to the Mother Country, lads. I wager it’s the last time you lot will ever see ’er.’

  Is then I start to feel the fear well up from deep inside. A fear born from barren despair, with not a scrap of hope left in it. And I can see the same fear staring back at me, from all the other convict eyes.

  Chained, listening to the battering rain and howling wind from inside a convict ship, I feel the glimmering light up and I can trace the many twists and turns me life took to get me here. And at every turn, it seem like fate keep forcing me to do him bidding. Once in a while him tease me with good fortune, but most times, him come to be a possessive spirit filled with ill fortune, wrapped tight round me shoulders, directing the way.

  Feeling lower than low, it come back to me what Calla used to say. ‘No matter how bad things is, little Will, you must give thanks for whatever little bit of good leave-over. It give strength to a defeated heart to keep on beating.’

  The Voyage

  For the first few days, we convicts kept below deck locked in chains. The ship warden come every morning to inspect us, give us our cooking and eating utensils, tin mugs, spoons and a wooden keg for water rations. Just like on the hulk, him divide us up into messes with six men to a mess. Make one of the men in each mess the captain, put him in charge of us, and if we do good or bad it going fall on him. The captain I come under named Richard Peachy. Him a real old-timer. Used to be a sailor before him take up him life of crime. In time, I learn is a good thing. Him know him way round a ship, know how to get a few little extras when we need them.

  When we fully out to sea, the chains and irons get hammered off and we allowed up on deck. Is a great relief to leave the hold, get away from cramped spaces, the stink, the smell of fearful sweat. But when I get on deck all I see is stormy skies, freezing rain, cold, dark, brooding water with waves that rise up, lick and push at the boat, keep it rolling and heaving just like me insides. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide, as you stomach empty itself over the side. And when I look out at all that water, all I feel is dread. Keep thinking what if a big storm rise up, and the boat turn over, and I get dragged down into the dark and brooding depths.

  To make things worse, every night is troubling dreams. Them start well enough, a bright sunny day, cloudless blue skies just like me back on the island. In the distance, a boat with all the people I know and, even though them is far away, I can see them faces, close, and them smiling and waving, beckoning for me to join them.

  Then, before I know it, the dream shift and change. The sky cloud over, storm clouds form and the waves get bigger and bigger. Watch as smiles start to fade, the waving turn to grasping, reaching out, begging to be saved. Watch as the boat roll over, listen as them cries get quieter and quieter as friends and family vanish beneath the waves.

  James Smith, the convict sleeping in the bunk next to mine, shake me awake because I been crying out in me sleep and the other convicts grumbling bout it. ‘Must be a nightmare,’ him tell me.

  One morning, when I am feeling poorly with the seasickness and with me troubling dreams, is me turn to be up on deck. I notice James Smith walk up to the railing, hold on tight. But him don’t seem to mind how the ship rocking and rolling. Him must be see how sick I is because him come up to me, stand close by.

  ‘See that line?’ pointing way off in the distance to the place where it seem like the sky reaching down to claim the sea. ‘Must look there,’ him tell me. ‘Help steady the seasickness, the weakness in you knees.’

  I do as him tell me and after a while, is true, I start to feel a little better.

  When I get sent back down into the hold, I nod to him as we move past and him nod back. Pretty soon after, whenever we up on deck, we seek each other out. Is how we get to be friends, come to watch each other backs. And when we up on deck, we start to exchange stories, memories from our life, before grey skies and stormy weather overtake us.

  Him listen good when I tell him the many things Calla told me, but I never speak much bout Stella or Massa. I never seem able to talk bout what happen. Instead I ask him bout his mother and him tell me how she have five pickney and each one got sold off to a different massa.

  ‘I got lucky, sold to a good massa. Him even let me learn how to read and write. Own plenty horses,’ James say. ‘Have a big track on him plantation, like to race dem. And as I grow, it turns out me good with horses. Know how to quiet dem down when they get frightened, nervy. Know how to teach dem tricks.’

  ‘How you do it?’ I ask.

  ‘Tell Massa me know how to talk to dem,’ and him wink at me.

  Make me laugh, remember Calla and her winking ways.

  ‘You don’t believe me, eh?’

  ‘Me believe you. Horse talk. Must be the same as cow talk,’ and I remember how I used to listen to all the mama and the baby cows call out to each other in the pasture.

  ‘Is a good thing, because me like the company of animals better than the company of men.’

  ‘Is how come you end up here?’

  James nod, smile a sad smile. Seem to be lost in the memory of it. ‘Get tricked into lending a horse to a man me think me can trust. Except the man take the horse don’t come back. And when it get discovered, the finger point at me. Make it look like me the thief. Me tell the tale to Massa and him believe me, but the horse and man gone, so me get done for the crime.’

  James Smith is a gentle soul. Him have a kind heart, always looking for the good in a person. Not able to see that not every heart have good intentions.

  After a few weeks, we all start to find what the sailors call sea legs and, just like on the hulk, McDuff get us working. We must go up on deck if the weather stable, move round, clean utensils, wash clothes, leave them to dry, flapping in the sailing breeze. I don’t mind the work, keep me mind from straying too much, from getting overcome by the dread of all that water.

  And when me mind settle down, I start to hear things. The sailors not happy with this Captain Bolton, not happy at all. They always whispering, complaining when him not round. Say the captain is a mean-hearted man. A rascal, cheap with him rations.

  Is not only the crew that unhappy with him, is also Surgeon McKay, the doctor on board. I overhear him talking to Bolton when me up on deck.

  ‘We need to do something about the rations, Bolton. The prisoners are half starved. Too many of them are falling sick. When we get to the Cape of Good Hope, we must take on more supplies than you have apportioned.’

  ‘No need to adjust the rations,’ Bolton reply. ‘There is nothing in the rule book that says we must provide more than the standard issue.’

  ‘I’m in charge when it comes to the welfare of all those on board.’

  ‘Aye, I remember. But it’s my boat. My crew.’

  ‘You call this a crew. Starved, miserable, wretched creatures. Scrimping is illegal. I would never have come on board if I’d known you’d employ such methods to crew the ship.’

  ‘Like I said, McKay, they are my crew and under my jurisdiction. Who they are and how I treat them has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. But if we don’t get the rations right, I cannot guarantee we will arrive in Port Jackson with a full load of convicts. Need I remind you, a dead convict means no payment. And we get a bonus if they arrive healthy, not half dead.’

  When is me turn to collect the plates, clean them after the morning meal, I stay close to Richard Peachy, ask him bout what I heard.

  ‘That Captain Bolton is only interested in money and ’ow much he’s going to make,’ Peachy whisper. ‘And when it comes to rations, we supposed to get so much o’ this, so much o’ that, but Bolton only brings on board the cheapest and poorest of staples.’

  I tell him what McKay said bout the scrimps and him shake him head when him tell me.

  ‘You think we hard done by. Scrimps are men at the end of the line. Fall down drunk, have no money, looking for a quick loan. Sign up to sailoring, don’t even know it. Get carried on board. Get
half the rations the crew get. Have nothing left to lose.’

  Peachy speak the truth, one of them scrimps so sick and poorly him fall overboard. Too weak, quickly sink, get eaten by a shark.

  A few more weeks into the voyage, I wake up one morning feeling poorly. Me head is pounding and I have a stomach-ache. The worst is me throat. It feel raw, sore, and then it get so swollen, I can barely talk. I try to ignore it, but James Smith say I must report it and McDuff send me off to sickbay to see Surgeon McKay.

  ‘Is me throat,’ I start to say, before I cough, and when him tell me to spit in a little cup, up come pus and blood.

  ‘Acute tonsillitis,’ McKay say after him prod and poke me, look down me throat. Straight away assign me to a bed.

  I spend a few days lying in the cot, drifting in and out of sleep. Listening to the coughing and moaning coming from the other sick beds. Two of them filled with island boys, one named Powell, the other named Reid.

  When they came on board, they was already very poorly indeed. Powell had a hacking cough, we heard it all through the night. Him bunk under the ports, the seawater leaking in on him. Reid meanwhile just lay in him bunk, didn’t move much, stared out at nothing. Moaned whenever him changed position or got up to do him business. Little by little, the story came out, he was kicked in the side by a horse and him never heal. Insides must be all mash up. Was hard for Reid to get him keg filled up to get him ration of food, so me and James Smith took turns doing it for him. Pretty soon though, him followed in Powell footsteps, got sent off to sickbay.

  Laying beside Reid I notice him turn even thinner, don’t move much. Powell is over the other side, can hear him hacking cough.

  I wake one night, hear Reid begging for water. Say him insides burning up. I check the water barrel under him bed, is almost empty, but I manage to fill a little in his cup. Hold it up to him lips while he take a few sips, then smile a thin smile of thanks. I think Reid going fall back to sleep, but he grip me hand something fierce, look into me eyes, straight and alert.

  ‘Remember me,’ him beg me. ‘Thomas Reid. Me name is Thomas Reid. And when you remember, think of me kindly, hold me in you prayers.’

  Then him grip loosen, the light in him eyes start to fade, till one final gasp, and Reid lay still, never to move again. Nothing more to be done, I put me hand over his eyes and close them. Then a strange thing happen. I hear loud and clear a rooster crow, him early morning call to the sun. Is like a whisper from the place we both come from. And I know Reid spirit struggling to find a way to return to the Ancestors so he can finally rest, be at peace.

  I spend a few more days in the sickbay. Me throat slowly getting better. Watch as the sailors sew Reid body up inside a burial sack, still wrapped in the sheets him die in. Powell soon follow, expire in the middle of the night and him too get sewed up in one of them sacks.

  ‘Where the bodies going lay?’ I ask Surgeon McKay when him doing him rounds.

  ‘We’re passing close to the Canary Islands, satellites of Spain,’ he tell me. ‘But we won’t be stopping. They’ll be thrown overboard, get buried at sea.’

  The saddest part is nobody to help Reid and Powell spirits make the crossing to the Ancestors. Nobody to lead the way, to speak the language of the dead like what Calla done for old cripple Jonnie when him finally took him last breath.

  McDuff make all them that can stand to attention come up on deck while him say a few words shouting out above the sound of the waves.

  ‘We therefore commit these bodies to the deep to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the seas shall give up her dead and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, amen.’

  I hear the bodies go over the side, hear them splash into the water and a great sadness wash up over me. Me countrymen, once living, now just two lonely bodies sinking into the darkness of the deep. They travelled this far to end up floating on the bottom, to be picked at by fish.

  Full Circle

  We bout halfway through the voyage, Richard Peachy tell me, when I ask him how much longer, praying and hoping it will soon be over. Me spirits falling low when I hear it is not. Only good thing is that the weather start to turn, get dry, hot with the sun holding him head up high as him move cross the horizon. And it finally get warm enough to heat me bones and lift me spirits. One morning, I see a whole heap of porpoises swimming and jumping and moving swift past the ship. Then another time water spurting high up into the air, everybody pointing and looking at the whales as them leap and dive far off in the distance. Is a sight I never going forget.

  Most times though is routine, routine, routine.

  ‘Okay, lads,’ McDuff shout. ‘You lazy sods been laying about moaning and complaining. This will set you right. Fresh air, hard work and sunshine. Scrubbing brushes, soap over there. Buckets over ’ere. Fill ’em up with seawater. Then on your knees. Start at the stern, and scrub your way towards the bow.’

  A fiddler strike up a working tune and we all get to scrubbing. While we scrubbing the decks, I notice a hazy outline in the distance.

  ‘Africa,’ Richard Peachy tell me. ‘All along this coast is famous fer the slave trade. Captain Bol’on work on ’em slave ships. Is where ’im learn ’im cruel ways.’

  Is a shock to discover where we is. How far and long you have to travel to reach the country the Ancestors come from. One time we sail so close to the shoreline I think I can smell the land. Hear the drums drifting on the breeze. A lamentation for the mothers and fathers and sons and daughters that been lost. A shadow, a rift, that never going heal. And in the passing, me mind hold fast to Calla. She was our Mother Country. The keeper of all the old-time business, all the learning she bring with her from cross these very seas.

  And it bring back the memory of when I went to visit her, just before we left Rock Pleasant. Walked up the rocky path to her hut on the hill, bringing food, worried because nobody seen her for many a day. When I got there, thankful to see a candle burning in the window. Knocked quiet like, waited till she told me to come in.

  Was a long time since I seen the inside of Calla hut, but the sights and smells, them was all the same. Every shelf full up with her tonics, potions and creams. Candles burning beside incense. Clay pots with bird claws, feathers stuffed inside.

  And there was Calla in a ratty old dress sitting all hunched up on her bed. One of the shawls she make wrapped tight round her shoulders even though was a mild evening. And no comb pass through her hair for many a morning, it was dirty, sticking up all over the place. I was shocked to see the state she in. From the time I was a pickney, Calla always dressed in a long, spotless white dress, a head-tie round her head. Everything clean and neat as was proper to her station.

  I pulled up a box, sat beside her. Said nothing. Only reached for a big spoon, started to feed her. She ate, slow at first, then she grabbed the spoon, started to shovel the food into her mouth. When the food all gone, she licked the bowl like a mad woman.

  ‘Thank you, little Will,’ she said.

  ‘What wrong with you, Granny Callie? Must be some big sickness catch you.’

  She looked at me for a long time, like she was looking through me. Like her mind was wandering round places the sun never seen.

  ‘Is the memory sickness,’ she finally said. ‘Follow me from cross the seas.’

  Was the first time Calla ever talked bout her past. ‘Evil doings. Best forgotten,’ is all she used to say.

  I think that evening going be no different, but then she said, ‘Build up the fire, little Will. Put on a yabba of water,’ and she handed me the leaf from the passionflower vine to throw in. ‘To calm the heart, to give peace to the soul,’ she told me.

  Finally, after she changed her dress and wrapped her long head-tie tight, she came outside, sat beside me on one of the stools old cripple Jonnie made. Sat quiet for a long time sipping on that tea. I had to wait till the waning moon start to go down before Calla finally start to speak. Had to listen close. Her voice
was no longer strong, it had a little tremble, and I came to know I was listening to the voice of a woman turning old. After that night, I finally understood why she didn’t like to look back to them days.

  ‘Back in me village, is late at night. Everybody peacefully asleep. The sound of gunfire! Father push me out the hut. Tell me, “Run!” Me don’t listen. If only me did. Wanted to hold me mother one last time. She big with child, can’t run. By the time me reach the edge of the village compound, is too late! The slavers already there and they grab me up.’

  Suddenly the glimmering burst open in me mind and I saw Calla the little girl alone, frightened, crying, tied up sitting in the dust of the village compound.

  ‘The village chief, him have one rusty old gun. Old and rusty just like him. Can’t do nothing. Is the first to be killed, him spirit drifting off, troubled cause nobody going be left to give him a proper burial. They end up wounding me father, almost killed him. Him fight dem too much. Mother, she like a young woman turn old when they lock the shackle dem tight round her neck. Was the last time me see dem. Spend a long time tied up listening to the cries of the wounded. The wailing of mothers. The old men and women weeping in the dirt.’

  Calla memory sickness didn’t just come from that memory. It also came from the time she chained up inside the slave boat.

  ‘We chained up so close together. The sickness. The shit. The piss. The blood, got sucked back into me lungs. Got sweated out through me skin till what was on the outside become part of the inside. The smell of wounds, sores, bodies turned rotten. Suffocating me.

  ‘When we get to the island the slavers put us in a camp. Seasoning camp they called it. One big settlement beside a river. Come night-time, the mosquito dem bite us. Backra don’t let us use no balm to protect the skin, the way we do back home. Then some of us get sick with the fever, with the shakes. Dem separate you from you family so nobody to care for you. And everywhere me look, all me see is bodies that is dead, dying, crying out in pain.’