Rapture of the Deep Page 9

  Davy heaves a theatrical sigh, shakes his head, and says, "Alas, another poor innocent sailorman brought low by wild women, conniving landlubbers, and strong drink. It has ever been so." Davy, the hypocrite, had certainly downed his share of ale during our time in The Fox, that's for sure. The dog clears his throat and begins to sing "The Drunken Sailor," a chantey sung by sailors when they haul on the buntlines to raise a ship's heavy sails:

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor,

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor,

  What shall we do with a drunken sailor,

  Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

  Then all three of us join in bellowing out the chorus:

  Way, hey, and up she rises,

  Way, hey, and up she rises,

  Way, hey, and up she rises,

  Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

  Then Tink chimes in with one of the many, many verses that deal with what to do with the unfortunate swab:

  Put him in the scuppers with a hose pipe on him,

  Take him and shake him and try to wake him,

  Give him a dose of salt and water,

  Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

  Another round of the chorus and I come in with my favorite verse. I like it for its simplicity and the image it brings to me ... er ... my ... mind:

  Shave his belly with a rusty razor,

  Shave his belly with a rusty razor,

  Shave his belly with a rusty razor,

  Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

  Back to the chorus again and I throw my arms around each of my brothers' necks and plant a kiss on each of their cheeks, and yes, the wine was very good and plentiful. And hey, it's been a while since I've had a roarin' good time.

  Davy is of the opinion that next we should do "Bully in the Alley," 'cause it's a similar tune, like, and I agree, and Davy starts it off with:

  Well, Annie is the girl that I love dearly.

  Way, hey, bully in the alley!

  Annie is the girl that I spliced nearly.

  Bully down in Shinbone Alley!

  "Bully" in this song means like one of your mates what had too much to drink and ended up face-down in an alley like that poor gob we spotted a while ago. We swing into the chorus:

  Help me, Bob, I'm bully in the alley,

  Way, hey, bully in the alley!

  Help me, Bob, I'm bully in the alley,

  Bully down in Shinbone Alley!

  But we don't do any more verses or any more songs, 'cause all the high spirits and hilarity are very quickly knocked out of us when we get to the end of the street and come upon that square we had crossed before, a square that is no longer empty of people. There is now quite a crowd grouped about that stage I had noticed earlier and had thought might be set up for a musical or theatrical performance. But I was wrong in thinking that, as I soon find out.

  A man in a dark suit and broad-brimmed hat now stands upon it. He carries a cane and holds a megaphone to his lips. "Gentlemen," he calls out. "And ladies. Welcome to all. Today we have twenty-five prime Negroes, both male and female, for sale, all certified to be docile, healthy, and free of any disease. My name is Silas Meade, and many of you know me to be a man of honor in my business dealings, and I believe you will be pleased with today's offerings."

  All joy is gone from me now. I can see that the slaves to be sold are grouped around the back, guarded by men with whips and guns. I begin to shake with fury.

  "Let's get out of here, Jacky," urges Tink. "This is dirty business."

  I've seen slaves working the fields under the blazing sun. I've sailed on a slaver and observed the horrible conditions on it close up. I've met slaves and freed some. Yes, I know all about slavery—but I've never before seen this part of it. I am stunned and rooted to the spot.

  "Don't do it, Jacky," warns Davy, looking at the tight expression on my face. "You're gonna do somethin' stupid, you know you will, and you're gonna get in trouble. This ain't your fight. You can't save them, any of them; you haven't got enough money."

  "I ain't gonna do nothin' stupid," I hiss, shaking with rage. "I know how things lie. Only the very rich can afford to buy other human beings. Go back to the ship, both of you, if you can't bear to watch." I stand, rigid, watching, bearing witness.

  Oh, God, how can You let this go on?

  My brothers do not go back to the ship, no. I feel them still standing by my side.

  A young black man has been brought up on the stage, and Mr. Silas Meade begins the sale.

  "What am I bid for this fine young buck? Only seventeen years old and already strong as an ox! Just look at those muscles!" The young man, whose wrists are bound, has been stripped of his shirt and he is, indeed, well muscled. The auctioneer has a cane and he taps it on the boy's chest. "Shall we start the bidding at one thousand dollars?"

  "One thousand!" shouts a rather fat but prosperouslooking gentleman, waving a card with a number on it. He has a woman with him, finely dressed—she leans on his arm, smiling broadly and waving at friends across the square. Such a lark, such fun, to be here laughing gaily as human beings are being auctioned off like animals.

  Another man, dressed much like the other, jumps up on the platform to examine the slave more closely. He puts his hand on the Negro's face and uses his thumb to lift the man's upper lip to examine his teeth. "Eleven hundred!" he says, leaving the stage.

  "Twelve hundred!"

  "Thirteen!" calls out another man.

  "Thirteen-fifty!" cries the fat man, and then there is silence.

  "Gentlemen, I have one thousand three hundred and fifty dollars!" says the auctioneer. "Do I hear fourteen? No? Going once ... Going twice ... Sold! To Mr. Wilkes!"

  Next a plainly terrified girl is pulled to the platform by a rope that is tied around her neck. Because she is young and pretty, she is stripped down to her skin and made to stand naked before the crowd. She tries to cover herself with her hands, but those hands are roughly pushed down by one of the slave handlers.

  She is sold for sixteen hundred and fifty dollars, again to Mr. Wilkes, the fat man.

  Another woman, this one heavy with child, is now brought up. There is a boy of about seven years old clinging to her side. He is crying. The auctioneer pushes the boy aside and uses his cane to lift up the front of the mother's simple white shift to show her belly. "Look at that!" he exclaims. "A proven breeder! How can you go wrong? Three for the price of one! Let's start at twelve hundred dollars for the lot! Who will give me twelve hundred?"

  Someone does, and so the bidding goes on until—Sold! To Mr. O'Hara!—she, and her son, too, have been bought and are led off.

  "Haven't you seen enough?" asks Davy, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "Do you want to stay to see them whipped?"

  "I suppose I have been made sick enough," I say, hardened in my resolve to fight this evil whenever and however I can. "Let's leave the scum to their vile business and may they rot in—Hold on, what's this?"

  As we are turning to leave, I notice that an older woman is now being shoved onto the stage, to much laughter from the crowd. True, compared to the young blacks who had been displayed before, she is a pitiful sight—heavy of body, a shawl around her shoulders and faded skirts hanging about her hips, an old rag tied around her graying hair. She stands, head up, eyes looking straight ahead, with her hands clasped before her.

  "Hey, Silas! You gonna pay someone to haul that away? Hey?" shouts out some wit in the crowd, and there is laughter all around.

  "Now, boys," says the auctioneer, signaling with his hands for silence. "This here Negress has been a house Nigra for forty-odd years now, and she can clean and she can sew and she can cook."

  "Cook?" cries the wit again. "Hell, I reckon! And I reckon she been into the lard real good, from the looks of her!" More laughter.

  I look over at the man who has been saying these things. He is thin, stooped, wearing a floppy black hat and smoking a thin cheroot.

  "So what am I bid? Shall we start at five hundred dollars? Do
I hear five hundred?"

  No, he does not.

  "One hundred dollars!" calls out the man with the cigar. "Hell, if I get her for that I can put her to chopping cotton till she drops dead. Still be worth it." He doesn't get as big a laugh on that one. It seems that not everyone here is quite as cruel as he.

  "Come, Colonel Tarleton, surely you can do better than that?"

  "Surely, I cannot, Suh!" responds this Tarleton. "Hell, she could die tomorrow, and then where would I be? Out one hundred dollars, and with one fat dead Nigra on my hands, that's where."

  "I have one hundred dollars, then," says the auctioneer, looking out over the crowd. "Do I hear two hundred?"

  Silence. Then...

  "One hundred and fifty dollars!" I sing out. I have reached down and felt the gold coins in my money belt, as well as the money in my purse, and I think I have that amount.

  "What the hell are you doin'?" demands Davy. Tink, beside him, looks shocked.

  I grab each of the lads by the forearm and hiss, "Davy ... Tink ... Pretend to smile and laugh like all of this is nothing to you. If they see I want her too bad, they'll bid me up! And I ain't got no more money. Now, do it!"

  And they play along, pretending they have absolutely no interest in what is going on in this slave market. I put on the Lawson Peabody Look, and wait.

  "I have one hundred and fifty dollars!" says the auctioneer through his megaphone. "Do I have two hundred? Colonel Tarleton?"

  Colonel Tarleton looks over at me. "Why you want this old Negress?" He takes the cigar from his mouth, throws it on the ground, and grinds it out with the heel of his boot.

  "I need someone to look after my baby girl, Suh, as I am sickly and can no longer do it fo' m'self." I put the back of my hand to my forehead and affect a bit of a swoon.

  "Hah! You shall have her, then. Never let it be said that Colonel Ashley Tarleton kept a flower of southern womanhood from having a proper mammy fo' her baby!" He takes off his hat and bows low.

  I simper and curtsy to his bow.

  "One hundred and fifty," says the auctioneer, impatient to get past this very unprofitable transaction. "Once, twice, gone! To the lady in the black dress! Now next we have a fine..."

  I go around to the back of the stage, where I find a man seated at a table collecting the money and writing out the Bills of Sale. I tell him my name and pay him his money and he gives me the paper.

  Bill of Sale

  For the Negro Woman known as Jemimah.

  Formerly owned by Asa Hamilton. Sold in as-is

  condition to J. M. Faber.

  Attested Herewith

  William Meade, Esq.

  Just as simple as that—the ownership of a person is passed from one to the next. I fold the paper and put it in my purse.

  "Thank you for your purchase," says this Mr. Meade with a smirk. He has to be the brother of the auctioneer. "We do hope you will be pleased." I am handed the end of a rope, the other end of which is attached to the neck of ... Who? ... Oh, yes ... Jemimah.

  She picks up a bundle, which I suspect holds all her earthly goods, and she looks at me and then gazes off, her eyes revealing nothing.

  "You are crazy," says Davy. "You know that, don't you?"

  "Yes, I do," I answer, my nose in the air, as we all head back to the Nancy B.

  Chapter 16

  Higgins, Dr. Sebastian, and I are going off to see a musical revue this evening at Tagliaferro Hall in Charleston and will join the others later at The Fox. Higgins is giving me a bit of a brush-up. I sense that he is not entirely pleased with me. It doesn't take him long to get down to it.

  "So, now you own a slave, Miss?"

  "Yes, I do, Higgins. We needed a cook, and now we've got one." We have been getting along with Tink as cook, but I know it hurts his sailor pride, me and his brother Davy being onboard and all. Plus he's not really very good at it. And Higgins, though he will cook for me, doesn't like cooking for a crowd. Hey, he's second in command of Faber Shipping, not Ship's Cook.

  "I see," says Higgins. His touch is not quite so gentle as usual. "We needed a cook, so you just went out and bought one."

  "Ouch! Come on, Higgins, you know I'm going to set her free."

  "Oh? And when will that happen? When we are done with this voyage? How convenient."

  "As soon as we throw off the lines, clear the harbor, and leave this town. If she wants to get off in our next port, she can."

  "Well, that eases my mind somewhat. Still, I shall have to ponder the morality of all this. By that transaction you have, you must know, participated in the slave trade. Every dollar made by the traders furthers the evil."

  "I don't have to ponder anything, my dear and ever-present conscience, because I know that had I not bought her, she would have been put into the fields to pick cotton till she died. That's what I know."

  Higgins does not reply to that but goes on silently brushing. Eventually he asks, "What will you wear tonight?"

  I think for a moment and then decide. "The French one. Direct from Paris. That oughta set the Charleston ladies back on their heels."

  Earlier, when Jemimah had been brought onboard, I straightaway led her down into the hold and showed her the galley and where she was to sleep, which was the bunk closest to the stove, just as Crow Jane once had done back on the Belle of the Golden West. Joannie and Daniel hung about close by, eyes wide, curious.

  "They said you are a cook, Jemimah. Are you?" I asked.

  "Yes, Ma'am," she said, those being the first words she had spoken. I know that she was startled when we had come down the wharf and she had gotten a look at what was to be her new home. But she said nothing then, and she is of very few words now.

  "Well, then, your duties shall be cooking for the crew and some light housekeeping. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "Good. Take some time now to settle in. Check out our cooking utensils and see what we've got in the way of stores. Most of us are going off the ship tonight, so you will not have to make dinner. Just put something together for yourself and these two kids here and the man on watch. This is Daniel, and that's Joannie. They are your helpers. Make them mind and don't take any back talk."

  She nodded and I continued.

  "We are leaving on the outgoing tide at six in the morning. We'll expect breakfast for the crew at eight." Then I raised my finger in the air and said as sternly as I could, "The one thing we fear most on a ship is fire, so you must be very, very careful with the galley stove. Do you understand that?"

  "Yes, Ma'am. How many?"

  "How many what?"

  "How many for breakf'st?"

  "Oh." Feeling foolish, I mentally counted up my crew. "Eleven. Including you."

  She nodded again and I said briskly, "Very well, then. Joannie, Daniel, show Jemimah around the ship. Carry on."

  I then left the galley and went back to my cabin, feeling not foolish now, but decidedly uncomfortable.

  The musical revue at Tagliaferro Hall was great fun, the production having very professional singers, musicians, and dancers, and wildly funny skits.

  And, curiously, in the middle of it all, the theatrical company performed a little playlet, which was very much like the thing I had written and that we had performed on the Belle of the Golden West when we were on the Mississippi. Very much like mine. Mine was called The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril, while this production was titled simply The Villain Pursues Her. Hmmm.

  Higgins, who was seated next to me, leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Could it be, Miss, that your rights to that little gem of deathless literature have been violated?" I gave him an elbow for his cheek, and then I thought about it and shrugged—no matter, for it is nice to know that one's literary efforts have been noticed and appreciated even if copied for someone else's profit. We joined the rest of the audience heartily booing and hissing the villain, and, yes, the heroine's tear-away dress did come off just like mine did all those times.

 
We topped off the evening at The Swamp Fox, eating and drinking our fill, and got back to the ship, the whole lot of us, arms about each other's necks, singing and carousing, at about midnight.

  As I snugged down into my bed and prepared for sleep, my thoughts, after a prayer for Jaimy's health and safety, turned to Jemimah, who was lying down below.

  What must she think of us? She has only seen us at our brawling worst. What must it be like for her, to come on this little ship, not knowing who we are and where we are going?

  Ah, well, I'll clear that up for her tomorrow.

  G'night, Jaimy. I behaved pretty good today, I think, I ... I...

  Chapter 17

  Morning came early, very early, but the grumbly group of us managed to struggle up and get the Nancy B. unmoored and under way on the morning tide—Davy on helm, me on the con, and the rest tending the sails. We had done this many times before, taking her out after a night of excess, but this leave-taking was a little different. As we stood blearily on deck, silently promising ourselves never to do it again and knowing that we would break that promise, Daniel and Joannie brought up trays of steaming mugs of coffee. Very good mugs of coffee, thick and sweet, that did much to restore our usual high spirits. That, and the good smells wafting up from the galley.

  After getting her well out of the harbor and into the open sea, and putting her on a course due south, we left the watch to Davy and McGee and went down to breakfast.

  On the mess deck we have a long wooden table made of two-inch-thick maple bolted to the deck and big enough to seat fourteen, one at the head, one at the foot, and six down each side. While on most ships of this type, the sailors eat out of metal mess kits, I insist on proper china. And since Faber Shipping has hauled a lot of it around, we have some of the best. Never let it be said that we suffer anything but first class. When first I got the Nancy B. into port in Boston, I contracted with my dear friend Ephraim Fyffe, Master Carpenter and husband to the former Betsey Byrnes, to come aboard with his carpentry tools to exercise his skill. First I had him rout out circular depressions at each place setting into which would fit the feet of the plates, and then in the center of each of those, another deeper one to hold a bowl when we are having chowder or burgoo. Then, within easy reach of a sailor's hand, a hole to hold his glass or cup. Pretty crafty, I thought. This all was done, of course, to keep the settings from sliding off the table when the Nancy B. is rolling around in heavy seas, which she's doing a pretty good job of right now.