by Avi
I shouted out what I had discovered, and one of the men splashed over to it and pressed his hands against the spot, attempting to hold back the sea. Another struggled back up the steps, presumably to tell the captain where we were leaking. He soon returned and shouted, “They’re attempting to lay canvas against the hull.”
When those who worked the pumps became exhausted—as I soon did—others took their places, so that the pumping never—not for a moment—ceased.
The work went on, up down, up down, for hours, four of us laboring all the time. Wallowing in the cold bilge, we were numb and mute. As we struggled, our little lamps cast dancing shadows high against the rib-like beams of the hull. These shadows appeared like the true image of our sinful souls, being the color of pitch and far larger than our own physical selves. When younger, I had attended a sermon in which it had been preached that men feared shadows because they revealed the inner soul. I recalled that notion then.
At one point, I felt a pricking on my shirt: A giant brown rat was climbing upon my back in search of safety. I screamed and one of my mates snatched the rodent off and with a quick twist broke the creature’s neck and flung its carcass somewhere in the hold; this, while the ship was tossing and turning, and the cargo still being hurled about in random.
From time to time I tried to gauge the level of the water in the hold, to see if I could determine if it was rising or falling; that is, were we sinking? I could not tell. Then, at some point, one of the pumps’ leather tubes sprang a leak. We pumped harder.
All during this time, the roaring of the storm was a constant in my ears. But while the splashing of the water within the hull was unceasing, what I was listening for—though afraid to admit—was the fateful call from the captain: “Abandon ship!”
Instead one of the pumps broke.
Chapter Nine
In Which Something Startling Happens.
With one pump gone, our sole remedy was to work the remaining pump harder and faster. This meant that if the speed and force of our labors caused the first pump to break, we were now putting the second pump—and the ship—at even greater peril. But struggle we did, though to work in a frenzy without ceasing is a mindless experience. I was nothing but body: muscles, rhythm, and endless toil.
After what must have been hours—I lost all sense of time—as I continued to pump, I began to notice that the ship was no longer in a state of wild agitation.
“The storm must be abating,” someone said.
No words could have been sweeter to my ears, heart, and arms.
“God be praised,” was the general cry. “Hallelujah.”
At length we felt a normal motion of ship and sea. Yet the hold of the Owners Goodwill was still full of water, so we continued pumping. Only after much more time passed did we see the water level going down. In contrast, my mind began to rise up into function again. At length, an order was shouted that we could come up from the hold.
Exhausted beyond all measure, but animated by a sense of reclaimed life, I pulled myself onto the deck to blink with astonishment at clear, bright, and true blue skies. The storm had utterly blown away. The sun was shining. The sea was calm. We were no longer in jeopardy of sinking. One often talks of an unpredictable person. But no one is more unpredictable than the sea or its storms. Happiness indeed to be alive. Surely, God had touched me with His hand of mercy. Trivial, perhaps, to say, but no less true; no moment is sweeter than the moment just after you thought you would have no more moments.
I was whole, but the ship itself had been reduced to floating wreckage. What had not been washed away—yards, rails, rope, jolly-boat, and sails—lay in tangled, knotted heaps. Fortunately, our two masts were still erect. Replacement sails and rope were in storage.
Alas, we also needed to consider our human losses. Among the crew three had been swept away to a dismal drowning. As for us convicts, the number gone overboard was five.
There was no time to mourn. Despite our weariness, all crew and prisoners were set to work to put the Owners Goodwill to rights, to create order from disarray. With true goodwill, we worked side by side.
Only when much had been restored to decent order did something remarkable transpire.
I cannot say how, but crew and convicts had separated, and now stood apart in two distinct groups. We felons were in the waist of the ship, while the crew and captain were on the poop deck of the after-superstructure. Moreover, the captain and the first mate were now armed with cocked pistols, which they held in their hands in such fashion that we convicts could have little doubt they would use them on us.
“All right then,” proclaimed Captain Krets, “felons will return to the lower deck to be rechained.”
Please understand: From the beginning of the storm, the two groups—crew and convicts—had been working together, laboring under terrible conditions to save our lives. There was no us, no them. No free and unfree. We worked as one. All human.
Now we felons were being ordered to resume our servile station, to reinstate the order that was. After what we all had gone through together in the storm, the captain was reestablishing his authority and our status as convicts.
What happened next was not a simple thing.
Recall my messmate Moco Jack. Whereas the captain was a big man, Moco Jack was much smaller. But as I have indicated, there was much that was menacing about Moco Jack—his very red-rimmed eyes seemed to be discordful, as if to threaten. However, the captain had his position with which to dominate Moco Jack and used it often. Twice he had called out Moco Jack for some slight, and tied him to the foremast and flogged him with a cat-o’-nine-tails till he was bloody. Nothing new here: authority is the whip that subdues mankind.
Though the captain had lashed Moco Jack more than once for talking back to him, for being “saucy,” and deprived him of his food when he complained about such treatment, Moco Jack remained—as demonstrated by the captain’s actions—a threat. Nonetheless, he refused to bow down to the captain.
Moco Jack now stood before us felons, reduced (by storm and sickness) to some seventy or so in number. He was confronted by the captain and his crew, no more than fifteen. Of course, they were armed and we all were in a state of exhaustion, having come so close to perishing. Nonetheless, we stood there—these two groups—a challenge to one another. Life in miniature.
I felt a tremor of excitement to think that we could set ourselves at liberty. Still, I was aware that some of us might be shot dead in the attempt. I also experienced deep bone weariness. The truth is, what I wanted most of all was to rest and sleep in some safe, unmolested spot.
This then is how we stood: the two groups, one (small) but in the position of power, the other (large) and powerless, challenging one another with an unspoken knowledge that in a trice, our positions could be reversed. We would become masters. The captain and crew would become chained prisoners. The world turned upside down.
I could read as much on Moco Jack’s face, his visible anger, and how his neck muscles quivered with tension; hands folded into fists, eyes fixed with palpable hatred upon Captain Krets. All of us felons looked at Moco Jack as our leader. It was an absolute certainty that we would follow him if he had moved so much as an inch toward mutiny.
He did move—by merely half an inch. That was enough for the captain to bring up his pistol and aim it right at my companion.
Consider this as well: It was common knowledge that flintlock pistols misfired half the time. Thus, Captain Krets’s gun might fail, or it could just as well prove lethal.
Thus life and liberty hung in balance.
What happened next was this:
After a long moment, Moco Jack uncurled his fists and looked down with a submissive cast. I was unable to tell if he was playacting or being prudent, saving himself for another time. To my further astonishment, he turned and moved to the hatchway steps, and began to descend. From a leader of mut
iny, he became the leader of our surrender. Not one word was exchanged.
What’s more, we convicts followed in submissive silence.
Back we went to the lower deck. There we reassembled ourselves into our messes. Without resistance we sat and were rechained as before the storm.
I too submitted.
Why did this happen, without words or any overt action other than abject, silent surrender?
The best way I could understand it was this: My fellow felons had spent their entire lives trained to obey authority and authority’s commands, so much so that they could not overleap that barrier, surely not in our state of fatigue. It suggested that much of the injustice of the world is caused by habit: the habits of the powerful, and the habits of the powerless.
This made a profound impression on me. Though at that time I did follow along, I made myself a vow that I would never again kneel to power. Had not my father taught me to reject authority? Was not my namesake—Oliver Cromwell—the man who tumbled a king? Therefore, I would teach myself to resist authority in all ways—no matter how small—so that even as I was put back into chains, I rededicated myself to securing my liberty.
As I sat there bound to my messmates and the floor, I glanced at Moco Jack. It was as if he knew his moment had come and passed. I could see: it was not so much his courage that had failed him as his belief in himself.
He spoke to no one, with one exception, for the remainder of the voyage. What’s more, he refused to look at anyone. To my greater mazement, as I looked at him, just after the events I have described, I saw tears falling from his eyes.
To see the powerful weep is a lesson in humility.
Moved, I reached out and touched his arm. “You did not fail,” I whispered.
For a moment, Moco Jack lifted his eyes, as if to see who had spoken. In that instant he gazed at me, a deep, soulful regard. Yet he made no reply to my words, but looked down again.
The Owners Goodwill sailed on to America and I, perhaps for the first true time, began to consider what my life would be—a slave—under the absolute authority of a master for seven years. If powerful Moco Jack could be so suppressed, how could I survive?
I clutched that bit of Charity’s lace and renewed my vow that I would never cease my search for freedom and her. Let others succumb to tyranny, not I. Was I not a freeborn Englishman—or, at least, an English boy?
How brave the boast.
You may judge for yourself if I stayed true.
Chapter Ten
A Small Chapter in Which a Huge Question Is Asked.
The Owners Goodwill sailed on without encountering more storms. My mess, however, was reduced to five men, because, to my unlimited shock and horror, I woke one morning to find that I was chained to a corpse: my messmate Rufus Caulwell, the man who had told me about swamps.
I had no knowledge as to why the poor fellow perished. It could have been for many reasons, though not because of any singular mistreatment on the ship. We all were treated in a similar brutal fashion, save Moco Jack, who was abused the worst.
I did recall that this Mr. Caulwell had a wife and babes in London. His terrible crime, you may recall, was trying to feed them. As I gazed upon his lifeless, shrunken features, I had little doubt that his family would never know his fate.
Would they, nonetheless, wait for him?
It is common to say that we are often ignorant of what the future may hold for us. But I believe we may be just as ignorant about what has already occurred. We wait for someone to come, who never can, and cling to a hope that such and such might happen, when circumstances have already (without our knowledge) destroyed any chance.
That I, so young, was shackled to death struck me as a painful symbol for my world: bad enough that the young are by law bound to those who are old. Youth are also restrained even by those who have passed away, restricted by their antique teachings, habits, and laws, none of which we helped construct. Thus youth is shackled to a world constructed by the old and dead.
Such were my dark thoughts while it was my dreadfulness to remain bound to the dead man for some long hours. It remained that way until our daily food was provided and the first mate discovered the corpse. Only then was the late, lamentable Mr. Caulwell hauled away, fed, I suppose, to the ever-hungry sea. Nor should you think the dead man’s rations were shared among those who remained alive. It was not to be so.
Would this miserable voyage ever end?
Chapter Eleven
In Which a Momentous Change Takes Place.
More endless days brought the death of other felons who were swiftly tossed into the sea. No doubt, the sharks that followed in our wake feasted fine. Meanwhile, our food grew worse, ever ghastlier. But, after some three or four more weeks, things began to change for the better. Hatches were left open. While it remained cold, the air became fresher.
Then, one morning, there came a most uncommon call: “All felons on deck.”
To our astonishment, the chains about our necks and those that bound us to our messmates were removed. We were required—scrawny and feeble as we were—to move about. We were also made to wash ourselves in seawater, a good thing. We were ordered to scrub down our deck with vinegar to rid the ship insofar as possible of pestilence and stench. From then on, every day we were allowed the freedom of the top deck for at least an hour and sometimes more.
I hasten to add that though unshackled we were always guarded by the crew, who were armed with charged pistols and cudgels.
Those who wore naught but rags, such as my own clothing, which had long been reduced to shreds, were given new (old) togs. We were provided with rough haircuts. Those who had beards (not I) were shaved. Most marvelous of all, we were offered more and somewhat better food. I dare say we grew healthier and our strength revived.
At first, this was a marvelous mystery to us all. Had Captain Krets repented of his harsh treatment and our captivity? Was the miracle of our salvation from the storm to be extended? Were these changes part of a sudden shift to some Christian compassion?
“Please, sir,” I asked one of the crew, “why is the captain showing such kindness?”
“Nothing to do with kindness,” was the explanation. “You need to look good for the buyers.”
“Sir?”
“So you may be bought for a better price.”
A revelation. We were being treated the way drovers fatten cattle to bring them to market; I would be considered no more than a dumb beast. When we were sold the ship would gain a better profit.
Chapter Twelve
My Arrival in the New World.
We were on deck, and the Owners Goodwill was still sailing westward before a steady wind, when the first mate called out, “Who among you can write?”
A few of us raised hands.
The captain looked about and pointed to me. “Come along, you,” he commanded. I suspect he chose me because he assumed a boy was most manageable.
He led me into his own quarters, at the stern of the ship, where I had never been before. The cabin had fine furniture, along with racks of drink, chests full of food, dried fish and peas, oatmeal and, from the look of it, pickled meats. Captain Krets had—like the sharks that followed in our wake—eaten well during our voyage.
He placed a chair before a small desk and bid me to be seated. A writing quill, a pot of ink, paper, plus blotting sand, were set before me.
“Write out a ledger. Each convict will be required to give his name, age, sentence, and any skillfulness that he might have mastered in England.”
Accordingly, my fellow convicts were lined up outside the entryway and called in one by one. I wrote down all the required information. The first name I put in was my own, and as for my skills, I wrote, “Writing and reading.” I did so in an excellent chancery hand, thinking that perhaps my penmanship would help me secure a good buyer. As I remembered from my schoo
l days: “Who ’ere has a good hand has a hand up.”
As I continued to fill the book with descriptions of my fellow felons, I learned that most of us had no particular skills, but there was a nail maker, a baker’s apprentice, a mason.
I gave the completed papers to the captain for a use I shall soon disclose.
When we were perhaps some seventy-five miles from the land I began to smell the enchanting incense of pine trees. It was a revelation. Though I had spent my whole life in this world taking little notice of its smells, other than the foulness of London, when that sweet whiff of America’s vast forests came unto me, I knew it for what it was: land—earth—and was much upstirred by it. As sailors oft say, the fouler the sea the sweeter the shore.
Leafy branches floated in the water. A bird flew by and a member of the crew told me it was a “wild goose,” a land bird.
Two days later came the cry “Land ho! Land ho!” from a seaman perched high in the yards above, someone no doubt eager to claim the captain’s prize (two shillings) for being the first to sight the shore.
We felons, having the momentary freedom of the deck (ignoring for the moment the armed crew), lined the rails to gain our first glimpse of fabulous America. Of course, we were jubilant to be alive and see it. How soon did the terrors of sea voyaging (and that frightful tempest) evaporate. All the same, a moment’s thought informed me (at least) that I was gaining a view of my vast new prison.
The talk, as we looked on, was for the most part nervous questions and uninformed answers.
“Do you think it will be crowded like London?”
“Nay. A wilderness.”
“And who might be living there? People such as we know?”
“I assure you, mostly barbarians.”
“Will they meet us with kindness or contempt, do you think?”
