The End of the World and Beyond

by Avi

  “They can’t be worse than the captain.”

  Since our ignorance was total we looked upon the coast with a mix of dread and delight.

  The Owners Goodwill tacked back and forth, until our new sails filled with propitious winds, after which we were able to sail north between Cape Henry and Cape Charles and entered a vast bay.

  “What do they call this place?” I asked an older member of the crew.

  “Chesapeake.”

  I recalled hearing that word along the quays of Melcombe Regis. “Does the word mean anything?”

  “Indian word. ‘Great water.’ Goes straight north.”

  Whether true or not, I had no idea, but the water was wide. From the wooded forests that edged the bay—both shores—it was some twenty miles across. The bay was calm and full of islands, large and small. Along the jagged coasts were multiple inlets, as well as true rivers flowing into the great water.

  Pods of porpoises wantoned about our ship, while the air was aflutter with birds that bore feathers of many hues. Large fish jumped clear from the water and splashed down again as if to give us joy for our safe arrival.

  It was wild, beautiful, and full of freedom, unlike us.

  We sailed deeper into the bay, and soon learned that our destination was the port of Annapolis, more than a hundred miles beyond the bay’s entrance. The port was situated at the end of a peninsula, along what—as we were told—was the Severn River.

  Near to this Annapolis a few other ships were tied up to what appeared to be a quay—what I learned the Americans call a “wharf.” Standing off, our sails were reefed, and our anchor dropped with a loud splash. When it held, we swung round with a pleasing groan, rather like a deep sigh of relief.

  There were some rattles of rigging, and then we ceased to move. Though we stood away from the land, there was no doubt: We had arrived in America. Seagulls flew about us, providing a squawking welcome. Or perhaps they were warning us.

  Most miraculous of all, although thousands of miles from my home, I was still alive. I had survived.

  A sailor told us it was the month of March. A calendar means a future. Of course, that future was as yet all unknown and dreaded. Indeed, I should have heeded the gulls.

  America

  Chapter Thirteen

  In Which I Reach America.

  It took but a glance for me to see that Annapolis (named for England’s late Good Queen Anne when she was yet a princess) was nothing like the monstrous city of London. Indeed, Annapolis had far fewer buildings than my own small English town, Melcombe Regis. Nonetheless, the captain informed us that this community was the seat of government for Maryland’s royal colony. He was further pleased to claim that more people came to America through this port than any other. What I gathered from his words was that Charity might well be here. That thrilled me, and I took to gazing at the town as if I might see her. When that proved impossible, I took to wondering how I might find her.

  As we remained anchored, a small boat rowed to where we were, perhaps some fifty yards from shore. In the boat were two oarsmen and a gentleman, for so he was dressed, including a wig, three-corner hat, jacket, lace, and boots—though perhaps less fancy than I had witnessed in London.

  We dropped a rope ladder and this man—he was what they called a landwaiter, a customs official—came aboard to be met by our Captain Krets. I was unable to hear the words they spoke to each other, but from a distance, their discourse seemed casual and regular. The captain presented the man with some papers, which looked like legal documents.

  I would learn that Captain Krets was providing official papers, which informed this landwaiter that he had legally brought a shipload of convicts and was prepared to sell them to those free citizens of Maryland and Virginia who wished to own servants.

  No doubt—as the law required—he also spoke of the storm, and thereby sought to free himself of charges for damage and loss of cargo, sailors, and convicts. In short, his profits came from his hand. His losses came from God. Thus, the true religion of England.

  At one point a gust of wind lifted the gentleman’s wig. He managed to grab and replace it, but not before I saw that he was bald, a shaved head being a common defense against lice. It made me smile: There we were, thousands of miles from England, but lice were here too. How comforting to know that North America and England shared this bond of little creatures.

  Once the official left the ship, the captain called me to his cabin, sat me down, and had me write out the following advertisement:

  Just arrived from London, a cargo of convicts in the ship Owners Goodwill, Captain Elijah Krets: All felons in singular health and strength, ages twelve to forty-five. Among them are masons, a watchmaker, and a baker. Also, strong, healthy plantation laborers. They are to be sold for terms of seven to fourteen years for ready money or tobacco on board the said ship, now in Annapolis Dock.

  The first mate took the note into town, where it was to be printed and posted. In Maryland, having neither newspaper nor postal service, public notices were the sole way information was shared.

  Meanwhile, I spent my time wondering a question I had not fully considered before: Who would buy me?

  Chapter Fourteen

  In Which I Have a Dangerous Desire.

  Captain Krets spent the next two days working to gloss us convicts so as to make us as sellable as possible. The higher the price he could gain, and the quicker that sale took place, the more profitable for the Owners Goodwill and the London gentlemen who had invested in her. After all, transporting convicts was a business, and the object of business is to make money. That the captain was trafficking in people made no difference to him.

  Most important, this was the time that each of us had an iron collar bolted to our necks to mark us as convicts. The collar was a rough circlet of gray iron—called a “pot-hook,” for reasons I didn’t know. Though hard and strong, it could be bent open and closed round our necks by two strong crewmen. The ends were fastened shut with a bent-over nail by a third.

  For me, so young and a rather small neck, the collar fitted loosely and merely chafed. For others of bigger size, it was a painful choker. This collar served as both a badge of felonry and a sign: If we ran away, we would, on sight, be identified as escapee convicts. It also made it easy to lead us about and treat us as tethered beasts.

  As we waited and prepared, another ship came in. She was a slaver, with a large cargo of Negro men, women, and children, whom I could see quite plainly. All the passengers were in chains. I guessed she came direct from Africa.

  Buyers appeared and took off great numbers of those unfortunate souls. Families must have been separated for there were horrendous cries and shrieks of grief. These people, I reminded myself, were to be owned by their purchasers not for seven years, like me, but for their entire lives.

  Did it make me feel better that my enslavement was for mere years? No, but let it be said that my pity for them was the greater. I might become free. They would never return to their own land and lives. I lived with a small sliver of hope. They had none. How could they bear it? Could they ever find a way to escape? Did they know of that fairy-tale swamp?

  During the night before our own sale took place we unchained convicts sat with one another out of habit, like companions taking leave before a long journey.

  “I’ll pray tonight for a soft master,” said one Mr. Kelly.

  “I’m just praying I can serve out my time and be alive,” was Mr. Dybas’s contribution.

  An older man, a Mr. Honeycutt, said, “This is my second time. I was lucky to the first. An easy master, God protect him. But I promise you’re more likely to find hardness. These masters can squeeze water from rocks.”

  “Who are these masters?” I asked.

  The same Mr. Honeycutt answered, “Of each hundred men who live about these plantations, only some twenty-five are free. The rest are slaves
, indentured servants, or convicts like us. It’s free men who buy us.”

  This caused me to recall another of my father’s beliefs: “I will have no servants. It demeans both master and servant.” Yet it appeared that I was about to enter a world of few masters and many servants. What kind of land was it, I wondered, this Maryland, which had such a society?

  “Do all the colonies have slaves and convict labor?” I asked.

  “All,” was the chorused answer.

  “So if you try to run off,” cautioned a new voice, “or go against your master, you can’t get away. You’ll be punished and your bondage time lengthened.”

  “Never mind masters,” called out another. “They say the summer heat alone here will kill you.”

  Among my mess there were some who vowed that we would meet again (no one said where, when, or how) as well as what they would do upon returning to England. One man wondered if his parents would recall him when he went back. Another pondered if his lap kid would acknowledge him so many years hence.

  To sit among men who were about to be enslaved was to share their fear and despair. As my messmates talked about dismal futures, I listened until dejection dropped upon me like a funeral shroud. Beyond hating to hear their dire predictions, I was much unnerved. How would I ever endure? No wonder that when night came I tried to sleep but could do little more than stare into the darkness, unable to see any light on the ship or in my life.

  I had faded into a slumber—I have no idea the hour—when I felt a touch. I opened my eyes. It was Moco Jack. He had edged close, and now whispered into my ear, “Oliver. Are you awake?”

  “I think so,” I said, though drowsy.

  “What mind-sights have you?”

  “I . . . I keep wondering what will become of me.”

  “Aye, when I think where we’re going I worry much. But I don’t intend to let them determine my life.”

  I was surprised that Moco Jack had spoken, much less that he had chosen to say such a thing to me.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  In a voice barely above a murmur, he said, “I’m going to escape.”

  That flung off my drowsiness. “How?” I said, sitting up.

  “I’m going to swim to shore,” said Moco Jack. “For once, we’re unchained and the land is close enough.”

  I felt a surge of upstirring. Hardly thinking, I blurted out, “Will you take me with you?”

  “Do you swim?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. Not only did I lack swimming skills but during my days in Melcombe Regis we considered swimming—that is, floating on the water—a form of witchcraft. Neither I nor any of my friends, though we lived on the edge of the sea, could swim.

  “Can you swim?” I inquired.

  “I can,” said Moco Jack. “But when they find me gone, I’ll trust you’ll not reveal how I got away.”

  “No, sir. Be sure, I won’t. But . . . can’t you take me with you?”

  Moco Jack studied me. Then he said, “I wouldn’t offer the same to a man my size, but you’re slight. If you truly want to come, I’m strong enough to carry you with me.”

  “Would you?” I whispered, much upstirred.

  “You were kind to me before when I was defeated.”

  “When will you go?” I said, all abubble.

  “Before dawn,” he went on in an even softer voice, “the watch will be sleepy. I’ll take to the water then. You can leap with me. You’ll sink some but I’ll catch you up and carry you through. Mind, the water will be cold. Are you game?”

  I nodded. “Once on land, where will you go?”

  “Wherever I can get my freedom. Just know,” Moco Jack cautioned, “it will go hard for us if we are caught.” He put a hand to his iron collar by way of a reminder. “Are you sure you wish to try?”

  I suppose it was all the dreadful talk I had heard about the life on land that awaited me, which put me in a mind to agree. There I was, a twelve-year-old confronting seven years of hard labor under the hand—believing my messmates—of an unknown and most likely severe master. I fingered my iron collar. Though loose, it was already hateful.

  Would it not, I thought, be far better to escape, gain my liberty, and seek my sister, Charity? Had I not resolved to resist authority? Did I not want to be brave?

  I barely hesitated. “If you’re willing to take me,” I said, “I’ll go.”

  “Then God be with us,” whispered Moco Jack, giving me a pat. “Now, get some rest. You’ll have need. I’ll wake you when I’m ready.” He crept away and lay down as if to sleep.

  I found it hard to believe Moco Jack would try to do as he said, or that I had asked to go with him. But my willing thought was thus: I was being given the choice between slavery and freedom. How could I choose anything but liberty?

  I would leap from the ship.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Escape and What Came of It.

  I struggled to stay awake, but since youth and sleep are as hard to pry apart as a wet knot, I folded into slumbers.

  Early morning, I felt a poke, which bestirred me to full wakefulness. Moco Jack was bending over me like a crouching spider. I got up quickly, albeit silently. Then we crept toward the steps, moving so as to avoid sleeping convicts.

  With Moco Jack in the lead, going slowly, we reached the companionway. Once atop the steps, he lifted his head up and surveyed the open deck.

  “Safe,” he called down in a shushing whisper. “Now, quick,” he added, and moved farther up.

  Heart pounding, I followed him, and in moments stood next to him upon the main deck. Remembering what I was about to do—leap to liberty—I was grateful that Moco Jack, at least, knew what to do.

  It was not entirely dark but rather that iron gray that precedes the dawn. The Owners Goodwill lay easy on her anchor, with only an occasional small slap of water against the hull, and now and again a creak of wood, like a rasping, rusty hinge, an open door.

  I looked up. Masts and spars appeared as so many open hands and fingers. Sails were furled. In the higher sky were naught but a few fading stars and a small slip of moon streaked by speeding clouds that afforded us more obscurity. A gull on the top rail had its head tucked into its feathers—still asleep. The world appeared utterly peaceable. As far as I could tell, we were alone, unobserved and all but free. Can you doubt I felt a throb of joy?

  Once on deck, Moco Jack, in a crouch, paused to peer about. I believed he was deciding the side of the ship from which to leap—that is to say, the side closest to shore. A few yards might make a mortal difference. His mind made up, he crept toward the port side, stopped, turned, and made a beckoning gesture.

  For my part, I took a step to follow when, out of the edge of my eye, I observed movement at the bow of the ship. Alarmed, I halted and stared at the spot, but saw nothing.

  Even so it was enough to make me uncertain and hold back. But as Moco Jack continued to move with great care toward the top rail, I ventured another step, only to yet again see movement near the bow. This time, however, someone stood up.

  Captain Krets.

  I also saw a glint of metal, which informed me the captain had a pistol in his hand. His face was turned toward Moco Jack, not me.

  I was just about to call out, when the captain himself cried, “Halt.”

  “Moco Jack,” I shouted. “We’re undone.”

  Not for a moment did Moco Jack hesitate. He sprang forward and jumped upon the rail. There he perched, his slender body teetering, as if about to fly.

  Captain Krets extended his arm, so that the pistol was now aimed right at my friend.

  Miss fire, miss fire, I prayed.

  Four things seemed to happen at once: Moco Jack leaped toward the water. With a red spurt of flame, the gun fired. There was a loud bang. I heard a splash. Was my friend dead or alive? Was he sinking or swimmin
g?

  I remained where I was only long enough to see the captain rush to the side of the ship and peer over, as he worked hard to reload his gun. I all but dropped down the steps to the lower deck and scrambled to my regular place. Once there, I flung myself down and pretended motionless sleep, though my wide-awake heart was galloping.

  Had Moco Jack escaped? Had the captain heard me call out?

  As I lay there, another pistol shot exploded. I could only assume it was the captain firing at Moco Jack. Did that bode well or ill? I could not know.

  Then, silence. Silence absolute. All I knew was that Moco Jack was gone. But was he free or dead? Perhaps merely wounded. Or bleeding to death. I had no knowledge. Whether he had gained his freedom or his God, I had no answer.

  Within moments—as I continued to lie still, pretending to be asleep—someone, perhaps two, descended to the lower deck. I kept my eyes closed, but sensed a shining light. I supposed it was the captain and first mate surveying the convicts, perhaps counting us, trying to see if any other men were gone. At one point I was sure they were standing next to me. I held my breath and refrained from moving.

  After some long while, the captain and the mate withdrew, leaving our deck in darkness. I heard the hatchway slam shut. No doubt double bolted. I stayed where I was, continuing to wonder as to Moco Jack’s fate.

  Had he escaped? Had he been killed? Had I lost my chance for freedom?

  When more time passed, and nothing happened, or sounded, I considered going up to the deck and doing what my friend had done. But the hatchway was closed, probably locked, and that witching art of swimming was beyond me. To escape in that fashion was to drown. There would be no escape for me. Not then. All I could do was resolve to learn the skill of swimming and make use of it if another such opportunity arose.

  Morning came, and Moco Jack was discovered to be missing but no more than a small flutter was made by the crew. At first naught was said of the pistol shots and what came of them. There were whispers among us felons, but as promised I pleaded ignorance.