“Cover her cage,” shouts Van Owen from behind me. I spin to see him pointing at me. He seems even cleaner somehow. Whiter. As if he has been up for hours, preparing himself for our arrival. Beside him are two pale young boys of no more than fourteen years each. Scrawny and tired, they wear the tattered remains of once fine clothing. I have not seen them before. They squint at the coming sunlight as if they’ve been in darkness for weeks. They stare at the shore with yearning. When they turn toward Van Owen, their fear is palpable. Each has burn marks on his arms and wrists. One of them has burns on his face. I wonder how many lashes they wear across their backs for not following the captain’s edicts with the requisite alacrity.
“The curtain,” Van Owen bellows. “Climb up there and unfurl it now.”
The two boys rush to opposite sides of my cell. Hurriedly, they climb the bars and hoist themselves onto the roof of my cage, where sits the black curtain that has offered me some mild cover from the sun these past five weeks. I can see the impression of their feet through the fabric as they try to unroll it.
“Come on, lads,” their captain shouts, “we’re almost there. We have only an hour at best to unload, and I have no desire to pay off any more Yankee militia than I have to.”
The last thing I see before the curtain is lowered over the sides of my cage is the harbor, empty save for a handful of men who stand waving at our ship, unaware that they are about to receive the latest illegal delivery of African souls—perhaps the first to arrive at this port in years. Perhaps the last ever.
When the ship finally docks and the boat grows almost still for the first time in weeks, I can see nothing through the black curtain except a gray morning mist fighting to pierce it. The heat is so intense and there is so little air that I feel close to passing out. Sailors’ shadows rush by me, carrying crates and making room for the parade of Africans soon to come.
“Captain Van Owen,” a new voice shouts from the dock, “you’re at least a week earlier than I expected. But welcome home to the Pinnacle and you and your men.” The man sounds older—perhaps sixty—and has a different accent. In his inflection, I hear a sort of arrogance tinged with stupidity and blindness to those of lower stations, traits I know I will find often in men of power in this new land.
“Mr. Steering,” says Van Owen, “while I welcome your welcome, let me be clear about one thing: Boston is not my home.”
“I suppose so,” Steering agrees. “If it were, you’d surely be a more contented man.” He says it with a laugh, but he aims to offend.
“I’ll be content when I’m back on my farm, smoking my own tobacco fresh from the earth.”
“You say that every trip, Mr. Van Owen, and then you’re back out at sea within a few months. Perhaps your home doesn’t offer you the happiness you say it does.”
“My home offers me plenty of happiness. It would seem, though, that this country is set on impinging on my happiness.”
Steering pauses before responding in a softer tone. “Captain Van Owen, you’re in the other Carolina. Your state hasn’t been grumbling about Lincoln and secession like your sister state.”
“Mark my words, Mr. Steering, if that Illinois Whig wins the election, South Carolina might be first to secede, but North Carolina will not be far behind.”
“Illinois Whig? Why, I’d heard Lincoln wasn’t actually born in Illinois—that he’s originally from Kentucky.” He pauses for effect. “Say, isn’t that where you hail from?”
Van Owen ignores the bait and continues his thought. “We in the South have no need for the laws of the North. It’s another nation down there, and if we have to build another union to protect and maintain the sovereignty of that nation, then we will.”
“Captain Van Owen, while you know I share some of your political views, I fail to recognize how you—of all men—have been fettered by Union laws. If it’s the Union Navy that frightens you, then why not just forego the money you make moving slaves and stay in your beloved South on your beloved farm?”
Van Owen’s voice is harsh when he answers, as if he is sneering. “The navy doesn’t frighten me, Mr. Steering, and it’s been a long time since I transported slaves just to make money. These days, I do it for one reason and one reason alone: to prove that I still can. But I am done with sea travel.”
“With a fine slaving schooner like this one? I highly doubt that.”
“In the future, you and your partners will have to find another man to captain the Pinnacle. Hear me true, Mr. Steering. I do not jest.”
“Tobacco may make you wealthy, Captain Van Owen, but slaving seems to whet your appetite for adventure, no?”
“Adventure?” Van Owen ponders. “I think I’ve had my fill of adventure for the time being. Be sure to have my take forwarded to me by the end of the week. Good day, Mr. Steering.”
Steering’s tone shifts. He sounds confused even as he maintains his pretense of joviality. “You won’t be sticking around for the hospitality of Massachusetts, then?”
“Hospitality? In Massachusetts? Mr. Steering, I believe they call that a contradiction-in-terms. Besides, I’m feeling a bit impatient. I’ve brought a little souvenir back from the other continent—something just for me. And I want to get it back home as soon as possible so I can examine it more closely.”
“Jewels, Captain Van Owen? Artifacts?”
“Something vastly more unusual, Mr. Steering.” He pats the side of my covered cage as he continues: “A Nubian witch princess.”
Steering laughs, certain that Van Owen is joking. “Fine then, Captain. Keep your secrets, but tell me— did you encounter any difficulty in Cuba?”
“Cuba?” says Van Owen, feigning puzzlement. “Oh, yes, we were supposed to stop in Cuba, weren’t we?” He breathes in deeply. I imagine him relishing his pause, staring at the sky as if he owns it. “I don’t much like Cuba. We skipped it altogether and brought the Africans directly here. I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
Steering laughs again, but there is no humor in Van Owen’s tone. Although I cannot see their faces, I can sense Steering’s pompous smile fading into an expression of bewilderment.
“Good day, Mr. Steering,” says Van Owen, enjoying the joke that only he and I are getting.
“But,” Steering says, still perplexed, “the…shipment…you did…?” His voice trails off as he begins to understand that he no longer holds the power in the situation.
Van Own answers by displaying his dominion, calling to his men in a voice that echoes across the harbor: “Crew—let’s show Mr. Steering some Southern hospitality. How about a little entertainment? Let the pageant begin!”
His men must be baffled, but they follow his order nonetheless. I hear them racing about the bridge, trying to prepare the deck—tugging open the steel traps that seal the human cargo below, turning cranks to peel away the bars. The stench hits my nostrils even before the sound of the shackles reaches my ears. A whip cracks. A man shouts, “Move, you beasts,” to two-hundred men and women who don’t understand a word of English. Then comes the dull clanging. It is a dissonant song of feet shuffling and rusty chains rattling against bleeding ankles and wrists. I try to focus only on the rhythm—only the cadence of the shackles, only the drumming of blistery feet on splintery boards—to help me forget for a moment that these are my people being led into lives of servitude and degradation.
In our Mkembro myths, there were gods and demons, deities who blessed or cursed us, but all men, regardless of how purely or heinously they lived, could look forward to an afterlife of light and mercy. In our philosophy, there was no hell. Likewise, even for the lowest, life was never mercilessly grim. We had slaves even in Mkembro. It was common when a clan won a battle that it would take some of the vanquished as slaves, but they were not treated as American slaves. Our captives might have been enemies once, but we never forgot that they were men and women, just like us. Eventually, most of them were accepted into the clan as equals.
As I listen to the leaden
footsteps of my people and allow myself to hear their moans, I ponder their chances of survival. Some will be dead within days. Some of the survivors will endure conditions even worse than what they have suffered on this sea journey. They will have their identities stripped from them. They will never again see their homeland. Nor will their children. Nor will I.
“What is the meaning of this, Van Owen?” Steering shouts in a coarse whisper. “You’ve brought slaves here—to Boston? Are you mad?”
Van Owen doesn’t answer. I think of Roland all those weeks ago. On my first waking night, he told me of the original plan—to unload the slaves in Cuba. But then Van Owen diverted the ship so that he could return to America sooner, with me. I wonder what Steering will do with these hundreds of slaves that Van Owen has carted here. Perhaps he will hire another captain to turn the ship back toward Havana. He goes on with his complaints, pleading with the crew to send the slaves back down below, but Van Owen’s men obey only Van Owen. The slave parade goes on, snaking around the deck, a perverse procession of hapless ghouls.
I wonder if the Africans even notice my cage, covered as it is. I wonder if they were loaded into the ship before I was. Or was I thrown in this cell and left exposed for all my people to see while they boarded? Were they marched past the daughter of their king while she lay unconscious and caged? Was my mother among them? Did she see me this way—a prize animal for the white demon? Did she wonder if I was to be entertainment for our captors—an African princess to be roasted alive in the sun?
“Mother?” I cry out. Then louder: “Mother, are you here?” But the sound of the whips, the whimpers of my people as they are struck, the shouts of the slavers who herd the prisoners like cattle, the creaking of the boards, and the rolling of the sea—all of these things conspire to drown me out. I call again, even louder this time: “Mother, it’s me! It’s Amara!”
There is some sort of fracas nearby—the chains grow louder. There is running and smashing, and the whips are even fiercer. Van Owen is cursing at his men. A woman screams as if she is being trampled by the mobs. I swear I hear her bones break against the deck. I hear Mkembran voices. Then two gunshots chime, and everything grows quiet.
Van Owen’s voice cuts through the silence. “You see, Steering, even these Negroes put up a better struggle than your Union Army would against Southerners.” Steering mumbles unintelligibly. He must be livid, worried that local authorities might have heard the shots. Van Owen laughs and then relents. “All right then, men, it appears Mr. Steering has had enough. Move the savages back down below.”
The shuffling starts again. The chains rattle. The Africans march back toward hell.
“Mother?” I call. “Are you here? It’s Amara…”
“Amara?” a voice answers. Kwame’s voice!
“Kwame?” I stutter through tears. “Kwame, what is happening—that commotion?” I ask in Mkembran.
“Our people—Merlante and Mkembro—they tried to fight together against the white men.” His voice is filled with pride that our people fought as one—even without being united by our marriage.
“Then run—you must join them,” I tell him. “Get free while you…”
“The fight is already over. I was below. I heard the sounds, but I could not get past our people to get up here to the battle.”
Although the fight is over, the white men must still be in flux, for no one seems to notice that Kwame has stopped beside my cage, that he is whispering through the curtain.
“My mother,” I ask, “have you seen her? Is she alive?”
“I don’t know,” he answers too quickly.
But I do know—even before my mind stirs and I feel my consciousness traveling through the black sheet, I know. I have known all along.
For a moment, there is silence between us; I cannot hear the roar of the people or the whips or the shackles. I am no longer here in the cage, though I know I am. I feel my perception drifting outward, as if pulled elsewhere. Drifting out of me and into Kwame’s thoughts, into his memories. I do not question how. I do not fight it. I just watch:
It is weeks ago back in our land. He is asleep—passed out beside me after our struggle with Van Owen. A sharp pain across his back rouses him. He hears a harsh slapping sound, not unlike the sound of a tree branch cracking in half against the wind. The sound comes again and again almost in time with the waves of pain across his back. Finally he jolts to full wakefulness and realizes that the pain and the noise are from the whip that is lashing him again and again. Kwame looks behind him to see Van Owen almost thirty feet away, wielding the leather lash. It swings again, slapping against Kwame’s back. He cries out and staggers to his feet, and then he sees the chains. While he slept, his arms and legs were shackled together so that he cannot stand fully upright. The chains are too short, so he is forced to hobble on all fours like an animal. As Kwame lurches forward, he notices me still unconscious on the ground. So he follows Van Owen’s dictates—hoping that by appeasing the slaver, he might deter Van Owen from harming me.
With scores of his people and mine, he is led down the beach, trotting through the water in chains toward the massive schooner. There are bodies all around—African bodies—some who fell, some who were struck, some who drowned. He passes a female body, facedown in the water. There is something familiar about her garb. As he struggles past her, he nudges the body with his arm. She twists slightly, and her face is partially exposed.
It is my mother.
I break from Kwame’s memory in time to hear him say, “Goodbye, Amara. I will…”
“Move away from her, savage,” Van Owen’s voice rings out from the other side of my cage.
“Kwame!” I shout. “Kwame, run!”
I hear more tumult—chains rattling, sticks and whips striking.
“Hit him again,” cries Van Owen.
I keep calling Kwame’s name, but I hear only the mayhem of the battle.
“No!” Van Owen screams suddenly to his crew. “Don’t touch him! I know this one! Don’t touch his chains! He’s…”
Then there is that sound gain—that odd tone that emanated from my father when he fought the white men—the sound of a violin bow playing music backwards, a sound I haven’t yet known. Men cry out in pain. The sailors should have listened to Van Owen, for, in the bowels of this slave ship, Kwame has learned better how to harness his power. Even in Africa, we knew that lightning will travel along anything metal—a spear, a cooking tool, a chain. The men have touched Kwame’s chains, and they have been burned by lightning.
Through the curtain—even in the daylight—I can see the surges of light. For a moment, Kwame is silhouetted against the curtain, lightning flowing from his hands, riding across his chains and burning the flesh of the white men who tug on them. The men let go, and Kwame lets up for a moment. The sparks gone, the curtain goes dark again, and I can see nothing, but I hear the sound of three men toppling to the boards.
“Stop him,” shouts Van Owen.
“Damned black beast,” says Mr. Steering. “How did he do that? What’s he got there in his hand?”
“Amara,” Kwame calls from the other side of the schooner, “I will come back for you…”
He’s wrong. I will never see him again.
“Don’t let him get to the water…” cries Van Owen. But it is too late. I hear the splash. Kwame has gone over the edge. He has gotten free.
There are gunshots. The men are firing at the water.
“I got him,” cries a shooter.
Suddenly the curtain is lifted. The sun streams into my eyes, almost blinding me. Van Owen is there, his face only inches from mine. He has lifted the curtain, so that I’m partially exposed, squinting in the light.
“You filthy black witch,” he grunts at me. “You caused this disturbance.” In defiance, I smile back at him. Then I see the cane in his hands, its end facing me. It passes through the bars, careening toward my head. “Your lover is dead. You won’t get the same chance to spread any more disorder.”
The end of the cane slams into my forehead, and the world goes black.
Ten
Warren tilted his face toward the sky, testing the rain. The sky was almost purple, and there was still some thunder in the distance, but the rain had lessened slightly. He stepped out from under the awning where he had taken shelter when the storm came. He’d thought about returning to his halfway house, but he liked the sound of the rain, the way it built from singular drips into torrents pouring down and cleansing the world. He listened now as the torrents faded into drips, only to be drowned out by thundering, running footsteps.
It was a boy and a girl, and Warren knew the boy. “Akins! Where are you going?”
Akins and the girl slowed to a walk, almost skidding to a stop ten feet beyond Warren. “What’s up with you two? Cops chasing you?”
“No,” said Akins, severely out of breath. “We… we were… we were back at the… We were… he told us to run, and we…we…”
“He’s a fucking freak,” the girl chimed in. “The whole family—they’re all freaks. What just happened?” She turned to her boyfriend, walking toward him as if seeking the comfort of an embrace. She put her arms around him, but he didn’t raise his. Finally she let go and backed up. Turning to Warren, she asked, “Who are you?”
“That’s Warren,” Akins answered for him. “He’s a customer. From the flophouse on 135th.” He smiled, amused at Warren’s living situation.
“It’s not a flophouse. And I’m not your customer anymore,” said Warren. “I’m through with that.”
“Yeah?” laughed Akins, “since when? I just sold you some shit this afternoon. And if you’re through with it all, then why are you standing outside in the dark all alone at night like you’re waiting for more?”
Chains of Time Page 8
