by Dickie Erman
“Goddamnit! T’was your responsibility to bring sufficient rations” the drunken Captain hollered back.
“No sir. I ordered enough food and water to last a full four months. I wouldn’t be surprised if Timmons has been sellin’ it off at every port we’ve stopped”.
No surprise there. Every member knew that being a sailor on a slave ship was the bottom of the barrel. Nobody would take the job. Nobody that is, unless he was coerced, penniless, or had a prison rap. The food was horrible, the conditions brutal, the smells wretched, and the threat of a slave uprising lurked at every moment, day and night.
In fact, Timmins wasn’t the only one. A handful of apples here, a basket of potatoes there, was easily sold by any number of sailors to dock merchants eager to add to their own contraband. The ignorant fools. Selling their means of survival for a few cents or a quick triste with a port-of-call whore.
The Captain’s First Mate listened, but stood quiet, lest he be accused of the same crime.
No honor among thieves, no honor among a slave ship crew.
The devil had called his due. Now well past Cuba and more than six hundred miles to New Orleans, the decision was inevitable. LaCrosse was furious. Lost property meant lost profit. And profit, to him, was worth much more than human life, including his own crew.
When one died from beatings, dysentery, or any other malady infecting the horrendous journey, he smiled. One less man to pay wages to. One less soul to cheat out of earnings when they finally arrived in New Orleans.
Bastard.
“Do it!” he ordered his First Mate. “Do it tonight and do it quickly. And take only the minimum needed so the rest of us can survive this trip”.
“Yes sir” he replied, perversely anxious to watch this gruesome scene unfold. He gathered enough crew and told them what to do. When and how to do it. And to whom.
It was nearly midnight when Amana heard the men coming down the steps to the slaves’ hold. She so wanted to be led upward, into the fresh air, but the stealthy conduct of the crew caused her deep concern. Too quiet. Too late at night. Too unusual. She pretended to be asleep.
“This one … that one … this one” the First Mate quietly said to his four man squad, as he pointed to individual slaves, the ones who were weakest, sickest, and least likely to resist.
One wrist was shackled to the slave immediately to his right, then to his left, and all ten were led up the wooden steps to the top deck.
The preparations had already been made. Buckets of water made the deck wet and slippery. One gunport slat on the starboard side was removed, leaving no barrier to prevent one from falling overboard. A heavy rope was tied to the tallest mast pole, and neatly coiled on the deck.
Relief overwhelmed each captive as they exited the putrid bottom hole and breathed the fresh sea air. They were pushed and shoved to the mast pole. Naked and afraid, they huddled together for warmth from the chilly and damp night breeze.
Amana laid still on the wooden floor, smeared in feces and suffering a stench no human being should bear, wondering if she should have tried to go up top.
As she was about to hear, the answer was a blood curdling “no”.
“Give me your hand” the crewman barked to the first slave brought on deck. He didn’t know the sailor’s language. He just stared at the deck, shivering from cold and fear. The crewman grabbed the prisoner’s wrist and quickly tied one end of a rope to his shackle, using a fisherman’s cinch knot. The harder one pulled, the tighter the knot’s grip.
The last prisoner to be shackled watched the rope being tied to the first slave. As his eyes followed the rope, he stopped shivering. The other end was tied to the heavy rope coiled beneath the mast pole.
From there, his eyes followed the heavy rope to a bulky net that covered … he wasn’t sure. But whatever was inside that net, looked big. And heavy.
Although malnourished and weak from dysentery, panic flooded his body with adrenaline. He bolted away from the gunport but was jolted to a stop by the weight of the slave shackled next to him. He grabbed the prisoner’s wrist with both hands in a Herculean effort to pull all of them away from the net and to safety.
Too late. The death squad had filled the net with heavy weights. Three cannon balls plus as many iron cleats as they could pry from the ship’s gunwale. The top rim of the hull had been cannibalized to fill the net with enough weight to sink the slaves to Davy Jones’ locker.
“Now!” hollered the First Mate. “Push it over”.
Three crewman bent over and began pushing, but it was too heavy, their feet slipping on the wet deck. Then another jumped in to help, then another. The five men gave a coordinated heave and over it went.
“My God” muttered the sixteen year old cabin boy as he watched this carnage unfold. “How can men do this?” His mind and body twisted with guilt as he frantically sought a way to stop these barbarians, but to no avail.
The cause and effect were a fait accompli. It was done and could not be changed.
The cinch knot tightened and crashed the first prisoner’s body to the deck. The others now saw their fate, but powerless to stop it. Trying to run but slipping on the wet deck, one by one they also fell, sliding across the wooden floor, arms flailing to grab hold of something, anything, that would stop them from being thrown from the ship and pulled down into the water.
Amana listened to it all. So did the others. The women wept uncontrollably. Some men cried. Some were ready to attack and die.
They all waited for more of the crew to come down the steps.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. Fear gripped them all. No movement. No sound from the captives.
All listened intently to hear the hatch door open, the sound of footsteps coming down into the belly of the ship.
And finally a full hour. No hatch door opened, no crew appeared.
Anxiety had finally exhausted every one. A communal hope shrouded them all, that no more ghostly carnage would appear tonight. Perhaps the crew only needed to decrease the slave population by ten souls. Or maybe the sailors themselves were exhausted. But for whatever reason, a collective faith arose that tonight’s horror was over. At least for the night.
Their fear soon subsided. Then came their wrath. Every one of them, man woman and child, was now ready to fight to the death. Amana as much as any of them. Defeat the crew and take control of the ship, or die trying.
Some almost wished they too had been thrown overboard. At least a ghastly death by drowning would be suffered for only a minute or two, rather than trying to survive more weeks of inhumane misery and torture.
Even if they did survive to their next destination, they all knew what lay ahead. Imprisonment for life with no chance of parole. Being treated as subhuman property, forever deprived of family and friends. Nothing more than a tool that was to be worked ceaselessly until eventual death.
Few spoke the same language, so communication was mostly done by facial expressions and hand and finger gestures. But now, after hearing the screams on deck, a shared language wasn’t necessary. In their sequestered universe, the task at hand was obvious to all: commandeer the ship. Organizing the mutiny was essential.
Language and shackles were the barriers to be conquered, and Amana felt powerless to defeat both. (Please see footnote at end of book)
43
W E GONNA BE RICH” Seth hollered to Randy, barely audible as they galloped side by side, following behind Harley on the dirt road leading to the Jefferson’s.
“Yippee!” Randy shouted back, grabbing his hat as the wind almost took it.
They slowed the horses to a walk as the approached the farm house. Freda and Frank were inside, finishing breakfast as the three dismounted.
Tabari was gone. Just before sun up. Pastor Jessie and the Reverend Baxter had arrived at the Jefferson’s last night, just as planned.
“Well, if it isn’t Deputy Stafford” Frank said sarcastically as he stepped out of the front door, remembering Harley’s mean scowl and nasty
temperament.
Harley remembered him too, still fuming a year later, after he ransacked the house but unable to find the human contraband he was searching for. Maybe this time he could extract a little revenge.
“You know why I’m here Frank” he sneered. “No sense beatin’ round the bush. Where’s he at?”
“Why Deputy, that’s no way to begin our conversation” he replied, eyeballing the two saddle bums with some disgust.
“Who’ve you got with you, two more of N’awlins’ finest?” he chuckled.
Harley looked at Seth and Randy for a moment, inwardly admitting they weren’t up to his own specifications.
“Cut the shit, Frank. Where’s the runaway nigger? I knew you and the Misses help runaways. Last time here, I couldn’t prove it. But this time, I’ve got witnesses” looking back at Randy and Seth.
“And, I’ve got … this!” pulling Helen’s letter out of his shirt pocket, with added dramatic flair.
Frank was dumbfounded. How could Harley have gotten hold of the letter? Surely Tom didn’t just give it to him. But somehow, the sneaky bastard had it.
Freda walked to the door.
“Is everything alright, Frank?”
“Ah, Freda, I need to talk to these … ah … this gentleman for a minute” trying his best to ignore the two inbreds. “Go back in the house. I’ll be in shortly”.
“Actually, you stay put” Harley ordered. “You know as much as Frank does. You’re both in this together”.
Frank was livid. His blood pressure skyrocketed, hearing this heathen suddenly order his wife around.
“If I were thirty years younger” he thought to himself. He could feel a dull sensation starting near his heart, and his left arm tingling.
“Fellas, go check the fields” Harley ordered, sweeping his hand in the direction of the Jefferson’s crops.
Freda started shaking. Was Helen’s letter in Harley’s hand? How could he have gotten it?
“Like I was tellin’ your husband here” Harley continued.
“I knew it then, and I know it now. The two of you’ve been harboring fugitives, plain and simple. And that’s against the law. And I got proof!” he reiterated, this time for Freda’s edification.
“We know nothing of harboring any fugitives” Freda argued. “Now get off our land” she stammered.
Frank slowly slumped down on the porch.
“My God, are you alright?” she said frantically, as she knelt down beside him, cradling his head in her arms.
“He’s fine” Harley barked. “Just a little feint from the distressin’ news I’m deliverin’”.
“I’m fine dear” Frank whispered. “Just let me rest a bit”.
“You’re the devil” she yelled venomously, staring Harley in the face. “You have no compassion. Not for us, not for anyone”.
“I got compassion” he shot back. “Compassion for the law. For enforcin’ the law. You brought this on yourself, you and Frank. I’m just here to see that justice is done, that’s all.
“And I’ll tell you what. If I find that nigger, and prove that you helped hide him, then I’ll personally see to it that you lose this farm. The fine’s one thousand dollars for harborin’ a runaway fugitive from the law. A thousand dollars. And I mean to enforce it”.
Moments later, Randy rode up. “Nothin’. I didn’t see him”.
“Then check the barn. I’ll check inside”. Harley strode right past Frank, now barely able to look up, and walked into the house.
A couple minutes later, he returned to the porch, unsure what to do next.
Harley looked back at Frank and Freda, then heard Seth holler from a little farther up the road. “Tracks. There’s fresh buck wagon and manure tracks”.
“Well, looks like we’ve got our clue” he said boastfully, having gotten the best of Frank and Freda.
“One way or another, I can promise you I’ll be back. And like I said, if you aided that slave in any way, I’ll see to it that you lose this place, lock, stock and barrel”. He mounted up. “Take care of yourself Frank. You ain’t lookin’ so good” he mocked with a hateful grin.
“Come on” he shouted to Randy. The two galloped toward Seth, then circled their horses as they inspected the tracks. Several dirt roads led in different directions, all pockmarked with dried water cracks.
Except one.
The smooth graded road that led to Marysville. Moments later, they took off down the road, not yet knowing they were heading toward the Chapel Cross Church, six miles away.
* * *
TOM galloped up to the house. “Oh, thank God” Freda cried out as she lay on the porch next to Frank.
“What happened?” he asked, bounding up the steps. “Where’s the Deputy?” as he looked all around.
“Oh, Tom. It was awful. That bastard Harley and his two men scared Frank half to death. I think he’s had a heart attack” she said as she sat upright, cradling Frank’s head in her arms. “Please, help me get him in the house”.
Tom kneeled down and gently placed his arms underneath Frank’s legs and shoulders. He then slowly lifted him, Freda supporting his head and neck. They walked through the door with Freda leading them to their bed, where Tom gently laid him down. She unbuttoned his shirt, and Tom followed as she went to the kitchen to wet a towel.
“What happened?” he asked, just slightly above a whisper.
“Harley accused us of harboring Tabari. He never said his name. I doubt he knows it. But he had the letter, Tom. He had the letter that I gave you”.
Tom sighed deeply. “I know, I know. I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll just say it. I set the letter on my desk this morning. I didn’t plan on leaving it there. I wanted to show it to Melba when she came in. Before I know it, Harley’s in the office, snooping around the desk. He found it. I tried to stop him, but he reached for his gun. That’s it. That’s how it happened”.
“Oh my Lord.
“I’ve got to get Frank to a doctor. I don’t think he can make a trip into town. Can you fetch one?” she pleaded.
“Of course, of course. But where’s Harley now?”
“After Tabari. He and his two henchmen searched the whole place, including the house. I mean, this main road only leads to two places, N’awlins and Marysville.
“That’s where they’re headed. To Marysville”.
“Where in Marysville?”
“They don’t know. The big dumb one said he’d spotted wagon tracks leading that direction. That’s where they’re headed. But they don’t know where to go once they get there”.
She squeezed the towel out and walked back to the bedroom. Her husband’s breathing was labored, and he seemed to be sleeping. She slowly patted his face with the damp towel, then folded it across his forehead.
“Where’s Tabari”? Tom whispered.
“He’s with Reverend Baxter and Pastor Jessie. They came here last night and left with Tabari before sun up this mornin’. They’re gonna’ use their church, the Chapel Cross, as sanctuary until they can make further connections, you know”.
“Sure, sure. Freda, tell me what you want me to do. I know a doctor in N’awlins, but it’ll take me, probably, at least two hours before I can get him back here. I don’t know any doctor in Marysville, but it’s almost as close. I can send one here, and still be able to help Tabari. It’s critical that we get him out of there, and fast. If Harley catches him, then …”
“Then you and me, and Melba and Frank, we’ll all be in a heap of trouble” she finished his sentence for him. She motioned for him to follow her out of the bedroom, and let Frank rest.
“Look Tom. I know the trouble we’re all in. Harley’s already threatened to take this farm, ‘lock, stock and barrel’ as he put it. There’s a thousand dollar fine … well, you know about that. I don’t know how you and Melba, and your newspaper business, would make out, but it would bankrupt me and Frank, absolutely” she began to cry.
“There’s no way we could make it either. Melba
knows all this, too. If only I’d …” he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Stop it. Now” she interrupted, referring to his debacle with the letter. “What’s done is done. We can’t un-ring the bell. What needs to be done now is to get Frank a doctor and for you to get to Reverend Baxter and Pastor Jessie. The longer Tabari stays there, the better chance Harley has to find him”.
“Agreed. The only way anyone gets punched with a thousand dollar fine is if Harley captures Tabari. We get Tabari long gone, and Harley’s proof goes away. We’d be home free” he said excitedly.
“True” Freda thought, wanting to believe it was that easy. “But that’s a whole lot of things that need to line up perfectly” she cautiously reminded Tom.
“I know. But that’s what needs to be done” he said.
“Freda, is there anything I can do before I leave? I’m anxious to get started”.
“No. Be on your way. But please, send a doctor as soon as you arrive. I’m counting on you”.
“First thing. I promise”.
44
I N THE GREAT DINING ROOM was a fan and pulley fixture, a rather large apparatus attached to the ceiling.
When the Winters entertained dinner guests, a young slave would sit cross-legged on the floor, slowly pulling the attached rope up and down, causing a large drape-like fan to travel the length of the table, circulating the air and chasing away flies.
Sadie was busy dusting Collette’s nightstand and drawers in the Winters’ bedroom when Trent walked by.
“Sadie, what’s the name of that young boy we’ve used to pull the dining room table fan?”
Startled by the Colonel’s unannounced presence, she abruptly closed the nightstand’s drawer and whirled around. She thought for a moment.
“George. His name’s George” she answered, remembering the nine year old boy.
“Well, we have many guests coming tonight for dinner. See to it that George gets a bath and is all cleaned up. Make sure he has clean clothes and have him come to the kitchen at seven.
