by Rima Jean
I was struck by this strange behavior on Davis’ part, and when I later asked him about it, he revealed that a very basic sense of self-preservation lay at the bottom of it, saying, “Better to share what little one has, in the hope that someone will share with you when you have nothing.”
Now, Davis walked up to the big African man, who stood unchained. The man rubbed his wrists and eyed Davis carefully. The unarmed, smiling Davis asked, “I na-asu oyibo?”
Sam nodded slowly, looking Davis over curiously.
Davis asked, “What’s your name?”
The man hesitated for a moment, then answered in a deep, melodious voice, “Sam.”
Davis put his hands behind his back and stood swaying on his heels. “Sam, eh? You have dealt with the white man before.”
Sam replied, “Yes.”
Davis admired Sam’s impressive physique and whistled. “You’re a fine-looking specimen, Sam.”
Sam didn’t miss a beat before answering, “And you are not so ugly, for a white man.”
Davis laughed, his eyes full of good humor. Then, almost as if he were speaking to himself, he muttered, “You’ll make some fat, rich landowner all the richer.”
Sam smiled at this, revealing brilliantly white teeth. “You and I together,” he replied. The two men stood grinning at each other, reading each other’s faces in some mutual understanding. Then Sam said something softly in his native tongue, and Davis became grim-faced. He sighed, nodded to his crew to resume their duties, and climbed up to the poop deck to gaze out to sea pensively.
Davis had the slaves – all fifty of them – unshackled and moving in groups from the deck to the hold. He wanted them to exercise, to eat, to get some fresh air. Again, I wondered at his reasons for all of this, and I wondered what Sam had said to him that had elicited such a grave sigh. The sailors, while thrilled with their newly acquired clothes and liquor, were none too happy about the unfettered slaves, and they mumbled amongst each other, holding their weapons at the ready. A feeling of unrest fell upon the crew, and it weighed on me.
I asked Davis, “Aren’t you worried that they’ll rebel?”
He replied, “No. Of the twenty-five African men aboard, none are of a rebellious tribe, such as the Ibibio. They are mainly Igbo, Fante, and Chamba, and the Chamba detest the Fante since many of the Fante are slave-traders themselves. They would rather assist the crew against their African enemies than rebel with them.” I stared at Davis in disbelief as he added, “‘Tis not an easy thing, planning an insurrection aboard a slaver with a seasoned, careful crew. Especially when your shipmates speak a different tongue, and most have never even seen a white man before.”
I swallowed. “I’m on a floating coffin, a waterborne death machine. It’s murder. This… turning human beings into property.”
Davis examined my face inquisitively, his intelligent blue eyes narrowed. Finally he said, “We’re all of us property of the rich.”
Later that afternoon, I found the Cadogan surgeon-slash-doctor-slash-God-knows-what-else bleeding a young slave woman with the flux. I approached and told him, “You won’t cure her like that – you’ll just kill her faster.”
The doctor glanced at me in surprise, then said coldly, “May I help you?” He looked highly uncomfortable, avoiding my eyes, focusing on his patient.
I pointed to a secluded spot on the forecastle. “I need to speak with you.” He followed me there, continuing to avoid my eyes. In as threatening a tone as I could muster, I said, “You know my secret, but let me warn you: should you tell anyone on board this ship what I am, you will pay. You saw my ilk aboard the pirate ship, didn’t you? You don’t want my good friend Edward England hearing about what you did to me, do you?”
The doctor finally met my eyes, and I was satisfied to see fear on his face. “I did nothing,” he replied, his voice shaky.
I flashed him a nasty smile. “Well, now, it would be your word against mine then, wouldn’t it?” I turned and, trying to keep the bravado in my voice, pointed to the sick slave woman on the deck below us. “I can help her,” I said.
The doctor looked skeptical. “I doubt anyone can.”
I spotted Davis and waved him over. When he reached us, I said, “I can help that woman. I told you I knew a bit about medicine, didn’t I?”
“I am the surgeon aboard this ship,” the doctor said firmly, glaring at me.
Davis looked at the slumped form of the slave, hardly more than a girl, and looked at me. “If she refuses to live, there’s very little any of us can do,” he said. “Many of them do that, you know. Just put their heads between their knees and die.”
I felt my throat constrict. Would it be better for her to just die? Who knew what sort of life awaited her across the ocean? But something in me simply wouldn’t sit idly by. “Let me try,” I insisted.
“I am the surgeon – ” the doctor began again, but was quickly cut off by Davis.
“All you do is bleed ‘em to death,” Davis said brusquely. “And your medicines do as much good as a blow upon the pate with a stick. I’ll let the boy try his hand at curing them.”
With Davis’ permission, I had the cook boil some water for me, then prepared my simple rehydration solution. Cup in hand, I approached the woman, her face drawn, listless. I managed to have her look at me, and I smiled at her. “Please,” I implored her gently. “Drink.”
She shook her head and turned away. I continued to plead with her, drinking from the cup myself, my voice gentle and soothing. After several minutes of this, she finally looked at me, just a glimmer of life in her eyes. She opened her cracked lips, and I helped her drink the solution slowly. When she’d drained the cup, she surveyed me quietly, then said in a hoarse voice, “Nwanyi.”
I hesitated as she repeated the word, and then Sam approached, looking at me, a peculiar expression on his scarred face. “She is Igbo, like me, and she called you ‘woman.’” Sam narrowed his eyes.
“Huh,” I replied uncomfortably, quickly looking around to make sure none of the crew had heard the exchange.
I spent the rest of the day trying to treat sick slaves, and found that Davis was right – some refused to be saved. Taylor argued with Davis over it, insisting that Davis force the slaves to eat and drink. “This ain’t your cargo to do as you please, Davies,” Taylor snarled. But Davis would have none of it.
“I’ll not force it down their throats, like that savage Skinner,” Davis snapped. “Let our brother tars have their food and medicine. They, at least, have a will to live.”
What was Howel Davis about? Did he protect the slaves on account of their value? Or was I wrong in sensing that selfless compassion lay at the very bottom of the destitute sailor’s heart? He had chosen not to set himself above the other men – he still wore his ratty slops, took no more of a share of food or water than the others, and slept on the deck with the crew and slaves, leaving the cabin to the women, children, and the infirm. He hadn’t insisted on any formalities, and the crew still called him “Davies” rather than “Captain.”
There were moments when he thought no one was looking, and he leaned into the wind, a thoughtful, troubled look on his personable face. I watched him secretly from under the brim of my hat, wondering what thoughts plagued him, this enigma of a man.
Chapter Sixteen
“You there!”
It was a pleasant morning, a couple weeks since I’d been dumped by the pirates, and I was chilling on the quarterdeck, watching covertly as Davis went about his duties. I turned to see Ned Taylor gesturing to me, walking toward me. Immediately, I became nervous. Taylor did not want me there and resented that Davis was protecting me for a pirate. Once again, I found myself in the protection of a single man, a man I knew little about, and a man who knew even less about me.
This scenario was getting old.
“I will not have an idle pirate sitting aboard this ship,” he said to me. “You’ve taken your rest, now I’ll see that Davies puts you to work.”
�
��Fine,” I retorted lamely. “You see to that.”
“I can keep the boy busy,” a gruff voice said. Behind me stood the sailor who had condemned Skinner to death, the burly fellow with the crooked nose. He squinted one eye at me and spat on the deck. I swallowed hard. What had Davis said this guy’s name was? Blaine? He looked more like a pirate than most of England’s crew did. All he needed was some calico, a bit of bling, and some fancy weapons.
Taylor nodded. “Very well, then, Blaine. Make sure he doesn’t spend too much time sitting on his lazy arse, pretending to be injured.” Then he left us, Blaine casually coiling a tarred rope, and me, looking around desperately for Davis.
“‘Fraid of a bit o’ hard work, are ye, lad?” Blaine said with a chuckle. Then he grabbed my injured arm and I gasped in pain. “I’ve worked through much worse than that! Seems we have a li’l milksop in our midst!”
Some sailors in the vicinity began to laugh, and one even went so far as to shove me as he walked by. “A smock-face, he is!” one of them jeered. It occurred to me that pretending to be a teenage boy was probably not much better than admitting I was a woman. I could see that I was going to get bullied mercilessly by this band of unhappy sailors.
I wished I was back with the pirates.
“Leave the lad be, you mangy curs,” Davis said calmly, appearing out of nowhere, it seemed.
“I can work,” I insisted. “I want to work.”
Blaine chewed something that turned his teeth black, probably tobacco. “He can swab the deck, cain’t he, Davies?”
Davis nodded. “Can you do that, lad?”
“Yes,” I answered quickly. I was going to have to prove I wasn’t a wimp, I realized. I was ashamed of my inability to be masculine, to put them in their places. But between my injured arm and my natural inclination to be feminine, I felt helpless.
In order to deceive the men of the Cadogan, I kept either a knit cap or brimmed hat on my head, low over my eyes. I avoided eye contact and kept my face deliberately smudged with dirt. I used strips of linen to bind down what little bosom I had, and went to the head to relieve myself, just as the men did. I slept on the deck with the crew, in a poorly-lit corner so that I might have a modicum of privacy. My period had been on hiatus for several cycles, much to my relief. Perhaps it was the rapid weight loss, or maybe the whole, you know, time travel thing. In any case, I’d been fairly successful in concealing my sex. But this, this insistence that I behave like a man, was what would get me in trouble. As I contemplated proving myself to the crew, I wanted to cry. This was going to be miserable.
But I hadn’t accounted for Howel Davis.
He’d noticed that his crew had taken a particular dislike to me, the effeminate boy favored by the pirates – and now, as it were, the slaves. He’d noticed that the sailors pushed or tripped me at every opportunity. He realized, as did I, that the men thought I’d been a “play-thing” to the pirates, a little diversion. Perhaps I had become too much of a diversion, which was why they had pawned me off on the Cadogan sailors. Whatever their thoughts, their bullying became increasingly hostile, and while Davis only stepped in at the last moment, I knew he watched me carefully.
He read my need to prove myself and took me, as well as Sam, under his wing, teaching us the difference between standing and running rigging, the different lines for each – ratlines and shrouds, braces, halyards, bowlines, buntlines, clewlines… I would never get it straight. It just looked like a web of chaos to me. Sam, on the other hand, caught on immediately. You’d have thought I was the one from an entirely different culture, not Sam.
Over the course of the next couple weeks, Davis showed us how to haul a line and secure it, to help hoist a sail, to ease out a bit of line in a controlled manner. He encouraged us to learn the thirty-two points of a compass, and he taught us how to make various knots – reefline, bow knot, all the different hitches.
As we sat together eating one pleasant evening, Davis said, “Since your arm is a bit better, I’ll show you how to lay aloft on the morrow.”
We were sitting on the deck, drinking coffee, watching the sun set into the sea. I knew what “aloft” meant – it was any area above the deck. But I wasn’t sure what the “lay” part meant. I looked at Davis over the brim of my cup. “Who and the where and the what now?” I asked.
Davis rolled his eyes. “You have a funny way o’ saying things sometimes, Will,” he commented. Then he said, “Lay aloft – climb the rigging.”
The hot coffee, although nothing like the venti skinny vanilla latte I used to have at Starbucks every morning, was warm and comforting. As it slipped down my throat, I wondered if telling Davis that I was afraid of heights was appropriate. Would it undermine my “masculinity”? I looked up into the sails and shuddered. I’d been too afraid to climb Sophie’s treehouse in 2011, which was just a couple yards off the ground and stationary. How would I manage this without plummeting to my death?
Davis saw the fear in my eyes and smiled. “Not a seafaring man, are you, Will? How be it that you came into the company of pirates?”
I met his gaze. “I thought you weren’t asking questions.”
His smile turned roguish. “Is that how it be, then?” He reached for a piece of hardtack and tore a bite from it with his teeth. Between chews, he said, “Well, let’s see. I’d say you’re about fifteen or sixteen, a bookish lad, very learned and all that. You haven’t an ounce of muscle on you, and your hands are soft like a maid’s. You talk like an American colonist, more or less, but you have some queer expressions I never heard before. I’ve kept an eye on you, and you like to be clean, to wash your hands, and you do it often.” I had lowered my head so that he couldn’t see my face under the brim of my hat. I poured myself another cup of coffee just to keep my hands busy. Davis considered for a second, then said, “You ain’t the pirate’s nephew, that’s for certain. I’d wager you were kidnapped to serve aboard the rovers’ ship, maybe because you know a thing or two about physic or reading and writing, or maybe because you look like a lass.”
I looked up sharply to find Davis still smiling, and relief washed over me as I realized he was trying to get my goat – he didn’t necessarily think I was a woman. I feigned anger. “A lass! Why, you… you… sod!” I chucked a piece of the heavy biscuit at him, which he caught easily.
He laughed and tapped his forehead with the chunk of hardtack I had thrown. “Egad! We should have just slung our food at the pirates to keep ‘em away.”
I laughed, but a seed of doubt had been planted in my mind, and I resolved to be “tougher” before Davis to ensure he didn’t start digging deeper into my story.
The next day, I boldly reminded Davis that he was to show me how to “lay aloft.” I had prepped myself all morning, watching the seamen clamber deftly up the ratlines and inch out along the footropes hanging beneath the yards. I fortified myself with lots of rum (I wondered at my increasing tolerance for alcohol – me, the woman who used to be such a lightweight in college) and followed Davis to the shrouds at the mainmast. Davis indicated the platform about one-third up the mast. “That’s where we’ll stop,” he said.
“We’re not going all the way up?” I asked, hopeful.
“Nay,” Davis replied, then smiled. “Not unless you want to.”
“No, that’s fine,” I said quickly. I observed that Sam sat mending a sail nearby, watching me with keen interest. He had been aloft already, moving like a panther high above the deck, confident and fearless. He was a natural. My eyes met his, and he almost smiled, lowering his eyes and returning to his work, his enormous hands working more nimbly than I thought possible.
Davis made a short, mocking bow. “Shall we, milady?”
I shot him a dirty look and began climbing the ratlines, keeping my eyes on the rope in front of me. Why was I doing this? Oh, right- respect. I wasn’t sure I would earn any if I fell. My arm still ached quite a bit, although I was able to use it now. Davis climbed behind me, grinning like the Devil every time I looked
down at him. The rocking became increasingly pronounced, and my palms began to sweat. How far up was that top, anyhow? I looked up. Just too far. I began to press my body against the rope, freezing with fear. My injured shoulder throbbed, the pain shooting through my arm, to my fingers.
“Up we go, lad,” Davis encouraged, his voice faint in the wind.
“I can’t!” I cried, stealing a look down at him.
“Try, Will,” Davis insisted. I took a deep breath and, prying my hands from the ratlines, continued to climb, trying to move with the ship. I was almost there. I could see the “lubber’s hole” at the end of the ratlines, could almost reach it…
The ship lurched, and my foot slipped. With a horrified cry, I clung to the ratlines tightly, dangling, trying to get a foothold. Davis’ hand was suddenly on my rear, lifting me. My foot touched a line, and as I started climbing again, my injured arm gave out. I slipped again, this time certain I would fall. Then Davis was behind me, around me, his body holding mine up. I felt the tight muscles of his thighs against mine, his body like a rock beneath me. He wrapped one powerful arm around my waist and pushed me back on to the ratlines. Pressed against me as he was, I could smell him – the perspiration mingling with an odor that was uniquely him – and feel his warmth.
His voice was in my ear: “Have you got a grip now?” I nodded mutely, panting, and felt him push me gently, encouraging me up. I don’t know where I found the strength to climb up through the hole and onto the platform, but I did. I scooted to the mast and wrapped my arms around it, weaving my arms through various lines, desperate not to fall. Davis didn’t even bother with the lubber’s hole, climbing swiftly into the futtock shrouds and hopping easily onto the top, where I sat in a petrified ball.
