by CP Patrick
I imagined my body being cooked over a large fire. It became an all-consuming thought. I did not want White Faces to eat me. I did not want them to eat my village.
We walked for days and nights. Rocks and branches tore at my body. Scratches and welts blistered, hot on my skin. The heavy ropes cut into my flesh. The yoke around my neck grew even heavier, but there was no escaping its burden.
White Faces bound us so if any man fell behind, he was dragged along by the rest of us.
“You must be a man,” we encouraged each other.
“We must be strong!”
Each man tried to make the burden lighter for the man behind him. But in time, many men fell. And we were forced to carry them. We listened as their flesh dragged the ground.
I had never been so far from my village. The soil beneath my feet changed many times. Dark brown dirt. Sandy and rocky. Grassy and full. Flowers, trees, and birds I had never seen. But I could not enjoy their beauty.
We passed other villages White Faces had devoured. The land stood abandoned, most everything burned to ashes. Bones littered the ground. Evidence White Faces had feasted.
Our women and girls screamed as White Faces forced themselves upon them. Men went insane, struggling to escape their bonds as they watched the defiling of their family. Seeing White Faces take our womenfolk over and over. Never had I felt so helpless, weak.
I heard Leza’s screams rise above the others, her voice calling for me. There are no words to describe this time in my life. Pain, anger, rage—these words are not full enough.
I became wrathful, willing to do anything to save her. Never had I wanted to kill another until White Faces hunted my village. I struggled in my bonds, unable to free myself. I only succeeded in deepening my wounds.
“Ansa, help me!”
My heart beat loudly, pounding within my ears. But not loudly enough to mute Leza’s screams as she continued to call out for me.
Leza was mine. I had promised her father and brothers I would always protect her. And I had failed.
We first lay together a few moons before White Faces attacked. My father had told me what to do on our wedding night, but I was not ready. Nothing could have prepared me for the beauty of our union. Leza’s breasts were large, and I took her dark nipples in my mouth, kissing them. I put my hands around her waist. There was much confusion, laughter, and joy that day. More joy than I had ever imagined.
Each time we lay together since was more beautiful than the last. Our bodies learned each other. I thought of us, a few mornings ago, praying as we prepared to create our first son or daughter.
That morning seemed distant as I watched White Faces take her. Their hands grabbing her legs, pulling them apart. I could do nothing but listen to Leza’s screams. I cried openly as did the other men. We wept for our wives and our sisters, our mothers and daughters.
“When will this end?” Ano asked.
Ano and I had become men together. We endured our rights of passage in what seemed like so many moons ago. He was one of the strongest of us as boys, winning most every test of strength and endurance.
“When will this end?” he repeated. “I cannot take much more.”
“I do not know, Ano. I pray for it to end soon.” It was the only truth I could offer him.
Not long after our brief talk, Ano fell. His death caused his father to cry, retching in between sobs. We dragged Ano along with us until Whites Faces removed him, discarding his dead body among the trees as his father wept.
More of our men and women died. When I thought I could not take another step, we stopped. White Faces gave us food and water. They took rags and wiped at our skin. In the distance I could see the White Faces’ village.
I understood why our neighbors told us White Faces were half animal. It was not just their desire to eat Black flesh. Their village was carved out of rock, like an open den. There was much movement as people rushed about the land. It was apparent their king did not know how to rule his kingdom.
Behind their village was a large lake. The bright blue water flowed until it reached the sky. The two were separated by a line so thin it was difficult to tell whether it was part of the lake or belonged to the heavens. Large pieces of wood partially covered with white fabric rested atop the water. And the air smelled of salt.
As White Faces took us into their village, I could not believe it. Their land was filled not only with White Faces, but with men and women with Black Faces. Why were the White Faces not eating them?
Our neighbors had not told us this. Perhaps, we still had a chance. Perhaps my village would not be eaten after all.
As Black Faces came toward us, we pleaded for help.
“Please,” we cried out. “Please free us!”
We begged them to remove our bonds, to let us return to our village. Instead, Black Faces looked us over as though inspecting goods for trade. A form of payment exchanged hands, and Black Faces began to divide us.
If we were to die, we wished to die together.
We begged, “Cook and eat us all at once, this way we will not miss each other!”
But Black Faces ignored our pleas.
Wives reached for their husbands. Mothers grabbed for their sons and daughters. Black Faces continued to separate us as we stretched for each other, our hands bound in the heavy ropes. Leza reached for me, palms open, yet we were unable to touch.
“Ansa!”
I looked into Leza’s brown eyes. I knew they would never smile again. And I could do nothing. I opened my mouth to speak, but there were no words. And I became less of a man that day.
Black Faces took me to a large space, and there, White Faces looked me over to see if I would make a sufficient meal. With rough hands they pried open my mouth. They grabbed parts of me no one had ever touched but my mother and Leza. And when I thought the horror was over, one of the White Faces licked my face to taste me.
I could not understand their words, but I could tell it was agreed I would make a sufficient meal. I prepared myself to be eaten. Like the wild animals they were, White Faces would eat me alive, flesh uncooked. Their eyes watched me hungrily.
I closed my eyes, waiting for White Faces to bite into my flesh. Heat pressed on my shoulder, and I smelled my skin burning. White Faces began to cook me. I only remember falling to my knees.
When I awoke, I was still bound by the heavy ropes. There was no way for me to move, the space so packed with bodies. I longed for fresh air as the odors of blood and human waste were overpowering. Despite my best efforts, I vomited, adding to the stench.
And death. I could smell death swirling and circling, preparing to strike. I tried to speak to other men, but none could understand me. We were from many tribes, speaking in different tongues. I had travelled to other villages for trade and tried to comprehend their words. Still, I imagined their thoughts. They were surely as my own.
I would never return to my village. Never again would I see Leza. I wept beside other men as we cried our fragmented words. All of us not wanting to be eaten.
And when I remember this time, I can still hear the wailing of men in my ears. I can smell the stench of our waste and feel the coldness of the ropes that bound me. The memory returns me to the tight, small space, and it is difficult to breathe.
Black Faces pushed food through an opening, and we were like animals. Our bodies ached for nourishment. We kicked and bit at each other, fighting for the food and water. It was not a good meal. Just a paste made with grains. But we were beyond pride.
We ate the food wherever it lay. Off the ground and off each other. There was not enough for all of us to eat. Only the strongest of us would survive.
Some of the men refused to eat, perhaps hoping by thinning themselves they would appear a less desirable meal. Or even worse, some of the men had given up. Surely, as the smells were so overwhelming, so rancid, there were dead bodies among us. The air was filled with the smell of rotting flesh.
White Faces continued to appear and take men to cook for their
feast. Every so often, Black Faces would come and remove dead bodies. When we had enough space to stretch our cramped legs, Black Faces would return and pack the area with more men.
I wondered when I would be selected to be eaten. I began to wish for it to happen.
“We are destroyed,” a man said.
Words I could understand. A voice speaking the language of a neighboring village.
He continued, “There is no hope for us now. We are no longer men.”
Before White Faces captured us, he and I may have met for trade. We would have exchanged goods, spoken of our villages and families. We would have shared stories of White Faces. Now we were together waiting to be eaten.
“Are you certain?” I asked.
I thought of Leza, and my chest began to ache. My heart again pounding, painful and tight.
“What of the Black Faces?” I asked. “Those with flesh like ours? Will they help us?”
“No.”
“Why?” I did not understand why Black Faces were free. We looked the same.
“They will not help us.” And then he explained, “White Faces have tricked them so they will not help us. I escaped once. And it was Black Faces who captured me and returned me here.”
This man seemed to know a great deal. And he had escaped. Even though he had been recaptured, his bravery was encouraging, admirable. He had done far more than I. Perhaps this man could tell me what I needed to know most.
“Then when will White Faces eat us?”
The anticipation of being eaten was becoming unbearable. Whenever the door opened, men scampered out of reach, hoping to escape White Faces’ hands. We pushed the dead and living in front of us in an effort to save ourselves.
“They will not eat us.”
His voice was raspy from crying.
“They will send us into the water,” he said.
“Into the water?”
Our neighbors had not mentioned this.
“Did you see the water that touched the sky?” he asked. “We will leave in the wood floating on the water. The water will take us away never to return.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“I saw,” the man explained. “When I escaped, I saw White Faces take men into the wood floating on the water. I met a man who spoke many tongues. He told me if the king does not have enough people with black flesh to send into the water, he gives White Faces his wives. And White Faces send his wives into the water.”
I felt the urge to vomit and tried to suppress the bile. I did not want this man to know I was so weak. But a king who would send his own wives into water never to return to him? Surely, such a king would do far worse to me.
“But you escaped before,” I reminded him. “Is there no way to escape now?”
I knew it was a futile question. If there was a way, he would already be free. I knew this, but still, I asked.
“There is no way.”
And then, he was quiet.
Poor Leza. I felt less of a man knowing I could not save her. Leza would be sent into the water, and I would never see her again. I lost the battle to appear strong. The warm bile rose and forced its way out of my mouth.
White Faces and Black Faces. They removed dead bodies and counted those of us who remained. I thought of dying. But I did not want to leave Leza. I knew White Faces were planning to send us into the water that touched the sky. I tried my best not to sleep lest White Faces or Black Faces catch me unaware. Much to my disappointment, I fell asleep praying to my ancestors.
A cold wind awakened me. Other men began to awaken, and we huddled together for warmth. And then, the earth began to sway and rock. It seemed at any moment the ground would open and swallow us all.
We could not understand each other, but we shared in the fear. In the darkness, it became too much to endure. The tightness of the space filled with bodies. I could see nothing but shadows. Fear sounded more horrifying coming from the mouths of men.
“They are here!”
It was the man who had spoken to me earlier. I had not even thought to ask his name.
“Who?” I asked, my voice shouting.
“The dead!”
And I began to feel them. Cold and spineless as the wind. Spirits brushed up against me, swirling around the tight space. Men twisted and shifted, our bodies pressed against each other, trying to escape.
“Listen!”
The voices of the dead intertwined with the living, all of our many tongues sounding like a child learning to speak. Earnest, determined, but impossible to understand.
And in the darkness, I saw her face. Brown skin and angry, dark eyes. Black hair that swirled in the wind.
She told me, “Run before White Faces take you into the water never to return!”
The ground continued to shake, and walls of rocks crumbled. I saw men moving, fast and determined. They rushed through the darkness, their bonds broken.
“Please,” I called out to the woman. “Please, free me too!”
Her dark eyes looked into mine as the bonds broke away from my hands and feet. I did not think. I only ran. I stepped on the bodies of those who had fallen. They screamed as I crushed them beneath my feet. But I could not stop to help them.
White Faces and Black Faces were waiting. But I was determined they would never take me again. I ran through their hands grabbing at me. They wanted to send me into the water that touched the sky so their king would not have to send his wives.
There were others like me, and we ran. I did not turn back. Not even for Leza. I did not stop running until I reached the land that is now my home.
When I first arrived, Black Faces reached out to help. But I did not trust them. I fought anyone who came near. It took the village’s strongest men to subdue me. Even after they showed me kindness, fed me, and helped me heal, I did not trust them.
I remembered Black Faces from the White Faces’ village. How there, White Faces and Black Faces walked together as friends. And their king sent Leza into the water never to return.
In time, I learned the language of my new village. I honored their traditions and even took a new wife. And although she was sweet and beautiful, she was not Leza.
I told the people—White Faces are real.
At night the woman who gave me freedom haunts my dreams. My wife says I scream in the darkness. In the mornings our bed is damp and covered with blood. For when the dark hair and dark eyes come to me, I scratch at myself, trying to escape.
“I will make them pay. All involved in this business of selling the lives of my people. They will suffer. And their children will suffer. I promise you, as sure as I will live forever. I promise. All will know the wrath of Awiti.”
These are the words she says to me.
“I am coming back, Ansa. For the White Faces and Black Faces. I am coming back.”
With every sunrise and sunset, I am afraid. Will today be the day she returns? And if so, what is she planning to do?
4
aboard the saint philippe
Nantes, France (1769)
23 July
Dear Jean Paul,
I pray this letter finds you in good health. I am pleased to learn of your decision to embark upon life as a seaman. As you know, I find this to be a highly respectable career. If your father were alive, you would surely have his blessing as well. Since his death, you have become like a son to me, and I like a father to you.
This is why I beg of you to abandon this idea of joining the slave trade. While lucrative, there is a side to the endeavor that is evil and dangerous. Such an adventure may seem exciting. At this time in your life, you have cares for none other than yourself. But I beg of you to trust me. The memories of what you witness, the choices you have to make. These recollections will endure a lifetime.
I want to respond to your inquiry about my decision to end my career early and retire from a successful life at sea. You seem on the verge of asking me to reconsider. You mention several times the joys of us conquering t
he seas together. I imagine this to be your perfect reverie. The two of us sailing side by side.
You are no doubt recalling the times your father and I would return home from our travels, telling you grand stories of life on the sea, the adventures of those who dared to travel the open waters. I must be honest with you now, for you are no longer a lad. We conjured many a story for your little ears. They were to feed your imagination during your father’s long absences. We wanted you to believe we were off doing something great and honorable.
I will likely not be able to persuade you with simple words and forewarnings, as I am sure your offer from Monsieur Montaudoin is quite generous. The Montaudoins have mastered the art of the trade and are among the most influential here in Nantes. So I will try to convince you by sharing a personal experience. This is a true account. The few others who know of the details of this affair will undoubtedly take it with them to their graves.
It may help you better understand my decision to sail no more, and even further, my apprehension to you joining the trade. Even Captain Guillaume Denis Hamon himself cannot convince me otherwise. Trust me when I tell you my mind cannot be changed. I will never again return to the seas.
As you know, my final voyage was aboard the Saint Philippe. A historic journey, one for the records. The Saint Philippe is a beautiful vessel, and Captain Hamon a most decorated and moral man, one of whom I have always enjoyed serving. I made the voyage to Saint Domingue many times, but this significant expedition, taking only a record twenty-five days, was truly quite a feat. And while I should be proud it was upon this voyage I ended my career, on such a celebrated endeavor, I am not. And for good reason.
Please note the Jogue brothers paid me well, for like the Montaudoins, they are highly respected and profitable in the trade. But I must say, if I could erase this historic voyage from my memory and return all the funds I received, I would do so today. I have never been as afraid on a trade vessel as I was aboard the Saint Philippe.
I will tell you why. And perhaps, after you learn of what truly happens in the trade, you will give more consideration to Monsieur Montaudoin’s offer. I am not certain of your standing, but if debt is an issue, you know I am more than willing to assist you in your financial affairs. But I beg of you, do not embark upon the trade for the money or even for adventure. It is not worth your soul.
