Blake or The Huts of America

by Martin R. Delany

  Again came a hissing sound, accompanied by the smell of scorched flesh, with wailing in their native tongues for mercy to God.

  “Holy Madonna! Mother of God! Is this the sacrifice, or what is it?”

  “Yes,” replied a hidden, unknown voice, in chaste and elegant Portuguese–“a sacrifice of burnt offering to the god of Portugal and Spain.”

  “Good, sir, pray tell me”–looking around she said–“what is this, and where am I?”

  “Be patient, dear child–be patient, and you shall hear–as from the graves of our forefathers–of untold suffering from this spot–

  “A place where demons daring land–

  Fiends in bright noon day–and sit

  A hellish conclave band to barter

  The sons and daughters of our land away.”

  “May God protect me!” she screamed, and sunk in a swoon, when in an instant the servants bore her in the hammock away.

  In parties of ten or more the branding iron was applied in such quick succession, that a sound and smell like that of broiling and scorched flesh was produced. At this last sad act of cruelty, and the voice in explanation of it, the tender and affrighted girl, yielding to frail nature, had sickened and fallen at the root of a tree where she sat, when the first impressions of consciousness found her again at the side of a devoted mother under the roof of the dwelling, fondly ministering to her relief.

  “O, mother–O, mother! What an experience have I had this day! O, what my ears have heard!” were the first words of Angelina on recovering.

  “Tell me, my child,” with native simplicity but earnestness inquired the mother, “what is it?”

  “As well may you, mother,” replied the excited, intelligent girl, “go

  “Ask the whirlwinds why they rove;

  The storms their raging showers:

  Ask the lightning why they move,

  The thunders whence their powers!”

  “My child, your head is bad; it is hot; it is not sound. You must keep quiet, my child,” anxiously admonished the mother, applying leaves taken from cold water continually to her brow.

  “A cup of water, mother; I am sick. Oh, I hear it again! They are burning them alive!” continued she to talk at random, till sleep quieted her voice, whilst the mother stood over her with a calabash of leaves and water anxiously watching every breath she drew.

  *The young mulatto daughter of a slave trader on the coast peremptorily refused to leave her people and go with him to Portugal to finish an education.

  **The native African is very correct in speech, pronouncing very distinctly any word they learn in other languages. Curse-to speak ill of, by the native African.

  *One method of torture inflicted by the foreign traders to prevent meeting, is an oblong square piece of iron in a box form, made so as to admit the ends of the middle and ring fingers, when it is driven down as far as it will go, tearing the flesh from the bone as it forces its way.

  CHAPTER 50

  Before Leaving

  The “Vulture” was now freighted, the cargo completed, and eighteen hundred human beings made up the bill of lading. All being ready, Ludo Draco left the vessel for his residence. The better to evade the vigilance of those ever watchful and indomitable guardians of the coast, the British cruisers, it is customary, under favorable circumstances, to leave the factories under cover of night.

  It was now the fourth evening, the hour for sailing fast ensuing, up to which time the black sailing-master had not appeared. About him there was much talk, speculation and uneasiness; some suspecting that he might have been the employed spy of the English; while Royer and Costello, the mates, believed that the tendency of the Negro being degeneracy, he having before been on the coast and in the country, must have seized the opportunity of returning to the usages of savage life.

  But he had not been far from the vessel since her arrival, but, having a knowledge of the place, had secreted himself near the residence of Draco, that the whole proceedings might be witnessed by him, and he thus become an unexpected auditor of the lamentations of the young and lovely Angelina; first in the mansion–he having stolen in after the trading party left at the sound of the bell–and subsequently under cover of the forest, whither he followed her cortege of carriers.

  Midnight had arrived: all was still around and wrapped in silence, nothing disturbing the quietude, save the dashing of the surf against the beach, occasional noise of a night bird, or hideous screech of a distant hyena. No human being was to be seen, except a solitary black watchman moodily crouched upon the quarterdeck, who, though a slave, was as vigilant on duty as the sentinel on a man-of-war. His duty was of two-fold–one for the vessel, and the other entirely foreign to its interest. Presently the form of a person was seen to approach; it was Blake, who, saluting the watchman, took a seat also upon the quarterdeck, the seamen all taking rest at the time, not knowing what hour they would be called to duty.

  A scene in the mansion had protracted his stay, although Blake was ready for duty so soon as the vessel was ready to sail. Her stay being but a few short days he had availed himself of the time and communicated with many of the natives opposed to the king, among whom he took his fare and lodging, except when concealed in disguise in the mansion, dressed as a native, being known only to the servants.

  Draco, that evening, on entering the house for the first time, from the vessel, was met by his wife in tears, stating that their dear child was dying–when he hastened to her room and found her in a most distressing condition. Looking in his face she gave a silly look, with a smile, then closing her eyes lay as if lifeless.

  “O, Don Ludo, my poor child is almost gone!” said Zorina, the silvery tears studding her cheeks like crystal spangles on a velvet cushion; Draco making no reply, but gave a deep sigh.

  Suddenly they were startled by a song of lamentation, the most remarkable and pathetic, in which the traffic, gains, and wealth of her father, the punishment, suffering and sorrows of her mother’s race, caused by him and a king unworthy to be classed with the race of her mother, were uttered in tones of scathing rebuke. She would that she had not been torn to have been thus distracted, that her mother had never seen her father, and that Dahomi had never existed.

  “O, ’tis my mother’s race and not his! Yes, ’tis my blood and not his!” she frantically exclaimed, then again sank into stillness, when her mother pressing her hands and cheeks, cried out,

  “My child is cold,–she must be dead! My poor child, my poor child! O!”

  Tell me not of my sad lot,

  Of death’s cold cheeks repine,

  Of life’s last hope, and endless scope,

  Of miseries of mine!

  “They are nothing, mother, nothing. But you it is who feels as never woman felt, and none to pity. O sister, are you here? Know you pity, mother?” she again exclaimed, interrupting her mother, by stopping her wailing, and recognising her sister Seraphina, who lay at her side from the time she was taken into the mansion on the hammock.

  Draco during the time stood in tears over her bed, and when the song and last frantic wail was given, taking his wife by one hand, and his youngest daughter, who lay on the bed beside her sister, by the other, leaning over and impressing kisses long and many upon her cheeks, he promised the distracted Angelina never again to traffic in human beings.

  Suddenly springing up in the bed, she sat looking around at each person and object in the room; drawing her hand over her face, and raising her eyelids as if just aroused from a deep sleep, exclaimed:

  “What is the matter–is any one sick? Have I been dreaming, or what? I am well now!”* when Blake left the mansion for the vessel, which he reached at so late an hour.

  *An interesting scene is said to have taken place between the family–which is colored–of a slave trader and himself who had renounced the trade previous to his renouncement and leaving the coast.

  CHAPTER 51

  Homeward Bound

  This morning at half-past three, a
favorable wind having risen, the stern command of Royer was heard preparing to weigh anchor; the blacks being promptly at their post, among whom was Blake. Soon were the white sails spread to the breeze, and the clipper cleaving the waters like a monster of the sea. The day dawned most beautifully; the wind continued fair, and ten o’clock brought every white upon the decks to enjoy the pleasures of the morning. No sickness had pervaded them, and all looked fresh and cheerful. Until then no spiritous liquor was allowed though a large supply was on board. This restriction had only been a precautionary measure, to guard against contingencies until the cargo was obtained, and they homeward bound. But this morning the beverage was in great profusion; the blacks alone being prohibited its use, and among the privileged Royer was a patron. Excited with the ardent liquid, he seemed familiarily at ease, and simply required an occasion to execute his will. Though burly and sulky before, he now became blustering, boisterous and overbearing; and Blake, if none other, seemed to be in imminent danger.

  “Where the mischief have you been!” roared the man, almost maddened by a too free indulgence, on seeing Blake on deck for the first time since the vessel moored. “Reveling I suppose back in the bush among the heathen wenches, palming yourself off for a nigger chief? Step light and bestir yourself my larky; you’re not now in Africa to give nigger impudence to white men! Get about there, get about! or the knot-end of a tar rope may teach you how they make smart blacks in America.”

  Blake giving him a look–and such a look!–ascended the shrouds, where seating himself, loitered on the mizenmast. Looking up at him, Royer called out–

  “Come down there, you saint of a chimney sweep, or I’ll teach you how to——”

  “Take care dat sweep don’t throw sut in yo’ eyes!” interrupted Gascar, who till then had been lost sight of; Royer pretending not to have heard him, though the whites laughed out at the expression from the boy; and the blacks, huddling, whispered together for a time.

  “Disperse there, you black clouds! We’re not ready for a rain!” again ordered the intoxicated man on seeing the blacks standing together.

  “But you may have a storm,”* replied the boy.

  “What’s that, you lump of charcoal!” rebuked Royer, looking about as if to find a rope’s end: “what did you say?”

  “Take care dat lump o’ charcoal don’t burn yeh, sir, dats all!” replied the boy to the utter merriment of Paul and Spencer, though the rest of the whites felt otherwise. Royer pressing his lips made no reply, but doubtless would have severely chastised him had not the presence of Paul, and suspicion of the ultimate intention of the Negroes deterred him.

  The morning had passed and it was then about the middle of the afternoon, when Paul and Garcia both appearing on deck ordered an inspection of the hole of the ship for an examination of the slaves therein confined. The hatches being opened, those standing nearest fell back from the stench escaping as if repulsed by an explosion of gas.

  “Heavens! there must be a good lot of ’em dead, captain,” exclaimed Paul, addressing Garcia as the fumes met them in the face. “I reckon not,” answered Garcia, “the stalls only want washing.”

  “How is this done, captain?” enquired Lawrence Spencer.

  “By means of a force pump and hose throwing sea water among them,” replied Garcia.

  “This I supposed from the manner they are packed; but indeed the business is all so entirely new to me, that I don’t pretend to know anything on shipboard, though I’ve served a long apprenticeship in nautical matters.”

  The stench having somewhat abated, the officers and others approached the open hatches.

  “Blake, my good fellow, I’m glad to see you again at your post; I don’t know what that girl of yours would have done had we left you in Africa. I’m fearing she would have charged me with kidnapping you,” remarked captain Paul, being the first time he had spoken to him since they left the coast; at which he smilingly made no reply.

  “Ah!” replied Royer, affecting pleasantry. “I see what’ll make the fellow laugh-talk about his girl. This morning he was as sulky as a black ram, because I told him about the nigger wenches on the coast. I suppose he thinks himself one crust above the black wenches.”

  Paul looking at Royer, advanced whispering in his ear, “You better treat him well; he’s no common Negro, I assure you,” to which Royer answered also in a whisper:

  “But we’re going where he will be common, where every Negro’s made to know his place.”

  “Where is that?” whispered Paul.

  “Home, in the United States, where else!” replied Royer.

  “Yes, but you’re not yet there, and it might be that you’ll never reach there!” rejoined he.

  “Curse the niggers, I hate ’em!” retorted Royer impatiently.

  “That may be, Mr. Royer, but it wasn’t the way to show it I’m thinking, by comin’ to Africa after ’em,” calmly replied Paul.

  Abruptly leaving him, Royer advanced to the main hatchway, when Paul following after, they made ready to enter, each officer with a sabre at his side, revolver studded in his belt, and an unsheathed bowie knife in his hand.

  “Blake,” said Paul, “you better take the lead!” to which Royer readily consented, though opposed to a Negro leading in anything wherein a white man was concerned.

  Blake entered the hatch followed by Paul, Garcia, Castello and Royer.

  “Merciful God! what a sight,” exclaimed Spencer, as he caught the first sight of the half-suffocated beings closely packed in narrow stalls like brutes wallowing in revolting mire.

  “In very good condition,” replied the Spaniard, “none dead worth naming”; two fine children–a boy and girl of three years of age–having died through the night for want of air and water.

  “Stir up here, you nests of black maggots, stir up!” exclaimed Royer, punching with a capstan bar all within his reach to see whether they lived or not.

  “Good Heavens!” again exclaimed Spencer. “What a condition they are in. I wonder they’re not all dead. How on earth will we ever get them purified?”

  “The pump and hose with plenty sea water is all that’s required,” replied Garcia.

  “Yes, give ’em plenty; that’ll soon straighten up matters,” added Royer. “Stir about there–stir about!” still punching in among them.

  Next commenced the washing process, when the double cranked pump was brought into full requisition. The stream was directed by Royer himself, which, regardless of their eyes, was thrown into their faces, when the poor wretches almost dying with thirst, opened their mouths to catch the stream as it played among them, sucking and licking the salt water off of each others heads and shoulders.

  During the inspection of the stalls an affecting scene ensued. A fine specimen of a man, tall and athletic, of some forty-five years of age, was cruelly treated by the coarse and ruthless American. On looking imploringly at his abuser, he gave him a punch with the butt end of the bar, drawing blood, which streamed down his face. On again imploring him, Royer screamed–

  “Do you look at me that way, you black devil!” when, turning his face away to conceal his grief, the mate gave him another blow on the cheek bone, producing contusion, when the tears stole down his manly face, baptizing with sorrow his bare expanded breast heaving with emotions of despair.

  To all this Blake was witness, with a watchful eye and determination more than ever to carry out his objects, observing which in his countenance, the grief-pierced captive cast at him a glance the most impressive.

  Leaving this scene of distress, passing to another tier in which were confined principally females, the attention of Blake was attracted by a sprightly, handsome little bright-eyed boy, playing about with as much delight and unconcern as if gamboling with the freedom of a kid over some grassy common in his own loved nativity. He readily recognized in the child the likeness of the noble-looking captive confined in another place, so ruthlessly abused by the heartless American mate, Royer.

  While thus stan
ding contemplating with sorrow the scenes around him, his attention was called to a woman, handsome and pleasant, with a meek and humble look, as she sat buried in her living grave. This woman was from Soudan, whose occupation had been that of a vender of “country cloths,” as the native dry goods are termed, or as by the Creoles of Louisiana, a “merchant woman.” She had been a Mohammedan, but, going into the Eba country to reside, had been converted to Christianity by missionary influence, but sold to Dahomi by the Ibadans, by whom she was taken in warfare.

  As Abyssa caught the eye of Blake, she gave him a look which at once riveted his attention. She saw that he was a civilized man, and desired that he should observe her. The look was reciprocated, and as he passed close by where she sat, to get a better observation of her, he startled as his ears caught the whisper in good English–

  “Arm of the Lord, awake!”

  The commander and party leaving the hold, Blake also went to the deck, relieved from the stench of the great cesspool, and heartrending scenes of the living potter’s field.

  *A little native Greba boy employed on a vessel on the coast of Africa, 1859, was remarkable for wit and repartee, regarding neither officers nor passenger, but had a ready reply for them.

  CHAPTER 52

  The Middle Passage

  The “Vulture” like a monster was gliding and mounting the then increasing swells of the seas; Blake stood as if unconscious of the presence of those around him, reconnoitering the surrounding waters.

  “Did you notice how that stout black fellow and the handsome Negro woman looked at Blake in the hole?” remarked Paul. “You reckon he knows ’em?”

  “Negroes all know each other, you know; all uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters, and counsins,” replied the American. “I never saw a Negro yet that wasn’t acquainted with another Negro you could name; Negroes are all the same everywhere.”

  “But how do you account for——”