They spake of tortures which rent my heart. A man talked of seeing his wife pinched by children who he could not scold nor wave away with his stick, but must suffer them to torment her as she stood, eyes closed, twitching. Several recounted tales — agreeing, “Aye, that, that, worst, aye, that”— of being tied up and whipped, and then (by order) boys applied to scouring their backs with hay, and salt water poured over the wounds — and I could no longer bear to hear them without tears; which I shed not simply out of my sensibility of the pain, but at the thought that men could inflict such calculated agony upon each other blithely, with sport and fascination, and that it should be done for the continuance of nugatory pleasures, so that they might enjoy luxuries: a finer metal in the instruments of their table, or a room in which to half recline separate from the room where they reclined fully. I am weak-hearted, and I wept.
Nsia saw me, and inquired whether I was well.
I began to reply, “Miss Nsia must forgive my weakness, for when one can —”
“Prince O.,” said Bono, “is a little tender. It’s all new, ain’t it?”
I could not speak, so galled was I.
Ever louder, his voice attracting the gaze of the curious, Bono explained, “Private Nothing was raised up in a thimble of luxury. Worst they done to him, most terrible thing ever, they told him he couldn’t read whole Latin books no more. That sent him into a mope for maybe three years.”
I was aware of the eyes upon me, the eyes of those for whom I wept turned impassively upon me; I averted my own eyes and wiped away the late evidence of my weakness.
Bono said, “He’s a tender one.”
“Bono,” I protested.
“You are, indeed. You are a tender one.”
“I beg you not to animadvert to the —”
“Animad —, see? That’s what they taught him. Poor little Buckra here. He never knowed the whip.”
At that, I began to protest that I had known the whip — an absurd object of pride — but Bono spake over me, explaining to all, “Prince O. never really known what it felt like, til one time when he was ten, and he and his mama acted like no one’d ever been whipped before. They got a sofa to sit on like they was having tea. It was the properest little whipping I ever —”
“Bono, I would ask you not to —”
“Private Nothing, he lived in a sweet, fine dream where he was a princeling of quality, except I would pinch him to wake him up.” He reached out — as he had done years before — and clamped his fingers upon the flesh of my arm, squeezing as I protested — and our companions, startled, laughed at what they believed a show of fraternal rivalry — while Bono squeezed to bruise, and narrated, “I pinched him thusly, and told him, ‘It is the hour you better wake up.’”
“Stop!” I cried out. “Bono!”
“I said to him, ‘Rise up!’”
“Bono!”
“I had to wake him up. ‘For my mercy endureth forever,’” said Bono, and he loosened one hand to slap at my head in play; but there was no play in his eyes, only fury. I saw Nsia watching us, bemused, and could not abide her gaze. I pulled upon my arm, endeavoring to withdraw it from Bono’s grasp, and he drew me close to his face, and I once again protested that he should stop, and he with a look of mirth, wherein there was no mirth, patted my head, smiled into my face, and said, “Your mama ever — hey, don’t pull — for my mercy endureth forever.”
“Hold!”
“‘For my mercy endureth forever.’” He kicked at my shins. “Ha! ‘For my mercy endureth forever.’”
“Hold!”
“‘I have slain great kings —for my mercy endureth forever. For my mercy —’”
“Bono!”
He twisted my arm behind my back.
“Your mama ever tell you that you —”
“Don’t you mock her!”
“Your mama ever tell you —”
I pulled free and shrieked at him — my voice hoarse and high with anger —
“She is dead. She — is — dead.”
(A childish shriek — awful to recall — the petulant — never again —)
He stared at me, astonished. All were silent.
“I saw them cut her up,” I said, “to examine the nature of her skin.”
With that, I took my leave, and stormed up to the quarterdeck, for I could not abide the stares among my company — could not — and so crouched by the bulwark above, trembling, wishing to press myself into wood and so cease.
The storms of passion — the heart — I cannot describe the like — the calamity of all my spirits —
I hated him; I despised myself more, my pettish voice squealing its misery — I hated the ship, the shore, the river — I wished nothing more than an end of thought — I cannot describe it — I cannot.
And he was there beside me on the deck.
I stood.
He said, “Oh, Octavian. Octavian.”
We stood side by side there in the near-dark; I could descry the fear in his eyes, the discomfort in the mouth.
He could barely speak. “This true?” I did not answer, so he said, “How she . . . How she go over?” He asked it gently, but with fear, for he did not wish to hear the answer.
He was not prepared for my blow. My fist caught him full in the face, and he fell backward, and I leaped on top of him and kept pummeling him, and had known no joy like that for some time, the pleasure of blow after blow; and the greater pleasure of observing that he tried to rouse himself, but could not, save a hand on my throat barely clenched.
With sharp exclamation the master-at-arms and two midshipmen began to beat us with truncheons, crying, “Heave to, heave to!” and “Cease, you Negro brutes, or we’ll hurl ye both in the river!”
Cowed by their blows, we ceased and I rose. Bono had, from what could be seen in the dim light, a great deal of blood flowing from his lip; and when he stood, made a final lunge at me, which was arrested by the swift action of the sailors. They warned us against any further fighting; told Bono to go below, and me to remain above for watch; and that if there was another conflict, they would present the case to our commanding officers, and there should be consequences.
I begged an extra watch; I stayed all night upon the deck of the ship. A great wind blew upon us in the early part of night, which forced us to remove the sheets from the ship’s railings before they should blow away. One eluded our grasp and toppled through the dark, a thing flapping, but too ungainly to fly. It was engulfed in the water and slowly crawled into obscurity, a beast either skulking or stalking.
Then came in the rain, and all froze and was black.
January 15th, 1776
Detached this day upon forage detail to aid in the victualing of the Regiment. ’Twas a relief to remove myself from the Crepuscule for reasons which need not stand on paper. My absence from that ship is most conformable to my desires.
Fourteen of us have been removed to the Plover schooner and, receiving favorable winds, set off up the river, flying no colors. The pilot is a Negro man reputed to know the river well, which circumstance delights us all, and we spent a pleasant hour in hearing his tales of the river and his account of his master’s wrath when he absconded with a boat some months ago — the pilot drifting away from the dock, the white man stranded, shouting after him that the pilot should not steer so clear of shoals, scudding on the burning lakes of Hell.
Bono is not present on the voyage, which is a gratifying circumstance; I have whiled the time in speaking to Pomp and Slant. They asked me for an explanation of reading and writing, Slant saying, “You friend Private Williams, he writes too.” I replied that Private Williams was no friend of mine.
So I have determined to teach Pomp and Slant how to write. I have removed the final pages of this book as a quire, and it is my purpose to use them to demonstrate the arts of literacy. In this way, I hope to spread among others the gifts lavished upon me for my pains in the College of Lucidity; to loose knowledge from its corral and allow it free
pasturage. And so today, I wrote the names of my companions upon the first page of that quire — POMP and SLANT — and they traced them after.
Thus we whiled the afternoon.
We grew apprehensive when another sail approached, but met with no resistance, save a dialogue with the schooner Doretta, which vessel stood for us and called out a challenge, by which our captain apprehended that she was for the King, issued a letter of marque or reprisal; and so we greeted her, shouted our commission, and proceeded unmolested. We passed other boats and ships of small draught, but all avoided challenge for fear of tampering with privateers.
At dusk, we hove to and laid down our anchor a bit past Jamestown Island. I take this opportunity to write these lines. Tonight we commence our raiding party.
January 16th, 1776
Last evening’s foraging succeeded admirably well. When night fell, we proceeded up the river, there being a reasonable moon. When we were in striking distance of a plantation known to the pilot, we put out in the boats and made our way to shore. My spirits were in a joyful sort of agitation, so desirous was I of activity; hazard itself seemed merely thrill.
We raided the barn and the pond both. It proved necessary that we strangle the ducks, which was not pleasant work, though requisite; we brought away two bags of them.
At the alarums of the chickens, the house was roused, and we soon perceived Negroes making their way for us; but when they encountered a line of us with muskets presented, they opined it was not for them to risk life and limb for their master’s hog.
I cannot truthfully report that Better Joe is an effective soldier; he is slow, and his musket seems an object of disgust to him; but he is an excellent driver of beasts, as is Pomp, both acclimated to such employment, and it is through their offices that our endeavor met with the success it did.
We returned to the schooner with our spoils, as we feared that the owner of the place even then sought out his neighbors to repulse us. There was no resistance, however, and it was but the work of an hour, after which our pilot dropped us down the river so that we should not be subject to insult from the shore, were the militia to assemble.
This day, a cold, heavy rain, which makes the sailing difficult, so we are anchored in an inlet and idling until such time as we may either continue to fall down the river to the ruins of Norfolk and the fleet, or fetch more provisions from the shore.
One of the sailors, speaking of the Doretta, told us that any man who names his ship after his wife is a fool, for it is sure to meet with some cruel fate, as plague, mutiny, madness, or Algerians. Pomp asked him of the sea’s lore, and he told us tales of sea-waifs in cradles of kelp, and the glowing corposants that crawl ships’ spars when guilty men keep crimes embosomed.
Such a day is not distasteful; for I find that I am no longer merely an observer, sat upon a dark deck; but I am engaged in the struggle, and this itself brings joy.
January 17th, 1776
Last night, another two raids, both successful.
In the first encounter, we exchanged fire with a white man of the house, son or servant, possessed of a pistol and fowling-piece. He stood by the door and fired while a sister or maid reloaded for him; still, she was untrained in the science of charging a piece, and we found it no difficult matter to fright them from the door and then, Corporal Craigie barking us forward, to shatter the windows with two volleys and batter through another with our bayonets, that the fear might not relent. This treatment being administered, no other opposition followed, and we made off with two cows and a bull, ten swine, a quantity of flour, and a multitude of fowl.
We returned to the ship to find a strange envoy from a man of wealth but two miles down the river. He begged us to give him some small recompense for all that we wished to remove from his plantation, take what we would; explaining that, being loyal to his King, he suffers under constant threat of having his whole property seized by the Committee of Safety, and wishes that we would use these stores to supplement our efforts, rather than allowing them to fall into the hands of rebels greedy for gain. He instructed that he should leave lanterns burning upon the dock early in the morning, so that we might land there and pursue the bargain under cover of darkness.
We approached his dock with trepidation, expecting an ambush, but found no resistance, and indeed an old slave left to lead us to the house. We every minute anticipated some rush at us, and marched up through the paddocks and orchards with great care — our muskets charged — and the ship itself glowering offshore, threatening violence with its small guns if any irregularity should ensue.
There was no deceit practiced upon us. We found the owner anxious and affable; Serjeant Clippinger paid him a small requisite sum for his livestock and an excellent supply of grain. The man then requested that we beat him, so that he might claim he resisted our sortie. His scheme is, now without any goods to his name but with a small sum, to remove himself out of the country entirely and away from the scrutiny of the rebel scoundrels who wait to imprison him; he shall settle in some place to the north, where he shall tell tales of how he lost all in a raid by the dog Dunmore, and shall thus achieve honor little accorded to him here, where he hath spoken too frequently of his service to the King.
The gentleman stood against the wall to take his beating and said, “’Pon my honor. Who’ll have at me?”
When none stepped forward to engage in this strange office, Serjeant Clippinger surveyed us; I was struck with surprise when he called out my name. “Private Nothing, he’s our pugilist, as you might say.” To me, he nodded. “Strike him,” he said.
I little liked this commission. I inquired where I should strike.
“Bloody nose, sir?” Clippinger offered.
“Nay,” answered the gentleman, “I must have swelling. Swelling or nothing. I should be greatly gratified by a goose-egg above the eye.”
Clippinger nodded. I weighed my fist, and observed my target; but I found I had no will to strike the gentleman. He stood erect, eyes closed.
I struck him, but it was as a child’s punch. He swore that ’sdeath, ’twas nothing, and Clippinger bade me strike him again.
“Think on your friend,” Clippinger told me. “Private Williams. Strike the gentleman like he was Williams.” The Serjeant thought himself clever, and smiled an awful smile in his spotted chops. “Go on, then.”
I faced the man again, and could not strike. I was sensible of the restiveness of the others. I felt shame at my failure.
“You was lately so anxious for to strike a man,” Clippinger taunted. “Where, pray, did that go?”
Private Cudjo stepped forward and said, “I strike him.”
Supplanted, I stepped aside; and felt manhood retreat before me. Upon the deck of the ship, safe upon the waters, concealed by gunwales, protected by cannon, I had dreamed of violence; and now I could not lift my hand against a man who desired it — and “No,” said I, stepping before Cudjo. “No — I shall undertake it.”
“Whence this arguing, sir?” demanded our host.
“Never you fear,” said Serjeant Clippinger. “A blow from Private Nothing is like to a cradle-song from any other body.”
Wishing to acquit my honor, I stood firm and handed my musket to Slant, who blinked in soft concern.
We sat the gentlemen in a chair; Private Cudjo held his head gently, and this time I struck him with vigor just above the eye so it might swell shut, and then beat him once with a wooden spoon to assure a lump upon the forehead, so he might claim he lost consciousness.
He swore an oath in pain, then, having recovered, exclaimed, “’Pon my honor — excellent, Serjeant.”
There followed a discussion of how we might create the illusion of struggle, to which I did not closely attend, being distracted in my thoughts and anxious for no reason I could own, holding my musket trembling in two hands, the knuckles of one still stinging.
The Serjeant recommended we break furniture; our hostess’s wife remonstrated that this was not to our purpose.
/> Pomp suggested we might tie the gentleman to a chair, conformable to tales of robbery; which suggestion, I may relate, met with no disapproval. Private Cudjo chafed the gentleman’s wrists so they bled, and then tied them fast, that it might appear he had been subject to all the indignities of martial harrassment.
Once tied down and paid, he was exceeding pleased with the whole proceedings, and merrily instructed us where we might find his cattle and pigs. We were assisted by his Negroes, one of whom wished to depart with us, but was forbidden by his bound master. Slant, kind soul, whispered that the man should simply hide himself aboard the transport; but was detected in this subterfuge by Clippinger, who berated him for thus abusing a gentleman who had dealt so openly with His Majesty’s forces.
As a final favor to the planter, whose wife provided us with tea when we had completed our labors, we set two hayricks and his drying-house on fire and released two volleys of shot into the air before we set off into the night.
Following this second raid, we perceived that the countryside was roused against us, and slipped down the river once again.
January 18th, 1776
This morning, grim work. We have fallen upon a plantation downriver with infinitely less gentility and infinitely unhappier issue.
We landed with our full force and, knowing from the pilot that this was the house of a rebel, offered no terms for conveyance, but rather made straight for the stores and livestock to pillage. Five of our number labored to remove the fowls and swine to the tender while another five of us stood guard — and soon espied a party of Negroes approaching to repulse us.
The Kingdom on the Waves Page 23
