One Sunday afternoon, sitting amongst the women on the quarterdeck, I heard a harsh, male English voice. Turning, I saw that the man Knaggs and four of his cronies had gathered at the foot of the quarter-deck stairs. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it seemed clear that they were up to no good. One of the men climbed the steps, looked around, and beckoned to one called Knox to join him. Knox’s eyes wandered over the ranks of the women. Some were sleeping, some sitting quietly. I sensed danger. Knox seemed to come to a decision. He pointed to one of the women. Then he and his companion strode across and grabbed her, each taking an arm. Knox stuffed a rag into her mouth to stifle her screams. Some women stood up, alarmed. The sleepers awoke, still not aware of what was happening.
The two white men dragged the woman down the steps and propped her against the main mast. She was wide-eyed with terror. The gag prevented her from crying out, but I sensed her muffled scream as Knox’s accomplice twisted her arms behind the mast. Knox fumbled with his trouser cord and then he was inside her. But she twisted to one side and, in that movement, expelled his organ. He took a step back and slapped her face so violently that her head struck the mast. She stopped resisting. Knox re-entered her. His mates cheered.
But even in their excitement, they kept their voices low, looking back at the quarter-deck from time to time. Then Knox made his final triumphant thrust. He withdrew and his accomplice released his hold on the woman. She slumped to the deck and the man dragged her to one side.
“You next, Fred,” said Joe Knox, licking his lips as he pulled up his trousers.
All this time, I had been standing, gripping the shrouds of the mizzen mast, unable to act. Now, as Knaggs bounded up the steps, I moved forward, determined to mobilize the other women. If we did nothing to defend ourselves, we would surely be raped one by one, whenever these men chose.
Knaggs was in a hurry. I suppose he was worried that the sudden appearance of the captain or one of his officers might spoil his plans. But he was aroused. His friend Knox had had his satisfaction and nothing would stop Fred Knaggs from having his. He grabbed the first female at hand, a young girl, one of Tomba’s people, so young that her breasts were barely formed. I struggled to make my way through the crowd of women. They were protesting noisily but doing nothing else to prevent the outrage. I saw that I would not reach Knaggs in time to try to drag the girl from his clutch.
Without thinking, I called out, “Fred Knaggs!”
He paused, clearly astonished at hearing his name spoken in a female voice.
“Who called me name?” he demanded.
“I did,” I said. “Release that girl at once, you scoundrel. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. She is young enough to be your daughter.”
For a moment Knaggs seemed immobilized by his astonishment, but he recovered quickly and threw the girl aside.
“Young enough ter be me daughter, are she? But yous ain’t then, is yer?” he said.
I was now standing defiantly before him. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me off behind him. He was immensely strong. I felt quite helpless. He forced me up against the mast.
To one of the men who volunteered assistance, he said, “Lay off. Fred Knaggs’ll ’andle this un ’isself.”
The women were shouting abuse at him, but he paid no attention.
I felt disembodied, as if I were a spirit floating above, watching these events from on high. My mind was sharp. The man was strong but he was foolish, and he could not be aware that this was not my first experience of attempted rape. This time I was determined that things would turn out differently. He leaned his chest against me, panting as he released his trousers. Pinning me to the mast with his left arm thrust against my neck, he sought to guide his organ into me with his right hand.
Mustering all my strength, I drove my knee upwards into his crotch. He staggered back, bellowing with agony. He was doubled up, his trousers around his ankles. Now I was white with anger. I felt my heart pumping. If I had had a knife, I would have driven it into him and ripped his belly open. Seeing he was defenseless, at least for a moment, I took the only chance I had to drive my advantage home. I leave you to guess what I did. All I can tell you is that I have never heard such a scream of pain.
Suddenly there came a loud male voice.
“Knaggs!”
It was the captain.
Knaggs was in no condition to answer. He was down on his knees, holding himself and sobbing. His friends drifted away.
I picked up my cloth and wrapped it round my waist. Stepping around my victim, I started up the steps to the quarter-deck. Captain Williams was standing at the railing. Then I felt my knees buckle under me.
When I came to, I was lying on the floor in the Captain’s cabin. The surgeon, whom I already knew as Butcher, was kneeling over me, wiping my face with a damp cloth. The room was small. Above me, I saw the boards of the ceiling; beside me, the legs of a chair and a desk.
“She is coming round,” I heard the surgeon say.
Then Williams’s red face loomed over me.
“Give her a piece of cloth,” he said. “I can’t have the wench naked in my cabin.”
“Can you sit up?” Butcher asked.
“Here,” he said as he helped me to my feet, handing me a folded length of cloth from a pile which stood against the wall. “Wrap this around you.”
I did as I was told. Every muscle in my body ached. I lifted the cloth to examine my knees. The skin had been grazed off both.
“Let me clean those wounds,” said Butcher.
I winced as he sponged the raw flesh.
Now Williams spoke.
“The men tell me that they heard you speak to Knaggs in English. Is that so?”
I nodded, but said nothing.
“I am sorry about what happened this afternoon. Do you understand me?”
I looked him in the eye and nodded again. He dropped his gaze and fiddled with documents on his desk. I saw paper and quills and ink, a side table covered in charts and instruments, on the wall a brass chronometer and a barometer, and behind glass doors a shelf full of books. I knew all these things from my time with Mijn Heer.
“Knaggs will spend the next month chained to the forecastle deck. The scoundrel has given me trouble since his first day on board. He will have plenty of time to reflect on his sins. And I will see to it that there is no repetition.”
He paused and looked up at me.
“Don’t you understand me? Why don’t you answer?”
I looked him straight in the eye again. Again he found an excuse to avert his gaze. I saw that he was angry but I took my time.
“Captain Williams,” I addressed him at last, “don’t you recognize me?”
I saw him start. He pursed his brow and looked at me intently, screwing up his eyes as if to see me better.
“You are ...?”
I waited for him to finish, but he just continued to stare at me.
“Mijn Heer called me Pamela. You may remember that you were our guest for dinner one evening.”
“Butcher,” said Williams, “pull up a chair. Then wait outside.”
“Sit down,” he said as the surgeon closed the door behind him.
I noticed that he didn’t say “please.” I sat down. The pain in my knees was worse. I squeezed my leg above the wound.
“I am sorry that I didn’t recognize you, but ...”
I completed his sentence in my mind ... all black faces look the same to me.
“I was shocked when I heard that de Bruyn was dead. He must have told you that we were planning to do some business together? Tell me what happened.”
“He died,” I replied.
I saw him thinking, I know that, stupid, but all he said was, “Of what?”
“The yellow jack.”
I would answer his questions if I had to, but I was de
termined to say as little as possible.
“He was a good friend,” Williams mused. “But tell me: how do you come to be here?”
“Mijn Heer made a will, giving me my freedom. Jensen,” (I spat the name out) “burned it. He ... he sent me back to the dungeon from which Mijn Heer had taken me. What happened afterwards, Captain Williams, sir, I think you know better than I do.”
I bared my breast and pointed to the brand mark. Every black man, woman, and child on that ship bore the scarred imprint of the red-hot branding iron, marking us as the property of Williams’s distant, unseen employers.
The captain dropped his eyes. I wrapped the cloth around me and tucked the end in. He pursed his lips and drummed his desktop with his fingers.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked me suddenly. “A little rum or brandy, perhaps?”
Zacharias
“My Mother,” I say, “now I have something to tell you. Senhor Gavin Williams owns a ship. It is called The Love of Liberty.”
“Is he using it to bring slaves from Africa?”
“No. He sends sugar to England and on the return journey, he brings mainly cotton cloth. I know that because it is my work to prepare the customs forms.”
“Captain Williams told me that he didn’t own the ship,” she says. “Perhaps he was lying. Or perhaps he bought it later. It was a wreck when we arrived at Salvador. He had to sell us there to pay for the repairs.
“Senhor Gavin might have inherited The Love of Liberty from his uncle. Or perhaps it is a different ship altogether and he just gave it the same name.”
Shyly, I ask her, “My Mother, may I see the brand mark?”
She stares at me for a moment with her sightless eyes. Then she draws her cloth down and fingers the scarred imprint on her right breast, two interlocking L’s, with a little “o” between them.
“Have you seen it?” she asks, and secures her cloth just as she must have done in Captain Williams’s presence all those years ago.
“The Portuguese do this to their oxen,” she says.
Ama’s story
We moved slowly along the coast. I was kept busy—I had become Butcher’s interpreter and assistant. I used the opportunity to speak to the men in the holds, those with whom I shared a common language. Tomba, too, got to know me, although we had to communicate by signs.
We came to our last port of call, Accra. When Williams dropped anchor, he found that a war engineered by the English, Dutch, and Danish there had produced a glut of slaves.
Within the space of a week, he was ready to set sail.
We were fed and locked into our holds. I overheard Knox talking as they searched our quarters. The seamen were going ashore for their last carouse before we headed out into the ocean. Williams alone, amongst the officers, would remain on board. He had issued a tot of rum and a pistol, powder, and shot to each of the six crew who had drawn lots to remain on board on guard duty.
The sun set. There was nothing to do in the darkness of that foul hold but sleep.
“Pamela!” Williams shouted.
I woke suddenly, as from a bad dream.
“Where is the wench?” I heard him mutter.
He stood in the doorway, his bulky frame silhouetted against the opening.
“Pamela!” he shouted again.
The women were stirring. I felt embarrassed, humiliated. Uncouth bastard, I thought.
“I’m coming,” I called back in something between a whisper and a shout.
His speech was slurred. I could smell the rum. I rubbed my eyes. Then I saw the moon, low and enormous. I went to the rail to get a better view of its elongated reflection moving on the swell. Williams was swearing at the keys as he sought to lock the door of the female hold. I looked around. There was a guard at each hatch cover. Asleep, all three of them. I heard snoring from the quarter-deck and craned my neck. Three more, also asleep. This is our chance, I thought, our last chance.
“Here, let me help you,” I told Williams.
“Oh no you don’t.”
He paused to belch and then continued with his fumbling.
“I know what you’re up to. Keys ish for the captain. Only for the captain. Unnershtand?”
For a moment I thought he had read my mind. Then I dismissed the thought. As he turned I saw how drunk he was. I flinched as he groped for my breasts. Then his foul tongue was in my mouth. I freed myself and pushed him away.
“Not here,” I whispered. “The guards will see us.”
He suffered himself to be led down to his cabin. My mind was racing.
“Lie down,” I told him.
When he fell asleep, I covered him with his sheet and sat down in the chair behind his desk, his chair. When he began to snore, I pulled the top drawer open. The candle flickered. My heart pumping, I found his pistol and took the awful thing out. I had never held a gun before. The metal was cold to the touch. I wondered how it worked and whether I could use it to kill him, there and then. I shuddered at the thought and squeezed my eyes shut. When I was calmer, I took his bunch of keys, opened the cabin door and blew the candle out. Leaving, I locked him in.
Alone and afraid, I paused in the shadow of the awning, watching the sleeping guards.
I found the key and opened the door of the female hold. Inside, I paused to recover my calm.
Then I made my way over the naked bodies, searching at every step for a place to put my foot, breathing “Sorry,” to the mumbled curses and moving on again.
A narrow beam of moonlight from a vent fell on the door to the boys’ hold. I unlocked it and left it ajar. Below, it was dark, pitch dark. I heard the clink of metal.
“Tomba,” I whispered, “it is me, Ama.”
I hoped that he would recognize my voice even if he couldn’t understand the words I spoke.
I heard him sit up. He could not move without rattling his chains. I knelt by his side and let him feel first the bunch of keys and then the gun. I heard the surprise in his grunt.
After what seemed an age, matching a key to the padlock which secured his chains, he was free. He massaged his ankles and his wrists and I heard him wince.
“Kòse,” I sympathized, knowing how raw his skin was.
He took my hands in his and squeezed them.
“Thank you,” he said in his language.
One of the boys, Kofi, a Fante, had picked up a few words of Tomba’s language. I would need to use him as an interpreter. I tried to lead Tomba to where the boys were sleeping but he resisted with a vigorous shaking of his head. He led me to the bottom of the stairs and told me to wait. Then he groped his way along the wall to the sick bay. When he came back, there were two men with him. They whispered excitedly amongst themselves.
At the top of the stairs, I took Tomba’s hand and signed to him to tuck the gun into his waist-cloth and use his other hand to hold his companion’s. So they made a chain and followed me, step by step, across the floor of sleeping women. I set a slow pace. If any of them were to wake, that might be the end. After what seemed to me an age we emerged into the narrow strip of shade under the edge of the quarter-deck.
The moon was higher now, and smaller.
I pointed out the guards sleeping on the hatch covers and showed Tomba the bunch of keys. I pointed up to the quarter-deck and raised three spread fingers. He held up three fingers of each hand. In the moon light I could see that he was asking me to confirm that there were only six guards. I nodded.
I said, “The others,” and pointed to the shore.
He thought for a moment and then whispered to his companions, indicating the guards on the hatches as he did so. I thought, it is too dangerous; the others will wake up. I grabbed his arm and shook my head. I tried to tell him by signs that it would be better to capture Williams and use him as a hostage; but the message was too complicated and I could not make him underst
and. Now he was impatient. If they were to act, they must do so without delay. He signed to me that I should give him the keys and go inside the female hold. I protested vigorously. I had started this thing and I intended to see it through to the end. Tomba whispered to his accomplices and they removed their waist-cloths. He took one and demonstrated what he wanted them to do, wrapping the cloth around the neck of one and twisting it.
The men shook hands. Tomba took my hand and squeezed it.
“Good luck,” I whispered. “May the ancestors protect you.”
As they tiptoed across the moonlit deck on their bare feet, I mouthed a silent prayer.
“Itsho,” I said, “be with them. Guard them. Bring them success.”
They paused at the first guard. Tomba left one of his men there. They went on to the second and he left the other. Alone, he went on to the hatch which gave access to the forward hold. Signals passed between them. I dug my nails into my sweating palms. Tomba raised the pistol high in the air and drove it down onto the temple of the sleeping guard. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Tomba was rolling his victim over and taking his pistol. But the other two victims refused to die without a struggle. Waking to find themselves being strangled, they kicked and fought. Tomba ran across to help.
Suddenly there was a cry from the forecastle, “Wake up! Wake up! Guards, wake up!”
I broke out in a cold sweat. It was Knaggs. I had completely forgotten him. It was my fault. We were undone!
Tomba hesitated. He, too, had forgotten about Knaggs. He turned back to deal with him. Then it must have struck him that Knaggs was chained to the deck and could do no more harm than he had already done. He turned again, to help his co-conspirators.
“Tomba! Unlock the hatch,” I shouted but, if he heard, he did not understand.
The three guards on the quarter-deck had run to the barricade. Shots rang out. The slaves might have taken their victims’ pistols from them and fired back, but Knaggs’s screams from forward and the firing from aft confused them. One of their victims was already dead; the other, free of his assassin’s attentions but half-dead from the attempted strangulation, rolled off his hatch cover and lay low. Now it was three against three, but the guards on the quarter-deck had the protection of the barricade and the advantage of elevation. I huddled beside the open door of the female hold, shivering from fear and the chill of the night air.
Brave Music of a Distant Drum Page 6
