by Lisa Shea
I looked up as a crane flew high overhead, its long, outstretched neck silhouetted against the sun. She was right, of course. If we left the warriors we defeated in place, they would simply attack us again – and perhaps we would not be as ready to defend the next time.
Lives would be lost.
And yet, the image of those men in chains, being sold to the Portuguese, tore at my soul.
I looked up at my father. “I want to go with you two to the slave auctions today.”
My stepmother’s grin grew. “You? Who is always going on and on about the evils of slavery? Now you want to watch it in person?”
Mary leant forward, her gaze serious. “Elizabeth has had visions.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up in amusement. “Do tell. Visions? Of what?”
I bit my lip. My stepmother would laugh it away as foolishness. My father might decide not to take me to watch the slave auction, if he thought I was up to something.
I shook my head. “They are nothing,” I assured them. “Just daydreams. When do we leave for the auction?”
Sarah winked at me. “Come help me with cleaning up the dishes, and we can get on our way.”
A short while later we were walking through the growing crowds toward the port’s main square. A market day was always excitement enough here in Porto Novo, and with the slave auction of defeated Masina warriors, people were coming from all around to jeer and celebrate.
I brushed out the length of my brick-red dress. My father and stepmother looked resplendent, as always, with beautifully woven patterns in red and white. Mary was up alongside my father, talking animatedly with him, her white face a stark contrast to the rich colors which surrounded us.
I nervously put my hand on the pouch at my side. Within it I had secreted everything I owned of value. The beautiful necklace of cowrie shells and metallic bells that my mother had left for me. The delicate fall of golden-hoop earrings my father had bought for me at my coming-of-age ceremony. The rings … the bracelets …
None of it mattered.
My sole focus was on getting Robert free from those chains.
We passed by stalls selling yams, mangos, locust beans … the sweet smells turned my stomach. It was the stained wooden platform which loomed larger and larger in my vision. The strange, dark dress of the Portuguese who clustered to one side; the dangerous edge to their words.
Our local Yoruba chief stepped to the center of the platform, raising his hands above his head. He was dressed in a deep blue tunic decorated with white geometric patterns. He wore a matching close-fitting fabric hat which shielded him from the hot sun. The crowd settled down to a murmur as he turned in place.
“Citizens, visitors, and esteemed guests. Welcome to our slave auction. We offer the finest slaves from all reaches of the Oyo Empire. Whether you need someone to cook your food, clean your floors, hoe your fields, or build your warehouses, we have just the right slave to fit your needs.”
He waved a hand. “And I will turn the day over to our master slave seller – Abimbola!”
A roar of approval went up from the crowd. All here knew well of Abimbola and his exploits. Inky black, short, rotund, with a deep belly laugh, he was the kind of man to easily make friends wherever he went. He was one of the richest men in Porto Novo – and he owed it all to his slave trade.
“Welcome, welcome,” he called to the group as he took center stage. His outfit was rich purple with white zig-zag lines coursing through it. His matching hat was a neat cylinder on his head. “I see so many familiar faces in the crowd. Good! It shows that the product I supply is top notch. I personally examine each and every slave to ensure they are fit for sale.” He gave a lecherous wink. “Some women, I examine twice.”
There was ribald laughter from the crowd.
I wrapped my arms around myself. That they could joke so easily about the abuse of women …
My stepmother patted me on the arm. “Enough with your pouting, Elizabeth. Everyone knows the Masina women are eager for sex. They are all whores. The best thing one can do with them is put them in a place where they can serve men’s needs.”
Somehow I doubted that was true, but I did not wish to enter into that argument again. Not when it was critical I stay here.
The auction began.
Thank the Virgin Mary that it was not the day for mothers to be ripped from their screaming children. Those were the days which gave me the worst nightmares. Instead, it seemed there had been a recent battle up north, for most of the slaves presented were seasoned warriors. Men of bravery, skill, and intelligence.
Old Omobolanle who owned the farm by the cliffs stepped forward. “That one there,” he pointed, singling out a fairly burly one. “I have a plague of rotting stumps on my property. Will he be able to rip them out?”
Abimbola’s deep belly laugh rolled out across the plaza. “Let’s find out!” He waved a hand toward a thick branch which lay off to one side of the platform. A trio of eager hands brought it up to him. Abimbola handed it to the slave in question and made a breaking motion.
I could see it in the slave’s eyes. The thought that, if he got free, he could use that branch as a weapon. He could fight his way to freedom – and to his homeland, far to the north.
One of the Yoruba guards slid his hand to the hilt of his sword.
The fire died from the slave’s gaze. He settled his two massive hands on either side of the branch. A flex, and the branch snapped like the thinnest of twigs.
A great cheer went up from the crowd, and the bidding began.
Some slaves went to the Portuguese who watched in their somber clothes from one side. Other slaves went to local farmers and merchants in need of heavy laborers. I knew that my stepmother desperately craved our having a slave of our own. Someone to do the cooking and cleaning for her while she relaxed in the courtyard, sipping some fura da nono – fermented cow’s milk with spices. Most importantly, my mother desired a slave in order to prove to the other families in the area that she was Of Importance.
And, Mary help me, I actually hoped that she would someday buy one. For I knew that, while she would keep the slave busy, she would also treat her kindly. The slave would have a warm bed to sleep in, good food to eat, and would not be molested in any way by my father.
The same could not be held true for slaves who fell into the hands of most other buyers here.
The slaves came and went and with each passing face my tension rose. He was not here. Had I missed him somehow? Had a back-room deal been struck for Robert and he was now crammed into a slaver’s hold, bound for Jamaica or Brazil or who knew whatever hellish destination, to live out his remaining life in misery and despair?
There.
My heart nearly hammered out of my ribs, and it was all I could do to stand in place. He slowly mounted the stairs, his hands manacled before him, his eyes swinging across the crowd as if searching for someone.
His eyes met mine.
His breath left him.
The guard behind him smashed a sword, flat end, against his back to get him moving. I could see the blood fly from the wounds already there, but Robert’s gaze held mine for a moment longer before he continued up the stairs. He moved as directed to the center of the stage.
Abimbola’s round face split into a wide grin. “And here we have something truly special. This man was the leader of a group of Masina warriors who held out for weeks against our army. His parents had been slain in the fighting and he dedicated himself to protecting his remaining village. He is known by the name Robert.” Abimbola whacked Robert solidly on the arm, to show the strength of Robert’s muscle. “Just look at that. Perfect for farm labor. He will take the place of three paid helpers.”
Abimbola’s gaze rose to the Portuguese slavers standing in their quiet group. His mouth turned up. “Just right for the tobacco fields of the New World. He’ll take whatever abuse they dole out – and then stand ready for more.”
My heart hammered against my chest.
No.
Abimbola raised his hand high. “I think bidding will start at –”
I raced forward, pulling out the fabric pouch from my side. I poured out my life’s possessions. The sole possession of inheritance I had from my mother. My rings. My bracelets.
My dowry.
My heart.
“Here,” I cried in desperation. “I bid it all. I bid everything I have.”
A roar of laughter came up around me, filling my ears.
I looked up.
Robert’s eyes held mine, emotion shining deep within them.
The guard’s sword was out, now, ready to strike if Robert made any motion. But Robert held stock still. Only his eyes were alive … so alive …
Abimbola smiled warmly down at me. “Elizabeth, my dear, I think you have the wrong idea about what purpose we’re selling this man for.”
The laughter grew, cascading around me.
I pushed the small pile of jewelry forward toward him. “He can’t go on a slaver ship,” I begged. “Please, take it. Take it all. Just don’t … don’t …”
My voice failed me. I could barely breathe.
Abimbola gave me a gentle wink. “Gather those up, little one. You’ll need them soon enough, when you find a proper husband.” His eyes raised up to take in the crowd, to see out the attention of the Portuguese slavers. “Might I hear –”
My father’s voice came from behind me. “We will take the slave Robert.”
My stepmother’s outraged shriek carried high over the crowd, and Abimbola turned back with interest. “What is this?”
My father laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Our family runs a reputable business. We need someone to assist us with many tasks. Transportation. Protection. Expansion.” His eyes drew from me to Robert. “Having a man of this caliber at our disposal may be just what we all need to prosper.”
My stepmother had found her voice, and she stumbled up alongside us. “I know I said we needed a slave,” she sputtered, “but I meant a cook! A cleaner! Someone to do things for me!”
My father turned, his gaze evenly holding my stepmother. His voice was low and steady. “Perhaps, just this one time, it will not be about what you need.”
Her mouth hung open, and I think she’d forgotten how to speak.
My father looked back up at Robert. “You. Robert. You are Christian?”
Robert nodded, his gaze holding my father’s.
My father drew me in. “Do you vow, on the holy body of Jesus Christ, to protect our family at all costs? To do whatever it takes to keep us safe?”
Robert dropped to one knee. His voice was serious. “On all that is holy, I swear it.”
My father nodded in satisfaction. He turned to Abimbola. “Then I match my daughter’s bid and double it. We will take this man.”
My stepmother seemed torn between fainting with delight at the prospect of having such a praise-worthy slave and losing out her chance of having a cook and cleaner at her beck and call.
Mary came up alongside us, her pale face shining. “You have done a noble thing here today. It is what I have told you of – what the visions have spoken on. It will bring great happiness and prosperity to your family.”
My father looked down at me. “I do believe you are right.”
I heard them, faintly, but all I could see was Robert’s gaze on me. There was the exchange of items, the mumbles of arrangements, but it was only Robert’s eyes holding me … protecting me.
And then he was standing before us. I looked from that gaze I knew so well to the manacles at his wrists.
My father glanced at the key in his hands. Then he gazed up into Robert’s eyes. “You lost your family, back in Masina.”
Robert did not blink. “I found the family I was meant to have, here in the Oyo Empire.”
My father held his gaze for a long moment. Then, at last he nodded.
He stepped forward and undid the manacles. He took them away and put them on the side of the platform.
Robert rubbed at his wrists for a long moment, as if to reassure himself that they were really gone. Then he looked at me.
Every ounce of me wanted to fold into that warmth. To wrap myself in his embrace and lose ourselves in the memories of all we had gone through together. Of the hardships and challenges my visions had shown me.
It took all my strength to stand where I was. To solely reach out my hand.
He folded mine within his. I could feel the strength, the power, within that grasp.
And now it protected me.
My father smiled in understanding. “Come, Robert. Let us show you to your new home.”
He glowed at that and twined his fingers into mine. His voice was a low murmur. “Elizabeth. You came from me. I thought I had lost you.”
I squeezed his fingers with mine. “Never,” I vowed. “I will never leave you.”
His eyes came to mine, and the world fell away.
There was a sound from beyond the platform, a rustle, a sense of movement – but it was far distant.
The world spun …
*
I leaned heavily against the swaying railing of the ship, my eyes fixed with determination on the coastline of Australia. I had survived. At least a quarter of the fellow convicts on this prison barge had died of dysentery, fever, and scurvy during our six-month-long journey.
The woman ahead of me pulled gently at the chain which connected to my wrists. I dropped my gaze, following along without a sound. It was how I had survived this hardship. Saying nothing. Becoming invisible. My only crime had been trying to keep my family alive in the hardscrabble streets of Dublin. I had stolen a bag of turnips for my stepmother’s stew, been caught up in an Irish riot, and now here I was. Nothing my father could do or say could sway the British judge.
We were shuffled down the gangplank, across a freshly stained dock, and for the first time in nearly half a year I stood again on solid ground. At least I had a sense that it was solid beneath my hole-worn shoes. For some reason it seemed to sway and tilt beneath me with a mind of its own.
A sailor came by with a leer. He put out a hand. “Steady there, girl. If you want some drinks, that can come soon enough.”
I shied back as if his touch were red hot.
The woman next to me called out, ‘Eh! You! Keep ya’ hands off a’ her. She ain’t like that. She don’t speak, neither. Think somethin’s wrong with ‘er.”
The sailor spit, then looked over my dingy grey dress, covered with grimy spots and smears. “Plenty more like ‘er where she came from,” he muttered, continuing down the line.
I nodded my thanks to the woman. She was in her forties with greying hair and deep creases in her face. She’d griped often that she’d stolen a silver chamber-pot from her employers to get her drunkard husband out of a gambling debt – and she’d been the one to be sent away. She had a sneaking suspicion that he’d been the one to turn her in, so that he could carry on more openly with his young mistress.
She put her arms out to the next sailor to come along – a beefy, wide-faced fellow with a glowing red nose. “Come to Cooper,” she purred. “You know, they don’t allow whores on these ships. Nor murderers, neither. Just us with light fingers. Lucky for you, I’m a woman of many talents.”
His grin widened. “That you are, Coopie. And I’m true to my word. I got you an assignment at a plush tavern on the wharf. So I can see you every time I’m in port.”
Her eyes lit up in delight. “I knew you were the man for me!” Her eyes glanced back at me. “And Elizabeth, too? They’ll take her?”
He gave a shrug. “They said they’d try her out. But she’d better not be lazy, or they’ll send her back to the workhouse. They don’t have no time for charity.”
“No, indeed,” Cooper agreed. “She’ll do her job, don’t you mind that. Just take us on down and show us where to go.”
A man at a sturdy wooden desk at the edge of the docks waved a hand in the air. “Next.”
The sailor
unlocked us both from the chain and walked us over to the desk. He took off his hat. “Sir, this be Cooper and … uhh … Elizabeth. They’ve got arrangements to go to the Ramsey Tavern. Be barmaids, cleaners, the regular stuff.”
The man ran a finger down a grimy parchment and nodded. “Right. You’re all set – take them down and turn them over.”
The sailor grinned, tucking his arm into Cooper’s. The two set in motion, and I stuck immediately behind them, barely looking up. There was motion all around me, stacks of boxes and bags, the calls of seabirds and the bustle of a port town. But all I could think of was how far away from my beloved Ireland I was. How hot and dusty the air was. How much my throat ached from hunger and thirst. How my legs tied and tumbled until –
I stumbled, driving hard toward the ground.
A sturdy hand grabbed my arm, drawing me up. “Easy there.”
I raised my eyes.
It was him.
16 – Australia Destiny
The hot Australian sun beat down on me, the thick dust and shades of brown of the dock town a far cry from the soft, misty greens of my native Ireland. The ground beneath me wove and tumbled; I had been on that convict ship for six long months and my body clearly was beyond exhausted. My throat was parched; my legs weak from hunger.
But none of it mattered.
The man from my visions stood before me.
His hair was dark and thick. He wore tan pants, a tan cotton shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. But it was the eyes that caught me. Those tawny eyes that I had seen over and over again in my dreams. The ones which urged me to stay alive, no matter what it took.
That he would find me.
I nearly tumbled back to the ground, and his hand was there beneath my arm, sure and steady. His voice was hoarse. “Elizabeth?”
Cooper looked between us in confusion, her grey hair turning steely beneath the shimmering sun. “You know her?”
The sailor stepped forward. “Hey, no one’s supposed to touch the convicts ‘til I get them to their new master. Rules is rules.”
