by M. C. Muir
‘You men will remain on deck,’ Oliver ordered. ‘Mr Nightingale, come with me. Froyle, find a lantern, if you can.’
At the bottom of the after hatchway was the door to a large cabin with stern windows which allowed ample light to spill inside. Until recently, it had obviously been the domain of the ship’s master, but now it was empty. The tired furnishing remained but there was nothing of value. No sextant. No logbook. No inventory. No telescope. Not even a compass. And no trace of the captain. Not even his coat. The small cabins adjacent to it were likewise empty, however, a lantern hanging outside still had oil in it and was quickly lit.
‘Let us examine her cargo,’ Oliver said, heading amidships. Descending to the orlop deck, he discovered the hatch to the hold had been padlocked. An iron bar soon prized the lock from the timber. As the solid cover was removed, the air from the hold escaped in an overpowering whoosh of vile vapours.
‘Get back! Don’t breathe this foulness.’
‘Dear God,’ Mr Nightingale cried, ‘what is in there?’
Oliver covered his nose with his neckerchief and warily took three steps down the ladder, kicking out at the rats that ran over his shoes. At first glance, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, it appeared the water which had penetrated the hull was swirling about, but the movement on the surface was a sea of vermin swimming in haphazard circles. These were well-fed rodents grown fat on the cargo chained within the hold of the ship. The scene confronting him was alarming.
‘Pass me the lantern,’ he ordered.
Holding the ladder with one hand and the lantern in the other, he gazed around knowing his worst fears had been realized.
It was impossible to count the remains. The hundreds of bodies, lying flat, packed tightly into tiers that would have allowed little more movement for the occupants than lifting the head a matter of inches. For those carcases above the water, their African faces were unrecognizable. Not even their blackness was evident. Skulls were white. Teeth were white. Even the sinews and bones not chewed were also white. But the fear and agony they had suffered still registered on their open jaws. Their silent cries were almost audible.
Oliver climbed back to the orlop deck and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with less-foul air.
‘Mr Nightingale, if you have no stomach for this, I will understand, but if you can bear to view this scene, I would appreciate a sketch to support my log. Such desecration of human life cannot be described in words but the picture should be recorded. It will certainly be etched in my memory for as long as I live.’
Tying his neckerchief over his nose and mouth, the young lieutenant descended into the hold lashing out with foot and elbow at the line of rats racing for freedom.
On deck, the sailors made sport of the vermin, slashing at them as they popped up from below, chasing them across the deck, hacking at them repeatedly with their cutlasses leaving a trail of deep gouges in the ship’s rails and pools of blood on the deck. Their games ended abruptly when then captain appeared on deck.
‘Send a message to the gunner. Tell him I want linstocks, slowmatch and powder.’
No one questioned what for.
‘You there, Foss and Froyle, the magazine is half flooded but there is canister and grape-shot on the shelves – about the only thing the rats haven’t eaten! Take four men and carry what you can. And the two swivel guns, Mr Tully, kindly have them lowered into the boats. They may come in handy. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to lower them carefully.’
‘Anything else to transport, Capt’n?’
‘I think not. The stores which aren’t below the water have been eaten by the pests, even the spare sails and cordage. Anything made of vegetable fibre has been consumed. The sooner we send this ship and her occupants to the bottom the better.’
By the time the transfer of various items between the wreck and Perpetual had been completed, it was growing dark. Mr Nightingale’s drawing pad of sketches was handed carefully down into the boat along with a chart box which the captain had found in a cupboard after a more thorough search in the main cabin. The maps it contained of the coast of Chile and Peru were more recent and detailed than those supplied by the British Admiralty, and Oliver was certain they would prove useful as their journey progressed. He considered that the master of the Adelina, if he had survived, would have cursed himself for forgetting such an item, when he abandoned his ship.
Finally, with the Captain in the boat, the gunner and one of his mates each draped a long length of slowmatch over the gunnels, one forward and one aft. These led to a generous stream of gunpowder which snaked across the deck and ran down the ladders to the lower decks.
With all the men safely aboard the two boats, Oliver gave the signal. With flames spitting from the sizzling matches, Perpetual’s boats pushed clear from the side of the slave ship and pulled for the frigate. Fearing a sudden explosion and bombardment with flying splinters, the men lowered their heads and rowed for their lives. But the captain had indicated to the gunner, when he laid the powder, that he wanted a slow blaze. His aim was to engulf the ship in flames capable of consuming everything above the waterline. As to the sodden hull, he would be satisfied if it broke up, slipped from the rocks and slid to the bottom of the deep channel.
Though questions were put, little was said when Captain Quintrell, his officers and boat crews came aboard and the business of hoisting the boats was quickly attended to. From the rail, Oliver watched the fire take hold. Red tongues licked the dangling ribbons of shredded sails and raced up the tar-soaked shrouds far faster than any sailor could climb.
Voluminous clouds of black smoke vented into the cold colourless sky hiding the masts as they leaned and finally fell, crashing across the burning deck. From the gunnels and taff rail, rats plopped into the water and paddled feverishly for the nearest land.
‘You mark my words, this coast will be infested with them before long. They’ll multiply like roaches.’
‘Shame to burn a prize,’ the sailing master commented to the quartermaster, in a voice loud enough to the overheard by Captain Quintrell. ‘Do you know what her cargo was?’
Oliver shivered in the chill wind and turned and addressed him. ‘Slaves, Mr Greenleaf. Human souls. Hundreds of them. Mark my words, it would have given me great satisfaction to tow her back to Bristol. Not for the prize money, but to present her to the rich merchants in their plush offices, to show them what their fat profits are derived from.’
Heartily sickened, he turned back to his first lieutenant. ‘I should say a prayer for them,’ he said. ‘But it can wait. On Sunday, I will remember them in our service. However, I fear, when the men learn the details of the Adelina’s cargo, they will become unsettled. They are already wary of this god-forsaken passage, afeared we will get lost, or become frozen, or wrecked like that ship and her unfortunate cargo. For the moment all they see is their prize-money being scuttled. This will lead to some dissatisfaction.’
‘Then let us pray for a breeze to deliver us to the Pacific Ocean and let that sea be as peaceful as its name implies.’
Oliver agreed. ‘The sooner we depart this place, the better. Cape Horn may have a violent temper, which it finds hard to control, but at least we know its vices. This passage is deceitful. Contrary. Misleading. Take my word, Simon, on our return from Peru, we will double the Horn, no matter how long it takes us and we will leave this region to the rats and its indomitable natives. How either manages to survive in this hell-hole, I do not know, but they are welcome to it.’
Gazing up to the black specks suspended high in the air, Oliver wondered what was carried in the roiling black smoke swirling skywards. Was it delivering the dead slaves to the condors or carrying the spirits of the departed to their ancestors?
‘Pray for that breeze, Mr Parry,’ he said, ‘a gentle breeze to carry us safely through to the open sea.’
Chapter 12
Ekundayo
‘Didn’t I warn you?’ Smithers boasted, ‘cursed it was, that ship. Cu
rsed with the ghosts of them slaves before they snuffed it. See the way that smoke’s reeling round and round like a spinning top. I tell you, it’s their black souls dancing. I’ve seen it before in the West Indies. Seen ’em twisting and turning and swaying their hips about like their bones are not joined together. And listen to the spitting and crackling. That’s the echo of the whip lashing them that took ’em.’
Most chose to ignore Smithers’ rantings, but Tommy shuddered. Behind him, the windlass creaked, as it was turned, hauling the anchor up from the depths of the channel. The staysails rattled when they were run up and the yards creaked as they were braced around. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Perpetual swam forward, turning her face from the wreck and heading back to the relative safety of one of the broader channels.
‘But Foss told me they were all dead,’ Tommy said. ‘Ain’t that right?’
‘Never can tell with them blacks,’ Smithers added. ‘There’s those among ’em that never die. Ghouls and witchdoctors and such like that come back to haunt you. Just like the Dutchman. Maybe that’s his ship – looks like it with its shredded sails and rigging. ’
‘Shut you mouth, Smithers,’ Muffin squawked. ‘You’ll give the lad more nightmares.’
‘Me? Not me,’ he claimed, the right side of his face contorting in an evil sneer. ‘I’m learning him stuff he needs to know.’
‘I don’t know no Dutchman, but I ain’t afraid of him,’ Tommy boasted.
‘It ain’t a man,’ Muffin explained quietly. ‘It’s a ship. A Dutch ship. A ghost ship. The captain’s name was Vanderdecken.’
‘So, what happened to him?’
The sailor cast a glance over his shoulder before continuing. ‘The truth is, he was battling constant storms. Trying to round the bottom of Africa but his ship couldn’t make the passage.’
‘Did he sink?’
‘No, worse than that, he made a pact with the Devil swearing he’s round the Cape if it took him from then until Doomsday. But instead of helping him, the Devil cast a spell on him so his ship had to roam the seas forever from that day on.’
‘That ain’t scary,’ Tommy said.
‘It’s all in the way the story’s told,’ Muffin mumbled.
‘Telling it ain’t nowt,’ Bungs said, eager to add something to the tale. ‘It’s seeing that ghost ship coming out of the blue and steering straight at you afore she disappears. That’s enough to curdle your blood. One instant you’re gazing at an empty horizon with not a billow of cloud or a sail in sight then, all of a sudden, you blink because you think you’re imagining it. But it’s there all right – all a-shimmering and a-glowing in the distance, not even sitting on the water but hovering full six foot above it and bearing down on you.’
‘You’ve seen it?’ Tommy asked.
‘Not personal, but I’ve heard from them that has, and I don’t mind admitting, I’d piss myself if I saw the Dutchman.’
Tommy laughed.
‘You might laugh, boy,’ Bungs scoffed, ‘but why do you think you see a horse-shoe pinned to the foremast. And you’re likely to spy one on most ships. It’s to ward off evil spirits, like the Dutchman, that’s why.’
Muffinman smiled. ‘I reckon you’d be scared of your own shadow on a moonlit night, Bungs. In fact, looking at you across a table is enough to send the shivers down anyone’s spine, don’t you agree, young Tom?’
‘I ain’t afraid of spooks, especially on the sea.’
Eku said nothing. There were things he had witnessed on the Caribbean islands that were enough to turn any man’s legs to jelly.
At breakfast, the next morning, Bungs studied the Negro sitting opposite him, scraping the last of the burgoo from his wooden bowl. ‘You didn’t look upset that your people got burned up in that ship,’ he said.
‘They were not my people,’ Ekundayo answered.
‘But they were black slaves, and blacks are all the same, aren’t they?’
The sailor laughed.
‘What’s funny?’
‘You are. You think all black men are the same. But you are wrong.’ He glanced down the mess table at Muffin, sitting in his usual position, leaning against the hull.
‘There are many sorts of black men, just as there are many types of white men. Some good. Some bad.’
Muffin opened his eyes and leaned forward to listen.
‘First, there are the black men in Africa who catch the tribesmen in nets like wild beasts and carry them to the ports to sell to the white Portuguese traders. Then there are the blacks themselves who are manacled and loaded into the ships and sent to the plantations where they’re worked till every ounce of life is beaten out of them. Then there are the rich black plantation owners. Free-born blacks who have bought land from poor white farmers and become even richer. They are educated men who behave like white men and think like white men. Then there are the mulettoes – a mixture of colours. And finally there are the black rebels. These are mainly escaped slaves. And these are the blacks who are feared by both black and white. The French and Spanish have reason to be wary of them because there are thousands of them now and they will stop at nothing to get what they want.’
‘Tittle-tattle. I’ve heard it all before.’ Smithers said, turning his back on the West Indian.
‘Well, I’ve known plenty of black Jacks and I ain’t never seen no difference in any of them,’ Bungs argued.
‘Me neither,’ Muffin added.
‘Then you have witnessed nothing,’ Eku said, pushing his empty bowl across the table.
‘So what makes you different from them black slaves?’ Tommy asked.
‘Slaves come from Africa in chains. I was free-born on the island once called Hispaniola. New slaves do not speak my language. They do not live the way I live. They are not Christians. They are not educated. They do not read or write. And when they run away from their owners, they often revert to their wild African ways.’
‘But there are many black tars on ships who were once slaves.’
‘I know. I have sailed with them. But I am speaking of the worst of the black rebels on Santo Domingo. They kill in the most ferocious manner, rape and murder women in front of their men folk, string children up from trees and slice off their heads with machetes.’
‘Is this true?’ Muffin asked.
Eku nodded. ‘The owner of the plantation where I was raised was a rich man, but he was a black man like me. One day, the rebels arrived and grabbed him. For no reason, they tied him to a tree, stuffed his mouth with gunpowder then tied a rag across it. After they had pushed a length of slowmatch under the cloth, they lit it. They laughed out loud when he danced to the flames running up his clothing and searing his chest. They jeered and laughed louder when he tried to scream with no sound coming from his mouth. For a second, they were silent when his head was blown clean from his body. Then the rebels cheered and laughed some more.’
‘But I thought Santo Domingo was Spanish,’ Bungs said.
‘Spanish first, then French, now – who knows? Napoleon has sent a vast army to hold onto the island. England has also sent soldiers. Even the Americans have sent ships.
‘Why would they want to win such a wild place?’
‘Because they want the coffee and sugar which is grown on the plantations there. Didn’t you know that Santo Domingo or Saint-Domingue is the richest colony in the West Indies?’
John Muffin shook his head. ‘Did you see these things you talked about?’
‘Not all, I left before the killings got any worse. But I was born on a plantation owned by a rich black man. Unfortunately, men like him know little of Africa or the old ways. They pretend to be white. They wear fine clothes and ride in fine carriages, and import the best European horses and English leather saddles. They smell of perfumes and pomades, wear wigs and are surrounded by servants. My master dressed his daughters in the finest gowns sent from Spain and decorated the house with paintings and pottery shipped directly from Italy.
‘When I was a ch
ild, I lived in a small white-washed building not far from the big house. My mother was a free woman and was educated and was engaged as companion to the owner’s wife. Because of this, she was treated almost like a member of the family and was given fine dresses to wear when she accompanied the mistress to town. Of course the family spoke French and Spanish, not the language of the slaves that is made up of many African tongues. But because I was the same age as the plantation owner’s youngest son, I was allowed to attend classes with him. I played games with him, wrestled with him, rode with him, and learned to speak the King’s English with him.’
‘So why are you here?’ Bungs asked. ‘Why did you leave the island?’
Eku sighed. ‘Because I saw the cruelties I told you of. Neighbour fighting neighbour. And, I heard of many terrible things done by both blacks and whites alike. I left my home and my mother on the day the rebels attacked. I hid and watched when they dragged the fine furniture from the house and made a great bonfire on the lawn. After drinking lots of rum and getting very drunk, the rebels grabbed the servants and threw them onto the fire also. Alive. Screaming. So I ran, first to the garden, then to the sheds where the cane was processed. But when I saw them coming carrying flaming torches, I ran through the cane fields before they set them alight. I didn’t know where to go or what to do, so I climbed up the hillside and hid in a cave. I stayed there for several days and waited until the smoke and noise had died. I had nothing to eat or drink, only the water which trickled out of the ground. But always in my mind was the thought of the sea. If I could reach a port, I was certain I would get on a ship and it would take me to freedom. I didn’t care where I went – to France or Spain or America, I just wanted to leave Santo Domingo far behind.’
Tommy could understand that feeling.
‘I was twelve-years old and already tall and strong, so when I reached the quay I joined a line of men rolling barrels of rum onto a schooner. I heard it was bound for Boston, so before it sailed, I sneaked aboard and hid till the ship was clear of land. The captain was an American and a fair man. He gave me a whipping but, because of my size, he didn’t put me ashore and he added my name to the muster book. Everyone thought I was a run-away slave so I talked like a slave and pretended I knew nothing. That was easy,’ he said, looking at Bungs, ‘because no one expected anything more from a black man. When the ship reached Boston, it unloaded and then headed to Barbados.’
