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  The four men who took Singbe sold him to Bamadzha, son of Shaka, the Genduma king. Bamadzha held Singbe in a pen with ten other men for more than a month and then marched them through the bush for three days and nights to the slave factory on the Gallinas River near Lomboko Harbor. There they were sold to a Spaniard, the first whiteman Singbe had ever seen. Whitemen had been buying slaves for a long time, almost three hundred years, trading with rum, fabrics, silver, gold, knives, and even guns. Singbe knew some tribal chiefs had become extremely wealthy dealing captives from rival tribes to the white slave traders.

  The slave factory was a collection of huge holding pens which was situated just back from the river in a small hollow concealed by trees. Though they looked crude, the giant cages were nearly impenetrable. The walls were bars made of wooden planks and tree trunks that had been driven deep into the soil. There was barely enough space between each bar for a man to stick two fingers through. Each pen was sealed by a roof of rough, knotty planking and had a single door, chained shut and padlocked. Whitemen with muskets guarded the doors from the outside.

  There were whitemen everywhere and they all had guns. Most of the tribesmen held captive had never seen either. To provide an education for new captives, a special demonstration was arranged every week or so. The bodies of four dead tribesmen were tied to trees. The whitemen loaded their guns and took turns shooting at the bodies. Large pieces of flesh were blown off with each shot. The head of one of the dead tribesmen exploded completely. After each volley, one of the whitemen would turn to the pens and say some words. A Genduma tribesman standing next to him translated, first in Genduma, then in Mandingo. Singbe found out later that he said a gun could kill a man or a lion or even an elephant from across a field. There was no escaping its fire and power. Nothing could stop it.

  The first time Singbe saw this demonstration, there was an added element. After shooting the corpses, a live tribesman was dragged out from a small shack across from the pen. He looked like a Gissi, but Singbe could not tell for sure. He had been badly beaten and his back and face were bloody. Despite his wounds, the man fought and struggled madly. It took four men, two whitemen and two Genduma tribesmen, to drag him to a tree and bind him. He struggled and screamed despite their repeated strikes to his face and ribs. Singbe watched two men, one whiteman and one Genduma, calmly load guns and aim them at the man. His screaming had become manic, bloodcurdling, heaving cries. There was a flash and then loud crack from the Genduma’s gun. The blast hit the tribesman square in the belly. The whiteman fired, snapping the tribesman’s head back quick and hard against the tree. Blood flowed from the large hole in his belly. His head sagged forward, the face sheared off. The tribesmen in the pens stared in silence.

  By Singbe’s count there were almost four hundred men in the pen with him when he was first brought to the factory. Ten to twenty a day were added to their number. They were fed a bowlful of rice and half a fish each day and could have all the river water they wanted. They urinated out through the bars and shit in a hole in one corner. Despite openings in the bars and between the roof planks, the stench was overwhelming. The other captives were from many tribes, some Singbe had never heard of, from as far away as eighty days’ walk. Some had been taken in battle, others kidnapped as payment for debts owed by either the man himself or one of his family members. There were others like Singbe who had just been taken for no reason other than the fact that they were strong and healthy and would bring a good profit to their captors.

  There were many Mende men in the pens, some whom Singbe had met before at the great harvest gatherings, and two, Grabeau and Kimbo, whom he knew well. Kimbo was taken in his own fields by Bah-rae and five men. He had sold Bah-rae two slaves a few months earlier, in payment of a debt. Soon after the transaction was made, one of the slaves ran off. Bah-rae demanded repayment, but Kimbo said that a slave’s actions were Bah-rae’s problem once he became the owner. Bah-rae left angry, then came back a few days later with the five men. It was near dusk and they found Kimbo alone in his fields. They beat him and carried him away, bound hand and foot to a pole like an animal killed on the hunt. Kimbo believed that Bah-rae coveted his lands and his wife.

  “He is a thief,” Kimbo said. “He paid off his friends. They will lie and get people to believe I was taken by Genduma or Vai. Then Bah-rae will steal my property and my wife.”

  Grabeau had been taken like Singbe, while traveling on a road, except Grabeau was traveling with a companion, his brother Ge-lu. They were on their way back from Fulu, a large Mende village, nearly a day’s walk from their own goat farm. It was midday when they came upon a man lying motionless in the road. As Grabeau bent down to see if he could help the man, he was struck from behind. When he awoke, he was tied as Singbe had been, at the neck and wrist. He asked the men where his brother was, and they said he was killed fighting them. But Grabeau thinks they lied, that his brother escaped.

  “He will assemble a war party of Mendemen and follow our trail to this place,’ he told Singbe. “He will find me and we will kill all the slavers – the whites and the tribesmen who trade with them.”

  Singbe thought of a war party of Mendemen coming to the factory. It would be a journey of several days that would take them through the lands of several hostile tribes. And even if they made it, they would have to fight against men with guns.

  Every few days at the factory, whitemen – slave dealers or ambitious ship captains – would come by, looking through the bars and having certain tribesmen taken out of the pen so they could be inspected more closely. Singbe was taken out like this on three occasions. Men came in the pen with guns and a long stick with a noose at its end. The noose was slipped over Singbe’s neck. He struggled the first time, but they quickly tightened the noose and choked him so hard he felt the life nearly go out of his body. They led him out of the pen and the whitemen felt his arms, back, buttocks, and legs, and looked at his teeth and hands. One of these was the yellow-haired man, who was on the ship with them now.

  Two days after the yellow-haired man came to the factory, whitemen with guns and their tribesmen allies, armed with guns and clubs, came into the pen. They yelled at the tribesmen to line up. Those who did not do so right away were beaten by the tribesmen with clubs. Many did not understand and were struck with the clubs until they realized what was expected of them. Their ankles and hands were bound with manacles and chains. Then they were lead out along the river’s mouth to a beach on the Atlantic. Like most of the captives, Singbe had never seen the ocean or a boat larger than a canoe. Many of them were terrified by it all. They were loaded onto long rowboats, fifteen tribesmen to a boat, with four whitemen pulling at the oars and one sitting in the bow holding a gun.

  They were about halfway to the ship when a tribesmen in one of the boats ahead began screaming and trying to stand. The whiteman in the bow put down his gun and drew a whip from his belt. He stood and struck out at the screaming tribesman, hitting him and others. He struck again but the tribesman caught the end of the whip and pulled, jerking the whiteman to the boat’s floor. The other whitemen stopped rowing and tried to grab the tribesman. He swung at them with his chains, stumbled to the edge of the boat, and jumped into the water. The chains dragged him down, but after a few seconds he surfaced, his head barely rising above the water. The whitemen tried to reach him with the oars but the tribesman pushed them away. The whiteman with the gun called out to the tribesman, raised the gun to his shoulder, called out again, and then fired. The tribesman disappeared beneath the water just before the musket’s flash. He resurfaced a few seconds later in a different spot, farther away, and began laughing loudly. They rowed toward him while the man with the gun reloaded. The tribesman waited until they got close and then rose up a little higher in the water and screamed words in a language Singbe did not understand. Then he threw his arms back and let the weight of his chains pull him down under the waves. They waited several minutes but they saw him no more. Many of the tribesmen in the other boats be
gan yelling and shaking their boats, but a few musket blasts into the air quickly brought silence. They were rowed out to the great ship, the Portuguese-flagged Teçora, and taken below. At sunset, the ship headed toward the open ocean.

  That was forty-three days ago.

  Now, Singbe sat on the deck of the Teçora with Grabeau and the other tribesmen, eating a handful of rice. Then he slowly drank from his cup of water. When the yellow-haired man saw that they had all finished, he would give the word and the sailors with guns would herd the tribesmen below and bring up another group. The rice was not cooked and they often found maggots and grubs among the grains. But they had to eat what was given to them. Anyone caught throwing it away or spitting it up later was flogged.

  As Singbe ate, he shifted his body slightly out of the shadow of the mast. He wanted to feel the sun’s warmth on his whole body.

  “That one.”

  Two men grabbed Singbe’s arms from behind and pulled them up and back. Two more men grabbed his feet and together they lifted him off the deck. Singbe twisted and tried to flail with his arms and legs, but he could not get free. The men carried him over to the stock on the raised deck in the stern. Singbe knew what was going to happen. He had seen it before with other tribesmen on the ship. He struggled more, screaming oaths and curses at the sailors. One grabbed a musket and jammed the muzzle into his cheek. Singbe looked up at the barrel and the sailor looking back down at him. He froze. They pulled his legs into the stock’s grooves and locked the crossbar down over his calves, just above the manacles on his ankles. Singbe, back flat against the deck, looked into the sun. Two of the men now knelt on his forearms, pinning him to the deck. His feet stuck out the end of the stock. Shaw moved over him, blocking out the sun.

  “I own you, buck.”

  He stood and spoke louder, so that all the tribesmen could hear him.

  “I own all of you! You will obey my rules and the rules of this ship! Or you will suffer the consequences!”

  He turned back to Singbe, then said, “Neither you nor your friends understand our language, and I do not understand yours. But you will understand this.”

  He stepped away and again all Singbe could see was the sun. He tried again to move his arms but the men held him tight. There was the rush of air and a loud crack. Singbe bit down on the insides of his mouth, determined not to scream. Shaw struck his feet again. Singbe bit down harder. Two more strikes. Shaw paused. He saw the small trickle of blood running out from the side of Singbe’s mouth and let out a laugh.

  “Oh, you’re a hard one, all right. But I appreciate that, lad. I love the spirit.”

  He swung again.

  “Pride.”

  Another strike.

  “Resolve.”

  Shaw now took the stick in both hands and drew it back behind his head.

  “These are all highly marketable qualities.”

  He let loose, swinging with all his might. Singbe could not hold back. An anguished cry exploded from his throat.

  “But we cannot have you lads jumping the hired help.”

  Three more cracks. Singbe cried out louder with each strike. Pain burned and ripped through his feet.

  Shaw came around the stock, grabbed Singbe by the hair and held the bloody stick up to his eyes.

  “Your blood, African. In my hands.”

  He held the stick high so all the tribesmen could see it.

  “Your blood is in my hands! All of you!”

  He looked back down at Singbe.

  “I think you know what I’m saying here, buck. I think we’ve reached an understanding. Yes?”

  Shaw cleaned the stick with a rag and nodded to the sailors. They pulled Singbe’s legs out of the stocks, spun him around, and plunged his feet in a bucket of seawater. He let out another scream.

  “Hurts, yes? But it’s a healing pain, I assure you. By the time I get you to market there’ll be no trace of your little punishment. And I dare say, you’ll think twice before trying to get the drop on one of these chaps again.”

  Paolo had watched the entire episode from the railing. Shaw caught his eye and nodded. Paolo turned away, muttering under his breath.

  A sailor tied rags drenched in seawater around Singbe’s feet and they lowered him down the ladder into the hold. The rest of the tribesmen followed. They were chained back into the half-sitting position that Shaw demanded for transport of his Africans. It took up less space, which meant more cargo could be fit on board.

  In the afternoon, when they were brought back up on deck for more exercise, Singbe was left behind. His feet burned as though they had been scraped raw, and even the slightest move inside the salty rags brought sharp, driving pain. He tried to think of Stefa, and of walking through cool mountain streams. Later that night, word came down the line from Grabeau asking how he was.

  “Sixty against twenty-four.”

  Shaw

  The captain lit a pipe and passed the bottle to Shaw. A large oil lamp hanging over the table between them swayed lightly with the ship’s motion. Shaw drew hard on his own pipe, poured a small amount of rum into his mug, corked the bottle, and passed it back to the captain.

  “The way you treat your niggers, Señor Shaw, I like it.”

  The captain, Alonzo Frederico Miguel Figeroa, was a short, bald-headed man with a brushy salt and pepper mustache that curved down around the sides of his mouth like a permanent frown. He was thick everywhere, from the thick round face and stumpy neck to the broad barrel chest that ran down to a waist almost as wide, to the large muscled arms with heavy sailor’s forearms, fat hands and thick, stubby fingers. It was as though he were an oversized fleshy infant whose proportions never changed through life, but rather became larger, more toughened and weathered. When he smiled, and sometimes when he spoke, you could see the black gap on the left side of his mouth. He had lost three teeth, yanked out long ago during a hurricane off Bermuda, when he was gripping a mastline in his jaw while tying off another. He was also without half the ring finger on his left hand. He cut it off himself after crushing it against some rigging in ’09 on the southern passage to Brazil. It was useless; besides, better to lose a finger than to have it go gangrenous and kill him outright. Because of it, though, he wore his wedding ring on his right hand. His wife, a devoted Catholic like himself, went to church every day and kept their home, a bright two-story cottage on a sunny side street up from the Lisbon docks, in perfect order. She had borne him nine children, five of whom had survived to adulthood. His oldest son, Tomás, was a ship’s captain, too, and ran cargo from Europe to the Americas and back. Figeroa owned the Teçora and had selected its crew, which was mostly Portuguese, but also included a few Spaniards, and Paolo, the mulatto from Brazil. Compared to Shaw, who managed to maintain the glean and bearing of a nobleman about him no matter what the surroundings, the captain looked ugly and inappropriate. Yet Figeroa maintained an aura of authority always. He was a smart sailor and ran a tight ship. There had been many times when he had out-skippered faster British or American cruisers looking to intercept slavers.

  Figeroa considered himself a good judge of character, but he had found Shaw difficult to figure. The captain knew that before joining the House of Martinez slave brokerage, Shaw had been an agent of Pedro Blanco, owner of the Lomboko slave factory and the number-one dealer of African slaves in the world. Despite the fact that he was an American, Shaw had become Martinez’s chief broker. He was reputed to be shrewd, but also man of his word. Figeroa had met him in January. Shaw was looking to contract the transport of six hundred slaves from Lomboko to Cuba. They haggled for nearly a week over the price. What they agreed to was below Figeroa’s usual fee for such a journey, but with a more acceptable payment schedule. Instead of the usual 50 per cent up front and remainder upon reaching port, Shaw paid the captain in full, and in gold, the day the contract was signed. True, the price they settled on represented nearly a 20 per cent discount, but Figeroa had been cheated on owed sums before and decided it was better to have a l
ittle less and have it all in hand.

  Aside from business dealings, however, he knew very little about Shaw. No one else he talked to before the trip could tell him more, either. Shaw lived like a gentleman in Havana and frequented only the most exclusive of the city’s restaurants and salons. He had no wife or family that anyone knew of. It was rumored that he was a fugitive in America and could not return to that country, though no one could say for sure if this was true.

  One thing people did say, though, was that Shaw was not a man to be crossed. There was the story of a ship’s captain, who four years ago had promised Shaw a shipment of Africans at a specific price. When the captain arrived in Havana, however, he demanded an additional 30 per cent markup. Shaw refused. The captain sold his slaves to another dealer at an even larger profit. Two days later the captain was found in the shithouse of a dockside bar with his throat slit and his balls cut off and jammed into his mouth. A man was found in a similar condition about a year ago in Sierra Leone’s Freetown. He was later identified as a slave trader from another brokerage firm. It was rumored that he had cheated Shaw on a deal some years before. There was nothing definite to link Shaw to either murder – other than innuendo and speculation, which served as better than proof for most people in the trade.