Amistad Page 3

  Figeroa took a long drink out of his mug, then went back to his pipe. “Some men, they whip the niggers until the life is almost gone from their bodies,” he said. “Others, they are too soft, worried about damaging the cargo. They let them get away with anything, which ends up making more work and risk for the ship’s captain and crew. But you, Señor Shaw, you know exactly how to walk the line with these animals. You keep them in fear, but you keep them intact.”

  “Perhaps that is because I don’t see them as animals, Captain Figeroa. Rather, I see them as they are. As men.”

  Smoke trickled out through the broad gap in Figeroa’s smile. “Men? As you and I are men in the eyes of God? Of course, you are not serious.”

  “Yes, I am. They are men. Oh, perhaps they are not as learned and cultured and scientific as we. Perhaps they are a little closer to Eden in their way of life. But they are men, just the same.”

  “I do not believe that. I do not believe that you believe it, either. They are ignorant, godless creatures. A lower breed, closer to the monkeys in the trees of their homeland than to any whiteman.”

  “When you transport female slaves, do you take one to your bed to keep you warm at night?”

  “Of course. In fact, I was very disappointed to see that you were not bringing any negresses onboard this trip.”

  “There demand is stronger for the men, though I never mind giving a wench over to a ship’s captain to add comfort during his voyage. After all, it is customary, and, as I see it, a courtesy. However, I detest having my property roughed over by the crew. It can depreciate their value, especially if the females are going to purchased for breeding.”

  “A good point, Señor Shaw.”

  “Actually, my point rests on a question, captain. You bed-down female slaves on your voyages, yes?”

  “So, do you mean to tell me that you have been fornicating with animals, sir?”

  Figeroa’s lips parted into a smokey grin.

  “Let us say, animals with a human form.”

  “Nonsense, captain. They can reason, they can speak, they have families and farms and laws. They have governments and wars and take slaves of their own. Show me monkeys that do that. As for ignorance, well, I have seen black servants in America and the Indies who have been taught to read and cipher and speak English, Spanish, and French as well as any whiteman. No, they are men. They are people, as are you and I.”

  “If you believe such a thing, then how can you do what you do, buying and selling them as cattle, as slaves to other men?”

  “There have always been slaves, my friend, in almost every human society since time began. In the Bible, the Israelites were slaves in Egypt, and before that the Jews had slaves themselves. Slaves are the spoils of the conqueror. And, at this point in history, Christian whitemen are masters of the earth. The Africans are men, but their simple ways and societies are no match for our science and weapons or our politics or resolve.”

  “But why do you do this, especially now, when the trading of Africans is outlawed by treaties with the British and the Americans? There is great risk to you.”

  “I could put the same question to you, sir. Why do you run slaves when your ship and its cargo could be taken by some pasty-faced British officer who came ’long your side with his deck guns pointed at your hull? Why – when you yourself could be imprisoned for captaining a ship carrying Africans fresh from the bush? It is because we are businessmen. We know the market, supply and demand. We know profit and the advantages it can buy. I can make five to ten times from a raw wild African what I can make from landed stock. And you, you get nearly a hundred times more from running this cargo than from running fabrics or looms or other goods from the continent. Of course, such profits always carry risks. But I think that is part of the attraction, too. The risks. It is a man’s challenge – such risks – and there are fitting rewards if the task is pulled off. We are just the type of men who are willing to take that type of challenge. A sad attribute of our own character and nature, no doubt.”

  Figeroa grinned and nodded, but then he shook his pipe at Shaw.

  “You still cannot get me to believe they are men.”

  “Most certainly they are. And like all men who are in chains, they must be watched, beaten, cowed, and reminded that they are less than their captors. Or they will rise up, and then it is we who will be in chains. Or worse.”

  The risks Shaw had spoken of were not slight. Trade in African-born slaves had been banned in the Western Hemisphere for nearly twenty years. Britain had ended the importation of slaves to its own colonies during the eighteenth century, and the United States outlawed the importation of Africans to its soil in 1809. That same year, the British drafted a treaty that prohibited the taking of slaves from the African continent or taking part in their importation to English, American, or Spanish colonies. The Americans were willing to sign; in fact, the American minister to England at the time, John Quincy Adams, helped to write the treaty. But the African slave trade was extremely lucrative for the Spanish government and its subjects, and the Spanish prince stated he would not sign the treaty unless his government received payment for “perceived losses.” The British complied, giving the Spanish over £400,000 sterling. The Anglo-Spanish Treaty became law in 1819. By signing the treaty, Spain and its colonies agreed to deal only in African slaves purchased before 1820 and in landinos, slaves descended from slaves. Britain went even further and ended all slavery in its colonies in 1833.

  But the British made a major mistake – they did not include a legitimate mechanism in the treaty to ensure Spanish compliance. The Spanish government recognized this and did what it could to subvert the process. Publicly, they created a bureaucracy that supported the tenets of the treaty. Privately, however, payoffs, often termed “special taxes and fees,” allowed the slave traders to go on with their activities. After all, the market had not disappeared. If anything, the treaty increased demand and the prices paid for African-born slaves.

  The Portuguese became the main purveyors of illegal slaves, although ships under Spanish, French, Dutch, American, and Russian flags were also involved. The majority of Africans were brought to Cuba or Brazil. Portugal and Brazil had no treaty with the British or United States regarding slave trade, and Cuba, with the winking complicity of the Spanish government, continued importing Africans. By some estimates, more than twenty-five thousand African slaves were brought to Cuba in the first twenty years after the treaty went into effect. More than ten times that number were brought to Brazil during the same period. Such activities were hazardous though. British cruisers patrolled the shipping lanes in search of illegal slavers. If discovered, the ship, slaves, and cargo would be impounded and the captain arrested. The dealer owning the slaves could be tried on charges of piracy and, if found guilty, hanged.

  The fate of the Africans depended on where the seizure occurred. If the ship was taken close to Africa, the slaves were returned to an African port and delivered into the hands of a Christian mission. But for Africans intercepted off the coast of Cuba or another Spanish colony, return to Africa was an expensive proposition. The English, in the treaty negotiations, insisted that the Spanish pay the return transport as a “moral obligation,” because the Africans were illegally destined for a Spanish port. The Spanish argued that they had no control over renegade elements of society or the destinations of their contraband. Besides, if the English felt so strongly about the morality of the issue, the price of return passages should be of no concern. Morality gave way to economics and the English agreed to an arrangement. Illegal slaves taken in Spanish waters were to be termed emancipados. The Spanish government would be obligated to provide each emancipado with a Christian education and apprenticeship to a viable trade. The emancipados, who had no say in their fate, were to give five to seven years of indentured service in return for their apprenticeship and education. After that they were free.

  The British saw treatment of emancipados as a fitting compromise if not an outright rewa
rd for the Africans. “These ignorant bush people would be introduced to God and the vestiges of civilization, and turned into functional productive members of society,” said one British diplomat.

  But the British neglected to enforce or monitor these high-minded conversions. True, the Spanish had to produce paperwork showing the emancipados had been apprenticed, and after the terms of the indenturement were met, give proof of the individual being freed. But no independent office or individual was charged with verifying that actions matched documentation. The British merely assigned an unofficial observer to watch and report what he saw. This left the Cuban administration and other colonial governments free to pervert the already dubious arrangement. They did so, selling emancipados as slaves on five-to seven-year contracts. Emancipados were offered at slightly cheaper prices on the market than African-born slaves, or bozales, because the plantation owners were contractually bound to turn them over after the allotted time. Even though this was rarely enforced, many plantation owners were wary that the contracts might be upheld by the government or British interference. As a result, the planters had adopted a proven method to ensure they got their money’s worth: they worked the emancipados to death.

  “What say you, lookout?”

  The man near the top of the middle mast perched on a platform barely a foot square.

  “All clear, deck!”

  Figeroa scanned the horizon with a spyglass.

  “Have we found our shadow again, Captain?”

  “One of the men thought he saw a sail an hour earlier, but now there is nothing,” Figeroa said. “Not to worry, though, Señor Shaw. As long as we see them soon enough, they will not he able to catch us.”

  Singbe braced himself on the railing as he shuffled slowly along the deck with the others. He had barely slept last night, and this morning, when the sailors came to take the tribesmen on deck, Singbe was sure he would be left behind. But after the last tribesman went up the ladder, the yellow-haired man came over and looked at Singbe. He took the rags off Singbe’s feet, inspected the wounds, and then pulled him up by the chains. Singbe faltered, his feet tender and burning with soreness and pain. The yellow-haired man motioned for him to walk. Singbe shuffled a few steps and then fell forward into the ladder.

  “Right. Good enough. Up you go.”

  The yellow-haired man motioned up the ladder with his pistol. Singbe stared at him for a moment and then began to climb. He tried to push his feet deep into the rungs and climb with his heels, which were less bruised and raw. At the top of the hatch he fell to his knees, but two sailors caught him by the arms and dragged him over to the side with the others. He grabbed the railing and stood.

  The tribesmen walked around the deck in their slow parade. Grabeau stayed next to Singbe, ready to catch him if he fell. But Singbe was worried more about the feeling in his stomach than falling. The pain of his feet, the foul taste of the rice, and the rolling of the ship were all conspiring to create a heaving bilious churning in his belly. The price for vomiting his rations would be another lashing, either on the feet again, or on his back. He looked at the railing, concentrating on just moving forward one step at a time.

  Grabeau leaned in close and whispered, “I talked to many men last night about your plan. I could only find seven who said they would attempt it if asked. With myself, who I am not sure we should include, and you, nearly a cripple at the moment, we have nine.”

  “Why would you not join us? You prefer to submit to this?”

  “No, but I do prefer living to dying in vain. Singbe, our chains restrict even the simplest of movements. How could we overpower the whitemen like this? And even if we could, they have the guns.”

  “We attack the whiteman with keys first, at the proper moment. And we take his gun.”

  “While the others shoot at us?”

  Singbe ignored the comment and looked up and down the line.

  “There are nearly sixty of us here now. It sickens me to think that only nine of us would be willing to make a stand against these whites.”

  “Yes. And how many of those nine do you think would desert you at the critical moment?”

  “I count twenty-three whitemen. Twenty-three whites and one half-black. Only ten of them have guns. Two of them, the yellow-haired man and the bald one on the raised deck, only have small guns.”

  “The small guns can kill as well as the long guns.”

  Singbe said nothing. He shuffled along. The anger now added to the boiling in his stomach.

  “Nine!” Singbe yelled, looking back and forth at the line of tribesmen. “Only nine would stand and fight against the whites! Are you men without honor? Without courage? One blackman from any tribe is worth at least three of these soft-bellied whites. Mendemen would not think twice about this challenge. Mendemen have courage and resolve.”

  A lash came down hard on his shoulder and brushed Grabeau’s face.

  “Shut up! No talking!”

  Singbe did not look at the sailor with the whip. He stared straight ahead and shuffled through a few more steps.

  “We are better than they are – no matter how much they beat and starve us. We are freemen, not slaves. Let us take this ship and sail it back into the morning sun to Africa.”

  The whip slapped Singbe’s face. And again on his neck and shoulders.

  “Shut up, damn you!”

  The sailor raised his arm for another lash. Shaw stopped him and stepped in front of Singbe, halting the procession. The eight guards with muskets lifted their weapons, aiming them at the line.

  “What have we here? Yesterday’s bastinado wasn’t enough? You feel a need to cry out? Perhaps in protest of your treatment, or to announce the details of some sorry little uprising?”

  Grabeau slid in front of Singbe and pointed to his feet and then to his head.

  “Please, sir, he is in pain from his wounds. It has weakened his mind.”

  Shaw watched Grabeau and smiled.

  “The pain’s gone to his head?” Shaw smiled and turned to the sailors. “’Well, that’s a shame. We’ll have to get him medical attention, eh, boys?”

  He wheeled and struck Grabeau hard in the face with the whip’s handle, knocking to the deck.

  “Take that one to the stocks.”

  Three sailors grabbed Grabeau by the arms and legs and dragged him toward the stocks. Shaw turned back to Singbe, smiled, and drove the whip handle into his stomach. Singbe dropped to his knees. Shaw grabbed him by the throat with one hand and pulled him up on his feet.

  “As for you, I think I shall have to get creative.”

  Singbe’s mouth opened as if to reply, but instead of words, vomit shot into Shaw’s face and down his hand.

  “Bloody Christ!”

  Singbe fell to the ground and heaved again onto Shaw’s fine black boots.

  “Fucking hell.”

  He kicked Singbe in the ribs and picked him up by the hair.

  “This … will cost you dearly. Miguel! Bring me a coil of rope.”

  “Sail! Sail to starboard!”

  The man on the mast pointed to a small patch of white flickering on the horizon. Figeroa aimed his spyglass at the sail. A familiar flag waved above it.

  “Get the niggers below and locked up,” Figeroa yelled. “The one in the stocks, too. Do it now!”

  The sailors scrambled, herding the tribesmen to the hatch and into the hold. Grabeau struggled and yelled for Singbe but one of the sailors swept the butt end of a musket across the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. Shaw paid no heed to the activity. He looped the rope around Singbe’s feet and hands and took off the manacles. With the help of two sailors he dragged him up the stairs to the raised deck in the stern.

  “Union Jack on the ship!” the sailor on the mast called out. ‘British ship starboard.”

  Shaw tied-off the free end of the rope to a cleat and, together with the sailors, pulled Singbe up on the rail.

  “You will understand who is in charge here, buck. Even if it’
s the last thing you do.”

  Shaw pushed Singbe over the railing. It was about a fifteen-foot drop to the water. Singbe could hear the wind rushing through his ears. His body slapped into water flat, face first, and sank quickly. The rope stretched out and brought Singbe to the surface. His body spun in the ship’s wake. Water rushed into his mouth and nose.

  “Señor Shaw! What are you doing?”

  “Providing an education to my property, Captain.”

  “Well, cut the line or bring him. We’ve got a British cruiser on the starboard.”

  Shaw looked out at Singbe, bobbing and gasping in the surf behind the Teçora.

  “You are not saying that towing one sorry black behind us will allow that ship to catch up, are you, Captain?”

  “What I’m saying is that I need all hands on tackle and sails to outmaneuver that ship. I need these men. And I do not argue with anyone on my ship. Make a decision, Señor Shaw. Now.”

  Shaw was not accustomed to being told what to do. He looked from the captain to the two sailors, and smiled. He said, “But Captain Figeroa, you must understand …”

  Figeroa drew his knife and reached out to the rope. Shaw grabbed on to the line.

  “My black, Captain. I say whether he lives or dies. Pull, lads. Pull him in now.”

  It took about two minutes to get Singbe back on board. He fell to the deck, bloated and lifeless. The sailors walked away. The captain looked over from the ship’s wheel and laughed.

  “Looks like that black had his own say about living and dying, Señor Shaw.”

  Shaw dropped to his knees and pushed Singbe’s belly up into his ribs with both hands. Water bubbled out of his mouth and onto the deck. Shaw pushed again. He turned Singbe on his side and struck hard on his back. He sat Singbe up, reached around from his back with both hands made a fist and squeezed up hard into the abdomen. Singbe’s body twitched. An explosion of water shot from his mouth and nostrils followed by a heaving gag. He rolled onto his side coughing, retching, and gagging violently. More water and foam poured from his mouth. On each gurgling, wheezing inhalation, his body shook with a little more life.