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  Shaw stood soaked with the water and foam from Singbe’s lungs. He was breathing hard, but he smiled broadly at Figeroa.

  “My black, Captain. I say whether he lives and dies. And when.”

  Figeroa glanced at Shaw and then back to the British ship, which, although a bit closer, was still far off.

  “Such declarations are blasphemy and an abomination to the Lord God in heaven, Señor Shaw.”

  Shaw knelt back down and began to put the manacles back on Singbe’s wrists and ankles.

  “Well, I’ve suffered enough loss on this voyage. More than the usual ten per cent or so. If God wants any more of my Africans, he’ll have to bid on them at the market in Havana like everyone else.”

  Figeroa laughed hard and crossed himself. “You are a funny man, Señor Shaw. But I believe you will taste the fires of bell.”

  “You can buy me a drink when we get there, Captain.”

  Shaw threw Singbe over his shoulder and carried him across the deck and down the hatch. Singbe lay there for the rest of the day and into the night, spitting up and trying to clear the water from his lungs. Every time he drew a breath it pierced like a crooked blade twisting inside his chest. His whole body felt as if it had been beaten and wrung out. Grabeau sent him messages through the others but Singbe did not reply.

  It took a few hours, but the Teçora lost the British cruiser. They were near Cuba now, and it was likely that they would see British ships again. Figeroa and Shaw agreed that the Africans should stay below for the rest of the voyage. Two days later they dropped anchor in a secluded harbor about fifteen miles up the coast from Havana. That night, at about eight o’clock, the Africans were put in the long boats and taken ashore.

  Havana

  Pepe’s eyes lingered on the two girls sleeping on the bed while his hands mechanically put on his clothes. The tall one with the hair the color of whiskey had been a devil. Her skin, white like a cloud and soft as a spring evening, seemed to rub against him everywhere. Her green eyes had burned and smiled with fire and mischief, always looking at him, whether she was screaming with glee or cooing with delight. And the other, the raven-haired, cinnamon-skinned one with a magnificent ass that bobbed and arched and shook with pleasure, she had been insatiable. Señora Dionona had not lied. They were worth every cent.

  He paused before fastening his collar. It was still early, not even eight. He could wake the girls and begin again. So what if Montes would have to wait a few hours? As he turned the possibilities over in his thoughts he could feel himself rousing below. He smiled and finished his collar. Then he took a slip of paper from his jacket, wrote a short note, and folded into it a gold coin. The dark girl began to stir. Pepe hurried out of the room before she woke and changed his mind. At the main door he gave the note to Dionona’s huge house man.

  “A deposit, Ramón. Make sure Señora gets it. I want the same two for tonight.”

  “Of course, Señor Ruiz.”

  Pepe looked back at Señora Dionona’s, then stepped smiling into the street. Havana was alive with movement and brilliant color. The sky glowed deep blue against the rising sun and white stucco buildings. The sounds and smells of commerce and the sea drifted up from the harbor. It was wonderful to be in Havana, and wonderful to be Pepe Ruiz, a rare man of singular advantages. He was just twenty-four and very handsome, with curly black hair, brown eyes, a pencil-thin mustache, and a full, brilliant smile that he loved to shine on the ladies. Slim and above average height for the day – above five-eight, maybe five-ten with boots on – Pepe was born into advantage and educated at private schools in Connecticut. He spoke English as well as any highborn Yankee, adequate French, and Spanish like a nobleman. While his inheritance had left him a comfortable estate, he had increased his lot through shrewd business dealings, mostly in the slave trade. He would buy bozales in bulk at the Havana market, anywhere between thirty and sixty at a time. Then he would charter a coastal bark and take the slaves to cities and larger towns across the island where he would sell them for twice or three times what he paid.

  He lit a cigar and walked down the street to the barber. He would get a shave and then go down to the baracoons to meet Montes and see the bozales that Shaw kept bragging about last night.

  Grabeau squatted with his back against the baracoon bars and bit into a large uncooked yam. He chewed it slowly, savoring the sweet juice covering the inside of his mouth.

  “This whiteman’s land is ugly and loud. They are like ants the way they all rush about from place to place. Their city is filled with noise and the smell of horse dung. They treat us like we are less than dogs.” He took another bite, “But I must admit, I do like this fruit they call ‘papas.’”

  Singbe stood next to him. He had already finished his meal – a yam, a banana, half a dried fish, and two cups of water. He stared out of the bars and sighed. The baracoon reminded him of the pens on the Gallinas River. It was a huge oblong cage with wooden bars that rose almost twenty feet from the ground and a mesh of reed serving as a roof. It held only men, at any given time between 1,000 and 1,500 of them, all Africans – the bozales as they were known locally. African women, perhaps as many as 150, were kept in a smaller baracoon off to the left. Landinos – slaves of African descent who were either born on the island or brought there from Africa before 1820 – were relegated to barracks-style warehouses to the left of the women’s baracoon. In front of these structures, a smaller cage had been created for inspection and viewing. In front of that was a raised platform that served as an auction area.

  But unlike the cages in Lomboko, these stood at the center of a city, Havana, and at the convergence point of two great open-air markets. While some of the captives in the baracoons had been provided with burlap loincloths, most remained completely naked. People from all the city’s social divisions would pass by and stop to look at the Africans, pointing, laughing, discussing seriously. Young boys often threw rocks at the cage or spit at the blacks through the bars. Four times a day, a train would slowly pass by, terrifying the Africans. Passengers would lean out the cars to see the men and women fresh from the Dark Continent.

  Singbe and Grabeau had been in Havana for ten days, coming to the city under the cover of night from the outlying jungle. After getting off the ship, the yellow-haired man and other whites waiting on the shore led all the tribesmen through the jungle to a clearing. At the center of the clearing were five rambling dirt-floored shacks, much like long rectangular warehouses, holding the landinos. Next to them were the baracoons. There were barrels of rice and water, and the tribesmen were allowed to eat and drink and talk as much as they wanted each day. Singbe met other Mendemen he knew who had been held in a different part of the ship. Many felt better about their situation. They were still slaves wearing shackles and guarded by whitemen with guns, but their stomachs were full and the whitemen encouraged them to walk and exercise in the clearing during the daylight hours. Perhaps, some of the tribesmen said, the whites of this land were not as bad as the whites of the ship.

  The yellow-haired man stayed among them for only a day. He returned a week later at night and led them all out of the jungle to the city’s gates. They were allowed to pass into the city just after dawn. They were herded into the baracoon where the shackles were removed, leaving just the manacles as bracelets around the ankles and wrists. Some recognized faces among the others who were already there. Many were elated just to be without the chains and began turning somersaults, back flips, and other gymnastics commonly performed at tribal festivals and celebrations.

  Singbe’s feet had healed. His body felt strong and whole again. He ached to tear the manacles from his body and to run free. He spent the days thinking of Stefa and his children and trying to keep the demons from his mind.

  He also wondered how they were going to get back to Mende. It was obvious they needed a ship, but he could no longer see the ocean, although he could smell it on the breeze each morning. He talked to the other tribesmen in the pen with him, but not many h
ad any interest in his ideas of rebelling against the whitemen. Most thought it was madness to attempt such a thing in this city of whites. Besides, they could not get out of the pen except through the door, which was locked with chains and guarded by whites with guns.

  “It is not so bad,” said one Mende tribesman, Be-li, a few days after they were put in the baracoon. “True, we are slaves, and that is a sorry lot. But we are well fed and treated fine as long as we do as they say. And perhaps they will not keep us forever, but only for a few years, as the Timmani do with their slaves.”

  Singbe did not care for such senseless talk or compromising sentiments. He had never owned a slave, nor would he serve as slave to any man. Besides, Be-li may have his hopes about a short-lived servitude, but Singbe did not believe it. He saw the way the guards would take out selected tribesmen from the baracoon and lock them into the standing stock at the platform. The white men with high hats and fine clothes would poke and prod and slap bodies as if they were appraising goats or cattle for trade. Slaves to the whitemen were livestock, and Singbe was fairly sure that this arrangement remained until the slave died, escaped, or killed his master. Those were the fates that Singbe had resigned himself to. He would try to flee, try and find a way back to Mende, to Stefa, their children, and his father. He would kill his master or the yellow-haired man, or anyone else who would try to stop him. And he had decided he would rather be killed trying to escape than work as a slave. Sooner or later they will let him out of this cage and put him to work. When they did, that’s when he would make his attempt.

  Grabeau had finished his potato. He let out a growling belch and looked up at Singbe.

  “How goes sowing the seeds of insurrection among these tribesmen?”

  Singbe sighed and pressed his face against the bars.

  “There are a few, but not enough. Very few even have interest in talking of the subject. I hear the same replies. Many say it is madness. I tell them being a slave to the whiteman or any man is just as much madness. They laugh at me. Their bellies are full and they are afraid.”

  “And you are not?”

  “No. I am terrified. I am terrified that I will be a slave, that I will never see my wife and children and my father ever again. I am terrified that I am trapped in this twisted whiteman’s land and will die here.”

  Singbe turned his eyes back out through the bars and watched the citizens of Havana pass by. They wore fine, elaborate clothes of all colors and patterns. Many of the white women had red paint on their lips and cheeks and wore ruffled hats with broad brims or bright wraps that covered most of their hair. The men wore polished boots like those of the yellow-haired man, and wide, fat hats in shades of black, brown, and gray. They all talked and laughed and walked by on their way to the market or their businesses or homes. The morning sun was about halfway up in the sky. Already, the temperature had risen to near ninety.

  “Did you ever face a leopard during a hunt?”

  Grabeau laughed. “No. I have killed boar and antelope, as well as many of the small animals. But I have never been on a leopard hunt.”

  “I came upon a leopard once in the bush, a big male with a large terrible head. I was as far from him as I am from you now. And I was alone,” Singbe said.

  “Tell me of how this happened, and of how it is that you are still alive after such a meeting.”

  “It was more than half my life ago. Twelve, no, now it is thirteen, thirteen harvests past. It was my first hunt after my passage to manhood and induction into Poro, the society of men. I was with my father and his brothers and father. We had been in the wilds for three days hunting boar, but all we had killed were rats. Eight of them. I was sick of rat, I tell you. There was no honor in killing such small creatures. And besides, they tasted like sand.

  “Each night we would hear the voices of leopards and lions and elephants through the sounds of the bush. Every once in a while, a howl would come from close by, making my heart jump. I was a man now and had to remind myself to think as a man, to not be afraid like a boy. But inside I still held much of a boy’s fears, especially of the leopard. I do not know why the leopard scared me more than lions or wild boar or panthers. But in my dreams I would see him come for me over and over again, and rip me apart with his huge claws and teeth.

  “After the third night, my grandfather took me aside and told me he had heard me cry out the leopard’s name in my sleep. I became very upset. I told him I have dishonored the trial of manhood and Poro. I must not be worthy of being a man because I still carried a deep inner fear of the leopard. My grandfather laughed hard and put his arm around me. He told me there was nothing wrong with fearing the leopard, that it was indeed a great and terrifying animal. All men have such fears, he said, not just of leopards, but of many things. But what makes the difference between a man and one whose body has simply grown into a man’s frame is that a man knows his fear and feels it, but he does not let it control him. Instead he meets the subject of his fright face-to-face, eye-to-eye. He may feel dread terror run through his veins, but he does not give himself in to it. He holds his ground, confronts the fear, and takes the proper action, whatever that may be. It was wise advice, but I still felt the terror, hiding in my chest, gnawing at my heart.

  “The next day, in the hour when the long shadows of the day draw the sun down from the sky, I found myself face-to-face with my fear, although I tell you, I had not planned it that way. I had been tracking a boar with my father. I was very excited because I love the taste of boar meat, but I also knew him to be a dangerous opponent. My father had gone in one direction and I in the other. We hoped to approach the animal from either side and drive him into our hunting companions. I had only been on a few hunts and had little experience tracking boar. My eyes and mind were focused on the ground, looking for signs of the animal’s trail. I do not know how long I stalked him, but I remember taking a step and stopping suddenly with the feeling that everything around me had changed. Exactly what it was that was different I could not say. It was as if the air had turned raw and sharp, the bush more wild and dark. And then I heard it – a low, rolling growl. I looked up slowly. There, on a fallen tree, less than three paces in front of me, was a tremendous leopard. Between his paws he held the lifeless body of the boar we had been tracking. Deep jagged claw marks stretched down the boar’s hindquarters. There was a huge hole in his neck and blood covered the leopard’s mouth.

  “I do not know how it was that I had been able to walk up so close to the leopard. Perhaps my scent and sounds had been lost in the smell of the boar’s blood and the leopard’s own feasting. Whatever the reason, there I was. And I knew the great beast could leap at me and tear out my heart in a breath. Already he was rising above the boar and growling louder. I had only my knife and the small spear I had crafted just ten days before. I was so gripped with fright I could not move or breathe.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My instinct was to run and pray the beast did not give chase. Because he would want to protect his prey, it was a good bet he might not follow a skinny scared-to-shit young Mendeman. At least that was my thought. And running may have been the smartest thing to do. I had no bow or arrows. I would have to stab the leopard in the heart with my spear to kill it. That is, if I could pierce its heart. And even then, the leopard would not die right away. It would fight and claw to its death, and probably kill me in the process.”

  “So you ran?”

  “I did not. At first it was because I could not. I was so afraid, my legs had turned to stone. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get them to move. The blood surged in my body and beat loudly in my ears and head. I knew the leopard could smell my fear, and that it would whet his appetite to kill again. At that point I was sure I would die. But somewhere in all of that, I suddenly heard my grandfather’s voice, his words from the past night. And I thought, if I must die, I will not die a boy. I will be a man. And I felt my right hand with the spear rise, my left slowly drawing the knife. My feet, still hea
vy with terror, shifted slightly toward the leopard. If he moved, I would drive my spear and knife into his heart. At least, this was my plan.

  “The leopard let out a throaty roar. I screamed my war cry with all my lungs and drew back the spear. The leopard arched his back and crouched. Then he took the boar in his great jaws and slowly backed off the tree. He disappeared into the bush, growling loudly all the way.”

  Grabeau smiled. He stood and put his arm on Singbe’s shoulder. “Singbe, you are as much a man as any I have met. But here in this land of the whiteman the leopards are everywhere, and they have guns. We have no way out of this cage and no boat to leave this land. And even if we did acquire a boat, I am not sure we could ever find our way back to Mende. We are in a world of shit, my friend. A rebellion here and now would not get us home, it would not get you back to your beloved family. It would just get us killed.”

  Singbe shook his head. “I will be dead before I am a slave.”

  A familiar face outside the baracoon caught Grabeau’s eye. He spit on the ground and nodded.

  “We are slaves, my friend.”

  Singbe followed Grabeau’s glare. It was the yellow-haired man.

  “Señor Ruiz, Señor Montes, I own ninety per cent of the blacks in this baracoon. Two thirds of them are just off the boat from Africa two weeks ago.”

  Pepe stood with Pedro Montes. Nearly six feet tall and deeply weathered, Montes had been a minor partner with Pepe on several ventures over the last two years, although today he was acting as his own agent. Montes was twice Pepe’s age and had dark brown eyes, thinning salt and pepper hair, and a thick, brushy mustache that reached down nearly to his chin. His skin was dark and leathery, marked from over thirty years as a seaman. He had captained coastal schooners, running cargo through the waters off Cuba and to the outlying islands. But he retired ten years ago for the more lucrative and less backbreaking trade of slave broker. Most of his dealings came on order rather than through the type of speculative buying that Pepe did. Of course he dealt in landinos and emancipados, but it was the African blacks, the bozales, who brought the big profits. And that’s what he was looking for today.