Amistad Page 5

  “Do you have any children?” Montes asked. “I need three girls and a boy for a client in Puerto Principe.”

  “Certainly. How old?”

  “Between seven and twelve years.”

  “Let us go to the low barracks on the left.”

  “In a minute, Shaw,” Pepe said, stepping closer to the baracoon. “First I want to take a look at some of these men.”

  “If Señor Montes has no objections, my assistant can show him the children. Manuel.”

  Montes and Shaw’s man walked over to the small warehouses. Pepe pointed at the baracoon with his walking stick.

  “That one. And those two. Are they yours?”

  “Of course, of course. Almost all of them are mine. And, if you happen to select a black among this lot that is not mine, I can guarantee you we could find a comparable if not superior specimen from my own stock.”

  “What about that one over to the left? The one staring at us from just behind the bars.”

  “Ah, Señor Ruiz, your eye for the merchandise is, as always, excellent. That is a most spirited blackman, I can assure you. In fact I had personal dealings with him on the voyage over.”

  “Let me see him up close. Him and those three over there.”

  “Certainly.”

  Shaw walked over to the gatekeeper and pointed to the men he wanted. The gatekeeper grabbed some metal collars and, backed by five of his own heavily armed men, unlocked the door and walked into the baracoon. The noise and talking among the tribesmen stopped. They all stood still and watched the whitemen. Guards at the bars and in platforms above the baracoon leveled their muskets, hammers cocked.

  “Those two there, Luis,” Shaw yelled. “That one on the other side. And the taller one over here near the bars.”

  The men used the long sticks with ropes at the end, tightening the nooses around the necks of the tribesmen. Two men held muskets at their heads while manacles were put on the wrists and ankles. The tribesmen made no move to resist. They were led out and locked into the stocks on the platform.

  “Be careful with that next one, Luis. He might struggle. I want no damage or accidents.”

  “Si, Señor Shaw.”

  Shaw turned to Pepe.

  “Last week one of the bucks made a fuss when they came in to get him. One of Luis’s lads got itchy and pulled a trigger. Splattered brains and blood everywhere.”

  “Damned shameful waste of property.”

  “Worse so because he was one of mine.”

  They both laughed and watched as the men approached Singbe. Singbe did not resist the rope, but neither did he volunteer to walk when the man had set the manacles and pulled at the stick; that is, not until the other man coolly placed the musket barrel against his skull. Singbe looked at him defiantly and then shuffled his way toward the stock. Pepe walked up the platform with Shaw.

  “They are all fine choices, Señor Ruiz. Excellent for the fields and for breeding. Get some of that spirited African blood into your lazy, domesticated landino stock.”

  Pepe began inspecting the tribesmen. They were locked in standing upright and unable to move. He slapped legs and felt arms and shoulders. He ran his hands across their skin looking for whip marks that had been covered with tar. He looked closely at their eyes for signs of jaundice or scurvy, and checked heads for lice. When he got to Singbe, he went around behind and grabbed the muscles of his back and buttocks. He slapped both legs hard with the palm of his hand. Then he walked around front and pried open Singbe’s mouth to look at the teeth. Singbe made no sound or move, until Pepe took a step back. Then he spit.

  “Bastard!” Pepe slapped his glove into Singbe’s face. “Did you see that, Shaw? That black fucking bastard almost hit me with that.”

  Pepe pulled back his hand so he could hit Singbe full on. Shaw caught it and held him at the wrist.

  “A spirited buck, isn’t he, Señor? Although he’s nothing a seasoned overseer can’t teach to fetch and heel. Or perhaps you will do so yourself, when he is yours. However, until then, I can’t have you damaging my stock. Besides, like you said, ‘almost,’ yes?”

  Pepe glared at Shaw and then dropped his hand. “Fine. Mark them. All of them. I’ll take them all.”

  Luis put a dash of white paint on the shoulder of each tribesman on the platform and a similar dash on the iron collars around their necks.

  “Certainly this won’t be all of your purchases, Señor Ruiz?”

  “Certainly, it won’t, Señor Shaw. I’m looking to buy quite a few of these niggers. Provided the price is right.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we will be able to do business. Come, show me your other choices.”

  Pepe spent the rest of the morning having Shaw’s men parade tribesmen out into the stocks and inspecting them. Some he liked, others were sent back into the pen unmarked. By noon he had selected those he wanted. Forty-nine in all. Montes had found his four children, too. Loose iron collars were fitted around all of the slaves’ necks. Pepe, Montes, and Shaw would meet after the siesta and haggle prices. Then Pepe would pay a visit to the customs officer and provide a “donation” for trespassos – papers certifying the Africans were in fact landinos legal for transport and sale.

  It was almost night. Singbe had rubbed the white spot on his shoulder with dirt and water until most of it had come off.

  Grabeau had watched, not speaking. He tugged at the collar around his neck and gestured at it. “Now wash this one off.”

  “Grabeau. Always the comedian.”

  Grabeau smiled. “Well, at least we have the same slave master, unless he trades us again.”

  “He must. He had tens of tribesmen marked with the white paint. No man owns so many slaves.”

  Grabeau spit and pointed out toward the others in the baracoon.

  “The yellow-haired man does. He owns all in this pen, I think.”

  “True. But he sells us. He is a merchant.”

  “So now what happens?”

  “They will take us like they took the others. In a wagon, or walking, but to where …?”

  They sat silently, watching dark clouds roll in from the harbor to cover the sun setting in the west. A light rain began. About two hours later, the guard opened the gate, his men carrying guns and torches. The tribesmen with collars around their necks were singled out and made to stand in line. A man threaded a length of chain through the ring in the front of the neck collars, locking it at the first and last man. They were marched out of the baracoon and down the street. The four small children, also fitted with collars and chains, followed behind the caravan.

  They walked out of the city and back through the jungle. After about an hour of walking, Singbe felt the mud give way to a more grainy soil. The air, floating through the rain on a light breeze, began to smell different than the air in the jungle or the town. They walked up a small hill and down into a clearing. Singbe could hear the soft roar of waves.

  “Grabeau, up ahead.”

  “I see. I see. But we are in chains.”

  Singbe stared at the long black schooner sitting at the edge of a narrow dock. “Not for long, my friend,” he said.

  Shaw placed the gold in his safe, closed the door, and took a long drink out of his glass. Pepe Ruiz was a good businessman, he would give him that. He had bought all forty-nine of the blacks for $450 a head, about $10 a head cheaper than Shaw thought he would sell them for. He had paid Pedro Blanco $100 a head in Africa, and it cost nearly $30 each to transport them to Cuba, not to mention that nearly a third of those were lost. He had brought the ears back with the manifest as proof, but the insurance would only pay 15 per cent, if they paid at all. Still, everything accounted for, he had made a nice profit this afternoon. And he had two other men, a Brazilian and an American, coming to look tomorrow. Business was good. Despite the losses of the voyage, this would be his most lucrative venture yet.

  Shaw finished the cognac and refilled the glass. A nice little buzz had begun in his head. He would give it a bit of a boost and
then head out. He was to meet one of the city’s great merchants, the Frenchman Didreau. Shaw thought it was time to diversify into other areas – precious metals, sugar, fabrics. Didreau had connections in Europe and America. Perhaps, Shaw thought, it may even be time to go back to America. For a moment the sounds and flavors of New Orleans drifted through his mind. Yes, perhaps. But for now it would be dinner, a good meal, and then a trip to a salon. He was considering Señora Dionona’s. He had been there the night before and actually preferred a few other houses over it, but Pepe had spoken of a pair who he said were quite talented.

  Stepping outside into the rain, he thought briefly of sending a boy for his carriage, but then decided to walk. It was not raining that hard and the restaurant was just around the corner. But after? Yes, after he would want the carriage. He would send for it while he was eating. He pulled his collar up against the rain and gripped his walking stick tightly. The cobblestones glistened in the pale lamplight outside his office.

  He was nearly to the corner when he heard his name called from behind. Before he could turn around, a kick to the back of the legs dropped him to his knees. The walking stick flew from his hands. A sharp blow to the head sent him facedown into the street. He reached for the small revolver he kept in his jacket and tried to stand at the same time. A kick to the ribs stopped both. A strike to his hand knocked the gun loose. Two huge hands grabbed his coat, pulled it down around his arms and threw him back into an alley. He landed face first in the mud.

  “Remember me, you fucking American pig?”

  The voice spoke in Portuguese. Shaw looked up through the blood and mud in his eyes. He could see a large figure of a man, but nothing else. It was too dark. A boot flew up out of the blackness and hit him flush on the chin, knocking him over onto his back. Shaw felt two teeth break off in his mouth. His jaw was numb. He tried to stand but another sharp blow sent him back to the mud. The strength seeped from his body, his consciousness was slipping away. His hands fumbled weakly, seeking any kind of assistance. The left tugged hopelessly at one of his own boots, the right grabbed clods of mud in search of a hold. Another kick hit him square in the ribs with a cracking sound. The figure stepped up closer.

  “I want you to remember me, Shaw. Before I kill you.”

  A hand reached down and pulled Shaw up by the hair. A glint of steel sparked in the rain. Shaw felt a cold, sharp blade pressing against his throat.

  “Do you remember? Pig?”

  Shaw’s left hand had found what it was looking for in his boot. He swung his arm up and drove his own knife deep up into the center of the figure. The man let out a loud, high-pitched animal scream. He dropped the blade at Shaw’s throat and let go of his hair. Shaw shook and twisted his knife inside the man, turning and thrusting it in every direction. Hot blood sprayed into Shaw’s face and ran down his arm. The man fell on top of him, twitching and writhing. Shaw reached down and drew his knife deeply across the man’s throat. The body heaved and turned in a violent gasping gurgle. It rolled forward and then stopped, dead, on Shaw’s legs.

  Shaw fell back in the mud, still clutching the knife, exhausted and aching everywhere. He turned his bead to the side and spit out some of the blood that had filled his mouth. After a few minutes he was able to raise his legs, kick the body off. He found his walking stick and pulled himself up. Fifteen minutes later he was back in his office, bruised and bloody. He called a boy to send for his surgeon. Cracked ribs, a broken jaw, and four broken teeth. It would be months before he would heal.

  The next morning a body was found in the alley – throat slashed and testicles stuffed in the mouth. It took several days before someone made the identification – a mulatto Portuguese sailor named Paolo Cotidiano.

  Amistad

  “Singbe? Singbe?”

  “He is not here. We do not know … We are not sure …”

  “He is dead. Singbe is dead.”

  The words shocked Singbe out of his sleep. His body jerked forward trying to sit up, but the chain at his neck slapped his head back down onto the wooden platform. He blinked his eyes but it was all black. For a moment he thought perhaps he was dead. But then the heavy salt breath of the sea and the stink of the hold drifted up into his mind, assuring him that he was still very much alive.

  Singbe closed his eyes and watched again the images of his dream – his father walking into his hut calling his name, and Stefa, standing with the man from the other dreams, trying to answer. The man answered for her, saying Singbe is dead. A shiver ran through Singbe’s body as the images of the dream danced in his mind. He tried to sit up again, pushing against the chain. It yielded only a few inches and then froze. Singbe let out a great sigh and gently dropped his back onto the platform.

  “I need to go! These chains. This ship. This place. I need to go from it all!”

  “Shut-up,” someone muttered sleepily in the darkness. “Shut up and sleep.”

  The ship was called Amistad, which means “friendship” in Spanish. A sleek, black-hulled, two-masted schooner, it was built and fitted in Baltimore, Maryland, specifically for coastal slave transport. Ruiz and Montes had chartered the ship for the four-and-a-half day voyage to Puerto Principe. Montes’s slaves were already sold. Ruiz planned to sell his to owners of sugarcane plantations. The fine male bozales fresh from Africa would bring as much as $1,000 a head; this in a day when the average working man made about $7 a week.

  The Amistad was captained by Ramón Ferrer, a local sailor who had been running slaves and other cargo around Cuba and the outlying islands for nearly twenty years. The small crew – two sailors, Juan Escondo and Pablo Evangelista, a mulatto cook named Celestino, and Ferrer’s slave cabin boy, Antonio – was typical for coastal hauling. Montes had captained coastal slave packets himself for many years and knew Ferrer well. The captain and men were experienced in the handling of slaves and the risks involved with carrying bozales. British cruisers patrolled the waters, and though the dealers held trespassos for their slaves, a boarding British officer would know enough to question some of the slaves. If it was discovered that they didn’t speak Spanish, the slaves would immediately be declared contraband. Slaves, cargo, and ship would be seized, and the captain arrested.

  Amistad left the small harbor near Havana on the night of June 28. The weather was hot and very humid, even on the open sea. So much so, in fact, that the captain had his mattress dragged up onto the raised deck in the stern where he could sleep under the ocean breezes.

  The slaves were kept in the main hold, chained and lying down on slightly inclined platforms that ran down both sides of the hull. The platforms had a two-inch lip on the low side near the aisle, along with a gutter. The lip gave the slaves something to brace their feet against in rough seas. The slight incline also offered somewhat of an escape for human waste; the wooden gutter caught it, making it easier for the crew to clean. Each long line of slaves was held together by a single chain that ran through the neck collars and was locked to a ring in the wall. The ankles were also fastened to the wooden platform lip with a large bolt. Because of this configuration, trying to move more than just a few inches to either side was uncomfortable if not impossible. The heavy stink of the main hold, which would not be cleaned out until after the ship put into port, and the heat and humidity of late June, made lying on the platforms even more unbearable. Along with the fifty-three slaves – which were listed by the names they had been given on the trespassos – the ship’s manifest also held $40,000 worth of cargo that included two crates of caning machetes, thirty bolts of fine fabric, ten trunks of finished men’s clothes, five kegs of dried beef, a crate of medicines for the doctor in Puerto Principe, and $2,500 in gold coins.

  Though Ruiz and Montes preferred to keep the slaves locked down for the whole trip, both men knew it was important to get the Africans some exercise each day. Without it, restlessness could set in. Slaves had been known to hurt themselves or other slaves in such a state. Besides, if the slaves were stiff and tired after a four-day tri
p, Ruiz would have to keep them off the market for a few days while they recovered. That meant additional food and storage costs. The slave traders decided to bring the slaves out of the hold in shifts of five or six for feeding and light exercise. Montes suggested they restrict their movements to the early morning and late afternoon, making it more difficult for the deck activity to be spotted by the spyglass of a passing British frigate.

  Grabeau was in the first group brought on deck. Squinting through the bright sunlight, he could see two other Mendemen coming out of the hatch, Burnah, a muscular blacksmith who was about twenty-three, and Fakina, the teenage son of a village king. They were followed by Furie, a Timmani farmer in his early twenties, and his father Pi-e; both were captured together in their rice field by rival tribesmen. The neck chains were undone on all the men, leaving only the ankle manacles.

  Pepe took the butt of his musket and lightly pushed it against Burnah’s back. “Walk,” he commanded. “All of you, walk. Get some exercise.”

  The tribesmen took tentative steps. After being locked down in the hold for more than thirty hours, the glare of sunlight stung their eyes. Sore legs, manacles, and the slightly rolling deck made steps and balance uncertain. Pepe tolerated their addled gait and followed slowly behind, crooking the gun in his arms. Even though the sun had only risen an hour or so ago, the heat and humidity were already soaking his clothes with sweat. Montes sat on the foredeck, bare-chested and holding a pistol. One of the sailors, Juan, leaned against a mast with a musket in his hand and stared lazily at the shuffling tribesmen. The other sailor, Pablo, was at the top of the jib mast pounding loudly with a hammer, trying to nail down a loose cleat that held the sail’s tackle. He smacked his thumb twice, dropping a few nails onto the deck.