Middle Passage (17 page)

“This morning you said you'd set them free!”

He thought for a moment, his left hand bandaged, I saw then, a bloody mess where the dogs had torn away three of his fingers. “As I said, the decision isn't mine.”

I followed him to the forecastle. Then I heard first the low voices of men whispering, then loud ones in disagreement, and soon two lanterns blinked as someone moved across the room. Ngonyama stepped to one side, bidding me enter first. Stepping inside, placing my hand over one eyeball—as children do—I peered past the door rail to see what was inside, and when I saw what
was
inside I moaned. Everything was in ruin. Sea chests had been smashed open. Cabinets overturned. Inside, Cringle was seated amidst this debris on a straight-backed chair close to the east wall, with hieroglyphs of lamplight dancing on his scarred forehead. He bled from a gash that trenched open skin by his nose then deepened and disappeared into his hairline. His head drooped. His hands, I noticed, were bound with luff rope, his ankles with shreds from his waistcoat. His bare chest was crosshatched with scars. And, no. He was not alone. I saw three Allmuseri sitting on the benches; I recognized two more named Babo and Francesco passing a bottle of the skipper's best bellywash, and still another called Atufal, a big man who had an iron collar around his neck and stood behind the mate arguing—if my hasty translation could be trusted—for them to toss him over the side.

My entrance stopped all conversation. I stepped forward and came as close as I durst from the doorway.

“All
the way in—
njoo hapa.”
Ngonyama smiled two rows of black-veined teeth. “No one will hurt you here, Rutherford. These men are your brothers.”
How I wished I could believe him! Cringle tried to speak, but the one called Atufal seized his hair, yanking back his head. The strands stood out like stalks. His throat was bared. Against this white stalk the little black named Babo placed an English handsaw. Atufal said again that the mate should be killed. Ngonyama listened. He began to pace, and prime a horse pistol. The others tossed Cringle's life back and forth among them, some grumbling aye—
yebo
in Allmuseri—to his execution, then making a clean slate of the crew; some like Ngonyama saying
la
, or nay. Contrary to what I'd expected, they were in no mood to celebrate their victory. They were too tired and frightened for that, as well they should be. This battered rag-wagon was home until they found land. And what then? A firing squad, most likely. Whether they put to in Bangalang, or Louisiana, or any New World port, they would be cut down like wheat. No Yankee court would free them. They were still chattel, according to white men's law. Ngonyama, who was nobody's fool, knew this to be fact. He wanted the killing to end. They were not free men yet, he told the others, only free of the stinking hold. Gently he pulled me toward a chair. “You must help us,” he began. “There is so much to unravel. . .”

My fingertips on the seat, I sat lightly, tipped forward and ready to spring, for still I did not trust him. Yes, I was black, as they were, but they had a common bond I could but marvel at. The little black Babo, who had always seemed so servile before, sat sharpening a hatchet with cloth and stone, a strip of some sailor's coat bandaging half his head so that only one eye was uncovered. The other, Atufal, whom Falcon often shackled to the ringbolts on deck, had gone kill-crazy during the mutiny, shooting and stabbing our sailors and his own tribesmen as well, striking down in his
fear anything that moved toward him. He'd taken a musket ball in his left shank, which was mangled, white bone visible through the black flesh of his thigh, but still he seemed more pleased than pained. All of them were injured and exhausted, but transfigured by their victory. Was it my victory as well? Or was Ngonyama only saving my life for some scheme? “Start with Falcon,” I said. “What have you done with the skipper?”

Ngonyama bit down his lip and walked to a window, righting overturned chairs as he went. He kept his back to me. “Nacta is guarding him in his cabin. Don't plead for
him,
Rutherford.” His shoulders drew in. “It would be a sin to let him live. He is responsible for every death on board.”

“That's a lie!” flashed Cringle. “ 'Twas
he
set them free during the fight. I saw him! We were exhausted, some of us sick, and that one”—he flicked his head at Babo—“killed Daniels, who had keys to their leg-irons, and let the others loose. They clubbed us with the wood we gave them for pillows and tossed the dead like Tommy into the sea. And he—”

Atufal's hand stifled the rest. Babo placed his hatchet down on the mate's neck. He slanted his eyes toward Ngonyama, seeking the sign for them to kill him. Ngonyama shook his head. No. But he was alone in his decision. Three of them I recognized as warriors named Ghofan, Diamelo, and Akim urged Babo to open the mate's throat. And they had reason, good reason, for seeing the last of the
Republic's
officers dead. Akim, a wide, dark-fired man who was short but had the strength of three, squatted on his hams; he made them relive his sister's death five days after we set sail. Ghofan, a black who had been gelded, and then suffered the torture of the brand, pulled his shirt down to show them
how Falcon had burned in the initials
ZS
not once but three times until the impression was as clear as stigmata, or the markings on cattle. Each man had his atrocity to tell. If not brutality to them then a beadroll of humiliations the midshipmen had inflicted upon the women, two of whom had been raped, or on their children, and to this list Diamelo added the small but nonetheless violent assaults on their spirit—parading them naked for bathing before their own children, forcing them to eat by ramming fingers down their throats, answering their wild clawing from the hold with gales of laughter. On and on the charges came, and with each accusation a finger was stabbed toward the mate. Mercifully, he understood none of what they said. He was quietly whispering to himself the Lord's Prayer. Against this evidence of American crimes perpetrated on the Allmuseri, Ngonyama was helpless. His plea for sparing Cringle's life was shouted down. I felt my face kindling. My stomach made a turn. Glaring at Babo, Akim slashed the air with his hand. Therewith, Babo's fingers tightened the blade on Cringle's neck. The mate closed his eyes.

“Wait.” I was on my feet. “Listen to me . . . please!”

Irritably, Babo hung fire.

“You need him,” I said, gathering my wits, sailing close to the wind. “Kill Falcon if you want, but if you kill his helmsman, you'll
never
reach land. Never! None of you can read English maps. Nor keep this ship full and by once she's fixed, provided she
can
be fixed, and only Peter can help you do that. He's the only officer left.”

Cringle spat blood and broken teeth onto the floor. “They'll see hell quicker'n they'll see help from me.”

“Will you
please”
—I ground my teeth—
“shut up!”

“No, you shall hear this! As God is my judge, I'll see every
murderer here brought before a firing squad. Turn your back a second on me,” he said to Ngonyama, “and you shall have a foot of steel in it.”

Ngonyama frowned. “He should not have said that.”

“He
will
help you,” I said. “If he doesn't, I'll drag him to the rail myself.”

Diamelo took a step toward me. He rubbed his finger, very dark, along my face, which was a shade or two lighter than his own. “Do it now.” His voice had a clean monotone like metal. “Prove what you say.” Then to Ngonyama: “On whose side is he? I wouldn't trust this one.” He took the hatchet from Babo and forced it into my hand. “Not until he has broken away from them.”

Four others agreed, chiming in that I was a crewman like the rest, an American, a risk unless I joined them by spilling blood, as criminals like Papa Zeringue demand a crime before you enjoy their protection. After this stiff exchange, the Allmuseri were eager now for
me
to execute Cringle. They waited, their eyes following me minutely as I gripped the hatchet, which felt heavier in my fist than a handspike. Now I had endangered my own neck. Why in heaven's name had I not kept my mouth shut, or choked my luff, as sailors say. If I refused, both Cringle and I would be pitched overboard. A long moment passed. I felt my head going tighter. I drew a deep breath, stepping toward Cringle, the hatchet lifted over my head. How long their silence lasted is impossible to say; I heard only the rasping of wheel ropes. Waters lapping. A ruffling of sails and the stormlike sound of wind. The kerosene lamp burned low in its bracket. Cringle sat motionless, waiting to hear his own head hit the floor. My fingers opened. The hatchet fell.

Diamelo ordered me to pick it up.

“Nay,” said I. “You can kill him, and me too. But without his help, and mine, you'll wander the mid-Atlantic until the ocean swallows you, or some man-of-war heaves to and puts you in irons again.”

Ngonyama considered this. Diamelo did not buy it. There was an eye battle between them for a moment, and the boy won, quietly pleased, I think, that I'd given him a way to end the slaying. “You speak well, Rutherford.” His face sharpened: lean and pointed like a cat's. “I've no doubt you were a good confidence man in New Orleans.”

I had to sit again and squeeze the seat of my chair to hide the shaking of my hands. Ngonyama spoke to his former yokefellows in a voice too fast for me to follow. Reluctantly, they saw the wisdom in releasing Cringle. Still, I was not done. I made bold to say, “Spare the captain until you sight land.”

Ngonyama made a 180-degree turn. “No!”

“He can't escape, you know that! Use him to take us to safety. After that, do with him as you will.”

“You ask us to let him live?”

“Nay,” says I. “I ask you to make him
your
slave.”

That thought stopped Diamelo. I could tell the taste of it intrigued him. “All right, then. As you say, he will serve us, and then we can slay him.” Begrudgingly, Babo followed Diamelo's order to untie Cringle. His other bravos the boy sent outside to see to the wounds of their women and children, and to prepare a sacrifice to ensure their safe passage. In spite of himself, Cringle said, “They'd better steady the booms and yards by guys and braces, and lash everything well down.”

Ngonyama said, “Thank you.”

Then he took me to one side and told me to bring up any
mates who had fled to the storeroom, his face older-looking now, grave, his shoulders giving way to gravity or the crunch of some secret grief he could not share. “Rutherford”—his brow tightened—“I have done as you advised. But, as you see, Diamelo is very strong with the others. You know, in our village I was a poor man, like you, but his father was well-to-do. Diamelo is used to getting his way. I worry less about your captain now than how Diamelo can sway my people.”

Once outside, as we made our way down the ladder to the storeroom, the mate, who was above me, looked down and sneered, “Savages! And silver-tongued ones at that! Was it you who taught him English? You made a mistake there, Calhoun. He'll have you servin' his dinner, and wipin' his arse next, that one, if you listen to him.”

“Maybe . . . but suppose he meant what he said.”

Cringle kicked at me in rage. “Will you wake
up,
boy! Can you take his side after what they did? They were about to kill
you
too, Rutherford, or are you so wet you've forgotten that?”

“I'm not on
anybody's
side! I'm just trying to keep us
alive!
I don't know who's right or wrong on this ship anymore, and I don't much care! All I want is to go
home
!”

“Well”—he backed off a bit—“I'm not snapping at you. I owe you my life. I doubt if anyone would thank you for saving me, certainly not my family, seeing how I've failed them, but I'm grateful none of my sides were knocked off tonight, and I'll do whatever you say, God help me.” He clapped me on the back. “That much I owe you.”

The Allmuseri prepared their ceremony to sanctify the ship, to make it a kind of church, and enlist their gods as guides in our seafaring. Cringle and I canvassed the ship's
storerooms and underbasements, looking for survivors, and to no avail until we descended into a tiny shotlocker full of saltpeter barrels in the lowest cell of the prow. I heard moaning—it was distinctly moaning—from the tiny cubicle, and called Cringle, who squeezed inside with an old Swedish poop lantern, then crawled back out, his free hand leading two figures I had given up as food for the sharks: Baleka, Squibb. Immediately, the girl squeezed me around my waist, both her hands bunching my shirt in the back.

“You're all right, Josiah?”

“Passable, Mr. Cringle. We come down heah soon as the fracas broke out.” He folded his arms across his chest. “The others, I was wonderin'. . . Are they . . .”

“Dead? All but four of us. The Negroes have the ship now. It's their move. The only protection we have from them, I'm sorry to say, is Calhoun.”

I mustered a smile. “Y'all better be nice to me.”

The mate frowned, clambering back up the ladder. We sent Baleka up next, followed by Squibb, but I tarried below for a time, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me, and I noticed spots on my forearm, which I dismissed. Once the wooziness passed, I pulled my sleeve down to my wrist and wearily climbed back into open air.

Thus things stood on the
Republic
for the rest of the day. Come nightfall, the fifteen Allmuseri who had survived the ship's takeover gathered on the starboard side. Their women had fashioned loose, baggy gowns for themselves from old sail. Although they had given better than they got in the fight, many of the men were injured. Six were carried to the ceremony, another five hobbled on crutches cut from top-mast
timber. Baleka pulled the skipper's goat to a hastily built altar inside a red circle they had splashed by the foremast. The sky was full of sea gulls, the sea calm now, shimmering as brightly as a mirror the way it reflected the moon. Cold, light breezes fluttered in the lower sails, so light you needed to wet your finger to feel them. Rags of gray vapor played round the topmost spars. Sitting on a crate beside Squibb and me, the mate shivered and pulled his peacoat close around him. He was jumpy from lack of sleep, his face ashen. “Mark my words, all of you. We're going to need that animal in a few days.” Out of tobacco now, he sucked his pipe, which made a gurgling sound from spittle backed into the steam. “The storerooms are flooded. There's nothing left to
eat”
. He grinned sourly, then coughed. “Unless we're ready to start eating each other.”