Chapter XX

When I was away from Daga she lived with an old woman in Daga village; when I returned she came to the small house among the heavy trees. She was slender, quick, with beautiful black eyes and features rather Moorish than Negro. She could sing richly and sweetly, and I loved to hear her sing. She was merciful to small lives about her and would go out of her way to do a kindness. Once I found her passionately crying and learned that she had been down the hill and upon the beach and had watched two hundred men and women driven from the barracoon to the boats of the _Sharon_, a Boston-owned brigantine.

“Do you care, Fanny?”

“Do you think I am devil?”

“So many of you don’t seem to care.”

“How do you know? How do you know? How do you know?”

I did not entirely know, though I thought that I knew it of some. The great trouble in this matter is that we say at once, “They are different!” and so leave ourselves no way of seeing how like they are.

Fanny rose from the ground and went off into the shadow of the tree and I did not again see her cry for the filling or the emptying of the barracoon. Yet she may have done so many a time, or cried in her heart where it could not be seen. Her name was Aja before the factor’s hill at Daga named her Fanny. She might be twenty when I bought her. Three years before, being in a boat with others on a river in her own country, slave hunters set upon them and took all. She received some hurt and when at last after long travel and change from hand to hand she came to Daga, it was seen that the factor would reject her. There were always a certain number thrown back upon the hunters’ and traders’ hands. These were sold for little or nothing where they might be, or if no one wanted them and they could not even travel if they were set free, then they were taken into the bush and quietly killed. So it might have been with Fanny, had not Markham the surgeon observed her and thought he could cure her, and undoubtedly felt compassion. In this trade, vast through time and space, over and over again occur individual emotions and acts of compassion. But they do not stop the trade. Markham bought her for a trifle from the trader, put her in Daga village with old Bembe and in a year she was as strong as a young palm tree. Markham left her in the village where she cooked and wove with Bembe, but not long afterwards, taking the fever and believing that he would die, sold her for her own protection to the factor. He might have freed her, but at Daga she would have been little better off for that. He stipulated good treatment and that she should not depart Africa against her will. I bought her on the same terms from the factor my second time at Daga.

She was a young, barbarian woman, comely, clean, at times affectionate, at times deeply sullen. She had a quick apprehension, a kind of deep tact. There was much in her that I never fathomed, much that I fathomed only afterwards. Each time I came to Daga I found her at the small house.

So it was all around me. Only Bartram, when he came to Daga, paid no visit to Daga village, or to a further village in the bush, or to Oil Palm village up the river; took no woman from one or all of these or from the barracoon. Upon the slave ships, the anchor weighed, any and all intercourse in this sort was straitly forbidden. Between Africa and America, on the broad blue sea, by written and unwritten law, the women of the cargo were cargo only. But in Africa, with Spaniard and Portuguese and French and American and Briton far from home, it was otherwise.

Once, twice, thrice, four times, five times. I saw from the blue Atlantic below the Line the foaming bar, the gleaming beach, the palms, the castle and the flag that I had twice seen with an inner eye before ever I saw the _Janet_.--Daga met that which was evil in me, and the two intertwined. There was a side of me that cohered with Rathbone Lace.

I seemed to rush forth to myself in Africa and to cry “Hail fellow, well met!” I laughed and I caroused, but I was not happy. Markham, that dour and acid man, once told me as much. “Unhappy--I seem to recognize in you an unhappy man. I’m not myself a happy man and like knows like.”

“For why?”

“For why aren’t we happy men? Ah, that’s a question that goes far back on the road!”

We were seated at sunset on his verandah. I was waiting for the boat from the _Janet_. In the east hung a great moon. “You do not see me carol and bubble with joy,” said Markham. “I do not feel joy and years ago I gave up the empty carolling and bubbling. But you still whistle and joke and stride along, outfacing yourself.”

“Outfacing myself?”

“I suppose so,” said Markham wearily. “Yourself or Justice or Something.”

I sat with my eyes upon the round and golden moon. Presently I said, “Markham, have you ever known any one improve in this trade?”

He considered. “No, I am fair to say I haven’t.”

I thought to myself, “Even Bartram, McNaughton, Colley and David Scott. Even Bartram, McNaughton, Colley and David Scott.”

He had been smoking. Now he laid down his pipe and locked his long, thin, parchment-hued hands. “It is not only this trade--this trade is just a part of it. It is not only African slavery--African slavery is just a part of it. There is something that is needed, for and in you and me and others. I don’t know what it is; it is, perhaps, something like light and something like a command. I can see that they ought to come to me, but they don’t come to me. Maybe they will to you, maybe not. I only know that to lack them is to know hunger and thirst and nighttime and purposelessness. I have that knowledge of myself that I am an unhappy man, and I have the like knowledge of you. That is all.--There is the boat.”

The moon shone upon us so, the boat was picked out by it so, the fifth time at Daga. The _Janet_ would presently be sailing with a fine lot of Coromantins, Mandingoes, Fullahs, Ashantis, Whidahs, Eboes and Dualas. The cargo delivered at Kingston, she was for home, for England. It might be a year and more before she came again to Daga. And as yet I did not know if I should go with her to Bristol, or if I should stop in Jamaica. And if I did the latter I was not sure--I might never again come upon the slave ship--not, that is, to sail with her and be part of her. It might be true farewell to Daga.

There was Fanny. I spoke to Bartram. “She is mine--I am fond of her. If I should stay in Jamaica, I could keep her there. I do not want to leave her here where any and everything can happen. Does it matter to you if I carry her with me to Jamaica?”

“That’s against the rules, David. I might have McNaughton or Colley or any one speaking for such a permission. It’s been over and over proven that it does not do.”

“I know it’s a general rule,” I answered, and proceeded to argue for an exception, showing how it could be managed and she be reckoned both with and not with the _Janet’s_ lading. He listened, pondering, and at last, though with distaste, he agreed that I might take with me my slave. There would have been no difficulty had I been willing for her to be shipped simply with and like the five hundred, no difference made from Daga to Kingston, and only there, in the unlading, pointed out as my property. But I was not willing; I had rather leave her at Daga.

He agreed, but when he had done so and we had turned toward the factor’s hill--we had been walking upon the beach--he stood still and looked at the _Janet_. “Something came athwart me then, David!--Did you ever think how the stars are always there, behind the day?”

Eight days later we sailed.

Fanny made no objection to going to Jamaica. When I told her what I thought of and why, she looked at the sea and at the palms and to the northwest where, far away, was her country, then squarely at Daga castle and barracoon. She waved her hand. “I go like them?”

“No, more comfortably, Fanny.” I described how it would be, and that the sea was only six to eight weeks wide, and then I spoke a little of Jamaica, where was sea and white beaches and mountains, and trees and weather much like trees and weather here and where were great numbers of her people. “Those that have gone away in the ships. Mandingoes and Fullahs and others.”

“I think that a lie. All of us think that a lie. Why do you never bring any of them back? They say in my country white men’s ships all go to a place where they sacrifice dark men and women to their gods. White men have just one god, and he says, ‘Give me dark men that I may eat them! More dark people, and more and more!’”

As she looked at me with large eyes, her years at Daga where she heard all manner of other statement than this appeared to roll from her. She was back in her old village, in the forest where it touched the desert, a young barbarian, believing all things so that they were fearful enough. Her eyes widened, she shivered, her hands went up, palm out. I laughed at her and took pains to tell her many things that might alter her opinion. At last she laughed too, and an hour later I heard her singing over her work. But if her mind altered or not--or if it altered and acceded only to alter again and hold to the forest opinion--I do not know.--Or rather I _do_ know. I know that it did.

When I bade Rathbone Lace farewell, he said, “Come back--come back next year, David Scott! I’ll miss you to-morrow, going up to Oil Palm village--the rum in the boat and you not there! Good-by and Good Luck!”

Bartram heard him. I caught his muttered, “It’s a strange, sad thing, I’m thinking, Rathbone my man, your full definition of Good Luck!”

The _Janet_ sailed. Slave ships sail at night, so that all the slaves may be below. If they are above hatches they grow frantic, seeing the African shore stand back from them. So many may be trusted to leap overboard.

At sunset our five hundred were induced, urged, thrust, beaten, naked and the men shackled, down upon the slave deck, where they must lie rubbing sides, the feet of one row touching the heads of another, and above small space of heavy darkness between them and the platforms on which others lay, or between the platforms and the deck. Began the continuous sound of the night coming up through the gratings, and presently the reek. It is hot, hot, in Daga harbor, before the wings unfold, before one beats out from the shadow of the land. The multitude below hear the seamen’s running feet, the making of sails and weighing of anchor, the shouts they do not understand. The swell rocks the ship; sickness seizes them who have never been to sea, many whom, a little while ago, had never seen the sea. They do not know where they are going or to what fate, except that if it is in the middle and in the end as it is in the beginning, it must be terrible. Their prison becomes a cavern of mere terror and pain and misery. Night passes, that is as long as a year. Gray light filters down. White men appear at the gratings, the gratings are opened.

“Out with you now!--Nearest first--So!”

They come thick up upon deck between poop and forecastle. Overhead are the spread sails, around is the empty blue sea, astern are distant mountains that may be Africa.--Even then there will be attempts to leave the ship.

One first night and morn from land are much the same as another. So with this time on the _Janet_. The only woman who did not fare quite as the other women was the girl Aja or Fanny, who was known to belong to me. She wore her cotton dress; at night when the others were herded below, she curled herself upon the deck upon a coil of rope and slept there. But throughout the day she was with them all, men, women and children. They were hardly strangers to her, for they had been collecting for weeks and months into Daga barracoon, and at times parties from Daga village might go to the stockade and watch and talk. The fate was so common all over Africa--one might hear news and see known faces from tribes and villages with which one had acquaintance. Each time the traders brought in parties, Fanny went with old Bembe to see if there were Fullahs.

From the poop deck, from time to time, I marked her in the crowded waist, finding her by her scanty white dress among the unclothed forms. She was there all day. The weather was good, the ship sailed steadily. Bartram had followed his wont and standing with the cargo before him had assured it of good treatment, as long as it itself was good, of safety and food and just as much water as could be spared, and of ultimate content in the Island of Jamaica. Colley had made his round and sent two or three into hospital. We kept a store of native drums and castanets and several of these were tossed down to them with the suggestion that dance and song were good for the body and spirit. When I looked that way again, she was dancing. A small space had been cleared; two men, seated on the boards, were beating drums with a rapid, insistent and wild rhythm. Aja, another girl and two or three boys danced. The shackled men, the women, watched absorbed, squatted or standing close together around the cleared floor which must be small, small, in so thronged a hall. Hardly smaller, though, than I have seen in some Highland gatherings. Highland dances mean something, and I thought that this one did also. The boys ceased to dance, the girl stopped, but Aja danced on. She had now a castanet in her hand; the drums and that sounded all the time, continuous as water falling or wind on a roaring day. The noises of approval or indifference ceased; all became quiet. Those who could not see appeared to take the sight from others; all could hear the drums and the castanet. I began to feel a tension and to pick the meaning. The first dancing had been ancient love dancing, mating dancing. This had ended. The woman dancing in the cotton dress was expressing another theme. Bartram came beside me on the poop deck.

“That’s a religious war dance.--Mr. McNaughton!”

“Aye, sir, I understand!” McNaughton went forward.

“David, you’ll tell that wench the eve the kind of dances we’ll have here and no other!”

“I’ll speak to her.”

I did, when the sun was underneath the sea, and the west all a carmine flare, and the five hundred below, and the usual dull sound and stench coming up through the gratings, and the now darkened sails of the _Janet_ flapping like bat wings in a fitful and sunken breeze. I came to her where she was sitting, her knees drawn up and her hands around them, her eyes fastened, not on the flaming west but on the east that we were leaving.

“Fanny!”

“Yaas.”

“Don’t let us have any more dancing like that! All these Coromantin and Mandingo men are to be quieted, not stirred up. You have sense, and you’ve lived long at Daga and understand.--You understand, Fanny?”

“Yaas.--I did not mean to do wrong.”

I left her seated there, not far from a grating. An hour or two later I marked her in her corner, apparently asleep, her arm under her head. As I turned toward my own quarters, I met the boatswain Wheeler whose watch it was. “A hot night, sir! One of those nights for African dreams.”

“African dreams?” I answered. “Just what are they?--But I think I know, boatswain.”

“They’re when you seem a considerable way back upon the road. You’re yourself, but you seem a considerable way back. The road’s familiar--that’s the kind of dread in the dream----”

“Yes, I know them,” I said. “European or Asian or African.--Good night, Wheeler!”

The next day was again a hot and listless day. Only among the Negroes did there seem much life, but there went on jabbering and dancing and singing and a good deal of laughter. It was quite beyond what was usual--but each voyage provided its own difference. Each five hundred that we conveyed struck, so to speak, an altered note, or--despite its being classed as all of a hue--changed in color. It depended in great measure upon the natural leaders within the swarm, but also on the subtle variations within each breast. What seemed evident after the first day and night was that the _Janet_ had not, this passage, the woebegone and listless crowd that sometimes she carried. But all this day the drumming and singing and movement, in so far as there was room for movement, remained cheerful. From the morning on, Fanny was with and of it. I remember thinking, “It’s a good part she’s playing--to help them on so.”

So light was the wind that three nights out from Africa the mountains, faint and blue, yet kept the eastern sky. It was hot, the ship foul to the nostril; again to my sense, and this time to Colley’s also, was a haze, a smoke, a cloud about her of what she was. All sound above man height was fallen to a droning and a flapping. All Negroes save Tom and Don in the cook’s galley, and Fanny, stretched motionless in her appointed nook, were under the gratings. No more complaint than was usual came up through these. Rather less than usual. I heard McNaughton say, “We’ve got a quiet, jolly lot this making--just a wheen too jolly maybe----”

The strong watch was set. McNaughton himself had the decks to-night. In the forecastle Dory was playing the fiddle--an old jig called Money Musk. This ended, those who could sleep slept. Bartram went his rounds with his long padding step like an old lion, then retired to his sleeping cabin, where ran his shelf of books with the Bible in the middle, and hung in their rack pistols and cutlass.

I was quite sober--had been so for a fortnight and would be so throughout this passage. I lay in my small, small cabin where still at times I felt Philip Smith. I felt him to-night, then I passed from him to Christian Todd and his boat coming down the James River, and I thought, “I will let his flute play me to sleep.” I slept and waked. It was very hot. I saw by the stars out of the window that midnight was near. I slept again and dreamed. The flute was playing--but it changed to pipes skirling and dirling in a purple glen--and then to a hammering and hammering that the guide that goes along in sleep informed me was due to the putting up of Hawley’s gibbet in the Haymarket whereon to hang, not Jacobites, but easy old Bartholomew Browne, up in the Blue Mountains above Kingston. That seemed to frighten me, for I awoke and the sweat upon me was cold. For a moment I lay listening to the echo of the dream--a continuing hammering. Next I became conscious that the sound did not belong to the inner but to the outer life. I sat up in my bed, then left it and stood uncertain. I heard a pistol shot and a shout, “Watch! Watch! Watch!” and then a wild yelling from a hundred throats and knew whose throats they were.

When I reached the deck, the gratings had been forced upward from below. There were the lanterns, and some one had fired the great cresset provided always against trouble in the darkness. We had light enough, though none too much. Coromantins, Mandingoes, Ashantis were pouring up and out. In some way they had freed themselves from their shackles; they brandished these now for weapons. They were yelling, they came forth thick as bees, strong and furious men, and ever as they swung themselves on deck, others pressed behind them. The _Janet_ turned into gigantic noise. Her seamen too were shouting, running for arms. Bartram’s voice came towering.

“Are you ready? Fire!” A dozen muskets flashed. The _Janet_ seemed to shriek. There fell almost as many Africans, but what was that to hundreds, wholly desperate? Had those who were forth hesitated, those behind had pushed them on, coming up as it were through the ship from the depths of the sea.

I saw Bartram--McNaughton--Black--all seamen in their places. The barricades were manned--cutlasses, pistols and muskets--and the boys and Tom and Don behind to take and load and pass. The night was not dark. It drew toward morning, there swung a quarter moon in the sky, and the ship’s cresset and lanterns gave light beside. Bartram had one barricade, McNaughton the other. I saw Colley with the latter; I stood with Bartram. The air rocked with the din. Below hatches was a volcano, belching dark lava, lava that parted and rolled upon this barricade and upon that.

“Fire!” shouted Bartram.

We were above them and fired down. Men fell, there rose shrieks, the torrent recoiled upon itself. “It won’t last,” said Bartram. “They’re thoroughly up! We’ll have to kill half of them.” A huge Coromantin, moving, gesticulating, where the light struck him, held my eye. He was brandishing both arms, and one hand grasped the iron shackle loosened from his ankles and the other a file!

A slave cargo comes searched and naked into the slave ship.--But there are files enough in the stores at Daga. And as I thought that, I saw another in a Mandingo hand, kept for weapon where real weapons were none.--There was one slave who came aboard clothed, who even had with her a small bundle of her toys and fineries.--I looked for a glint of white cotton and I found what I sought.

She was with them, in the middle of the storm. Other women too. In Dahomey the king has women soldiers, a great guard of Amazons. It is not likely that any of these were aboard. But there were women who came with the men out of the deeps and fought.

With a great and frenzied cry, all bore against the barriers.

“Fire!”

Crash and smoke and shrieking, and many were down and trampled. But they came on and swarmed up and over, naked and weaponless, and clutched and locked with men who had cutlasses, who had firearms. What was their vision? Their vision was the seizure of the ship and the death of all white men, save only just enough maybe to show them how to put about the ship, how to bring her again to Africa, not to Daga but some lonely place. Then, then, kill all and leave the ship--take the boats, and swim, and get ashore, and burst away from the sea, inland, inland, and get maybe to the old villages; or if not that, make a fastness in the hills and live there. It invited from the slave ship; it beckoned and smiled.

The vision of the fifty white men was life, even if the cargo were lost. We slew and were slain.

But we had all manner of weapons and their spears and knives were far off in the African villages.

Victory crossed to our side.

A cold light lifted in the east. We leaned against the barricade and twelve men were dead, their own weapons wrested from them, turned against them, and twenty had their wounds. But the deck below us was a shambles. We had shot and shot them down, and what the gun did not, the cutlass did. Under the dawn lay thick the dead and the desperately wounded. Less than a hundred dark figures raised their hands and cried for mercy. These and the women with children who cowered beneath the gratings were all that were left of our lading. No great number of the wounded were like to recover. Eight thousand guineas easily must be thrown into the sea.

I saw white cotton, torn and blood-stained, Fanny lying dead, near the big Coromantin with the file.