The Noble Pirates (13 page)

“Now you will heed me!” he cried. “Skinner has killed three of our men by his own hand. We’ve lost twelve more on account of Skinner’s brutal neglect, and then five to desertion. Their places must be filled. I command that he be unchained. I command that the women and children be given free roam of the decks to exercise, that the rations Skinner hid – aye, we all know where – be distributed equally among slave and sailor. I command that the able-bodied slaves be given duties, be made to help sail, to cook, clean and scrub the decks, mend sails and clothes. Each slave is to be given an article of clothing, and the women and girls are to stay in the main cabin rather than the hold.”

The silence was deafening as the crew stared at Davis, speechless. If Davis noticed – which surely, he must have – he made no sign. He said, “I’ll flog any man who beats a slave without my permission, who disregards my orders. Any man who lays a hand on the ladies – ” he made a bow in the direction of the slave women – ‘will be kissed by the cat.’ ” Davis cast an eye across the crew. “If we’re clear on these matters, then it’s back to your posts.”

I stood and watched as the sailors obeyed their captain, however grudgingly. I wondered whether Davis’ motivations were as noble as they seemed, for the slaves were more precious alive and healthy. In any case, his generosity extended to his crew, as well: he brought out much of Skinner’s clothes as well as some of the fine cloth from the Guinea Coast bundled among the cargo and had them given to the sailors and slaves whose clothes were in the worst condition. He distributed the dead captain’s secret stash of tobacco and spirits, even insisting that the crew share with the slaves.

I was struck by this strange behavior on Davis’ part, and when I later asked him about it, he revealed that a very basic sense of self-preservation lay at the bottom of it, saying, “Better to share what little one has, in the hope that someone will share with you when you have nothing.”

Now, Davis walked up to the big African man, who stood unchained. The man rubbed his wrists and eyed Davis carefully. The unarmed, smiling Davis asked, “
I na-asu oyibo?
”

Sam nodded slowly, looking Davis over curiously.

Davis asked, “What’s your name?”

The man hesitated for a moment, then answered in a deep, melodious voice, “Sam.”

Davis put his hands behind his back and stood swaying on his heels. “Sam, eh? You have dealt with the white man before.”

Sam replied, “Yes.”

Davis admired Sam’s impressive physique and whistled. “You’re a fine-looking specimen, Sam.”

Sam didn’t miss a beat before answering, “And you are not so ugly, for a white man.”

Davis laughed, his eyes full of good humor. Then, almost as if he were speaking to himself, he muttered, “You’ll make some fat, rich landowner all the richer.”

Sam smiled at this, revealing brilliantly white teeth. “You and I together,” he replied. The two men stood grinning at each other, reading each other’s faces in some mutual understanding. Then Sam said something softly in his native tongue, and Davis became grim-faced. He sighed, nodded to his crew to resume their duties, and climbed up to the poop deck to gaze out to sea pensively.

Davis had the slaves – all fifty of them – unshackled and moving in groups from the deck to the hold. He wanted them to exercise, to eat, to get some fresh air. Again, I wondered at his reasons for all of this, and I wondered what Sam had said to him that had elicited such a grave sigh. The sailors, while thrilled with their newly acquired clothes and liquor, were none too happy about the unfettered slaves, and they mumbled amongst each other, holding their weapons at the ready. A feeling of unrest fell upon the crew, and it weighed on me.

I asked Davis, “Aren’t you worried that they’ll rebel?”

He replied, “No. Of the twenty-five African men aboard, none are of a rebellious tribe, such as the
Ibibio
. They are mainly
Igbo
,
Fante
, and
Chamba
, and the
Chamba
detest the
Fante
since many of the
Fante
are slave-traders themselves. They would rather assist the crew against their African enemies than rebel with them.” I stared at Davis in disbelief as he added, “‘Tis not an easy thing, planning an insurrection aboard a slaver with a seasoned, careful crew. Especially when your shipmates speak a different tongue, and most have never even seen a white man before.”

I swallowed. “I’m on a floating coffin, a waterborne death machine. It’s murder. This… turning human beings into property.”

Davis examined my face inquisitively, his intelligent blue eyes narrowed. Finally he said, “We’re all of us property of the rich.”

Later that afternoon, I found the
Cadogan
surgeon-slash-doctor-slash-God-knows-what-else bleeding a young slave woman with the flux. I approached and told him, “You won’t cure her like that – you’ll just kill her faster.”

The doctor glanced at me in surprise, then said coldly, “May I help you?” He looked highly uncomfortable, avoiding my eyes, focusing on his patient.

I pointed to a secluded spot on the forecastle. “I need to speak with you.” He followed me there, continuing to avoid my eyes. In as threatening a tone as I could muster, I said, “You know my secret, but let me warn you: should you tell anyone on board this ship what I am, you will pay. You saw my ilk aboard the pirate ship, didn’t you? You don’t want my good friend Edward England hearing about what you did to me, do you?”

The doctor finally met my eyes, and I was satisfied to see fear on his face. “I did nothing,” he replied, his voice shaky.

I flashed him a nasty smile. “Well, now, it would be your word against mine then, wouldn’t it?” I turned and, trying to keep the bravado in my voice, pointed to the sick slave woman on the deck below us. “I can help her,” I said.

The doctor looked skeptical. “I doubt anyone can.”

I spotted Davis and waved him over. When he reached us, I said, “I can help that woman. I told you I knew a bit about medicine, didn’t I?”

“I am the surgeon aboard this ship,” the doctor said firmly, glaring at me.

Davis looked at the slumped form of the slave, hardly more than a girl, and looked at me. “If she refuses to live, there’s very little any of us can do,” he said. “Many of them do that, you know. Just put their heads between their knees and die.”

I felt my throat constrict. Would it be better for her to just die? Who knew what sort of life awaited her across the ocean? But something in me simply wouldn’t sit idly by. “Let me try,” I insisted.

“I am the surgeon – ” the doctor began again, but was quickly cut off by Davis.

“All you do is bleed ‘em to death,” Davis said brusquely. “And your medicines do as much good as a blow upon the pate with a stick. I’ll let the boy try his hand at curing them.”

With Davis’ permission, I had the cook boil some water for me, then prepared my simple rehydration solution. Cup in hand, I approached the woman, her face drawn, listless. I managed to have her look at me, and I smiled at her. “Please,” I implored her gently. “Drink.”

She shook her head and turned away. I continued to plead with her, drinking from the cup myself, my voice gentle and soothing. After several minutes of this, she finally looked at me, just a glimmer of life in her eyes. She opened her cracked lips, and I helped her drink the solution slowly. When she’d drained the cup, she surveyed me quietly, then said in a hoarse voice, “
Nwanyi
.”

I hesitated as she repeated the word, and then Sam approached, looking at me, a peculiar expression on his scarred face. “She is
Igbo
, like me, and she called you ‘woman.’” Sam narrowed his eyes.

“Huh,” I replied uncomfortably, quickly looking around to make sure none of the crew had heard the exchange.

I spent the rest of the day trying to treat sick slaves, and found that Davis was right – some refused to be saved. Taylor argued with Davis over it, insisting that Davis force the slaves to eat and drink. “This ain’t your cargo to do as you please, Davies,” Taylor snarled. But Davis would have none of it.

“I’ll not force it down their throats, like that savage Skinner,” Davis snapped. “Let our brother tars have their food and medicine. They, at least, have a will to live.”

What was Howel Davis about? Did he protect the slaves on account of their value? Or was I wrong in sensing that selfless compassion lay at the very bottom of the destitute sailor’s heart? He had chosen not to set himself above the other men – he still wore his ratty slops, took no more of a share of food or water than the others, and slept on the deck with the crew and slaves, leaving the cabin to the women, children, and the infirm. He hadn’t insisted on any formalities, and the crew still called him “Davies” rather than “Captain.”

There were moments when he thought no one was looking, and he leaned into the wind, a thoughtful, troubled look on his personable face. I watched him secretly from under the brim of my hat, wondering what thoughts plagued him, this enigma of a man.

Chapter Sixteen

  “You there!”

  It was a pleasant morning, a couple weeks since I’d been dumped by the pirates, and I was chilling on the quarterdeck, watching covertly as Davis went about his duties. I turned to see Ned Taylor gesturing to me, walking toward me. Immediately, I became nervous. Taylor did not want me there and resented that Davis was protecting me for a pirate. Once again, I found myself in the protection of a single man, a man I knew little about, and a man who knew even less about me.

This scenario was getting old.

“I will not have an idle pirate sitting aboard this ship,” he said to me. “You’ve taken your rest, now I’ll see that Davies puts you to work.”

“Fine,” I retorted lamely. “You see to that.”

“I can keep the boy busy,” a gruff voice said. Behind me stood the sailor who had condemned Skinner to death, the burly fellow with the crooked nose. He squinted one eye at me and spat on the deck. I swallowed hard. What had Davis said this guy’s name was? Blaine? He looked more like a pirate than most of England’s crew did. All he needed was some calico, a bit of bling, and some fancy weapons.

Taylor nodded. “Very well, then, Blaine. Make sure he doesn’t spend too much time sitting on his lazy arse, pretending to be injured.” Then he left us, Blaine casually coiling a tarred rope, and me, looking around desperately for Davis.

“‘Fraid of a bit o’ hard work, are ye, lad?” Blaine said with a chuckle. Then he grabbed my injured arm and I gasped in pain. “I’ve worked through much worse than that! Seems we have a li’l milksop in our midst!”

Some sailors in the vicinity began to laugh, and one even went so far as to shove me as he walked by. “A smock-face, he is!” one of them jeered. It occurred to me that pretending to be a teenage boy was probably not much better than admitting I was a woman. I could see that I was going to get bullied mercilessly by this band of unhappy sailors.

I wished I was back with the pirates.

“Leave the lad be, you mangy curs,” Davis said calmly, appearing out of nowhere, it seemed.

“I can work,” I insisted. “I want to work.”

Blaine chewed something that turned his teeth black, probably tobacco. “He can swab the deck, cain’t he, Davies?”

Davis nodded. “Can you do that, lad?”

“Yes,” I answered quickly. I was going to have to prove I wasn’t a wimp, I realized. I was ashamed of my inability to be masculine, to put them in their places. But between my injured arm and my natural inclination to be feminine, I felt helpless.

In order to deceive the men of the
Cadogan
, I kept either a knit cap or brimmed hat on my head, low over my eyes. I avoided eye contact and kept my face deliberately smudged with dirt. I used strips of linen to bind down what little bosom I had, and went to the head to relieve myself, just as the men did. I slept on the deck with the crew, in a poorly-lit corner so that I might have a modicum of privacy. My period had been on hiatus for several cycles, much to my relief. Perhaps it was the rapid weight loss, or maybe the whole, you know, time travel thing. In any case, I’d been fairly successful in concealing my sex. But this, this insistence that I behave like a man, was what would get me in trouble. As I contemplated proving myself to the crew, I wanted to cry. This was going to be miserable.

But I hadn’t accounted for Howel Davis.

He’d noticed that his crew had taken a particular dislike to me, the effeminate boy favored by the pirates – and now, as it were, the slaves. He’d noticed that the sailors pushed or tripped me at every opportunity. He realized, as did I, that the men thought I’d been a “play-thing” to the pirates, a little diversion. Perhaps I had become too much of a diversion, which was why they had pawned me off on the
Cadogan
sailors. Whatever their thoughts, their bullying became increasingly hostile, and while Davis only stepped in at the last moment, I knew he watched me carefully.

He read my need to prove myself and took me, as well as Sam, under his wing, teaching us the difference between standing and running rigging, the different lines for each – ratlines and shrouds, braces, halyards, bowlines, buntlines, clewlines… I would never get it straight. It just looked like a web of chaos to me. Sam, on the other hand, caught on immediately. You’d have thought I was the one from an entirely different culture, not Sam.