A tale of horror and adventure set under the dark and tragic history of the Atlantic Slave Trade. A gifted translator maneuvers his way out of slavery by becoming a pirate. He quickly finds himself in a ghastly predicament and reminisces on how he could have avoided the terrible fate.
Excerpt
Fourteen days and seven hours later, the new crew of the Golden Justice rotted away.
The food supply dwindled with only a week supply of fresh water.
The sails of the ship were strong, but the wind…the wind had all but disappeared. This all could have been a bad dream, had it not been for the days of sitting under a tortuous sun and a windless sky.
“All the trade that flourishes on this coast, and we haven’t seen a single damned ship in two damned weeks!” Captain Conway was past desperation. He needed to get his crew healthy and sell off the cargo before they spoiled as well.
The human stock was especially strong. Almost two hundred men and women were being held in the lower holds. As it was explained to me, they were worth a lot more coin in the West Indies than they were here on the Gold Coast. Each of the crew would get their share, and that included me. If they ever made it across the giant water they called the Atlantic.
But the crew festered in agony.
The persistent pestilent fever slashed the men down to a third.
The plague spared few. The cargo. And myself.
My midnight complexion must have been some kind of shield against the yellow plague. Unfortunately, my pale-skinned mates weren’t so lucky.
“Shadow.” Captain Conway motioned me to the quarterdeck.
He needed me. Probably to gather the enslaved. My knack for language was securing my freedom. Without it, I would still lay in the lower holds of the ship.
Beads of sweat dotted the captain’s forehead. He moved slower than the day before.
“You’re coming with me ashore,” Conway said.
“We’re going ashore, sir?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. There were no forts or trading stations near us. The coast we were floating by was unfamiliar to me. I hadn’t been this far south, but we hadn’t gone far enough that I wouldn’t know the people there.
“We need help,” Conway continued, “or we’ll never make it to the West Indies. Hopefully, we can trade for food and medicine. That’s why you’re coming. We need your gift of the savage tongue.”
I flinched from hearing the word “savage”. The tongues here were no more “savage” than the captain’s. I shook off the thought and nodded, then remembered the proper response.
“Aye, Captain.”
There was a lot to learn on a ship, let alone one steered by pirates. All of it was new to me. But I determined to earn my keep and do my part.
A dangerous idea crossed my mind then. I knew it was foolish, but a nagging guilt forced me to consider.
“Perhaps we can coerce someone from below to come along. There are a few that speak languages from this far south. Another translator could be of some use.”
Conway narrowed his eyes. I could see the rivers running in his head. The man still wondered how much he could trust me.
“I can tell him or her… a woman would be safer, that we are trading them to a peaceful tribe in the south. That it would be beneficial for her to help. That she could get more food and water.”
“We don’t have any food to spare for them,” Conway said.
“I know, sir. But there’s a chance we’ll find something edible on the way.” The green tree line sparkled in the sun. “The coast here looks rich. Going ashore is a good decision.”
Conway’s brow loosened at my reassurance, and he sent me below to fetch help.
Retrospect is like a reoccurring nightmare that steals the peace of a night’s slumber. It leaves you weary and dreary eyed.
The captain sent me down with one man armed with a pistol in one hand, and another in his belt. I remember thinking about how the cargo outnumbered the pirate crew four to one, and how the crew was sick, weak, vulnerable.
I could easily take my crewmate down. The cargo, unshackled, would likely decimate the pale-skinned foreigners. Sure, some of us would die by the sword or the black powder, but we would be fast with the spark of freedom and revenge. Fast and strong enough to overtake the ship.
But then what?
We would likely take the small longboats to the shore. Perhaps, most of them could make it back to their people, their homes. But I had no home. My people sold me away to rot across the water.
In the slave hold, the shackles clamped to the hands and feet of every captive holding them back just enough for us to walk through with no danger of being touched.
While searching for a companion to help translate, I felt the disdain the enslaved had for me as well as their bewilderment over my cooperation with their captors.
“You stink from a lamb’s feces! How dare you show your face?” A man yelled out in Akan.
Others mumbled the same.
I scowled. What could these people do for me?
“Help us, brother! There’s only one of them with you.” Another chided in Yoruba, in a dialect close to my tribe’s.
“Take the gun from him and shove him our way. We will hold him down.”
“You can take his key and free us!”
Paying too much attention to words spoken in various tongues, I lingered too close to a woman’s side. A hand grabbed my ankle, and I stumbled.
I jumped back but stared at the face of my offender. She locked eyes with me and spoke in a low growl.
“Beware! Joka comes for you!”
A boot slammed into the woman’s face, drawing blood, and she let go of my leg. My crew mate pulled me to my feet.
I ignored the rest of them and settled on an Imbangala woman. Her people lived near the Congo River. She might be familiar with the dialects in the region we were close to.
I left the slave hold, calmly ignorant of the woman’s warning. I’d never been a superstitious man. I found the medicine men in our lands to always promise more than they ever gave.
Joka was a mythical dragon according to those who practice Ifa. I took the woman’s words as a threat or curse that was meant to scare.
When we arrived on deck, the captain awaited with a ten-man land party ready to depart.
