Ama (52 page)

“How can you laugh?” Ama heard one of the men ask his shackle-mate.

“How can I laugh? My brother, how can I not laugh? If I cannot command my spirit to laugh, I might as well send it back to whence it came. I must laugh in order to survive. And I shall survive. At least I shall survive long enough to kill a white man on this ship. When I have done that, then, and only then, they can do what they like with me. Until that time I am not ready to die; and until I die I shall continue to laugh.”

Only Hatcher they treated with a certain reserve, sensing the healer in him. Bruce stood guard, ready to shoot at any sign of trouble, but Hatcher stayed with Ama, quietly going from man to man each day to identify the sick, examining their sores, feeling their foreheads for fever. And it was Hatcher who would unlock the shackles and the handcuffs of a man who had died in the night, throw the corpse over his shoulder and, bent almost double beneath the low soffit, carry it away. The men would make a path for him. Someone would sing the first words of a dirge and the others would join in. But when the young Englishman had manoeuvred his burden up the steps and out of sight, they would hammer their shackles on the boards and break out into a harsh tumult of angry curses. Then Ama would stand silently amongst them, afraid of the violence and hatred which was in their hearts and in her own.

* * *

Williams sent for Ama.

“Sit down,” he said when the door had been closed behind her.

She remained standing.

He looked up from his desk. He had been writing in his logbook.

“Now, Pamela. Don't be silly. Please sit down.”

He took up his pipe and began to scrape out the ash.

“Look. I am sorry. I know I slapped you. I shouldn't have done it. It was in the heat of the moment. Can you not understand the pressure I was under? Now I need to talk to you. Won't you please sit down. And wrap yourself. It disturbs me to see you naked.”

Ama took the cloth he indicated and threw it over her. As she took it, she noticed a bunch of keys hanging on a hook near the door of the cabin. She recognised it as that which usually hung from Butcher's belt.
So that's where they are kept when he goes ashore
, she thought. She sat down on the edge of the chair.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What happened?”

It was the first time she had opened her mouth. She could see him fighting his anger at her insolence.

“Yes, what happened? In the hold last night.”

“One of the women died.”

“How did she die?”

“What difference does it make? Slaves die every day on this ship. Her body has already been fed to the sharks.”

“Her neck was broken.”

Ama said nothing. She was struggling to take control of herself.

“She hanged herself,” she said at last.

“Why on earth would she want to do that?”

Ama lost her temper.

“Captain Williams, do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

“Of course. Why else would I have I asked it?”

“Then tonight please take off all your clothes. Borrow a strip of blue cloth. Here, try this one for size.”

Ama tore off her own and threw it onto the desk.

“Join your slaves in the hold. Just for one night. Then you will know the answer.”

“You must be joking,” was all he could reply.

* * *

One seat of misery was followed by another. After Senya Bereku it was the English lodge at Shidoe and after Shidoe, the Dutch one at Nyinyanu.

They came at last to Accra. When Williams dropped anchor he found that a war between the proxies of the Dutch of Fort Crèvecoeur and those of the Danes of Christianborg, had produced a glut of slaves.

Within the space of a week he was ready to set sail.

The slaves were fed and sent back to their holds. Their quarters were diligently searched and the hatches firmly secured. The long boat ferried the seamen ashore for their last carouse before the rigors of the Middle Passage. Williams alone, amongst the officers, remained on board. He issued a tot of rum and a pistol, powder and shot to each of the six crew who had been selected for guard duty. A chest full of loaded and primed pistols was placed on the quarter deck and two of the nine-pounders were made ready. After a final inspection Williams retired to his cabin.

The sun set. Darkness descended on the sea. The guards dozed. Time passed. The moon rose, a great yellow orb in a sky full of stars..

“Pamela!” Williams shouted.

Ama woke suddenly, as from a bad dream.

“Where is the wench?” she heard him mutter.

He stood in the doorway, his bulky frame silhouetted against the moonlight.

“Pamela!” he shouted again.

The women were stirring. Ama felt embarrassed, humiliated.
Uncouth bastard
, she thought.

“I'm coming,” she called back in something between a whisper and a shout.

“Ah, there you are,” he said as she stumbled through the door.

His speech was slurred. Ama could smell the rum. She rubbed her eyes. Then she saw the moon, low and enormous, its elongated reflection moving on the water. She went to the rail to get a better view. Williams was swearing at the keys as he tried to insert first one and then the other. Ama turned to watch him.
This is my chance
, she thought. She looked around. There was a guard at each hatch cover. Asleep, all three of them. She heard snoring from the quarter-deck and craned her neck. Three more, also asleep.

“Here, let me help you,” she told Williams.

“Oh no you don't.”

He paused to belch and then continued with his fumbling.

“I know what you're up to. Keys ish for the captain. Only for the captain. Unnershtand?”

For a moment she thought he had read her mind. Then she dismissed the thought. As he turned she saw how drunk he was. She flinched as he groped for her breasts. Then his foul tongue was in her mouth. She freed herself and pushed him away.

“Not here,” she whispered. “The guards will see us.”

He suffered himself to be led down to his cabin. Ama's mind was racing.

“Lie down and let me undress you,” she told him.

“I want to fuck you,” he said and belched again as he climbed on to his bunk.

“Do you think you'll be able to get it up, in your condition?” she taunted him as she pulled his trousers down.

“Fuck you . . . Shtick my prick up your cunt,” he said.

“Stick,” she told him, “not shtick.”

Now she knew what she would do. He was lying on the bunk, naked.

She spat on her hands.

“Yesh, yesh,” he groaned, “Now, now, now. Now!”

“Aah,” he sighed, his eyes already closed.

Ama covered him with a sheet. Then she sat down to wait. When he began to snore, she rose quietly and picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, where he had dropped them. She moved to the chair behind his desk, his chair. Slowly, watching him all the time, she pulled the top drawer open. Her heart pumping, she felt for the pistol she knew he kept there. She had never touched a gun before. Carefully she took the awful thing out. She forced herself to think.
Calm down
, she told herself,
there is no room for a single careless mistake
. When she was calmer, she got up, unlocked the cabin door and transferred the key to the outside. The candles flickered and she hesitated for a moment. Then she took up the gun and the bunch of keys and put them down on the first step. Taking a last look around, she blew out the candle, left the cabin, closed the door and locked it.

* * *

She paused in the shadow of the awning, watching the sleeping guards, alone and afraid.

Nervously, she searched for the key to the door of the female hold. Inside, she closed the door quietly behind her and paused to recover her calm.

Then she made her way over the tightly packed naked bodies, searching at every step for a place to put her foot, breathing “Sorry,” to the mumbled curses and moving on again.

A narrow beam of moonlight from a vent fell on the door to the boys' hold. She unlocked it and left it ajar. Below, it was dark, pitch dark. She heard the clink of metal.

“Tomba,” she whispered, “it is me, Ama.”

She heard him sit up. He could not move without rattling his chains. She knelt by his side and let him feel first the bunch of keys and then the gun. She heard the surprise in his grunt.

After what seemed an age, matching keys to locks, he was free. He massaged his ankles and his wrists and she heard him wince.

“
Kòse
,” she sympathised, knowing how raw his skin was.

He took her hands in his and squeezed them.

“Thank you,” he said in his language.

She thought of Kwaku. She would need to wake him to use as an interpreter. She tried to lead Tomba to where the boys were sleeping. He resisted and she was aware of the vigorous shaking of his head. He led her to the bottom of the stairs and told her to wait. Then he groped his way along the wall to the sick bay. When he came back, there were two men with him. They whispered excitedly amongst themselves.

At the top of the stairs, she took Tomba's hand and signed to him to tuck the gun into his waist-cloth and use his other hand to hold his companion's. So they made a chain and followed her, step by step, across the floor of sleeping women. Ama set a slow pace.
If any of them were to wake,
she thought,
that might be the end.
After what seemed to her an age they emerged into the narrow strip of moon shade under the edge of the quarter-deck.

The moon was higher now, and smaller.

Ama pointed out the guards sleeping on the hatch covers and showed Tomba the bunch of keys. She pointed up to the quarter-deck and raised three spread fingers. He held up three fingers of each hand. In the moon light she could see that he was asking whether there were only six guards. She nodded.

She said, “The others,” and pointed to the shore.

He nodded, thought for a moment, and then whispered to his companions, indicating the guards on the hatches as he did so. Ama thought,
it is too dangerous, the others will wake up.
She grabbed his arm and shook her head. She tried to tell him by signs that it would be better to capture Williams and use him as a hostage; but the message was too complicated and she could not make him understand. Now he was impatient. If they were to act they must do so without delay. He signed to her that she should give him the keys and go inside the female hold. She protested vigorously. She had started this thing and she would see it through to the end. Tomba whispered to his accomplices and they removed their waist-cloths. He took one and demonstrated what he wanted them to do, wrapping the cloth around the neck of one and twisting it.

The men shook hands. Tomba took Ama's hand and squeezed it.

“Good luck,” she whispered. “May the ancestors protect you.”

As they tiptoed across the moonlit deck on their bare feet, Ama mouthed a silent prayer.

“Itsho,” she said, “be with them. Guard them. Bring them success.”

They paused at the first guard. Tomba left one of his men there. They went on to the second and he left the other. Alone, he went on to the hatch which gave access to the forward hold. Signals passed between them. Ama dug her nails into her sweating palms. Tomba raised the pistol high in the air and drove it down onto the temple of the sleeping guard. Ama closed her eyes. When she opened them, Tomba was rolling his victim over and taking his pistol. But the other two victims refused to die without a struggle. Waking to find themselves being strangled, they kicked and fought. Tomba ran across to help.

Suddenly there was a cry from the forecastle, “Wake up! Wake up! Guards, wake up!”

Ama broke out in a cold sweat. It was Knaggs. She had completely forgotten him. It was her fault: they were undone!

Tomba hesitated. He too had forgotten about Knaggs. He turned back to deal with him. Then it struck him that Knaggs was chained to the deck and could do no more harm than he had already done. He changed his mind and turned again, intending to help his co-conspirators.

“Tomba! Unlock the hatch,” Ama shouted at him but, if he heard, he did not understand.

The three guards on the quarter-deck had run to the barricade. Shots rang out. The slaves might have taken their victims' pistols from them and fired back, but Knaggs' screams from forward and the firing from aft confused them. One of their victims was already dead; the other, free of his assassin's attentions but half dead from the attempted strangulation, rolled off his hatch cover and lay low. Now it was three against three, but the guards on the quarter-deck had the protection of the barricade and the advantage of elevation. Ama huddled beside the open door of the female hold, shivering from fear and the chill of the night air.

Tomba took refuge behind the main mast. At best he could fire a single shot with William's pistol. Then Ama saw the guard who had survived rise to his knees, take his pistol from where it had fallen and creep up behind Tomba.

“Tomba, Tomba,” she cried, but it was already too late.

The revolt had failed. It was all over.

* * *

Williams stumbled around the cabin in the dark, searching without success for his flint box and a candle. Finding his desk, he opened the drawer and felt for his pistol. It was not there. There was another gun-shot. He moved his hands over the table, exploring, and succeeded only in knocking the rum bottle to the floor. He went to the door; it was locked but there was no sign of the key. He got down onto his knees and searched for it.

Now his befuddled mind began to function.
The fucking bitch has taken my gun, left me in darkness and locked me in
. Stumbling back he stubbed a toe on the corner of the desk and cursed. Finding the chair, he stretched out for the bottle. Then he remembered. Again he got down on his knees, swearing as he searched. The floor was wet. By the time he found the bottle, he had rum all over his hands and legs. Swearing at himself for not replacing the cork, he raised the bottle and drained the dregs.