Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (11 page)

Sailors have a lot of time to think when they are off on the bounding main, and this particular sailor did some of her own, and what I was thinking about was what we lacked. During that summer cruising the Caribbean on my
Emerald,
and looking for any profitable mischief I might get in to, I noticed that the sponge divers in the area, if they were diving off a large boat, would have a small raft tied alongside for ease of getting in and out of the water, and I resolved to have one of my own. Climbing a loose and twisty rope ladder up and down the side of a ship ain't all that much fun after you've done it seven or eight times of a morning.

Hmmm.
Yes, and some good, thick, supple leather for the making of the eye goggles I'd seen other divers wearing, like those boys that time off the coast of Sardinia. Considering the speed with which they retrieved the pennies thrown into the water by my crew, the goggles must have been quite useful to them. And I suspect that they will be very useful to me, as well. And I'll need glass and cutters and a trident would be handy, too, and...

That settles it. I need to get into a ship's chandlery. We must be supplied.

I go into my cabin to check the chart, then meet with Dr. Sebastian and tell him of my intentions, and he agrees with my plans. Then I go out on the quarterdeck and say to the helmsman loud enough for all on deck to hear, "Put your rudder right, Jim. Steer 270 degrees."

He does it and, without being told, Davy, Tink, John Thomas, and Finn McGee leap up to trim the sails consistent with the new heading.
Good boys. That's the way I like it.

"Make ready, lads," I sing out. "We're goin' into Charleston, in the State of South Car-o-li-na. We need to take on some supplies." I pause for theatrical effect, and then I say, "There will be short-time shore leave for all."

At
that
there is a cheer.

Jack-the-Sailor loves the sea,
But he also loves his lib-er-ty.

We slip into Charleston Harbor on the morning tide, with a following wind, and find a cozy berth. There are many other ships in the harbor, mostly American, but some Spanish and Dutch, and others flying flags I don't recognize. There are American sailors all over the place, and that's fine—hey, the
Nancy B.
is American, too, even if I ain't.

Pay is issued to everybody, and I get ship's money from Higgins and stuff it into my purse. Davy and Tink join me, and Daniel and Joannie tag along, too, in a high state of excitement.

Business first: Higgins takes John Thomas, Finn McGee, and Jim Tanner to see about the logs and planks for the raft and we hie off to a ship's chandlery to purchase the stuff I need—the leather, the glass, the trident—and have it all sent back to the ship, and then we head off into the town.

Daniel and Joannie skip alongside, soaking in the sights of the new city—well, new to them, anyway, but then, everything's new to them. We round a corner and come on to a big open square, and the two take off.
Hmmmm.
"You two be back to the ship at four o'clock, or we'll warm up your britches for you!" I shout after them. "I mean it, too!"

There are not many people in this square, but there is a stage in the center of it and I think,
Ah, maybe there'll be a show later on ... music and such...

Watching the younger ones go, I take Tink's arm and say, "Ah, lads, ain't this just like the old days? Like in Palma, all those years ago, us mates rolling down the street on our first liberty call, hey?" Davy is close enough to me that I can give him a poke in the ribs. "Hey?"

"Right, 'cept then you was a scrawny little runt of a boy I could kick around and now you's the Captain of the ship that has me poor arse on it," grumbles Davy. "Don't seem right, somehow."

"Aw, give it a rest, Davy," says Tink, patting my hand that rests on his arm. "Least you ain't got some brutal Bo'sun's Mate layin' his knobby over yer back anytime yer a bit too slow to do his biddin'. You gotta admit this is better than that. And our Jacky was a bossy one even back then. You gotta remember that. So you should be used to it."

"That's true," allows Davy, "but—"

"And you'd never have met your lovely Annie if not for me," I say, hooking my other arm in his and squeezing it against me. "Admit it, you."

"All right," he says, and laughs. "I'll own up to that. And I'll also own that there's a likely lookin' tavern right there and my throat is powerful dry."

The sign over the place says The Swamp Fox, and there is a crude painting of a grinning fox under the words.

"Looks like just the place," says I, grinning my foxy grin. "Let's go, lads. The Brotherhood forever!"

***

We come out somewhat later, considerably refreshed, and head back toward the docks. The ale was cool and plentiful and the wine was good and so was the food. We link arms and start singing some of our old songs, and on the way, we meet John Thomas and Finn McGee, who report that the logs and planks are onboard. I know they have money in their pockets and are looking to spend it, so I point out The Swamp Fox and give it a good report and warn them to be back to the
Nancy B.
by six in the morning 'cause we will be sailing then and will leave them here if they don't make it back. I don't mean it, but I must make the threat. The two roughnecks grin and knuckle their brows and are gone. As they go, I see that Daniel and Joannie have come back to join us from wherever they had got off to. They both wear new straw hats as well as sheepish grins. I can only imagine what mischief they have been up to, but I don't ask. They run ahead, holding hands and laughing as they go.

I reflect that it has been a very good day.

The now very jolly Brotherhood passes an alley, and we are not at all surprised to see that from the end of it protrudes a pair of tarpaulin-trousered legs topped with a striped shirt. The owner of both the legs and the shirt is plainly a poor seaman who has had a bit too much to drink. We recognize him as one we had seen earlier in The Swamp Fox, and he was well into his cups then, even before he staggered out the door.

Davy heaves a theatrical sigh, shakes his head, and says, "Alas, another poor innocent sailorman brought low by wild women, conniving landlubbers, and strong drink. It has ever been so." Davy, the hypocrite, had certainly downed his share of ale during our time in The Fox, that's for sure. The dog clears his throat and begins to sing "The Drunken Sailor," a chantey sung by sailors when they haul on the buntlines to raise a ship's heavy sails:

What shall we do with a drunken sailor,
What shall we do with a drunken sailor,
What shall we do with a drunken sailor,
Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

Then all three of us join in bellowing out the chorus:

Way, hey, and up she rises,
Way, hey, and up she rises,
Way, hey, and up she rises,
Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

Then Tink chimes in with one of the many, many verses that deal with what to do with the unfortunate swab:

Put him in the scuppers with a hose pipe on him,
Take him and shake him and try to wake him,
Give him a dose of salt and water,
Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

Another round of the chorus and I come in with my favorite verse. I like it for its simplicity and the image it brings to me ... er ... my ... mind:

Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Shave his belly with a rusty razor,
Earl-lie in the morn-ing!

Back to the chorus again and I throw my arms around each of my brothers' necks and plant a kiss on each of their cheeks, and yes, the wine was very good and plentiful. And hey, it's been a while since I've had a roarin' good time.

Davy is of the opinion that next we should do "Bully in the Alley," 'cause it's a similar tune, like, and I agree, and Davy starts it off with:

Well, Annie is the girl that I love dearly.
Way, hey, bully in the alley!
Annie is the girl that I spliced nearly.
Bully down in Shinbone Alley!

"Bully" in this song means like one of your mates what had too much to drink and ended up face-down in an alley like that poor gob we spotted a while ago. We swing into the chorus:

Help me, Bob, I'm bully in the alley,
Way, hey, bully in the alley!
Help me, Bob, I'm bully in the alley,
Bully down in Shinbone Alley!

But we don't do any more verses or any more songs, 'cause all the high spirits and hilarity are very quickly knocked out of us when we get to the end of the street and come upon that square we had crossed before, a square that is no longer empty of people. There is now quite a crowd grouped about that stage I had noticed earlier and had thought might be set up for a musical or theatrical performance. But I was wrong in thinking that, as I soon find out.

A man in a dark suit and broad-brimmed hat now stands upon it. He carries a cane and holds a megaphone to his lips. "Gentlemen," he calls out. "And ladies. Welcome to all. Today we have twenty-five prime Negroes, both male and female, for sale, all certified to be docile, healthy, and free of any disease. My name is Silas Meade, and many of you know me to be a man of honor in my business dealings, and I believe you will be pleased with today's offerings."

All joy is gone from me now. I can see that the slaves to be sold are grouped around the back, guarded by men with whips and guns. I begin to shake with fury.

"Let's get out of here, Jacky," urges Tink. "This is dirty business."

I've seen slaves working the fields under the blazing sun. I've sailed on a slaver and observed the horrible conditions on it close up. I've met slaves and freed some. Yes, I know all about slavery—but I've never before seen this part of it. I am stunned and rooted to the spot.

"Don't do it, Jacky," warns Davy, looking at the tight expression on my face. "You're gonna do somethin' stupid, you know you will, and you're gonna get in trouble. This ain't your fight. You can't save them, any of them; you haven't got enough money."

"I ain't gonna do nothin' stupid," I hiss, shaking with rage. "I know how things lie. Only the very rich can afford to buy other human beings. Go back to the ship, both of you, if you can't bear to watch." I stand, rigid, watching, bearing witness.

Oh, God, how can You let this go on?

My brothers do not go back to the ship, no. I feel them still standing by my side.

A young black man has been brought up on the stage, and Mr. Silas Meade begins the sale.

"What am I bid for this fine young buck? Only seventeen years old and already strong as an ox! Just look at those muscles!" The young man, whose wrists are bound, has been stripped of his shirt and he is, indeed, well muscled. The auctioneer has a cane and he taps it on the boy's chest. "Shall we start the bidding at one thousand dollars?"

"One thousand!" shouts a rather fat but prosperouslooking gentleman, waving a card with a number on it. He has a woman with him, finely dressed—she leans on his arm, smiling broadly and waving at friends across the square. Such a lark,
such fun,
to be here laughing gaily as human beings are being auctioned off like animals.

Another man, dressed much like the other, jumps up on the platform to examine the slave more closely. He puts his hand on the Negro's face and uses his thumb to lift the man's upper lip to examine his teeth. "Eleven hundred!" he says, leaving the stage.

"Twelve hundred!"

"Thirteen!" calls out another man.

"Thirteen-fifty!" cries the fat man, and then there is silence.

"Gentlemen, I have one thousand three hundred and fifty dollars!" says the auctioneer. "Do I hear fourteen? No? Going once ... Going twice ... Sold! To Mr. Wilkes!"

Next a plainly terrified girl is pulled to the platform by a rope that is tied around her neck. Because she is young and pretty, she is stripped down to her skin and made to stand naked before the crowd. She tries to cover herself with her hands, but those hands are roughly pushed down by one of the slave handlers.

She is sold for sixteen hundred and fifty dollars, again to Mr. Wilkes, the fat man.

Another woman, this one heavy with child, is now brought up. There is a boy of about seven years old clinging to her side. He is crying. The auctioneer pushes the boy aside and uses his cane to lift up the front of the mother's simple white shift to show her belly. "Look at that!" he exclaims. "A proven breeder! How can you go wrong? Three for the price of one! Let's start at twelve hundred dollars for the lot! Who will give me twelve hundred?"

Someone does, and so the bidding goes on until—
Sold! To Mr. O'Hara!
—she, and her son, too, have been bought and are led off.

"Haven't you seen enough?" asks Davy, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "Do you want to stay to see them whipped?"

"I suppose I have been made sick enough," I say, hardened in my resolve to fight this evil whenever and however I can. "Let's leave the scum to their vile business and may they rot in—Hold on, what's this?"

As we are turning to leave, I notice that an older woman is now being shoved onto the stage, to much laughter from the crowd. True, compared to the young blacks who had been displayed before, she is a pitiful sight—heavy of body, a shawl around her shoulders and faded skirts hanging about her hips, an old rag tied around her graying hair. She stands, head up, eyes looking straight ahead, with her hands clasped before her.

"Hey, Silas! You gonna pay someone to haul that away? Hey?" shouts out some wit in the crowd, and there is laughter all around.

"Now, boys," says the auctioneer, signaling with his hands for silence. "This here Negress has been a house Nigra for forty-odd years now, and she can clean and she can sew and she can cook."

"Cook?" cries the wit again. "Hell, I reckon! And I reckon she been into the lard real good, from the looks of her!" More laughter.