The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (20 page)

Afterwards, I ask the third mate if he saw the Egyptian's eyes at any point during the incident. He says he cannot remember. This bothers me, but I do not know why.

January 15
— Some of the slaves have developed coughs but the physicians assure me it is nothing serious. All of them are brought up in groups of 30 every other day to get fresh air and exercise. I have some of their tom-toms and flutes on board so they can dance to their own music, if their simple rhythms deserve that name. But of course the slaves do not appreciate our efforts to ensure their good health and it is a doleful sight indeed to see them shuffling their feet with hanging heads. But a few cracks of the bullwhip soon gets them lively enough and then the clinking of their chains makes a merry sound indeed. Only the Egyptian is free of this routine, for my men are now fearful of him. But I am sure he requires exercise no more than does a great bear.

January 25
— 3 slaves have died and been thrown overboard. I am always happier when the weak ones start dying early in the passage. It saves on food and lessens the likelihood of others dying by creating more space in the hold. But one-third of the slaves now have the cough. I have ordered extra corn and dried beef in their gruel to give them strength to fight it off. Coughing slaves do not bring as good a price.

January 26
— 2 more slaves have died and been thrown overboard. Weather continues good.

January 27
— 1 slave dead, thrown overboard. A slight squall this morning, soon passed.

January 28
— 5 slaves discovered dead at midday. The hold now echoes with dry coughs. One-third of the slaves have yellow rheum around the eyes and nostrils. I have ordered the crew to bring all the slaves on deck every day for exercise and fresh air. These damned useless physicians don't know what is wrong and their medicines are having no effect.

February 2
— Sharks are now following the ship. 3 more slaves have died. The sickness, whatever it is, has affected two-thirds of the cargo. Some of the crew are coughing as well, but seem only a little weak. This morning I went into the hold myself. I am not concerned about getting this disease; I have never been sick a day in my life. But I must make a decision. Things are not as bad as I thought: I would say about half the slaves are no sicker than one might expect. However, about one-third the slaves seem sure to die. I will wait three days again before deciding what to do. I want to give the slaves a reasonable chance.

February 5
— 2 more slaves dead. More have gotten sick. I have no choice then. I estimate that, at this rate, half my cargo shall be entirely of sick slaves by the time we reach Brazil. This will be a great loss. I must take serious measures. From talking to other captains, and from my own observations, this kind of sickness is passed from man to man, no doubt as a result of diseased humours leaking out of the body. I suspect these humours are carried on the air, and that is why my crew is less ill since the fresh sea breezes blow them away. We have therefore chained the weakest slaves on deck. I have also ordered that the rest be brought up three times – morning, afternoon and at dusk. Hopefully, the fresh sea winds will cure what these useless physicians cannot.

February 9
— The slaves continue to die steadily. 6 more bodies have gone overboard, and with them my hopes for a good profit. I have spent the past days in calculation. I can still turn a profit, although no one will be getting extra ducats. The physicians have already forfeited their head bonus. It seems that I may have to make one more trip. But I have to make enough from this one to finance another, for I have borrowed heavily from the moneylenders. Everything now depends on getting a sufficient number of live slaves back to Brazil. I may not be able to sell them at once, but I am sure that, once on land, I can nurse enough back to a good enough condition to turn a reasonable profit. So everything depends on keeping as many of the remaining slaves alive, if not healthy. I can think of only one solution. I believe that the evil humours probably leak faster from a dead body than a sick one. This is only sensible, for once a body is dead the soul must depart. So all our energies must now be directed to containing this disease that is so intent on ruining me.

February 10
— This is not an easy decision. I expected nightmares last night, given my troubled mind, but I slept like a child. The Egyptian, I observe, remains as stoic as ever. He at least will help repair my waning fortunes, for I doubt he will fall prey to the illness affecting the others. Indeed, his continued vitality only persuades me that I am doing the right thing. I have told Mr. Cebola and the other mates what I want done. They are reluctant. But I have shown them my calculations, and they will do what has to be done. They know it is the only way they will be paid. We shall begin tonight. These tasks are better performed in the dark, so the other slaves will not become too restless. I should never have tightpacked. This is what happens when one breaks the habits of a lifetime.

2000 hrs
– An unpleasant task. We had already brought the sickest slaves on deck, so there was no need to go into the hold by lamplight. All told, there were 14 on deck. 5 crew members, whose names I will not list, assisted. I commanded no one to this task, but only requested for volunteers (the understanding, of course, that said volunteers would receive extra ducats there and then). I knew some of the men would be reluctant: they are only Africans, but it is a distasteful task to throw living men into the sea. But I was heartened that the majority of the crew were willing to perform this task. I did my part, of course: I had not so many extra ducats now that I could afford not to! We had to throw the least sick over first, because had they seen what we were doing our task would have been doubly difficult. The very sick ones were almost unconscious. Even so, by the time we threw over the fifth, a murmur rose from the hold beneath our feet. We had gagged the slaves before throwing them over, but it seems those in the hold heard the splashes. This murmur roused the sick ones on deck, who began to scream and make a fearful racket. We threw them over as quickly as we could, even leaving some of them manacled. (I am now so worried about my finances that I need to consider even the trivial expenses.) But their cries rose in the air behind us as the
Kush
sailed on and, as the last man went over, we heard the calls of his fellows turn to screams. I suppose the sharks had arrived, but I could not see in the dark waters. Hearing the screams of the dying ones, the slaves below deck set up a mournful chant and crying of their own. They cannot understand that I have done what I have done to help save their own lives.

February 11
— 10 slaves overboard.

February 12
— 7 slaves overboard.

February 13
— 4 slaves overboard. My treatment seems to be working.

Feb 17
— About three hours after my previous entry, the
Kush
was taken over by the slaves. I, along with my crew, am now chained below deck. That I am able to write this I will explain further, but first I must describe how this disaster came about. After we had thrown the last 4 slaves overboard and I had retired to my cabin, it seems that the Egyptian somehow freed himself. He murdered the watch, a boy named Pablo, and two other sailors. He then freed the other slaves and there was a short battle during which other sailors – I do not know how many - were murdered by these savages. We had no chance against such overwhelming numbers. I heard the commotion but before I could even throw on my clothes, my cabin door was smashed open and the Egyptian was upon me like a surging wave. Although I fought like a lion, the element of surprise was on his side and I was struck unconscious. When I awoke, seventeen of us were chained in the hold. Despite the space available, we have been chained side by side, slotted like rolled parchments in the cubby-holed desk of a scribe. Our compartments measure 6 ft long by 16 ins wide by 2 ft high. I know this for a fact, of course, but it only now occurs to me that this is less space than a man has in his coffin. I note that I have been singled out for special attention: the others are manacled by hands and feet. My hands have been left free, but an iron collar has been fastened to my neck. But the fact that the Africans have kept us together reveals their lack of intelligence since we will be better able to make a plan to escape and retake the ship. Such primitive people cannot keep us in their power for long!

Meanwhile, I do not know if the rest of my crew are dead or have been pressed into service to sail the
Kush
. I can tell from the clap of the waves on the hull, and the slant of the sun's rays that stream through the chinks of the deck planks, that we have not changed course. This is strange, for obviously the slaves' first desire would be to return to Africa. Perhaps they do not know how to handle the ship but, if that is the case, why have they not forced us to help them? But whatever: the
Kush
is going with sails full; I have heard the trim being adjusted and the ship's bells ring on every half-hour. There is someone with skill at the wheel. I would not be surprised to learn that the Egyptian is a sailor. He is a strange one. Some time after I regained consciousness, he climbed down to the hold carrying my logbook, pen and bottle of ink. The other Africans are clearly in awe of him. They stood when he entered the hold. Unlike them, I notice that he carries no weapons. A candle-holder had been fixed into the hull above me and the chain on the iron collar around my neck was loosened so I could sit up in a hunched position. The Egyptian placed the writing materials before me and stood with folded arms, waiting. Naturally, I was puzzled. What did he wish me to write? And why did he wish me to write? I took the logbook, pen and ink and put them aside and folded my own arms. There was no real reason to defy him, except defiance itself. I am sure he cannot read and, even if he could, what would be the point of reading my journal? The ship's log has information more useful to him. After five minutes or so, he pulled the chain tight and doused the candle. The following day, this scene was repeated, and the day after that, and the day after that. He comes in, places my journal in front of me, loosens my chain, and stands waiting. His waiting is unnerving: he stands completely still, completely expressionless, completely silent. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I have decided to write simply in order to have the pleasure of light and sitting upright. The others are already getting cramped and one or two have begun to cough with that same dry-hacking cough the slaves had. So I think it would be wise to indulge the Egyptian, for if I am to be freed, even partially, I may get a chance to take action. I have not heard him speak, even to his fellows, and, in the deep shadows cast by my lone candle, I still have not seen his eyes.

Feb 18
— I cannot fathom why the Egyptian wishes me to continue my journal. Every day he comes down into the hold with book, pen and ink and lights a candle so I may write. Perhaps, in his land, a learned man is accorded respect, even reverence. Perhaps, even though his people do not understand writing, he understands that a book has thoughts in it and therefore considers it powerful magic. Maybe he thinks I use it to propitiate the sea gods so we have strong winds or do not sink. That must be it. But, juju or not, I must confess that writing my thoughts down affords me considerable comfort. I have never feared death, but now that its possibility looms before me, I feel – what I have never before felt – that time is short. And within the pages of this journal, there is a summary of my life. I have no fear of it being destroyed: if the Egyptian did not have some reverence for its pages, he would not have brought it to me in the first place. So this act of writing suddenly becomes an act of living. I feel that as long as I write, the Egyptian shall spare my life, as the Arabian emperor spared the woman in the tales a Moorish servant told me when I was a child. But I have no stories to tell.

Feb 19
— The hold is surely an open doorway to Hell. In the long nights, I fancy that we have all died and already been condemned to the Pit, our punishment made more exquisite by our belief that we are yet on Earth. But I know this to be a fancy, for why would God condemn me to Hell, I who have always been a faithful Christian and paid my tithes regularly to the Church? No, I must rid myself of these wild imaginings! We have all by now soiled ourselves and the stench is unbearable. But bear it we must. These black savages will not even throw two buckets of sea water over us and we must lie here chained in our own filth. Flies buzz in our excrement. I have ordered the men to strip off most of their clothes, for soiled garments will make our skins raw. So we lie here as naked as the most unaccommodated savage. It is swelteringly hot in the day and chilly at night. It is hard to say which is worse. We are constantly thirsty in the day but at least some light shines through the chinks of the deck and we hear the sounds of movement from on deck to assure us we are not chained in the hold of a ghost ship, sails and wheel lashed into place, sailing into eternity. Such are the fancies that plague my mind in this chained cavern with its mocking shadows. My candle is lit only for an hour after nightfall. Its yellow flame burns perfectly straight, like a teardrop. The Egyptian douses it when he comes to collect my journal. He always looks to see that I have written, though he does not appear to read my words. At least so I assume: still I cannot see his eyes in their deep slits. When he leaves with his lamp, the darkness in the hold becomes complete and there is silence save for the sounds of the waves and the occasional grunt in someone's sleep. I never thought darkness could seem almost solid. It is as though time has stopped and dawn shall never come. Thus, it is impossible to sleep well, for fear that I shall not wake. Also, my stomach is now always a small ball of pain, for we are fed only once a day, and that only a small bowl of half-boiled slop. The flesh of our wrists, ankles and necks is tender and sore because of the irons rubbing against them. Although we must exercise if we are to avoid muscular cramp and weakness, we have to be careful in our movements. Fuentes, a nervous type, has rubbed his ankles raw without realizing it. This morning he found several maggots squirming in his flesh. He squeezed them out and ate them. Several of the men have the ague.