The wind rises, p.15
The Wind Rises, page 15
“That’s bad timing. You’ve come right at the same time as the French. And there are four little schooners coming from Amsterdam that don’t have a single captive on board. But for Moses Shackle, I’m sure I can find one or two exceptional specimens.”
“I want to choose. I want to see them all. Every captive you have.”
Jon Jacobsen laughs again.
“You haven’t changed, Shackle. My advisers and I will have a think. Come back and see us tomorrow.”
Without taking his eyes off the ocean, the governor picks up his two little bottles, the only advisers he’s ever had. He slips them into his pockets. The canoes are now coming across the rip current with their passengers inside. After waiting for a long time, sheltered in the trough of a wave, suddenly the canoes shoot up a wall of foam.
The boatmen of Shama are renowned from here to Porto-Novo. They’re the best boatmen along the whole coast. They play with the waves like kittens with a ball of string.
When Jon Jacobsen finally turns around, Moses Shackle has disappeared.
Mosi is making his way down the steps that lead to the double doors of the fort. He’s looking out at the village of Shama. This is where it all began for Mosi. The son of a Fante fishermen, he arrived at the age of twelve and was hired as an oarsman on one of the canoes. Ten years later, he became Moses Shackle. He belonged to a group known as the Gold Takers, the biggest slave traders on the coast.
Mosi is heading towards the beach. A stretch of grey sand in the western part of Shama, where the fishermen and boatmen live, serves as the village square. On the other side of the fort, up on the hill, there’s another district, which is home to peasants, craftspeople, and men and women living off the land. These two worlds have been in conflict since the dawn of time. Governor Jacobsen has learnt to fan the flames of these wars, which enable him to sell more guns and liquor.
The canoes have made it through the rip current. It’s still too deep to walk to shore, so the passengers are being transferred to other, smaller canoes to keep their silk stockings and pumps from getting wet.
Mosi feels the cool sand beneath his feet. He watches the arrivals flock towards the fort. As they climb the steps, the doors are opened by two young guards dressed in blue and red with hats that are too big for their heads.
There’s one boy being turned away at the door. It’s Joseph Mars. His companions leave him behind, sniggering as they go.
A little lost, Joseph lingers near the door under the watchful eyes of the guards, who are barely any older than he is. Finally, he goes back down the steps. He walks down to the beach and sits on a rock next to a small crowd of boatmen who are dragging their canoes onto the carpet of seashells.
Out at sea, the sailors gaze at the land.
A man walks over to Joseph and starts speaking to him in French.
“Was it the clothes they didn’t like?
“How did you know?” asks Joseph.
Mosi smiles his first smile in a long time.
“Once upon a time, I knew these people well. They promise a good meal, bring in a hungry cabin boy, then leave him at the door because he doesn’t have the right clothes. They think it’s funny.”
“You really think the governor would have kicked me out just because of my clothes?” asks Joseph.
“It’s the only power he has,” Mosi explains. “He dresses up his soldiers, has his towers repainted white, drinks, and plays with his twenty cannons. What does he have apart from that? He has to be in control of something. So he demands that his guests wear the clothes of his old country. The country he’ll never return to.”
“Why won’t he ever return?”
“Because he’ll die of fever, like all the others.”
“Who are you?” asks Joseph.
Mosi looks at the boy in front of him. How old is he? He suddenly thinks of his daughter. This boy must be around Alma’s age.
“How many captives do you have aboard?” asks Mosi.
He came to the boy with the sole aim of asking this question.
“I’m not allowed to tell you,” Joseph replies.
“Then I have no more to say, either. Goodbye.” He goes to leave.
“None!” cries Joseph.
“What?”
“There are no captives aboard. This is the first time we’ve come ashore.”
Mosi nods and carries on walking. Now he knows that Lam isn’t on the French ship. He knows the Dutch aren’t carrying any cargo, either. All that remains is to check the dungeons of the fort before moving on.
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” says Joseph, running after him.
Mosi stops.
“My name is Mosi.”
He says his real name to make himself feel better, to forget Moses Shackle just for a moment, to erase the hat-wearing shadow on the sand at his feet.
Just then, his gaze is drawn towards the very end of the beach.
There, in the evening light, a thin line has appeared from the mist. It’s like a mirage.
26
The Captives
They shuffle forward two by two, taking short, rapid steps. Their ankles are bound together by very short chains. There must be about ten men. Just behind them are three women and two children, jogging along in step with the others but without any chains. There are a few other men escorting the convoy. These men are black, too, armed with rifles and spears.
With the sun at his back, it’s as though Mosi is pushing his own shadow along the sand in front of him. He walks towards them. As the group draws closer, he begins to pick up speed.
Joseph has come to a stop behind Mosi. He watches the group of people approach.
These are the captives. For months aboard the ship, the crew has spoken of nothing but the captives. But this is the first time Joseph has seen them. Now he can hear the clinking of the chains mingled with the lapping of the waves on the grey sand.
Mosi has stopped a few steps away from the convoy. His eyes are fixed upon the two silhouettes at the back of the group: the two children bringing up the rear. From a distance, he’d still hoped he might be looking at his son.
But these children are older than Lam. The little boy and girl are looking straight ahead. They’re hurrying along in step with the others. For a split second, the girl flashes a glance at Mosi, begging him to pull her away from this fate.
One of the guards has just noticed Mosi approaching them.
“What do you want?” he barks, stopping just in front of him.
“Are you taking them to Fort San Sebastian?”
“No. To the British, three days’ walk from here.”
“Ah. Okay. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Move along.”
Somewhat reassured, the guard catches up with the rest of the group. Further along the beach, the boatmen come forward one by one to watch the captives pass by. They’ve almost reached them.
Joseph Mars is standing stock still. From the beginning, he swore he wouldn’t let anything get to him. Captives, middle passage, prime slaves . . . he knows all these words but has never wanted to think about the meanings they hold. Sometimes, when he’s speaking with Jacques Dubois, he feels the shell surrounding the words beginning to crack. But this time, it has crumbled to dust. Dust that settles at the feet of those passing in front of him now, mingling with the sand and bits of broken seashell.
All that remain are fifteen human lives moving along the beach. Joseph sees all the little scars on their skin, perhaps from childhood escapades. He sees the marks on the crooks of their necks left by the rice so recently carried home from the fields. He sees haunted eyes that do all they can to avoid thinking, lips that have been bitten raw to fight back the tears. Fifteen whole lives.
Just then, the little group comes to a halt. There’s a cry coming from somewhere.
One of the boatmen has come to block their path. The guards are pointing their rifles at him, shouting. The captives take the opportunity to catch their breath. They bend down, clutching their knees. When one man tries to rest his head on his neighbour’s shoulder, a guard prods him to make him stand up straight.
The boatman who stopped the convoy has his hands in the air. He’s surrounded. But he doesn’t want to fight. He just wants to talk to one of the women. The guards exchange a few words. Without lowering their weapons, they allow him to go over to the captive.
“I know her,” says the boatman. “She’s from my village, ten days from here across the lagoon. She shouldn’t be here.”
He gets up close to her. She’s around thirty years old, thin and petite, with eyes like two black suns.
“What are you doing here?”
When she doesn’t reply, he goes to touch her arm, but one of the guards pushes him away. The boatman raises his hands again.
“What happened?” he asks her softly.
She remains silent.
“What happened up there?”
“They came to the village,” she says, her eyes shining even more now.
“What about your family? Should I warn them you’re here? Your children . . .” His breath catches, and his eyes open wide as though he’s suddenly understood.
“And my family . . .?”
They look at each other. She stands up straight. It would be too shameful for her to look away.
“There’s no one left to warn,” she says.
The man lets out a cry. The guards throw him to the ground. A struggle ensues.
“I know her,” he shouts. “I know her!”
His cries are getting louder and louder. The sand is sticking to his skin and face.
His friends come to restrain him. They say his name over and over to calm him down.
The convoy sets off again at the same pace, with the same clanging of chains and bare feet hitting the sand.
The captives are heading along the coastline towards the west. The silhouettes of their backs are visible against the sunlight. As they recede further into the distance, a haze of mist reappears just above their heads.
Joseph doesn’t need to speak a word of their language to understand what has happened. He watches the boatman get up from the sand and run across the beach, abandoning everything. He’s going home. He knows there’s nothing he can do, that it’s all over. But he’s going home. His feet sink into the sand as he runs. Joseph watches him fall down and get back up several times.
Just then, loud voices come echoing from the fort. The officers of The Sweet Amelie are coming down the steps in disarray.
The captain can be heard shouting angrily.
Picard hurries on ahead in Joseph’s direction.
“We’re leaving,” he says. “Get them to put the canoes back in the water. The captain’s furious.”
“Why?”
“There’s not a single captive in all the dungeons of that fort. Jacobsen’s a drunk. He wanted to buy some time, settle the accounts for a few services, and use our ship to attract others. But there’s not a single captive for sale here.”
Palardi joins them.
“There’s been peace in this region for three years. I knew it. There’s nothing worse for the slave trade. No wars means no captives. I’ve said that from the beginning.”
“Said what?” says the captain, appearing from behind them. “What have you been saying now, Palardi?”
“That you have a strong intuition, Captain,” says the surgeon, pathetically.
Gardel knows the tricks of his trade. He’s always sure to discreetly send one of his men to explore the dungeons before getting into any discussions. This time, they didn’t find anything.
“I just saved us eight days. This place is a madhouse. Picard, tell the boatmen they’re coming with us. We’ll need them until we get to Ouidah at least. We’ll tow them. Arrange for them to join us for two months. Two canoes and fourteen men, not one less. They can find their way home at their own expense. This Dutchman’s a crook, so we’re taking his sailors.”
The boatmen of Shama are like gold dust on this coast. Picard knows they’re also very tough businessmen. He suspects this is why Gardel is sending him to do the bargaining. The captain has a plan. He wants to know Picard is worth his salt if negotiations need to be carried out later down the line.
“What about water? And wood?” asks Savage, a trainee naval officer.
“Not now,” barks Gardel. “We’re leaving. We have enough water to get to Elmina. If we run out, we’ll open the brandy. Whatever happens, don’t let the other ships get word of why we’re leaving. Tell them Governor Jacobsen doesn’t like the French and has been reserving his stocks for his own countrymen. Let them all waste their time hanging around here. I don’t want anything to do with them until Christmas.”
Picard goes over to the head boatman. The discussions are long-winded. The head boatman seems reluctant. He turns to his men. In reality, they know it’s an acceptable offer. The crisis in Shama means it’s the best they can hope for at the moment. But there’s also one little issue they don’t want to bring up. Now that their colleague has left, they’re one man short of the fourteen required for the deal.
The clock is ticking. The tide is going out. Picard, who thinks he’s getting a bargain, pretends to get angry. He speaks to them in dreadful English, glancing at Gardel.
“Decide now! I don’t pay higher. You also take tobacco for each man on Sundays.”
Joseph is keeping his distance. He’s watching Mosi, who has waded out into the waves. His clothes are in a little pile on the sand. The water is up to Mosi’s shoulders. Joseph watches him turn around to look at the group of boatmen. He hesitates for a moment before diving once more into the water. Then he emerges, leaving his clothes on the shore. He goes over to the head boatman, who is still negotiating with Picard.
“If you need an extra man,” says Mosi, “I’m here.”
“You know this part of the coast?”
“I was born here.”
The head boatman nods, turns to Picard, and shakes his hand.
Watching from up near the fort, Gardel understands that a deal has been struck.
Joseph Mars is sitting at the front of one of the canoes. Next to him, Mosi plunges his paddle deep into the water. He paddles even harder than the rest. He’s just found the best way to visit all the forts and slave trading posts along the coast, perhaps as far as Bonny and Old Calabar. All he has to do is follow the French ship.
On the beach, a group of children have found his old clothes and are dressing up in them.
Mosi prefers to keep his shoulders and legs bare. He likes to feel the seawater against his skin. His mind drifts back to when he was twelve years old, rowing among the boatmen of Shama. Back to a time when it was impossible to imagine that, one day, he might lose a son to the slave trade.
27
Barbaric Harvest
Since that night on All Saints’ Day, 1786, the course of The Sweet Amelie has been punctuated by the purchase of captives all along the coast. From port to port, women, children, and men in clusters of seven or eight, sometimes more, sometimes fewer, are traded in for the ship’s cargo: cloth, iron, firearms, poor-quality alcohol cut with water, and parasols with golden fringes that have been cluttering up the ship’s hold. The beautiful black and yellow boat, with its immaculate sails and figurehead of a young girl in a nightgown is slowly becoming a slave ship.
Villagers light big fires on the beaches to signal to passing ships that there are captives for sale on their shores, but they can’t always be trusted. The captain surveys the coastline. He never hangs around for very long. Often, the ship goes by without even stopping.
The first time it does stop, before the tall towers of Elmina Castle, only one man is brought aboard the ship. The first man. He stands straight and proud like a wooden figurine, his jaw clenched and his chin held high. His eyes are red from trying to keep them open for so long. The sailors hoist him up on deck, but not one of them dares look this dignified man in the eye.
Gardel is looking down from the aftcastle. He’s beside himself. He was very close to buying a batch of thirty perfectly healthy men in one go. The sale would have been a good omen for the rest of the trip, but then a one-hundred-and-fifty-ton brigantine ship from Liverpool outbid the captain by throwing three kegs of powder into the deal. Instead of thirty captives, he’s left with one, too old to bring in more than a thousand pounds.
On the first page of the register, Picard writes down the name he has given this first man: Adam. Next to the name, he writes down how much he cost: a small barrel of brandy, a dozen sheets of fabric, three iron bars, some gun powder and four rifles.
The first man is sitting alone on deck, the rowboat suspended just above him. He’s still wearing that heartbreaking smile; his steely gaze seems to be directed within. He doesn’t make a sound even when the hot iron brands the skin on his right shoulder with a capital “A” for Amelie, enclosed within a circle.
Joseph has fled to the bowels of the ship so he doesn’t have to watch. He’s working with Jacques Dubois, who’s managed to find all the wood they need. Tavel is with them, too. The cooper has been back on his feet for some time now. He’s eternally grateful to Dubois, who saved his life with nothing but fresh air and the cooking water from the rice. Now he won’t stop thanking Dubois and never leaves his side.
Alongside his health, Tavel seems to have regained his voice. He never stops talking. It’s as though he’s afraid that if he does, he might never be able to speak again.
“You know, Monsieur Dubois, I’m currently working on a little study that I think will interest you.”
“Is that so?” the carpenter mumbles politely.
“I’ve noticed that the weight of one human we purchase is roughly equal to the weight of the goods we give in exchange. What an extraordinary coincidence.”
