What he didn't see was Clarissa working up a gob of spit, which she then rears back and puts straight into his eye. "You pig! Ah will see you hang for this!" Clarissa is a very accurate spitter—I know this from experience.
Colonel Bartholomew Simon puts two fingers into his vest pocket and slowly pulls out a handkerchief. He then carefully wipes the spittle from his face. He is not smiling now.
"No, Miss, you will not. You will never see me again. But you will learn to obey your master. Whoever he turns out to be." And with that he reaches out his hand and slaps her hard across her face, rocking her head back. More gasps from the girls, but not from Clarissa—the red imprint of his hand flares on her cheek but she still maintains the Look. Well, a version of it, anyway—the languid, half-closed eyes have been replaced by a cold, level gaze of pure hatred.
"Shall we get on with this, then, Colonel Simon?" asks a man, obviously the Captain and just as obviously impatient to be on his way.
Simon turns from Clarissa and goes over to Dobbs, who has been grinning and bobbing his head up and down in his joy at what's been happening here. "Yes, we shall, Captain Blodgett, we shall, indeed. Mr. Dobbs, our thanks to you, Sir, for your fine service in this endeavor!" With that, he pulls a bag from the side pocket of his coat and presents it to the grinning Dobbs. "Your reward, Sir, for a job well done!"
"Thankee, Sir," says the vile Dobbs, clutching the purse and leering at us. "Ain't so high-and-mighty now, are ye, dearies? No more 'Dobbs, fetch this' or 'Dobbs, do that.' No, no. Havin' this money means old Dobbs ain't never gonna have to listen to the likes o' you no more—not that old witch Pimm, neither!"
I speak up for the first time. "Did you kill Mistress?" I ask of Bartholomew Simon. "And Higgins? And Mr. Sackett?"
Simon regards me. "No," he says, and I let out a slow breath of relief. "No, that would have cast too much suspicion on this enterprise. They were made sick, but they will recover. It will be blamed on bad fish or something, not on the mild poison our Mr. Dobbs put in their coffees. But how kind of you to think of someone other than yourself, considering your current situation." He makes a mock bow in my direction. I do not return the courtesy.
"This is preposterous. No one will believe this stupid scheme." This is from Dolley. "We are not common girls. A great hue and cry will be raised. You will be pursued and caught and surely brought to justice." She says this with great conviction.
"Let them hue and let them cry. We will be long gone," says Simon. "Besides, they will think you dead. Drowned, poor things, every one. They will find the wreckage—look, even as we speak, the launch is being swamped."
It was true. Sailors had tied a line to the top of the launch's mast and pulled it over till the side of the boat was underwater and the sea poured in. The launch was soon wallowing on its side. About it bobbed the bonnets and purses taken from the girls. Even as I watched, several of them sank out of sight.
"That will drift in, to the rocks over there, and be wrecked. They will find that and various of your personal belongings—and they will find a body—but your dear bodies will never be found. All will surmise that your heavy dresses dragged you down and you were pulled out to sea. How sad."
I think about toeing off my shoes and making a break for the side and diving over, hoping to make it to the shore of that island and so raise the alarm, but the sailors are standing too close about us for me to break through, and there's no telling what these dogs would do if they saw me making good my escape. They might just throw the girls overboard and then get the hell out of here. And then the girls would drown for real. I'm sure there's not a one of them who can swim. No, I'll have to stick around to see how this plays out.
"Well, if you're gonna make a dead body outta one of 'em," says Dobbs, "I'd say you kill that one there, as she's a real troublemaker, she is." He says this and points directly at my forehead.
"Thank you for the suggestion," says Simon. "We shall act upon it. Bo'sun Chubbuck, if you would be so good?"
A man, a very solid-looking man with a short, thick neck, black brows, and scarred face, has been hanging back by the ship's rail, behind the crowd. He now comes forward and he has a massive club in his right hand.
"Elspeth! Rebecca! Stand away from me!" I hiss, but they only clutch me tighter. "Give me room!"
But I will not be able to fight for my life, for a hand comes from behind me and grabs my neck and holds me fast. And he'll hold me thus till the club comes down and smashes my skull, oh, Lord, no!
The Bo'sun takes his club in both hands and swings it like a batsman swinging at a cricket ball and brings it down ... But not on me, oh no, not on me, but on the back of Dobbs's head, and it hits with a great, squishy thud. Dobbs looks surprised for a moment, then his eyes roll back in his head and he crumples to the deck.
Simon leans down and picks up the bag of coins. "Fool" he says. "Throw him overboard."
A man takes what's left of handyman Dobbs by the wrists and another by the ankles and they swing him over the rail. There is a splash and it is over. I'm sure he was dead before he hit the water. The man holding my neck lets go and the thumping of my heart begins to slow back down.
The girls are quiet now, as they have just seen a man killed and it was not a pretty thing. It's true that Dobbs was vile and he had it coming, but still, it was an awful sight to see.
Blackman Bart, the self-styled Colonel Bartholomew Simon, now raises his voice and addresses the crew of the Bloodhound: "You men listen to me! I am leaving now and I direct you to set sail to make this delivery. You will deliver this cargo intact in all ways, all ways, do you mark me on that? Captain Blodgett here has orders to shoot any man who so much as touches one of these girls. They are worth a great deal of money in their current condition and I will not have money lost as a result of your lust! Do you hear?"
There is a low murmur of assent, but one sailor speaks up. It is plain that discipline here is nothing like that of a warship. "What about them three servin' girls?" he says, and points at Annie and Sylvie and Katy, who stand together. "They ain't ladies. Surely we can have our sport with them?" The boy I had seen jumping about before is avidly nodding his head up and down in support of the sailor's proposal.
Both Annie and Sylvie cross themselves and put their hands together in prayer, but their faces are without hope. The girl Katy doesn't do anything except just stand there, her face totally without expression.
"Colonel Simon, Sir," I call out. He turns to look at me. "I know these girls personally. I know them and I know their families. They are all good girls and I can vouch for them as to their character and virtue. They will bring as good a price as any of us."
Simon smiles upon me. "Now, there's a good, practical one. I like that in a girl, and I like that even better in a captive." He turns again to the crew. "So be it. Those three shall be treated as the others are treated. And think on this, you dogs: You are getting twice the pay on this voyage. When you're through, you'll be able to buy all the women you could possibly want for months on end. Think on that."
Shuddering, Annie and Sylvie relax a little. The crew is not pleased.
"Besides, in two months, this bunch will be off and sold and a whole new cargo of black women will be brought on board and you can have all the sport you want with them! Are we agreed?"
This time the sounds of agreement are louder.
"Good, then. I'll be off. Godspeed to you all!" Simon goes to the side, where a small boat is waiting to take him ashore, probably somewhere on the south shore, where he'll take a coach back to Virginia. As he goes over the side, he tips his broad-brimmed hat to us and says, "And ladies, I do hope you'll enjoy the extraordinary adventure I have so meticulously planned for you!"
"Awright, get 'em below!" bellows Captain Blodgett, and down below we go, the very minute Simon leaves. After the few remaining bonnets and shawls are taken from us and thrown overboard, we are shoved roughly down the hatch—very roughly, with rude hands pushing us between our shoulder blades, down the hatchway stairs, through a barred door, and into the very belly of the Bloodhound, down into the very pit of Hell, itself.
Chapter 18
To the horrified young ladies of the Lawson Peabody, the darkness and the vastness of the Hold are not the most fearsome things, nor is the suddenness of their abduction or the hopelessness of their condition. No, it is the stench that is the worst—the stench of a slaver, the stench from too many human beings packed over and over again into too small a space and denied even the most basic of human needs: the need for fresh air, the need for movement, the need even to turn over on the shelf on which you are confined, and the need to care for and protect your family.
The girls of the Lawson Peabody find, upon entry into this Hell, this nether world, a broad and empty Hold, so broad and so empty as to echo even the smallest, most timorous sound the girls make.
I am about the last one thrown down and it takes my eyes a while to accustom themselves to the gloom. As my vision clears, I am able to see that, in addition to the great hold, there are shelves built around the perimeter of the space, one being about eight feet wide, made of open wood slatting on which we all now stand. This shelf gets much wider, maybe by ten more feet, up where it meets the front part of the ship.
Probably that's where they cram the women and children on a regular run. Above us, at shoulder height, is another shelf, about six foot deep, made of the same open slatting. I know why it is made in such a way and I know the girls are going to find out the why of it for themselves real soon—the Bloodhound has heeled over and is heading for open water, and the ship is starting to rock and reel. It will not be long, as the smell is enough to get them gagging already.
The great Hold is like a huge theater, really, with the wide shelf area in the middle being the stage, its narrower portion going around the sides being like the regular seats, the shelf above that being like the balcony, and the dark massive hold below, the pit. There are ladders—stairs, actually—on either side of this stage, leading up to the balcony, and from the center of this stage, a larger, single set of stairs goes down into the pit. Light is coming from somewhere above the balcony and my eyes have adjusted enough for me to see that the great Hold is absolutely empty, except for two large cone-shaped containers that are about four foot in diameter at the bottom and have a hole at top, about ten inches across. I know what they are for and I know they are made that way so they won't tip over in rough seas.
And everywhere, everywhere—on every shelf, on every bulkhead, on every deck—hang chains, all of them clinking and clanking with each roll of the ship.
There are some chains that do not clank. They lie there on the bottom, stretched straight out along the sides of the hull. They're simple long chains with an iron neck collar every three or four feet. Even in my despair, I know what they're for—they're the chain train—they are for leading the captives in a line from the African slave pens to the ship, and eventually from the ship to the American auction blocks. I can stand no more, and I look away.