Little Black Girl Lost 4 (5 page)

Chapter 12

I
bo stepped onto the deck dressed in pure Egyptian purple silk; the kind that was fit only for an upper class woman from that culturally rich land. She was absolutely magnificent to look upon, and her mannerisms, although subtle, offered an aura of nobility. Her deep set eyes captured them all and stopped all movement—even time itself, it seemed, as she stood perfectly still, taking in the effect she had on everyone who could see her. A cacophony of quiet arose and remained. It was as if God himself said, “Quiet yourselves and behold my glory as I pass by.” Only the roar of the sea could be heard at that moment.

At least a hundred men, women, and children seemed to be waiting for her arrival; as if her arrival would be that of a majestic empress whose presence demanded that her subjects wait patiently, and not that of a common slave. All of them were completely nude, and embarrassed, it appeared, as each of them lowered their heads and covered their exposed genitals when she looked at them. The children, some of them teens, others much younger, attempted to hide their privates too. They were all wearing chains around their necks, hands, and ankles. When they moved, the clanging of the chains rang out loudly.

A southerly wind blew their scent into her nose. She suddenly felt an immediate need to throw up all that she had eaten. Violently, what she had ingested rushed its way out of her stomach, through her esophagus, and out her mouth, landing on the deck and on the perfectly fitted purple silk garment Amir's mother had made. The smell of her vomit was so vile that she fell to her knees and threw up again. Mocking laughter from the
Windward
crew filled her ears and rang in her mind.

She heard chains clanging together. When she looked up, she saw the nude men and women parting, making room for another. She watched as the sea of people parted until she saw him—Amir.

He stood tall, brave, and proud; his spirit and will intact, defiant, unlike the other captives who were far more subdued. He was wearing his princely uniform. The strong wind caused his black cape to flap against his fettered bronze ankles. His feet were shoulder width apart, providing perfect balance, presenting a strong and powerful mystique, even though he, too, was a captive. He gazed into Ibo's soft eyes, penetrating them, telling her without saying a single word to remember who she was, where she came from, who she belonged to.

In an instant, Ibo remembered all that Amir's eyes said. She gathered herself and stood up, determined to be equally defiant, equally proud, equally unshakable.

“Beslis,” Ibo heard Captain Rutgers call out.
Decide,
she understood immediately, translating the word without thought.
Decide what?
she wondered.

She looked at Rutgers; her eyes offered sincere ignorance.

“Choose one,” he said and looked at the nude slaves. His tone was soft, almost serene, innocent in that it offered no warning of what he was about to do; what he was about to show her, show the prince, show them all.

Ibo frowned, unsure of why he wanted her to select from the chattel that stood before her. She watched Amir and did her best to mimic him, standing tall and proud, chest out, chin up, unfazed and untroubled by the horror that surrounded them.

“If you don't choose one,” Rutgers continued, “I'll choose one for you.”

When Ibo stood there quietly looking into his eyes, quiescent, resisting his authority, Rutgers walked over to the tallest, thickest man in the group in an angry hurry. Roughly, he forced the man over to the ship's mainmast, where a couple of crewmen locked both his wrists into restraints made of metal hoops above his head.

“Mr. Whitaker!” Rutgers called out.

“Sir!” Whitaker said in response, standing at attention, chest out, shoulders back.

“Mr. Whitaker, I don't think my guest understands the gravity or the sheer hopelessness of the situation.” He grabbed a black bullwhip from the foremast and handed it to Whitaker. “Explain it to her. Make sure she gets all the details. Do you understand me, Mr. Whitaker?”

“Aye, Captain,” Whitaker shouted, offered a quick, rigid salute. “With pleasure, sir! Somebody's gotta teach these darkies how things are.”

He took the whip from Rutgers and walked over to the man shackled to the mainmast. A delightful sneer emerged before he said, “You don't understand a word I'm sayin', do ya, nigger?” He paused and waited for a response, his eyes glaring into his victim's.

The man looked at Whitaker with eyes full of fury; eyes that bridged the communication gap; eyes that told his captor that if the opportunity ever presented itself, he wouldn't hesitate to rotate his head one hundred and eighty degrees, snapping his neck. And if it were possible, rotate it another one hundred and eighty degrees so that the circle would be complete.

Whitaker's tobacco-stained teeth slowly appeared as the corners of his mouth turned upward. Softly, he whispered in his ear, “You may not understand my words, but you do understand me, don't you? My best friend . . . Charlie . . . is dead because of you savages.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it quickly before anyone other than the slave saw it.

“I loved Charlie,” he continued, still whispering. “We been friends for near ‘bout twenty years. Somebody gotta pay for him dyin' the way he did. The cap'em won't let me kill the prince, but I sho' as hell can kill you, nigger. And that's what I aim tuh do.” He raised the whip to eye level. “I'm gonna peel you like a potato. Ya hear me? A potato!” And with that, he marked off the appropriate distance needed and looked at Captain Rutgers. “Ready, Cap'em.”

Rutgers looked at Ibo and said, “You're about to enter a world where your life has little to no value. As a matter of fact, from now on, your life is in the hands of your owner. For the time being, that's me. Telling you that fact is not going to make you understand it, so Mr. Whitaker is going to make what I just said very clear.” He paused briefly. “Tell the prince what I just said.”

Ibo didn't move, didn't utter a sound; didn't even bat an eye. She just stared at Rutgers defiantly, like she was still in Nigeria, still on her father's farm, still safe from all things dangerous and all things that offend.

“Mr. Whitaker,” Rutgers began, “you may commence.”

Whitaker said, “Ya hear that, nigger? Ol' Cap'em here just gimme the okay to peel the skin off'n you.”

Chapter 13

A
loud gasp filled the air when the whip connected to bare black flesh and pulled away several layers of skin, immediately followed by a bloodcurdling scream emitted by the man being whipped. It startled them when they heard the power of it. The scream was almost synchronous with the sound that crackled in the ears of terrified onlookers. Blood splashed across the children's faces that stood closest to the slave being lashed. It was important that the children more than the adults see the savagery, as it would forever alter their desire to defy their owners.

Sweat dripped from Mr. Whitaker's forehead as he delivered lash after merciless lash, enjoying every bit of the punishment he doled out. He saw nothing wrong with what he was doing. This was justice; justice for his lifelong friend, Charlie. The black savages were animals and could be treated as such without remorse. Only a weak man felt sorry for the animal he killed. It was a matter of survival; survival of the fittest.

Although he enjoyed lashing the slave who had nothing to do with his friend's death, he was tiring. Nevertheless, his anger gave him the strength to continue for more than an hour.

Rutgers noticed that the slave's legs were no longer holding him up and he no longer cried out. “Enough!” he commanded.

“Ah, just a few more, Cap'em,” Mr. Whitaker pleaded. “It's only right that these darkies see that they can't kill a white man and get away with it.”

“I said enough!” Rutgers shouted. “He's lost consciousness.”

Mr. Whitaker walked over to the man and kicked him. “Wake up, nigger!”

The man didn't move.

Mr. Whitaker kneeled down and checked him closer and then stood up and looked at Rutgers. “He's dead. And it serves him right. Charlie's dead; now he's dead. That makes us almost even. A few more niggers gotta die to even the score. Otherwise, it would appear that one of their lives is the same as ours. The good Lord up above wouldn't like it if we took life for life with these darkies. He just wouldn't stand for it.”

Rutgers looked at Ibo and said, “Explain it to the prince.”

Ibo looked at Amir. He was still standing tall, unmoved by what he had seen, knowing that his strength, his indomitable spirit was being transferred to her vicariously. He quickly assessed the situation. Even though he did not understand the language the Dutchmen spoke, his eyes told him everything he needed to know. This was a chess match of epic proportions, and the lives of everyone on the ship, including the Dutchmen, hung in the balance. The captain was trying to use his love for Ibo to break his will to survive. If he allowed himself to be broken, they would all be broken. He, therefore, knew he had to model the role he wanted her to play.

Even though seeing a man beaten into submission and then beaten to death rocked her to the core of her existence, she shook her head, refusing to cooperate. If Amir could take it, so could she—at least that's what she told herself. But deep down, she wanted to beg Amir to cooperate. She felt as if the man was dead because she refused to show weakness; refused to compromise with those who would take their God-given freedom as if it were hewn out gold, stick it in flames to melt it down, and then shape it into whatever form they saw fit.

One of the crewmen shouted, “Man-eaters on the port bow, Cap'em.”

Rutgers looked at Ibo. “Remember the sharks I told you about in my cabin?”

Ibo locked eyes with him defiantly.

“You're about to get a bird's eye view of what these man-eaters can do to a man in a matter of seconds.” He looked at Mr. Whitaker. “Move them over to the port bow so they can see.”

“Yes, sir, Cap'em,” Whitaker said, smiling from ear to ear. “This'll scare the livin' daylights outta 'em.”

Moments later, all the slaves were watching ten sharks swimming in a perpetual circle, waiting for their meal.

Rutgers grabbed Ibo by the arm and dragged her over to the side of the ship. “Look in the water!” He paused for a second when she looked in. “Don't make me do this! Tell the prince what I said!”

Ibo looked in the water. She saw the sharks, but was unafraid of what their powerful jaws could do. She had never seen them or their handiwork.

She looked at Rutgers and said, “No.”

Rutgers sighed heavily. “You heard her, Mr. Whitaker.”

A few seconds later, they tossed the dead slave in the Atlantic. They heard a loud splash. Water leapt out of the ocean when the dead slave crashed into it. Rapidly, the sharks swam to the slave. Those onboard learned firsthand what a man-eater was and what its powerful jaws were capable of. The sharks ripped into the slave's flesh and bone violently and incredibly swiftly. The slaves could hear the dead man's bones breaking. The sight of it was so surreal that many fainted; stomachs emptied. The children wailed loudly without the benefit of consolation.

“Decide!” Rutgers shouted again. However, this time, when he looked into her eyes, he could see that the sight of a man being eaten had lessened her resolve.

Ibo looked at the Prince. He was still unmoved, undaunted.

“No,” she said, almost whispering; her tone without resolve, her fortitude, a memory.

Rutgers shook his head. “I don't get any pleasure out of this! Just tell the prince what I said and I'll end it here, now!”

Two tears climbed Ibo's high cheekbones, then raced down her tight jaw line and fell on the bloodied deck. Her resilience was nearly gone; it was about to spread its wings like an eagle and fly far away. She found a morsel of strength and shook her head in a final act of diminished defiance.

Rutgers shook his head and sighed heavily. This time he chose a woman. She was beaten to within an inch of her life and tossed to the sharks alive. Again they heard the sound of bones breaking. Again they heard wailing; a sound so full of emotion that it seized Ibo's heart and threatened to confiscate it. Two more tears raced down her fallen countenance. Nevertheless, after seeing Amir's strength, she refused a third time.

This time Rutgers chose a child—a girl no more than six years old. He chose her because she was one of the few children who had been captured in the field with her mother and father. When the father attempted to protect his daughter, he was shot and tossed to the sharks alive—bones broke, blood filled the sea.

This time Ibo didn't look at the prince. This time she made her own decision. This time she was going to save the little black girl's life. She walked over to the prince and said what Captain Rutgers had ordered her to say: “You're about to enter a world where your life has little to no value.”

Chapter 14

T
he prince turned his back to Ibo, angry with her because she had shown weakness and had given in to her emotions. He thought it better that they all die rather than become chattel, rather than become the animals the Dutchmen thought they were. Death was preferable to becoming complicit in their demise. Yet he wasn't without compassion for those who died such horrible deaths.

Compassion notwithstanding, he had to be strong for the men who studied his every move, his every emotion, because he would need them if and when the time came to turn the tables on their oppressors. He therefore had to be strong, only giving in when necessary; and only then as an act of retreat, never surrender. Even though he loved Ibo, the men had to see that even she took a backseat to strength and the need to survive. Strength was important for morale, and morale was a necessary ingredient for motivation, particularly when it came to battle.

When Captain Rutgers saw that, he said, “Mr. Whitaker!”

Whitaker snapped to attention. “Sir!”

Rutgers stared at Amir for a long second and then said, “Toss the girl over the side.”

The girl's mother screamed and ran at the captain, but her chains retrained her. The girl knew what was about to happen to her and she resisted, clawing, biting, kicking. But being a child, she was no match for Whitaker, who tossed the girl to the sharks—bones broke, blood filled the ocean.

Seeing all the blood, hearing father and daughter cry out as they were being devoured took all the fight out of the slaves. They fell to their knees and wept unceasingly.

Amir saw their defeat and surrendered; bowing his head, he listened as Ibo translated Rutgers' words. When she finished, he nodded. From that moment forward, there would be no more rebellion, no more whippings, no more death.

Captain Rutgers had successfully separated the men from the women, the children from the parents, and most importantly, Ibo from the prince. And it would remain that way for the remainder of the voyage. For many it would remain that way for the rest of their very lives.

“By what authority do you do these things?” Amir said to Ibo.

She looked at Rutgers and translated Amir's words.

Rutgers smiled and pulled a small Bible from his vest and shook it in his face. “I do these things by the authority of the Lord Jesus Christ. This is the good book, and it says you were born to serve us, to be our slaves.”

Ibo translated.

Amir looked Rutgers in the eyes. “If that were so, why do you force us? And why do we resist?”

Ibo translated.

“Because you're too ignorant to know that you are a cursed people. You've got the curse of Ham on you! All of you!”

Ibo translated.

“Too ignorant? Have you actually read the book you hold?”

Ibo translated.

Stunned by the questions, Rutgers stared at Amir, studying him for a moment or two. Even though he was a born again Christian and carried a Bible, he had never read it. Sure, he had read passages from the book of Psalms, Genesis, Proverbs, and the Gospels, but he had never actually read the Bible from cover to cover. His knowledge of it was incredibly limited. To be challenged by the prince, who could quite possibly be more knowledgeable than he, could not be tolerated; especially not in front of the Windward crew.

“Mr. Whitaker!” Rutgers called out.

Whitaker came to attention. “Sir!”

Still staring at Amir, he yelled angrily, “Take these
animals
back to their stalls and lock ‘em up!”

Amir remembered the Bible lessons and the verses his mother, who converted from Islam to Christianity, had made him memorize. The verse seemed to come from someplace deep within, a place he no longer visited, but it was now apropos.

His eyes blazed with confidence when he looked at Rutgers' countenance and spoke in a tone that was even, reflective, and without malice.

Rutgers looked at Ibo, expecting her to translate what he had said.

Dumbfounded, she frowned and said, “I'm not sure what he meant, but he said, ‘Mark 12:30 and 31.' ”

Rutgers huffed a little when he learned what Amir had said. Nevertheless, he opened the Bible he was holding, turned to the selected passage, and read the following:

 

 

Ibo watched him as he read the passages and noticed that after reading them, he grew angry. Curious, she said, “What does it say?”

Rutgers slammed the Bible shut so roughly that it made a loud thud. Then he glared at her and said, “It says wives are to obey their husbands. That's what it says.”

“Hmmm.”