Read Online The Slave Dancer by Paula Fox - Free Book Online Page B

our goods,” said Purvis indignantly. Then he laughed. Once, he said, a real African king had come aboard—“Then they do have kings,” I said broodingly. “Well, naturally, they have kings,” exclaimed Purvis. He went on with his story, telling me the king and the Captain had got so drunk that when dawn rose, the Captain had clambered over the side, ready to make off and rule the tribe and leave the black king in command of the ship.
    â€œDrink turns people round,” commented Purvis somewhat importantly.
    â€œIt’s not drink,” I protested. “It’s the kidnapping of these Africans that turns everyone round!” And I looked with growing fear toward that shore which lay behind the turbulent waves whose ghostly white crests were visible in the darkness. I thought of the pyre of the barracoon, empty beneath a moonless sky that now and then let drop a brief weak fall of rain. I thought of the African kings setting upon each other’s tribes to capture the men and women—and children for all I knew—who would be bartered for spirits and tobacco and arms, who would, any night now, be dropped into the holds of this ship. And all at once, I saw clearly before me, like a shadow cast on a sail, the woman in the garden in New Orleans, Star, standing so quietly in the doorway. The world, I told myself, was as wicked a place as our parson had said, although he was a great fool. I turned to Purvis, wanting to tell him about the woman in the garden.
    He was staring down at me as though I was a cockroach, his jaw hanging loose, his hand raised above my head in a way I could not mistake. I ducked.
    â€œDon’t say such things!” he bellowed. “You know nothing about it! Do you think it was easier for my own people who sailed to Boston sixty years ago from Ireland, locked up in a hold for the whole voyage where they might have died of sickness and suffocation? Do you know my father was haunted all his days by the memory of those who died before his eyes in that ship, and were flung into the sea? And you dare speak of my parents in the same breath with these niggers!”
    â€œI know nothing about your father and mother,” I said in a voice that trembled. “Besides, they were not sold on the block.”
    â€œThe Irish were sold!” he cried. “Indeed, they were sold!”
    â€œThey are not sold now,” I muttered. But he raved on, and I sank to the deck, covering my ears with my hands. How could he object to one thing and not another? It made no sense at all! But my speculations were cut short. Purvis delivered a kick on my shin. I howled. As though he were cursing me, he said, “Get those buckets in the hold. Hurry up about it, you nasty piece of business!”
    â€œWhat buckets?” I asked, wiping my tears away, for he had really hurt me.
    He grabbed me up off the deck, and pointed to a row of buckets lined up nearby.
    â€œWhat for? Why? Where shall I put them?” I asked, sobbing.
    â€œThey’re latrines for the blacks,” he replied, thunder echoing in his voice the way it does in a heat storm. “Put them where your fancy strikes you. It won’t matter to them. ”
    We did not say one word to each other the next day, and when he had an order to give me, he had Claudius Sharkey pass it on. But the next night’s event ended our quarrel as well as the drinking of the crew.
    At midnight, or thereabouts, I heard a sound as though a thousand rats were scrambling up the hull of The Moonlight. I sprang from my hammock, found myself alone in our quarters, and raced up the ladder to the deck.
    In the clear sky, a great white moon hung poised above the mainmast, striping the deck with pale unearthly rays. The crew stood silently, their pistols in their hands, their backs against the port rail. Spark and Captain Cawthorne were at attention near the starboard rail. The carronade had been moved and was pointing its