OCEANS BEYOND
By Brenton Clutterbuck. {edit; CC - Share alike Attribution Non-commercial}
The thunder crashed down in a thundering roar. Lightning flashed, lighting up the sky for a moment, revealing the silhouette of a large ship, the Creole, powering its way through the ocean.
On board the captain, Robert Ensor, stood, gripping the steering wheel carefully, his old wisened eyes scanning across the gentle glitter of the only visible light, dancing across the water.
“Strange nights these,” he murmured softly to himself. Then, louder, “Strange nights, these I say!”
“Aye!” called out Zephaniah C. Gifford, the first mate. “I kicked a rusty nail this morn; it’s a bad omen says I”
“Aye” murmured Captain Ensor quietly. He was thoughtful; he himself had kicked a rusty nail that morning. Surely it was a coincidence - unlike many seamen, Robert Esnor rejected the superstition of bygone days for rationality and clear thinking - though it still clung to his mind like a dark cloud. What if...
***
Madison Washington had deep brown eyes, eyes that betrayed a sharp intelligence. His hands bore the scars of burns and cuts that happened naturally in the course of cooking. He gripped the knife harder in his hand. There was something in the air, the smell of chance, of opportunity hidden just under the sting of the sea salt. There was fortune waiting to be taken.
Slice. Slice. Slice. Washington cut the meat, staring intently at the trails of blood that leaked out. The blood seemed to stain his deep brown fingers darker. He sliced the fat off the side, quickly, sharply. Under every wrap of skin, this was all that lay; meat and blood, and in the case of men, a soul.
He looked to the side. William Devereux was crushing spices. He was a black man too. They were similar in height and build. They both prepared the food, both lived, loved, both experienced great sorrow and joy. But to Washington’s ankle was tied an invisible chain, the chain of servitude. How can one man roam free while another is nought but property? The answer was in his head before the question could complete itself; it was a lie. A lie England had been forced to confront, but one America bitterly and venomously clung to.
And tonight, as the wind raged furiously, Washington thought, tonight the truth would break free.
***
“Lewis!” snapped Thomas McCargo. “Matches!”
Lewis was an old slave, the property of Thomas McCargo for many years. He stood though his aching bones objected, and walked over to his master, passing over the box of matches. McCargo took the box and lit his pipe, thrusting the packet back into Lewis’s hands, barely regarding him. He cast a keen eye across his slaves and ran mental notes on the key points of each; what would fetch the higher price. He absent mindedly stroked his thumb across his bristling black moustache.
The slaves before him were some of the best, he expected. They would sell for very high prices. Ben Blacksmith was a large bulky man, with powerful arms. Elijah Morris was a handsome but gentle faced man, his eyes burning with the fresh light of some painful memory. He was gracious and softly spoken. Doc Ruffin, though, was nothing of the sort. His sharp features stung with barely contained violence. He was a rough one, thought McCargo, hard to tame, but would well serve the master who did not fear to use the whip to keep him in line.
There was a bump at the top of the stairs; John Hewell, a fellow trader had come down the stairs.
“Evenin’”
“Evenin’”
“Rough night.”
“Aye. These scamps have been restless,” said McCargo, indicating towards the slaves. Lewis stirred, uncomfortably.
“I’ll bet,” said Hewell. “Have you any spare tobacco? I left mine in my room. I’ll lend to some tomorrow if you’ve enough to spare tonight.”
“I ‘ave,” said McCargo, opening his tin. He offered some to Hewell who filled his pipe, and pulled out a box of matches. The first broke; the second was hesitant to light.
“Lewis!” cried McCargo, “Matches!”
Lewis felt a shudder of fear race through him. For the first time in years, since the wars of Africa and that first wretched ship, chained to the corpse of a fellow captive had he felt such true white fear; for in his hand, stolen from his masters belongings, was the key to the slaves’ chains. He stood, slowly, and walked towards the pair of men, holding out the box of matches. His hand shook nervously, and he felt sweat begin to form across his brow. Hewell’s eyes darted across Lewis’s hand which twitched involuntarily and gripped harder. Hewell took the box, lit his cigarette and gave them back. Lewis felt an almost physical sensation of relief. He began to turn, but froze upon hearing his master’s voice.
“Lewis.”
Again, his blood iced over. He turned, and as he spoke felt as though the words came from a stranger. His mouth was dry like cotton.
“Y... yessir?”
“What are you holding?”
***
Captain Ensor held the wheel tightly as the spay of the ocean lashed his face. The ocean was wild, and he could not help feeling that it was enraged with him, though he barely dared to allow himself the thought.
Zephaniah stood nearby, staring out into the endless torment. Suddenly he showed signs of panic, and turned.
“Sir! Port turn! We’re moving towards the roughest part.”
Indeed, it was true. The captain made a loud sound in the affirmative and tore the wheel sharply. The ship pushed over a wave, but at that moment, there was a push from the other side, and the ship felt as though the nose held above the ocean forever, then fell.
The Captain and Zephaniah gripped tighter as the ship hit the water heavily, shaking violently with the shock of the sudden impact.
***
In the cook’s quarters, Washington was thrown back violently. He crashed to the ground on his back, and saw his knife fly through the air, shooting down towards his face, and rolled aside to avoid it. It slammed into the ground, barely inches from his ear.
Washington stood. The ship was afresh with wild alarm from the rough seas, and he was barely aware of anything beyond the wild delirium bursting out of his chest, crying out to him... THIS... IS... IT!
He grabbed a saucepan and the knife and began to beat it furiously. “Now!” he cried. “Now, now, now, now, NOW!”
***
Up on board the candles had been snuffed in the shaking, and the banging could be heard from below. As the saucepan rang out, there grew a louder and louder sound, of slaves voices yelling and crying out.
“Lewis,” cried out McCargo, enraged. In the scuffle it was hard to see what had happened, but the unclipping of locks could be heard.
All across the ship echoed the sound of rebellion, of slaves fighting back against the traders and crew, fighting for their birthright, FREEDOM. There was a stillness and a candle lit. McCargo was wounded, lying on the ground, Blacksmith, Morris and Ruffan standing over him. To the side, lay Hewell, who had been dealt a fatal blow.
They ran up to the top, to confront the captain. Zephaniah saw them run us the stairs and delt a violent blow to Morris who fell backwards. Doc Ruffan strode towards him, gripping him by the shoulders and slamming him into the wall of the ship. He grabbed the Captain by the neck, but Ensor wrested himself from Ruffan’s powerful grip and belted him in the face, reaching for his knife. He swung twice at Ruffan, who dodged the blade, then gripped his wrist, hitting it against the side of the ship, the knife tumbling ineffectually into the black turbulent water. He gripped the Captain by the neck and held him over the edge of the ship.
Ensor closed his eyes; so it would be; like so many Captains before him he would enter a watery grave, sinking deep into the unknown to find peace in the mercy of Poseidon's black domain.
“Stop!” cried out a voice.
It was Washington.
“We have taken the ship,” he said. “One of out own is wounded, many of theirs hurt, and one killed. We will shed no more blood. As you see, we are men, not beasts. We now change course, towards England. Take this man downstairs, see he is tended to.”
Doc Ruffan nodded his head. “Aye Captain,” he said.
***
ONE WEEK LATER:
Washington stood and stretched, looking miserably at the bars to the cell that imprisoned him. One hundred sixteen of the slaves on the ship had been released, but he, and the other conspirators remained here, not slaves as before, but no more freemen than they had began.
That was all soon to change.
The guard walked towards them and smiled.
“Mr Washington,” he said, slipping the key into the hole. “You sir, are a free man.”
And so he was.
_________
I imagine the 'reveal' is at the end of the collection so...
The story of Ocean's Beyond is based on the true victorious slave rebellion on board the Creole. Characters specific actions have been fabricated, however the ship did reach shore in England following rebellion organised by the four slaves named. Lewis did belong to McCargo who was a slave trader, but may not have been an active part of the rebellion.
Right. Your turn.
