Gimme that iron.” Jonas grabbed it from me while I wiped my eyes, coughed, and cursed the fire.
Must be the smoke
.
The next slave was a fine specimen of manhood. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, he didn’t look away as did the other slaves. Instead, he stared defiantly at Jonas and me, a roaring fire of hatred in his eyes. I’d my doubts as to whether the two African guards could hold him should the man decide to fight. Theyyanked the chain attached to the iron collar about the man’s neck and forced him to his knees in the mud. Then they began to push him onto his stomach.
I retrieved an iron from the coals and prepared to dip it in the pot of palm oil.
Next thing I knew, there was an animal-like roar, two black bodies went flying through the air, and the iron was yanked from my hand.
Then, suddenly, the monster of a slave lowered his face to mine. For an instant only, I stared at him—saw that fiery hatred; the visage of murder; his sharpened, pointed teeth—before he thrust the red-hot brand onto the flesh of my chest, just below my throat, holding me by the shoulder to press it all the harder.
My skin fried. Popped.
Pain seared through my body.
I shrieked. The world spun round.
Oh God, it hurts! It hurts!
Jonas hit the man’s arm, loosening his grip.
I must’ve fallen off my chair, for suddenly I was in the mud and mud was in my ears.
I smelled flesh burning—my own.
All about me echoed screams. The crack of a whip. The retort of muskets. Jonas cursing. The bellowing of the giant. My uncle shouting orders.
And then, except for the rain, the moaning and weeping of the slaves, and my own stifled cries, it was silent.
I lay for a while, my chest throbbing and burning, until my uncle came and stood under the tarpaulin. “Philip, get up.” When I didn’t move, he said it again.
Slowly, I sat up in the mud. My chair lay overturned beside me, along with the branding iron. Stuck to its end I saw shriveled,blackened flesh. “Is he dead?” I asked, remembering the slave’s look of murder, the gunshots.
Jonas picked up the iron and returned it to the embers. The fire snapped, sending a plume of sparks upward. Outside the tarpaulin, rain roared. Water streamed off the canvas.
“Stand up,” said Uncle. His face was hard, his eyes slitted. He held a whip coiled in his hand.
I did as Uncle told me. I wiped the mud off my face.
Uncle motioned to someone behind him. “Bring the slave here.”
Five sailors brought the giant, two on each side, one with a musket jammed into the slave’s spine. Mud caked the slave. Mixed with the mud, I saw blood. Again the slave stared defiantly.
Uncle looked at me and pointed at the slave. “Brand him.”
I stood rooted, unable to move, my chest afire.
“Put him on his face,” said Uncle to the sailors. Then, again to me: “I said, brand him.”
Still I stood, watching as the slave gave no resistance, staring at me all the way down as the sailors shoved him onto his belly in the mud.
“Go,” whispered Jonas, pushing me from behind. “It’s got to be done.”
I reached for a branding iron. My hand shook. The end of the iron glowed red. I started to dip it in the oil.
“No oil,” ordered Uncle.
And so I branded the murderous savage. Pressed the iron deep into his flesh, just as he’d done to me. His flesh quivered and smoked, but he made no sound.
A great well of rage boiled up inside me, and after the branding was over I bellowed and hurled the iron into the fire, scattering embers. I stormed from the tent into the rain, glad my chest hurt, glad it burned, glad I’d be scarred forever.
I fell to my knees in the mud, hair hanging in soggy strings, and vomited.
Uncle was there, his hand on my shoulder. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I was sick plenty of times when I was your age. Have Jonas see to your wound.” He walked away, boots sucking in the muck.
U nder a cloudy yet rainless sky, we loaded 368 slaves aboard the
Formidable:
244 men and
Must be the smoke
.
The next slave was a fine specimen of manhood. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, he didn’t look away as did the other slaves. Instead, he stared defiantly at Jonas and me, a roaring fire of hatred in his eyes. I’d my doubts as to whether the two African guards could hold him should the man decide to fight. Theyyanked the chain attached to the iron collar about the man’s neck and forced him to his knees in the mud. Then they began to push him onto his stomach.
I retrieved an iron from the coals and prepared to dip it in the pot of palm oil.
Next thing I knew, there was an animal-like roar, two black bodies went flying through the air, and the iron was yanked from my hand.
Then, suddenly, the monster of a slave lowered his face to mine. For an instant only, I stared at him—saw that fiery hatred; the visage of murder; his sharpened, pointed teeth—before he thrust the red-hot brand onto the flesh of my chest, just below my throat, holding me by the shoulder to press it all the harder.
My skin fried. Popped.
Pain seared through my body.
I shrieked. The world spun round.
Oh God, it hurts! It hurts!
Jonas hit the man’s arm, loosening his grip.
I must’ve fallen off my chair, for suddenly I was in the mud and mud was in my ears.
I smelled flesh burning—my own.
All about me echoed screams. The crack of a whip. The retort of muskets. Jonas cursing. The bellowing of the giant. My uncle shouting orders.
And then, except for the rain, the moaning and weeping of the slaves, and my own stifled cries, it was silent.
I lay for a while, my chest throbbing and burning, until my uncle came and stood under the tarpaulin. “Philip, get up.” When I didn’t move, he said it again.
Slowly, I sat up in the mud. My chair lay overturned beside me, along with the branding iron. Stuck to its end I saw shriveled,blackened flesh. “Is he dead?” I asked, remembering the slave’s look of murder, the gunshots.
Jonas picked up the iron and returned it to the embers. The fire snapped, sending a plume of sparks upward. Outside the tarpaulin, rain roared. Water streamed off the canvas.
“Stand up,” said Uncle. His face was hard, his eyes slitted. He held a whip coiled in his hand.
I did as Uncle told me. I wiped the mud off my face.
Uncle motioned to someone behind him. “Bring the slave here.”
Five sailors brought the giant, two on each side, one with a musket jammed into the slave’s spine. Mud caked the slave. Mixed with the mud, I saw blood. Again the slave stared defiantly.
Uncle looked at me and pointed at the slave. “Brand him.”
I stood rooted, unable to move, my chest afire.
“Put him on his face,” said Uncle to the sailors. Then, again to me: “I said, brand him.”
Still I stood, watching as the slave gave no resistance, staring at me all the way down as the sailors shoved him onto his belly in the mud.
“Go,” whispered Jonas, pushing me from behind. “It’s got to be done.”
I reached for a branding iron. My hand shook. The end of the iron glowed red. I started to dip it in the oil.
“No oil,” ordered Uncle.
And so I branded the murderous savage. Pressed the iron deep into his flesh, just as he’d done to me. His flesh quivered and smoked, but he made no sound.
A great well of rage boiled up inside me, and after the branding was over I bellowed and hurled the iron into the fire, scattering embers. I stormed from the tent into the rain, glad my chest hurt, glad it burned, glad I’d be scarred forever.
I fell to my knees in the mud, hair hanging in soggy strings, and vomited.
Uncle was there, his hand on my shoulder. “Nothing to be ashamed of. I was sick plenty of times when I was your age. Have Jonas see to your wound.” He walked away, boots sucking in the muck.
U nder a cloudy yet rainless sky, we loaded 368 slaves aboard the
Formidable:
244 men and
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