The Sinking of the Slave Ship Freedom

My hands are cracked from scrubbing. I stack the last wooden bowl upside-down and allow myself a breath. Just one. I’m alone in the galley—the corsairs would never know if I took two, or five. But today I can’t spare more than one.

Today I make my escape.

The Freedom pitches sharply as the anchor splashes down. I hardly notice. I’m an old hand at this now.

Three years I’ve been at sea. Six voyages from the island where they took me to the cold northern shore where they scattered my siblings. On the first passage they made me their cook. On the second, I learned their rough language (enough to get by). On the third, I started planning.

The door groans open without knocking. The Captain is stern and balding, with a boil on his nose. He reminds me to have enough stew for tonight—always a double-ration on the day we cast off from either port, and enough grog to drown in.

He promises a flogging if I forget. I drop my gaze and tell him I won’t.

He goes. A smile creeps across my cracked lips as I realize. I’ve taken my last beating.

I prepare the stew. I haven’t slept—I spent all last night cutting onions to buy time. I scrape the chopped rabbit into the bubbling pot, all the meat that’s left on board. They’ll bring back meat tonight, along with the bondstock—slaves. The Captain is a bastard, but a clever one. His operation runs like a clock.

I glance through the porthole at the green water below. My chest aches. I swivel the glass down on the one bolt holding it in place. (The others I worked loose with a knife months ago.) The sea air tastes like home.

I look at the door. It’s quieter now; they’ve already put the jolly out. The few corsairs still onboard won’t disturb me. Even so, I wedge the big work table against the door for safety.

I fetch the sack from the closet. It’s stiff and still smells like beef from proofing it with tallow. I tie my rope to the table leg and drape it out the window. It took me a year to gather enough material to fashion it.

I strip and wriggle through the porthole. I’m stick-thin; my shoulders hardly scrape the sides. For weeks I’ve been skipping meals to make sure I’d fit. I slip into the warm water with barely a ripple.

I’m a strong swimmer; all the islanders are. I swim under the ship’s keel and come up island-side. The corsairs are pulling the jolly onto the beach. I dive deep and look for the inlet where my brothers and I used to hunt crabs. No one sees me as I come up between the black rocks.

I disappear into the long grass. My toes scrunch in the soft loam. My eyes are wet.

I know every rock and tree on the island; I’m barely half a league from my village, where the corsairs first arrived with their whips and muskets. I could be there within an hour.

I could, but I can’t. They took six of us. I remember the last thing Father said.

“Protect your sister.”

How can I look him in the eye, knowing I failed?

It’s a steep hike to the bluffs where my brothers would throw rocks and watch them splash into the green below. I wade through a field of white maybells drooping on their thin stalks. My sister and I used to pick them for a bouquet. (We stopped after the baby ate one and was sick for a week.)

I pluck one. The stalk is oily between my fingers. I think of Dani as I gather my bouquet. It’s like I’m dreaming. Like I never left.

The sun hangs low over the water by the time I’m finished. My hands are cramped, my arms full of sweet-smelling maybells. I stuff them in the sack.

I look around for the stooped tree we used to climb. His roots jut over the bluff. There’s a sharp black rock nestled at the base of his trunk. It takes all my strength to roll it away. In the hollow between the roots, more maybells, shriveled and dirty. I take them all.

Then I go back to the ship.

This is my third escape. My last.

It’s dusk by the time I reach the inlet. The Freedom is a black duck on the water, the sky orange-gray and fading behind it. I see white where the oars splash into the water as the jolly carves through the surf. I run.

There’s prisoners waiting on the beach—you can tell by the way they’re huddled together. They’re surrounded by corsairs holding guns and cutlasses in case someone runs.

For a second, I think someone sees me. He’s strong, with dark hair, a head taller than the others. He looks like my brother. Brave.

I dive deep and don’t come up for air until the ship is between us.

I can hear pounding on the galley door. I grit my teeth and climb toward the porthole. My clothes are in a heap; I scramble to pull breeches on over my wet legs.

The bosun practically tumbles into the room when I pull back the table. He comes up scowling. “You didn’t hear me knocking?”

I drop my gaze. “Cap’n said no one eats till the stew’s done.” A bead of seawater runs down my nose and splats on the deck.

He glares. My bare chest is still glistening; I pray he thinks it’s sweat.

I’m not worth it. He steals a hardtack and jabs it at me. “You need to eat, boy. You’re all bones.”

He swaggers off, grumbling. He doesn’t notice that the porthole is still swiveled wide.

I tend the stew. Outside I can hear the Captain giving his speech to the bondstock. I know it by heart. Their lives are his. Flee, and die. Fight, and die. Disobey, and die.

Some of the islanders understand. Some don’t. Sometimes he guts one to make his point. They all understand that.

It’s the last time they’ll see the Captain before we make port. The captives all spend the three months down in the hold. Then, scattered to the winds on the auction block.

That’s what happened to my siblings. Me too, if the ship’s cook hadn’t gotten himself shot over a game of dice. A good cook finds work anywhere.

I finish salting the stew as they weigh anchor. If I squint, I can still see the island in the corner of the porthole.

I promise Father I’ll be back. With the others.

Like the Captain said, two ladles per deckhand on the first night at sea. When I drag the pot out, they’re all lined up, almost respectfully. I even get a thank-you from one or two.

I hear laughter and muffled singing through the door when I drag the pot in. There’s a maybell on the floor. I kick it into the fire.

My heart pounds. No going back now.

I bar the door again, then shrink back between the crates. I wait.

The laughter dies down. I wipe my hands on my breeches. I pray.

Something slams against the door. The table shudders. I hear groaning, shouting. The pounding gets louder. I can’t help myself—I peek between the crates.

The lock explodes in a spray of shrapnel. Black smoke pours through the hole. I see a pistol muzzle, then a bloodshot eye.

He tries to kick the door open. I yell and scramble across the galley. I brace my back against the table. I can see him reloading. I wait for the lead ball to blow me apart.

It never comes. I hear a thud, and the pounding stops.

The ship is horribly quiet. Even so, I wait an hour before slipping out.

It’s in shambles. Vomit and grog slosh across the deck. Bodies everywhere. A few of them are still writhing, clutching their bellies.

It won’t be long now.

My insides are ice. I’ve waited two years for this.

I find the bosun and cut the keys off his belt. He doesn’t mind. I go below and unlock the captives. I can see the question on their faces. I don’t explain.

The Captain’s door is unlocked. There’s vomit on his desk, staining the maps and manifests brown. It dribbles on the floor. He’s slumped against the wall, eyes closed, his face deadly pale. I remember the last time he flogged me. I feel nothing.

There, ten feet from him, the chest. My eyes widen. That’s what I’m here for. My feet skim the thick carpet. I crouch before the ornate thing, reinforced with blackiron bands. My gaze settles on the tiny black keyhole.

A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. I glimpse the black bore of his flintlock like the devil’s eye trained on me. I dive flat as the pistol ball whips over my head and smashes through the wall.

I see the Captain’s face through the smoke. He’s scowling, a packet of powder in his teeth. He rips the packet and dumps it into the bore.

I lunge at him and rip the flintlock away. He’s too weak to stop me. He watches me drop a ball in and tamp it down. I nod to the chest. “Open it.” He glares. I press the muzzle into his cheek; it sizzles. He hisses. “Open it.”

He does. The key is on a chain around his neck. He snaps the lock. His eyes never leave mine. Hatred.

I motion him over to the far wall. We hear footsteps on the deck. He asks about the crew.

I ignore him and look down at my prize. It’s full of neat bundles of banknotes in several currencies, a few bags of silver. More cash than I’ve ever seen. Blood money, every cent.

My eyes settle on the little black book. My pulse quickens. I thumb through it. Every soul the Freedom ever stole is named within its pages, and their buyers, and how much—how little—their lives had cost.

I find the right page. I can hardly read it through the tears. But there they are. Five names.

I’m coming, I whisper.

The Captain reads my thoughts. “You think you’ll find them? That you can sail this ship all the way north? You got no captain and no crew. You’re a cook. You’ll sink at the first squall.”

“Then you’ll sink with me,” I promise. His jaw tightens.

The door opens. A few of the islanders are standing there. The tall one leads them in. He asks what’s next.

“Cap’n has volunteered to steer us south,” I say. “You can all go home.”

“What about you?”

I show him the book.

The islanders trade a look. I hear them talking it over in my home tongue—they don’t know I understand. The tall one wants to join me. The others are nervous.

He tells them that it isn’t for me. It’s for every sister and son hauled away in chains across the sea. The others agree.

Gratitude swells in my chest. I thank him. The island language feels strange on my tongue.

I motion to the Captain slumped against the wall. “Take him to the helm.” I hand him the flintlock. “Shoot him if he runs.”

They take to this new instruction enthusiastically. The Captain thrashes feebly against their grip. His tricorn falls off.

I scoop it up, dust it off. It fits perfectly.

The ship yaws sharply as we veer south. I hardly notice. I’m an old hand at this now.

Before bedding down for the night, we find a bucket of pitch and slather it over the ill-fitting name on the side of the vessel. My new crew asks what to call it.

The sun never rises on the slave ship Freedom. The new name is scrawled in drippy black letters under the old.

Maybell.