And so they waited, day after day. The fort slowly filled up, with more people meaning less food for everyone. In desperation, the women began looking at the harbor and wishing a slave ship would appear to take them away.
6
One morning, two weeks or so after they arrived, though they had no idea what day of the week it was, Nalla awoke in the dirt and got up. Two women were pointing to the harbor. There, finally, was a ship. Hours passed and nothing happened, then a strange sight appeared. It was the first white man they had ever seen. He and the boss met on the porch of a hut and negotiated.
After the white man left, the atmosphere throughout the fort changed considerably. The guards opened a hut and removed piles of chains and iron cuffs for necks and ankles. They ordered the women to stand in a line and began shackling them again. When one resisted she was whipped as the others were forced to watch. Nalla was in the first group of about thirty who were led from the fort as everyone, men and women, watched. Their turn would come soon enough.
They were led down a path toward the bay. The villagers stopped what they were doing and watched with pity as the captives were taken away. At the dock, Nalla and the others were marched down a narrow pier to a boat where some harsh white men growled at them in a foreign tongue.
It was English and they were Americans.
The women were shoved onto the deck, then down a flimsy ladder to a sweltering hold with closed portholes. The boat, a cargo canoe, could carry fifty slaves at a time, and it took two hours to load it with the cargo. Meanwhile, Nalla and the women waited in the dark below, in the stifling, disgusting air. At times they could hardly breathe. They gasped and struggled and cried out in fear. A guard opened a porthole and allowed in some air. Finally, they shoved off and the cargo canoe rocked slightly. The air flowed through the hold. With no experience on the ocean, the rocking of the boat made them nauseous.
Half an hour later, they were ordered out of the hold and off the boat. They stepped onto a gangplank and climbed up the steep walkway to the deck of the Venus.
What they saw shocked them. For humans hardened by cruelty and abuse, the sight was even more alarming. Dozens of African men squatted or sat in tight groups waiting to be told what to do. They watched the women come aboard. Around the edge of the deck were white men with guns, glaring at their captives. Tied to a mast in the middle of the deck was an African man in the process of being bullwhipped. His blood dripped onto the wooden boards. Next to him, on another mast, was a white man, also naked and bloodied. The brute with the whip was laughing and talking loudly in English. One lash for the African. The next for the sailor. He was in no hurry.
7
Mercer had passed through Dulles International before. It was a major airport, an important crossroads that welcomed people from all corners of the world. In the main terminal, the arrivals and departures boards listed hundreds of flights to and from everywhere. Every airline of any significance had a presence. Mercer enjoyed gazing at the boards and dreaming of all the places she wanted to see. The world was at her fingertips, and carriers such as Icelandair, All Nippon Airways, Royal Air Maroc, and Lufthansa could take her away.
They were killing three hours as they waited for their flight to London. Thomas was off stretching his legs and hunting coffee. Mercer put down the Dark Isle book. She was halfway through and needed a break. Somewhere back there in the distant memories of her education, she was certain she had been forced by a well-meaning teacher to read about enslaved people in America. She knew some of the basics, but history had never held her interest. She’d read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Huckleberry Finn, and had a general idea of how horrible things had been, but she had never taken the time to dwell on it. Her reading tastes had always leaned toward contemporary English and French literature.
A crowd of Africans approached. The women were adorned in brightly colored robes and head scarves. The men wore fashionable dark suits with white shirts and loud ties. They were in a lively mood and talked at full volume in richly accented English. Other passengers stared as they walked by and gave them a wide berth. They rolled their luggage to the Nigerian Air desk and got in line.
Mercer flashed back to the haunting story of Nalla and the inhumanity of her first and only trip across the Atlantic from West Africa. She smiled at the Nigerians and asked herself how her ancestors could have tolerated such cruelty to their ancestors. The very idea was overwhelming.
Thomas was back and handed her coffee in a paper cup. He said, “You’ve hardly spoken to me since we left.”
“So?”
“So, we’re newlyweds and we’re supposed to be thoroughly smitten with each other.”
“Are you smitten?”
“Of course, and I’m thinking of nothing but more consummating.”
“Sorry I brought it up. I’m smitten too. Now you feel better?”
“I suppose. Not really. How’s the book?”
“It’s pretty amazing. The people who settled on Dark Isle were slaves from West Africa. Ever been to West Africa?”
“No. I’ve been to Cape Town and Nairobi.”
“Me neither. It’s a fascinating story.”
“You found a plot yet?”
“Maybe. The story follows the enslavement of one of the author’s ancestors, a young mother named Nalla, who was kidnapped by slave traders. She lost her child, husband, family, everything.”
“When?”
“Around 1760.”
“How did she get to Dark Isle?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Are you going to ignore me all the way across the Atlantic?”
“Probably, until I finish the book.”
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for married life.”
“Too late. The knot is tied. Go read your own book.”
8
Lovely took a curious turn with her narrative. Once Nalla was finally on the ship, the author paused and gave the reader some history to put the slave trade in perspective. Her research was impressive. She wrote:
The Venus was one of three slave ships owned by a Virginia planter named Melton Fancher. By the mid-1700s he was the largest landowner in the state with several tobacco plantations and hundreds of slaves. Most of the early slave trade was controlled by the Portuguese, Dutch, and British, but Mr. Fancher wanted into the business. He needed more labor for his tobacco farms and he could get it cheaper if he had his own ships. He loaded them with tobacco and whiskey and sent them to Africa to trade for slaves.
His slave ships were built in the shipyards at Norfolk, where hundreds were employed. They were financed and insured by banks and companies in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Since the slaves were considered to be nothing but chattel, same as livestock, they were insured too.
The slave trade was big business. Everybody made money. Except, of course, the slaves.
Since they were so valuable, careful records were kept by the trading companies. From 1737 to 1771, Mr. Fancher’s three ships made 228 voyages across the Atlantic and delivered about 110,000 kidnapped slaves to American markets, primarily Norfolk, Charleston, Savannah. He was considered to be the largest American slave trader and became very rich.
Conditions aboard his ships were awful, like all slave ships. The suffering Nalla endured, described below, was common. It was standard procedure in those terrible days for other ships, small boats, fishermen, and dockworkers to clear the harbor when a slave ship approached port. The stench was toxic, nauseating, and carried for miles. It was said you could smell one coming before you saw the top of its sails.