Then the winds and waves were back, stronger than before, and the Venus rocked violently from side to side, almost capsizing several times. The captain told his men to jump if they wished, but to grab something that would float. He intended to go down with his ship.
Below deck, Nalla and the women clutched the children and tried to protect them from the fury of the storm. They held each other tightly as the ship rolled and pitched and seemed ready to break into pieces. They were tossed about and banged into walls and each other. They were crying and praying and often screaming when heavier waves hit. All candles were out and the holds were pitch-black. Below them they could hear the men yelling desperately. Above them, water was seeping through the cracks. They knew they were about to die.
The storm intensified after dark. Several women made it up the steps but couldn’t open the hatch. They realized they were trapped below and would certainly drown. Water was a foot deep and rising.
A huge wave took the ship up and slammed it back down. It broke in half, spilling its cargo into the ocean. None of the Africans could swim. The men were doomed because they were shackled together. The women tried to grab the children but the storm was too fierce and it was too dark.
Nalla found herself clutching a jagged piece of a splintered mast. She and several other women clung desperately to it as the waves lifted them high then submerged them under the water. She urged them to hang on, to be strong. They had survived so far. They were away from the ship and they were not going to drown. Hang on. There were desperate voices everywhere, the last words of dying people, of anguished mothers, of sailors trying to save themselves. Their cries were lost in the howling winds, the crash of waves, the utter blackness of the ocean.
As if its mission had been to destroy the ship, the storm began to subside. The waves still rocked them along but they were not as fierce. The winds were losing their strength. Minutes were passing and Nalla was still alive. She held on and realized that the mast might just save her life. She kept talking to the other women, two of whom she could not see. Others were behind her, still desperately hanging on.
11
The ocean was calm, still, flat as glass, with no trace of its fury only hours earlier. On the horizon a small orange ball appeared and began to grow as the sun rose for another day.
Nalla and five other women huddled around three children at the foot of a dune. The water was not far away and its quiet waves lapped at the sand. The beach stretched right and left as far as they could see.
They were cold and hoped the sun would rise quickly. They were naked again. The cheap burlap skirts they’d been given after they bathed were lost in the storm. They were starving and had not eaten in hours. The children whimpered in their discomfort but the women just stared at the ocean, too traumatized to think about their next move.
Somewhere out there, far beyond the horizon, was home. Nalla thought of her little boy and fought back tears. The dreadful ship that brought them here was gone. Could they ever find another to go back?
The splintered mast that saved their lives was wedged in the sand nearby. Nalla thought of the others who had clung desperately to it but had been swept away by the crushing waves. Their anguished cries rang in her ears. Were they all dead or had some managed to find the shore?
Death was everywhere. Nalla had seen so much of it since her village was raided, and she wondered if she was dead now. Finally dead and free of the nightmare. Finally dead and now on her journey to be reunited with Mosi and her little boy.
The women heard other voices and drew closer together, but they were the calm voices of men approaching. A group of Africans appeared down the beach, walking their way. Four men, one with a rifle, and three women from the ship. When they saw Nalla and her group, the women ran to greet one another with hugs and tears. There were other survivors. Perhaps there could be many more.
The men watched and smiled. They were shirtless and barefoot but they wore the same odd britches as the white men on the ship. They spoke in a tongue the women did not understand. But their message was clear: You are safe here.
They followed the men down the beach to a slight bend where the shore curved around a small bay. They slowed as they saw two dark objects in the surf ahead. Figures. Bodies. Two naked African men bound at the ankles, dead now for hours. They pulled them out of the water and across the sand to a dune where they would bury them later.
The sun was up now, and the women, elated to be safe for the moment, were mumbling among themselves about food and water. With hand and sign language, Nalla communicated with the leader, the man with the gun, and managed to convey the message that they needed food.
As they were leaving the beach, they stumbled upon three more women cowering near a dune. They hugged them and cried with them. At least they were alive.
The rescue party followed a trail around the dunes until it led to thick vegetation. Soon they were walking through a forest of old elms and oaks with moss hanging from the low branches. The forest grew thicker until the trees and moss blocked the sky and sun. The women smelled smoke. Moments later they walked into a settlement, a village with rows of neat houses made of wattle and mud and covered with thatched palm-leaf roofs.
The women, eleven in all with six children, were surrounded by their new friends. The men wore britches that fell to their knees. The women wore fabric dresses that flowed from their necks to their feet. They were all barefoot and wore broad, happy smiles of grace and pity. They reached out to their new sisters and their children from Africa.
They, too, had made the passage. They had endured the ships. And now they were free.
Chapter Two
Panther Cay
1
The Camino Island newspaper, The Register, was published three times a week and did a nice job of recording the milestones in the life of the community: funerals, weddings, births, arrests, and zoning applications. Its owner, Sid Larramore, had learned years earlier that the key to staying afloat, other than advertising, was to fill the pages with color photos of kids playing baseball, softball, T-ball, soccer, basketball, and every other possible game. Parents and grandparents snapped up the papers when the right kids were featured. Action shots of anglers proudly holding large grouper and wahoo were almost as popular.
Bruce read each edition from cover to cover, and Bay Books spent a thousand dollars a month on advertising. Touring authors could always expect a nice little story on page two, along with a photo.
Nothing, though, riled the island, and sold newspapers, like the gossip that yet another high-rolling developer from “down south” was gobbling up property and planning a million condos. “Down south” always meant Miami, a place famous not only for its drug traffickers but the legions of bankers and developers who laundered their money. For most Floridians, every project originating from down south was to be treated with great suspicion.
Because of an arbitrary decision made by a long-forgotten Spanish explorer centuries earlier, Dark Isle was considered to be under the jurisdiction of Camino Island, as was one other undeveloped spit of land near the Georgia state line. When Florida became a state in 1845, the name stuck and “Dark Isle” became official.
Bruce sat down at his desk with a stack of the morning’s mail, a newspaper, and a cup of strong coffee. He was immediately greeted with the headline: “Tidal Breeze Announces Panther Cay Resort.” Half the front page was a colorful artist’s rendering of the planned overhaul of Dark Isle into Panther Cay, a fresh new name created by some clever folks in marketing. A giant casino was to sit in the middle of the island, with a music hall to seat five thousand and at least that many slot machines. Big-name bands and singers were virtually guaranteed, as were countless well-to-do gamblers. To the south of the casino was yet another 18-hole golf course for the deprived golfers of Florida, and for sure every fairway was lined with luxury homes and condos. To the north was a contrived village with stores, restaurants, and apartments. The sandy white beach on the Atlantic side was lined with hotels offering spectacular views of the ocean. On the bay side there were marinas with plenty of slips to accommodate all manner of boats, including, possibly, luxury yachts.