It wasn’t a first. I’d already done it several times. It was my job, and I’m a professional. Generally, people like me look for excuses to justify their acts, calling it bad luck, poverty, or misfortune. Invent pretexts out of fear of being judged and called bastards. In those cases, there is always someone who claims to understand, some upstanding person who listens to you, absolves you: “It could have happened to anyone.”
If I had to find a reason, I would begin by telling you about my father. The boatman. A man who works his ass off. For rich people. A man who knows the sea and its sandbars better than anyone. It’s all an art, what he does, my papa. Nobody can imagine what it’s like, when the ocean howls and unleashes its fury because it refuses to convey the men. As someone who’s always seen it up close, I can tell you, the sea is not nothing, you feel tiny before it. And it was something living on the coast, too. We used to say that the country had changed since the foreigners arrived. More wars. Less kindness. Dirty money everywhere. Things were better before, people said. And after? I can’t abide nostalgia. I always want to throw up when old people talk. Guardians of memory . . . really? What memory, I ask? What memories? To each his own memories, is what I say. To each his own regrets and his own crap.
I was so young when I went into the trade. I learned fast. It wasn’t that complicated, all they wanted was someone agile and brave, someone who kept a level head when the ocean turned playful. The trickiest part came later. After the sandbars, currents, sharks, when the White men bartered for our prisoners. Excuse my silence. I don’t want to go into details. I only followed orders. I’ve never been one to make trouble.
Then, I moved up the ladder. I started hanging out with high society. One important Monsieur introduced me to another above him, and so on, until someone recommended me as a miller for a ship heading out to sea.
Feeding the prisoners, that was my job. A simple task, one that never really inspired me. I’d always dreamed of being a helmsman. I could have been second mate, at least, if they’d given me a chance. If only, oh, if only I’d been able to grab hold of it, that night of rebellion when the vessel, almost out of control, raging with fire and blood, stripped of captain and masts, almost crashed on the rocks! If I had taken my chance that night, I might have managed to change course, to explore the beautiful corners of the world where high-up people go. But as I’ve already said, I’m no revolutionary. Believing that one person can change the world just makes no sense.
For a time, I wasn’t alone in my thinking. The day after the revolt, those who’d led the coup weren’t boasting. Ridiculous, they looked, dangling at the end of a rope, skins without skin, serving as an example. I didn’t work that day. On orders of the second mate, the cauldron remained unlit. No one ate.
For years, I carried out my duties: grind the flour, the beans, the corn. Oversee preparation of the gruel, adding a little fat, no more than necessary. Chores, morning, noon, and night. I did without complaint; and I wasn’t too badly off in this boat where men dropped like flies. At least that’s what people said afterward.
I must confess, I’d never seen such a spectacle. I heard their cries, of course, the creak of their chains, their heads banging against the hull. I could tell something was not right in the hold, but what could I do? They don’t pay me for that. Besides, I barely had time to get used to one lot of prisoners before another appeared. One time, they loaded eight hundred on board. Eight hundred in a 260-ton boat, what chaos! I wondered how they managed to live, all those people piled on top of one another in the hold, until the dead gave their place to the living. I never had reason to see the corpses up close. Usually, sailors took care of them, four of them would drag the dead out of the hold and sling them overboard. They performed this chore at night, so it wouldn’t bother the others. Anyway, it’s pretty simple: all dirty tasks were done in the night, when, feeling hassled after a hard day of labor, the boys sat at the table and drank like fish. Holed up in my corner, I could hear their singing, brawling laughter, shouts. I listened until the voices grew faint and I saw their shadows going down below to unload their balls. They never touched me. I looked like a guy at the time.
*
Time passed and I changed jobs. After being miller, I was charged with creating atmosphere. Seems simple at first, work anyone could do. Yet, making mood is not insignificant. It’s a key position, a sort of psychological companion for the prisoners. From the moment they arrive on board, the prisoners, drawn to suicide, subject to all kinds of madness, need to change their thinking. Dance to live. Sing to forget. Laugh not to cry, to smother the scream that systematically rises from the hold when the ship sets out to sea. Though I never shirked my duties, I admit freely that I singularly lacked motivation. Bringing zombies back to life with a drum and accordion was not my thing. Me, all I wanted was to keep dreaming. Take to sea like a real captain.
That’s why I gave it up and boarded a ship to make my way back to the coast. I’d been there for nearly a year when Le Soleil docked. An ordinary three-mast ship, neither large nor small, its hold was full of barrels and cheap goods. Arriving from France, it had made the journey in a matter of weeks. Only later would it fall behind. They say it’s not until after Africa that the sea shows its anger. Sometimes it won’t let you move forward. So, there’s no point in forcing the issue. You have to wait, sparing water and supplies. But nature knows what it’s doing. There are always islands en route, where you can take a break, resupply and care for prisoners in poor health.
*
He was called Moisonnier, the captain of Le Soleil. Everyone knew his name. He’d been sailing since my father was a boatman. He was no brute. Just one man working in the service of another, coming here to do his work and in a hurry to go back home. Trained in his country, he was a well-spoken man of few words. Didn’t haggle over merchandise. Took it or left it without malice or bad faith.
I should tell you what the coast was like when I returned there to live. It was a lawless zone, where each man made his own rules, where money bought money, and evil brought evil. All the rabble of Africa and Europe flocked there to buy and sell at any price. Never seen such a circus.
This is where she came on the scene. One morning, shortly before Le Soleil left Africa and set sail for Saint-Domingue. Usually, I’m indifferent to beauty. The word’s very meaning escapes me, as does the effect beauty has on most of my contemporaries. Yet, that’s the word that came to me when I saw the one who would be known to all as the amazon, and for good reason. In chains, the back of her neck held tightly in place with a forked stick, she seemed impervious to suffering. Strode forth at a strong pace—period!—like someone used to forced marches, unfazed by shackled feet. All muscle, with small, high breasts, she was both man and woman. Depending on the day and people’s desires as they examined her. No time was wasted bargaining over her. The Frenchman paid. He was happy. Good captives were increasingly rare. They tried to sell anything. I’d seen a lot of people come and go, and for sure, this girl’s presence on board Le Soleil would mean headaches for the crew. Thanks to her, I might have a job.
Because I spoke pretty good French, Moisonnier hired me as a guard on his ship. Before departure, I could help out below deck in the bunks. We were supposed to set sail on March 11, but a tropical storm kept us grounded for several days more. The amazon took advantage of the delay to rally her troops.
*
At the risk of being too technical, let me describe in more detail the prison where the women were held. It’s an enclosed space where almost no light penetrates. In fact, I’d say no light has ever entered there. The planks that form the walls, though nailed together, look ready to collapse at the first gust of wind. But appearances can be deceiving. Never have I seen a barrack fall down. They say they’re as sturdy as the palm oil trees that border the beach, drawing a curtain of greenery between inland and coast. The other problem is space. The women have almost no room to lie down, which gets complicated when somebody falls ill and shits or vomits on her neighbors—and that happens almost every day. I spend hours trying to control the odor. But usually, I can be found in the kitchen. I fix the meals with the help of a few prisoners. They mostly do the tasks I refuse to waste my time on. I’ve dealt with my share of misfortune and am not about to start over again at the bottom.
Away from the guards and probably thinking I don’t understand their languages, the captives often use these moments to tell one another their life story: the village they were forced to leave, the man they love, the children they’ll never see again, stories meant to distract me, no doubt. But they’re wasting their time, I’m no dupe. I know something is brewing. My instincts rarely betray me.
On the eve of our departure, it was clear that something was about to happen. The amazon appeared as a small group of women were filling barrels with grain, barrels that would be stowed in the hold of Le Soleil. From all appearances, they were already all in agreement, for the warrior just spoke briefly, only reminding them of their promise. A shiver of fear ran through me when I realized what they were planning to do. It was pure insanity to imagine they could organize a mutiny. Even if they reached the room where weapons were stored, how would they shoot, when none among them had ever touched a rifle? And really, what did they plan to do, all by themselves out there in the open sea? Did they think a captain could be replaced with a snap of the fingers? The ocean is no game. You have to know it. The sea is filled with storms and powerful currents. I said nothing to Moisonnier. I needed more proof. I don’t like to upset the boss for nothing.
*
Night was falling when Le Soleil weighed anchor. Up on the deck, you could count the stars. Tomorrow, we’d have good weather. The sailors would open the hatch and we’d dance to their chanteys.
According to my contract, my responsibilities as guard would begin on that day. So, I waited for all the prisoners to embark, then went to the women’s quarters. I dreaded it. Eleven years at this work, and I’d never been down in the hold. Well, maybe I’d passed through once, but so quickly, I’ve always wondered if it was a dream.
I don’t know how I got through that night. All those bodies, good god, all those bodies! And I haven’t even mentioned the stench, it was worse than the barracks! The secret to life is to not be scared. That I knew from experience. Most of these women would die in their own droppings.
I found a spot and squatted to avoid letting down my guard. All around me, captive women were dying, shrieking each time a wave lashed the hull. A little girl reached her hand out to me, and I wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t my job, I don’t like to mix things. I had to move away because she started crying. For her, like many others, this was the first time at sea.
When the ocean had stopped making a racket, they lifted the hatch, and I could see a little more clearly. There was the rebel. She appeared to be snoring, eyelids closed, long legs folded up to her chest, but I would have sworn she wasn’t sleeping, waiting for the right moment to wake her troops and take action. What was her plan? I was being paid to find out.
*
Looking back, I’ll say I was mesmerized by that girl. I envied her sense of freedom, I, who had always been the employee, who had only ever acted on the orders of my superiors. My work was all I knew. No more and no less. With her, my whole way of thinking collapsed. In this world, there really were people who fought to defend their ideas. Whatever happened, whatever the cost.
I had nothing special to ask her, when I kneeled by her side. Let’s say I just needed to hear her voice, to be closer, to ponder the flame glowing in her eyes. I was taking a risk, acting like this. A guard must impose respect. That rule I knew by heart.
She didn’t look surprised to see me. More like she’d sized me up long before and was just waiting for me. I must have looked awkward; I’m not used to talking in strings of sentences. I really must have come across as awkward because I’d barely started talking when, without a word, she turned her back on me, as if I didn’t exist. To move her and because I can’t stand defeat, I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her skin was hard. The girl grabbed my arm and twisted it like a madwoman until I howled and begged for mercy. “We don’t kill dogs,” she hissed, and spit in my face.
A woman next to her clapped her hands and they laughed as I backed away, my eyes filled with tears. I could have squealed, made her pay for what she’d just done. But why get all worked up? I was on a mission. I wasn’t there to settle scores.
Late that night, I heard them whispering. In the same spot as earlier, the rebel leader was calling roll. About ten prisoners (I counted) whose faces I still had to identify. I have an excellent memory for voices, so putting faces to voices was child’s play. Before long, I’d drawn up my list. I’d done good work, could be proud of myself.
My arm still hurt when I was admitted to the captain’s quarters. Seated at his secretary, Moisonnier was writing a letter. The paper was pink, so he must be writing to a woman. I waited for his order to deliver a first report on my investigation. As always, I was brief. Went right to the point.
*
Not everything is simple in life. There are things we don’t understand. Violent obstacles block our path—accidents, you might call them. Back up on deck after reporting to the captain, I had the shock of my life. By some miracle, the thirteen rebels had escaped from the hold, had reached the poop deck, and were getting ready to jump. They were about to hurl themselves into the water. Right there! Before the night could take them, before the coast disappeared. They had climbed up there together, united by their pact. They acted as one, one faith, one people.
Normally, I would have sounded the alarm. The boys would have come running. And later, we would have seen thirteen corpses flapping at the end of a rope. That’s my job, that’s what I do. I’m a professional. But when I saw these women, willing to do anything to remain free, something broke inside me. I wanted to be like them. They were so beautiful. With no hesitation, I jumped.
*
They say that when facing death, our whole life passes before our eyes. That’s a myth. I saw nothing at all when I jumped. Nothing like that happened. Probably because until now, I’ve never lived anything interesting. Anyway, that morning we were lucky. The sea wasn’t rough. I didn’t even have to swim. I just drifted, let the current carry me to shore.
I have no idea what happened to the rebels. Me, I went back to work. No time to lose, a Portuguese ship was lifting anchor with five hundred captives on board.