Leonard Lindsay ; $b or, the story of a buccaneerReach, Angus B. (Angus Bethune)
General
Leonard Lindsay ; $b or, the story of a buccaneer
Reach, Angus B. (Angus Bethune)
Buccaneers -- Fiction; Historical fiction
the sea, so that the king’s people might be rich. First, we trusted
in our fetishes, but they did not help us; and the king said: “Once
go ashore, and me catch the Obi man, and send the tum-tum drum
through the wood, and the people come, and me burn the Obi man for a
sacrifice; me burn him with fire, and torment him till he die.” But
we did not go ashore—we were slaves. Then other slaves come, men and
women, and lay down in the dark with us. The white men were there
with whips and sticks, and they tormented us, until we lay so that we
were one great lump of human flesh. All through the ship, oh! there
was the heat, and the stench, and the sweat, and the roarings! There
was no light but from two little hatchways with gratings, and square
bits of light came down there; but I was far from them, and the air
I breathed was more foul than the mist fever that comes up out of the
swamp with the smell of the rotten mud.’
The poor devil told this part of his strange tale with a visible
shudder. He went on.
‘The ship sailed away, and there were waves very rough, and the
slaves lay sick, rolling over each other, roaring and fighting to
get near the hatchways. But white men, with iron bars, struck them,
and drove them back. The white men struggled backwards and forwards,
and beat and slashed the slaves with iron bars and knives. They
carried lanterns at first, but the fire went out in the bad air and
the stench. The place was only as high as half a man; there were
hundreds and hundreds driven into it. The smoke of our bodies rose
out of the hatchways. We struggled and tore each other with hands and
teeth, because of the agony of sickness and smothering. We coughed,
and gasped, and panted, and dashed ourselves here and there in our
chains. Soon many died. The white men dragged out the corpses and
took them away. In our struggles, we kicked the dying beneath our
feet. Sometimes they clasped our legs, and tried to scratch or bite.
The corpses were cold and soft beneath us, and all around was slime,
and dirt, and air that was rotten, and one stench of corruption and
of death.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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