MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF SLAVERY
A heavy-built, squat Guinea, as the Portuguese here are called, greeted
us as we sprang ashore. He was a villainous-looking scoundrel, and his
rifle and knife did little to improve his formidable appearance. His
white teeth showed in an ugly smile, as he explained in broken English
that we had been mistaken for the boat of a British cruiser that had
been lately on the coast, and he had fired at us accordingly.
Hicks was not ready to believe his lie, and, had it not been for the
trader, would undoubtedly have pistolled him where he stood, but Dan was
used to the tricks of the pirates, and knew better than to show his
feelings. Several rascally black men armed with rifles now came from the
palisade, and we seized our rifles from the boat to be ready for any
tricks. The Guinea, however, only grinned and shrugged his shoulders,
and invited us to his place to consider business. His followers, dressed
only in gee-strings and ammunition-belts, laid aside their arms in token
of friendship, and thus reassured we filed into the enclosure.
If I had at any time doubted my distaste for the life I was leading,
there could have been no chance for such a thing after entering that
“factory” where slaves were made. Of all the horrible places on earth,
save perhaps the hold of the overdue slaver at the end of the middle
passage, that filthy den was the most awful. In the mire made by their
own dung, like a lot of hogs, the cursed sons of Ham lay or stood in the
fierce sunshine, awaiting the coming of some pirates like ourselves to
take them to a foreign land, and sell them into comparative comfort and
luxury to work for their white masters. Ugly they were in the extreme,
their black, brutish faces having nothing more human about them than
those of apes, but even monkeys should be shown some consideration if
they would be made to live. Women with infants were kept in a separate
pen, but the older ones were thrown in with the men, without a vestige
of clothing, not even a clout or gee-string. The younger girls the
Guinea kept in his own house, having over fifty that he formed into a
seraglio for himself and guards.
Yankee Dan showed at once his familiarity with the business in hand, and
instantly began negotiations by prodding a stalwart black in the ribs,
and pinching his biceps, while the poor creature smiled and grinned,
jabbering something unintelligible, but at the same time trying to show
that he was a powerful fellow and should be taken away to work.
The hot stench of the pen made me sick, and for a time I was nauseated
to a degree. Gradually I became used to it, but noticed that Gus and
another man were upset. As for Hicks, he simply kept his handkerchief to
his nose and gasped. I hardly think he realized what slaving was when he
embarked in the enterprise, for the voyage was still a thing just begun,
and, with a hold full of the filthy creatures, the smell can better be
imagined than described. I can only say that it was more nauseating,
penetrating, and more unlike any odour I ever before encountered.
In a short time, Yankee Dan, who could speak any language separately and
fluently, and who could curse and swear in all combined, had, with some
persuasion and some forceful epithets, convinced the Guinea that he
meant business, and would take on the fifty-four human beings enclosed
there at a certain figure. Three other white men now entered, and the
wrangling became animated, the bargain, however, being finally closed
with the understanding that we would leave the vicinity by noon the next
day, and pay in gold and arms.
I was glad enough to get clear of the vile place, and, as we men were
not invited to the slaver’s house to take a drink to show good feeling,
we missed the foulness it contained. Hicks accompanied Dan to the
“palace,” and I must give him credit that he did so with less grace than
he usually showed upon occasions of invitation. The rest of us sought
the shade of the river-bank, where some scrub-palms offered shelter from
the terrible sunshine. Here we were joined by some of the slaver’s
guard, who now sought every opportunity to propitiate our good-will,
telling yarns and explaining the interesting back country, where the
curse of the bar and shackle had laid its grisly hand.
One of the guards, although a black, had been to London as a free man,
having never been a slave, but belonging to a Congo tribe that held sway
to the southward of St. Paul de Loando, and which, owing to its control
of a part of the coast, had to be treated with respect by the villains
that scoured the Bight.
This fellow spoke English fairly well, and he described at length how
the slave-trade was being ruined by the men-of-war that hunted and
cruised between the Congo and Senegal. These vessels were sometimes
quite small, some being only brigs of ten to twelve guns, but most of
them were very fast and heavily manned, quite able to overhaul and
capture even the fast flyers that plied the trade against the law. One
of these cruisers, an American, called the _Hornet_, was a sloop of war
of the fastest type, having overhauled the _Bat_, a schooner of some two
hundred tons, which had the record of being the fastest vessel that had
ever sailed out of New Orleans.
This conversation was interesting, especially as the cruiser was last
seen off Lagos only a month before, and I wished more than ever that I
had taken more pains not to have joined the expedition. Then I thought
of the young girl aboard, and wondered at her father bringing her into
such scenes of danger and bloodshed, with the shadow of the hangman’s
noose from the yard-arm continually over the black barque and her crew.
Gus, the Swede, spoke uneasily of the future, but the great black pirate
only showed his teeth and swore softly in Portuguese. For him life meant
very little indeed, and if he could capture a nice young girl now and
then and get ammunition for his rifle, it was all he desired. No
man-of-war should take these small pleasures from him if desperate
fighting could prevent it, and, as for danger, he lived on it. It was in
the very air of the deadly swamps and forests, and he survived solely
because he was fit.
Pointing to an indistinct object across the river, he broke forth
fiercely:
“That’s all left of a fine village. Plenty rum, plenty slaves, plenty
powder. Now all gone. Why? Man-of-war fire it and destroy. Some day
man-of-war try factory here. Want to be here den,” and he patted his
rifle-stock affectionately. Part of the gang to which he belonged were
now up the river hunting villages and scattered bands of negroes, but
they were becoming scarce, and the death-rate being high, it hardly paid
going up after them.
In a little while Hicks and Dan came back, accompanied by the half-dozen
Portuguese and some black fellows, and we started to the ship to make
ready for our cargo. Slaves were more plentiful to the eastward perhaps,
but we would take what we could get and hurry along, trusting to evade a
cruiser until the cargo was made up.
We took one of the Guinea fellows back with us to pilot us through the
surf on the bar, and arrived alongside without accident.
A line of heads peered over the topgallant-rail, watching curiously our
passenger, and, as the boat fell alongside, the drawling tones of
Shannon broke forth.
“What’s niggers at now, stranger?” said he, addressing the Guinea.
“Way down, way down. Bucks runnin’ for ten to twenty. Fine gals thirty
and forty,” cried the fellow from the boat, evidently thinking he was
addressing our commander.
Shannon gave a great sigh, and looked wistfully at the shore.
“An’ here I am,” said he, “without a ship. It’s hard luck. I wanter
know, I wanter know.”