Infernal Waters

One ~ Savages

I awake with a start at being shaken vigorously.

"Up! Up, you please!" Whispers a frantic woman in her broken English. While I can barely hear her over the grating sound of the ship's creaking, I know that the only reason she would wake me up would be if I'm needed at the oars. And indeed, I am.

Sighing, I resist the plea of my aching muscles to go back to sleep, and trudge my way through the aisle to find the nearest space. I nearly trip over the masses of sleeping bodies before I finally arrive at the half-empty bench.

Sitting on the bench is a man of African descent, but I don't recognize him from the few days I've been aboard. He's obviously not built for this type of hard labour, but then again, none of us are. His thin, frail arms pale in comparison to the size of the oars we're forced to pull, and despite the deathly chill that frequents the lower parts of the ship, he's sweating profusely.

Wasting no more time, I sit myself down next to him and grab the end of the oar. The man looks over at me and we exchange a brief nod before he returns to the task at hand.

Getting into the rhythm of the pulling is difficult, and I haven't adjusted in the few days I've been stuck here.

I can see that as soon as I settle into it, the man beside me relaxes slightly as the weight is shared between us.

A few hours later, and I'm lagging behind. The man who once sat beside me is replaced with another. This one, however, has taken an apparent dislike to me and my inability to row with as much power as he. Fortunately he is mostly occupied with the sea shanty that rings throughout the lower deck. I don't understand it, though I can tell it's in Spanish.

Exhaustion finally takes over, and I can't take much more. I collapse, crashing under the seat in front of me. No one attempts to help me, and I'm thankful for it, because anyone who dared to would likely be whipped by the man in charge. Instead, he yells at someone else to replace me.

This time, it's a young Spanish girl, no older than 15. Her scalp, like many other women on board, is raw from being torn at.

She must have been here when a bout of lice came around, causing many women to rip out their hair, not being able to withstand the irritation of lice. Yet, while it would've been an easier task with a knife, the Spanish who control this ship wouldn't dare arm us with such a weapon.

All of us here are slaves. Though most are Spaniards, there are some African, Dutch, and less commonly, French - like me. I was held captive aboard a Dutch ship before this, though others - the weakest ones - were here long before me.

I spend the rest of the night lying there, staring up at the dark, mould-ridden wood above me. Despite my exhaustion, the sounds of groans, sobs, and melancholic song keeps me awake.

Yet, the depressing sounds of sorrow isn't worst thing on this ship.

Rather, one of the most repulsive elements to the regrettable situation I'm in is the smell. The entire area reeks with death.

Needless to say, the constant toss and turn of the ship presented many with a nauseating state of distress, causing them to regurgitate what little food they ate. This, combined with the different variations of body odour, is enough to make even the strongest of constitutions weak at the knees.

And, I'd rather not mention the bathroom situation on board.

I lie there for what feels like hours, before eventually giving up. The cold, hard wood is unforgiving, and I know that if I sleep, I will not wake up refreshed, but in more pain than before. My legs are already engulfed in splinters, and my muscles stiff and aching.

And it's times like these when I have nothing to do but lie and think, that I curse the day those evil Dutch men - no, savages - pillaged my home.

I begin to slowly drift off before I once again hear the shrill voice of the horrid Spanish man calling orders. He appears to have told us to row faster, because the ship begins to gain speed. Within seconds, the man disappears above deck, leaving us - the slaves - to look at each other in confusion. That is, until we hear the shots.

The loud clap, similar to that of a thunder strike, echoed throughout the hull of the ship, accompanied by violent shaking. This was enough to panic everyone, and the rowing falters, earning a whipping from the Spanish man, who has just returned.

"Rápido! Rápido!" He shouts, competing with the now rapid sounds of canon fire. It's clear now, that we're in battle with another ship.

I make my way through the swarm of frightened slaves, toward the back area of the deck. There, I spot the young Spanish girl from earlier and head over to her. I am not much older than her, but she clings to me for protection. Through the chaos, I cannot provide much comfort, so I decide to sing to her an old French lullaby.

I sing, though my voice, rough from unuse and dehydration, is now struggling against the shouting, gunfire, and clinks of metal swords. And although she doesn't understand me, I can see that the song is calming her down.

And there, in the arms of a young stranger, I await my fate.