The Water Sees

1719

Squinting eyes. Rousing bones. A sea of black skin. They stink even in this darkness. Adjusting to the light. Wide eyes. Open sores. Skin torn by lashes. Rows and rows of feet. Pink flesh against brown, red splotches here and there. Dried blood mixed with bowel and spit and hair. Moaning, the god awful moaning. Stop it! Drown it out. The smell! The churning stomachs will spill onto the floor again. Two days food gone in an instant. No more until the water finds peace. Buckets of water dashed against flesh. The salt stings, it hurts, it burns and then settles. Moaning, crying, Black mumbo jumbo. The stench. More water.

Count. 13 dead. No there are 14. Get five to come remove them, feed the sharks that follow our trail. In an hour we will loose them and make them dance upon the deck to the music their chains create. Exercise. Stretch limbs and loins. Look over the shoulder. Take another look at them. See what Gold Coast fuss is about. The men have seen better farther north where these things are big, strong and durable. This batch, traded by a king for twenty barrels of rum and gunpowder, look scrawny and childlike. Skin like burnt ash.

Upstairs now. The smell is too strong and it burns the nostrils. It is a stench you cannot wash out for weeks. The women always knew the traders, they could smell them before the ship reached port. They would not lay with them for weeks, until the stench, that Black monkey stench was completely gone.

Fingers through hair that looks like wet straw. Scratch the matted hair that makes a beard upon the face. Another 15 days and the land will reveal itself. Breathe deeply and think of apricots and roasted pig, red wine and firm white breasts. Three of the blacks will fetch a fine petticoat for a man's wife to wear at auction. Mental notes are made to barter for better things this time.

The rush of the waves against the ship's bow makes St. Christopher rock like it was nothing more than a tiny sailboat. Salty mist spray the men's faces. They grab hold of rope and steady themselves like experts. The water makes them sparkle like human gems. Squinting. The sun is unbearable today, beaming its white hot heat onto the deck. There is no retreat from its power. Not a cloud anywhere. Not for miles. As land draws near birds will fly overhead, big ones, attracted by rotting flesh confused with rotting fish.

Squinting. Small dried tobacco leaf is pulled from a pouch. Wets the mouth. Rolled like a small ball inside the jaw. Chews real good. Spittle hits the deck, and sizzles like grease under the weight of the sun. Three o' clock. Three more hours and the Sun will descend somewhere near home. We follow it every night. Chase it until it runs into our horizon. The traders will then be home. Will not leave this time until end of June.

Squinting. The men cringe near the sails, hoping one another can provide even the smallest shade. Others bind rope and peer into the rum barrel seeking another scoop of drink. They bang their tin cups together and honor themselves, God and country.

The stench sneaks above deck and cuts through sea salt and dead fish and men without soap. Moaning. It grows louder at times. Today it is worse! Children, women. Men, no matter how strong, how tough their muscles. Point to five. Downstairs. Go get the shark food. Cover your nose if they will. Hurry before that black flesh rots and sends disease to others causing more to die. Protect the investment at all cost. Business is good.

Behind the cabin area. Yelling. Whimpering. A wench is about to be thrown overboard for refusing to get on her knees. The men laugh together in a mock choir. Her long breasts hang like saddles. Just a rope of white shells around her thick waist. Brown nappy hair, dirtied by dirt and the daily washings. Disgusting. Pitiful. Why would God make such deplorable creatures. Only He knows. Nevertheless, let the men have their fun, it lessens anarchy, relieves boredom, stifles mischief. Twenty have been bedded thus far. Five were males made to perform like females. Made to dance, to suck, to bend across the railing like females. Disgusting. Let them have their fun. Be savages upon this ship. When we reach New England, they will be gentlemen again. Proper. For now, it is healthy to be a savage among savages.

Screaming, more mumbo jumbo heathen talk! Perhaps begging or praying. More laughter, as the men huddle around Tom and Jefferson, one holds her legs and the others her arms. Swinging her like a living twine two and fro with the rhythm of the ship. Laughter. The clinking of tin cups.

Another. Smaller. Crouches on the deck, moaning, bantering, crying. Covering her small breasts with her arms and knees. Eyes growing bigger. Her eyes join others as they watch the woman take flight, legs flailing trying to defy gravity. She plunges with a small splash. The Atlantic swallows and then spits her up and then swallows her again. Arms raised. Arms gone. Laughter, cheering. Idle talk.

Tom points to the ocean and then to the girl. Jefferson points to his crotch. She understands though she cannot speak the king's English. She understands. Laughter, the choir of drunken shipmates collaborate again. The girl moans. Tears are like small crystals snaking down her cheeks. Yellow teeth are gnawing together like steel on steel, laughter, fright, wind. Feels like God's simple kiss. Stench. Sweat, urine, blood, mixed with sour porridge that trickled down her chest. Suck. Suck. Suck. Yelling. Laughter. Sobbing. Suck. Suck. Suck. Another one grabs her head and holds it there. Suck. Suck. They point to the ocean, laugh as its wave jumps on board. It crashes around her feet and they glisten with wetness.

Legs pried apart. Pants down. They will be gentlemen again. Only 15 more days in journey. Humping. Screaming. She was new. Tom, the others take their turn, maybe twice. Tobacco spittle sizzles on the deck. The ocean yells its disapproval. Splashes against thighs and buttocks and hair, rocks St. Christopher like a naughty baby. Grunting. Whimpering. She bears her teeth and bites into a shoulder. Pain! A small line of blood trickles from the flesh. Warned not to discard more cargo or face a muzzle. The young wench will fetch a spectacular pound---with or without child.

Laughter, whooping, cursing. Tears and more tears. Punching, yanking, spitting and kicking. Moans, the stench, the water, the sun. The liquor makes them giddy with anger and lust. Slapping, cursing. Animal behavior is to be expected. Spit and blood drip off her nipples. Semen runs down her thighs. On her belly. To her knees. They grab her buttocks and pull them apart, heaving heavily, between them until she struggles no more. Moving to the rock of the ship, the water beating its loud music against the massive wooden thing. The Atlantic wants to remind the men of its eyes. With each blink, its liquid power washes the deck with a seeing.

Squinting. The sun fries neck flesh into red, red welts. A towel wipes the sweat and the brow. Moaning, crying. Laughter and grunting. Next after next after next. Return her now, she is finished. There can be more of that later, but for now, she is finished. A few more humps and pulls of her breasts. Laughter. The stench of spit, blood, and rum. Tobacco juice sizzles on the deck and turns into yet another black spot. Muffled cries, Moans, black mumbo jumbo. They carry her back into the bowels. Laughter, pats on the back, braggadocio, total recall. They will be gentlemen in only two weeks and a day. Moans, cries. Black mumbo jumbo. Praying? Cursing?

The watch moves slowly its time marching on. Time reminds them to eat, sleep, pray to one's God and work. Water crashes against deck, splashes against face, reminding them that it will never forget. Soon, when the moaning settles into a mummer, it turns back into a calm sheet of rich blue liquid crescents. Waiting. Watching. Remembering.

                                                                                       -AN END-