Howel Davis (Post 3)

I had no interest in resting. I had to find the doctor and ensure that he didn’t spill the beans about me. England seemed to think it was important that I hide my sex, so it was what I would do. I had no idea how the crew of the slave-ship would react to my being a woman, but seeing as how they were a more deprived lot than the pirates, I wasn’t just about to find out. England would not be able to protect me this time.

I wandered about the deck, dodging the sailors as they went about their duties. I spotted the doctor in the waist of the ship, inspecting a long line of African men who were shackled and naked. Behind them, the women and children shuffled along, clothed with mere scraps. I held back, stricken with horror at the sight.

As I pondered how I would endure this voyage knowing that there were slaves suffering in the hold, Davis hopped down from the quarterdeck into the waist and ordered the sailors who served as prison guards to “unfetter them.”

The guards went about unchaining the women and children, and when they were done, Davis indicated the men and said, “Unfetter them as well.” The guards looked at each other but made no move. Davis turned on them. “Did you not hear me? I said unchain them!”

Slowly, unsurely, the guards began to remove the manacles and shackles from the wrists and feet of the African men – all but one, by far the largest man, slave or sailor, on the ship. He stood tall despite the chains that dug into his flesh and made him bleed, despite the iron collar about his neck. He had scars all down one side of his face, lines etched symmetrically from his brow to his cheek. Davis would later tell me that these ichi facial scars were intentional, indicating the person’s social status. The muscular slave stared at Davis with black, unreadable eyes as Davis approached him and looked up into his face, smiling slightly.

“Him too,” Davis ordered.

The crew, all of twenty-five men, had been watching the proceedings warily. Now, they became vehement in their disapproval of Davis’ orders. Ned Taylor rushed to Davis’ side, shouting, “Davies, you’re mad! He’s a rebellious brute who’d kill us all given the chance – ”

Davis climbed into the shrouds so that all could see him. “You men! Do you dare defy your captain? As chief mate and Skinner dead, I am captain of this snow, and you will obey me!”

The playful sailor of before was gone: This was Howel Davis, the captain. He leaned out from the ratlines by one hand in his worn sailor’s clothes, his knit cap over his head, his face dark with grime, and yet there was no questioning his authority. His demeanor, his strong voice, his confidence all spoke of a commander, of a man who was born to lead.

“Now you will heed me!” he cried. “Skinner has killed three of our men by his own hand. We’ve lost twelve more on account of Skinner’s brutal neglect, and then five to desertion. Their places must be filled. I command that he be unchained. I command that the women and children be given free roam of the decks to exercise, that the rations Skinner hid – aye, we all know where – be distributed equally among slave and sailor. I command that the able-bodied slaves be given duties, be made to help sail, to cook, clean and scrub the decks, mend sails and clothes. Each slave is to be given an article of clothes, and the women and girls are to stay in the main cabin rather than the hold.”

The silence was deafening as the crew stared at Davis, speechless. If Davis noticed – which surely, he must have – he made no sign. He said, “I’ll flog any man who beats a slave without my permission, who disregards my orders. Any man who lays a hand on the ladies – ” he made a bow in the direction of the slave women – “will be kissed by the cat.” Davis cast an eye across the crew. “If we’re clear on these matters, then it’s back to your posts.”

I stood and watched as the sailors obeyed their captain, however grudgingly. I wondered whether Davis’ motivations were as noble as they seemed, for the slaves were more precious alive and healthy. In any case, his generosity extended to his crew, as well: He brought out much of Skinner’s clothes as well as some of the fine cloth from the Guinea Coast bundled among the cargo and had them given to the sailors and slaves whose clothes were in the worst condition. He distributed the dead captain’s secret stash of tobacco and spirits, even insisting that the crew share with the slaves.

I was struck by this strange behavior on Davis’ part, and when I later asked him about it, he revealed that a very basic sense of self-preservation lay at the bottom of it, saying, “Better to share what little one has, in the hope that someone will share with you when you have nothing.”

Now, Davis walked up to the big African man, who stood unchained. The man rubbed his wrists and eyed Davis carefully. The unarmed, smiling Davis asked, “I na-asu oyibo?”

Sam nodded slowly, looking Davis over curiously.

Davis asked, “What’s your name?”

The man hesitated for a moment, then answered in a deep, melodious voice, “Sam.”

Davis put his hands behind his back and stood swaying on his heels. “Sam, eh? You have dealt with the white man before.”

Sam replied, “Yes.”

Davis admired Sam’s impressive physique and whistled. “You’re a fine-looking specimen, Sam.”

Sam didn’t miss a beat before answering, “And you are not so ugly, for a white man.”

Davis laughed, his eyes full of good humor. Then, almost as if he were speaking to himself, he muttered, “You’ll make some fat, rich landowner all the richer.”

Sam smiled at this, revealing straight white teeth. “You and I together,” he replied. The two men stood grinning at each other, reading each other’s faces in some mutual understanding. Then Sam said something softly in his native tongue, and Davis became grim-faced. He sighed, nodded to his crew to resume their duties, and climbed up to the poop deck to gaze out to sea pensively.

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