stay that way long enough.”
“You do not need to go back?”
“Tell me your story, Ontoquas.”
----
CHAPTER 2:
----
Slave Ship
JULY 1678, TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“T he skin is cold on this one, captain.”
The first mate pinched the woman about the forearm and relayed his message through the kerchief he pressed to his face. The woman in question, dark-skinned yet somehow frighteningly pale about the face still, clutched at a naked baby in her arms with the little strength she had left. The man examining her could scarcely believe she could stand.
“And the eyes, Mr. Preston. Note how sunken they are. Blast!” Captain Lowe grimaced as he made a mark in his precious ledger. He carried the book with him on deck each day, using it to calculate what little profit might be made from this journey gone awry.
“Make your way down the queue, if you please,” Captain Lowe said, “while I decide what is to be done with this one.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Mr. Preston moved to the nextslave, inspecting a wispy dark man for signs of disease.
At the head of the line stood a girl not older than twelve. She stood out by virtue of her skin color and the texture of her hair. Her skin was the color of wet sand, her hair black as India ink and falling straight over her ears and forehead. It had been longer, but the slave trader in Jamaica had taken sheep shears to her locks to ward off the lice.
Unlike her fellow captives, Ontoquas had not hailed from Africa. Her people—the Wampanoag—had lived for thousands of years in lands that would one day be named “Massachusetts” after the people it had been taken from and the language they spoke. But she, too, was a slave.
The line of slaves formed a ragged arch along the outer rail of the ship’s quarterdeck, so Ontoquas could clearly see the diseased woman and the tiny naked boy she cradled in her arms. Ontoquas remembered her little brother, Askooke. He was not much older than this baby when the wompey men came to take them away. She used to help Mother bathe Askooke down at the river. Whatever happened to him?
The woman with the baby sagged, and the baby nearly spilled from her arms. Ontoquas almost leaped from the line to save the infant from being dropped to the deck, but checked herself at the last moment.
They will beat me. They will stop my food as they did to the others.
Ontoquas turned away, a defense she had learned to save herself from witnessing the horrors that this life had shown her.
“This one looks well enough,” Mr. Preston said, moving farther down the line. Ontoquas looked out over the rail and tried to conjure up Askooke’s face in her memory. Somehow her brother’s image had begun to fade.
From behind her came the sound of a heavy burden hitting the deck, followed by startled cries. Ontoquas turned despite herself.
The woman with the baby had fallen, pitching forward onto the quarterdeck’s planks. Her last effort had been to protect the baby, turning so that her body cushioned the infant’s impact. The baby, curled tight, rolled several rotations outward to the middle of the quarterdeck and came to rest on his back. He let out a tiny wail, and Ontoquas felt her heart might break, but none of the white sailors seemed to pay the child any heed.
“Mr. Preston!” Captain Lowe said. “See to that one.” He flicked his pointed chin toward the collapsed woman.
The first mate returned to the sick woman, his kerchief again pressed to his face. The captain watched as the officer pressed his fingers to the woman’s neck, then her wrists. Mr. Preston looked up with arched eyebows.
“She’s dead, Captain!” he said.
“Dead? Are you quite certain?” Captain Lowe ran a finger down a column of numbers in his ledger.
“Aye, Captain. Keeled over right where she stood.” The captain scowled and added another mark to his page.
“Very well, Mr. Preston. Toss the body overboard, if you please.”
“Bowler! Simpson!” Mr. Preston barked toward
“You do not need to go back?”
“Tell me your story, Ontoquas.”
----
CHAPTER 2:
----
Slave Ship
JULY 1678, TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“T he skin is cold on this one, captain.”
The first mate pinched the woman about the forearm and relayed his message through the kerchief he pressed to his face. The woman in question, dark-skinned yet somehow frighteningly pale about the face still, clutched at a naked baby in her arms with the little strength she had left. The man examining her could scarcely believe she could stand.
“And the eyes, Mr. Preston. Note how sunken they are. Blast!” Captain Lowe grimaced as he made a mark in his precious ledger. He carried the book with him on deck each day, using it to calculate what little profit might be made from this journey gone awry.
“Make your way down the queue, if you please,” Captain Lowe said, “while I decide what is to be done with this one.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Mr. Preston moved to the nextslave, inspecting a wispy dark man for signs of disease.
At the head of the line stood a girl not older than twelve. She stood out by virtue of her skin color and the texture of her hair. Her skin was the color of wet sand, her hair black as India ink and falling straight over her ears and forehead. It had been longer, but the slave trader in Jamaica had taken sheep shears to her locks to ward off the lice.
Unlike her fellow captives, Ontoquas had not hailed from Africa. Her people—the Wampanoag—had lived for thousands of years in lands that would one day be named “Massachusetts” after the people it had been taken from and the language they spoke. But she, too, was a slave.
The line of slaves formed a ragged arch along the outer rail of the ship’s quarterdeck, so Ontoquas could clearly see the diseased woman and the tiny naked boy she cradled in her arms. Ontoquas remembered her little brother, Askooke. He was not much older than this baby when the wompey men came to take them away. She used to help Mother bathe Askooke down at the river. Whatever happened to him?
The woman with the baby sagged, and the baby nearly spilled from her arms. Ontoquas almost leaped from the line to save the infant from being dropped to the deck, but checked herself at the last moment.
They will beat me. They will stop my food as they did to the others.
Ontoquas turned away, a defense she had learned to save herself from witnessing the horrors that this life had shown her.
“This one looks well enough,” Mr. Preston said, moving farther down the line. Ontoquas looked out over the rail and tried to conjure up Askooke’s face in her memory. Somehow her brother’s image had begun to fade.
From behind her came the sound of a heavy burden hitting the deck, followed by startled cries. Ontoquas turned despite herself.
The woman with the baby had fallen, pitching forward onto the quarterdeck’s planks. Her last effort had been to protect the baby, turning so that her body cushioned the infant’s impact. The baby, curled tight, rolled several rotations outward to the middle of the quarterdeck and came to rest on his back. He let out a tiny wail, and Ontoquas felt her heart might break, but none of the white sailors seemed to pay the child any heed.
“Mr. Preston!” Captain Lowe said. “See to that one.” He flicked his pointed chin toward the collapsed woman.
The first mate returned to the sick woman, his kerchief again pressed to his face. The captain watched as the officer pressed his fingers to the woman’s neck, then her wrists. Mr. Preston looked up with arched eyebows.
“She’s dead, Captain!” he said.
“Dead? Are you quite certain?” Captain Lowe ran a finger down a column of numbers in his ledger.
“Aye, Captain. Keeled over right where she stood.” The captain scowled and added another mark to his page.
“Very well, Mr. Preston. Toss the body overboard, if you please.”
“Bowler! Simpson!” Mr. Preston barked toward
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