two sailors nearby at attention. He pointed at the woman.“You heard the captain. Put her overboard.”
Ontoquas knew enough of the white man’s language to know what they had said. Again she tried to turn away, but somehow she could not take her eyes from the pitiable baby lying on deck, kicking his legs out now and crying out for someone to pick him up.
The two sailors stepped forward and took hold of the woman, one by the wrists, the other by the ankles. They moved toward the rail and the line of slaves parted to make room for them. One woman in the line held her hands over her face; a man with wide eyes withdrew in fear, as if he might be the next to go overboard.
The sailors positioned themselves by the rail, one of them pausing to get a better grip. Then they swung the woman’s slack body back and forth several times, as they would a sack of grain. In a moment she was tossed into the air and out of sight.
The men turned around and paused. They were looking at the wriggling baby lying on the quarterdeck, its empty howls being carried off by the wind. Mr. Preston followed their gaze. He, too, seemed puzzled.
“The wee one, Captain?” the first mate said. “What is to be done with that?” He pointed to the child. Captain Lowe, busy with the calculations of reduced profit this latest inconvenience had caused, did not want to be interrupted.
“Just toss it overboard as well,” he said with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving the page.
“The baby too, captain? It appears fit enough.”
Captain Lowe jerked his head up in frustration.
“I said overboard! Are you daft, Mr. Preston!” Captain Lowe pointed at the infant with the feathered end of his quill. “The miserable whelp should not have been allowed on this ship in the first place. It must nurse from its mother to stay alive, and now she’s dead.”
“So we throw it overboard?”
“Can you nurse a baby, man? There is nothing more that can be done!” the captain said. “And it probably carries the sickness as well. Get it over before the others fall sick.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Again Ontoquas tried to look elsewhere, and this time she succeeded. In the two years since her enslavement in the Caribbean—so far from her home—she had seen horrors that haunted her dreams: men whipped until they fell and then whipped more, children succumbing to the smoke in burning fields of harvested sugarcane, human beings bought and sold at market in chains, families and loved ones torn apart.
Ontoquas did not want to watch them throw a baby overboard—this baby with the tiny feet it kicked in the air.
Several feet away knelt a boy no older than Ontoquas: a white boy in a plain sailor’s shirt and pants cut at the knee. Captain Lowe had ordered the deck holystoned, and the ship’s boy had been assigned the task. The stone lay in front of him as he sat back on his haunches, breathless, having stopped to watch the unfolding drama. Ontoquas wondered what he thought of it. How could he look on so easily? The stone was large, two hands wide. Beside it a large bucket made fromthe bottom third of a cut barrel held fresh water.
Ontoquas’s eyes locked on the stone, but she turned when she heard the first mate speak.
“Bowler, Simpson, damn your eyes!” Mr. Preston said. “Do as you’re ordered, men!”
The two sailors who had cast the dead woman over the rail without a care now stood eyeing the infant. They each stole a glance at the other.
“You quite certain, sir?” one of them said, risking a flogging himself.
“Oh, for the love of God!” said Captain Lowe. He tucked beneath one arm his treasured ledger and strode to the middle of the deck where the baby lay. He snatched the boy up by one leg so that the infant dangled upside down.
“Truly, Mr. Preston! You should be embarrassed, sir. Never have I known Englishmen to be so squeamish.” The baby rocked back and forth as the captain strode toward the rail. Its cries grew
Ontoquas knew enough of the white man’s language to know what they had said. Again she tried to turn away, but somehow she could not take her eyes from the pitiable baby lying on deck, kicking his legs out now and crying out for someone to pick him up.
The two sailors stepped forward and took hold of the woman, one by the wrists, the other by the ankles. They moved toward the rail and the line of slaves parted to make room for them. One woman in the line held her hands over her face; a man with wide eyes withdrew in fear, as if he might be the next to go overboard.
The sailors positioned themselves by the rail, one of them pausing to get a better grip. Then they swung the woman’s slack body back and forth several times, as they would a sack of grain. In a moment she was tossed into the air and out of sight.
The men turned around and paused. They were looking at the wriggling baby lying on the quarterdeck, its empty howls being carried off by the wind. Mr. Preston followed their gaze. He, too, seemed puzzled.
“The wee one, Captain?” the first mate said. “What is to be done with that?” He pointed to the child. Captain Lowe, busy with the calculations of reduced profit this latest inconvenience had caused, did not want to be interrupted.
“Just toss it overboard as well,” he said with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving the page.
“The baby too, captain? It appears fit enough.”
Captain Lowe jerked his head up in frustration.
“I said overboard! Are you daft, Mr. Preston!” Captain Lowe pointed at the infant with the feathered end of his quill. “The miserable whelp should not have been allowed on this ship in the first place. It must nurse from its mother to stay alive, and now she’s dead.”
“So we throw it overboard?”
“Can you nurse a baby, man? There is nothing more that can be done!” the captain said. “And it probably carries the sickness as well. Get it over before the others fall sick.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Again Ontoquas tried to look elsewhere, and this time she succeeded. In the two years since her enslavement in the Caribbean—so far from her home—she had seen horrors that haunted her dreams: men whipped until they fell and then whipped more, children succumbing to the smoke in burning fields of harvested sugarcane, human beings bought and sold at market in chains, families and loved ones torn apart.
Ontoquas did not want to watch them throw a baby overboard—this baby with the tiny feet it kicked in the air.
Several feet away knelt a boy no older than Ontoquas: a white boy in a plain sailor’s shirt and pants cut at the knee. Captain Lowe had ordered the deck holystoned, and the ship’s boy had been assigned the task. The stone lay in front of him as he sat back on his haunches, breathless, having stopped to watch the unfolding drama. Ontoquas wondered what he thought of it. How could he look on so easily? The stone was large, two hands wide. Beside it a large bucket made fromthe bottom third of a cut barrel held fresh water.
Ontoquas’s eyes locked on the stone, but she turned when she heard the first mate speak.
“Bowler, Simpson, damn your eyes!” Mr. Preston said. “Do as you’re ordered, men!”
The two sailors who had cast the dead woman over the rail without a care now stood eyeing the infant. They each stole a glance at the other.
“You quite certain, sir?” one of them said, risking a flogging himself.
“Oh, for the love of God!” said Captain Lowe. He tucked beneath one arm his treasured ledger and strode to the middle of the deck where the baby lay. He snatched the boy up by one leg so that the infant dangled upside down.
“Truly, Mr. Preston! You should be embarrassed, sir. Never have I known Englishmen to be so squeamish.” The baby rocked back and forth as the captain strode toward the rail. Its cries grew
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