Captain Canot; Or, Twenty Years of an African Slaver
they passed from body to body, digging out eyes, wrenching off lips,
tearing the ears, and slicing the flesh from the quivering bones;
while the queen of the harpies crept amid the butchery gathering the
brains from each severed skull as a _bonne-bouche_ for the approaching
feast!
After the last victim yielded his life, it did not require long to
kindle a fire, produce the requisite utensils, and fill the air with
the odor of _human flesh_. Yet, before the various messes were half
broiled, every mouth was tearing the dainty morsels with shouts of
joy, denoting the combined satisfaction of revenge and appetite! In
the midst of this appalling scene, I heard a fresh cry of exultation,
as a pole was borne into the apartment, on which was impaled the
living body of the conquered chieftain's wife. A hole was quickly dug,
the stave planted and fagots supplied; but before a fire could be
kindled the wretched woman was dead, so that the barbarians were
defeated in their hellish scheme of burning her alive.
* * * * *
I do not know how long these brutalities lasted, for I remember very
little after this last attempt, except that the bush men packed in
plantain leaves whatever flesh was left from the orgie, to be conveyed
to their friends in the forest. This was the first time it had been my
lot _to behold the most savage development of African nature under the
stimulus of war_. The butchery made me sick, dizzy, paralyzed. I sank
on the earth benumbed with stupor; nor was I aroused till nightfall,
when my Kroomen bore me to the conqueror's town, and negotiated our
redemption for the value of twenty slaves.
CHAPTER LXII.
I hope that no one will believe I lingered a moment in Digby, or ever
dealt again with its miscreants, after the dreadful catastrophe I have
described in the last chapter. It is true that this tragedy might
never have happened within the territory of the rival kinsmen had not
the temptations of slave-trade been offered to their passionate
natures; yet the event was so characteristic, not only of slave-war
but of indigenous barbarity, that I dared not withhold it in these
sketches of my life.
Light was not gleaming over the tops of the forest next morning before
I was on the beach ready to embark for Gallinas. But the moon was
full, and the surf so high that my boat could not be launched. Still,
so great were my sufferings and disgust that I resolved to depart at
all hazards; and divesting myself of my outer garments, I stepped into
a native canoe with one man only to manage it, and dashed through the
breakers. Our provisions consisted of three bottles of gin, a jug of
water, and a basket of raw cassava, while a change of raiment and my
accounts were packed in an air-tight keg. Rough as was the sea, we
succeeded in reaching the neighborhood of Gallinas early next morning.
My Spanish friends on shore soon detected me with their excellent
telescopes, by my well-known cruising dress of red flannel shirt and
Panama hat; but, instead of running to the beach with a welcome, they
hoisted the black flag, which is ever a signal of warning to slavers.
My Krooman at once construed the telegraphic despatch as an intimation
that the surf was impassable. Indeed, the fact was visible enough even
to an uninstructed eye, as we approached the coast. For miles along
the bar at the river's mouth, the breakers towered up in tall masses,
whitening the whole extent of beach with foam. As our little canoe
rose on the top of the swell, outside the rollers, I could see my
friends waving their hats towards the southward, as if directing my
movements towards Cape Mount.
In my best days on the coast I often swam in perilous seasons a far
greater distance than that which intervened betwixt my boat and the
shore. My companions at Gallinas well knew my dexterity in the water,
and I could not comprehend, therefore, why they forbade my landing,
with so much earnestness. In fact, their zeal somewhat nettled me, and
I began to feel that dare-devil resistance which often goads us to
acts of madness which make us heroes if successful, but fools if we
fail.
It was precisely this temper that determined me to hazard the bar;
yet, as I rose on my knees to have a better view of the approaching
peril, I saw the black flag thrice lowered in token of adieu.
Immediately afterward it was again hoisted _over the effigy of an
enormous shark_!
In a twinkling, I understood the _real_ cause of danger, which no
alacrity or courage in the water could avoid, and comprehended that my
only hope was in the open sea. A retreat to Cape Mount was a toilsome
task for my weary _Krooman_, who had been incessantly at work for
twenty-four hours. Yet, there were but two alternatives,--either to
await the subsidence of the surf, or the arrival of some friendly
vessel. In the mean time, I eat my last morsel of cassava, while the
_Krooman_ stretched himself in the bottom of the canoe,--half in the
water and half in the glaring sun,--and went comfortably to sleep.
I steered the boat with a paddle, as it drifted along with tide and
current, till the afternoon, when a massive pile of clouds in the
south-east gave warning of one of those tornadoes which deluge the
coast of Africa in the months of March and April. A stout punch in the
Krooman's ribs restored him to consciousness from his hydropathic
sleep; but he shivered as he looked at the sky and beheld a token of
that greatest misfortune that can befall a negro,--a wet skin at sea
from a shower of rain.
We broached our last bottle to battle the chilling element. Had we
been in company with other canoes, our first duty would have been to
lash the skiffs together so as to breast the gusts and chopping sea
with more security; but as I was entirely alone, our sole reliance was
on the expert arm and incessant vigilance of my companion.
I will not detain the reader by explaining the simple process that
carried us happily through the deluge. By keeping the canoe bow on, we
nobly resisted the shock of every wave, and gradually fell back under
the impulse of each undulation. Thus we held on till the heavy clouds
discharged their loads, beating down the sea and half filling the
canoe with rain water. While the Krooman paddled and steered, I
conducted the bailing, and as the African dipper was not sufficient to
keep us free, I pressed my Panama hat into service as an extra hand.
These savage squalls on the African coast, at the beginning of the
rainy season, are of short duration, so that our anxiety quickly left
us to the enjoyment of soaking skins. A twist at my red flannel
relieved it of superabundant moisture, but as the negro delighted in
no covering except his flesh, an additional kiss of the bottle was the
only comfort I could bestow on his shivering limbs.
This last dram was our forlorn hope, but it only created a passing
comfort, which soon went off leaving our bodies more chill and
dejected than before. My head swam with feverish emptiness. I seemed
suddenly possessed by a feeling of wild independence--seeing nothing,
fearing nothing. Presently, this died away, and I fell back in utter
helplessness, wholly benumbed.
I do not remember how long this stupor lasted, but I was aroused by
the Krooman with the report of a land-breeze, and a sail which he
declared to be a cruiser. It cost me considerable effort to shake off
my lethargy, nor do I know whether I would have succeeded had there
not been a medical magic in the idea of a man-of-war, which flashed
athwart my mind a recollection of the slave accounts in our keg!
I had hardly time to throw the implement overboard before the craft
was within hail; but instead of a cruiser she turned out to be a
slaver, destined, like myself, for Gallinas. A warm welcome awaited me
in the cabin, and a comfortable bed with plenty of blankets restored
me for a while to health, though in all likelihood my perilous flight
from Digby and its horrors, will ache rheumatically in my limbs till
the hour of my death.
It was well that I did not venture through the breakers on the day
that the dead shark was hoisted _in terrorem_ as a telegraph. Such was
the swarm of these monsters in the surf of Gallinas, that more than a
hundred slaves had been devoured by them in attempting a shipment a
few nights before!
CHAPTER LXIII.
"Don Pedro Blanco had left Gallinas,--a retired _millionnaire_!" When
I heard this announcement at the factory, I could with difficulty
restrain the open expression of my sorrow. It confirmed me in a desire
that for some time had been strengthening in my mind. Years rolled
over my head since, first of all, I plunged accidentally into the
slave-trade. My passion for a roving life and daring adventure was
decidedly cooled. The late barbarities inflicted on the conquered in a
war of which I was the involuntary cause, appalled me with the
traffic; and humanity called louder and louder than ever for the
devotion of my remaining days to honest industry.
As I sailed down the coast to restore a child to his father,--the King
of Cape Mount,--I was particularly charmed with the bold promontory,
the beautiful lake, and the lovely islands, that are comprised in this
enchanting region. When I delivered the boy to his parent, the old
man's gratitude knew no bounds for his offspring's redemption from
slavery. Every thing was tendered for my recompense; and, as I seemed
especially to enjoy the delicious scenery of his realm, he offered me
its best location as a gift, if I desired to abandon the slave-trade
and establish a _lawful_ factory.
I made up my mind on the spot that the day should come when I would be
lord and master of Cape Mount; and, nestling under the lee of its
splendid headland, might snap my fingers at the cruisers. Still I
could not, at once, retreat from my establishment at New Sestros. Don
Pedro's departure was a sore disappointment, because it left my
accounts unliquidated and my release from the trade dependent on
circumstances. Nevertheless, I resolved to risk his displeasure by
quitting the factory for a time, and visiting him at Havana after a
trip to England.
* * * * *
It was in the summer of 1839 that I arranged my affairs for a long
absence, and sailed for London in the schooner Gil Blas. We had a dull
passage till we reached the chops of the British Channel, whence a
smart south-wester drove us rapidly towards our destination.
Nine at night was just striking from the clocks of Dover when a bustle
on deck, a tramping of feet, a confused sound of alarm, orders,
obedience and anxiety, was followed by a tremendous crash which
prostrated me on the cabin floor, whence I bounded, with a single
spring, to the deck. "A steamer had run us down!" Aloft, towered a
huge black wall, while the intruder's cut-water pressed our tiny craft
almost beneath the tide. There was no time for deliberation. The
steamer's headway was stopped. The Gil Blas, like her scapegrace
godfather, was in peril of sinking; and as the wheels began to revolve
and clear the steamer from our wreck, every one scrambled in the best
way he could on board the destroyer.
Our reception on this occasion by the British lion was not the most
respectful or hospitable that might be imagined. In fact, no notice
was taken of us by these "hearts of oak," till a clever Irish soldier,
who happened to be journeying to Dublin, invited us to the forward
cabin. Our mate, however, would not listen to the proposal, and
hastening to the quarter-deck, coarsely upbraided the steamer's
captain with his misconduct, and demanded suitable accommodations for
his wounded commander and passengers.
In a short time the captain of the Gil Blas and I were conducted to