The Slave Dancer by Paula Fox Page A

the Captain and Spark appeared untouched by the suffering of our cargo. I can’t say the rest of the crew took pity on the miserable creatures in their dark places below the deck, but the men were silent, and avoided the holds as much as they could.
    The Captain had had his chair lashed close to the wheel and did not leave it until we were free of this convulsion of the sea. Spark had joined Stout near the holds, wearing his pistol and carrying the same tarred rope with which Purvis had been flogged. Spark never looked down no matter what sounds issued from below. Then I forgot my sick stomach, forgot everything.
    As he left his chair, the Captain shouted, “Tell Bollweevil to get his pipe.” Gardere glanced briefly at me from his position at the helm. I could not read his expression.
    With a small smile, Stout said, “Get ready to play your music, lad,” then reached out his hand to pat my shoulder. I moved back quickly as though a cotton-mouth had struck in my direction. I saw, as clearly as I could see the cat-o’-nine-tails in his other hand, those fleshy fingers gripped around the ankle of the dead little girl.
    I went below and got my fife, but stood unmoving in the dark until I heard them shouting for me.
    The slaves from one of the holds were being hoisted one by one to the deck. Only the women and the youngest children were unshackled.
    In just a few days, they had become so battered, so bowed by the fears that must have tormented them, that they could barely stand up. They blinked in the bright white light of the growing day. Then they sank to the deck, the women clutching weakly at the children, their shoulders bent over as though to receive the blows of death.
    All hands were present; even Ned was ordered to leave his workbench and stand to attention.
    The slaves were given their water rations and fed rice with a sauce of pepper and oil. When they saw the food and water, sighs rose from them like small puffs of wind, one following so close on the other that in the end, it seemed one great exhalation of air.
    â€œSome of them think we eat them,” whispered Purvis to me. “They think that first meal was only to fool them. When they see we intend to keep on feeding them, they grow quite cheerful.”
    I saw no cheer. The adults ate mournfully, the food dribbling from their lips as though their spirits were too low to keep their jaws firm. The children spoke among themselves. Sometimes a woman held a child’s head as though she feared its voice might draw down punishment upon it, and rice from the child’s mouth would spill across her arm.
    When they had finished their meal, the Captain said to Stout, “Tell them to stand up. And tell them we have a musician for them and that they are to dance for me.”
    â€œI can’t tell them all that, Sir,” Stout replied. “I don’t know their words for dancing or for music.”
    â€œThen tell them something to get them to their feet!” cried the Captain angrily as he flourished his pistol.
    Stout began to speak to the slaves. They did not look at him. Some stared up at the tarpaulin as though there were a picture painted on it; others looked down at their feet.
    We had formed a circle around them, dressed, shod, most of us armed. Many of them were naked; a few had ragged bits of cloth around their waists. I glanced at the sailors. Ned’s eyes were turned upward toward heaven. I supposed he was reporting to God on the folly of everyone else but himself. But the rest were staring fixedly at the slaves. I felt fevered and agitated. I sensed, I saw, how beyond the advantage we had of weapons, their nakedness made them helpless. Even if we had not been armed, our clothes and boots alone would have given us power.
    There was something else that held the attention of the men—and my own. It was the unguarded difference between the bodies of the men and women.
    I had told no living soul that on some of my