The lash cut into his back and he screamed. Then he blacked out again
only to come-too once more when they threw a bucket of ice-cold
seawater over his back. The intense cold of it brought him once more to
his senses, and the sting of the salt water… then Isaacs continued the
count: “93, 94, 95…”
The flesh was hanging off of
his back now but this time when he lost consciousness no amount of ice
cold water would bring him too life again. He was out of it. No more
hours on the rigging no more worm-ridden biscuits and brined beef. He
was OUT and free!
He looked at the body as they cut him down from the mast,
the white of his ribs showing through the bloody gore that had been his
back! He didn’t recognise that piece of heavy flesh as the real him,
HE was the real him. After all: HE WAS STILL ALIVE!
That cruel, sadistic, twisted smile of the skipper as he
ordered the men to throw him overboard; just another slave, just
another piece of living meat, black shit who had no soul; just food for
the fishes!
But he remained on board, this ‘No Soul’, remained on board
as real as you or I, only they just couldn’t see him, that was all,
that was all, and he just kind of drifted!
Days flashed by like seconds unless he concentrated, called
a halt to the rapid passing of time. He had to stay in the now of
things, had to try and get to that lash, had to try and get a hold of
it!
The lash was hanging up
on a wooden peg in the skipper’s quarters. The dried blood on it caked
and cracked: the dried blood of a hundred Negroes or more.
He drifted toward this vile object of pain, misery and torture. Every
time he tried to grasp it his hand went through it like water, but
every time he tried it felt more solid, as though every Negro that died
under the lash had left a tiny bit of his spirit. And it helped him.
Soon he was able to swing the curled up ends of the Cat O’ Nine Tails with the T shaped lead tips that did most of the damage, tore the flesh from those victims, causing most of the pain. He was able to move
them, just a little, if he concentrated. And with practice, with just a
little practice - and the help of his dead comrades dried blood - he
was able to LIFT that loathsome lash!
Days flitted by into weeks and one more of his comrades
fell under the greedy gaze of the skipper, greedy to satisfy that that
was his right, and was picked out as yet another victim to fall foul of
his tinder-like temper. This poor man was set-up by Isaacs as he
served the skipper with his dinner. Isaacs deliberately tripped him and
the plate of stew spilled into the lap of the skipper. The skipper’s
rage was so violent that he almost killed the slave with his bare hands
but stopped himself in time, for that was not his intent, his
intention was that this poor Negro was to be tied and tortured with the
lash as an example - but he knew it was just an excuse - for
the skipper fed off of the fear he generated, that was his pleasure and
the pleasure too of his henchman. There were those amongst the white
crew who disliked this cruelty but kept quiet or they too would be
lashed, harbouring a sycophantic toadying to Isaacs, a sycophantic hate.
“One hundred lashes!” screamed the skipper, “Go below and
get the Cat, Mr Isaacs, if you please! Tie that man to the mast, men,
hold him fast now and tie him good and tight!”
Isaacs went below to get the lash. When he reached for it
he couldn’t move it! “Darn it,” he said, “Must be stuck!” This time he
tried to wrench it from the peg. Still it wouldn’t budge. Isaacs called
to the skipper to come down. The skipper cursing went below.
“What is it, Mr Isaacs?
“Dunno, skipper; can’t seem to move it.
“Here, let me have a go.”
“It-it appears to be very heavy, as if it were made of lead. I tried to lift it, skipper but…”
The skipper observed. He stepped back from the lash on the
peg and scratched his head. He went forward again and this time applied
both his hands. The lash immediately became white hot! “AHHHHHHH!” the
skipper screamed as the lash burned his hands, searing deep into his
palms. “What the hell…!” he screamed again and ran into the galley and
plunged his hands into the briny water that the cook had put the salted
beef into to ease out the brine. He paused until the salt got to his
nerve ends. The skipper squealed and plunged his hands into a drinking
water barrel!
The spirit of the Negro let go of the lash, freeing it once more!
The skipper’s hands were raw and liniment was applied by
the ships surgeon and bound tight with bandages. The hot lash had
bitten deep.
The burns were turning sceptic and in the end gangrenous.
The surgeon shook his head. “Your hands, they’ll have to
come off,” he said. Fear gripped the skipper, he was sweating now:
“No, for pity’s sake, no!”
“I’ll be as fast as I can, sir,” said the surgeon with finality.
The skipper’s arms were bound and he was out of his mind
on rum and fever, still he roared with pain as the doctor sawed off his
hands. After one hand was removed the skipper fainted!
Isaacs went in fear of his life. Isaacs was the skipper’s lackey, Isaacs was the skipper’s lick-arse! Isaacs indeed went in fear for his life!
His master’s evil was at an end and Isaacs was a born coward, and all bully’s are cowards.
The whites made up only 25% of the crew, and they hated him. They
locked him in with the blacks. The blacks tied him up and put him in
the bilge with a rag over his mouth. The rats did the rest. Isaacs had a
fear of rats. He was in the bilge for one, very long, night
The skipper was put ashore and spent the rest if his days
begging on the streets for the price of a measure of rum! Isaacs was
put ashore too, a mumbling, wild-eyed, idiot!
A new skipper took the helm. This skipper was a good and a true fellow. Though tough, he was a fair and just.
The new skipper spotted the lash in the old skipper’s
quarters and something drew him to it. He picked it up. And suddenly
all the brutality and cruelty was laid before him as if in a vision.
His face contorted and he retched and heaved.
Laying hold
of the lash he hurled it over the side into deep water! As the blood on
the lash was loosened and made free, cleaned and washed away; so then
were the spirits of those Negroes made free!
A mist gathered where the lash had gone down.
Then a crowd of Negroes were seen forming out of the mist,
stretching out over the water like a joyous host of black angels. Then
they were lifted up. And, as one, they gradually disappeared into the
blue, blue sky and a warm gentle breeze set its seal on their freedom.
A cry of joy went up from the black crew left behind, and
tears cascaded down their faces for their comrades at last knew
liberty, knew what it was to know freedom!
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