Page 34 of A Fire in Their Hearts

T HE HATCH IS THROWN OPEN and when I emerge into the painfully bright light a sailor binds my hands with rope.

The sights that confront me are so extraordinary that I then stand on the deck in stunned silence.

The bay is huge and alive with boats being rowed to or from the numerous ships at anchor, all of them of such varying sizes and styles it’s hard to believe they have a similar purpose.

Like the Sophia , many vessels are tied to moorings and the activity around the quayside is frantic.

Workers stagger, almost disappearing under huge sacks that look as though they contain seed or flour; they struggle with heavy boxes and crates or fight to control the direction of barrels rolling along the ground. Men sing, shout, argue and give orders.

Mules bray and horses snort, while rats scurry between everything and everyone.

Even in the most rundown ports in Scotland, I’ve never seen rats so bold or in such numbers.

A sailor kicks out, sending one into the water, which results in a cheer from those nearby.

A bell rings, though what it signifies I don’t know, for people continue without apparently taking any notice.

Further away, children in rags run around between people arriving and leaving, calls of greeting or farewell mingling with those of hawkers trying to sell their wares.

Not one square yard of the quayside is silent or still.

The shifting breeze brings so many different smells it’s difficult to identify something before it’s nudged aside by another, but I recognise spices before they’re overpowered by hot pitch, which is then replaced by the stench of rotting waste.

After so long in the hold, my senses feel as if they’ll explode.

‘Is this America?’ says Alan, who has come to stand beside me, and looks around us in bewilderment.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply, squinting. The sun appears much bigger than in Scotland, although I know this can’t be correct.

‘It’s Barbados,’ says Calum, joining us.

‘Is that in America?’ asks Alan.

‘The West Indies.’ I recall how Father and I used to study maps that he had brought back from his journeys. What would he make of this place?

‘Heaven save us!’ says Alan. ‘What’s that monster over there?’ He points, having to raise both hands to do so.

‘I never thought to see such a beast,’ says Calum.

‘It’s a camel,’ I answer, as astonished as anyone.

Before we’re able to discuss this further, sailors start ordering us to form two rows.

Calum whispers to keep close, which I would have done anyway, and I notice that Alan makes sure he’s on the other side of me.

Like cattle at the market, we’re about to be sold as forced labour to work on the plantations.

Even after all that’s happened, the idea seems unreal.

Five men approach the ship and walk up the gangplank, so upright and confident I fancy I can smell their reek of power and cruelty from where we stand. Once on board, they speak to the captain and I’m close enough to hear what’s said.

Four of them are buying while the fifth is the local agent representing William Paterson, the Edinburgh merchant responsible for our transportation.

The captain brings out a sheet containing a list of our names, which we had been made to give while in Stromness.

I wasn’t the only person to provide false details, as men attempted to protect their families from future persecution.

There is some discussion about the two prisoners who died during the journey, before we’re counted to confirm numbers.

It begins then. One man who goes by the name of McKinnon, the overseer of the Drummond plantation, is the first along the line in the front. He feels men’s arms, shakes a few, looks in mouths. He’s getting closer.

‘They’re in a bloody terrible condition,’ McKinnon complains to the captain.

‘Covenanters,’ he says, as if this means we’re not people like anyone else.

McKinnon reaches me. He grabs my arms and shakes so violently that my head snaps backwards and forwards.

‘Skin and bone.’

‘They’ll build up once they’re on land and fed properly,’ says the captain.

‘Open your mouth!’

Of all the punishments, starvations and ill-treatments I’ve suffered, the fighting, killings and tortures I’ve seen, this command to inspect my teeth fills me with such rage that I don’t obey.

McKinnon grabs my jaw and I clench it tightly.

I stare back and after a few moments, to my utter surprise, he laughs.

‘A small man with spirit will better survive the hardships than a bigger man who’s broken,’ he says to the other buyers, as if imparting wisdom like a teacher with pupils. ‘Open your mouth.’

I open my mouth.

We stand for nearly an hour while the four overseers haggle.

Moaning about the stink we give off, they move further away and I can no longer hear everything said.

A sailor brings out a tray of drinks. It’s obvious they know each other well and this sort of purchase is a common transaction that creates no animosity between them as they laugh, slap backs and shake hands like old friends.

In the end McKinnon decides on me, Calum, Alan and three others for twenty-seven pounds each.

This forced servitude should be for a set period but if any particular number of years has been discussed, there’s no indication to us as to how long we’ll be held.

I’m too cowed to ask, and no one else does either.

Our group is the first to leave and, as we walk unsteadily along the deck, I glance at each of the faces we pass.

These are men I’ve endured so much with.

Some nod. A few silently weep. Others stare at their feet, the broken men that McKinnon doesn’t want.

I pause at one figure – he won’t look at me.

‘God be with you, Iain,’ I say quietly, moving on without any response. We won’t meet again, of that I’m certain.

An intense loathing for McKinnon curdles in the pit of my stomach.

And yet he’s right to choose those who are more likely to survive.

Walking down the gangplank, I wonder why I’m not broken.

I’ve lost everything and everyone except Calum.

He’s all I have left. I must survive this for him – and for Samuel.

The day I stop believing he is out there, somewhere, is the day I finally break.

*?*?*

Nobody pays us any attention as we shuffle through the throng of people on the quayside, yet we’re wide-eyed at the scenes around us.

McKinnon has a brutish-looking man with him whom I’ve heard called Hunter and they push us along, making sure we stay together.

We pass a large, noisy crowd gathered around a raised platform where about three dozen black men and women stand, their legs and wrists heavily chained. They’re totally naked.

‘No slaves today, Mister McKinnon?’

‘Not this time, Mister Hunter.’

Hunter stares at the women. Moments later, we come upon a small, penned area where mules are being inspected by potential buyers with more gentleness than the people on the platform – or us, for that matter.

‘Dear God above, Violet, what hell is this?’ whispers Calum.

I have no words that could come close to giving a suitable reply.

Just beyond the mules is a pen containing horses and further on again is a much larger pen with oxen.

The sheer bustle and strangeness is overwhelming.

Around the harbour, small groups of soldiers and armed militia stand watching the various activities.

Something kicks my leg and I look with surprise to see a boy of about seven close by.

He’s with two friends. They’re laughing and take turns to rush in and try to kick us before running away.

We’re too slow to react but eventually one gets near to Hunter, who punches him so hard that the diminutive figure lands several yards away to lie still in the dirt. The others leave us alone.

We turn up a street teeming with hawkers and people with stalls selling such an array of products that I feel dizzy.

There are tables piled high with fruits, of which I recognise only lemons.

Food stalls are mixed between others selling clay pots, clothing, tobacco, knives and swords, hats, shoes, tools of every description . .?. I can’t take it all in.

The shouting from people promoting their wares is constant.

A man and a boy play music on a lute and recorder.

Drunks outside a tavern call encouragement to two men fighting.

Prostitutes stand at the end of alleyways, trying to entice men to follow them.

I don’t catch the words but a woman says something to Calum.

I’m taken aback at his expression of hate.

She laughs at him, at his helplessness. We carry on, led by McKinnon and pushed by Hunter.

Further on we catch glimpses of long, straight streets with houses that are absolutely stunning in their grandeur. Outside some stand ornate carriages fitted with beautiful horses attended by slaves dressed in gold-braided uniforms, the likes of which I’ve never seen.

My legs are shaking by the time we reach a sturdy wagon fitted with two oxen.

A horse is tied up close by. McKinnon flips a coin to the youth standing guard, who walks away as we’re ordered into the back.

McKinnon unties the horse and mounts it while Hunter climbs on the wagon and takes the reins for the oxen.

‘That,’ says McKinnon as if he’s back in his imaginary classroom, ‘is Bridgetown, and you’re unlikely to find its equal in badness or goodness anywhere in the world. Isn’t that right, Mister Hunter?’

‘That’s right, Mister McKinnon.’

‘And none of you will see it again for many years to come .?.?. perhaps never.’

With these words, he laughs loudly. Hunter flicks the reins and we set off, bouncing along with dread in our hearts at what the future holds. McKinnon follows closely behind to ensure no one escapes.

But where could we possibly escape to on this hellish island?