June 16th, 1806 was our date with destiny.
After nearly six turbulent weeks at sea, we should have been grateful at the sight of terra firma. We had just survived a raging storm and, a few days earlier, bouts of the flux among crew members. This had generated much concern over the sanitary conditions on board our ship and the state of our water reserves. As a precautionary measure, we had burnt brimstone on deck regularly to fumigate the ship. With no alternative to water, we drank sparingly—hoping and praying for an end to our ordeal, wishing we were back in England drinking scotch by some fireplace and flirting with the ladies. Indeed we had every reason to celebrate—every reason to break into song—at the sight of dry land.
However, such sentiments faded as we approached.
Our destination was the Slave Coast of West Africa— specifically, a region far from the Badagry slave port and Posuko market—a place where we could conduct our business in peace without being accused of violating Dolben’s Laws on slave trade. This was necessary as our financier’s debts had become so overwhelming that a daring expedition such as this seemed his only chance of escaping bankruptcy. With finances just sufficient for one more trip to Africa, he had little patience for myopic laws restricting slave numbers on board vessels. He was willing to gamble with the lesser stakes of high slave mortality from overcrowding. On the other hand, as a man of standing and a Member of Parliament, connections to such civil violations had far-reaching implications. Risks needed to be well-calculated and measured. Hence rather than setting sail from Liverpool, we chose a less bustling port with a reputation for flimsy record-keeping. Six weeks later, we had sailed into the Gulf of Guinea and found the ideal place—though none was thrilled with its discovery.
The dense forest about two hundred yards before us had a certain air of foreboding. I could not put my finger on it but there was something about the thick, impenetrable undergrowth and bulwark of weathered rocks along the shore that spoke harshly to me—admonishing us for our nerve. The forest’s upper canopy was interspersed with tall palm trees whose fronds spread out protectively over the lower storey. A thin mist hovered beneath the palms discreetly separating the green vegetation below from the dull twilight sky. Besides the evening tide whose waves crashed relentlessly against the rocky beach and sent fine white sprays into the air, there was dead silence. No birds, no crickets, no monkeys—just unnerving, uncomfortable silence. Had I known what lay ahead of me in the jungles of Africa, I would never have contemplated coming in the first place.
My name is Cromwell—Dr. Reginald Cromwell—a forty-year-old physician with a small family and an even smaller practice in London. When Dolben’s Law was passed in 1788 enforcing the presence of surgeons on board slave ships, the fortunes of medical practitioners took a turn for the better. Mine had remained stagnant until a close friend recommended me to our financier. In addition to a considerable annual remuneration of two hundred pounds, I expected a bonus of four hundred and fifty pounds if slave mortality across the Middle Passage was kept below two percent—a hundred pounds more than the usual stipend had I worked for the Admiralty. With support from Mr. Gareth and Mr. Smith, the assistant surgeons, and three loblolly boys, I found the offer far too attractive to decline. So I kissed my wife and two lovely children goodbye, mouthed a prayer, and boarded the Mater Lucia with a crew ninety-strong and set off for Africa.
Arrangements for our voyage had been hurriedly concluded as cries for abolition grew louder in government. Wilberforce and the Quakers were now getting more than a listening ear. After many unsuccessful attempts, Wilberforce’s bill for the abolition of slave trade had been passed by the House of Commons to our financier’s chagrin. Fortunately, it came too late in the parliamentary session to complete its passage and was defeated in the House of Lords the following year. Nevertheless, our financier had little faith in Thomas Clarkson and the Prime Minister to stop this onslaught on one of Britain’s largest industries.
The political climate was too fickle. The abolitionists’ resilience had shocked the entire civilized world in 1792 when some Negro slaves in Britain, Nova Scotia and Jamaica were granted freedom and settled in a free colony somewhere in West Africa. Two years later, France abolished slave trade following the St. Domingue slave revolt but it was restored by Napoleon eight years afterwards. A year later, Denmark undid herself and proscribed slave trade. Meanwhile in England, the Quakers were gaining ground in the corridors of power and causing much controversy. Indeed, the weather was fickle. As politicians vied for re-election and sycophants for political relevance, support for ludicrously radical philosophies was common. We therefore needed to be expedient in the discharge of our duties and make hay while the sun shines.
Then the captain grunted and spat in disgust. He stood there, undaunted by his dismal surroundings.
Captain Enoch Abraham was a burly fellow—a hulk of a man, standing six foot-five inches and built like an ox. Seeing how he grappled with the sails during that terrible storm, it was hard to believe that this gentleman was in his mid-fifties. I later learnt from the crew that his strength and tenacity was legendary in the Royal Navy. Captain Abraham was a war veteran—his last battle being at Trafalgar a year ago when he was recalled by Lord Nelson to fight against the French. I was also intimated that this was not his first trip to Africa. He had been to the Gold Coast on three occasions and to Badagry once. Olu, his Negro slave and interpreter, was living proof.
Captain Abraham shifted his bulk to his left leg while his bristly hands clenched the ship’s railing. He wore a dark brown beard and a curved moustache. His grey eyes were calm as he surveyed the beach and surrounding rainforest with his thin lips chewing on an unlit pipe. I could not but feel a trifle secure in his presence. He was as cool as a cucumber. Surely, he would know what to do in the direst of moments?
I did not speak to him so as not to disturb his chain of thought. I just stood there watching the tide’s mesmeric ebb and flow—being the only sign of life in this gruesome coastland. Behind us, guineamen awaited their captain’s orders patiently.
A smartly dressed gentleman with a sneer on his face approached the Captain, his blond hair glistening in the setting tropical sun.
“Sir!” He saluted smartly. “The men would like to know our next line of action.”
The Captain lowered his pipe and gazed thoughtfully across the waves. Slowly, he lifted himself off the rail and faced his addresser.
“Get a boat ready. I’m taking four of your men, the midshipman, and the Negro ashore. I trust you know what to do if we are ambushed?”
My heart beat faster. The possibility of an ambush had never crossed my mind. Who knows what these savages were capable of?
I watched as the sailors prepared the deck for battle rolling cannons and barrels of gunpowder into position. The deck was strewn with sand to prevent men from slipping if much blood was spilled. Others were set, with Birmingham rifles in hand, staring grimly across the waters, watching out for any slight movement. Expecting hospitality from the natives was a costly presumption— one nobody was willing to make.
I heard splashing oars working against the ocean current and eventually, the Captain’s boat came into view. In it were six men and a Negro. We watched them closely as they drew away from the ship.
A man coughed behind me and I whirled round instinctively.
It was the smartly dressed soldier with an annoying sneer on his face—his name was Nigel Hookes, a discharged sergeant of the Royal Infantry. Although we had never been formally introduced, I had heard of him through the grapevine. He was an enigma of sorts to his peers with a reputed history of sadism. It was said that his dismissal was due to a blatant disregard of a direct order by a superior officer to cease fire. He had been so consumed with hatred that he only stopped when he ran out of ammunition. How authentic this tale was I know not, but as I stared at this soldier’s dislikeable visage, it seemed more and more probable. Indeed, I was glad this dark gentleman was on my side.
“You fancy us being attacked, Sergeant?” I asked, anxious to make conversation.
“Oh, I certainly hope not, Doctor.”
But a quick glance at those derisive hazel eyes of his suggested to me the contrary.
By now, the scout boat had reached the shore. My heart pounded louder as I watched the first man step cautiously onto African soil with gun in hand. Nothing happened. Warily, the second alighted. No noise. Nothing stirred. Then the third followed suit a little more confidently. Still, there was no sound save for the splashing waves and my throbbing heart.
Captain Abraham rose slowly but resolutely from the boat and surveyed his new surroundings. He showed no signs of fear neither did he express any undue caution. As he lifted his bulky mass off the boat, it bobbed away from shore, almost keeling over.
Silence.
An excerpt from …And the Night Hissed – Chapter One
Claude Opara
Claude is a Nigerian author, artist, architect and project manager. An avid movie watcher, history buff and football fan, he also has a penchant for travel and adventure. Claude has authored a few books ...And the Night Hissed being his first novel, a historical thriller about a slave raid gone awry. He has also written and published two lighthearted comics and a children's storybook under his An African Legend series. Claude is also the co-founder of Teambooktu.com.
Nice one!
And the night hissed…I need to look for my copy of book and read again.