Forecastle

Abstract: ". . . the very fact of survival connotes resistance." Herbert Aptheker A stable cloud looms above and ahead, O cant you see it, O cant you see it, Looming . . . above . . . and ahead! It was midday when the sky darkened - turning cold and black as night. Though the sailors of the Saint Martin had seen a number of dark days out at sea, none compared to this day when the thunderous roar of the approaching storm reverberated throughout the heavens like the shrilling sobs of forgotten, countless souls. As the ocean became unsettled and the eastern winds grew more and more fierce, the crew stood motionless on the fo'c's'le (forecastle) of the ship and stared nervously ahead. "This voyage is indeed one plagued with troubles . . . . We have already lost two crewmen and twenty slaves to some strange epidemic . . . . What's next? How many lives will this storm claim? Why are our efforts being hindered so," the Captain thought to himself, as his crew looked ahead at the dark and gray clouds that seemed to be rolling toward them like huge boulders. Their eyes were glazed with fear and dread. Breaking both the silence and the cloud of apprehension that hovered over the crew, the Captain spoke: "I must admit . . . that I have never seen a storm quite like this one . . . . I do hope that the burden of our wealth and good-fortune will not be the perdition that condemns ours souls . . . . Still, this is . . . just one of many storms." Although the Captain wanted to relay a sense of assurance and toughness to his men, his trembling voice betrayed him. John, the youngest and most unseasoned crewman of the Saint Martin, looked at the Captain perplexed and dumbfounded. He neither understood the Captain's ominous remarks, nor did he care. Suddenly, as if the heavens had burst open and the angels began to weep for those poor unwilling souls lying in the bottom of the ship, heavy rain began to pour out and beat against the wails of the shabby slave schooner. The crew ran about the deck frantically as the ocean waves and thunder banged against the ship's rickety structure in a bizarre and mysterious harmony. "Batten down the hatches," the Captain shouted as the storm fought the small but loaded ship, "Batten down the hatches!" "Sir, we cannot cover the main hatch. . . . The foresails have collapsed over the entry," John hollered back. The storm was without a doubt intense and fierce. "Someone help me with the sails," a crewman faintly shouted. W-OO-S-H, the wind and the ocean waves roared. As the crew struggled to control the ship against the heavy rain and the crashing waves of the storm, one crew member fell overboard and was taken under by a chain of towering whitecaps. "Dkemba," Matamba softly yelled into the darkness and the loud ringing sounds of the shackles that clickered in unison with the rocking ship. "It is time! Tell the others to prepare . . . We will strike when the waters of the great river grow calm." "Should we not attack now while they are preoccupied with the storm?" Dkemba asked impatiently? "No! no it is best to let their strenuous efforts further contribute to their own demise. Like the dog who broke his jaw trying to answer two calls."(1) "When the waters of the great river grow calm . . . then we will strike . . . and a mighty blow it shall be!" "Go!" Matamba then said, "Go and help the others and tell them that the hour of our freedom is near." O cant you see it, Looming . . . above . . . and ahead O cant you see it. Alas! The sky began to clear; the ocean began to settle and the fatigued crew of the battered ship sighed and smiled at one another. In a voice resounding with both exhaustion and pride, the Captain said, "Well men, I think we have finally cleared the storm. . . ." A moment of silence passed over the crew. "How many men have we lost," the Captain then asked in a voice that was stoically remorseful. …