Gullah Tears: The Enslaved Souls of Charleston

Prologue

Juba’s Premonition

Juba awoke from deep sleep at the ringing of the morning bell. The driver shouted as he pulled the rope. Y’all get a move on. We got fields to tend. Gots to work dey cotton fields. Harvest comin’ soon. Y’all get a move on.

Juba lay on her pallet. She looked about at the early light seeping in between the cracks in the boards of her slave cabin. She could barely see in the dim, breaking daylight. She combed her fingers through her short ebony hair and over her smooth mocha shoulders, willing herself to wake up. Her body glistened with sweat. She had another bad dream last night but couldn’t remember all the details. Perhaps it would come to her later. Her dreams had been troublesome lately, and she didn’t know why. It was puzzling to her; she didn’t understand what it all meant.

Juba was a distressed young woman as of late. To help ease her fears, she kept a charm, a talisman of sorts, for good luck. She checked under her pallet to make sure it was still there. It was a chicken foot bound up in coarse cloth and tied with a bit of twine. It brought good luck and protection. It should have kept all the bad dreams away, but perhaps it crept through because it had a message of sorts. Who knows? Dreams can happen for all kinds of reasons, Juba thought.

Juba thrust herself upright, although she longed for just a few more minutes of sleep. Gots to get a move on. She had been so tired lately. She put her feet into her well-worn shoes and shuffled across the dirt floor of the cabin. The shoes had become tight on her feet. She looked down at her swollen ankles and said to herself, Just another thing been changin’ on me. The others around her were starting to stir as well. Seven people slept in this small cabin. It was cramped, but they managed.

As Juba crossed the floor, she felt a sudden crick in her back and yelped in pain. She jerked to one side, then tried to right herself. She drew in a deep breath and rubbed her protruding belly. It seemed to be expanding more every day.

She exhaled, then said, Baby, me and you are gonna have to come to an understanding here. I gots to work; you gots to behave. No throwing my back out! Can’t do no work if you going to behave this way. Master never go for that. It don’t matter that I’m having his baby; he ain’t gonna treat me any better than anyone else. Besides, his wife is trying to do me in; she all upset he visits me at night. Not my choice. Nothing I can do about it. If we gonna live, then we gots to work. I have to do what the master say. It’s that simple.

Another enslaved woman called out from the other side of the cabin, You best get used to that baby causing your back to hurt. It gonna be dat way for a long time.

Dat’s for true, another one said.

Juba shook her head, knowing she was powerless to change things. She pasted a smile on her face and nodded at the women, then grabbed a pitcher and stepped outside. She walked to a rain barrel and dipped in, drawing out a full pitcher of water. She looked around, still shaking off sleep. The rising sun bathed the trees in a soft white light. She drew in the scent of oaks and magnolias. As she made her way back to the slave cabin, she noticed that the morning air was mingled with scents of sweet yellow jasmine. Then she caught a whiff of smoke. Someone by the other slave cabins had already been up and stoked the large cooking fire. The smoke curled up, then dissipated in the trees, becoming invisible against the gray sky. Juba cringed, then mashed her lips together as the smell of smoke made her stomach jump. Lots of that going on since she had been carrying the baby.

Knowing that she mustn’t dally anymore, she resigned herself to the start of another workday on the plantation. Nothing you can do about it, gots to work. You drag your feet and the overseer will take the lash to you. Got a baby to think about now.

She walked back into the cabin with the pitcher in hand. People were pulling on clothes. One man turned his back toward her as he started to pull on a shirt. She saw the thick, rigid scars across his back, slicing in all directions, no doubt the remnants of the overseer’s lash. Workers were grabbing hunks of bread and bits of jerky before heading out. Juba poured water from the pitcher into the basin and dipped a cloth into it, wiped the sleep from her face and glided the cloth across her arms to cool off the warmth and perspiration. The moist air was still tolerable now, but undoubtedly, as the day wore on, the heat would grow more intense and become sweltering. She pulled on an ivory-colored shift made of coarse cloth. It was shabby, but it was loose and cool. Juba then donned a brightly colored head wrap, tying it securely. She would be helping out in the laundry today. She would need to be able to move about in the heat. Feeling a bit more alert now, she dabbed a bit of rosemary and lemon oil about her exposed skin to help repel the mosquitos that would surely be thick and persistent today.

Still feeling a tingling sensation over her body, she wondered what her foreboding dream might be warning her of. Something about the child she was carrying, perhaps? During the night she thought she saw small flecks or orbs of light about her, then waved it off as just her imagination. The tiredness, perhaps, or was it the spirit shrouding her? Picking up her pace, Juba walked briskly toward the laundry. The fire under the big iron cauldron was already going, and the water was heating up. Juba pulled out the lye soap used to launder the sheets and the master’s undergarments. She wiped her hands on the front of her garment as she readied herself for the day.

As the hours wore on, Juba grew weak in the heat. She felt the sweat roll down the sides of her face and between her shoulder blades. She was powerless to do anything about it. Gots to keep working.

At one point, another enslaved woman, Patsy, put her hand on Juba’s shoulder and asked, Girl, you okay? You look a bit off.

No, I’m fine. Just a little heat getting to me. I’ll be alright, Juba said nonchalantly. The next thing she knew, she became lightheaded and weak. Juba heard a weird whining sound and detected a strong, odd odor. After that, everything went black.

Juba woke up on her pallet, an enslaved woman standing over her. She gradually came out of her haze.

What happened? How did I get here? Juba asked.

You okay. You just fainted. The heat must have got to you. It’s so hot, and you been standing over that boiling laundry all day. You just rest. The overseer is busy out on the other side the plantation. You just rest now.

Juba felt so tired, she thought she would listen to the woman and rest a bit. She closed her eyes and drifted off to a deep sleep. She must have drifted off for hours.

Juba woke up with a start, her heart pounding and her throat parched and dry. Her stomach was in knots. Rain was pounding down on the roof of the cabin. She heard dripping in a corner. Coolness pervaded the cabin.

What a strange dream. It felt like a memory; it was so vivid.

A man had been coming toward her and calling her name. He said he was so happy he had found her again. He radiated love and warmth. In the dream, Juba had felt drawn to him. They were almost touching, but then a look of shock came over him. He started to stumble, then he fell toward her. Juba lunged forward to catch him in her arms. She could see the texture of his skin, the thick curls of his hair. He wore a dark woolen jacket and newer leather boots. His dark-red blood poured out of him and onto her skirt. She held his head in her lap and kept caressing him as tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks.

Who was this man in her dream? Could it be the child she was carrying? Had he been sold off and then later found her again? Juba’s bilious stomach was fraught with raw nerves. It all seemed so real. The man had died in her arms. She could still feel the warmth of his body against her. His warm pooling blood seeped through to Juba’s chilled, moist fingers. She remembered the intense look of the young man’s eyes. They were full of love and then a startling realization he had been shot. She could see the blood pour from him into her lap as she caressed his head.

What did the dream mean? Was it a foreboding of what was to come? Juba swallowed heavily and took in a fortifying breath of the chilled, wet air. She clung tightly to the image of the man. She had felt such love for the strange man. She was afraid that if she moved, his image would slip through her fingers and unravel at lightning speed. She wanted to know who he was. Juba’s fingers tingled as if she could still feel the texture of his hair and the rough, woolen fabric of his jacket. She wanted to bring him back and ask who he was. She ached to crawl back into the dream so that she could understand, but it was not to be. She had to let the dream float away on the smoke rising up from the candle near her bed.

Juba turned to see another enslaved woman standing near her. The woman touched Juba’s shoulder as she set her deep-brown eyes, crinkled with years of work in the relentless sun, on the despondent young woman.

The woman said to Juba, You okay, baby? You musta had another bad dream, but you alright now.

Juba queried, Am I, Patsy? Am I alright? I know my dreams mean something. A man will die in my arms. I don’t know who he is or why he must die. I only know we love each other very much. Is he this baby I am carrying? Who is he? How can I stop him from dying? I must find out the answer.

Chapter 1

Capture and Voyage to America

As she lay in her small, confined space, Hentie dropped her head back and closed her eyes. She let out a sigh as she tightened her lids. Her eyes, dark and almond shaped, were once as gentle as a doe’s but now had taken on a hollow cast. She cried silently in pain and sorrow for the loss of her family and for so many others she had known back in her village. The stench below deck hung like a weight around her neck, pressing her down. She started to rock to soothe herself, gripping the sides of her soiled garment saturated with human filth. To ease her tension, she wrung it till it seemed it would be threadbare. She tried to hum and think of the lullaby her mother sang to her as a child. But then a rat scampered across her, biting her hand as it passed, and the melody cracked. She yelped, yet at the same time felt impervious to the pain. Numb from all the trauma she had experienced, the bite from the rat at least reminded her she was alive.

Hentie’s family was dead, and so many others from her village had died on the march from inland Africa to the ship. Many more had perished on board. In her despair she began to pray, Nyame, creator of the world, protect me from these brutal men. They are evil. Why has this happened to me? Why did you let my daughter die? I am a good Mende woman. Why, Nyame, why don’t you help me and stop this brutality? 

Hentie’s chest was hollow with pain and aching; she longed to be back in her homeland. She wanted the life she had before. There she had her family. They enjoyed their land and its plentifulness. Life had been good. Now she lay confined, weakened, and famished, but unable to eat the slop presented to her. The maggot-infested gruel was repulsive. She grew weaker with each passing hour. Was death about to overcome her? Would her spirit travel back to Africa as the others from her tribe believed?

While the ship was quite large, designed to hold a couple hundred, it was filled twofold that amount. The space allotted for each human being was paltry, even before the overcrowding. The mercenaries treated the captives as if they were mere cargo, not human beings, stuffed into compartments like inanimate goods. There was no regard for their well-being, safety, or comfort. The human stowage lay between decks in cells barely more than a foot high, forcing them to cram up against one another with just inches separating their faces from planks above. The men were separated from the women and children in spaces a scintilla bigger than those used for the women.

Hentie stared at the wooden boards over her head and tried to shift her weight. She wanted to scratch her shoulder, but she was not able with the two bodies lying heavily against her. She nudged the woman to her left to see if she might roll to her side. The woman was covered in vomit and would not respond. Is she alive? Some souls suffocated in their tiny spaces; perhaps she had fallen victim as well. The crew pulled dead bodies from the hold every day to toss overboard without regard to the life lost.

As Hentie wiggled in her tight space, her body aches escalated and she emitted a mournful cry. Others joined in and whimpered with her. The slave driver beat on the grated hatchways between decks to silence the captives. Whack!

Quiet, you animals, or you’ll get even worse! Thumb screws or the lash! We’ll teach you to be silent, you heathen dogs!

Some of the crew, just released from prison, had been unable to find better employment, and enjoyed being able to now control others as they had been controlled. 

When Hentie first came on board the ship, looking down as her foot touched the odd wooden boards on the deck, her head jerked up at a shrill scream of agony. Her heart skipped a beat, and the blood rushed from her head. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her friend, Binta, being held down on the deck by three large white men. A large mark had just been burned into her chest; steam rose from the branding iron. Hentie smelled the foul odor of burned flesh. A hot, nauseous wave swept through her body. She clutched her fists against her body as her stomach tightened into knots. 

One by one, the rest of the captives were held down and branded on their chests with a red-hot iron. The iron sizzled as it sank into the flesh of another human being, always followed with that putrid smell of burned skin and hair. Her stomach churned as her fellow captives endured the searing torture, each in his turn.

Then the men grabbed her daughter, Amahle. Her long, sleek body twisted and turned as she fought the men with all her might. Amahle’s deep-mocha skin was a sharp contrast against the white shirts of the sailors as they wrestled her to the ground. Poor, helpless Amahle cried and begged for them to stop. The ship’s coarse captain, clad in a deep-blue jacket and white knee britches, walked over to Amahle and then reached down to cradle her face. His thumb caressed her smooth skin.

You’ll be mine, precious girl. You’ll be mine, the lewd man chuckled as he smirked, revealing gray, rotting teeth. He nodded at his crew so that they understood this one would be his personal bond servant.

Aye aye, Captain. The girl is yours, said one of the crewmen. 

As they came at Amahle with the bright-orange branding iron, Hentie strained against her manacles, screaming in her native tongue, Stop it! Please, stop it! She staggered as she continued to wail, helpless to intercede.

The men tore open Amahle’s garb and thrust the hot iron by her breast. Hentie heard the sizzle and her howl of pain and locked up her body in reaction. Amahle’s suffering gripped her soul and she began to weep. At first, she tried to muffle her cry into her hand, but then she threw her head back and began to bawl, her chest heaving as she sobbed. These ruthless animals. How could they do such a thing?

Hentie turned away from the savagery of it all, knowing her time was coming.

Two men charged at her, grabbing her arms, and pulled her along. Hentie fell limp, fainting at the horror of what was about to befall her. It was her only means of coping.

Hentie woke lying on the deck. The intense pain of her wound radiated through her chest. When she rolled to her side, a white man snatched her up and shoved her into the crowd being led into the bowels of the ship. Little did she know that this was only the beginning of a long and arduous voyage full of pain and sorrow. 

After that, whenever the captives screamed in pain or hunger, they were threatened with the branding iron. The driver would hold it up and shake it at them, then smile broadly. The captives’ injuries sometimes became infected and led to their demise. Their suffering was immense.

The stench of human excrement and death permeated the ship. There was nowhere for the waste to drain; it lay stagnant. In all the dampness, the ship was crawling with disease-laden vermin, making the squalid conditions even worse. Crew members sometimes washed the cells out when the captives were taken up on deck for exercise and meals, but such efforts were sporadic. Dysentery ran rampant; others suffered from malaria and other diseases. Impending death hung like a veil. Many died under these conditions, especially the children. The dead were dumped overboard without solemnity or service, as if they were no more than trash. The crossing from the west coast of Africa to America took over a month, but it was impossible to tell time by the passing of days. It was easier to tell time by the thinning of the human cargo.

Hentie cried silently in her pain and sorrow. When the captives were periodically brought up from the ship’s hold for air, a crew member would beat on a drum to dance the slaves and give them exercise. Those who refused were beaten mercilessly. The captain would often pull Amahle from the rest of the prisoners. He found her beauty irresistible. Amahle fought the captain but was overwhelmed every time by the captain and his minions. They would drag her from the group, behind a wall or barricade separating the crew from the captive Africans. The first time he brutalized Amahle, Hentie had been shocked by the shear violence of it all. She cowered, sucking in air and puffing it out to get through the horrific event, unable to intercede as her daughter screamed. Afterward, she saw the emerging bruises, the swollen cheek with the captain’s handprint, and the blood running down the inside of her daughter’s thigh, and she understood what had occurred. Amahle crumpled into a pile and sobbed.

Hentie went to her daughter’s side to soothe her. Their personalities used to flow together in a calming stream, but not this day. That flow of good energy had evaporated. She said to her daughter in their native dialect, Oh, Amahle, what have they done to you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop those men. I wish I could take your pain from you; I would gladly do so rather than see you suffer. Tears streaked Hentie’s cheeks. My dear child, how could this happen to us?

Hentie wrapped her arms around Amahle, clutching her body to her chest. She wanted to protect her daughter against these vile men but was unable. The ship’s captain held all the authority. We are powerless against these heartless men. Why were we seized by these animals? Help us, someone, please help us.

Day after day, Amahle suffered.

Dah, I don’t think I can take this any longer. The men do such terrible things to me. What can I do? What can I do? Must I go on living like this forever? I can’t take their brutality anymore. Her hopeless tears filled Hentie’s entire being with anguish.

Their suffering on the ship had no end. They watched as the dead and nearly dead were tossed over the side to awaiting sharks that clustered about the ship, much like seagulls around a fishing boat, ready to grab the next bit of food. One of the captive men had apparently cast himself overboard. Was it a mistake? Was he shoved? Either way, he had escaped the madness, and his spirit would travel back to their homeland over the great waters. 

As the days of their journey wore on, Amahle’s eyes lost their light, and her smile, which previously warmed Hentie’s heart, became a distant memory. She was helpless against the captain and his crew when they took turns brutalizing her. Amahle would cower and tremble as the captain in his dark bicorne hat approached her and reached out to stroke her mocha skin.

Eventually, Amahle was separated from the other prisoners and locked into a space more accessible to the captain and his crew. She and her mother were only able to speak when Hentie’s group was brought up for exercise and feeding. Sometimes they were unable to converse; they could only make eye contact. Amahle’s vacant look grew ever more despondent; her spirit had left her. Hentie prayed to the gods that her daughter would find a way out from her torture.

One day, an opportunity presented itself when some of the prisoners were brought up from the hull. The captain grabbed Amahle by the hair at the back of her head and pinned her against the side of the ship with the weight of his body, fondling her, biting her bare breast. Amahle had had enough. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and flipped her body backward over the railing. A look of horror passed over the captain’s face, his mouth agape, his eyes wide and terrified as both plunged over the side of the ship, hitting the water at the same time. His shrieks traveled up to those on deck. 

Man overboard! yelled one of the ship’s hands.

Damn! Poor bugger! shouted a crewman. 

At last we’re rid of the bastard, muttered another sailor. 

Hentie looked over the railing to see a shark plunge toward the captain. His arms slapping the water, he disappeared under the waves. An infusion of red saturated the water.

Hentie had likewise heard Amahle shriek as she fell, the drop farther than she expected. She took gulps of water as she tried to dog-paddle and remain afloat. But it was soon over. She wailed as she was pulled under. Hentie knew that Amahle had decided she would rather die with some vestige of pride. Her daughter had been helpless to venture back to Africa in body, but her spirit would find rest in her homeland again.

The day that changed their lives forever had been an ordinary day. Hentie had been well rested and happy, full of vigor. She wore a long dashiki and a colorful dhuku headwrap she had woven with her own hands. The dashiki was flattering on her shapely body, and she wore it with pride. Hentie was rather young and had lovely features. She was sturdy and tall. She glowed with a certain warmth.

As she worked, she looked about the grounds with her hand cupped over her eyes, squinting in the sunlight. Around her, everyone carried out their everyday tasks. She drew in the fresh, fragrant air as she went about her duties, basking in the sunshine. Her close-cropped hair allowed the air to flow over her face and neck. She noticed nothing amiss. She was healthy and alive. Her family was nearby, and all had seemed right with the world.

The villagers had been in a light mood, greeting one another and exchanging pleasantries. The women gathered fruits, vegetables, and nuts. A couple of women were digging up roots for medicinal use. Hentie’s mother was dressed in a sage-green woven garment. She and another woman winnowed rice in a large round fanning basket. Hentie’s mother delighted in her work; her mood was as light as the rice she tossed in the air. She and her friend stood near one another, bumping and touching as they joked and swayed. She nodded at Hentie and smiled when Hentie walked by. Hentie lovingly caressed her mother’s arm as she passed but kept moving. Hentie was always affectionate like that—quick to share a touch or a knowing smile. She had no idea it would be the last time she touched her mother.

The men were engaged in their work and unsuspecting of the marauders closing in on them. A handful of men clustered around a couple of animals that had been downed in the morning hunt. They needed to be skinned and prepared for the evening meal. The wild game would be roasted over an open spit, and the village would share the meat. The group, which included Abeni, Hentie’s husband, were in good humor due to the success of their outing. They jested and erupted in laughter as they good-naturedly tormented one another. 

Suddenly, a hostile tribe surrounded the villagers. A chill ran up Hentie’s back as she realized they were being ambushed. The unprovoked invasion caught them by surprise, and they froze in their confusion, just as the marauders had hoped. The attacking tribe threw nets over them, gathering the captives up like a school of fish. Villagers screamed in horror, while others attempted to escape. Abeni and a few other men tried to get away but were killed in the melee. 

During the commotion, Hentie lost track of her mother’s whereabouts and rushed to where she had last stood. Unable to locate her, she fell to her knees and screamed her name. Her mouth abruptly went dry as fear coursed through her body. She fell silent, frozen, confused, not knowing where to run. She was seized by two men. After their capture, Hentie had not seen her mother again.

Hentie and the other prisoners marched through the jungle like captive animals, locked into wooden neck braces and manacles, linked together with a chain, a coffle of new slaves with no means of escape. Their long journey lasted for days. They trudged through thick foliage for hours on end. Periodically, Hentie and the others received water and meager bits of sustenance, but never a full meal. Despite her injuries and fatigue, Hentie journeyed on. Those too weak to march on or in the process of dying were abandoned, left to wither alone. Dozens of the few hundred captives died or were left to perish along the way.

Once the exhausted hostages reached the coast, a ship was waiting for them at Bunce Island, just off the coastline. They saw white men wearing curious clothing and speaking a language they did not recognize. Hentie would later understand that the white men were speaking the mother tongue of England. The captain paid the leader of the capturing tribe for the new slaves, both men seeming pleased with their deal. The captain had ample funds from New York investors who sought to turn a handsome profit in marketing a human commodity. 

The ship’s captain shouted to his crew, Time to load up the savages; march them out here. I want to leave this place. I hate Sierra Leone and the drudgery of this slave castle. All the bush dwellers give me the shivers. Get ready to sail.

Aye aye, Captain, replied a crewman.

Hentie had been confused when they were rowed out to a waiting slave ship. She didn’t understand what was happening to them. What value did these captives have to the heartless marauders? What did their captors plan to do with them? How could it be worth such a high human cost? She knew that warring tribes sometimes captured the hapless victims of the losing tribe and used them as slaves, but she had never heard of them being removed from their land.

After they arrived at the large ship, the captives had to go up rope ladders and then below to cramped quarters, after suffering the excruciating branding process. Tiny spaces were accorded to each person. Some people were forced to lie between the legs of another. Once in the hull of the ship, their manacles were changed out for leg irons securing the prisoners to the floor of the ship. The prisoners sobbed and shuddered with fear. Indifferent and callous, the crew shouted obscenities and wielded long whips which cut through the air and cracked loudly over the captives’ heads.

It was in this setting that Hentie traveled to a strange land, bound in shackles, confined for weeks with only brief breaks, often deprived of food and water while mourning the loss of her family. 

The waves rushed in on the shore of Sullivan’s Island as the ship approached the American coastline. Hentie had been at sea for countless days. The day was cold and overcast, with screeching seagulls flying overhead searching for any scraps they could find. Fear rumbled through the captives as they heard the clamor of the crewmen’s boots up on deck.

What, the new slaves wondered, would be the next horror they faced? The ankle shackles they wore were heavy and binding against their flesh. Would the irons be removed? Would some new tortuous device be used? Hentie had lost so much in the past few weeks. Her husband and her daughter were dead. She was yet to discover her mother’s fate. What could be worth such a high cost? 

Her new life began as Hentie stepped onto the deck of the ship now docked in South Carolina. She trudged forward and saw the surrounding beaches of a place she would come to know as Sullivan’s Island. She had no idea which direction they had traveled. She wondered where this strange place was.

As the captives were brought up, they were given water. They rushed for it like maniacs. No threats or blows could restrain them. While Hentie focused on her new surroundings, the others shrieked and struggled for the one thing they had been deprived of for so long. 

The crew continued to off-load their cargo. Hentie looked back to see bodies and debris being thrown off the ship. The seagulls clamored. Stevedores shouted and complained about the pungent and foul odors of the ship. Hentie witnessed them bring up the lifeless body of her mother. She strained against her chains, compelled to run back and gather her mother in her arms, but a harsh bark and a strike of a wooden stick stopped her. 

Hentie was directed to move on. The captured slaves were slowly brought onto the soil of America and herded toward a collection of low-lying buildings. Hentie was shoved against one of the brick buildings and landed with a hard thud. No one noticed; no one cared that a bruise and lump had started to rise where she hit the ground. 

As the captives were herded onward, a new ship’s hand named Monahan leaned in to ask another, more experienced ship’s mate, Baldwin, Hey, what are these buildings? I thought we were taking these new slaves to downtown Charleston?

"These are the pest houses, mate. Short for pestilence. These buggers can bring some nasty diseases with them, like the black vomit, smallpox, and yellow fever. In the past, scads of people died from such things. So, to avoid sharing in their diseases, they built these pest houses to keep these savages in quarantine for a couple of weeks. Otherwise, we could have an outbreak of another plague."

Hentie heard the white men around her conversing and pointing to different men of her tribe. In her haze, she noted that they were pointing out the younger, healthy men with good muscling. The white men also motioned to the younger breeding women. Hentie did not yet understand that the white men were picking out the more desirable tribesmen for sale in the market. After several days, Hentie’s captors selected out who would be healthy enough to journey onward to market.

In the pest house, Hentie started to drift off to sleep, but she caught