Many have wished to know of my past but it's always been something I wish to forget. No doubt many have guessed it and was often a subject I avoided. Slavery continues to this day and I fear will never be eradicated.
Most of my culture has been brainwashed into thinking it's normal or believe it's better to work for a master because they provide you with food and shelter. Unknowing to them, the food is little and the shelter is crowed. Unfortunately, most simply don't know any better. Most of us, myself included where brought up believing just that and were told there was nothing better out there for us and in most cases, it was true.
You see, slavery is a common work ethic for those with dark skin in the Great Exchange. People are bought and sold like property and force to work against their will, whither it was to pay back some debt or simply stolen away from their home. We are a source of cheap labor in a land that deems us no better than property that could be discarded when our usefulness is no longer profitable. Growing up in such an environment, it was the norm and anyone that wished to speak out against their masters was publicly flogged so that other that wished to speak out would remain silent and did as they were told.
As a child, I barely knew my father and even less of my mother. Stories ranged from my mother selling me at birth to her dying and my father and I forced to do labor to repay the debt it cost to try to save her. I will never know the truth and at this point, it no longer matters.
When I was six, my father mysteriously disappeared. Again, I was told a long range of stories, That he died, that he escaped, that he was sold to someone else. Either way, I quickly learned that those who wished me to do labor were not to be trusted and if I wished to live, I wouldn't pester them with useless questions. After earning myself a few good whips with a belt, I gave up learning the truth and did what I was told… for the most part.
Until I was 10, I was mostly an errand boy for my Masters. I would deliver letters, retrieve items he wanted and various other easy tasks that, looking back on it now, it wasn't so bad compared to what I would have to endure later on in life. However, if I made a mistake or what I was sent to do wasn't available, whither it was my fault or not, I would earn a few lashing with the belt.
At the age of 10, I was sold to a new master and shipped to colonies. A new land, a new master and shipped via well, ship. The Caribbean seas were harsh ones. Being on the ship we severed as part of the crew, doing the things other deemed dangerous or things the crew simply didn't want to do. You'd think, because we were sold to owners who paid good money for us, our survival would be ensured? it wasn't.
Traveling at sea was known to be dangerous and those who paid money for us knew that some would not survive the journey. However our level of treatment was based on our branding. Those branded with and F or FUG were known as fugitives. This consisted of robbers and runaways. They were cheaper to purchase and more expandable.
Where someone such as I, only had the logo of the new master and would have been more expansive to lose. I don't care to understand their logic behind the prices, we are humans and to be labeled with a price is simply degrading nor do I take pride in the idea that I was worth more than others. However it came with it's own perks and in the end helped me survive the voyage.
Those labeled more expansive were given less dangerous tasks to do. I spent my days swabbing the deck or helping make the meals of dried meat, potatoes or stale bread that couldn't count much as a meal with the portions we were given. Those labeled with F or FUG had a higher mortality rate. They would be the ones to stay above deck in raging storms and having to climb the masts to deal with the sails. On a good day one would fall to their deaths from the wind or a slip. It was sickening to see as young as I was and more so when you'd later hear the crew laugh about it later that night in their drunken state.
The living conditions on the ship were far from ideal. 40 men stuffed together in small rooms, most were grouped together by branding but it wasn't as if we were chained to them, unlike others. Those with the F branding would often be the ones to stir trouble and unfortunately for me, I was one of their prime targets. Small as I was, I could be easy bulled into stealing food, whether it was a promise to share or the threat of harm, if caught or not done as instructed. The outcome was not ideal for me, nor was the punishment. If I thought being beat with a belt was bad, it was hardly anything to being flogged.
I was caught one day and dragged up to the deck to face the captain, the man who would often perform the humiliating and painful act. One of which I hadn't much choice but to watch and if he got carried away, it often meant the person's death. I admit I was scare, what 10 year old wouldn't be and perhaps that might have been what saved me. He still humiliated me with announcing my crime and missing with the whip, which caused me to move and they found it amusing and continued. Tied to the mast didn't give me much room to move and occasionally it would hit my bare feet. Eventually he became bored and I was sent bellow deck and chained with the other trouble makers.
The rest of my days were spent hearing them complain and nearly staving to death but I somehow managed to avoid a flogging and a branding of the letter F on my cheek. I'm not sure why, it was common practice on that ship. Perhaps the captain simply didn't take solace in beating a children or maybe because I didn't have the F branding that he figured I was forced into doing it. Whatever the case maybe, the colonies couldn't have come fast enough for me.
Naturally, I thought my new masters tasks would have been the same as my old ones. How I almost miss being as naïve as I was back than. As unfortunate as I thought I had been up until that point, I would long for those days of the belt. Once we finally docked at Georgia, we were divided and separated by branding. What I came to learn to be a fleur de lee which I still have on my upper right arm today. Something that throughout my career as an assassin, I'd often hide under my shirt or warped up as an injury. A part of my past that will remain a reminder of my struggles and hardships. I often thought about getting rid of it, I still hate having it but a small part of me has to take pride in it. Because of the assassin's, I was able to taste a life that many couldn't even dream of and it's helped me share that life to others too but I'm getting ahead of myself.
A few days later me and 50 some other people were transferred by wagon to Louisiana. Thus began the 'fun' 10 years of cotton planting and being beat and whipped for not understanding their french language. I didn't earn a real flogging till I was about 15. After picking up a few french phrases, mostly being taught by those that came before, I had spoken out against my masters.
The work was terrible, long days in the hot sun with little to eat and drink. I had lost count of how many people I watched pass out and then be beat for their apparent laziness. One particularly hot day, I was feeling faith and on cue he came riding on his horse and promptly whipped me in the back and told me to work harder. Fighting the pain of the blow and trying not to pass out, I saw the next strike coming and grabbed for the whip, it warping around my wrist and I pulled it out of his grasp or that was the idea. My actions must have surprised him because he held on to it and was pulled off his horse.
He stared up from the ground growling at me, yelling something in french and I stood there, party sun stroked and decide it's the ideal time to be sassy and tell him in french, 'Isn't it ironic for you to be at my feet?' next I realized his friends had come and tied my wrists together. With a swift punch from the master that left me seeing stars, I was dragged to the middle of the property to be made an example of, I was tied up to a post, my back exposed for the event.
The whips and belt beating were nothing compared to the 9 tailed whip, taken from sailor tradition, the same whip I seen used on many slaves during my voyage. This whip was designed for excruciating pain and that's what it delivered. The knots on this whip would tear into the skin and the pain only amplified by the days spent in the hot sun. I passed out after the fourth lashing. The friends I had made there later told me that he stopped after six but my punishment was no were near over. I remained tied to the post for another day without food or water, till he deemed it was time to cut me down, have his servants patch me up and send me back out to work in the fields.
The labor was hard on a good day, doing it with injuries was excruciating. In the end, it made me think twice before I'd sass him again but at the same time it gave me a longing for something different. Remember when I said I miss how naïve I was? I judged those who had F branded on their cheek or chest. I had no idea how hard some people were forced to work and now understood how tempting it was to runaway or turn to thievery to survive.
For the next 5 years I plotted just that, to escape but escaping was a fantasy in it's own. For someone with skin color such as I and having come from where I had lived. In the end, I estimated I'd lose more trying to escape then I'd gain. If I somehow managed to get away, the only good outcome would be that I'd starve to death. If caught, I'd be branded a fugitive and brought back here to work twice as hard or be sold and forced to do far more dangerous work then the threat of getting sun stroked.
As the years went by, the master became more and more violent. His crops weren't producing so well and naturally he blamed us. I watched a few of my friends become desperate enough to try to escape. One was caught and sold to a miner, where cave-ins were part of everyday life. Another to a tree logger and as of late, he enjoyed torturing the latest escapees to death. Apparently the escapees lives were worth so little by this point that it was more amusing and a better deterrent to have us watch our former friends be beaten and tortured to death, then think of new ways to escape.
Admittedly, it worked. No one tried to escape for weeks and anyone that used to speak of such things were now silent. I on the other hand, was still thinking of ways to escape. I would wonder how those that tried to escape before, got caught but the latest aftermath would make me forget the thought of escape and simply be grateful for the life I had, if you could call that a life. Eventually, I became bolder and less afraid of the idea of death. If things didn't change I was bound to be knocking on death's door sooner rather than later.
Every few days, I'd become more aware of my surroundings, A possible escape path there, if I went under the cover of night, I could escape through another way there, and so forth but the masters friends were just as vigilant and the more time I spent looking around, the more time they spent watching me. At night, after the long grueling day of dealing with cotton, I would stay up and listen outside.
I soon learned that some of the masters friends would remain up and stalk the grounds, watching. It came to mind, perhaps it was the footsteps of the escapees running that was easily giving them away. Logically, you'd want to escape the grounds as quickly as possible but running made a lot of noise. Which was apparent if I could hear his friends wondering about not far from the barn we lived in, it would require a more silent approach but that also meant more time to get caught.
By the age of 20, it was time to leave or die at the hands of the master. When I first arrived at the farm, there could have easily been 400 men there, by this time I counted 50. Only two I heard successfully escaped or I assume they did. The master liked to showcase the captures but failed to bring back two. Of course he said he beat them to death but I rather believed the lather.
I had it planed out, the masters friends would walk around for a bit and then it be quiet for sometime. This is when two other friends and I would quietly sneak out the back, staying low to the ground along the cotton and make it to the woods. I was hopping it would make it harder to track us, were the others tried escaping by the road. Now, this was one of my biggest mistakes. Those around me caught on that I was looking for ways of escape by how I would act. Looking around during the day and stay up later than the rest at night. I was cornered and pressed into revealing my plan.
It was admirable, thinking that I could save others at the same time but had I known what I do now. I would have kept my mouth shut. However, had I known what I do now, I'd have beating the master and his friends to an inch of their lives but that's besides the point.
As sound as I thought my plan was, we only made it to the edge of the property before they caught up to us on horse back. Being but skin and bones with no combat training, our vain attempts to fight them off were laughable at best. We were all beaten badly but because we were the first to try to escape as a group, the master gave us an alternative. If we revealed who planed the escape the others would live. Naturally, they pointed their fingers at me. I felt betrayed by those who I honestly deemed as friends but whose to say I wouldn't have done the same? given the brutality of the punishment that faced me and because it was in fact my idea, I gritted my teeth and remained silent.
At this point, I had been beaten practically stupid. I remember being dragged into town by morning and whipped for every time I was unable to walk. The beating had lasted all night with him scream in french about how lucky I was to work for him and all sorts of other garbage. I ignored his ranting, I was too focused on the pain and wishing it would stop.
I was exhausted and every part of my body was screaming at me, dragged up to a stage in the middle of town, he stood their ranting about my crime and such, I was only able to understand a small amount of what he was saying. Mostly because I no longer cared but whatever it was, was gathering a crowd and they were soon chanting for my death. Yes, my death was to be entertainment for the other slave owners in crowd. How one could find entertainment in brutally torturing a human to death is something I wish not to understand.
I was whipped twice with the nine tailed whip and cried out in pain before I was cut from the post. I was confused to why. My first thought was, am I being set free? of course not. My master thought it be more entertaining if I tried to fight for my live, as if I could. My hands were still bound and I could hardly think straight let alone stand and try to defend myself. When all I could muster was a growl, I was whipped again and it knocked me to my side.
From my vantage point, I saw him take out the knife. It would not be a quick death, remembering those he tortured before. I hopped to pass out long before I died just to end the pain I was under. However, someone else in the crowd wasn't enjoying the show it seemed because the crowd fell silent. A man stepped forward with long dark brown hair. At the time that was all I noticed. Thinking how stupid this man was, coming up on the stage and arguing with my master and his friends. He was as dead as I was, one man against four of them. The outcome seemed obvious or so I thought.
When the master through the first punch, the new comer dodge and sent him flying off the stage. Naturally, his friends jumped in to defend him but were also sent flying off the stage. Laying on the stage, my vision blurring at this point. The same questions rotating in my mind. Why was this stranger intervening, what did he have to gain and why was there a look of fear in the masters and his friends eyes? I'm unsure of what happened next. I vaguely remember the new voice telling me to rise to my feet but next remember waking up in a bed with my injuries having been treated.