‘Choose, then,” said the sailor, sounding nervous. “Captain’ll be back from furlough sometime, and there’ll be hell to pay if he finds you here.”
“Give me the lamp and I shall,” Dexterity said, and held out his hand. “I want to look first.”
“Look at what?” the sailor demanded. “One slave’s as like another. Choose the nearest and be scarpering off my ship.”
“Give me the lamp!” Dexterity snapped, and plucked it from the sailor’s surprised fingers. Holding it aloft, he ventured step by unsteady step between the rows of n***d, chained men, women and children, heartbreaking as they turned emaciated faces to look at him, stretched bony, begging fingers towards him and whispered in tongues unknown, yet searingly knowable.
Save me, help me, free me. I want to live. Don’t let me die.
Speechles
