Chapter One The Passage

None of the fifty or so guests wore shoes. The invitation specifically ruled them out. It was, after all, a beach wedding, and Mercer Mann, the bride, wanted sand between the toes. The suggested attire was beachchic, which may have had one meaning in Palm Beach and another in Malibu, and probably something else in the Hamptons. But on Camino Island it meant anything goes. But no shoes.

The bride herself wore a low-cut white linen gown with an entirely bare back, and since she had been on the island for the past two weeks she was superbly tanned and toned. Stunning. Thomas, her groom, was just as lean and bronzed. He wore a brand-new powder blue seersucker suit, a starched white dress shirt, no tie. And of course no shoes.

Thomas was just happy to be included. He and Mercer had been together for three years, sharing an apartment for the past two, and when Mercer finally got tired of waiting for a proposal she had asked him, three months earlier, “What are you doing on Saturday, June sixth, at seven p.m.?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”

“Say nothing.”

“What?”

“Say you’re doing nothing.”

“Okay, I’m doing nothing. Why?”

“Because we’re getting married at the beach.”

Since he was not exactly a detail person, he had little input into the planning of the wedding. However, had he been detail-oriented it would not have mattered. Life with Mercer was wonderful in so many ways, not the least of which was the absence of responsibility for making decisions. The pressure was off.

A guitarist strummed love songs as the guests sipped champagne. She was a creative writing student of Mercer’s at Ole Miss and had volunteered for the wedding. A server in a straw hat topped off their glasses. He, too, was studying under Mercer, though she had yet to break the news that his fiction was too weird. If she were a blunt person she would point out that he was likely to earn more money tending bar at small weddings than trying to write novels, but she had yet to gain tenure or the ability to discourage students with little promise.

Mercer taught because she needed a salary. She had published a collection of short stories and two novels. She was searching for a third. Her last one, Tessa, had been a bestseller, and its success had prompted Viking Press to give her a two-book contract. Her editor at Viking was still waiting for the next story idea. So was Mercer. She had some money in the bank but not enough to retire, not enough to buy the freedom to write full-time with no worries.

A few of her guests had that freedom. Myra and Leigh, the grandes dames of the island’s literary mafia, had been together for decades and were living off royalties. Back in their glory days they had cranked out a hundred steamy romance novels under a dozen pseudonyms. Bob Cobb was an ex-felon who’d served time in a federal pen for bank fraud. He wrote hard-boiled crime stories, with a penchant for prison violence. When drinking, which was practically all the time, he claimed he had not pursued honest labor in twenty years. He was a writer! Perhaps the wealthiest of the group was Amy Slater, a young mother of three who’d hit pay dirt with a vampire series.

Amy and her husband, Dan, had taken a chunk of their money and built a splendid house on the beach, about half a mile from Mercer’s cottage. When they heard about the wedding, they insisted on hosting it along with the reception.

Like every bride, Mercer envisioned a lovely walk down the aisle with her father. He, though, got cut from the ceremony, as did the aisle. Mr. Mann was a complicated soul who had never spent time with his wife or daughters. When he complained that the wedding might conflict with his busy schedule, Mercer said never mind. They would have more fun without him.

Her sister, Connie, was there and could always be counted on for family drama. Her two rotten teenage girls were already sitting in the back row and staring at their phones. Her husband was gulping champagne. On the more pleasant side, her literary agent, Etta Shuttleworth, was there with her husband, as was her Viking editor, who no doubt wanted to grab a moment and inquire about the next novel, now a year overdue. Mercer was determined not to talk business. It was her wedding, and if the editor got the least bit pushy then Etta was expected to step in. Three sorority sisters from Sewanee were there, two with husbands. The third was fresh off an acrimonious divorce that Mercer had heard far too much about. All three had the hots for Thomas, and Mercer was keeping an eye on them. The fact that he was five years younger than his bride made him even sexier. Two colleagues from the Ole Miss faculty had survived the final cut of the invitation list and were spending a week on the island. Mercer got on with them well enough, but was cautious. She had invited them only to be polite. She was on her third campus in the past six years and had learned a lot about faculty politics. She was the only professor in the history of the Ole Miss English department to crack the bestseller lists with a novel, and at times she could feel the jealousy. An old pal from Chapel Hill had been invited but declined. Two friends from high school and one from kindergarten were there.

Thomas had a more stable family. His parents and siblings and their young children filled an entire row. Behind them was a rowdy bunch of college chums from his days at Grinnell.

The fake minister was Bruce Cable, owner of Bay Books and onetime lover of the bride, who began asking everyone to take a seat and squeeze closer to the front where a white wicker arch had been erected. It was laden with red and white roses and carnations and flanked by trellises on both sides. Beyond it was a hundred feet of white sand, then nothing but the Atlantic at high tide, a gorgeous view that stretched for miles until the planet curved. North Africa was four thousand miles away, a straight shot.

The guitarist kept strumming until Mercer and Thomas appeared on the boardwalk. They came down the steps, holding hands and smiling all the way to the arch where they were met by the fake minister.

It was not Bruce Cable’s first wedding. For some vague reason, Florida allowed almost anyone to buy a cheap permit from a clerk’s office, become an “officiant,” and conduct a civil wedding ceremony. Bruce had not known this, and had no interest in it whatsoever, until an old girlfriend wanted to get married on Camino Island and insisted on Bruce doing the honors.

That was the first. Mercer’s was the second. He wondered how many officiants had slept with all of their brides. Yes, on one occasion not too many years earlier he had slept with Mercer when she was spying on him, but that was ancient history. Noelle, his wife, knew about it. Thomas had been informed. Everyone was cool. It was all so civilized.

Well aware of Bruce’s tendency to go off-script, Mercer had carefully written their vows. Thomas, surprisingly, had been consulted and even added some language of his own. A former student from UNC rose and read a poem, an impenetrable hodgepodge in free verse that was supposed to heighten the romantic mood but instead caused the crowd to gaze at the waves breaking gently along the shore. Bruce managed to re-focus things by giving brief bios of the bride and groom and got a few laughs. The guitar player could also sing and she delighted the crowd with an impressive version of “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love).” Connie read a scene from Tessa that was based loosely on their grandmother. In the story, Tessa walked the same stretch of beach every morning looking for turtle eggs laid the night before. She guarded the surf and dunes as if she owned them, and several in the crowd remembered her well. It was a poignant piece about a person who had greatly influenced the bride.

Bruce then got them through the vows, which, in his learned opinion, were a bit on the wordy side, a recurring problem with Mercer’s prose and one he was determined to correct. He loved his writers and nurtured them all, but he was also a tough critic. Oh well, it wasn’t his wedding.

They swapped rings, had a kiss, and bowed to the crowd as husband and wife. The crowd stood and applauded.

The entire service lasted twenty-two minutes.

The photography took longer, then everyone climbed onto the boardwalk and followed Mercer and Thomas over the dunes to the pool where more champagne was waiting. They had their first dance to “My Girl.” The DJ followed it with more Motown and the dancing caught on. Almost ten minutes passed before the first drunk, Connie’s husband, fell in the pool.

The most popular caterer on the island was Chef Claude, a real Cajun from South Louisiana. He and his team were busy on the patio while Noelle supervised the table arrangements and flowers. She was mostly French, and in matters of fine dining with all the trimmings she had no peer. Amy asked her to take charge of flowers, china, place settings, crystal, and flatware, along with the wine, which Noelle and Bruce were happy to select and order from their broker. Two long tables were set on the terrace under a canopy.

As the sun was setting, Chef Claude whispered to Amy that dinner was ready, and the guests were directed to their assigned seats. It was a rowdy bunch, with lots of laughter and admiration for the newlyweds. When the first bottle of Chablis made the rounds, Bruce, as always, called for quiet so he could wax on about the wine. Then platters of raw oysters arrived and covered the table. During the second course, shrimp remoulade, the toasts began and things began to go off-track. Thomas’s brother did a nice job but wasn’t much of a speaker. One of Mercer’s sorority sisters played the obligatory role of the crying bridesmaid and went on far too long. Bruce managed to cut her off with a splendid toast of his own. He then introduced the next wine, a fine Sancerre. Trouble started when Mercer’s brother-in-law, still wet from his splash in the pool and still drunk since midafternoon, stood and wobbled and tried to tell a funny story about one of Mercer’s old boyfriends. His timing was bad. His remarks were mercifully cut off when Connie snapped loudly, “That’s enough, Carl!”

Carl roared with laughter as he fell into his chair, and it took a few seconds before he realized no one else thought it funny. To break the tension, a frat brother from Grinnell jumped to his feet and read a raunchy poem about Thomas. As he read, the main course of grilled flounder was served. Verse after verse, the poem grew dirtier and funnier, and when it was over everyone was in stitches.

Amy had worried about the noise. The homes were built close together along the beach and noise carried. So, she had invited the neighbors on each side and introduced them to Mercer a week earlier. They were laughing and drinking harder than anyone.

Myra took the floor and told the story of the first time she and Leigh met Mercer, five years earlier when she returned to the island for the summer. “Her beauty was obvious, her charm was contagious, her manners were impeccable. But we wondered: Can she write? We secretly hoped that she couldn’t. With her latest novel, a masterpiece in my opinion, she proved to the world that she can indeed tell a beautiful story. Why do some people have all the luck?”

“Now Myra,” Leigh said softly.

Until then, most of the toasts and remarks seemed to have some measure of forethought. After that, though, everything was off the cuff and fueled by wine.

The dinner was long and delicious, and when it was over the older guests began leaving. The younger ones returned to the dance floor where the DJ took requests and turned the volume down.

Around midnight, Bruce found Mercer and Thomas at the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. He joined and told them again what a lovely wedding they had put together.

“When do you leave for Scotland?” he asked.

“Tomorrow at two,” Mercer replied. “We fly from Jacksonville to Washington, then nonstop to London.” The honeymoon was two weeks in the Highlands.

“Could you run by the store in the morning? I’ll have the coffee ready. We’ll need some.”

Thomas nodded and Mercer said, “Sure. What’s up?”

Bruce was suddenly serious. With a smug grin he looked at her and said, “I have the story, Mercer. Maybe the best I’ve ever heard.”

Bay Books opened at 9:00 a.m. every Sunday morning when Bruce unlocked the front door, from the inside, and welcomed the usual crowd. Though the demographics were unclear, he had always surmised that about half the permanent residents of Camino Island were retirees from colder climates. The other half were locals from North Florida and southern Georgia. The tourists came from all over, but primarily the South and East.

At any rate, there were plenty of people from “up north” who missed their favorite newspapers. Years earlier he began handling the Sunday editions of the Times, Post, Enquirer, Tribune, Baltimore Sun, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Boston Globe. Along with the newspapers, he sold legendary hot buttered biscuits from a restaurant around the corner, on Sundays only, and by 9:30 the café upstairs and the reading area downstairs were packed with Yankees reading news from home. It had become a ritual of sorts and many of the regulars never missed a Sunday morning at the bookstore. Though women were certainly welcome—Bruce had long since learned that most books were bought by women—the Sunday morning crowd was all male, and the politics and sports talk often became rowdy. Smoking was allowed on the outdoor terrace and a layer of rich cigar smoke usually hung over Main Street.

Mercer and Thomas arrived late in the morning, now legally married, remarkably clear-eyed and dressed for their trip. Bruce invited them into his downstairs office, his First Editions Room, where he displayed some of his finest rare books. He poured coffee and they chatted about the night before. The newlyweds were ready to go, though, with a long adventure ahead of them.

Mercer smiled and said, “You mentioned the greatest story of all time.”

“Yes I did. I’ll be brief. It’s a true story but can also be fictionalized. You’ve heard of Dark Isle, just north of here.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“It’s deserted, right?” Thomas asked.

“Probably, yes, but there is some doubt. It’s one of two smaller barrier islands between Florida and Georgia and it has never been developed. It’s about three miles long and a mile wide, with pristine beaches.”

Mercer was nodding and said, “Oh yeah, now I remember. Tessa talked about it years ago. Isn’t it supposed to be haunted or something?”

“Or something. Centuries ago, sometime around 1750, it became a haven for runaway slaves from Georgia, which, then ruled by the British, allowed slavery. Florida was under the Spanish flag and though slavery was not against the law, runaways were granted sanctuary. There was a long-running feud between the two countries about what to do with the slaves who escaped to Florida. Georgia wanted them back. The Spanish wanted to protect them just to irritate the British and their American colonies. Around 1760, a slave ship returning from West Africa was preparing to land in Savannah when a fierce storm from the north, what we call a nor’easter today, spun it around, shoved it south, and badly disabled it. It was a ship from Virginia called Venus, and it had around four hundred slaves on board, packed like sardines. Well, it left Africa with four hundred, but not all made it. Many died at sea. The conditions on board were unimaginable, to say the least. Anyway, the Venus finally went down about a mile out to sea near Cumberland Island. Since the slaves were chained and shackled, almost all of them drowned. A few clung to the wreckage and washed ashore in the storm on Dark Island, as it became known. Or Dark Isle. It was unnamed in 1760. They were taken in by the runaways from Georgia, and together they built a little community. Two hundred years went by, everybody died or moved away, and now it’s deserted.”

Bruce took a sip of coffee and waited for a response.

Mercer said, “Nice, but I don’t write history.”

Thomas asked, “Where’s the hook? Any sign of a plot?”

Bruce smiled and picked up a plain, thin book the size of a trade paperback. He showed them the title: The Dark History of Dark Isle. By Lovely Jackson.

Neither reached to take the book, which didn’t bother Bruce. He said, “This is a self-published book that sold maybe thirty copies. It was written by the last living heir to Dark Isle, or that’s her claim anyway. Lovely Jackson lives here on Camino, down near the old canneries in a neighborhood called The Docks.”

“I know where it is,” Mercer said.

“She claims she was born on Dark Isle in 1940 and left there with her mother when she was fifteen years old.”

“How do you know her?” Mercer asked.

“She first came in a few years back with a bag full of these books and wanted to do a big signing. As you’ve heard me complain, the self-published crowd can drive a bookseller crazy. Very pushy, very demanding. I try to avoid them but I really liked Lovely and her story is fascinating. I was quite taken with her. We had a signing. I leaned on our friends, most of whom will do almost anything for a free glass of wine, and we had a nice party. Lovely was forever grateful.”

“I’m still waiting for a plot,” Thomas said, rather dryly.

“Here’s the plot. Florida being Florida, the real estate swingers have scoured every square inch of the state looking for an undeveloped beach. They found Dark Isle years ago, but there was a big problem. The island is too small to justify the cost of a bridge. The developers could never configure enough condos, hotels, water parks and T-shirt shops, et cetera, to convince the state to build a bridge. So Dark Isle was off-limits. But Hurricane Leo changed all that. Its eye went directly over the island, split off the north end, and shoved tons of sand into a massive reef that links the southern tip to a spot near Dick’s Harbor on the mainland. The engineers now say that a bridge would be much cheaper to build. Like vultures, the developers are all over it and they’re leaning on their pals in Tallahassee.”

Thomas said, “So, Lovely Jackson is the plot.”

“You got it. She claims to be the sole owner.”

Mercer said, “If she doesn’t live there, why not just sell to the developers?”

Bruce tossed the book into a pile and drank his coffee. He smiled and said, “Because it’s hallowed ground. Her people are buried there. One of her great-grandmothers, a woman named Nalla, was on the Venus. Lovely is not selling. Period.”

Thomas asked, “What’s the position of the developers?”

“They have lawyers and they’re a tough bunch. They say there’s no record Lovely was even born on the island. Keep in mind, she’s the only living witness. All other relatives have been dead for decades.”

“And the bad guys have big plans?” Mercer asked.

“Are you kidding? Wall-to-wall condos, resorts, golf courses. There’s even a rumor that they’ve cut a deal with the Seminoles for a casino. The nearest fancy one is two hours away. The entire island will be paved in three years’ time.”

“And Lovely can’t afford lawyers?”

“Of course not. She’s in her eighties and gets a small Social Security check each month.”

“In her eighties?” Mercer repeated. “Do you know for sure?”

“No. There’s no birth certificate, no record anywhere. If you read her book, and I suggest you do so immediately, you’ll realize how isolated these people were for centuries.”

Mercer said, “I’ve already packed books for the trip.”

“Okay, your business, not mine. But allow me to offer a teaser. One reason they were so isolated was because Nalla was an African witch doctor, some sort of voodoo priestess. In a scene you’ll remember for a long time, she put a curse on the island to protect it from outsiders.”

Thomas shook his head and said, “Now I smell a plot.”

“You like it?”

“I do.”

Mercer said, “I’ll start reading on the plane.”

Bruce said, “Send me a note from Scotland when you finish.”

As soon as the plane leveled off, somewhere over South Carolina, Mercer pulled the book from her tote bag and studied the cover. The artwork wasn’t bad and depicted a narrow dirt road lined with huge oaks and drifts of Spanish moss hanging almost to the ground. The trees grew darker and faded into the title: The Dark History of Dark Isle. Across the bottom was the author’s name: Lovely Jackson. Inside there was a half-title page, then the credits. The publisher was a small vanity house in Orlando. No dedication, no author photo, no blurbs splashed across the back cover. And no editing at all.

Mercer was expecting a simple writing style. Easy words of no more than three syllables. Short, direct sentences, only a few commas. Certainly no literary flourishes. However, the writing was easy to read, and the story so compelling that Mercer quickly set aside her rather snotty editorial and professorial thoughts and got lost in it. When she finished the first chapter without a break, she realized that the writing was far more effective and engrossing than most of the stuff she was forced to read from her students. Indeed, the writing and storytelling were more interesting than most of the hyped debut novels she’d read in the past year.

She realized Thomas was watching her. “Yes?”

“You’re really zipping right along,” he said. “How is it?”

“Quite good.”

“When can I read it?”

“How about when I get finished?”

“How about we tag-team and alternate chapters? Back and forth?”

“I’ve never read a book like that and I’m not inclined to start now.”

“It’ll be easy since I read twice as fast as you.”

“Are you trying to provoke me?” she asked.

“Always. We’ve been married for about twenty hours. It’s time for our first spat.”

“I’m not taking the bait, dear. Now stick your nose in your own book and leave me alone.”

“Okay, but hurry up.”

She looked at him, smiled, shook her head, and said, “We forgot to consummate our marriage last night.”

Thomas looked around to see if other passengers might hear them. “We’ve been consummating for three years.”

“No, Romeo, a marriage can’t be official, at least in the biblical sense, until the vows are said, we’re pronounced wife and husband, and we do the deed.”

“So you’re still a virgin, in the biblical sense?”

“I’m not going that far.”

“I was tired and a bit wasted. Sorry. We’ll catch up in Scotland.”

“If I can wait that long.”

“Hold that thought.”

Nalla was nineteen when her short happy life changed forever. She and her husband, Mosi, had one child, a three-year-old boy. They were of the Luba tribe and lived in a village in the southern part of the Kingdom of Kongo.

The village was asleep. The night was quiet when loud, panicked voices cut through the darkness. A hut was on fire and people were yelling. Nalla awoke first, then shook Mosi. Their son was asleep on a rug between them. Along with everyone else, they ran to the fire to help, but it was far worse than a fire. It was a raid. The fire was deliberately set by a murderous gang from another tribe that had previously tended to their own business. Now they were known as slave hunters. They attacked from the jungle with clubs and whips and began pummeling the villagers. As seasoned marauders, they knew their victims would be too stunned and disorganized to fight back. They beat them, subdued them, and chained them, but they were careful to kill as few as possible. They were too valuable to kill. The elderly were left behind to care for the children, who, in a matter of minutes, became orphans. The women screamed and wailed for their children, who were nowhere to be found. They had been led away to the jungle where they would be released the following day. Small children were worth little to the slave traders.

Nalla screamed for Mosi but he did not answer. In the darkness, the men were separated from the women. She screamed for her little boy and when she could not stop screaming, an attacker struck her with a club. She fell down and felt blood on her jaw. In the light of the fire she could see men armed with long machetes and knives shoving and herding the villagers, her friends and neighbors. They shouted harsh commands and threatened to kill anyone who disobeyed. The fire grew in size and got louder. Nalla was knocked to the ground again, then ordered to get up and walk toward the jungle. There were about a dozen women chained together, almost all of them young mothers who cried and yelled for their children. They were ordered to shut up, and when they kept crying a man with a whip lashed them.

When they were away from the village and deep in the jungle, they stopped in an opening where an oxcart was waiting. It was filled with chains, cuffs, and shackles. The women wore only their usual loincloth around their waists. These were stripped off, leaving them naked. The assailants hooked iron cuffs around their necks and clamped them tight. One neck cuff was chained to the other a few feet away, and when they began walking again single file the women were linked together so that if one tried to run away, the entire line would stumble and fall.

But the women were too terrified to run. The jungle was dense and pitch-black. They knew it well and knew its dangers, especially at night. The oxcart led the way with a teenage bandit guiding it, a torch in one hand, the reins in the other. Two other armed raiders escorted the women, one in the lead, the other in the rear, both with whips. When the women tired of crying they plodded on; the only sounds at times were the rattles of the chains.

They were aware of other movements in the jungle. Perhaps others from their village being led away. Perhaps their husbands, fathers, and brothers. When they heard the men’s voices, all of the women immediately began calling the names of their loved ones. Their captors cursed them and cracked the whips. The voices of the men faded away.

The oxcart stopped at a creek, one the women knew well because they used it for bathing and washing clothes. The captors said they would stop for the night and ordered the women to gather by the oxcart. They were still chained together, and after an hour the neck cuffs were rubbing sores on their skin. A heavier chain was tied to a wheel of the oxcart and looped around the necks of two of the women. The captives were secured for the night.

The teenage boy built a small fire and cooked a pot of red rice. He mixed in cassava leaves and okra, and when it was ready he and the other two men had dinner, eating from the same wooden spoon. The women were too tired and frightened to be hungry, but they watched the men eat because there was nothing else to watch. They huddled together, their chains rattling with every small movement. They whispered among themselves and grieved for their children and husbands.

Would they ever go home again?

There had been rumors of slave hunters in the northern part of the country, but they were still too far away to worry about. The ruler of their village had met with other tribes and heard the warnings. He had ordered the men to keep their weapons close at night and take precautions when hunting and fishing.

As the fire went out, the night grew even darker. Their whispers could be heard by the men so they kept their thoughts to themselves. The teenage boy fell asleep by the fire. The two men disappeared. One of the women whispered they should try and escape, but it seemed impossible. Even breathing rattled the chains that bound them together.

Suddenly the two men were back. They grabbed the youngest captive, Sanu, a girl of fourteen whose mother had been left behind. They unlatched her neck cuff and freed her from the chains. She jerked and protested and they hit and cursed her. They disappeared with her but for a long, terrible period of time the women could hear the assault as the men took turns. When the girl returned she was sobbing and shaking as if in a seizure. The men chained her again and threatened the women with the same treatment if they spoke or tried to escape. They huddled even closer in terror. Nalla stayed close to the girl and whispered soothing words, but nothing stopped her trembling.

The men were spent and exhausted and soon fell asleep. For the captives, though, sleep was impossible. Physically, they were too uncomfortable. Emotionally, they were devastated and wanted to go home to their children and husbands.

At daylight they began walking farther away from their village. The jungle thinned and the sun rose high and hot. By midmorning they were in a valley most had never seen before. The oxcart stopped and the women were led to a tree and told to sit. The teenager built a fire and cooked another pot of red rice and okra. The men ate first, from one wooden spoon. The leftovers were offered to the women, who let Sanu eat first. She said no, she had no appetite. The sparse amount of food was carefully rationed by the others and everyone took a few bites. They were starving and needed water.

In sad single file they moved onward; the only sounds were the axle of the oxcart and the constant rattling of the chains that stretched from neck to neck. The men took turns riding in the back of the oxcart where they napped. They also watched the women constantly, as if sizing them up for the night. At a creek they stopped to drink and rest for an hour or so in the shade of a cotton tree. Lunch was a small apple and a piece of hard bread. After eating and getting enough water to drink, the women were allowed to wade in the creek and bathe themselves.

After dark on the second night, a woman named Shara was selected. As the men removed her neck cuff, she tried to free herself and fought with them. They beat her with a walking stick, then tied her to a tree and bullwhipped her until she was unconscious. They cursed the other women and threatened the same punishment for those who resisted. The women were terrified and crying and clutching each other.

One of the men walked over and pointed to Nalla. She knew better than to resist. Shara had fought back and was now practically dead. They took Nalla into the trees and raped her.

Though exhausted, starving, dehydrated, frightened, and in pain, the women found sleep almost impossible for the second night. Poor Shara didn’t help matters. Still tied to the tree, she groaned pitifully through the night. At some point during the night, the groaning stopped.

At dawn the men began arguing. Shara had died during the night and they blamed each other. They forced the women to walk close to the tree as they left. They cried as they said goodbye to their friend. The neck cuffs made it impossible to turn their heads, but Nalla managed one look back. Shara still hugged the tree, her hands bound to it with rope, her naked body covered with dried blood.

For days they walked the hot dirt paths and grew weaker and weaker. They knew they were headed west and the ocean was getting closer, though they had never seen it. It was part of the lore, the legend of their Africa. Their village was so far away now, they knew they were not going home. For over two centuries the Congolese and other West Africans had been attacked, chained, taken away, and sold into slavery to the colonists in the New World. The women knew what awaited them. Nalla’s only remaining hope was that she would see Mosi again.

The days blurred into each other and time meant nothing. Survival was their only thought, when they could contain their emotions. The fierce and unrelenting sun made everything worse. The hunger and dehydration wore them down, hour by hour. At night, when the winds blew from the north, the women piled even closer together to stay warm while their guards slept by a small fire.

When they were out of food, the men began to argue. They ordered the teenager to turn the oxcart onto a trail heading south. At dusk they smelled the smoke of cooking fires and came to a small village at the edge of the woods. Fencing of boards and wire encircled a farmyard that was filled with captives like themselves. Dozens of them, with the men separated from the women and children. Slave pens. Several of the guards had rifles and they watched as the women approached. A gate came open and they went inside where their shackles and chains were removed. A gray-haired African lady in a sack dress soothed their blisters and sores with animal grease from a bowl. She gave them beans and tasty bread and they ate until they were full. She and her husband owned the farm and charged a small fee to the slave traders who passed through. They would probably be sold to another gang who would take them away. She was sorry for their plight but could do little about it.

There were several children. Nalla and the other mothers from her village watched with longing and pity. They ached for their own lost children, but weren’t they better off being left behind? Surely the older villagers would take care of them. The poor children in the pen were weak and hungry. Many had sores and insect stings. They did not play and smile and skip around like normal children.

The pen was divided by a tall wire fence. The men and the women met there to examine one another, to look for a familiar face. Mosi was not there, though Nalla did recognize and speak to another man from their village. He said they had been divided into three groups after the first day. Mosi was led away with some others. No, Nalla had not seen his wife or his two daughters.

It rained hard that night, with fierce lightning and heavy winds. There was no shelter in the slave pens. They packed together between the stilts of a small hut and slept in the mud. In the morning the gray-haired lady brought bread and red rice, and as she distributed the food she noticed a rash on a child. She feared it was the measles and took the child inside a hut. She said that three children had died of smallpox a month earlier.

After a week in the slave pen, the women were divided again and told they were leaving. A different group of guards rounded up twenty women and three children and brought out the chains and shackles. Nalla and her friends had just been sold for the first time.

There was a new device, a new form of torture. It was called a coggle board and was nothing but a crude plank of wood six feet long with metal loops at each end, one for each prisoner. The loops went around the necks, so that the two women were not only joined firmly together but would have to support a heavy piece of wood with each step. A chain went around their waists and was looped through a shackle around the neck of a child, who walked between the women and under the board. To make bad matters worse, the guards placed water and supplies on the coggle boards to further burden their prisoners.

After a few minutes on the trail, Nalla almost missed the iron shackle around her neck. It really didn’t matter. One form of torture was as bad as the other.

Days passed and the sun grew hotter. The women became weaker and began fainting from heat exhaustion. Attached by a coggle board, one fainting caused both women to go down. The guards reacted by offering water, and if that didn’t revive the woman, they pulled out their whips.

Justice arrived in a small dose when a guard, the most sadistic of the three, stepped on a large green mamba and went down screaming. The snake got away as the prisoners scattered in a panic. They were corralled and shoved under a tree, where they rested in the shade and watched in both satisfaction and horror as the guard convulsed, wretched, vomited, and groaned until he died. Good riddance.

One day they topped a hill and saw the ocean in the distance. The blue water was somewhat comforting because it meant the end of an arduous journey. It was also devastating because they knew the ocean would take them away forever.

Two hours later, they approached a village and saw small boats anchored in the bay. The oxcart squeaked along and came to a stop at an encampment called a “fort.” The women were led to a shade tree and told to wait. Through the perimeter fencing they could see others inside the fort, women and children close by and men in another large pen. They searched in vain for familiar faces.

The boss finally appeared, an African, but he wore Western clothes and army boots. He barked at the women and told them to stand up. Then he immediately began examining each one. He fondled their breasts, probed their pubic areas, pinched their backsides, and in doing so tried to seem bored with it all. He took his time, and when he was finished he told the two guards that they had brought him a nice selection. Twenty women, all young and somewhat healthy and likely to be good breeders, and three hungry children who weren’t worth much. The boss and the guards began talking money and the conversation grew animated; a lot of headshaking, some arguing back and forth. It was obvious the men knew each other and had bargained before. When they finally came to terms, the boss pulled out a small bag of coins and paid for the captives.

Nalla and the others were sold for the second time.

They were led through a gate and into a dirt yard where the coggle boards, chains, and cuffs were removed, and they were allowed to move around. They met other women of their tribe and swapped stories, all of them dreadful. Some of the women had open sores across their backs where they had been whipped. Almost all were young mothers who cried for their lost children.

On the other side of the fort was a larger pen where several dozen men were loitering and trying to see the women. Nalla and the others walked as close as possible but saw no familiar faces.

Bread and water were served and the women retreated to the shade behind one of the huts. A ship had left three days earlier with almost two hundred on board, but the fort was filling up again. The slave trade was booming. No one was certain when the next slave ship would arrive to take them away. The only certainty was that they were not going home. Everyone had lost either a husband or a child or both. Nalla admitted she had been raped and some of the others did too, reluctantly. All of the women were gaunt, underfed, and naked.

The terror began each evening after dark when the soldiers came around. For a few cents, the boss allowed them into the fort to assault the women, all of whom were fair game.

Conditions in the fort were deplorable. Most of the captives had no shelter and slept on the ground. The few huts were given to those suffering from dysentery and scurvy. A brief rainstorm turned the red dirt to mud. Food was sporadic and consisted of hardened loaves of old bread and whatever fruit the boss could find. The only effort at sanitation was a large hole filled with raw sewage in one corner. Using it was treacherous. Its walls were slick with waste and at least once a day someone fell in. The entire fort was a breeding ground for rats and mosquitoes, some as large as hornets. At night, no one protected the women. The guards were as likely to assault them as the soldiers who were always lurking.

And so they waited, day after day. The fort slowly filled up, with more people meaning less food for everyone. In desperation, the women began looking at the harbor and wishing a slave ship would appear to take them away.

One morning, two weeks or so after they arrived, though they had no idea what day of the week it was, Nalla awoke in the dirt and got up. Two women were pointing to the harbor. There, finally, was a ship. Hours passed and nothing happened, then a strange sight appeared. It was the first white man they had ever seen. He and the boss met on the porch of a hut and negotiated.

After the white man left, the atmosphere throughout the fort changed considerably. The guards opened a hut and removed piles of chains and iron cuffs for necks and ankles. They ordered the women to stand in a line and began shackling them again. When one resisted she was whipped as the others were forced to watch. Nalla was in the first group of about thirty who were led from the fort as everyone, men and women, watched. Their turn would come soon enough.

They were led down a path toward the bay. The villagers stopped what they were doing and watched with pity as the captives were taken away. At the dock, Nalla and the others were marched down a narrow pier to a boat where some harsh white men growled at them in a foreign tongue.

It was English and they were Americans.

The women were shoved onto the deck, then down a flimsy ladder to a sweltering hold with closed portholes. The boat, a cargo canoe, could carry fifty slaves at a time, and it took two hours to load it with the cargo. Meanwhile, Nalla and the women waited in the dark below, in the stifling, disgusting air. At times they could hardly breathe. They gasped and struggled and cried out in fear. A guard opened a porthole and allowed in some air. Finally, they shoved off and the cargo canoe rocked slightly. The air flowed through the hold. With no experience on the ocean, the rocking of the boat made them nauseous.

Half an hour later, they were ordered out of the hold and off the boat. They stepped onto a gangplank and climbed up the steep walkway to the deck of the Venus.

What they saw shocked them. For humans hardened by cruelty and abuse, the sight was even more alarming. Dozens of African men squatted or sat in tight groups waiting to be told what to do. They watched the women come aboard. Around the edge of the deck were white men with guns, glaring at their captives. Tied to a mast in the middle of the deck was an African man in the process of being bullwhipped. His blood dripped onto the wooden boards. Next to him, on another mast, was a white man, also naked and bloodied. The brute with the whip was laughing and talking loudly in English. One lash for the African. The next for the sailor. He was in no hurry.

Mercer had passed through Dulles International before. It was a major airport, an important crossroads that welcomed people from all corners of the world. In the main terminal, the arrivals and departures boards listed hundreds of flights to and from everywhere. Every airline of any significance had a presence. Mercer enjoyed gazing at the boards and dreaming of all the places she wanted to see. The world was at her fingertips, and carriers such as Icelandair, All Nippon Airways, Royal Air Maroc, and Lufthansa could take her away.

They were killing three hours as they waited for their flight to London. Thomas was off stretching his legs and hunting coffee. Mercer put down the Dark Isle book. She was halfway through and needed a break. Somewhere back there in the distant memories of her education, she was certain she had been forced by a well-meaning teacher to read about enslaved people in America. She knew some of the basics, but history had never held her interest. She’d read Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Huckleberry Finn, and had a general idea of how horrible things had been, but she had never taken the time to dwell on it. Her reading tastes had always leaned toward contemporary English and French literature.

A crowd of Africans approached. The women were adorned in brightly colored robes and head scarves. The men wore fashionable dark suits with white shirts and loud ties. They were in a lively mood and talked at full volume in richly accented English. Other passengers stared as they walked by and gave them a wide berth. They rolled their luggage to the Nigerian Air desk and got in line.

Mercer flashed back to the haunting story of Nalla and the inhumanity of her first and only trip across the Atlantic from West Africa. She smiled at the Nigerians and asked herself how her ancestors could have tolerated such cruelty to their ancestors. The very idea was overwhelming.

Thomas was back and handed her coffee in a paper cup. He said, “You’ve hardly spoken to me since we left.”

“So?”

“So, we’re newlyweds and we’re supposed to be thoroughly smitten with each other.”

“Are you smitten?”

“Of course, and I’m thinking of nothing but more consummating.”

“Sorry I brought it up. I’m smitten too. Now you feel better?”

“I suppose. Not really. How’s the book?”

“It’s pretty amazing. The people who settled on Dark Isle were slaves from West Africa. Ever been to West Africa?”

“No. I’ve been to Cape Town and Nairobi.”

“Me neither. It’s a fascinating story.”

“You found a plot yet?”

“Maybe. The story follows the enslavement of one of the author’s ancestors, a young mother named Nalla, who was kidnapped by slave traders. She lost her child, husband, family, everything.”

“When?”

“Around 1760.”

“How did she get to Dark Isle?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Are you going to ignore me all the way across the Atlantic?”

“Probably, until I finish the book.”

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for married life.”

“Too late. The knot is tied. Go read your own book.”

Lovely took a curious turn with her narrative. Once Nalla was finally on the ship, the author paused and gave the reader some history to put the slave trade in perspective. Her research was impressive. She wrote:

The Venus was one of three slave ships owned by a Virginia planter named Melton Fancher. By the mid-1700s he was the largest landowner in the state with several tobacco plantations and hundreds of slaves. Most of the early slave trade was controlled by the Portuguese, Dutch, and British, but Mr. Fancher wanted into the business. He needed more labor for his tobacco farms and he could get it cheaper if he had his own ships. He loaded them with tobacco and whiskey and sent them to Africa to trade for slaves.

His slave ships were built in the shipyards at Norfolk, where hundreds were employed. They were financed and insured by banks and companies in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. Since the slaves were considered to be nothing but chattel, same as livestock, they were insured too.

The slave trade was big business. Everybody made money. Except, of course, the slaves.

Since they were so valuable, careful records were kept by the trading companies. From 1737 to 1771, Mr. Fancher’s three ships made 228 voyages across the Atlantic and delivered about 110,000 kidnapped slaves to American markets, primarily Norfolk, Charleston, Savannah. He was considered to be the largest American slave trader and became very rich.

Conditions aboard his ships were awful, like all slave ships. The suffering Nalla endured, described below, was common. It was standard procedure in those terrible days for other ships, small boats, fishermen, and dockworkers to clear the harbor when a slave ship approached port. The stench was toxic, nauseating, and carried for miles. It was said you could smell one coming before you saw the top of its sails.

For three days Nalla waited with the others as the Venus slowly filled with more chained and shackled Africans, all naked and bewildered. Many of the men were belligerent and rebellious, and the slightest protests or cursing led to brutal whippings for all to see. Every lashing was done on the main deck with a full crowd of witnesses. The violence and gruesomeness was effective and muffled thoughts of fighting back. The sailors were heavily armed and aggressive, and acted as though the best way to maintain discipline was to beat any African who failed to quickly follow orders.

The men were attached at the ankles with iron cuffs that never came off. They were forced to walk, sit, and do everything in pairs. They were banished to the lowest deck, a stifling sweathouse with no windows, ventilation, light, nor place to urinate or defecate. They were packed together so tightly that they were forced to sleep elbow-to-elbow. The hold was as hot as an oven and breathing was difficult. Sweat poured from their skin and puddled and dripped through the cracks of the planks. The stench of sweat, urine, and feces hung like a thick fog that was almost visible. For a few hours each day the men were taken to the deck where they filled their lungs with air and ate gruel from a dirty porcelain bowl. They relieved themselves in one corner where the sailors had arranged a pipe-like chute to dump the waste into the ocean.

And they were still at anchor, still taking on more captives.

The women and children were housed in various rooms below the main deck and they were not shackled. Far fewer in number than the men, their conditions were slightly better, though they lived with the fear of sexual assault. They were allowed more time on deck and they constantly watched the men, hoping to find a lost husband or brother. It happened occasionally, though the women knew to stay quiet about it. It did not happen to Nalla. There was no sign of Mosi.

The sailors were a rough crew of derelicts, criminals, ex-prisoners, debtors, and drunks unable to find honest work at home. Working a slave ship was widely known to be the lowest job available, and they signed on only because they could find nothing else. They were not real sailors, with training and knowledge of the sea, but nothing more than a band of desperate men who often enjoyed the thuggery. Many were sadistic. The discipline came from the top and was driven down forcefully by the captain and his mates. They were harsh with the sailors so the sailors would be harsh to the slaves. Everyone feared a rebellion and the atmosphere was always tense.

After a week of waiting, the Venus finally set sail on April 12, 1760. It was bound for Savannah with 435 Africans on board. Three hundred and ten were men, the rest women and children. There were forty-five sailors, ten mates, and a captain, Joshua Lankford, a veteran of many such voyages.

The ship never made it to Savannah.

Roughly 20 percent of the Africans died en route. Three crew members died of smallpox; two of malaria. Sickness and disease were everywhere on the ship. Dysentery was widespread and virtually every slave, and most sailors, suffered some type of intestinal problem. The food was sparse and dreadful and resulted in scurvy and other afflictions. There were outbreaks of measles and smallpox that led to isolation in the deepest, foulest holds at the bottom of the ship. Given the levels of despair and depression, suicide was a common thought. Two men, chained together at the ankles, managed to scramble over the railing of the deck and go overboard. This inspired others, and more sentries were posted to prevent jumping. Nevertheless, a week later, two more Africans escaped gunfire and drowned themselves. A thirteen-year-old girl was severely beaten by two sailors when she fought them during a sexual assault. When they realized she was dead, they tossed her overboard to avoid punishment. It was not reported to the captain.

On Fancher ships, sexual contact with the female slaves was strictly prohibited. As with most rules, it was ignored and there was no punishment for the sailors. As captives, the women learned not to resist.

Nalla was tormented by a nasty ruffian nicknamed Monk, a burly black-bearded ex-criminal with scars on his neck. Each night she lay on the floor in the darkness, a friend on each side, praying the white men would not come. Often they did, and Monk quickly became a regular. By the light of a candle, he led Nalla away and down through a maze of dark hallways to a dank, cramped little room where drinking water was stored. He latched the door for some privacy and had his pleasure. She did not resist. Sometimes other men were waiting. Many of the women were taken to the same room.

To show his good intentions, Mr. Fancher required a doctor on each of his slave ships. On the Venus, the doctor treated only sailors and preferred not to touch the Africans. He was quick to pronounce a desperately ill slave “dead” and order him thrown overboard. Only the captain could interfere with such a diagnosis, and Lankford was not one to second-guess the doctor. He dispensed a few pills and salves for the sailors but had nothing for the Africans.

The sighting of land caused a stir, and as it came into view the crew got busy. The lowly deckhands began scrubbing the deck in a futile effort to tidy up the ship. The women were brought on deck and given buckets of salt water and lye soap to bathe each other. Each was given a cheap burlap garment to wrap around her waist and cover her midsection. Their breasts would still be exposed, which meant nothing to the Africans but would be a source of curiosity on land. The men were not given soap and water but were instructed to cover their genitals with a strip of cloth.

Late in the afternoon, Captain Lankford made a rare appearance on deck. He inspected his men, a motley crew whose appearance had only deteriorated with the voyage, but he somehow managed to look impressed. He took a long look through his telescope, as if to verify that Savannah was indeed on course. He claimed to see the harbor, one he knew well, and said it was only two miles away. They would drop anchor at dark and make land early the next morning.

The Venus would get no closer.

The dark clouds and winds appeared in a rush from the north. The storm was so sudden, the crew did not have time to lower the sails and drop anchor. Within minutes the ship was being shoved southward and back out to sea. The waves were five feet, then ten, then crashing into the ship and spraying water across the deck. Everyone was ordered below. The gusts were stronger and louder and sustained for long periods of time.

Captain Lankford had survived hurricanes in the Caribbean, but he’d never seen such a storm come from the north. He found it impossible to steer the ship as the wind whipped it about. Though there was virtually no visibility, he could tell when the mainsail was ripped and began whipping the foresail and back sail. Larger waves were hitting broadside and drenching the deck. His ship was taking on enormous amounts of water. When the aft mast snapped and broke in two, the captain ordered his men to unlatch the lifeboats and begin lowering them. With the ship bouncing violently from side to side, it was an impossible task. Any fool who attempted to cross the deck was certain to be swept away. Lankford worried that the Africans might somehow break free from below, swarm the deck, and commandeer the lifeboats. He ordered the hold-hatches locked shut, entombing the 400-plus Africans and guaranteeing their deaths if the Venus went down. In a brief lull, the sailors scrambled over the deck and sealed off the holds.

Then the winds and waves were back, stronger than before, and the Venus rocked violently from side to side, almost capsizing several times. The captain told his men to jump if they wished, but to grab something that would float. He intended to go down with his ship.

Below deck, Nalla and the women clutched the children and tried to protect them from the fury of the storm. They held each other tightly as the ship rolled and pitched and seemed ready to break into pieces. They were tossed about and banged into walls and each other. They were crying and praying and often screaming when heavier waves hit. All candles were out and the holds were pitch-black. Below them they could hear the men yelling desperately. Above them, water was seeping through the cracks. They knew they were about to die.

The storm intensified after dark. Several women made it up the steps but couldn’t open the hatch. They realized they were trapped below and would certainly drown. Water was a foot deep and rising.

A huge wave took the ship up and slammed it back down. It broke in half, spilling its cargo into the ocean. None of the Africans could swim. The men were doomed because they were shackled together. The women tried to grab the children but the storm was too fierce and it was too dark.

Nalla found herself clutching a jagged piece of a splintered mast. She and several other women clung desperately to it as the waves lifted them high then submerged them under the water. She urged them to hang on, to be strong. They had survived so far. They were away from the ship and they were not going to drown. Hang on. There were desperate voices everywhere, the last words of dying people, of anguished mothers, of sailors trying to save themselves. Their cries were lost in the howling winds, the crash of waves, the utter blackness of the ocean.

As if its mission had been to destroy the ship, the storm began to subside. The waves still rocked them along but they were not as fierce. The winds were losing their strength. Minutes were passing and Nalla was still alive. She held on and realized that the mast might just save her life. She kept talking to the other women, two of whom she could not see. Others were behind her, still desperately hanging on.

The ocean was calm, still, flat as glass, with no trace of its fury only hours earlier. On the horizon a small orange ball appeared and began to grow as the sun rose for another day.

Nalla and five other women huddled around three children at the foot of a dune. The water was not far away and its quiet waves lapped at the sand. The beach stretched right and left as far as they could see.

They were cold and hoped the sun would rise quickly. They were naked again. The cheap burlap skirts they’d been given after they bathed were lost in the storm. They were starving and had not eaten in hours. The children whimpered in their discomfort but the women just stared at the ocean, too traumatized to think about their next move.

Somewhere out there, far beyond the horizon, was home. Nalla thought of her little boy and fought back tears. The dreadful ship that brought them here was gone. Could they ever find another to go back?

The splintered mast that saved their lives was wedged in the sand nearby. Nalla thought of the others who had clung desperately to it but had been swept away by the crushing waves. Their anguished cries rang in her ears. Were they all dead or had some managed to find the shore?

Death was everywhere. Nalla had seen so much of it since her village was raided, and she wondered if she was dead now. Finally dead and free of the nightmare. Finally dead and now on her journey to be reunited with Mosi and her little boy.

The women heard other voices and drew closer together, but they were the calm voices of men approaching. A group of Africans appeared down the beach, walking their way. Four men, one with a rifle, and three women from the ship. When they saw Nalla and her group, the women ran to greet one another with hugs and tears. There were other survivors. Perhaps there could be many more.

The men watched and smiled. They were shirtless and barefoot but they wore the same odd britches as the white men on the ship. They spoke in a tongue the women did not understand. But their message was clear: You are safe here.

They followed the men down the beach to a slight bend where the shore curved around a small bay. They slowed as they saw two dark objects in the surf ahead. Figures. Bodies. Two naked African men bound at the ankles, dead now for hours. They pulled them out of the water and across the sand to a dune where they would bury them later.

The sun was up now, and the women, elated to be safe for the moment, were mumbling among themselves about food and water. With hand and sign language, Nalla communicated with the leader, the man with the gun, and managed to convey the message that they needed food.

As they were leaving the beach, they stumbled upon three more women cowering near a dune. They hugged them and cried with them. At least they were alive.

The rescue party followed a trail around the dunes until it led to thick vegetation. Soon they were walking through a forest of old elms and oaks with moss hanging from the low branches. The forest grew thicker until the trees and moss blocked the sky and sun. The women smelled smoke. Moments later they walked into a settlement, a village with rows of neat houses made of wattle and mud and covered with thatched palm-leaf roofs.

The women, eleven in all with six children, were surrounded by their new friends. The men wore britches that fell to their knees. The women wore fabric dresses that flowed from their necks to their feet. They were all barefoot and wore broad, happy smiles of grace and pity. They reached out to their new sisters and their children from Africa.

They, too, had made the passage. They had endured the ships. And now they were free.