Read Little Black Girl Lost 4 for Free Online Page B

who were far more subdued. He was wearing his princely uniform. The strong wind caused his black cape to flap against his fettered bronze ankles. His feet were shoulder width apart, providing perfect balance, presenting a strong and powerful mystique, even though he, too, was a captive. He gazed into Ibo’s soft eyes, penetrating them, telling her without saying a single word to remember who she was, where she came from, who she belonged to.
    In an instant, Ibo remembered all that Amir’s eyes said. She gathered herself and stood up, determined to be equally defiant, equally proud, equally unshakable.
    â€œBeslis,” Ibo heard Captain Rutgers call out. Decide, she understood immediately, translating the word without thought. Decide what? she wondered.
    She looked at Rutgers; her eyes offered sincere ignorance.
    â€œChoose one,” he said and looked at the nude slaves. His tone was soft, almost serene, innocent in that it offered no warning of what he was about to do; what he was about to show her, show the prince, show them all.
    Ibo frowned, unsure of why he wanted her to select from the chattel that stood before her. She watched Amir and did her best to mimic him, standing tall and proud, chest out, chin up, unfazed and untroubled by the horror that surrounded them.
    â€œIf you don’t choose one,” Rutgers continued, “I’ll choose one for you.”
    When Ibo stood there quietly looking into his eyes, quiescent, resisting his authority, Rutgers walked over to the tallest, thickest man in the group in an angry hurry. Roughly, he forced the man over to the ship’s mainmast, where a couple of crewmen locked both his wrists into restraints made of metal hoops above his head.
    â€œMr. Whitaker!” Rutgers called out.
    â€œSir!” Whitaker said in response, standing at attention, chest out, shoulders back.
    â€œMr. Whitaker, I don’t think my guest understands the gravity or the sheer hopelessness of the situation.” He grabbed a black bullwhip from the foremast and handed it to Whitaker. “Explain it to her. Make sure she gets all the details. Do you understand me, Mr. Whitaker?”
    â€œAye, Captain,” Whitaker shouted, offered a quick, rigid salute. “With pleasure, sir! Somebody’s gotta teach these darkies how things are.”
    He took the whip from Rutgers and walked over to the man shackled to the mainmast. A delightful sneer emerged before he said, “You don’t understand a word I’m sayin’, do ya, nigger?” He paused and waited for a response, his eyes glaring into his victim’s.
    The man looked at Whitaker with eyes full of fury; eyes that bridged the communication gap; eyes that told his captor that if the opportunity ever presented itself, he wouldn’t hesitate to rotate his head one hundred and eighty degrees, snapping his neck. And if it were possible, rotate it another one hundred and eighty degrees so that the circle would be complete.
    Whitaker’s tobacco-stained teeth slowly appeared as the corners of his mouth turned upward. Softly, he whispered in his ear, “You may not understand my words, but you do understand me, don’t you? My best friend . . . Charlie . . . is dead because of you savages.”
    A single tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it quickly before anyone other than the slave saw it.
    â€œI loved Charlie,” he continued, still whispering. “We been friends for near ‘bout twenty years. Somebody gotta pay for him dyin’ the way he did. The cap’em won’t let me kill the prince, but I sho’ as hell can kill you, nigger. And that’s what I aim tuh do.” He raised the whip to eye level. “I’m gonna peel you like a potato. Ya hear me? A potato!” And with that, he marked off the appropriate distance needed and looked at Captain Rutgers. “Ready, Cap’em.”
    Rutgers looked at Ibo and said, “You’re about to