And if there standeth my mother in a gown of China damask, and beside her, her tiny little son, twig thin, regarded by the whole of the company as he playeth solemn tunes upon the violin, applauded by all assembled — then see there, back against the wall, Pro Bono, some eleven years of age, dressed in livery, taught the lessons of silence and obedience. He hath been sold at eight from his mother’s side, and now must daily watch another boy enjoy coddling, plaudits, and idleness. He must serve the tot at table; he must rise and see the princeling is dressed in finery; he must listen to the mother’s fatuous tales of Africk royalty, knowing that all that debars him from these pleasures is a story likely knit out of fancy; keenly aware that the darling of all eyes is no more or less than he.
Now know why he might pinch that child upon the arm when no one observes. Now know why he might wish to offer his protection, and at the same time, revel in the look aghast in those wide eyes as the full dimensions of their prison are revealed.
I lie upon my mattress in the night and listen to the idiot slap of water against the hull.