There is little to occupy us upon the Crepuscule, now that we have witnessed the death. It appears we may be confined to this ship for some time; and more particularly, to its lower deck. These quarters are not commodious: I count forty-two of us in this straitened space, three of which number are women; and we are kept fore by the ship’s numerous crew, who crowd aft and jealously guard their hammocks.

Since our evacuation of the town onto the ships and transports of this fleet, there has been little employment for us; and having nought to engage us, we spend much time sleeping. No one, it seems, relishes wakefulness.

When we are permitted to walk the decks of our ship, either for exercise or in the commission of our watch duties, even these tedious rounds are a welcome shift from the lower deck, which is dark and noisome. We stand gratefully beneath the rigging and line the rails.

On the decks of other ships, black men wander as we do, without aim; and they seem not another company, but our own; as were there but one ship, one fraternity of specters which is reflected in the frigid, misty air.

We see also white Loyalists of Norfolk upon their pleasure-boats now laden with clocks, bedsteads, and inlaid secretaries. They are as doleful as are our sable number, or perhaps more so, for they have lost their homes just a few days previously, whereas we became accustomed to losing ours years before.

Slant and Pomp are often my companions; each of us finds the company of the others not uncongenial. We have, indeed, little held in common to speak of, but Slant was reared and raised by the River James, and tells us of its ways; Pomp and he trade tales of livestock; and, I disclosing my past service, they have asked me to tell them of the rebel camp outside Boston, and my actions there. We stare at the ceiling, and Pomp sings songs beneath his breath he learned while herding.

The rebels become bolder, and now patrol the docks of Norfolk by day without apology or shame. They will not suffer any food nor other articles to be purchased from the wharves, and our fleet does not abandon the port entire; and so we float here, and they parade there; and both sides regard the other, well in range of volley or lob.

Our meals are but choruses of complaint. Directly we boarded the ships, the quartermaster dictated we should be switched to salt rations. We eat our few ounces of poor, scalding pork with little gust.

At night, we are slung together for warmth. We all lie in the belly of the Crepuscule and gaze into the darkness, awaiting sleep impatiently. Among us scratches and lumbers Vishnoo, the shipboard tortoise kept so that he might dispose of the roaches that hang on the beams and scuttle into the straw of our mattresses. Though his kind be proverbial for sloth and torpescence, ’tis he who remains awake the last of us; and I imagine his black eyes still glittering alone in the dark, his ancient visage surveying these curled mammals with their tricky hands and shocks of pelt; wondering that such soft things, once they fall, will ever rise again.