"You have no idea how much you can get used to".
―Benjamin Stout, The Slave Dancer, P. 24
One just gets a feeling about certain books. Even before reading them, it's as if one can already sense the magnitude of the story, can tell that the reading experience about to be had is so big and important that simply by encountering it firsthand, one has charted new personal territory, has plugged into a culture of great literature that extends back through human history further than we know. The Slave Dancer is such a book as this, an undisguised, unglorified, unfettered beast of a novel that lingers to prowl in the memories of generations past, present and future, a story of ordinary souls that bear the guilt of such monstrosities that it would seem the human spirit could not help but be suffocated beneath the sheer weight of it. Even the souls of those who only bear witness to the unfiltered horrors taking place before them surely could not wriggle free from the crushing weight of the ambient sin any more than the perpetrators, having seen too much to be borne by an innocent spirit. The Slave Dancer isn't fiction, really, not where it counts; all of the crimes herein committed against the collective conscience of humanity really did occur, at one time or another, just as described in these pages. For those serving as part of the crew on slave ships traveling between Africa or some European city dealing in the slave trade and their final destination of the U.S., there was no closing the pages of a book when the vile desecrations of humanity became too extreme to stomach, no leaving off and taking a breath of fresh air away from the ungodly stench of a ship's hold packed tightly with uncleaned bodies and their accumulated waste from weeks or months of confinement, no saying that they'd had enough when the drama became just a little too real and the violence heightened to levels too intolerably grotesque to process. Whether they'd boarded the slaver by choice or not, once aboard there was no respite but the one promised at the end of the long, torturous sea voyage, if they survived to that point. Those who did survive might wish, by then, that they had not.
Jessie Bollier, only thirteen years old, is one who didn't take the transcontinental sea voyage of his own volition. Working to help support his small, fatherless family, playing his fife in the town square and hoping to eventually apprentice himself to a chandler so that he might make good money, Jessie accidentally plays his music for the wrong listener one day. Shanghaied on the return route to his family's house that night, Jessie is roughly dragged aboard a sea vessel named The Moonlight, bound for parts unknown, his only immediate assurance being that the ragtag sailors who grabbed him would kill him before they'd allow him to escape back home. There will be a return to his family eventually, Jessie is promised, but not until after his skills as a fife player have been used to meet the needs of the financiers behind this particular voyage. With little idea what he's in for or why a musician might be needed so desperately on a ship, Jessie has no choice but to go along with his captors, hoping for a way of escape but resigning himself to the fact that he's almost certainly on board for the long haul.
How could Jessie ever have believed, even if he'd been expressly told, that a long journey across the Atlantic with only the slimmest food and water rations necessary to keep the crew alive would somehow be the fun part of the voyage, that feeling the twisting stomach pains of starvation and wandering in the stupefying mental fog of perpetually unsatiated thirst would be a welcome relief compared to what awaits The Moonlight once they pick up its cargo waiting in Africa? For the creaky vessel on which they have labored to cross the ocean is nothing but a slave ship, designated to cross into illegal waters and transport new batches of abducted Africans contrary to international laws that forbid the practice. This, then, is why Jessie's services with the fife were needed so badly by his kidnappers. To preserve the black flesh as usable and sellable, fit for buyers willing to drop quite a price on a strong back and sound set of limbs, keeping the future slaves in working physical order was imperative. To do so, routine vigorous physical activity would be necessary, and the best way to accomplish that in the close quarters of a ship would be through forced dancing. So Jessie, repulsed by the supplementary service to the slave trade that he is being forced to provide, plays his fife to dance the stolen Africans, wanting nothing more to do with the perverse ritual than the unwilling dancers.
As Jessie tries to get some version of a handle on his situation, figuring out who among the crew, if anyone, can be trusted, and desperately stretching each day to somehow become the next as he attempts to survive long enough to be reunited with his family, one night of walking death still awaits, greater in the intensity of its abominations than anything that he has so far witnessed. When men who have already heaped their sins up to the limit can feel the pain of no more guilt, pushing the horrors that they have inflicted to even worse atrocities becomes chillingly easy. As the pinpoint of Jessie's focus narrows to just making it through one more night alive, life and death blur into a senseless, violent mix, and there's no telling who might be left still breathing on the other side of it.
When Jessie is first kidnapped by the crew of The Moonlight, he's not exactly naive about the existence of the slave trade in the U.S. It's 1840, and though slavers are no longer supposed to be capturing Africans and shipping them to other countries for use as slaves, twenty years before the Civil War this crime is still, as incredible as it seems, being committed. Jessie knows about the buying and selling of slaves, and though he's not at all in favor of it, he doesn't begin to understand the horrors of the experience for the forcibly transported blacks until he sees it happen in person. Just as the truth about the ship he has been compelled to work aboard is slowly revealed to Jessie, so does he find out similarly what the rounding up of new sellable bodies is really all about. "The truth came slowly like a story told by people interrupting each other", Jessie observes. Aboard The Moonlight, there's a lot of truth to be revealed before one really fathoms the full horror of what it means to deal in the currency of flesh, blood, bone and sinew. That's a truth that no one ever wants to experience for themselves.
It's Jessie, in his private thoughts, who most heartbreakingly describes the innocence that has been stolen from him, the cover for the true ugliness of a brutal world stripped away by his interminable ordeal for his fledgling eyes to behold. "(T)he world I had once imagined to be so grand, so full of chance and delight, seemed no larger and no sweeter than this ship. Before my tightly closed eyelids floated the face of the child who had, after that one glance at us all, seemed to comprehend her whole fate." The entire voyage onboard The Moonlight is just such a train of progressive revelation, one that howls more maddeningly every inch of the way it barrels down the track; not just for Jessie, but for us as well, who may have known just as little as he about the tangible inhumanities of the slave trade in America before reading this book. It's a warning to all who think ourselves safe from a horror just because we box it out and refuse to think about it, chalking it up as something that, while surely horrendous, will never affect us where we live as long as we hold it at arm's length. As Jessie learns, though, when grievous human atrocities are allowed to exist anywhere without being confronted, they will eventually find us where we live, knocking on our door or waylaying us on our way home when we're least prepared for it. If we settle for injustice in any form, anywhere, then eventually we will have to pay the price, and it may be a whole lot steeper than we ever considered it could be.
I'm tempted to say that Paula Fox is a great writer of historical fiction, and while that's obviously true, I think it's too narrow of praise for an author who has shown such ability to write adeptly in any style and for every genre. It might be better to say that Paula Fox is as great an author of historical fiction as she is of every other type of literature she has created, from family drama to mysteries to multicultural novels and beyond. The powerful final notes of The Slave Dancer will send chills down the spine of any reader, providing a haunting close to what is one of the more sobering, eye-opening Newbery Medal winners that I have read. The Slave Dancer is a book that we need to read, reread and talk about for as long as prejudice of any kind exists in the world, for as long there are still those out there with enough disregard for the basic humanity of others to steal them from their homes, pack them onto a ship and sell them as slaves if the opportunity to do so still existed. As unbelievable as it seems, there are still those who wouldn't think it wrong to do exactly that if they could, and that is why we all need this book to remind us what's at stake when we forget what that is, as we tend to do. I would give The Slave Dancer three and a half stars, and I hope that I always keep it close in my thoughts.