But Marlowe was a mariner, and he was friends with mariners, and those people did not stay put, they moved from place to place and they carried the ugly rumors and untruths with them. Could he know? Could she know? Might she be heading for Boston, looking for the truth of the matter?
“Oh, God!” he moaned out loud. He had to stop her, but he could not go to Boston. Impossible now. But he did still have people there, people whose reliability would cost him, especially for the task he would have to assign them.
Yes, but how would they find her, how would they know where to look for her? Boston was a big place, hundreds of people coming and going…
She would go to the old man. Of course, that would be where she would start, the only place she could start. What would the old man say? It didn’t matter, she could not be allowed to see him.
They had to watch the old man’s place, see who was seeking him out there. He would describe her-a hard woman to miss. Yes, yes, if they watched the old man’s place, then they would catch her up.
And with that thought came the warmth of salvation, the pieces fitting together. If she went to Boston and found out the truth, then he did not want her arrested in Virginia, he wanted her taken up there, far from the burgesses and his neighbors, taken and drowned in that city’s already notable harbor.
Chapter 18
Madshaka stood on the quarterdeck, near King James, listened to the accusations shouted in the tongues of the Ivory Coast, the Gold Coast, the Grain Coast, the Congo, the Slave Coast. The words of each language passed easily through his head, as if together they were but one great language, so adept was he at speaking them.
He had joined in with the Kru funereal ceremony, singing with them their wailing song of death, because he was himself Kru, while James and Cato and Quash and Good Boy had watched, silent, ignorant.
Madshaka knew who the Kru would obey. He was their master now, master of them all. It was not hubris. It just was.
He turned to King James. “They very angry.” He nodded at the representatives. They were standing, sitting, squatting on the deck, called aft to discuss their situation, to vote, like the pirates do.
Far forward, in the waist and the foredeck, the women and children looked on, apprehensive. They did not like how things were going, how their deliverance was changing before their eyes.
They, however, do not decide their fate, Madshaka thought. I do.
“What they angry about?” James was losing his temper, but it was too late for that to be a problem.
“They angry about running off, leaving that big ship. They think there much riches in that ship.”
“Did you tell them what I said? About Marlowe, how we be captured if we stay and fight? Did you tell them we trying to get home, not pirating all over the ocean?”
Madshaka shrugged. “I told them.”
Actually, he had told them nothing of the sort. He had told them that King James was afraid of the white man, that King James was friends with the white man that came after them, that they had to vote as he, Madshaka, told them to or King James would steal all of their riches.
He had planted deep in their heads the idea of going back to Africa as wealthy men. The horrors of the Middle Passage were fading now, with the near certainty of returning to their homes. Now the thought of acquiring wealth before that return was finding fertile ground.
“I think they want to take back from the white man, after all they suffer,” Madshaka said to James. “They think you too afraid, you don’t understand. These men are warriors, not good to them to run from a fight.”
James scowled, looked away, and Madshaka waited, expressionless, for what he would say next.
This was so easy, now with Kusi gone.
“Tell them…,” James began, and stopped and reconsidered.
James was becoming suspicious, but there was nothing that he could do. Madshaka understood as well as James what his choices were. James could hope that Madshaka translated his words correctly, or James could kill Madshaka, if he was able, and then have no means whatsoever to communicate.
James would take his chances with Madshaka.
“Tell them, we are far from land now, we are halfway to Kalabari, not likely to see another ship. Tell them this was what we wanted, from the beginning, to go home, and that is what we are doing. Two weeks and then we are there.”
Madshaka nodded, turned to the gathered men, and called for silence. Then in one language after another he translated the words, translated them pretty much as James had said them.
There was no reason now for him to tell them anything different. Madshaka guessed that it was the truth, that they were unlikely to come across any more ships, this far out to sea. It was time to get back to Africa. He had business there as well.
As he spoke he saw expressions soften, heads nodding. For all he had inflamed these men with the lure of piracy, the great wealth to be had, for all he had told them about how rich-laden was the prize that they had abandoned, they were still men of the land, men of the African forest, and they would never be comfortable aboard a wind ship. The mention of home sat well with them. They, too, were ready for this voyage to end.
“There, I tell them,” he said to James. James looked out over the men who looked aft at them. They did look mollified, comforted. James nodded. Madshaka knew that there was nothing like the mixture of truth and lies to keep an adversary off balance.
“Good,” James said. “Good.”
King James was a fearsome sight, with his pistols and his sword and his leather jerkin accentuating the powerful muscles of his chest and arms. Madshaka thought he would not like to fight the man, but of course he would not have to.
James was an enigma to him, and a problem. He was smart and bold. Killing the blackbirder’s crew, sailing off with the ship, training those ignorant savages to be sailors-incredible. He wished that they could work together, he and James. What a team they might make, what wealth they might garner for themselves! But James would not side with him, he knew that, and so it was and so it had to be.
Destroying James was like destroying some valuable resource, like burning a ship full of rare cargo.
“Very good, Madshaka,” James said next. “Tell them to have their dinner and then we stand our watches, like before.”
“Yes, Captain.” Madshaka gave James his big, wide grin. Turned to the men and translated the words, added that Captain James was not to be disturbed from his sleep, and the men nodded and then dispersed, back to their families, back to their tribes.
James had to be destroyed from the inside. A man like James could not be torn down, he had to be chipped away. And Madshaka needed him broken, because James, strong and confident, was not a man with whom Madshaka wished to tangle.
King James was not Kusi. King James would not be led to the little platform on the side of the ship and effortlessly shoved into the ocean.
No, James would take a lot of killing, when the time came, and he, Madshaka, had to start now.
He made his way forward, beyond the light of the three big lanterns on the taffrail, moving silently with his long strides, down into the waist and up by the knights’ heads on either side of the bowsprit. In the dim starlight he could make out Anaka’s shape, leaning against the knights’ head, waiting. He and Anaka now met there every night. There was much to discuss.
“Good evening, Anaka,” Madshaka said in his native Kwa.
“Good evening. How does it go?”
Madshaka shook his head. “I am worried. I am worried about King James. I think he is plotting something.”
Anaka stiffened, and after a moment said, “What?”
“I don’t know. But I keep an eye on him. There is nothing he can do to trick you or me, but I am afraid for the others. They might be taken in by whatever it is he is planning.”
“Perhaps. But it is of no concern. The Kru are all with you. They understand you are their countryman. Not
