will we do?”
“First we shall dine on the best that Boston has to offer. Cod fixed any way you like. And then we begin on the second part of the plan.”
“And what is that?”
“I do not know at the moment, my dear, but by the time our cod dinner is done I have no doubt I will. I myself am a master at cooking cod, did you know that?”
She looked at him, shook her head. This sounded like the setup of one of his idiotic jokes. She wondered whether she should encourage his sophomoric humor. “No, I did not.”
“You didn’t? Well, you do know there is none can stuff a codpiece nice and full like me.”
And despite herself, Elizabeth smiled.
Chapter 24
They were in among the shipping again, near enough to the coast of Africa that they could smell the land, even when it was not in sight.
Every day they sighted so many vessels that soon they raised no comment among the joyful, relieved, and optimistic men and women aboard the former French merchantman. Long dugout canoes, carved from a single tree and rowed by big crews of skilled paddlers, dark spots on the horizon, but the largest of these would on occasion paddle out to them, sometimes close enough to exchange a few words.
There were sailing vessels as well, the low-sided native craft with their great arching lateen sails, and brigs and snows and ships from Europe and America. On a few occasions those vessels passed to windward, and the revolting and frightening smell of a blackbirder rolled down on them.
For a week their course had not changed, save to compensate for the baffling winds which during that time managed to come from every point of the compass. But most of the wind they could use, and the chip log spun out behind to show their progress as they closed at long last on their port of destination.
Then one morning James stepped onto the quarterdeck to find the pilot and Madshaka in conference by the helm.
He watched Madshaka’s broad back, and the pilot, cowering slightly, and hunched. He could not hear what they were saying.
It was an hour past dawn and it was already hot, and the vessel, which had been motionless, was starting to catch some puffs and the slatting sails were starting to fill. The pilot said something to the helmsman, Madshaka gave orders for the yards to be trimmed around a bit.
Madshaka was armed. He generally went around with only a long dagger on his belt, but now, pirate fashion, he carried a sword, dagger, and a brace of pistols, as if he were readying for a fight.
The sky was pure, pure blue. On the puffs of air rode scents from the land, the nearby land, and James understood that he should be happy. Africa. Home. It was almost over.
Then Madshaka turned to him, grinned his sardonic grin, said, “King James,” and jerked his head in a gesture meant to summon him over.
“The pilot, he say we make landfall, today,” Madshaka said when James had stepped over to him. “I think, whatever you need to do to anchor, you better do it now.”
James just stared. “You giving me an order, Madshaka? We not pretending anymore that I’m still captain?”
“No, no. I just make a suggestion. Captain.”
James nodded. Madshaka’s sarcasm was the real answer. But if cock-billing the anchor and preparing it for setting would get them one step closer to being done with the voyage, then James did not really care from whom the order came. He headed off forward, looking for Quash and Good Boy and Cato and Joshua. His men.
It took most of the morning to prepare the anchor, the best bower having been lashed in place for so long, and the gear stowed away in parts of the ship never visited, and James working through the clouds in his mind to make sense of it all, and in the end it was done.
A headland had appeared beyond the bow just as they were bending on the cable, low green hills rising out of the blue sea. The wide arms of land spread as they approached, and by the time the best bower was cockbilled and ready to let go, their entire northern horizon, from east to west, was shoreline. They had not seen so much land in many weeks. It seemed the oddest of sights.
Cato put a hand on James’s shoulder, a bold gesture of familiarity, a transparent attempt to lift James from his mounting despair. “What
think you, James? Kalabari!”
James shook his head. “It is not.”
Cato was silent and he looked uncertain as to how to respond. “It’s not?”
“I don’t think so. The beaches, the trees…it don’t look right. Kalabari should not be to the north.”
The two men watched the approaching shoreline in silence. Off the larboard bow they could see, emerging from the forest, a city of significant proportions, an African city of low buildings. It appeared as a stutter of white geometric patches against the green forest, a strip of white sand in front, crowds of shipping anchored in the exposed roads.
James turned to Cato, tried to smile, but the result was not what he had hoped. “I’m wrong, I think. I’ve not been here before. I suppose this is Kalabari.” But James was in no frame of mind for lying and he did not convince Cato.
James left the young man at the cathead, made his way aft. The ship crept toward the shore and the white squares resolved themselves into individual structures, houses with dark windows and roofs thatched with bere as if they were trying to blend in with their background. Against the press of the green hills he could see the tall, spindly palms, waving in the same breeze that was drawing them in.
Along the line of the beach, the treacherous surf of the African coast flashed white. The surf through which only the skilled grumetes, like Madshaka and Kusi, could safely bring the big canoes, a skill that made them so invaluable to the white men there.
“Madshaka, we best furl courses and topgallants,” James said. Madshaka shouted the orders forward and the men raced aloft and the sails came in. He did not acknowledge James, did not even look at him, as if James’s words had just been thoughts in his own head.
As the voyage was ending, so was the pretense.
They stood on under topsails until they were in among the ships, ships of every size, from two-man canoes to big English and Portuguese slavers, all scattered along several miles of shoreline.
There was some kind of settlement on the shore, and boats going in and out of the surf and plying between ships, but they were a mile or more to the east of the big city they had seen. The people crowded the rail and stared, silent. They were here, and words did not seem adequate.
The French pilot said to Madshaka, “Anchor there,” and pointed, and this time Madshaka turned to James and glared, because what the pilot said was beyond Madshaka’s ability. James turned to the helmsman and pointed to the patch of water that the pilot had indicated and the helmsman nodded and pushed the tiller over.
The ship turned up and up into the wind and the leeches of the square sails began to shiver and James said to Madshaka, “Tell them to clew up the fore and main topsails,” and once again Madshaka stepped forward and gave the orders as if they had originated with him.
The fore and main topsails came down on the run and the mizzen topsail came aback and the ship stopped on that spot of water.
“Let go!” James called forward. Cato waved his acknowledgment and let the ring stopper fly and the best bower plunged into the water with a great splash and the ship, that floating community of disparate tribes, was fast by her anchor to the shore of Africa.
And then one of the men was coming aft, yelling something at Madshaka, waving his arms and pointing toward the shore. He stopped a foot from Madshaka, still yelling. His tone was accusatory.
Madshaka stepped back, held his hands up, as if to ward off blows, and with a quick word he silenced the man. He turned to the Frenchman. “This fellow, he say this not Kalabari. Where you take us?”
