“Van der Haagen.” Madshaka grinned at the horrified, terrified Dutchman. “You think you get rid of your partner by hitting him on head, selling him like a common slave?”
“Madshaka, no…it was Stevens who done that.”
Madshaka threw back his head and laughed, a genuine laugh, because it amused him greatly to see Van der Haagen writhing, just like Stevens, even though he had not yet thrust a dirk into the factor’s gut. “You a worm, Van der Haagen, a low worm, and you sell me out just like Stevens.”
At that the Dutchman had sense enough to shut his mouth, understanding that denial was futile and only negotiation could save him now. From the compound beyond the factor’s door they could hear
the former slaves chanting, shouting, singing their triumph.
“Very well, Madshaka. Kill me, if you will, or tell me what you want.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think I kill you. But I think we be partners again. But it be different this time, what say you?”
“I am certain we can come to some understanding…”
“I certain too. But I have business first.” He stepped to the far wall and took down a big ring of keys, then turned to his men, who were crowding the room near the door, and said, “Look after these men. Hold them here until I return.” He spoke Kwa. There was no need for any other language because all of the men in the room were Kru, like himself.
Madshaka stepped out and he shouted to the rest of his people, a great bellow that cut through their voices of triumph. He congratulated them on their victory, their great victory, and they cheered him.
He told them that they were the chosen of the gods and they cheered again.
And then he told them that it was time to see to their brothers. He led them at a trot across the wide courtyard to the big trunk that took up a good portion of the factory and would be filled with slaves awaiting buyers.
He waved his cutlass over his head, led the charge to that big, familiar door. He found the key on the ring, thrust it into the lock, twisted it, and felt the lock pop open. With a practiced hand he pulled it from the hasp and swung the big door open and called to his men, “Go! Go and help your brothers from their chains! Fulfill your destinies!”
And with a great cheer the men poured in through the door, shouting in triumph, the final triumph, ready to free the others as Madshaka had freed them.
And when the last of them had passed through the door, and only Madshaka was left outside, he swung the big door closed again. It hit the heavy frame with a shudder, a deep booming sound, and Madshaka slipped the lock through the hasp again and clicked it shut, a sound of finality.
And then despite himself, he laughed again, a deep laugh, a genuine laugh, a laugh to release all the laughter he had suppressed for all these weeks of fooling all those simpleminded people.
It was the true final triumph, he knew, and it was his.
Crouching on the dry mud wall, lost in the shadow midway between two of the torches, King James watched the drama in the courtyard.
He watched the butchering of the white guards, watched Madshaka peel the Kru off from the rest of the people, watched him disappear into the big house. And then, some moments later, he watched Madshaka lead the people into the trunk, springing his trap.
Beside him, Joshua, Good Boy, Cato, Quash, muttered their horror, their shock, but James remained silent, watching. There was no shock in his heart, no horror. This was just the way of things.
They had reached the wall with the rest, clambered up, but James had not let his people from the Northumberland go any farther. Instead, they had stayed on the wall, retreated to the shadows, and watched.
James had agreed to accompany Madshaka, had let Madshaka think he was swayed by the big man’s goading. But it was not that. James wanted to know what Madshaka’s real intentions were. He knew better than to let Madshaka out of his sight.
He had come ashore with Madshaka, had followed him into the woods. But he was not such a fool that he would follow him into this slave factory. And he would not let the people he loved follow him either. James had sensed that something was out of alignment. He had smelled the trace odor of a trap.
From where he crouched, a cable length away, James heard the sound of the heavy door slamming shut, even over the cheering of the fools who, on Madshaka’s urging, had rushed right into a prison. He heard the deep sound of Madshaka’s laugh and it was the laugh of a victor.
James shook his head. Did Madshaka think that he was in the trunk along with the others? Probably. He would not think his triumph so complete if he knew that James was still free.
Madshaka had played them all for fools, had arranged this, step by careful step. James cursed Madshaka and his genius, and cursed himself for having not killed the man a month before.
But it was not too late. As long as he could still draw breath it was not too late. In his hand the familiar heft of a cutlass, beneath his dark skin, muscles that were tensed and ready, in his head a mind that was sharp and clear again. He was in command now, of himself, of his tiny force of men. He would call the tune, and Madshaka would dance.
But not there and not then. He would need more favorable odds to beat Madshaka, more favorable than what he saw in the compound below him.
He turned to the others. “Come on.” From his crouched position he leapt down to the ground outside the factory wall, heard the thump of the others landing beside him. Half bent and running, they raced back to the tree line and James led them back to the trail.
At the head of the trail they paused and looked back at the factory. The shouts of triumph had been replaced with a caterwauling of dismay and anger and despair. They listened for a moment, and then they turned and disappeared into the dark shadows of the forest.
Chapter 26
It took Elizabeth half a day to see as much of Boston as she cared to, as much as she ever wished to see.
After a tolerable dinner, she and Billy Bird made the rounds of the churches, asking after Frederick Dunmore, meeting with the same reticence, bordering on hostility, that they had received from the very first minister with whom they had spoken.
Billy pointed out that at least their reception indicated that there was something in Dunmore ’s past that was too unsavory to speak of, at least for those they interviewed to speak of to strangers.
And strangers they were. She and Billy did not fit in, she could see that. The clothes that she wore were unremarkable, perhaps even a bit conservative, by Virginian standards-mantua skirt looped up to reveal the petticoat beneath, a Steinkirk cravat around her neck, a straw bergere hat-but by the standards of Boston she felt brazen, overdressed. Billy Bird was something of a peacock in any company, of course, and between the two of them their foreign look put people on their guard.
“Perhaps you are right, Lizzy,” Billy said when she made this observation over supper. “Bloody Puritans. Tomorrow I shall see about outfitting myself in their dreary black garb. Mayhap I will get me one of these minister’s outfits, pass myself off as a man of the cloth. Do you think God would strike me dead if I did so?”
“I am surprised that God has not struck you dead yet. But no, I do not believe you could convince anyone that you are a pious Congregationalist minister, not for all the black cloth in Boston.”
Billy sighed. “I reckon you are right,” he said, and there was a hint of resignation in his voice, a touch of pessimism that Elizabeth was not accustomed to hearing, and it made her gloomier still.
“Well, no matter,” Billy said, brighter now, “damn these ministers and churchmen, I say. Tomorrow we shall go poking about the fellows that print the newspapers. I know the gentleman who prints the Boston Gazette. He is apt to be a bit more talkative than these morose preachers.” But Elizabeth knew that he was not nearly as optimistic as he sounded.
They went for a stroll after supper, down Cornhill Street to Winter and then up to the edge of the Common.
