belong to Africa, any more than you or Mr. Bickerstaff. You got to take them back to Virginia, let them blend in with your people. Ain’t nobody going to recognize them, or know they was with the sloop. Sam and William’ll keep shut. You do that and I’ll come back with you, let them hang me.”
The words were startling in their frankness, in their unambiguous assessment of the situation, and they made Marlowe that much more aware of what James was sacrificing. He sighed. “Francis?”
“James, I have always thought you a man of courage, but this is the most noble act I have ever witnessed. It would have been nothing for you to disappear forever in this country but you did not. And as to your plan, I think it could be done. I agree that the crew of the Northumberland was not well known, save for you yourself. Perhaps we could have the boys change their names. They should be safe enough. Though the Lord only knows what has been happening back at Marlowe House in our absence.”
“Good. Good,” said James, and he looked relieved. “I thank you. I have peace with this. But there is one more thing I must demand.”
“Demand!” said Marlowe, but Bickerstaff silenced him with a raised hand.
“The people I saved from the blackbirder, they caught again, held in a factory a few miles from here. Again they will be sold. They… I…was played for a fool by one of them, a Kru named Madshaka.”
Madshaka. That was the name he had heard aboard the Frenchman. A person, then.
“Those people must be freed from the factory and taken to Kalabari. I told them they would be safe. They have suffered, more than anyone should. It is not right they should suffer more.”
“Now see here, you ask too much, too much by half!” Marlowe said. “Are you suggesting we march on a legal, authorized factory and set the slaves there free?”
“I not suggesting, I demanding.”
“Demanding! You impertinent little-”
“Thomas, please.” Bickerstaff raised a hand. “James, while I feel that a plan to liberate a factory full of people about to be sold into bondage has much to recommend it, let me suggest you are not in a position to demand.”
“No? I still one jump away from that window. I go out and you never see me again, got nothing to bring back to the governor. I’s willing to trade my life, Marlowe, but I ain’t gonna trade it cheap. You can have the French merchantman, all the booty in her hold.”
“Oh I can, can I? How gracious, but in case you had not noticed, I have it now.”
The two men sat and glared at each other. Two men, pushed by so many contrary pressures, like ships acted upon by conflicting winds and tide and wave and current. Each with his future, his very life, hinging on decisions the other must make.
At last James spoke. “It is a slave factory. There will be a great quantity of specie there. Gold, silver. There always is. It is part of their business.”
“You have seen it? The gold?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then.” Marlowe brightened. “That is something else altogether. Now you have touched on Bickerstaff’s good nature and my greed, and together they are forces to be reckoned with.”
“I had thought I could appeal to your mercy as well.”
“Then you do not know me at all, sir,” Marlowe said. “But more to the point, I must be able to convince my men of the benefit of risking their lives this way.”
He sat back, expelled his breath, felt the weariness of the ages, all the weight of thousands of years of accumulated history pressing him down. He was not old, not really. Was it at all reasonable that he should feel that way?
“We can have our men ashore in one hour. Will that be sufficient, King James?”
Chapter 32
Madshaka stood ankle deep in the ocean, the damned, damned ocean. How he hated it. He had been a grumete, sure, and a good one, but that was only because he understood that working the coast was the short path to riches. He had always loathed it. In his essence he was a man of the forest, and the night.
And now the sea, which had once taken him, had brought a new threat.
Around and behind him, the Kru warriors he had led down to the beach to help him in his work. His plan: off through the surf with a boat, out to his prize, and five minutes’ work to cut through the anchor cable. The swells would drive the ship up on the beach. Most of the women and children aboard would make it to shore. Once the wreck was close in, he could send people out to take off what valuables they could.
That was the plan, but he was not happy about it. He was not happy about losing the ship itself, which was worth a great deal. He was not happy with the thought of getting a big boat through the surf with unskilled men at the oars. Landing was one thing-the waves did the chief of the work-but getting back out was something else altogether.
He was not happy about losing however many women and children would drown in the surf. Every dead body was like a coin taken from his purse. He did not like the idea of having to do any of this just to retain what was already his. It was not right. But it was better than losing it all.
The sea crashed, further out, foaming white in the moonlight, raced in and rushed around his ankles, then receded. It felt like it was tugging him along with it, pulling him out to the dark water.
And then in the quiet between the waves he heard something, some new noise, like the noise made by a body of men. And then the next wave curled and broke and drowned out everything but itself.
What was that? He cocked his ear, ready for the lull in the surf. Yes, it was still there, a big sound composed of a hundred little sounds, coming from out there. He heard the clash of steel, the squeal of blocks, voices, someone shouting.
It had to be from the new ship. It could not be from his prize. What were they about? Were they going to take his prize, sail it away? There was no wind, not nearly enough to work the ship off the beach. Madshaka understood enough about the ways of wind ships to know that. And if not the prize, then what? Why would they be coming ashore at that hour?
King James.
Madshaka felt the panic working its way like a poison through his limbs and his chest, could taste it in the back of his throat. Panic like he had not felt since waking up in the blackbirder’s hold.
King James. He knew the wealth and power that Madshaka had gathered for himself: the prize, the factory, the trunk full of slaves. He would want it for himself, and if he had talked those men on that heavily armed ship into joining with him, then he would have it.
No, no, no! He would not have it! Madshaka turned to the Kru, who, like good soldiers, were standing silent, waiting for orders. “They are coming, the men from the ship. I think they want to take the factory for themselves. We will lie in wait for them, on the trail, take them by surprise.” Heads nodded. Silent agreement. They would do as they were told.
Madshaka turned. “Come along,” he said, and the Kru followed. He headed back up the beach, his wide feet pushing aside quantities of the fine sand, and he hurried for the trailhead, hurried to get in front of the attackers, to lay his trap.
Marlowe was standing in the stern sheets of the Elizabeth Galley’s longboat, an oar in place of the rudder, but James had to admit that he did not have the same easy confidence, even exhilaration, that Madshaka had displayed. Marlowe was not a grumete. And to make matters worse, he was forced to use his uninjured left arm.
“Stand ready…,” Marlowe said, looked over his shoulder at the set of the waves, pushed the sweep a bit to one side. The boat rose up on a swell, stern first, then the stern came down fast and the bow rose up with a sickening motion, and then Marlowe shouted, “Now! Pull, pull!”
The men pulled, pulled hard, pulled with all they had, like panicked horses running away with a carriage. The big boat raced along with the surf, now surrounded by white water, curling, foaming, gunnel high. The oars came out of the water, forward, down. And in the undulating space between the waves, half of the starboard bank found
