Chapter Three
Port-de-Paix, Haiti, 1718...
Tyson stepped off his ship, Le Feu de Shango, and onto the land of his favorite port. The air was so hot it was almost scalding, and it smelled of coffee and sugarcane.
He walked through the marketplace with his first mate, Charles the Englishman, at his right side and fifteen slaves carrying pilfered goods behind him. They'd overtaken three ships on this passage and there was plenty to sell before they made their last stop on the American coast with the "undesirables".
The white traders and privateers looked upon him with both disgust and awe. He was dressed in a scarlet suit with silken stockings, a fine red velvet belt holding the golden sheath of his rare broadsword, and a large scarf of red Persian silk fringed with black silk, folded in triangular fashion so that it draped across his tapered waistline. His bald brown-skinned head proudly gleamed in the sun on display for anyone who dared to look up to his full six-foot-eight height. He grinned as he heard the whispers of the other sailors.
"The rumors are true. A Mulatto a pirate captain."
"He has magic powers, that's how he can overtake all the ships he does."
"They say he's a god. One of them African pagan kind. He shows up, and they all follow him heads bowed in reverence. He can sell them to the most brutal plantation owner, and the captives thank him as if he just delivered them through the gates of Heaven, or whatever they believe in."
Tyson just continued his stroll, ordering his men to the various stalls to make trades. He didn't mind the talk. Most of it was true, anyway. Eleven years ago, he made the choice to fall from his station in Heaven. To his surprise, he landed right in the middle of Senegal and "blessed" with brown skin. He was tribeless of course, and he let himself get captured and sold as a slave. He knew he could make his escape on the ship, he just needed to get to a more civilized country.
In the cargo holds, the other captives were frightened of him. He wasn't just big and hairless, but he also spoke every single language, including that of the French crew that had them in route to the colonies through the Middle Passage. They would try to move him to a different area and put extra chains on him due to his size, and he would defiantly tell them that they risked violent deaths if they touched him.
When the ship was attacked by pirates halfway to the Caribbean ports, Tyson took his chance. He conjured his fire and melted the few chains on him. Then, he blew a hole through the door leading to where the captives were held. When he reached the deck, he surprised both the crew and the plunderers by fighting alongside the pirates. He brandished a dropped sword and sliced the traders apart with one arm while burning them to death by throwing fireballs from his free hand.
The pirates stopped fighting and just watched Tyson in all of his glory. When the fight was finished, the Captain came aboard warily, but with a confidence that only an accomplished leader could have. As he was about to ask for his name and what on God's Earth he was, the captives began crawling from the depths of the ship chanting, "Shango," over and over, the West African god of fire, lightning, and thunder. They bowed to him. The women offered their babies, born during the voyage; the men, their fealty.
The Captain laughed haughtily. "This appears to be your ship now, and not mine. Come, your highness," he said with a flourish and a mocking curtsy. "Have dinner with me aboard my vessel. I'd like to discuss an alliance with you."
It turned out that the alliance with Captain Alphonse Girault was a very lucrative one. As they drank wine through the night, Alphonse promised him the ship he had been held on as his own. Tyson could keep whatever cargo he wanted, including the slaves, and give the rest to Alphonse. In return, the Captain gave him some of his own crew members as advisors. His plan was to attack ships from multiple sides to ensure success and greater gain of resources. The plan sounded great to Tyson, and a much better alternative to the typical fate of a Black man, even one of his lighter coloring.
Years later, Captain Alphonse died and everything went to Tyson, who by now was known as Shango the Incinerator. His property included five ships, all under his control, with over 300 crew members of mixed races and nationalities who were unerringly loyal to him. He'd come across Lycos in the Greek Isles at one point. He, of course, asked for Tyson to swear allegiance to the Scuri. But, that war wasn't why he left Heaven. He was tired of orders and missions, and he just wanted to be his own man; a leader for once. He would neither choose Scuri nor Luminosi, and he would continue sailing across the Atlantic being the god of the seas. Lycos did not take that lightly. However, it was a care that at that time, Tyson did not have.
Now in Port-de-Prix, Tyson saw the prize he'd been searching for ahead at the stall that sold exotic herbs, spices, and plants from all over the world. Standing behind her mistress and instructing her in which items to purchase, was Sabine Macandal. She was adorned in a dress of white chemise with a raspberry colored sash tied into a large and elaborate bow in the back. Wisps of her dark curly hair could be seen trying to escape her headwrap of the same color. Eyes the color of the sky before a furious storm at sea beckoned him to her, and he eagerly obliged.
"Miss Charlotte," he addressed her mistress, "may I have a word with your girl."
Charlotte Boudon took him in as all the white women did: as a delectable exotic treat they weren't allowed to eat. "Just one word, Captain? Sure, but you better make it quite meaningful." She giggled, but Tyson didn't find her joke funny, and she didn't move away or allow Sabine to take their conversation somewhere private, so he did as she said.
Cupping Sabine's breast in one hand, and covering her most private place with his other, he growled out the one word, "Tonight!" so that everyone, including Charlotte could hear and know that the word was not a time of day or a promise. It was very blatantly a command. However, unlike the commands she received from the Boudon's every day, the demands for her voodoo sorcery to make them youthful and rich, she would follow Tyson's with anticipation, then zest and passion.
Murder, Mayhem, Monsters, and Mistletoe Page 3