Caleb arched his brows. “People with money. That would make better sense given the likely cost of hiring Dubois and his crew.”
“And for months,” Phillipe added.
Caleb looked at Katherine. “About telling the others. Of course, tell the three officers and Hillsythe, and the women you can trust to keep the information to themselves, that we will remain here, in our camp—ready to be summoned should anything go wrong and our assistance be needed.”
She considered him, then said, “Our group—all the captives in the compound—have grown very close. We’re one big family now—we’ve had to become that to survive. And trust is an important aspect of such a bonding. So I will agree to tell those you mentioned, and then together we’ll decide whether or not to spread the news throughout the company. As I explained, hope is what you and your men represent, possibly in ways no one who has never endured the sort of captivity we have would understand. Withholding that hope from the others...” Slowly, she shook her head. “That’s not something I can agree to do. If Hillsythe, Dixon, and the others think we need to continue to restrict the information, I will keep my counsel, but”—her expression softened—“I really do not expect they will. We’ve learned that including everyone works—as I mentioned yesterday, we’ve had no defectors. No one siding with or assisting our captors, not in any way.”
She didn’t ask it of them, but after studying the calm certainty in her hazel eyes—a calm steadiness she allowed him to see—Caleb inclined his head. “Very well. We’ll leave it up to you and the others to decide. We are, as you pointed out, all in this together.”
Phillipe had shifted to look at Diccon. “What about the children?” He arched a brow at Katherine. “Some of them, surely, are too young to understand.”
Her lips twisted. “You’d be surprised by what they understand.”
Although he’d been picking berries throughout, Diccon turned and looked Phillipe in the eye. “I won’t tell. And neither will the others. Not even the youngest ones. We all know the guards at the camp are bad—rotten to the core, more like. We don’t tell them nuthin’.” He paused, then added, “Truth be told, they always assume we know nuthin’, so they never do ask, anyways.”
“Actually,” Phillipe said, “I’m revising my position.” He looked at Caleb. “We need to let everyone, including all the children, know that we’re out here—and they need to be told where our camp is.”
Caleb mentally shifted his perspective, saw, and grimaced. “You mean in case something happens, because we can’t say who will be able to get free and summon us.”
“Or run to us for protection,” Phillipe said.
“Exactly.” Katherine nodded. “If something happens, and some get free and flee into the jungle, there’s no reason they’ll run your way, not unless they know you’re here.”
Caleb heaved a sigh. “All right. I’m convinced.” He met Katherine’s gaze. “Tell everyone—all the captives.”
She smiled. “You won’t regret that. Every one of us knows that, as matters stand, our lives are limited by how long the mine stays in operation. You and your men being here holds out the hope that, if something goes wrong and the worst befalls us, some of us might yet make it out alive, and not one of us will do anything—anything at all—to jeopardize that chance.”
He had to accept that.
He helped her fill her basket with the large hairy nuts Dubois had sent her to collect. Phillipe chatted with Diccon and picked the ripe fruit the boy couldn’t reach.
Then Caleb and Phillipe walked with the pair back toward the compound. At Katherine and Diccon’s insistence, Caleb and Phillipe halted on the disused path well out of sight of the gates, but they watched the pair walk on hand in hand until they passed out of sight.
* * *
Katherine carried the full basket of nuts into Dubois’s office. Her mind was full of Caleb Frobisher, Lascelle, and their men, and their decision to remain in the jungle, under conditions that were far from salubrious, to act as hidden protectors for a group of captives none of whom they personally knew.
Some men had honor. Some men had courage.
Some men stepped up and instinctively defended women, children, and those weaker than themselves—those under threat.
Dubois was standing beyond the end of his desk, deep in discussion with his second lieutenant, Cripps. She managed not to sniff disparagingly. She had no wish to stop and converse so took advantage of Dubois’s distraction to set the basket on his desk, direct a vague nod his way, and leave.
As she quit the room, she felt Dubois’s gaze on her back. And as always, her skin crawled.
Dubois continued to lend his ears to Cripps’s comments while his curiosity, piqued by something in Katherine Fortescue’s demeanor, tried to identify just what he had seen—and what it might mean.
“I’ve been having the men in the mine watched, like you asked, and there really seems no way for them to increase production without having more hands on the job.” Cripps snorted. “Adult hands, too—those older boys Kale sent us, while better than nothing, can’t wield a pick like a man.”
Dubois grunted noncommittally. He was well aware that one of his greatest strengths lay in his observational skills—his ability to pick up tiny signs that revealed a person’s true concerns and deepest fears. Concerns and fears he could then exploit. Yet he couldn’t imagine what might have occurred to cause Miss Fortescue to feel anything new. Perhaps he was overextrapolating and it was just that time of the month for her.
He refocused on Cripps.
Just as the large, heavyset Englishman concluded, “So as we need to increase production, what are we going to do for more men?”
Dubois arched his brows. “I take it you have a suggestion?”
“It’s been a week since Kale’s last delivery. Let me go and visit him and find out why he hasn’t come up with more men for us.” Cripps cracked the knuckles of his left hand. “And put a little pressure on him to get off his lazy arse and get us the men we need.”
Dubois considered, then mused, “Lazy is not a term I would have applied to Kale. However, it appears that something has disrupted his supply to us, so...yes.”
He circled his desk and dropped into his chair, then looked up at Cripps as he came to stand, ruddy faced and eager to be doing, before the desk. “You can’t leave until Arsene gets back.” Dubois wasn’t about to run a compound of this size without at least one of his lieutenants by his side, and Arsene had taken the last shipment of diamonds to the coast and was to have gone on into Freetown for various mundane supplies after that.
“But he should be back any time now,” Cripps said.
Dubois nodded. Resting his forearms on the desk, he clasped his hands and turned his mind to Kale. What might be in the devious bastard’s mind—whether Kale was playing some deep game or if the lack of supply was due to some factor beyond the master slaver’s control. Dubois stated, “As soon as Arsene returns, take three men and pay Kale a visit.” Dubois sat back in his chair and looked at Cripps. “I want you to ask politely what his problem is.”
Cripps frowned. “Politely?”
Dubois smiled thinly. “Indeed. At least initially. It’s entirely possible that it’s not Kale who’s dragging his heels in this. He has his own crew to keep busy—I doubt it would be his choice to sit in the jungle twiddling his thumbs.” Dubois paused. When he continued, his tone had turned steely. “It’s possible that the lack of supply of useful workers stems from some difficulty caused by those in the settlement. If so, I want to know.”
Cripps studied his face. “And if that’s the case?”
“Then,” Dubois said, “it might be necessary for us to exert pressure on different people entirely.”
CHAPTER 6
Early that afternoon...
“Take care, you old cod
ger.” Caleb clapped his steward, Hornby, on his hefty shoulder. “And tell Fitz I’m counting on him to get you and that information to England as fast as the winds allow.”
Frederick Fitzpatrick was Caleb’s lieutenant and would captain The Prince on the run to Southampton.
“Aye, Capt’n.” Hornby stepped back and snapped off a salute. “I’ll tell him, and you may be sure I’ll see these papers into your brothers’ hands in London, like you ordered. But as for takin’ care, I’m thinking it’s you and this lot that’ll need to exercise all due caution.” With a dip of his gray head, Hornby indicated the men gathered behind Caleb and Phillipe—those who had volunteered to remain with them and keep watch over the captives in the compound.
Caleb had delegated Hornby, who had sailed with him for nearly a decade, to carry the vital documents along with Caleb’s orders back to The Prince and thence to London. Caleb’s bosun, Carter, and one of his midshipmen, Johnson, were also returning—under orders, for they would be needed aboard for The Prince to sail at maximum speed.
Also returning along the path leading northward, the one they hoped would eventually lead to the southern shore of the estuary near the spot where The Prince and The Raven waited, were Reynaud, Phillipe’s bosun, along with four of his midshipmen. Phillipe sailed with a smaller crew than Caleb, and they’d agreed that, as The Raven would remain in the estuary as their ultimate means of escape, the ship needed to be well manned and thus well defended should any unexpected attack eventuate.
The entire company had walked a mile along the northbound track to see the group returning to the ships on their way. They’d halted at a point where the track descended sharply through a series of switchbacks to say their farewells.
“We’ll be careful.” Grinning, Phillipe clapped Reynaud on the back, then caught Caleb’s eye. “Well, as careful as we ever are.”
Hornby snorted as he turned and stepped down along the path. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Farewell!”
“Adieu!”
“God-speed!”
The goodbyes came from multiple throats in a blend of accents.
His hands on his hips, Caleb stood and watched the small procession wend its way down the track. Phillipe waited by his shoulder, similarly watching their men depart.
The group who remained at their backs—Caleb’s quartermaster, Quilley, and nine seamen, and Phillipe’s quartermaster, Ducasse, and four others—turned and, in twos and threes, ambled back to the camp.
When they were alone, Caleb murmured, “Seeing those papers off to London is essentially mission complete—and we achieved that far more easily and straightforwardly than I’d imagined. Yet this situation is so much more complex.”
“And very far from over.” Phillipe turned back up the track.
Caleb joined him. As they strode toward their camp, Caleb’s mind, rarely still, wandered—assessing, considering. They’d instituted a roster of men, two at all times through the daylight hours, to keep watch on the compound from the rock shelf above. Caleb jogged Phillipe’s arm. “Let’s go to the lookout and see what we can see.”
They did. After settling beside the two men who had resumed their duties after the short excursion to see the others on their way, together with Phillipe, Caleb studied the activity in the compound, occasionally exchanging some comment or pointing out something of note.
After nearly an hour of observation, Caleb, sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms looped around them, said, “Now that I’ve read Dixon’s and Hillsythe’s reports, I can see what they’re doing.”
His gaze fixed on the compound, Phillipe nodded. “Keeping the pace of the work very steady and just fast enough to placate Dubois.”
“Or to be explainable in terms of not having more workers.” Caleb paused, then went on, “There’s a lot of different, intersecting pressures and balances operating down there.”
“Meaning?” Phillipe prompted.
Caleb sorted through the thoughts gradually clarifying in his mind. “For instance, that Dubois takes such good care of the captives. The medical hut, the fact he does not apply any physical coercion, any beatings or physical incentives to work harder.”
“That’s because they’ve gulled him into believing they’re already working as hard as they can.”
“No—not as hard but as efficiently as they can. That’s Dubois’s goal—the tack he insists on adhering to. He needs people to work day after day. He can’t afford to push them harder and have them collapse, because he doesn’t have a ready supply of replacements.” Caleb paused, then went on, “And that testifies to how clever Dubois really is—that he’s seen that, appreciated the necessity, and despite the fact that going easy on his captives would almost certainly not be his preference, he’s rigidly adhered to what is necessary to achieve his aims. To deliver on the contract he presumably has with his masters.”
“And,” Phillipe added, “he’s strong enough to enforce his direction on his men. From what we heard yesterday, treating the captives well is certainly not what they would prefer, either.”
They continued to watch for another hour; all they saw only confirmed their earlier conclusion. The captives were walking a tightrope, but thus far they’d succeeded. As long as balance was maintained—as long as the captives kept diamond production at a level sufficient to appease Dubois’s masters—there was no reason the present situation couldn’t continue until rescue arrived.
The only fly in that ointment was the backers’ insistence on increasing production.
Eventually convinced they understood the situation to that point, Caleb and Phillipe rose and scrambled back down the animal track to the lake. They bathed in the cool water, then, refreshed, ambled back through the jungle toward their camp, giving the compound a wide berth.
Caleb glanced toward the mine. “I’ve been thinking—just in case any of us stumble and get caught by the guards, we should have an agreed story, one that will account for any or all of us being here.” He met Phillipe’s eyes. “That’s the one true danger I can see in us remaining here—if any of us get caught and Dubois realizes why we’re really here.”
Ducking under a hanging vine, Phillipe nodded. “That we were sent and haven’t just chanced on the mine.”
“We can’t risk alerting the bastard that London knows anything about him or the mine.”
“Agreed.”
They walked into their camp and made for the logs about the central pit. Caleb glanced around, noting that several men were absent. He looked at Quilley. “Where are the others?”
Quilley grinned. “Martin brought his crossbow. He brought down a goat. He, Ducasse, and three of the others have hauled it all the way back to where we said goodbye to the others. We figured that far out, a fire wouldn’t be a problem. They’re going to butcher the animal and cook the meat, then bring it back here.” Anticipation lit Quilley’s face. “They should be back by suppertime.”
“Excellent!” Phillipe rubbed his hands together. “We could do with some fresh meat.”
Caleb sat and stretched out his legs. “With that to look forward to, let’s put our minds to inventing our tale.”
Phillipe sat on the next log. “Indeed. You’re right. This is not the sort of situation in which a wise commander should leave anything to chance.”
* * *
Late in the afternoon in a tavern in Freetown, three men gathered about the table in the rear corner of the taproom. They’d met there so often in recent months that the other denizens now viewed them as regulars; the barman pulled the pints they favored as soon as he saw each of them coming through the door.
As usual, Muldoon was the last to sit down at the table. He set his foaming tankard on the scarred surface and looked across the table at the man who always arrived first. “Have you heard anything from Kale?”
&nbs
p; The first man frowned. “No. Why?”
Muldoon shot an inquiring look at the third of their group, but Winton shook his head. “Because”—Muldoon looked back at the first man—“I’ve been trying to get hold of him. Or, at least, his man here.”
“Rogers?” When Muldoon nodded, the first man’s frown deepened. “He’s almost always in the settlement, except when he’s delivering men to Kale.”
“Which he shouldn’t be doing as we haven’t set him onto any new victims.” Muldoon expelled a tense breath. “And now that we have some, I can’t raise him. A merchantman came in yesterday with an excess of hands. The captain’s putting off at least four—all young and strong, perfect for Dubois’s needs.”
“Can’t you send Kale a message?” Winton asked.
“I tried, but there’s no one at the house in the slums. The boy I sent said it was empty, as near as he could tell.”
“That’s odd.” The first man raised his pint and took a long sip.
“Very odd,” Muldoon agreed. “And dashed inconvenient. Dubois wants more men, and we have more men, but Kale’s not here to nab them.”
A long silence followed as all three men considered the situation. Finally, the first man stated, “We can’t do without Kale. At least, not easily.”
“I know.” Muldoon stared into his tankard. After several more seconds, he said, “One of us will have to go to his camp and find out what’s going on.”
The first man set down his mug. “I can’t go. Holbrook would have a fit.”
“Well, I certainly can’t,” Muldoon replied. “Not with Decker back in port.”
He and the first man turned their gazes on Winton, sitting at the small table’s end and staring into his beer.
Winton felt the weight of their regard and looked up. Then he looked appalled. He waved his hands. “Don’t look at me. My uncle would read me the riot act—which, I remind you, is another thing we don’t need. Not if we want to keep Dubois supplied with the necessary equipment.”
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