The Blackbirder

by James Nelson

  And he had problems bigger even than Marlowe.

  Food: there was little of it. He and Madshaka and Cato had searched the ship, from great cabin down to the keelson, had taken note of everything that was aboard. Madshaka told them the people had been half starved, and now James saw that it was not merely capricious cruelty. There simply was not much food aboard.

  On the deck was a portable stove; a fire sparked up with firewood from the galley and the doors of the binnacle box. Around it the women gathered, cooking the meager rations for their families, just as they had done thousands of times in their far-flung villages. The men sat on the deck, leaned on the rails, rested from the day’s exertions, talked about what they would do next.

  Madshaka came ambling down the deck. There was the suggestion of power in his loose-limbed stride, the potential of power, like a man holding the bulk of his strength in reserve. He held two of the wooden plates they had found in the galley, carried them easily in his big hands.

  ‘Captain, I bring you some food.’ He held out the plate and James took it with a grateful nod. He was terribly hungry. A small piece of salt pork and a little clump of dried peas from the sailors’ stores, some of the thin porridge for the slaves. James ate it all greedily.

  ‘Thank you, Madshaka.’

  Madshaka nodded and was silent while he ate and James ate. Then he said, ‘We got food for two, three more days. We need more.’

  James nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. But where to get it from?

  There was only one reasonable answer, but James did not care to think of it.

  ‘We got to take it.’ Madshaka said it for him. ‘We got to stop another ship and take it. I know you don’t want to do it, I don’t neither, but these people will starve if we don’t.’

  James was silent for a long moment. Madshaka always addressed him in English, never Malinke. Somehow it seemed the African tongue would have been more appropriate. Madshaka no doubt thought him more comfortable with English. ‘You’re right. You’re right. We got no choice.’

  Pirates. They were running the ship with that rough pirate democracy. Now, raiding on the high seas. But there was no choice, the thing had to be done. ‘We’ll take food, just food. And not all that’s aboard.’

  ‘Just food,’ Madshaka agreed.

  ‘There’s shipping here,’ James explained, ‘this way, between the Caribbean and the American colonies. Good chance we see something tomorrow, the next day.’

  ‘All these men we got, good, brave, strong men,’ Madshaka added. ‘No problem. We go alongside, jump on other ship, take her, no problem.’

  ‘No problem,’ James agreed. No problem in terms of the tactical situation. The morality of the thing was another question.

  But it was just food. His people had to eat. James was suddenly very tired.

  ‘Madshaka, I must rest. I think the wind is steady, should stay like this through the night, I reckon. No need to trim the sails or change course. Things should be—’

  ‘Captain, Captain,’ Madshaka interrupted. ‘You go sleep. I look after things here. The people need you, you no good to them if you too tired to think. You go down to the great cabin, you sleep.’

  James nodded, gratefully. Sleep. Nothing had ever sounded so good to him as sleep did at that moment. The physical activity alone would have been enough to exhaust him. The concerns over preserving the lives of the people aboard had pushed him well beyond his limit.

  ‘I thank you, Madshaka. If anything happens, change in wind or weather, a light is seen, you get me.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Never to worry.’

  James made his way below and aft. The great cabin looked as if it had once been a fine affair. The smashed furniture was polished walnut, the cushions, now shredded and pulled apart, were a rich red damask. Among the many empty bottles scattered about and rattling across the deck with each roll of the ship James recognized labels he had seen in Marlowe’s well-stocked cellar.

  The condition of the great cabin did not matter. The torn settee cushions looked as inviting as any feather bed. He sat heavily, felt the motion of the ship under him, the hypnotic rhythm of the vessel’s rise and fall, the gentle side-to-side motion that set everything swinging in little arcs.

  He swung his legs up on the settee, letting the sleep come over him, warm and seductive. He felt his whole body pulled down into the torn cushion like it was wrapped around him and then he was asleep.

  In his dreams James was floating above the ship, looking down on it, on the people on the deck, swooping ahead to make certain the way was clear, flying over the jungles that ran down to the pounding surf of the African coast, then back to the ship.

  And then someone on the deck saw him and screamed, ran in panic, and then another and another and all of the people were terrified to see him flying over them.

  His eyes fluttered and opened. The screaming was still there, the rushing of feet, but overhead now.

  The screaming was real, not a dream. Something was happening on deck. James’s head felt thick, he had no notion of how long he had slept.

  He launched off the settee, tripped on the broken carcass of a chair on the deck, kicked it aside and raced out the door, bouncing off the cabin doors along the alleyway as the roll of the ship tossed him side to side in his race for the quarterdeck.

  Up and out the scuttle, the sliver of moon and the stars giving his eyes all the light they needed to see the chaos on deck, men running here and there, lines cast off, people tripping in their rush. His eyes moved automatically aloft but the sails were still set, still drawing perfectly, the wind still on the same quarter.

  ‘Madshaka! Madshaka!’ He grabbed the big man’s arm as he rushed past, turned him around. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Man go overboard!’ Madshaka shouted.

  ‘Heave to!’ James shouted. ‘We must heave to! Get the men to the foremast braces!’ Shouts flying around the deck, orders in half a dozen languages. ‘Go! Get them ready on the foremast! Where the hell is Kusi?’ They needed order. They needed to talk to one another, to all hear the same commands.

  Madshaka ran forward, James aft. The helmsman, confused and terrified, was staring at the compass, keeping the ship exactly on its prescribed course, not knowing what else he might do. James wanted to tell him to round up when the fore braces were cast off, but he had no way of telling him that, so instead he took the tiller in his own hand and pushed the helmsman aside.

  He eased the helm to weather, looked down the deck, waiting for the foreyards to brace around. He had no idea how long the poor bastard had been in the water, how much distance they had put between themselves and him. With the steady wind, they had to have traveled a good cable or two just since he had come on deck.

  ‘Brace the foreyards! Come on, man!’ James shouted down the deck. It was total confusion. All of their carefully practiced drills seemed to be coming apart. Madshaka, for all his calm efficiency during their earlier maneuvers, seemed to be in a frenzy, shouting this and that, waving his arms. Men ran in all directions, responding to his orders. Where in damnation was Kusi? He was half of the team, it was all going to hell without him.

  ‘Brace the—’ James yelled again. It was pointless. Madshaka was the only one who could understand him and he was too busy bellowing orders to even hear.

  He put the helm down, began to swing the ship up into the wind.

  The weather leeches on the square sails curled and then collapsed and the sails began to flog as they turned edge to weather. The ship continued to turn, carried by her momentum, up, up into the wind. The sails came aback, fell silent, and then the ship stopped.

  She was not hove to. Her sails were in disarray, her rig threatening to come down around their ears, but at least the ship was stopped. She was no longer moving away from the man in the water.

  ‘Madshaka!’ James shouted with all his considerable voice, and finally Madshaka looked aft. ‘Get the boat over! The boat!’ He pointed to the jolly boat pe
rched on the booms amidships. Madshaka followed his finger, nodded, and began to yell orders in one language, then another and another. Men left off what they were doing, cast off stay tackles and boat falls, hooked them to the jolly boat.

  James handed the tiller back to the helmsman and raced forward. Madshaka was a grumete, a boat handler. He should go with the jolly boat.

  James arrived in the waist just as the boat was lifting off under Madshaka’s directions. Up and over the side it sailed, and then down into the water and the boat crew scrambled down after it.

  ‘Madshaka, you go!’ James said.

  ‘Yes, you stay with ship!’

  ‘Where the hell is Kusi?’

  ‘We find him, you don’t worry. He grumete, good swimmer.’

  James felt his eyes go wide, his stomach convulse. He spun around, looked aft, realized how ridiculous that was.

  ‘Kusi! It is Kusi gone over?’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Madshaka said, and there was genuine reassurance in his voice. He trotted to the rail, swung down onto the ladder. ‘I get Kusi, don’t worry.’

  CHAPTER 9

  King James stood at the rail, watched Madshaka drop easily into the jolly boat’s stern sheets, watched the bowman push off. With a word from the grumete the oars came down, pulled together, up again, pulled again. The men of the boat crew were from those coastal tribes that bred boat handlers, and they worked as a unit as well as any unpracticed crew could.

  James watched the boat claw swiftly past the ship. It was just disappearing from his sight under the counter when Madshaka opened the shutter of the lantern he had brought, held it low over the water. James heard his big voice ring out, ‘Kusi! Kusi!’ and then he called something in Kusi’s native tongue. James cocked his head aft, listened, strained to hear some reply from beyond the taffrail, but there was only the slap of water, the bang of gear aloft, and then Madshaka’s loud voice again.

  Cato and Joshua, Good Boy and Quash were hovering around, as they did when James was not too distant to approach. He turned to them. ‘How did Kusi fall overboard?’ he demanded.

  The four young men exchanged glances, shrugs. ‘I didn’t see it,’ said Good Boy, and that was followed by murmured concurrence from the others.

  ‘We was up for’rd,’ offered Cato. ‘Kusi was all the way aft, I reckon. I didn’t see him. Didn’t even hear nothing. We was just talking and then that Madshaka started in yelling something to them others. We couldn’t understand none of it. Didn’t even know what was acting, at first.’

  More nods from the others. ‘Right,’ said James. From overhead came a whap whap whap as a fluke of the breeze caught an edge of sail and flogged it against the mast. He leaned over the rail. From out over the dark water he could see the bobbing light, could hear Madshaka’s voice, distant now, still calling out Kusi’s name.

  ‘We best get this rig sorted out,’ James said at last. ‘You men, get with your watches and we’ll see what we can do.’

  They moved forward, the five of them, calling out in English and waving and gesturing, and by that means got the sail trimmers to their stations. James stood on the main hatch, looked aloft, looked at the men lining the pinrails, the women keeping out of the way and holding their children back from being trampled in the mysterious goings-on of the men’s work.

  With pointing and pantomime James managed to communicate what it was he wanted, and the foresails were hauled around until they came aback and the helm put over and at last the ship was hove to properly, balanced there on the surface of the water. Lines were belayed, coiled down, and then there was nothing left but the waiting.

  James walked aft, past the motionless helm. He leaned on the taffrail. The jolly boat was no more than a prick of light out in the blackness, dimmer even than most of the stars overhead and going up and down with the swells. He could not hear Madshaka’s voice but imagined he was still yelling. He shook his head. It was not good. If they had not found Kusi yet, James did not think they would.

  Men began to sit at their stations, to talk quietly, but only a few. James could feel the ship’s company overcome with that somber mood that follows a burst of excitement, the rush of an emergency. When people can do nothing in a crisis but wait, their spirits are dragged down to some low place, and only slowly do they climb up and out.

  He had no notion of how long the jolly boat had been gone. They had never bothered with bells and half-hour glasses. Little grains of sand creeping through glass tubes were meaningless to Africans who ran their lives by the natural progression of dawn and noon and sunset. There was no mark of passing time, but still it seemed it had been quite a while before they finally heard the creak of the oars, the quiet drip of water from the blades.

  James watched over the taffrail as the light from Madshaka’s lantern grew brighter. Cato and the others crowded around, watching as well, and behind them word spread among the Africans and they too ran to the rail, looked into the night.

  At last the boat was close enough to see the men at the oars, Madshaka aft, his big hand on the tiller.

  ‘Kusi ain’t there,’ Quash said.

  ‘Oh, damn, damn,’ said Good Boy. A buzz ran through the others, and James imagined they were saying in their own way the same thing that the young Virginians had said. He remained silent. There was nothing to say. And he was not in the least surprised.

  All that way across the Atlantic, and partway back, and the sea had finally swallowed poor Kusi up.

  From behind, a wail, a shriek of anguish. James turned, saw the woman dressed in the curtain fall to her knees, tears streaming down her face. She fell forward, as if in supplication, and her back heaved with her sobbing.

  Kusi’s wife? His sister? James did not realize that the woman had had some special connection to the grumete. Why hadn’t he known that? What other relationships were at play here, about which he was unaware?

  The jolly boat passed below then; Madshaka’s eyes stared ahead, never looking up at the many faces looking down at him. James turned and walked slowly to the gangway, reached that place just as the boat was pulling up below. Madshaka stood and stepped forward and scrambled up the boarding steps as if he had been shot upward from the boat. Stepped through the gangway, somber, frowning. He met James’s eye, shook his head.

  ‘We couldn’t find him.’ His voice was subdued, hoarse from the shouting. ‘We searched, back and forth, a mile back …’ A catch in his throat and then from his big, dark eyes, tears, and he said, ‘We looked, Captain, God bless us, we looked as much as we could.’

  ‘I know you did,’ James said softly. Silence on the deck as the boat crew climbed up and through the gangway. There was nothing more to say. On the quarterdeck the woman still sobbed with abandon.

  ‘Let us get this boat back aboard and get under way,’ James said. Madshaka nodded, turned to the others, gave orders in a quiet tone, and the men shuffled off to their several tasks.

  James stepped aft, watched Madshaka handle the swaying in of the boat. Kusi. He had hardly known him, of course, had known him just long enough to like him. James pictured his strong, dark body floating down, down, farther than he could imagine.

  The boat came in over the rail and settled down on the booms, and with a few quick words from Madshaka men scrambled in and unhooked the boat falls and the stay tackle.

  Kusi had been half of King James’s link to the others, but now he was gone. It occurred to James that he could never again know what anyone aboard the ship was saying, only what Madshaka told him they were saying.

  There was no reason that that should make him uncomfortable, but in a vague and undefinable way it did.

  The men of the Elizabeth Galley were sweating, streaked with grime, their eyes white holes in smoke-blackened faces. Most were stripped to the waist, neck cloths tied around ears. But they were smiling, genuinely happy.

  For the two hours since dawn, as they sailed before a steady quartering wind under topsails and topgallants, with courses hanging in their bu
nts, the men had drilled at the guns, the former Plymouth Prize’s guns. For an hour they had run in and out in dumb show, pretending to handle cartridges, pretending to ram home, pretending to load with round shot, pretending to stand clear of the recoil.

  They had been fast to begin with: the men were all seamen and all seamen had some experience with great guns, and they had grown faster still in an hour’s work. So after that first hour Marlowe had ordered the powder up for some drilling in earnest, live firing by broadside and gun by gun. There was nothing that inspired the men to a fine, fighting mettle quite as much as the concussion of the muzzle blast, the gun flinging itself back against the breeching.

  The men were ready for blood and riches, and they were in good form to garner both.

  An hour of blasting away, expending precious powder and round shot, military stores that Marlowe had purchased with his own coin, and he figured that was enough. ‘Well done, men, well done,’ he called down to the grinning, eager crew. ‘House your guns and I will turn you over to Mr Bickerstaff’s good offices.’

  The men swabbed out and leaned into train tackles and hauled the guns up to the gunports and lashed them in place. Then Bickerstaff, well versed in training gentlemen in swordplay, stepped down into the waist, drew a cutlass from the barrel, and told the others, those designated to boarding parties, to do the same.

  He arranged them in long lines, ignored their silly grins, their snide muttering, and began to instruct them in sword work. First position, second position, third position, the men moved awkwardly through the drill. It seemed pointless to them, but they followed directions.

  It had once seemed pointless to Marlowe as well, who knew the unsubtle slash and hack of hand-to-hand combat along a ship’s deck. But Bickerstaff had almost bested him once with a sword, the only man to come that close since Marlowe had mastered the blade, somewhere around his twenty-first year.

  Since then Bickerstaff had taught him the subtleties of swordplay, had made him an even better swordsman, along with teaching him to read and write, to move in proper social circles.