By the time he emerged on deck once more the others were ready. He opened the prayer book at the contents page and was relieved to discover there was a section ‘For the Burial of the Dead at Sea.’ Killigrew had seen plenty of burials at sea, but this was the first time he had ever been called upon to conduct one himself.
He riffled through the pages until he found the right one. ‘Shall we begin?’
The seamen doffed their hats.
Killigrew cleared his throat. ‘“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brothers here departed, we therefore commit their bodies to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, (when the Sea shall give up her dead), and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”’
He nodded to Ågård, and one by one the bodies were tipped overboard. They hit the water with a splash and went straight under, pulled to the bottom by the iron shot Sails had sewn inside the sacks.
Killigrew passed the prayer book to Strachan and pointed to the next line. ‘Perhaps you’d care to read this part?’
Strachan looked a little shocked at being called on to help, but he took the book from Killigrew. ‘“I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessèd are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the spirit; for they rest from their labours.”’
He passed the book back to Killigrew. ‘Our Father, which art in heaven…’
They all joined him in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and when they had finished he read the collect. Then he concluded: ‘“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore.”’
He closed the prayer book and stood with his hands clasped before him as they stood in respectful silence for a moment with their heads bowed. Then Dando raised a hand to his breast and sang ‘How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds’ in a surprisingly competent tenor.
Afterwards Killigrew sent O’Connor to fetch him breakfast before retiring to the master’s day room, checking the log-board on the way so he could update the log. Then, while he was waiting, he took out the chart and calculated their progress so far. It was slow; damned slow.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in, O’Connor.’
‘Not O’Connor,’ said Strachan. ‘Me.’
‘Well, come in anyway. I owe you an apology, Mr Strachan.’
‘You mean about the black woman?’ Strachan gestured dismissively. ‘You apologised last night.’
‘All the same…’
‘I can’t blame you for thinking what you did,’ said Strachan, and grinned sheepishly. ‘After all, coming in and seeing what you saw… What must I have looked like?’
Killigrew was grateful for Strachan’s magnanimity, but he could not bring himself to smile. ‘If I’d listened to you last night, perhaps none of those people need have died.’
‘And what would you have done, if you’d believed me last night? Put her in irons, just for being over-sensitive? It’s always easy to be wiser after the event. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. It wasn’t your fault Parsons and the rest of our men died, and as for the slavers you and Dando killed… well, I don’t imagine anyone will mourn their passing.’
‘Even blackbirders have mothers, wives…’
‘Mothers and wives who’ll have given up their sons and husbands as worse than dead the moment they learned what line of shipping they were in, if they had any milk of human kindness in their breasts. Look at it this way: how many would have died if those men had shipped with a legitimate merchant ship, instead of taking to blackbirding? They knew the risks they were taking. You know, I’m starting to think that for some of those swines cocking a snook at the Royal Navy is part of the thrill of it. Well, they’ve cocked their last snook at us now, and the world’s a better place for their passing. So instead of worrying about their eternal souls, why not give a thought to the three hundred and sixty odd slaves up on deck whom you’ve saved from a lifetime of servitude and misery?’
O’Connor arrived with breakfast, two bowls of lobscouse: a seaman’s stew of bouilli beef, ship’s biscuits, potatoes, onions and spices. Most landsmen would have turned their noses up at it, but to a mariner it was considered a delicacy. Thinking of the slaves on deck subsisting on a diet of rice and yams, in all conscience Killigrew could not bring himself to eat it. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Connor, but I’ll just have whatever the slaves are having.’
‘That is what the slaves are having, sir.’
‘You made enough lobscouse for three hundred and sixty-six slaves?’
O’Connor shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Well now, sir, I had to take some liberties with the traditional recipe…’
Killigrew picked up a spoon and tasted it tentatively while O’Connor eagerly awaited his approval. He smacked his lips. ‘Very good, O’Connor,’ he said dubiously. ‘It is a little different, I’ll admit. Rice?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And something else I can’t quite put my finger on…’ Strachan tasted a mouthful. ‘Yams.’
O’Connor beamed.
‘Very good, O’Connor.’
The sailor went out and Strachan spat his mouthful of lobscouse back into the bowl. ‘My God, it’s disgusting. Even by navy standards.’
‘I should eat up, if I were you. It’s the only kind of food we’re likely to get from here to Freetown.’
‘And how long will that be?’
‘I’ve just finished charting our progress. If my calculations are right we’re still ninety-two miles from the African coast.’
‘Nautical miles, I take it?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve never understood: what’s the difference between a nautical mile and a normal one?’
‘About eight hundred feet.’
‘More or less?’
‘More.’
‘Capital,’ Strachan said wryly. ‘How long’s that going to take us?’
‘Well, taking into account the fact that we’re low in the water and short of a fore t’gallant, and having to tack because the wind’s against us, and what wind we can take advantage of is no more than a force two…’
‘Don’t beat about the bush, Mr Killigrew. Give it to me straight.’
‘About five days.’
‘Five days! How long do you think we can keep this floating coffin afloat?’
‘Oh, about five days, I should say. Of course, we may get there sooner if the wind picks up between now and then.’
‘How likely is that, in these latitudes at this time of year?’
‘Are you a gaming man, Mr Strachan?’
‘Sometimes. Why? What kind of odds would you give us?’
‘Very good ones. If you’re the kind of man who likes to wager on a long shot.’
* * *
‘Fire! Fire!’
Killigrew was woken by the sound of shouting and the clump of feet on the deck above his head. He rolled off the bunk, his hand snaking under the pillow to draw out the pepperbox he had concealed there, and took in his surroundings. He was in the master’s cabin on board the Maria Magdalena. Little light came through the tiny porthole, which suggested it was still night.
He had fallen asleep fully clothed but for his waistcoat and tail-coat, so he went straight out on deck. In the early morning light he could see recaptives streaming out of the forward hatch while the seamen on board charged through the recaptives on deck and fought to descend through the crowded hatch, cursing and swearing at those that got in their way.
Smoke billowed out of the hatch.
Panic stirred in the pit of Killigrew’s stomach. Of all the dangers a man faced at sea, fire was one of the most terrible.
He descended below decks via the empty main hatch and made his w
ay forward. The smoke became thicker the closer he got to the bows, until it was acrid and choking. The stench was horrible. It smelled like charred pork.
A few recaptives blundered into him in the dark as they fled from the fire. The companion ladder leading up to the forward hatch was still crowded. A few crushed bodies lay at the foot of the ladder, trampled in the rush to get out. Some recaptives were still crawling out through the door of the sick bay, from where the smoke seemed to issue.
Ågård was trying to descend against the tide, a bucket of water held high. He reached the sick bay only a moment ahead of Killigrew, who followed him inside. The smoke stung his eyes and clawed at his throat. Through the thick black cloud he could just make out the fire: one of the cots was ablaze, the flames tinged with blue. There was another odour in the smoke, something Killigrew could not place at first until the smell of burning flesh and those blue-tinged flames reminded him of how he had cauterised his wounds just before going to bed the previous night: aguardiente.
He saw with horror that there was a body on the cot being consumed by the flames.
Ågård hesitated only for a moment, and then stepped forward and tipped the contents of the bucket on the cot. The flames were extinguished at once with a hiss, and steam filled the room.
Killigrew stumbled to the ports and opened them to let in some fresh air. Then he and Ågård started to pick up the bodies of the fever victims who had passed out in the smoke. Strachan himself was there, unconscious, slumped in a chair. Killigrew lifted him over his shoulder and carried him up on deck while other seamen descended to carry out the other victims of the fire.
Two of the recaptives still worked at the bilge pump and Killigrew filled a bucket from the pump before tossing it over the assistant surgeon. Strachan spluttered into life, choking and retching. Killigrew took a ladleful of water from the scuttled butt and poured some of it between Strachan’s lips. Strachan coughed and spewed up. He writhed on the deck for a moment and then rose on his hands and knees. ‘Wha… what happened?’
‘There was a fire in the sick berth. Don’t you remember anything?’
‘Fire? No. I was sitting in the chair reading a book… that’s all I remember. I must’ve dozed off.’ He broke off, coughing again, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘A fire? How could there have been a fire? Did one of the lamps fall?’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think so.’ Killigrew turned to where Ågård was trying to give a small child the kiss of life. But the child was dead. Ågård rose with tears in his eyes, which might have been caused by the smoke, but somehow Killigrew did not think it was just that. For all his rough manners and boisterous behaviour, Jack Tar was a sentimentalist at heart.
‘There’s three others suffocated from the smoke and two more trampled to death at the foot of the companion ladder,’ said Dando, as more bodies were brought out through the hatch. ‘There’s some more that’s badly injured or sickly from the smoke. I think this one’s got a broken leg,’ he added, indicating a young boy.
Strachan pushed himself to his feet. Killigrew put a hand on his arm. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’ Strachan shrugged his arm off and went to tend the injured.
‘What happened?’ Killigrew asked Dando.
The seaman shook his head. ‘I don’t suppose I know much more’n you, sir. I were on the poop with Mr Ågård there when we hears screaming from the fo’c’sle. We looks up and sees smoke a-coming from the hatch. Mr Ågård tells Boulton to take the helm and rushes for’ard with me. By the time we gets here the darkies are running out of the hatch. You was already there by the time I got down the hatch after Mr Ågård. Do you think the fire was started deliberate, like?’
‘I don’t know. Better go and check on the prisoners, Dando.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Dando descended the main hatch and returned a couple of minutes later to report that Barroso and the other slavers were still securely in their irons and thoroughly frightened by all the clamour.
‘Did you put their minds at rest?’ asked Killigrew.
‘No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the temptation to tell ’em the ship was afire and we was abandoning ’em to their fate.’
Killigrew listened for a moment. He could just hear Barroso and the others screaming in terror for someone to come and let them out. ‘Good work, Dando.’
‘Why, thank’ee, sir.’
Killigrew descended to the sick bay once more. Some residual smoke still lingered in the air and the stench was appalling, but the air blowing through the open ports made it possible to breathe in there. The only sign of fire apart from the smoke-blackening on the bulkheads and deck head was the charred corpse on the burned cot, completely unrecognisable except that it might have been a woman.
Killigrew heard a sound behind him and whirled, but it was only Strachan. ‘I’ve tended the wounded as best I can,’ he reported. ‘We’ll need a new sick berth. We can’t leave the poor devils out on deck.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Use the master’s day room.’
Strachan took in the scene. ‘This fire was started deliberately, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. My guess is someone poured aguardiente all over this poor devil and set her alight. I don’t suppose you can recall who—’
‘Onyema. But it wasn’t the fire that killed her.’ Pinching his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, Strachan indicated the crushed head of the charred corpse. ‘Her skull was smashed first.’
Chapter 3
Reeled In
‘You mean someone stove her head in and then set fire to her to make sure?’ said Killigrew.
‘I’m saying that’s what it looks like,’ replied Strachan. ‘Poor bitch. She probably wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway with that shoulder wound.’
‘But why?’
‘How should I know? Damned savages.’ Strachan started to pack his small supply of medicines, surgical instruments and dressings into his bag.
‘Even savages don’t do something without a good reason. At least, a reason that seems good to them.’ Killigrew frowned. ‘They used to burn witches, didn’t they?’
‘Who did?’
‘In the Middle Ages, I mean.’
‘Oh. Yes. So?’
‘Just thinking out loud. I don’t suppose you saw anyone nosing around the sick berth earlier, did you?’
‘No one who shouldn’t have been there; but I told you, I fell asleep.’
‘At what time?’
‘How should I know? I remember the ship’s bell ringing twice… that would have been at one o’clock, wouldn’t it?’ Killigrew nodded and reached for his watch, only to remember it had been in the fob-pocket of his waistcoat, which he had given to Onyema to help her staunch the flow of blood from her wound. ‘My waistcoat…’
‘Hm? Oh, here it is.’
The blood-soaked waistcoat had been tossed on the floor. It was ruined, but the watch was still ticking. Killigrew snapped it open. ‘Five past four. So our murderous arsonist had about three hours to go about his – or her – work.’
He left Strachan to arrange the transfer of the sick and injured to the master’s day cabin and made his way up to the poop deck. Koumba was still there, sitting with her back to the gunwale. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
Killigrew did not reply, but indicated her to Boulton. ‘How long has she been there?’
Boulton glanced at her. ‘She’s been there since Ågård woke me a few moments ago.’
‘When the fire broke out?’
Boulton nodded.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Koumba. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You stay there,’ Killigrew snapped at her, making his way down to where Ågård was helping Strachan and Dando carry the sick to the master’s day room. ‘How long was Koumba on the poop deck?’
‘You mean the negress that speaks Portugee, sir?’ said Ågård. ‘I don’t think she left the poop deck all night
. Oh, except once, to perform the necessary.’
‘Did she use the heads?’
Ågård shook his head. ‘No, she just went down to the waist and pissed into a scupper, sir. Why? You don’t think she was the one who started the fire, do you?’
‘Could she have been?’
‘No, sir. That was the only time she left the poop, and I could see her the whole time.’
‘Did she speak to anyone while she was down there?’
‘She might’ve done, sir, I don’t know. It’s not like I was watching her or anything. Even a negress is entitled to her privacy. It was only because I was at the helm looking for’ard that I noticed. But she couldn’t have started the fire, I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Did you see if any of the other recaptives went below?’
‘Plenty, sir, but don’t ask me to tell you which ones. They all look the same to me. Especially in the dark.’
Killigrew sighed. ‘All right. Thank you, Mr Ågård.’ He made his way back up to the poop deck, caught Koumba by the arm and hoisted her to her feet.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I want a word with you,’ he told her. ‘In private.’
‘By all means,’ she said.
He took a hurricane lantern and dragged her below decks to one of the store rooms where they could talk undisturbed. She regarded him nervously and ran her tongue over her sensuous lips. ‘Senhor Killigrew, I do not think you are the kind of man who would take advantage of—’
‘Onyema was murdered tonight,’ he told her, hanging the lantern from a nail in an overhead beam. When she said nothing, he ploughed on. ‘Her skull was smashed in and her body was burned.’
‘I cannot pretend I am sorry. She was evil.’
Killigrew grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her back against the bulkhead. ‘I know you didn’t do it, but I think you know more about it than you’re letting on. I think you know who did. In fact, I think you put the murderers up to it.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Someone poured aguardiente all over her body and set fire to it. The way you saw me pour aguardiente over my wounds earlier and set fire to that. Why burn her after she’d already had her skull smashed in? To destroy her evil spirit? Is that it?’
Killigrew of the Royal Navy Page 5