by Dan Gleed
I watched Adam hesitate. Actually, I could see the shadows of doubt flickering across his expressive face. “Come on, Adam, what’ve you got to lose? Once you’re sold on, you’ll probably die anyway. Isn’t it better to die trying to get free, rather than be worked to death because you chickened out when you could have done something?” Desperation can make fools of us all and selfish fools at that.
I’ll never forget it. Adam looked straight at me and sighed.
“Paul, you haven’t heard me, have you? I’ve already told you, I will not kill or put anyone’s life at risk for the sake of my own freedom. If I am to die, so be it. What really matters is that my spirit is already free. Yes, they can break my body and I can’t stop them. Does that make me afraid? Yes, it does. But they can’t touch what really counts. My spirit. They can’t do that, because I belong to Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, and he will look after me, even if that means death at the hands of some slave owner. Death in this world is really only the beginning of real life, not the end.”
As I looked at my new friend, I wondered if he had lost his sanity. I had listened to him many times since my arrival on the ship, but I still didn’t believe what he had to say about this God thing. Certainly, Adam was a good guy. There was no doubt in my mind about that. Possibly a little deluded, even though he had a strange knack of calming everyone around him (not just me). Even when things took a turn for the worse, he seemed to bring hope just by being there. That was the stupid thing. One part of me really wanted to believe Adam, to accept what he had to say and to fall under his spell, to let his tales of a God who cared become the reality that Adam said He was. But there was only one way to act now, as far as I was concerned, and that was to take any and every opportunity to hit back, to gain the upper hand, to determine my own fate, particularly if there was even a halfway chance of success. I couldn’t help it. With the passage of the last few days that initial, half-felt rage had blossomed into an all-consuming hatred that was eating me up. It was no longer ‘half-felt’. Fury at my perceived fate was almost overwhelming me. Anger against those whom I perceived to be the cause of so much trouble, coupled with a burning determination to get my own back, was informing my every thought. So, in disgust I shook my head at him and dismissed him with a shrug. The self-styled all-action man, I turned back to contemplating the hatch with its beckoning beams of light.
The odd thing was, when it came to the time, it was surprisingly easy to convince the crew to let us up on deck again and once there, I stood looking around me, aware of Adam’s presence within an arm’s length to my right with two other nameless prisoners standing behind him. True, the guard was awake, but his weapon was leaning against a nearby cask, whilst he sat on the gunwale, leg wrapped firmly round a convenient stanchion. I watched him idly applying himself to plaiting one of the palm leaves kept on the deck for use by any crewman who needed shade.
Slowly, under the pretence of looking to see what he was doing, I eased myself closer. I didn’t dare get too close for fear of alerting him. Glancing aft, I was able to see the owner still up at the stern, but standing now, eyeing us through the rapidly encroaching darkness as the sun slipped below the horizon. For a moment my courage deserted me and I felt my hands beginning to tremble but, even as I did so, a hand pressed my arm and Adam’s voice whispered encouragement. Unable to turn around, I could only listen as my friend pledged himself to draw fire, anything to give me a fighting chance. And in that instant, I knew he was offering to die for me. For a moment there was stillness around us, only the soughing of wind in the rigging and breaking water slapping at the hull disturbed the tableau.
Standing loosely, feet spread against the ship’s roll, I felt overwhelmed, but knew it was now or never and so, balling my fists, I gave Adam a grateful glance and a whispered command to “go” before stepping swiftly across the short distance separating me from the guard. Surprise was complete and the man had time only to widen his eyes as my shoulder took him full in the chest and he flipped backwards, arms flailing as he swayed too far over the railing on which he had been sitting, and which now simply added to his balance problem. Even as he went over, I had already turned towards the rifle, aware of a rising crescendo of shouts towards the stern. Grabbing the gun, I levered the action in one smooth movement, back and forward, automatically checking it was cocked and loaded even as I was bringing it level with my shoulder. In the few seconds that had elapsed I was almost surprised to see how far Adam had got, but even as I sighted down the rifle, I knew I was too late.
Abdel-Aziz was facing Adam, balance thrown forward onto the balls of his feet, right hand stretched in front of him, a pistol pointing directly at the racing form coming directly towards him. There was no fear, just a tight look of anger etching his face and even as I took it all in, a gout of flame lanced outwards directly towards Adam and the gun-wielding hand started tracking towards me. Desperately, I pulled the rifle’s trigger and watched the shot tear through the man’s left arm, but it didn’t stop him. As the pistol came into line with me I heard the crash of its explosive force and felt the momentary tug of a bullet passing through the fleshy part of my thigh. The blow knocked me sideways, staggering against the roll of the ship and throwing my aim too far left to draw down on the man at the stern, and as a combination of pain and ship’s movement delayed my reactions I could hear the slap, slap of swiftly running feet coming from behind. Feeling as if I was swimming in molasses, I turned my head in slow motion towards the sound, only to discover I was way behind the curve ball and the last thing I saw or felt was the clubbing fist that caught me squarely between the eyes.
Chapter 37
For all that it was considerably less than a hundred miles, the journey had seemed never-ending, particularly as she’d had to persuade the two ferry operators on the route to open up, despite the late hour but, as dawn opened its first bleary eye, Roz was finally able to relax and wriggle her shoulders to ease the tension. Slowing for the first time in some while merely allowed her teeth to stop rattling in sympathy with the rough corrugation patterning the mixed grey and white coral dust road that wound in and out of the never-ending coconut plantations Every turn faithfully reflecting the meandering coastline. She longed for a drink, any drink, to relieve the burning dryness of her throat and wash away the vile metallic taste of dust. It was everywhere. In her hair, her clothes, gritting her eyes. Every crease on her sweat-cooled body sported a dark line where the dust had coagulated – and light khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt hadn’t helped.
Leaving in a hurry had seemed a good idea at the time, but she had failed to bring even the basics of food, water and mosquito-proof clothing. A fact she had spent most of the journey regretting. Being night, she couldn’t even rely on the ubiquitous totos(1), who usually lined the route wherever it passed through a village, desperate to tout their wares of sweet-tasting green coconuts and roasted cashew nuts. She loved their eager smiles as they stretched on tiptoe, trying hard to peer into passing cars and wishing they were old enough, tall enough, to see into her adult world. But, despite their absence, she was already beginning to feel better as she recognised the palm-fringed outskirts of Malindi. Drawing level with the first outlying shack, she soon spotted the unmarked trail that would lead her down its rutted, coral-strewn pathway to her old home. For a moment all weight of concern lifted from her shoulders and a small smile played around her lips, lighting up her clear blue eyes as they drank in so many familiar childhood scenes. It was too early for the compound’s white tenants to be up and about, but from within the line of servants’ quarters she could see early stirrings as families she had known most of her life rose to greet the new day, handfuls of kindling and larger sticks already gathered to revive the slow-burning fires banked the previous evening against the dew-laden night air. She let the Jeep rock to a halt, killing the engine as heads turned to stare inquisitively at this unexpected intrusion. She could sense the uncertainty quivering in every line of their suddenly nervous bodies
, until one by one they began, hesitantly, to recognise her.
The change, when it came, was complete. With real joy lighting their friendly faces, the whole group relaxed, to gather swiftly and noisily around her, hands outstretched in greeting as the haunting cadence of a true and heartfelt African welcome roused even the laziest children still playing possum under the soft skins thrown casually across their Spartan cots.
“Eh! You come back, Memsahib kidogo”
She was much too tired and too relieved for even a hint of annoyance to develop over the reminder of days long gone, when she really had been ‘the little lady’. “Anyway,” she thought, “it’s only a term of endearment.” More importantly, she could see the unspoken question in their eyes, but the conventions of African courtesy forbade asking until the guest was well settled and immediate needs addressed. Which, if she allowed them free rein, could take half the morning. Nevertheless, she was more than grateful for their consideration and sank gladly onto a log while Mama M’baneo bustled around preparing an impromptu breakfast of fresh pau-pau, posho(2) and dark, steaming coffee. There had been plenty of time on the journey to think through her next move and the realisation that these old friends were her main if not only hope had long since settled any doubts. They of all people along this hot and humid coast would know what might be done. Of that she was certain. Flicking back her long blonde hair, she let the worries go and gave herself over to their warm ministrations.
“There are nearly always dhows in the harbour, Memsahib Roz. At this time of the year, with the trade winds blowing, they come and go every day. They say some have slaves on board, but no one can be certain which, because they keep the slaves hidden. But if the dhow with the copper post comes in, we will see it and if we do, we will let you know. What you do after that will be for you to decide. It will not be easy to get on board, but we will do what we can to help you. Kimau’s uncle is a fisherman and he has a fine boat. If you like, we will talk to him and try to persuade him to take you out, but he will only go at night after he has finished the day’s fishing. Anyway, night is the only time it might be safe, as the Arab slavers carry guns and they are not afraid to use them.”
Roz smiled her gratitude and ducked her head with pleasure at their immediate and unstinting support. She didn’t want to get them involved if there was any danger and just their offer to keep an eye out for this one particular dhow was enough for now. “You haven’t asked me why I don’t go to the police for help and I am grateful for that. I can’t tell you at the moment, but believe me, it’s important the police do not reach Paul before I do. However, if we don’t find him in the next few days or if, when we do, it all looks too dangerous, then I’ll have to ask for their help. But it will only be as a last resort.”
Several heads nodded. They had little love for their local police and most of them would rather run a few quiet risks for their memsahib kidogo than give the police an excuse to crawl all over them. With the day now firmly established, the ubiquitous heat was beginning to build and Roz felt she had rested long enough. She knew it wouldn’t be long before uncertainty would once again start to tap-dance its way around her consciousness and the inevitable emergence of the family renting the main house would quickly ‘up’ the ante. It was time to get going.
Standing, she beckoned them closer. “I don’t know how long it is since Paul left Mombasa, but there’s really no time to waste. Please, Kimau, will you and N’jerogi come with me now to the harbour so you can speak to your uncle? For all I know, we may need his boat tonight. Once we’ve dropped you off, Kimau, then N’jerogi can show me the best place to keep a lookout for this dhow.”
Chapter 38
For all her optimism, two long and frustrating days were to pass before word came of a dhow with a copper post edging into the bay just ahead of a swiftly darkening sky. One thing was certain. It had come from the south, the right direction, and it obviously had no wish to attract attention, because it had dropped anchor well away from the beach. Clearly, there was no run ashore planned for this crew. Kimau found Roz down by the mole that marked the end of Malindi harbour, her bare legs hanging over its edge, suntanned heels kicking up and down as she squinted morosely out to sea. He squatted down beside her and didn’t have to tell her why he was there.
“Where is it?”
“Not far, just around the headland there. It will not take us long. You can’t see it from here, but it’s definitely the one you’re looking for. Come, I will show you.”
Roz scrambled to her feet and followed him eagerly, almost running to keep up with his long, loping strides until they rounded the small point and stopped. The soft, still warm sand trickled through her bare toes as she stood facing the sea, one hand shading her eyes against the dazzle of the undulating water, sparkling with the last rays of the lowering sun. Just inside the line of the reef, its great sail furled, a nondescript dhow rode at anchor. Completely unremarkable and, like all of its kind, completely devoid of paint, it could have been any one of the thousands that endlessly processed along the East African coast. Except, that is, for an unusual, sturdy and highly polished copper post fixed mid-ships, which even now appeared to have someone or something propped against it. But even for her young eyes, the shape was impossible to make out from that distance and elevation. Roz stared hard at the isolated boat bobbing and ducking to the roll of the incoming waves, snubbing at a long coir rope that no doubt ended in a rough-hewn block of coral doing duty as an anchor somewhere ahead of it. She could see no activity, but that was hardly unusual for the time of evening. Eyes narrowed, she thought hard for a moment. How long was it likely to stay? The tide would turn favourable for departure in an hour or so, but would she set sail in the dark, or wait till morning, when the tide would once again favour the ungainly vessel and the swiftly growing light would ensure an easier passage through the treacherous reef? And how many crew were likely to be on board? She knew that a four-hundred ton boum dhow would normally carry between eight and sixteen crew, but it was already getting too dark to make out the details. So could she really risk boarding in the face of so many unknowns? She was at least certain Kimau’s uncle would now take her out, but he was equally adamant in his resolve to stay clear of any likely fracas, already considering any attempt at a rescue to be foolhardy in the extreme. There was no doubting the crew would treat any infiltration on board as a threat to their lives, never mind their livelihood, and it was predictable that they would act accordingly. Little mercy would be given or expected in the dark and confusion of night. And Roz was almost convinced that at the first hint of mayhem, her transport would leave. In any case, with the stakes so high, she couldn’t expect the others to get involved. After all, with the sole exception of Kimau, who might be persuaded to ‘volunteer’, they had their own lives to lead.
Surreptitiously, she glanced at her companion, who was also trying to make out details in the fading light. She hadn’t broached the subject yet, but was acutely aware she would need his help if there was to be any hope of a rescue – always assuming this was the slaving vessel she was after. So far she had no weapons, no backup and little idea of how to get on board. The only positive attribute she had going for her was iron-clad resolve. But what was that worth against well-armed men? Squinting at the distant hull, any clandestine attempt to get on board seemed like a hopeless recipe for disaster, and she knew it. But for all that, she had no intention of backing down. She would just have to improvise as she went along or become one more member of the cargo if it all went pear-shaped. The gathering darkness finished its rapid slide across the water, frustrating any further hope of observation, and the urgency of the situation once more pressed in upon her. Her mind made up, she swung towards Kimau and put him on the spot.
* * *
Kimau’s uncle was old and grizzled, but with Kimau’s aid he worked the sail with a dexterity that brought the little craft to a dead stop, head into wind and a mere foot or two from the wooden hull looming over their flimsy craft, its
slick sides reeking of rotting seaweed, stale fish and something indefinable, yet deeply disturbing and nauseous, all at the same time. Apart from the hiss of water forcing under the keel and the creak of wood on wood as she pitched against the waves coming from her bow, there was little sound, certainly nothing emanating from the deck above to startle Roz. It was shortly after midnight and their objective had remained swathed in its pitch-black mantle, her raked mast blotting out the stars one by one as it swung in lazy circles against the night sky. No light pierced the darkness around the ship, which seemed to drain even the little light the sea did manage to reflect. There had been no sound and no obvious movement to disturb the deceptive stillness as they warily approached the dhow from the west, close in to the beach and taking advantage of the off-shore breeze. A breeze that had, by its very direction, forced them to risk being spotted against the white sands gleaming softly behind them in the pale starlight. However, had they but known it, there was no immediate danger from the crew who, to a man, were stretched out comatose on the cluttered deck, taking what rest they could.