‘What can you tell me about this river, Captain?’ David was determined to get as much information as possible.
‘Shoal ground, weed, reptiles and savage beasts; there are some tribes living there. The tribal chiefs are not too friendly unless you’re buying slaves.’
‘Would you suggest this as a probable place for a privateer base?’
‘It’s as good a place as any, Captain, but what would I know.’
Mallard lurched to his feet striking his head on a deck beam. ‘Thanks for your hospitality, Captain,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the brandy, nipper.’
On deck David watched as Mallard was helped over the side. ‘As soon as he’s clear, get the ship underway,’ he told Lieutenant Clark. ‘Then find Jameel and send him to my cabin.’
As soon as the man arrived in the cabin David asked Jameel what he knew about the Comango River. ‘Nothing, Captain,’ was the reply.
‘Nothing at all, you’ve never heard of it?’
‘No, Captain.’
‘Jameel, what did you trade in on this coast?’
‘All cargos, Captain. Anything that could be bought and sold.’
‘Very well, Jameel, thank you.’ David watched the door close behind the man and called to Jones. ‘I know you’re listening; ask Mr. Clark to come aft.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Jones. ‘That Jameel is a liar; I bet he’s a slaver.’
‘If I hear you repeating anything you have heard in this cabin, I’ll have you flogged, Jones,’ David shouted, but the boy was gone.
When Mr. Clark arrived in the cabin David was studying his charts. ‘There is a river,’ he told his first lieutenant, ‘called Comango, but I can find it on none of our charts. The captain of that ship tells us it lies two days’ sailing to the south of our position.
Talk to the sailing master. Tell him I wish to close with the coast. The information on our charts is minimal. Ask him if he has knowledge of this area. Once land is in sight we will launch the cutter and send her in to feel the way. Put a swivel in the boat’s bow and load it with grape shot.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Clark said, as he ran from the cabin.
Later that day as the Challenger slowly closed with the coast, David spoke with his sailing master. ‘The captain of that merchantman reported seeing slavers two days ago, Mr. Samuel. That would put them some two hundred miles south of our present position. I have no information on the whereabouts of this Comango River so we will search the coast as we move south. I’m told the river is large so we should be able to find it; please update the charts as we go. Mr. Peterson will command the cutter.’ David turned to Mr. Martin his lieutenant of marines. ‘Please have six marines in the boat; we may have problems with the native population. Perhaps you would wish to have Sergeant Chaney in charge of them.’
Martin touched his hat. ‘As you wish, sir,’ he said.
‘Thank you, we will launch the cutter at three miles from the coast.’ David went below.
The days that followed were all much the same. Under main topsail, spanker and staysails, the Challenger crept slowly down the coast whilst the cutter sailed into creeks and bays. They explored rivers, swamps and small islands. Each night David had the ship anchored or hove to and the day’s findings were entered onto the charts. Some villages were seen in the distance, but when the cutter approached, the locals hid away and David did not want to start a shoreside expedition. Time passed slowly and no huge river was found.
CHAPTER 5
The sun slowly sank into the horizon; a great fiery ball that turned the sky dark red, becoming yellow and almost white where it seemed to touch the sea. A few wispy clouds were dark against the splendour of colour. Nanji sat in the long grass and watched the night slowly consume the day. Below him the village was silent, his people sat round their cooking fires waiting for him to come down the hill. Looking to his right he watched the river slowly disappearing into the gloom. Beyond the village the jungle was dark and silent. Soon the predators that hunted by night would stir. Soon the man would come. He would walk into the village from the jungle having travelled across the river by longboat from the swamp where his ship lay concealed. Nanji had forty slaves waiting for him. The man would pay for none that were not in the very best condition. Chief Nanji stood and stretched his massive frame. Almost seven feet tall, his arms and chest were thick with hard muscle and his legs, like tree trunks, supported his almost twenty-two stone. The picture of manhood spoilt somewhat by his huge stomach.
He walked into the village and sat outside his hut, ten of his warriors gathered round him. These were his personal guard; most of them were related to him. ‘When he comes,’ he said, ‘watch him closely. Have the other men guard the slaves in case his men come. This devil is a thing of evil.’
They sat and drank the palm wine that his wives made as the moon climbed above the trees. As the white light flooded the village the man walked out of the jungle. He was dressed as always in a black robe that touched the ground, the hood pulled up over his head. His tall frame slightly tilted forward. Entering the circle of warriors he limped up to the chief and stopped in front of him.
‘How many?’ he demanded. Nanji held up both hands and flicked his fingers four times. ‘Show me,’ the man said.
The jungle clearing, behind the village, was surrounded by Nanji’s men; almost a hundred warriors. The slaves, tied in lines, sat in the dust, women to the left, men to the right.
‘Bring them tomorrow,’ the man said, ‘and then I will decide. You will find as many more. I want twice this number.’
‘To take this many,’ Nanji told him, ‘will take one turn of the moon.’
‘So you had best begin,’ the man replied as he walked away, ‘but it will take half that time because we will be with you.’
The following morning the slaves were crammed into dugout canoes and paddled across the river. It took eight trips, but at last the forty were standing looking at the black-painted ship that lay hidden in the swamp. Her two masts were hung with branches to disguise them from prying eyes. An Indian, with black, broken teeth, hefted the men’s testicles and squeezed the women’s breasts. He examined teeth and punched stomachs. Three were rejected. They were immediately speared to death.
A compound of cut trees had been erected to one side of the ship; the surviving slaves were tied in rows round the inside of the stockade. The man, who was called captain by the white men with him, turned to Nanji.
‘Now we must find forty-three more. Let’s move.’
They had to travel far up the river, all the closer villages having been raided many times before. Six canoes followed by a longboat with seventeen of the white men on board travelled for two days before they arrived at a branch in the river. Now the warriors set off across a flat marshland, which teemed with birdlife and the occasional giant reptile. The white men struggled to keep up and had to work hard to keep the natives in sight in the distance.
On the far side of the marsh lived a tribe of fishermen and hunters. Nanji’s men circled round behind the village whilst the white men hid in the swamp. With a great howl the warriors rushed into the village to find only old people and very young children. They searched the huts and surrounding woodland, but in the end had to believe that the village had been raided the day before by people who came from the larger river to the south. The captain stood looking at an old man who was dragged before him and thrown onto his knees by the marsh.
‘Ask him who these other people were,’ he said in a calm, quiet voice.
‘White men,’ he was told, ‘with some tribesmen from the delta.’
‘How many?’ After some discussion he was told twenty or more.
Suddenly, he flung back his hood and for the first time Nanji saw his face, the right side of which was crossed with scars; an empty eye socket gaped.
‘Then we will track them,’ he said, ‘and take what is ours. They will be travelling slowly with the slaves; send your men ahead, but once they find them they must wait
for us to arrive.’
The warriors set off at a steady ground-covering gait and soon the white men were left behind. Nanji stayed behind to guide the captain and his crew.
For six hours they kept going, but then stopped to rest, the seamen exhausted. The sea-born life was no training for this work. Nanji’s son returned four hours later to tell that the tracks led to a river bank; there some of the white men had taken to boats. The rest with the slaves and tribesmen had continued towards the delta. His father interpreted for him.
‘How far to the delta?’ the captain asked.
‘As they go, ten days,’ he was told.
‘When will our men catch up with them?’
‘One more day.’ The boy grinned.
‘How long for us to reach them?’
‘At this rate two or three days.’
‘Then we must move faster.’ In spite of his efforts, however, it was two and a half days before they came across some of their warriors sitting in the grass. Nanji snapped a question at them and they all pointed with their spears. He turned to the captain.
‘The column is through the next set of trees,’ he said.
Crawling on their hands and knees the captain and Nanji crept closer to where the slave column stood round a rainwater pool. They counted over thirty slaves bound together by the neck, their hands tied behind them. Guarding them were some twelve tribesmen and sitting not far away five white men.
‘The rest of the tribesmen took their canoes back downriver,’ Nanji told the captain.
‘Try not to kill any of them,’ the man replied. ‘They are worth good money. The white men, however, we can have some fun with.’
Nanji waved his men forward.
The sudden rush of warriors took all by surprise. They set about the tribesmen with the butts of their spears driving the guards to the ground. As the white men sprang to their feet they found themselves looking into the barrels’ of fourteen pistols and quickly threw down their weapons.
‘What is this?’ one of them shouted. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The captain, from the depth of his hood, told him, ‘We are your worst nightmare. Now get down on your knees.’
Once the five had their hands tied behind them they were led a little way into the trees out of sight of the natives. Pushing them down onto the ground the captain let the hood fall from his face. All stared at the terrible scars, but one man looking at the unscarred left side said, ‘Jesus Christ, you’re John Carter.’
‘Now how would you know that?’ Carter asked, his voice almost gentle.
The man looked terrified. ‘I saw drawings of you in St. John’s on wanted posters; everybody thinks you’re dead.’
‘Would you be the one to tell them different?’
‘No,’ the man cried. ‘I’ll not tell a soul.’
Carter sat down beside him. ‘So why don’t you tell me where you come from and why you’re stealing my slaves.’
‘Your slaves? My captain has been taking slaves up and down the Comango River for almost three years, as have the French and Portuguese.’
‘You have a ship in the mouth of this river?’
‘Yes,’ the man agreed.
‘How many ships are there now?’
‘There are three, two Portuguese plus ours.’ The man was eager to please.
‘No French?’
‘No, the French have set up a base on the far side of the Comango delta, twenty or more miles further south. They service their privateers there.’
Privateers, Carter mused. Legal pirates, now there’s an interesting trade. ‘How many more men on your ship?’
‘There are fifteen on board plus us five.’
‘And what nature of ship is she?’
‘She’s a brigantine.’
Carter stood up. ‘Now you can decide to join my crew or scream your lives out in this stinking place.’ All five joined. ‘
You will continue to this brigantine,’ Carter told them. ‘When we arrive you will hail your ship and your crew will bring the longboats ashore to pick up the slaves. I doubt they will know the difference between Nanji’s men and these other natives. When they arrive my men will come out of hiding and we will kill all who resist. Will your captain come ashore?’
‘He will, along with his son.’
‘Good, we will kill him first.’
For the next seven days they drove the slave column downriver, stopping each night to eat and sleep. As they approached the river mouth the jungle became increasingly dense, but they followed a well-beaten track and made good time. Towards evening on the seventh day the new recruits warned them that the ships were close. Most of Nanji’s men now moved through the jungle, out of sight of the track, whilst Carter and his crew dropped back but kept the column in sight. Reaching a small beach the slaves were stopped and the white men hailed the ship. It was growing dark as the longboats were rowed ashore. Carter counted twelve men in the three boats. That left three crew men in the ship. A large, bearded man strode up the beach, followed by a young lad.
‘How many have you?’ he called. ‘There looks to be more than when we left you.’
‘Hello Captain,’ Carter called and shot him in the stomach. He put his second pistol to the boy’s head and said, ‘Stay still, boy.’ The warriors swarmed out of the jungle and cut all down, whooping with the joy of killing and within minutes only the boy and three others remained alive of the men who had come in the boats.
Leaving Nanji and his tribesmen to guard the slaves Carter put his men into two of the boats and was rowed off to the brigantine. Seeing a boat full of armed men climbing up each side of the ship, the remaining three men offered no resistance. That night the slaves were loaded into the brigantine’s hold and with the first light of dawn they slid out to sea.
Carter was surprised to see the size of the Comango estuary; the river he had been hiding in, on these slave trips, was in fact an offshoot of the Comango.
The brigantine was a fine vessel, well fitted and maintained; smaller than the brig, her hold was built especially for housing slaves. She could carry one hundred and fifty people in racks. Carter now had seventy-nine. Most of Nanji’s men became sick with the ship’s motion and Carter smiled at the notion of throwing them all in the hold but decided that he would come back and Nanji would again be useful. He looked at the chief.
‘Now I have two ships,’ he said, ‘you must find me double the number of slaves.’
They anchored the brigantine, named the Provider, outside of the swamp where Carter had his brig hidden. She held steady in the slow flow of the river’s current. Her cargo of slaves was taken ashore and placed with the rest in the compound.
That night whilst his extended crew drank rum and ate some kind of antelope they had shot, Carter took the dead captain’s son into the woods. It was months since he had had a young white boy to play with and once he had stripped him naked Carter made his death long and slow, drinking in the screaming and pleading. Just before he died Carter removed the boy’s right eye and cut three long gashes across the right side of his face. As he worked, Carter babbled in some unknown language punctuated with the name Fletcher.
The following morning Nanji sent groups of his warriors off in several different directions, with orders to bring back slaves.
John Carter sat thinking in the brig’s aft cabin; the great days of pirating were over, but this privateering was interesting. An idea was forming in his mind. If he flew the French flag over his ship and renamed her in French the world would think him a privateer. Even better if he named his ship after an existing privateer all blame would go to the French. The plan was exciting. It would allow him to go back to the life he loved. His mind made up, Carter limped out onto the deck.
CHAPTER 6
‘We man the brigantine,’ he ordered. ‘Leave just enough men to guard the slaves.’ On board the Provider, Carter examined the ship’s armament. She had only six swivels mounted on her rails; her captain must have feared his cargo mor
e than attack from other ships. None of the six survivors from her original crew were officers and so he made Owen, one of his longstanding crew members, mate and left the Indian in charge of the brig. They made sail with the evening land breeze and set out for the French base in the Comango estuary.
In the early morning light the Comango was grey-green and shrouded in mist, but as the sun climbed over the horizon the great river seemed to come alive. Birds squawked and sang as the colours became more vibrant and the mist burned off. Two hours later all fell silent as the heat settled in for the day.
The Provider was anchored behind a large island thick with trees and undergrowth. He was assured by Nanji’s son, who he had brought with him as a guide, that the French base was some distance upriver on the other side of the island. Lowering one of the Provider’s boats, they pulled upriver against the current until the boy, whose name was Zuri, told them to stop.
Once the boat was hidden they set off across the island. The going was hard and they had to cut a path through the thick foliage. Snakes were seen and animals could be heard running away through the undergrowth. The heat was considerable even in the shade of the trees and the air smelt of rotting vegetation. At midday Carter called a halt.
‘How far?’ he asked Zuri. The boy made signs that meant they were more than halfway. ‘Settle down; we rest here for two hours,’ Carter told his men. The exhausted crew threw themselves down onto the ground, drinking from a water cask, which they passed round. Zuri disappeared into the jungle; he showed no sign of fatigue or thirst.
Carter shook himself awake. He had dozed off and had no idea for how long. Zuri sat watching him. Seeing that he was awake the boy made signs that they should go. He also seemed to be saying that he had been to the French base and come back. They moved off in single file, following the boy, and some two and a half hours later Zuri stopped them. Making signs that they should all be silent he took Carter forward.
As they came to the edge of the trees Carter found himself looking at a large bay in which lay two ships; the larger a sloop, the smaller a brig. This was good news; exactly what Carter had been hoping for. On a sand spit at the west end of the bay, two cannon were positioned to protect the ships at anchor. Behind them some wooden huts nestled in the tree line. The French flag flew outside of the largest one. Halfway between the huts and the east end of the bay a small stream flowed into the main river. In this stream some native women washed clothes.
By the Knife Page 22