by Tim Severin
‘Vicious-looking bastard,’ commented Cook under his breath.
‘He’s probably from the Akwamu tribe. One of their chiefs. They control the immediate area around the fort . . . and drive a very hard bargain when it comes to selling their neighbours,’ Hector explained.
‘That’s not all they have to sell. Look at those teeth.’ Cook had spotted a pile of elephant tusks piled in one corner. His covetous tone made Hector wonder for a moment if the buccaneer captain dared to think of plundering the fort. But he dismissed the idea immediately. Cook had far too few men to risk an attack.
They walked on across the compound. There were very few people to be seen, only the native chief and a trio of Danish soldiers. Tunics unbuttoned, they lounged in the shade of some arches that led to the dormitory for the garrison.
‘I’m curious to see where the slaves are kept,’ said Cook. The slave pens lay directly ahead, behind a row of stout iron-bound doors on the far side of the compound. Hector had never visited the holding pens before, but the Carlsborg’s quartermaster, a man experienced in the slave trade, had told him that the fort was designed for smooth handling of the human contents. A brick-lined passageway pierced the outer wall and led directly from the pens to a gate overlooking the beach. When the time came to load the Carlsborg, the slaves would be chained together in batches, led down the passageway, and marched straight to where boats were waiting to run a shuttle service out to the ship. Hector had asked whether the Carlsborg had enough boats for the task, and was told the local fishermen made a handsome living by hiring out themselves and their canoes as transport.
The iron-bound doors were locked. With no one to give them any directions, the two men climbed a wooden stairway to an upper floor and came to a small door, which was ajar. Entering, they found themselves in a long corridor, which ran almost the full width of the building. After the blinding glare of the compound, it took a moment for Hector’s eyes to adjust to the deep gloom inside. The rank stench he’d smelled earlier was now so strong he had to swallow hard to stop himself gagging. In the opposite wall of the corridor he could make out the outline of a small, heavily barred window. Dimly he was aware of more windows on either side, where the gallery stretched away into the darkness. He stepped up to the window and peered in. He was looking down into a dungeon. From a height of a dozen feet it was difficult to see much of what was immediately below him, but from what he could see the dungeon appeared to be about fifteen paces square. The only source of light and air was a row of three tiny windows on the far wall. They were set close to the ceiling and revealed a curved vault roof of dressed stone. Nearly all the light fell on the far end of the dungeon. There the floor was thickly covered with humans. They sat on the flagstones, their heads bowed, arms clasped around their knees. A few had somehow found space to lie down. His nose told him they had no latrine, and he wondered how such a dense mass of humanity could be fed and given water. Immediately below where he stood the light was so poor it was difficult to distinguish individuals. They coalesced into one shadowy, intertwined mass. Eerily, the only sound was an occasional cough or a low moan. A sense of quiet, hopeless resignation exuded from this thick carpet of humanity. Hector was appalled.
Cook, his face only inches away from Hector’s, peered into the dungeon. Hector briefly caught the scent of perfume that he was using. ‘A bachelor’s delight,’ Cook breathed wonderingly. Puzzled for an instant, Hector suddenly comprehended his meaning. Several of the captives in the dungeon had sensed they were being observed. They had raised their heads and looked up towards the spyhole. Hector could just make out their faces and the occasional gleam of an eye. Every one of them was a woman. This was a dungeon exclusively for female slaves awaiting shipment.
‘De er alle solgt,’ said a husky voice. A Danish gaoler was standing in the corridor, a few paces away. He tapped his chest with one hand.
Hector stepped back from the window. He remembered from the supercargo’s ledger that ‘solgt’ meant ‘sold’. The Dane presumed they were potential slave buyers examining the sale stock.
‘How do you feed the prisoners?’ Hector asked. He pointed to his mouth and pretended to eat and drink, then gestured towards the dungeon. The gaoler imitated the process of picking up a long-handled shovel, loading the blade and thrusting it between the bars.
‘Like feeding animals,’ muttered Cook.
‘Kom!’ The Dane made it clear that they should leave. He escorted them back to the door at the head of the stairway and closed it behind them.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Cook as they walked back across the compound. They passed a blacksmith’s workplace. Instead of horseshoes, there were heaps of chains and ankle rings. Cook stopped. Hanging from a row of hooks were several long, thin metal rods.
‘That’s what the gaoler meant when he touched his chest,’ he said. ‘Those rods are branding irons. I saw them used to mark wild cattle in the Caribbees. When the slaves are sold, they’re branded on the breast to show who their new owner is.’
He paused, as if a thought had occurred to him. ‘That Frenchman, your friend, has a brand on his cheek, as I remember?’
‘Yes,’ answered Hector. ‘The letter G. It stands for “galérien”. It was burned on him when he was convicted in France and sent to the royal galleys. But the mark hardly shows when he has a tan.’
‘Perhaps you’d ask him if he could come across to the Revenge later this evening and meet one of my crew – another Frenchman. He’s also an ex-convict and speaks very little English. He’s very sick, and likely to die. Another case of Guinea fever. Perhaps your Jacques can have a few last words with him?’
‘Jacques is out on the Carlsborg, with Jezreel. They’re on the same watch.’
‘Then why don’t I bring you and your Indian friend out to your ship on the Revenge’s launch so that you can ask Jacques if he’ll do me this favour? I’d appreciate it.’
Hector hesitated. Cook’s offer somehow rang false, but he couldn’t define why. The buccaneer persisted.
‘When does Jacques have to go back on watch?’
‘Tomorrow. He and Jezreel have the morning watch. Dan and I will be joining them.’
‘Sounds as though you all stick together. Just like the old days.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Then it’s settled. I’ll see you and Dan on the beach around sunset and bring you back out to the Carlsborg.’ Cook straightened the lace at his neck and brushed a speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat. ‘Lynch, think over my offer about joining the crew of the Revenge. Meanwhile I had better pay my respects to the commandant.’
He turned away and went towards the Governor’s office.
TWO
‘JACQUES SHOULD HAVE been back by now,’ said Jezreel. It was the following morning and the first glow of the sunrise was defining the horizon. In the dim light the former prizefighter appeared even more of a Goliath than usual as he leaned on the rail and gazed aft to where the Revenge was anchored a hundred yards astern of the Danish slaver. The previous evening the Frenchman had gone across to Cook’s ship. But he hadn’t returned as yet.
‘I can’t understand what’s keeping him,’ said Hector anxiously. He was on anchor watch with Jezreel and Dan aboard the Carlsborg. The Revenge had been a black, ill-defined shadow during the night. Now her outline was becoming clearer, the masts and spars taking shape against the sky. Hector usually enjoyed this early hour. It was the coolest part of the day, and there was little to do but track the passage of time as the stars disappeared one by one until only the brightest remained. He and his companions had been assigned to the foredeck where their task was to check the ship didn’t override her anchor cable. Should that happen, they were to alert the officer of the watch and, with the help of the two Danish sailors who preferred to stay on the aft deck, they were to hoist a jib or a staysail to trim the angle of the vessel to her mooring.
‘Where’s our petty officer?’ asked Jezreel.
‘He went below t
en minutes ago,’ answered Dan.
‘Probably seeking his bottled comfort.’ The petty officer in charge of the watch, an elderly Dane by the name of Jens Iversen, was a notorious tippler. His clothes reeked of alcohol and tobacco.
‘Jacques will lose a day’s pay over this,’ observed Dan. Iversen was a very zealous employee of the Company. He would consider it worth reporting Jacques’ lateness to the Carlsborg’s captain so that even the paltry sum of a deckhand’s daily wage could be trimmed from the vessel’s operating costs.
Dan cocked his head on one side. He had heard something. ‘Sounds like the Revenge is lowering a boat. Maybe that’s Jacques on his way back now.’ He went to the starboard rail and leaned out so that he could see more easily down the length of the ship. The squeal of blocks came clearly over the water. A few moments later there were shouted orders, then several blasts on a whistle.
‘That’s odd,’ observed Hector. ‘It’s more like a ship getting under way. Dan, can you make out what’s happening?’
A shift of wind caught the Carlsborg so that the Danish vessel swung on her cable, obscuring Dan’s view. He crossed the deck and looked aft again towards the Revenge. Now there was enough daylight to see considerable activity on the other ship. Men were aloft on her spars, others were climbing to join them, and a larger group of seamen was clustered on her main deck. They were bent over and moving slowly in a circle.
‘They’re raising anchor,’ Dan exclaimed.
‘Then where’s Jacques?’ Hector asked, a note of alarm in his voice.
‘Maybe they’re just shifting their anchorage,’ said Jezreel. He was also at the rail, eyes fixed on the smaller vessel.
‘They are setting too much sail for that.’
As they watched, the Revenge’s anchor emerged dripping from the water. The men on her yards unloosed the sails, the canvas flapped and filled.
Hector was struck by how clumsily Cook and his crew handled their ship. There was a muddle on the foredeck. One corner of the lower forecourse had wrapped around itself, and the sail was being untwisted. Also the mizzen spar was canted at the wrong angle and needed to be lowered and rehoisted into position. Instead of forging ahead, the Revenge began to fall back, partially out of control and crabbing sideways through the water. It was all very unseamanlike and in sharp contrast to the skill shown by her launch crew when they’d come ashore through the surf the previous day.
Hector was more and more agitated by Jacques’ absence. He feared the Frenchman might be below deck on the Revenge sleeping off a hangover, completely unaware the ship was getting under way. Or perhaps he’d decided to join the buccaneer crew? Cook had seemed keen to recruit him. But, Hector told himself, Jacques would never accept Cook’s offer without first consulting his friends. Besides, Jacques had left his favourite cooking utensils, his batterie de cuisine, aboard the Carlsborg. He would not leave the ship without taking his simmering pans and skimmers, the bake kettle in which he made excellent loaves, even at sea, and the splendid collection of spices he had acquired on his travels and jealously hoarded in a locked box, its interior neatly compartmented like an apothecary’s chest.
‘What a foul-up,’ said Jezreel, watching the disarray aboard the Revenge. ‘Can’t imagine how they think they can sail her through Magellan’s channel.’ Earlier Hector had told him of Cook’s proposed journey.
Slowly the crew of the Revenge got their vessel under some degree of control. She began to move forward, and a ripple appeared under her bow. Hector watched the two masts swing into line, then open up again as her helmsman set her on course. He saw that the Revenge was intending to pass close to windward of the anchored Danish ship and this, he thought despairingly, might give Jacques a final chance to return to the Carlsborg. He might be able to jump overboard and swim.
Hector left the foredeck and hurried down to the waist of the slave ship. This was where the Carlsborg’s smallest tender, the little cockboat, was stowed. He was going to ask Iversen for permission to launch it. Jacques was a weak swimmer at best.
The petty officer had reappeared on deck. Now he was standing at the taffrail with the two Danish sailors and watching the Revenge get under way. The scornful expression on his face left little doubt what he thought of the incompetence of the Revenge’s crew.
Perched on the bowsprit of Cook’s ship, two deckhands were trying to throw a loop of rope around an anchor fluke so that it could be hauled up and made fast. But they were making a mess of it. Twice they cast the rope, and twice they missed. The third time the rope passed under the anchor, but the man who was meant to catch the free end mistimed his snatch. He lost his grip, swivelled around the bowsprit and hung perilously at arm’s length, feet kicking in thin air, until he heaved himself back up. The rope splashed uselessly into the sea. His clumsiness drew a mocking guffaw from the Danish spectators, their laughter loud enough to be heard by the hapless sailor.
Hector looked anxiously for Jacques. But he was nowhere to be seen. The Revenge was gathering pace, setting out on her voyage.
A sudden shout from the Carlsborg’s stern deck made Hector look in that direction. Iversen had his hands cupped around his mouth and was calling out. He waved an arm. For a moment Hector thought he was bidding a farewell. But then the Dane gesticulated again, more urgently, and it was clear he was signalling to the other ship that she was coming too close and must stand clear.
Neither the captain nor the helmsman aboard the Revenge appeared to have heard the warning cry, nor were they conscious of the danger. Their vessel maintained course.
The Danish petty officer shouted again, more loudly this time, roaring at the top of his lungs.
‘Maybe they’ll skim by us so close that Jacques can jump across and rejoin us,’ said Jezreel hopefully. He had appeared at Hector’s elbow.
‘I don’t think so. No one handles a ship that neatly.’
The shouts and yells had brought the Carlsborg’s first mate on deck. He was tousled and dishevelled and still wearing a nightshirt. The moment he saw the danger, he turned and ran back down to his cabin and reappeared with a speaking trumpet in his hand. Putting it to his lips, he bellowed another warning to the Revenge.
By now Cook’s ship was fifty paces astern and steadily closing the gap. It was also obvious that the wind and current would not allow her to pass the Carlsborg on her windward side. The Revenge had to change her original course and pass downwind.
The first mate shouted again, red in the face with anger. This time the captain of the Revenge must have heard him, for Hector saw Cook wave acknowledgement. Then he turned towards his helmsman and Hector heard him shout clearly, ‘Hard to starboard, you fool.’
Hector saw the helmsman fling his weight on the helm and put it to port, the wrong direction.
‘What a dolt,’ exclaimed Jezreel.
But Hector had spotted Jacques. The Frenchman was standing at the foot of the Revenge’s foremast, stock-still and staring towards the Carlsborg. Beside him stood a man Hector did not recognize. He was holding a pistol to Jacques’ head. The tableau was clearly visible, and was meant to be. With a sickening lurch, Hector understood exactly what was happening.
So too did the Carlsborg’s first mate. He turned on his heel and bolted for his cabin, his nightshirt flying out behind him. A moment later he reappeared, a pistol in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other. He screamed at the Danish sailors to look out for their lives as he darted past them towards the arms chest placed beside the helm. It was there in case an uprising by the slave cargo had to be suppressed with weapons. Inside were loaded muskets and a pair of the newfangled blunderbusses.
The officer unlocked and flung back the lid, and began frenziedly pulling out the guns. He thrust them into the hands of his Danish compatriots. Then, looking around in desperation, he saw Hector and his two friends still standing by the cockboat. Gathering up three more guns, he darted across the deck and pushed the weapons into their grasp. ‘Skyde. Skyde,’ he commanded breathlessly and po
inted towards the oncoming ship. ‘Shoot. Shoot.’
From his vantage point at the Carlsborg’s rail, Hector looked down and saw armed sailors crouched on the Revenge’s foredeck. They were waiting to leap on to the larger vessel. Flat explosions of musket shots told him the Danes had opened fire, but he couldn’t see where their bullets struck. He felt the weight of the musket in his hands, thumbed back the lock and brought the weapon up to his shoulder as if to use it. But he already knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger while Jacques was held hostage. Instead he swung the muzzle of the gun menacingly, pretending to seek a target, and found himself staring over the gun’s sight at Cook. The buccaneer captain had moved forward to stand next to Jacques. Cook glanced up and must have seen Hector, for the buccaneer gave a sly smile and raised a finger to his forehead in a sarcastic salute.
The Revenge’s bowsprit was now so near that it was about to spear through the Carlsborg’s stern windows. At the last moment the buccaneer helmsman gave a deft touch, which laid his vessel alongside the stern quarter of the bigger ship with a grinding crash. A pair of light grappling hooks flew through the air and caught on the Carlsborg’s side rail. A moment later Cook’s men swarmed up.
There was the bang of a musket, then another. The Danish sailors had reloaded and were shooting downwards. Hector saw one of the buccaneers slip and fall back, tangling with one of his comrades. The two men tumbled back on to the Revenge’s foredeck. But the assault did not waver. Several musket balls whizzed past Hector’s head, fired from below by the boarders, but he ignored them. Deliberately he lowered his weapon. He was aware that neither Jezreel nor Dan had fired, either. The three of them had left the defence of the Carlsborg entirely to the Danes.