by Tim Severin
‘Get ready!’ said Hector quietly. ‘See you aboard . . . let’s go!’
He stood up and launched himself over the edge of the bank. The face of the bluff fell away in a steep slope, part sand, part gravel. The surface was loose and crumbly, and he felt his bare feet slipping and slithering. He plunged onward, concentrating on keeping his balance. It was impossible to control his speed. The angle of the slope made him set one foot after the other just to keep himself upright. He could hear the sound of his companions as they too pelted down the hill. Belatedly he realised that he should have told them to swerve a little from side to side as they ran, to put the musketeers off their mark. But there was no sound of a shot. As yet they had not been seen.
He was almost at the bottom of the slope when he heard the shouts. Hector took another dozen strides before the explosion of the first musket shot. A moment later, there came the sound of a volley. He thought there was the sound of a musket ball whizzing past, but his breath was coming in great gasps so he could not be sure. He glanced around to see if anyone had been hit. To his shock he realised that he was the slowest runner of the four. Dan was several yards ahead of him to his left, and Bourdon was close behind him. Karp was level with him, a little distance away and running steadily.
Now they were on the level ground of the shoreline itself. The hardened mud of the beach was beneath the soles of his feet. It was easier to run without the fear of tripping or losing balance. The baked river mud stretched out before him, and he found himself wondering at the regular surface of plate-like cracks. He ran on.
He glanced to his left towards the rowing boat. The two men in it had heard the shots, and turned to see what was happening. They were resting on their oars. The boat had come to a standstill. In a few moments the current would catch it and it would begin to drift downstream. Hector hoped that the current would not take it out of reach.
His legs were tiring now and he could feel the air harsh in his throat. He forced himself to concentrate on taking steady strides. Soon he would be at the water’s edge, and then in the shallows.
Without warning his right foot broke through the crusted mud. In a shocking plunge his right leg dropped straight down into the slime beneath. It was as if he had stepped into thin air. He was thrown forward and sideways and slammed face down, the breath knocked out of him. As he fell, he felt an agonising pain in his ankle. He twisted to one side, desperately trying to free his leg, grimacing at the fierce, lancing pain, and he remembered what the coffle’s blind guide had said: a camel was uninjured when its foot broke through a crusted salt pan, but a horse would break its leg.
He looked up to see what had happened to his companions. Both Dan and Bourdon had turned back. They had seen him collapse. Now, to his mingled dismay and relief, they were hurrying towards him.
‘Here, let me get you back on your feet,’ offered Dan. He bent down and seized him by an arm. A moment later the Frenchman was on his other side, and had grasped him around the waist. Together they began to tug him clear. ‘Leave me,’ Hector gasped. His leg was buried up to mid thigh. ‘Run for yourselves. I’ll be able to manage.’
They ignored him.
‘Here, put an arm over my shoulder,’ Dan ordered. Working with Jacques, he wrenched Hector bodily upward. The trapped leg came out of the mud like a rotten tooth from its socket.
Several more muskets shots. Hector was amazed that no one had been hit. He tried to put his right foot on the ground, and gasped in agony. He almost fell again. Together his two friends began to carry him towards the water’s edge, Hector’s right leg trailing uselessly behind him.
‘I said, leave me! I’ll manage.’ He spoke through clenched teeth.
Again they ignored him.
‘Leave me, please!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘Three of us together make an easy target.’
Now he became aware of Karp. The Bulgar also had abandoned his headlong dash for the river, and had come to join them. He was hovering nearby, anxious to assist. Another musket shot rang out. It could not be long before one of them was struck down.
‘Karp! Run on,’ Hector pleaded. ‘Get to the boat. There’s nothing you can do.’
To his astonishment, Karp raised his hand in some sort of salute. Then he turned and began to run. But he did not run towards the shore. He ran directly towards the red-robed Moor still waiting at the landing place. As he ran he let out a great raw screech and began to flail his arms. He was like a madman, half-naked and howling with rage. There was a single musket shot, then a brief lull in the firing as the hidden musketeers decided what they should do.
In that pause Dan and Bourdon reached the shallows, with Hector hanging between them. The rowing boat was forty yards away, still motionless. As Hector felt the splash of water, he turned his head to see what was happening to Karp. The Bulgar was less than twenty paces from the man in the red burnous. Several of the other Moors had jumped up from behind the tree trunk and were running forward. The chieftain’s bodyguards had panicked at the terrifying sight. They were fleeing. Karp screeched again, a long piercing howl which could be heard clearly, and bounded forward like a wild beast. The remaining musketeers had gathered their wits and took him as their target. There came a ragged volley. Karp was impossible to miss. Several musket balls must have struck him for he sank down on one knee.
As Bourdon and Dan lifted Hector farther into the river, the boldest of the Moors ran forward, sword in hand. Hector had a last glimpse of Karp as the scimitar swung up in the air and came slicing down towards the Bulgar’s head.
Hector turned back towards the rowing boat. It was much closer. The two oarsmen were blacks. ‘Help us!’ Hector shouted.
His companions dragged him to where the water was up to their chests. Bourdon the non-swimmer could go no farther.
There was a peculiar whirring noise, closely matched by a gunshot. Hector realised that he was hearing the sound of a musket ball skipping off the water. The musketeers had turned their attention back to the fugitives now they had dealt with Karp. The range was too great for accuracy, but they were taking random shots, hoping to make a lucky hit. For a moment Hector felt like ducking out of sight beneath the surface of the river, but he knew it was futile. The gunmen would simply wait until he reappeared, then shoot. It was better to try to swim out of range. But he could not abandon Bourdon. Despite the excruciating pain in his leg, he and Dan would have to pull the Frenchman along with them as they swam.
Hector clenched his teeth. Every time he moved his injured leg, he felt a stab of pain from his ankle. Bourdon was reluctant to move out of his depth. ‘Come on, Jacques,’ Hector snapped angrily. ‘Dan and I will hold you up. Trust us.’ The Frenchman took a deep breath and floundered forward. He had the clumsy movements of a man who had never learned to swim properly. Hector reached out to hold his head out of water, and he was aware that Dan was supporting Jacques on the other side.
They made little progress. Bourdon was too frightened to relax. His frantic struggles only hindered them. Another musket ball struck the water just beside them – Hector saw the splash – and then went whirring onward.
Suddenly he felt Bourdon begin to sink. For a second he thought that the Frenchman had been hit. Then he knew that Dan had let go. Dan was swimming away.
Hector felt a brief surge of anger and disappointment. He had never expected Dan to abandon them. Then he looked up and saw that Dan was swimming strongly out into the river. He was heading towards the ship’s boat. It had stopped. One rower had dropped his oar in fright. The other rower was shouting at him.
Dan reached the rowboat. He gripped the gunwale and in one smooth wriggling movement had hauled himself aboard. He pushed the frightened oarsman aside and took his place. He barked an order at the man beside him, and began to spin the little craft. The musket fire from the beach had slackened. Hector wondered if perhaps the Moors were running out of powder and bullets. He concentrated on keeping Bourdon’s head above water until Dan had brought the little rowing bo
at close enough for him to grab on. He let go of Bourdon, who seized the boat so desperately that he nearly capsized it. With Hector pushing from below and Dan hauling him up, they hoisted Jacques into the boat, and a moment later the Frenchman was flopping on the floor boards like a landed fish. Then Hector pulled himself aboard.
The boat was over-loaded and sluggish in the water. Looking back towards the shore, Hector thought he could make out Karp’s body lying on the strand. There was the puff of smoke from a musket, but the bullet flew wide. A group of Moors was clustering around one of the dugout canoes. With the help of some blacks, they were beginning to shift it down the beach. Dan had been right. The dugout was an awkward burden, and they were making slow progress. There was still time to reach the anchored vessel.
Bourdon had recovered from his fright. He began to search for something to help the oarsmen. There was a wooden paddle lying half hidden in the bottom of the boat. The Frenchman tugged out the paddle and began to take great scoops at the water. The speed of the little boat increased. They were almost out of musket range.
Moments later they had reached the anchored vessel. Her side was low enough for them to scramble aboard without difficulty. On deck there were the usual heaps of rope, some sacks, wooden buckets. But no sign of life.
A musket shot, and this time the musket ball slapped into the side of the ship. The Moors had succeeded in launching their dugout, and it was now being paddled out from the beach. There was a single marksman in the bow. He had fired the shot. There must have been a dozen men in the leading dugout, and a second canoe was being launched.
Dan sprang into action. He ran forward to the bow, and began to throw off the coils of the anchor line. But the knots had jammed. He turned towards one of the two black men who had come aboard with them, and mimed a cutting gesture. The negro understood him at once. He groped under a piece of sacking. A moment later he produced a long-bladed knife and running up to the bows began to saw through the anchor line. The first strands sprang up as they were severed. The river current was so strong that the anchor line was taut as an iron bar. Half a dozen more strokes of the blade, and the anchor cable parted. Hector felt the vessel fall back as the current took hold of her.
‘Come on,’ Dan was standing at the foot of the mast beckoning. He had a rope in his hand. ‘Here haul on this! Jacques, you help him.’ Hector limped over and took the rope. Dan and the two blacks had begun to unfasten the bands which held the sail along the boom. Then he and Bourdon heaved on their rope and the upper spar rose, the sail opening beneath it. The blacks and Dan joined them and added their weight. There was no one at the helm so the boat was spinning slowly in the current. The riverbank was sliding past and above their heads the sail flapped three or four times. The gap between the vessel and the pursuing dugout was widening. ‘Almost there now,’ called Dan. ‘Make fast!’
The vessel began to gather pace. Looking aft, Hector saw the paddlers in the dugout had given up the chase. They were turning back to shore.
‘THERE WAS MUCH sickness on the ship,’ said a deep, husky voice. Hector swung round in surprise. The speaker was one of the blacks who had rescued them. The man noted his astonishment. ‘My name is Benjamin. I speak French and Portuguese also as I work with the foreign ships on the coast. When you ran down the hill, I thought you are runaway slaves so I wanted to help. I too was a slave once. Now I have been given my freedom. The foreign sailors call me a Laptot.’
‘We were slaves too, at one time.’
Now it was Benjamin’s turn to be taken aback. ‘Your dark-skinned friend here was a slave, that I understand. But I have never met white slaves before.’
‘We have reason to be grateful to you. Thank you for picking us up.’
Benjamin regarded him hopefully. ‘You are a ship’s captain?’
‘No. The most I’ve ever been is a captain’s secretary, or a galley slave. I’ve never been in charge of any ship.’
‘This ship needs a captain. The old one is dead, and so are the first and second mates. All died from the sickness. That is why we were anchored. We did not know what to do. Maybe it is your turn to help us.’
Benjamin went on to explain that he and his companion, another Laptot, had been hired when the sloop called at the Residence of St Louis, the French trading station at the river mouth. The two of them had helped bring the vessel upriver until, two weeks into their journey, a fever had broken out aboard. The hard-driving captain had refused to turn back. He insisted on proceeding until finally the crew were so short-handed that they had been forced to anchor and wait for the sickness to abate. But the fever had raged all the more fiercely. One by one the foreign crew had died until only the two Laptots were left alive. Unable to handle the vessel by themselves, they had been marooned.
‘What about the cargo?’ Hector asked.
‘We have touched nothing,’ Benjamin answered. ‘I will show you.’
Hector hobbled behind him as the Laptot led the way to a hatch, opened it, and disappeared below. As Hector’s eyes got accustomed to the gloom in the hold, he had a vivid recollection of the interior of the ship in which he had been carried away by Hakim Reis. But what he saw now was different. Along each side of the hull were built rows of shelves as if in a trading post. On them were stacked what looked like trade goods. There were bundles of chintz cloth, axe heads, knives, and iron agricultural tools, trays of brass medals. But many of the shelves were bare. They also seemed unnecessarily wide and the gap between them was barely eighteen inches.
‘Our captain had planned to go far upriver where there had been a native war. He was sure he would fill the shelves. He had already laid in stocks of food and water for the captives.’
Hector realised that he was looking at the interior of a slave ship. The wooden shelves were where the slaves would lie during the long passage to the Americas.
‘Where did the captain keep his papers?’
Benjamin showed him into a small cabin in the stern of the vessel. A quick search of the dead captain’s documents revealed that the vessel was the L’Arc-de-Ciel from La Rochelle. There were maps and charts of the west coast of Africa, of the mid-Atlantic, and the Caribees. There was no doubt that L’Arc-de-Ciel was a slaver.
Benjamin and Hector returned on deck. It was growing dark. Soon there would be the short tropical dusk, then nightfall. ‘Should we anchor for the night?’ Hector asked Dan. The Miskito seemed confident in his ship handling.
Dan shook his head. ‘Our remaining anchor is not heavy enough to hold us in this current. With a little moonlight we should be able to avoid the mudbanks. We had best keep going.’
Hector turned to the Laptot. ‘How far to the mouth of the river? When we get to St Louis, we can put you and your companion ashore. But we cannot visit the place there ourselves. One of us,’ he nodded towards Bourdon, ‘is a rowing slave who has run away. His former masters were French and would seize him.’
Benjamin looked doubtful. ‘What will happen to the ship?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hector. ‘My friends and I are hoping to go to the Americas.’
Bourdon spoke up. ‘Then why don’t we try to sail this boat all the way?’
Hector looked at Dan. ‘Is that possible?’
Dan thought for a long time before replying. ‘It could be,’ he said cautiously. ‘We’ll need good weather. And our greatest difficulty is that we are so few aboard. Jacques, Hector and myself – that’s not enough to manage the ship.’
‘Then take us with you,’ said Benjamin suddenly. Hector blinked in surprise. Benjamin spoke urgently to his companion in their own language, then turned back to face the others.
‘If we return to St Louis, the governor will want to know what has happened to the ship. We will be accused of failing in our duty to the captain, or even of killing him and the foreign crew. We may be hung and certainly we will lose our freedom and be sold again as slaves.’
‘Can’t you go ashore somewhere else, not at the Residence?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are many sandbanks and mud shoals where the river runs into the sea. Ships can come in and out when the river is in flood, but now it is almost too late. This is the season when the sea breaks heavily on the bar, and it is very dangerous. It needs local knowledge to find a way through the obstacles and a travado to help us.’
‘A travado?’
‘A great gale of wind from the north-east, from the desert. The wind blows opposite to the sea, and drives back the waves. Also the ship is pressed forward and crosses the bar quickly.’
‘Then we must all hope for a travado.’
Benjamin appeared to hesitate, then asked, ‘Once we are out to sea, who will show us the way, who will navigate the ship? You said you were not a ship’s captain, but now you are sounding like one.’
Hector found himself saying nervously, ‘I’ve never navigated a ship before. But I think I can learn.’
WITH THE RIVER CURRENT sweeping her along, L’Arc-de-Ciel took less than a week to reach the bar at St Louis. Hector spent much of the time studying the dead captain’s sea charts and trying to understand his navigation instruments. The main item was a mystifying device as long as his arm and carefully stored in a cherrywood box. Its open frame supported two wooden arcs engraved with degrees of angle. Three small vanes were attached to each of the arcs, and he found he could slide the vanes back and forth. One of them was fitted with a lens. Puzzled, he took the instrument on deck and tried to use it. But it defied logic. He held the instrument up to his eye and tried looking through the lens. Then he slid the vanes to different positions. The angles they recorded made no sense. He turned the device around, and tried looking through it the other way. Still nothing worked. Bourdon strolled over to see what he was doing, and commented that he had seen an architect using something similar when he had visited the building work at Versailles. ‘It’s for measuring angles,’ he commented. ‘I know that already,’ snapped Hector, increasingly frustrated. ‘If I could use it to find the angle of the sun or of the north star, then it would be better than the astrolabe I learned to use among the Turks. There’s a book of tables among the captain’s possessions which gives the height of the sun or the star at different locations at different times of the year. With that knowledge I might even be able to take us to the Caribees.’