He stopped and mopped his brow, running as it was with rivers of sweat, his shirt drenched through and the smell of alcohol on it rank.
He surveyed Table Bay beyond the town, grunted and turned to begin the descent toward Schoenmaaker’s Bay and the dinghy beached there.
“I’m getting used to this place and tired of the sea. I’ll be the boss then, the boss of all discipline in the colony. The plan is all worked out, you see… and there is something in it for you too. I’ve grown to like you. Even respect you, respect you as much as a man of breeding can respect, you know…”
He waved absently toward Chikunda as if he didn’t wish to insult him by voicing his thoughts.
“With Vermaak gone, I can do things my way. With age I’ve come to understand myself.”
With the ascent behind him, he was gaining strength, slapping the club into his palm as if he were acting out the dream that ran behind his eyes, glazed and euphoric in the laying out of a bright future.
“I'm an artist. I’ve found how a man lives, and how he dies, and where the line is between them. It is a secret of my trade that I will share with you. Who knows… times are changing fast. There may come a day when I’ll set you free—that’s if I decide not to sell you now. And right now, I must admit… it is appealing.”
It was at this instant that Chikunda realized the man was insane and possessed by the devils that came from the whores. The devils that had steadily been ravaging the Bosun’s appearance—corroding his skin, pocking it with infection and worsening his mood with the corruption likely rotting his bones.
The realization had scared Chikunda in a way he had never been scared in his life before. Not scared of the physical man, but afraid for his own soul, his own Christian soul. The Bosun had halted, his eyes glazed, envisioning his new life and galloping ambitions. Then he began to amble again, down the path as it wound in the cool shade of the mid-morning through the glen with the blue of the Atlantic twinkling through trees.
It was as if he was possessed by another soul, one with no knowledge of the cruelties he’d so vigorously visited upon Chikunda from the outset and until this day. Or at least, until he was blind drunk.
“My finances, I confess, well, they’re not the best. Your friends, the two hundred we salvaged from the holds of the slaver and sold? They fetched a fair price. The Captain, bless him, was a man of honour who met the debts to the crew. They used their wage to sail on out within the month. Me? I rented the house from a widow. Paid up front for the half year. Enjoyed myself at the tavern and beyond, and why not, eh? But time is running out. There’s the rent to pay again. Our fine work as assistants in keeping order produces good drinking money. And there’s the thing I’ve been impressing upon you, to get on with it. The promotion with Vermaak out of the way will—well, I’ll live comfortably.”
He put his hand on Chikunda’s shoulder and a shudder went through Chikunda. His urge was to pull away in horror, but bravery is in overcoming fear, not the absence of it and prudence is the better part of valour. These had been his mother’s teachings to him from his first memory of her, so he kept his pace and route unchanged.
He walked with that hand on his shoulder, his skin crawling.
It had the heftiness and chill of a viper lying there.
“My language, the one you speak, Portuguese. It has its roots somewhere, you know.” The Bosun went on a tangent. “It came from a city called Rome. That city once ran an empire. Now, the rulers of that empire had the right idea. They allowed artists like me to clean up the place by putting on vast theatre for the population. And that is what I intend here, once I have my way. More than that, I have calculated a commission for my work and a schedule for how we shall be paid. An ordinary whipping, and we’ll get paid one fee. Strangulation, another fee. My top fee earner will be breaking on the wheel.”
And he looked positively ghoulish, clearly enjoying Chikunda’s alarm at the details.
“It’s doubtful you’ve had the pleasure of knowing what that is, but I’m a master at it. We fix our prisoner to a wheel. Well, to be sure, it is more of a cross than a wheel, but you get the idea. And then begin with a hammer out at the extremities, breaking the bones as we reach the body. I’ll leave you to think it through.”
They came to a switchback in the path. Chikunda remembered it from his ascent after beaching the boat. Below them, he could see the path returning in their direction and then another switchback to make it an ‘S’, turning away again back toward the sea and a final descent on to the beach.
“Centuries ago, in my land, we had a purge of witches. Most people don’t appreciate the truth of what drove that effort. Yes. Some women were possessed and the priests were right to convict them, but an entire economy arose around it. You see, as you know and agree, I am an artist in these matters of torture and death. But I am also a learned man.”
His insanity was now clear for Chikunda to see. His voice a note higher in octave, his excitement palpable.
“I have the gift of reading, and I have made it my business to study these matters. Let me explain to you the economics of the witch trials and the kind of commissions I borrow from them, and intend to propose to the Governor. I share this with you because you are becoming my partner in this.”
He cleared his throat as if to deliver a sermon.
“Let me tell you this history and teach you the business. In 1765, around the time I was born, the celebrated jurist, William Blackstone, in his Commentaries on the Laws of England—a country that influences all Europe—asserted, ‘To deny the possibility, nay, actual existence of witchcraft and sorcery is at once flatly to contradict the revealed word of God in various passages of both the Old and New Testament.’”
He looked at Chikunda with the madness raging in his eyes and Chikunda felt the urge required of him to nod agreement.
“Good. Now, that harks to the original promulgated by Pope Innocent the Eighth who, in fourteen eighty-four, appointed Messieurs Kramer and Sprenger to write a comprehensive analysis, using the full academic armoury available to them.”
The more he recited this grisly citation, the more the excitement of it seemed to sober his earlier ill appearance.
“With exhaustive citations of scripture and of ancient and modern scholars, they produced the Malleus Maleficarum, the Hammer of Witches. This will mean little to you, but it is aptly described as a most terrifying document. What it comes down to, you see, is that if you’re accused of witchcraft, you’re a witch. Torture is the unfailing means, especially vigorously applied, to demonstrate the validity of the accusation. Under that just law, there are no rights for the defendant, of course. There is no opportunity to confront the accusers. Little attention is given to the possibility that the accusations might be made for impious purposes such as jealousy, revenge, or the greed of the inquisitors. Because—and this is the cornerstone of my proposal and why I am explaining to you how I will become wealthy—the best part of the law is that the inquisitor is given the right to confiscate for his own private use and benefit, the property of the accused. Do you understand? If I get this proposal right, I will be able to confiscate the property of anyone I can convict of a crime.”
Chikunda nodded dumbly. This ancient church law was a vision of hell that he had never been taught in the Mission. It’s proposal now, even in a brutal town, seemed insane.
“This manual, the Malleus, taught me all I know about punishment. It was designed to release demons from the victim’s body before the process kills her. Of course, that may be the case, I don’t know, but it is a crowd pleaser that recalls the greatness of Rome in Europe.”
The Bosun put his hand again on Chikunda’s shoulder and a fresh bolt of horror racked his whole body, down to the soles of his feet.
“The truth is, it became an expense account fraud. You see, all costs of investigation, of trial, and indeed of execution were borne by the accused or her relatives, down to the private detectives hired to spy on her, wine for her guards, banquet
s for her judges, the travel expenses of a messenger sent to fetch a more experienced torturer from another city, and the faggots, tar, and hangman’s rope. Sounds good, no? Some will need adaptation in this gentler age, but you get the idea.”
A word left Chikunda’s mouth, but he didn’t know what it said, his mind was numb.
“This is where my plan can work, a bonus to the members of the tribunal for each prisoner we deal with. We get paid, and I make a donation back to the accusers and judges friendly to the idea. And here is why it will work: The more who, under torture, confess to their heinous sins, the harder it becomes to maintain that the whole business is not necessary, you follow? Since each accused will be persuaded to implicate others, the numbers grow out of hand. This is the benefit of being an educated man like me. To devise a beautiful plan for doing business by mere adaptation of what was already laid out for us all those centuries past.”
They were beyond the switchback and on the final descent.
“How shall we increase our work? Where shall we find ever more condemned to be sent to our tender mercies? Well, what about the ship and its survivors that you so valiantly saved? There are many plying these waters, making their way from dear England around this coast to Australia. I suggest we offer them an alternative here, in this colony, allowing the ship to return in half the time to replenish its load. Then there is the Bushmen question that ought to be seen to, with a decisive hand. A whole continent full of kaffirs like you, slow to learn and quick to anger. The prices for our attentions would be lower, but that is no matter—our costs are already fixed, eh? And your arm does not easily tire.”
Waves of nausea were washing through Chikunda at what this madman was proposing and intending to embroil him in.
It was as if Jack understood, as well. He traipsed further behind, his head and tail hanging low, scowling a lament.
But the Bosun was so lost in the fantasy world he was describing that he failed to notice anything else.
“You can see why I need a stout fellow like you,” he said to Chikunda in most flattering terms. “The work will be long and drawn out, but very satisfying and lucrative.”
And they walked on in silence, thoughts reverberating within Chikunda’s mind as if they were themselves devils looking for a place to take their root.
“But then there is the question of the woman.”
Those words were like a cold hard slap in the face to Chikunda.
“Were I to abandon this dream, sell you and purchase a new life back home, I’d of course take her, as she’d be quite a novelty where I come from.”
He was speaking absently, asking the question of himself aloud, as if Chikunda wasn’t there. Contemplating it as he would an option to transport any ordinary head of livestock or divest of it in a more profitable way.
“But we both know what the newborn will look like, don’t we?” he addressed Chikunda directly. “A little frizzy head and nowhere near my skin tone. And that’s not the kind of truth I want following me. Though with your fine physique, I could cultivate the child for a few years and then get a decent price but I’m not sure that the investment would be worth the profit.”
Chikunda’s vision started to waver. He’d never experienced a sensation like it. There was a flapping in his ears like a vast flock of birds was taking off about him. His view ahead began to close in from his periphery, night time coming from the edges. Only a tunnel of light stretched directly before him, wobbling fast back and forth, as if the scene was coming toward him and receding all in the same instant.
The Bosun’s voice seemed to hum, slowing and slurring. There was a feeling of faintness washing through Chikunda’s body, sweat prickling all over.
“…so the buyer from Swellendam,” the Bosun was chatting cheerily, “will collect her within a fortnight, and…”
“What?” Chikunda found that he had halted, and was looking down at the Bosun who stopped also but did not turn his face towards him, only cocking his eye to look up at the tall black man as if surprised he could talk.
“What?” Chikunda heard himself ask again, his fists beginning to ball.
“The deal is concluded, you see. No more friction then between us.”
The sound was like lightning coming out of the sky and shattering his eardrums. In its wake, the Bosun had hit the ground with his spine first and Chikunda was over him, ready to deliver another blow, but something made him hold it back. He allowed the Bosun to sit up. The man came up on one hand, the fingertips of his other examining the void in his mouth where three teeth had been only moments before. And then he wiped his mouth with the back of that hand and examined the smear of blood, pouring as it was from the roots vacant roots of teeth ripped out by the blow.
“You will die for this, boy,” he said low and growling. “I will kill you slowly!” It built to a roar from that barrel chest.
Chikunda hit him again, now out of self-defence, to keep him down.
He rolled over and over and came up fast—much faster than Chikunda had imagined this man could move. He came swarming in, swinging the heavy club, aiming for Chikunda’s hands, his elbows and knees. It was as if he had been trained in the same stick fighting that Chikunda was an expert in. He understood to ignore the natural head shot that came as instinct to any man and rather go for the vulnerable joints and limbs.
Chikunda was like a panther, leaping aside, making him miss and desperately looking for a weapon to protect himself.
A fallen branch was five paces away. As he grabbed it, the Bosun was on him, landing a glancing blow off his thigh with the club. He rode it and took most of the sting out of the blow.
“You’re a dead man,” the Bosun was saying over and over again, his eyes demented and red froth boiling out of his mouth from the exertions of the attack.
Chikunda parried the next club blow with an overhand sweep of the branch and reversed the thrust, coming up and under the Bosun’s over-extension in that miss. He hit him across that ugly, red, swollen drinker’s nose and a fine mist of blood puffed out in an arc.
The rotten branch snapped, one half spinning into the distance.
Chikunda dropped the stump he was holding and fled.
“You’re a dead man!” The Bosun’s eyes seemed to be swivelling in his head, the force of the blow making him stagger.
Jack was in a frenzy, the scruff of his neck bristling with hair, his barking an insistent clamour.
The Bosun swung the club at the dog and he ran away with his hind legs overtaking his front but turned and came nipping back in.
“No, Jack… get away!” Chikunda was yelling.
And then from his breeches and under his shirt, the Bosun produced a dagger, its blade proportions the size and shape of a flat hand, black and lethal.
“I’m going to cut your balls off, boy. I’m going to make you eat them, and then I’m going to feed that big black cock to your whore.”
Chikunda turned and ran.
He ran for his life, Jack with him as if it were a sudden game.
“I’m going to get you!” the thing was roaring from behind. “And when I get you, I will do it slowly…. I’m right behind you, look behind you!”
Chikunda could hear that the man was losing ground, Jack going back to snarling and then racing to catch up again. Chikunda needed the demon to lose ground. He needed as much distance as he could get to survive this.
He was off the path and bushwhacking, heading for a prominent granite outcrop.
Behind him he heard the Bosun fall, going down heavily, but he did not look back.
When the Bosun’s threats resumed, he sounded out of breath and quite distant.
Chikunda dived into the rocky formation, hitting the granite boulder a glancing blow with his head that had him seeing a private light show. He slid in on his knees under an overhang.
There, he fought mightily, ripping out small piled rocks with his bare hands, the white of his skinned flesh showing where the black of his skin was ripped away by
the frantic efforts to dig.
The sound of the Bosun’s voice was closing fast now, his ragged breathing audible in his shouts.
The bundle came out of the hole at that instant.
Chikunda felt the distinctive handle grip.
He grabbed the corner of the fabric and the contents spun, the wrapping unpeeling.
Out fell the swords just as Jack’s barking announced the Bosun.
With a whooooosh, the silver length of the katana flashed in the sunlight as the Bosun came barrelling in, his club high and ready to crush Chikunda’s skull.
The blade flew and caught the club at its midpoint.
Chikunda barely felt the impact as the blade went through it in one sweep.
Staggered by the sudden turn of advantage, the Bosun stared at the stump of club he was still holding and then stared at the sword.
“You have one choice left in your miserable life, but you don’t have the balls for it, boy.”
Chapter 10
Chikunda reached the boat and laid the Bosun down gently beside it.
Jack was trotting gaily alongside now, his mood entirely lifted.
Chikunda looked about.
It was deserted. Beach sand as white as salt and just as fine stretched to the shoreline under a crisp blue sky. Not a single track of footfalls betrayed any hint of visitor to this magnificent bay.
He sat down heavily onto the upturned boat, pulled up as it was beyond the white sand and laid in the hardy bush where the dirt began. He surveyed again with surreal disbelief the handiwork of that sword.
With his club severed through by a single blow, the Bosun had challenged Chikunda with not having the nerve to do it.
He’d goaded him, saying how he’d fucked his wife and this slave-minded man had done nothing.
Cornered and with terror obliterating his mind, Chikunda felt welded to the spot. He wanted only to be away, and, yes, he was terrified of this man and the consequences that would already be coming for what he had done.
The Reckoning (Slave Shipwreck Saga Book 2) Page 11