‘So!’ snarled Duarte. ‘Senhor Coffin was right about you! You are a spy!’ He quickly pulled his pistol from its holster. ‘No tricks. Keep your hands where I can see them.’
‘Certainly.’ Killigrew raised his hands.
Duarte crossed the cabin and came around the desk, keeping his pistol on Killigrew the whole time. He gestured for Killigrew to back away from the desk. ‘There’s a perfectly good explanation for all this,’ said Killigrew. ‘But I’m sure it will sound better coming from your lips, Captain Madison,’ he added, with a nod of acknowledgement towards the door.
Duarte only half-turned before he realised he had been tricked, but it was all the time Killigrew needed. He snatched the bottle of aguardiente from the top of the safe and smashed it over Duarte’s head.
The boatswain straightened and turned away from the desk, the liquor running down his face. He levelled the pistol between Killigrew’s eyes and pulled the trigger.
Killigrew did not even flinch. ‘I’ve yet to see the pistol that still worked after the kind of drenching we’ve both had.’
Duarte threw the pistol at his head. Killigrew ducked and then lunged at the boatswain’s throat with the jagged remains of the bottle. Duarte knocked his arm aside with one hand and drove his other into Killigrew’s stomach.
It was like being butted by a charging bull. Killigrew doubled up in agony. Then Duarte caught him by the arm and dashed his wrist against the side of the safe. Killigrew dropped the broken bottle. Duarte lifted his knee into his face, smashing his head back against the safe door.
Killigrew slumped to the deck. Duarte reached down and seized him by the lapels, lifting him to his feet once more. The boatswain was bigger and stronger than Killigrew and furthermore he had not spent the past hour climbing about the rigging in a force-twelve hurricane, or swimming in tempest-tossed seas. Killigrew knew that if he was going to survive this encounter then he was going to have to kill Duarte as quickly as possible, while his little remaining strength held out.
He drove one fist into the boatswain’s stomach with all his might, and then the other. Duarte grunted, and then hoisted Killigrew’s feet clean off the deck, swinging him around and slamming him against the far bulkhead. Killigrew punched him on the jaw, snapping his head around, but when it came back to face the young Cornishman it was still smiling. Duarte punched him in the stomach again, following it up with a hammer-like blow to the back of the neck as he doubled up.
Barely conscious, Killigrew fell face down on the deck and tried to crawl away. Duarte stood over him and rolled him on his back before wrapping his massive hands around Killigrew’s throat, squeezing.
Killigrew felt himself choking. He flailed wildly at the boatswain’s torso, but it was like trying to dig a tunnel through a mountainside with his fists. His vision swam and he felt himself suffocating as Duarte increased the pressure on his windpipe.
A red mist filled Killigrew’s eyes. He fumbled blindly about him on the deck for something he could use as a weapon, anything. His searching fingers found the pistol. He gripped it by the butt and thumbed back the hammer.
Duarte laughed. ‘That won’t do you any good, inglese. Wet powder, remember?’
Killigrew brought the pistol up between Duarte’s legs with his final reserves of strength until it slammed hard against the boatswain’s crotch. Then he pulled the trigger. The hammer fell and Duarte screamed in agony. He released Killigrew and the Englishman broke away and pulled himself to his feet.
He snatched up a chair and brought it down against Duarte’s head. It was the boatswain’s neck rather than the sturdy chair which snapped, silencing his screams.
Killigrew quickly closed the door and prayed that the noise of the storm had muffled the sounds of the struggle from the rest of the ship. If it had not, he was a dead man. But if he did not move quickly he was a dead man anyway. He opened the windows at the rear of the cabin. In the flashes of lightning he could see that the seas were still mountainous; no sooner had he opened the shutters behind the window than a wave crashed against the stern, drenching him.
He picked up Duarte and dragged him across to the window. It was almost impossible to fit him through. ‘Why the devil couldn’t I have got into a fight with Pereira?’ he wondered out loud. He gave a final push and the corpse popped out like a cork out of a champagne bottle to be swallowed up by the sea.
Killigrew closed the shutters and the windows behind them, turning to survey the cabin. It was a mess, but no more than could be accounted for by storm damage. Ditto his own face, which he supposed was no oil painting after the beating Duarte had given it. An inch of water sloshed about his feet; Killigrew could only pray it would be put down to the water dripping through the tarpaulin over the smashed skylight.
He adjusted his neckcloth and returned to the sick bay. ‘What happened to you?’ asked Pereira, wide-eyed.
‘I slipped and fell in the dark as the ship lurched,’ Killigrew explained glibly. ‘Where’s Mr Coffin?’
‘He went back on duty. Said the ship needed him.’
‘The same goes for me.’
Killigrew went back on deck and found Madison and Coffin standing on the quarter-deck. Lightning still flashed in the heavens, but further away now, and the wind had died down to a shriek. Killigrew checked the compass and the dog-vane to make sure they were not in the eye of the storm; if they were, then the worst was yet to come. To his relief he saw they still headed south-west while the wind came steadily off the starboard beam: they were out of danger and putting distance between them and the tornado with every passing minute.
‘What happened to you?’ grunted Coffin.
‘Slipped and fell,’ said Killigrew.
‘Holding the bottle of aguardiente, I suppose, since you haven’t brought it with you.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘I’m afraid the cabin’s rather a mess. That rogue wave must have smashed in the skylight. There’s glass and water all over the place.’
‘We can clean up in the morning,’ said Madison. ‘Where’s Mr Duarte?’
‘I don’t know. I left him with Mr Coffin in the sick bay.’
Madison glanced at Coffin, who shook his head. ‘He went out after Killigrew.’
‘He’s probably somewhere down below,’ said Madison.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ agreed Killigrew.
‘Coisa ho!’ cried the lookout at the masthead.
‘Coisa, coisa… what the devil is a “coisa”?’ Madison demanded.
‘It’s Portuguese for “thing”,’ offered Killigrew.
‘I’m aware of that, Mr Killigrew,’ Madison said irritably. ‘What I meant was, what kind of a “coisa” is he referring to?’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ Killigrew tilted back his head to call up to the lookout. ‘Where away?’
‘Fine on the port bow!’
Madison, Coffin and Killigrew levelled their telescopes in that direction and searched the horizon for the unidentified floating object, but saw nothing. ‘Has the fool been drinking?’ wondered Madison.
It was the morning after the storm. The sky was clear and the air fresh, the waves choppy. The dawn had revealed the full damage to the Leopardo: both to the ship itself and to its crew. In addition to the man who had been killed in his plunge to the deck, three men were missing and presumed swept overboard, Duarte included. Now the crew were hard at work trying to jury-rig the spars and rigging to compensate for the loss of the foremast and the jib-boom. With her spread of canvas thus reduced, the Leopardo was making poor speed as she resumed her south-easterly run to the Guinea Coast. Now she responded sluggishly to her helm and was almost impossible to steer. Madison would have given anything to have lost the mainmast rather than the foremast, but it had been the storm’s decision, not his, and there was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad job. In addition, the storm had sprung several timbers, and while the carpenter and sailmaker laboured to plug the gaps other crewmen worked at the bilge pump.
Killigrew realised he was making the mistake of looking for a ship, which in those conditions would have been visible the moment its sail rose above the horizon if the lookout were attentive. But the lookout had not cried ‘sail ho!’ but ‘coisa ho!’ Killigrew lowered his telescope accordingly, looking for something smaller. He found it almost at once.
‘It’s a mast.’
‘Ours?’ asked Madison.
‘If it is, it’s acquired some extra appurtenances.’ There were three figures clinging to the floating mast. Somehow Killigrew doubted they were the men missing from the Leopardo’s crew, unless Duarte had been blackballed from entry to Davy Jones’s locker.
‘Castaways,’ said Madison. ‘From some other ship that foundered in last night’s storm, I suppose.’
‘We should leave them,’ said Coffin. ‘The last thing we want is strangers sniffing around on board. We’ve already got one of those,’ he added, ‘and as far as I’m concerned that’s one too many.’
Madison said nothing, chewing over Coffin’s proposal as if giving it serious consideration. The suggestion was anathema to Killigrew. If the castaways were left to their fate their chances of survival would be non-existent that far out from the coast, and Killigrew had been brought up to believe it was the duty of every seaman to go to the help of those in peril on the sea regardless of all other considerations. But he was not sure a slave crew would operate under the same strictures.
‘We can’t leave them to die,’ he said. ‘It would be damned unchristian of us.’
Madison nodded reluctantly. ‘Mr Killigrew’s right, Eli. We can’t be like the priest and the Levite and pass on by. Matthew, chapter seven, verse twelve: “Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets.”’
‘And what if they find out we’re blackbirders?’ demanded Coffin. ‘As soon as we put them ashore we’ll have every navy vessel on the coast searching for us.’
‘Then we’ll have to make sure they don’t find out, won’t we?’ Madison said crisply, and turned to the crewman he had appointed boatswain in Duarte’s place. ‘Lower the jolly boat, Mr Covilhã. We’ll have that mast, too, to replace the one we lost last night. We’ll drop them off a few miles down the coast from Freetown, within easy walking distance of one of the settlements but not close enough to excite the attention of any navy vessels in the harbour there.’
As the jolly boat picked up the castaways, Killigrew was aware that for them it was a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. He was beginning to understand Madison’s warped idea of morality: while the slave captain would pick up castaways out of Christian charity, he would not hesitate to have them murdered later if that was the best way to protect his own interests. But with any luck it would not come to that.
As the Leopardo hove to alongside the floating mast, the jolly boat bumped against the brig’s side. There was a stir on deck as the hands gathered around the rail to help the three castaways over the bulwark, in particular the one that was female and pretty. They gathered around her, grinning inanely and knuckling their foreheads. But Killigrew was more concerned about the man who was barely conscious and had to be lifted over the rail. He seemed to be delirious, babbling away in a daze, quite oblivious to what was going on around him.
As the man was laid on the deck, Killigrew crouched over him. The man was in his late twenties, fair-haired, his smooth, pink face sunburned and now salt-blistered. He wore a dog collar.
The woman pushed her way through the crowd of sailors around her and Killigrew was aware of the hem of her dress at the edge of his vision, but he was too busy trying to ascertain what was wrong with the man to look up at her. ‘Oh, you will take care of my brother, won’t you, sir?’ she asked. Like her brother, she spoke with a distinct American accent. More damned Yankees, thought Killigrew.
‘We’ll do our best, ma’am,’ he said. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He got hit on the back of the head by a… by one of those things as our ship went down.’
Killigrew was finally forced to glance up at her. That she was the delirious man’s sister there could be no doubting, but the features looked better on her than they did on him, for all that her lips were blistered, her eyes gummed with sea salt, and her blonde hair straggled wetly across her shoulders.
She was pointing to a block and tackle in the ship’s rigging. Killigrew nodded. ‘That’s a block, ma’am.’
‘It’s “miss”, not “ma’am”,’ she told him.
‘Pleased to meet you, miss, though I wish it could be under more fortuitous circumstances. My name’s Killigrew, by the way. Kit Killigrew.’
‘We’re just glad that your ship came along when it did,’ said the woman. ‘This is my brother, the Reverend Chance.’
‘Which would make you…’
She nodded with a grimace. ‘Miss Chance. No jokes, please. Believe me, Captain Killigrew, I’ve heard them all.’ He found himself warming to her at once. ‘Then I’ll have to see if I can surprise you. And it’s just “mister”, I’m afraid, not “captain”. Captain Madison over there is the master of this vessel,’ he explained, pointing to where Madison stood on the quarter-deck with Coffin. Both of them were avoiding the castaways, perhaps fearing that their faces might be identified later.
He turned to the nearest sailor. ‘Carry the reverend down to the sick bay. Miss Chance, you and your friend here…’
The third castaway tugged his forelock. ‘Donohoe, sir, Able Seaman Clem Donohoe,’ he announced in an Irish brogue.
‘One-time navy?’ Killigrew asked him.
‘As is yourself, sir, unless I’m very much mistaken.’
The presence of an able seaman who had served on one of Her Majesty’s ships was a reassurance to Killigrew, a potential ally if things turned nasty. ‘Very well, Able Seaman Donohoe. You go below with Miss Chance here so the quack can make sure you’re both all right. I’ll have some hot food brought to you.’
As the three castaways were taken below, Killigrew turned to Doc. ‘Some hot broth, Mas’er Killigrew?’ suggested the cook.
‘Good idea, Doc.’
As the cook made his way to the galley, Killigrew crossed to where Madison and Coffin waited. ‘Well?’ demanded Madison.
‘Well what?’
‘What did you find out?’
‘The clergyman and the woman are brother and sister…’
‘We saw that much for ourselves,’ sneered Coffin.
‘The reverend received a blow to the head when their ship went down. He looks like he might be in a bad way. Their names are the Reverend and Miss Chance.’
‘Miss Chance!’ guffawed Coffin. ‘It was sure as hell a mischance that brought them on board this vessel.’
Killigrew smiled thinly. ‘Yes, well, if I were you I should avoid making that joke in her presence. I got the feeling she might not see the humorous side of it.’
‘What about the other one?’ Madison demanded impatiently.
‘His name’s Donohoe. An Irishman – from County Cork, unless I’m mistaken. He’s served in the navy.’
‘Another goddamn Limey tar,’ muttered Coffin.
Madison half-turned towards his chief mate. ‘Haven’t you got duties to be seeing to, Mr Coffin? Like getting that mast lashed up in place of the one we lost?’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ Coffin headed forward with a crooked grin.
‘You were saying about this Donohoe fellow?’ Madison asked Killigrew.
Killigrew shrugged. ‘I suppose he was a sailor on board their ship.’
‘Which was?’ asked Madison.
‘I didn’t enquire. They’ve all been through an unpleasant ordeal and I thought the first priority was to make them comfortable.’
‘Quite right, of course, Mr Killigrew. Ail the same, I’d feel a good deal happier if I knew a little bit more about them before I put them ashore.’
‘I’m sure they don’t represent any kind of threat—’
‘I’m sure they don’t intend to,’ Madison cut in firmly. ‘But of all the captains in the slave trade today, no one’s got a longer record of avoiding capture than me, and that’s because I take precautions. Find out more, Mr Killigrew.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘You seem to have a talent for… shall we say social chitchat? Putting on a polite face for the gentry?’
‘My grandfather made sure I was brought up correctly, if that’s what you mean.’
Madison gestured dismissively. ‘Whatever you want to call it. It was your suggestion that we pick them up instead of leaving them to their fate. I’m making you responsible for them. I’ll tell Mr Covilhã to have the men watch what they say when our “guests” are around. And I don’t want them sniffing around the hold, understood? They go in the sick bay, the officers’ accommodation or on deck, but nowhere else. If the reverend is indisposed he’d best stay in the sick bay, and I suppose Mr Donohoe had better sleep with the other lads. Miss Chance can have my cabin.’
‘And where will you sleep, sir?’
‘I’ll have your bunk, Mr Killigrew. You can bunk up with Pereira.’
‘What a delightful thought,’ Killigrew said drily.
‘And Killigrew?’
‘Sir?’
‘I guess Miss Chance might scrub-up real pretty. But I don’t want you trying to take advantage of her, you understand? Treat her with respect.’
Killigrew bridled. ‘You forget. I used to be an officer and a gentleman.’
‘I forget nothing. “Used to be” is right.’
Killigrew made his way down below. Half a dozen sailors crowded around the entrance to the sick bay. It was the first time any of them had seen a woman since they had left Liverpool, Madison having made sure that few of them left the ship at São Tiago and none of them had left the dockside. ‘Haven’t you men got work to do?’ snapped Killigrew. ‘Mr Coffin could do with a hand lashing up the new mast.’
‘Sîm, Senhor Killigrew.’ The men scurried away and Killigrew slipped into the sick bay. Pereira was examining the back of Reverend Chance’s head while Miss Chance sat on the chair, a rough blanket thrown around her shoulders. Donohoe sat near her on the floor. If the Leopardo was poorly equipped with medical facilities, it was infinitely better than other slavers Killigrew had encountered, most of which did not even carry a surgeon on their books in order to save on expense.
‘How is he?’ Killigrew asked Pereira in Portuguese.
‘Not good. He has a bad concussion, and fever too perhaps. I have given him a little laudanum to help him rest.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Miss Chance asked in English.
‘The surgeon’s doing his best for him,’ said Killigrew, and she nodded. ‘How about you two?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Well, still a little shaky maybe. I was ready to commend our souls unto God just before this ship turned up.’
‘Didn’t I tell you we’d be fine?’ said Donohoe.
‘How about you, Mr Donohoe?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Oh, I’ll be right as rain, Mr Killigrew sir. I’ve been shipwrecked before. It’ll take more than a few big waves to be putting an end to Clem Donohoe.’
‘Were there many others on board your ship?’
‘Seventeen of us in the crew, all told.’ Donohoe smiled wanly, although he was obviously upset at the thought he would never see his shipmates again. ‘The reverend father and Miss Chance here were our only passengers. I think maybe some of the others managed to get into one of the boats, but when she foundered she went down so fast…’ He let the sentence trail off and gestured helplessly, hopelessly.
‘Which ship was it?’
‘The Belinda Lovelace, out of New York. Bound for Sherbro Island with supplies and mail.’
‘My brother and I were on our way to join the American Mission there,’ explained Miss Chance.
Killigrew nodded. He knew Sherbro Island, or at least he had seen it a few times: a large island immediately off the Guinea Coast. It was there that the slaves who had revolted against their captors on board the La Amistad had settled after their trial in the United States had cleared them of the charges of mutiny and murder a few years earlier. Many of them had become Christians during their incarceration in the States, and they had helped the newly formed American Missionary Association set up the Mende Mission at Komende on the island.
‘I’ll see if I can persuade Captain Madison to drop you off there. It’s on our way.’ As a matter of fact the course Madison had plotted – which had yet to be completed – trailed off immediately to the west of Sherbro Island, and Killigrew knew that Madison would be far happier to drop off his passengers at a Christian mission than he would at a British Crown Colony and naval base.
Doc turned up with three bowls of steaming broth on a tray and handed two to Donohoe and Miss Chance. ‘What about him?’ he asked, nodding at the recumbent reverend.
‘He’ll be asleep for a few hours,’ said Pereira, taking the third bowl for himself. ‘A pity to let it go to waste. You can make him another bowl when he awakes.’
‘Doc, could you fetch our guests some dry clothes from the purser’s slops?’ suggested Killigrew, and the cook nodded and went out. ‘If you two are both comfortable, I’ll leave you to Senhor Pereira here.’
‘About accommodation…’ said Donohoe.
‘That’s been arranged,’ said Killigrew, and filled them in on the arrangements.
‘I’m sorry if we’re an imposition,’ said Miss Chance.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Killigrew told her with a smile.
He reported to Madison in his day cabin. The captain was already packing up his things to make room for Miss Chance. ‘Well?’ he grunted.
Killigrew related the gist of his conversation with Donohoe and Miss Chance, and Madison nodded. ‘We’ll make better time once Mr Coffin gets the new mast in place. We should be within sight of Sherbro Island in just over a week if all goes according to plan. You’d better get some rest now. I want you to take the middle watch tonight.’
‘Jesus!’ Killigrew gasped when he came up on deck to take over from Madison as officer of the watch.
Madison grinned, his face turned into a ghastly devil’s mask by the phosphorescence of the sea which cast its hideous glow over the ship. ‘You never seen this before, Mr Killigrew?’
‘After two years on the West Africa Station? But it still gives me the creeps.’
Above, the sky was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat, without a star to be seen in the heavens. A few lanterns swung above deck, but their illumination was hardly needed: the whole sea was aglow with phosphorescence, from horizon to horizon, a bright, eye-searing pale green. It looked as if they were sailing through a sea of fire.
‘Revelation, chapter fifteen, verse two: “And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire”.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘No wonder the ancients believed that a belt of flame circumscribed their world.’
‘I’ll bid you goodnight, Mr Killigrew. See you in the forenoon.’ Madison went below.
Killigrew was left alone on deck with the helmsman and the lookouts. Apart from the hideous glow of the sea, all was well: a strong breeze blew from the south-west, carrying the Leopardo towards her destination on a starboard tack. Despite the jury-rigged foremast, the vessel rode easily on the broad swell of the ocean.
Miss Chance emerged from the aft hatch. When she saw Killigrew she smiled at him, but knitted her brow at the peculiar quality of the light. As soon as she was fully out of the hatch she saw the sea and her expression changed to one of wonderment.
She crossed to where he stood, treading carefully on the deck as if she feared that the ship might vanish from beneath her and plunge her into the glowing sea. She was dressed in clothes from the purser’s slops, outsized and baggy on her slight figure, making her look even smaller and more vulnerable. She had somehow managed to wash her hair, and while she had been unable to have it properly coiffed, it spilled across her shoulders in a way which was natural and attractive.
‘Am I dreaming?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. ‘Phosphorescence, miss. It looks eerie, I’ll grant you, but it’s common enough and quite harmless.’
They leaned against the rail, side by side, and stared down to where the ship seemed to strike veins of glowing gold from the green-tinged light. ‘What causes it?’ she asked.
‘I’ve no idea. To tell you the truth, I don’t want to.’
‘Because you might fear the explanation?’
Smiling, he shook his head. ‘The only thing I fear about the explanation is that it will prove to be perfectly banal and ruin the magic of it. How is your brother?’
Her face fell. ‘Feverish. I’m afraid the blow to the head he received may have permanently addled his brains. Is… what kind of surgeon is Mr Pereira? I mean, is he a good one?’
‘He’s no better nor worse than any surgeon you’ll find on a ship like this,’ said Killigrew, meaning he was neither better nor worse than having no surgeon at all.
‘What kind of a ship is this, exactly?’
‘A merchantman. Trading manufactured goods to the Guinea Coast in return for palm oil.’ He felt more uncomfortable lying to her about the purpose of their voyage than he did lying to Madison about his motives, but it was for her own safety.
‘An American master and chief mate, an English second mate, and the rest of the crew Spanish or Portuguese,’ she mused. ‘Are all merchantmen as cosmopolitan as this, Mr Killigrew?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s not uncommon amongst merchantmen, or even navy vessels. A ship may be registered in one country and owned by a merchant in another, but the men aboard her don’t much trouble themselves what flag they serve under. If they loved their countries so much, they’d’ve stayed in them instead of running away to sea. Unless they’ve been shanghaied, of course, but all the hands aboard this vessel are willing enough.’
‘Why did you run away to sea, Mr Killigrew?’
He chuckled. ‘With my family background, running away would have meant staying on shore. The Killigrews have been making a living from the sea since the fifteenth century. What about you, miss? What brings you so far from home?’
‘I just want to help our black brethren, that’s all. William – my brother – was the first to get involved in the Missionary Association, but I’ve always supported him in everything he’s done.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather have a life of your own? Or is that an impertinent question?’
She shook her head. ‘This is the only way I can have a life of my own. If I stayed in America my folks would press me to marry, and then I’d have to subsume my life into that of my husband. At least this way I get some choice of my own. And the condition of the Africans is something I care about passionately.’
‘Ah, yes. Converting our heathen brethren to the path of righteousness.’
‘From your tone I take it you do not approve?’
‘I’ve not had much experience of the effects of missionary activity in Africa. In Guinea there’s so much tribal warfare it’s impossible to tell how much is caused by missionaries and how much is caused by the economic demand for prisoners of war.’
‘The economic demand for prisoners of war? Is there one?’
‘Slaves, miss.’
‘Oh, of course. You seem to think that all of Africa’s problems are caused by whites.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But Africa has more problems caused by Europeans and Americans than Europe and America have problems caused by Africans.’
‘But surely you can’t approve of the Africans living in unenlightened ignorance?’
‘What you call ignorance is subjective, miss. Take the Chinese, for example. We call them heathens, but to them we’re the uncultured barbarians. Who’s to say we’re right and they’re wrong?’
‘Surely common sense dictates—’
‘European common sense, miss. The Chinese were living in ignorance of the teachings of Christ for hundreds of years before missionaries arrived in China to convert them. Were all those who lived before now to be condemned to an eternity in Hell simply because God himself made them Chinese?’
‘They are all God’s children, Mr Killigrew.’
‘True. But you cannot deny that God seems to have represented himself in different ways to the different races on his earth. Since they are God’s ways, can they be wrong?’
‘You’d have to ask my brother, Mr Killigrew. He’s the theologian, not me.’
‘I think of myself more as a philosopher than a theologian, miss.’
‘But you can’t deny that the heathens of this world live in a state of wretched poverty and constant warfare?’
‘There’s plenty of poverty in Europe and America. And as for war, is there really that much difference between the tribal wars in Africa and the wars between nations in Europe and the Americas? Except that more people are killed in our wars, because we are more civilised and therefore better organised and efficient at killing.’
‘But at least we know that to kill is a sin.’
‘And yet still we do it. Does that make us better or worse? When I was in the navy—’ He broke off and smiled. ‘But I’m lecturing you, miss, and that’s deuced tedious of me.’
‘Mr Donohoe said something about you having the carriage of a naval officer, Mr Killigrew. Why did you leave the navy for the merchant service?’
‘It’s a long story, and not one that I’d want to bore you with.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell her?’
Killigrew turned and saw Coffin standing there.
‘Tell me what, Mr Coffin?’ she asked.
‘Why, tell you about why he was kicked out of the Royal Navy, Miss Chance. About his drinking problem. About how he got drunk one day and decided to race his carriage down Pall Mall, and in so doing knocked down an innocent child and killed her.’
She stared at Killigrew with an expression of shock and horror.
Coffin grinned. ‘Not so much the gentleman he seems now, is he?’
She gave the chief mate an icy look, and then turned back to Killigrew with what might have been a hint of sympathy in her eyes. ‘That’s a terrible thing to have on your conscience, Mr Killigrew. I’ll pray for your eternal soul.’
‘Pray for us all, Miss Chance,’ Coffin called after her as she headed back below. ‘Did Mr Killigrew here neglect to mention this is a ship of the damned?’
Killigrew was woken by the sound of someone hammering on the door of the cabin he shared with Pereira. He rolled out of his hammock, landing lightly on the balls of his naked feet, and jerked the door open. ‘What?’ he snapped.
Miss Chance stood there. ‘Please come quickly, Mr Killigrew!’ she said in a rush. ‘It’s Mr Coffin! He’s beating one of the sailors and if someone doesn’t stop him I fear he may… oh! Mr Killigrew! Oh!’ She raised a hand before her eyes and averted her gaze, blushing crimson.
‘Oh! Sorry.’ Killigrew stepped behind the door to cover his nakedness, reflecting that Miss Chance was going to have to get used to the sight of the naked human form if she was going to do missionary work in Africa. ‘Go on.’
‘Mr Coffin is beating one of the sailors. I fear that if someone doesn’t stop him he’ll beat the poor man to death!’
‘All right, I’ll come right up.’ Killigrew quickly pulled on his pantaloons and shirt. The ship’s bell rang urgently as he laced his half-boots, summoning the hands to their quarters.
It was a week since they had rescued the three castaways from the sea. Dawn was lightening the sky, revealing the coast of Africa off to port. And there, off the port bow, a frigate less than three miles away was running to intercept them. Covilhã was ordering the men to cram on all canvas, even at the risk of breaking the jury-rigged foremast, while Madison ordered the helmsman to steer a course to the south-west to avoid the frigate. ‘Stand by to tack ship!’ called Covilhã.
The object of Coffin’s wrath lay at the foot of the mainmast in a pool of his own blood. He lay so motionless it was impossible to say whether he lived or died, but Coffin continued to kick him in the head regardless. ‘You want to sleep, you idle, good-for-nothing sonuvabitch? I’ll put you to sleep! I’ll send you to sleep with the fishes!’ He reached down to grab the man by the collar and dragged him across to the rail.
‘For the love of God, Mr Killigrew!’ pleaded Miss Chance. She stood by while Donohoe struggled to go to the aid of the unconscious man, held fast in the grip of a burly sailor. ‘Stop him! Don’t you see this is your chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Lord?’
But Killigrew was powerless to intervene.
‘Take our guests below, Mr Killigrew,’ Madison ordered gruffly.
‘Please,’ said Killigrew. ‘You’d better do as the captain says.’
‘Aren’t you going to stop him?’
‘Please, miss. For your own good.’
Coffin reached the side of the ship and lifted the man above his head with all the strength his insane rage gave him. The man went over the side without a scream and hit the water with a splash. Killigrew could not see the sharks from where he stood in the middle of the deck, but he knew they would be there.
‘Oh, God!’ sobbed Miss Chance. ‘Heaven help us! Did you see that? He murdered him! Mr Coffin murdered that poor sailor, for the love of God! Just because he fell asleep on watch!’
Donohoe stopped struggling. ‘Of course. Because that allowed the frigate to get so close without anyone on board this ship knowing about it.’
‘So? What does it matter?’ asked Miss Chance. ‘That’s not a reason to kill a man.’
‘It is if they’re slavers,’ spat Donohoe.
‘Sl-slavers?’ stammered Miss Chance, as if she had believed that the slave trade had ended forty years ago when Denmark, the United States and Great Britain had all declared the trade illegal.
‘Quite right, Mr Donohoe,’ said Madison. ‘I’m afraid this is a slave vessel you find yourself on, my dear,’ he explained to Miss Chance. ‘Take them below, Mr Killigrew.’
‘Please,’ insisted Killigrew, gesturing to the hatch. ‘For your own safety…’
‘Blackbirders!’ spat Donohoe. ‘I’d expect nothing less of these foreigners, but I’m surprised at ye, Mr Killigrew. I took ye for a Christian gentleman.’
Killigrew smiled wanly. ‘You wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake, believe me.’
Donohoe rammed an elbow into his captor’s chest and broke free. He snatched a belaying pin from the bulwark.
‘No!’ shouted Killigrew.
Coffin heard footsteps on the deck and turned in time to see Donohoe running towards him, brandishing the belaying pin above his head. The chief mate pulled his pistol from its holster and shot him in the chest. The Irishman fell back to the deck, dead.
Miss Chance groaned and her eyes rolled up in her head. Killigrew had to move fast to catch her before she fell. ‘Goddamn it!’ he muttered.
‘Take her below and put her somewhere out of harm’s way, Mr Killigrew,’ ordered Madison. ‘I strongly advise you put her in irons. Then come straight back on deck.’
Killigrew nodded and carried her below decks. As he carried her to the orlop deck her eyes opened. Seeing Killigrew carrying her she began to pound at his face with her fists. He put her down, but with her feet on the deck it was only easier for her to beat him. He grabbed her by the wrists and tried to still her, but her face was twisted with hatred and loathing.
‘You rats! You evil, murdering rats.’
‘Listen to me! Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘Listen to me, as you value your life!’ But she continued to struggle in his grip. Nothing he could say could get through to her, so he kissed her on the forehead.
She stopped struggling and stared at him in astonishment.
‘Listen to me,’ he said, more calmly. ‘You have to trust me. I can’t explain now, there isn’t time, but you must trust me. Do you understand?’
She nodded, wide-eyed. ‘You… you’re going to have to kill me, aren’t you?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ he told her. ‘That’s a promise.’ He steered her down to the orlop deck and gestured to a set of irons. ‘Sit down.’
‘You’re going to shackle me here?’
He nodded. ‘Please believe me, I beg you. It’s for your own safety.’
As he clipped the fetters over her ankles the reality of her predicament hit her with its full force. ‘What if the ship sinks? I’ll drown!’
‘The ship won’t sink. That frigate won’t fire at the hull. They probably don’t think we have slaves on board but they’ll want to find proof that we’re slavers before they condemn us. So they’ll aim at the spars and rigging. Believe me, this is the safest place to be. If they catch us, Madison won’t want a dead American citizen on board, so you’ll be safe enough.’
‘And if they don’t catch us? What then?’
Killigrew had no idea. ‘I’ll protect you. I promise. You’ve got to trust me, that’s all.’ He headed back towards the companion ladder.
‘Mr Killigrew?’ she called after him. He turned back. ‘I… I don’t know why… I’ve no reason to… but… I do trust you.’
He grinned ruefully. ‘Yes, well, don’t tell any of those scum up there you said that, or we’ll both be as good as dead.’