Killigrew returned on deck and studied the frigate through Madison’s telescope. ‘Do you know her?’ asked Madison.
Killigrew nodded. ‘She’s the USS Narwhal.’ He did not add that less than four months ago he had been drinking on board her with Lieutenant Lanier and his friends.
‘Can she catch us?’
‘I don’t know. Before we lost our foremast she wouldn’t have stood a chance, but now with this jury-rigging…’
It was strange to find himself being on the other side in the war against the slavers, running with the hare after spending so many years riding with the hounds. It would be embarrassing for him if the frigate caught them. He was not confident he could convince Lanier that he was working as a secret agent for Rear-Admiral Napier; also if there was nothing in Madison’s safe to identify the man behind the slavers then this whole enterprise would have been for nothing, and he would never be able to redeem himself and be reinstated as an officer of the Royal Navy. Worse than that, if the Americans saw fit to hand him over to the authorities in Freetown as a British citizen caught on board a slave vessel, there was a good chance he would be hanged for it. So from Killigrew’s point of view there was nothing to be gained from trying to sabotage the Leopardo’s efforts to escape the Narwhal.
But now he had Miss Chance’s safety to think of. Madison would not let her and her brother go now that they knew they were on board a slaver. Was there any way he could keep them alive and help them get to safety? It seemed impossible. But was his mission more important than their lives? If he succeeded he would be saving thousands of Africans from being condemned to a life of slavery; but only if he succeeded. How could he balance that against the life of one man and one woman? And was it the Africans he was concerned about, or his own skin?
He wondered if Miss Chance could swim, at least long enough to stay afloat until she could be picked up by the crew of the Narwhal. Perhaps he could put her and her brother into a boat while everyone else was busy? But they would see what he had done sooner or later, and know he was up to no good. Unless…
‘Perhaps we can buy ourselves some time by putting the Reverend Chance and his sister in the jolly boat and leaving them for the Narwhal to pick up?’ he suggested to Madison. ‘That way we get them out of our hair and force our pursuers to slow down at the same time.’
‘Aye, and hand over a woman who can easily identify every man-jack of us to the authorities, Mr Killigrew. You’ll have to do better than that.’
A cannon boomed distantly and Killigrew saw a plume of pale grey smoke rise from the Narwhal’s side. There was no answering splash of shot landing in the water closer to the Leopardo – it had been a blank.
‘They’re asking us to show our colours,’ grunted Coffin.
Madison nodded. ‘Hoist the Union Jack, Mr Covilhã. If they get within hailing distance you can do the honours with the speaking trumpet, Mr Killigrew. Maybe that Limey accent of yours will throw them off the scent.’
Close-hauled, the two ships raced to windward. Each time the Leopardo changed tack the Narwhal mirrored the manoeuvre barely seconds later. There was no doubting the American sailors knew their business, but it was impossible to say which of the two vessels was the faster.
The Narwhal came within a mile of the Leopardo as the latter ship tried to slip past her and at once one of her pivot guns boomed and raised a huge plume of water from the waves barely a cable’s length to port of the brig. The Americans had used round shot and for a moment Killigrew panicked, thinking the Narwhal meant to sink them after all. He thought of Miss Chance, whom he himself had chained on the orlop deck. Then he realised that the Americans would know the range of their guns to within a few yards, even taking the wind into account. It had just been a warning shot.
Then the two ships were level, only three-quarters of a mile of ocean separating them. The frigate veered towards the brig, but for every yard towards the slaver she gained sideways, she fell a yard astern. When she was almost directly abaft the brig her bow-chaser boomed, sending up a fountain of water which showered the men on the quarter-deck.
‘We’ll use the sweeps,’ decided Madison.
There were six sweeps on board the Leopardo, three for a side. There were not enough men on board to have more than three men to each sweep. Even Killigrew had to help, leaving Coffin to take the helm while Madison had the con. The sailors stripped down to their waists and hauled away to the strokes called out by Covilhã like the galley slaves of old, praying that the sweeps would give them that extra burst of speed they needed to elude the Narwhal.
It was hot and sultry, and the sweat soon poured from the backs of Killigrew and the others as they rowed under the blazing tropical sun. Working with his back to the bows, Killigrew could just see the sails of the Narwhal beyond the Leopardo’s stern. If the frigate were falling behind, it was doing so so slowly it was impossible to discern. His back and arms soon ached from the exertion.
‘We’re losing her,’ opined Madison, staring aft through his telescope.
Coffin glanced over his shoulder. ‘Aye, but they ain’t giving up yet. They know we can’t keep this up for ever.’
‘Pace the men, Mr Covilhã,’ ordered Madison. ‘We may have a way to go yet.’
The sun climbed towards its zenith until it beat down mercilessly on the men labouring on deck. Madison disappeared below. Killigrew wondered if he had given up hope of outrunning the frigate and was going to burn the papers in the safe; if he did, then the chances were that Killigrew’s mission was doomed to failure and he would have to live the rest of his life in disgrace. He was toying with the idea of leaving his place at the sweeps and going below to stop Madison when the slave captain reappeared a few moments later carrying a pail in one hand and dragging Miss Chance by the arm with the other.
‘Fill the pail at the water butt and give the men some water,’ ordered Madison.
‘Do it yourself,’ she snapped back. ‘You think I want to help scum like you escape from justice?’
He thrust the pail into her hands, making her stagger. ‘You’ll do it, missy, or I’ll have you pulling on one of those sweeps yourself!’
She glared fiercely at him for a moment as if defying him to do it, and Killigrew suppressed a smile, torn between admiration for her spirit and a throat-burning thirst. Then she glanced at the men at the sweeps and saw Killigrew amongst them. Her shoulders slumped and she crossed to the water butt. He was glad she had sense enough not to make straight for him, instead serving the men on the port-side sweeps first.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she murmured as she lifted the ladle to Killigrew’s parched lips. He swallowed the water – it probably had not even been that fresh when they had taken it on board at São Tiago eight days earlier, but it was still the sweetest liquid he had ever tasted – and then just shook his head, conserving his breath.
Madison suddenly peered forward, and raised his telescope to his eye, staring ahead. Then a grin spread across his face, and he lowered the telescope. ‘Three points to starboard, Mr Coffin, if you please. Keep pulling, boys! There’s a smoke a couple of miles ahead. If we can make it there’s a chance we’ll be safe.’
The men at the sweeps pulled even harder, knowing that the end was in sight. It occurred to Killigrew that Madison might have lied to the men in order to get them to pull faster, but he could not twist his head around far enough to check. Covilhã and five others shipped their sweeps briefly to trim the sails to their new heading, and then resumed rowing.
They had put another half-mile between themselves and the Narwhal, but still the frigate did not give up. It was rare for a frigate to fall in with a slaver it had a chance of catching – such ships usually only ended up on the West Africa Station because their navies had no other use for them – and, having smelled blood, her crew was reluctant to give up the chase.
A few minutes later the brig slid into the fog bank and the men gasped with relief as the low cloud masked them from the worst of the sun’s rays. Killigrew felt the moisture prickle his bare skin.
‘Keep pulling!’ ordered Madison. ‘We’re not out of it yet. Hard a-port, Mr Coffin. Port-side sweeps back water!’
The Leopardo’s head came about in the opaque mists, and with the oarsmen on the port side reversing, the ship almost turned on her axis. ‘Now forward again! One… two… three… four… five… way enough! Toss and ship sweeps. Way aloft! Take in all canvas! We’ll drift with the smoke. Silently, now, silently!’
After pulling at the sweeps for the best part of three hours, the hands climbed into the rigging like octogenarians, but the sails were soon furled. ‘Pipe down! Not a sound out of any of you, d’ye hear? The next man to make a sound other than me or Mr Coffin goes the same way as Tristão did, follow me?’
Coffin took his whip from his belt and looped it around Miss Chance’s neck. ‘That goes for you too, missy. One peep and I’ll snap that pretty little neck of yours like it was driftwood.’
The hands climbed silently down from the rigging and tiptoed across the deck. The frigate would not have chased them so far if it was going to be put off sailing into a little low cloud, but Killigrew guessed Madison was counting on their last manoeuvre inside the fog to throw the Americans off the scent.
They waited. Everything was silent but for the creaking of the timbers and the gentle slap of the waves against the brig’s sides.
‘Heave to!’ a voice with an American accent boomed barely two cables away. Killigrew thought he recognised Boatswain Charlie’s voice. ‘Counterbrace them yards!’
Everyone turned to look in that direction, and they could see a pale shadow looming through the mist behind them. Then a boatswain’s whistle sounded the order to pipe down. The Americans had guessed that the slaver was hidden in the fog bank, and they were listening for a clue which would give away its location. All that was needed was a sudden gust of wind to tear a rent in the fog and the Leopardo would be exposed to the view of the Narwhal within point-blank range of her port broadside.
There was silence for one minute, two, three. Harsh laughter, faint muffled, and Boatswain Charlie hissing for silence, threatening dire warnings against the next man to make a sound. Coffin pulled tight on the whip he still had coiled around Miss Chance’s neck, as if sensing that she was tempted to call out to the men on the frigate. She glanced across to where Killigrew stood, looking at him from under her eyelashes. He gave his head an infinitesimal shake.
‘Ah, to hell with it!’ said someone on the frigate. ‘They’re probably miles away by now. Belay that last order, men. Brace in the sails!’
The shadow moved on through the fog, but Madison quickly raised a hand, signalling for his crew to remain silent. It might yet be a ruse by the captain of the frigate to trick them into betraying their position.
They waited. An hour passed, then another. No one went near the ship’s bell. As the afternoon wore on the mist slowly evaporated, until all of a sudden it was gone. There was no sign of the Narwhal, but the African coast was visible directly ahead.
Madison took a sighting on the coast with his sextant. He returned on deck a moment later. ‘Take the helm, Mr Covilhã. Lay in a course east by north. Take the girl below and put her in irons, Eli, then join me directly in my cabin. You too, Mr Killigrew.’
Madison went below followed by Coffin dragging Miss Chance by the arm. Killigrew shrugged his shirt back on and gazed towards the bows. They were heading in towards the African coast. By his own dead reckoning they had passed Sherbro Island during the chase and now lay somewhere off the Guinea Coast to the south. Did that mean they were close to their destination?
He buttoned his shirt and went below, tucking it into the waistband. Madison was already waiting for him in his day cabin, poring over a chart. He said nothing apart from to respond to Killigrew’s knock on the door, and from the tone of the captain’s voice Killigrew deemed it wisest to stand back and say nothing until Madison looked up and addressed him.
Presently they were joined by Coffin. ‘Well?’ Madison asked him.
‘We’ve no choice, sir. She was dead the moment her ship went down. You know it and I know it. Only this dumb Limey thought he could prolong her life.’
Madison sighed. ‘You’re right, of course, Eli. All the same, she is a woman.’
‘All the more reason to kill her, sir.’ Coffin grinned. ‘You can’t trust a woman to keep her mouth shut. I’ll do it, if you like. I’ll see to it she don’t suffer too much.’
Killigrew was a patient man, but he had been subjected to Coffin’s needling for over four weeks now, and the callous way in which he spoke of murdering an innocent woman in cold blood was more than he could bear. ‘You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?’
Coffin turned to him. ‘Perhaps you’d rather do it yourself, mister, since it was your idea to bring her aboard in the first place?’
‘All right, you two, that’s enough,’ snapped Madison. He massaged his temples and sighed again. ‘There… there is another way,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure that I care for it overmuch, but at least it doesn’t mean killing her.’
‘Cut her tongue out?’ suggested Coffin. ‘Too risky. She’d still be able to write down all she’s learned.’
Madison scowled at him. ‘I was thinking of giving her to Salazar.’
Coffin pursed his lips, and then nodded. ‘That’s not a bad idea. All them nigger whores he keeps in his harem, I reckon he must get a hankering for a bit of white meat every once in a while.’
‘What do you say, Mr Killigrew?’
Killigrew shrugged. ‘Who’s Salazar?’
Coffin chortled. ‘Why, ain’t you never heard of Salazar? No wonder you navy boys are always a-running round in circles. You don’t know anything about the slave trade if you don’t know about Francisco Salazar.’
‘And he is…?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Madison. ‘As we should make landfall at the Owodunni Barracoon by nightfall.’
The sun was sinking into the ocean by the time the Leopardo anchored half a mile from the coast, casting an orange light like fire across the sky and sending a flaming path across the waves to where the brig floated. Killigrew stood on deck and gazed towards the land. Even with the telescope he could see nothing, but that did not surprise him. For most of its length the Guinea Coast presented nothing to the seaward observer but an unbroken barrier of impenetrable green foliage, but Killigrew knew that the foliage hid deltas and mangrove swamps, a hundred thousand tiny creeks and inlets which made ideal hiding places for the slavers’ barracoons.
‘They’re all asleep,’ sneered Coffin.
‘Then let’s wake them up, Mr Coffin,’ ordered Madison.
They fired a blank shot from the Leopardo’s bow-chaser, and ran up some signal flags. A few moments later a flag appeared on the shore, barely visible even through a telescope in that light. It seemed to flutter over the jungle in the evening breeze, and Killigrew could just make out the design: a yellow and black leopard on a white background.
Madison closed his telescope with a gesture of satisfaction.
‘That’s the signal. Lower the gig, Mr Covilhã. Fetch the girl, Mr Coffin.’
‘Where are we?’ she demanded as she was handed down into the gig. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Somewhere where you’ll be made comfortable,’ said Madison.
Killigrew suspected that was far from true and wished there was some way he could warn her, but thinking about it he decided it would be better if she was allowed to remain calm for now. There were eight of them in the gig altogether: Madison, Coffin, Killigrew, Miss Chance, and four oarsmen. Coffin was carrying a sample of the Leopardo’s cargo, one of the rifled muskets they hoped to exchange for slaves.
The gig shoved off from the brig’s side and they rowed across the bar which prevented ships of any reasonable draught from getting any closer into shore. Once they were across the bar a creek suddenly appeared as if from nowhere amongst the trees which crowded the edge of the stretch of white sand on the beach. The jungle seemed impenetrable on either side of the creek, and the tangled roots of the mangrove trees which clawed at the mud looked eerie in the failing light. Strange tropical birds cried out in the darkness, and mosquitoes buzzed infuriatingly about the heads of the people in the boat. Submerged shapes glided silently through the water without even causing a ripple. Killigrew took them for logs, until he realised they moved against the current: crocodiles.
Then they turned a bend in the creek and a wooden jetty came into view. Three men stood on the jetty, two rough-looking mulattos wearing broad-brimmed straw hats and cradling rifles, and a European, tall, lean-built, dressed all in white and bare-headed.
‘Salazar? Is that you, you old son of a gun?’
‘Captain Madison.’ There was a hint of a wan smile and no trace of any particular accent in the man’s rich and sonorous voice. ‘Welcome back to the Owodunni Barracoon.’
The gig bumped against the jetty and two of the oarsmen quickly went ashore to make the painter fast, while the guards helped Madison and the others on to the jetty. ‘And Mr Coffin, of course. And who are these?’ asked Salazar, indicating Killigrew and Miss Chance.
‘This is Mr Killigrew, my new second mate, who’s been good enough to fill in for Mr Cutler, who was careless enough to get himself shanghaied aboard the Ophelia. And the lady is Miss Suzannah Chance, of whom more later.’
Salazar smiled. ‘A woman of mystery. How intriguing. And a beautiful one at that,’ he added, kissing her hand to her evident distaste.
Salazar was a younger man than Killigrew had expected, in his late thirties or early forties. Flecks of grey showed prematurely at the temples of his leonine head, and high cheekbones and a thin jaw gave his face an angular look.
‘So, have you anything in stock, Salazar, or are we going to have to look elsewhere?’ asked Madison.
‘My dear Captain Madison, when have you ever known me to have nothing in stock? The question is, what have you got for me?’
‘The usual. Guns, powder, textiles.’ He handed Salazar a sheet of paper which the barracoon owner tucked inside his shirt without bothering to read.
‘Shall we get in out of this unhealthy night air?’ he suggested, slapping at a mosquito on the back of his neck. ‘Dinner is almost ready. I do hope you will join me. I have the finest chef on the Guinea Coast in my employ, Miss Chance, and an excellently stocked wine cellar.’
Madison ordered the oarsmen to stay by the boat and one of the guards stayed with them while the other led the way up a short dirt track to an arch in the hedge which bordered the creek. Killigrew stepped through it into another world.
There were dozens of buildings: long, low barracks; workshops; clusters of mud huts; bungalows built in the colonial style; a huge stockade off to the left; and at the centre of it all what looked like an Italianate palazzo. There were guards everywhere, and Killigrew suddenly noticed a wooden watchtower a hundred feet tall growing up out of the jungle on a neighbouring island, largely camouflaged by the creepers which had been trained to climb up it.
‘I had no idea there was such a large settlement in these parts,’ said Killigrew.
‘That depends how you define a settlement, Mr Killigrew,’ said Salazar. ‘All this is my barracoon. All these islands belong to me. My own private kingdom, if you like, in which I am master of all I survey.’
Killigrew was stunned, partly by the size of the barracoon but mostly by the fact that Salazar was obviously some kind of megalomaniac. ‘It must be the biggest barracoon on the Guinea Coast?’
‘In the world, Mr Killigrew. I employ over three hundred people here: guards, servants, clerks, lawyers, administrators, workmen. I pay them well, and in return I get their total and unquestioning loyalty.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘Every kingdom must have its laws, Mr Killigrew, and those laws are useless if there is no penal code to back them up.’
‘A place like this must be very expensive to maintain.’
‘It’s all relative. I am a businessman first and foremost. I do not run my little kingdom simply for my own aggrandisement.’
‘You don’t?’
‘This barracoon has a turnover of three and a half millions a year, Mr Killigrew. That’s pounds sterling. And most of that is clear profit.’
The barracoon was much bigger than the Slave Trade Department had estimated. ‘That’s a lot of money,’ said Killigrew.
‘Mr Salazar does very well for himself,’ observed Madison.
‘Yes. But not nearly as well as your owners do. I fear that is where the real money lies: transporting the slaves across the Atlantic.’
‘The profit lies with the risk, Mr Salazar.’
‘Indeed it does. I tell you, Mr Killigrew, when Great Britain declared the slave trade illegal it was the best thing that ever happened to our trade. Mr Madison can purchase a slave here for twenty to thirty thousand reis depending on its quality and sell it in the Americas for… how much would you say?’
‘We expect to make a nine hundred per cent profit,’ said Madison. ‘That’s before you deduct the cost of the voyage, of course.’
‘Of course. But even so we can still afford to have two out of every three ships caught by the Royal Navy and the whole operation will still be worth while. Since the proportion of vessels actually caught by the navy is pitifully small, you can imagine what kind of profits we are looking at.’
They approached the colonnaded portico of the palazzo at the centre of the settlement. ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ said Salazar. ‘It was built in Umbria in 1502 as a summer residence for Duke Valentinois. I had it dismantled brick by brick and shipped out here to be reassembled as you see it now.’
‘Gives a whole new meaning to the term “conveyancing”,’ remarked Killigrew.
They ascended the steps to the portico and a black butler emerged to hold open the door for them. Inside it was no more opulent than some of the grander governors’ residences Killigrew had visited in some of Britain’s better-established and more profitable colonies. Thick velvet drapes hung over the windows and the floor was marble. On the walls, magnificent oil paintings depicting scenes from classical mythology vied for space with hunting trophies in the most ghastly lapse of taste – gazelles, leopards, even a huge rhinoceros’s head stuffed and mounted over the Adam fireplace.
Salazar turned to the butler. ‘Inform chef there will be six of us to supper. Shall we say half past eight? That will give my guests time to freshen up after what I’m sure was a long and tedious voyage.’
‘It was long,’ admitted Killigrew. ‘I’m not so sure about “tedious”. I had no idea supper was going to be so formal, otherwise I’d have brought some evening clothes…’
‘You can borrow some of mine,’ said Salazar. ‘We look to be about the same build. And I don’t think finding clothes for the lady is likely to present a problem. Henriques, show the gentlemen and the lady upstairs,’ he added, snapping his fingers at a liveried black footman.
‘I’d rather we kept an eye on the lady, Salazar,’ said Madison. ‘She’s kind of by way of being a prisoner.’
‘A prisoner!’ exclaimed Salazar. ‘Even more intriguing. I shall not press you on the matter, Captain Madison, since I know you well enough to know you will reveal all at the appropriate time. I shall make sure she is watched.’
‘If you think I’m going to get changed with one of your guards watching me…’ she protested.
‘Oh, heaven forbid, Miss Chance! I think I can provide you with a suitable escort. Henriques, summon Assata directly to escort Miss Chance to her chamber.’
Killigrew studied the paintings while they waited.
‘I see you are admiring my Titian, Mr Killigrew',’ said Salazar.
‘Wasn’t that one stolen from the Louvre a couple of years ago?’
‘It may have been,’ Salazar admitted with a dismissive gesture. ‘I paid full price for it, however, I assure you. When one has earned one’s first million it becomes very difficult to find new ways of spending one’s money.’
Killigrew smiled thinly. ‘How you must long for a life of simple poverty.’
Salazar shrugged. ‘I happen to like the best of things in life. Am I to be blamed if God has smiled on my enterprises over the years?’
‘What about the stuffed heads? Yours?’
‘Yes indeed, Mr Killigrew. Are you a hunting man?’
‘I’m inclined to agree with Shenstone.’
‘Shenstone?’ asked Salazar.
‘A British poet. What was it he said? Ah, yes. “The world may be divided into people that read, people that write, people that think, and fox-hunters.”’
Salazar gestured dismissively. ‘Foxes are vermin, Mr Killigrew, and their extermination should be left to the lower orders. You cannot know the full thrill of hunting until you have hunted big game. Take this fellow, for example,’ he said, indicating the rhinoceros head. ‘Five years ago, it was. Can you have any conception of the thoughts that go through a man’s mind as one of those beasts bears down on him? At one hundred yards I fired my rifle, but it misfired. He lumbered on. I pulled my pistol from my belt, aimed, and fired – got him right between the eyes. I’ll swear he ran on another fifty feet before he realised he was dead.’ Salazar’s eyes glittered as he recollected the event. ‘When his body finally crashed to the ground, he was as close to me as I am to you now. I tell you, Mr Killigrew, one cannot appreciate the true exhilaration of life until one has looked death between the eyes.’
In the aide-memoire of his mind, Killigrew scrawled the words: Mad as a March hare.
Henriques returned with a tall, muscular black woman wearing a blue-and-white striped tunic belted at the waist and a white cap with a leopard device on the front. A carbine was slung over one of her shoulders, and a large dagger hung at her side along with a brace of pistols. ‘Ah, Assata,’ said Salazar. ‘One of my personal bodyguards, gentlemen, a gift from King Gezo of Dahomey.’
‘And all I got for Christmas was a cravat,’ sighed Killigrew.
‘Assata, take Miss Chance here up to the Chinese room. See that she is given a chance to wash and change for dinner. There are plenty of clean clothes hanging in the closet, Miss Chance. You should be able to find something to fit you.’
Madison and Coffin watched open-mouthed as Assata escorted Miss Chance up the grandiose staircase. ‘Tell me, Salazar,’ Coffin asked with a leer, ‘is guarding the only thing she does with your body?’
Salazar smiled thinly, unimpressed by Coffin’s rough manners. ‘Believe me, Mr Coffin, it would be a foolish man who tried anything untoward with Assata. When one has seen a woman crack a man’s ribcage between her thighs, one becomes very reluctant to place oneself in that perilous position.’
Henriques escorted Madison, Coffin and Killigrew upstairs and showed them each into a room. The rooms were large and every bit as richly appointed as the rest of the house, with grand four-poster beds and marble washstands in a corner. Presently Henriques returned with hot water and towels. It was the first chance Killigrew had had to wash properly in weeks, and he made the most of it, washing the salt out of his hair and scrubbing himself from head to toe. There was a complete supply of toiletries on the shelf above the washstand: macassar oil, pomade, eau-de-cologne. By the time he had finished, Henriques returned with underclothes, a clean shirt and a pair of white pantaloons. Killigrew dressed and went outside where he encountered Miss Chance emerging from another room, followed by Assata.
‘You look ravishing, Miss Chance, if I may be so bold,’ said Killigrew. It was true enough. She wore a pale-blue evening gown of light silk which swished and rustled with each step she took.
‘I only wish you were the only one in this place with the word “ravishing” on his mind, Mr Killigrew,’ she responded. ‘There are hundreds of dresses in that closet, some of them the very latest fashions from Paris. Why do I get the feeling I’m not the first woman to visit this place? It gives me a creepy feeling.’
‘I think it’s rather charming myself,’ said Killigrew, admiring the interior decoration. ‘I’ll say one thing for Salazar, his taste is impeccable – barring the dead animal heads on the wall downstairs, of course.’
‘I suppose you’d like to live like this.’
‘Who wouldn’t? Although I think I’d grow tired of it after a while. My own tastes have always run to colonial simplicity.’
‘After a week on that hell-hole you call a ship, this is all too good to be true.’
‘I wouldn’t disagree with you there.’ He wanted to say more, but suspecting that Assata knew more English than she let on he thought it wisest not to. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’
Madison, Coffin and Salazar were already waiting for them with a fourth gentleman, a huge African dressed in a curious combination of clothing: a spotless red tunic with enough gold braid on it to suggest it had once been the property of a brigadier-general if it had not been so obviously first-hand, white breeches, and sandals, the whole topped off with a leopard skin, the head resting on top of the man’s shaven scalp, giving an even greater impression of height to his six and three-quarter feet. He was perfectly proportioned too: broad-shouldered and muscular of build, like an ebony sculpture of a Greek athlete.
The African held the rifled musket Coffin had brought from the ship and was turning it over in his hands, gazing down the barrel and snapping the hammer expertly.
‘That’s the latest in European military armaments, your highness,’ Madison was telling him. ‘The rifling in the barrel makes the bullet spin in flight, increasing the range and improving accuracy remarkably. You see, I don’t try to fob you off with out-dated, second-hand muskets. I’ve got five hundred more like that on board the Leopardo, every one of them fresh from the manufactory where they were made. I’ll let you test it tomorrow before I ask you to commit yourself. I hear you’re a pretty good shot with a musket? Well, I’m a lousy one. But you use a musket, I’ll use that rifle, and I’ll beat you ten times out of ten against any target you choose to pick. Even British line infantry don’t have rifles as good as that. Those weapons will make your leopard warriors the envy of the finest armies in the world.’
Salazar glanced up and saw Killigrew and Miss Chance descending the staircase. ‘Ah, Miss Chance. May I introduce you to Prince Khari? Your highness, this is Miss Chance.’ The prince bowed stiffly and clicked his heels, like a Prussian drill instructor. ‘And of course may I present Mr Killigrew, your highness? Mr Killigrew, this is Prince Khari.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Killigrew. ‘I take it the two of you have a business association?’
Salazar smiled. ‘It is thanks to Prince Khari’s constant warring with his neighbouring tribes that I am never short of merchandise.’
‘They are not “neighbouring tribes”, as you call them,’ Khari reminded Salazar. He spoke good English with a rich and melodious timbre. ‘They are tributary states of my father’s empire.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Salazar seemed amused, as if he was used to pandering to the pride of native chieftains. ‘Prince Khari is the son of King Nldamak,’ he added to Killigrew and Miss Chance.
‘Ah,’ said Killigrew. ‘And there was I thinking he must be one of the Buckinghamshire Kharis.’
A footman emerged from a small doorway and held up a small bronze gong, which he struck. ‘Supper is served.’
‘Shall we be seated?’ Salazar, as host, led the way into the dining room, followed by Khari, Miss Chance, Madison, Coffin and Killigrew. A long mahogany dining table large enough to seat two dozen people stretched the length of the room, while another gilt-framed old master hung above the cold hearth at the far end. The furniture, as far as Killigrew could tell, was Louis-Quinze. The whole scene was dimly yet warmly illuminated by the many candles burning in the three candelabra on the table; the candelabra might have been silver-plate, but given Salazar’s attitude to spending money Killigrew was ready to bet they were solid silver.
Salazar sat at the head of the table while the others searched for their place cards. Killigrew found himself seated at Salazar’s left while Miss Chance sat opposite him. Assata entered the room and stood just inside the doorway with her arms folded, unsmiling, watching Miss Chance.
‘I’m sorry I’m not wearing a coat or cravat, Mr Salazar, but these were the only clothes your footman brought me,’ Killigrew said apologetically. ‘However, I see from your own apparel you prefer a more casual approach to dress?’
‘Indeed I do, Mr Killigrew. I find the heavy clothes worn in Europe quite unsuited for these tropical climes. I trust you have no objection?’
‘None at all. A very sensible policy, if I may say so.’
‘You may, and I shall take it as a compliment that you do. I trust that the clothes are a suitable fit?’
‘Well enough. They’re a little tight around the chest and shoulders.’
Salazar shrugged. ‘That is to be expected. I fear I do not get as much exercise as I used to when I was a sailor. I try though, exercising with the foil. Do you fence, Mr Killigrew?’
‘A little,’ Killigrew admitted cautiously. ‘I’m more used to a cutlass.’
Salazar tutted. ‘Such a clumsy weapon. Hardly suited for a gentleman, I would have thought.’
‘But more practical than a foil when boarding a hostile ship.’
‘Mr Killigrew used to be an officer in the Royal Navy,’ explained Madison.
‘Indeed.’ Salazar seemed completely untroubled by this revelation. That worried Killigrew at first, until he realised that in the heart of his own private kingdom a man like Salazar had nothing to fear from a lone man, ex-navy or otherwise.
‘You used to be a sailor, Mr Salazar?’ asked Miss Chance.
He nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Once I was the captain of a slaver, just like Mr Madison here. I soon made so much money I was able to start building this place. How long until you can retire, Mr Madison?’
Madison smiled. ‘With any luck I’ll be able to retire after this voyage. I’ve got my eye on some land on the western frontier of the United States. Good cattle-farming country, I’m told.’
‘Exchanging one form of cattle for another?’ Killigrew suggested drily.
Madison beamed. ‘Exactly so, Mr Killigrew. But cattle are a lot easier to handle than niggers. No offence intended, your highness.’
Prince Khari inclined his head regally.
‘Ah, the wine,’ said Salazar, as another footman entered and started to pour white wine into the crystal goblets. ‘Graves. The best dry white in my cellar. A good vintage, and an excellent complement to the consommé d’été. You will have a glass, won’t you, Mr Killigrew?’
‘Mr Killigrew doesn’t drink,’ said Madison.
Salazar smiled broadly. ‘Oh, but I think he does, Captain Madison. Don’t you, Mr Killigrew? Or should that still be Lieutenant Killigrew? I’m afraid my informant was rather vague on the matter of whether or not you retain your rank while you’re working as a spy for the Slave Trade Department in Whitehall.’