Half a mile into the jungle they came to where the leopard men had left their mules, and the captives were reorganised into a proper coffle. Men, women and children alike had their wrists tied behind their backs, and the men were yoked in pairs, one behind the other. A rope ran from the wrists of the rearmost man in each pair to the wrists of the next captive, a woman, who had her hands tied behind her; another rope, tied around her neck, ran back to the wrists of the next man behind her, the first in the next pair with his neck in turn in one end of a double-ended yoke. The children were mixed in with them.
The leopard men reloaded their muskets to keep the slaves covered, and exchanged war-clubs for cat-o’-nine-tails which they used unstintingly on any slave who even looked as if he or she might try to cause trouble, lashing them until the blood poured from their flayed skin.
Molineaux saw Miss Chance pulled from the rump of a horse and then placed in a litter made by stretching a pole between two mules and slinging a hammock from beneath it. She looked unharmed, but it was obvious she was in no condition to travel. He wanted to go to her to give her a few words of reassurance, but he was in the coffle at the front end of a yoke, his wrists tied before him and linked by a rope to a noose around the neck of Momolu’s daughter Abena. As the coffle got under way he had no choice but to follow her or else risk choking her. He gagged as the man behind him was slow to keep up, pulling back on the yoke which cruelly chafed both their necks.
So far none of the leopard men seemed to have noticed that whereas all the other male captives wore breech-clouts, Molineaux was wearing a pair of white cotton undershorts purchased from Mrs Cropper’s penny bazaar in Liverpool. He thought about pointing out that he was not an African and that the leopard men had no right to enslave him, a British citizen, but decided against it. They had no right to enslave any of these people, but that had not stopped them from doing so. Any demand to see the British consul in Monrovia would be received at best with jeers and at worst a swift death to stop him from causing trouble.
Not that he was in a position to cause much trouble. The unspoken language of… well, not love, perhaps, but a certain mutual attraction… which had served him so well with Abena the night before last, was useless in any attempt to plot an escape with the other slaves. They called out to each other in Mande, words of hope and encouragement to give one another strength, he supposed. Not understanding, he felt horribly isolated.
He wondered if Killigrew was all right. Probably. White men always managed to survive somehow, and compared to the rest of his pasty-faced brethren, Killigrew had struck him as being particularly adept at looking after himself. Would Killigrew try to rescue him? Certainly he would not allow Miss Chance to be carried off by the slavers; and, to be fair, he would probably try to free Molineaux and the other captives if he could. But could he? Molineaux doubted it. No, if he was going to get out of this, he would have to do it himself. Secured to Abena in front of him, and another man behind him, under the vigilant eyes and guns of the leopard men, there was nothing he could do but watch and wait and bide his time until a better opportunity presented itself.
Some of the leopard men shouted at the captives and lashed them angrily. For some reason Molineaux was spared; when the other captives fell silent, he realised that the leopard men were ordering them not to talk.
Two of the leopard men fell into step alongside Abena, joking in whatever language it was they spoke, and laughing. It was obvious they were referring to her, and one of them reached across to grab one of her breasts. She shrank away, and the man grabbed a fistful of her hair at the back, pulling her head back to tilt her pain-ridden face to the sky, snarling something at her.
Molineaux was perfectly positioned to kick him in the crotch from behind, and saw no reason to refrain.
The man clutched at himself and sank to his knees, sobbing in agony. His friend turned and smashed Molineaux in the face with the butt of his musket. The side of his face exploded in pain and he went over sideways, jerking the man behind him forwards and twisting his own neck in the yoke. He lay there, half-throttled, unable even to move, let alone defend himself. The man stood over him and lashed at him with a cat-o’-nine-tails, and Molineaux cried out as the knotted thongs lacerated his skin. ‘Ow! Jesus Christ! All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’
The man stopped and stared at him, before whirling to where Prince Khari rode at the head of the column. He shouted something, and Prince Khari wheeled his horse and rode back to where Molineaux lay. ‘You speak English?’ Khari asked, reining in.
Molineaux said nothing, and shrugged as if he did not understand.
‘You shrug like a white man,’ spat Khari. He made it sound like an insult.
‘And you’ve got a face like a warthog’s arse,’ Molineaux could not resist replying, ‘but you don’t hear me complaining.’
Khari said something to the leopard man, who lashed at Molineaux again, once, twice, three times. Molineaux bit his lip in spite of the pain, determined not to give them the satisfaction of crying out a second time. ‘What’s the matter?’ he taunted Khari, when the leopard man backed away to admire his bloody handiwork. ‘Haven’t you got the grit to get down off that prad and fight me yourself? And me yoked and bound and all.’
‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ demanded Khari.
Molineaux decided this would not be a good time to speak of his British parentage. ‘From a missionary. Where did you learn yours? ’Cause I’d ask for my money back if I were you, you big ignorant hunk of shit.’
Khari repeated his order to the leopard man, who lashed at Molineaux again. ‘Brave feller, eh? I’d like to see you try that if I wasn’t bound,’ Molineaux spat through the pain.
Khari leaned on the pommel of his saddle to address him. ‘You were not born in Africa. Perhaps you are a runaway, who was shipped back to Sierra Leone or Monrovia? I cannot place your accent, but it does not matter. I ought to kill you for your impertinence towards a prince of royal blood, but a slave who already speaks English will fetch a good price at market in the United States.’
‘Yeah? Well, when I’ve finished with you, the only market you’ll fetch any kind of price in will be a meat market.’
Prince Khari chuckled, and ordered the leopard man to give Molineaux another half a dozen lashes before riding back to the head of the coffle and ordering them to move on.
Killigrew heard voices. They did not make any kind of sense. He wondered if it was because they were speaking in a foreign language, or because the blow to his head had deprived him of his senses.
His senses certainly felt addled, at least those of them he was using. Aside from his hearing, he could taste the dust in his mouth, could smell smoke and blood, and could feel the hard earth pressing against his body and the agonising throbbing in his skull. He could not see because his eyes were shut. He kept them shut because he was afraid that if he opened them he might find that he was blind.
He felt hands on his shoulders, turning him on his back. He rolled over and opened his eyes. If he was blind, then keeping his eyes shut for the rest of his life was not going to make a – he winced – blind bit of difference.
He could still see. All he could see was blinding white light, but it was better than nothing. Then Ndawa’s head eclipsed the sun.
‘O-ke?’ asked Ndawa, his face full of concern.
‘No,’ said Killigrew. He raised a hand to his head and discovered with astonishment that his skull had not been caved in, although a huge lump had risen on one side of it. The horse’s hoof must have struck him a glancing blow. ‘Not “o-ke”.’
Ndawa helped him up. Killigrew tried to stand on his own two feet, but his left ankle gave way the moment he put his weight on it. He would have fallen if Ndawa had not caught him. Ndawa put one of Killigrew’s arms across his shoulders and helped the white man limp back towards the village.
A scene of carnage greeted them. There were corpses everywhere: several of them leopard men, but not nearly enough to put out the rage that smouldered within Killigrew. Like a moorland fire it had gone underground and seemed to be extinguished, but in time it would burst out afresh, more fierce and destructive than ever before. And when the reckoning came someone, Killigrew was determined, was going to get very, very badly burned indeed.
Most of the people left in the ruins of the burned-out village were the elderly ones, too weak and feeble to be worth taking away as slaves. The women moved amongst the bodies of their sons and grandsons, weeping, while the men went to work, trying to clear up the mess.
Killigrew had hoped that the witch doctor would be able to give him some kind of ointment to put on his twisted ankle to take away the pain – he had tried heathen remedies in the past and found them at least as effective as the latest European techniques – but the doctor was dead, run clean through the body with a spear which had grotesquely pinned him to the side of Ndawa’s hut. At least Ndawa’s wife was there, and not too badly hurt. Then Killigrew remembered Miss Chance and his heart filled with despair. They had taken her. She was not well enough to travel; she would be lucky if she survived the journey back to Salazar’s barracoon; he had no doubt that was where Prince Khari would take her. And even if she did live that long, what kind of a fate awaited her when she arrived?
‘Where’s Molineaux?’ he asked Ndawa. The young man shrugged, not understanding. ‘Sekou,’ said Killigrew. Again Ndawa shrugged. He did not know. He turned away and went to help tend the wounded. These people had enough concerns of their own, without worrying about a British seaman and an American missionary. Killigrew tried to go in search of a horse, but before he had taken two steps his ankle gave way beneath him and he collapsed against the wall of the hut, sliding to the ground with a sob of frustration.
‘Ce n’est pas bon,’ said a voice beside him, and he turned to see Tip-Top standing over him, knocking his battered top hat back into shape.
Killigrew looked up at him in surprise. ‘You speak French?’
‘A little,’ admitted Tip-Top. ‘As do you, evidently.’
‘I wish you’d said something earlier. It’s better than messing about with pidgin English.’
Then Killigrew saw Momolu. There was a bloody graze on his temple and his face was ashen, but his voice remained strong as he said something bitterly to Killigrew. ‘What did he say?’ Killigrew asked Tip-Top.
‘He says: “Now you know what the leopard people are.”’
That evening Momolu held a palaver which all the remaining villagers attended. Killigrew went along and watched from the sidelines. He could not understand a word that was being said, but it was clear that passions ran high. ‘Can you tell me what they’re saying?’ he asked Tip-Top.
‘They are discussing what is to be done. Italo – the young man who speaks now – is saying they must gather together their kinsmen from the neighbouring villages and pursue the leopard people to their lair and rescue the prisoners before they are spirited off to Hell.’
Killigrew smiled without much humour. ‘I think it more likely they’ll end up in the Americas – not that there’s much difference between Hell and the Americas for those condemned to a lifetime of slavery.’
Italo sat down, and Momolu rose to his feet. ‘He is saying that he would do anything for the return of the captives, but attempts have been made to track the leopard people to their lair before; those that set out to find it never returned,’ translated Tip-Top.
‘Tell them I know where the captives have been taken,’ said Killigrew. ‘Tell them I have been there myself and barely escaped with my life, but I am willing to return to help them free their kinsfolk, if they will help me.’
Tip-Top stepped forward and removed his hat, holding it in front of him like a petitioner. They heard him out as he translated what Killigrew had said, but as soon as he had finished Italo leaped to his feet and spoke so angrily that spittle flew from his lips, gesturing at Killigrew the whole time.
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Killigrew.
‘He says it is your fault that the leopard people came to the village today,’ Tip-Top murmured out of the corner of his mouth. ‘That they came here searching for you and your friends.’
‘He’s probably right,’ said Killigrew. ‘Tell him—’ He broke off when he saw that Italo’s tirade had finished and Momolu was gesturing for his son to speak.
‘Now Ndawa is defending you. He says that although your skin is white your heart is pure, and the way you fought today proved that. You saved him from being killed and his wife from being taken by the leopard people, and for that he is always in your debt. You fought as a lion, and the lion always defeats the leopard. If they listen to you, there is perhaps a chance you can show them a way to defeat the leopard people.’
Killigrew flushed. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the side of the well for support. ‘Now tell them this: the leopard people are working together with white men. White men who make me ashamed to be a white man. There are other white men, like me, who would like to destroy the white men who bring shame upon my race by helping the leopard people carry your kinsfolk into slavery; but we cannot do it without the help of the Mende, just as the Mende cannot defeat the leopard people and free their kinsfolk without the help of the white men. By working together, we can destroy the leopard people and the white men who would help them.’
When Tip-Top had finished translating all this into Mande, Killigrew was surprised by the lack of reaction on the part of the villagers. He had thought it a fairly capital speech, and was disappointed. He could only assume it had lost something in the translation.
Momolu rose to his feet and spoke very briefly indeed, although his dry tone was unmistakable. ‘He wants to know if you’ve got a plan,’ explained Tip-Top.
Killigrew grinned with relief. ‘Now he’s talking my language.’
As it happened he did have a plan, and he explained it at length through Tip-Top. There was approval on the whole, but Italo was not entirely satisfied. ‘He wants to know how they can be sure you will meet them when and where you say you will, and whether you can guarantee to bring the help of the white men with the great canoe-houses.’
‘Tell him I cannot guarantee the help of other white men, although I will do everything I can to bring it about. But whether I come with help or alone to the place we have arranged, I shall come, on my word of honour as an English gentleman.’
Italo had one more question. Instead of translating it to Killigrew, Tip-Top looked about until he saw a solid-looking rock on the ground nearby. He picked it up and showed it to Italo, answering his question. That seemed to satisfy Italo, who nodded and sat down once more.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Killigrew.
‘He wanted to know what the word of a British gentleman was,’ explained Tip-Top, and grinned. ‘I showed him.’
They had given him five days. Killigrew knew it would take him three days to get to Monrovia, even with native bearers carrying him in a litter; with his ankle twisted, he would not make it otherwise. He knew that the remaining two days would not give him much time to fulfil his side of the bargain, but it would have to suffice; every day’s delay before putting their plan into action increased the chances that more ships would come to the Owodunni Barracoon and carry off the slaves imprisoned there.
He set out with Tip-Top and Ndawa’s cousin, Dguma, acting as bearers, as soon as they could rig up a litter; even before they left, runners were sent out to the neighbouring villages to call for the help of their warriors. Tip-Top and Dguma, used to the stifling tropical heat, carried Killigrew at a pace that would probably have killed all but the fittest Europeans. As they rested at villages along the way each night, Killigrew exercised his twisted ankle as much as he dared. He was determined to be in shape for the attack on the Owodunni Barracoon, but did not dare over-exert the joint for fear of making it worse rather than better.
Monrovia, the capital of Liberia, had been founded a quarter of a century earlier. Like Sierra Leone, Liberia had been set up as a homeland for Africans and their descendants who had been slaves but now, being free, wished to return to live in Africa. But while Sierra Leone was a British Crown Colony, Liberia had been founded by Americans. The United States constitution forbade – for obvious reasons – the ownership of colonies, so quite what the Liberian state was in legal terms was not fully defined; the US Government, however, embarrassed by this colony that was not a colony, had decided that it was time Liberia stood on her own two feet and declared her independence, whether she liked it or not. Killigrew had heard that a convention had been called in Monrovia for the following month so that the settlers of the non-colony could discuss their future. But when he arrived, borne between Tip-Top and Dguma, the place seemed as sleepy as ever.
Even though they had been founded for the same purpose, Freetown and Monrovia were the complete antithesis of one another: where Freetown was a riotous, ramshackle town where alcohol-consumption and prostitution were the order of the day, Monrovia was God-fearing, decent, orderly, alcohol-free and all in all the kind of place that only Yankee evangelists could create.
Killigrew hated it.
But he forgot all his loathing the moment he spied the frigate moored in the harbour. ‘We’re in luck, Tip-Top,’ he exclaimed.
‘A British ship?’
Killigrew nodded. ‘HMS Thor. I know her captain.’ Whether the captain would be prepared to listen to the disgraced Killigrew was another matter entirely.
Tip-Top and Dguma finally stopped on the waterfront and Killigrew climbed down from the litter, hobbling on his ankle but able to move around unsupported now. He pointed to the Kru bumboats tied up below the wooden jetty. ‘See if you can persuade one of them to take us out to the frigate,’ he told Tip-Top.
The Krumen manning the bumboats took little persuading. They had doubtless already visited HMS Thor many times since she had anchored in the harbour, but they were clearly glad of another excuse to visit the ship and ply the crew with their wares. Killigrew picked the likeliest, to the disappointment of the other boatmen, who nevertheless rowed out to the Thor with their rival, so that Killigrew arrived with a commercial flotilla of honour.
As they drew near, a lieutenant about the same age as Killigrew crossed to the rail to wave them away, and Killigrew guessed they had suffered from bumboat boys smuggling alcohol on board to the crew. Prohibition might be about to become inscribed in the constitution that was being drawn up for Liberia, but Killigrew expected that that was one law which might well prove to be unenforceable, even in the face of evangelical zeal.
‘Clear off, you wretches! We’ve already got all the cassava, sweet potatoes, spices, rum, peppers, rice and mangoes we need. Go on, get away!’
‘That’s no way to greet an old friend, Matt,’ chided Killigrew.
Lieutenant Matthew Masterson performed a double-take. ‘Killigrew? What the deuce are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long story and I haven’t much time. May I come aboard?’
Masterson frowned, torn between loyalty to an old shipmate and the knowledge that Killigrew was persona non grata. ‘Look, Killigrew, I heard about what happened in London and I’m dreadfully sorry, but—’
‘It’s urgent, Matt. Many lives are at stake. You have to believe me, I didn’t kill that girl. I’ve been spying for the Slave Trade Department. Rear-Admiral Napier will confirm my story.’
‘Napier’s here?’
‘No, he’s in London.’
‘It will take weeks to get confirmation—’
Killigrew pounded a fist against the side of the hull. ‘Damn it, there isn’t time! You’ll just have to trust me. Matt, I know where the Owodunni Barracoon is.’
Masterson stared. ‘You’ve been there? I was starting to think it was a mythical place, like an El Dorado for slavers.’ He hesitated only a moment longer. ‘Throw down a ladder for him, Bosun.’
Killigrew heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Is it all right if I bring my friends aboard?’ he asked, indicating Tip-Top and Dguma.
‘Of course! Come on up.’
‘Is Nose-Biter still captain of this tub?’
Masterson nodded.
‘You think he’ll be willing to sail there and help me destroy the place?’
Masterson looked uncertain. ‘This isn’t the old days, Killigrew. We can’t just go charging into barracoons, freeing slaves and bombarding them the way we used to. After the legal wrangle Denman got himself into at the Gallinas River…’
‘At least let me speak to him.’
Masterson took a deep breath. ‘All right, Killigrew. But this issue isn’t as straightforward as it seems…’ He motioned aside the marine who stood on duty at the entrance to the roundhouse and ushered Killigrew inside. They made their way to the captain’s day room and were saluted by the marine who was likewise on duty there. A low murmur of voices could be heard coming from the other side of the door.
‘Sorry, sir, but Captain Crichton says he’s not to be disturbed,’ said the marine.
Masterson cleared his throat. ‘My apologies to Captain Crichton, but I think he will want to hear what Mr Killigrew here has to tell him.’
The marine knocked on the door. ‘Captain Crichton, sir? Lieutenant Masterson apologises for the interruption but says he thinks you’ll want to hear what Mr Killigrew has to tell you.’
The door was jerked open and Captain Crichton stood there, glowering at the marine. He was in his late fifties but despite his age he was of tall, imposing build, with wild white hair and watery eyes which bulged from his fish-like face. ‘Killigrew? Lieutenant Kit Killigrew? Or perhaps I should say ex-lieutenant?’
‘It’s a long story, sir.’
‘Well, you’d better come in.’ Crichton stood aside and allowed Masterson and Killigrew to enter the day room. As Masterson closed the door firmly behind them, Killigrew saw that Crichton’s guest was a tall African with widely flared nostrils, low brows and a pair of eyes which glinted like polished Minié balls. He was dressed smartly in European clothes: black pantaloons and frock coat, white shirt, waistcoat and cravat. What brought Killigrew up short was the leopard skin draped over his shoulder. He rose to his feet and bowed without taking his eyes off Killigrew for a moment.
‘Your Majesty, may I introduce Mr Christopher Killigrew?’ said Masterson. ‘Late of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and currently working for the Slave Trade Department of the British Foreign Office. Killigrew, this is His Majesty King Nldamak.’
Killigrew knew the name, although it took him a moment to recall where he had heard it before, and even then he only did so because of the leopard skin.
Nldamak was Prince Khari’s father.
The slave coffle had reached the delta at the mouth of the Owodunni River two days earlier. They had only marched for a day, but it had been a gruelling march nonetheless and no less than seven of the captives had died: three dropped from exhaustion and were left for the vultures with their throats slit, the other four were murdered with shocking casualness for showing the least resistance. After seeing that, Molineaux had shown his captors considerably more respect than before, but had been even more determined than ever to see the slavers put out of business for ever.
They could not see the barracoon at first – unlike Killigrew, Molineaux had not got a clear look at the place when they had been there a few days earlier – for the place was screened by the thick bands of jungle which grew all around the channels and swamps of the delta. But Molineaux saw the four watchtowers silhouetted against the sky – in the direction of the sea, he supposed – and knew they had arrived.
They came to where one of the channels barred their way. A wooden landing stage reached out into the brackish waters. Crocodiles sunning themselves on a nearby mud-flat seemed to pay the slavers and their prisoners no attention. There was no boat tied up at the stage, just a tall wooden post set in the earth with an ivory horn hung from it. One of the leopard men took the horn and blew into it, a series of resounding notes which startled a flock of ibises to flight. Molineaux tried to imprint the sequence in his memory; it might come in useful later.
They waited. Some of the leopard men lit pipes. At length Molineaux heard a gentle plashing and gazed down the channel in time to see a large canoe appear around a bend, manned by four mulattos. They quickly reached the landing stage and tied up. One of them eyed the slaves. ‘Not a bad looking lot, your highness. Not the best I’ve ever seen, but they’ll do, I’m sure. Every slave has his price. Senhor Salazar is keen to know if you got Killigrew and the Chance girl.’
Khari gestured to where Miss Chance lay in the litter. ‘I have the woman. Killigrew is dead, as Salazar requested. I rode him down myself and crushed him beneath the hoofs of my horse, as I crush all my enemies.’
The man nodded and turned away, but Khari seized him by the arm, making him wince. ‘I expect to be paid well for this, Tobias. If not in guns, then in gold.’
‘You’ll have to discuss that with Senhor Salazar,’ said Tobias. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing: word is there’s another ship due in in a few days’ time.’
‘With rifles?’
‘Rifles, gunpowder, rum, the lot. Don’t you fret, your highness. You’ll get paid.’
Khari folded his arms. ‘I hope so. Senhor Salazar seems to think he can order me around as if I were another one of his lackeys. There are plenty of other barracoons where I can sell my captives.’
Tobias chuckled. ‘Maybe so, your highness, but not this side of Cape Palmas, there ain’t. Come on, let’s get the first batch in the canoe.’
The first batch comprised Miss Chance, Molineaux, Abena, and five other captives. Tobias got in the boat with Prince Khari and three of his leopard warriors. They cast off from the landing stage, paddled off down the channel and left the others to wait.
For the first time since their capture, Molineaux was close enough to Miss Chance to talk to her. ‘Miss Chance? You all right, Miss Chance?’
She muttered something without looking at him. He caught Killigrew’s name, but the rest of it made no sense. She was clearly delirious, and the pallor of her skin was ghastly.
Something smashed into Molineaux’s back, and he sprawled at the bottom of the canoe. He rolled on to his back and found himself staring up at Prince Khari. ‘You may have the gift of speaking English, but I did not say you could use it.’
With his hands now tied behind his back, and consequently twisted under him at an awkward angle, Molineaux winced. ‘You didn’t say I couldn’t.’ He was perfectly positioned to tip Khari over the side with a kick to his knees, in the hope of feeding him to the crocodiles, but with the leopard men covering him with their muskets he would gain little from that other than his own death in return for the possibility of Prince Khari’s. He decided to wait for a better opportunity to kill him.
Khari gave him a half-hearted kick to ram home the point and turned away. Molineaux managed to sit up and tried to memorise the route they took through the channels, but the delta was like a watery maze, and one jungle-covered river bank looked much the same as another to him. Finding the way out of the delta the other night had been easy: it had simply been a case of heading upstream until they reached the main body of the river; but finding the way to the barracoon at the heart of the delta would be impossible for a stranger. Salazar had chosen the location of his lair well.
At last another landing stage came into sight, and Molineaux began to appreciate just how big the barracoon really was. Most of the island where they landed was covered by a huge stockade surrounded by a wooden palisade at least twelve feet high. From inside the stockade he could hear pitiful groans and the rattle of chains, like Scrooge’s nightmare of Marley’s ghost multiplied a thousand times. The mangrove swamps did not smell sweet at the best of times; here the stench was appalling.
The captives were dragged out of the boat. ‘Not her,’ Tobias ordered when one of the leopard men made to lift out Miss Chance. ‘She goes to the big house.’
The leopard man glanced at Khari, who silently nodded his acceptance, before straightening and leaving Miss Chance where she lay. Molineaux could imagine what kind of fate awaited her at Salazar’s hands in the big house; he wondered if the slaver was the kind of man who would take advantage of a desperately ill woman – a man who could sell human beings by the hundred like so many heads of cattle was capable of any atrocity. Molineaux was reluctant to let her out of his sight and he pushed back against the leopard men who herded him towards the entrance of the stockade, but he was powerless.
Molineaux, Abena and the other captives were pushed into the stockade. The walls loomed over them menacingly, and Molineaux saw more guards armed with muskets patrolling the catwalk that ran around the top of the palisade. In the centre of the stockade there were a dozen sheds formed from wooden pillars lashed together with bamboo. The walls were about six feet high, and between the top of the walls and the roof thatched with palm leaves there was a gap of another four feet. The groans and rattling chains seemed to come from all around; Molineaux wanted to put his hands over his ears and scream until he had blocked out the sound of human suffering.
The captives were marched between these sheds to one towards the back of the stockade and ushered inside. As yet it was empty. A central row of wooden pillars supported the roof, and a chain ran the length of the row, with a large neck-link every two feet. The captives were each padlocked into a collar. ‘Shackle him between those two,’ ordered Khari, indicating Molineaux.
‘You think he’s dangerous?’ asked Tobias. ‘He don’t look much.’
‘No. But he is clever. Those can be the most dangerous ones of them all.’
You better believe it, thought Molineaux, as one of his wrists was shackled to the man on his right and the other to Abena on his left.
‘If he gives you any trouble, give him a good beating,’ said Khari. ‘But don’t kill him. He speaks English – he should fetch a good price.’
Khari, Tobias and the guards went out to fetch the next batch, bolting the bamboo gate to the shed and padlocking that too.
Now that Killigrew was dead it was all up to Molineaux. All he had to do was get out of his shackles, kill the guards, free the others and then use the resulting confusion to rescue Miss Chance from Salazar’s salacious clutches before they all made their escape through the maze of crocodile-infested waterways and into the jungle. Easy as caz, he thought wryly to himself. He glanced at the padlocks on his fetters and cursed himself for leaving his picklocks at the village, not that he had had much choice in the matter. He turned to Abena. ‘I don’t suppose you’d happen to have such a thing as a bent nail on you?’
She looked at him blankly.
He sighed. ‘Didn’t think so.’ He lay back on the planking which formed the floor of the shed, trying to feign calmness in the face of adversity, but his own frustration got the better of him and he pounded the planks with his fist.