‘Evans! McFee!’ Killigrew waved across two of the sailors who had pistols thrust in their belts. ‘Look lively, you two. Go down to the slave deck and stand guard over the prisoners. No one goes near them, do you understand? Shoot if you have to.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ The two sailors drew their pistols and cutlasses and dashed below.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Strachan.
‘It seems I owe you an apology, Mr Strachan.’
‘About the captain’s belly-warmer? I told you she was mad.’
‘Not mad, Mr Strachan. Just very, very cunning. She’s one of them.’
‘What?’
‘One of the slavers, damn it! I was a fool not to see it. She cooked up that yarn about you trying to molest her to sow dissension amongst us. She’s been biding her time, waiting for us to drop our guard so she could free her friends.’
Killigrew wondered how he could have been so stupid: the only black on board who spoke English; the absence of any signs of cruelty on her body; the shift in the master’s closet that fitted her so perfectly…
He cast his eyes over the deck, mentally mustering the men under his command: Dando and the sailmaker standing by for orders, Quartermaster Ågård at the helm, Boulton and Galton at the bilge pump, O’Connor moving amongst the slaves with a cask of water, and the other two men working at the bilge pump.
‘’Vast pumping, there,’ he told them. ‘Check your pistols. Where are Fentiman, Ivey and Lidstone?’ Then he remembered: they had gone below to look for the leak. ‘We’ll have to search the ship, deck by deck. Boulton and Galton, you two stay on deck with Mr Ågård. Sails, you take Dando and O’Connor and start at the bows. Strachan and I will start from the stern and we’ll work our way for’ard until—’
He broke off as a scuffle sounded below. They heard a thump, and then the report of a pistol followed by a man’s scream, cut off short.
The sailmaker crossed to the main hatch. ‘Dick? Johnny?’ he called down. ‘Are you boys all right down there?’ When there was no reply, his expression became grim. ‘Looks like they’ve got themselves a couple of pistols now, sir.’
‘Everyone up on the poop deck, chop-chop!’ ordered Killigrew.
‘What about the recaptives?’ asked Strachan, gesturing at the bodies strewn across the deck.
‘We’ll just have to leave them, that’s all…’
Two shots rang out. Killigrew felt something scorch his cheek. A moment later Galton was on his knees clutching his stomach. Killigrew whirled in the direction from which the shots had come from in time to see the slavers rush out of the accommodation hatch behind the mainmast, only a few yards away. He fired his pepperbox twice. Boulton, Dando and O’Connor also fired their single-shot pistols. Three of the slavers went down, falling amongst the recaptives on deck who scrambled to get out of the way, crying out in panic and confusion.
Killigrew fired again, and then the surviving slavers were retreating back down the hatch. He shot one more in the back before they were all out of sight, then grabbed Galton by one arm, hoisted him to his feet and helped him up the companion ladder to the poop deck after the others.
Boulton, Dando and O’Connor quickly reloaded their pistols and crouched at the rail at the leading edge of the poop, from where they could cover the rest of the barque’s decks and hatches. Killigrew reloaded his pepperbox while Strachan crouched over Galton. A dark, thick stain was already spreading over the front of the seaman’s shirt. Strachan tore the cloth apart to reveal the wound in his stomach.
‘He’s been gut-shot,’ he said, while Galton groaned in agony.
Killigrew nodded, understanding that the seaman’s chances of survival were slim. ‘Do what you can.’
‘What do we do now, sir?’ asked the sailmaker. ‘We can’t stay up here for ever…’ Apart from the fact that the recaptives needed to be looked after, the seamen could not trim the sails from the poop deck. Nor was there any food or water up there.
‘It’s worse than that,’ said Killigrew. ‘The ship’s sinking.’
Strachan looked up sharply. ‘What?’ he spluttered in panic.
‘Slowly,’ Killigrew hastened to reassure him. ‘But sinking nonetheless. That’s why Fentiman went below with Ivey and Lidstone: they were searching for the leak.’
‘I suppose the slavers got them, then, sir,’ said Boulton.
‘Maybe. I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Surely the slavers are in the same boat as we are,’ said Strachan. ‘No pun intended. We may be trapped up here, but they daren’t show their faces on deck. If the ship’s sinking, they’ll drown first.’
‘If the water in the hold gets that deep, then we’ll be foundering and we’ll soon drown with them.’
‘Can’t we talk to them?’
Killigrew grinned and jerked a thumb towards the hatches. ‘You can try it if you like…’
‘There’s someone moving down there!’ hissed Boulton.
‘Hold your fire,’ ordered Killigrew, and glanced over the rail. ‘It’s one of the recaptives. Let him up.’
‘Him’ was a ‘her’. Koumba crept up the companion ladder and found herself face to face with the multiple muzzles of Killigrew’s pepperbox. Her eyes widened, showing white against the blackness of her face in the twilight. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her on to the poop deck. She gasped but did not cry out. ‘What is happening?’ she asked him in Portuguese. ‘The slavers – you let them escape.’
Killigrew grimaced. ‘Not on purpose, I assure you.’
She jerked her head to where four of the slavers shot earlier lay on deck. ‘Two of them are not dead.’
Strachan had finished tending to Galton’s wound as best he could. ‘I should go to them—’
‘You stay where you are, mister,’ snapped Killigrew. ‘It’s them or us now. I can’t have you getting shot trying to give them medical attention.’
Strachan looked relieved and did not try to argue.
‘We have to do something, sir,’ said Ågård.
Killigrew nodded. ‘Someone has to go down there and deal with the slavers.’
‘Are you mad?’ asked Strachan. ‘They’ve had plenty of time to reload their pistols. Whoever goes down will be shot the moment he appears at the top of the ladder.’
‘That’s why I’m not going down the ladder.’ Killigrew crossed to the taffrail at the stern of the poop deck and glanced down.
Strachan stared at him. ‘You’re going to go down there alone?’
‘I’d like one volunteer to come with me.’
Everyone spoke at once. Killigrew waved them to silence. ‘Just one of you. Mr Dando, I think.’ He turned to the sailmaker and handed him a boat hook. ‘Get ready to pass this down to me.’ He took off his coat and hung it from a belaying pin.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ protested Strachan. ‘There’s at least eight of them. Not to mention the bitch that slit poor Parsons’s throat. Just two of you, against eight of them?’
The sailmaker laid a hand on Strachan’s arm. ‘Mr Killigrew knows what he’s doing.’
‘So do I. He’s committing suicide.’
‘We’re wasting time,’ said Killigrew. He took a coil of rope from a belaying pin and handed it to Dando. ‘The longer we leave it, the more time we give them to cook up a plan.’ He crossed to the skylight in the middle of the poop deck and raised it. ‘We’ll go in through one of the stern ports,’ he explained. ‘The password is “whisky”. Anyone comes up through those hatches without calling that out first, you can blow his head off. Just make sure you don’t hit any of those poor negroes. If we’re not back in half an hour, you’ll know we’re dead.’
‘Then what do we do?’ asked Strachan.
Killigrew clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be in command then, so that’s your problem.’ He jumped down into the master’s day cabin before Strachan could protest and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. Dando followed him.
‘Belay one end of that rope to that beam,’ ordered Killigrew, as he crossed to the window and opened it. Dando made the rope fast and Killigrew dropped the other end out of the window and into the barque’s wake.
‘Want me to go first, sir?’ offered Dando.
‘Toss you for it,’ said Killigrew. ‘Heads I go first, tails you do.’ He tossed. ‘Heads it is.’ Killigrew slipped his double-headed coin back into his pocket. Taking a knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle he clenched it between his teeth and climbed out through the window, feeling like one of his piratical forebears.
He glanced up and saw the sailmaker at the taffrail above him. The sailmaker lowered one end of the boat hook towards him, but Killigrew shook his head and shinned down the rope. There was a stern port on either side of the rudder. The barque was so low in the water there was barely a foot of freeboard between the water and the sills of the ports. Within an hour water would be pouring through those ports if they did not get pumping again.
The port on the starboard side of the rudder was open, blackness behind it, and—
There was a blinding white flash from the port and a loud report filled Killigrew’s ears. Something burned his shoulder and he almost lost his grip in shock. He slipped down the rope until his feet splashed into the water. Gripping the rope in one hand, he took the dirk from between his teeth and flung it through the open hatch. The action made him spin on the rope. As he swung back to face the port, he saw one of the slavers topple out to splash into the barque’s wake.
The sharks at once closed in. Killigrew quickly shinned up the rope until he was out of the water. A feeding frenzy erupted below him as the sharks tore at the slaver’s body, quickly falling astern.
No more shots came from the stern port, but it was only a matter of time before more of the slavers came to investigate. Killigrew had to move quickly if he did not want to be dangling helplessly when they arrived; next time he might not be so lucky. The overhang from the stern prevented him from reaching the port. He glanced up to where the sailmaker stood at the taffrail with concern on his face.
‘Drop it!’ hissed Killigrew.
The sailmaker looked puzzled. Killigrew held up one hand, and gestured. Sails remembered the boat hook he was holding. He held it out over the taffrail vertical, and allowed it to fall, straight down, just to one side of Killigrew. The mate snatched it out of the air, near the blunt end. The hook twisted down towards the water and a shark’s head emerged, snapping at it. Killigrew jerked it clear, swung it at the stern port and hooked it over the sill. He pulled himself in towards the port and scrambled through.
He was in the after hold on the orlop deck, standing in several inches of water. Footsteps sounded outside and the door began to open. ‘Eduardo?’ called a voice, and the door opened as one of the slavers entered. He paused on the threshold and squinted into the gloom. ‘Are you all right? What happened? What were you shooting at?’
‘Me,’ said Killigrew, and hit him on the head with the blunt end of the boat hook. The slaver slumped to the deck.
Killigrew was still tying the man’s hands behind his back with his belt as Dando climbed in through the stern port after him. ‘You all right, sir?’ he whispered, glancing at the unconscious man.
‘Better than he is.’ Killigrew took out his handkerchief and used it to gag the slaver, propping him up in a seated position with his back to a bulkhead so that he would not drown in the water which sloshed about on the deck.
Then he stood up and pressed himself against the bulkhead to one side of the door, listening. The only sounds he could hear were the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the sloshing of water.
He drew his cutlass in his right hand and his pepperbox in his left, and the two of them slipped out through the door into the dark bowels of the ship. Down here the slavers had the advantage over them, because they would be familiar with the barque’s layout below decks. But so far, he hoped, the element of surprise was on his side.
Killigrew and Dando crept along the deserted orlop deck until they stumbled across something in the dark. Killigrew fell over and sprawled on something soft and sticky. Realising he was lying across the bodies of Fentiman, Ivey and Lidstone, he scrambled back in horror.
All three had had their throats slit from ear to ear. There were no other wounds on them to suggest they had died fighting: the slavers had murdered them in cold blood.
‘Bastards,’ whispered Dando. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘That’s all right, Dando. You took the word right out of my mouth.’
They continued along the orlop deck until they reached a companion ladder leading up to the main deck, and paused. They could hear voices speaking Portuguese above.
‘What’s taking Ferrando so long?’ asked one. ‘I told him to come straight back here.’
‘Maybe something happened to Eduardo. I’m going to check.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Please say no, thought Killigrew.
‘Yes.’
Footsteps came down the companion ladder. Killigrew and Dando ducked behind the mainmast where it descended between decks to the mast step at the keel. He slipped his pepperbox into its holster and listened to the footsteps splashing through the water. Eerie shadows danced on the bulkheads: one of them carried a lantern. Killigrew and Dando exchanged glances as the two slavers walked past their place of concealment, heading for the after hold.
Killigrew and Dando stepped out behind them. Killigrew hit one with the hilt of his cutlass and Dando laid out the other with a belaying pin. They dragged the two men to the empty slave deck, gagged them and fettered them. Nonetheless they would have to work quickly now, as these two men could quickly raise the alarm by rattling their fetters when they came to.
The two British seamen returned to the foot of the companion ladder. They heard footsteps above and froze.
‘Where are Carlos and Jose?’ Killigrew heard Barroso ask. ‘Curse them, I told them not to move!’
A face appeared at the top of the steps and Killigrew and Dando quickly ducked back out of sight. ‘Carlos? Jose? Where are you?’
Why don’t you come down and find out?
‘I don’t like it, Ramón…’
‘Me neither. There’s something strange going on… damn it, some of those English pigs must’ve gotten below somehow! I’ll wager that devil Killigrew is with them. Tomas, Rodrigo, I want you two to go down there and flush the bastards out. Simão and I will stay at the main hatch.’
Tomas and Rodrigo descended the ladder with a lantern. As they headed into the darkness, Dando regarded Killigrew quizzically in the gloom. Killigrew nodded, and as Dando headed aft to take care of the two men, Killigrew went up the companion ladder and made his way to the main hatch. One man crouched beneath the grating, the barrel of his pistol pointed aft towards the poop deck.
Killigrew readied his cutlass. He felt guilty about creeping up on the man and striking him down from behind, but he reminded himself that this man would almost certainly murder him if the opportunity arose. Besides which, with the odds stacked against him, this was no time to fight fair: he would only be giving the advantage to his enemies.
Something clanked behind him and he half turned before a loop of chain was dropped tight around his neck and pulled hard against his throat, choking him. His cutlass clattered to the deck.
‘Simão! I have him!’
The man with the pistol turned and levelled it at Killigrew’s head. Killigrew kicked at his hand and sent the pistol flying. There was a bright flash as it discharged itself harmlessly into a bulkhead.
Killigrew scrabbled at the chain which bit into his throat but the man who held him was too strong. He tried to draw his pepperbox but the man took both ends of the chain in one hand and clamped the other over Killigrew’s wrist.
Simão snatched up the cutlass and came at Killigrew, slashing. Killigrew launched himself backwards and slammed the man behind him against a bulkhead. He gasped and took his hand from Killigrew’s wrist. Killigrew drew his pepperbox and shot Simão between the eyes. Then he felt for the other man’s side and rammed the muzzles against it, pulling the trigger. The man groaned and the chain became slack enough for Killigrew to break free.
The man with the chain was Barroso. A dark stain spread around the wound in his side, but he was still on his feet and Killigrew guessed he had not hit any vital organs. He swung the chain at Killigrew’s hand, knocking the pepperbox away into the darkness.
A lithe, dark shape leaped out of the shadows from one side and crashed into Killigrew’s side. Onyema sank her teeth into his wrist. The pain was excruciating. Barroso dropped the chain, snatched up the cutlass and charged forwards.
Killigrew and Onyema rolled over and over on the deck, her teeth still deep in his wrist, her fingernails raking his face, searching for his eyes. As Barroso brought his cutlass down, Killigrew allowed Onyema to roll on top. The cutlass buried itself deep in her shoulder. She gasped in shock. Barroso stared down in horror at what he had done, and then pulled the cutlass free. Onyema screamed and her blood splashed down on to Killigrew.
Killigrew still had the single-shot pistol in his waistband and he levelled it at Barroso. ‘Drop the cutlass.’
‘I’d do as he says, friend,’ growled Dando, appearing behind Barroso. The slaver snarled and tossed the blade to the deck.
Killigrew crawled out from underneath Onyema and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Shrugging it off, he folded it and held it over the awful wound in her shoulder. ‘Hold this in place,’ he told her. I’ll send the surgeon down to look at that wound.’
She spat in his face.
‘What about my wound?’ demanded Barroso.
‘I hope you bleed to death,’ Killigrew told him, collecting up all the weapons he could find. He turned to Dando. ‘The other two?’
‘Out like lights and trussed like turkeys, sir.’
‘Good work, Mr Dando.’ Killigrew made his way to the main hatch. No sooner had he raised his head above the level of the coaming than a report sounded and a bullet bit into the deck inches from his hand. ‘Whisky!’ he bawled. ‘Whisky!’
The men on the poop deck rose to their feet. ‘By God, Mr Killigrew!’ exclaimed Strachan. ‘Is that really you?’
‘What’s left of me.’ Killigrew climbed up on deck. He suddenly felt utterly drained.
‘What about Mr Dando?’
‘In fine fettle. There are wounded down here for you to take care of, Mr Strachan.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Strachan hurried down the companion ladder and crossed the deck to the hatch.
‘You’d better go with him, Boulton, in case they try anything,’ said Killigrew. ‘Help Mr Dando put the slavers back in the slave deck. And watch the woman, too. She’s a real hellspite. Sails, you’d better find that leak chop-chop. O’Connor, go with him and help him.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Almost fainting with fatigue, Killigrew staggered into the master’s day room. Koumba followed him inside. ‘Are you all right?’
He lit a candle and grinned. ‘I was wondering when someone was going to ask me that.’ He stripped off his shirt and examined his shoulder. The bullet which had creased him as he hung from the stern had not gone deep, but he was also bleeding where Onyema had bitten him.
Koumba saw the teeth-marks and her eyes widened. ‘What made that mark?’
Killigrew shrugged. ‘Onyema – the slave master’s woman – bit me.’
‘She bit you?’ Her eyes widened, and then her face hardened. ‘You must kill her, Senhor Killigrew.’
‘What?’
‘She’s a leopard woman.’
Killigrew was too tired to listen to what sounded to him like it was going to turn out to be nonsense. He wondered if his comprehension of Portuguese was not as good as he had supposed. ‘A what?’
‘A leopard woman. Have you not heard of the leopard people? They have the form of men and women, but in truth they are evil magicians. They have the power to transform themselves into leopards, in which shape they roam abroad at night committing the most terrible atrocities.’
‘Superstitious nonsense. You can’t go round killing people just because they bite you. I used to know a girl called Eulalia Pengelly, she bit me once when we were children. You’re not suggesting she’s a leopard woman, are you?’
Koumba ignored the interruption. ‘The leopard people murder men and use parts of their bodies to create borfima.’
‘“Borfima”?’
She nodded. ‘Powerful medicines which give them great wealth. I tell you this: the leopard woman must be killed, before she brings more death and destruction.’
‘Nonsense. If she lives she’ll get a fair trial in Freetown. As captain of this vessel I have wide-ranging powers, but I’m damned if I’ll use them to take the law into my own hands.’ A bottle of aguardiente stood on the table and he pulled out the cork with his teeth, taking a long pull at the fiery liquor. Then he swabbed away the blood from the wound in his shoulder, poured a little of the aguardiente into it, and set it alight with the candle.
Koumba winced as the smell of burning flesh filled the room. ‘Is that the white man’s magic?’ she asked.
‘Got to cauterise the wound, keep out infection,’ he grunted. The blue flames disappeared and he poured more aguardiente over the blackened skin before he repeated the procedure with the teeth-marks in his wrist. She helped him dress both wounds.
‘What is the “Royal Navy”?’ she asked him.
‘The ships of her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria. And the men aboard them, of course.’
‘And is this what you do? Rescue black people from slavery?’
‘That’s part of it.’ Killigrew gently lifted Parsons’ body from the bunk and carried it through to the day room where he laid it on the deck.
‘Because your Queen Victoria orders you to do this?’
‘Yes. And for tonnage bounty. And because it’s the right thing to do.’ He re-entered the cabin and removed the blood-soaked sheets from the bunk. The blood had soaked through to the mattress below, but Killigrew was too exhausted to care.
‘The ways of the white man are strange indeed.’
Killigrew thought about that. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’
The sun was streaming through the skylight by the time Dando roused Killigrew with a mug of tea. Killigrew sat up sharply. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly eight bells in the morning watch, sir.’
‘Why the devil didn’t anyone wake me?’
‘The quack said you needed rest, and Sails agreed with him.’
Killigrew climbed off the bunk and pulled his shirt on. ‘The ship? Is she still sinking?’
Dando looked dubious. ‘We managed to find the leak and patch it as best we can, though there’s still some water coming in. We had to use the fore t’gallant to fother her. There was no spare canvas, ’cept the sail we used for an awning. Sails wanted to use that, of course, but the quack overruled him.’
Killigrew thought about it. Taking down the fore topgallant sail would knock a fraction of a knot off their speed and delay their arrival in Freetown by an hour or two, all told. Some of the recaptives might die in that hour, but more would die if they were left on deck without shelter or shade from the tropical sun.
Killigrew took the mug of tea from Dando and followed him out on deck. The recaptives were starting to look a lot more lively than they had done the previous day and Sails was teaching some of the fitter young men the rudiments of seamanship so that they could help to run the Maria Magdalena back to port. They spoke no English and he spoke no… whatever language it was they spoke… but he seemed to be managing by pointing to various parts of the ship, saying their names over and over until the recaptives repeated them parrot fashion, and by demonstrating himself he taught them some of the simpler chores required in trimming sails. Killigrew nodded thoughtfully. With only eight men left in the prize crew, including the two officers, they would need all the help they could get.
Two more of the recaptives were busy working the bilge pump, and even as Killigrew watched them another recaptive emerged from one of the hatches carrying a bucket of water which he carried to the side and tipped over. No sooner had he carried the empty bucket back down below than a second recaptive emerged with a bucket and did exactly the same thing.
‘The only way we can keep pace with the leak, I’m afraid, sir,’ explained Dando.
‘At least we’ve got plenty of hands to keep it up,’ Killigrew remarked wryly.
To one side several bloodstained sacks about six feet long lay in rows on the deck. Ordinarily Sails would have sewn them up in canvas, but canvas was too precious on board the Maria Magdalena to be squandered in the burial of the dead.
‘Why haven’t those been dumped overboard yet?’ demanded Killigrew.
‘Mr Ågård said we should wait for you to read the burial service, so we can do it proper, like,’ said Dando.
Killigrew counted the sacks. There were a dozen. Had so many really died in the fighting last night? Remembering now, it all seemed like no more than a nightmare. He did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘Who are the other four?’ he asked Dando.
‘I’m afraid Mr Galton didn’t last long, sir. And three more of the slaves died as well. Fever. They must’ve picked it up on the coast.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Are many more of them sick?’
‘The quack counted about two dozen. He’s put them in the sick bay.’
‘Where’s Mr Strachan?’
‘Up on the poop, sir.’
Still holding the mug of tea, Killigrew climbed the companion ladder to the poop deck where he found Boulton spelling Ågård at the helm. Strachan sat sleeping on the deck with his back propped up against the bulwark, while two sleeping recaptive children nestled on either side of him. Koumba sat opposite him, watching the sleeping doctor with an amused smile on her face. In the light of day he could see that she really was quite presentable now that she had had a chance to clean up, and her broad smile lit up her whole face. As Killigrew stepped on deck she glanced at him and her smile did not falter.
‘Good morning, Menina Koumba,’ he said in Portuguese, saluting her.
‘Good morning, Senhor Killigrew. I trust you slept well?’
‘My God, what was I thinking? I slept on that nice comfortable bunk and left a lady to sleep on deck…’
‘A lot of ladies slept on deck last night,’ she reminded him, nodding to where the other recaptive women sat in the ship’s waist. They were chatting amongst themselves, and some of them were even laughing. This morning there was hope in their eyes where yesterday Killigrew had seen only despair, and in that moment he was reminded that everything he had gone through last night had been worth it.
‘We couldn’t all have fitted on that bunk,’ said Koumba. ‘Please do not feel guilty about it, Senhor Killigrew. If anyone earned a good night’s rest last night, it was you.’
Killigrew grunted non-committally. Thanks to his carelessness in trusting Onyema, seven members of his prize crew were dead. ‘We’d better get the burial of the dead over and done with,’ he said.
They rigged up planks from which the bodies could be tipped overboard while Killigrew rooted around inside his sea-chest and came up with his King James’s Bible and his Book of Common Prayer. His grandfather had given them to him on the day he had first joined the Royal Navy as a first-class volunteer, aged twelve. ‘These were your father’s. I know he would have wanted you to have them.’
Inside the cover of the Bible the following had been written in his father’s hand, bold and flourishing, yet meticulously precise:
A gentleman is made, not born. He is defined by his actions, not his wealth.
A gentleman protects those who cannot protect themselves. A gentleman respects the feelings and beliefs of others.
A gentleman is guided by his own sense of justice and fair play.
A gentleman treats others according to their merit rather than their station.
A gentleman is not boastful, but lets his actions speak for themselves.
A gentleman is as careless of the debts he is owed as he is careful of those he owes to others.
A gentleman does not stand idly by in the face of injustice.
A gentleman asks no man to do what he is not prepared to attempt himself.
A gentleman takes responsibility for his own actions.
Killigrew knew those lines by heart. He had no way of knowing if his father had merely written them in an idle moment or if he had deliberately put them down so that his son might be guided by them. But like many children deprived of a fatherly role model at an early age, he seized upon any clue towards his father’s character and clung to it. Those lines were the strongest clue he had, and all his adult life he had struggled to abide by those rules.
The prayer book was less well thumbed. This was the first time Killigrew had opened it since he had said, Thank you, sir, I’ll treasure it always.’ And he had kept it, if only to prove to himself that he had meant those words. It was not that Killigrew was an impious man as such, it was just that there always seemed to be more important things to do than pray and go to church.
By the time he emerged on deck once more the others were ready. He opened the prayer book at the contents page and was relieved to discover there was a section ‘For the Burial of the Dead at Sea.’ Killigrew had seen plenty of burials at sea, but this was the first time he had ever been called upon to conduct one himself.
He riffled through the pages until he found the right one. ‘Shall we begin?’
The seamen doffed their hats.
Killigrew cleared his throat. ‘“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brothers here departed, we therefore commit their bodies to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, (when the Sea shall give up her dead), and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”’
He nodded to Ågård, and one by one the bodies were tipped overboard. They hit the water with a splash and went straight under, pulled to the bottom by the iron shot Sails had sewn inside the sacks.
Killigrew passed the prayer book to Strachan and pointed to the next line. ‘Perhaps you’d care to read this part?’
Strachan looked a little shocked at being called on to help, but he took the book from Killigrew. ‘“I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessèd are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the spirit; for they rest from their labours.”’
He passed the book back to Killigrew. ‘Our Father, which art in heaven…’
They all joined him in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and when they had finished he read the collect. Then he concluded: ‘“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore.”’
He closed the prayer book and stood with his hands clasped before him as they stood in respectful silence for a moment with their heads bowed. Then Dando raised a hand to his breast and sang ‘How Sweet the Name of Jesus Sounds’ in a surprisingly competent tenor.
Afterwards Killigrew sent O’Connor to fetch him breakfast before retiring to the master’s day room, checking the log-board on the way so he could update the log. Then, while he was waiting, he took out the chart and calculated their progress so far. It was slow; damned slow.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in, O’Connor.’
‘Not O’Connor,’ said Strachan. ‘Me.’
‘Well, come in anyway. I owe you an apology, Mr Strachan.’
‘You mean about the black woman?’ Strachan gestured dismissively. ‘You apologised last night.’
‘All the same…’
‘I can’t blame you for thinking what you did,’ said Strachan, and grinned sheepishly. ‘After all, coming in and seeing what you saw… What must I have looked like?’
Killigrew was grateful for Strachan’s magnanimity, but he could not bring himself to smile. ‘If I’d listened to you last night, perhaps none of those people need have died.’
‘And what would you have done, if you’d believed me last night? Put her in irons, just for being over-sensitive? It’s always easy to be wiser after the event. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. It wasn’t your fault Parsons and the rest of our men died, and as for the slavers you and Dando killed… well, I don’t imagine anyone will mourn their passing.’
‘Even blackbirders have mothers, wives…’
‘Mothers and wives who’ll have given up their sons and husbands as worse than dead the moment they learned what line of shipping they were in, if they had any milk of human kindness in their breasts. Look at it this way: how many would have died if those men had shipped with a legitimate merchant ship, instead of taking to blackbirding? They knew the risks they were taking. You know, I’m starting to think that for some of those swines cocking a snook at the Royal Navy is part of the thrill of it. Well, they’ve cocked their last snook at us now, and the world’s a better place for their passing. So instead of worrying about their eternal souls, why not give a thought to the three hundred and sixty odd slaves up on deck whom you’ve saved from a lifetime of servitude and misery?’
O’Connor arrived with breakfast, two bowls of lobscouse: a seaman’s stew of bouilli beef, ship’s biscuits, potatoes, onions and spices. Most landsmen would have turned their noses up at it, but to a mariner it was considered a delicacy. Thinking of the slaves on deck subsisting on a diet of rice and yams, in all conscience Killigrew could not bring himself to eat it. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Connor, but I’ll just have whatever the slaves are having.’
‘That is what the slaves are having, sir.’
‘You made enough lobscouse for three hundred and sixty-six slaves?’
O’Connor shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Well now, sir, I had to take some liberties with the traditional recipe…’
Killigrew picked up a spoon and tasted it tentatively while O’Connor eagerly awaited his approval. He smacked his lips. ‘Very good, O’Connor,’ he said dubiously. ‘It is a little different, I’ll admit. Rice?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And something else I can’t quite put my finger on…’ Strachan tasted a mouthful. ‘Yams.’
O’Connor beamed.
‘Very good, O’Connor.’
The sailor went out and Strachan spat his mouthful of lobscouse back into the bowl. ‘My God, it’s disgusting. Even by navy standards.’
‘I should eat up, if I were you. It’s the only kind of food we’re likely to get from here to Freetown.’
‘And how long will that be?’
‘I’ve just finished charting our progress. If my calculations are right we’re still ninety-two miles from the African coast.’
‘Nautical miles, I take it?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ve never understood: what’s the difference between a nautical mile and a normal one?’
‘About eight hundred feet.’
‘More or less?’
‘More.’
‘Capital,’ Strachan said wryly. ‘How long’s that going to take us?’
‘Well, taking into account the fact that we’re low in the water and short of a fore t’gallant, and having to tack because the wind’s against us, and what wind we can take advantage of is no more than a force two…’
‘Don’t beat about the bush, Mr Killigrew. Give it to me straight.’
‘About five days.’
‘Five days! How long do you think we can keep this floating coffin afloat?’
‘Oh, about five days, I should say. Of course, we may get there sooner if the wind picks up between now and then.’
‘How likely is that, in these latitudes at this time of year?’
‘Are you a gaming man, Mr Strachan?’
‘Sometimes. Why? What kind of odds would you give us?’
‘Very good ones. If you’re the kind of man who likes to wager on a long shot.’
‘Fire! Fire!’
Killigrew was woken by the sound of shouting and the clump of feet on the deck above his head. He rolled off the bunk, his hand snaking under the pillow to draw out the pepperbox he had concealed there, and took in his surroundings. He was in the master’s cabin on board the Maria Magdalena. Little light came through the tiny porthole, which suggested it was still night.
He had fallen asleep fully clothed but for his waistcoat and tail-coat, so he went straight out on deck. In the early morning light he could see recaptives streaming out of the forward hatch while the seamen on board charged through the recaptives on deck and fought to descend through the crowded hatch, cursing and swearing at those that got in their way.
Smoke billowed out of the hatch.
Panic stirred in the pit of Killigrew’s stomach. Of all the dangers a man faced at sea, fire was one of the most terrible.
He descended below decks via the empty main hatch and made his way forward. The smoke became thicker the closer he got to the bows, until it was acrid and choking. The stench was horrible. It smelled like charred pork.
A few recaptives blundered into him in the dark as they fled from the fire. The companion ladder leading up to the forward hatch was still crowded. A few crushed bodies lay at the foot of the ladder, trampled in the rush to get out. Some recaptives were still crawling out through the door of the sick bay, from where the smoke seemed to issue.
Ågård was trying to descend against the tide, a bucket of water held high. He reached the sick bay only a moment ahead of Killigrew, who followed him inside. The smoke stung his eyes and clawed at his throat. Through the thick black cloud he could just make out the fire: one of the cots was ablaze, the flames tinged with blue. There was another odour in the smoke, something Killigrew could not place at first until the smell of burning flesh and those blue-tinged flames reminded him of how he had cauterised his wounds just before going to bed the previous night: aguardiente.
He saw with horror that there was a body on the cot being consumed by the flames.
Ågård hesitated only for a moment, and then stepped forward and tipped the contents of the bucket on the cot. The flames were extinguished at once with a hiss, and steam filled the room.
Killigrew stumbled to the ports and opened them to let in some fresh air. Then he and Ågård started to pick up the bodies of the fever victims who had passed out in the smoke. Strachan himself was there, unconscious, slumped in a chair. Killigrew lifted him over his shoulder and carried him up on deck while other seamen descended to carry out the other victims of the fire.
Two of the recaptives still worked at the bilge pump and Killigrew filled a bucket from the pump before tossing it over the assistant surgeon. Strachan spluttered into life, choking and retching. Killigrew took a ladleful of water from the scuttled butt and poured some of it between Strachan’s lips. Strachan coughed and spewed up. He writhed on the deck for a moment and then rose on his hands and knees. ‘Wha… what happened?’
‘There was a fire in the sick berth. Don’t you remember anything?’
‘Fire? No. I was sitting in the chair reading a book… that’s all I remember. I must’ve dozed off.’ He broke off, coughing again, and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘A fire? How could there have been a fire? Did one of the lamps fall?’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think so.’ Killigrew turned to where Ågård was trying to give a small child the kiss of life. But the child was dead. Ågård rose with tears in his eyes, which might have been caused by the smoke, but somehow Killigrew did not think it was just that. For all his rough manners and boisterous behaviour, Jack Tar was a sentimentalist at heart.
‘There’s three others suffocated from the smoke and two more trampled to death at the foot of the companion ladder,’ said Dando, as more bodies were brought out through the hatch. ‘There’s some more that’s badly injured or sickly from the smoke. I think this one’s got a broken leg,’ he added, indicating a young boy.
Strachan pushed himself to his feet. Killigrew put a hand on his arm. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’ Strachan shrugged his arm off and went to tend the injured.
‘What happened?’ Killigrew asked Dando.
The seaman shook his head. ‘I don’t suppose I know much more’n you, sir. I were on the poop with Mr Ågård there when we hears screaming from the fo’c’sle. We looks up and sees smoke a-coming from the hatch. Mr Ågård tells Boulton to take the helm and rushes for’ard with me. By the time we gets here the darkies are running out of the hatch. You was already there by the time I got down the hatch after Mr Ågård. Do you think the fire was started deliberate, like?’
‘I don’t know. Better go and check on the prisoners, Dando.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Dando descended the main hatch and returned a couple of minutes later to report that Barroso and the other slavers were still securely in their irons and thoroughly frightened by all the clamour.
‘Did you put their minds at rest?’ asked Killigrew.
‘No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the temptation to tell ’em the ship was afire and we was abandoning ’em to their fate.’
Killigrew listened for a moment. He could just hear Barroso and the others screaming in terror for someone to come and let them out. ‘Good work, Dando.’
‘Why, thank’ee, sir.’
Killigrew descended to the sick bay once more. Some residual smoke still lingered in the air and the stench was appalling, but the air blowing through the open ports made it possible to breathe in there. The only sign of fire apart from the smoke-blackening on the bulkheads and deck head was the charred corpse on the burned cot, completely unrecognisable except that it might have been a woman.
Killigrew heard a sound behind him and whirled, but it was only Strachan. ‘I’ve tended the wounded as best I can,’ he reported. ‘We’ll need a new sick berth. We can’t leave the poor devils out on deck.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Use the master’s day room.’
Strachan took in the scene. ‘This fire was started deliberately, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. My guess is someone poured aguardiente all over this poor devil and set her alight. I don’t suppose you can recall who—’
‘Onyema. But it wasn’t the fire that killed her.’ Pinching his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, Strachan indicated the crushed head of the charred corpse. ‘Her skull was smashed first.’