July 14, 1755
Henri LaForge, Captain of Cornucopia
Afternoon
Prevailing Winds, Easterly
Weather, Good
Our arrival in Ile de Goree was met with relief by my crew. After the tropical storm that very nearly laid waste to us in the Atlantic, we were all very happy to be alive.
We’ve spent the last six days partaking of the island’s delights. I myself spent some time with my good friend Andrew Wiley, captain of Bess, which he named after his beautiful bride. We talked and ate, told of our troubles and our travels. Then we went to the auction block and both bought slaves to fill our holds.
Everything proceeded without incident until we arrived back at the ship with our goods.
“Goods?” McIntosh interrupted. “He’s referring to the slaves?”
“Yes,” Annja answered.
“They were considered nothing more than cargo,” Ganesvoort added. “I don’t think anyone truly realizes how inhumanly these people were treated, despite everything that’s been written.”
Annja continued reading.
I feel very confident of the lot I bargained for. They were newly arrived to Ile de Goree. I learned that they were taken by fellow tribesmen, which is all to the good, I think. Although I’ve been involved in a number of engagements with pirates and am accustomed to living my life through quick wits, a musket and a good length of steel, I don’t think I’d like to tempt the fates by leading expeditions into the interior to gather slaves.
Most of the men are in good shape. They should give several years of labor wherever they end up, once they are gentled. A few of them are belligerent and think they are cunning. I’ll have that beaten or starved out of them by voyage’s end.
The women are young and healthy, and no few of them are comely enough for what they are. They will make good domestics and breeding stock.
A few of them are already with child. If they survive the voyage, they will fetch an extra penny on the auction block. Wiley said he’s heard of some captains who keep the more comely looking women aboard ship and let the men have at them, ensuring a pregnancy and more money when they sell them by adding calving and proving they’re fertile.
There was a strange incident which has got my crew talking, though. There is a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve, about the same age as my Georges, who has caused consternation. His name is Yohance, I have discovered, and he is rumored to be a medicine man or something like that. Since my crew tends to be more superstitious than God-fearing, they put great stock in stories of curses and the other black arts that seem so prevalent among this species.
This situation will bear closer scrutiny because several of the other slaves we have on board treat this boy with a deference that I can’t for the life of me understand. He’s not even attained a man’s growth.
“Obviously several of Yohance’s fellow tribesmen were bought at the same time,” Ganesvoort said.
“Yes,” Hallinger said. “That fits with what we were able to find out from Franklin Dickerson’s journal back in Georgia.”
Annja took another sip of water and continued with the next entry.
July 17, 1755
We are at present three days’ journey out of Ile de Goree. Thus far, the wind has proved capricious at best. We’ve not been able to hold a strong heading and have had to shift constantly.
Several of the crew have reported rumors that we have been cursed for taking the boy Yohance from his homeland.
I have not yet ascertained who started this rumor, but I intend to have none of it. Rumors fester like boils aboard ship, without a proper way of dealing with them. Once I find out who is behind it, I will have the skin off that man’s back.
“With that in the log,” Hallinger said, “Captain LaForge was evidently putting his crew on notice. But it didn’t do any good.”
July 19, 1755
The situation has worsened. Today Colbert, a gunnery mate, fell upon Yohance and demanded that he lift whatever curse is suspected of being placed on the ship. We’ve been two more days with the fickle wind, and a storm is brewing in the west, showing signs of giving chase to us. The men are mortally afraid of going through such a blow again.
In response to the attack on Yohance, two of the slaves rose up and pulled Colbert down, beating him unmercifully. Jacques de Mornay, my first mate, had to shoot one of the slaves before order was returned to the hold.
The slave died. There was no saving him. I ordered the body thrown overboard to the ever-present sharks. I also informed Colbert that I was taking the price of the slave out of his wages. However, I fear dissension is rapidly spreading through my crew.
Annja studied the next entry and was surprised. “This is written in Latin.” She looked up at Hallinger.
The professor agreed. “I looked back through the ship’s log. Whenever Captain LaForge wished to remain circumspect in his musings, he used Latin.”
“He was a highly educated man,” Ganesvoort said. “How did he end up doing something as dangerous and hard as being a ship’s captain?”
“From the earlier entries I read,” Hallinger said, “LaForge was born to a wealthy family. His father was a highly successful merchant, and his mother was linked to nobility. But Henri LaForge chose not to be the merchant his father wanted him to be. He went to sea instead, taking over one of his father’s ships so that he could see more of the world that he’d read about.”
Annja understood that choice. She’d felt the same way while growing up in the orphanage. Her one touchstone throughout her youth had been her martial-arts classes. Sister Mary Annabelle, eighty years old and irrepressible, had taken part in the tai chi classes where Annja had started out.
Before and after classes, Annja had talked to the instructors whenever she could. Many of them had been from Japan or Korea. Those conversations had whet the appetite to travel that staying cooped up in the orphanage under the supervision of nuns and reading histories had already inspired.
“Do you read Latin?” McIntosh asked.
“Yes,” Annja replied, and she continued with the narrative.
July 22, 1755
My first mate has had some experience with slaves in the wild, and he understands some of their language. He learned from some of the other slaves that Yohance is a medicine man among his people, and that he is believed to have great power.
What concerns me is that I think Jacques, who normally has a good head about him, might believe some of these stories that we might be under some curse from an African god. I reminded him that we are both men of strong faith, and that none of the magic practiced in those dark lands will ever be proof against God.
I worry that he might be succumbing to the same fears that plague the other crew members. We met in my cabin and shared a bottle of good port that I normally keep for the end of a successful voyage, but I don’t think either of us felt entirely satisfied when we parted.
July 24, 1755
The storm overran us last night. We caught only the outer fringes of it, but it was enough to thoroughly unnerve my crew.
Cariou and I were hard-pressed to keep control of the situation. The storm hit just after dusk, during the dark hours of early evening while we were sitting down to dine.
The ship reacted violently in the blow. Several yard-arms snapped off, which are being replaced today, though the storm conditions persist and I fear we’re mired within the storm, always bumping into the violence of it. It feels as though we are caught in some grand trap and are doomed.
To make matters worse, the slaves began wailing and calling on their deities to save them. Their moans and fearful cries further took the strength from my men. Cariou and I had to arm ourselves and threaten to shoot any man that abandoned his post.
Even then I feared that someone would.
In the worst of the gale, the boy, Yohance, somehow quieted the slaves. I think that he knew we would kill one of them to make an example for the others if they did not quiet. Instead, he sang some song, something that I never discovered the nature of. After a time, the storm eased and we were once more in control of our course instead of being tossed about like a child’s toy.
However, the crew now treat Yohance differently. We’ve still got a long voyage ahead of us, so I have to take steps to end this. He is not some magical being as the slaves would have us believe. I refuse to entertain that notion even for a moment.
“That sounds as if he’s having his doubts,” McIntosh commented dryly.
“If a man gets out on the sea long enough,” Ganesvoort stated quietly, “he can convince himself of nearly anything.”
“The stuff you’ve read about the Spider Stone,” McIntosh said, “doesn’t mention anything about this, does it?”
“It does mention a curse.” Annja sipped her water again.
“A curse?” Uncertainty darted in McIntosh’s eyes. “Neither of you mentioned anything about a curse.”
“I thought you wouldn’t believe in something like a curse,” Hallinger said.
Maybe you’re beginning to have a few doubts yourself, Annja thought. “Still believe archaeologists lead laidback lives?” She wasn’t able to resist taunting. Just a little.
“Curses don’t exist,” McIntosh replied.
But Annja knew the mood had altered as she read the entries. There are still any number of things out in the world that we can’t explain, she thought.
“Do you carry a lucky charm, Special Agent McIntosh?” Hallinger asked.
McIntosh looked self-conscious. “A pocket angel. A lot of the guys I know carry one. Or something like it.”
“Because you believe it will help protect you?”
“As a precaution. When my dad was on the job, he carried one, too. It’s like crossing your fingers. Doesn’t really mean anything.”
“Actually,” Annja said, “crossing your fingers is a throw-back to England’s belief in witches. Crossing your fingers would ward off witches. Basically making the sign of the cross with your fingers. If you encountered a witch, making the sign of the cross would send her on her way.”
“Belief in magic is an ingrained trait,” Hallinger said. “You won’t find a culture anywhere that didn’t or doesn’t believe in some sort of sorcery or magic.”
Annja returned to the ship’s log, still on the Latin entry.
I had Yohance brought to me tonight. I wanted to put an end to all this foolishness. Since I didn’t speak his dialect and the boy had no English, I had de Mornay in attendance because he could speak the boy’s savage tongue. I swore the man to secrecy, made him give me his gravest oath that he would not let slip anything that we discussed in my quarters.
The boy, Yohance, was afraid. I could see it in him. That vulnerability again reminded me of my own son, Georges, and how he might fare under these harsh conditions. But Yohance kept himself composed despite being outnumbered and outgunned.
I had my first mate ask the boy his story, how he came to be in Ile de Goree.
The boy told us of his village near the confluence of the Semefé and Bafing Rivers.
Annja stopped reading and looked at Hallinger. “Did you read this?”
The professor nodded. “I wanted to wait until you were up to speed before we began searching. There’s still a lot of area to cover. And that’s if Captain LaForge and his first mate actually got everything right.”
“Doesn’t that map on the Spider Stone show two rivers joining?” McIntosh asked. “That seems like it would be hard to miss.”
“No,” Annja said. “The problem we’ve had so far is that there aren’t large numbers of Hausa living in Senegal. If they’re not here now—”
“Then chances are good that they weren’t here then,” Hallinger finished. “The Hausa people date back to 500 A.D., and their ancestral lands in Nigeria have been occupied by civilized peoples since prehistoric times. Between 500 and 700 A.D., the Hausa began consolidating, developing seven city-states that were believed to have been founded by Bayajidda, a hero of their people who supposedly had a magic knife fashioned for him. He used the knife to fight his enemies and rescued the queen of Daura and her people from a giant snake.”
“The queen married Bayajidda,” Annja said, taking up the tale, “and they had seven sons. By the thirteenth century, the Hausa controlled most of the trade in those areas. They also mixed with the Fulani people, whose roots are Muslim. After a series of jihads in the early nineteenth century, the Fulani took over, forming the Sokoto Caliphate, which became the Fulani Empire.”
“Wars generally ruin records and documents,” Ganesvoort put in. “They also tend to scatter people. For Yohance’s people to be where they were—”
“Somewhere near Kidira from the sound of it,” Annja said, looking at a map she had on the desk.
“—they had to have gone far from their homelands,” Ganesvoort said.
“Not necessarily,” Hallinger said. “Yohance’s people may have already been scattered.”
“There are pockets of Hausa scattered all across West Africa,” Annja added. “According to the words on the Spider Stone, Yohance’s people had already fled from invaders.”
“Probably the Yoruba.” Hallinger stroked his chin. “They’d been an aggressive people until the Fulani Empire put them out of business.”
“So what happened to Yohance?” McIntosh asked.
Annja smiled. That’s the thing about history, she thought. Everybody thinks it’s a boring subject until they learn it’s really about people.
Annja returned to translating the captain’s writing.
The boy was reluctant to say anything more, but I knew I had to get to the bottom of the medicine-man myth. When I asked him about it, he refused to answer.
I’ve dealt with reluctant men before, and I’m not leery of employing tactics that some would deem harsh or cruel. A man has to know what a man has to know.
After growing frustrated with questioning the boy, I took out a knife and cut off his left ear. After all, a slave doesn’t use an ear to work, and the amputation didn’t make him deaf.
Yohance cried and became very afraid.
I told him I would cut the throat of one of the other boys if he didn’t tell me what I wished to know. Looking at his own ear lying there before him, he believed me. And that was good because I don’t make idle threats.
He told an incredible tale. I believe it was a complete fabrication, but I knew he hadn’t created the tale. It had been handed down through his people.
His people hold to the savage belief that their gods are some kind of animal. Or gods can be found in animals. Heresy, all of it, and spread by the Devil himself to undermine the faith of good Christians.
According to Yohance, the spider god of his people, gave them a vast treasure after he allowed their village to be destroyed. He also gave them a weapon, a curse that they could visit on any enemy.
I didn’t believe any of it, but I could tell that de Mornay did. I remonstrated the boy, told him the error of his ways regarding how he was causing the other slaves to act, and I told him that I would hold him responsible for their actions. If anything further happened, I swore to him that I would tie a bag of cannonballs around his neck and hurl him into the Atlantic. Then I sent him back to the hold.
I have every confidence that I have seen the end of this matter.
When she finished reading the entry, Annja felt slightly sick. She had a strong stomach and she’d read about and even seen much worse in her own work, but the thought of the boy being so harshly treated at the hands of uncaring men touched her.
“That’s it?” McIntosh asked.
“There’s one other important entry,” Hallinger said. “Just a few days later. It’s written by Captain LaForge’s lieutenant.”
Annja read the entry.
August 2, 1755
Maurice Cariou, Lieutenant of Cornucopia
Evening
Prevailing Winds, Northerly
Weather, Poor
It is with a heavy heart that I take up the pen to finish the work begun by my captain, the good Henri LaForge. I pray that he is with Our Lord, and that his name will always be remembered with favor.
The storm that has constantly dogged our tracks on this voyage caught up with us once again last night. I’ve never seen such a determined effort on part of something that is without purpose, human or divine, that acted so cold-heartedly.
While we were lashed about, Captain LaForge took the deck and gave his courage and strength to our crew. During the worst of the storm, a sail came loose and whipped across our rear deck, malevolently wrapping the captain in the ropes and dragging him over-board. He was gone, vanished into the sea before we could do a thing about it.
I shall be glad when this voyage is over. Ever since we have taken on the boy Yohance, luck and fortune have been against us. I struggle not to be a superstitious man because I don’t want to affront God, but in these circumstances I find myself hard-pressed not to at least wonder.
“Interestingly enough,” Hallinger said, “if you read the entries before that one, you’ll see that the storm never once let up. It stayed on the ship’s tail. Many of the ship’s crew grew increasingly agitated. Captain LaForge had to take more and more aggressive means to keep the situation under control. After he cut off Yohance’s ear, the crew turned against him, believing that he was responsible for the storm’s continued fury.”
“What you’re saying is that you don’t think LaForge’s death went exactly the way his second-in-command said it did,” McIntosh said.
“You’re the expert in our midst when it comes to murder,” Hallinger said. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s awfully convenient that a whole ship’s sail could come loose in a major storm and only take out one guy.”
Annja agreed. Then she turned her thoughts to the puzzle of the Spider Stone again. They had a direction. They almost had a location. All they had to do was get there.
Looking at Ganesvoort, Annja asked, “What’s the quickest way to Kidira?”