Ngonyama bit down his lip and walked to a window, righting overturned chairs as he went. He kept his back to me. “Nacta is guarding him in his cabin. Don’t plead for him, Rutherford.” His shoulders drew in. “It would be a sin to let him live. He is responsible for every death on board.”
“That’s a lie!” flashed Cringle. “ ’Twas he set them free during the fight. I saw him! We were exhausted, some of us sick, and that one”—he flicked his head at Babo—“killed Daniels, who had keys to their leg-irons, and let the others loose. They clubbed us with the wood we gave them for pillows and tossed the dead like Tommy into the sea. And he—”
Atufal’s hand stifled the rest. Babo placed his hatchet down on the mate’s neck. He slanted his eyes toward Ngonyama, seeking the sign for them to kill him. Ngonyama shook his head. No. But he was alone in his decision. Three of them I recognized as warriors named Ghofan, Diamelo, and Akim urged Babo to open the mate’s throat. And they had reason, good reason, for seeing the last of the Republic’s officers dead. Akim, a wide, dark-fired man who was short but had the strength of three, squatted on his hams; he made them relive his sister’s death five days after we set sail. Ghofan, a black who had been gelded, and then suffered the torture of the brand, pulled his shirt down to show them how Falcon had burned in the initials ZS not once but three times until the impression was as clear as stigmata, or the markings on cattle. Each man had his atrocity to tell. If not brutality to them then a beadroll of humiliations the midshipmen had inflicted upon the women, two of whom had been raped, or on their children, and to this list Diamelo added the small but nonetheless violent assaults on their spirit — parading them naked for bathing before their own children, forcing them to eat by ramming fingers down their throats, answering their wild clawing from the hold with gales of laughter. On and on the charges came, and with each accusation a finger was stabbed toward the mate. Mercifully, he understood none of what they said. He was quietly whispering to himself the Lord’s Prayer. Against this evidence of American crimes perpetrated on the Allmuseri, Ngonyama was helpless. His plea for sparing Cringle’s life was shouted down. I felt my face kindling. My stomach made a turn. Glaring at Babo, Akim slashed the air with his hand. Therewith, Babo’s fingers tightened the blade on Cringle’s neck. The mate closed his eyes.
“Wait.” I was on my feet. “Listen to me. . please!”
Irritably, Babo hung fire.
“You need him,” I said, gathering my wits, sailing close to the wind. “Kill Falcon if you want, but if you kill his helmsman, you’ll never reach land. Never! None of you can read English maps. Nor keep this ship full and by once she’s fixed, provided she can be fixed, and only Peter can help you do that. He’s the only officer left.”
Cringle spat blood and broken teeth onto the floor. “They’ll see hell quicker’n they’ll see help from me.”
“Will you please”—I ground my teeth—“shut up!”
“No, you shall hear this! As God is my judge, I’ll see every murderer here brought before a firing squad. Turn your back a second on me,” he said to Ngonyama, “and you shall have a foot of steel in it.”
Ngonyama frowned. “He should not have said that.”
“He will help you,” I said. “If he doesn’t, I’ll drag him to the rail myself.”
Diamelo took a step toward me. He rubbed his finger, very dark, along my face, which was a shade or two lighter than his own. “Do it now.” His voice had a clean monotone like metal. “Prove what you say.” Then to Ngonyama: “On whose side is he? I wouldn’t trust this one.” He took the hatchet from Babo and forced it into my hand. “Not until he has broken away from them.”
Four others agreed, chiming in that I was a crewman like the rest, an American, a risk unless I joined them by spilling blood, as criminals like Papa Zeringue demand a crime before you enjoy their protection. After this stiff exchange, the Allmuseri were eager now for me to execute Cringle. They waited, their eyes following me minutely as I gripped the hatchet, which felt heavier in my fist than a handspike. Now I had endangered my own neck. Why in heaven’s name had I not kept my mouth shut, or choked my luff, as sailors say. If I refused, both Cringle and I would be pitched overboard. A long moment passed. I felt my head going tighter. I drew a deep breath, stepping toward Cringle, the hatchet lifted over my head. How long their silence lasted is impossible to say; I heard only the rasping of wheel ropes. Waters lapping. A ruffling of sails and the stormlike sound of wind. The kerosene lamp burned low in its bracket. Cringle sat motionless, waiting to hear his own head hit the floor. My fingers opened. The hatchet fell.
Diamelo ordered me to pick it up.
“Nay,” said I. “You can kill him, and me too. But without his help, and mine, you’ll wander the mid-Atlantic until the ocean swallows you, or some man-of-war heaves to and puts you in irons again.”
Ngonyama considered this. Diamelo did not buy it. There was an eye battle between them for a moment, and the boy won, quietly pleased, I think, that I’d given him a way to end the slaying. “You speak well, Rutherford.” His face sharpened: lean and pointed like a cat’s. “I’ve no doubt you were a good confidence man in New Orleans.”
I had to sit again and squeeze the seat of my chair to hide the shaking of my hands. Ngonyama spoke to his former yokefellows in a voice too fast for me to follow. Reluctantly, they saw the wisdom in releasing Cringle. Still, I was not done. I made bold to say, “Spare the captain until you sight land.”
Ngonyama made a 180-degree turn. “No!”
“He can’t escape, you know that! Use him to take us to safety. After that, do with him as you will.”
“You ask us to let him live?”
“Nay,” says I. “I ask you to make him your slave.”
That thought stopped Diamelo. I could tell the taste of it intrigued him. “All right, then. As you say, he will serve us, and then we can slay him.” Begrudgingly, Babo followed Diamelo’s order to untie Cringle. His other bravos the boy sent outside to see to the wounds of their women and children, and to prepare a sacrifice to ensure their safe passage. In spite of himself, Cringle said, “They’d better steady the booms and yards by guys and braces, and lash everything well down.”
Ngonyama said, “Thank you.”
Then he took me to one side and told me to bring up any mates who had fled to the storeroom, his face older-looking now, grave, his shoulders giving way to gravity or the crunch of some secret grief he could not share. “Rutherford”—his brow tightened—“I have done as you advised. But, as you see, Diamelo is very strong with the others. You know, in our village I was a poor man, like you, but his father was well-to-do. Diamelo is used to getting his way. I worry less about your captain now than how Diamelo can sway my people.”
Once outside, as we made our way down the ladder to the storeroom, the mate, who was above me, looked down and sneered, “Savages! And silver-tongued ones at that! Was it you who taught him English? You made a mistake there, Calhoun. He’ll have you servin’ his dinner, and wipin’ his arse next, that one, if you listen to him.”