‘Vicious-looking bastard,’ commented Cook under his breath.
‘He’s probably from the Akwamu tribe. One of their chiefs. They control the immediate area around the fort . . . and drive a very hard bargain when it comes to selling their neighbours,’ Hector explained.
‘That’s not all they have to sell. Look at those teeth.’ Cook had spotted a pile of elephant tusks piled in one corner. His covetous tone made Hector wonder for a moment if the buccaneer captain dared to think of plundering the fort. But he dismissed the idea immediately. Cook had far too few men to risk an attack.
They walked on across the compound. There were very few people to be seen, only the native chief and a trio of Danish soldiers. Tunics unbuttoned, they lounged in the shade of some arches that led to the dormitory for the garrison.
‘I’m curious to see where the slaves are kept,’ said Cook. The slave pens lay directly ahead, behind a row of stout iron-bound doors on the far side of the compound. Hector had never visited the holding pens before, but the Carlsborg’s quartermaster, a man experienced in the slave trade, had told him that the fort was designed for smooth handling of the human contents. A brick-lined passageway pierced the outer wall and led directly from the pens to a gate overlooking the beach. When the time came to load the Carlsborg, the slaves would be chained together in batches, led down the passageway, and marched straight to where boats were waiting to run a shuttle service out to the ship. Hector had asked whether the Carlsborg had enough boats for the task, and was told the local fishermen made a handsome living by hiring out themselves and their canoes as transport.
The iron-bound doors were locked. With no one to give them any directions, the two men climbed a wooden stairway to an upper floor and came to a small door, which was ajar. Entering, they found themselves in a long corridor, which ran almost the full width of the building. After the blinding glare of the compound, it took a moment for Hector’s eyes to adjust to the deep gloom inside. The rank stench he’d smelled earlier was now so strong he had to swallow hard to stop himself gagging. In the opposite wall of the corridor he could make out the outline of a small, heavily barred window. Dimly he was aware of more windows on either side, where the gallery stretched away into the darkness. He stepped up to the window and peered in. He was looking down into a dungeon. From a height of a dozen feet it was difficult to see much of what was immediately below him, but from what he could see the dungeon appeared to be about fifteen paces square. The only source of light and air was a row of three tiny windows on the far wall. They were set close to the ceiling and revealed a curved vault roof of dressed stone. Nearly all the light fell on the far end of the dungeon. There the floor was thickly covered with humans. They sat on the flagstones, their heads bowed, arms clasped around their knees. A few had somehow found space to lie down. His nose told him they had no latrine, and he wondered how such a dense mass of humanity could be fed and given water. Immediately below where he stood the light was so poor it was difficult to distinguish individuals. They coalesced into one shadowy, intertwined mass. Eerily, the only sound was an occasional cough or a low moan. A sense of quiet, hopeless resignation exuded from this thick carpet of humanity. Hector was appalled.
Cook, his face only inches away from Hector’s, peered into the dungeon. Hector briefly caught the scent of perfume that he was using. ‘A bachelor’s delight,’ Cook breathed wonderingly. Puzzled for an instant, Hector suddenly comprehended his meaning. Several of the captives in the dungeon had sensed they were being observed. They had raised their heads and looked up towards the spyhole. Hector could just make out their faces and the occasional gleam of an eye. Every one of them was a woman. This was a dungeon exclusively for female slaves awaiting shipment.
‘De er alle solgt,’ said a husky voice. A Danish gaoler was standing in the corridor, a few paces away. He tapped his chest with one hand.
Hector stepped back from the window. He remembered from the supercargo’s ledger that ‘solgt’ meant ‘sold’. The Dane presumed they were potential slave buyers examining the sale stock.
‘How do you feed the prisoners?’ Hector asked. He pointed to his mouth and pretended to eat and drink, then gestured towards the dungeon. The gaoler imitated the process of picking up a long-handled shovel, loading the blade and thrusting it between the bars.
‘Like feeding animals,’ muttered Cook.
‘Kom!’ The Dane made it clear that they should leave. He escorted them back to the door at the head of the stairway and closed it behind them.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Cook as they walked back across the compound. They passed a blacksmith’s workplace. Instead of horseshoes, there were heaps of chains and ankle rings. Cook stopped. Hanging from a row of hooks were several long, thin metal rods.
‘That’s what the gaoler meant when he touched his chest,’ he said. ‘Those rods are branding irons. I saw them used to mark wild cattle in the Caribbees. When the slaves are sold, they’re branded on the breast to show who their new owner is.’
He paused, as if a thought had occurred to him. ‘That Frenchman, your friend, has a brand on his cheek, as I remember?’
‘Yes,’ answered Hector. ‘The letter G. It stands for “galérien”. It was burned on him when he was convicted in France and sent to the royal galleys. But the mark hardly shows when he has a tan.’
‘Perhaps you’d ask him if he could come across to the Revenge later this evening and meet one of my crew – another Frenchman. He’s also an ex-convict and speaks very little English. He’s very sick, and likely to die. Another case of Guinea fever. Perhaps your Jacques can have a few last words with him?’
‘Jacques is out on the Carlsborg, with Jezreel. They’re on the same watch.’
‘Then why don’t I bring you and your Indian friend out to your ship on the Revenge’s launch so that you can ask Jacques if he’ll do me this favour? I’d appreciate it.’
Hector hesitated. Cook’s offer somehow rang false, but he couldn’t define why. The buccaneer persisted.
‘When does Jacques have to go back on watch?’
‘Tomorrow. He and Jezreel have the morning watch. Dan and I will be joining them.’
‘Sounds as though you all stick together. Just like the old days.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Then it’s settled. I’ll see you and Dan on the beach around sunset and bring you back out to the Carlsborg.’ Cook straightened the lace at his neck and brushed a speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat. ‘Lynch, think over my offer about joining the crew of the Revenge. Meanwhile I had better pay my respects to the commandant.’
He turned away and went towards the Governor’s office.
TWO
‘JACQUES SHOULD HAVE been back by now,’ said Jezreel. It was the following morning and the first glow of the sunrise was defining the horizon. In the dim light the former prizefighter appeared even more of a Goliath than usual as he leaned on the rail and gazed aft to where the Revenge was anchored a hundred yards astern of the Danish slaver. The previous evening the Frenchman had gone across to Cook’s ship. But he hadn’t returned as yet.
‘I can’t understand what’s keeping him,’ said Hector anxiously. He was on anchor watch with Jezreel and Dan aboard the Carlsborg. The Revenge had been a black, ill-defined shadow during the night. Now her outline was becoming clearer, the masts and spars taking shape against the sky. Hector usually enjoyed this early hour. It was the coolest part of the day, and there was little to do but track the passage of time as the stars disappeared one by one until only the brightest remained. He and his companions had been assigned to the foredeck where their task was to check the ship didn’t override her anchor cable. Should that happen, they were to alert the officer of the watch and, with the help of the two Danish sailors who preferred to stay on the aft deck, they were to hoist a jib or a staysail to trim the angle of the vessel to her mooring.