by Mel Odom
The girl was being offered with the man because no one would want a slave so big and strong. Just one look would let anyone know he would not bend or break. He would be a constant threat to whomever owned him until he was killed or maimed, and neither of those things was desirable in a slave.
Ngola recognized the fierce look because he’d had it himself when he’d been chained and sent to the Haitian sugar fields. His hand itched for the brass embossed hilt of the double-barreled Ketland pistol that hung at his hip. A .36 caliber ball would remove the hawker’s leering smile in a heartbeat. Instead, he knuckled the short beard that covered his chin.
“Easy, Captain.” Next to Ngola, Colin Drury smiled a little, and only a true friend would know that the curved lips were a lie.
Although he was strong and lithe, only a couple inches shy of six feet, he was nevertheless a half a head shorter than Ngola and was dwarfed by his captain’s massive build. Beneath the hood of the loose burnoose he wore, the Irishman’s dark auburn hair was pulled back in a queue and he went smooth-faced. His blue eyes burned with the promise of violence to come.
“We need to focus on what we can do,” Drury said. “Us getting killed will do no one any good.”
Still, even with that good advice, Ngola was loath to walk away. He could too easily imagine his wife Kangela on a slaver’s block. Or his young son Emeka. Neither of them had known the harsh kiss of a taskmaster’s whip, and as long as Ngola lived, that would not happen.
Growling a curse that frightened the men closest to him, Ngola turned to the young man at his other side. “Joao, find out who buys that girl and report back to me.”
For a moment, Joao looked like he was going to argue. Of mixed blood, his mother had been raped by a Portuguese aboard a slave ship in transit across the Atlantic Ocean, he was slight and wiry and always eager to fight. His hazel eyes looked soft and innocent with no indication that he’d been born a killer. “Aye, Captain.”
Putting thoughts of the girl and her plight to the back of his mind, Ngola strode through the crowd toward the east gate of the courtyard. His boots crunched the sand and he was satisfied with the alacrity the prospective buyers showed in getting out of his way.
*
Only a few blocks from the slave market, Ngola swept his gaze around the three- and four-storied tenements in a residential area. The Portuguese had constructed the buildings from the profits of their slave-mongering two hundred years ago. That the structures still stood offered mute testimony to how strongly the slavers had believed their hold on the West African slave trade would last, and their belief that they had built an empire.
Small porches stuck out from the sides of the buildings and men of all colors relaxed there with pipes and tankards of beer. Many of them were merchants and sailors, all thriving to some degree on the unfortunate human cargoes that passed through Mpinda. Even though the Portuguese had been expelled from the city, some of them had been allowed to stay as translators, accountants, and brokers.
Pedestrians walked along the narrow street, dodging the small pools of water left on the cobblestone street by the morning’s brief rain. Iron-rimmed carriage wheels rattled loudly as drivers swiftly transported their passengers to their destinations.
“There,” Drury whispered, nodding toward a second-story apartment in the tenement to their left. Black numbers that corresponded to the address they’d been given were painted on the wall.
Ngola walked past a cart where an old man sold mangoes, horned melons, jackalberries, and other fruits to residents unwilling to travel to the seaside markets. Gray stubble covered the old man’s lower jaw. He drew back as Ngola passed.
Looking up, his right hand on the butt of the Ketland pistol, Ngola went up the narrow stone stairs leading up the side of the building till he reached the fourth floor landing. Drury followed at his heels, watching their backs.
A small walkway led into the building. Ngola entered and felt the sun’s heat fade from his broad shoulders as the shadows closed around him. He stopped just a moment and let his eyes acclimate to the dimmer lighting, then continued forward.
The hallway ran between apartments on either side. The low ceiling was only a few inches above Ngola’s head and he was conscious of it closing in on him.
The wooden apartment doors held small copper numbers tacked to them. Ngola halted in front of room 47, drew his pistol, cocked it, and stepped to the left of the door, on the opposite side of the doorknob. Drury took up a position on the other side of the entrance and eared back the hammer on his own weapon.
Heartbeat slow and steady in his chest, Ngola nodded at his companion. Drury had a better grasp of the Portuguese language than he had and could manage a better accent.
Rapping his knuckles against the door, Drury said, “Senor Pinheiro?”
A moment passed, then a man’s voice responded. “Who is it?”
“My name is Carmo. A mutual acquaintance recommended you to me. He said you know most of the people in the city as well as the staff of King André II. As you know, doing business in Mpinda can be difficult without a proper patron. I hope to discuss an arrangement that might benefit both of us.”
“Who is this acquaintance?” Pinheiro demanded.
Impatient, still angered by the scene on the auction block, Ngola reached for the doorknob. All they needed to know was that Pinheiro was within the premises. He twisted the knob gently and discovered it was locked.
“Sir?” Pinheiro called. “Did you hear me?”
Ngola withdrew and nodded at the door.
Drury holstered his weapon, knelt, and withdrew lock picks from the cracked leather knee high boots he wore.
A heavy sigh came from within, then a chair squeaked as weight lifted from it.
Drury’s picks clicked for a moment, then he smiled up at Ngola. “Voila! One of the products of a misspent youth.” He put the picks away and took out his pistol again.
Ngola twisted the doorknob again, felt it release, then pushed it inward and followed.
2.
Rat in a Trap
Pinheiro stood near a small secretarial desk on the other side of the well-appointed room. The description Ngola had gotten of the man from contacts along the dock fit the Portuguese facilitator. Overweight and soft-featured and in his forties, Pinheiro was carefully attired in a tan suit cut to hide his fatness and enhance his size. His coiffed hair and neatly trimmed beard made him look like a gentleman.
However, Ngola knew the man’s looks were deceiving. Pinheiro had his fingers in many sordid businesses, including the slave trade.
Desperately, Pinheiro pulled an ornate walking stick from a bronze umbrella stand embossed with a peacock. He whirled the stick before him in a threatening manner while he took up an awkward fencer’s pose.
“You ruffians have chosen the wrong man to rob. It’s best if you be on your way before I become violent.”
Ngola looked at Drury. “I should just shoot him in the foot.”
“We’d have to carry his fat arse if we don’t get what we need,” the Irishman replied, “and that’s something I’d rather not do today, thank you.”
Ngola stepped forward with the pistol in hand. Pinheiro closed his eyes in terror.
“Don’t kill me! Please! I beg you!”
Instead of shooting the man, Ngola grabbed the walking stick near its end and rammed it back into Pinheiro’s face. The man’s nose burst and blood ran into his mustache and beard as he stumbled backward and plopped into the chair behind the desk. Ngola held onto the walking stick once the man released his hold and grabbed for his face with both hands.
Pinheiro’s eyes widened at the sight of the blood staining his hands. “You have wounded me!”
“Cease your caterwauling or I’ll slit your throat for you as well.” Ngola advanced on the man while Drury secured the door.
Hands shaking, Pinheiro nodded in quick acquiescence. “Of course, of course. Whatever you wish, Captain Ngola. I assure you, you’ll have no more t
rouble from me. I’ll give you no reason to kill me. I promise I can be valuable to you.”
Ngola swapped looks with Drury, who frowned in suspicion.
“It appears we’ve netted a piece of cheese for our efforts, Captain,” the Irishman said in disgust. “There’s no other way he knew you so quickly. We’re not the only ones hunting.”
“How is it you know my name?” Ngola asked.
Above his hand clamping his nose to stem the tide of blood, Pinheiro stared fearfully at Ngola. “Why, you can be no other. You’re huge, African, with a shaven head and a short beard. And, with the scars on your face and your hands, it’s obvious you’re a fighter. I don’t have the wrong person, do I? That would be most embarrassing at this juncture.”
Drury propped a wingback chair under the doorknob. Like Ngola, he appeared certain they wouldn’t easily retreat back the way they’d come. He went to the windows and drew the curtains.
Looking very much like a rat in a trap, Pinheiro turned his attention to Drury. “What are you doing?”
Drury ignored the question and took up a position against the wall beside one of the now-covered windows. Reaching down, he freed the leather restraint holding his cutlass in its scabbard. “You do realize whoever we’re up against will probably have guns.”
“We’re not going to stay long,” Ngola promised. He reached behind his back and pulled the mambele he had scabbarded there. Designed by the Mangbeto people, the triple-bladed throwing knife had a leather-wrapped hilt and a curved main blade. Another blade jutted from the top on the opposite side of the curve while another stuck out just above the hilt. Usually the weapon was worn as a station of office, but in Ngola’s hands it was lethal.
When the throwing knife’s three blades gleamed in the light of the fragrant candle burning on the desk, Pinheiro’s eyes almost popped from their sockets. He moaned through his hands, causing the blood streaming from his nose to bubble.
“As you know,” Ngola said coldly, “I don’t have much time, so if you’re to live, we’d best be about our business.”
Pinheiro nodded. “Of course. I didn’t have a choice in this. When Lieutenant Botelho told me you would show up here, I did not think it possible. I am no one you would be interested in, Captain Ngola. I am a mere dabbler in the flesh trade. Merely a flyspeck on a camel’s rump. The West Africa Squadron surely has me on none of its lists.”
In addition to knowing Ngola’s name, the man also knew what had brought the captain to Mpinda. Seeking to end the slave trade, the English Parliament had enacted the Slave Trade Act of 1807. The home base was set up in Portsmouth and the West Africa Squadron was formed from ships in the Royal Navy.
After fighting for his freedom in Haiti, Ngola had ended up getting impressed into Lord Admiral Nelson’s Navy. He’d learned how to be a sailor and a warrior under those harsh conditions, and half the whip scars on his back had come from English naval officers.
After the end of the Napoleonic Wars, Ngola had been reassigned to the West Africa Squadron and returned to Africa with a captain he’d respected. In due time, he’d escaped and formed his own ragtag crew to claim a ship as their own. Now he sailed his own way and lived off the spoils of the slaver ships he took.
“You said Botelho?” Drury asked.
Pinheiro nodded. “Yes. He is second to Captain Machado, correct?”
“He is.” Drury looked at Ngola with a mirthless smile. “It appears our pursuit of Machado wasn’t as clandestine as we’d believed.”
Ngola shrugged. “If Botelho is here, then Machado is near as well. We might as well kill this man and make our escape.” He brandished the mambele and stepped toward their reluctant host.
“Wait!” Pinheiro held up his bloody hands in defense and stepped back. “A trade! My life for a secret!”
Ngola knew the man was holding onto something. Men like Pinheiro always did, and they flew their colors for no one. “Speak fast, because if Botelho and his crew get here before you’ve finished speaking, you’ll be the first dead man to hit the floor.”
“Machado isn’t in the city. He’s pursuing a legend farther into the interior.”
Footsteps rattled on the steps outside the building and came closer.
Pinheiro’s eyes widened. “Captain Machado has gone to seek the story of Queen Sheba’s ring from Delfina, the witch woman.”
“What was the story?” Ngola demanded.
“I don’t know. It’s a story only. These people in this country deal in myths and legends all the time. I don’t know where Captain Machado first heard of it, but the story has made him a man possessed.”
“Where do I find Delfina?”
“Outside of the city. I don’t know where she makes her home, but the local people know of her. You can ask them.”
Leaning forward, Ngola nicked the fat man’s jowl with the mambele, drawing blood instantly. “If Botelho and his crew should happen to find me looking for that woman, I will escape. Then I will come back and finish what I started here. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Pinheiro closed his eyes and nodded. “I will not tell. I swear.”
Outside the door, footsteps gathered and men’s voices came in a low rumble.
“Captain,” Drury said, “it’s time to go.”
Ngola nodded and stepped toward the window. He sheathed the mambele and kept his pistol in hand, wishing he had brought a rifle as well.
Drury pulled the curtain aside and nodded to the uniformed Portuguese sailors standing in the shadows across the street. The Irishman pointed at the building across from Pinheiro’s tenement. “They have men posted there as well.”
Ngola nodded. “They’re on this side of the building, but they’re probably not on the other side.”
A smile pulled at Drury’s lips. “Let’s hope.”
“Are you ready?”
“Up and over?”
“I don’t see another way.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll go first and get you to the top,” Ngola said. “You’ll need to distract the riflemen across the street.”
Breathing easily, but his eyes bright with excitement, Drury checked his pistol.
Ngola sheathed the Ketland and reached for the window. He yanked the window up and it moved jerkily, the wood swelled from the humidity. A loud creak echoed across the street. He shoved himself through the window as the first rifle shot cut the air only inches from his face.
3.
A Close Call
The narrow balcony outside Pinheiro’s apartment shivered as it took Ngola’s considerable weight. For a moment he worried that the balcony might not hold and would plunge into the street below, but it held while it shook. He remained in motion, squatting down and cupping his hands together in a stirrup.
Drury came through the window behind his pistol as he took deliberate aim and fired both barrels in rapid succession. Glass exploded behind the Irishman as one or two more rifle balls shattered the window. Jagged pieces rained across the balcony. Inside the room, Pinheiro shrieked in fear in a high-pitched voice that sounded feminine.
As he holstered his spent weapon, Drury placed his left foot in Ngola’s hands and grabbed his captain’s pistol in the same move with his free hand. The Irishman was the most coordinated man Ngola had ever seen.
Heaving upward, Ngola propelled his friend toward the overhanging eaves, standing up to extend his reach. Rifle and pistol balls slammed into the building. A couple plucked at Ngola’s burnoose, causing the material to jerk.
When he reached the eaves, Drury shoved his borrowed pistol into his belt and caught the roof’s edge with both hands. Arms extended, Ngola heaved again, throwing the Irishman farther up the roof. Drury scrambled atop the slanted red tile surface and swapped ends, reaching an arm down for Ngola.
“C’mon!” Drury called as bullets cracked tiles around him.
Ignoring the jagged clay shards that fell over him, Ngola placed a foot on the balcony railing and shoved himself upward. Before he
got his leg straightened out, the railing gave way beneath his weight with a loud crack!
Flailing, already falling, Ngola halted only when Drury’s strong right hand closed around his right wrist. The Irishman slid a few inches, and for a moment Ngola thought both of them would fall to their deaths. Even if they survived the long drop, Botelho and his crew would have them.
Somehow, Drury found purchase and locked into position. He peered stubbornly down at Ngola. “I’m not going to let go. You get up here or we’re both going down.”
Ngola reached up with his free hand and reached for the eaves. Tiles spilled out from under his fingers for a moment and he ignored the reports of firearms from the street. He caught hold of the roof’s edge and it held. He pulled hard and raised his body to his waist and fell across the roof.
“I’m set.”
Ngola released Drury’s wrist and the Irishman let go as well. As he got to his feet, Ngola spotted a Portuguese sailor leaning out a window across the street and taking deliberate aim.
On one knee, Drury drew the borrowed Ketland and fired.
The rifleman’s head snapped back, then the dead man fell bonelessly out the window to the cobblestones below.
Steady and cool, the Irishman pointed his pistol toward the balcony they had just come from, took aim, and fired the remaining charge just as a ball tore through the loose folds of burnoose at his cheek. To make that shot, Ngola knew Drury had stared into the eyes of death itself.
Drury got to his feet and passed the spent weapon to Ngola, who holstered it because recharging it at the moment was out of the question. Together, rifle and pistol balls dogging their tracks, they sprinted for the crest of the building’s peaked roof as splintered tiles showered down behind them.
As he’d expected, Botelho hadn’t stationed men on the tenement’s other side. Ngola led the way along the rooftop, only a short distance from the edge. Now and again, the clay tiles fragmented under his weight and sent him scrambling for his balance, but he constantly moved forward, knowing the Portuguese sailors would be nipping at his heels.
