by Wilbur Smith
That afternoon, Sterling summoned Mungo to his cabin.
‘Sit down,’ said the captain, waving to a pair of chairs beside the stern windows.
Mungo looked through the paned glass at the turquoise water and the swath of forest beyond. He took a seat opposite Sterling, wondering if this was an overdue reckoning for his duel with Afonso. Since they left the beach on Prince’s Island, Sterling had acted as if the whole incident had never happened.
Nor did he mention it now. Instead, he asked, ‘What did Amos Rutherford tell you about the nature of our voyage?’
Mungo thought back to the day he had returned to Windemere. It was hard to believe it was only six months ago.
‘He told me that the cargo would make my fortune.’
Sterling nodded. ‘My partners are discreet. That is why our relationship has endured and made all of us rich. Let me ask you – what do you think we are doing in Africa?’
There was no point playing the fool. He had guessed it weeks ago. Even so, it required a certain steeling of his soul to say it – as if speaking the words aloud would make it real and irrevocable.
‘I would assume we are here to take on slaves.’ Mungo cocked an eyebrow. ‘If the slave trade were not illegal, of course.’
‘Do you take issue with that?’
For a moment, Mungo was transported back to the debate at the Union. ‘Slavery is a crime against God,’ Fairchild had said – and Mungo allowed that might be true; he would not speak for God’s thinking. But in the real world, slavery was a fact of life. Every man of distinction in the history of Virginia had been a slaveholder: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison. The institution dated back to the founding days of the Republic when the first slaves had landed at Jamestown, and further still, to ancient times, defining the relationship between history’s victors and their spoils. Societies like the Southern States, built on crops such as tobacco and cotton, could not exist without an inexpensive source of labour. The institution of slavery had secured that labour for generations.
‘I have no argument with slavery.’
‘Slavery’s different from the slave trade,’ said Sterling sharply. ‘It’s the difference between killing a man in war, and sticking a knife in his ribs. One’s legal and honourable, and the other ain’t. So I’ll ask you again – do you have any issue with the trade?’
Mungo considered the question. The transatlantic slave trade had officially ended before he was born, swept away on a wave of sanctimonious indignation. But Mungo knew his history. The men who banned the slave trade in America had thought that they were hastening the abolition of slavery itself – that without a fresh supply of slaves, the institution would wither. In fact, the restriction on supply had only made the slaves already in the country – and the children they bore – more valuable. An entire slave breeding industry had sprung up. Wealthy men had become even wealthier, their fortunes tied even more than before to the slaves they owned. And so the chains that bound blacks in servitude had become even tighter.
Mungo leaned back. ‘I will not play the hypocrite. If a man is happy to profit from the work of slaves, he cannot be too squeamish about the means used to enslave them.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Though all things being equal, I would prefer it if it were lawful.’
Sterling pounded a fist on his desk. ‘There is only one law on this earth – the law that gives the strong and wealthy power over the weak and poor.’
His words made even Mungo flinch. He hid his reaction. So far, the conversation had been conducted entirely rationally, two gentlemen talking to each other. But if Mungo gave Sterling cause to doubt his commitment, he had little doubt what would happen to him. Staring into the captain’s eyes, Mungo had at last seen through to the man’s essence. Though he dressed and talked as a gentleman, he was a predator whose only principle was self-interest.
For the moment, that self-interest was aligned with Mungo’s.
‘How do we obtain the cargo?’ Mungo asked. ‘Do we capture them ourselves?’
Sterling seemed to relax a fraction. ‘Do you pick your own tobacco when you want to smoke a cigar? There’s an American trader in Ambriz by the name of Alcott Pendleton. He’s as crooked as a fork of lightning. Take your eyes off him for a second, and he’ll have the shirt off your back. But he speaks Portuguese, he’s friendly with all the native kings, and he can provide as many bodies as our hold can accommodate.’
The colour of the sea changed from sky blue to mud brown, the waves widened and the crests flattened. They were sailing along the length of the land, close enough to the coast to keep it in sight, when, suddenly, the shoreline parted along the hidden seam of a river. Sterling manned the helm as they made their approach, issuing orders to Lanahan, who relayed them with voice and fife. All those members of the crew not otherwise engaged stood at the rails with loaded rifles in hand, ready to repel any mossorongos – African pirate bands – who might mistake the Blackhawk for easy prey.
The harbour at Ambriz was a tidal lagoon south of the mouth of the Loge River. Most of the lagoon was deep enough only for fishing boats and dugout canoes, not a sailing ship like the Blackhawk, but the cove alongside the wharf had space for a ship to dock and two more to stand at anchor. Half the town seemed to be waiting for them on the quay: scores of mule carts, a large band of Africans in loincloths, and a moon-faced chief wearing a tribal headdress and a robe of many colours.
And one white man. The colour of his skin alone would have made him stand out, but he had increased the effect still more by his dress: a purple frock coat, cravat, top hat and gilded cane. He could only be the American Sterling had mentioned, Alcott Pendleton. Mungo studied him from the quarterdeck as the ship sidled up to the quay.
After the gangplank was lowered, Mungo escorted Captain Sterling and Tippoo onto the dock. Sterling greeted Pendleton with a hearty smile and handshake and bowed to the African, who turned out to be the son of the local chief, the Maniquitengo, with the unlikely title of Lord Juan Pedro Kasavubu. The captain invited them both aboard for a glass of Kentucky bourbon in his cabin, and led them on a tour of the hold.
Pendleton examined their goods. He disparaged the cloth and beads, talked down the value of the firearms, and complained about the cut-throat practices of the Bakongo. His gaze never rested, Mungo noticed. His eyes roved his surroundings as if searching for danger; when a sailor accidentally dropped a crate of goods, he sprang around like a tiger. A tiny pistol appeared in his hand like magic. When he saw there was no threat, he simply tucked it back in his waistband and resumed his haggling with Sterling, as if nothing had happened.
Pendleton was a maddening negotiator. He talked around matters that were straightforward and debated points that should have been indisputable. Yet he was no match for Archibald Sterling. The captain spoke with authority, pushing the price higher until the American threw up his hands in exasperation and took Lord Kasavubu aside, conferring in a mixture of Portuguese and Kikongo. The African listened, his eyes on the captain. He nodded and spoke a string of words. Pendleton looked unhappy. Then he shrugged and held out his hand towards Sterling.
‘His Grace is amenable. You have yourself a deal. All your trade goods, in exchange for three hundred and ninety-two.’
The unit of currency was never mentioned. No one was so crass as to mention that they were accounting in human lives.
Sterling ignored the hand Pendleton offered. ‘It’s not done until I see them.’
‘Of course,’ the trader replied. ‘I’m certain you will be pleased. But your journey was long. Let us celebrate tonight, and tomorrow I will show you.’
From the flash in Sterling’s eyes, Mungo knew he wasn’t pleased with the delay. His manners made him concede.
‘Geribita?’ he asked.
Pendleton held out his hands. ‘For you, only the finest rum will do.’
The next morning, Mungo awoke to hammering in the aft quarter of the hold, beneath his cabin. At Cambridge, he had been notorious fo
r his ability to consume vast amounts of alcohol with no ill effects – but the sugary Brazilian liquor that Alcott Pendleton had brought on board the night before had addled his mind like nothing he had ever tasted. He buried his head in his pillow, but the ceaseless hammers echoed through the bunk and sent spikes of pain through his skull. Now that the hold was empty, the carpenters were busy with the timber and nails they had brought, constructing slave decks where their new cargo could be stowed as efficiently as possible.
Fighting back the ache in his head, Mungo rolled out of his bunk and dressed himself for an excursion into the bush – long sleeves, durable breeches, boots, Bowie knife and riding hat. He went on deck and found the captain holding court with the senior officers and the ship’s surgeon.
‘How is the work progressing on the slave decks?’ Sterling asked Lanahan.
The first mate shot a glance at Mungo and narrowed his eyes. Since the duel on Prince’s Island, his hatred of Mungo had simmered hotter than ever. Only the knowledge that Sterling would tolerate no more indiscipline among his officers had kept him in check.
‘The supports are in place and the first planks are being laid in the bow. Give me three days, and I’ll have her ready to load.’
Sterling nodded. ‘Pendleton says the raids have been fruitful this spring. He claims to have over nine hundred darkies in his factory upriver. I’m taking Doctor Montgomery and Sinclair along with me to conduct the inspection and I aim to return by sundown. Mr Lanahan, you will be in command in my absence. Drop anchor in the lagoon and keep watch for pirates. You have my permission to shoot anyone who strays too close.’
The men departed to their duties. The captain unlocked the chest of arms behind the helm and extracted two Mississippi rifles and a flintlock pistol. He handed the pistol to Mungo, then passed him the rifles as well.
‘Usually I’d give these to the porters,’ the captain said, ‘but I don’t trust a single one of Pendleton’s niggers to protect us.’
Mungo gripped the stocks and followed Sterling and Montgomery down the gangplank to the dock where Pendleton stood waiting. The American was dressed in an ensemble more suited to a New York drawing room than a canoe trip up the Loge River, with a silk cravat and diamond studs in his cuffs. He greeted them heartily, appearing no worse for wear after consuming a bottle and a half of geribita in the captain’s cabin the night before. Behind him the rising sun hung in the sky like a ball of fire. Mungo felt the prickle of sweat on his neck and shielded his eyes against the light, trying to ignore his pounding headache.
As soon as they were on the wharf, Lanahan ordered the gangplank raised and the lines cast off. Pendleton’s launch took them along the south bank of the river to the shallows where the canoes were waiting. Each dugout was hewn from a single trunk and manned by Bakongo tribesmen in loincloths, holding paddles or muskets. Mungo studied them as he climbed aboard, searching their faces for a hint of deception. The Africans averted their eyes and shoved the boats off the bank, their skin glistening with sweat.
They took up the stroke with a sing-song chant that transported Mungo back to Windemere, the slaves singing in the fields as they brought in the tobacco harvest. Then he thought of Camilla, and Chester Marion, and the memories turned dark. He stared into the distance, his finger curling and uncurling reflexively around the rifle’s trigger.
He smelled the barracoons before he saw them. At first, it was no more than a trace of putrefaction wafting downwind on the breeze. The stench increased until the air itself seemed infected with decay. Then came the cries, high-pitched and human, though male or female Mungo couldn’t tell. He glanced at Sterling.
‘Are they under attack?’
‘Morning discipline,’ Sterling said. ‘It keeps the Quashies in line.’
After a bend in the river, the Bakongo tribesmen landed the canoes onto a muddy beach strewn with driftwood and led them up a winding path through a stand of overhanging trees resonant with birdsong. As they walked beneath the shaded canopy, Mungo saw a monkey staring at him through eyes ringed with white. It scampered away in fright and disappeared into the tangled branches.
The trees gave way to a clearing of hardened clay pockmarked with sprigs of grass. The smell hit Mungo like a punch in the face. The noxious atmosphere of unwashed bodies and excrement was so overpowering he felt the urge to retch. He swallowed and tensed his stomach muscles as he took in the sight.
Pendleton’s factory was as large as a village, with at least a dozen barracoons erected in a circle around a central plaza, where a muscular mestizo with yellow skin was whipping a group of slaves tied to posts. The barracoons were fashioned out of sturdy piles, driven into the earth and lashed together with bamboo to create a barricade. The roofs were thatched, and the floors were laid with rough-hewn planking. Hundreds upon hundreds of Africans were packed inside the wooden fortifications. Mestizo guards paced with rifles at the edge of the forest.
The slaves’ bodies were naked, oiled to make their skin seem to glow with health. The adults stood jammed together, front to back, and chained by the neck in rows inside the barracoons, while the children were arranged shoulder to shoulder and knees to chest around the outer walls. The floors were covered in effluent. Some of the adults were moaning. A few were wailing in an unknown tongue. Most were standing silently.
Their heads turned as Mungo and the others emerged from the forest, more than a thousand eyes drawn away from the ‘morning discipline’ taking place at the whipping posts in the plaza. The eyes of the slaves jabbed at Mungo like daggers, accusing him without a sound. His steps became leaden, his throat parched despite the humidity in the air. He tried to tear his gaze from them, but where else could he look? Their eyes were all around him, their curiosity mixed with terror, their rage with sorrow and incomprehension.
He arrived at the plaza and stopped beside Sterling. Pendleton made his way to the whipping posts, taking the bullwhip from the mestizo.
‘Obrigado, Carlos,’ he said, surveying the man’s handiwork. ‘Bom trabalho.’
The slaves hanging from their wrists at the whipping posts were older. They would have been past their working prime even before Carlos went to work on them. He had taken the whip to every inch of exposed flesh. Their mouths hung open. The dirt at their feet was spattered with dark blood and urine.
Pendleton lifted the whip and laid into the old men again. When their screams faded and they slipped into unconsciousness, he returned the whip to Carlos and raised his voice, speaking in the language of the Bakongo. He held forth for a minute or two.
‘They will do as you ask. There will be no trouble if you want to inspect them.’
The mestizo guards pushed the slaves into a line, shouting in Portuguese and waving their guns. The inspection was painstaking and intimate. While Montgomery examined with his fingers and medical implements, Sterling peered into mouths and nostrils, checking teeth and squeezing muscles and breasts, looking under arms, in the crevice between legs, along the inner seam between buttocks, spreading eyelids, watching pupils dilate, and, finally, prodding the vaginal areas of the woman and the anuses of the men. The slaves that satisfied him were taken to a brazier, where a heated wire was used to brand Pendleton’s initials onto the fleshy parts of their arms. Those who did not make the grade were chained together in a coffle by the whipping posts.
The marked slaves cried out to the heavens when parted from their loved ones, especially the mothers separated from their children. A handful of women lashed out at the guards with their fists. Each was beaten to the earth with a rifle butt and shot through the chest. It made Mungo think of what Fairchild had said in their debate at the Union: To keep innocent men and women in chains, to tear them from their homes and work them to death – this is a crime against God.
But, as Sterling had said, God had no interest in the Blackhawk’s business. Mungo watched the captain carefully, studying his methods and trying to see the slaves through Sterling’s eyes. He made a note of the attributes that Sterli
ng prized, and those he did not: why he might reject one slave who appeared perfectly healthy, but accept another who seemed pale or feeble. On every decision hung a fortune. Each slave who reached Cuba alive would be worth over a thousand dollars profit. Any slave who did not survive the voyage was dead weight on the balance sheet. And one who brought a fever or a plague aboard ship could ruin them all.
By late afternoon, Sterling and Montgomery had worked through the population. The slaves selected were branded and herded into the barracoons closest to the river. Those who were left – the old, the sick and the smallest children – were segregated into their own barracoon on the far side.
‘Delivery in four days,’ said Sterling. ‘One of my men will stay here to ensure that none go missing in that time.’
Pendleton looked aggrieved. ‘A gentleman’s word is his bond. By the time they see your hold, they’ll be fattened nicely for the passage.’
‘What will happen to the others?’ Mungo enquired.
A frown passed over Sterling’s face as Pendleton dismissed the query with a wave of his hand.
‘Not to worry. We’ll find something to do with them.’
The slave decks were completed in four days. Lanahan worked his crew of carpenters in eight-hour shifts around the clock, transforming the Blackhawk’s hold into a maze of floors, braces, subfloors and supports, and the foredeck into a slave pen with sturdy bamboo walls and a trellis for shade, all under the round eye of the cannon mounted on the main deck.
