by Killigrew of the Royal Navy (Killigrew RN) (retail) (epub)
Killigrew was still tying the man’s hands behind his back with his belt as Dando climbed in through the stern port after him. ‘You all right, sir?’ he whispered, glancing at the unconscious man.
‘Better than he is.’ Killigrew took out his handkerchief and used it to gag the slaver, propping him up in a seated position with his back to a bulkhead so that he would not drown in the water which sloshed about on the deck.
Then he stood up and pressed himself against the bulkhead to one side of the door, listening. The only sounds he could hear were the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the sloshing of water.
He drew his cutlass in his right hand and his pepperbox in his left, and the two of them slipped out through the door into the dark bowels of the ship. Down here the slavers had the advantage over them, because they would be familiar with the barque’s layout below decks. But so far, he hoped, the element of surprise was on his side.
Killigrew and Dando crept along the deserted orlop deck until they stumbled across something in the dark. Killigrew fell over and sprawled on something soft and sticky. Realising he was lying across the bodies of Fentiman, Ivey and Lidstone, he scrambled back in horror.
All three had had their throats slit from ear to ear. There were no other wounds on them to suggest they had died fighting: the slavers had murdered them in cold blood.
‘Bastards,’ whispered Dando. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘That’s all right, Dando. You took the word right out of my mouth.’
They continued along the orlop deck until they reached a companion ladder leading up to the main deck, and paused. They could hear voices speaking Portuguese above.
‘What’s taking Ferrando so long?’ asked one. ‘I told him to come straight back here.’
‘Maybe something happened to Eduardo. I’m going to check.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Please say no, thought Killigrew.
‘Yes.’
Footsteps came down the companion ladder. Killigrew and Dando ducked behind the mainmast where it descended between decks to the mast step at the keel. He slipped his pepperbox into its holster and listened to the footsteps splashing through the water. Eerie shadows danced on the bulkheads: one of them carried a lantern. Killigrew and Dando exchanged glances as the two slavers walked past their place of concealment, heading for the after hold.
Killigrew and Dando stepped out behind them. Killigrew hit one with the hilt of his cutlass and Dando laid out the other with a belaying pin. They dragged the two men to the empty slave deck, gagged them and fettered them. Nonetheless they would have to work quickly now, as these two men could quickly raise the alarm by rattling their fetters when they came to.
The two British seamen returned to the foot of the companion ladder. They heard footsteps above and froze.
‘Where are Carlos and Jose?’ Killigrew heard Barroso ask. ‘Curse them, I told them not to move!’
A face appeared at the top of the steps and Killigrew and Dando quickly ducked back out of sight. ‘Carlos? Jose? Where are you?’
Why don’t you come down and find out?
‘I don’t like it, Ramón…’
‘Me neither. There’s something strange going on… damn it, some of those English pigs must’ve gotten below somehow! I’ll wager that devil Killigrew is with them. Tomas, Rodrigo, I want you two to go down there and flush the bastards out. Simão and I will stay at the main hatch.’
Tomas and Rodrigo descended the ladder with a lantern. As they headed into the darkness, Dando regarded Killigrew quizzically in the gloom. Killigrew nodded, and as Dando headed aft to take care of the two men, Killigrew went up the companion ladder and made his way to the main hatch. One man crouched beneath the grating, the barrel of his pistol pointed aft towards the poop deck.
Killigrew readied his cutlass. He felt guilty about creeping up on the man and striking him down from behind, but he reminded himself that this man would almost certainly murder him if the opportunity arose. Besides which, with the odds stacked against him, this was no time to fight fair: he would only be giving the advantage to his enemies.
Something clanked behind him and he half turned before a loop of chain was dropped tight around his neck and pulled hard against his throat, choking him. His cutlass clattered to the deck.
‘Simão! I have him!’
The man with the pistol turned and levelled it at Killigrew’s head. Killigrew kicked at his hand and sent the pistol flying. There was a bright flash as it discharged itself harmlessly into a bulkhead.
Killigrew scrabbled at the chain which bit into his throat but the man who held him was too strong. He tried to draw his pepperbox but the man took both ends of the chain in one hand and clamped the other over Killigrew’s wrist.
Simão snatched up the cutlass and came at Killigrew, slashing. Killigrew launched himself backwards and slammed the man behind him against a bulkhead. He gasped and took his hand from Killigrew’s wrist. Killigrew drew his pepperbox and shot Simão between the eyes. Then he felt for the other man’s side and rammed the muzzles against it, pulling the trigger. The man groaned and the chain became slack enough for Killigrew to break free.
The man with the chain was Barroso. A dark stain spread around the wound in his side, but he was still on his feet and Killigrew guessed he had not hit any vital organs. He swung the chain at Killigrew’s hand, knocking the pepperbox away into the darkness.
A lithe, dark shape leaped out of the shadows from one side and crashed into Killigrew’s side. Onyema sank her teeth into his wrist. The pain was excruciating. Barroso dropped the chain, snatched up the cutlass and charged forwards.
Killigrew and Onyema rolled over and over on the deck, her teeth still deep in his wrist, her fingernails raking his face, searching for his eyes. As Barroso brought his cutlass down, Killigrew allowed Onyema to roll on top. The cutlass buried itself deep in her shoulder. She gasped in shock. Barroso stared down in horror at what he had done, and then pulled the cutlass free. Onyema screamed and her blood splashed down on to Killigrew.
Killigrew still had the single-shot pistol in his waistband and he levelled it at Barroso. ‘Drop the cutlass.’
‘I’d do as he says, friend,’ growled Dando, appearing behind Barroso. The slaver snarled and tossed the blade to the deck.
Killigrew crawled out from underneath Onyema and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Shrugging it off, he folded it and held it over the awful wound in her shoulder. ‘Hold this in place,’ he told her. I’ll send the surgeon down to look at that wound.’
She spat in his face.
‘What about my wound?’ demanded Barroso.
‘I hope you bleed to death,’ Killigrew told him, collecting up all the weapons he could find. He turned to Dando. ‘The other two?’
‘Out like lights and trussed like turkeys, sir.’
‘Good work, Mr Dando.’ Killigrew made his way to the main hatch. No sooner had he raised his head above the level of the coaming than a report sounded and a bullet bit into the deck inches from his hand. ‘Whisky!’ he bawled. ‘Whisky!’
The men on the poop deck rose to their feet. ‘By God, Mr Killigrew!’ exclaimed Strachan. ‘Is that really you?’
‘What’s left of me.’ Killigrew climbed up on deck. He suddenly felt utterly drained.
‘What about Mr Dando?’
‘In fine fettle. There are wounded down here for you to take care of, Mr Strachan.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Strachan hurried down the companion ladder and crossed the deck to the hatch.
‘You’d better go with him, Boulton, in case they try anything,’ said Killigrew. ‘Help Mr Dando put the slavers back in the slave deck. And watch the woman, too. She’s a real hellspite. Sails, you’d better find that leak chop-chop. O’Connor, go with him and help him.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Almost fainting with fatigue, Killigrew staggered into the master’s day room. Koumba followed him inside. ‘Are you al
l right?’
He lit a candle and grinned. ‘I was wondering when someone was going to ask me that.’ He stripped off his shirt and examined his shoulder. The bullet which had creased him as he hung from the stern had not gone deep, but he was also bleeding where Onyema had bitten him.
Koumba saw the teeth-marks and her eyes widened. ‘What made that mark?’
Killigrew shrugged. ‘Onyema – the slave master’s woman – bit me.’
‘She bit you?’ Her eyes widened, and then her face hardened. ‘You must kill her, Senhor Killigrew.’
‘What?’
‘She’s a leopard woman.’
Killigrew was too tired to listen to what sounded to him like it was going to turn out to be nonsense. He wondered if his comprehension of Portuguese was not as good as he had supposed. ‘A what?’
‘A leopard woman. Have you not heard of the leopard people? They have the form of men and women, but in truth they are evil magicians. They have the power to transform themselves into leopards, in which shape they roam abroad at night committing the most terrible atrocities.’
‘Superstitious nonsense. You can’t go round killing people just because they bite you. I used to know a girl called Eulalia Pengelly, she bit me once when we were children. You’re not suggesting she’s a leopard woman, are you?’
Koumba ignored the interruption. ‘The leopard people murder men and use parts of their bodies to create borfima.’
‘“Borfima”?’
She nodded. ‘Powerful medicines which give them great wealth. I tell you this: the leopard woman must be killed, before she brings more death and destruction.’
‘Nonsense. If she lives she’ll get a fair trial in Freetown. As captain of this vessel I have wide-ranging powers, but I’m damned if I’ll use them to take the law into my own hands.’ A bottle of aguardiente stood on the table and he pulled out the cork with his teeth, taking a long pull at the fiery liquor. Then he swabbed away the blood from the wound in his shoulder, poured a little of the aguardiente into it, and set it alight with the candle.
Koumba winced as the smell of burning flesh filled the room. ‘Is that the white man’s magic?’ she asked.
‘Got to cauterise the wound, keep out infection,’ he grunted. The blue flames disappeared and he poured more aguardiente over the blackened skin before he repeated the procedure with the teeth-marks in his wrist. She helped him dress both wounds.
‘What is the “Royal Navy”?’ she asked him.
‘The ships of her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria. And the men aboard them, of course.’
‘And is this what you do? Rescue black people from slavery?’
‘That’s part of it.’ Killigrew gently lifted Parsons’ body from the bunk and carried it through to the day room where he laid it on the deck.
‘Because your Queen Victoria orders you to do this?’
‘Yes. And for tonnage bounty. And because it’s the right thing to do.’ He re-entered the cabin and removed the blood-soaked sheets from the bunk. The blood had soaked through to the mattress below, but Killigrew was too exhausted to care.
‘The ways of the white man are strange indeed.’
Killigrew thought about that. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’
* * *
The sun was streaming through the skylight by the time Dando roused Killigrew with a mug of tea. Killigrew sat up sharply. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly eight bells in the morning watch, sir.’
‘Why the devil didn’t anyone wake me?’
‘The quack said you needed rest, and Sails agreed with him.’
Killigrew climbed off the bunk and pulled his shirt on. ‘The ship? Is she still sinking?’
Dando looked dubious. ‘We managed to find the leak and patch it as best we can, though there’s still some water coming in. We had to use the fore t’gallant to fother her. There was no spare canvas, ’cept the sail we used for an awning. Sails wanted to use that, of course, but the quack overruled him.’
Killigrew thought about it. Taking down the fore topgallant sail would knock a fraction of a knot off their speed and delay their arrival in Freetown by an hour or two, all told. Some of the recaptives might die in that hour, but more would die if they were left on deck without shelter or shade from the tropical sun.
Killigrew took the mug of tea from Dando and followed him out on deck. The recaptives were starting to look a lot more lively than they had done the previous day and Sails was teaching some of the fitter young men the rudiments of seamanship so that they could help to run the Maria Magdalena back to port. They spoke no English and he spoke no… whatever language it was they spoke… but he seemed to be managing by pointing to various parts of the ship, saying their names over and over until the recaptives repeated them parrot fashion, and by demonstrating himself he taught them some of the simpler chores required in trimming sails. Killigrew nodded thoughtfully. With only eight men left in the prize crew, including the two officers, they would need all the help they could get.
Two more of the recaptives were busy working the bilge pump, and even as Killigrew watched them another recaptive emerged from one of the hatches carrying a bucket of water which he carried to the side and tipped over. No sooner had he carried the empty bucket back down below than a second recaptive emerged with a bucket and did exactly the same thing.
‘The only way we can keep pace with the leak, I’m afraid, sir,’ explained Dando.
‘At least we’ve got plenty of hands to keep it up,’ Killigrew remarked wryly.
To one side several bloodstained sacks about six feet long lay in rows on the deck. Ordinarily Sails would have sewn them up in canvas, but canvas was too precious on board the Maria Magdalena to be squandered in the burial of the dead.
‘Why haven’t those been dumped overboard yet?’ demanded Killigrew.
‘Mr Ågård said we should wait for you to read the burial service, so we can do it proper, like,’ said Dando.
Killigrew counted the sacks. There were a dozen. Had so many really died in the fighting last night? Remembering now, it all seemed like no more than a nightmare. He did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘Who are the other four?’ he asked Dando.
‘I’m afraid Mr Galton didn’t last long, sir. And three more of the slaves died as well. Fever. They must’ve picked it up on the coast.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Are many more of them sick?’
‘The quack counted about two dozen. He’s put them in the sick bay.’
‘Where’s Mr Strachan?’
‘Up on the poop, sir.’
Still holding the mug of tea, Killigrew climbed the companion ladder to the poop deck where he found Boulton spelling Ågård at the helm. Strachan sat sleeping on the deck with his back propped up against the bulwark, while two sleeping recaptive children nestled on either side of him. Koumba sat opposite him, watching the sleeping doctor with an amused smile on her face. In the light of day he could see that she really was quite presentable now that she had had a chance to clean up, and her broad smile lit up her whole face. As Killigrew stepped on deck she glanced at him and her smile did not falter.
‘Good morning, Menina Koumba,’ he said in Portuguese, saluting her.
‘Good morning, Senhor Killigrew. I trust you slept well?’
‘My God, what was I thinking? I slept on that nice comfortable bunk and left a lady to sleep on deck…’
‘A lot of ladies slept on deck last night,’ she reminded him, nodding to where the other recaptive women sat in the ship’s waist. They were chatting amongst themselves, and some of them were even laughing. This morning there was hope in their eyes where yesterday Killigrew had seen only despair, and in that moment he was reminded that everything he had gone through last night had been worth it.
‘We couldn’t all have fitted on that bunk,’ said Koumba. ‘Please do not feel guilty about it, Senhor Killigrew. If anyone earned a good night’s rest last night, it was you.’
Killigrew grunted non-co
mmittally. Thanks to his carelessness in trusting Onyema, seven members of his prize crew were dead. ‘We’d better get the burial of the dead over and done with,’ he said.
They rigged up planks from which the bodies could be tipped overboard while Killigrew rooted around inside his sea-chest and came up with his King James’s Bible and his Book of Common Prayer. His grandfather had given them to him on the day he had first joined the Royal Navy as a first-class volunteer, aged twelve. ‘These were your father’s. I know he would have wanted you to have them.’
Inside the cover of the Bible the following had been written in his father’s hand, bold and flourishing, yet meticulously precise:
A gentleman is made, not born. He is defined by his actions, not his wealth.
A gentleman protects those who cannot protect themselves. A gentleman respects the feelings and beliefs of others.
A gentleman is guided by his own sense of justice and fair play.
A gentleman treats others according to their merit rather than their station.
A gentleman is not boastful, but lets his actions speak for themselves.
A gentleman is as careless of the debts he is owed as he is careful of those he owes to others.
A gentleman does not stand idly by in the face of injustice.
A gentleman asks no man to do what he is not prepared to attempt himself.
A gentleman takes responsibility for his own actions.
Killigrew knew those lines by heart. He had no way of knowing if his father had merely written them in an idle moment or if he had deliberately put them down so that his son might be guided by them. But like many children deprived of a fatherly role model at an early age, he seized upon any clue towards his father’s character and clung to it. Those lines were the strongest clue he had, and all his adult life he had struggled to abide by those rules.
The prayer book was less well thumbed. This was the first time Killigrew had opened it since he had said, Thank you, sir, I’ll treasure it always.’ And he had kept it, if only to prove to himself that he had meant those words. It was not that Killigrew was an impious man as such, it was just that there always seemed to be more important things to do than pray and go to church.
