As he raised his hand to bang on the door again, he heard footsteps approaching from inside the warehouse, then a padlock clicked. The door opened, allowing a blade of sunshine to pierce the gloomy interior. Port-master Blount, a thin, almost cadaverous man of middle years, with wispy gray hair and a thick, luxuriant beard, appeared, followed by a slender African youth, scarcely more than a lad.
The portmaster stepped through the door, blinking at the sudden transition from darkness to light. “Who is that? Captain Sparrow? What’s going on? This is most irregular. You need to make an appointment with my clerk. I’m very busy at the moment.”
Jack flashed an insincere smile at the man. “So sorry to have troubled you, Portmaster Blount, but I’m afraid my errand is urgent. I’m preparing to set sail within a few days, and I need to provision my ship.” He cocked an eyebrow at the man. “My EITC vessel, the Wicked Wench. Mr. Beckett’s own ship.”
Blount’s pinched features did not change in the slightest. He was a cool-headed scoundrel. “The Wicked Wench?” He was the picture of innocence. “Why, I dispatched the first load of provisions to her just today, Captain Sparrow! You didn’t receive them?”
Jack took a deep breath, controlling the urge to grab Blount and throttle him. Every time he thought about discovering, after a week, two weeks, perhaps even a month at sea that half his provisions weren’t fit to feed dogs, much less his crew, the notion of sailing his ship back to the EITC docks and loosing a broadside at the EITC warehouse seemed like a better idea. Does he only try this trick with newcomers? Charging the EITC for real provisions and substituting rotted trash? And, of course, pocketing a tidy profit!
“I brought them back, Mr. Blount, is what I did,” Jack said. Turning, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, then beckoned.
A moment later, his crewmen came into view, with the overloaded wagon. “And unless you immediately furnish me with my full stowage of clean flour, and vermin-free biscuit, plus salt beef and pork that won’t run through a man like seawater through a breached hull, my men are going to take these barrels up the street to Mr. Beckett’s office and take them inside.” Jack glared at Blount. “And then, perhaps, we’ll tell Mr. Beckett where they came from, just before we spill them on the floor, eh, mate?”
Blount did not react to this suggestion, but the African lad, evidently his slave, did. His eyes widened, then his mouth quirked as he stifled a smile. He understood what I said, Jack thought. For a moment his eyes met those of the youth, then the lad looked down at his bare feet.
The portmaster raised a hand slightly. “Captain Sparrow, I must say that I have no idea what you are fussing about. The provisions I dispatched to you were of the highest quality. I ordered Chamba here,” he indicated the slave, “to load them himself, after showing him where to find the correct supplies.” Turning to the lad, he addressed him rapidly in the pidgin dialect that was commonly used among the slaves and slavers in Calabar.
The lad shook his head side to side, murmuring a soft-voiced reply.
Hearing what appeared to be the slave’s denial, Blount finally showed some emotion. His pinched features tightened with rage, then he drew back his arm and backhanded the lad across the face, hard enough to drive him to his knees. As the young slave cowered on the ground, both hands raised to shield his head from more blows, Jack’s hands tightened into fists. Stepping forward, he grabbed the portmaster’s arm before the man could deliver another blow, turning him around so he could see the man’s face. “Just a minute, Mr. Blount,” Jack said. “What did you ask him? I don’t speak the local lingo, mate.”
Blount faced Jack, the rage vanishing from his features as though it had never been there. “I asked Chamba whether he loaded the barrels designated for your vessel with the supplies I indicated, and he told me that instead of doing that, he loaded the barrels from supplies that hadn’t passed inspection, and were marked to be destroyed!” the portmaster said, anger creeping back into his voice. “This stupid damned blackamoor actually admitted what he’d done!”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “But why would a slave do that? It’s not like he could sell what he didn’t put into those barrels.” Slaves weren’t permitted to engage in any business transactions; not legally, anyhow.
Blount shrugged. “It’s not like he did it for a reason, Captain. They’re like animals, you know, so stupid they can’t remember anything for more than a minute or two.” He turned around to glare at the youth, still crouched in the dust. When he turned back, his features were composed once more. “I’m sorry, Captain Sparrow. I’ll reissue your supplies immediately, and you may be sure that Chamba will be lashed within an inch of his miserable life as soon as you’ve gotten your supplies and are on your way.”
Jack stared at Blount, trying to picture the situation Blount had described—but he just couldn’t credit it. There had been too much intelligence and humor in Chamba’s eyes when they’d shared that glance over the idea of Jack dumping rotten meat and flour on the floor of Cutler Beckett’s frighteningly tidy office.
No, Blount was lying to try to cover his own perfidy. The portmaster had made an attempt to line his own pockets, and Jack had caught him at it. Why else had the bad provisions had a layer of good stuff on top, if they weren’t part of a plan to disguise their unsavory contents, and send the Wicked Wench on her way loaded with supplies that were too old or too improperly cured to be acceptable?
Jack raised a skeptical brow, then shifted his weight to look past the portmaster at the slave. “Is that true, Chamba?” he asked. “You loaded the Wicked Wench’s barrels with rotted meat and infested biscuit because you couldn’t remember which barrels to use? Did you even load those barrels, the ones destined for delivery to my ship?”
Chamba shook his head very slightly from side to side. His lips moved, forming the word “No.”
“Don’t bother addressing him in a civilized language, Captain,” Blount said, dismissively. “Chamba doesn’t understand English.”
That’s what you think, Jack thought. Again, his eyes met the youngster’s frightened, pleading gaze. He dropped his eyes, wishing there were something he could do. But Chamba was property, here in Calabar—expensive property.
Jack had been paid for his voyage aboard Fair Wind, and he actually still had some of his pay left—which was highly unusual. Normally, when sailors reached port after a voyage and got their pay, they headed for the taverns, the gaming hells, and the bawdy houses. When their money ran out, they staggered back to their ships, their heads pounding and their purses empty. The only reason Jack still had money left from his voyage aboard Fair Wind was that he’d been working so hard on fitting out the Wench that he hadn’t had time for the (admittedly limited) diversions offered in Calabar. But he knew without even counting that the coins in his purse weren’t enough to purchase a slave. Much as he’d have liked to help the lad, Jack couldn’t afford to get involved.
Portmaster Blount was looking at him questioningly, and Jack hastily reviewed what the man had just said, and responded. “Very well, Portmaster. You make good on my supplies, and throw in a few extra treats—some nice smoked hams, perhaps, or an extra barrel of yams or fruit—and Mr. Beckett won’t have to know about this. But I’ll be on the lookout from now on, you may be sure.”
“That’s decent of you, Captain Sparrow,” Blount said. “When will you be shipping out?”
“We should be finished fitting out the Wench by sunset,” Jack said. “Then we’ve a cargo to load tomorrow. We’ll be departing early the following morning.”
“I see. Well, then, let me call my warehouse crew, and we’ll prepare replacement provisions for you immediately.”
Jack watched the casks and barrels as they were filled with a sharp eye, and finally confessed himself satisfied with the first shipment of replacement supplies. Blount promised to have the remaining provisions waiting at the dock the next morning, early.
Jack made a mental note to inspect every barrel.
It was
a long row back to the Wicked Wench, and the sun was low in the sky by the time Jack and his laden longboats, plus one of the enormous native cargo canoes, reached the middle of the broad Calabar River.
The Calabar was full of traffic—canoes ferrying people or cargo, either upriver toward native villages or toward the slave ships that sat anchored out in the middle of the big river, waiting for their holds to be filled with their terror-stricken, agonized cargo. As his men rowed along, Jack could see the enormous canoes of the slave traders being rowed by their slave crews. These canoes were so huge they could carry 120 passengers. Armed guards kept watch over the slaves, lest any try to break free and leap overboard. Remembering the fear in young Chamba’s eyes, Jack sighed. A filthy business.…
Jack made a mental note to drop by Mr. Beckett’s office tomorrow, and inform the EITC director just what his portmaster had been up to. He didn’t feel constrained by his half-promise to Blount. The man was an unrepentant rascal, and Beckett, as well as the EITC ships, would be better off without him.
Not for the first time, he was grateful to his new supervisor for allowing him to sail a regular cargo vessel, rather than a slave ship. Perhaps, when this voyage was concluded, he’d think about leaving Africa and signing aboard ships going the other way, heading for the Orient, or India, rather than staying here and sailing the Triangle.
Ships heading for Europe or England from the coast of west Africa did not sail north to reach those destinations, because if they did so, the wind would be against them. The trade winds blew west from Africa, so vessels followed a route called the Triangle, first heading west, across the Atlantic, then turning to sail north along the coast of North America. Only off the coast of Greenland, or Newfoundland, were they able to turn east, to head for England, or points further south.
Jack sighed. Tempting as the prospect of heading out for distant seas and lands was, if he left Africa, he’d lose Cutler Beckett’s patronage. Would any other EITC director be willing to keep him as a captain, at his age? He knew he was probably one of the youngest captains currently working for the huge company. One of the main reasons he’d been promoted, Jack knew, was the fact that there were more EITC ships sailing out of Africa than almost anywhere else. That was because slaves were the most valuable and desirable cargo at present.
Jack stared at the river and shook his head slightly. It was too bad about Chamba, but it wasn’t his problem. If Benjamin Blount was even now whipping the lad to death, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Jack remembered with relief that in less than two days, he’d be back at sea, where he wanted to be more than anywhere else. Calabar and its shackled “cargoes” would be behind him for five months, possibly more.
Determinedly, he turned his thoughts to the expensive cargo he’d be loading tomorrow, bound for Liverpool. Ivory, a chest of gold ingots, some valuable woods, bales of coir (coconut husks), spices, and foodstuffs would fill the cargo deck of his vessel. Precious cargo, indeed.
In view of this, Jack was pleased that, in response to his request for more armament, Mr. Beckett had allowed two more twelve-pounders to be installed on the main deck with the other twelve-pounders. He’d have liked to have a couple more six-pounders on the weather deck, but he’d try for that next voyage.
When the longboats and cargo canoes reached the Wicked Wench, Jack was pleased to see that she was once more upright and floating, her hull now clean and well-protected. When ships were careened, the work perforce occurred at low tide, since at full high tide, the ships were once more afloat. It was high tide now, and Robby must have just brought the crew aboard, so they’d be ready to take the ship back down the tributary to the mouth of the Calabar, and the docks.
Jack didn’t plan to actually dock until tomorrow. Tonight they’d anchor in the river, give the crew a chance to rest up from their labors, so they’d be fresh on the morrow, when it was time to load and stow their cargo.
There was little breeze, so he dispatched several boats to tow the Wench out of the tributary and into the main flow of the Calabar River. Even though night was falling, rowing the boats to tow the Wench was hot, thirsty work, but Jack had plenty of men begging to man an oar, since he offered an extra ration of rum for each volunteer. He noted with some amusement that Featherstone and de Ver, still arguing the respective merits of their countries, were among the first into the boats. Their voices drifted up to him as he stood on the weather deck while their longboat was lowered.
“You English have no art, no culture. Even your food—pah! French dogs turn their noses up at it.”
“I’ll put a good steak and kidney pie up against anything you frogs can stir up. Everyone knows frogs eat flies.”
Another voice spoke up. “Aw, stow it, you two, or you’ll both be swimming back to the bloody ship.”
Quiet ensued. Jack laughed softly.
Later, after the ship was anchored securely in the river, her lanterns lit so any late-roaming canoe could see her, Jack finally retired to the captain’s cabin to eat a late supper and update his logbook. It had been a long day. When he finished his log entry, and his supper, he sat back in his chair with a sigh. It was a hot evening, but, luckily for him, the wind was blowing Calabar’s multitude of insect life to leeward, so he dared to open the windows and allow the night breeze to cool the cabin. With a sigh of pleasure, he took off his coat, his neckcloth, and his waistcoat.
Then Jack stood for a moment in his spacious cabin, just enjoying the fact that it was his cabin. It gleamed softly in the lantern’s glow, bright with fresh paint. Cutler Beckett had provided the money for the royal blue, tan, yellow and gold paint freshly applied to the Wench’s fixtures and railings, plus a jaunty stripe highlighting her gun ports, but if a captain wanted his cabin painted, it was his responsibility to buy the paint. Jack had gone looking for inexpensive paint in the marketplace of Calabar, and had found some that must have been used to paint a parlor, or trim, in some European’s home. Periwinkle blue, it was—and startling in its intensity.
That was fine with Jack. He liked vivid trappings. Unable to dress as colorfully as he had in Shipwreck Cove, at least he could indulge himself in his own living quarters. The only problem was, the periwinkle paint had barely been enough to cover the walls. There hadn’t been enough to do the trim, so Jack perforce had to go bargain-hunting through the marketplace again. He was just a little dubious about the trim color, to be honest, but he was sure he’d get used to it. It reminded him of the afterglow of a Caribbean sunset.
The cabin boasted a wide bunk, big enough for two—after years of sleeping in hammocks, it was wonderful to be able to stretch out—and a table where he could unroll his charts and plot courses. There was a leaded-glass skylight overhead, and a bank of big, leaded casement windows that allowed him to look out and see the view from the stern of his ship. On either side of the cabin were bulges that overhung the hull below, called the quarter gallery. The quarter gallery on the port side housed a small enclosure fitted out with shelves and drawers, known as the captain’s pantry. There Jack could store food he’d bought for himself, wine, rum, his pewter eating utensils, plates, and goblets. At the moment the pantry was relatively bare. He hadn’t had sufficient money to buy much—yet.
On the starboard side of the quarter gallery there was another enclosed space—the captain’s private head. Such luxury! Not having to traipse topside to the bow in a storm to relieve oneself was something Jack was looking forward to getting used to.
He was enjoying having privacy and room to relax. And, even more importantly, lots of hiding places.
Ever since he’d begun going to sea, Jack had always kept an eye open for concealed hidey-holes on the ships he’d crewed, places where he could secrete items he wanted to keep hidden. And he’d always found them. But now he had a whole cabin where he could create his own personal stashes.
Sound from the Calabar River drifted through the open window. Someone on one of the slave ships was screaming. The sound was muted, faraway, but i
t was still enough to make Jack want to drown it with a long draught of his own special rum. And, since he’d finished his log entry, and had nothing else to do that night except sleep—barring emergencies—he felt safe in removing a bottle of his special supply from his brand-new hiding place.
Jack sauntered into the captain’s head, and gazed with satisfaction at the broad seat with its hole that was no longer centered. Jack had hired a carpenter in Calabar to remake the seat for him.
Reaching beneath the lip of the wood to the left of the hole, Jack released a latch that wasn’t visible unless one knew it was there. There was a soft sound, then that side of the wide, enclosed “bench” moved. Grasping the edge of the seat, Jack lifted, and the entire left side of the boards rose up and swung back, revealing a box built beneath. It wasn’t large, but it was fairly deep, nearly three feet deep by two and a half feet wide. One could conceal a lot of contraband in there.
Not that Jack was planning on engaging in any smuggling activities. Of course not! But one never knew when one might need a good hiding place, did one?
At the moment, the box held Jack’s private stash of rum. Much better quality rum than the EITC normally issued to its merchant ships. Smiling, Jack bent over and retrieved a bottle.
After removing the cork, he took a long swig, feeling the tensions of the day loosen their hold on him. The rum was very smooth, very good. He had another draught. That’s good, he thought, with a happy sigh. Very, very good.
He took the bottle back to his chair and sat down. Swinging his legs up, he tipped his chair back and had another drink, rolling the rum around on his tongue before swallowing it, feeling the pleasant burn as it coursed down his throat, awakening a glow in his stomach.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 19
