Ayisha could hardly believe they were actually coming to the end of the voyage. “How long before we arrive?” she asked.
“New Avalon is about forty miles north of the largest of the Ragged Islands. We’re sailing into the heart of the Bahamas, now. Lots of shoals, so we’ll anchor by night, and only sail by day. Too risky, otherwise. So…two days sail, most likely,” Jack said, and then opened his mouth to add something, but Ayisha beat him to it.
“Depending on the wind, of course!”
Jack laughed.
Two days later, Jack, Chamba, and Ayisha rowed up the Viviana River in one of the Wicked Wench’s boats. As Jack had said, each plantation had its own dock. Ayisha kept a close eye on the compass.
As they reached the fourth dock along the river, the needle stopped swinging and pointed directly inland. Ayisha started down at it, her entire body suddenly rigid with tension. She had to wet her lips before she could speak. “This is the one.”
Jack nodded, and motioned to Chamba to turn the boat around. “Back to the ship. I’ll head into town and find out who owns that plantation.” He smiled wryly. “Small world. If I’m not mistaken, our target lies next door to Lord Penwallow’s new home.”
When Jack returned from his venture into Viviana, he called a council of war in his cabin. Ayisha and Tarek sat at the table, Jack and Robby took their places on the bunk, and Chamba sat cross-legged on the deck. It was hot in the cabin, but the stern windows did allow a bit of a breeze.
“I had a few drinks at The Mermaid’s Tale,” Jack said, “And the tavern keeper proved most helpful. Seems the plantation where Shabako is located is called Wickhaven, and it’s the property of one St. John Fenwick. He’s been here seven years, which makes his place one of the oldest on New Avalon. Fenwick owns over one hundred slaves.”
“Do we have enough money to just buy Shabako from Fenwick?” Robby asked. “I’ve got a bit put by.”
“So do I,” Jack said. Robby gave him a surprised glance. Jack shrugged. “Male slaves fetch a good price, so I frankly doubt it, but that would be the simplest way of getting him. But before we go there to buy a slave, we’d need to be sure the lad is, in fact, at Wickhaven.”
“Cap’n,” Chamba said, “you need to think ’bout this. If you turn up at a big plantation askin’ to see every buck they got on the place, ’cause you only want one particular slave, it gonna look pretty strange. While it be true that someone might offer to buy a skilled worker, the way Mr. Beckett arrange to buy Miss Ayisha, ain’t nobody gonna go lookin’ for one particular field hand. And from what I been told, that’s what Shabako most likely to be.”
Tarek said something in his native language, and Ayisha hastily translated. “Tarek was a field hand at Mr. Dalton’s farm. He confirms that it would definitely arouse suspicion for a stranger to show up and buy one lad not much older than Chamba. Most slave owners wouldn’t want a youth, they would want a man in his prime.”
“Do we care if they’re suspicious?” Robby said. “What difference does it make, after all? We’re just going to sail away, and leave them with a puzzle.”
“There’s another problem,” Jack said. “If I go to Wickhaven to buy Shabako—and this is presuming we have enough money to make a reasonable offer—how will I be able to pick him out from the others? I’ve never seen the lad.”
“There is a family resemblance,” Ayisha said. “His eyes are like mine, same color skin, and hair, same nose and chin.”
“In that case…” Robby was obviously choosing his words with great care. “He should be…distinctive. You’ll be able to recognize him easily, Jack.”
Jack opened his mouth to point out the error of this, then realized that Robby was referring to Ayisha’s illusion. He kept silent. Neither Robby nor Chamba had ever seen her true face. But it wasn’t his place to correct them.
He glanced over at the princess. She was looking from Robby to Chamba, then back again. Suddenly her shoulders straightened, and she rose to her feet. “I need to tell you something. I feel we are friends, as well as allies in this mission. Robby…Chamba…my appearance at the moment is an illusion I created to…” She faltered, then looked to Jack for help.
“When she was captured, Ayisha created an illusion to help keep her safe from the slave traders and others who might want to harm her, if they saw her true appearance,” Jack said.
“Yes. So…this is my true self.” She slid the gray shawl over her shoulders, and dropped it to the deck. Jack heard Robby and Chamba gasp. “I believe you understand my reasons, now,” Ayisha added, and sat back down.
As Robby and Chamba sat there, staring wide-eyed at her, Jack cleared his throat loudly. “Back to the business at hand, mates. You can see now why I probably wouldn’t stand much chance of recognizing Shabako. I might be able to pick him out of a group of a dozen slaves, but not a hundred. It would take forever.”
Chamba never took his eyes off Ayisha’s face as he spoke, “Cap’n, and there be another problem. You go there and talk to this Mr. Fenwick, say you want just one slave out of all of them. You look and look, and finally you see Shabako, say. All the while, Mr. Fenwick, he be noticin’ how picky you are, how you really don’t want anyone but this one slave. What he gonna do about the price he ask to sell him?”
“He’ll raise the price,” Robby said. “Figure he can get double, maybe triple what the lad is worth, if Jack wants him that much.”
Jack had been doing some calculations in his head. “This won’t wash, mates,” he said. “We couldn’t possibly raise that much. The going price these days for a male slave in his prime would run, say, between one hundred and two hundred pieces of eight. In pounds sterling, the currency the EITC uses, that would equal between sixty and one hundred and twenty pounds. And, if Fenwick caught on, Chamba’s right. He’d demand more than the going price.”
The sailors gazed at each other, daunted. Sixty pounds! That was a lot of money. Fifty pounds was enough to maintain a middle-class family in England for a year.
“I got five pounds saved, me,” Chamba said. “How about you?”
“I have twenty,” Robby said.
“And I have fifteen pounds,” Jack said. “Forty pounds between us. Damn.”
“What about my earrings?” Ayisha said, with a slight catch in her voice. “You could sell them.”
“No, love,” Jack said. “They’re pretty, but they’re not worth that much. The stones are tiny. Gold is sold by weight, and they’re not that heavy. It’s not worth your giving them up.” He sighed, then added, absently, “I wish now I hadn’t bought those new shoes today. But there was a cobbler’s next door to the tavern, and he gave me a good price.”
“Jack, the price of the shoes wouldn’t have made any difference,” Robby pointed out. “You needed those shoes. I’ve seen the holes in your soles.”
Jack rose from the bunk and began to pace. “We need to think of another way,” he muttered, then brightened slightly. “A bit of a libation might help. Always helps me think…”
Heading over to his captain’s pantry, Jack returned with a motley assortment of battered tin cups and pewter tankards, carrying a bottle of wine beneath his arm. Uncorking it, he poured a dollop of wine into each of the cups, then passed them out to the group. “One cup short,” he said, looking at the last of the wine, and shrugged. “Oh well. Bottoms up.”
Raising the bottle to his lips, he polished off the contents, grimacing as he encountered the dregs. The others sipped their wine in silence. Jack waited a few minutes, then looked around at the group. “No brilliant inspirations yet?”
Everyone shook his or her head.
“C’mon, mates!” Jack said. “Think!” Rising, he collected the cups and the empty bottle, then stumbled. “Damn!” He looked down. “Oh. My new bloody shoes.”
He put the cups into the pantry, then bent over and picked up the shoes. “Better put these away before someone else falls over ’em,” he muttered, to nobody in particular. Going over to his sea ches
t, Jack threw the lid open.
Ayisha raised her head, watching intently.
Jack looked down, eyes widening as he saw the sparkle of gold. “What’s this?” Reaching down, he pulled out the blue coat, and shook it out. “This isn’t—” He looked more closely. “It is my coat. But…” He looked over at Ayisha and fingered the embroidery on the cuff. “You did this, love?”
Smiling shyly, she nodded. “It’s the fashion. Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Jack said. Reaching down, he picked up the waistcoat. “And this…it’s a work of art.” He smiled. “I never thought I’d be able to afford anything like this. Thank you!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Ayisha said.
“Try it on, Cap’n,” Chamba urged.
Jack obediently stripped off his battered old coat and waistcoat, then pulled on the embroidered waistcoat, buttoning enough buttons to hold it together. He slipped the blue coat over it, then looked down at himself. “My word,” he said, slowly. “I look a right dandy, don’t I? Just like a lord.”
Turning, he struck a pose, and said, in a perfect imitation of an upper-crust accent, “Good afternoon, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lord Spar—”
Breaking off, Jack stood there for a long moment in silence. Then he smiled, a smile that gradually widened to a roguish grin. “This gives me an idea. It’ll work, I know it will!”
Bright and early the next morning, a hired barouche left Viviana, and turned onto the main road leading to the plantations, increasing speed to a spanking trot. The open vehicle was drawn by a team of smartly matched chestnuts, and driven by a big, liveried coachman wearing a white powdered wig that contrasted with his dark features. A young, slightly built footman dressed identically stood balanced behind the passenger seats, which contained only one occupant: an elegantly dressed young man with a head of long, dark, elaborately curled hair beneath his plumed hat. The highborn passenger sat upright, his nose cocked at just the right angle, as the barouche barreled down the road.
When the vehicle reached the small but elegant sign that read “Sweet Providence,” it turned off on the narrow lane, and proceeded along it until it reached the almost completed plantation house.
Pulling up before the front door, the coachman brought the vehicle to a smart halt, then set the brake. The footman leaped down from the back to open the passenger door and let down the steps, so the occupant could descend. The elegantly dressed young man rose and climbed out of the barouche, turning carefully so his lightweight dress sword, in its decorative sheath, would not trip him up.
Leaving his slaves to wait with the vehicle, the young man strode confidently up to the beautifully carved front door of the big plantation house, where he knocked briskly. Moments later, a white butler appeared at the door. After a swift assessment of the visitor’s clothing, the man bowed, rather deeply. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” said the young man. “Is Tobias Montgomery here?”
“Mr. Montgomery is out back, sir,” the butler replied. “May I tell him who is calling?”
“Certainly,” the young man said. “Please tell Mr. Montgomery that the Honorable Frederick Penwallow, Baron Mayfaire, is here to see him, and that my father, Lord Penwallow, sends his greetings.”
The butler’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir! I’ll fetch him immediately. Please, won’t you come in and make yourself comfortable, sir, while you wait? I’ll tell the maid to bring you some refreshment. We weren’t expecting you, sir! Did you just arrive?”
The young man vanished into the house. His slaves, who had heard the exchange, glanced at each other and gave a small, conspiratorial nod.
After a while, the head groom came running from the direction of the stables. The man bustled up to the coachman, and nodded. “Mornin’. Mister Tobias, he sent me to fetch Lord Penwallow’s son’s horses and see they’re watered. C’mon with me, it be good to get out of this sun.”
The three slaves climbed into the barouche and drove around behind the plantation house, where the recently built stables stood. They were still so new that one could smell the fresh cut wood. There weren’t many horses residing there yet, just the plantation teams and the overseer’s mount. After tending to the team, the three slaves sat down on benches built beneath the trees, overlooking the newly constructed paddocks, to await their masters’ convenience.
After a refreshing cup of tea and a mid-morning bite, Mr. Montgomery and young Baron Frederick exited the rear door of the plantation, and stood on the enormous patio before the newly installed Venetian fountain, watching teams of gardeners busily working on various flower beds.
Montgomery had already led the newcomer on a tour of the nearly completed house, and now it was time to see the plantation grounds. The two set off, walking through the gardens, heading first for the stables and outbuildings.
The tour of the nascent plantation took only an hour or so of fairly brisk walking, because there wasn’t that much to see yet. Slave crews were still clearing ground for plantings. The smell of burning trees and vegetation lingered sharp in the nostrils as they walked past the soon-to-be crop fields, where other slaves worked at grubbing up roots and turning over the soil.
After they’d seen the fields, Montgomery led the owner’s heir on a tour of where the buildings and equipment necessary for processing the raw sugarcane were still under construction. They finished the tour with a walk down to the river to see the newly constructed dock where boats would, one day, transport the barrels of molasses and sugar to the port.
As the two men walked back toward the plantation house, Tobias Montgomery kept up a running commentary on the sugarcane business and its complexities. He stressed the need for more labor to clear more ground.
Lord Penwallow’s heir nodded. “I believe my father mentioned to me that he planned to purchase an entire shipload of prime blacks, and ship them here as soon as may be.” Young Baron Frederick looked around him as they walked, and sighed, his expression clearly that of a man who had expected to see more.
“It takes time to clear the fields, and prepare them for planting, sir,” Montgomery said, earnestly. “I’ve kept the crews working hard, I assure you. I haven’t spared the lash.”
“Yes, yes,” said Frederick. “Of course. I understand. It’s just that…” He trailed off with a sigh.
“Just what, sir? Is there something I can do?”
“I had hoped to tour a functioning plantation, one where the crops were actually growing, and production was taking place, you know,” the baron replied, in his elegant accent that practically dripped breeding and wealth. “On our way here, I saw that our neighbor appears to have a smooth-running operation that is actually producing molasses and sugar.” His handsome features beneath the long, thick, elaborately curled coiffure frowned thoughtfully. “What was the name of his place? Wickham, was it?”
“Wickhaven. Belongs to St. John Fenwick. He’s a nice chap, sir. I’m sure he’d love to give you a complete tour; he’s very proud of his place.” Montgomery glanced at the position of the sun, and added, in a conspiratorial tone, “Tell you what, sir. His lady wife keeps a notable table. They’re always inviting me to dine with them. If we were to drive over now, we’re certain to be asked to dine with them. And afterward, I know Fenwick would be delighted to show you over the place.”
The baron hesitated. “I wouldn’t think of imposing…”
“You wouldn’t be, sir! Mistress Fenwick will be thrilled to have a young man of your rank and breeding dine with them…and you’re a neighbor to be, sir!” He smiled slyly. “St. John has a daughter…pretty lass.”
Baron Frederick considered this. “Very well, that sounds ideal, Mr. Montgomery. We can take my hired barouche.”
They headed for the stables.
* * *
Jack took his seat at Mistress Fenwick’s dining room table with a murmured word of thanks to his hostess.
He couldn’t help noticing that he’d been seated beside sixtee
n-year-old Rebecca Fenwick. Tobias Montgomery had told the truth; she was indeed a pretty girl. Her honey-colored hair was dressed in elaborate ringlets, and she wore a pink afternoon dress trimmed with delicate handmade white lace.
Jack smiled complacently. Rebecca’s lace was almost as elegant as the Brussels lace cascading from the cravat of his own—rented—shirt. The lace spilled like sea foam from the neck of Jack’s embroidered waistcoat, and also hung below his extravagant gold-embroidered cuffs, so long it nearly concealed his knuckles. Jack picked up his wineglass and took a sip. When he placed the fragile goblet back down on the damask tablecloth, he took a moment to admire the way his fingers looked against the hand-blown crystal. Even he, who had spent half an hour in the predawn dimness scrubbing them, could scarcely believe the cleanliness of his own fingernails.
He smiled at Miss Fenwick, and she shyly smiled back, before blushing and looking down at her plate. Her complexion was the fabled English peaches-and-cream, and there were only a few tiny freckles on her pert little nose. Her hazel eyes were kept modestly cast down, as she picked up her fork, but Jack could tell she was aware of “Baron Frederick’s” every move and word. From the way her mama had eyed him, Jack figured that her daughter had been instructed to be very nice to their unexpected visitor.
A serving man came by to fill his plate, and Jack glanced sideways again, discreetly, at the bodice of Miss Fenwick’s dress. For her age, she filled it out very well, he decided. Idly, he wondered just how “nice” he might induce the young lady to be, if he could manage to get her alone. But after a moment, he squelched his growing fantasy. He wasn’t here for dalliance, and it would hardly be fair to Lord Penwallow, who was a harmless old fellow—if more than a bit pompous—to seduce his neighbor’s daughter, and risk possible repercussions and ill-will.
Not without a bit of regret, Jack turned his attention to his host, and the mealtime conversation.
Thanks to his memory of that luncheon at Cutler Beckett’s house, he navigated his way through the courses and cutlery like a true blue-blooded nabob. “Frederick” entertained his hosts with tales of his fox-hunting prowess, most of them based on assorted woodcuts and hunting prints that Jack had seen hanging on walls in pubs. His tales about Caesar, his renowned hunter that could leap any obstacle, were met with gasps of admiration from Miss Fenwick.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 46
