“So tell me Miss Fenwick,” Jack drawled, “when were you ‘blooded,’ m’dear?”
“Blooded?” she repeated, sounding perplexed. “I’m sorry, Baron, I don’t know what that means.”
Jack smiled tolerantly. “No need to be embarrassed, eh wot? I was blooded at the age of twelve, but most don’t manage that.”
She looked at him and smiled, then shrugged slightly. “I’ve never heard that term, Baron.”
Jack gave her a kindly smile. “Blooded means you’ve been in at the kill, and marked with reynard’s blood,” he explained. “Only the very best riders can keep up with the hounds the entire run, eh wot?”
“Oh,” said Miss Fenwick. “It sounds…very exciting, Baron.”
Jack gazed around the table in feigned bafflement. “Do you mean to say you really don’t ride to hounds, Miss Fenwick? What about you, Mr. Fenwick? Or you, Montgomery?”
St. John Fenwick patted his mouth with his napkin, perhaps hiding his discomfort at being found lacking in civilized pastimes. “I fear not, Baron Frederick. You see, English foxes are not native to New Avalon.”
“No foxes?” Jack stared at them all in utter dismay. “Lud, no! You can’t be serious!”
“No foxes, Baron,” Montgomery said. “We do ride, however.”
Jack cleared his throat. “I see. Well, I’m sure there are other worthwhile pastimes.” He applied himself to his beef.
As the meal ended, Tobias Montgomery asked St. John Fenwick whether he’d consent to show Baron Frederick around his plantation, and Fenwick graciously replied that nothing would please him more.
Montgomery himself begged off from accompanying them, saying that he was expecting a delivery of goods. He refused Fenwick’s offer of a horse to ride back, saying he would take the shortcut path back through the woods to reach Sweet Providence. “It isn’t but a twenty minute walk,” he assured his hosts.
Then he turned to Jack. “Unless you would like me to stay, Baron Frederick?” he asked.
“Lud, no.” Jack smiled, and nodded. “You tend to your duty for my father. I assure you that I’ll inform him how faithfully you perform your work, Mr. Montgomery. I can find my way back from here, mark my words. Thank you for the tour this morning. I shall be seeing you again, soon.”
“It was my pleasure, Baron!”
Jack and Fenwick waved farewell to the overseer from the columned portico of Wickhaven, as Montgomery set off for Penwallow’s plantation.
After the overseer had disappeared into the woods, Jack formally took leave of his hostess, bowing over her hand with all the elegance he’d watched Christophe display so many times to Esmeralda. Then he said farewell to Rebecca, but instead of simply bowing over her hand, he kissed her knuckles, then, gazing deeply into her eyes, he vowed to return, his voice so full of meaning that he might have been vowing undying devotion. He gave her one last, faintly wicked smile, and left her standing in the doorway, blushing and looking a bit weak in the knees.
That was fun, Jack thought, stepping down the two steps from the wide, columned porch. Without looking around, he snapped his fingers, and his two “slaves” fell in behind him. One carried a flask, filled with watered wine, the other a silk parasol to shield his “master’s” head from the unrelenting Caribbean sun.
Jack and St. John Fenwick headed down the road leading to the fields, with Jack chattering away, expressing his avid interest in how sugarcane was grown, harvested, then turned into molasses, sugar…and rum. Jack found himself wondering whether Fenwick’s tour might include some free samples of high quality rum.…
First, they toured the fields, where sweating, nearly naked Africans were toiling in the sun, cutting cane. It was grueling, backbreaking labor. The men, every muscle outlined on their lean torsos, grunted with effort as they chopped the cane with machetes, letting it fall to the ground, where other slaves, smaller, slighter ones, bound it into bundles, carried it over to carts, and piled it up. Still other slaves drove the creaking, loaded carts to the places where, Jack knew, yet more slaves loaded the cane into a press, then teams of sweating slaves pushed against giant, many-spoked wheels that turned those presses, extracting the liquid from the chopped canes.
Sugarcane production had, Jack knew, the highest mortality rate of any crop grown in the New World. Cane plantations always needed fresh infusions of slaves; few men lasted as long as five years after being unloaded from the slavers.
Now, as he stood beneath the shade of the parasol held by Chamba, watching the cane choppers work, Jack wondered how any of them survived even a day of this kind of labor. Personally, he figured he wouldn’t have lasted two hours.
Boys and youths ran back and forth, up and down the rows, wearing yokes across their shoulders so they could carry two large water buckets. As they reached each worker in their assigned rows, they would stop, scoop up a dipperful of water, and hold it out to the man chopping the cane.
Jack scanned the rows of workers, trying to see whether any of the choppers, water boys, or cane bundlers looked anything like Ayisha, but he knew his chances of seeing Shabako, if he was even present here, and not at the pressing mill or the place where the cane syrup was boiled down, were dim. He was tempted to glance back at Tarek, but he didn’t want to interrupt the big eunuch’s concentration, knowing he was scanning the rows, worker by worker, looking for a face he hadn’t seen for four years.
Instead Jack glanced past the field, to where a grove of trees stood beside a rutted cart track. The ground sloped downward in that area. Jack glanced upward at the position of the sun, and verified that the cart track must lead down to the plantation’s dock.
Luckily, St. John Fenwick seemed capable of going on about the cane business ad infinitum. Jack made sure to keep an expression of intent concentration plastered on his face, and he listened just enough to be able to throw in the occasional, “That’s fascinating!” and “Then what happens?” whenever the plantation owner seemed to be slowing down. While they were standing there, he saw two men collapse, falling face down into the dirt beside their machetes. Each time, the overseer would motion to several of the workers whose task it was to bundle the cane, and they would grab the limp body and carry it over to some shade, accompanied by one of the water boys. It was the water boy’s responsibility to then douse the unconscious chopper with water, then give him dipperfuls to drink, until he was sufficiently recovered to return to work. Jack wondered how many of them never recovered from their swoon.
Just as Jack figured that they’d struck out on the cane-harvesting operation, and was getting ready to suggest following the carts to the cane-pressing area, he felt something bump against the fashionable red heel of his elegant, silver-buckled black—and rented—shoe. He tensed, and the nudge came again. Jack smiled at his host, and as Fenwick reached the end of a sentence, waved to get his attention. “Excuse me,” he said. “I feel the need for a little libation here. This heat certainly does parch one, doesn’t it?”
Turning to Tarek, Jack held out his hand, and the eunuch placed his flask in it. As he did so, he held up his fingers, moving them quickly, precisely, as Jack silently counted. Then the big man touched first one shoulder, then the other.
Fifteenth row. Jack puzzled for a moment over the meaning of the two shoulder-touches. He removed the top of the flask, and took several swallows, thinking. Tarek made the shoulder-gesture again, and this time Jack got it.
One of the water carriers in the fifteenth row is Shabako!
Jack nodded quickly, then turned to Fenwick. “Care for a drink?” He held out his flask.
“Thank you,” Fenwick said. “It does make one thirsty to just watch them, doesn’t it?”
Jack nodded, absently. “Could we walk around a bit?” he asked, casually. “See the operation a bit closer up?”
“Certainly, Baron,” Fenwick agreed.
Jack didn’t wait for his host, but started off, walking along the row of workers, counting silently. One…two…three…four…
&n
bsp; Ayisha sat in the small boat, her shawl pulled up so it shielded her head, gazing tensely at the fourth dock on the river. With her were Etienne de Ver and Lucius Featherstone, whom Jack had delegated to row her down the river. Once they’d reached the designated spot on the slow-moving water, the Frenchman and the Englishman had taken out fishing poles, and dropped their unbaited lines into the water, so they wouldn’t attract undue attention.
“Miss Ayisha,” de Ver said, in his strongly accented English, “here, you should have something to drink. The sun…he is very hot.” He held out a canteen.
“Thank you, Etienne,” she said, gratefully, and drank several gulps of the watered ale, then returned the canteen.
Without a word, de Ver then placed the canteen between himself and Featherstone. After a moment, Featherstone glanced over, as if just noticing its presence for the first time, then picked it up and drank. Then he capped it and placed it back on the seat between himself and the Frenchmen.
Etienne de Ver picked it up and made quite a show of wiping off the spout before he, too, drank.
If Ayisha hadn’t been so intent on watching the Wickhaven dock, she would have rolled her eyes. As it was, she just sighed.
She’d listened to the stern instructions Jack had given both crewmen.
“Listen up, mates. I’m assigning you lads to row Miss Ayisha down the river. You will obey her orders, lads, without question. If all goes well, you’ll be picking up the young man we’ve come here to find today, the African prince, Miss Ayisha’s nephew. Remember, lads, Mr. Beckett sent us here to rescue this prince for the EITC. So no mistakes. Once Miss Ayisha identifies him, you’re to row him back here to the ship, and keep him hidden while you do it. Savvy?”
“Aye, Cap’n Sparrow,” they’d chorused.
“Take a blanket with you, to hide the lad you’ll be picking up. Also take pistols and cutlasses with you, so you can protect Miss Ayisha, should that prove necessary, lads. Which I don’t think it will, but that’s why I picked you two. Because you’re both trained soldiers.”
Both crewmen, Ayisha noticed, stood a bit taller, hearing the captain’s words.
“You don’t want to draw attention to yourselves,” Jack said. “Take fishing poles with you.”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
Jack’s voice had then fallen to a near whisper. “Lads, I’m counting on you to be…discreet. Do not discuss this mission, or anything you see while on it, with anyone. Ever. Savvy?”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
“Miss Ayisha…she’s been in disguise this whole voyage, y’see,” Jack had confided. “In order to effect this rescue, she’ll need to remove her…mask. Don’t ever discuss what you see when she does that. Savvy?”
“Aye, Cap’n!” Both sailors had given her a quick, sideways glance.
Jack had started to move away, then swung back, and lowered his voice once more, beckoning his men to move in close. “One more thing. If Miss Ayisha tells me that either of you subjects her to your tiresome, ridiculous squabbling”—his voice had dripped sarcasm—“while on this mission, I know two crewmen who will not be making the grade as ‘able seamen’ when the Wench returns to Calabar. Are we clear on this, lads? Do you savvy?”
“Aye Captain Sparrow!” they chorused, with equal fervor.
Thinking of that moment, Ayisha smiled slightly, despite her inner tension and the need for unceasing watchfulness. From the moment she’d climbed into the dinghy, neither crewman had addressed so much as a word to each other.
For the hundredth time that afternoon, Ayisha tugged her shawl around her to hide her movements from her companions, then she reached into the bodice of her dress and withdrew Tia Dalma’s compass. Quickly, she flipped it open and glanced down at the needle. It pointed steadily at the Wickhaven dock, as it had every time before.
Then, just as she was about to close the compass and put it back in the bosom of her dress, she paused, her attention riveted.
It was a tiny motion, scarcely discernible. She narrowed her eyes to make sure she was actually seeing it.
She was seeing it. Ever so slightly, the compass needle was quivering.
Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…
Jack stopped at the head of the fifteenth row, watching the water carrier trotting back from the water barrels, balancing his sloshing buckets. As the lad trotted past him, he could see his features, and—yes. He could see the family resemblance. That’s Shabako.
He waited, standing there patiently, knowing that Tarek must be signaling Chamba, as they had arranged previously. Jack took a deep breath, as he waited for the next act of their little comedy. Or was it a drama? He couldn’t decide.
As he stood there, Jack heard the sound he’d been expecting. Chamba gave a low moan. The white silk parasol came tumbling down, bouncing onto the dirt of the cane field, then lying there. Tarek cried out, a soft, wordless exclamation.
Jack swung around, to see Chamba lying limply on the ground. “What happened?”
Tarek babbled at him in pidgin, as he knelt beside the younger man, slapping his cheeks, trying to bring him around. Chamba, of course, did not respond.
Jack sighed theatrically, and picked up the parasol. He grimaced as he brushed dirt off it. “Lud, look at that, I’ll have to have it cleaned,” he commented. Then, looking down at Chamba, he shook his head, annoyed. “Fainted from the heat,” he said, to Fenwick. “What a nuisance.”
Fenwick nodded silent agreement.
Just then, Shabako trotted toward row fifteen, carrying fresh buckets of water. Jack gestured at the youth. “You there! Water boy! Over here!”
Obedient to the command of a white man, the young pharaoh turned and trotted toward him. With a rush of excitement, Jack noticed the battered strip of rawhide circling the youth’s wrist.
Tarek was kneeling beside Chamba, speaking again in pidgin. Jack knew what he was saying, even though he didn’t understand the words.
“Tarek,” Jack ordered, “you and this water boy, carry Chamba there, where those trees give some shade.” He pointed to the trees at the edge of the cart track leading down to the dock. “Keep him out of this sun, and give him water.”
Tarek nodded obediently.
“I’m going to continue my tour with Mr. Fenwick,” Jack added. “If Chamba comes to, you two meet me back in the carriage yard, by the barouche. I won’t be terribly long.”
Tarek asked him a question in pidgin. “Well, if he doesn’t come to, carry him back to my father’s plantation, and tell Mr. Montgomery I sent you. Tobias probably has someone that can help you see to him. It’s possible he’ll need bleeding, I suppose.”
Tarek inclined his head in a minimal bow, indicating he would follow his master’s orders.
Jack headed off with Fenwick. Together, they followed the loaded carts toward the cane-pressing equipment. With one part of his mind, he listed to Fenwick’s explanation about how the sugarcane juice was treated once it was squeezed from the pieces of cane by the giant press, but mostly he was conscious of the moments going by. In his mind’s eye, Jack could picture what was happening.…
In a few minutes, Shabako and Tarek would reach the shelter of the trees beside the cart track leading down to the river. In their shade, they’d gently put Chamba down, as close to the woods as they could, while still remaining in sight. If Shabako hadn’t already recognized Tarek, dressed as he was as a liveried servant, Tarek would then speak to the young pharaoh in their native language, explaining that he and Chamba had come there, with his sister, to free him.
Making sure that no one was watching them, Chamba and Shabako would move closer and closer to the woods, until they could slip out of sight behind the trees, leaving Tarek in sight of the cane field. When no one could see them, Chamba would change clothes with Shabako. The two youths were close to each other in height, they were about the same age, and they were both lean—though Shabako was much thinner. Jack had been able to count his ribs as the young pharaoh had approached them.
&
nbsp; As soon as Shabako was wearing Chamba’s livery, the young pharaoh would head down to the river, to rendezvous with his sister. Then, with Shabako hidden in the bottom of the dinghy, de Ver and Featherstone would row back to the Wicked Wench as rapidly as they could. Ayisha and Robby would then conceal the young pharaoh aboard the Wench, just in case there was a hue and cry.
But Jack was pretty sure that nobody at Wickhaven would notice that Shabako was gone. Not until tomorrow night, at least.
That was because Chamba was going to put on Shabako’s discarded slave-rags, pick up his yoke with the water buckets, and then go back to work in the fields, carrying water to the cane choppers.
Tarek had explained to Jack that most slave owners, or even the overseers, couldn’t tell one black face from another. His fellow slaves might realize that Chamba wasn’t Shabako, but the lad planned to keep his distance from them. When the workers headed back to the slave compound near sunset, he’d mumble something in pidgin about having cramps in his gut, then head off to the public midden in the slave compound. Chamba would stay away from the other slaves, playing sick, until sunset, then line up with the others for the overseer’s head count. As long as the overseer counted the right number of slaves before darkness fell, no alarm would be raised.
In the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, Chamba would sneak out of the compound, and head down to the river—where Jack, Robby, and an armed contingent of Jack’s most capable fighters would be waiting in a longboat, just in case anyone followed him and raised the alarm.
Jack told himself that Chamba would surely be able to escape. No fence could keep that agile lad inside the compound—even presuming there was a fence. He made a mental note to ask Shabako as soon as he arrived back at the ship.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 47
