‘The Phoenix holds four hundred and fifty, give or take. Some merchants pack them in wherever they will fit, but it’s a false economy. Too many die on board, and some get damaged. It’s also miserable for the blacks and I won’t tolerate cruelty on my vessels. I don’t skimp on food either. The blacks are given fresh meat, as well as vegetables every day. It means my costs are higher than some of my competitors, but most slave merchants lose seven per cent of their cargo, some as much as fifteen. I lose between three and five.’ He showed me another table of figures. ‘I get better prices for them too. Do you have a dog? You know how the meat brings out the shine in the fur? Same principle.’
I thought of the skulls in the master’s journal. ‘You say you lose three to five per cent of your slaves. Never more?’
A spark of emotion seemed to light his muddy brown eyes. Then he turned back to his figures and I wondered if I’d imagined it. ‘Slavery is a risky business, sir, which is why the profits are so high. I can’t control the weather, any more than I can account for the French. Then there’s insurrection – the Negro is a dangerous beast, never more so than when he’s caged. Yet my insurance covers most eventualities. I’ve never lost money for an investor yet. Perhaps you’d like to come and see my ships?’
The road that led down to the dock was busy with carts pulled by teams of oxen and shire horses. One was stationary on the verge and customs men were making an inspection.
Before us stretched Deptford Reach, wide and brown and jostling with wherries, hoys, barges, merchantmen, pleasure craft, sculls and dredgers. A team of men were hauling a frigate down a slipway to the wet dock, under the watchful eye of an engineer. We passed close to the mast pond, where Baltic timbers were pickling in seawater, and little oakum boys danced with death by leaping across them. In the dry docks more ships were undergoing repairs, crawling with carpenters and pitchmen. Looming over them all, the Indiamen and the Guineamen, anchored out on the water in stately rows, seemed like the vessels of a race of giants. In the distance, on one of the quays, a small crowd of well-dressed gentlemen were looking out at the river.
Monday followed my gaze. ‘Our mayor, Mr Stokes, is showing a delegation from Parliament around town. We hope they will decide to build the new West India dock right here in Deptford.’
‘I hope the murder doesn’t put them off,’ I said.
Monday’s head whipped round. ‘The murder?’
‘That dead abolitionist they found at the dock a week ago. It was the talk of the taverns last night.’
He frowned. ‘Such a crime should not be sport for uncouth men in their cups.’
‘You don’t think he deserved it? That seems to be the consensus here in town.’
His lips pressed fleetingly together. ‘No man deserves to die that way. He was mistaken in his views, but he was a man of God. That was my impression, at least.’
‘You met him?’
‘Yes, I did.’
I waited for him to go on, but he gestured with his arm at a row of Guineamen moored in the dock. ‘Those end two are mine. That one there is The Phoenix. You see the sun on her hull? That’s copper sheeting. It protects the wood from worm.’
I wasn’t looking at The Phoenix. Neither was I listening anymore. I was gazing at the other ship Monday had indicated. The vessel had three masts with furled sails and a bowspit to the rear. Her figurehead was a woman, and her carved, wooden face possessed a severe, restless beauty. She was painted black and her wings were tipped with silver. When the ship was riding the waves, it must look as if she was flying.
There she was. I had found her. Tad’s dark angel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I left John Monday with the promise that I would give his venture due consideration. He gave me his address in Deptford Broadway, and said I might call upon him if I had any further questions. No doubt I would. We bowed, and I made my way back along the dock towards the gate.
As I walked, I drew connections in my mind, just as Monday had plotted the stages of the slave voyage on his map. From the slave brand to Atlantic Trading and Partners to The Dark Angel to the master’s journal and its skulls. Everything pointed to The Dark Angel as the vessel in question. How had those slaves died? Why did Tad think he could end slavery? How had his visits here made him powerful enemies?
Absorbed in these thoughts, I almost walked right past them. They were standing in one of the alleys that ran between the warehouses. Cinnamon and Scipio, heads bent together, talking urgently.
Cinnamon wore a stiff-bodied gown of ivory lace with a wide neckline and bared shoulders. Her glossy black ringlets were piled beneath an oval bonnet, and she held a fringed parasol in one gloved hand. She had a look of entreaty upon her face, and Scipio shook his head. He said something I didn’t catch, and the girl’s arm swept the air.
I walked towards them. Both looked up, and fell silent.
‘Miss Cinnamon, Scipio. I am very glad to see you once again.’
Scipio returned my bow. His blue-black skin made a striking contrast to his snow-white periwig. He held a long roll of paper in his hand – I guessed a map or architectural plans. Cinnamon watched me with dark, wary eyes.
‘I’d like to speak to you about The Dark Angel,’ I addressed her. ‘I need to know how and why those slaves were killed.’
Scipio moved between us. ‘Return to the carriage at once, Miss Cinnamon.’
I tried to catch her eye over his shoulder, but she lowered her gaze and walked off down the alley.
Scipio’s expression was thunderous, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me. He loomed over me by several inches, and I took an instinctive step back. His frown dissolved. ‘Forgive my rudeness, Captain Corsham. If Mr Stokes suspects she spoke to you, he would beat her. I would most likely get the blame, and he wouldn’t hesitate to dock my wages.’
‘Mr Stokes won’t hear it from me,’ I said.
‘He would find out anyway. He has eyes and ears everywhere.’
You should know, I thought, studying him curiously. Aside from the colour of his skin, Scipio appeared every inch the poorer sort of English gentleman. His tailoring was passably fine: a dove-grey coat, linen stockings and polished shoes with brass buckles – everything starched and brushed and spruced and worn very well. High cheekbones, a long nose, and plump, intelligent eyes lent him a patrician air.
‘I also have a question for you, Scipio. When you went with Mr Child to clear Archer’s room at the inn, did you find anything other than the black valise?’
‘You mean did we find the thing Mr Archer told his sister that he came here to collect? No, we did not.’
I produced a half-guinea from my pocket. ‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ He eyed my coin with disdain. ‘As for your bribe, I have been bought for English gold three times in my life. That was quite enough.’
I returned the coin to my pocket, feeling faintly ashamed. ‘Then talk to me because you want to. Archer was killed because he came here to help your people.’
‘Which people are those? You cannot mean slaves, for I am now a free man. Do you mean secretaries, perhaps? Or the Yoruba, the tribe into which I was born? Or the citizens of Deptford, where I make my home? I know you cannot mean the Negroes of the Kingdom of Dahomey, who took me from my village and sold me to the white man.’
He was trying to tell me that he was a book of many pages and I had chosen only to see the cover. ‘I am sorry if I offended you. That was not my intention.’
He smiled. ‘I am only teasing you, Captain Corsham. I am sorry about your friend. But I am in a difficult position. Mr Stokes wouldn’t like me talking to you.’
‘What does Archer’s murder have to do with the mayor?’
His smile broadened. ‘You are not listening, sir.’
Yet he wanted to help me. I could feel it. ‘Is there anything at all you can tell me? About The Dark Angel? Or about the slaves Archer spoke to in Deptford Broadway?’
He sighed. ‘Archer
should have left the poor devils alone, the trouble it caused them.’
‘What do you mean?’
He hesitated, and whatever moral question he was wrestling with, eventually decided to speak. ‘Archer explained the law to them – that they could be free if they escaped to London. He told them to go to the Yorkshire Stingo in Marylebone, and people there would help them. Some of the slaves were caught talking to him and punished severely.’
‘What is the Yorkshire Stingo?’
‘An alehouse where Africans go to drink – I visit it myself sometimes when I’m in the city. Only one of the Deptford slaves was brave enough to risk the journey. A maidservant named Abigail. She is now in a slave-hold bound for the Guinea coast.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Her owner tracked her down on the London road with dogs, and brought her back to Deptford. She was bundled aboard a Guineaman the following morning. She’ll be sold in the Caribbean – if she lasts the voyage. So you see, Captain Corsham, Archer’s inquiries did not only endanger himself. If you insist on pursuing this course, then I ask that you have a care for others. Miss Cinnamon in particular. Mr Stokes is a jealous master.’
‘Of course I will,’ I said, taking from my pocket one of the pamphlets I’d found in Tad’s valise. ‘Have you ever heard of these people, the Children of Liberty?’
He glanced at the pamphlet. ‘No, but if they help escaped slaves, then maybe someone at the Yorkshire Stingo can tell you where to find them?’
I nodded. ‘I will go there once I’ve exhausted my inquiries here.’
‘You might find that happens sooner than you think. Deptford gives up its secrets grudgingly, like the mudflats of the Thames. It can be as treacherous too, as your friend found out to his cost. I would advise you to go home, except I don’t think you’d listen.’ He held up his roll of paper. ‘Now I must leave you. Mr Stokes is waiting.’
We bowed, and I watched him walk off down the quay, wondering what else he might be able to tell me if he was so minded. Why would a free African choose to work for a slave merchant, a man he plainly despised? I could only presume he didn’t have much choice.
I walked back in the direction of the gate. Cormorants were spearing for fish on the river, making white streaks against the ochre water. I rounded the customs house wall, and glimpsed a woman in the distance, standing on the edge of the dock. Even fifty yards away, I recognized Cinnamon’s slender figure and ivory dress. Somehow I knew that she was waiting there for me.
As I drew nearer, I saw that she was gazing at the ship in the dock, at the winged woman, the dark angel.
‘I need to know about the ship,’ I said, as our shadows merged together. ‘I need to know how the slaves died and their significance to Mr Archer.’
She glanced at me. ‘They did not die. They were murdered.’
I studied her profile, the slight upturn of her nose; her sooty black lashes against her honeyed skin. ‘How were they murdered?’
She turned to the river. ‘Why do you come here?’
‘To find the man who killed my friend.’
‘What about the dead slaves? Do they not also merit justice?’
‘If they were murdered, then of course. Rest assured my views on slavery are as one with Mr Archer’s.’
‘Mr Archer was a liar and a fraud.’
I stared at her in surprise. ‘Why do you say that?’
The breeze stirred her ringlets. ‘I will tell you everything, but you must help me first.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I want my freedom.’
I spread my hands. ‘That is hardly in my gift.’
‘If you bought me from Mr Stokes, then you could free me.’
I almost smiled, imagining Caro’s reaction were I to bring home a beautiful African slave girl. Even if I freed her right away, there would still be a record of the sale – and given Cinnamon’s looks, aspersions would inevitably be cast. It was precisely the sort of scandal I needed to avoid.
‘I could give you money,’ I suggested. ‘If you made your way to London, you could get an injunction so that Mr Stokes would have no claim on you. I could help arrange a lawyer.’
‘Mr Stokes has me searched every day, sometimes twice. He would find the money even if I hid it – and besides, there is no one in Deptford whom I trust to take me to London. If I walked, they’d only track me down.’
I could drive Cinnamon there myself, I reflected, yet the risks were just as high. Even if we made it to London without being caught, I’d face censure if my part in her escape were discovered. The West India lobby were a powerful force in Parliament, and stealing the slave girl of one of its prominent members – which was surely the way they’d see it – would draw their enmity. Nor would it be looked on favourably by my masters at the War Office. Yet I was anxious to learn what she knew, and I kept remembering how Stokes had struck her. It made my blood boil still.
She turned to walk away. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I do want to help you – for your own sake, as well as mine. Let me think about it, please. I’m sure there is a way. In the meantime, will you at least tell me how the slaves were killed?’
She gave me a long look. ‘They were drowned.’
‘All three hundred?’ I remembered Isaac’s mime in the tavern. What had he said? Thirsty work.
My incredulity seemed to anger her, for her voice thickened. ‘The crew brought the slaves up on deck. One by one they unshackled them from their chains and pulled them, struggling, to the side of the ship. It took two crewmen to kill each male slave. Many fought back, but it was no good. They were thrown over the side, into the water to drown.’
I remembered my voyage to America, the vast vista of unbroken ocean. I imagined clinging to the side, as men forced me over it. The drop to the water below. Resurfacing, salt burning the lungs and the eyes, looking on helplessly as the ship sailed away.
Cinnamon was watching for the effect of her words upon me. ‘The women were weaker. It took only one crewman. The children they left to the cabin boy.’
I stared at her aghast. ‘They threw children to their deaths?’
‘Six little boys. Also three girls, the youngest not yet five years old. As the cabin boy carried them to the side, they screamed for their mothers. Yet their mothers were in chains and could not help them.’
I could hardly comprehend it. ‘Why?’
Her eyes burned into mine with a hot, dark fury. ‘The same reason they do everything. For profit.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cinnamon would tell me nothing more, though I begged her.
‘My freedom first,’ was all that she would say.
We parted on the dockside and, at her instruction, I waited several minutes before following the path she’d taken to the gate, lest anyone report our interaction to her master. I was as confused as I was enlightened by what she’d told me. It made no sense that a slaving crew would destroy a cargo from which they stood to profit – especially as Cinnamon had suggested that profit was their motive. I needed to hear more – and I was also moved by the girl’s plight – yet to involve myself in her quest for freedom seemed such a reckless proposition. The more I thought about it, the more misgivings I had. A solution eluded me, and resolving to find one, I returned to the Blackamoor’s Head in search of other answers.
The tavern’s taproom was already raucous, a lad of about twelve standing on a table swigging rum from a bottle, cheered on by the press of sailors around him. I found a vacant table, and it wasn’t long before some of the customers tried to draw me into conversation, encouraged by my willingness to buy them drinks. In such a fashion, I learned the name of The Dark Angel’s captain.
‘The man you’re looking for is Evan Vaughan. Ship’s been under his command for near ten years.’ The old seadog who told me this had a briar pipe wedged between a set of false teeth fashioned from ivory, his gnarled face garlanded with smoke.
‘Vaughan’s been sick,’ a man at the next table put
in, clearly hoping for a share of my generosity. He had a moulting black beard and a missing arm. ‘I heard Monday’s sent for another captain, a Liverpool man. Should be arriving in town next week.’
I remembered Drake saying that his ship had been delayed in port. ‘She’ll be sailing then?’
‘Aye,’ the seadog said, ‘provided Monday can get a full complement of crew.’
If Drake was involved in Tad’s murder, that meant I didn’t have much time. ‘Why wouldn’t Monday be able to crew her? I thought jobs in slaving were scarce.’
He grinned. ‘Some say the ship sails under a bad star.’
‘She should have embarked weeks ago,’ Blackbeard pitched in. ‘But his sailors wouldn’t serve on her. Some found posts on different vessels, others took the King’s shilling. Monday’s upped his wages, but he’s still struggling to find takers.’
‘Lot of ghosts aboard that Guineaman,’ the seadog observed.
The boy had finished his bottle, and he hurled it against the wall. He was carried aloft around the tavern on the shoulders of two older sailors, looking distinctly queasy.
‘Do you mean the drowned slaves? Why were they killed? I can’t see how it would profit the crew to destroy their own cargo.’
The two men locked eyes. ‘Don’t know nothing about that.’
‘You must have heard something?’
The seadog shrugged. ‘They had a bad voyage. It happens.’
I asked a few more questions about the dead slaves, but they would say little more. From the looks that passed between them, I wondered if they thought they’d already said too much.
‘Do you know where I might find Captain Vaughan?’
‘He lodges at the coaching inn up Broadway.’
I’d seen the effect Frank Drake’s name had on people, and I decided against asking about him directly. Yet I remembered Nathaniel saying that Drake used to crew with his father. ‘Did a man named Grimshaw ever sail The Dark Angel?’
‘Amos Grimshaw? Aye. He was Vaughan’s first officer. Until the ague carried him off this winter past. I hear the family are struggling now. Crying shame.’
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