James Nelson - The Blackbirder

James scowled, looked away, and Madshaka waited, expressionless, for what he would say next.

This was so easy, now with Kusi gone.

“Tell them…,” James began, and stopped and reconsidered.

James was becoming suspicious, but there was nothing that he could do. Madshaka understood as well as James what his choices were. James could hope that Madshaka translated his words correctly, or James could kill Madshaka, if he was able, and then have no means whatsoever to communicate.

James would take his chances with Madshaka.

“Tell them, we are far from land now, we are halfway to Kalabari, not likely to see another ship. Tell them this was what we wanted, from the beginning, to go home, and that is what we are doing. Two weeks and then we are there.”

Madshaka nodded, turned to the gathered men, and called for silence. Then in one language after another he translated the words, translated them pretty much as James had said them.

There was no reason now for him to tell them anything different. Madshaka guessed that it was the truth, that they were unlikely to come across any more ships, this far out to sea. It was time to get back to Africa. He had business there as well.

As he spoke he saw expressions soften, heads nodding. For all he had inflamed these men with the lure of piracy, the great wealth to be had, for all he had told them about how rich-laden was the prize that they had abandoned, they were still men of the land, men of the African forest, and they would never be comfortable aboard a wind ship. The mention of home sat well with them. They, too, were ready for this voyage to end.

“There, I tell them,” he said to James. James looked out over the men who looked aft at them. They did look mollified, comforted. James nodded. Madshaka knew that there was nothing like the mixture of truth and lies to keep an adversary off balance.

“Good,” James said. “Good.”

King James was a fearsome sight, with his pistols and his sword and his leather jerkin accentuating the powerful muscles of his chest and arms. Madshaka thought he would not like to fight the man, but of course he would not have to.

James was an enigma to him, and a problem. He was smart and bold. Killing the blackbirder’s crew, sailing off with the ship, training those ignorant savages to be sailors-incredible. He wished that they could work together, he and James. What a team they might make, what wealth they might garner for themselves! But James would not side with him, he knew that, and so it was and so it had to be.

Destroying James was like destroying some valuable resource, like burning a ship full of rare cargo.

“Very good, Madshaka,” James said next. “Tell them to have their dinner and then we stand our watches, like before.”

“Yes, Captain.” Madshaka gave James his big, wide grin. Turned to the men and translated the words, added that Captain James was not to be disturbed from his sleep, and the men nodded and then dispersed, back to their families, back to their tribes.

James had to be destroyed from the inside. A man like James could not be torn down, he had to be chipped away. And Madshaka needed him broken, because James, strong and confident, was not a man with whom Madshaka wished to tangle.

King James was not Kusi. King James would not be led to the little platform on the side of the ship and effortlessly shoved into the ocean.

No, James would take a lot of killing, when the time came, and he, Madshaka, had to start now.

He made his way forward, beyond the light of the three big lanterns on the taffrail, moving silently with his long strides, down into the waist and up by the knights’ heads on either side of the bowsprit. In the dim starlight he could make out Anaka’s shape, leaning against the knights’ head, waiting. He and Anaka now met there every night. There was much to discuss.

“Good evening, Anaka,” Madshaka said in his native Kwa.

“Good evening. How does it go?”

Madshaka shook his head. “I am worried. I am worried about King James. I think he is plotting something.”

Anaka stiffened, and after a moment said, “What?”

“I don’t know. But I keep an eye on him. There is nothing he can do to trick you or me, but I am afraid for the others. They might be taken in by whatever it is he is planning.”

“Perhaps. But it is of no concern. The Kru are all with you. They understand you are their countryman. Not Malinke. Malinke that has been with white men for twenty years. We will stand with you and we have been talking to the others. It is your orders we will follow.”

“Good. It is safer that way.” Madshaka was grim-faced, though he wanted to smile, to laugh out loud. He had been robbed of everything, sold into slavery, and now he was halfway back. Now he had a ship of his own, filled with valuables. Now he had an army.

The two men were silent for a moment, taking in the ambience of the ship and the sea. Finally Madshaka spoke, and his words were soft, like a parent speaking to his child, with not a hint of persuasion in his voice.

“In nature, Anaka, there are the strong and the weak. You know that. There is the lion and the antelope and the lion kills the antelope. It is the way of things.”

“Yes…” Anaka’s tone indicated that he did not see where this was going.

“It is the same with men, have you noticed that? Some are strong and some weak. And with nations of men. The Ashanti are strong, the Nupe weak. The Kru are strong, the Oyo weak. We are the lions, they are the antelope.”

“That is true.”

“The lion is not blamed for feeding on the antelope, even though he kills it in order that he might be strong and well fed. I wonder if you think the same is true with men? With nations of men?”

“Well…” Anaka considered this. “The strong nations have always dominated the weak. Like with the lion, it is the way of things.”

“Exactly. You are no fool, Anaka. The strong have always defeated the weak, taken them as their slaves, or sold them to others as slaves. It is the way of things.”

“Yes. But why do you say this?”

Madshaka was quiet for a moment, as if he was considering the question. “I just want you to think on this, Anaka. We might have a great opportunity. We are a strong band, we Kru aboard this ship. We have fought together, we trust each other. In battle. And in our business. That is a rare thing these days. It may not be wise for us to part when we get to Kalabari. Perhaps we should think of the future. Our future. Together.”

Anaka’s face, his thoughtful, flattered, pleased, and curious face, was visible in the faint ambient light and Madshaka liked what he saw.

“Just think on that. That is all I ask. And talk to the other Kru. Not the other people, only the Kru, about what I have said.”

Anaka nodded. “I will.” With that he left and Madshaka was alone in the bow with the great wind ship above and behind him.

He looked out past the bowsprit, out into the dark, toward Africa beyond the horizon.

They would not be going to Kalabari, of course, but it was not time to tell Anaka that.

One step at a time. That was how Madshaka would return.

William Barrett, known also as Elizabeth Marlowe, sat propped up in the cot in the tiny sleeping cabin of the Bloody Revenge. She was still clad in breeches and waistcoat. On the small shelf over her shoulder a single candle gutted, and opened on her lap was Alexander Olivier Esquemeling’s The Buccaneers of America, the second English edition from the Dutch original of 1678.

It was a hugely popular book and Elizabeth had read parts of it before, but it amused her to find it among Billy Bird’s library. She wondered at his motive for owning it. To learn something of his trade? Hoping to see his own name in print? But of course Billy was no more than thirty-five years old, or thereabouts, probably younger, and the events and people that populated Esquemeling’s book were from a former age.