James Nelson - The Blackbirder

“Oh I can, can I? How gracious, but in case you had not noticed, I have it now.”

The two men sat and glared at each other. Two men, pushed by so many contrary pressures, like ships acted upon by conflicting winds and tide and wave and current. Each with his future, his very life, hinging on decisions the other must make.

At last James spoke. “It is a slave factory. There will be a great quantity of specie there. Gold, silver. There always is. It is part of their business.”

“You have seen it? The gold?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Marlowe brightened. “That is something else altogether. Now you have touched on Bickerstaff’s good nature and my greed, and together they are forces to be reckoned with.”

“I had thought I could appeal to your mercy as well.”

“Then you do not know me at all, sir,” Marlowe said. “But more to the point, I must be able to convince my men of the benefit of risking their lives this way.”

He sat back, expelled his breath, felt the weariness of the ages, all the weight of thousands of years of accumulated history pressing him down. He was not old, not really. Was it at all reasonable that he should feel that way?

“We can have our men ashore in one hour. Will that be sufficient, King James?”

Madshaka stood ankle deep in the ocean, the damned, damned ocean. How he hated it. He had been a grumete, sure, and a good one, but that was only because he understood that working the coast was the short path to riches. He had always loathed it. In his essence he was a man of the forest, and the night.

And now the sea, which had once taken him, had brought a new threat.

Around and behind him, the Kru warriors he had led down to the beach to help him in his work. His plan: off through the surf with a boat, out to his prize, and five minutes’ work to cut through the anchor cable. The swells would drive the ship up on the beach. Most of the women and children aboard would make it to shore. Once the wreck was close in, he could send people out to take off what valuables they could.

That was the plan, but he was not happy about it. He was not happy about losing the ship itself, which was worth a great deal. He was not happy with the thought of getting a big boat through the surf with unskilled men at the oars. Landing was one thing-the waves did the chief of the work-but getting back out was something else altogether.

He was not happy about losing however many women and children would drown in the surf. Every dead body was like a coin taken from his purse. He did not like the idea of having to do any of this just to retain what was already his. It was not right. But it was better than losing it all.

The sea crashed, further out, foaming white in the moonlight, raced in and rushed around his ankles, then receded. It felt like it was tugging him along with it, pulling him out to the dark water.

And then in the quiet between the waves he heard something, some new noise, like the noise made by a body of men. And then the next wave curled and broke and drowned out everything but itself.

What was that? He cocked his ear, ready for the lull in the surf. Yes, it was still there, a big sound composed of a hundred little sounds, coming from out there. He heard the clash of steel, the squeal of blocks, voices, someone shouting.

It had to be from the new ship. It could not be from his prize. What were they about? Were they going to take his prize, sail it away? There was no wind, not nearly enough to work the ship off the beach. Madshaka understood enough about the ways of wind ships to know that. And if not the prize, then what? Why would they be coming ashore at that hour?

King James.

Madshaka felt the panic working its way like a poison through his limbs and his chest, could taste it in the back of his throat. Panic like he had not felt since waking up in the blackbirder’s hold.

King James. He knew the wealth and power that Madshaka had gathered for himself: the prize, the factory, the trunk full of slaves. He would want it for himself, and if he had talked those men on that heavily armed ship into joining with him, then he would have it.

No, no, no! He would not have it! Madshaka turned to the Kru, who, like good soldiers, were standing silent, waiting for orders. “They are coming, the men from the ship. I think they want to take the factory for themselves. We will lie in wait for them, on the trail, take them by surprise.” Heads nodded. Silent agreement. They would do as they were told.

Madshaka turned. “Come along,” he said, and the Kru followed. He headed back up the beach, his wide feet pushing aside quantities of the fine sand, and he hurried for the trailhead, hurried to get in front of the attackers, to lay his trap.

Marlowe was standing in the stern sheets of the Elizabeth Galley’s longboat, an oar in place of the rudder, but James had to admit that he did not have the same easy confidence, even exhilaration, that Madshaka had displayed. Marlowe was not a grumete. And to make matters worse, he was forced to use his uninjured left arm.

“Stand ready…,” Marlowe said, looked over his shoulder at the set of the waves, pushed the sweep a bit to one side. The boat rose up on a swell, stern first, then the stern came down fast and the bow rose up with a sickening motion, and then Marlowe shouted, “Now! Pull, pull!”

The men pulled, pulled hard, pulled with all they had, like panicked horses running away with a carriage. The big boat raced along with the surf, now surrounded by white water, curling, foaming, gunnel high. The oars came out of the water, forward, down. And in the undulating space between the waves, half of the starboard bank found only air.

James felt the boat slough around, felt it going over as it turned broadside to the surf. Marlowe was pushing hard on the sweep and shouting, “Starboard! Give way! Give way!”

The aftermost man on the starboard side had fallen back, thrown off balance by the lack of resistance on his oar. James leapt up, grabbed the long sweep before it was sucked into the ocean. He wrenched it from the tholes, thrust it down into the sea, levering it against the side of the boat, trying to force the boat back perpendicular to the surf.

But it was too late for that. James felt the boat start to roll. One second he was looking at sea and then he was looking at the stars, sweeping by, and then the boat was over and he was tossed into the waves. He felt arms and legs striking him and when he thrashed to the surface it was black and the surf was a dull and muted roar and he realized that he was under the capsized boat.

And in the next instant the boat rolled again, flying away like a roof torn from a house in a hurricane, and he was in the full roar and fury of the waves, tossed toward the beach, tumbling, flailing uselessly with arms and legs.

He felt himself drop and he hit with a jar on hard-packed sand. He felt a surge of relief, but only for an instant, and then the surf grabbed him again, lifting him, tumbling him. His head hit something hard, his mouth was filled with salt water and gritty sand. He gagged, tried to spit, and then once more he was deposited on hard ground.

He scrambled onto hands and knees and crawled up, up the beach, crawled as fast as he could before the long arms of the sea could reach him once more. He felt the water swirling around him, but it was only the fingertips of the surf and it did not have the power to move him, so he rolled over on his back, closed his eyes, breathed.

A minute of that, no more, and he pulled himself to his feet, took a few faltering steps, and then composed himself, looked around. The longboat was flung far up the beach, capsized, lying at an odd angle. Men were staggering up from the water’s edge, some walking, some crawling. Some were lying in the surf, flopping back and forth with the surge of the water.