More muskets blazed away, flashes of light, the bang of the gun, and his men screaming, screaming, in fury, in fear, in agony. Madshaka felt a bullet whiz by but there was no chance that he might be struck down. There was a shield of pure energy around him that would not be penetrated.
And then he was up with the first of the guards, all of whom had discharged their weapons and now were helpless because they had no skill for fighting, they could only fire muskets.
The man in front of him, a fat man, white face sweating, terrified, saw death coming at him in the form of a huge, leering black man, the death he feared most. He swung his musket like a club at that face, but Madshaka caught the butt of the gun before it developed any force and with the other hand drove his cutlass through the man’s fat white face.
His army was there, falling on the guards so fast that they were not even able to retreat to their guardhouse, but were flanked and cut off and hacked to death where they stood.
The door to the factor’s house was open, just for an instant, and Madshaka saw John van der Haagen, the factor-lean, vicious, his eyes like a snake’s-staring out, saw his assistant and some of the others behind him, and then he slammed the door shut, as if that would protect him from the slaughter.
Madshaka looked around him. The Kru warriors, the real nucleus of his army, were clustered there, as he had instructed them. He gestured to them and they followed him at a run, racing for the factor’s house.
The closed door was no more an obstacle than was the outer wall. Madshaka hit it with his shoulder and it collapsed in front of him and he was in the factor’s house, which was no more than a hut, albeit a big one, with a grass roof and a few rooms.
It was the main room they were in now, with its long table spread with bottles and pipes and bowls and playing cards. Two lanterns hung from a beam overhead, making the room the most brightly lit space in the compound.
As he had guessed, the factor and his cronies had been carousing, drinking and gambling and working up the courage to go and drag one of the hapless slave girls from the trunk. But now they stood against the far wall, in breeches and sweat-soaked shirts, as if they were preparing for execution. Madshaka pushed into the room and his men flowed in behind him. Stevens, who was the assistant factor, raised a pistol in a trembling hand and fired.
The bullet missed Madshaka by inches-he could feel its passing- and struck the frame of the door.
Madshaka stopped, looked at the splintered wood, looked up at Stevens.
The assistant factor’s hand was shaking harder now, his mouth open, sweat standing out in beads on his forehead. Like Higgens, like the fat guard, he saw before him now the very thing that made him wake in terror in the night: a dangerous African, sold into slavery, come back for him.
The gun slipped pathetically from his fingers and made a thudding sound on the dirt floor.
It did not matter that Stevens had fired at him. He would have died regardless. They were all traitors and bastards, but Stevens was the worst and the most expendable.
“Madshaka…,” said Van der Haagen, a Dutchman in English employ.
Madshaka ignored him. A demonstration first, to make certain they all knew his position, and then talk. He sheathed his cutlass, took two long steps across the room, grabbed Stevens by the collar of his waistcoat and jerked him closer.
“Madshaka!” Van der Haagen shouted, but Madshaka whipped out his dirk and drove it into Stevens’s gut, held him there, pinned on the long blade, their faces inches apart, their breath mingling. He could smell the stale tang of dried sweat on Stevens’s clothes, the rum and smoke on his breath, the shit and piss that he could no longer hold in.
Stevens gasped, his eyes bulged, and gurgling sounds came from his throat. Then Madshaka twisted the blade and pushed Stevens away and the assistant factor fell to the ground and blood erupted from his mouth. But he was not dead, and Madshaka knew he would not be for an hour at least, and his writhing and choking on his own blood created just the background he wanted for their discussion.
“Van der Haagen.” Madshaka grinned at the horrified, terrified Dutchman. “You think you get rid of your partner by hitting him on head, selling him like a common slave?”
“Madshaka, no…it was Stevens who done that.”
Madshaka threw back his head and laughed, a genuine laugh, because it amused him greatly to see Van der Haagen writhing, just like Stevens, even though he had not yet thrust a dirk into the factor’s gut. “You a worm, Van der Haagen, a low worm, and you sell me out just like Stevens.”
At that the Dutchman had sense enough to shut his mouth, understanding that denial was futile and only negotiation could save him now. From the compound beyond the factor’s door they could hear
the former slaves chanting, shouting, singing their triumph.
“Very well, Madshaka. Kill me, if you will, or tell me what you want.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think I kill you. But I think we be partners again. But it be different this time, what say you?”
“I am certain we can come to some understanding…”
“I certain too. But I have business first.” He stepped to the far wall and took down a big ring of keys, then turned to his men, who were crowding the room near the door, and said, “Look after these men. Hold them here until I return.” He spoke Kwa. There was no need for any other language because all of the men in the room were Kru, like himself.
Madshaka stepped out and he shouted to the rest of his people, a great bellow that cut through their voices of triumph. He congratulated them on their victory, their great victory, and they cheered him.
He told them that they were the chosen of the gods and they cheered again.
And then he told them that it was time to see to their brothers. He led them at a trot across the wide courtyard to the big trunk that took up a good portion of the factory and would be filled with slaves awaiting buyers.
He waved his cutlass over his head, led the charge to that big, familiar door. He found the key on the ring, thrust it into the lock, twisted it, and felt the lock pop open. With a practiced hand he pulled it from the hasp and swung the big door open and called to his men, “Go! Go and help your brothers from their chains! Fulfill your destinies!”
And with a great cheer the men poured in through the door, shouting in triumph, the final triumph, ready to free the others as Madshaka had freed them.
And when the last of them had passed through the door, and only Madshaka was left outside, he swung the big door closed again. It hit the heavy frame with a shudder, a deep booming sound, and Madshaka slipped the lock through the hasp again and clicked it shut, a sound of finality.
And then despite himself, he laughed again, a deep laugh, a genuine laugh, a laugh to release all the laughter he had suppressed for all these weeks of fooling all those simpleminded people.
It was the true final triumph, he knew, and it was his.
Crouching on the dry mud wall, lost in the shadow midway between two of the torches, King James watched the drama in the courtyard.
He watched the butchering of the white guards, watched Madshaka peel the Kru off from the rest of the people, watched him disappear into the big house. And then, some moments later, he watched Madshaka lead the people into the trunk, springing his trap.
Beside him, Joshua, Good Boy, Cato, Quash, muttered their horror, their shock, but James remained silent, watching. There was no shock in his heart, no horror. This was just the way of things.
They had reached the wall with the rest, clambered up, but James had not let his people from the Northumberland go any farther. Instead, they had stayed on the wall, retreated to the shadows, and watched.
James had agreed to accompany Madshaka, had let Madshaka think he was swayed by the big man’s goading. But it was not that. James wanted to know what Madshaka’s real intentions were. He knew better than to let Madshaka out of his sight.