He had come ashore with Madshaka, had followed him into the woods. But he was not such a fool that he would follow him into this slave factory. And he would not let the people he loved follow him either. James had sensed that something was out of alignment. He had smelled the trace odor of a trap.
From where he crouched, a cable length away, James heard the sound of the heavy door slamming shut, even over the cheering of the fools who, on Madshaka’s urging, had rushed right into a prison. He heard the deep sound of Madshaka’s laugh and it was the laugh of a victor.
James shook his head. Did Madshaka think that he was in the trunk along with the others? Probably. He would not think his triumph so complete if he knew that James was still free.
Madshaka had played them all for fools, had arranged this, step by careful step. James cursed Madshaka and his genius, and cursed himself for having not killed the man a month before.
But it was not too late. As long as he could still draw breath it was not too late. In his hand the familiar heft of a cutlass, beneath his dark skin, muscles that were tensed and ready, in his head a mind that was sharp and clear again. He was in command now, of himself, of his tiny force of men. He would call the tune, and Madshaka would dance.
But not there and not then. He would need more favorable odds to beat Madshaka, more favorable than what he saw in the compound below him.
He turned to the others. “Come on.” From his crouched position he leapt down to the ground outside the factory wall, heard the thump of the others landing beside him. Half bent and running, they raced back to the tree line and James led them back to the trail.
At the head of the trail they paused and looked back at the factory. The shouts of triumph had been replaced with a caterwauling of dismay and anger and despair. They listened for a moment, and then they turned and disappeared into the dark shadows of the forest.
Chapter 26
It took Elizabeth half a day to see as much of Boston as she cared to, as much as she ever wished to see.
After a tolerable dinner, she and Billy Bird made the rounds of the churches, asking after Frederick Dunmore, meeting with the same reticence, bordering on hostility, that they had received from the very first minister with whom they had spoken.
Billy pointed out that at least their reception indicated that there was something in Dunmore ’s past that was too unsavory to speak of, at least for those they interviewed to speak of to strangers.
And strangers they were. She and Billy did not fit in, she could see that. The clothes that she wore were unremarkable, perhaps even a bit conservative, by Virginian standards-mantua skirt looped up to reveal the petticoat beneath, a Steinkirk cravat around her neck, a straw bergere hat-but by the standards of Boston she felt brazen, overdressed. Billy Bird was something of a peacock in any company, of course, and between the two of them their foreign look put people on their guard.
“Perhaps you are right, Lizzy,” Billy said when she made this observation over supper. “Bloody Puritans. Tomorrow I shall see about outfitting myself in their dreary black garb. Mayhap I will get me one of these minister’s outfits, pass myself off as a man of the cloth. Do you think God would strike me dead if I did so?”
“I am surprised that God has not struck you dead yet. But no, I do not believe you could convince anyone that you are a pious Congregationalist minister, not for all the black cloth in Boston.”
Billy sighed. “I reckon you are right,” he said, and there was a hint of resignation in his voice, a touch of pessimism that Elizabeth was not accustomed to hearing, and it made her gloomier still.
“Well, no matter,” Billy said, brighter now, “damn these ministers and churchmen, I say. Tomorrow we shall go poking about the fellows that print the newspapers. I know the gentleman who prints the Boston Gazette. He is apt to be a bit more talkative than these morose preachers.” But Elizabeth knew that he was not nearly as optimistic as he sounded.
They went for a stroll after supper, down Cornhill Street to Winter and then up to the edge of the Common. Elizabeth viewed the city with a perverse fascination, as if she were afforded a glance at her own past life in London and Plymouth, the elegant and pampered life of an expensive whore. That was the life she escaped by coming to America as the ersatz bride of Joseph Tinling, but prostitution, she discovered, was only a little more horrific than the hell that Tinling put her through before he died.
Now that was over, done with.
But being in the narrow, crowded streets of a city, even a small one such as Boston, made all those memories and their concomitant emotions stir again, and she was able to step back and observe them, as if they were happening to someone else.
“Let us go back to the inn, Billy. I’m tired,” she said.
“Very well, my dear.”
Billy reversed direction, and with Elizabeth on his arm he led the way back. The sun was setting and the streets were in the shadows of the buildings that hemmed them in and the crowds of people had diminished by half. It was nearly dark by the time they returned to their room and Billy opened a bottle of wine he had brought with him from the Bloody Revenge.
“This was for celebration, but perhaps we will use it to ease the strains of a long day, what say you? We can get another tomorrow, when we shall no doubt have something to celebrate.”
“No doubt.” Elizabeth took the proffered glass, gratefully, drained the wine and handed it back. Even as Billy was refilling it she wondered if they might send down to the kitchen for another bottle.
An hour later they did just that, and soon Elizabeth felt the sharp edge of her disappointment and frustration dull, felt a warm optimism creep in around the edges, and though she told herself it was only the drink, she was happy to find that she did not care.
It was warm in their room, but a cool, gentle breeze was wafting in from the open window, carrying with it the tangy smell of the waterfront, and the occasional sound of a wagon rolling by or the muted conversation of men passing below on the street. The two candles that lit the room danced in the moving air, giving a dreamy quality to the place.
It was not at all the thing, of course, sitting in a room-a bedroom- with Billy Bird, drinking, laughing. She was a married woman. She wanted Thomas, she missed him. She wanted comfort, strong arms around her. Billy was not Thomas, not by miles, but he was handsome and charming.
And then a knock on the door, a rapping, soft, hesitant, and they both jumped. Billy cursed softly and Elizabeth wondered if he was angry with himself for being caught unawares or angry with the person knocking for having destroyed the jovial mood that just might have lured her into his bed.
Both, no doubt, though it was no sure thing that she would have treated him to her favors, nor was Billy caught entirely unawares. He snatched up the loaded pistol he had set on the small table by the window, eased the hammer back, and gestured for Elizabeth to move out of the possible line of fire.
He stepped over to the door just as the person on the other side knocked again, a bit harder. He put his hand on the iron latch and pulled it up and swung the door open, the pistol at his side, hidden but ready.
Standing in the hall, framed by the door, was a black woman, a familiar face, but it took Elizabeth a moment to place her.
“Sally?” It was the Reverend Wait Dunmore’s charwoman.
“That right…Mrs. Marlowe?”
“Yes, yes. Please, come in,” Elizabeth said. She could not imagine being more surprised to see anyone. She had not given Sally another thought since leaving the Middle Street Church.
Sally stepped timorously into the room. Billy closed the door behind her and then, with that flamboyant egalitarianism of his, lifted the bottle they had been consuming and held it up for Sally’s inspection and asked, “Wine, with you?”