The Blackbirder

Chapter 33

The slash wound in Madshaka’s side was hot, searing, the pain shooting through him with each jarring step. The blood was pulsing down his leg.

No longer was his the lion’s charge, or the powerful, silent lope of the leopard: it was the gait of a cripple, and it made Madshaka furious, his perfect body marred, his power sapped from him by one lucky stroke of King James’s sword.

Damn him, damn him, damn him. Madshaka let the loathing flow with his blood as he raced for the factory, raced as best he could with the pain lashing him. James had ruined it all and now he, Madshaka, could do nothing but escape and take what little he could carry from the factor’s hut.

A lesser man would have thought of revenge. A lesser man would have at that very instant been making absurd promises to himself to hunt the world over for the man who had brought him down and kill him.

Madshaka had heard plenty of broken drunks puking out such nonsense, but he would have none of it. He would survive. He would build himself up again. That was real revenge. And then, perhaps, when he was worthy again, the gods would deliver James to him.

The head of the trail at last, and the factory, low and ugly, sitting in the cleared acreage. No clandestine approach this time; Madshaka still ruled there, even if only for a few moments more. The factor and his remaining white toads were all locked in the little cell reserved for problem slaves that could not be trusted with the others. The only free men were the two Kru guards, Anaka and his lieutenant, whom he had left behind. They would be of greatest use in delaying the bastards on the trail.

Madshaka limped through the open gate. The wide yard was illuminated in patches by the torches that stood along the low mud wall. He paused, looked around, trying to think through the panic and the pain and the fury at having all this taken away so soon.

Then Anaka and his lieutenant were there, begging him for news, asking if he was hurt.

“I am fine, but they need you, down the trail! The others, they are all but victorious. Go now, both of you, throw yourselves into the fight and you will drive them back to the sea!”

The Kru nodded and hurried off and Madshaka watched them go. He watched long enough to be certain that they were really going. Incredible, such blind loyalty. Stupid bastards, they deserved the death that awaited them, if they were going to be so stupid.

He hobbled forward, made his way to the factor’s house. A few things to tidy up and then he would disappear into the forest, and when he was healed, when the strength was back, he would return.

Into the factor’s hut, past the array of primitive African weapons, the trophies, mounted on the walls, and over to the rack of muskets and pistols. Four of the white toads in the cell, so he loaded five pistols, stuck them in his belt, hobbled out into the night, across the compound.

The cell was no more than six feet by six feet, a cage really, with walls and a roof of iron bar, fully exposed. The four white men huddled in opposite corners and they stood as they saw Madshaka approach. None seemed at all afraid.

“Madshaka! Let us out of here, goddamn your eyes! What are you about, damn it!” It was Van der Haagen and his outrage was genuine.

Brave man, I have learned much from him, Madshaka thought. If only he had been willing to work with me rather than treat me like another nigger-boy, we might have built each other up to great wealth. It is too bad.

Madshaka grieved for nothing as much as he did for opportunities lost.

“Madshaka!” Van der Haagen was still in a demanding mood. Audacious for one locked in a tiny cell. “Let me out of here, damn you!”

“I set you free, Dutchman,” Madshaka said. He raised a pistol through the bars, saw the flicker of panic on the man’s face, pulled the trigger. The ball smashed into Van der Haagen’s chest, flung him back against the bars. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, as he slumped down to the earth. Madshaka heard the death rattle, and then he was still.

For a second it was silent and Madshaka could even hear the insects in the forest, and then panic in the little cage. The three men still living rushed to the far end, grabbing at the bars, pulled at them, for what reason Madshaka could not guess, screaming, for whom he did not know. He raised another pistol, shot one of them through the back and he fell. He tossed the pistol aside.

The two remaining men turned, eyes wide, shaking their heads, pleading. He raised the third gun, took aim. One man was cowering, half turned, arms crossed over his chest as if he could deflect the bullet, so Madshaka lifted his aim and put the lead ball through the man’s skull. He crashed against the bars-the impact made the cell shudder-and then fell dead against the factor.

The last man knew what was coming and rather than cower he charged, flung himself across the cell, arms thrust through the bars, trying to get ahold of Madshaka, but Madshaka took one step back and was out of reach. “Bravely done, Mr. Adams,” Madshaka said, then up came the fourth gun, hammer back. He squeezed the trigger and Mr. Adams became the fourth corpse in the cell.

Madshaka flung the pistol away, rested his hand on the one loaded gun still in his belt. The Kru would all be dead and all the white men of the factory were dead and so there was no one who could name Madshaka as the one responsible for this, for the taking of the factory, the killing of Stevens and the others. He was free. It was as if none of this had happened.

A few months in the backcountry and he would return to Whydah with a string of captives and begin again. Now he had only to get what specie he could find in the factor’s house and be off into the night.

He made his limping way back across the compound. He recalled the moment that the Virginians had rolled back the tarp on the blackbirder’s hatch and he had stepped on deck and seen the slaughtered crew of the slaver. From dark despair to a faint trace of optimism, a suggestion of hope. It was how he felt now.

King James reached the head of the trail and paused, stepped into the forest, ran his eyes over the factory in the middle of the open ground. The big gates were open but he could not see anything within, could not see Madshaka. But where else might he have gone?

Then through the gate came two men, Kru, running hard. The last two left behind? Judging from the number of men he had seen on the trail there could not be many more. He stepped back, one step, two steps, three steps into the forest, leaned against a big ironwood tree, let the shadows wash over him.

The Kru raced over the open ground and onto the trail and right past him with never a pause. James waited until he could no longer hear their footfalls and he stepped from the trees and started across the open ground.

It was no way to approach, he knew that. He should have worked his way along the tree line, raced to the wall, kept close as he moved along the perimeter, but he was too exhausted, too hurt, too far beyond caring to do that. So he half ran and half walked in full view across the clearing until he reached the gate.

There he stopped and pressed himself against the wall, then inched his way forward. He heard a voice, shouting, outraged and demanding, but he could not quite make out what was said.

Silence, and then a gunshot and James jumped in surprise. He felt the wound in his side throb. He pressed himself against the wall again. Screaming, panic, and another shot and another. He moved forward, peered around the edge of the gate. Madshaka was standing in front of a small cell and one by one shooting the men inside.

The fourth man flung himself at Madshaka but missed and Madshaka shot him too and tossed the last gun aside, observed his handiwork for a moment, then shuffled off toward the factor’s hut. His walk was heavy, painful. James realized that his cutlass must have found more of a mark than he had thought. Good. In his condition he could not hope to fight and win against an unwounded Madshaka.

He followed Madshaka’s labored movement with his eyes, saw his big form silhouetted in the frame of the door of the well-lit factor’s hut, and then he disappeared inside.

James waited a moment more, then stepped from the shadows and hobbled into the factory’s compound. He felt horribly exposed, vulnerable, as if someone he could not see was drawing a bead on him, following his movement with a musket barrel, preparing to shoot him from the dark corners. But no shots came, and he could see no motion anywhere: no guards on the mud walls or moving around the compound, no white slavers, no Kru.

The only living souls he could see at all were the captives in the trunk. Of those he could catch only glimpses, movement in the dark. He could see little beyond that and the people there made no noise. James knew what it was like to be in that cage. He knew they did not want to attract attention.

Across the open ground and as he drew closer he could hear Madshaka tearing the factor’s hut apart, searching for something. James made it unnoticed to the hut’s earthen wall, pressed himself against it, peered in the lower edge of a window.

There were several lanterns lit, illuminating the big room. A table in the center, the remains of a meal and numerous empty bottles strewn around. A sideboard, a desk, a blanket chest, all decently crafted bits of European furniture, very much at odds with the mud-built walls, and the various examples of native African weaponry that were mounted there.

Madshaka was at the desk, towering over it, tearing it apart. It looked like a child’s play furniture in his hands as he pulled drawers out, emptied their contents, tossed them aside. Finally he picked the whole thing up, examined its underside, and then flung it away, disgusted. Whatever he was searching for, it was not in the desk.

He turned to the blanket chest, flipped open the lid, knelt before it, began flinging its contents over his shoulder.

James held his cutlass in his left hand, wiped his palm on his shirt, took a renewed grip on the weapon. He saw the pistol in Madshaka’s belt. He knew he had to get within killing distance with his sword before Madshaka could pull it free and cock it.

He hobbled toward the door, stood for a second just beyond the fall of the light, clenched his teeth, then charged.

He raced into the room, the pain in his side forgotten, kicked a chair out of the way. Madshaka whirled, stood, grabbed at the pistol in his belt but James was there first, cutlass at arm’s length, right under Madshaka’s chin, the point pressed into the dark flesh, a little trickle of blood running down.

Madshaka struck at the cutlass like a snake, his left hand wrapping around the blade, pulling it aside. James pulled hard but could not break the big man’s grip. He could see the blood running between Madshaka’s fingers as he held tight on the vicious edge of the weapon. His eyes were wide, his teeth were set against the pain, but he did not loosen his grip.

With his right Madshaka went for the pistol, pulled it from his belt and James kicked him hard in the hand, sending the gun thudding to the dirt floor.

For a second they were motionless, then slowly Madshaka twisted the cutlass, twisted it back, in a direction that James’s wrist would not admit. Then with a jerk he wrenched the cutlass from James’s hand, tossed it aside, went for the gun.

James leapt back, grabbed the chair he had kicked aside. The pistol was in Madshaka’s hand, coming up, Madshaka’s big thumb on the flintlock. James could see the great bloody wound on Madshaka’s side and he smashed the chair into it, hard. It shattered against Madshaka like hitting a marble statue, and James hit him again with the broken piece that remained in his fists.

The big man bellowed, doubled over, grabbed at the wound, but the pistol did not drop from his grip. James leapt back again, grabbed the edge of the table, tossed it over, tumbling it toward Madshaka, and Madshaka fended it off with his arm.

Madshaka screamed again with pain under the jarring impact of the table but James hardly noticed, because turning the table over had opened his own wound again, like sticking a red-hot iron in his side. His head swam with the agony, his eyes watered, and he stumbled back, trying to clear his head, aware of the pistol, of Madshaka, six feet away.

He hit the wall and the impact sent another wave of pain through him, radiating from his shoulder and his side and crackling through his limbs like Saint Elmo’s fire.

His hand went out and wrapped around the hilt of a sword hanging on the wall and he jerked it free. It was a great, heavy, iron affair, heavier even than the cutlass he had carried, a long, straight blade, a hilt bound in leather. It was a sword like the swords he had been trained to wield as a boy, an African sword, and if it was not Malinke, it was certainly from that region.

He leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, the sword held before him. He blinked the tears from his eyes. Madshaka had fallen to his knees, clutching his wound, but now he looked up, then painfully regained his feet, as if he was aware that James had recovered, as if he knew the fight was now to resume.

The pistol was still in his hand. Madshaka straightened, as much as he could, leveled the pistol at James, thumbed the lock back.

The two men stood there, staring at each other, hating each other, breathing hard.

“You,” Madshaka said at last, and his voice was no more than a harsh whisper, “you are a sorry, sorry little worm…”

James shook his head, slowly. “No, Madshaka. No. I am a Malinke prince, from the House of Mane. And you… you are just a filthy… stinking… blackbirder, and all the gold you steal won’t change that.”

Madshaka flinched, he actually flinched, as if the words had physically struck him. He scowled, took a half step forward, the pistol held straight-armed before him, aimed right at James’s heart.

A second more and the arrogant, defiant Madshaka was back. “Well, Prince of the Malinke, I hope you got big magic that will make this bullet dance off you, because if you don’t, then you going to be just another dead bastard. You think you can run that sword through me before I shoot you?”

James knew he could not. As close as Madshaka was, he could not cover that distance before Madshaka put a bullet through him. Very well. That was the way it was.

He shook his head slowly, lowered his sword, a gesture of defeat. He saw Madshaka grin, saw his straight-arm grip on the pistol relax, and James guessed that that was as good as it would get, and might even buy him a step or two.

He held Madshaka’s eyes, felt his hands begin to shake, felt the war cry building silent in his gut, felt it creeping out along his limbs where before there had been only pain. He saw a moment’s hesitancy in Madshaka’s face, a wash of fear, and then he launched himself across the room, the big iron sword held shoulder high, point forward, aimed right at Madshaka’s chest.

One step, two steps, a leap over the upturned table, and Madshaka’s arm shot out straight. Over the table and the flash of the pan and the flash of the muzzle, those final seconds unfolding slow and dull, like moving underwater.

James felt the bullet tear into his chest, rip through his right lung, felt the searing heat of the heavy ball as it tore through his back, clean through, and then the tip of his sword was on Madshaka’s chest, right on his heart, and he saw Madshaka’s eyes go wide with surprise.

The momentum carried him on and the needle tip of the big iron blade pierced Madshaka’s chest and kept on going, going, deeper and deeper. There was a scream, a high anguished scream, but James did not know where it was coming from. Everything was becoming dulled and soft to his eyes and he was aware that he was no longer running, just falling, falling, pushing the big blade before him as he went down.

Down, down he fell and then he knew he had stopped but he had no sensation of hitting the ground, or of jarring or of anything. He thought there might be other people in the room, or some great commotion, but he was not able to turn his head and look, so instead he closed his eyes and let the warmth wash over him.

He was thirsty. There was liquid in his throat but it did not sate his thirst. Thirsty, but beyond that, not uncomfortable, not in any pain. He felt ready. More ready than he had felt in a long, long time.

Then something was disturbing the comfort, forcing him back to the surface. He opened his eyes; the effort seemed impossible, but he did it. Swimming in front of him, a fuzzy image. Marlowe. He looked so concerned. A good man, Marlowe. He cared, he cared more than he himself knew.

“James, oh James, damn it, damn it…,” Marlowe was saying. Silly. So hard to talk, why waste the effort?

James closed his eyes, tried to find the strength in his shattered and numb body. Had to tell Marlowe it was all right.

He opened his eyes. “I’m going now.” So quiet. Could Thomas hear him? Marlowe leaned closer. “I’m going to the only place I got left to go.”

He closed his eyes again. That was the last of his strength. He felt the soft darkness wash over him, the warm embrace, the gentle evening air, the warm water, the loving arms of Africa, his new Africa.