Nobody's Slave (24 page)

It seemed strangely quiet on the empty gun-deck. The roar of the distant battle was muffled, as though it came from a distant forest. And then he heard a strange sound - so strange, amid all the tumult, that he stood quite still for a moment, as though he had stepped into a grove of the gods.

It was singing. Not the loud working chant of the sailors, nor the cheer of battle, but a deep, steady measured song like a lament he had heard once at a funeral, where all the dead man's virtues were told to the gods, that they might welcome and honour him where he was going. And yet it was different from that, too: as he listened, trembling, he heard the thin quavering voice of an old man, singing between the chorus, each time, briefly, of someone different; and he realised, with an immense awe that made him tiptoe even as he bent to climb down the ladder to the hold, that the slaves below were singing their own funeral song, in the midst of a battle in which they felt sure to die.

As he came down the song faltered, and stopped. For a second there was utter silence, punctuated only by the distant boom of the guns, and the resonant thump of cannonballs striking the hull. Then a voice hissed in the Mani language:

‘Strike him now, Mshoti! At the foot of the ladder, before he can turn!’

Madu stopped, shaking, halfway down. He realised, by the sudden furtive rattle of chains almost directly below, that they were planning to attack
him.
Perhaps they thought he was a red-face. Or did they hate him, so much?

He called out into the darkness. ‘Do not strike me, brothers! I come with the keys, to release you! The red-face are gone from the great canoe!’

Pandemonium broke out. A dozen yelled at once, bidding him descend, and welcome; and as he fumbled with the shackles of the first man in the gloom, the voice of the old man who had been singing cried out, praising him as a king who had come to save them.

‘Do not praise me, fathers. We are not safe yet. There is terrible danger above.’ His hands fumbled furiously with the unfamiliar keys, and locks, trying to make haste - surely the fireship must be upon them by now? At last, seeing his difficulty, another man took them from him.

‘Give them to me, young brother. I can see better than you here. Go with those that are free, and tell them what to do.’

‘As you like. But make haste. There is little time.’

So Madu left them, and climbed the ladder to the gundeck. As he reached it, he heard a scream from above, and hurrying up onto the maindeck, he saw two of the men he had released bending over the twitching body of the third, whose stomach had been pierced by a flying splinter. To his right, he saw the great, crackling bonfire of the fireship, drifting slowly down on them in wide, uncontrollable circles. Already it was so near that he could feel the oven-blast of the heat. There was nothing he could do to stop it. For the first time he felt sick with fear, not for himself, but for the others, the men he had tried to save. All the boats were gone - had he freed them from their chains for nothing?

The New World

S
OMEWHERE THERE must be some meat. Tom probed anxiously with his spoon in the bowl of thin, watery stew that would be his only meal for the day. Somewhere ... hurriedly he spooned down a couple of fat weevils from the mouldy, bottom-of-the-barrel biscuit crumbs that had been used to thicken the stew; yes, here! Quickly he spooned the meat up, ducking his head down low to the bowl so that it could not be snatched away. It was good! He chewed, luxuriating in the texture of it, the warm life-giving juices his body craved; then it was gone, and he searched carefully for more.

Tom did not know what the meat was. Probably rat, but it might have been parrot, or a piece of Captain Hampton's pet monkey that had been killed this morning. All the cats and dogs had been eaten, long since. He spooned the rest of the thin soup into his mouth greedily, looking up at the cook's cauldron to see if there might be more.

All around him men were doing the same. On the crowded decks of the
Minion
there was scarcely room to move, and they had been there two weeks now; over two hundred men on a leaking, battered ship, their hunger whipped to a frenzy by the fresh sea winds and the incessant labour of pumping, and no food left to eat.

At first they had been glad to escape. After avoiding the fireship, the
Minion
had anchored outside the range of the Spanish guns. They had seen the fireship drift perilously close to the
Jesus,
and the
Jesus'
subsequent capture. Of their own fleet, only Francis Drake's little
Judith
had got clear, beside themselves. But that night had been stormy, strong gusts sending spray over the guns on the low island. The wind threatened to smash the two ships on rocks if their anchors dragged; and in the morning the
Judith
had gone, sailing away perhaps to safety in the night.

For two weeks they had struggled north, seeking a harbour where they could repair the leaks and find water and food. But there was none; only mile after mile of barren coast which threatened to scrunch their ship to matchwood with its rocky teeth if they sailed too close; and all the time their own teeth hunted hungrily through every corner of the hull for the last scrap of food, living or dead.

Now, at last, the Admiral had come to a decision. Two weeks of hunger and almost sleepless vigil had lined even his calm face, so that it was a thin, haggard figure who stood by the quarterdeck rail, ready to address those cramped below. Yet he was still upright, with that indomitable jaunty sense of command which made men respect him. Silence fell; only the creak of the timbers and the scream of the gulls reminding them of the eternal hunger of the world.

‘Now, sirs, ye all know the plight we are in; I need waste no breath describing that. Save only to say, perhaps, that we have come thus far and are still alive, which is more than many might have expected, in such a case. And for that I have to thank Almighty God, in his great mercy - and also you, sirs, for without such a brave crew as I have had, we should all be food for the fishes long since.’

He paused, and Tom heard a murmur of approval all round him, and felt his own heart warm with pride.

‘But now we are come to a crossroads. Many men have begged me to set them ashore, saying that no fate, even the captivity of Spaniards or savages could be worse than slow starvation on board ship. And truly, I cannot hope to bring you all alive to England on this ship, with supplies as they are. Without a harbour, the ship herself may not last, and a harbour we cannot find.’

He paused again, and a roll of the ship made him stagger slightly and clutch the rail for support. Tom realised with a shock that even Hawkins was not immune to the weakness of hunger, and watched him with sober respect as he went on.

‘Nevertheless, it is my duty to sail home if I can, and that I shall do. So, my lads, the choice is yours. Some must stay behind, though I do promise faithfully that I shall come back for those men, as soon as it is in my power. But I do not wish to force any man ashore. Therefore I ask you to decide now, for yourselves. It is a choice you must make. Those of you who wish to take your chance on land, go up to the foremast; the rest, stand aft here, by the main.’

He stopped, and at once a great shuffling and buzzing of talk began. Tom turned to his friend, the gunner Andrew Baines.

‘What shall you do, Andrew? 'Tis a hard choice either way.’

‘I shall stay, lad. To go ashore is to be caught by the Spaniards, surely ...’

‘Not here. We're hundreds of miles north of San Juan. We could camp, and wait for him to return. We could hunt, and eat ...’

The thought of food, perhaps a freshly killed deer roasting over a fire, so filled Tom's mind he could not go on. He saw the same painful yearning in Andrew's eyes.

‘Come on, Andrew, come with me. It'd be better than rotting slowly, like this.’

Andrew Baines shook his head. ‘No, Tom. You go if you like. But John Hawkins will get this ship home if it can be done, and I mean to be on it. I never was no good on shore, nohow.’

‘Well, goodbye then. But be sure to come back and fetch us.’

‘I'll do that, Tom.’ The two clasped hands, briefly, as many others were doing, and Tom felt how thin and bony their fingers were already. Then he walked - slowly, as hunger made them all do now - towards the foremast.

And so, in the late afternoon, Tom stood on shore with nearly a hundred others. He had been so long on board ship, he could hardly believe it when the battered
Minion
set sail, and slowly shrank towards the horizon. They stood and watched her till she was gone, numbed by indecision. Hawkins had come ashore to bid them each farewell in person, yet some were discontent, despite that. They had been allowed a roll of cloth each, to trade if they could, but few weapons, except small knives, lest they provoke attack. A good number had gone ashore soaking and exhausted, cursing Captain Hampton and the
Jesus’
bosun, who had made them swim the last hundred yards to the shore, because he dared not risk the boat in the surf.

But curses were no help now; they had to decide. In a brief, solemn meeting they elected a leader, Antony Godard, and decided to march south along the shore. Before they could say more it began to rain - great tropical torrents of rain like a waterfall. Tom crept under a bush for shelter but it was no use. All night he lay shivering as the earth turned to mud beneath him. He listened to the alien patter of water on leaves as the torrent lessened, and the odd silence when at last it stopped. No timbers creaked, no sails flapped. There was only the whisper of the surf and the occasional cry of unknown birds from the woods.

No one slept well; their gnawing stomachs had them up early, even before the woods erupted into a cacaphony of birdsong with the dawn.

For a while they walked silently, each wrapped in his own thoughts, until a thick area of woods by the shore compelled them to turn inland through a marsh. Tom was wrapped in an envious vision of his younger brother, at home in Devon, gaily wandering to school with a hunk of bread, a lump of good English cheese and an apple in his knapsack. In his mind he could see the leafy country lane, hear the laughter and scuffles from the schoolyard.

‘Oooolava! Oooolava! Vard!’

He jerked his head to the right, and stared, stunned. No schoolboys, but a mass of wild, horrific savages were rushing down on them, yelling loudly and filling the air with arrows. He supposed they were men, but the sight was so terrifying he was not sure. Each was about five feet tall, with long flowing black hair, and their naked chests and faces were painted in lurid patterns of red, green, blue and yellow.

Tom grabbed for the hilt of his knife, but even as he drew it several sailors fell, killed by arrows; and Antony Goddard called earnestly to them to put their knives away.

‘We cannot fight them, sirs! For the love of God, show that we come in peace, or we shall all be murdered!’

Goddard threw his own knife away, and held out his bare hands to the advancing  monsters. Tom saw several others around him do the same. A sailor saw Tom hesitating, and frowned.

‘Throw it away, lad, quick, or we'll all be killed!’

‘But ...’ There was no time for argument. Quickly, Tom put his knife back into its sheath, and held his hands out like the others, ignoring the sailor's disapproving scowl. The knife was the only weapon he had; to throw it away seemed foolish.

‘Huh! Forlanin!’ A squat, powerful figure with a green and red face and black hair flowing down to his knees tugged Tom's bundle of cloth out of his hands. ‘Defoole ramaa! Korlitt? Korlitt?’ The man pointed at Tom's shirt, and when Tom did not respond, beckoned another who roughly ripped it off him while the first pointed an arrow at Tom's chest. The knife was especially appreciated; the man who took it tried it carefully on his own arm, shouting with pleasure at the thin line of blood that appeared.

‘Here! Give it back! It's mine!’

‘Kalaanu! Zamaat na heh sani! Heh, zamaat!’

His arms twisted behind his back, Tom felt the knife pressed against his throat; gently, then harder, sliding sideways. Quite still, he stared rigidly at the painted face that would be the last thing he would ever see. The eyes, he noticed, were a pale brown amidst the paint; oddly human.

‘Neferlertin. Tolva ha heh lamu, heh?’ The knife was taken away, the arms released. Shaking, Tom lifted his fingers to his unsevered throat; a thin cut along the skin, no more. He saw the man pointing angrily at his breeches.

‘Take 'em off, lad. 'Tis only our clothes they want, seemingly. No more.’

He glanced at the sailor beside him, and saw in surprise that he was naked. All around him the Indians were taking the sailors' clothes, examining them critically, even bartering with each other; while several menaced those sailors who looked angry with their bows.

It was strange how helpless it felt to be naked. It seemed to make resistance doubly impossible. Tom remembered fleetingly how easy it had been to control the naked Africans on the foredeck, and sat down meekly like the others when the Indians told him to, watching numbly while they withdrew with their booty and debated what to do.

One of the sailors, defenceless in his nudity, approached the Indians, miming that the Englishmen's stomachs were empty; they were friends, they wanted food. At first Tom thought that they were going to kill him, but after a moment's hesitation they stood and watched, laughing at his pathetic efforts.

‘Norfale! Norfale Spanico. Spanico kolva, heh? heh?’ One warrior prodded the sailor in the stomach with the butt of his spear, repeating the same words again and again. ‘Spanico kolva - norfale, heh?’

‘No! We're not Spanish, you heathen dog! Not Spanish, no! Spanico no - English!’ The sailor pushed the spear away and yelled back. Tom stood up, ready to run to the man's side - and his own death, likely, but Tom did not think of that.

‘Sivone Spanico? Seh?’

‘No! Not Spanish. English. See?’ The sailor sighed, a great smile of relief flooding his face as the message got through.