Voyage of Midnight (8 page)

“What is it, Billy?” I asked, not looking up from my journal.

“My head aches.”

“Go talk to Jonas. He’s the surgeon.”

“He said he’s feeling out of sorts and to come talk to you.” Billy sat cross-legged beside me, as if we were old chums.

I stifled the urge to groan and tell him to clear off. Instead, I set aside my journal, hoping my businesslike manner would rid his mind of any ideas of friendship. “Right, then, I’ll fetch you some medicine.”

Returning, I handed him a pewter tankard filled with water and tartaric acid—good for headaches. “Drink it down.” I picked up my journal, waved away mosquitoes, and within seconds was sounding out African words:
“
k
chì … 
sala …”

“How long does it take?” Billy asked.

I blinked at him, pretending I’d forgotten he was there. “What the devil are you on about? How long does
what
take?”

“The medicine. To work. How long do I gotta wait?”

“Until your headache’s gone.”

“Oh.”

I returned to my journal, fanning myself a bit with my palm-leaf hat before setting it back on my head.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Does
what
hurt?”

“That.” And he poked my chest wound with a grubby finger.

“Bugger and blast, Billy! Keep your hands off me! Of course it hurts, you dolt!”

“Sorry. Just wondering, is all.”

“Don’t you have something to do?”

Billy shrugged. “Not really. What are you reading?”

I sighed, pulling my journal away from his prying eyes. “You know, Billy, it’s helpful after drinking medicine to rest awhile.
Especially if you’ve a headache. Apply a wet rag to your forehead and shut your eyes. Two to three hours should do it.”

“My headache’s gone now.”

“Oh.” I suspected that there had been no such thing as a headache in the first place.

“I wish I coulda been there.”

“Been
where?
Billy, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I wish I coulda seen it when you branded him.”

I turned away, disgusted, and gazed off into the distant sky, the clouds heavy and promising rain, my wound throbbing. I was trying to forget that dreadful day.… The fire of hatred in his eyes. His teeth, filed to points. The stink of burning flesh. My own shrieks of pain … To forget the shame I felt over the rage that had consumed me and the pain that I’d inflicted upon him. Him—a helpless slave.

“They say you branded him hard, like you was trying to reach his backbone.”

“Clear off, Billy.”

“They say he’s a mighty warrior. Or
was
a mighty warrior, anyways.”

A warrior?
I admitted a grudging admiration toward the slave who’d defied us. Who stared directly at his captors with unabashed hatred. Who refused to make a sound even as I inflicted horrible pain upon him. Certainly the slave possessed a courage I could never hope to have.

“They say he’s meek as a lamb now, all ’cause of you,” Billy was saying. “That you could poke him with a sharp stick and he won’t do nothing.”

“Who says he was a warrior?”

Billy shrugged again. “Everyone. They say his name’s Ikoro, which means ‘warlike,’ and that he hates us white folk.” And
here Billy raised his bum and released some wind with a loud honk, grinning. This display of bodily functions seemed to distract him, however, as for a while afterward he appeared at a loss for words.

“Well,” I prompted him, after scooting away several feet, “what else do they say? Exactly why does Ikoro despise us?”

Billy moved closer. “They say it’s ’cause we make his people into slaves.”

I frowned, thinking. “But Uncle said—I mean Captain Towne said—that if
we
didn’t take the slaves, then the Africans would just enslave them or kill them as surplus population, as prisoners of war. Captain Towne says slavery’s been happening in Africa for thousands of years. Natural order of their society. We’re saving their lives and doing them a favor.”

Billy slapped a mosquito on his neck. “I don’t know about all that stuff.”

Just then Pea Soup approached from nowhere, his face blank as usual, and handed me a tankard of liquid. I took a sip, pleased to find that it was sweetened lime juice. It was the first time he’d shown me such a kindness, and I hoped it was the beginning of an industrious relationship. I’d come to believe that the look of hatred I’d seen reflected on Pea Soup’s face that night had only been a trick of the light, for I’d seen nothing of the sort since. “Why, thank you, Pea Soup,” I said, smiling. “It’s jolly good.” Then Pea Soup began to fan us with a piece of canvas he’d had tucked in his loincloth.

“Anyways,” Billy continued, “so a while back Ikoro got together this big army of savages and laid ambushes and slaughtered white folks everywhere like they was dinner. Chopped ’em to pieces. Ate their livers and hearts. Cooked their gizzards.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Slaughtered Africans too, if they was into helping white folk capture slaves and suchlike.”

A breeze gusted over the deck. Overhead, the yards creaked. I took a gulp of lime drink. “Sounds like a monster.”

“Would have chopped you to pieces too, if you hadn’t gotten him first.”

I wiped my mouth and stared at him. “You know, Billy—”

He leaned in close, as if we were conspirators. “What.”

“You’re revolting.”

He smiled. “Thanks.” And, seeming pleased, Billy stood up and ambled away, leaving me with my tankard of lime juice, my journal of African words, and Pea Soup stirring up the breeze.

“
gàj
,”
I said. “Pea Soup, do you understand?
gàj
.”

It was an hour later, and Pea Soup still fanned the air, chasing off the mosquitoes. It’d occurred to me that Pea Soup would be a grand resource if he happened to know the language. I repeated the word, but he only glanced at me briefly, blankly, and then stared at his usual spot, somewhere close to his feet. “The interpreter said it means ‘spoon,’ and so if you speak this particular African language, then you must know its meaning.
gàj
. Have you heard this before?”