Page 9 of New Storm Rising
Why was there suddenly a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth?
I didn’t get the chance to answer that question before the crashing of waves and creaking of rigging interrupted my thoughts. A few moments later, a certain ship with tattered sails came into view off the starboard bow and came up alongside us. The ship’s railing and sails were indeed riddled with bullet holes, but the ship itself seemed extremely elegant and luxurious. Golden ornaments, brightly coloured sails emblazoned with noble crests and insignias, tall deck structures made from expensive tropical woods…
It didn’t escape my attention that, despite the scorch marks and bullet holes, this thing would make a far better honeymoon cruise ship than ours. The several dozen black men and women spread over the deck, however, didn’t seem to have had a pleasant honeymoon, to put it mildly. Nearly fifty people in ragged clothes were scattered all over the place, milling about uncertainly, their eyes fixed on us with a mixture of uncertainty and fear. And not all of it seemed to come from facing Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
“Who are you?” Mr Ambrose demanded, letting his gaze sweep across the motley crew. “What do you want from us?”
It was left unsaid that, if his questions were to be left unanswered, the big man with the beard and turban beside my dear husband would be getting some cannon-aiming practice.
The dark-skinned crew on the other ship exchanged looks, then huddled together, whispering in some language I didn’t know. Which, considering my proficiency of cursing in English, Spanish, Portuguese and French was saying quite something. Finally, they shoved forward an unfortunate sacrificial victim, who started speaking in broken English.
“We…um…we slaves. Taken from…from…” He scratched his head, helplessly. Apparently, he didn’t know the English name for his birthplace. Perhaps it didn’t even have one. In the end, he simply gestured to the southeast.
“Some place in Africa,” Mr Ambrose made the obvious deduction. “They were most likely taken straight from their homes. But there only very few countries left that still openly practice the slave trade. Who…”
He glanced up to the other ship’s mast, and I followed suit, trying to make out the flag that hung there. Yet nothing but tatters and rags remained.
Instantly, he refocused his cold gaze on the unfortunate translator. “Who took you? Who did you escape from?”
“Spain. We caught by Spain.”
Others might not have noticed it, but I had been following this man around for years now, and had gotten the chance to, ehem…quite closely inspect his face. It was easy for me to spot the miniscule twitch of a muscle in his cheek.
“Spain? Hm. So it’s the Spaniards, is it? Interesting. Very interesting indeed.” Mr Ambrose’s cold gaze bored into the poor translator. “I gather you managed to overpower your masters?”
“Fought them!” The man nodded proudly. “Won! Most gone. Rest locked up in ship belly.”
“Indeed?” Head slightly cocked, Mr Ambrose stroked his chiselled chin. “Just out of curiosity, what are their names?”
The man looked back helplessly, then shrugged. “Not know. Just know they important. Silk clothes. Gold. Jewels. Much important.”
“Indeed?” Mr Ambrose repeated, his eyes sparkling like the aforementioned jewels. Yet I somehow got the impression said jewels were not the reason he was still focused intently on that ship. If they were, he would already have traded the services of a navigator for all the shiny trinkets, banknotes and gold tooth fillings of the ship’s unfortunate passengers. Instead, he still stood there.
Talking.
Something was definitely up.
“So,” he spoke, his face betraying not even a hint of what was going on in his head. “I repeat, what do you want? Why did you stop us?”
The black man shifted uncomfortably. “We…no know the way. Must reach. Some place…no slaves. Please.”
“Well…” Once again, Mr Rikkard Ambrose stroked his chin, actually managing to convey a troubled expression without moving a single muscle in his face. “I would very much like to help, but I’m afraid it will be problematic. I am nothing but a humble ship captain, charged by my employer with the timely delivery of my cargo. I fear that if I cause delays by helping you, my superior will punish me harshly.”
“Pffft!” I managed to slap a hand over my mouth just in time to stifle the burst of laughter that threatened to bubble up.
“There, you see?” With a sombre face, Mr Rikkard Ambrose turned towards me. “Already my superior can hardly contain his anger.” Then he turned towards me and bowed. “I beg you, Sir, please forgive this unworthy fool. I know my charitable heart is not good for business, but I cannot help myself.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor. How…when…where…and most of all,what the hell?
“But,” he continued, turning back to the translator, not giving him or me the chance to say a word, “if I could prove to my employer that we would not be losing out due to helping you, that there would be some profit, I would be more than delighted to render my aid.”
The sly bastard. So this was what he was up to. Profiteering, while simultaneously portraying himself as the good guy for whatever nefarious end he was pursuing? Oh, I…I was going to…
…be able to do absolutely nothing.
Crap!
Sneaky ice-cold son of a bachelor! The way he’d set things up, all I could do was go along with the charade. However…
