“It is,” he agreed. “But what I mean to say is—when one says ‘dark o’ moon,’ most likely one does mean nighttime, aye?” He peered into the empty neck of his bottle, then lifted it and blew thoughtfully across it, making a deep woooog sound.
I took the hint and handed him another.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said, looking happy. “See, the tide turns about half-eleven, this time o’ month—and it’s going out,” he added with emphasis.
I gave him a blank look.
“Well, if you look careful, ma’am, you’ll see the tide is half out now”—he pointed toward the south—“yet there’s middling deep water close to shore all along o’ here. Come the nighttime, though, it won’t be.”
“Yes?” I was still missing his point, but he was patient.
“Well, with the tide out, it’s easier to see the bars and inlets, sure—and were you coming in with a boat with a shallow draft, that would be the time to choose. But was the rondayvooz to be with something bigger, maybe anything that draws more than four feet . . . well, then.” He took a gulp, and pointed the bottom of his bottle toward a spot far down the shore. “The water there is deep, ma’am—see the color of it? Was I a ship of any size, that would be the safest place to anchor, when the tide is on the ebb.”
I regarded the spot he’d indicated. The water was distinctly darker there, a deeper blue-gray than the waves surrounding it.
“You could have told us that earlier,” I said with a certain note of reproach.
“So I could, ma’am,” he agreed cordially, “save for not knowin’ as you’d like to hear it.” He got up then and wandered toward the stern, an empty bottle in hand, absently going woog-woog-woog, like a distant foghorn.
As the sun sank into the sea, Roger and Ian appeared on the shore, and Captain Roarke’s hand, Moses, rowed ashore to fetch them off. Then we hoisted sail and made our way slowly up the coast of Ocracoke, until we found Jamie, waving from a tiny spit of sand.
Anchored offshore for the night, we exchanged notes of our findings—or lack of them. All the men were drained, exhausted from heat and searching and with little appetite for supper, despite their exertions. Roger, in particular, looked drawn and pale, and said almost nothing.
The last sliver of the waning moon rose in the sky. With a minimum of conversation, the men took their blankets and lay down on deck, asleep within minutes.
Quantities of beer notwithstanding, I was wide awake. I sat beside Jamie, my own blanket wrapped about my shoulders against the coolness of the night wind, watching the low black mystery of the island. The anchorage Captain Roarke had pointed out to me was invisible in the darkness. Would we know, I wondered, if a ship were to come tomorrow night?
IN FACT, it came that night. I woke in the very early morning, dreaming of corpses. I sat up, heart pounding, to see Roarke and Moses at the rail, and a dreadful smell in the air. It wasn’t a smell one would ever forget, and when I got to my feet and went to the rail to look, I was not at all surprised to hear Roarke murmur, “Slaver,” nodding toward the south.
The ship was anchored half a mile or so away, its masts black against the paling sky. Not a huge ship, but definitely too big to make its way into the small channels of the island. I watched a long time, joined by Jamie, Roger, and Ian as they woke—but no boats were lowered.
“What d’ye suppose it’s doing there?” Ian said. He spoke in a low voice; the slave ship made everyone nervous.
Roarke shook his head; he didn’t like it, either.
“Damned if I know,” he said. “Wouldn’t expect such a thing in such a place. Not at all.”
Jamie rubbed a hand across his unshaven chin. He hadn’t shaved in days, and, green-faced and hollow-eyed beneath the stubble—he’d vomited over the rail within minutes of rising, though the swell was very gentle—looked even more disreputable than Roarke himself.
“Can ye lay us alongside her, Mr. Roarke?” he said, eyes on the slave ship. Roger glanced at him sharply.
“Ye don’t suppose Brianna’s aboard?”
“If she is, we’ll find out. If she’s not—we’ll maybe find out who yon ship has come to see.”
It was full daylight by the time we came along the ship, and there were a number of hands on deck, all of whom peered curiously down over the rail at us.
Roarke hallooed up, asking permission to come aboard. There was no immediate response to this, but after a few minutes, a large man with an air of authority and an ill-tempered face appeared.
“What d’ye want?” he called down.
“To come aboard,” Roarke bellowed back.
“No. Shove off.”
“We are in search of a young woman!” Roger called up. “We should like to ask you a few questions!”
“Any young women on this ship are mine,” the captain—if that’s what he was—said definitely. “Bugger off, I said.” He turned and gestured to his hands, who scattered at once, reappearing in moments with muskets.
Roger cupped his hands to his mouth.
“BRIANNA!” he bellowed. “BRIANNAAAA!”
One man raised his gun and fired, the ball whistling safely over our heads, and ripping through the mainsail.
“Oi!” shouted Roarke, incensed. “What’s the matter of you?”
The only answer to this was a fusillade of further shots, followed by the opening of the port lids nearest us, and the sudden appearance of the long black noses of several cannon, along with a more intense gust of stink.
“Jesus God,” said Roarke, astonished. “Well, if that’s how you feel about—well, God damn you!” he shouted, brandishing a fist. “God damn you, I say!”
Moses, less interested in rhetoric, had made sail with the first shot and was already at the tiller; we slid past the slave ship and into clean water within moments.
“Well, something’s going on,” I remarked, looking back at the ship. “Whether it’s to do with Bonnet or not.”
Roger was clinging to the rail, his knuckles white.
“It is,” Jamie said. He wiped a hand across his mouth, and grimaced. “Can ye keep in sight of her, but out of range, Mr. Roarke?” A fresh wave of the smell of sewage, corruption, and hopelessness hit us, and he turned the color of rancid suet. “And maybe upwind, too?”
We were obliged to sail well out into the ocean and tack to and fro in order to meet these various conditions, but at length had beaten our way back and anchored a safe distance away, the slave ship barely visible. Here we lay through the rest of the day, taking it in turns to keep an eye on the strange ship through Captain Roarke’s telescope.
Nothing happened, though; no boats came from the ship, nor from the shore. And as we all sat silent on deck, watching the stars come out in a moonless sky, the ship was swallowed by the dark.
107
THE DARK OF THE MOON
THEY ANCHORED LONG BEFORE DAWN, and a small boat took them ashore.
“Where is this?” she asked, voice rusty with disuse—Bonnet had wakened her in the dark. They had made three stops along the way, at nameless coves where mysterious men came out of the shrubbery, rolling barrels or carrying bales, but she had not been taken off at any of them. This was a long, low island, thick with scrub forest and hazy with mist, looking haunted under a dying moon.
“Ocracoke,” he answered, leaning forward to peer into the fog. “A bit farther to port, Denys.” The seaman at the oars leaned harder to the side, and the nose of the boat turned slowly, drawing nearer to the shore.
It was cold on the water; she was grateful for the thick cloak he had wrapped around her before handing her into the boat. Even so, the chill of the night and the open sea had little to do with the small, constant shiver that made her hands tremble and numbed her feet and fingers.
Soft murmurs between the pirates, further direction. Bonnet jumped off into waist-deep, muddy water, and waded into the shadows, pushing aside the heavy growth so that the water of the hidden inlet showed suddenly, a smooth dark gleam before them. The boat nosed its way under the overhanging trees, then paused, so that Bonnet could pull himself over the gunwales, splashing and dripping.
A shattering cry sounded near them, so close that she jerked, heart pounding, before realizing that it was only a bird somewhere in the swamp around them. Otherwise, the night was quiet, save for the muted, regular splash of the oars.
They had put Josh and the Fulani men into the boat, too; Josh sat at her feet, a hunched black form. He was shivering; she could feel it. Disengaging a fold of the cloak, she put it over him, and put a hand on his shoulder under it, meaning to give him what encouragement she could. A hand rose and settled softly over hers, squeezing, and thus linked, they sailed slowly into the dark unknown beneath the dripping trees.
The sky was lightening by the time the boat reached a small landing, and streaks of rose-tinted cloud reached across the horizon. Bonnet hopped out, and reached down to take her hand. Reluctantly, she let go of Josh, and stood up.
There was a house, half-hidden in the trees. Made of gray clapboards, it seemed to sink into the remnants of fog, as though it weren’t quite real and might disappear at any moment.
The wind-borne stink, though, was real enough. She’d never smelled it before herself, but had heard her mother’s vivid description of it, and recognized it instantly—the smell of a slaver, anchored offshore. Josh recognized it, too; she heard his sudden gasp, and then a hasty murmur—he was saying the Hail Mary in Gaelic, as fast as he could.
“Take these to the barracoon,” Bonnet said to the seaman, pushing Josh in his direction and waving at the Fulani. “Then go back to the ship. Tell Mr. Orden we sail for England in four days’ time; he’ll see to the rest of the provisioning. Come for me Saturday, an hour before high tide.”
“Josh!” She called after him, and he looked back, eyes white with fear, but the seaman hustled him along, and Bonnet dragged her in the other direction, up the path toward the house.
“Wait! Where is he taking him? What are you going to do with him?” She dug her feet into the mud, and grabbed hold of a mangrove, refusing to move.
“Sell him, what else?” Bonnet was matter-of-fact about that, and also about her refusal to move. “Come along, darlin’. Ye know I can make ye, and ye know ye won’t like it if I do.” He reached out, flipped back the edge of her cloak, and pinched her nipple, hard, in illustration.
Burning with anger, she snatched the cloak back and wrapped it tight around her, as though that might soothe the pain. He had already turned, and was making his way up the path, quite certain that she would follow. To her everlasting shame, she did.
THE DOOR WAS OPENED by a black man, nearly as tall as Bonnet himself, and even wider through the chest and shoulder. A thick vertical scar between his eyes ran nearly from his hairline to the bridge of his nose, but it had the clean look of a deliberate tribal scar, not the result of accident.
“Emmanuel, me man!” Bonnet greeted the man cheerfully, and pushed Brianna ahead of him into the house. “Look what the cat dragged in, will ya?”