FIRE & FURY

The first novel in the ‘Crawford’s Crusade’ series

Eric Meyer

Copyright 2026 by Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Foreword

The frigate HMS Indomitable lay at anchor in Freetown harbor, yards squared neatly, ensign stirring lazily in the humid air. She was a powerful symbol of Britain’s determination to suppress the Atlantic slave trade by patrolling the treacherous coast of West Africa. The fifth-rate frigate carried thirty-eight guns, and the vessel was built for endurance and speed, vital for the hard, relentless patrols demanded by service in the West Africa Squadron.

Her hull was long and graceful, the black sides broken by a broad band of yellow along the gun deck where the muzzles of her cannon peered out like watchful eyes. Years of tropical service had left their mark, and the timbers were sun-bleached and scarred, yet she remained a formidable vessel. Her tall masts carried a complex forest of rigging and canvas, capable of driving her swiftly through the Atlantic swells.

Even in harbor, the deck was alive with constant movement. Royal Marines drilled beside stacked muskets, sailors adjusted lines and repaired sails, and below decks, gunners made sure the great guns were ready for action. The Union flag snapped proudly from the stern. Boats moved constantly around her, carrying men and supplies to and from the bustling shore.

John Crawford stood on the quarterdeck, watching the bustling activity. He was a newly commissioned midshipman in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. His parents had struggled to purchase his commission and outfit him as befitted a British officer, and he intended to make them proud. His uniform was immaculate. The dark coat sat perfectly on his shoulders, his sword adjusted at his side at the correct angle. His brass buttons gleamed, and he wore the bicorn hat that in his estimation, transformed him from vicar’s son into a man of consequence.

John was the older of two brothers, although shorter than his younger brother, which made him perfectly suited to the cramped quarters of a midshipman. As did his slight build. He wore his hair tied back in a queue, as was the custom among naval officers, and he continually worked hard to perfect his nautical skills. How to calculate a course, and how to judge weather, tide, and character with equal care.

Where their father preached faith from the pulpit, John believed that service could also be rendered through discipline and duty to protect the emerging British global empire.

Under his arm he carried his most prized possession. A telescope made by W. and S. Jones of Holborn, London, makers of fine nautical optics. The instrument was magnificent. The brass barrel was covered in dark leather, the surface stitched with three contrasting leather bands that encircled it to provide extra grip in heavy weather. The glass was flawless. He’d spent an entire afternoon polishing the lenses until they were spotless, the pride of any naval officer.

He’d been off duty for barely a half-hour when he decided to go ashore. Freetown looked exotic, and the land whispered promises of adventure. Africa. A place of heat and color and opportunity.

He crossed to the side, descended the ladder carefully so as not to scuff his boots, and stepped into the waiting jolly boat. Three burly sailors took the oars, while a petty officer stationed himself at the tiller.

Crawford nodded he was ready, and he called, “Make way,” to the waiting sailors. The oars dipped into the water, bit, and pulled. The boat skimmed toward the wharf, sunlight flashing from the water. He adjusted his fine hat and gripped his precious telescope with conscious pride.

The boat touched the wharf, and a rope was thrown. He climbed the ladder and stepped onto the jetty with the careful dignity of a man determined to look experienced. Even though he was aware his deep blue coat and immaculate accoutrements marked him out as a rookie. Perhaps in the darkness nobody would notice. He touched his hat to a passing lieutenant from another vessel, and the man returned a polite nod.

Freetown assaulted him at once, like a blast of grapeshot. The place was alive. Sailors from a half-dozen ships wandered in loose knots, already drunk or well on their way. Merchants shouted they had cargo to dispose of, and African traders moved through the press with baskets of goods balanced on their heads. Women beckoned and called from doorways. Music drifted from nearby taverns, fiddles scraping, concertinas wheezing in cheerful discord.

He walked forward, heart pounding with excitement. This was the real world. He’d read about such places, had dreamed of them. Now he was here, a Royal Navy officer on foreign soil, telescope under his arm, hat set at a rakish angle.

He stared at everything. The bright fabrics in the market stalls. A parrot perched outside a tavern. Sailors arm in arm, singing a vulgar song. He didn’t see the four Arabs who fell in behind him.

* * *

They moved lightly, unremarkable, blending into the crowds. They kept their distance, watching him carefully. He turned a corner, following the sound of loud music, and didn’t notice that the four men had quickened their pace.

If he had, he would’ve seen they were Arabs, the men who prospered greatly from the slave trade. They rarely showed themselves in Freetown, preferring to haunt the denizens of Bissau, situated in Guinea to the north, where slave trading was legal, even actively encouraged. Slave trading in Freetown was illegal, and offenders were frequently sentenced to death by hanging.

Yet despite the risk, when they were between voyages, Arabs on the lookout for easy money occasionally journeyed to the more prosperous Freetown. These men, Omar, Ali, Muhammad, and Abdullah, had barely escaped with their lives by diving over the side when their ship, carrying a cargo of slaves, was intercepted by a Royal Navy warship.

They were broke, and they bore a grudge they intended to settle by making the Royal Navy pay. This young officer was a good place to start.

* * *

He was halfway along the next street when it happened. A massive blow struck the back of his head. It came from nowhere, delivered with brutal precision. He had no time to cry out. He felt the world shatter into bright light, and then he collapsed into darkness. His legs folded beneath him, and he struck the dirt face down, his bicorn tumbling into a patch of mud.

He would never know what hit him. The club had been carved from African blackwood, dense and hard as iron. Wood so heavy it would not float in water. Hard enough to crack bone. It cracked his skull. Blood spread quickly beneath him, dark against the dirt. Something pale leaked out after it, but the street carried on, walking past without showing any interest.

His two assailants worked swiftly. One knelt and rifled his pockets, extracting his purse and his pocket watch. The other lifted the telescope, turning it in his hands with appreciation before tucking it beneath his robe. One gave him a hard, contemptuous kick in the ribs before they walked away, vanishing into the press of people.

Passers-by glanced down, and some paused briefly, but none intervened. Less than an hour later, John Crawford was dead. It was a group of passing sailors who noticed the body and recognized the uniform.

“Navy. He’s one of ours,” one man muttered, “Looks like he’s from the Indy. We can’t leave him here.”

They rolled him gently onto his back, recoiling at the sight of his shattered skull. Four men lifted him and carried him to the harbor. On the wharf, they searched his pockets for identification and found his papers. A Midshipman serving on HMS Indomitable.

They laid him in a longboat and rowed across to the frigate. The men on deck fell silent as the boat came alongside.

They hauled him up, and someone recognized him immediately.

“God help us,” the First Lieutenant murmured, “It’s Crawford. Poor bastard. Better take him to the surgeon and get him to write out the death certificate.”

He sent a party of Marines ashore to investigate, but as expected, they came up with nothing. The men had disappeared. Except that several witnesses gave sketchy descriptions of his four assailants. They were Arabs, down from the north, known to be associated with the slave trade.

There was little else to be done. He retreated to his cabin and began writing. The letter was formal, regretful, succinct. It explained that Midshipman John Crawford had been killed by men presumed to be Arab slavers, after he’d gone ashore at Freetown. His pockets had been empty when his body was recovered, so it appeared to have been a straightforward theft. The perpetrators were unlikely ever to be found.

The letter closed with assurances of sympathy and respect. It went aboard the next fast packet bound for England. Eleven days later, it reached London. The Admiralty forwarded it to a small rectory in Hampshire, and John’s parents opened it together, read it, and read it again.

They didn’t speak for a long time. John had been their eldest son, and they’d scrimped and scraped every spare penny to purchase his commission. They sacrificed everything so that he might wear a fine uniform, wear a fine bicorn hat, carry an officer’s sword and make something of himself. They even bought him the finest telescope they could find. A Naval officer’s telescope.

Now he was dead. The magnificent uniform, complete with bicorn and sword, had been for nothing. His precious telescope was gone. His body left in the dirt in some foreign back alley. Their grief was beyond words, shared by their other son. Two years younger, Henry Crawford, who was studying in his final year at London University.

They spoke to him at length and implored him not to follow his brother into the Royal Navy. They begged him to remain at home, to choose a safer path. They couldn’t endure receiving another letter like the one the Admiralty had sent. Henry listened to their plea carefully. He understood their fear, and he shared their grief, for he’d worshipped his older brother.

He bided his time until he’d graduated before he outlined his plan for a future career. “I have no intention of joining the Royal Navy,” he assured them. They sighed in relief, but that relief was short lived, “I plan to take a commission in the Royal Marines.”

“But why?” they asked in dismay.

“I intend to apply for a position on a ship sailing with the West Africa Squadron. They’re putting an end to the practice of slavery, an evil that blights the coast of West Africa. Should I find them, I have vowed to kill the men who murdered my brother John.”

* * *

Now in the service of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, Henry Crawford stood at the after rail and watched the sun peering over the horizon. Dawn off the West African coast came fast, burning away the dark, forbidding night. The heat followed immediately, intense heat, settling on wool and leather, even on a man’s brain.

He wore the red coat of a private of a Royal Marine. Scarlet wool, lined and stiffened, cut close at the waist and flaring just at the skirts to clear his thighs when he moved. In England it would have been warm. Off the African coast it was an oven. Sweat soaked into his linen shirt and darkened the wool under his armpits.

White crossbelts bit into his shoulders, pipe-clayed to a blinding brightness. One supported his cartridge box, the other his stiff leather bayonet frog. As if to worsen his uncomfortable uniform, he wore the prescribed shako.

A tall, cylindrical military hat made from stiffened black felt or leather. It tapered slightly toward the top and rose several inches above the head, giving Marines a taller and more imposing appearance. A polished brass plate fixed to the front displayed the fouled anchor insignia of the Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. A short leather peak projected forward to shade the eyes, while a black chin strap secured the hat beneath the jaw.

It sat square on his head, black felt already fading under the sun, the brass badge too hot to touch by midday. A necessary part of the uniform of a Royal Marine private. Utterly indifferent to comfort. It sat well enough on him, properly cut and clean, but it wasn’t what he’d deliberately chosen, except he had no choice in the matter.

Because he was an educated man, he was frequently treated with hostility and suspicion by his fellow Marines, and with disdain by most officers. Known as ‘Harry’ to his friends, there was a steadiness in his clear, gray eyes that some men found unsettling.

Under normal circumstances he would have held a commission as a second lieutenant. But circumstances didn’t give a damn about what was normal. In order to take up a post on a ship of the West Africa Squadron, he’d had no choice but to enlist as what was known as a ‘gentleman ranker,’ until such time as a vacancy for an officer arose.

Some men found serving alongside an educated man unsettling. A man who could read and write Latin and Greek, calculate complicated mathematics, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of philosophy. He could read orders without moving his lips and write a clear hand without blot or flourish.

Crawford endured it all with a resolute stoicism. This wasn’t the career he’d planned. It was the career fate had chosen for him when the news of his brother’s murder at the brutal hands of slavers, visiting Freetown where they were rich pickings for men who had no compunction in murdering a man to pillage his valuables.

The sloop he’d been assigned to was small and that meant a detachment of twenty-four Royal Marines. The detachment already had an officer in command, Second Lieutenant Mosley. Which meant there were no vacancies for further officers. No slot for an extra gentleman, however educated or capable. They’d offered Crawford a choice that was not really a choice at all. Wait indefinitely for a commission that might never come. The alternative was to take the King’s shilling and go into the ranks. He’d gone into the ranks.

Chapter One

For ten days the fragile winds had pulled the dhow along a winding track far out at sea. East, then south, then east again. They’d stayed clear of the coasts where they would run the risk of encountering the Royal Navy. Men like Mohammed Hassan were enraged. The ocean should have meant space and freedom for merchants to ply their trade any way they wished. The way they used to, buying slaves from inland tribes, and sailing them on to slave markets like those in Zanzibar. The Royal Navy had turned their lucrative business into a nightmare.

They began anti-slavery patrols off the coast of Africa in 1808, amassing warships under the banner of the West Africa Squadron. It happened when Britain outlawed the Atlantic slave trade in 1807, and they’d entrusted the Royal Navy to enforce the ban. These Christians were interfering with the livelihoods of honest slave traders, most, like him, devout Muslims.

Below the deck beams, the air was hot and stifling. Forty-five souls lay packed into a space meant for cargo. Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, wrists shackled with iron and rope. Chains linked them together in pairs, biting into their skin every time the dhow rolled. They had no room to turn without dragging their neighbor with them. No room to sit up straight. No room to weep.

They’d numbered sixty when the vessel first took them aboard. The first deaths came quickly when bodies simply gave up the will to live, unable to endure the terrible thirst and heat. A woman had stopped moving in the middle of the night. No one noticed at first. The boy lying beside her finally realized she wasn’t breathing, and he tried to pull away, but the chain bound him to her. He spent hours pressed against her cooling flesh, waiting until a guard opened the hatch at dawn and kicked his way into the fetid space.

It was a regular morning ritual. The hatch would open, and light would pour into the darkness. The men above would shout in a language they didn’t understand, and a guard would climb down, cracking a whip to force them to make space where there was none. Many of the living were too weak to move. They’d crawl about the dead, dragging them by their ankles over the bodies of the living, leaving streaks of waste and blood along skin already rubbed raw. They watched and said nothing.

On deck, the corpses would lie for a moment in the sunlight, their faces slack, their mouths open as if still trying to speak. To protest their fate. Then a man would lift them under the arms, another would take the legs, and without ceremony they would heave them over the side.

A splash. A brief churn of white foam. And then the ocean would close again as if nothing had happened. On the tenth morning, the living numbered forty-five. The man who owned the ship and ran the operation spoke of them as if they were sacks of maize or bales of cloth. He stood near the rail and watched the last body slide into the water. He wasn’t a large man, but he carried himself with the tight, controlled posture of a man who was always wary, always on his guard. His robe was clean compared to the sailors’, the cloth bleached by sun and salt but cleaned and mended with care. A curved dagger sat at his waist, its hilt richly decorated. The stranger could mistake it for an affectation, almost a piece of jewelry. Until they looked at his eyes.

His name was Mohammed Hassan, a man who hailed from a coastal trading town where everything had a price. He spoke Arabic with the clipped, guttural precision of a man who required to be understood the first time. His men feared him, not because he shouted, but because he had no need to shout.

He was lean to the point of gauntness, his skin the color of burnished teak. Yet despite his slight build, his muscles were like spring steel, and he moved with the controlled economy of an apex predator.

His face was hawklike, with high cheekbones and thin lips twisted into an almost permanent scowl. His jaw was shadowed by a black beard threaded prematurely with iron gray. A thin scar ran from the corner of his left eye down toward his cheek, a reminder of a previous violent episode. His hooked nose was flattened at the bridge, as though once broken and left to heal badly.

It was his eyes that unsettled most men. They were dark, almost black, set deep beneath heavy brows. When he looked at a man, he looked for weakness. When he looked at a captive, he saw profit or loss.

Hassan stared at the churning water where the last body had disappeared, a flush of anger spreading over his face. “Ten days,” he growled in anger, “Ten days and they die like landed fish left out to dry in the sun.”

Men moved warily when he was angry. A crewman shifted uneasily beside him. An older man, his beard threaded with gray, his skin leathered by years of sun, sea and wind. He kept his eyes down when he spoke to the Captain of the dhow. “They were already half dead when they came to us.”

He gave him an evil look that made the man wince. “Do not defend them. What about my profit?”

He’d chosen the roundabout route for Bissau, the bustling slave market and embarkation port for the Americas, with good reason. The Royal Navy.

Rumors traveled quicker than the fastest ships. Rumors of British ships that prowled like wolves, captains who claimed their actions were righteous before confiscating and taking away a man’s livelihood. Men said the British had increased the numbers of ships they’d stationed off the African coast to choke the trade, that their officers were eager for seizures and glory. He knew enough to respect the danger. He’d stayed far out to sea, away from villages, away from patrols, away from anyone who might see a suspicious, overladen dhow.

But the route had cost him dear. Water ran low. Food ran low. And below decks, his ‘cargo’ was dwindling like spilled and rotting grain. Dead slaves were a savage loss, pure and simple. Each body tossed to the sharks was like throwing coin overboard.

He’d calculated that he could still reach his destination, still make Bissau, and deliver what remained to the market. But not if the death rate continued to climb. He needed them to stay alive long enough to be sold. He needed them to stand, their eyes clear enough to look valuable to a prospective buyer.

Which meant he’d have to feed them. He walked across the deck, stepping around coils of rope and the ankles of sailors sprawling in the shade. He stopped near the hatch and looked through the grating down into the darkness. The smell hit him like a wave. Human waste, sweat, sickness, and the sour, hopeless stench of too many bodies trapped in a cramped space with too little air. Even he, who prided himself on his toughness and resilience, paused. Not from pity but from the simple human instinct to recoil.

A guard stood nearby, a young man with a musket slung over his shoulder.

“You.”

He straightened. “Yes, master.”

“Open it.”

He hesitated, only for a heartbeat, then slid aside the hatch, and the wood groaned. Light spilled into the hold below, and a peculiar sound rose from the darkness. Not a cheer. Not a cry. Something between, a collective, ragged intake of breath, as if the captives had forgotten what fresh air smelled like and were trying to suck it down in one desperate, despairing gulp.

They stared up at him from the dark. Faces slick with sweat. Eyes bright with fever. Lips cracked. Some had sores where the chains had rubbed the skin away. A few were too weak even to lift their heads.

He saw a young girl pressed between two older women, her cheeks hollow. He saw a man with wrists swollen around the iron, his gaze a fixed stare as if he’d already left his body. He saw a child, perhaps eight or nine.

“They need water,” he said to the man guarding the hold, “Don’t give them too much. Just enough to keep them from dying before we reach land.”

He nodded to a man who waited nearby and hurried away. He was the first mate, named Yusuf Mansour. Built like a dockside piling, he had thick shoulders and chest as big as a barrel, with arms corded from years hauling lines and wrestling sails in foul weather. He carried his bulk solidly, not fat but dense muscle. He was a man accustomed to hard physical work and harder discipline. His hands were heavy and square, scarred across the knuckles.

Hassan straightened and waved to a crewman, a thick-necked man named Ali who’d sailed with him from the start.

“Order the helmsman to turn east,” he said.

Ali blinked in surprise. “East? We could run into Royal Navy patrols.”

“Yes.”

“But…if a British ship should spot us…?”

“Do you see a British ship?” he snapped.

He swallowed and stared across the sea. “No, master.”

“Stop fearing ghosts and listen. We will not steer for Bissau. Instead, we’ll make landfall somewhere remote and find a village close to the shore, where we can buy food and water. If the locals refuse to sell it to us, we’ll take what we need. Whatever happens, we keep our captives alive. Dead bodies are worthless.”

The man nodded and moved to obey. The dhow’s sail shifted slightly as the helmsman adjusted the course to due east. The bow began to swing, the vessel creaking as if reluctant to abandon the safety of open water. The sea was calm, but the atmosphere felt tense, as though it knew they were turning toward risk.

Below deck, the captives sensed the change without understanding it. They felt the changing angle of the ship, the subtle shift in sound, the way the hull leaned as it cut the water. In the dark, someone whispered a prayer. Some listened, but too exhausted to join in. Some were at the limits of their endurance, and their prayers were for an early death.

* * *

Ten days earlier, their journey had begun on land, with shouting, with the crack of clubs against skin, with the sudden eruption of violence. A nearby tribe, rivals, raiders, men driven by need or greed, had come in the night. They’d dragged them from homes, and some had fought. Some had run, but most had been caught. Hands tied. Necks roped. Forced to walk until their feet bled.

They hadn’t known what was happening at first. All they’d known was fear. They’d been marched to the coast. At a place where palm trees leaned over sand and the air smelled of salt, they’d been kept penned in a crude stockade under the sun. They’d been given almost nothing to eat, barely any water. Those who begged were beaten with sticks. Those who collapsed were dragged by their arms like sacks of grain. The strongest were forced to stand erect, forced to look presentable, forced to look like they were ‘worth something.’

He’d negotiated with their captors. Inspected teeth. Squeezed shoulders. Checked wrists for strength. Treating them as commodities to be traded.

Coin changed hands. The captives changed owners. Then the chains appeared. Heavy iron, the clink of metal the sound of their future. The captives were herded into a boat and sailors rowed toward a dhow, anchored offshore. Some had screamed when they finally understood their fate. A journey to a slave market further along the coast, where they’d be sold on and packed with hundreds of others into fast ships for the long journey across the Atlantic. Many would never arrive.

Some tried to throw themselves into the sea rather than board the dhow. They’d been beaten and tossed into the hold like dead weight. Once at sea, the suffering became worse. The hold was a furnace. The air grew foul within hours. Water was rationed to almost nothing. There was no food, not because Hassan couldn’t spare it, but because he believed hunger kept people weak, and weakness kept them docile. When men begged for water, guards answered with blows or laughter.

They learned to breathe shallowly. They learned to close their eyes and escape into memory, because memory was the only place that chains couldn’t reach. And every morning the hatch opened, and the bodies were taken away.

Hassan watched as the coastline slowly began to sharpen. Land meant supplies, but it also meant other danger. Fishermen. Traders, people who might report them to the authorities in return for a miserly reward. A dhow lying too low in the water, and whose crew looked too armed would mean the prospect of money. Too tempting for many of the locals.

He imagined a British warship’s tall masts rising over the horizon, sails full and guns run out. He imagined officers with spyglasses, pointed his way. He imagined the boarding party, British sailors, disciplined, armed, unafraid. Eager for prize money.

He spat over the side. “This is my ship,” he muttered to himself, “I will not let them take it. They can try, but I will kill every man who climbs over that rail.”

But the words tasted thin in his mouth. The ship belonged to whoever could take it. As the afternoon wore on, the dhow came closer to shore. The air changed, carrying the faint, earthy smell of vegetation. Birds appeared, wheeling overhead. The sailors grew quieter, their eyes constantly scanning for the first sign of a Royal Navy warship.

He ordered the crew to give the captives a little more water and pass a handful of dried food down into the hold. Yet the cries that rose were not of joy but of desperation. Hands reaching out, bodies straining, people fighting weakly over crumbs.

He listened without expression. They were not people. To think of them as people would require him to see himself as something other than a devout Muslim. After all, Sharia law permitted slavery. True, the texts advised the slave owner to treat them as well as possible, that was just a guideline. Wasn’t giving them a little food and water sufficient proof that he was treating them well?

Night came. The coast lay nearer now, a dark shape against the starlit sky. The dhow cut through the water slowly, while they swept for a place to land without being seen. The men on deck kept their weapons close.

He moved to the grating over the hold where the captives lay still, sucking in air with shallow, ragged breaths. A woman sang softly, a lullaby, perhaps, though the words were faint. The child who’d watched the morning’s body tossed overboard stared into the darkness, eyes open, refusing to sleep as if sleep might be another kind of death.

He stood at the rail and looked toward the shore. It was a risk sailing east and look for a coastal village for supplies of food and water, but he had little alternative. If he continued on his present course to Bissau, more would die. Without food and water to keep them alive, he could see his profit dwindle to nothing. If he continued on the current heading, he risked an encounter with the Royal Navy.

He dreaded meeting a warship, the puff of smoke and the thunder of the cannon when they fired a warning shot ordering him to heave to. He wasn’t afraid of fighting. He was afraid of losing everything, his ship, his power, everything.

Below deck, a man began to cough. Deep, wet, choking coughs. Others shifted around him as much as the chains allowed. The coughing worsened, then there was silence. In the morning there would be another body.

* * *

Private Henry Crawford of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines again watched the sun rise. Dawn off the West African coast came fast and bright, burning away the dark, forbidding night. The heat followed immediately, intense heat, settling on wool and leather, on skin and on the man’s brain. Sometimes he believed he may’ve made the biggest mistake of his life.

The uniform sat well enough on him, properly cut and clean, but it wasn’t what he’d chosen. An educated man, he had received a good education at a well-regarded public school in Winchester, and then on to university. He’d excelled in sport on the rugby field, and on the running track. He’d also applied himself to fencing, at which he’d only acquired moderate skills, and to pugilism, and which his skills were regarded as formidable for one so young. His academic work had suffered as a result of his sporting interests, but somehow, he’d managed to scrape through his examinations.

His father was disappointed when he insisted on taking up a commission in the Royal Marines after the death of his brother, and even more disappointed when the lack of a suitable post required him to enter the ranks as a ‘gentleman ranker.’ He’d soon discovered he was the lowest form of life on board, treated with hostility and suspicion by his fellow Marines, and disdain by most officers.

His first posting was to the Marine detachment serving on the twenty-four-gun Royal Navy Galatea, cruising the West African coast on anti-slavery patrol. The ship was lean, weathered, and efficient, built to chase down smaller vessels and force them to stop. Especially slave ships, since Parliament had decreed that the cruel trade had to be stopped. The work was dangerous, tedious, and unpopular, but it carried the promise of cash from the sale of the captured ships.

Although some men respected him for choosing to spend time in the ranks, most resented him, including Second Lieutenant ‘The Honorable’ Rupert Mosley, in command of the Marine detachment. Mosley was everything Crawford was not. Well connected, lightly educated, and convinced of his own importance. He wore his rank like an ornament rather than a responsibility, regarding the men under his command as useful tools at best and lazy ruffians at worst.

Crawford offended him simply by breathing. A private soldier with a gentleman’s accent and bearing was an insult that Mosley couldn’t bring himself to forgive. Worse, Crawford’s obvious knowledge and capability reminded him that commissions were not always a measure of merit. He dealt with it by ignoring him whenever possible, and by shutting him down whenever he spoke.

The Corporal of the detachment, Samuel Baker, disliked Crawford for different reasons. He was a big man, heavily muscled with a broken nose that had healed badly. He happened to have a fondness for solving problems with his fists. They could believe discipline was something he had to beat into the men, and he enjoyed the work. Education, in his mind, was a form of weakness. A man who could read books but not take a punch was no man at all. Yet he was wary of Crawford, wary of his knowledge and influence, and so far, he’d stop short of physical abuse.

Instead, he frequently bullied him, assigned him the worst duties when it pleased him, and took particular satisfaction in correcting him loudly in front of others. Crawford endured it all with a restraint that only sharpened Baker’s dislike. The Corporal was nothing but a bully who constantly abused his power.

It was late morning when the lookout sang out, “Sail ho.”

Crawford was on deck with the rest of the men, cleaning equipment under Baker’s critical eye. He looked up at once, shading his eyes. Off the starboard bow, low against the glare of the sea, a dhow was visible. She rode heavy in the water, a sign she was loaded with slaves. Mosley arrived at the rail, his spyglass raised. He watched for a long moment, then lowered the glass with a disparaging sneer.

“More than likely it’s a merchant vessel, carrying sacks of maize. Not worth wasting our time.”

The Captain, Master and Commander Edward Ashcombe, didn’t spare him a glance. He didn’t suffer fools gladly, and Second Lieutenant Mosley was one such man. In his early forties, Ashcombe’s build was imposing. He ran his ship with iron discipline, his orders precise, economical, never hurried. He carried authority the way other men carried weapons.

His face, framed by bushy side whiskers, was long and weathered by salt, wind, and equatorial sun. The corners of his eyes were set in a permanent squint from staring at distant horizons. Discipline radiated from him like heat from a fire.

“We’ll take a closer look. First Lieutenant, fire a shot across the bow. Mr. Mosley, order your Marines to stand by.”

The Captain ordered the helmsman to alter course, and the gunner ran out a single gun. It skipped across the dhow’s bows before vanishing into the swell. The message was unmistakable. ‘Stop or we sink you.’ The dhow dropped.

Mosley didn’t look happy, but he had no choice but to obey the order. “We’ll row over and see what kind of cargo these people are carrying. It’s probably a few sacks of maize, a complete waste of our time, but the Captain insisted.”

Corporal Baker, the senior enlisted man, shouted for them to launch the longboat, and he gave Mosley a sly smile. “Lieutenant, if they’re carrying an illegal cargo, like slaves, we could take the ship as a prize.”

He gave him a haughty look. “Yes, that is a possibility. The largest share for the officers, as usual, but there may be enough left to divide among the men.”

“Yes, Sir.” He turned back to the Marines, who were struggling to launch the heavy boat. He strode toward them, spitting curses, and lashing out with the length of knotted, tarred rope he carried to chastise the men when their performance failed to satisfy him.

He was built like a battering ram. His arms corded with muscle and his hands large, the knuckles permanently swollen from years of fighting and administering punishments. His face was blunt and weather-beaten, with a broken nose and a jaw square as the end of an oak plank. A permanent stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his small, deep-set eyes were frequently narrowed in suspicion. Or contempt. When he sneered, his upper lip curled to reveal brown, uneven teeth.

He ruled by intimidation, using his size and rank to cow the Marines into obedience. Yet on occasion, he could display a tough competence should he choose. Most often he didn’t choose. A good man as an ally, and a bad man as an enemy.

They finally managed to lower the longboat into the sea, and he shouted at them to take the oars. There were going into action, and Crawford felt a tightening in his chest. The dhow rode very low in the water, probably loaded with slaves. Another clue was the powerful odor that drifted across from the other vessel. A sickly, foul stench. Hard to mistake for anything other than human cargo.

* * *

Mahmud Rahman, the skipper of the dhow, had prayed to the Prophet to spare them, but he wasn’t listening. A small cannon fired from the warship, the universal signal to heave to, and he had no choice if he didn’t want to be blown out of the water.

Yet all wasn’t lost. His gaze slid to the shape lying beneath an innocent-looking tarp, and he raised his voice to make sure his crew understood what to do when the Royal Navy came alongside. “We do not allow ourselves to be taken. If they try to board, use the cannon.”

Several shifted uncomfortably, as if feeling a sudden chill. They knew what lay beneath the tarp, they’d helped load it aboard and cover it with the canvas top. On several occasions they’d seen Mansour inspect it with a fervent, almost loving expression.

It was a desperation measure, and if they had to use it, the vessel would erupt in violence. Yet making money sometimes required extreme violence. Not a problem, if you ended up on the winning side. Against a Royal Navy sloop bristling with cannon, they weren’t so sure.

Rahman walked to the tarp and placed a hand on it. Felt around the solid, unforgiving iron of the barrel and the heavy woodwork of the carriage. The dhow’s deck was narrow, so there wasn’t much space for such a weapon. Anyone who boarded, expecting a helpless trader, would find something else waiting. Death.

Mansour regarded his crew. Some were hardened fighters, well used to violence, although the Royal Navy was something else. Others were younger, new to the sea and new to carrying slaves, still uncertain about their chosen path. All were armed with an assortment of muskets, pistols, long knives, and clubs. A few had positioned spears near the rail to use to repel any attempt to board their vessel.

Rahman watched the longboat pulling strongly toward them, and he smiled. A half-dozen bursts of grapeshot from the deck cannon would be enough to blast them into bloody ruin.

With several minutes to go before the boat arrived alongside, he glanced around at his preparations. His crew didn’t look like soldiers, they looked what they were. The scum of the earth. Men prepared to maim and kill to defend what was theirs, ready to strike out hard at anything that threatened their livelihoods.

“You know what to do,” he bellowed, “Any man who tries to board dies. Until then, stay out of sight. When they come, we’ll give them the biggest surprise of their lives. And the last surprise of their lives.”

* * *

As the longboat got closer, he noticed that something didn’t seem right. The deck should be crowded with sailors, so where were they? He felt a sense of outrage that human beings could be chained in the hold, kidnapped from their homes to be transported across the Atlantic.

It was more than a good Christian could bear. He recalled that part of the Bible that specifically forbid such an evil practice. He recalled the church aisle full of people who could never imagine that this horror existed, and the priest banging his fist on the edge of the pulpit as he thundered out a text from Exodus. Crawford had never forgotten:

‘Whoever steals a man and sells him, and anyone found in possession of him, shall be put to death.’

Which was as it should be. He leaned toward Mosley, seated at the tiller. “Sir,” he said quietly, “I believe this ship is carrying slaves, and the crew could be armed. With respect, perhaps we should proceed with the utmost caution. There are no crewmen on the deck, except for the helmsman. What if they’re in hiding, preparing an ambush?”

Mosley didn’t look at him. “Be silent, Private,” he growled, “I don’t take advice from private soldiers.”

Baker, in the bow, snorted with laughter. The dhow loomed above them, its rail higher than expected, and they tossed up ropes with grappling hooks to secure them to the rail. The Marines began hauling themselves up, muskets slung, boots scraping against the hull. Crawford was halfway up when the world exploded.

Muskets appeared over the side. There was no warning, just the crash as a score of muskets fired. Smoke billowed. Men screamed. One Marine pitched backward into the boat, blood spraying from his chest. Another took a ball in the leg and collapsed, howling.

Mosley was halfway up to the deck when he froze at the sight of the muskets, panic flooding his face. “Back,” he shouted, “Get back to the longboat. Row back to the ship.”

He tried to descend, shaking with terror, but more muskets cracked out, and he jerked as if struck by a hammer. The sword he was carrying flew into the air and spun several times, the blade flashing in the sunshine. Then he folded, sliding down the rope and dropping heavily into the boat where he lay still. A dark stain was spreading across his back. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Baker found his voice first. “Get back in the boat. Back, you miserable scum. Row away.”

The Marines hesitated, frozen in shock and fear. Crawford didn’t freeze. He’d fired his musket at a slaver about to shoot one of the men, thrown out an arm, and snatched the sword out of the air. By sheer luck his hand grasped the hilt. He hauled himself the rest of the way up, swung a leg over the rail, and landed hard on the deck. Tossed aside his empty musket and swept the sword at a slaver aiming a flintlock pistol at his belly. He brought up the sword and slashed it across the man’s face. He reeled back, but Crawford wasn’t finished. He stepped forward, put the point of the sword deep into his belly, twisted it to finish him and looked for the next enemy.

His fellow Marines were hesitating, not sure whether to join the fight or obey Corporal Baker’s order and run. He shouted. “All of you, with me. Now.”

His voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. Two Marines reacted, rushing forward with bayonets fixed. Then three more. A slaver fired at point-blank range and missed. Crawford seized the barrel, wrenched it aside, and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest. They went down together.

Baker was still shouting. “Get back to the boat. That’s an order.”

If he wanted to go back, he was welcome. Crawford was staying. He managed to assemble eight men on the deck and shouted, “Forward! We’ve got them beaten. Seize the deck.”

They surged forward, all hesitation forgotten, caught up in the fury of the moment. They fired their muskets, and steel bayonets gleamed red. The slavers fought hard; aware they faced death by hanging if they lost the fight, but the Marines were unstoppable. Minutes before they’d been frightened men looking for a retreat, but triumph had replaced fear.

Crawford fought like a demon. It felt as if the sword had come alive in his hand, yet he almost died. The rest of the men almost died. An Arab was pulling a tarp from a bulky shape on the deck, and when he’d pulled it away, Harry was staring at a cannon. Not a smaller Saker. It looked huge, maybe a twenty-pounder. On such a small vessel he guessed it would do as much damage to whatever it fired at, but he also guessed they were aware of the danger, and they’d use a smaller charge of gunpowder. The smaller charge wouldn’t be effective if they used iron cannon balls, but the alternative horrified him.

The cannon was squat on the dhow’s deck, its short, thick barrel trained toward the rail where the Marines were scrambling aboard. It wasn’t a naval gun meant for long-range ship to ship actions. This was a butcher’s tool, intended for short-range. Instead of an iron ball they’d have packed it with nails, jagged chunks of scrap iron, anything that would turn into flying death at close-range. If it fired, the boarding party would cease to exist. And he had another thought as he prepared to hurl himself forward.

If that gun fires, those poor devils in the hold could well die nameless in chains.

There was no time to shout a warning. No time to think, and he moved. Broke into a run toward the cannon’s mouth, boots hammering on the planks, lungs burning with superhuman effort. Somewhere behind him a Marine yelled his name. It sounded like a warning, but he ignored it. The guy was crouched at the breech, and in his hand burned a lighted taper, the flame small but deadly, wavering in the wind as he leaned in toward the touch hole.

His world narrowed to that single flame. The gunner grinned when he saw Crawford coming toward him, as if amused by the madness of this red-coated fool. He raised the taper, savoring the moment, savoring the knowledge that one touch and the deck would become a slaughterhouse.

Crawford hurled himself forward. A musket shot cracked past his ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. A second musket ball splintered wood at his feet. He did not slow. He flung his musket aside so it wouldn’t get in the way and launched himself headlong at the gunner.

They collided hard, and the taper flew from the man’s hand, spinning end over end, sparks trailing as it struck the deck and rolled toward the cannon. Crawford roared an angry challenge and slammed his shoulder into the gunner’s chest, driving him backward. They went down together in a tangle of limbs, the slaver’s head cracking against the planks with a sound like breaking fruit.

But he was still fighting. He clawed for a long, curved knife at his belt. Crawford grabbed his wrist and smashed it down again and again against the deck until the grip loosened. The knife skittered away, and the gunner snarled and turned his head, teeth bared, trying to bite his face. He felt skin split, tasted blood, and answered with his fist.

Once. Twice. Again, and again. There was no elegance in his technique. Just fury in the knowledge that if he stopped, even for an instant, the men behind him would die. He hammered the man’s face until the resistance faltered, the snarl became a wet gurgle, and the body went slack beneath him. He shoved it aside and scrambled to his knees.

The taper lay on the iron barrel, inches from the touch hole. Smoke curled from it, and the flame guttered, but it didn’t die. The vessel was rocking from side to side, making it difficult to snatch it away, so he slapped at it with his bare hand, pain flaring white as the fire burned his skin. The flame flared brighter, fed by the breeze, and he cursed and smashed his palm down again, grinding it against the flame until it finally vanished with a hiss.

For a fraction of a second, everything was still. He sagged back on his heels, chest heaving, staring at the silent cannon as if it might yet come alive. His hand throbbed, thick with red weals and blisters. Blood ran freely from where the slaver had bitten him and dripped onto the planks.

A Marine stumbled past him, bayonet fixed, driving a slaver back toward the rail. Another fired point-blank into a man rushing with a blade held high. Shouts echoed across the deck, sharp and desperate. Smoke stung Crawford’s eyes. It wasn’t over, and he got to his feet, swaying. Someone lunged at him with a dagger. He turned just in time to catch the man with a short, brutal punch to the throat. The slaver went down, clawing at his neck, gasping like a landed fish.

“Gun’s safe,” he shouted, his voice raw, “Keep going forward. We can’t slacken until we’ve taken them all.”

His shout seemed to steady the Marines. More men surged forward, emboldened by the knowledge the worst danger had been dealt with. Steel rang, men fell, and slowly, the slavers’ resistance began to collapse. He leaned against the barrel of the cannon to catch a breath. Up close, he could see he’d been right about how they’d loaded it. Scrap metal rammed down the barrel, tamped down with old rags. It’d been a close-run thing, and he’d been close to death. He closed his eyes, feeling his stomach churn, and he staggered and swayed, putting a hand on the barrel to steady himself.

A shadow fell across him. He looked up to see one of the Marines staring at him, eyes wide, face so smeared with soot and blood he didn’t recognize him. “Harry,” he said, “You crazy fool, you ran straight at it. Man, you were lucky.”

Crawford swallowed. His throat hurt, everything hurt.

“There wasn’t time to do anything else.”

The Marine shook his head, as if trying to make sense of it, then he straightened and moved off to tackle another enemy brandishing a long, curved scimitar. He pushed himself away from the cannon and surveyed the deck. Bodies soaked in blood were scattered everywhere. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmingly tired.

Some men would describe what he’d done as bravery. Some would call it madness. He only knew that when he saw the flame, it wasn’t a matter of choice. There’d been only one action an honorable Englishman could take.

Although the deck was a charnel house of smoke and blood, it wasn’t over. He cut and thrust his way through more men when he confronted a heavily muscled man with one eye missing. Lack of an eye didn’t lessen his fighting strength, and he came at Harry, slashing with a huge, heavy cutlass. It took every ounce of his fencing skills to parry the blows, and sometimes he only just managed to dodge aside when a slashing cut threatened to take off his arm.

The heavy cutlass savagely beat down the blade of the 1822 Infantry Pattern Officer’s Sword, and he felt his hand going numb from the repeated blows, but suddenly the man lost patience and delivered a powerful, slashing cut that drove his sword aside. Instead of following up with another cut, he used his fists. Hammered at him with his left fist, and hammered at him with his right fist, still clenched around the hilt of the cutlass.

He’d made a mistake. Harry had studied fencing enough to make him an average swordsman, but no better than average, and no match for this savage Arab. Average didn’t describe his ability as a pugilist. As the man came in close, he also kept hold of the hilt of his sword but used his fists. He’d taken his pugilism lessons seriously. Learned everything there was to learn, and he began to inflict withering punishment on his unwitting opponent.

Size and power were no match for Harry’s lightning moves, his nimble, expert footwork and the precise punches he landed took a heavy toll. His face was a mass of blood, his arms weakened after receiving so many blows at his muscles, blows calculated to reduce his fighting ability. He weakened so much he began to edge back, and Harry took the opportunity to finish it. Three vicious uppercuts, and as he reeled clutching his belly, he stepped in and delivered a vicious flurry of punches to the head. Hit him again and again, until at last, he fell on his back, hitting the deck with a crash and lay still.

The surviving slavers threw down their weapons. Crawford watched from the poop deck, chest heaving, still clutching Mosley’s sword, scarcely aware of the blood running down his sleeve from a shallow cut he hadn’t even been aware of.

Unconsciously, the men looked to him for leadership. “Secure them,” he ordered, “Then open the hatch. See what’s below.”

They forced the hatch open and down into the hold. The noise that rose from below the deck was raw, visceral. Men and women, even children, chained in the darkness, staring up at daylight through dull eyes, disbelief etched into their hollow faces. The stench was appalling.

They’d fastened the chains too tightly on some, and he saw one man with his forearm swollen by infection to twice its normal size. Even amidst the rest of the vile stench, he detected the first whiff of gangrene. The forearm would have to come off, if he was unlucky all of the arm, leaving him a cripple. Provided he survived the infection and the amputation.

He was shaking his head in disbelief.

Men did this. They chose this evil trade, and it has to be stopped.

“Take it easy,” he shouted down to huddled mass, keeping his voice gentle. Not sure whether they understood, and for one mad moment he considered trying Latin or Greek, before he dismissed the idea, “You’re safe now.”

He told four of his Marines to climb back into the longboat. “Row to the sloop and tell Captain Ashcombe what has happened here. Ask him for orders.”

They started for the rail, but before they reached it Corporal Baker’s voice roared across the deck. “You don’t give orders here, Crawford. I’m in command, so fall in with the men and get ready to go back to the ship.” He gave him an evil look, “What’re you doing with that sword? That’s an officer’s sword. It belonged to Second Lieutenant Mosley. I’ll take it. Give it to me, now.”

He paused, thinking hard. He knew that technically, Baker, a corporal, outranked him. But he’d tried to run, turned his back on the enemy, an act of cowardice. Anger stirred inside him. He’d put up with Baker’s continual abuse and petty punishments for too long, believing that the Corporal was an experienced Marine, and discipline required him to accept it all without protest. No longer.

“No.”

“No!” His brutal, scarred face glared at him, and most men would’ve been intimidated by that glare, “You know the penalty for disobedience! Hand me the sword!”

“No, Corporal. I will personally hand it to Captain Ashcombe when we return to the ship. Not before. Like you said, it’s an officer’s sword, and I feel it is my duty to only pass it to an officer.”

He glowered, his face red with fury, but he had nothing more to say. The longboat returned within the hour, this time carrying First Lieutenant Smythe. Second-in-command to Captain Ashcombe, Smythe was responsible for the day-to-day running of the ship. Elegant as ever, even seated in a longboat on a pitching sea. He was fastidious about keeping his uniform immaculate, buttons polished to a dull gleam, and his boots spotless. Smythe was the perfect First Officer, regulation and routine in human form. A man who shielded his captain from smaller concerns.

He took in the scene at a glance, his expression shifting from surprise to something that looked more like approval.

“The Captain sends his congratulations,” he said, looking directly at Crawford, “And you have new orders.” Crawford straightened instinctively.

“The Marine detachment now has a vacancy for an officer, and he believes you’ve earned it. You are promoted, effective immediately,” the Lieutenant continued, “You are now an officer, a second lieutenant. The Captain ordered me to take command of this vessel, and these men will assist to sailing her. You will remain aboard this ship with your Marines and sail her to the nearest friendly port.”

He paused, then allowed himself a small smile. “Congratulations, Second Lieutenant Crawford.” The smile widened, “Well done, Harry.”

He threw up a salute.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Behind him, the men worked to free the captives, attacking the chains with hammers and chisels. One by one they climbed to the deck, bemused at finding themselves free. Harry Crawford could hardly believe what’d happened in a short time. It felt like minutes since they’d rowed away from the Galatea to investigate the dhow. He left the ship as a humble private soldier, and now he was an officer, a Second Lieutenant. He couldn’t suppress a smile. Ahead of him lay a future he hadn’t expected. A future that promised action and adventure. Prize money, and the deep satisfaction of knowing he’d made a small contribution to ending the travesty of trading in slaves. In human lives.

He was in such a daze he barely heard the First Lieutenant speak. “Sir, I’m sorry, what was that you said?”

“I said you can keep the sword.” He smiled, “It’s an officer’s sword.”

Chapter Two

The captured dhow moved under a new command. The Royal Navy sailors were professional hands, and they treated her like she was just another of Her Majesty’s ships. They shook out the lateen sail, adjusted the yard, and trimmed it until the dhow began to slide through the swells with renewed purpose. Bringing to the vessel a competence it’d never experienced from its former owner.

Crawford stood near the foredeck and watched them work. The First Lieutenant had taken charge of navigation and seamanship, leaving Crawford to what he understood best; keeping order, keeping men alive, and keeping the deck secure.

Not all the slavers had died during the fight. Some had hidden in dark spaces below decks. They rooted them out one by one and confined them in the same dark, fetid hold where they’d once kept their captives. These were men who’d once been confident they could beat off any attempt by the Royal Navy to capture the ship and free the slaves. Now they were dazed, uncomprehending, and fearful of the fate awaiting them when they reached port. The penalty for slavery was not negotiable. Death by hanging.

When they’d first opened the hold, light and air had poured down into the rank and stinking space, and their first task had been to remove the bodies of those who succumbed to the terrible conditions. Most of the captives, gaunt, filthy, blistered from the abrasive chains, were too weak to rise at first. Stunned when sailors and Marines removed the chains, blinking at the unexpected daylight like a miracle had happened.

They helped them onto the deck, where sailors supplied them with water in careful measures. The ship’s surgeon was a warrant officer and technically an assistant surgeon, because the sloop was too small to carry a fully qualified surgeon.

He shouted a warning across the deck. “When you give them food, make sure you only allow them small quantities. Do not overfeed starving people. They’re too weak to tolerate any more, and they’d likely suffer paroxysms of agonizing pain in their bellies, and it could even kill them.”

From the poop deck he watched the poor devils slowly recovering, the light beginning to return to their eyes, and he turned when he First Lieutenant Smythe joined him after conducting a thorough survey of the lower decks.

Smythe nodded a greeting. “Have you encountered problems so far? It seems to be going well, better than expected.” He nodded down to the freed captives, “As soon as our men have attended to them and made them comfortable, we’ll get a couple of the prisoners to sweep the decks, clear away the blood.” He grimaced. “By the look of things, the decks haven’t been cleaned since the day it was launched, so it’ll be good to put that scum to work.”

He nodded. “Lieutenant, where are we headed?”

“Freetown. That’s the main reception point for freed slaves, and it’s also where they hang captured slavers. When the executions are about to take place, the locals crowd round and shout abuse, tossing mud and stones at them. Serves them right. You want to see it, it’s quite something.”

He frowned. “I think I’ll give it a miss.”

He shrugged. “It’s your choice, but while we’re in Freetown, you should think about buying yourself a new uniform. You need to look like an officer, so the men will respect you.” He thought for a moment, “Although the men on this ship saw what you did, so they have plenty of respect.”

Crawford looked at the First Lieutenant’s uniform, and it was impressive. His redcoat was of a high-quality cloth and better tailored. It was also trimmed with gold lace on the collar, cuffs, and along the front seams. Even the buttons were impressive, gilt buttons, larger than those on a soldier’s coat, with a bright finish. Lieutenant Smythe’s sported a gold epaulette on one shoulder, a visual mark of rank. He envied that coat, envied the easy authority it lent him, and he vowed to prioritize finding a military tailor when they landed.

Smythe went on to describe Freetown, a port the Galatea had docked at several times. The British colony had become the funnel for intercepted slave cargoes. A place of reception, some officers called it. A refuge, others called it. Proof that the Navy’s patrols were effective.

The sea was calm, and the dhow rode steady. The sloop kept station nearby, close enough that signal flags could be read, and guns could speak if needed. Everything was as it should be, yet pacing the deck of the dhow, he felt no peace. There were too many reminders of the fight, of the spilled blood, of the many souls chained inside the hold, close to death.

In places there were dark stains where the Arab captives had scrubbed but not erased. There were also splintered planks that bore witness to the brief, but intensive exchange of musket fire. He recalled those Arabs, the contemptible men who’d kidnapped and condemned innocent Africans to a living death. He recalled their faces, not the faces of monsters. Without their power over unarmed men who couldn’t defend themselves against them, they avoided eye contact, whimpered when a sailor struck one with a knotted rope to remind him that they created this mess, so they could work harder to clear it up.

Now they’d been captured, they were small, mean and cowardly, and he couldn’t help feeling a cold contempt for them. Yet they were beneath contempt, and well-deserved the hangman’s noose awaiting them when they reached Freetown.

He moved among his Marines. ‘His Marines,’ he reminded himself, still unable to quite believe it. Checking weapons and equipment but saying little after receiving his sudden commission. His men looked at him in different ways. The promotion had not altered his appearance, not yet, but it’d altered their relationship, and the respect in which they held him. He’d led them onto a hostile deck. He’d taken the cannon before it fired. He’d pulled them through chaos and brought them through.

One man withheld his respect, Corporal Baker, but he suspected the heavyset bully was biding his time. Right now, the new second lieutenant was riding high, but it wouldn’t last, and when he fell, he’d remind him who was the better man.

Crawford himself felt the weight of his command like a coat with pockets filled with lead weights. He’d wanted a commission, yes, but he hadn’t wanted it the way it’d come to him. Dead man’s shoes.

As the afternoon sun eased toward the west, a shadow approached him on the weather side. He turned and saw one of the freed Africans standing near the rail. The young man’s posture was subdued, as if he still expected a blow for just daring to stand upright. His wrists were raw where iron had eaten into the flesh. His shirt was little more than a rag. Yet something about him set him apart. Pride.

He met Crawford’s gaze without flinching. “Sir,” he said, in English that was accented but clear, “May I speak with you?”

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “You speak English?”

“Yes, Sir.” The man inclined his head slightly, “My name is Kofi Mbaye.”

Crawford studied him. The youth was lean with hunger and exhaustion, but there was purpose in his eyes. And what looked like a sharp intelligence.

“How old are you, Kofi?”

“I believe I am seventeen years.” He looked much older, which was no surprise. Captivity would’ve carved lines of stress into his face. He was taller than most others they’d freed. Long-limbed wiry, but hunger and suffering had stripped him to little more than bone and sinew. Yet it hadn’t broken him.

His skin was marked with faint tribal scars, patterns cut during childhood that spoke of tribal identity. On his back and wrists, he carried the marks left by rope and iron, the bruises from tightly bound chains. Despite everything he was a handsome young man, and unlike the others, his head was held high.

“I am Henry Crawford. Second Lieutenant Henry Crawford. Royal Marines.”

Kofi’s gaze flicked to his uniform. “Second Lieutenant? I didn’t know you were an officer. I thought…”

Crawford shrugged and waited. The youth looked him up and down, as if weighing him up. “I came to speak with you, Sir. To thank you.”

“You owe me nothing. I did my duty.”

Kofi shook his head in a determined gesture. “I saw you run at the big gun. If it’d fired, many men would have died.”

“It didn’t fire.”

“No,” Kofi agreed, “Because you stopped it.”

There was a pause, and they listened to the whisper of the sea along the hull. Somewhere behind them a sailor called out a correction to the course, and men tugged on ropes attached to the sails. The youth sucked in air, as if gathering courage for what he wanted to say. “Sir, I wish to help you, if you will allow it.”

Crawford frowned slightly. “Help me how?”

“In your fight against the men who took us to sell into slavery.”

Crawford’s gaze went to the slavers being escorted back into the hold after they’d scrubbed down the deck. “It was a fight, is all. Just a skirmish, and I just happened to get involved. What makes you think it’s my fight?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “Because you ran at the cannon. Men do not do that just for money. They do it because they know that their cause is right.” Kofi continued, his voice low, “My people were taken at night. Men came when we slept. They killed those who tried to fight. They burned our huts, and they tied us with chains and rope, dragging us like goats.”

Crawford held himself still, all he could do was listen. “I’m sorry.”

“They forced us to march. Many days. No food. Little water. Those who fell were beaten until they stood or were left for dead. My sister…” His voice caught, as if the word was hard to say, “I do not know where her body is.”

He swallowed, forcing the words out. “When we reached the coast, they looked at our teeth and arms.” His jaw tightened, “Then they chained us into the ship.”

Crawford recalled the hold, the stench, the faces staring up. He recalled stepping into that darkness and finding too many bodies pressed together, too little air, too much suffering. And too many already dead.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, listening to the youth’s story was like getting a dagger thrust into his chest.

“They gave us almost nothing. Not food. Not water. No fresh air. People died. Fever took some. Others died because they could not breathe.” His eyes hardened, “Every morning they threw bodies into the sea.”

He took a step closer, lowering his voice further, as if this were a private pact, “Sir, I wish to help you. I speak many tongues from the coast and inland. I hear what men say when they think you cannot understand. I can speak to people in the villages and tell you which are liars, and which are afraid. I know the name of the man who was in command, Mohammed Hassan, and his man, Yusuf Mansour. Before they put us on the ship, I saw them both kick a young boy to death. He was from my village. They do not deserve to live, and I have vowed to kill them.”

Crawford hesitated. He was aware, suddenly, of eyes on them. Sailors, Marines, freed captives. And one set of eyes bored into him most of all. Corporal Baker stood near the mainmast with two of the detachment, his expression dark. He watched Crawford and the freed African with undisguised dislike, and his fists were clenched as if he was about to strike someone. Kofi followed Crawford’s glance, saw the Corporal, and looked away as if he sensed the man’s dislike.

“I learned English from a priest. A Jesuit priest. He came to the next village with books, and he taught the children. He taught me.” He touched his chest lightly, “He baptized me, so I am a Christian.”

A shadow passed over his face.

“When they came, he tried to stop them, and they killed him. If you will let me, Sir, I will help in every way I can. Not because I want payment or food.” He glanced down at his own thin arms, then looked back up, “Because I want to help stop them.”

Crawford understood his hunger. Not the hunger of the belly, but the hunger that came after everything else was stripped away and a man was left with only one thing worth pursuing, to stop the evil slave trade. He also understood the risk of allowing such a man to remain on the ship. The Navy was an institution of rules and regulations. A freed African on the deck of a captured dhow was a complication. A freed African on the deck of a Royal Navy sloop was something else entirely.

Yet he looked at Kofi and came to a sudden realization. He felt the same way. He served the English Queen, and her Parliament had ordered the Royal Navy to sweep the seas clean of those who would traffic captured slaves from Africa across the Atlantic to the Americas. Parliament had decreed it was an evil trade, and now he’d seen it firsthand.

He made his decision. “You may stay with me until we reach Freetown. You will be under my protection and under my authority, but when I return to my ship, the HMS Galatea, it will be up to the Captain to decide whether or not you can stay.” He smiled, “Until then, you’re hired.”

Kofi’s eyes widened slightly. He drew a breath and bowed his head. Not in submission but in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Master. You will not regret this.”

Crawford lifted a hand. “No, you will not call me Master,” he said in a firm voice, “You may call Sir. Not Master, never Master.”

Kofi smiled in gratitude. “Yes, Sir.”

A harsh sound came from behind them. Baker stomped forward, his boots heavy on the planks. “Begging your pardon… Lieutenant,” he growled, and the title carried no respect, “What’s this I hear about you taking natives into the detachment? Is that the way it works? A private soldier gets himself a commission and thinks he can make the Royal Marines into a circus.”

Crawford turned slowly to face him. Baker was effectively treating the African as if he was still a captive of the slavers, beneath contempt, beneath consideration. He was little better than the slavers they’d captured on the dhow. He didn’t feel calm, but he kept his voice calm because he understood that calm made bullies uncertain. “You will treat him with respect. This man will aid us to carry out our duties.”

Baker’s lip curled. “Aid who? You?”

“The detachment, and the ship. The Royal Navy.”

Baker’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, the instinct to use his forbidding size to intimidate starting to show. “Yesterday, you were a snotty private,” he said quietly, “A man I could correct when he needed correcting.”

“Today,” Crawford replied, “I am your officer.”

The words landed like a slap. Baker looked as though he might spit out a volley of curses, might forget himself and use his fists. Then he forced his face into a mask and gave a stiff nod that was not quite a salute. “Yes…Sir,” he said, like he choked on the words.

He murmured, “You showed me up in front of a native. I’ll see you burn in hell.” So quietly Crawford could’ve missed it or misunderstood. He chose to ignore it and watched as Baker stepped back, his eyes never leaving Crawford’s face. They burned with something more than anger. They burned with humiliation.

Crawford watched him walk away. Baker wouldn’t forgive this. Men like him never did. He’d wait, as bullies always did, waiting for weakness or an opportunity. Looking for the moment when he could strike without consequences.

He turned back to Kofi. The young man stood quietly, watching, probably understanding more than Crawford would’ve liked. Understanding the shape of hostility.

“Stay close to me,” Crawford said to him, his voice low, “And keep away from that man. He could be trouble.”

He nodded. “I will.”

The dhow held her course for Freetown, sail set full, water whispering past the hull. The sloop followed like an escorting shadow. Ahead lay a British colony with its promise of safety for the freed captives and just punishment for the slavers.

Freetown rose from the West African coast, a harbor that curved inward in a wide, sheltering crescent-like shape, its deep water crowded with Royal Navy brigs, battered merchantmen, and the long, low silhouettes of captured slave ships. Many of their hulls bore scars of pursuit and resistance, and carried the smell of salt, sweat, and old fear.

The town itself climbed the hills behind the anchorage, a scatter of whitewashed stone buildings, wooden houses, and corrugated roofs set among palms and red earth. Narrow streets ran steep and uneven, choked with carts, barefoot children, soldiers in sun-faded uniforms, and freed Africans still struggling to come to terms with their rescue. The English language spoken with many regional accents mixed with dozens of African tongues. The air was alive with the sound of trade, prayer, argument, and laughter, a constant, restless hum.

Freetown was a place of contradictions, built on abolitionist ideals. Every day was a reminder of the wreckage of the trade they struggled so hard to stop. Liberated men and women arrived hollow-eyed and sick, herded ashore from the holds of seized slave ships, weak from chains, fever, and thirst. Mission stations and receiving yards worked without pause, distributing food, water, and rough clothing, while surgeons fought disease with little more than determination and saws.

In the distance he could see the symbols of British authority. The naval yard with its signal masts, the colonial offices, the parade ground where Marines drilled in the intense heat, boots crunching on the hardpacked earth as they stamped to attention. The iron barrels of cannon overlooked the bay, silent reminders that this still-fragile experiment in freedom survived due to constant vigilance.

Lieutenant Smythe told him that after dark lanterns would flicker along the waterfront and drums would echo from the hills. He said the port did not sleep easily. It endured, tense and watchful, a frontier outpost of empire, law, and conscience, standing between the old horror of the Atlantic slave trade and the uncertain hope of something better.

They threw out the mooring lines alongside the quay, and the first thing he noticed was that the air was different. Beyond the warehouses the settlement was a sprawl of tin roofs, stone structures, mission houses, and barracks joined by red dirt roads.

Harbor officials took the dhow in hand, and the freed captives were transferred to waiting authorities while their stories were noted, and plans made for their return. Freed men and women were carefully watched by doctors and clerks who most often treated suffering with ledgers and forms. Crawford watched from the rail in silence. Relieved they’d been freed, but he also had an uncomfortable sense that rescue was just the first step. The rest would be considerably more complicated.

Orders arrived for Crawford and his Marines to return to the Galatea. The dhow would remain in port under naval supervision until she could be sold as a prize. The slavers would be handed over to colonial authorities to meet their fate. If they were unsure about their punishment, the gibbets opposite the wharf would dispel any doubts.

Back aboard the Galatea, monotony settled like a fog. Crawford discovered that command in port was less about action and more about paper. Reports to be written in a hand neat enough to satisfy the First Lieutenant. Rosters to be checked and rechecked. Guard duties assigned. Equipment inventories reviewed and signed off. There were infractions to address. Two Marines had come to blows over rum. Another had been found drunk on duty and smelled strongly enough that denial was impossible.

He heard them out and punished where he had to. Extra duties. Loss of grog. Formal warnings entered into the book. He took no pleasure in it, but neither did he shirk it. Discipline was the price men paid for survival, and they sensed that he understood the difference between correction and cruelty.

There was also the matter of promotions. Crawford had served in and understood the detachment before he took command. He knew who followed orders under pressure. Who thought ahead rather than merely reacted, and during the action to capture the dhow, who had kept moving forward when others stood back. One name stood out.

Private Isaiah Blythe, unremarkable at first glance, easily missed. Medium height, medium build, he was a country boy from the rural county of Devon. Medium everything. But he was both willing and dependable. When others hesitated, he moved. When others complained, he worked on. During the boarding of the dhow, he’d been among the first over the rail and among the last to stop fighting.

Crawford called him in. He stood stiffly at attention and saluted, eyes flicking with curiosity. “Private Isaiah Blythe, reporting as ordered, Sir.”

“At ease,” he said, “I’m promoting you to Lance-Corporal.”

He blinked. “Sir?”

“You’ve earned it. As soon as you leave the cabin you can sew on the stripe.”

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. At last, he managed a crooked grin. “Thank you, Sir. I won’t let you down.”

“I know.”

On the second day in port, Crawford went ashore. He still wore his old uniform, the one that marked him as a private, though he’d removed the insignia. Uniform felt wrong, like he was wearing borrowed clothing. He was an officer, and he needed to look like an officer.

Kofi walked beside him, moving through the bustle of Freetown with the easy awareness of someone who understood how things worked in a place like this. He pointed out the streets to avoid, the kind of traders who cheated, and others who cheated less. He translated when needed, spoke to storekeepers and merchants in dialects Crawford could not begin to identify.

He helped him find a tailor in a narrow street shaded by overhanging roofs. The man was thin, careful, and he measured Crawford briskly, chalk marking cloth with quick, practiced strokes. He quoted a price without apology. Five guineas.

Crawford felt his stomach tighten. It was more than he could afford, but not unreasonable. A proper uniform mattered. He thought of the dhow, of his share of the prize money he was due and nodded.

“Very well, it will be ready in three days,” the tailor said.

“I’ll call back in three days.”

They returned to the ship, and Crawford sought out the First Lieutenant. “Sir, may I ask when I might expect my share?”

The Lieutenant smiled, not unkindly. “Not until the vessel is sold. It could take weeks. Even months.”

Crawford stared at him in shock. “Months?”

“I’m afraid so. The courts are slow to reach a decision, and before that they will need to survey the vessel and says it’s worth.”

Out of politeness, he nodded his thanks, and returned to his cabin to check his funds. He emptied his small purse onto the table and counted carefully. One guinea and a handful of low denomination coins, pennies and thrupenny pieces. Less than two guineas in total.

He had to find five guineas to pay for the uniform, and he sat on his bunk for a long time, staring at the coins as if they might multiply to save him embarrassment. They didn’t change. Sleep came badly that night. He lay awake listening to the sounds of the ship at rest, feeling foolish and oddly ashamed. He was an officer without the means to look like an officer. He’d committed to a uniform he couldn’t pay for. Pride had outrun sense, and now he would be humiliated when he returned to the tailor to own up to his situation.

In the morning, he made a decision and went ashore again with Kofi. This time the African showed him to a merchant who bought and sold everything of value. He took along the fob watch his father had given him before he left home. It was solid, well made, the kind of timepiece meant to last. He’d carried it through training and ever since, winding it carefully each night and keeping it safe in his pouch.

He set it on the counter. The merchant examined it, turned it over, and opened the back. He shrugged. “One guinea.”

Crawford tried another store. Then another. The answer never changed by much. One guinea. Sometimes a little less.

It wasn’t enough, nothing like enough. Each time he thanked them, took back the watch, and slipped it into his pouch. He had nothing else to sell. Nothing. They were walking back toward the dock when they found the street obstructed by a crowd of onlookers. A crowd had gathered in a dusty open space beside a warehouse. Men stood in a loose circle, shouting, laughing, pressing coins into outstretched hands. At the center, ropes had been strung to mark a rough square. Bare earth was stained with blood, not yet dry.

He looked at the African. “What is it? What’s happening?”

His expression tightened with distaste. “It’s a fight. Bare knuckles, a bloody business. The man who runs it invites all comers to try for the purse goes to the winner.”

“What does the winner receive?”

Kofi hesitated. “Five guineas.”

Crawford stopped walking, but Kofi tugged at his sleeve. “Sir, don’t even think about it. The champion is very large. He cannot be beaten.”

Crawford regarded the ring. Looked at the men’s faces, flushed with anticipation. Looked at the promoter, a short, tubby, grinning figure with quick eyes and a satchel attached to his belt, which would be for the cash people paid over to place their bets.

“It’s madness. You are an officer.”

Crawford laughed softly. “At the moment, I’m a badly dressed one.”

Kofi tugged harder on his arm. “Sir, please, no.”

Crawford shook his head. Something reckless had taken hold, fed by frustration, wounded pride, and the refusal to be thwarted in his burning enthusiasm to adopt the uniform of a proper officer. “I’ll fight him. I don’t have any other way to make five guineas.”

Kofi stared at him. “Sir…”

“No, I’ve made up my mind, I’ll fight him,” he repeated and stepped forward.

The promoter sized him up, eyes flicking over his slender frame, the straight posture that spoke of discipline rather than brawling. He grinned broadly. “Step right up. He’s waiting for you.”

The crowd parted. Crawford pushed his way through the throng, aware of eyes on him, of murmurs rising. He stepped to the ropes and paused to remove his coat and hand it to Kofi. Then his shirt and he opened the pouch attached to his belt. Took out the last of his coin, one full guinea and the lower value silver coins.

He handed them to Kofi. “What are they betting on the fight? What’re the odds?”

He looked dismayed. “Ten to one against the challenger.”

“Use it all to place a bet.”

“On the champion?”

He gave him a brief smile. “Not on your life. On me.”

“But…”

“Do it.”

The air felt cool against his skin as he willed himself to step beneath the rope and into the ring. He flexed his hands, feeling the familiar ache in his knuckles from past sparring bouts. But this wouldn’t be a sparring bout. This would be a brutal, bareknuckle, bruising brawl, although it couldn’t be that bad. He’d fought plenty of opponents of all sizes. He usually came out on top.

He ducked through the ropes and stepped into the ring. The champion emerged from the opposite side, and his heart sank. This wasn’t a man. It was a monster. Enormous, close to seven feet tall, shoulders like blocks of stone, arms thick as tree trunks. He was bald, his scalp shining with sweat in the early heat. A sneer twisted his thick lips when he looked down at Crawford, taking in the difference between them with obvious pleasure.

He glanced at the promoter and laughed. “This won’t take long.”

Crawford stood next to the rope and looked at the promoter, who was beckoning him inside the rope to start the fight.

He shook his head. “I want to see the purse.”

The crowd murmured, some laughing, some jeering. The promoter’s grin tightened, but he reached down and produced a small leather bag. He loosened the drawstring and tipped it just enough for the sun to catch the yellow glint inside.

Five guineas. Gold, unmistakable.

Crawford nodded once. “That’ll do.”

The promoter snapped the bag shut and stepped back. “You heard him,” he called, “Begin.”

The big man didn’t waste a heartbeat. He came forward like a battering ram, massive shoulders rolling, feet pounding the dirt with terrifying speed. He was not just large. He was momentum given flesh, the sort of force that smashed down stout wooden doors. Crawford moved fast, stepped neatly to the side, the charge thundering past him. As the giant stumbled, off balance, he drove three short punches into his kidneys. Compact, precision blows. Not pretty. But brutal and effective.

The giant barely seemed to notice. He spun around with surprising speed for a man of his size, lips pulled back in a grin that showed thick, yellowed teeth. He came in again, slower this time, more deliberate, arms wide, herding Crawford backward. He retreated, step by step, measuring distance, feeling the rope brush his back, and the arena suddenly felt much smaller. The giant pressed forward, forcing him back but there was nowhere left to go.

He launched a massive blow that would’ve taken Crawford’s head clean off his shoulders, but he twisted aside at the last instant, feeling the wind of the fist pass his ear. Once again, he slipped past the man’s flank and landed three more punches in exactly the same place, buried deep under the ribs into his left kidney.

This time the man grunted. The sound was small, but the blows had hurt. The crowd roared, some in anger, some in excitement. They wanted blood. They wanted spectacle. They wanted the Englishman to stand still and be beaten into bloody pulp. They almost got their wish, but Crawford didn’t oblige.

The giant came in again, face creased in anger, breath harsher. He kept his distance, hands high, feet light, darting in and out like a wasp around a bull. Punch after punch snapped out, not to the head, not to the chest, but always to that same vulnerable place. The left kidney. Again, and again.

So far, the giant hadn’t landed a blow, but Crawford knew exactly how thin the margin was. One solid punch from those huge fists would end the fight. Perhaps kill him. He could feel the crowd’s mood turning, hear the shouts growing uglier.

“Stand still and fight.”

He had no intention of standing still to die, so he ignored them. The giant’s breathing grew louder. His pace slowed, frustration creeping into his movements. Sweat poured down from his bald scalp and streaked his chest. Crawford darted in again, but this time the other man scored a hit.

A fist the size of a boulder slammed into his chest with a sickening thud. The air exploded out of his lungs, and pain flared, white and blinding. He stumbled back, battling to stay upright, vision tunneling and reddening as if the world had been dipped in blood. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. As he stumbled away, he knew one more blow like that and he was finished.

The giant advanced again, sensing his weakness. The crowd howled. Crawford staggered sideways, dragging air into his injured lungs, so it felt like it burned his throat. His chest felt crushed, his heart hammering wildly. He tasted blood and had no idea whether it was from his mouth or something deeper.

He had to end it. Now. He made a decision born of desperation. Stopped retreating and let the giant close. He swung a massive overhand punch meant to finish him. He ducked under it, the fist passing less than an inch above his head, and drove himself forward, so he was chest to chest with his opponent, and he hammered the kidneys again. And again. And again.

This time he cried out. Not a roar of rage but a sharp, involuntary sound of agony. He stumbled, his posture collapsing, one hand dropping instinctively toward his injured side. He spat, and blood flecked the dirt.

Crawford stayed with him, ignoring the screaming pain in his own chest, ignoring the trembling in his legs. He rolled with another wild punch, once again slipping inside it, and drove more dagger-like blows into the same tortured spot.

The giant hunched over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His head dipped, exposed, slick with sweat. It was too tempting a target, and Crawford shifted his aim. He slammed punches into his head, left and right, knuckles splitting skin. Blood burst from cuts around his brow and cheek. He reeled, snarling like a wounded beast, half blinded with the blood that’d flowed down over his eyes. He swung blindly, but his power and control were slipping away.

Crawford was barely aware of the crowd. They were just a blur in the background. The arena had narrowed to two men, one huge and wounded, the other exhausted and burning with pain. His arms felt like lead. His lungs burned. His vision swam. It was now or never.

He drew his arm back as far as it would go, twisting his body, planting his feet firmly on the ground. He put everything he had left into a final punch. Every last vestige of strength. Every ounce of stubborn refusal to let this monster beat him.

His blow landed squarely on the giant’s nose, and there was a sound like a dry stick snapping. Blood exploded outward, spraying the dirt, the rope, the onlookers, and Crawford’s own forearm. The man staggered back, hands flying to his face, shaking his head in confusion. His eyes were smeared red, blinking blindly as he tried to find his opponent.

He saw Crawford. He tried to raise his fists again, but instead, his legs buckled. He swayed, his massive frame rocking once, twice, then he collapsed heavily onto the ground. The impact of his huge weight felt like a minor earthquake. Dust rose around the body of the man who lay unconscious.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the crowd erupted. He stood over the fallen giant, swaying, chest heaving, fists clenched because he couldn’t believe it was over. When he was certain, he stepped back.

Kofi was there, eyes wide, clutching Crawford’s coat and shirt in one hand and the leather purse in the other. “You’re alive,” he said, only half disbelieving.

“So it would seem,” he replied hoarsely.

He took his shirt and coat, pulling them on with shaking hands. The promoter scowled as he pushed the purse into Kofi’s grasp trying to argue. Five guineas, paid in full.

“Did you place the wager?”

His black face split into a beaming smile. “I did, and when you knocked him unconscious, I collected the money you won.”

When Crawford counted it all out, adding it to what he already had, he stared at the pile of coins in disbelief. Almost twenty guineas. He laughed, a short, incredulous sound that hurt his chest. Second Lieutenant Henry Crawford was almost rich.

They returned to the Galatea in the late afternoon, the heat easing just enough to make the air feel hot and heavy rather than punishing. The ship seemed quiet tied up at the key, lanterns beginning to glow along the deck as the day watch handed over. Crawford climbed aboard with Kofi behind him, feeling the familiar creak of planks beneath his boots and the odd comfort of ordered space after the chaos of shore.

His cabin waited for him aft, if such a word could fairly be used. It was little more than a box, scarcely five feet square, with a narrow cot fixed against one bulkhead, a folding desk against the other, and just enough room to stand if he didn’t mind brushing his head on the roof. A single lantern was positioned above the desk, and one of his men had been to light it ready for the onset of darkness. Its light was weak but serviceable. Which is more than could be said for the cabin. It was cramped and inconvenient, but it was his, an officer’s cabin.

He set his hat down and leaned back against the bulkhead, exhaling slowly. His chest still ached from the fight, a deep bruised soreness that flared when he moved too quickly. He knew he would feel it for days. Kofi stood awkwardly near the door, uncertain of what to do next.

“You can come in,” he told him, “If you can find enough room.”

Kofi stepped inside, looking around with open curiosity. “It is very small,” he said carefully.

He smiled faintly. “By naval standards, it’s generous.” He hesitated, then asked the question that had been forming since the afternoon, “Where do you sleep?”

Kofi shifted his weight and averted his gaze as if he felt embarrassed. “I have found a place.”

“Where?”

For a moment he looked as though he might refuse to answer. Then he met Crawford’s eyes. “In the rope locker. Under the forecastle.”

Crawford frowned. “It must be dark and cold in there?”

“Yes,” Kofi said without complaint, “But it is safe. And I’m free to come and go at any time.” He didn’t add the rest of it, he didn’t need to, “No one stops me. They don’t know I’m there.”

Crawford felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with bruises. He’d spent nights cursing the narrowness of his own cabin, the lack of air, the constant sounds of the ship. He thought about sleeping in the rope locker and recalibrated his understanding of discomfort.

“What about food?”

A faint smile crossed his face. “I have learned to find my way around the ship. There is a path to the galley that is not used. When the cook isn’t there, I go there and find what is left. Mostly hard bread, sometimes salt meat.”

Crawford raised an eyebrow. “You need to be careful you don’t get caught.”

“I have to eat,” Kofi replied simply.

Crawford considered that, then nodded. “I’ll speak to the master at arms. Ask him to place you on the books as an interpreter and servant. If they agree, they’ll possibly issue you with rations.”

His eyes widened and he bowed his head briefly. “Thank you, Sir.”

He left, and the following day Crawford didn’t see him again. The routine of the ship closed in again, grinding and monotonous. Morning quarters. Inspections. Reports. He spent hours at his desk, pen scratching steadily as he documented the capture of the dhow, the disposition of prisoners, and the transfer of the freed captives to colonial authorities. Paper reduced chaos to lines and dates. It was necessary, and it was exhausting in its own way.

He ate with the officers, but they were less than forthcoming. A few days before he’d been a common soldier, a Marine private, and they made no secret of their discomfort at his elevation to their ranks. Even though when he tried to make conversation, he could display a good knowledge of the classics.

He realized one of the reasons they found it difficult to relate to him was his uniform. He still wore the uniform of a Royal Marine private, although when he collected his new uniform the following day, he was sure that things would change. He was spooning soup into his mouth when he heard Captain Ashcombe say something that didn’t sound right. The senior officers were pointedly quoting the Greek philosophers to emphasize their superior education, when he heard Ashcombe chuckle at a comment another man had said.

“During my career I’ve learned that Plato was absolutely correct when he said, ‘An unexamined life is not worth living.’ I never heard a truer word.”

He spoke without thinking and could’ve bitten off his tongue. “Captain, it was Socrates who said that.”

Ashcombe gave him a frosty look. “Since when did you become an expert on Greek philosophers, Crawford?”

“Uh, sorry, Sir, I spoke out of turn. Of course, it was Plato.”

The Captain nodded in satisfaction, but Crawford knew he’d have to be more careful talking with his fellow officers if he wasn’t to become a pariah. Kofi finally turned up the day after, and they went ashore again. He wanted to see Freetown without risking being beaten to death by a giant.

The town was crowded beyond reason, buildings leaning into one another as if for support. Mud and refuse filled the streets. People pressed past in constant motion, freed Africans, traders, sailors, soldiers, missionaries. The air smelled of sweat, sickness, and damp rot.

“This is where they bring them,” Crawford said quietly, watching a line of newly freed men being herded toward a cluster of crude huts.

“Yes,” he replied, “Some stay. Some live inland. Some give up hope of ever returning to their villages, and they die.”

He had more work to do, reports to write, and they returned to the ship. After the chaos and stench of the town, he felt the need for order, even for his tiny cabin. He wrote until his fingers cramped, until the lantern burned low.

The next day, he went ashore alone to collect his uniform. The tailor greeted him with the same cold professionalism as before, led him to a small room at the rear of the store and handed him his new uniform. He changed slowly, carefully, wrapping the coat around his sore body. The fit was excellent. The red cloth sat cleanly on his shoulders, the cut precise without being flashy.

He fastened the buttons. Adjusted the collar. Strapped on his sword belt. When the infantry sword hung at his side, the tailor motioned him toward a mirror propped against the wall. The glass was cracked and blotched with age, but it was enough for him. The man who stared back at him was unmistakably an officer. The uniform lent him an authority, sharpened the lines of his posture, and he barely recognized himself.

At last, he looked the part. He felt he looked almost like a general. Or perhaps a colonel. He thanked the tailor, paid him in full, and stepped back into the street feeling strangely taller. Kofi was waiting outside. He took in Crawford’s new appearance with open approval.

“You look like an officer.”

It was the finest compliment he could’ve paid him.

They returned to the Galatea. As Crawford reached the top of the gangplank, a familiar figure snapped to attention.

“Sir,” Lance-Corporal Isaiah Blythe said with a grin, prideful of his new rank, “Compliments of the Captain. You’re required to report to his cabin forthwith.”

Crawford paused only long enough to nod. “Thank you, Blythe.”

As he moved aft, sword at his side, uniform immaculate, he felt the curious sensation of a life taking a new course. The ship creaked softly around him, the sea murmured beyond the hull, and somewhere ahead the Captain waited, perhaps with new orders.

Chapter Three

The Captain’s cabin was aft, set some distance the rest of the ship. Crawford approached it with measured steps, aware of the unfamiliar sword tapping softly against his thigh with each movement. The uniform still felt strange. Too crisp, too clean for a man who’d spent the past weeks living among sweat, powder, and unwashed bodies. Yet the Marines he passed straightened when they saw him, and that alone told him the cloth mattered.

Lance-Corporal Blythe followed. He didn’t speak beyond the message already delivered. He just nodded outside the cabin door and left. Crawford squared his shoulders and knocked.

“Enter.”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Captain Ashcombe sat behind his desk, quill in hand. The desk was neat, papers stacked on one side with naval precision. At his right stood the First Officer, Lieutenant Smythe, hands clasped behind his back.

In a chair before the desk sat a woman he’d never seen before, although even if he had he wouldn’t have recognized her. His attention went to her at once for two reasons. First, women were rare aboard a warship. Yet the second reason was even stranger, women dressed like this were rarer still.

She wore a long black dress buttoned from throat to ankle, the fabric heavy and full. A widow’s weeds. Black gloves covered her hands. A black bonnet sat low on her head, swathed in a voluminous veil of black mesh that fell over her face and down her shoulders. The veil made her features difficult to read, but it could not hide the rigid stillness in her posture. She sat very straight, hands folded in her lap, as if any slackness would cause her to collapse.

Crawford halted two paces inside and saluted. “Second Lieutenant Crawford.”

Captain Ashcombe acknowledged. “At ease.”

He lowered his hand but kept his posture erect.

Ashcombe nodded toward the woman. “This lady is Mrs. Alice Featherstone.”

She inclined her head slightly. The veil shifted, and for a brief moment Crawford caught the pale suggestion of her face beneath it. Not much detail, more of an impression. A tight mouth, cheekbones taut with strain. Eyes that were red from weeping many tears, but now they were dry. As if they’d only stopped because there were no tears left. Even beneath the voluminous black dress and veil, it was possible to see she was short and slight, what women called petite. Even though her features were blurred by the veil, he could see enough to know she was attractive, and it was obvious she hadn’t surrendered to her widowhood. Her posture was erect, her head held proud.

“Mrs. Featherstone,” Crawford acknowledged.

“Second Lieutenant,” she replied. Her voice was steady, but low, little more than a whisper.

Ashcombe leaned back in his chair. “Before he was killed, Mrs. Featherstone’s husband was a merchant. A wealthy man, he’d been in Africa for three years and made his fortune.” He was about to describe some terrible event, yet his voice was calm, with that particular naval restraint that could make a catastrophe sound like an entry in a logbook, “Mrs. Featherstone married him four months ago. He was murdered five days ago, when their home was attacked.”

Crawford noticed the woman’s gloved fingers tighten slightly, pressing together. He understood the movement for what it was. A person trying and failing to remain in control, and he could only guess at the turmoil and grief she’d endured.

The Captain went on. “Four men broke into their house while they slept. When Mr. Featherstone confronted them, they attacked him with clubs and machetes.” A quiet settled in the cabin. Even the distant sounds of the port seemed to fall away, “They killed him.”

Mrs. Featherstone’s head dipped a fraction and turned toward him. Crawford couldn’t see her eyes clearly through the veil, but he felt that she was looking at him, perhaps for sympathy.

Ashcombe noticed the direction of her gaze. “She saw it happen, all of it.”

The woman took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice sounded stronger, and he could only guess at what the effort cost her.

“He went out into the corridor,” she began, and paused for a second, as if stealing herself to continue, “He told me to stay in the bed, but I followed him. I thought… I thought that they would run when they saw him.” She paused again, and the veil quivered slightly, “They didn’t run.”

Crawford looked away from her, embarrassed at her discomfort, and glanced at Lieutenant Smythe, whose gaze was fixed on some point above her bonnet, as if looking directly at such grief would constitute a breach of discipline.

“They struck him,” Mrs. Featherstone went on, “Two men had clubs and two machetes. He tried to fight, but he wasn’t a soldier, he was a merchant.” She swallowed once, “They hit him repeatedly until he fell, and even then, they kept hitting him.”

Crawford felt his stomach tighten. He’d seen violence, and he had inflicted violence. Yet there was something particularly brutal in the image of a man beaten to death in his own home while his wife looked on.

“I saw their faces. I saw them clearly. There was light from the oil lamp at the end of the corridor. They didn’t hide themselves, as if they had no concerns about being recognized.”

“Because they believed they wouldn’t be held to account,” Ashcombe said, his voice flat, as if he was reading from a manual.

She nodded once, and the veil moved again. “They ransacked the house and put everything they could carry into jute sacks. Silver. Cloth. Papers. They even laughed while they did it.” Her gloved hands pressed more tightly together, “I could do nothing. If I’d tried to fight them, they would’ve killed me as well. They may have intended to, I don’t know, perhaps they decided I wasn’t any threat. They left when they’d taken everything they wanted.”

Ashcombe folded his hands on the desk.

“Word came from the British post on the frontier with Guinea. Our men spotted four individuals moving in the early morning hours. They were carrying jute sacks. They were too far from the post to intercept them before they went on, but they were suspicious and sent a runner to the police post on the other side with a request to detain them while they made enquiries.”

“They detained them,” Smythe added quietly, “They said they’re looking into it.”

Ashcombe nodded. “The difficulty is this. The Guinean authorities will not return the men or put them on trial without a witness willing to identify them. They say they do not wish to execute or imprison the wrong individuals.” He grimaced, “Although I suspect they’d prefer to let them go so they don’t have to go to any trouble.”

Mrs. Featherstone’s head lifted. Through the veil, Crawford saw a faint gleam of her eyes.

“It has to be them. And I will be able to identify them.”

“Of course, Madam,” Ashcombe replied, “But the Guineans are insisting on proper procedure. They want you there to be absolutely sure.”

Her head turned toward him. “In that case I will go alone, if necessary. No matter what it takes, I want to see them pay for what they did.”

“You will not go alone,” Ashcombe said, turning his attention to Crawford. “That is where you come in.”

“Sir,” he said.

“You will accompany Mrs. Featherstone to the police post at Kalabaya with half your detachment, twelve men, as an escort. You will provide protection, maintain discipline, and ensure she arrives and returns safely.”

“Yes, Sir.” His mind began to work out the practical elements of what would be involved. The route, type of terrain, rations, water and ammunition. Sufficient ammunition was most important. The closer they got to Guinea, the greater the risk of ambush. He tried to remember everything he’d heard about Guinea, and nothing about the place was good.

It was a country divided by belief, fear, and power. Along the coast, small kings and merchant chiefs ruled the trading towns, their power resting on religious and family connections, maintained by armed followers. Inland, rule was harsher and even more absolute. Islam dominated everywhere, controlled by religious despots who claimed authority from God as much as from the sword.

Islam was law, and people said that conversion was the only protection. Refusal to convert often meant a life of slavery, which lay at the heart of life in Guinea. Though the Atlantic slave trade had been outlawed by Britain, slavery there flourished. Raiding was constant. Villages vanished overnight. Men, women, and children taken as captives seized because they were too weak to resist, and they became slaves, working in the fields, or serving in the households of rich merchants. Any man or woman declared an unbeliever could be and often was enslaved without hesitation.

Wealth flowed upward to rulers and clerics, while the powerless learned silence and endurance. Guinea was a place where faith ruled, chains were common, and survival often hung on a thread. Crawford was grateful that his mission wouldn’t require them to venture any further than the police post on the border.

“You will travel overland,” Ashcombe continued, “It should take you two days to cover the distance of forty miles to Kalabaya. However, there is a small mission midway where you can stop to rest overnight. You should know that the path is narrow and sometimes difficult, so a carriage is out of the question.” He looked at the woman. “Madam, the journey could prove to be uncomfortable and unsuitable for a lady.”

She spoke again. “I have a horse. I’m going.”

He nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Featherstone will ride. You and your Marines will march.”

Crawford glanced at her, then quickly looked away. She spoke like a woman who’d been reduced to a single purpose, revenge, and she wouldn’t be diverted from it.

Crawford cleared his throat. “When do we depart, Sir?”

“In two days. Mrs. Featherstone has an appointment with a lawyer tomorrow. Her husband’s will must be read, and there will be an accounting of his affairs.” His mouth tightened slightly, as if acknowledging how indecent it was that grief had to share space with mere finance, “She needs to know how well she has been provided for.”

She didn’t react. Perhaps she’d made up her mind that no matter how well she’d been provided for, it couldn’t repair what had been broken. Ashcombe leaned forward, studying Crawford more closely. His gaze took in the faint bruising still visible at his collar line, the stiffness in his movements.

“You look a little worse for wear,” he said, but his voice sounded sterner. Almost accusing.

Crawford kept his face composed. “It was just an accident, Captain.”

Ashcombe’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “An accident?”

“Yes, Sir.”

For a moment, his eyes suggested he knew exactly what the ‘accident’ had been. He let it pass. The Navy was an institution that knew to turn a blind eye when it suited. Like the words attributed to Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson at the Battle of Copenhagen. The Fleet Commander had sent him an order to break off the engagement due to the approach of enemy ships. Nelson believed he was in a good position to get the upper hand, and he considered the order wrong. According to legend, he held his telescope to the blind eye he’d suffered in a previous battle and said to his first officer, ‘I see no ships.” He went on to win the battle.

“Very good,” Ashcombe said, “Choose twelve good men and leave the remainder aboard under the command of your newly promoted Lance-Corporal Blythe. He seems a steady fellow.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ashcombe’s gaze flicked to Smythe, then back.

“Lieutenant Smythe will ensure you have everything you require. Keep your men healthy, Second Lieutenant, and more importantly, keep them sober. You hear me?”

Crawford nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

He gave a small, final nod that meant dismissal. Crawford saluted. “Sir.”

He turned, and as he did, Mrs. Featherstone’s voice stopped him. “Second Lieutenant Crawford.”

He faced her as she rose from her chair with careful grace. Up close, the veil hid her face, but her posture was unmistakable. This was a woman refused to be broken. “I am told you are the man who took the slavers’ ship.”

Crawford attempted a careless shrug. “It was the Marine detachment. They fought well.”

“I’m told you showed exceptional courage.”

He didn’t know how to reply. Praise always felt uncomfortable, especially when offered by a recently bereaved widow. “I did my duty.”

She inclined her head. “Then I beg you, do it again,” she said softly.

He held her gaze through the veil and nodded once. “I will.”

He left the cabin and closed the door behind him. The ship’s sounds returned. Distant voices, the creak of timbers, the clink of metal. The occasional shout. He walked forward, his mind already considering names. Twelve men, those who wouldn’t panic if they came up against the unexpected. Men who would obey orders and march through the oppressive heat without abandoning their discipline. No, not twelve men, eleven men, and one corporal he’d have to deal with. Somehow.

He went back on deck, and he smelled him before he saw him. Samuel Baker, rank and unwashed, leaned near the rail, arms folded. He watched Crawford approach with eyes filled with resentment. He didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge, just walked past and ignored him. His orders were to include Baker with the escorting party of Marines, and he knew the Corporal wouldn’t be happy.

Too bad, I won’t give him a choice. Just as I don’t have a choice. The Navy has given me an order, and I will obey without question.

* * *

Alice Featherstone sat very straight in a narrow chair designed to discourage comfort, to emphasize the serious and sober severity of this office. The waiting room of Hardwick and Cole was small, airless, and unforgiving, with high walls that trapped heat and a single narrow window that admitted light but no breeze. The sun pressed in through the glass, turning the room into an oven.

She’d been waiting for nearly two hours. Her long, black dress pooled around her ankles in heavy folds, the fabric thick and unyielding. The sleeves clung to her arms. The bonnet sat tight against her temples, and the veil hung over her face, making every breath a warm, damp struggle. Sweat trickled along her spine and down the small of her back. She felt faint, lightheaded, but still she refused to slump or loosen her posture. Recently widowed women were expected to endure.

She folded and unfolded her gloved hands in her lap, counting her breaths. Somewhere beyond the inner door, men spoke in low tones. Papers rustled. A chair scraped. The clock on the wall ticked with exaggerated slowness until at last, the inner door opened.

A sour mouthed man squinted at her as if she were an entry in a ledger, his expression set in a deep frown. Dressed in a threadbare black linen frock coat, he was stick thin, shoulders hunched over like a praying mantis. Neatly dressed, his hair thinning, he gave the impression that no matter where he looked, he found the world distasteful.

“Mrs. Featherstone, I trust I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” She rose at once, her legs unsteady beneath the weight of cloth, “My name is Archibald Hardwick. Your husband appointed me to be his lawyer. If you would step this way.”

He beckoned her into his office, and the room beyond was worse. It was larger but somehow more oppressive, the air thick with the rank odor of paper, ink, and old wood. Heavy ledgers were stacked everywhere. Hardwick gestured toward a chair opposite his desk, and she sat down.

The lawyer took his own seat behind the desk, adjusted a stack of papers with fastidious care, and looked up at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand.

“If I might ask you to be brief,” she said before he could begin. Her voice was calm only because she forced it to be, “It is very hot in here.”

He blinked once, then inclined his head a fraction. “Very well. I will make this as brief as possible.” He drew a ledger closer and opened it.

“Your husband’s affairs are not as straightforward as you might perhaps hope. There are certain,” his mouth soured even more, “Irregularities.”

She stiffened. “My husband was a successful merchant. I know he was. He had an established and successful trading company.”

He didn’t argue but simply opened the ledger and turned to a page. “Unfortunately, success is a relative term. Recently, Mr. Featherstone’s business had suffered certain problems. Supply interruptions. Unreliable customers and losses that required… mitigation. Lately there was his expenditure, which he didn’t fully account for.”

Alice felt a chill beneath the heat of her clothing. “What sort of mitigation?”

“Loans. He borrowed money from local lenders.”

Alice’s gloved fingers tightened. “Borrowed money? Is that unusual?”

Hardwick hesitated, then spoke carefully, “Normally, it is not unusual, but on this occasion the interest rates he agreed were ruinous. He borrowed money to fund his certain, shall we say interests, and to keep the business afloat. He borrowed money at rates that compounded quickly, and even after his death, his debts remain outstanding.”

Alice shook her head slowly. “This is impossible. He would have told me.”

Hardwick’s expression softened by a fraction, just enough to be convincing. “Men often shield their wives from such matters.”

“What matters?” she snapped back, sensing this man was alluding to something less than respectable.

“He had certain…needs. For three and a half years after he arrived in Freetown, he was a bachelor, alone, and he used the services of several local establishments to satisfy his…wants.”

She realized where this was going. It was by no means unusual, and she put up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear any more about these activities. Tell me about his affairs.”

He slid a piece of paper across the desk. “To the nearest penny, the outstanding debt stands at four thousand, two hundred and ninety-six pounds, eleven shillings, and sixpence.”

She stared at the figures until they blurred. They might as well have been written in another language. “That is more than the value of the house,” she said faintly.

“It is,” Hardwick agreed, “And the business.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“If you are able to make a quick sale of both,” he went on, “you should be able to settle the debts with enough left over to secure passage back to England.”

Her breath came faster. “You mean go home with nothing?”

“I am afraid so.”

She heard herself speaking, heard the edge of panic creep into her voice. “You are telling me that my husband died leaving me nothing?”

He didn’t flinch. “I am telling you that your husband died leaving you with less than nothing.”

She sat very still. The heat pressed in, even more oppressive. The veil felt like a suffocating shroud. Almost as if she was inside a coffin herself.

“Would you like me to make arrangements for the sale?” he asked, already reaching for another document.

She didn’t remember agreeing, but afterwards she remembered nodding. She remembered struggling to her feet. She remembered the sound of the door opening and the sudden rush of outside air that was only slightly less stifling than the room she’d left.

She found herself in the street, the sun hammering down on her black clothed form, the noise of Freetown closing around her. Her heart pounded. Her hands trembled inside the gloves. She wanted to rip the bonnet from her head, tear away the veil, gulp in air like a drowning woman.

She didn’t, for she was a respectable widow. Just five days widowed. Society had rules. Expectations she was obliged to adhere to, and she left the bonnet and veil in place as she walked back to the house that had been hers just days before. When she reached the door, she paused, looking at it as if seeing it for the first time.

This house. This place where she first met her husband, Arthur Featherstone, just a few months ago when she arrived on the ship that brought her from England. The marriage had been arranged by correspondence between him and her parents, who believed it was an opportunity for her to adopt a new and prosperous future. Until he’d been beaten to death.

She went inside and closed the door behind her. Only then did she remove the bonnet and veil. She set them aside with shaking hands and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply until the room stopped spinning. When she started to feel better, she went to her husband’s bureau.

The drawers slid open smoothly. He’d always been particular about such things. Papers were stacked neatly. Account books lay where he’d left them. She sat and began to read, grateful that her father had made sure she was proficient in reading, writing, and arithmetic. She read slowly at first, then faster, her brow furrowing. Columns of numbers marched across the page. Debits. Credits. Dates.

Something was wrong. The losses Hardwick had described were there, yes. But so were incoming payments. Many inward transfers. Entries that didn’t align with the story he’d told her. She pulled out another ledger, then another. Still, the pattern didn’t not make sense.

There were large withdrawals, with only vague records of where the money went. Money had been moved out of the business shortly before her husband’s death and paid to names she didn’t recognize. Her heart began to race, and she leaned back, thinking hard. The room felt suddenly very quiet.

She didn’t know what to do, or who to trust. The lawyer’s words and calm certainty echoed in her ears. The precise figures he’d given her, and the readiness with which he’d offered to sell everything at fire sale prices.

Her hands shook badly, and she pushed back from the desk and stood, moving to the sideboard where the decanter sat. She poured herself a full glass of sherry and drank it in one gulp. Like the day before, she refilled the glass and once again drank it in one gulp. Unlike the day before, she refilled the glass again and swallowed a third glass of sherry.

The warmth spread quickly through her body, dulling the sharp edge of panic but not banishing it. She crossed the room and collapsed onto the sofa. The strength had gone out of her legs all at once, and she curled onto her side, the black dress bunching around her. She sobbed bitterly. No matter what the truth was, her life had been stripped away, and all that waited for her was darkness.

She slept badly but was no less determined to confront the men who’d murdered her husband, even if he had left her destitute. She recalled one of her own valued possessions the murderers hadn’t taken, although they undoubtedly would’ve if they’d spotted it. A polished wooden case, and when she opened the lid, she was staring at two flintlock dueling pistols.

Once, filled with pride, her father had shown them to her and demonstrated how to load them with powder in the barrel and a lead ball and tamped down with wadding. A little gunpowder in the pan they called the frizzen. All that remained was to aim the barrel in the right direction and it would blast out a ball, enough to kill a wild animal, if it became necessary. Or a man.

She was about to pack them into her travel bag when it occurred to her she might need them more readily accessible. She lifted her skirts and placed one each side, tucked into silk garters that supported her stockings.

* * *

The following morning broke hot and airless, the sky already bleached pale by the rising sun. Crawford led the men down the gangplank with measured pace, boots thudding on timber. The Marines followed in good order, packs creaking, muskets slung, red coats already darkening with sweat. At the rear, Baker dragged his feet with theatrical reluctance, groaning softly, wiping his brow, and muttering just loudly enough to be heard about the madness of marching inland in such heat. He made a show of stretching his back, pausing to adjust straps that needed no adjusting. Crawford noticed but said nothing. If it continued, he’d deal with it later. Perhaps it would be enough to remind Baker that insubordinate soldiers could be punished by flogging.

They left the waterfront behind and wound through the outskirts of Freetown, past shuttered warehouses and whitewashed houses until they came to the house of Mrs. Alice Featherstone. She was already waiting, mounted side saddle on a tall black horse, the animal sleek and well-groomed almost to a mirror shine. The horse stood unnaturally still, as if it sensed the gravity of the moment, head lowered, ears flicking only slightly. Alice Featherstone was dressed exactly as before. Full mourning. Black gown falling to her ankles. Gloves dark and tight at the wrists. Bonnet low, swathed in the heavy black veil that concealed her face entirely. Horse and rider together formed a single, black silhouette of grief.

Crawford halted the column, stepped forward and looked up at her. “Are you ready, Ma’am?” She gave him a single, deliberate nod, “If it pleases you, I will walk beside you at the head of the column.”

Another nod. He turned, gave a quiet order, and the Marines straightened, ready to resume their march. Crawford took position at the horse’s shoulder, close enough to offer protection but careful not to crowd her. Alice urged the horse forward, and they set out.

They’d gone less than a mile beyond Freetown when the ground began to rise gently. The bushes were denser, and the air felt even thicker. The path narrowed, bordered by tall grass and tangled brush that pressed in on both sides. Insects screeched from inside the jungle. Sweat ran freely inside their heavy uniforms, soaking collars and trickling down their spines.

They walked in silence, Crawford acutely aware of the woman riding beside him. The way she sat perfectly upright despite the heat. The stillness of her gloved hands on the reins. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he felt their presence, steady and unblinking behind the veil.

The attack came without warning. Six figures burst from the brush at the side of the track, wild eyed and half naked, bodies smeared with sweat and dirt. They carried spears, clubs, and broad-bladed machetes that flashed dully in the light. One lunged straight for the horse, grabbing the reins with both hands and jerking them hard.

“Get down,” the man shouted in broken English, “Get off the horse or we kill you!”

The animal reared slightly, snorting in panic. Alice didn’t scream. Didn’t move. But Crawford moved. He snatched out his sword in an instant, steel whispering free of the scabbard, and he launched himself forward with a ferocity that shocked even him. He had no fear of these men. They were bandits, scum, and as much as he was outraged that they’d dare to attack a detachment of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, he was equally outraged that they’d threatened the widow put in his charge.

He met the man holding the reins head on. His blade came down in a brutal, savage arc. He didn’t feel any resistance, just a wet shock, and suddenly the reins were free. The man staggered back, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless scream. One hand remained clenched around the leather of the reins, severed cleanly at the wrist. A moment later it fell away, fingers curled as if still trying to maintain its grip. The man collapsed beside it, blood pumping from the ruined stump, spraying the dust dark.

He didn’t pause. He surged into the rest of the attackers, sword a blur of motion, his face filled with fury. One attacker tried to raise his spear to impale him. He knocked it to one side, cutting him down before he got a chance to try again. Another swung wildly with a club and struck only air as Crawford stepped inside the blow, slashing across his neck. The cut was deep and final. Blood poured freely, bright and shocking, and the man dropped without a sound.

The remaining attackers faltered. Their courage evaporated in the face of such horrifying violence. They backed away, then turned and ran, vanishing into the jungle, crashing through foliage without any attempt at stealth. He stood alone on the track, sword dripping red, chest heaving. He listened as the jungle swallowed the sounds of retreat. He waited a minute, two minutes, but there was no sign they were coming back.

Behind him, boots pounded as the Marines closed the distance, breathless and wide-eyed at what they saw before them. Baker arrived last, pale and shaken, his earlier complaints about excessive heat mysteriously forgotten.

He wiped his blade clean on the grass and sheathed it. Only then did he turn to Alice. She hadn’t moved. She remained seated on the horse exactly as before, reins gathered in her hands, posture unbroken. A black figure on a black horse, unmoved by violence, by the blood on the track or the bodies that lay nearby. The horse stood calm, as if nothing had happened.

He studied her for a moment, searching for some sign of shock or fear. There was none.

“Are you hurt, Ma’am?”

She shook her head once. He nodded, and without another word resumed his position at her side, signaling the column forward. The march resumed, leaving the dead behind, and after the first few hundred yards it was as if nothing had happened. The thick tangle of jungle felt more ominous, more oppressive than the perpetual heat. Threatening. As if another attack could hit them at any time.

* * *

Mohammed Hassan marched at the head of the column with his eyes fixed on the line where the forest thinned into scrub. The coast lay behind them, and his ship was safe, sailing toward Bissau, its hold empty, able to satisfy any Royal Navy inspection. Ahead lay the border at Kalabaya and the crossing into Guinea. Guinea meant safety. That was all that mattered.

Except for profit. He’d lost too many captives, and after more deaths from fever they numbered a mere thirty-nine. The margin for profit had become slimmer, and if he lost any more, he stood to take a substantial loss. He turned his head and counted them again, making sure he hadn’t lost any more.

They still numbered thirty-nine, although one woman who’d collapsed looked dangerously weak. He couldn’t take any more of these losses. He had to arrive at his destination with enough captives to make the trip worthwhile and that meant having enough to sell on. Enough bodies to exchange for coin.

He kept his pace even, and he didn’t slow. The men behind him followed because they had learned that deviation invited correction. The captives stumbled under the weight of their chains, heads bare, feet raw and swollen. Pain drove them forward and they feared falling back.

The land rolled gently, red dirt underfoot. Occasional areas of scrub and grass broken by longer stretches of thick jungle. The air was hot and close. Insects whined. Somewhere far off, a bird called and fell silent. Late in the afternoon, he heard singing. At first, he thought he was hearing things, so he waved the column to silence, but there was no mistake, people were definitely singing.

Faint at first, a sound out of place in a landscape shaped by brutality, hunger, and sweat. He lifted one hand and the column halted. The sound was clearer, voices raised together. Not an African work song, not a chant. Something else. Something alien.

Hassan smiled thinly when he spotted the source of the singing. A tiny cluster of buildings lay ahead, small and poor, set back from the track. A handful of grass huts clustered around a low stone building with a rough wooden door. A cross had been fixed above it, crooked but unmistakable.

A mission. He felt no reverence. But he felt opportunity. He discussed the next move, and one of his men muttered, “We’re only twenty miles south of Kalabaya, where they have an English border post. That means soldiers. If they discover what’s happening, they could…”

Hassan didn’t hear him. “I smell profit. Make them squat on the ground and leave two men to guard them. The rest of you, follow me.”

They approached openly, there was no need for stealth. The singing continued, oblivious to their proximity. As Hassan drew nearer, he could make out the shape of the chapel, the door open to catch what breeze there was. Inside, a man stood before a crude altar, hands raised.

A priest. He wore a white linen cloth draped around his neck. Otherwise, his clothes were similar to other white Europeans, thick woolen pants and a waistcoat buttoned over a linen shirt. His hair was long and unkempt, and his short beard suggested he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

When he spoke, he used a language Hassan didn’t understand. Not English, not Arabic, but the rhythm of it sounded familiar. Perhaps these people prayed in a different language. In front of him stood perhaps twenty Africans. Men and women together, heads bowed, and when they sang, their voices lifted in a ragged, discordant, incomprehensible chant.

He stepped inside, and the singing faltered as the worshippers saw him and the men crowding in behind him. Fear rippled through them like wind through grass. The priest looked up, his expression confused, then filled with alarm.

Hassan didn’t wait for the inevitable words of protest. “Take them.”

His men flowed into the chapel, weapons drawn. The worshippers cried out. Some dropped to their knees. Others backed away, eyes wide, and a few rushed to clamber through the open windows.

“What about the priest?” a man asked.

He drew a finger across his throat, and the man nodded, the meaning clear.

The slavers ran at them, weapons drawn, and the chapel exploded into chaos. A woman screamed and tried to run. A man lunged at one of Hassan’s crew with bare hands, punching him on the face. He staggered back, shocked more than hurt, then brought his club down hard. His attacker fell, blood pouring from his skull. He didn’t get up.

The priest shouted something and stepped between a crewman and a young girl, his arms spread wide to protect her. For a brief second, Hassan almost admired the brave gesture, but it wouldn’t change anything. A moment later a blade flashed and connected with the priest’s neck. He went down with blood pouring from the massive wound. He didn’t get up.

Some worshippers fought. Not well, and not with skill. They fought with the ferocity of people who understood exactly what waited for them if they allowed themselves to be taken. A man tried to snatch a musket and was struck down. A woman seized a brass candlestick and swung it wildly, driving a crewman back long enough for two worshippers to slip past and bolt for the door.

Hassan watched without expression as the neat order of prayer became a scramble of terror and resistance. He stepped aside to avoid a bench hurled across the floor. Wood cracked. Glass shattered. His men were having fun, enjoying the destruction of a Christian house of worship. One of his men went down, clutching his leg, struck when a worshipper had swung a bench in a desperate attempt to hold them off. He screamed with rage and pain. Another crewman finished the attacker with a brutal efficiency born of long habit.

When his men had overcome all opposition, Hassan counted again. The fight had been brief, but that was normal. Fear sometimes gave men courage, although it couldn’t give them weapons or superior numbers.

The chapel was wrecked. Benches lay broken. The crucifix that’d adorned the altar was smashed, and the altar cloth torn and trampled. Blood darkened the packed earth floor.

Half the worshippers had escaped into the bush, racing away with desperate speed. He didn’t order his men to pursue them. What remained was enough to make up for some of the captives who’d died. Eight men and women who looked healthy enough to survive the march. Enough to swell the column and replaces losses.

“Chain them,” he ordered.

His men obeyed, snapping iron shackles onto wrists and ankles, and forcing the captives to their feet with blows and shouted commands. The new slaves wept, pleaded, stared in numb disbelief at the ruin around them. They’d arrived at end of their lives. There was nothing left.

Outside, the huts were still standing. “Burn them,” he ordered his men.

The flames caught quickly in the dry grass. Black smoke billowed, rolling across the clearing. The fire crackled and roared, devouring roofs and walls alike. The first hut collapsed in on itself with a rush of sparks, and moments later the others followed.

Hassan stepped back and watched his men torch the wooden furnishings of the chapel, benches, and altar. He felt no triumph, just a vast satisfaction. He waited long enough to be certain he’d destroyed everything, and when the flames were well established and nothing remained but smoke and heat, he turned away.

“Move on.”

The column reformed. The slaves shuffled forward, chains clinking softly. Hassan resumed his place at the front, his stride unbroken. Behind them, the chapel and the huts burned down to embers, and the clearing was empty of life. All that remained was death and destruction.

Ahead lay Kalabaya. Ahead lay Guinea. Ahead lay coin and safety, and profit. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Four

The heat pressed down on them like a heavy weight. Crawford had marched in hot weather before, had known sweat and discomfort, but this was different. The air was thick and unmoving, saturated with moisture that seemed to cling to the lungs. There was no wind. Not even a stirring in leaves that hung on the trees. It was as if the jungle begrudged them every single breath.

They marched in wool. Red coats, stiff collars, heavy pants, straps biting into shoulders already slick with sweat. Within the first five miles, every man was soaked through. Sweat ran into their eyes, blinding them, soaking their uniforms until they chafed at the neck and wrists. Insects swarmed relentlessly, biting wherever they found exposed skin, crawling into their ears and hair and down collars. Men slapped at themselves constantly, muttering curses under their breath in deference to the lady present.

Crawford felt his own uniform had become a punishment. The fine new coat was impressive enough, but it trapped heat mercilessly. Sweat ran down his spine in rivulets. His sword belt rubbed raw against his hip. Each step felt heavier than the last. One person didn’t appear to suffer. Alice Featherstone rode in silence.

She sat straight in the saddle, back rigid, hands steady on the reins. He knew her black widow’s dress was impractical, almost cruel. The heavy fabric would be absorbing heat, and the veil turning every breath into a struggle. Yet she didn’t utter a single word of complaint. When he tried to speak with her, or offer water, and ask after her comfort, she answered only with a brief nod or a shake of the head.

He was sure he understood. She was in mourning, so after the first few miles, he kept his silence. They reached a crossroads shortly before midday. Two narrow tracks crossed beneath a thin canopy of trees, and a small stream ran alongside the path, clear water sliding over the stones. Crawford halted the column and gave the order to fall out.

The men moved toward the stream with shouts of relief. They unslung their canteens and plunge their hands into the water, dashing over their faces to cool them. They drank greedily, and when they’d had their fill, they lay on the bank to grab a few minutes respite from the grueling march.

He knelt and rinsed his face, luxuriating in the feel of the cool water. He drank deeply and refilled his canteen. The air next to the water felt marginally less suffocating. He looked to see if Alice Featherstone was taking advantage of the cool water, but she remained mounted.

Her posture didn’t change. The veil didn’t lift. She just stared ahead, motionless. Crawford looked toward his men, and that was when he heard Baker.

“This is bloody stupid,” Baker muttered, loudly enough to be heard, “Only a fool of an officer would agree to marching us halfway into the bush for some widow’s vengeance.”

There was a murmur of agreement from one or two men, but the rest were silent, every man aware the Corporal had gone too far. Crawford felt something stir inside him. Not anger exactly. Resolution. He’d taken enough. He was an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. Baker was a corporal and there were rules, lines that shouldn’t be crossed. He’d crossed one too many.

He walked toward him, and Baker stood with his back half-turned, hands on his hips, sweat streaking the dirt on his face. When he saw Crawford approach, his jaw tightened, and he assumed a sullen expression.

“What did you say, Corporal?” Crawford asked quietly.

Baker’s eyes flicked around, gauging the reactions of the others. “Something about this march,” he mumbled.

He stopped an arm’s length away. “Let me remind you, Corporal” he said, his voice calm, “that insubordination is a punishable offense.”

Baker scoffed. “I was just saying, Second Lieutenant.”

“Exactly what were you saying?” He didn’t reply, “The punishment laid down in the manual for insubordination is flogging. That applies to corporals as well as privates.”

Silence fell. The other men were suddenly very busy with canteens and straps. Baker’s face darkened, a flush creeping up his neck beneath the grime, and his mouth opened to snarl a reply. For a moment, Crawford thought the man might forget himself entirely and attack him.

Instead, his mouth snapped shut. “Yes, Sir,” he said stiffly.

Crawford held his gaze a second longer, then nodded once and turned away. He’d made his point. Discipline was not a matter of comfort. Discipline was the thin line that kept armed men, potentially rowdy men, from becoming something of an unruly mob.

He gave the order to form up, and the march resumed. The land rose gently as they walked, the path narrowing further, roots and stones forcing the men to watch their footing. The jungle closed in, green and oppressive, soundless except for the ever-present insects and the rasp of men’s breath. Sweat crusted white with salt on uniforms. More than one man stumbled, caught himself, and kept going without comment.

Crawford judged they were close now. The mission should be just ahead, no more than another hour’s march. He began to look for the signs he been told to expect, like the sound of a chapel bell.

Instead, he smelled smoke. Not smoke from a cooking fire, this was heavier, sweeter. The smell of burning flesh. Something was wrong, badly wrong. He raised a hand, halting the column. The men froze.

“Load. Fix bayonets.”

Steel rasped. Muskets came to readiness.

“Advance.”

They moved forward with more caution, eyes scanning the undergrowth. The Christian mission stood in a clearing, or at least what was left of it. Burnt-out huts, with charred ribs protruding from the ground like broken teeth. The roof of the chapel had collapsed inward, charred beams lying across one another in a tangle. Ash lay thick across the ground. And bodies, many bodies.

“It looks deserted,” Isaiah Blythe whispered.

Crawford didn’t answer. Whoever had attacked the mission had gone, and now his priority was to attend to the widow Alice Featherstone. She’d seen enough death. She didn’t need to see anymore. He guided her horse to one side and helped her to dismount. She stared at the charred wreckage without a word, her veil unmoving.

“Secure the perimeter,” Crawford ordered.

“They’re long gone… Sir,” Baker grunted.

“I gave an order, Corporal. See to it.” He watched them spread out, boots kicking up small clouds of ash.

“Mrs. Featherstone, please wait here. You don’t want to see this.”

No reply. He walked to the chapel, and the door hung askew, scorched and splintered. He entered and stepped past blackened timbers, all that remained of the roof. The stench was bad. The stench of burnt flesh from three bodies lying on the floor, pinned beneath beams that’d fallen on them when the roof collapsed. Although it was possible to see the wounds where they’d been hacked at with machetes, so he reasoned they would’ve been dead before the burning timbers fell on them.

At first, he thought the chapel was empty of any survivors, nothing but a charnel house of corpses. Then something moved. Near what remained of the altar a figure stirred. He was sprawled on the floor, one arm twisted beneath him, his clothing soaked with what looked like blood that’d poured from a bloody wound in his neck. He made a weak attempt to rise, failed, and sagged back down with a low groan of pain.

Crawford crossed the space quickly and knelt. “Easy, don’t try to stand.” The man’s face was pale beneath soot and blood, and he was struggling to focus, “Who are you?”

When he started to speak, blood flecked the man’s lips. “My name is Joseph,” he said hoarsely, “Father Joseph Connolly.”

Crawford’s jaw tightened. “You’re the mission priest?”

“Yes,” the man whispered, “The Society of Jesus.”

He glanced back toward the door, then returned his attention to the wounded man. “Who did this, Father?”

The injured priest closed his eyes briefly, gathering what strength remained to answer. “Slavers. They burned everything and kidnapped my flock, those they didn’t kill.”

Crawford’s gaze flicked toward the doorway, where Alice Featherstone, still swathed in black, stood watching. He looked back at the priest.

“You’re the only survivors?”

“No, no. They didn’t kill them all, some they captured and took away.”

“Where did they go?”

His reply was one word. “North.”

He knew what that meant. North meant Guinea, north meant the slave markets of Bissau to feed the lucrative Atlantic slave trade. Despite the British passing laws to outlaw slavery, the Islamic states still allowed it, encouraged it, made huge profits from it. He thought about his mission to Kalabaya, thought about the poor devils captured and put in chains by the men who’d attacked the mission.

According to Father Connolly the slavers were headed north. His party was headed north. Crawford vowed that if he found them, he would put an end to them and their evil trade. Although he didn’t fool himself, arresting or even killing them would be little more than a pinprick against the mass abduction and enslavement of so many black Africans. He couldn’t do more.

Alice Featherstone was transformed. Crawford had just finished issuing instructions to the nearest Marine when he turned back toward the chapel and saw her standing in the doorway. For the first time since he’d met her, her head was no longer swathed in black.

Crawford caught his breath before he could stop himself. She was very pretty. Not in the fragile way he’d expected, but with a strength and determination that the veil had concealed. Dark hair, fastened back severely, revealed expressive eyes that’d known grief but were not dulled or beaten by it.

“I will clean and dress this man’s wounds,” she said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. He hesitated for only a moment. “Are you certain, Mrs. Featherstone?”

She met his gaze squarely. “I watched my husband die. I will not allow it to happen to this man.”

He stepped aside. “I will wait outside. Call me if you need anything.”

She nodded and knelt beside Father Connolly, already rolling up her sleeves. He went back into the clearing and took several moments to survey the scene. The destroyed buildings, the ash. And the bodies. He took a moment to steady himself, then raised his voice.

“Half the detachment,” he ordered, “Graves. Now.”

There was a pause. Men exchanged glances, weariness etched deep in their faces.

Baker stepped forward, his expression sour. “Sir,” he began, “with respect, digging graves for natives isn’t right.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten. Just fixed Baker with a look that emphasized everything about discipline, duty, and reminded him of the line Baker had crossed earlier.

The Corporal mouth snapped shut. “Yes, Sir,” he said, with the merest trace of sullenness.

He turned and began organizing the men without further comment. They found tools among the ruins. Old shovels with rusted edges. Bent hoes and wooden-handled spades the natives had used for planting. Implements meant to coax life from the earth, now pressed into service for the earth to receive the dead.

They worked in silence. The ground was hard in places, softened by ash in others. Sweat poured down faces already streaked with sweat and grime. Crawford watched until he was satisfied the work was underway, then returned to the chapel.

Inside, the light slanted through gaps in the scorched roof. Alice Featherstone still knelt beside the priest, her hands steady. She’d stripped away his blood-soaked coat and shirt and was cleaning the wound with water drawn from her canteen, murmuring softly to him to soothe him as she worked.

When she’d done, she helped him to his feet. Cleaned up, the priest looked better already. His color had started to return, and his breathing was steadier. He looked to be in his late fifties. Tall but spare, and despite his wounds he retained a straight-backed dignity that belied the threadbare state of his cassock.

His face was angular and deeply lined, the skin darkened by sun and wind. A fringe of iron-gray hair circled his balding crown, and his beard was untended. Crawford had seen down-and-outs sprawled in the fetid, dank alleyways of London who looked as unkempt as Connolly, except his eyes radiated goodness and kindness. God only knew he would’ve needed every ounce of goodness to keep his sanity in this place.

He looked at Crawford and managed a faint smile, despite the pain he must’ve been suffering.

“This lady has a gift,” he said, his voice still low and hoarse, “As good as any doctor I’ve ever known.”

She waved away the complement. “The cut wasn’t as deep as it looked. It missed the main arteries, so he was fortunate.”

Crawford nodded. “Fortunate, indeed.”

Blood was still trickling from the wound, and she called the priest back to find a new dressing, reaching under her skirts and tearing off strips from her petticoat. Finally, she got to her feet, exhaling slowly and sighing with relief.

“He will live.”

She started to smooth her skirt automatically, then stopped, as if remembering where she was. She looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

“I need to find a place where I can have some privacy for a few moments,” she said quietly.

“Of course.”

She moved past him and left the chapel. Crawford remained, speaking softly with the priest. “What will you do if they return?”

Connolly shrugged. “I shall pray it doesn’t happen.”

“And if God doesn’t hear?”

A hard expression crossed his face for a fleeting instant. “I was a soldier once, successful and wealthy, before the carnage and brutality of the battlefield made me decide to give it all up and choose a vocation in the church.”

A faint smile reappeared, “Perhaps I should’ve kept my sword. I swore never to use it again.” He cast a gaze over the ruins of his mission, of the Marines digging graves for the bodies, “Perhaps that was a poor decision.”

There was nothing he could say. He stepped outside to oversee the burials.

When Mrs. Featherstone reappeared, he didn’t recognize her, not at first. The black dress was gone. Instead, she wore a simple linen blouse, and canvas trousers like those worn by sailors, practical and loose enough for movement. A thick leather belt cinched her waist, worn and clearly not decorative. Tucked into it were two matching flintlock pistols.

He stopped dead and stared, forgetting himself. She caught his expression and allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile.

“I see you’re surprised.”

“Mrs. Featherstone,” he managed to stammer out, then stopped. He wasn’t sure what he meant to say.

She gestured to herself. “Now that we are away from Freetown, I see no reason to continue wearing widow’s weeds. Away from the town they are impractical and unsafe.”

His gaze returned to the pistols. A fine pair of weapons, dueling pistols, he concluded. He hadn’t seen before. “Where…” he began, then thought better of it and closed his mouth.

She understood. “I’ve owned them since before my marriage,” she said calmly, “My father insisted that a woman traveling in unsettled places should know how to defend herself.”

Crawford nodded slowly, still coming to terms with the transformation from the widow enslaved in black to something so unexpected.

“As for the clothes, they’re more suitable for the journey,” she continued, “And for what lies ahead. Should we encounter my husband’s murderers, I may have the chance to use them.”

He grappled to find the right words. Alice Featherstone intended to ensure that justice was done. All he could think of to say was, “I understand.”

“Good.”

They stood for a moment amid the ruins of the mission, ash drifting softly in the air as the breeze came up. His Marines were making good progress digging the graves, and the perimeter was quiet. Soon, they’d be able to carry on toward Kalabaya. He couldn’t leave the priest there, although he was in no fit state to travel. Alice Featherstone returned to the chapel, and he followed her inside to look in on him and work out how best to help him.

He considered detaching two of his Marines to escort him back to Freetown but dismissed the idea. Father Connolly wasn’t in any state to endure such a long march, and besides, if they did encounter any hostiles, two Marines and an injured priest were unlikely to be able to protect themselves.

He struggled to find a solution but failed. Until the woman looked up at him. “He can ride my horse.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said he can ride my horse. He’s in no fit state to walk.”

“But… we’re headed to Kalabaya. What about your mission?”

The priest raised his head and looked at him. “I have a new mission. I will accompany you to Kalabaya.” He swept his gaze around the ruins of his mission, “We must ensure that the man who did this is held to account. The Lord’s justice must be done.”

* * *

When the breeze stiffened off the quarter Yusuf Mansour welcomed it, a chance for them to reach their destination sooner, so he’d be in time to greet Hassan when he arrived and demonstrate his sailing prowess. The dhow leaned as it surged forward, her lateen sail bellied out and pulling hard. The coastline slipped away astern and disappeared. Bissau lay ahead.

“Reef the sail,” a crewman called out, his voice sounding urgent, “The wind is building into a gale, it could damage the sail.”

He shook his head. “No. This wind will carry us there fast and give us the speed to avoid the Royal Navy. We will take every advantage the sea offers.”

The crew exchanged uneasy looks but obeyed. They’d sailed with Mansour long enough to know his temper when challenged, especially when the Captain wasn’t around. He wasn’t cruel in the way Hassan could be, but they discovered his anger could have teeth.

The wind rose another notch. Then another, followed by heavy rain. The dhow began to shudder as gusts repeatedly struck her broadside. The mast creaked ominously. Mansour felt a particularly strong gust through the deck, a vibration that traveled up his legs. Still, he did not order the sail reduced, the speed they were making was exhilarating.

“We’re fine,” he snapped when the steersman spoke about reefing the sail, “Hold your course.”

The next squall struck without warning. It screamed toward them like something alive, a wall of wind and rain that slammed into the dhow with savage force. The sail snapped taut. The mast bowed, bending farther than any spar should ever bend.

Mansour’s stomach dropped. The sail didn’t tear, but that was the least of their problems. The sound was a forlorn scream, timbers giving way as the mast folded, then snapped cleanly near the deck. The sail collapsed in a tangle of canvas and rope, flailing wildly before dropping across the deck.

Men shouted. A man was knocked flat, and another barely avoided being crushed. Mansour stared at the wreckage in disbelief. The dhow lay wallowing in the swell, stripped of her power to make way. Without a mast, she was little more than driftwood.

“Save the sail and cut the mast free,” he shouted urgently.

The crew worked with knives, machetes, and axes, hacking at the lines, working with frantic urgency as strong waves slapped the deck. When the last rope parted, the broken mast slid over the side and vanished beneath the surface.

Every man on the deck knew they were helpless. They had no sail, no way to steer, no way to make for land. The vessel bobbed like a cork at the mercy of wind and waves, and whatever currents chose to claim her.

He wiped rain from his face and felt the weight of his error settle heavily on him. He’d gambled and lost. Worse, he had no idea how to recover. They could rig a jury mast, perhaps, but not in this sea.

They drifted for hours, until to their considerable relief the storm passed as suddenly as it’d come, leaving a rolling swell and a cloudless sky. The sun returned, bright and indifferent. They were exhausted and flopped down where they could, staring at the empty horizon.

Late in the afternoon, a shape appeared.

“Sail,” someone shouted, his voice cracking.

Mansour squinted. It was a tall ship, her lines unmistakable even at distance. Square rigged, and he felt a flash of hope, quickly followed by dread as it grew nearer, and he could make out the flag. Royal Navy.

Fuck!

The gallows loomed large in his imagination, and instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to do something, anything. Then reason asserted itself. There were no slaves aboard. The hold was empty. Hassan had unloaded the captives to search for food and water to keep them alive, and he was marching them overland toward Bissau. When they inspected the vessel, they discover they weren’t engaged in the trade, no matter how much they suspected. They were simply a disabled ship in need of assistance.

The Navy ship continued to sail closer, flags snapping smartly on top of the masts. She hove to at a respectful distance and lowered boats, ready to row across. He exhaled slowly. They were in no danger. They were about to be saved.

The naval officer who came aboard was smart, polite, and efficient. He was also young for his rank, with a guileless expression. The kind of man who wouldn’t look too closely at anything, so he appeared to be unaware of the business they’d been involved in until recently. He inspected the damage, nodded, and spoke in a matter-of-fact manner.

“We’ll take you in tow,” he said, “You’re fortunate we were close.”

Mansour thanked him with genuine relief.

He was told the warship was the thirty-four-gun frigate HMS Resolute, commanded by Captain Edmund Rawlings. After he’d made a cursory inspection of the dhow he explained where they were headed.

“Freetown is nearest,” Rawlings said, “That’s where we’re going, and when we dock, you’ll be able to make repairs.”

Mansour was stunned. Freetown. The name sent a flicker of unease through him. Freetown was the last place a slaver would willingly enter. Except he reminded himself, right now he wasn’t a slaver. Just a shipwrecked mariner in need of aid. The irony of it made him smile despite himself.

Rescued by the Royal Navy. Allah be praised.

They took the dhow in tow, the thick hawser creaking as it became taut, and the Resolute sailed off, drawing the crippled vessel behind her.

As the coast rose out of the haze and the harbor opened before them, Mansour felt his tension ease. There were going to be okay. They docked without incident. No questions were asked, and they didn’t show any enthusiasm. The last place anyone would expect to see a slave ship was in Freetown harbor.

Within hours, he’d found what he needed. A carpenter agreed to supply and step a new mast. The price was steep, but not ruinous. Two days, the man said. Three at most if the fittings needed adjustment. Mansour told him to make it two if he expected to receive payment. Two days in port. Two days to rest, to repair, and to plan the next leg of the journey.

He walked along the dock that evening, watching the bustle of Freetown with detached amusement. Freed Africans moved through the crowds. Sailors laughed and drank. Traders shouted their wares. Life went on. He smiled again at the absurdity of it all. Saved by the very men meant to stop his trade. He didn’t see the African standing on a Royal Navy frigate tied up fifty yards away. The man was staring at him in sudden, frozen recognition.

* * *

Kofi had been about to pour a bucket of slops over the side when he spotted him, and every bone in his body went rigid. It was him, one of the slavers he’d seen when they reached the coast and negotiated for their sale. This man had been looking on, next to another whose face was also etched on his memory. They were negotiating for the purchase of a different batch of captives. Memory slammed into him with the force of a blow.

Chains. Shouting. The other man’s voice, harsh and cruel, and this man standing at his shoulder like a faithful dog. He didn’t hesitate. Turned and ran across the deck, bare feet slapping the planks, and he found an officer near the rail.

He spoke urgently, words tumbling out. “That man,” he said, pointing across the dock, “The man walking toward the dhow with the broken mast. He helped capture us and take us on board the ship. He’s a slaver.”

The officer followed his gaze, staring at the man who walked along the wharf, relaxed and confident, unaware that the past had just caught up with him.

* * *

The air was marginally cooler, and their optimism surged, until the insects reached their full fury when the path ahead narrowed. The jungle pressed in as if resentful as the passing vines snared ankles, and every step stirred clouds of biting insects that stung every inch of exposed flesh and vanished into the dark foliage.

Father Connolly rode on the horse. He sat awkwardly in the side-saddle, intended for females. One hand gripped the pommel, the other resting against his bandaged wound. His face was still pale, but his breathing no longer rasped from the beating he’d received. Alice Featherstone walked beside Crawford, striding out in her sailor’s canvas pants, steady and uncomplaining, despite her clothing quickly becoming coated with sweat and dust.

He noticed at once that her demeanor seemed different. Lighter, somehow. Not cheerful, exactly, but less rigid. The tension he’d seen since first meeting her had eased. She even smiled on occasion, although there was still an edge to her, a guardedness that suggested she’d learned to be distrustful in the alien country she’d wound up in.

They walked together for a while in silence, the rhythm of marching feet and insects filling the space. Suddenly, without preamble, she spoke. “You should know something.”

He glanced at her in surprise, then back to the path. “Whatever you wish.”

“I never loved my husband.”

She said the words without drama.

“He was much older than I. A merchant with money and influence. My family thought it a fine match. He thought so, too, and he effectively bought me.” She gave a bitter smile, “Though no one used that word. They shipped me out from England in the same way as they shipped consignments of goods.”

“I’m sorry.”

A shrug. “As soon as I arrived in Freetown, we were married. There was no time for courtship, no time to work out how I felt about him. I was his property, almost a slave, and he frequently reminded me of my position.”

He was embarrassed but felt he had to say something. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. It was all he could think of.

She nodded, color rising in her cheeks despite the heat. “There’s no need to apologize. It wasn’t your fault. Marriage for me was often painful.”

“Madam, I don’t know what to say. This is very delicate.”

“Yes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything, but I just needed to tell someone to ease the burden I’ve been carrying since I arrived in Africa.”

He found himself feeling closer to her than before, especially after what she’d shared with him. He felt a pull toward her that went beyond sympathy. Respect, certainly. Admiration. But he couldn’t allow more. After all, he was here in the service of Her Majesty.

It meant that any feelings he had for her could go no further than friendship. She was a widow. He was an officer of the Crown. Any intimacy between them, even the merest hint of intimacy would be scandalous. Every respectable, civilized person in Freetown would condemn him, and her. He would be judged, and she would be ruined.

They were nearing Kalabaya when it happened. The track they were following met a narrower path that emerged from thick jungle, barely visible until it was almost upon them. From it he spotted movement, heard voices, saw metal glinting in the shafts of sunlight.

He raised his hand sharply for his party to halt. A band of armed men came into view, pulling a line of captives behind them. Men and women, chained by the neck, stumbling along and cringing to blows and shouted commands.

Slavers! Arab slavers.

He felt the familiar cold anger descend. After everything he’d seen when they captured the dhow, the bodies, sickness, the despair, he couldn’t allow himself. Besides, this territory was under the protection of the British Empire, and slavery was illegal, carrying the death penalty.

“We must free those people,” he shouted to his men, “And take the slavers alive. They belong on the gallows in Freetown.” He turned to Alice. “Madam, you must wait here. It would not be safe for you to accompany us.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it again, reading his expression, and she nodded once.

He turned to Corporal Baker. “You will stay here,” he ordered, “Guard Mrs. Featherstone and Father Connolly. With your life if necessary.”

Baker bristled, then caught his eye and looked away. “Yes, Sir.”

Crawford motioned his men forward. The slavers saw them at the same instant. There were shouts of alarm, sharp and panicked, and they broke into a run, dragging the captives with them toward the north. The border with Guinea lay scarcely a mile away. If they crossed it, British authority would end, and they’d escape.

“After them,” Crawford shouted, “Run!”

The Marines surged forward, and the slavers ran even harder. One fired wildly over his shoulder, but the shot went wide. Another slashed the rope attached to the long chain that held the captives, now slowing them and risking them being overwhelmed by the Marines. The captives fell sobbing to the ground, and the slavers ran faster still pursued by Crawford’s men.

They knew the ground, and they shed equipment as they ran. One by one, they entered the jungle, racing toward the line that marked the border, and they vanished. He swore under his breath.

There was nothing they could do, so he ordered his men to call off the chase and return to the captives. They spent some time working to free them from their chains, every man and woman staring at them in terror, as if anticipating some new horror about to overtake them.

“Take it easy,” he said to them, keeping his voice gentle and unthreatening, “You’re safe.”

His men continued to work at removing their shackles. Metal rang, and one by one, the captives were freed, collapsing where they stood, some weeping. He scanned the jungle edge, just in case they were still close. He’d wanted the slavers to face justice in Freetown. Wanted to see them dangling from the end of a rope.

But they’d saved the lives of these people, so that would have to be enough for the time being. But only for the time being. When they were sufficiently recovered, they gathered the freed men and women and walked on toward Kalabaya. The border post came into view not long after.

It was a collection of primitive structures situated amid jungle and dust. The police post stood on a slight rise overlooking the narrow, rutted track that marked the uncertain boundary between Sierra Leone and Guinea. A low stockade of rough-hewn timber encircled a cluster of buildings. A squat blockhouse of sunbaked brick, a whitewashed barracks with a corrugated roof, and a flagstaff from which the Union flag hung limp in the heavy air.

Beyond the stockade the land fell away into scrub and thick, tangled forest. The jungle pressed close, dark and humid, its edge alive with insects and the distant calls of unseen birds. A shallow stream ran alongside, brown and sluggish, the only relief from dust during the dry season and a ribbon of mud in the frequent rains. Soldiers emerged when they saw their approach, but they relaxed when they recognized the uniforms.

Crawford gave a brief account to the officer in charge, like him, a second lieutenant, and he listened to the story of the journey with a grim expression.

“You’re not the first,” he grunted, “They frequently run people across the border and vanish into Guinea. We can’t pursue without orders, for fear it would provoke an incident between the British Empire and the rulers of Guinea.”

He nodded, as he’d expected as much. The freed captives were given water, food, and shelter. Men recorded their names and told them they’d send word back to Freetown to arrange for the return to their homes. Crawford looked back along the path where the slavers had disappeared. He knew that the trade didn’t end at this border. It would adapt, and more Africans would be captured, and more iron shackles placed around their necks.

Chapter Five

He led his party forward, boots crunching on red earth baked hard by the sun. Alice Featherstone walked beside him, her face composed. The pistols weighed heavy at her hips. Father Connolly followed, hunched over in the saddle, one hand resting lightly on the horse’s neck for balance. The freed captives followed, still stunned by their sudden release.

One soldier was on sentry duty, and he informed him of the purpose of their arrival. He told him he intended to go straight across to the Guinean post and conclude their business. The post lay just about a hundred and fifty yards away, and even at that distance he could make out the rabble who manned it. A dozen men lounged beneath makeshift shelters, a few in uniforms, mismatched and ill kept. The rest wore stained and ragged robes, patched and faded. All carried muskets slung carelessly over their shoulders. Their feet were shod in a mixture of leather, cloth, and bare feet. They watched the British approach with open amusement.

They radiated confidence. Not the confidence of discipline or training, more like the arrogance of men who knew precisely what power they held and took pleasure in exercising it.

One man stepped forward, grinning broadly. “You cannot cross,” he said in passable English. Crawford, in the lead, had not yet crossed the line, “This is Guinea.”

He halted his men on British soil. “I know where I am. I am Second Lieutenant Crawford, Royal Marines. I have business with your post commander.”

The man laughed and turned to his companions, repeating the words in their local tongue. More laughter rippled through the group. After a moment, a thicker set man detached himself from the shade and came forward. He wore a sash that suggested authority and an ornate flintlock pistol tucked into his belt.

“I am in charge. Tell me your business.”

Crawford gestured to Alice. “This lady is Mrs. Alice Featherstone. Her husband was murdered several days ago in Freetown. Four men committed the crime, and we learned that your post detained four suspects matching their description.”

The Guinean officer’s smile widened. “Yes, we detained four men. So what?”

“I have brought this lady here to identify them. Once identified, they are to be returned to the British authorities for trial.”

He laughed outright. “That is very good. You have been very thorough.” He spread his hands, “I would be delighted to cooperate of course, but they are gone.”

To Crawford, he didn’t seem delighted about cooperating. Beside him, Alice stiffened.

“Gone?”

“Yes, I released them.”

“On what grounds?”

He shrugged. “We waited, but no witnesses appeared.”

“We marched as soon as we were notified,” Crawford snapped.

Another shrug. “You came too late. Was there anything else? I am busy, I have work to do.”

His men were openly enjoying themselves now, leaning on their muskets. Most were watching Alice with open curiosity and something else that looked remarkably like lust. One made a remark that sent a ripple of laughter through the group. They were enjoying themselves. Enjoyed seeing British soldiers frustrated, knowing they were outside the jurisdiction of British law.

“These men you released are murderers,” Alice said. Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it, “They killed my husband. I saw them do it.”

The post commander gave her a lewd look. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, smiling, “But there is nothing I can do. They are no longer here.”

“You could have held them,” Crawford said, “You chose to let them go.”

The man’s smile broadened. “We have our procedures. Just like you British.”

Crawford stood there for a moment longer, powerless to do anything. The guards were relaxed, amused, knowing the British could not cross that invisible line without starting a war.

He was stymied, and there was nothing more to be gained there. No argument that would change anything. No threat that could be made. Any further words would only provide entertainment. The men were gone.

He nodded once. “Very well.” He turned away without another word and led them back to the British post.

Laughter followed them back across the line. The lieutenant listened to his account of what’d happened with a weary expression that suggested he’d heard the same story many times before.

“Yes,” he said when Crawford finished, “That’s the way they are.”

“But…they released them deliberately.”

“Of course, they did. They’re bitter. The slave trade lined a lot of pockets before we started to interfere. They’ll do anything to make things difficult for us.”

Alice stood nearby, silent now, her face a deathly pale.

“I’m sorry,” the lieutenant added, his tone softer, “Truly.”

He nodded stiffly. Sorry didn’t begin to cover it. They’d come there for nothing, and there was nothing else to do but start the long, arduous journey back.

They spent the night at Kalabaya in crude guest quarters adjoining the barracks. The room was little more than a shed with rough plank walls and a dirt floor swept clear of the worst debris. Mosquito nets hung in tatters. The air was thick and unmoving.

They gave Mrs. Featherstone a small room for herself, little bigger than a closet. When he went to check on her, she sat on a narrow cot, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing.

“Is there anything…?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Featherstone, I left Corporal Baker to guard you and told you stay with him to keep you safe, but you deliberately disobeyed me. Next time…”

She threw him a scornful look. “I don’t take orders from you, Lieutenant Crawford, and I don’t want you to ever leave me again with Corporal Baker. He was impertinent, tried to take advantage, and he wouldn’t back off until I drew one of my pistols and threatened to put a lead ball into his manhood.”

He hid a smile. “I’ll speak to him.”

He left her to make sure Father Connolly was comfortable, then posted sentries and dismissed the men to what rest they could find.

Sleep came grudgingly. He lay awake for a long time, staring at the corrugated iron ceiling, listening to insects scrape and whine. He replayed what’d happened at the border over and over. All that effort, all that risk to get there, all for nothing.

Someone had to pay. He thought of Father Connolly’s mission burned to the ground. Of the priest left bleeding on the chapel floor. Of Alice watching her husband die in Freetown, and now being denied even the small justice of pointing a finger at the men responsible. The system was rotten. Guinea was rotten.

In the morning they packed up and began the long march back to Freetown. The air was already heavy. Sweat soaked through their woolen coats within minutes. The men trudged forward without complaint, their spirits dulled by fatigue and disappointment.

Alice insisted that Father Connolly ride her horse, because he was in no fit state to walk more than a few paces. Once again, she walked beside him, without speaking, next to Crawford at the head of the column. He felt bitterness gnawing at his belly, felt the frustration of knowing there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. The murderers of her husband had got clean away. As had the Arabs they’d encountered just before they reached the border post.

The journey had been intended to bring closure to a widow’s grieving. Instead, it’d laid bare the limits of the power of the British Empire, and the ease with which its justice could be sidestepped. The men who’d murdered Edward Featherstone were still out there, and barring a miracle, they’d never face the rope for their crimes.

The journey back to Freetown took two days, and it felt much longer. The heat was no less oppressive, the insects no kinder, but now their bitterness layered over the exhaustion and discomfort. The men marched with heads down, and conversation was sparse and subdued. What little talk they made carried an edge of tired frustration.

For Father Connolly, the return was the hardest of all. When they passed through the clearing where his mission had stood, he asked them to halt, and Crawford gave the order. The men rested where they could, leaning on muskets, grateful for the break.

Connolly dismounted slowly and walked among the ruins. He said nothing at first, just touched the blackened stone of the chapel wall, the scorched timbers that had once framed the roof, and glanced over the ground where the shallow graves dug by the Marines marked the final resting places of those who’d been killed.

“This was where children learned their letters,” he said at last, gesturing toward a patch of ash and broken planks, “And there. That was the garden, where we grew cassava and maize.”

He knelt, gathered a handful of earth, and let it run through his fingers. “I will stay here and rebuild, if they leave us in peace.”

Crawford said nothing. There wasn’t anything he could say without it ringing hollow. They spent a miserable night beneath makeshift shelters, and at dawn they marched on. By the time Freetown came into view, the men were filthy and decrepit. They were demoralized, hollow-eyed, utterly spent. Their uniforms were stiff with mud and grime, boots scuffed and split. Faces bitten and blistered. Crawford felt like he’d been scraped raw by the journey.

They returned to the ship without ceremony. He dismissed the men to clean themselves and see to their equipment, then reported directly to Captain Ashcombe. He didn’t bother to change first, and that was a mistake the Captain was quick to point out.

He listened without interruption as he gave his account of what’d happened since they’d left Freetown. The torched mission. The wounded priest. The border post. The Guinean guards’ indifference, and the release of the suspects. The one high point was they’d managed to free the captives before they got them across the border into Guinea, but if Ashcombe was impressed, he didn’t express it.

When Crawford finished, his expression was wintry. “I am not happy,” he said flatly. Crawford stood rigid. This was no time to interrupt, “I cannot spare my men to go off on wild goose chases. We are here to patrol the coast, not to play at frontier justice with a bunch of savages who change the rules when it suits them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The Captain studied him more closely, his gaze taking in the stained and dirty coat, the dried blood at the collar. “And something else you may not be aware of. Second Lieutenant Crawford, you look like a scarecrow.” He didn’t react, “Get yourself cleaned up. I want to see that coat cleaned and pressed. Make yourself presentable on the quarterdeck in one hour. I shall be mustering all hands to inform them of our next mission.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“We have orders. The Galatea is putting to sea.”

“Yes, Sir.” He saluted and left the cabin.

He found Kofi near the gangway, where he’d been waiting for him. “Sir, I have news…”

“I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait. Right now, I need your help.”

Kofi opened his mouth to say more, but when he shook his head to indicate it was the wrong time, he fell into step beside him. They went to his cabin. It looked even smaller than before, cluttered with damp gear reeking of sweat and old leather. He stripped off his coat and handed it to Kofi. “I’m sorry, but the Captain has ordered me to get this cleaned. Can you help me?”

“Of course.” He set about cleaning it, using water, rags, and hard rubbing to lift the worst of the stains.

Crawford went on deck, filled a bucket with water from the pump and returned to the cabin. He plunged his face into the water, keeping it submerged until his lungs burned. He came up spluttering, wiped his eyes, and did it again. Feeling fresher, he shaved carefully, using a folding campaign mirror propped against the bulkhead.

The mirror was a treasured possession. Dented, its surface slightly warped, he’d bought it at an auction of an officer’s possessions, kept in store after the officer had been killed in action at the Battle of Trafalgar, at the same time as the death of Admiral Nelson, who fell victim to a French sharpshooter. When the widow fell into penury, she sold off the contents of the store that included the mirror.

Kofi worked silently, cleaning and pressing the coat as best he could, brushing the fabric smooth, wiping away the last traces of blood. When Crawford dressed again, his uniform was not pristine, but it was respectable enough to pass muster.

“Better,” Kofi said, standing back and admiring him.

“Thank you, I’m grateful.”

He stepped out onto the quarterdeck with minutes to spare. Below him, the crew was assembled on the main deck, watching attentively. Sailors and Marines alike looked up as the Captain took his place, the familiar murmur of anticipation rippling through them.

Ashcombe stepped forward. He called, his voice loud enough for every man to hear.

“We have new orders.” The deck fell quiet, “We are to put to sea on the morning tide and resume patrols along the coast in search of slave traders. None have been sighted recently, not since we took that dhow, and I’m afraid it’s likely this patrol will achieve very little. They’re running scared. He paused, “Which means the Royal Navy is doing its job. I know you were looking forward to the prize money, but perhaps we will strike lucky. And the slave traders unlucky.”

A ripple of subdued laughter ran through the ranks, “But we have our orders. Make your preparations, we sail with the morning tide.”

The ship’s company dispersed to go about the familiar rhythm of preparation for their departure. Stores to be checked, guns to be stocked with sufficient cannonballs and ammunition. The men moved with purpose. Lines were checked, stores inventoried, boats secured. The Galatea had the air of a living thing.

He spent the remainder of the day on his section of the gun deck. The Marines’ battle station consisted of four cannon situated on the aft of the starboard side. He inspected their iron barrels, dull with salt and use. They sat behind the closed gun ports, as if patiently awaiting the call to action. Crawford oversaw his men swabbing the barrels with care, long rammers moving in steady rhythm to clear moisture and residue.

“Make sure you keep the vent clear,” he reminded his men, “We don’t want damp in there.”

Several nodded their acknowledgement, and they worked methodically, coats off, sweat darkening their shirts in the heat you can find below decks. He checked the shot racks and adjusted the canvas covers over the powder tubs.

When he came to the fourth gun, there was a shortage of gunpowder. Enough to make him uneasy. With two Marines in tow, he went to the armory to make up the shortage. Almost at the level of the bilges the dark space was cramped and smelled of oil and old iron. The master at arms raised an eyebrow at his request, then shrugged and produced what he could spare. The kegs were heavier than they looked, awkward to handle in the narrow passageways. Although he was an officer, he helped shoulder one himself, carrying them up to the gun deck.

They stacked the kegs carefully, lashed them down, and he rechecked the seals. By the time he was satisfied, night had fallen. Lanterns glowed softly throughout the ship. There were fewer shouted orders, footsteps were quieter. He walked out on deck for some fresh air and listened to the sea lapping gently against the hull.

He returned to his cabin, too tired to remove his uniform, and after unbuckling his sword belt and removing his boots, he lay on his cot and slept fully dressed. Sleep took him almost at once, deep and dreamless. He woke to the sound of the bosun’s call.

Morning had arrived, but it was too early for the heat to become unbearable. Sailors and Marines stood at their posts, the last of the supplies stowed away and small boats secured. The harbor looked calm and peaceful.

The First Lieutenant shouted, “Cast off!”

On the quay, men cast off lines from the iron bollards and tossed them over to the ship, where sailors rushed to coil them neatly on the deck. Slowly, the Galatea gathered way. The sails filled, canvas snapping in the breeze. The ship eased forward, slowly, the quay sliding past, faces watching from the shore.

He stood near the rail, overseeing the Marines as they went about their duties. He felt a curious mix of relief and unease as the harbor mouth approached. Then he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned sharply and found Kofi beside him. The young African’s eyes were fixed on a vessel tied up close to the quay near to where they’d been moored. His face tense with urgency.

“Sir, there.” Kofi pointed to the vessel he’d been watching.

Crawford followed the line of his finger. A dhow lay tied up at the wharf, partially obscured now by distance. Its mast was missing entirely. Men moved about its deck, unmistakably engaged in repair. “What of it?”

Kofi swallowed. “The man on that ship, I know him.”

Crawford frowned. “I don’t understand. Which man?”

His finger trembled slightly as he pointed again. “The man there, standing near the stern.”

He strained his eyes, but at this distance, the figure was small and indistinct. “What about him?”

“He was there when they chained my people before they put us in the hold of the dhow you took. He stood with another man, laughing, as they took possession of another line of slaves.”

Crawford felt a prickle run up his spine. “You’re saying he’s a slaver?”

“Yes, he’s Yusuf Mansour.”

“And the other man you saw?”

“I believe he was the captain of that ship, Mohammed Hassan.”

Crawford stared. “That’s impossible. No slave ship would be stupid enough to put into Freetown.”

Kofi did not waver. “It is a slave ship. The ship is damaged, so perhaps they had no choice.”

He looked again at the missing mast, carpenters swarming over the deck.

“Yes, if they lost their mast, they may have been so.”

The Galatea continued to move, the dhow sliding farther away with each second. They were on anti-slavery patrol, and he knew he had to report this, so he strode across the deck toward the First Lieutenant.

“Sir, I have reason to believe one of the dhows in harbor is a slaver.”

The Lieutenant looked at him as if he’d suggested the sun would rise in the west. “That’s nonsense. They wouldn’t dare show their faces here.”

“The ship is damaged,” Crawford pressed, “Looks like it lost the mast. They may have had no alternative.”

The Lieutenant growled. “Who gave you this information?”

“My African servant.”

He snorted. “Every African we free has a story. If we stopped and searched every dhow in Freetown, we’d never leave port.”

Crawford held his gaze. “The man who identified him was aboard the dhow we captured.”

The Lieutenant hesitated, thought for a few moments, then shook his head. “Coincidence. Probably his memory playing tricks. It happens. Forget it, we have work to do hunting for real slave ships.”

“Very well, Sir.” He saluted and left. There was nothing else he could say.

The Galatea passed between the headlands, sails catching the wind strongly, the open sea stretching out ahead. Slowly, the coast of Africa began to recede.

He watched until Freetown was nothing more than a pale smudge on the horizon. Somewhere back there, a damaged dhow was being repaired, and he believed Kofi’s story. Back in the port, men who trafficked in human lives walked free, like those men freed by the soldiers manning the Guinean border post. The ship sailed on, taking them further from the guilty.

The following day dawned, and they were the only vessel in sight. After an early breakfast of thick oatmeal gruel and hardtack biscuits, they reported to the gun deck. Already, the air was hot and humid, although sunlight cut in through the opened gun ports to allow the passage of some light and air into the cramped, dark space. Two hundred yards off the starboard beam, an empty barrel bobbed on the swell, its curved staves glinting wetly as it rose and fell.

The First Lieutenant ordered, “Run out.”

The gun crew of each gun moved as one, hands went to tackles and breech ropes. Boots braced against the deck, and with a practiced heave, the long iron guns rolled forward on its trucks, the wooden wheels groaning softly until the muzzles of the eighteen-pounders thrust out through the open port, pointing toward the waiting target. They secured the breech ropes and pulled them taut, a final check against recoil.

Crawford stood behind his four starboard cannon, crewed by the Marines. He watched every movement with a critical eye. Gunnery required more than brute strength. It was about rhythm, discipline, and most important, accuracy under pressure.

“Ready.”

He peered along the barrel of the first gun and nodded. The Marine adjusted the quoin beneath the breech with small taps until he had the elevation right. Gun barrels moved up and down with the motion of the ship, and the First Lieutenant waited, judging the roll, timing the rise.

“Fire.”

The world became a deafening roar. Twenty-four guns exploded with a thunderous roar that punched the air from men’s lungs and rattled their teeth. Smoke burst outward in a choking white cloud, pouring through the port and back across the deck. The recoil slammed the guns backward, the breech ropes snapping tight as the trucks skidded across the planks.

Men ducked and covered their ears by instinct, though they had done this a hundred times before. The broadside hit the water nearby, sending plumes of spray skyward.

“Short,” a Marine muttered.

Crawford nodded once. “Bring them in.”

The crews sprang back into motion. Tackles were hauled, muscles straining as the guns were dragged back from the port. Smoke stung eyes and throats, and a sponge dipped into water was rammed down each barrel, hissing faintly as they quenched any lingering sparks.

“Clear.”

“Reload!”

They poured in a measured quantity of powder, then wadding, then the iron shot. Each step performed in the same order they’d practiced so many times before, because any deviation could kill them all. The rammers drove the charges home with solid, practiced strokes. Crawford watched the sponge heads come out clean, watched the powder monkeys retreat smartly, and the Marines in charge of each gun glanced at him for approval.

“Run out.”

Again, the guns rolled forward. Again, the quoins were adjusted, this time a fraction lower.

“Hold… hold…Fire!”

Another thunderous roar, another violent recoil. Smoke filled the dark space. This time the shot struck closer, the barrel rocking hard as water sprayed around it.

“Better,” the First Lieutenant said, “Again.”

They did it again, and again. Each cycle blurred into the next. Run out. Aim. Fire. Haul the guns back in. Sponge. Load. Run out. Sweat soaked shirts, faces were streaked with grime and powder residue, but the rhythm held.

One of Crawford’s guns hit the barrel at last, the shot splintering its staves, leaving it wallowing and half sunk. “Good,” he said.

He looked at the First Lieutenant, who nodded. “Keep it up.”

They continued even after the target was shattered, firing at the remains, so that when the time came to fire at an enemy vessel, men would act without thinking. Because one day, very soon, these guns wouldn’t be aimed at a floating barrel. When that day came, success or failure would be measured in blood.

For three days the sea gave them nothing. The Galatea worked her way out into deeper waters, sails trimmed, lookouts doubled as they settled into the routine of patrol. The horizon stayed clear. No suspicious sails, no dhows attempting to creep past at dawn. Nothing but empty water and a sun that hammered down until the deck planks felt hot enough to burn through boots.

The men grew restless. It showed in small ways at first. More arguments over trivialities. More grumbling when tasks were assigned. Sailors didn’t fit well with idleness. They needed purpose, like a chase, a storm. Anything that meant they weren’t simply drifting through a vast blue waste for no reason.

Even Captain Ashcombe looked less certain about his orders as the days stretched on. He stood at the rail with his glass raised, scanning the unchanging horizon as if he could conjure a sail through stubbornness alone. He said nothing to the men, but it told in his posture, the faint impatience in the tilt of his head, the way he pursed his lips as he listened to reports that offered no news.

The patrol was achieving exactly what the First Lieutenant had predicted. Nothing. Until in the early evening of the fourth day, the lookout’s voice rang out.

“Sail ho. Westward, four points to port.”

The shout cut through the ship like a jolt of lightning. Men stiffened, and officers raised spyglasses searching for the newly sighted vessel. Crawford climbed the ladder to the weather side and squinted into the glare. At first, he saw only a pale scratch against the sea. Then the pale scratch sharpened into a ship.

Not a dhow. This vessel was long and sleek, her lines built for speed. A schooner, and a fine one, her masts raked, her hull narrow. She was sailing westward, ignoring the might of the Royal Navy, a ship that believed itself beyond reach.

Ashcombe watched her through his glass for a long moment at nodded. “That is no trader headed to a friendly port,” he said at last, “It’s a slaver, no doubt crossing the Atlantic and headed for the American Deep South.”

The First Lieutenant stood beside him, face intent. “Yes, Sir.”

Ashcombe lowered the glass. His voice carried across the deck. “Cram on all sail, we’re giving chase.”

Men swarmed into the rigging, canvas was loosed, and lines were hauled. The ship heeled slightly as the wind caught the additional sails, and the helmsman turned her bow to the fleeing schooner.

The chase had begun. The schooner was fast, and for an hour, then two, she held the lead, even drawing ahead, skimming the water with an ease that mocked the heavier frigate tailing her. A schooner didn’t carry the weight of twenty-four guns and a full crew, although she would be carrying the weight of her cargo, slaves chained into the hold. But she was still fast, able to outpace the frigate, though only by a fraction of a knot.

Ashcombe refused to abandon the pursuit. He kept the Galatea chasing her, demanding more speed, using every advantage the wind offered. Still, the gap didn’t close, but neither did it widen. The schooner stayed ahead, a constant taunt against the fading daylight.

Night fell under clear skies, and the moon rose full and bright, turning the sea into a field of shifting silver. The schooner was still visible, her sails pale in the moonlight, her hull a dark line. She was still heading west, intent on outrunning the Navy, and probably betting that speed and darkness would save her.

All night, they sailed after her. The crew toiled in silence, their earlier restlessness disappeared, replaced with determination. Sailors rotated at the braces and sheets, shoulders straining, hands blistering. The ship creaked and groaned under the pressure of full sail.

Every man was conscious of the type of vessel they pursued. A slaver. A ship involved in the evil trade of carrying human beings across the Atlantic. A valuable ship, and many were already estimating their share of the prize money. Yet at dawn, the schooner was still ahead.

Crawford stood on the quarterdeck, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, watching the horizon brighten. The sea had calmed, and the wind held steady. The schooner remained a slender shape in the distance, no closer than she had been hours before. They’d made no progress during the night. She was as far away as ever.

He felt frustration tighten in his chest, and he saw the same tension in the First Lieutenant’s stance. The way Smythe shifted his weight, impatience contained by discipline.

Ashcombe had been on deck all night, yet he showed no signs of fatigue. His face was unreadable as he watched the schooner continue sailing westward. Every man knew their chances of catching up were slight, unless she made a mistake.

Then she made a mistake.

Crawford noticed it first, a flutter of canvas that didn’t settle properly. The schooner’s course began to change slightly, and she dropped off the wind, her bow angling more to the southwest, as if trying to take better advantage of the wind. Men swarmed over her deck, working fast to adjust the sails.

A moment later, something went wrong. A yard swung awkwardly, a sail shuddered, and half collapsed. Lines snapped taut in the wrong places. The rigging on the schooner’s mainmast tangled into a snarled knot of rope and canvas, and for a few long seconds the vessel seemed to hesitate, her motion faltering. She slowed.

The Galatea began to gain.

“Now we have a chance,” Smythe murmured, eyes riveted ahead.

The vessel floundered while her crew fought the mess in their rigging. Men clambered up the shrouds. Knives flashed. Canvas snapped and whipped, stubbornly refusing to obey. The ship yawed slightly, her speed bleeding away for vital minutes. And still the gap narrowed.

He could see more detail now. Men on the schooner’s deck. The dark shape of her stern rail.

“Beat to quarters,” Ashcombe ordered.

The drum sounded, sharp and urgent, and the ship transformed in seconds as they ran to their stations on the gun deck. Marines assembled with practiced precision. Gun crews took their places. Powder and shot were brought up, and a renewed tension filled the air.

He followed them below to where his Marines were preparing the aft port side guns. The iron barrels were run out. Breech ropes were checked, sponges dipped in buckets of water. Powder tubs were placed ready and covered with canvas to shield against sparks, and all moved with renewed purpose, in a rhythm drilled into them by frequent practice.

Smythe’s voice carried down the hatchway. “Sharpshooters into the rigging.”

Four Marines were designated sharpshooters, chosen for steady hands and proven aim. One was Corporal Baker. His face was grim, eyes bright with a kind of fierce satisfaction. He took his musket, checked the flint, and slung his powder horn. He and the others swarmed up through the hatch and into the rigging. They climbed quickly, boots finding footholds, hands gripping ropes, disappearing into the web of lines above.

The Galatea closed even further. Yet the schooner’s crew finally began to untangle their rigging. Canvas sails snapped back into place, and the vessel shuddered, caught the wind again, and started to pick up speed.

It wasn’t fast enough.

“Range?” Smythe called up to the quarterdeck.

“A little under three hundred yards,” came the reply.

“Ready a broadside on the port side. Aim high, sweet the deck.”

The gun captains adjusted elevation with quick taps of the quoins. They waited for the roll, timing the moment when the ship’s motion would align the barrels.

“Fire.”

Twelve guns roared in unison, the sound so immense it seemed to tear the air. The recoil slammed the guns back on their trucks. Smoke billowed, thick and choking, rolling through the gun deck and out the ports like storm clouds. They heard the distant thud of shot striking timbers as several balls hit the schooner, smashing through the rails and bringing carnage to the deck.

One shot tore through her stern rail, and another smashed into her rigging, cutting a line that snapped and whipped like a living thing. The schooner lurched, staggered, but she didn’t stop. Her crew recovered fast, and her sails filled with wind. She began to move forward again, picking up speed trying desperately to regain her lead.

“She’ll slip away if we don’t cripple her,” Smythe shouted to the gun crews, “Reload, make it snappy. Hit them with another broadside.”

The guns crashed out, followed by a call for every man to man the deck. “Prepare for boarding!”

Crawford raced up the ladder and out onto the deck. Above him, the sharpshooters fired. Muskets cracked out from the rigging. They were trained to target the officers on the enemy ship. For the more he killed, the more confusion they would cause amongst the men, and the easier the task of the boarding party.

He stood near the mainmast, watching the schooner, when something snapped past his head with a sound like an angry insect. He froze. A musket ball had missed him by inches. Instinct made him look up. The sharpshooters were high above, braced against the rigging, muskets angled outward toward the fleeing schooner. None were aiming down. None had any reason to.

Yet his eyes found Baker. For the briefest moment, Baker’s gaze met his. Then he looked away, too quickly. Still several yards from the schooner, the Galatea suddenly turned to give the starboard guns a chance to fire on the enemy, and yet another starboard broadside roared out, sending cannonballs crashing into the other vessel. But it still moved through the water, with no sign that the damage had slowed it more than a fraction. Though perhaps just enough for them to reach the schooner and board her.

The chase continued, but a cold awareness had settled in him. They were hunting slavers, but they weren’t the only enemy. He was convinced Baker had targeted him with a musket ball, and in the future, he’d have to be more than careful and watch the Corporal closely. More than ever, he had a growing realization that Baker was a man whose resentment was becoming no less dangerous than the cannons they fired at the schooner.

Chapter Six

Panic finished what the gunnery had begun. Aboard the schooner, discipline collapsed. Men shouted contradictory orders. They trimmed the sails too late or not at all. Lines fouled once again as men’s hands trembled and their judgement failed. The vessel yawed, lost way, then the steersman tried desperately to recover, but he was too late.

The Galatea drew closer, so close that Crawford could pick out the faces and dress of the crew. Sweat streaked, dark skin, their eyes wide, whites showing. Looking every which way for an escape. There was no escape.

“Grapples,” the First Officer shouted.

Sailors heaved iron hooks trailing thick ropes. The grappling hooks flew in high arcs, clanged against wood, and most bit and held. Men hauled on the ropes, like a tug-of-war, boots skidding as they dragged the schooner closer.

Crawford drew his sword and raised his voice. “As soon as we touch, I want every man on that ship. Cut down anyone who stands in your way, but remember there will be slaves below, so take care not to hurt any of them. As for the crew, give them no quarter. They surrender or they die.”

Other officers were shouting similar orders, voices overlapping, urgency boiling over into raw command. The ships struck, and the impact almost jarred him off-balance. He recovered fast and roared, “Go!”

Sailors and Marines surged forward and swarmed over the rail, some leaping, some swinging across on ropes, some scrambling across makeshift bridges of timber planks thrown between the hulls. They landed hard on the schooner’s deck and immediately met resistance.

The enemy crew was easy to identify. Arab dress, curved blades, filthy, loose robes soaked dark with sweat and dirt. They fought with the fury of men who knew there would be no mercy if they lost, and the deck exploded into chaos.

Muskets fired at point-blank range. Pistols cracked, and smoke billowed, stinging their eyes and throats. Steel rang on steel as sword met sword, bayonets met scimitars. Men screamed in pain or rage or both.

From above, shots continued to crack out as the sharpshooters in the Galatea’s rigging continued to fire, picking targets of opportunity. A man dropped with half his face gone. Another spun and collapsed in a spray of blood as a ball punched through his chest.

Crawford hit the deck running. He didn’t think, just moved on instinct, training, and the cold, burning loathing of what these men had done and would do again if they let them.

A slaver rushed at him with a blade raised high. He cut him down in a single stroke, opening the man from shoulder to hip. Another lunged from the side, and he turned, parried, and drove his sword through his throat, feeling the resistance before it exited the other side of his neck.

A third Arab raised a pistol, but he fired first, the ball from his flintlock pistol taking the man in the face. He went down in a heap on the deck already wet with blood. He stepped over bodies without seeing them, looking for the next opponent.

A Marine went down nearby, screaming, blood pumping from a sword slash in his thigh. Another fell backward, shot through the chest, eyes already glazing over as death approached. Then he spotted him. A man who stood slightly apart from the press, next to the mainmast, tall and composed amid the madness.

His face didn’t panic as his curved sword moved with practiced ease, cutting and withdrawing, cutting again, fending off his attackers. Another of Crawford’s Marines rushed him and was cut down with a single elegant blow, the blade opening the man from collarbone to belly. The Marine fell without a sound.

Crawford felt something snap inside him. That man was one of his Marines, and he’d seen him savagely hacked to the deck by this scimitar wielding piece of Arab scum. The man looked formidable, powerfully built, and he wielded his wicked scimitar with competence and expertise. A tough opponent, probably more than he could handle, but it made no difference. Honor demanded he do something. He charged.

The Arab turned smoothly to meet him, eyes assessing the Marine officer in a single glance. His lips curled in a contemptuous, cold smile as their blades met with a ringing crash that vibrated up Crawford’s arm. The Arab was strong, even stronger than he looked. Perhaps more important, he was skilled.

They traded blows rapidly, steel flashing, feet shifting on the blood slicked deck. Crawford attacked hard, trying to overwhelm him with the first flurry of blows, before the other man’s power and expertise took its toll. The Arab parried with minimal movement, his blade always where it needed to be, as if he had a sixth sense.

The fight carried them across the deck, away from the worst of the fighting. He felt himself being forced backward by a man, an opponent who was more than his match. A slashing cut forced him to retreat even further, then another. And another.

They reached the foredeck, and the sounds of battle receded. Close to the fore rail he could hear the rush of water along the hull and the groan of strained timbers. His breath came hard and sweat stung his eyes. His arm ached from the repeated shocks of parry and block.

Yet the Arab still pressed him relentlessly, eyes cold and hard, although he detected a faint amusement in them. He thought he had the upper hand, thought he was going to chalk up another victim to his savage blade, and his sword never wavered, never made mistakes. Crawford gave ground again. And again. Until there was nowhere left to go. The prow loomed behind him, the narrow point of the ship above the open sea. One misstep would send him overboard, and weighted down by boots and sword, he would drown.

The Arab attacked again with a powerful overhand cut meant to slice off his arm. Crawford twisted desperately aside. The blade missed his arm by inches. He lashed out with his foot, kicking hard at the man’s knee. The Arab stumbled, balance broken, but he recovered instantly, bounding back with astonishing agility, and he came in again.

Crawford was breathing hard now, his focus on survival more than victory. He parried desperately, arms burning, feet slipping. The next blow nearly took his head off. The blow after that forced him to drop to a knee to avoid the slashing steel. He knew he couldn’t win by strength alone, but he wasn’t finished. Not yet.

He rose, forced his breathing to steady, and waited for the next attack. The Arab advanced confidently, sensing the end was near. He raised his sword for the killing stroke, and Crawford feinted. Slashed weakly toward the man’s shoulder. He dodged as expected, stepping inside the line of the blow, but the Englishman was ready.

He reversed his cut and brought the blade around in a savage arc, striking the Arab across the side of the head. The blow landed solidly, and the man staggered, eyes wide with disbelief. Crawford didn’t hesitate. Gripping his sword, he used his other hand to snatch out his flintlock pistol, his empty flintlock pistol, raising it as if to fire.

The Arab reacted instantly, dodging to one side to avoid the ball. Except there was no ball. Crawford used the opening to bring his sword around again, putting every ounce of his remaining strength into the strike. The blade tore deep into the man’s belly, even deeper as he followed through, tearing through gut and intestines, and the Arab looked down.

His expression changed from rage to confusion to horror as his intestines spilled out onto the deck in a wet, obscene coil. He tried to speak. No sound came. His knees buckled, and he collapsed in a bloody heap at Crawford’s feet. A moment later he was dead, and Crawford staggered back, chest heaving, vision swimming.

He stood there for several moments, sword hanging at his side, blood dripping from its edge onto the planks. Then he forced himself to turn, but the fight was ending. The few slavers who’d survived had thrown down their weapons and raised their hands to surrender, faces gray with terror. Marines and sailors stood over them, bayonets leveled, breathing hard but victorious. Smoke drifted across the deck, thinning as the wind caught it.

Muffled cries came from the hold. Human voices. He wiped sweat and blood from his eyes with the back of his sleeve and raised his voice. “Secure the prisoners, then get the hatch open to free those people.”

The schooner was theirs.

Two Marines forced open the hatch with the butts of their muskets. The first breath that rose from below was not a sound but a smell, thick and sickening, the stench of too many bodies kept too long in too little air. Heat rolled out as if the ship itself were exhaling. Then came noise. Weak crying. Hoarse coughing. The scrape of chains.

He stepped close and looked down. Faces stared up at him. Eyes too large. Cheeks hollow. Skin slick with sweat and grime. Some were able to stand, swaying, chained to one another by neck and wrist. Others lay sprawled where they’d fallen, too exhausted even to lift their heads. He swallowed his anger and looked at the men.

“Carefully bring them up one by one.”

Marines and sailors formed a chain, reaching down, lifting bodies that were more bone than flesh. One by one, they helped them into the sunlight, blinking, gasping, some collapsing immediately on the deck as if their legs had lost the ability to stand. They struck off the chains with chisels, metal rang against metal, and links fell away. The ankles and wrists were raw, blistered, and swollen. When the shackles came free, some simply stared, as if unable to comprehend that they were free. Others wept openly, and one man kissed the deck as if the wood itself were holy.

They laid them out along the deck in rows in the cleanest space they could find. Passed them canteens of water and fed them hard biscuit with bits of salt meat softened in water. The ship’s surgeon, aided by Kofi, moved among them, shouting orders at his new assistant, warning him against giving them too much too quickly.

Crawford watched it all, the anger in him settling into something heavier. These were not cargo. They were people.

They grouped the surviving slavers together, under guard. There were fewer than expected. Most lay dead where they’d fought. The survivors had thrown down their weapons and begged for mercy in a mixture of languages. The Marines stripped them of blades and pistols, their expressions eloquent. Murderous, as they drove them to the hatch.

“Down there,” a man barked, and they forced them into the very darkness they’d used to contain others. They didn’t go willingly, hesitating at the top of the ladder, choking on the appalling stench, faces twisted with disgust and terror.

He felt no sympathy. “If they don’t go down there, throw them down.”

They got the message and climbed down, one after another, disappearing into the stinking morass they’d created. When the last man was inside, they slammed the hatch shut and secured it.

A sailor wiped his hands on his pants and muttered, “Poetic, that.”

He said nothing. He had nothing to say until the trade was broken. He returned to the freed captives, and they were in a terrible state. Several were feverish, skin burning beneath the cold sweat. Others were too weak to swallow properly, choking on water until it spilled down their chins. A woman’s eyes rolled back as she collapsed into unconsciousness, and the surgeon cursed sharply as he knelt beside her. Two men lay motionless and failed to respond to a touch. Unconscious or dead.

Captain Ashcombe boarded the captured schooner, took one look at the deck, and his face tightened. “We need to get them back to Freetown. I’m ending the patrol.”

An officer began to protest. “Sir, we have the prize, and there could be more…”

The Captain cut him off. “If we press on, half of these people will die before we reach help.” His gaze swept over the rows of freed Africans, “We’re going back, now.”

He turned to Smythe, who’d come aboard with him. “Detail a prize crew. I’m putting you in command. Make sure you have enough sailors to sail her and several Marines to maintain order.”

He nodded and began issuing orders. Ashcombe, stunned by the appalling state of the freed captives, look sour, but his mood lifted as he looked over the vessel again, taking in her sleek lines, her fine masts, the quality of her craftsmanship. Even damaged by battle, she was a valuable capture. A trading ship built for speed and profit. Now converted into profit for the Crown, as well as share for the crew of the Galatea.

He allowed himself a thin smile. “She’ll fetch a tidy sum, a very tidy sum.”

The news spread through the men like lightning. Sailors grinned openly, and officers stood a little straighter. Prize money made the hardships they faced feel worthwhile, made wounds into stories to be told long after, and made danger into a calculation with a golden outcome.

The Captain called the officers together. “Gentlemen, you’ve done well. The vessel is more than valuable, and I happen to know a ship broker in Freetown who is anxious to acquire a schooner of this type. The man will pay promptly.” He allowed himself to share his satisfaction with them, “This time there will be no long wait for the money. You will have it in your hands within the week.”

A murmur ran through the small group. He gave them an idea of the amounts each man would receive, and even for the most junior officer it was a substantial sum. Crawford felt stunned by his good fortune. He wouldn’t become wealthy overnight, not with his share alone. But it would be more money than he’d ever dream of. Enough to put a foundation beneath his future. Enough that the word ‘poor’ would no longer cling to him like a stain.

He stood there in silence, feeling the shape of his life shifting yet again. The prize crew remained aboard the schooner. Sailors ran out her surviving canvas, replaced lines, and made what repairs were necessary to make her seaworthy. A half-dozen Marines took positions along her deck, eyes scanning the horizon as if another fight might erupt at any moment.

The captured ship followed the Galatea like a faithful dog, following its master to port. Freetown appeared on the horizon, and every man was thinking about the money he’d seen receive as his share of the prize money. They transferred the freed captives ashore as quickly as possible. Doctors and clerks descended in a flurry, taking notes, giving orders, moving the sick where they could receive good care.

Ashcombe wasted no time. As soon as the ships were secured, he sent for the broker. The man arrived within hours, well dressed despite the heat, eyes bright with appraisal. He walked the schooner’s deck with Ashcombe and Smythe, noting the damage and calculating its value.

“A fine vessel,” he said at last, “A very fine vessel, indeed. Fast, built for speed.”

“Built for evil,” Ashcombe grunted, “Or did you not notice the stench?”

The broker grimaced. “I noticed, Captain, but my people will go to work on cleaning it up right away.”

He named a price that made even Smythe’s stiff composure crack slightly. At first, Ashcombe refused, dismaying the First Officer. He continued to negotiate, pressing for every advantage. Until they agreed on a figure that left the broker satisfied and the Captain and crew quietly triumphant.

“Payment within five days,” the broker promised, “You have my word.”

Ashcombe nodded. “See that you keep it.”

When Crawford had completed his duties aboard the Galatea, Captain Ashcombe surprised him by giving the crew shore leave for ten days. He smiled, “By the time we get back, the broker will have paid over the money, and you will all get your share. In the meantime, enjoy your time ashore, and don’t get too drunk. You haven’t got the money yet.”

He had one subject that was uppermost in his mind, and he went ashore to find Alice Featherstone. He hadn’t seen her since the failed border mission. In the rush of getting ready to sea, she’d fallen into the background. He’d assumed she was busy with her affairs. Probably preparing to return to England.

He found her house with ease, the place where her husband had been killed. A man stood outside, talking aggressively to someone inside. When Crawford approached, the man glanced at him, saw the uniform, and hurried away with a muttered curse.

He knocked and was admitted by a nervous, pale-faced servant who looked relieved to see him. Inside, the air was heavy and stale. Alice sat in a chair near the window, her face drawn, her eyes shadowed. She still wore the sailor’s pants with the more practical clothing in place of her widow’s weeds, but her posture was different. She looked less defiant. More exhausted.

She looked up when Crawford entered. “You’ve been at sea,” she said. It was not a question.

“I have,” he replied and smiled, “We captured a fast ship carrying slaves and brought it back to port so we could set them free.”

She didn’t react, didn’t even seem interested. As if she bore a great weight on her shoulders.

“What’s happened here?”

Her mouth tightened. “Men have been calling to enforce my husband’s debts. They come daily and pound on the door. They threaten the servants, and yesterday one of them said if I don’t pay, they will take everything, and leave me homeless and penniless.” Her hands trembled slightly as she held them together, “I will be forced onto the street.”

He felt a surge of anger. “Have you spoken to your lawyer?”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Hardwick, yes. He’s eager to sell the house, and everything else. He said that until the debts are settled, I must still answer for them.”

He stared at her. The injustice of the demands was grotesque. A woman newly widowed, denied justice for the murder of her husband, now being hounded for debts she had not created. He thought of the lawyer, Hardwick, waiting to carve up what remained.

“You’re not alone in this. I will help you.”

She looked up at him. “You don’t understand. They’re not bluffing. They will take everything, and the law will allow them to do it.” A tear rolled down her cheek, “They just won’t listen to me because I am a woman.”

He nodded once, feeling the responsibility of a new problem settling onto his shoulders. “I’ll deal with them. They’ll listen to me.”

He didn’t bother with politeness, just pushed past the clerk in the outer office of Hardwick and Cole and went straight for the inner door. It opened onto a room that smelled of stale ink, paper, and money. Archibald Hardwick looked up at the British officer from behind his desk.

“This is highly irregular. If you wish…”

“Extorting Alice Featherstone is irregular,” he snapped back, planting his hands on the man’s desk.

The lawyer leaned back, trying to put distance between himself and his unwanted visitor. “If you are here on behalf of Mrs. Featherstone, I have already explained the situation to her in considerable detail.”

“You’ve explained how to strip a widow of everything she owns. Nothing more.”

Hardwick grimaced. “Your accusation is unfounded. I’ve already…”

“Nonsense. Alice is not responsible for her husband’s murder. Nor is she responsible for the theft of his valuables. You know those valuables would have paid the debts you claim are outstanding and left her with a substantial sum.”

Hardwick raised a finger. “That may be true, but the law does not concern itself with what might have been.”

“The men who killed him stole those goods. You know that.”

“Allegedly stole those goods,” he replied smoothly, “No one has yet been convicted.”

“Because the suspects were released before she had a chance to identify them.”

Hardwick shrugged. “Unfortunate, but irrelevant.”

Crawford felt his patience slipping. “She’s being threatened with the loss of her home. Threatened with violence.”

“Debts are often collected with enthusiasm. That is not my concern.”

Crawford straightened. “You are her lawyer.”

“I am the executor of the estate,” he corrected him, “My duty is to the settlement of all outstanding accounts. The creditors have priority over everything else.”

“And the widow?”

“The widow inherits what remains.” A pause, and Crawford could’ve sworn he gave a slight smile, “If anything is left.”

He clenched his fists. “You’re hiding behind words.”

“I am explaining the law. If you were conversant with it, you would understand. Now, I wish you to leave, I’m a busy man.”

He knew when he was beaten. This was Hardwick’s world, and he had no weapons to use against him. No leverage. No authority. He turned and left the office without another word.

When he got back, Alice listened without interruption as he told her what had happened.

“So,” she said quietly when he’d finished, “I have nothing.”

“Nothing,” Crawford admitted, “But I have other ideas.”

She looked up. “Other ideas?”

“I have ten days shore leave, so I can go after the men who murdered your husband. If I find them, I may be able to recover what they stole and settle your debts.”

Alice stared at him in astonishment. “They are in Guinea. The British Empire has no jurisdiction in Guinea.”

“I realize that.”

She thought for a few moments. “Besides, even if you find them, you cannot deal with these men alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll take some of my men along with me. But I will have to offer them a share of the sale value, should we get your property back, if that’s okay with you.”

She hesitated. “Of course, but it’s still too dangerous. Anything could happen, you could be killed.”

He met her gaze. “I’m prepared to take that chance to prevent the loss of everything you own and your subsequent destitution.”

Silence stretched between them. At last, she nodded. “I am grateful, but if you do go, I would ask for something more. Proof of the identities of the men who murdered my husband, enough to convict them.”

“If possible, I will find them and do what you ask,” he replied, without the faintest idea of how he could track them down in an alien country, “I will seek out my men and see if any are prepared to come with me. I’ll return to tell you how it went.”

“Then I wish you well.”

He left her and walked into one of the noisier parts of the town, where music spilled from open doors and the air reeked of spilled rum and sweat. He soon found what he was looking for. A low-ceilinged bar. Loud voices. Raucous laughter. Several of his Marines were inside, working hard toward becoming totally inebriated.

He stepped through the doorway, let the noise wash over him and scanned faces. Baker was there, leaning against the bar, smirking at something said by a sailor. Probably something crude. Most of his men were seated at a table, singing loudly. He walked up to them and raised his voice.

“I need six volunteers.” Their faces swung around to see who’d spoken, and the laughter faltered when they recognized him, “A lady is in distress, and I promised to help.”

Baker overheard and wandered over snorted. “Not our problem. Sir.”

He gave him a cold look but didn’t answer him. He went on addressing his men. “There’d be a reward for every man who comes along.”

A voice cut in. “I’ll go.”

It was Lance-Corporal Blythe. The man he’d promoted. He got to his feet and stood unsteadily, but his eyes were clear despite how much rum he’d consumed.

“That’s good. Anyone else?”

Three men he trusted got to their feet. Men he could rely on.

One stood up. “You said there’s a reward?” He nodded, “I’m in.”

That made five. It would have to be enough.

Baker wasn’t done, and he squared up to him, his face twisted into a sneer. “Whatever you’re planning, you’ll get these men killed.”

“I think not.” He turned and left. Outside, the street was quieter as night fell, and shadows pooled in doorways. A figure detached itself from the darkness.

“What the hell!” Crawford grunted as the man stood in front of him.

“I’ve been following you,” Kofi said calmly.

“Following me?”

“Sir, whatever you’re doing, I want to help. Please.”

He studied him for a moment and recalled the man’s knowledge of the local dialects. In an alien country like Guinea, it could be more than useful. Perhaps enough to save their lives. “Very well.”

He led his small, ill-assorted squad back to Alice’s house. It appeared that several more of his men had decided to join them. They waited outside while Crawford went in alone. She listened in silence as he outlined what he was planning.

When he’d finished, she stood and took his hand. “Thank you. I will not forget what you’re doing for me.” There was an odd tone in her voice, but perhaps he’d misunderstood. He took his leave and when he stepped back outside, she was right behind him. Following.

“No,” he growled, “Absolutely not.”

“This business is my affair,” she said evenly.

“Where we are going is no place for a woman. Besides, you would slow us down.”

“I will not.”

“You could be killed.”

“So could you.” He opened his mouth to argue further, but she spoke before he got the words out, “Wait here.”

She went back inside. When she returned a few minutes later, she wore the leather belt snug around her waist, supporting the two flintlock pistols.

“When do we start?”

He exhaled slowly. Since he’d met her, he learned she was the most stubborn woman he’d ever encountered, and she was determined not to back down. “First, we retrieve our muskets.”

They marched back toward the dock. Boarding the ship presented no problems. No one challenged them. Most of the crew were on shore leave, and everything was quiet. They took muskets, powder, and ball. Enough for what lay ahead.

They were about to set off for the long, arduous walk to their destination when he noticed activity at the wharf. A trading ship tied up fifty yards away was about to slip her lines, preparing to sail, when an idea struck him. He walked across to the ship and shouted for permission to board. They recognized his uniform, and a man shouted down from the stern rail.

“I’m Ebenezer Blake, the master of this vessel. What do you want? Make it quick, we’re about to leave port.”

“Are you sailing for Bissau?” It was a reasonable assumption. As well as being a focus for the lucrative and illegal trade in slaves, the Guinea port was also a main entry and exit point for supplies of grain and nuts.

“I am.”

“I want passage for myself and my men.” He deliberately neglected to mention the woman. There was no need to complicate things further.

“You’re too late, we’re sailing on the tide.”

“We’re ready to leave today, now, and I’ll pay for our passage.” He named a sum, crossing his fingers that his share of the prize money would be enough to replace it.

The master smiled. “Get your people onto the ship.”

They boarded, and in the darkness, nobody noticed the woman dressed as a sailor. Minutes later the lines were cast off. As the ship eased away from the dock, he looked back at Freetown. To the north lay Bissau.

Will we ever get back?

He’d calculated the journey to Bissau would take two days, three at most, time enough for them to locate the murderers and return before their leave expired. The wind had other ideas. It came in fits and pauses, sometimes dying entirely. Hours passed with the sails hanging limp, and the sea smooth. He spent much of that time standing at the rail, watching the coastline slide by at an infuriating crawl. Calculating hours and days, measuring them against the time they had left before they had to report back for duty on the Galatea. The margin was tight and getting tighter. If they were delayed further, they wouldn’t make it in time.

If he returned late, there would be consequences. Not merely a reprimand. His position was still new, and he knew that some officers and men resented him. There was also Corporal Baker, who hated him and was likely to undermine him. It would be difficult, a young officer who disappeared and returned seemingly when he pleased wouldn’t last long.

Alice remained hidden below for most of the voyage. He’d insisted on it. A woman aboard a trading vessel could cause problems and could attract attention from the crew if they knew she was aboard. She emerged only at night to take air briefly when the deck was quiet.

The Marines kept to themselves. They cleaned weapons, checked powder, and watched the horizon with the taut focus of men who were looking forward to a rich reward when this was over, and they talked endlessly about how they’d spend it. Most of it on women and rum.

When Bissau came into view, four days had elapsed.

The port was more than busy, it was heaving. The harbor crowded with fast ships, long and sharp, their hulls built for speed and profit. Clippers and schooners sat at anchor, sails furled, crews moving briskly on deck. Smaller craft darted between them, carrying cargoes of slaves intended for the transatlantic crossing.

Men shouted orders, and the air smelled of salt, sweat, and smoke. It also smelled something else. The smell of bodies. Bissau’s waterfront was a mass of people. Traders. Sailors. Porters. Guards with muskets slung casually over their shoulders. Women selling food. Men shouting prices and bargains.

There was more. Lines of chained Africans. Some stood in lines under armed watch. Some were penned behind rough fencing. Most were held by neck irons. On one side a few stood on raised platforms, bare chested and frightened, while men inspected them openly, as if examining livestock. He was looking at the slave market.

He felt his stomach twist. Alice stood beside him. She looked like a regular seaman, her hair tucked beneath a bandanna, her pistols tucked into her waistband, not unusual in Bissau. Her eyes tracked the scene with a cold intensity, trying to conceal her horror at what she was witnessing.

He paid the Captain the balance of what remained of the fee for their passage, and they went ashore, pushing through the crowds with shoulders squared and muskets carried on the shoulders. They looked like regular sailors or traders and didn’t attract much attention. He breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t wearing uniform, which would’ve been an invitation for the locals who profited from the slave trade to attack those they blamed for trying to ruin their businesses.

They found the British agent in a cramped office above a counting house. A discreet sign advertised his presence, and the door was guarded by two men, each armed with a blunderbuss. He spoke to them quietly and explained he was an officer in the Royal Marines, there to speak to the agent. While his men waited outside, they allowed him in, and he knocked on the office door.

“Enter.”

The man inside was thin, neatly dressed in a formal, woolen suit, and he looked as if he was suffering from the climate. He glanced up as Crawford entered.

“How can I help you, Lieutenant? You do realize this town is dangerous for officers of Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“I’m on leave, and I require information. And it’s Royal Marines,” he corrected him, “Attached to the Galatea.”

His expression shifted slightly. “I’ve heard of her. You recently captured a slavers’ dhow and you put it up for sale the prize money. What do you want? I can’t help you with the sale, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” He explained about the murder, the theft, and the four suspects released across the border into Guinea. He got word that the men had been heading for Bissau and he was there to find them.

His eyebrows arched in surprise, and his lips twisted and amusement. “You’re chasing thieves and killers? You’ve come to the right place. You’ll find plenty of those in Bissau.”

“I need the name of a man who deals in stolen valuables. They’d have to have sold the loot to get their hands the cash, and I’m betting he’ll know who they were.”

The agent sighed and leaned forward. “There is such a man. His name is Silas Durnford.”

Crawford repeated it, committing it to memory.

“He’s a trader,” the agent continued, “Notorious. Crooked. He buys anything he can make a profit from. Jewelry, silver, precious stones. If it has blood on it, he’ll still take it.

“Where is he?”

The agent gave directions. A narrow street behind a warehouse close to the docks, with a faded, painted door. “He won’t be happy to see you,” he warned, “Especially when he knows what you want. He may not give you the information readily.”

Crawford’s mouth tightened. “We’ll persuade him.”

He left the office and rejoined his men. They moved through the port, threading between carts and shouting men, passing too close to chained captives being marched toward the water. Crawford forced himself not to look at them too long. He could feel the rage building like pressure inside him. He had to stay calm. Otherwise, they’d never get through this.

They found Durnford’s premises. From outside it looked ordinary, anonymous. Shelves were visible through an open window, displaying a variety of goods, but Alice didn’t identify any of them. The men waited outside so as not to alarm him. She accompanied him as he pushed open the door and a bell rang. Inside, the air smelled of dust, tobacco, and polished rotting wood.

Silas Durnford stood behind the counter. He was in his forties, broad shouldered, clean shaven, wearing a brocade waistcoat that suggested he was almost a respectable man. His eyes said different. They were sharp and calculating, assessing him instantly.

“Are you buying or selling?” he said. He looked at Alice. “Something for the lady?”

Crawford stepped closer. “We’re just looking.”

He spread his hands. “Look around, and if there’s anything you fancy, I’ll offer you a good price. Cheapest in Bissau.”

They scanned the shelves and cases. Rings. Brooches. Watches. A silver snuffbox. Trinkets laid out like trophies.

Alice was as quiet as she inspected the goods on show. Then she stopped. Her breathing caught once, sharply, like a suppressed gasp. Crawford followed her gaze. In a glass case lay a gold necklace with a diamond pendant, fine and unmistakable. It looked unique, and beside it, a ring with an identical but smaller stone that caught the light.

Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Those pieces are mine,” she said quietly.

Durnford’s eyes flicked toward the case. “I sell plenty of jewelry that looks like that.

Her voice hardened. “That ring was taken the night my husband was murdered.”

He shrugged. “One like it, I expect. This was purchased legitimately from a valued and trusted customer.”

Crawford felt the urge to strike him, but he again forced himself to remain calm.

“Who sold them to you? Who is this valued and trusted customer?”

The trader leaned back slightly. “I do not reveal my sources.”

Crawford’s tone became colder. “My friend, you will.”

Durnford’s oily smile widened. A man who believed he was untouchable. “I don’t think so.”

Crawford nodded slowly, as if accepting the refusal. He went to the door and called in his men. “Take the place apart,” he said, “Carefully. Stack everything on the floor, and we’ll check every item.”

They ignored Durnford’s protests and began to pull items off the shelves. Two men opened the first cabinet and pulled up pieces of jewelry.

Durnford’s smile vanished. “You can’t do this,” he snapped.

Crawford met his gaze. “Watch.”

Durnford raised a fist and stepped forward. Lance-Corporal Blythe moved smoothly between them, blocking him with a firm hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Sir.”

His eyes darted every which way. Looking for someone to help him, but there was nobody, just the Marines. The street outside was loud, and if he shouted, no one would hear, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be inclined to get involved.

Crawford leaned in slightly. “You have two choices,” he said, still keeping calm, “Tell me who sold you those goods, or my men will rip apart your store, and it’s likely they’ll cause a great deal of damage to your stock.”

Durnford’s nostrils flared. “You can’t do this! I have friends in Bissau. You won’t get away with it.”

His eyes didn’t blink. “Perhaps you do, but your friends are not here now.”

The Marines continued stripping shelves and piling more valuables on the floor. Durnford’s jaw clenched hard enough to show the muscles in his cheeks.

“Stop!”

Crawford gestured, and they paused just before one Marine was about to stamp down on an ornate silver chalice. Durnford stared at the necklace she’d identified, then at the ring, and then at Alice. He looked back at Crawford.

“You say they were stolen from this woman? Very well, I believe you. She may take them provided you leave.”

“What else did you buy off them?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, I swear. If they had anything else, they must’ve sold it elsewhere, or they still have it.”

She picked up her property, the necklace and the ring, but Crawford waited. “I still want the name and the address.”

“They were sold to me by four men. One spoke some English. I heard one of them say they were renting a room above the Scarlet Lantern.”

“The Scarlet Lantern?”

“It’s a brothel,” he said, twisting his lips into a grimace as if he was disgusted, “Top floor.”

Alice’s eyes sharpened. “Do you know the names of these men?”

Durnford shook his head. “They didn’t tell me.”

Crawford leaned closer. “Were they armed?”

Durnford laughed once, humorless. “Oh, yes, they were armed. Each man carried a musket and a pistol in his belt, along with an assortment of knives. I’d be careful. They looked tough.”

Crawford straightened. “So are we.”

He turned to his men. “I think we have what we want. It’s time to go and pay a visit to the Scarlet Lantern.”

Durnford watched them leave, the fury clearly written on his face. They didn’t see him push open the rear door, beckon a man forward, and give him a message to take urgently to the man on the top floor of the brothel.

They left the store and moved through the crowded streets toward the waterfront, following the directions the trader had given them. The Scarlet Lantern sat in a squalid quarter of the port where the streets narrowed, and the buildings leaned in close. Where filth collected in corners and the air was heavy with sour drink and human waste. Fiddle music came from the bars, and laughter spilled into the street. Men with hard eyes sat outside, watching passersby as if deciding whether they were worth robbing.

He glanced at Alice. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady even though she was on her way to meet the men who’d murdered her husband. The pistols were tucked into her belt, and he’d little doubt if she got the opportunity, she wouldn’t hesitate to use them.

They stopped outside the Scarlet Lantern, and he looked up at the building’s upper windows. Top floor, the trader had said. Four men up there, murderers and thieves. They deserved what was coming to them. And perhaps she’d even recover the rest of her property, enough to pay off all her debts.

They pushed open the door and entered the brothel. The smell hit them like a physical blow. The smell of sweat soaked into wood and cloth. Stale ale. Cheap perfume used to mask decay and failing. Beneath it all, the ever-present reek of human waste that seemed to hang over the entire town. The room was low ceilinged and dim, lit by smoky lamps that cast a yellow haze over everything.

Half-naked women lounged everywhere, draped over benches, leaning against posts, perched on the laps of men who pawed at them without affection or care. Most of the women were black, most very young. Others who weren’t so young already worn down into something hard and empty-eyed. Their laughter was loud and forced, rising and falling on cue, a performance they’d learned too well.

The customers were worse. Coarse men with red faces and greasy hair. Sailors, traders, mercenaries, and many were thieves, robbers, and cutthroats. Some were half drunk, shouting fragments of songs, pounding fists and mugs on tables, swaying where they sat on rough wooden benches. The noise was almost as overwhelming as the stench.

Then the singing faltered. One by one, heads turned. The noise died, and laughter abruptly cut off. Conversations trailed into silence as every eye fixed on the newcomers. The arrival of a group of strange faces, every man armed, had a singular effect on the room.

Crawford felt the eyes boring into him like a heavy weight. An older, blowsy woman detached herself from behind the bar and stomped toward them. She was overly made up, paint thick on her wrinkled face, lips too red, eyes rimmed in black that’d begun to run with sweat. Her dress, stained and frayed, was cut low over her huge breasts. Rings glittered on her fingers.

“Well, well,” she said loudly, planting herself in front of him, “How can I help you, gents?” Her eyes flicked to Alice, lingering with a cruel sort of curiosity, “What about the lady, is she looking for work?” she added with a leer.

He stepped forward and gently but firmly pushed her aside. She eyed his sword and didn’t protest. “We’re just visiting.” He kept his voice calm and measured, “Please carry on doing whatever you were doing.”

She bristled, spinning back toward him. “You don’t tell me what to do in my own place,” she snarled, “Who are you, English? Just because you’ve got guns doesn’t mean anything in this town. You’re not welcome.”

Crawford leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Madam, we’re going to visit some of your guests on the top floor. One way or the other, do I make myself clear?” Her sneer faltered, “If you try to stop us, we could do it another way. Go outside and set fire to the building. Force them to come to us.” He held her gaze without blinking, “Which is it?”

For a long moment, she stared at him, calculating how far she could push it. She glanced at the Crawford’s men, at the muskets, and she spat on the floor.

“Go on up,” she snapped, “Up the stairs, fourth floor. Don’t break anything. I like to keep a respectable establishment.”

He didn’t reply to the absurdity, just motioned his people forward.

They walked toward the back of the room, and almost immediately the noise began to return. The singing started again, louder than before, as if they were trying to drown out their unease at the arrival of armed strangers. The laughter was forced at first, then they relaxed, and it sounded easier. For the denizens of the brothel, it was always better to pretend nothing had changed.

The staircase was narrow and rickety, each step creaking under their boots. The smell was worse up there, confined and heavy. He led the way, sword drawn but held low. Alice followed close behind, her hands hovering over the butts of her pistols.

At the top, they came onto a long landing. Four doors led off, evenly spaced, their wood scarred and worn smooth by hands and shoulders. Sounds leaked from behind three of them. Low voices, laughter, the creak of worn bed springs A woman’s voice rising and falling in practiced, erotic tones, but unmistakable in purpose.

He signaled to Lance-Corporal Blythe and one of the other men. They tried the first door. Unlocked. Inside, a woman sat astride a client on the edge of a bed. Both froze as the door opened. The man yelped and scrambled to get up, fumbling with his clothes. The woman gave them a hostile gaze.

He stepped forward, looked inside, and said, “Sorry,” as he closed the door.

The second room was much the same. A different woman, a different man, the same startled reactions. He shut the door again without a word. The third door opened onto another man and woman. She looked tired and half asleep, the man blinked stupidly at the intrusion.

“Wrong room, stay where you are.” He closed the door.

They stood before the last door. Also closed, and this time it was locked. He raised his fist and banged on the wood. “Open up, I have a message for you.”

There was no immediate response. He banged again.

“Open this door. Now.”

A moment passed, and the door creaked open a couple of inches. A brutal African face appeared in the gap, bloodshot eyes darting toward him. A moment later, the face vanished, and the dark mouth of a musket thrust through the opening. Crawford reacted without thought, throwing himself sideways as the weapon fired. The shot tore splinters from the wall where his head had been a heartbeat before, the sound deafening in the confined space.

Smoke billowed out onto the landing. “Down,” Crawford shouted, already moving. Inside, he heard the street suddenly become louder.

Lance-Corporal Blythe shouted, “They’re climbing out through the window.”

“You men, smash the door down and stop them before they get away.”

Blythe and Private Tobias hit the door with their shoulders, and it gave like it was no tougher than thick paper. They charged into the room, and it was empty. Crawford rushed to the window and looked out; in time to see the last of the men disappearing round a corner of the rear alley after shinning down a thick rope they’d obviously prepared in advance in case they needed a hasty exit.

“I’m going after them. Blythe, Tobias, with me. The rest of you, back down the stairs and try to head them off around the back.”

He lowered himself hand over hand down the rope, just like he’d done so many times descending from the mast of the Galatea after a spell in the crow’s nest. The alley was empty, although the stench was enough to knock a lesser man over. Blythe dropped to the ground right beside him, and he heard the noise of somebody else descending the rope. Alice Featherstone.

He didn’t have time to remonstrate. Besides, it was too late. He ran to the end of the alley and there was no sign of them. They’d traveled all this distance for nothing. The birds had flown.

Chapter Seven

They raced through fetid alleyways, determined not to let them escape, lungs burning with the effort. Crawford led, sword in hand, boots slipping on filth-colored cobbles as they pounded through the night. Blythe followed close behind, breathing hard, musket clutched across his chest, closely followed by Tobias. Alice ran with him, keeping up a speed that surprised him. Her face was set, eyes bright. He noticed she’d drawn a flintlock pistol, clutched in her right hand.

The alleys were narrow and foul, twisting like intestines through the back of the town. Open drains ran along their edges. Refuse lay everywhere. The stink was overwhelming, but they refused to slow. Somewhere ahead of them, the men they pursued were running, too. The center of the town was a revelation.

It was a place where rot and profit lived side by side, feeding one another. The town clung to the port like a festering wound. Narrow streets twisting inward from the waterfront, choked with mud, refuse, and stagnant water. Heat lay over everything like a suffocating blanket, and there was no breeze to give it relief.

They searched the streets surrounding the center, where the air was even more foul. Human waste ran in open channels down the middle of the streets, mingling with the blood from slaughtered animals and offal thrown out by butchers. Flies swarmed everywhere, black clouds of insects, and dogs and pigs rooted freely through the rubbish, squabbling over scraps while rats scuttled along walls slick with grime.

Most of the buildings they passed leaned inward, almost as if they were about to collapse. Most of them badly built, rotting timber patched and repatched over many years. Roofs sagged. Shutters hung crooked or were missing entirely. The sour smell of sickness was everywhere, fever, and the inevitable dysentery.

They reached the waterfront and ran past warehouses with barred windows. These buildings were better maintained than any dwelling because they held valuable goods. They ran past one with the double doors open wide, and inside he saw chains, manacles, and barrels of trade goods.

He led them toward the wharf and passed stallholders shouting prices over one another. Traders arguing in a half-dozen languages, drums beating, and women wailing. An astonishing variety of goods was laid out on mats over the dirt. Ivory. Palm oil. Muskets. Powder. Rum. Cloth. And human beings, some being inspected by savage -looking slavers, inspecting their teeth and prodding their limbs to gauge their worth.

They weren’t all Arabs. There were European traders, moving through the hubbub with practiced indifference. Some were wealthy-looking, dressed in linen suits stained with sweat. Others hid behind wide brimmed hats and carried canes. He opined they were likely sword canes.

He stopped short when he realized he’d taken a wrong turn. The fort came into sight, low, square, and ugly. A flag he couldn’t identify flew above it. He turned back, rather than run into the thugs employed by whichever Muslim strongman had butchered his way to taking the title ‘Almamy.’ The man who ruled Bissau with an iron fist and presided over the slave trade.

They turned back and closer to the wharf came across more drunkenness and more violence. There were screams, and everywhere, the rattle of chains.

They reached the wharf, but their quarry had vanished. He skidded to a halt, chest heaving, and spun in a slow circle, sword raised, looking, listening. Still nothing.

“They’ve gone,” Lance-Corporal Blythe said, “This place is a rabbit warren. They probably know it better than the back of their hands.”

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting his frustration. This was their territory, so they’d know every inch. Yet he couldn’t give up. They searched the area for hours, moving methodically through alleys and courtyards, knocking on doors, peering into cellars, questioning prostitutes and drunkards who either knew nothing or pretended not to.

Darkness shrouded the town. They were tired and doubtful they’d ever find them. At last, he called it. “We have to admit it, we’ve drawn a blank.”

Alice said nothing, but she didn’t need to. The expression on her face told him everything. “What do we do now?”

“We go back to the wharf and find a vessel sailing for Freetown, so we can get passage home.”

“You’re giving up?”

“What else can we do?”

She didn’t answer, and they started back toward the port in silence. The streets near the wharf were quieter, the air carrying the odors of tar, rope, and salt. Lanterns swayed on posts. Ships loomed dark and silent at their moorings.

He suddenly stopped dead. “That ship. It’s the one they were repairing the mast at Freetown.

They followed his gaze. The vessel was tied up at the wharf, unmistakable even in the half light as the vessel Kofi had identified back in Freetown, undergoing repair when the Galatea had sailed.

It didn’t look anything special, dark and unassuming, but he was about to make it special.

“How do you know?” Alice said.

“I know.” He stared at it for almost a minute. The mast was paler than the rest of the timbers. The mast they’d fitted in Freetown. “We need to take a closer look.”

They slipped past the shadows cast by piled up jute sacks. As they drew closer, the smell reached them. He knew. It was unmistakable. A cloying, sour stench that clung to the back of the throat. Sweat. Waste. Too many bodies confined too long. Crawford had smelled it before, rising from the hold of a captured slaver, and no matter how hard men scrubbed to clean it, it seemed to linger forever.

Alice covered her mouth. “That smell…”

“Yes, it’s a slaver, and I intend to take it.”

Blythe shifted uneasily. “But, Sir… This is Guinea. There’s nothing we can do. There’s no law against slavery in this country. They even allow it, encourage it.”

“They also make vast profits from trafficking in human misery and degradation.”

“Sir, surely any attempt to seize the vessel would be piracy.”

“If we’re caught,” he murmured.

“If we’re caught, they’ll hang us.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Weighed up the risks. Considered what they were up against. The law, enforced by the Almamy’s militia. If they were caught, there’d be no question of a fair trial. The Islamic court would deal with them harshly, and Lance-Corporal Blythe was correct, they’d hang them.

Alice looked at him. “Perhaps we should consider something else?”

“There is nothing else. We take the ship.”

They stared at him, and they didn’t look happy.

“We take her,” he repeated, “and sail her back to Freetown. That vessel’s days as a slave trader are over.”

“It’s still piracy,” Blythe objected.

“True, but it will at least stop some of them.” He grinned, “Besides, it’ll save the price of the return journey.”

Nobody smiled. They exchanged looks, and several men looked fearful. But not all. More than half were nodding their heads in agreement. Perhaps calculating their share of the prize money.

Alice looked concerned. “Are you certain about this?”

“I’m certain.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she gave him a determined nod. “Well, if that’s what you’ve decided, we’d better make a start.”

“Yes. Mrs. Featherstone, I’m sorry we couldn’t catch those men, but we’ll try again, I promised.”

She gave a long, appraising look. “You may call me Alice.”

He was surprised, but he responded immediately. “Harry.”

She smiled and they watched the ship for almost an hour.

A lantern burned on deck. Voices drifted across the wharf, drunken laughter. These were men who didn’t believe themselves in any danger. Why should they, here in Guinea, the law was on their side.

He studied the rigging, the distance to the gangway, and he tried to estimate the number of men on board. Eight or ten. They were trained men so they should be able to handle eight or ten drunken slavers.

“We need to do it soon. Before dawn.”

Blythe swallowed. “If we’re caught…”

“We won’t be, and if we are, at least we’ll hang for a good cause.”

No one agreed, though no one argued, and they melted back into the darkness to prepare.

* * *

Yusuf Mansour was content. The vessel lay quietly alongside the wharf in Bissau port, her hull creaking gently as gentle waves lapped at her hull. From the deck, the town looked exactly as it always did. Even at this hour it was alive, although the darkness hid the more visible signs of dereliction and neglect. For him this was a place of safety, a haven. No Royal Navy frigate would come storming in to seize ships from honest slave traders and preach about law and humanity. This was a place where men like him and Mohammed Hassan prospered.

He leaned against the rail with a battered tin tankard in his hand. Hassan would arrive mid-morning, after he’d negotiated for fresh supplies and plan their next venture south along the west African coast, to collect more slaves. Inland tribes would be waiting, and they had plenty of chains in the lockers to secure the next batch.

Eight men were aboard including himself. More than enough in the safety of Bissau. Even if something went wrong, they had nothing to fear of British interference. The red-coated devils would never rule here.

He raised the tankard and drank. The liquid burned like fire all the way down, sharp and violent, the taste of smoke and rot, and fruit gone bad. Mampoer. Distilled far to the south by the Pedi people and carried up the coast in small kegs. It was brutal stuff. Dangerous. Perfect.

As a Muslim, he was forbidden to drink. But as a seaman, he’d long ago decided that such rules were written for men who slept on dry land. What else was a man supposed to drink to ward off fever, damp, and the constant stink from the hold? The taste of foul water. Mampoer at least gave warmth. And it made a man feel strong.

He was sure the Prophet would make an exception for men like him. He drained the tankard and refilled it. The second went down even more easily than the first, and he felt the heat bloom in his belly, relaxing muscles that had been tense for days. His thoughts slowed. It felt so good.

He rested his forearms on the rail and let his eyes drift across the deck. The men were scattered about, a couple sitting, a few standing and some comatose. He heard one man laugh loudly at something said by another. They were all in good spirits. He looked down at his tankard and smiled. It wouldn’t be a problem provided they were sober by the time Hassan arrived.

If they weren’t, he’d deal with it. Throwing a man over the side was a powerful motivator. None could swim. Even here, in the enclosed, rank polluted waters of Bissau port, it would be a death sentence. Drowning if they were lucky. Fever and a long slow death if they weren’t.

He smiled grimly. They’d soon sober up. He pushed himself upright, swaying slightly, and decided to make his rounds. A man could not be too careful, even in a safe haven like this. He checked the mooring lines first, tugging at each one, testing them with practiced hands. They held fast.

Good.

He walked the length of the deck, boots thudding softly on planks worn smooth by years of use. He didn’t go near the hatch to the empty hold. Even now, with the Mampoer warming him, the constant smell was something to be avoided. Better not to think about what would soon be chained below.

He nodded to one of the crew, who looked back at him with unfocused eyes. He kept walking, and even during the night he could feel the sweat trickling down his spine beneath his shirt. He felt tired after drinking so much and decided a short sleep would do no harm.

He turned toward his cabin and reached for the door, but he didn’t enter. He heard them first, boots, the sound of men marching up the gangplank. He froze and struggled to make sense of the sound. Dock workers didn’t work during the hours of darkness, and he’d never known a port official to board a vessel during the night. Something was very wrong.

He turned, too slow. They were already on deck.

White men. Europeans. Ten or twelve, all armed with muskets, bayonets fixed. Their faces were hard and purposeful, and they moved with practiced discipline, reminding him of trained soldiers. But they couldn’t be soldiers, they were dressed in an assortment of ragged, civilian clothes. Spreading out as they marched onto the deck, cutting off any escape.

His heart slammed into his ribs. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible. He snatched for the pistol at his belt, but he was too slow. A man surged forward, taller than the rest, sword raised. The blade flashed, and the flat of the blade struck his arm with brutal force, knocking it aside. Pain exploded up to his shoulder, and his arm dropped, but still clutching the pistol, unfired.

He staggered back, trying to recover, trying to bring up his pistol to take the shot. Another man, much shorter, stood close to the man with the sword, a flintlock aimed directly at his chest. Before he could think, the man with the sword was on him again, but this time he didn’t use the blade.

The arm came up, bunched into a fist, and it slammed into Mansour’s face. The blow was like nothing he’d ever experienced, as if he’d been hit by a full keg of molasses. Light exploded behind his eyes, his knees buckled, and the deck seemed to tilt beneath him. He tasted blood and something broken. He spat out a tooth.

As he fell, the world slowed slowly, strangely, and in a moment of clarity he formed his last thought. He could see the man with the pistol more clearly now, and he understood. The face beneath the brim of the hat wasn’t a man’s face at all. It was a woman. The thought astonished him even as everything began to fade.

* * *

Crawford cast a quick glance at the man he’d knocked to the deck with a single punch. Blood trickled from his nose, down his cheeks and soaking into the groove between the planks. He wasn’t unconscious, just seriously stunned, confused. His eyes were half open, but he didn’t look like he was seeing anything.

The rest of the crew were stunned, but not because they’d been punched. Their expressions were frozen in disbelief at the sight of armed Europeans swarming their ship. The disbelief didn’t last more than a few seconds until instinct took over. For men surged forward with an animal violence, grabbing whatever weapon was closest. A belaying pin. A knife. A length of chain. One man snatched up Mansour’s fallen pistol, fumbling to check the priming.

The Marines met them head on. Steel rang, boots thudded on the wooden deck, bodies slammed together. Lance-Corporal Blythe drove the butt of his musket into a man’s throat and sent him collapsing, gagging, hands clawing at air. Another Marine swung his weapon like a club, breaking a slaver’s wrist with a loud ‘crack’ that carried over the noise. Alice remained behind Crawford, pistols out, ready to use them if he was in any trouble.

He wasn’t in any trouble. The struggle was brief but loud. Too loud. A slaver broke away, sprinted for the mast, and seized the bell that hung there. He yanked it with frantic strength. The bell clanged again and again, echoing throughout the port.

He heard the sound over the struggle, and he knew what it meant. An alarm bell. That bell was for every man in Bissau to pick up their weapons and rush to the aid of whoever had summoned them.

His Marines were already finishing off the last pockets of resistance, forcing men to the deck, wrenching arms behind backs and binding their wrists with cord. One tried to bite, but a Marine slammed his head into the planks so hard the skull cracked, leaking blood and brains onto the timbers. When every man was either captured or dead, they pushed them down into the hold to get a taste of their own medicine. They’d have time to reflect on the rope awaiting them in Freetown.

On the deck it was as good as over, but along the wharf, the response was already starting to arrive. He glanced toward the gangplank and saw movement onshore, men racing toward it about to board the ship. Weapons in their hands, teeth bared, and determined grimaces to stop these white Europeans who threatened their profits. More men poured off the ships and from nearby doorways.

He knew they would be Port Militia. Not soldiers in proper uniform, but heavily armed men with the authority to kill first and ask questions later. Especially if the enemy was white Europeans. Bissau law didn’t ask for paperwork. Just brute force.

His mind snapped into cold clarity. They had minutes left before they were overwhelmed, maybe less.

“Six men, cover the gangplank,” he shouted, “Don’t let them get aboard.”

Three Marines moved at once, then three more, forming a hard knot at the top of the plank, muskets raised, bayonets leveled. Their faces were tense but determined. Good men. Reliable men. Men who knew how they’d end up if the Port Militia and the rest of the cutthroats got aboard.

“Every available man off the lines,” he bellowed, “Now.”

They were Marines, not sailors, and they lacked the necessary expertise, but they’d seen it done on board the Galatea, and on this occasion, fear lent them wings. They ran to the mooring ropes and began hacking at knots that wouldn’t budge with axes, pulling in the lines hand over hand, the hands slipping on tar and sweat.

Crawford turned to Blythe. “Lance-Corporal, take three men and hoist sail.”

Blythe’s eyes widened. “Sir, I don’t know how.”

“Pull on the ground rope,” he snapped, “I don’t care how you do it, just get that sail up the mast. We have to get out of here.”

He hesitated a half-second, then grabbed the nearest three men and lunged toward the rigging. They seized the halyards and hauled, clumsy but desperate, shoulders straining, boots slipping. The sail failed to rise cleanly, and halfway up the mast it snagged and flapped like a wounded bird.

“Again,” he roared, “Pull!”

They leaned back with all their weight and pulled harder, knowing their lives depended on it. The canvas crept upward inch by inch. On the wharf, the militia closed fast. He could see their faces, young men with wild eyes. Older men with hard mouths twisted into hatred. Some wore scraps of uniform, others ordinary shirts and Arab robes. All had muskets or pistols, sometimes both, some also carried long knives.

He pictured them swarming the gangplank, overwhelming his men by sheer weight of numbers. There would be no trial. Just a rope and a shallow grave.

“If we’re not out of here in minutes,” he shouted, “we’re dead. Load your muskets and prepare to fire on my order.”

The Marines moved into position as he shouted, “Two ranks, three and three. Front rank stand and fire on my order.”

Three Marines stood at the top of the plank, muskets leveled. The second rank stood just behind them, loaded and ready. This was a drill meant for battlefields, not wharves, but he had no other way to keep up a steady rate of fire without chaos.

The first wave of militia reached the ship, shouting and screaming angry threats and curses as they came, certain their overwhelming numbers would make easy work of these intruders. They started up the gangplank in a rush, weapons raised.

“Front rank, fire!” he shouted.

Three men fired together. Flame burst from three muzzles and smoke rolled over the gangplank in a thick cloud. Two militia men went down hard, one spinning sideways into the water, another collapsing back to the wharf with a shout that became a wet gurgle.

“Front rank, kneel and reload!”

They dropped to one knee, hands moving fast to reload. Powder. Ball. Ramrod. Sweat slick fingers working by habit.

“Second rank, fire.”

Three men fired over the heads of the kneeling men. Two more militia stumbled and fell.

He kept the rhythm at a steady pace.

“Front rank, fire! kneel, reload, rear rank, fire! On the double, reload!”

Muskets cracked in alternating bursts, front rank, then second rank, the cycle producing a constant, punishing stream of smoke and lead. Enough to wipe out the militia, enough to push them back, forcing them to hesitate and duck away from the line of fire.

More militia appeared behind the first wave, drawn by the bell and the gunfire. Their shouts rose. The crowd thickened, and some were firing back. Musket balls whined over the deck. One smacked into the ship’s rail and sent splinters tearing into a Marine’s cheek. Another punched through a coil of rope, snapping strands like twine.

He ignored the incoming fire and focused on the only thing that mattered. Escape.

“How’re you doing with the lines?” he shouted.

Men cried back, “Almost done, Sir.”

He looked over as a man cursed and hacked at a rope that stubbornly refused to untie. Another man threw his weight against the line until it parted, nearly throwing him backward. The line gave way, and the ship shifted several degrees, nudging away from the wharf as if tasting freedom.

“Keep working on those lines,” he shouted again as another came free. Until finally the remaining rope holding them fast to the wharf fell away. The vessel began to drift outward, slow at first, pushed by tide and breeze.

The militia realized they were getting away, and their shouts of rage rose into a roar. Some ran to the end of the wharf, trying to close the distance. Others fired more wildly, smoke and noise filling the air. Several militia, braver than the others, leapt across the widening gap from the dock to the side of the vessel.

“Keep them off!”

Blythe and his three men finally succeeded in hoisting the sail, and at last it caught the wind. Canvas snapped, and the mast creaked as it came under strain. The dhow shuddered as it picked up speed, yet still painfully slow. The Marine who’d been at the wheel suddenly cried out in pain and collapsed to the deck. For several seconds they were floundering helplessly, as the wind went out of the sails.

Before he could react, Alice’s voice cut through the noise. “I’ll take the wheel.”

He saw her moving toward the helm with calm purpose, hat pulled low, a warlike figure with pistols still tucked into her belt. She placed her hands on the wheel and grappled with it to steer the vessel out to sea.

“Do you know how?”

“I know enough to get away from here,” she called back.

The ship edged farther from the wharf. The gap widened to two yards, then three. Too wide for them to leap across but they fired instead. Musket balls peppered the deck. One punched through a section of planking halfway down the hull, but mercifully above the waterline. Another tore through the canvas and left a ragged hole.

He moved along the deck, checking the men had enough powder and ball to keep firing, and to prevent any panic. Fear could be as deadly as an enemy musket. There was no panic, and they returned his inquisitive looks with determined expressions.

He looked through the smoke to find Alice. “Head for the mouth.”

“I’m doing my best.” She stood at the wheel, her eyes set forward. The ship responded slowly.

They began to move out into the harbor, and it should’ve been a relief. It wasn’t. Other vessels were casting off their lines. Boats, dhows, even dinghies, anything that could float and carry armed men. The word had gone out through with terrifying speed. The Europeans were stealing their ships.

He watched them moving toward them, converging like sharks. Blythe stood beside him, looking in the same direction. “This doesn’t look good, Sir.”

“No, it doesn’t. Whatever you do, make sure you stop them climbing aboard. Once they get over the rail, we’re finished.”

They were still inside the harbor. Still within range of every musket and pistol along the waterfront. And now, from the side, another threat emerged. A cannon. It stood on a low emplacement near the harbor. Men swarmed around it, rushing to get loaded. First the charge, then the cannonball, then the wadding, and a man rammed it home. Another poured gunpowder into the touch hole and stood beside it with a lighted taper.

“Everybody down!”

The cannon fired, and the blast echoed across the water. The shot tore through the air and smashed into the sea a few yards short, throwing up a plume of spray. More musket fire cracked again, and a rain of lead hit timbers and rope, thudded into planks, and whined past ears.

Two Marines cried out as they were struck, one in the shoulder, one by flying splinters. Both dropped, faces twisted with shock and pain. He rushed to kneel beside them, tore apart strips of cloth to bind the wounds, and called for the nearest man. “Get them into the cabin. We’ll find something to clean the wounds later.”

He rose and looked out. A half-dozen vessels were pursuing them, some with sails hoisted, others pulling with oars, all of them crowded with armed men. He cursed himself for getting into this, for not finding a better way. He’d hatched this plan to take the ship, believing boldness would be enough. Now he had a horde of armed men chasing them, and if that wasn’t bad enough, a cannon waiting to blast them out of the water.

Everything looked very bad. Everything was bad. Even the darkness that’d help to hide them was vanishing as dawn broke. Then the sky changed. The first gust struck, sharp and cold, carrying the scent of rain. Wavelets raced across the surface of the water, and the sky darkened, almost as if as if a curtain had been drawn across the sun.

Alice looked up. “Storm coming.”

It was more than a storm, much more. The monsoon smashed into them like a hammer. Rain fell in a wall of water, pounding the deck so hard it sounded like gunfire. Visibility was reduced to little more than a few yards in a matter of seconds. The harbor filled with a gray mist, and the pursuing vessels blurred, then disappeared entirely behind the curtain of rain.

Their clothes were soaked instantly. He wiped his face as water ran into his eyes and felt his hair plastered to his skull. He joined Alice at the wheel to see if she needed his help.

“Hold her steady,” he shouted to her.

She gave him a look. “I am holding her steady. That’s why we’re heading away from here,” she snarled in a fierce voice.

They drove forward into the rain, into the open sea. The cannon onshore couldn’t shoot at them if it couldn’t see them, and neither could the militia. The vessel kept moving, pushing father out to sea, the heavy rain hiding them like a cloak.

By mid-morning, the monsoon had eased, and the rain softened into a steady drizzle. The gray mist thinned, and visibility returned to normal. He scanned the ocean behind them and could hardly believe what he was seeing. At what he wasn’t seeing. The sea was empty. They’d lost them.

No sails. No pursuing craft. No dark shapes cutting through the water. For the first time since the alarm bell rang, he allowed himself to believe they might yet live.

The coast of Bissau had vanished into the haze, but they still faced a long voyage back to Freetown in an unfamiliar vessel, crewed by Royal Marines with no real knowledge of seamanship. As the reality of the situation dawned on him, the first rush of triumph drained away, and he steeled himself to face reality.

They’d escaped, but they still had a long way to go. The dhow was under sail, moving steadily and what they assumed was the direction of Freetown, sailing south along the West Africa Coast, but their inexpert handling meant they steered an erratic course. His men were good soldiers, tough fighters, but seamen they were not. They made progress, but not enough.

The men trimmed the sail too late. The boatswain constantly over corrected. They failed to take advantage of the prevailing winds. Indeed, they had little knowledge of the prevailing winds. The ship yawed every which way, and he began to have serious reservations about making it back in time before their shore leave expired.

The men could be excused. He’d blame any error on him, but he had no illusions about the punishment. It would be severe. Captain Ashcombe tolerated many things, but not officers reporting late for duty. He’d already made clear his reservations about the Marines going on what he called a ‘wild goose chase.’ He wouldn’t be charitable when they arrived late, and in a stolen ship.

He didn’t discuss these fears with Alice but couldn’t hide the fact that they were pressing on him like a heavyweight. She sensed it and offered him her assistance if he believed it would help. He didn’t and made it clear this was his responsibility, and his alone. If a man was to be blamed, he’d carry that weight on his shoulders. She took the hint and didn’t mention it further.

She offered to take the wheel to relieve the Marine who seemed unable to steer a straight course, and she took to it naturally. She wasn’t skilled in the fine points of sailing, but she learned fast. She watched and adapted, and for hours at a time held the vessel steady through the occasional squall that would’ve panicked a less determined person.

During the long hours, the voyage stripped away their formality. They ate together, drank together, and he insisted she slept in the low-roofed aft cabin to preserve her respectability. She agreed, but only if he used it while she was outside, manning the helm.

He came to know her better. Not simply as a woman driven by grief and anger, but as a woman with a sharp mind, a dark humor that occasionally surfaced unexpectedly, and a toughness and resilience that seemed the equal of any man. He found his affection for her growing stronger each day, even though it made him feel guilty. After all, she was a widow, who would wish to maintain her decorum.

They were about to eat one evening, when another squall arrived. She looked at him. “We should eat our food in the cabin where we’ll be out of the rain.”

“But… I don’t think that would be appropriate. Two of us, a man and a woman, one of them a widow, eating alone.”

She gave him a gentle smile. “Harry, I don’t think there’s anybody here would think the less of us. This ship is not the height of Freetown society.” She pushed open the door to the cabin, and he followed her inside, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment. They seated themselves, squatting on the floor either side of the low, crude table, “I think it’s time I explained myself a bit better.”

Crawford looked at her. “You don’t owe me any explanation. I wouldn’t have any wish to pry into your private affairs.”

“Perhaps not. But I want you to know.”

He said nothing, letting her continue. “I mentioned before I was virtually sold to my husband. My parents were poor. Desperately so. The kind of poor that turns dignity into a luxury. When Mr. Featherstone made his offer, they believed it would be my salvation, a fine opportunity to start a life of wealth and opportunity.” Her mouth tightened, “He was older, and all he wanted was a young wife to display, to own. I tried to be dutiful. I told myself that it is what women do. I didn’t always succeed.” She glanced away, “When he was displeased, he beat me…. and took his conjugal rights with force.”

She said it as if it was of no consequence. He felt his anger rising. “You accepted it?”

She shrugged. “All women accept it,” she said quietly, “It is what we are taught. Men are men, to do with us as they please. Their wives endure.”

He swallowed hard, picturing the misery of her marriage.

“I grew to dislike him more and more. Not simply for the beatings, but because of his certainty that I existed only for his needs. When he died, I did what people expected of a widow. I wore black. I veiled myself.” There was a long pause, “But in my heart, I was relieved.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured, “It must have been very difficult.”

“It was even more difficult when I discovered he’d left me penniless, with outstanding debts I had no way of paying. There were constant threats, men demanding money. I thought I had been freed, and instead I felt as if I’d been pushed into another kind of prison.”

He nodded slowly. “Hardwick, was he behind it?”

“I believe so, yes.” She studied him for a moment, “What about you, why did you choose a life in the Royal Marines?”

He hesitated, then decided there was no point holding anything back. They’d been through too much together.

“I’m the younger son of a Hampshire cleric. A local vicar with a modest living. My parents were very proud when my older brother John joined the Royal Navy as a midshipman. Just after he arrived in Freetown he was murdered. His killers were never caught. My parents begged me not join the Royal Navy. They couldn’t cope with losing another son. But after I finished university, I joined the Royal Marines and vowed to kill the men who murdered John.”

He told her, briefly, about being a gentleman ranker. Educated enough to be resented by the men, but without a commission, so he was despised by the officers. Too refined for one group. Too low for the other. Always out of place.

“I was a target for those who needed someone to bully.”

Her eyes hardened. “I heard the men talking during the voyage to Bissau. Was it a Corporal Baker?”

“He could be a problem, yes.” He thought of others who’d cause him problems, like Mosley. His constant insults and contempt, until a bullet ended his life, “But a vacancy for a second lieutenant arose, and I was ready to step in and take the commission.”

The rain squall came in harder. Wind howled through the rigging, and the sail snapped and strained. Outside, heavy rain pounded on the deck. She eased closer to him. The dim light of the lantern softened her features and reflected off her dark, shiny hair. He looked at her and found he couldn’t look away.

She watched him, too. Neither spoke, but the storm filled the silence. It started when her fingers brushing his. A small contact, possibly accidental. Until she touched him again, and this time it was no accident. His hand closed lightly over hers, and he felt her fingers tense, then relax.

They looked into each other’s eyes, and something unspoken passed between them. Longing, perhaps, or maybe it was fear. Or hope. She moved even closer and kissed him on the cheek. It was brief and gentle, yet it rocked him harder than any blow he’d taken in battle.

She stayed close, her forehead near his, her voice almost a whisper. “When this is over,” she began. She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to. He was thinking the same thing. When this was over, when they reached Freetown, if they survived whatever consequences waited for them, there might be a future. Outside, the rain eased slightly. The squall lessened.

Inside the cramped cabin, he let himself believe that the world might contain something beyond duty and violence. Whatever it was, he knew it would be worth fighting for.

* * *

Mohammed Hassan was in a good mood long before he reached the port. He rode his horse at a canter through the outskirts of Bissau, sending passers-by scattering into either side. Heat shimmered off the dirt road, and the air stank of rot and human waste, but he was so accustomed to it he barely noticed. Besides, he had something else on his mind. Profit.

His contacts had sent word. A party of newly captured men and women rounded up from local tribes was being herded toward the coast, driven along the forest tracks by men who knew how to keep them alive just long enough to sell. Fresh bodies. Fresh profits. A big haul if he moved quickly, and Hassan always moved quickly when money was within reach.

He could already picture the transaction. Pick them up from the shore. Get them aboard the dhow. Take them to Bissau and sell them on to traders with fast ships, men who asked no questions and cared only about making good speed across the Atlantic. The Americas, the prices were high and if the slaves suffered and some died during the journey, who cared?

His entire life was built on turning misery into money, and he’d done it so long it was like second nature. He operated on the basis of supply and demand, and a heavy club or a sharp knife for anyone who interfered.

He reached the port expecting to see his vessel waiting. Instead, he rode into a commotion. Men were shouting. Running. Pointing toward the open sea. An angry crowd had gathered along the wharf. Armed militia were everywhere. He heard a man scream that foreigners had come to steal their ships.

He forced his way through the throng, shoving men aside, ignoring their curses.

“What is this,” he snarled, “What’s going on?”

A man he recognized as a dock worker stepped forward. “Master Hassan,” he stammered, “It’s your ship.”

“What about it?”

The man swallowed. “It’s gone.”

“What you mean it’s gone? For a moment he didn’t understand. The words made no sense. Ships didn’t simply vanish. Not in a port guarded by the militia, and besides, he’d left his crew on board, all armed, “It can’t be gone.”

“It was stolen,” the man whispered, as if Hassan would punish him for just saying the word.

Hassan’s world narrowed. “By whom?”

“White Europeans. They came aboard, attacked your men, and there was a fight. The alarm bell was rung, and the militia arrived, but it was too late. They sailed away. The ship has gone.”

The rage returned, hotter and sharper than before. “Europeans?” he spat, “You’re sure?”

“Yes, there is no question. The ship was last seen heading south, probably toward Freetown.”

He shook with fury. Freetown. The British Vipers’ nest. The port where men like Hassan would be hanged if they were caught, their bodies raised high as warnings to others who may be tempted. Freetown was a place to be avoided at all costs. The place where they’d taken his ship.

He knew what would happen next. They’d deliver it into the jaws of the Royal Navy and receive prize money in return, while Hassan was stripped of his means. He had nothing, no means of carrying on his business.

He shoved the man aside so hard he fell and paced along the wharf. Eyes scanning the water as if he might still see his ship miraculously returning into the port. It was busy with small craft, but his vessel had disappeared. His crew had disappeared including his first mate, Yusuf Mansour. All the work, the time and the money he’d invested in this business had been torn away from him in a single night.

He wasn’t interested in the men who’d either been killed during the attack or were headed for Freetown to be hanged. He mourned the loss of the ship. The crew he could replace easily. There were plenty of men with seagoing experience in Bissau, most of them scum, but they were men who knew how to manage slaves.

He rapidly did the sums, thinking about how much money he had put aside to purchase the next batch of slaves. But without a vessel, the money was useless. And if he was unable to collect them, his rivals would soon hear of his plight and snatch his business away from him.

His anger shifted into desperation, but despite his anguish, he knew he couldn’t afford to fail. His reputation was currency in Bissau. Lose it, and men would stop doing business with him. Worse, they’d begin to think he was an easy mark, a man who could be robbed without consequence.

He couldn’t allow it to happen, and he made a decision. He needed a vessel, even if it meant selling his soul, which was what it probably would mean. He turned away from the wharf and headed for the fortress. The fortress was the most dominant structure in Bissau, perched on the high ground. Its walls were thick, its gates heavy, its cannons rusted but still functional. Flags changed above it as often as the man in command changed, but its purpose remains constant. A symbol of power and wealth.

Armed men watched Hassan approach with guarded interest. They recognized him, everyone recognized him, and by now everyone would know of his plight.

“I must speak with the Almamy,” Hassan said, his voice clipped.

A guard stared at him, then nodded slowly and led him through a courtyard where the air smelled of dust and the walls were streaked with old blood. His boots echoed on stone as the guard led him further inside, and he brought him into a shaded chamber.

The Almamy sat on a raised platform, surrounded by advisors and guards. He was older than Hassan, and huge, his belly bulging over his pants. His face was unreadable. He wore fine silk cloth and jewelry that spoke of wealth, all of it taken from others. His eyes dominated his features, calm and dangerous.

He looked at Hassan as if he was an insect that’d crawled into his presence. “You wish to see me?”

“Mighty One, I have been robbed.”

The huge man’s mouth twitched, but his lips didn’t form a smile. “Robbed?”

“White Europeans stole my ship,” he said, speaking the words reluctantly, hating to admit they’d got the better of him, “They sailed it south toward Freetown.”

There was a murmur among the advisors. The Almamy raised a hand, silencing them. “That is interesting, but I’m not sure how it involves me.”

Hassan leaned forward. “I need a vessel. There is a shipment of captives being led toward the coast. I had arranged to purchase them, but now I have no vessel to transport them. If I lose them, I lose everything.”

The Almamy regarded him for a long moment. “You are desperate.”

He stiffened but didn’t deny it. “I can strike a deal. Mighty One, you have influence on the port. You have vessels in the port. You can help me acquire another ship.”

The Almamy’s gaze drifted lazily over him, weighing him up. “You believe you can come here and demand I help you acquire another ship? After you were careless enough to allow your vessel to be stolen?”

“I will pay. Please help me, I’m begging you.”

The gross figure leaned back. “How much are you offering to pay me?”

“Tell me how much you want.”

The Almamy’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if amused by the question. Hassan got the impression he was laughing at him. “Men like you come and go, and they’re always expecting me to do them favors.”

He swallowed. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

The Almamy considered for several minutes, while Hassan waited in silence. Finally, he lifted a finger. “I will not help you to purchase a new vessel, but I will lease you one. But there will be conditions.”

Hope flared, and his head snapped up. “Anything, Mighty One.”

“I have a vessel in the harbor. A fast vessel that used to belong to a rival who thought himself beyond my reach.” A pause, “When he died, the ship became mine.”

Hassan didn’t feel the need to ask him how his rival had died. “You said you’d lease it to me. How much would it cost?”

The Almamy smiling broadly. “The price will be steep, and failure to pay in full will incur penalties.”

“Yes, yes. How steep?”

The huge man named a figure, and he eagerly agreed. He continued talking, and Hassan heard something about the penalty for failure to hand over payment by the due date, but he ignored it. His mind was racing. The price was steep, but he worked out that if he filled every space in the vessel with captives, he could make enough to pay off the lease and make a satisfactory profit. A bigger profit than he’d anticipated.

The Almamy leaned forward slightly. “You understand the penalty for failure to pay on time?”

“I’m sorry, I missed that. Would you remind me of the penalty?”

“Your life.”

Silence filled the chamber. He stared at him as the enormity of the risk he was about to take dawned on him. This wasn’t a business arrangement between equals. It was a trap designed to exploit his desperation, and if he failed to meet the conditions, this man would extract his profit in a different way. He had a reputation as a cruel man, a man who enjoyed seeing extreme suffering of others.

His hands trembled, but he had no alternative. Without a ship, he was finished. With this ship, he had a chance, however dangerous.

He bowed his head. “Agreed.”

The Almamy nodded once. “It would be better to you if you didn’t fail me. This meeting is over.”

Hassan rose to leave, feeling the weight of the bargain settle onto his shoulders like heavy, iron chains. As he walked outside, the heat of Bissau hit him again, thick and cloying. The noise from the port drifted up from the water, and he stared out to sea, where his stolen ship was on the way to the British.

He forced himself to breathe deeply and walked on, working on the figures. If he was going to survive, he’d need a profit large enough to compensate him for the loss of his stolen vessel. To achieve that, he’d have to go to extraordinary lengths. He’d have to be even more ruthless than he’d been before. Men would die, that was too bad. Men were replaceable. Profit was eternal.

* * *

The voyage back seemed interminable. The wind blew, but not the kind they needed. When it came in strongly, it blew from the wrong direction. Forcing them off course, so they had to tack in clumsy, wasteful zigzags. When it blew from the right direction, it was weak, and the sails flapped lazily. But they continue to make progress, creeping along like an exhausted animal.

He admitted to himself they were not sailors and just playing at seamanship. It felt like the ocean was punishing them for it. Ropes slipped. Knots failed. The sail was hauled too hard and tore along a seam, forcing them to lash it with spare line. The helm wandered when fatigue dulled the helmsman’s concentration. They corrected, corrected again, then corrected once more. Progress came grudgingly.

He counted the days. Not speaking often, not reminding them what was at stake if they failed to make it in time. If not, there were consequences that weren’t negotiable. Reporting late for duty, even by minutes, could mean punishment that would stain or even finish a career. He’d seen ordinary sailors flogged for such breaches of discipline. Had seen officers ruined for what others called a minor infraction.

Every night he lay awake, calculating the distance remaining, estimating the wind’s steadiness, and fretting about their clumsy pace. Every day, as the sun rose and the ship crawled ever onward, he found himself thinking more and more about Alice Featherstone.

She didn’t kiss him again, and he didn’t speak of that intimate moment in the aft cabin. Yet he felt something deepening between them with each shared glance, each shared meal, each brief exchange when their hands brushed accidentally.

She didn’t appear to have noticed, moved around the ship with a quiet competence, and he continually admired her ability to adapt to any situations. She learned the names of ropes and pulleys. She laughed when Blythe nearly toppled over the rail while hauling. The sound startled Crawford so much he found himself smiling back before he could stop it.

They were growing closer. Not in the reckless way of a brief romance, but something much more. He guessed that shared danger did that. One evening, as the sun bled into the sea and the sky turned the color of bruised fruit, he sat beside her near the stern. The deck was quiet. The men were eating their meal of hard, stale biscuit. The wind had eased, leaving only the soft creak of timbers and the sound of water sliding along the hull.

She stared out at the horizon and spoke without turning her head. “What’re you thinking?”

He glanced at her. “Nothing. Well… wondering if we’ll make it back in time.”

She looked faintly disappointed but said nothing more. He watched her profile, studying the line of her jaw, the way her hair moved in the slight breeze. He felt a growing certainty, he was in love with her. Not an infatuation. Not a passing warmth. It was much more, something that made everything seem better when he was with her.

He wanted to tell her, but this wasn’t the time or the place. They were on a stolen ship, racing the clock, and when they arrived in Freetown, she had enough to deal with. Perhaps later he’d find the opportunity to talk seriously.

Time was running out, and the voyage became touch and go. The day before they were due to report back, the wind died completely, the clouds disappeared, and they were left to drift beneath a merciless sun. The sail hung limp. Men cursed and argued as they tried to catch even the tiniest of gusts. He stood at the bow, staring south, feeling the time slip away.

He’d almost given up hope of making it when a squall came and nearly tore the patched sail apart. They struggled in the darkness and rain, hauling lines, shouting over the thunder. Alice remained at the wheel, knuckles white, staring ahead, always ahead. They kept the ship from broaching, but by dawn they were exhausted, and they had no idea where they were, or how to fix their position.

On the last day, with hope almost gone, the horizon finally changed. A smudge appeared in the distance. The low line of coast. Freetown.

Crawford felt their tension ease. They continued to work the ship, taking every scrap of wind, constantly trimming the sail, while Alice steered with fierce concentration. The harbor mouth opened before them, the most welcome sight they’d seen in a long time.

They sailed in under a glaring sun, and he checked his watch. They might just make it. They reached the dock with exactly one hour to spare. For several moments he simply stood, letting the reality of what they’d achieved settle inside. They were back, they were alive, and they were on time.

They secured the lines to the wharf and Alice turned to him. “I should go,” she said quietly, “I must find out what has happened while I’ve been away.”

He nodded. “When I’ve reported back to the Galatea, I’ll come ashore and see if there’s anything you need.”

She hesitated, as if wanting to say something else, and then stepped down the gangplank. Her pistols were once again hidden beneath her clothes, and she even managed to look composed as she walked away.

He watched until she disappeared into the crowded street and got his men together. “We must report back for duty. We still have time if we go now.”

They returned to the Galatea in a tight group, muskets shouldered, faces sunburned and drawn. Sailors on deck stared in surprise at their sudden arrival. He told Lance-Corporal Blythe to take the men below and wait for his orders. It was time to see Captain Ashcombe.

He knocked on the cabin door beneath the quarterdeck and waited.

“Enter.”

Ashcombe was standing behind his desk rather than seated, and his face was red with fury. The First Lieutenant stood beside him, his face expressionless. The Captain didn’t invite him to speak. Neither did he offer a greeting.

Instead, he spoke like a man firing a gun. “Second Lieutenant Crawford, what in God’s name do you think you’ve done?”

He blinked, thrown off balance. “Sir, I got back before the time allotted for shore leave expired.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think this is about punctuality.” He snatched up a paper from his desk and slapped it down hard, “I received this yesterday from our agent in Bissau.”

Crawford looked at the paper without touching it. “Sir, I don’t understand.”

“It’s a protest,” the Captain continued, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage, “From the ruler of Bissau. He claims that British soldiers stole the property of a local man, namely, a valuable ship. He called it piracy, and he demands we arrest the man responsible and send them back to Bissau for trial and execution.”

He felt stunned, as if the words landed on his body like heavy punches. Ashcombe leaned forward. “Explain yourself.”

He took a quick breath and started to speak. “Sir, the vessel is a slaver. We identified it by the stench, and if we’d left it there, they would’ve continued use it to bring slaves to be shipped across the Atlantic.”

The Captain’s voice was cold. “You stole a ship when it was inside a foreign port.”

“A slaver,” he replied quickly, “I took it to save lives.”

“You took a ship,” Ashcombe snapped, “In territory where we have no authority, no jurisdiction. That is piracy by any legal definition.”

As the enormity of his situation became clearer, his first inclination was to make sure no blame fell on his men. “It was my responsibility, Sir. The men were obeying orders. If anyone deserves to be punished, it is me alone.”

His nostrils flared. “Do you know what you have done to our relations with the local rulers? It’s not just the slave trade we’re stamping out, it’s piracy. And now I find that one of my officers has become a pirate.”

He swallowed as Ashcombe paced behind the desk, then stopped and faced him again.

“I am tempted,” Ashcombe said, “to agree to send you back to Bissau.”

He knew this was it. He was finished. His career over, and his life over. “Sir, I’m prepared to face the consequences, no matter what they may be.”

He irritably waved his words away. “However, I’m aware that would be sending you to a cruel death. The only alternative may be to send you back to England under close arrest, where the Admiralty may decide on your punishment.”

His mouth was dry. “Yes, Sir.”

Ashcombe pointed toward the door. “Until I make a decision, and that may take some weeks while I correspond with the Admiralty, you will confine yourself to your cabin.” A pause, “That is all.”

He saluted, turned, and left, feeling as if the deck had just collapsed beneath his feet. He returned to his tiny cabin and closed the door behind him. The space was stifling, barely larger than a closet. The air smelled of damp cloth and stale wood. Light filtered in weakly through the small porthole, but it did little to improve things. His cabin was a dark, oppressive prison.

He sat on his cot, then lay back fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. He replayed the last days again and again. The chase through the alleys of Bissau. The stench of the slaver. The alarm bell. The militia pouring gunfire down on them from the wharf. The cannon at the harbor entrance. The monsoon that saved them. The last, triumphant hour when they sailed into harbor within the appointed time.

What had gone wrong? What else could he have done? A lady was in trouble and his honor as an officer required him to go to her aid. The ship they’d taken was a slaver, and he could at least allow himself the satisfaction of knowing his actions had put a small dent in their trade.

Now it would likely cost him his career. And if the Captain did hand him over to Bissau, his life. He lay in the stifling gloom, listening to the ship’s sounds and considering his future, or rather, his lack of a future. One he knew for sure, the life he’d planned was over. They’d return him to England in disgrace, and even as he considered that fate, he thought about the other part of his life that was over. The chance of spending the rest of his days with Alice Featherstone. Gone forever.

Chapter Eight

His cramped cabin trapped heat and sweat, mingled with the sour tang of damp wool that never properly dried. The cabin was on the deck above the bilges, and the stench that came from below made everything feel worse. His cramped cabin felt like a punishment cell.

In the hours after Ashcombe had confined him to his quarters, he sat on his cot and listened to life continue beyond the bulkhead. His life was over. Boots passed in the passageway. Men laughed nearby, and a bosun’s whistle cut through the ship sounds. The routine ship carried on as his humiliation felt worse with every hour that passed. It was worse in the heat, much worse. Before, he’d been a valuable member of the ship’s complement. Now he was hidden away, an embarrassment.

He tried to read his Bible, but the words would not hold in his mind. He sat at his portable writing desk and tried to write an account of his actions from when they left Freetown until they returned. It could be something he could offer if the Captain demanded to know everything, but his hand cramped and the ink smeared in the humidity. He spent hours simply staring at the cabin wall, watching sweat. It ran down the glass of the tiny porthole, as if it was weeping at his predicament.

Night brought little relief. The heat lingered, and the air was thick, barely moving. Mosquitoes found their way in. He lay on the cot fully clothed, too tired to undress, too restless to sleep. Every time he drifted, he jolted awake again, mind replaying the same events, as if he could frame them in a different way.

The alarm bell in Bissau. The rush of militia along the wharf. The musket fire. Alice’s hands on the wheel, guiding the vessel through the storms. He didn’t regret his actions, but he did regret that he hadn’t done things in a different way. If only he’d known how.

When morning came, he barely managed to pick up the jug, pour water into the basin and rinse his face when the faintest scrape sounded at his door. He stiffened, expecting a sentry’s voice, an order, a summons to an even worse fate. Instead, the door opened a fraction and Kofi slipped in like a shadow.

He carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “Sir,” Kofi said softly.

He stared. “You should not be here.”

The African shut the door carefully behind him. “They said I can continue helping in the galley. That means I can carry food without questions being asked.”

He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a chunk of bread and a lump of salted meat. The kind of food that tasted like old rope but kept a man alive. He set it on the tiny table and pushed it toward him.

He looked at it and suddenly realized how hungry he was. It was more than welcome, but… “Kofi, if you are caught bringing me food, the Captain will make you pay for it. He ordered that I only receive bread and water, with one ship’s biscuit each day.”

Kofi shrugged. “He cannot do anything worse than what has already been done. I will keep bringing you food, and at night, when the ship is quiet, I will help you sneak up on deck for fresh air.”

He hesitated. “The Captain ordered me confined.”

“The Captain didn’t order you to suffocate, or to starve,” he replied. Then he leaned closer, “There’s something else you could consider. You could leave. Escape.”

Crawford stared at him in astonishment. “Leave?”

“Yes, slip away. Disappear. A clever man can make his fortune here. Africa is open to exploitation. Many men come and make themselves rich. You could, too.”

“No.”

He blinked, surprised at the force of Crawford’s vehemence.

“I am an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. I will not run like a thief.”

“You did not do it for yourself,” Kofi said.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t make any difference. I did what I did, and I will face what comes.”

Kofi held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “As you wish, Sir. But you helped me when I needed help, and I will never forget what you did. Anything you need, I am ready.”

Crawford was so hungry he couldn’t stop himself from pushing the food into his mouth and forcing himself to chew. The salt meat scraped his throat, but it steadied him. When he’d taken the few mouthfuls, he looked up. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Kofi said at once.

“Go to Mrs. Featherstone. See how she is, and tell her I cannot leave the ship, but I am thinking of her.”

“I will go right away.” He slipped away.

The hours crawled past. Crawford lay back on the cot, hands folded over his chest, trying to think, and failing. His world had narrowed to a cabin, and his only point of contact with the outside world was the African he’d freed from the slaver’s hold.

Kofi returned in the late afternoon. He closed the door and didn’t speak at first.

Crawford sat up. “Tell me.”

His face was grim. “She is not good. When she tried to sell the two items of jewelry she recovered, the prices offered were not enough to pay a fraction of the debts her husband left her.”

“How bad is it?”

“Men come to her house. They threaten her, and she is afraid.” He closed his eyes, “She suggests I act as a go between. I will visit her each day and bring messages to you. You can send messages back.”

Crawford nodded slowly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Each day became the same. Every morning Kofi slipped in with food and a few words from Alice. Sometimes they were practical, about creditors and Hardwick and the pressure building. Sometimes they were quieter, a simple note that she was thinking of him. That she remembered the voyage, and the rain, and the moment in the aft cabin.

The messages should’ve comforted him, but instead they made him more restless. He paced his tiny cabin, two paces, turned, two paces back, until his legs cramped. He stood with his forehead against the bulkhead, listening to footsteps outside. Wanting to burst through the door and do something. Anything.

His only respite came in the early hours.

Kofi would appear silently, gesture once, and Crawford would slip out like a ghost. At night the ship felt different, quieter, the air cooler. He would stand on deck and breathe deeply, tasting salt and wind. He would stretch his legs, walk a few steps out of sight of the sentry, and stare out at the dark water.

He never stayed long, the risk of being seen was too great. But those brief minutes kept him from breaking apart entirely. The only other man he saw was Lance-Corporal Blythe, who paid him an unexpected visit in his cabin. He came in with the wary look of a man who’d prefer to be anywhere but there.

“Sir,” he said, standing stiffly to attention, “I thought you should know how things are with the men.”

“That’s good of you. Tell me.”

He grimaced. “It’s Baker. It’s not going well. He hands out punishments for no reason, and if he’s not satisfied with the man’s performance, he gives him a beating with his fists. Otherwise, it’s extra drills, extra watches. He’s gloating, Sir. Enjoying it.”

Crawford didn’t know what to say.

“The men are unhappy. They know you always did right by them. They also know you’re never coming back. Baker reminds them of that every day.”

He felt a surge of anger, but he swallowed it. He had to stay calm, “Thank you for telling me.”

Blythe hesitated, then added, “We haven’t forgotten you, Sir.”

When he’d gone, Crawford tried to think it all through, but there were no solutions. Alice was unhappy. The men were unhappy. His detachment was being ground down by a bullying corporal who was celebrating his demise. It was all his fault.

He’d tried to behave honorably and discovered to his cost that honor had a price. By the fifth day his thoughts had turned into something darker. He stopped eating and told Kofi to stop visiting him. Not because he’d done anything wrong, but because each visit reminded him of the chaos and trouble his actions had caused. Although Kofi persisted in bringing him a message every couple of days. He never replied and told Kofi that he needed time alone.

“You need to eat, Sir.”

“I’ll be fine.” He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to die.

Kofi understood he was killing himself and he looked stricken. Crawford descended further into the depths. Eating almost nothing, just a single ship’s biscuit in the morning, dry and tasteless. Sometimes he couldn’t even finish it. He lay for hour after hour on the cot in the stifling gloom, listening to life on board go on without him. He ceased going on deck at night. He ceased washing, didn’t even shave. As far as he was concerned, he may as well already be dead, so he wouldn’t be a burden any longer.

The thoughts became more persistent, circling like sharks beneath the surface, waiting for the moment he finally gave up altogether. Then things changed. He was staring up at the ceiling and wondering if there was any point in prolonging his misery. A moment later, almost in the same breath, he felt ashamed for even thinking it. No matter how things bad were, if he felt ashamed it meant he was still alive, and if he was alive, anything was possible.

On the West African coast, they spoke of miracles, and told their children stories about the miracles they’d witnessed. Even if they were only in their imagination, they were warmly received. He lay there, a shadow of what he’d once been, that was true, but if anything could save him now, it would have to be a miracle. Sure, he didn’t believe in miracles but sometimes, hope was all a man had left.

He lay on his cot staring at the timber beams. Stale heat continued to press down on him like a physical weight. It was over. Barring a miracle, his life, his career, Alice, everything, all gone. A miracle. Was that what he was hoping for? He just laughed at the absurdity. Miracles on this coast, infected with fever, greed, and cruelty, are non-existent. He laughed at the stupidity of even thinking about it.

He heard shouting, at first distant, muffled. He shrugged, probably some dockside quarrel. Dismissed it, until another sound cut through the shouts. A cannon! A shot echoed across the harbor, followed by another, and another. The deep thunder of several guns sounded almost like an earthquake.

He sat upright suddenly and banged his head on the low roof. Musket fire crackled across the harbor, rapid, chaotic, panicked.

Shouts rose outside. Running feet. Orders barked in alarm.

He sprang from the cot and stumbled to the small opening, craning to see. Smoke was already rising above the masts in the harbor. A vessel nearby had caught fire, orange flame licking hungrily along its rigging.

What in God’s name is going on?

He didn’t wait for permission to leave his cabin. He threw open the door and ran up the companionway before anyone could stop him. The deck of the Galatea was a scene of total confusion.

Men, some half-dressed, were racing to their stations. Sailors dragged powder kegs from storage lockers. Marines snatched muskets from racks. Officers shouted contradictory orders, trying to impose order on the chaos that had erupted without warning.

Across the harbor, cannon smoke drifted in thick white banks.

“It’s a raid!” someone shouted.

He stopped dead, stared out at the sea, and he understood. This was no dockside quarrel. This was enemy action. Foreign ships were sailing into Freetown. He recognized them instantly, slave ships. Vessels from ports like Bissau, Cape Coast Castle, and others along the coast had struck first. They were staging a preemptive attack. If the Royal Navy wouldn’t leave them to continue the lucrative business in slaves, they decided to hit them while they were in harbor and destroy the fleet.

It was bold, a desperate act, but they’d caught the anchored vessels inside Freetown off guard, and they held the advantage. Their plan was working. Another explosion tore across the harbor. The mast of a frigate anchored nearby collapsed in a rain of sparks.

“Stand to the guns!” an officer roared, “Choose your targets, open fire, and prepare to repel boarders!”

His eyes swept the water, and that was when he saw it. A blazing ship, low in the water, sails scorched, drifting straight toward them. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. It was burning fiercely, flames from barrels of pitch and tar spreading along its deck into the rigging. The crew had abandoned it. He could see a boat pulling away, the men rowing desperately to escape the inferno they’d created.

A fire ship, aimed directly at the Galatea. Two hundred yards away and drawing closer. If it struck, the result would be catastrophic. The Galatea’s powder stores would ignite, and the explosion would tear the sloop apart, killing everyone aboard.

“Cut the lines and get the ship underway!” someone shouted uselessly, “We have to get out of its path.”

Sailors began hacking at the thick hawsers that tied the ship to the wharf, but the crew was panicking, some staring in frozen horror at the flaming death bearing down on them. Some threw themselves overboard rather than be trapped in what they believed would become a floating inferno. Several men crossed themselves.

The fire ship had to be stopped, and he didn’t hesitate. “Marines!” he bellowed, “Launch the longboat! Quickly now!”

The nearest Marines reacted instinctively to the order from the officer, years of discipline overriding fear. They rushed to the davits.

“We have to stop that fire ship!” he shouted, “Lower away!”

In their haste, the longboat hit the water hard, nearly swamping it. Men scrambled down after it, grabbing the oars the moment they settled into the boat. He followed them, seated at the rear, holding the tiller. “Pull!”

They rowed like madmen, even as the fireship loomed larger with every stroke, flames roaring even higher, heat washing across the water. Molten tar dripped from its sides, and thick clouds of smoke rolled toward them, low and choking.

Blythe was seated in the prow, making sure the men were all pulling hard. “One hundred yards!”

The heat became unbearable. The only way to change the direction of the fire ship was to secure a line from the longboat to the other vessel and tow it clear before it struck the Galatea. To secure a line on the fireship meant going aboard, and the blaze was so fierce that boarding was impossible, except for a madman.

He seized a coil of rope, and before anyone understood what he planned, he dived over the side. He plunged into the water, the shock of it driving breath from his lungs. He surfaced, struck out toward the blazing hull, the roar of fire growing louder with every stroke.

Behind him, Blythe shouted his name, and said to come back to the boat. He ignored him, reached the fire ship and found a trailing rope hanging down from the rail, charred but still intact. He grabbed it, hauled himself up, boots slipping on scorched wood, hands blistering and burning.

Flames ran along the tarred planks, and smoke clawed into his throat. Heat seared his face, and his shirt began to smolder. Too bad, he didn’t have time to burn. His duty was to save the Galatea. He forced himself forward and attached the line while musket balls tore splinters from the burning timbers around him and splashed into the water around the longboat. They’d seen what was happening and opened fire to stop him.

Coughing, his eyes almost totally blinded by the smoke, he finished securing the tow line.

“Haul away!” he shouted hoarsely.

They’d been waiting for the order, and the longboat backed water, then the rope tightened. For a moment nothing happened. Then, slowly, the blazing wreck began to shift away from the Galatea. But the danger wasn’t over. The rope he’d attached began to smoke. He stared at it in horror. If it burned through, the fire ship could drift free again and still strike the sloop.

He grabbed at the thick line, beating out the sparks with his hands, ignoring the burns. The raiders realized the danger, and more musket balls peppered around him. Splinters jumped from the deck, but so far, he wasn’t hit. He finally stopped the smoldering rope from burning and glanced out to sea. The battle still raged, cannon roaring, enemy ships maneuvering, and finally, British vessels getting organized and returning fire.

He remained on the deck of the fire ship to guard the towline. The flames rose and caught his coat, so fire crept along the fabric, licking upward. He didn’t move. Below, the longboat strained, and inch by inch, the blazing hulk turned further away from the sloop toward open water.

When the distance was safe, and there was no question of a collision with the Galatea, he heard Blythe shout, “That’s enough! Jump!”

He didn’t hesitate. With fire eating through to his skin, he threw himself over the side, and the sea swallowed him. He swung toward the boat, where hands seized him and hauled him on board. His clothes were soaked through, and mercifully they were no longer smoldering.

“Row!” Blythe shouted, “Back to the ship!”

Behind them, the fire ship drifted harmlessly away, burning itself out as the battle in the harbor began to falter. The attacking raiders, seeing their plan fail, and with British guns now fully engaged, turned and fled for open sea.

By the time the longboat reached the Galatea, he could feel the pain from his burnt flesh, and it steadily increased, until it became agonizing. But the sloop still floated. He was an officer in her Majesty’s Royal Marines, and he’d done his duty.

He didn’t know what happened after they helped him onto the ship. Just a flash of sky, the rough scrape of hands beneath his shoulders. Someone shouting for the surgeon. Then nothing. When awareness returned, there was pain. A vast, smothering torment that seemed to wrap around him entirely. His skin felt too tight, too hot, as if he was still on the deck of the fireship with flames crawling over him.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Something held him fast, and he opened his eyes slowly. Above him low beams and the familiar movement of the ship at anchor. He recognized the smell.

Tallow. It hung in the air, thick and greasy, mingled with vinegar and stale sweat. He managed to survey his surroundings, and he was in the sickbay. He tried to swallow and found his mouth dry as dust.

“Easy,” a voice said gently.

He turned his head a fraction and regretted it when the slight movement sent fire racing through his body. He looked down. He was wrapped in bandages that encased his arms, his chest, his legs, even up to his neck.

The voice came closer, and the trainee surgeon stepped into view, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. “Welcome back.”

He blinked slowly. “How… long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

Three days.

He tried to gather his thoughts and failed. His head felt heavy and muzzy, like it was wrapped in wool. Even the surgeon’s face appeared blurred around the edges.

“Why… so long?”

“You were in a bad way,” he murmured, “Extensive burns across the torso and arms. Your coat was on fire before you jumped into the sea.”

“That smell…”

“Tallow. To ease the burns.”

“It smells… foul.”

The surgeon’s lips parted in a slight smile. “If you think it smells bad now, give it a few days. It’ll be much worse as it goes rancid, but it will help heal the burns. It soothes the skin and prevents it from cracking further. We’ve coated the worst areas with thick layers of tallow, and to ease the pain so you could rest I’ve administered opium.”

Now he understood why his head felt so muzzy. “Is the opium necessary? I’m finding it hard to think.”

“The burns were so severe that without it you wouldn’t have rested at all. Even with it…” He hesitated, “You’ve had a difficult time, thrashing around and several times we had to restrain you.”

He tried moving his arm and discovered that even that small movement was impossible without more agony. “I feel like a hog that’s been slow roasted on a spit.”

The surgeon chuckled. “A vivid comparison but try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better when you awake.”.”

He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to clear his head. He dimly recalled fire and rope and the roar of flames, but he wanted to know everything, yet so much was shrouded in a thick fog of opium.

“The Galatea is safe,” the surgeon went on, as if reading his thoughts, “Now you must rest.”

He tried to protest as the surgeon reached for a small vial and measured out another dose.

“No,” he murmured faintly, knowing what it meant.

“Your body needs time to heal. This will help.”

The bitter taste touched his tongue, and within minutes the world softened again. He slid back into sleep, but it wasn’t a kind sleep. The opium carried him into its twilight world, but the dreams were twisted and raw. He stood again upon the burning deck. The masts of the fire ship towered above him, peeping out from behind a cathedral of flame. The rope in his hands was not rope but a serpent, writhing and hissing. Flames took shape around him, and he imagined hands reaching out from the flames to drag him into their fiery embrace.

He tried to shout to his men to pull, but no sound came from his throat. The deck split open beneath him, and he fell into a pit. Red heat and choking smoke. The fire was not just the ship now but something deeper, ancient, vast. He glimpsed more shapes, horned and laughing at his torture. He felt his skin peeling away, his bones blackening. He knew he’d arrived in hell, and he woke screaming. Voices, hands holding him down.

“Easy!” a voice shouted urgently, “You must lie still.”

He tasted tallow and bile. Struggled to free himself from his bandages that were too tight.

“You’re safe,” the surgeon insisted, “Safe.”

His breathing slowed gradually, and he heard the surgeon ask him if he needed more opium. He hesitated only a second before nodding weakly. The second descent was deeper. Time blurred. When next he woke, daylight streamed through the porthole. His body still burned, but the agony was less savage. The stink of the tallow had become stronger, and he felt unclean, encased, helpless.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for four more days, and during his waking periods, he learned to measure time by light and shadow. On the fifth day, footsteps approached. The surgeon straightened abruptly. “The Captain,” he said.

He forced his eyes open. Captain Ashcombe stood at the foot of the cot, and he was no longer red with fury. His face was composed, though still hard. He regarded Crawford in silence for long moments, taking in the bandages, the pallor, the weakness.

He tried to rise and raise a hand to salute, but pain flared, and he sank back. “Lie still, Lieutenant,” Ashcombe said curtly, “You will not salute.”

He swallowed. “Thank you, Sir.”

Ashcombe stepped closer. “I am told,” he said evenly, “that you boarded the fire ship alone and fastened a line so it could be towed clear.” It sounded like an accusation.

“There was no time to spare. I couldn’t…wait. I apologize.”

Ashcombe’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You could’ve died.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ashcombe folded his hands behind his back. “The Galatea would have been destroyed. Possibly other vessels that were close.”

Crawford’s head spun as he recalled almost being burned alive on the deck of that ship. “I had to move fast. The line was on fire.”

He gave the faintest nod, and the cabin was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he spoke again. “The previous matter has not disappeared simply because you chose to set yourself alight in the harbor.”

“No, Sir.”

“But,” Ashcombe continued, “but you have acquitted herself well. Damn well. When you are fit to return to duty, we will speak again.”

He turned to the surgeon. “Look after him.”

“Yes, Captain,” the surgeon replied.

Ashcombe hesitated a fraction longer, then added quietly, “My ship owes you a debt of gratitude.”

He left without another word. Crawford lay staring at the beams above him, his mind struggling to hold onto that last sentence. ‘My ship owes you a debt of gratitude.’ It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t absolution or exoneration, but it was something.

Life aboard the Galatea continued as always, the creak of timbers and slap of waves against the hull. Inside the sickbay, wrapped in bandages and reeking of tallow, he drifted once more into an uneasy sleep, aware that whatever judgment awaited him, he had at least done something right.

Two nights after the Captain’s visit, he was surprised when the door opened, and two shadowy figures slipped into the sickbay. He had another surprise when he heard a voice he recognized.

“Harry? Tell me how you are.”

“Alice? What’re you doing here, you know the Captain doesn’t allow women on board ship.”

“I sneaked her on board, Sir.” Kofi’s voice, “As you know I’ve been helping the ship’s cook, so I’ve got to know the routines. About this time the sentry on the gangplank usually disappears for an hour or so to play cards, so it wasn’t difficult to get Mrs. Featherstone aboard.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, but if you get caught, especially Alice, there’ll be a lot of trouble.”

“I won’t her allow her to get caught, Sir.”

“Harry, you have an answer me, how are you? Have you recovered from your burns?”

“It gets better each day. Not long now and I’ll be able to return….”

He fell asleep, and awoke, wondering if he had imagined Alice being there. The bandages itched and pulled whenever he breathed too deeply. The tallow was a thick miasma that clung to everything, and he smelled it constantly, a greasy sweetness, sour in the warm air. The foul odor seeped into his hair, his clothes, the blanket, sometimes he believed it’d seeped into his thoughts. Then there were the bones. Even with opium in his bloodstream, they throbbed beneath the dressings like a second heartbeat.

He’d begun to recognize the pattern of footsteps and voices. The surgeon’s careful tread. The quicker scurry of a sailor rushing past to reach another part of the ship. When the sound of someone approaching sounded different, he lifted his head. The door opened and Kofi slipped in first. Behind him came Alice Featherstone again.

His chest tightened. Not with pain this time, but something warmer. She was dressed once again in sailors pants, striped shirt, hair tucked up, her face pale with fatigue. Her eyes fixed on him with a warmth that made everything he’d gone through worthwhile.

“Kofi,” he said. “Mrs. Featherstone.”

She stepped closer, ignoring the smell of rancid tallow, ignoring the bandages and the grease. She stopped at the side of the cot and looked down at him. “You look dreadful.”

He managed a faint smile. “You should see the other man.”

She returned the smallest lift at the corner of her mouth, not quite a smile. Kofi set a small bundle next to his cot, food wrapped in cloth. His attention was fixed on Crawford’s face, as if he was searching for permission to speak.

“You have news?”

“Yes, we both have news.” He leaned in closer, “I saw him. During the raid.”

“Saw who.”

“Mohammed Hassan.”

He felt his pulse quicken. “On what ship.”

A shrug. “One of the bigger ships. I saw him on the deck, shouting orders. No question, it was him.”

“You’re certain?”

The African nodded. “Certain. And there is something else.”

He heard Alice draw a slow breath, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to speak. “I have news as well.”

He looked at her. “I couldn’t sleep that night. It was the same night, the night of the raid. I was walking near the harbor because I thought the air might help. “He watched her face, trying to read what was coming, “When the shooting started, I was near the water. I saw the flashes from the cannon and muskets. It lit up the harbor in bursts.”

She paused, as if what she saw upset her, and he put a hand on her arm to reassure her. “Go on.”

She swallowed. “One of the ships fired its cannon. The flash was bright enough to light the deck, and for an instant, I could see everything clearly. It was the same ship Kofi saw, the one with Hassan on board.”

Kofi nodded grimly. “The same ship.”

Her voice tightened. “That man, the Arab, was surrounded by four burly Africans. They stood close to him, surrounding him like guards. They were staring in my direction, and one of them laughed when the cannon fired.” Her eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, “They were the men who killed my husband.”

He stared at her, working through what it meant. The murderers had escaped justice at the border and slipped across into Guinea. They must’ve reached Bissau and found employment with Mohammed Hassan.

The news was stunning, but it was also useless. He couldn’t do anything, nothing. He was lying on a cot in the sickbay, wrapped in bandages. And when they finally cleared him to return to duty, he was still under a cloud, his movements heavily restricted.

Frustration rose in his mind like a tidal wave. He’d done his duty, fought slavers, and saved their captives. He’d taken risks that should have earned him a degree of trust, or at least understanding. Yet everything he did seemed to end the same way, with punishment and threats to end his career.

He felt trapped. He was trapped. She watched his face closely, sensing his frustration, but not fully understanding. “You will do something to help me?”

Crawford forced himself to exhale slowly. “Alice, I cannot even leave this sickbay.”

“What about later, when you’re fit again?”

Kofi interrupted. “We can find Hassan, and we can find those men.”

Crawford looked at him. “And then what. I am a Royal Marine officer, not a mercenary. I am required to obey the orders of Captain Ashcombe, and if I act again without orders, he will take steps to immediately return me to England in disgrace.”

“What you’re saying is we do nothing.”

He heard the disappointment in her voice, and he had to do something to reassure her. “Alice.”

He’d used her name without her title, and it slipped out naturally. She didn’t correct him, and once spoken it felt like something that should have been said sooner.

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I believe you. I believe Kofi. Hassan was here, and those men who killed your husband were here.” Hope flared in her eyes, and he hated himself for what he had to say next, “But I can do nothing.”

He saw a tear slowly rolled down her cheek and felt as if he’d been stabbed in the belly. “Listen, when I’m released, I’ll send word with Kofi. If there’s anything I can do that is within my power, I’ll do it. That’s a promise.”

“Thank you.”

“But there’s nothing I can do right now. Nothing. Not until I’m out of here, and Captain Ashcombe informs me whether I am to continue serving on the Galatea, or if he plans to send me back to England. Until then… we have to be patient.”

Silence settled, and Crawford felt the power of what lay between them. The unfinished sentence in the aft cabin on the dhow, the growing closeness on the stolen ship.

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “They will not stop trading in slaves. Hassan won’t stop, and those men won’t robbing and murdering.”

“I know.”

She used both hands to take hold of his head, pulled it gently toward her, and she placed a gentle kiss on his lips. Kofi watched them, eyes moving between them with quiet understanding.

“We must go. The sentry will be back from his card game any time soon.”

She straightened. “I will wait, for as long as it takes.”

She turned for the door, and he murmured, “Be careful.”

She nodded, but before he followed her, Kofi leaned close to Crawford once more.

“I will watch over her,” he whispered, “And when you are ready to act, I will be ready.”

He nodded. “Don’t take risks.”

Kofi’s expression was steady. “Only those who are cowards don’t take risks.”

Then he slipped out after her. The sickbay felt emptier when they were gone. He lay back, his mind racing. Hassan had a ship, and he’d recruited the four men who murdered Alice’s husband as bodyguards. Yet he was trapped in bandages, and by duty, and by the Captain’s anger.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to accept the only truth that mattered. He would have to be patient. And he hated the idea of being patient almost as much as he hated being helpless.

Chapter Nine

The fortress at Bissau baked beneath a white sun, its walls radiating heat like an oven. Inside, the air was heavy and still, thick with the scent of dust, human waste, and spices. Mohammed Hassan stood once more before the Almamy. The man who ruled over all of Bissau was unhappy, and when he was unhappy, men suffered.

The raid he’d led on Freetown Harbor hadn’t worked out like he’d planned. It had been well-planned, surprised the Royal Navy with muskets and cannon fire, using a fireship to create even more mayhem and convince them that Guineans weren’t about to surrender to men who arrived from two thousand miles away to ruin their livelihoods.

At first the plan had worked, and they’d thrown the fleet into confusion. For a short time, it’d seemed as if the attack might succeed and severely curtail the Royal Navy’s presence along the West African Coast, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Instead, they’d lost three ships. Three. And in return they’d destroyed a single Royal Navy sloop. A poor exchange. They also lost a fourth ship, the ship they’d turn into a fireship. A plan that’d failed when a man had rowed out, got a line across, and towed it clear.

He’d counted the cost and decided survival was worth more than pride, so he’d ordered an immediate withdrawal. The Almamy didn’t agree.

“You promised me maximum disruption,” he murmured, he said in a voice edged with steel and bristling with hostility, “You promised fire and fear. The destruction of many of their ships. Instead, you destroyed one and cost me four ships.”

“We did everything we could,” Hassan replied evenly, “No one could’ve done more.”

The ruler of Bissau’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t agree.”

Hassan kept his expression neutral. The chamber was crowded with advisors and guards. One careless phrase could become a death sentence.

“You lost four of my ships,” the Almamy continued, “Four vessels that brought profit to Bissau. The crews I can replace easily, but the ships are a serious loss.”

“We destroyed a British sloop,” Hassan countered, “We proved they are not untouchable.”

The Almamy’s lip curled faintly. “One sloop. Not a frigate. Not the larger ships that do so much damage to our trade.”

Hassan resisted the urge to point out the obvious, that frigates were not so easily destroyed. The fireships were blunt tools, not miracle weapons. He inclined his head slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “We did everything possible.”

The Almamy leaned forward on his carved chair, fingers drumming once on the armrest. “I am told that when the British rallied, you withdrew too quickly.”

Hassan met his gaze. “I withdrew before our losses became too great.”

The Almamy’s voice sharpened. “Some would call that cowardice.”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade. Hassan was tempted to say what was on the front of his mind. ‘If you’re not satisfied, lead it yourself next time.’ But he wasn’t a fool. He was more than aware of the armed men standing around the walls. And he understood the eagerness of those who would be pleased to denounce him.

“I did my best to prove your faith in me was not misplaced.”

The Almamy studied him carefully, as if weighing up his words. The silence stretched, and Hassan’s nerves stretched even more. At last, the Almamy leaned back.

“Very well, I will allow you one chance to redeem your failure.” The tension in the chamber eased, “A party of traders has delivered a large consignment of captives to the coast two hundred miles north of Bissau. They are ready for collection.”

Hassan felt palpable sense of relief. “How many?”

“Enough to make it worthwhile. Perhaps two hundred, if they are all still alive.”

Hassan blinked. Two hundred was a large shipment, and a successful voyage could restore his standing. A shipment that big, if handled correctly, would wipe away the embarrassment of the raid and replace it with profit.

“You will take the ship I have leased to you and sail north. Meet up with these traders, secure those consignment, and bring them here to be sold on and shipped across the Atlantic. I suggest you take greater care of this vessel. If you lose it, the penalty will be severe.”

“I guarantee to bring this consignment back safely.”

“It would be better for you,” the Almamy added, “Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss the next stage of our arrangement to repay me.”

Hassan felt something cold coil in his stomach. When he’d agreed to the lease of the ship, there was no mention of a ‘next stage.’ Just the raid on Freetown and half the profit from his next voyage. As well as the unspoken promise that his life would be forfeit if he failed.

“Mighty One, what does the next stage involve?”

“The British grow bolder and we will answer in kind. The next time we attack Freetown we will make sure we succeed. But that is for the future, first, bring this consignment back and we will talk more.”

Hassan was aghast. He was talking about another raid, probably something bigger. Better coordinated. Aimed at more than the destruction of a single, small vessel. He was talking about nothing less than the destruction of the entire British fleet at anchor in Freetown harbor.

He bowed his head slightly, masking the flicker of unease. He’d agreed to lease the ship, to pay for it with largest share of the profits from the next trade, but this was different. He hadn’t agreed to start a much larger war. Equally, he understood that refusal was not an option.

“I will collect the consignment and our profits will be substantial.”

The Almamy nodded. “Do not fail.”

Hassan hesitated only a heartbeat before adding, “Mighty One, if British patrols increase along the northern coast, what….”

The Almamy’s gaze sharpened. “You will avoid them.”

“With respect, the British no longer confine their activities to the open sea. One of their officers stole my previous vessel from this very harbor and sailed it to Freetown. They are no longer content merely to patrol and avoiding them is becoming more difficult.”

A murmur ran through the chamber. The Almamy’s eyes flickered with interest. “The man who stole your ship, he lives?”

A shrug. “They say he went aboard the fireship to attach a line. There is no way he could’ve survived.”

The Almamy nodded. “The more of those devils who die, the less interference there will be with our trade.”

He fixed Hassan with a piercing gaze. “Make sure you do not encounter any problems on this next voyage. There is a lot at stake.” A pause, “More than just money.”

Hassan understood. “I will sail at dawn.”

He didn’t reply. Hassan turned and left the chamber, stepping back into the blistering sunlight of Bissau. The fortress gates loomed ahead, the harbor beyond shimmering in the heat. The weight of the debt he’d incurred hung over his head like a sharp blade. He had to make this next voyage work; the alternative was unthinkable.

He paused at the edge of the quay and looked out over the water. Two hundred miles north, a line of captives waited in chains. Men, women, children. Profit. He wouldn’t fail, couldn’t fail. He’d make such a large profit that he’d regain the respect of the Almamy. When the time came to discuss this ‘next stage,’ he would no longer be a subordinate begging favor, but as a man whose success could not be ignored.

He started walking toward his ship. Almost his ship, he reminded himself. It would be his ship once he’d settled his debt after he’d sailed north to collect a new batch. When he returned, he would put everything right.

* * *

His first steps out of the sickbay felt like stepping into a different body. He moved carefully along the passageway, one hand trailing the bulkhead for balance. The burns beneath his shirt pulled whenever he raised an arm. The skin on his forearms felt tight, raw and unfamiliar, not his own. Even breathing deeply reminded him of what had happened, of heat and smoke and rope burning beneath his hands.

But he was out of the sickbay, no longer lying helpless on his cot. The surgeon watched him from the sickbay entrance, his expression stern. “You’re not fully healed, so you need to take things very slow for the next several weeks.”

“I understand, and thanks.”

He sniffed. “Try not to reopen the wounds. I don’t enjoy stitching officers. Too many complaints.”

Crawford managed a faint smile. “I’ll do my best.”

He made his way toward the quarterdeck, ignoring the curious glances from sailors who’d not seen him since the raid. A few nodded with genuine respect, but he didn’t linger. An order had arrived, a summons to Captain Ashcombe’s cabin.

His stomach tightened as he approached the door, and he knocked.

“Enter.”

Ashcombe was seated behind his desk as usual, posture rigid, papers arranged in neat piles. Smythe, the First Lieutenant, stood nearby. But something had changed from last time. The atmosphere was different. Ashcombe’s stare was less frosty. Still hard, calculating, but not cold in the way it’d been before.

“Second Lieutenant Crawford,” Ashcombe acknowledged.

He saluted. “Sir.”

Ashcombe studied him for almost a minute, eyes flicking over his face, narrowing when he regarded his stiff movements. “You look like a man whose been roasted alive, then dressed by a butcher. Are you fully recovered?”

Crawford was surprised. The comment about being roasted alive was almost a joke, and the Captain Ashcombe he knew didn’t crack jokes. “The surgeon did well.”

Smythe’s mouth twitched faintly. It wasn’t an answer, but he didn’t press him for a fuller explanation. “Lieutenant, you are well enough to stand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ashcombe leaned back slightly. “Then you are well enough to hear this.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The voice was clipped. “Everything has changed. For the Navy, and for you personally. The Guinean attack on Freetown harbor was an act of war. They made themselves a belligerent nation, when they crossed a line and attacked Her Majesty’s ships in a British harbor.”

He began to understand where this was going. The Captain was talking about war.

Ashcombe continued, “Which means that your previous offense, Lieutenant, is no longer under investigation.”

Crawford stared at him in astonishment. “Piracy assumes an attack on a vessel belonging to a nation at peace. In war, vessels owned by a belligerent may be seized as prizes.” His mouth was suddenly dry, “You are free to resume your duties as an officer of the Royal Marines.”

Relief hit him so hard it was almost dizzying. His career was saved. He couldn’t be sent back to Bissau to hang. Nor could he be shipped to England in irons.

“Thank you, Sir. I am most grateful.”

Ashcombe gave a curt nod. Crawford took it as a dismissal. The meeting was done. He would return to his men, and soon he would go ashore and see Alice. No more Kofi sneaking her aboard the ship during the early hours. He was helpless no longer.

He took a step backward, still saluting, and turned toward the door.

“Lieutenant.”

He and turned back. “Sir?”

Ashcombe’s eyes fixed on him again, and now any warmth or humor that’d been there had drained away. This was the Master and Commander about to assert his authority. “I’ve given you the good news, now you will hear news that is not so good.”

His stomach tightened again.

Ashcombe tapped a finger on the desk. “If you are recovered enough to resume your duties, I want you to lead your Marines inland. Into Guinea.”

His mind raced.

Inland. Guinea. Why? It sounds like a punitive expedition, but what could a single Royal Marine detachment achieve?

Ashcombe answered before he could ask. “This will be part of a larger mission to discourage them from staging a further attack on the Royal Navy. I intend to take my squadron to Bissau and burn and sink every ship.” Smythe shifted slightly, eyes bright with grim anticipation, “With no ships, they cannot attack us again. And with no ships, they cannot conduct their evil trade.”

Crawford’s thoughts flashed to the stench of the slavers’ hold, to men, women, and children fastened in rusty chains, to bodies laid out on the deck. “That would strike a heavy blow, perhaps persuade them to look for alternative means of making money.”

Ashcombe leaned forward. “Quite so. But to ensure complete success, we will need a diversion. Your mission will be to stage a diversionary attack on Bissau from inland. The attack to be timed just before our ships arrive. It will sow chaos in the town, and while the defenders rush to join the fight, our ships will sail in and sink every vessel in the harbor.”

Crawford was under no illusions. The attack wouldn’t be merely dangerous. It could be more like suicide. A handful of Marines pitted against the armed strength of a major slaving port, with militia and any number of armed men. His detachment would be outnumbered, deep in hostile territory, and if they were cut off, no hope of rescue.

Ashcombe watched him carefully, as if gauging his reaction. “First,” he said, his voice low, “I must know whether you are sufficiently recovered to take this on.”

Crawford’s mind was racing to work out what they’d be up against, and how they could deal with it.

Smythe intervened. “It is dangerous, and there will be casualties. You’ll be up against a far larger force, and some of your men will die. Perhaps you will all die.”

There was total silence, until Ashcombe leaned back, his gaze unwavering. “It is a huge risk. I will leave it to you to decide whether you are up to it.”

Crawford thought of his men. They’d followed him into danger before and he was certain they’d follow again if he asked them. He thought of other problems. Of Alice, threatened and trapped by debt collectors and corrupt lawyers. Then of Hassan during the attack on Freetown, surrounded by four men who’d killed for coin and would undoubtedly kill again. He thought of the fireship, and he could still feel the burns beneath his shirt.

But he could also feel something else. Ashcombe’s plan was daring, but in his opinion justifiable. The plan to march to Bissau and stage a diversionary attack was a huge risk, but there was a chance, albeit a small chance, that it could work.

His mind raced, working out whether it could also solve some of the other problems. Again, a huge risk, but Kofi’s words surfaced in his mind. ‘Only cowards do not take risks.’

He was no coward.

“Yes, I can do this.”

He noticed Smythe’s gaze flick toward him with a new measure of respect.

Ashcombe studied him for another long moment, then nodded once. “Very well, I will supply you with the precise details shortly. In the meantime, I suggest you return your men and prepare.”

He saluted again. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Ashcombe regarded him with something close to approval. “One more thing, Lieutenant, you will not speak of this to the crew. Not until I give the word.”

“Understood, Sir.” He turned and left the cabin.

He walked slowly back toward his cabin, his brain working through what would be required. Weapons. Powder. Rations. A guide, of course, someone who could lead them inland.

His thoughts cut through his pain and exhaustion. This wasn’t merely a mission. If he got this right, it was a reprieve, an opportunity to redeem his past errors. The chance to carry out his duty with honor and bring purpose back into his life.

He had a chance to strike back against everything that’d gone so badly wrong. If it killed him, so be it, but he wouldn’t die on the gallows in Bissau. Or rot in some squalid cell serving a long sentence handed down by the Admiralty for piracy.

The Marines’ quarters were as Crawford remembered them. Dark, cramped, low ceilinged, the air thick with sweat and damp wool. Hammocks slung so close together that if man turned in his sleep, he might brush the face of the man beside him. The feeble light from the single lantern did little to brighten the gloom.

Conversation died the moment he stepped inside. Heads turned. A few nervous smiles greeted him, and the men straightened instinctively. Hands going to belts or coats as if they had been caught unprepared for officer’s inspection. Several glances flicked, almost involuntarily, toward one corner of the front compartment.

The corner where Corporal Baker slept. He wasn’t there, but his presence lingered like a bad smell. He surveyed the faces before him. They looked thinner. More worn. Eyes ringed with fatigue, and a man shifted awkwardly, as if to ease bruises that hadn’t fully healed.

Something had settled inside him. It wasn’t difficult to work out the reason why they’d physically deteriorated, the signs of maltreatment were obvious. “Stand easy,” he said quietly. He let his gaze move deliberately from man to man.

“Lance-Corporal Blythe.”

Blythe stepped forward at once. “Sir.”

“I want you to choose five more men and join me on deck. Now.”

He acknowledged with a salute and called them out quickly. The chosen men exchanged brief looks but obeyed at once. Crawford led them up the companionway and out onto the deck.

The afternoon sun was lowering toward evening. A few sailors glanced curiously at the small group of Marines assembling in a tight knot next to the rail.

He positioned them out of easy earshot. “I want to know what’s been going on. Speak plainly. I want the truth.”

They hesitated, fearing a reprisal. Blythe spoke first. “Sir, it’s Corporal Baker. He’s been hard on the men.”

“How hard?”

Blythe’s jaw tightened. “He’s been stealing our rations.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the others.

“Explain.”

“He collects the bread and salt meat. Says it’s to be redistributed. But we see him later with double portions, and he’s been swapping some of our food with the sailors for extra tots of rum.”

“He’s taken my biscuit three times this week,” one man added, his voice low, glancing around to make sure Baker wasn’t listening.

“Mine, too,” another said, “He said I don’t need it.”

Crawford nodded once. “What else?”

There was a pause. Then a third Marine spoke. “He’s been giving out punishments for nothing, Sir. Extra drills. Extra cleaning.”

“That’s within his authority,” Crawford said evenly, “If it’s justified.”

“It ain’t justified,” the man replied, “He makes it so a man’s always in trouble. No matter what.”

Blythe spoke again. “He’s also been assigning consecutive spells of sentry duty. Twelve hours through the night. Then another twelve in the day. No rest.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s not right.”

“It’s brutal,” another Marine muttered, “Men nearly fall asleep standing.”

“If anyone complains,” Blythe continued, “he uses the knotted rope on them.”

“He beats you for no reason?”

Blythe nodded once. “Aye, Sir.”

Silence followed.

The men stood rigid now, as if expecting a reprimand for even speaking. Crawford felt his anger beginning to rise. The men had been maltreated, and they were tired, hungry, and desperate. It didn’t take much imagination to work out that the next step would be refusing orders, falsely claiming to be ill. And the word that terrified the Royal Navy. Mutiny.

It was his absence that had left them exposed, and Baker had taken advantage. “You will return to quarters. Find Corporal Baker and pass on my order for him to join me on the deck.”

They exchanged brief glances, and after a brief pause, Blythe answered, “Yes, Sir.”

They went below, and he remained next to the rail, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gazing over the water. He didn’t have to wait long. Heavy steps thudded up the companionway, and Corporal Baker emerged into the light.

He was a large man, broad shouldered, with a thick neck and small eyes set deep beneath a heavy brow. His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate sneer the moment he saw Crawford waiting for him.

He saluted lazily. “Second Lieutenant, what do you want?”

There was no respect in the tone. He stared at him while he held the salute. “At ease.”

Baker dropped his hand but didn’t lose the sneer.

“I’m not sure,” Baker said loudly enough that nearby sailors might hear, “about taking orders from a pirate.”

He didn’t blink. “That matter has been resolved.”

Baker shrugged exaggeratedly. “Funny how word travels, ain’t it. Some say you stole a ship in a foreign port. Sounds like piracy to me.”

Crawford took one step closer. “You are addressing your commanding officer,” he said quietly, “I suggest you choose your words more carefully.”

Baker’s sneer widened. “With respect… Sir.” There was a long pause, “Respect is earned, and I reckon you have a long way to go.”

It was an open challenge. He studied him. “You have been stealing the men’s rations.”

Baker’s eyes flickered. “I redistribute what I see fit.”

“You have assigned the men to consecutive twelve-hour sentry duties.”

He shrugged. “They’re too soft. They need toughening up.”

“You beat the men with a knotted rope if they dare to complain.”

The sneer deepened. “They complain too much.”

“Corporal Baker, did I authorize you to steal their rations?”

“No.”

“Did I authorize you to impose punishments beyond those allowed in the regulations?”

“I exercised my discretion.”

“You exceeded your discretion.”

Baker shifted his weight, like a pugilist facing his opponent in the ring, chin lifted in an aggressive posture. “They need the discipline.”

“They need leadership,” Crawford corrected him, “They need enough food, and they need rest when they are off duty.”

Baker glared at him. “You think they like you because you go soft on them? They’re weak.”

He ignored the jibe and kept his voice steady. “You will return every stolen ration to the men, and you will cease all irregular punishments. Immediately.” Baker’s sneer faltered, “And you will report to the quartermaster and to me on the hour every hour to account for your conduct.”

Baker’s eyes flared. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just teaching the men discipline. You’re taking this too far.”

“No, you already took it too far.”

Baker stepped closer, lowering his voice, his gaze brittle. “You think you can punish me because of your little performance with a fireship? Maybe you need a lesson in discipline.”

He held his gaze. “I will not threaten you, Corporal. I intend to correct you.”

His chest rose and fell heavily. “You’ll regret this.”

“Corporal, you will report as ordered, or I’ll have you placed in irons.”

Baker hesitated, and for a moment it looked as if he was about to strike him, but he knew how far he could go. Striking an officer was a court martial offense and could be punished by death. He snapped a stiff salute. “Aye, Sir.”

Baker turned sharply and disappeared below decks. He watched him go, knowing this wasn’t over. Men like him, bullies, didn’t surrender their power easily. He would simmer, and he would wait.

Crawford turned back toward the companionway and went below decks, where his men waited. This time the atmosphere was different. No nervous glances. No strained silence.

“The Corporal will return everything he stole. And there will be no more unauthorized punishments.” They seemed to heave a collective breath, “In the meantime, you will prepare yourselves.”

Blythe raises eyebrows. “Sir?”

“We have a mission.” The one word changed everything. Eyes sharpened. Shoulders squared, “The mission will be dangerous, and some of you may not return.” No one flinched, “But know this. We will be supporting a much larger action to be made by the Royal Navy, and if we do this right, when it is over you will all be heroes.”

Several men let out a loud cheer. They wouldn’t fail him. “Good,” he said quietly.

During the days before they were due to depart for Bissau, they worked on their preparations for the long journey. Crawford made an estimate of the amount of powder and ball they’d need, along with rations and supplies, enough to maintain the detachment for the two weeks he expected to be away. It quickly became apparent that the amount of food they’d need to carry, on top of powder and ball, would be excessive, but he had an idea to make it work.

The tiny village of Kalabaya, which the slavers had torched and then murdered the inhabitants, was on the route. As far as he knew the priest, Father Connolly, was still there, and they could entrust much of their load to his keeping, so they’d have less of a burden for the ongoing part of the journey to Bissau.

He spent much of his time poring over the route, working out how to avoid being spotted by the Guinean militia at the border. They also had to avoid being observed by the locals, who would certainly inform the Almamy that British Marines were inside its territory.

He had something else on his mind, Alice Featherstone. He’d been released from the sickbay, cleared of piracy, and restored to duty. He was also about to embark on a perilous mission, and he determined to spend some time with her before they left.

He strapped on his sword belt and went ashore. Kofi walked a pace behind as he always did, silent but watchful, as if he’d appointed himself Crawford’s bodyguard. Her house stood as it had before, although something about it felt diminished. The shutters were open, some hanging loose on a single hinge, and the front porch was covered in leaves and debris blown in by the wind and left to rot. The place seemed hollow, as if its spirit had already begun to leak away.

He knocked. There was a long pause, and then the door opened a fraction. Alice appeared, dressed once again in her widow’s weeds, but without the veil. She looked thinner, her appearance, usually so carefully arranged, seemed to be strained at the edges. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.

“Harry,” she said softly, giving him a wan smile, “It’s good to see a friendly face.”

“You, too. I’m out of the sickbay, and the charge of piracy has been dropped. The attack on Freetown changed everything, and they restored me to duty.”

Relief flickered across her face. “Thank God.”

Something was wrong, badly wrong. “What happened? You don’t look well.”

She sighed. “You’d better come in.” They entered the house, and she carefully closed the door behind them, “The bailiffs have been again, several times. They come with lists and walk through the rooms as if they already owned the place. They repeatedly tell me I would be wise to sell the house and return to England. They named a price that is a fraction of its true value, but just enough to settle the debt they say my husband incurred.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes. I’m afraid there’s nothing left for me in Freetown. Nothing but trouble.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe them. You shouldn’t listen to them.”

“Harry, I have to. They say they represent the law. They also said if I refuse, I can go to prison.”

He glanced around the room. The remaining furniture was solid, well made. The small silver ornaments still standing on the mantel had to be worth a lot of money. “How much have they taken so far?”

“They’ve taken about half, but they say it’s just a matter of time before they returned for the rest.”

Before he had time to answer, they heard a heavy knock at the door. It wasn’t a polite knock. More of a knock that demanded entry.

She stiffened. “They are back,” she whispered.

His eyes hardened. “I want to hear what they have to say. We’ll wait in the next room. Say nothing.”

They entered the dining room, and he left the door slightly ajar, so he could see and hear what happened. She crossed to the front door and opened it. Two men entered without any invitation.

He was immediately alarmed by what he saw. Two coarse, rough-looking men, broad shouldered, unshaven, coats ill-fitting and boots scuffed. One carried a leather ledger under his arm.

“’Afternoon, Mrs. Featherstone,” the man with the ledger said with a sneer, “I trust you’ve given our proposal some thought.”

She didn’t reply, and they began inspecting the furniture and ornaments, lifting cushions, tapping tables, peering at the workmanship as if appraising livestock. “Good mahogany,” one said, “Should fetch a tidy sum.”

“Silver’s decent,” the other man with the ledger muttered, picking up a candlestick and weighing it, “Might fetch a few guineas. We could carry away some of this stuff with us today.”

They both laughed. Alice stood rigid with her hands clasped in front of her.

The ledger-carrying man flipped to a fresh page. “You know we’ll be taking everything, including your bed.” He smirked, “Even your clothes, so all you’ll have left in the world are the clothes you’re wearing.”

The cruelty was deliberate, and Crawford felt something snap. He stepped through the doorway. “Perhaps,” he said calmly, “you men would care to explain yourselves. Why are you harassing this lady?”

They froze. The presence of a British officer was the last thing they expected to encounter. Sword at his side, boots polished, uniform immaculate. Kofi stood behind him, silent and watchful.

The man with the ledger recovered first. “And who might you be?” he demanded.

“Second Lieutenant Henry Crawford,” he replied evenly, “Her Majesty’s Royal Marines.”

The second man glanced at Crawford’s sword, then at Kofi, then back again. “We are acting on instructions from a lawyer, Mr. Archibald Hardwick.”

“Indeed, and what precisely are those instructions?”

“To recover goods sufficient to settle an outstanding debt,” the man replied stiffly.

“Do you have a writ?”

He hesitated.

“A writ,” Crawford repeated.

“We have Mr. Hardwick’s authority.” He sounded uncertain, and his voice had risen to a shrill whine.

“Which is not a writ. So you have no legal authority.”

“Mr. Hardwick will confirm… ”

“I will deal with Mr. Hardwick,” he interrupted, and he no longer sounded calm.

“I suspect he may be defrauding Mrs. Featherstone. You are here to remove goods with no legal or written authority, and that makes you complicit should fraud be uncovered. In which case, I will ensure you are sent back to England and receive long prison sentences. You are aware of the overcrowded prison hulks on the River Thames? Conditions are terrible, and they say that men do not survive long in those places.”

“Mr. Hardwick told us…”

“I believe Archibald Hardwick is a thief and a liar.” He took a slow step toward them, his hand on the hilt of his sword. They both cringed and edged back, “You will leave this house, and should you ever return, I will find you and you will regret it.”

The second man bristled. “You can’t…”

His gaze sharpened. “Get out! Now! While you can still walk. If you come back, the next time they’ll have to carry you out in a box.”

The two men exchanged a look. They were bully boys, yes, but they weren’t fools. An armed officer. A fierce-looking African behind him. No immediate support. The ledger snapped shut. “We’ll be reporting this,” the man muttered.

“Get out!” he snarled.

They backed away toward the door, turned, and left in a hurry. The moment the door closed she breathed out as if she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“Harry, I don’t know what to say.”

He crossed to her and put his arms around her to comfort her. “Enough. This ends now.”

“But how. He has the law on his side.”

“I doubt that very much. It is my belief that Mr. Archibald Hardwick is nothing more than a common thief. Come with us, and we’ll visit him and find out exactly what he has on you.”

They strode toward the offices of Hardwick and Cole. He shouldered the door, and it opened inward with a crash. The secretary looked up in alarm. “What… this is a private office. You can’t come in here.”

“We’re here to see Hardwick to discuss the Featherstone estate.”

“Mr. Hardwick is with a client.”

He didn’t slow, just pushed past her, reached the inner door and opened it.

Inside, Archibald Hardwick sat behind his desk, spectacles perched on his nose, a weaselly-looking man opposite him holding a sheaf of documents.

Hardwick looked up, startled. “What is the meaning of this? Get out of my office.”

“I think not.” The lawyer’s eyes flicked to the uniform, then to Alice.

“This is highly improper. Mrs. Featherstone, you cannot simply come here and expect me to discuss your business without an appointment.”

“Your bailiffs entered her house to remove her possessions,” Crawford cut in, “They said you instructed them to do it.”

His expression shifted to irritation. “They are legally authorized bailiffs.”

“Authorized by who? You?”

Hardwick stiffened. “I acted within the law.”

“Is that right? I believe you’re fraudulently attempting to strip an honest widow of her property.”

Hardwick rose from his chair, his face reddening. “You have no standing here, Lieutenant. This is a civil matter, no concern of yours.”

“Not so. It became my concern when two of your men entered her house and began stripping her belongings without a legal writ.”

Hardwick’s lips thinned. “They were acting within the law.”

“In that case, show me the writ.”

The lawyer hesitated, and the seedy-looking client seated opposite him shifted uncomfortably. “I’d better go. I’ll contact you later.”

“There’s no need. I can deal with this.”

“I think there’s every need. Good day to you, Sir.”

He left the room, and Hardwick snapped, “This is outrageous. You cannot barge into my office making such accusations.”

“And you cannot send your thugs into a widow’s home to terrorize her and steal her possessions.”

Alice watched in silence. She was no longer the veiled, compliant widow. She had her eyes fixed on the lawyer, and her gaze wasn’t friendly.

“I want a full accounting,” Crawford continued, “Of every debt incurred by her husband. Every payment. Every valuation. And I want it in writing, now.”

Hardwick said. “You presume too much.”

“No, Mr. Lawyer, I suspect you presume too much. Show me every document that relates to this matter.”

Hardwick looked uncertain. As if he was beginning to understand that intimidation could cut both ways. “You are making a grave mistake.” But now he didn’t sound so certain.

“Show me the ledgers. Hurry, I don’t have all day.”

Hardwick hesitated. Until he rested one hand on the hilt of his sword. Hardwick swallowed and pulled the nearest ledger toward him. For the next hour, papers were spread across the desk in careful rows. Bonds. Promissory notes. Interest schedules. Receipts bearing signatures. Crawford wasn’t a trained lawyer, but he was educated, and he could both read and count.

Alice stood at his side, pale but resolute. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for. “Here,” he said quietly, tapping a page. A loan. Modest at first glance. Then another page. An interest adjustment. Then another.

“Compound interest,” he muttered, “Calculated to make the amount outstanding increase no matter how many payments he made.”

Hardwick stiffened. “You refinanced and increased this debt three times, despite him making the payments on time.”

“It was necessary,” he replied quickly, “Her husband’s ventures were failing.”

“Yes. I’m aware that was what you pretended.” He turned another page.

Fees. Administrative costs. Processing charges. Consultation expenses. All for work carried out by Archibald Hardwick. Each item neatly recorded. Together, they were ruinous.

Alice leaned forward. “He never told me any of this.”

“Of course, he didn’t,” Crawford said, “Because he trusted the man advising him. This man.”

Hardwick drew himself up to his full height and glared at him. “I will not sit here and be accused of dishonesty.”

“That’s true. You will sit. Kofi.”

The African grinned as he stepped toward him and pushed him back into the chair. Crawford picked up another sheet. A house valuation. He frowned.

“This is absurd. Madness.”

Hardwick trembled in rage. “That valuation was conducted in good faith.”

“The price is half the market rate.”

“Conditions fluctuate,” Hardwick replied, but now he didn’t sound so confident.

Another page. A clause transferring certain assets to a holding entity under Hardwick’s oversight pending debt settlement.

Alice went very still. “What does that mean?”

“It means, that when the house is sold, the proceeds are to be directed to Hardwick’s office.”

The lawyer tried again. “This is intolerable.”

Crawford met his gaze. “It is obvious that you fleeced Mrs. Featherstone’s husband out of most of his fortune. The evidence is all here.”

He spluttered. “That is a scandalous lie. I will not allow my professional integrity to be besmirched by some ill-educated military adventurer.”

“It is not a lie. You structured the debt to ensure failure. Then you positioned yourself to profit when the debt became so large that Mr. Featherstone couldn’t repay it.”

Hardwick’s hands trembled. “You won’t get away with this. I will take you to the highest court in the land. I will ruin you. I will bankrupt you.”

He regarded him steadily. “My friend, you will not be in any position to ruin or bankrupt anybody.”

Hardwick blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re coming with me. Back to my ship.”

He stared. “I am not going on board any ship.”

“Yes, you are. Since the raid on the harbor, Freetown is at war with the ruler of Bissau. Under the Articles of War, the Royal Navy is by law permitted to press civilians into service to make up the crew of her warships.”

His face drained of color. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“My friend, you are mistaken.” The lawyer backed away from the desk, “You cannot simply press gang me aboard your ship. I am an officer of the court.”

“And I am an officer of Her Majesty.”

The lawyer glanced toward the door, calculating distance, but Crawford moved first. He seized Hardwick by the arm and propelled him toward the exit.

“You are assaulting me,” Hardwick shouted.

“No, you are being pressed. If you don’t believe me, look it up in your law books.”

Alice stood in the doorway, watching. For the first time in a long time, she was smiling. “You will be safe now,” he told her quietly, “Go home and lock the door. This man will not trouble you again.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Harry,” she said softly, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing.”

They dragged the protesting lawyer into the street, and Kofi fell into step behind him in case he tried to make a break for it. Hardwick continued to struggle, but he was no match for an officer of Royal Marines. He continually shouted, protested, said what they were doing was illegal, threatened to have Crawford court martialed and flogged.

He was wasting his breath. They marched him down to the wharf, and several sailors glanced up in curiosity as he marched him up the gangplank.

“What’s this, then?” the quartermaster muttered.

“I’ve pressed a new man for you.”

Several sailors paused in their tasks and grinned at the man they recognized as a lawyer. Like most men, they had scant regard for the breed. The quartermaster approached, wiping tar from his hands.

“He can start work right away. We’re shorthanded, so he’ll be useful.” His eyes traveled over Hardwick’s fine coat, polished boots, and grinned at his trembling indignation, “I’ll find you some canvas pants and a sailor’s jersey. You can take off those boots. You won’t need them on board ship. You can go barefoot like some of the others.”

Hardwick let out a strangled sound and tried to make a break for the gangplank, but a sailor tripped him, and he went sprawling on the deck. While he lay prone, another sailor pulled off his boots, chuckled, and tossed them over the side. “Don’t worry, the soles of your feet will soon toughen up.”

The quartermaster glanced at Crawford. “How long do I have him for?”

“Indefinitely. But he doesn’t get any shore leave for the first two years.”

Hardwick’s face went white. “You cannot…”

The quartermaster snapped his fingers and two burly sailors approached. “Take him, strip him, and find him some slops.”

Hardwick screamed and shouted as the sailors dragged him toward the hatch, but one of them snatched a belaying pin as he passed and tapped him on the head. Moments later he’d disappeared below decks.

Crawford exhaled with relief, and Kofi grinned openly. “He won’t trouble her again, Sir,” Kofi said.

“No.”

Hardwick had wielded the law like a weapon against someone he believed to be powerless. Now he would learn what it meant to be really powerless.

“Kofi, I want you to return to Mrs. Featherstone. Tell her I sent you, and I want you to stay there in case those bailiffs try to come back. If you see them, come for me at once.”

“Yes, Sir. I won’t allow any harm to come to her.”

He left the ship and Crawford returned to his cabin. He had work to do, a battle to plan. But this was one battle, at least, that was settled. She was safe.

Chapter Ten

Baker showed no sign that he intended to go easier on the men. When he was out of earshot, some dared to whisper that little had changed. He was still stealing the rations, still using the knotted rope to beat men for no reason and handing out extra duties when they were unwarranted.

Crawford had taken enough. Corporal Baker still moved among the men with a smirk that never quite left his face. As if to reinforce his belief he was his own man, there was still the tone, the muttered asides. Baker obeyed orders to the letter, but he gave the impression he was waiting see his superior officer fail.

If he was to lead these men inland, into Guinea, into fire and confusion and likely death, he couldn’t allow this poison to fester. It had to be cut out.

That evening, as dusk settled over Freetown and the humid air thickened with the smell of woodsmoke and salt water, Crawford approached Baker on deck.

“Corporal, you will accompany me ashore.”

Baker looked at him with open suspicion. “What for?”

“You heard me. Follow me.”

There was a pause, but Baker nodded. “Aye, Sir.”

They reached the town, which was beginning to settle into its night rhythm. Lanterns flickered in doorways. The distant sound of fiddles and coarse laughter drifted from taverns. Somewhere, a woman shouted angrily in a language neither man understood.

He walked steadily through narrower streets, past warehouses and rough dwellings, until the houses thinned. They reached a stretch of rough, untended ground partly hidden by a screen of bushes and scattered low trees. Shielded from casual view.

He stopped and turned to face him.

“Why do you have a problem with me?”

Baker blinked once, then smirked. “Problem… Sir?”

“It’s just you and me, man-to-man, so tell me what you’re thinking.”

For a moment Baker said nothing. Then he sniggered. “It’s just that you’re a nobody, not a proper Marine. You’re just a vicar’s son, and you should be handing out hymn books for Sunday services. Not pretending to be in command of men.”

Crawford held his gaze. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know all I need to know. A gentleman ranker who thinks he is better than the rest of us. Playing officer because a man died at the right time. As for your little display with the fireship,” he went on in a voice thick with contempt, “That was just stupidity. It’s a pity you didn’t burn.”

Crawford felt the heat stir, not the heat of flames, but of something colder and deeper. “Whatever you think of me, I won’t tolerate your mistreatment of the men.”

“What’re you going to do about it?”

Crawford’s voice dropped.

“I intend to teach you a lesson.”

He was a much bigger and heavier man, and he laughed outright. “It’ll take a man, not a milksop vicar’s little helper. Why don’t you go back to England, sonny. Get yourself a nice easy job as a clerk in the Admiralty. You can join the rest of the lily-livered men who haven’t got what it takes to be real Marines.”

Crawford began removing his coat. Then his shirt. The humid air struck the bandaged skin across his bared torso. “I warned you, Baker.” The Corporal’s grin widened, “You won’t listen to reason, so it’s time to teach you a lesson.”

He dropped the shirt onto the ground. “Like I said, man-to-man. No officers. No corporals. Just two men face-to-face to settle their differences.” He raised his fists, “Or aren’t you up to it?”

Baker barked a laugh and stripped off his coat and shirt, tossing them aside. He was broader, heavier, muscles layered thickly across his chest and shoulders. They stood bare-chested in the dimming light. Fists raised.

Baker swung first. A heavy, looping punch aimed at Crawford’s head, but he’d expected it. He stepped lightly to one side and snapped a quick three-punch combination into his opponent’s face. Left, right, left. Sharp, precise, then he danced back out of reach.

Baker blinked in surprise as blood sprang from a split lip. “You’ll pay for that, boy.”

He charged again, swinging with raw power. Crawford again darted away and slipped beneath a massive punch, pivoted away from another, and delivered a quick jab to the nose, followed by a short hook to the side of his massive torso before retreating again.

The Corporal’s breathing began to deepen. “You think you’re clever.”

He spat out blood and advanced again. The fight developed into a brutal rhythm. Baker came forward with heavy, crushing blows. Each one capable of breaking bone, but Crawford circled, weaving away, stepping in, striking and withdrawing. He targeted the head and the ribs when they presented an open target.

After several minutes, Baker’s head was bloodied. His nose swollen. One eye beginning to puff up, but he was still lethal. He lunged suddenly, faster than before, and a massive fist connected with the side of Crawford’s head. The impact exploded like cannon fire inside his skull. For a few seconds he saw nothing but white flashes, the world tilted, and he stumbled.

Baker grinned savagely and followed up, swinging again. At the last moment Crawford ducked, so the second punch merely grazed his shoulder. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. The pain was intense, and he doubted he could remain standing if Baker landed another punch like that one.

He stepped back, drawing breath. Baker came at him again, relentless. Once more he dodged away, although the Corporal managed to land a punch in the small of his back that nearly toppled him.

He couldn’t take anymore, he had to finish this. His face went pale, and his lips pulled back in a grim line. “I think that’s enough pussyfooting around, time to teach you that lesson.”

He stepped forward. Moved inside Baker’s longer reach, taking the risk deliberately. Another punch grazed his ribs, but he ignored it and drove his fist up into Baker’s already bleeding nose. Bone crunched, and he roared in pain.

Crawford hammered another blow into the man’s jaw, then a swinging uppercut into his throat. He staggered, swinging blindly and catching Crawford a glancing blow in the shoulder that sent pain shooting down his arm.

He didn’t retreat. He kept moving forward, striking again and again. Short, vicious jabs delivered with cold precision. He aimed for and struck the same points repeatedly. Nose. Jaw. Temple. Baker’s strength began to falter, and his punches slowed as blood streamed down his face, soaking into his bare chest.

Still, he refused to fall, and he even tried to lunge once more, a final desperate swing. Crawford slipped just outside its arc and drove his fist square into Baker’s solar plexus. It caused the air in his body to be violently expelled, and he doubled over trying to protect his belly. Crawford seized the opportunity and delivered one last punch. He hit him with everything he had left, and the blow landed flush on the tip of Baker’s jaw.

His head snapped back, and his legs wobbled. For a few seconds he remained upright. Then he collapsed heavily onto the rough ground. Crawford stood over him, chest heaving, vision swimming slightly from the heavy blow he’d taken. The man on the ground groaned faintly but didn’t rise.

Crawford bent, retrieved his shirt, and pulled it back over his battered frame. The fabric stuck to sweat and blood. He pulled on his coat and looked down at the semi-conscious Corporal.

“You are a Marine, in the service of Her Majesty,” he said quietly, “From now on you will act like one.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t hear. Crawford waited a moment longer, then turned and began walking back toward the town. Behind him, Baker slowly rolled onto his side, coughing blood into the dirt. For a moment Crawford considered leaving him there. Then Baker spat, rolled onto one knee, and looked up through swollen eyes.

“You think it’s finished?” he rasped. There was still hatred there. Still the refusal to yield. Crawford felt something inside him harden as Baker scrambled up and ran at him. It was a desperate, ugly charge, but it carried weight behind it. He caught Crawford around the waist and drove him backward. They crashed to the ground, rolling in the dirt.

The Corporal’s forearm slammed across Crawford’s throat, and he tried to pin him, to use sheer mass to crush the fight out of him. “You’re no officer,” he snarled, bloody spittle flecking Crawford’s face, “And you never will be.”

Crawford’s lungs strained against the pressure on his windpipe. He twisted sharply, driving his knee up into Baker’s groin, forcing him to ease back, and the pressure on his throat eased. Baker drew back a fist and hammered it down, but he dodged at the last moment, and the fist smashed into a patch of stones on the ground. The blow caught Crawford across the cheekbone. Pain flared. His vision blurred.

Another punch hammered at him. He blocked it with his forearm, dropped to one knee, and surged upward. It threw Baker off balance. They broke apart, scrambling to their feet, his opponent breathing hard. Blood poured from his nose and split lip. One eye was nearly closed.

But he still came forward. It was time to finish it. He went into the attack, and as Baker swung wide, he slipped past the arm swinging toward him and delivered a crushing left hook to his already shattered nose. He heard a wet crack and a loud howl of pain.

He followed with two savage body blows into the ribs, then a short, brutal uppercut that snapped Baker’s head back. He staggered, but he managed to lash out with a punch that clipped Crawford’s shoulder, but his strength was fading.

He pressed the advantage mercilessly. A rapid combination, left-right-left, each punch landing on bloodied flesh. Baker’s head jerked from side to side under the assault. Crawford drove him backward step by step across the rough ground.

“You think you can steal from your own men?” Another punch, “You think you can beat them for no reason?”

Baker attempted one final, clumsy swing, but he ducked beneath it and drove his fist hard into his liver. The effect was immediate. He froze, breath all but gone. Crawford smashed a final, decisive punch into his jaw, bone cracked, and his eyes rolled.

He collapsed flat on his back, limbs sprawling, and this time he didn’t try to get back up. He stood over him, chest heaving, sweat stinging the cuts on his own face. His knuckles were split and bleeding. His ribs throbbed, and the side of his head still rang from the earlier blow.

He crouched beside the Corporal and hauled him partially upright. “You will never mistreat the men again.” His voice was low and steady. Baker groaned, “You will follow orders, and you will act like a Marine.”

He let him go, and he fell back limply into the dirt. In the distance, the sounds of Freetown carried faintly on the humid air. He pulled on his shirt, slung his coat over his shoulder and looked down at the battered Corporal.

“Now you know how it feels. Get on your feet. We’re going back to the ship. On the way we’ll find somewhere to clean the blood off your face.”

On the way back they found a tiny stream and washed the worst of the blood away. The next morning, Corporal Baker reported for duty with a swollen face, broken nose, and eyes almost closed. They didn’t need to ask.

Crawford stood at the rail, staring out across the harbor, the Corporal surprising him when he approached and gave him a respectful salute. He was immediately suspicious.

“What is it, Corporal Baker?”

“Sir,” he began. That was a big surprise, “You’re some fighter. Where did you learn to hit like that?”

“It’s not your concern, Corporal. Was there anything you wanted?”

“Nothing special, Sir, I just want to know if you had any orders for me and the boys.”

Crawford met his gaze, and through the battered and bruised, half-closed eyelids, he detected something different. He’d realized that bullying treatment and beatings were no way to run a Marine detachment. He’d learned his lesson.

He nodded. “Carry on, Corporal.”

“Yes, Sir.” He saluted and left.

During the morning, Crawford noticed the pressed recruit on his hands and knees scrubbing the foredeck, supervised by the quartermaster holding a knotted rope. Just in case he needed an incentive to work harder. He couldn’t hide a smile.

They spent the next week drilling and preparing for their attack on Bissau. He took the men ashore each day with a supply of powder and musket balls to sharpen up their shooting. They built targets of old jute sacks filled with straw and placed them fifty and one hundred yards away.

They were out of practice, and at first their performance was dire, but each day it got better, until he was satisfied they could consistently hit a man at fifty yards, although one hundred yards was something of a stretch. Fifty would be enough, longer ranges they’d have to rely on a storm of volley fire to beat back any opposition.

Five days later, during the late afternoon, Captain Ashcombe and First Lieutenant Smythe called him into the cabin to discuss their departure.

Ashcombe was as stern and forbidding as ever. “Are they ready, Crawford? I mean really ready.”

“They’re good men, Sir. Yes, they’re ready.”

“Very well. You depart tonight. I want you to leave during the hours of darkness, so people will be less likely to notice a party of Marines marching through the town. I suggest 02.00 would be a good time, when most people are tucked up in their beds.”

Smythe chuckled. “Apart from the whores and drunks, Captain.”

He didn’t appreciate the joke and gave him a hard look. “Quite so, Lieutenant. I suspect those people will be too busy to notice a party of Marines walking past.”

“Nossir.”

His gaze sprung back to Crawford. “You have your orders. Make all possible speed to Bissau, and you have five days to arrive. On the sixth day, you start your attack at dawn, when the fleet will be nearing the Bissau. Before they realize we’re there, they’ll send every available man to engage what they believe is the main attack coming from inland. It will be a hard fight, until they realize our main force is coming in from the sea and send most of their men back to the harbor. Until then, you’ll be on your own.”

“I understand, Sir. We won’t let you down.”

He gave him a stern look, held it for several seconds, and finally nodded. “I know you won’t, Crawford. By the way, what happened to Corporal Baker? It looked like he’s been scrapping.”

“Baker?”

“Baker, yes. Do know anything about it?”

“Freetown can be very dangerous at night. He must’ve been in a fight.”

He knew he wasn’t going to get anything more out of him, so he just sighed and nodded. “That’s all, Second Lieutenant. You will have plenty to do to make sure you’re ready to depart.”

Crawford saluted and left. He went straight to the Marines’ cramped quarters and called them together to give them the news.

“Corporal Baker, make sure the men have sufficient supplies and ammunition. Check everything twice, check it again, and be ready to leave at 02.00.”

Baker acknowledged with a smart salute. “Yes, Sir.”

“Very well. Any problems here?”

“No, Sir. No problems.”

He was satisfied, and he left. He had another errand to carry out, and he went ashore and walked up to Alice’s house. The lines of strain and tension had largely disappeared, and she was a different person since she now knew she was no longer in danger of destitution. Even the house looked different, smarter and neater.

She greeted him with a light kiss on the cheek. “Harry, it’s good to see you.”

“You, too. I came to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye? Where are you going?”

“We’re marching out tonight, but the destination is a secret.”

“Harry, will it be dangerous?”

“It’s…” He didn’t know how to reply. He couldn’t lie to her, but neither could he divulge details of the military operation, “I can’t say.”

At that moment, Kofi entered the room and nodded a greeting. “Sir, it’s good to see you looking well.”

“You, too. Are you okay to stay here a while longer and take care of Alice?”

“Of course, as long as is necessary. You’re going away?”

“For a couple of weeks.”

“Where’re you going?”

She fixed him with a stare. “Yes, you have to tell us. If I don’t know where you’re going, I’ll be worried.”

He repeated that he couldn’t say, but she pushed hard, used her feminine wiles, and eventually he was powerless to resist. “Bissau.”

She gasped. “But that’s enemy territory. You could be killed.”

He shrugged. “I will do my duty.”

She didn’t say anything for a couple minutes, and it looked like she was thinking hard. “Isn’t Bissau where those men are who killed my husband and stole my possessions?”

“That’s correct.”

Kofi glanced at him. “Mohammed Hassan is there.”

“Probably.”

Silence descended on the room, until Alice said, “I want to see those men who murdered my husband dead.” She looked at Kofi. “You told me several times how you’d like to see that man, Mohammed Hassan, dead, for what he did to your people.” He nodded.

She looked at Crawford. “Are you going there to kill those men?”

“I…uh… can’t talk about our objective. I shouldn’t have told you where we were going.”

There was another long silence, and then she put her arms around him and stared into his eyes from a few inches away. “Take us with you, so we can make sure that justice is done.”

“Alice, you must see that it’s impossible. This will be a military operation, and there is no question of civilians joining it. Absolutely not, under any circumstances.”

She begged, she pleaded, she cajoled, but there was no way. Eventually, she accepted that it wouldn’t, couldn’t happen, and soon after he left the house to return to the ship and continue arrangements to leave that night.

They conducted the final time in near silence. On the lower deck of the Galatea, beneath swinging lantern light, he moved along the line of his Marines one last time. Muskets were unshouldered and examined. Flints checked and rechecked. Powder horns weighed in the hand. Musket balls counted.

“Make sure you keep the priming pan dry,” he said to one man who’d accidentally spilled some grog that splashed into the pan. Bayonets were fixed, removed, then fixed again to ensure no looseness in the socket. Belts were tightened and straps adjusted.

He paused before Lance-Corporal Blythe. “You have spare flints?”

“Yes, Sir. I wrapped them in oilskin.”

“Good man.”

He reached Corporal Baker last. His face was still a map of bruises. One eye rimmed dark, nose crudely splinted. Yet he stood straight, uniform immaculate, as it should be for a Marine.

There was no sneer. No contempt. Crawford held his gaze for a moment. “Corporal.”

“Sir.”

“The detachment is all in order. Good work.”

A nod passed between them. That was enough. The Galatea had dropped anchor to launch the boats. They lowered themselves into the waiting longboats and were rowed ashore, accompanied by the soft creak of oars and the faint wash of water against the timbers.

They stepped out onto shore and formed up in a column two abreast and began moving through the town. The taverns were still alive with coarse laughter and song, but the main thoroughfares lay in shadow. Lantern light spilled through shutters. Dogs barked, yelped, and then fell silent.

He led them along narrow lanes, avoiding open spaces where curious eyes might question a column of armed men slipping out of town. Where the rough ground met jungle, he halted briefly.

“From here,” he whispered, “no talking unless necessary. Keep it quiet.”

They started long the narrow jungle track that led toward Kalabaya. Darkness swallowed them, and almost immediately the air beneath the tree canopy became suffocating, heavy with damp and rot. The smell of earth and rotting vegetation surrounded them.

The trail was barely visible, and men stumbled every few yards. Tree roots coiled across the path like deliberate traps. Vines brushed against faces. Low branches snagged packs and muskets. Then a muffled curse broke the silence.

“Quiet,” Baker hissed sharply, “Lance-Corporal Blythe, go to the rear and take the name of any man who makes an unwarranted noise.”

His tone was different now. No longer cruel. A man behind muttered an almost silent curse as he tripped again, barely catching himself before falling. The jungle seemed alive with small sounds. Insects buzzed incessantly. Something large crashed through the undergrowth.

The march was slow. He moved steadily, feeling his way more than seeing it, and he could sense the men’s fatigue starting to build. Packs bit into shoulders. Sweat soaked through wool. Behind him, Baker frequently moved along the line.

“Watch your footing,” he murmured to them, “Slow and steady. No noise.”

His voice was pitched just right. A responsible NCO passing on the officer’s order. Crawford heard it and noted it. After an hour, they were breathing hard. Another man stumbled and went down to one knee with a barely suppressed oath.

“On your feet, Marine,” Baker whispered, offering a hand rather than a shove.

They pushed on. Hours passed, while the narrow trail twisted and dipped. Twice they had to detour around fallen trees. More than once Crawford felt the ache in his burnt skin as branches scraped his sides. He ignored it. On the third day just before dawn, the darkness thinned, and the oppressive black softened into gray.

They emerged at last from the thickest growth onto more open ground, and Kalabaya lay ahead. The mission was as he remembered it, a cluster of what was left of a few low buildings surrounding a larger building that was the chapel. Smoke rose faintly from a cooking fire.

Father Connolly emerged from the remains of the ruined chapel, his black robe faded and patched, but his eyes alert. “Lieutenant Crawford,” he greeted him in a matter-of-fact way. As if he wasn’t surprised to see him.

“Father.”

Connolly’s gaze traveled over the Marines. Mud-stained. Exhausted.

“You look like you’ve walked all night,” the priest observed mildly.

“We have.”

Connolly gave him a sympathetic smile. “I can offer you breakfast. You men are welcome to what little I have.”

They accepted gratefully. There were no chairs, no tables. The buildings were charred shells from the earlier attack, but it was a respite from the arduous march. They dropped to the ground and used their packs as makeshift seats.

The priest passed around simple fare, hard bread softened in thin broth and a little dried meat. They ate in silence, too tired to speak. The priest watched them thoughtfully.

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m sorry, I cannot say.”

Connolly inclined his head. “Of course, I understand.” He paused, then added casually, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were headed in the same direction as Mrs. Featherstone and her African friend, Kofi.”

His head snapped up. “What was that?”

Connolly looked mildly puzzled at his reaction. “Mrs. Featherstone and Kofi, they passed through here yesterday, they were headed north.”

He felt his stomach lurch. “Why were they headed north?”

He shrugged. “Likely the same as you. Heading toward Guinea.”

Crawford stared at him. Without realizing he spoke the first word that came into his head. “They’re headed toward Bissau. Damn!”

Connolly’s brows lifted. “Bissau, where the main slave trading fleet is docked.” He studied Crawford more closely, “Why would they go there?”

He sighed. “There’re are men there they want dead.”

“To Bissau? Don’t they know that place is a fortress, well defended. They wouldn’t stand a chance, and if that’s where you’re headed, neither would you. Not unless you have a large army in support.”

He said nothing. Connolly was no fool, and it didn’t take him long to work it out.

“Those men who killed her husband, I believe they escaped to Bissau.”

He still said nothing.

“And the African mentioned something about Mohammed Hassan. The skipper of an Arab slave trading dhow.” He exhaled softly, “They’re going for revenge.”

“I don’t know for sure.”

Connolly shook his head. “Where they’re going,” he said slowly, “there can only be one outcome. They’ll be killed.”

Crawford’s mind raced. He thought of Alice, armed with just those two flintlock pistols, driven by anger and desperation. And Kofi, who harbored a similar motive. Both going to their deaths.

The priest waited, as if he was reading his thoughts. “Perhaps it is not too late to intercept them.” Crawford looked up sharply, “I know a safer route to Bissau, one that will avoid the Guinea militia stations on the border. Some traders use that route because it is not patrolled.”

I’ve plotted and planned this operation, marked out the best possible route on a crude map, determined to stick to that route, no matter what. Until now, until everything’s changed. If Alice and Kofi are walking blindly toward almost certain death… What am I to do?

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he’d arrived at a decision.

“You can show us this route on my map.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure it avoids the militia.”

“For the most part, but if we see any sign of them, I can find an alternative way through. I will come with you and guide you to Bissau.”

He nodded once. “I can’t say how grateful I am, Father.”

His men were watching, waiting for an order. “On your feet, march on.”

There were some groans, but they strapped on their packs, picked up their weapons, and Baker formed them into line, with Blythe still at the rear, chivvying the laggards to move to get into line.

The priest started walking, staff in hand. He glanced back once at the ruined mission before moving toward an almost invisible path into the trees. They marched along the unseen path that would take them toward Bissau. Toward danger. And toward Alice and Kofi.

They disappeared into the jungle. The shorter route proved to be no gift. It was barely a path. An hour after leaving Kalabaya, the trail narrowed to little more than an occasional glimpse of beaten earth through thick and overgrown foliage. The jungle pressed in close around them, branches clawing at coats and equipment. Vines hung like ropes. Thorned shrubs forced them to hack their way forward.

They had to hack their way through and sweat poured down faces, soaking into collars. Each step required and effort. Boots sank into damp earth, and packs snagged and had to be yanked free.

Father Connolly led steadily, his staff parting brush to show them the way, although even he had to pause occasionally to orient himself.

“This way,” he would murmur.

Crawford kept the men spaced out and silent. The deeper they moved toward the Guinean border, the heavier the air felt. It was more than the humidity. They were entering hostile territory.

They’d covered around four miles when Father Connolly halted abruptly and raised one hand.

They froze as Connolly whispered, “Down!” They dropped instinctively, flattening themselves into brush and undergrowth, “Make no noise,” he breathed.

Through gaps in the foliage, they heard the faint murmur of voices. The language wasn’t English, neither was it to the soft cadence of village traders. Metal clinked, and boots stomped over the hardpacked earth.

Crawford gestured for them to stay out of sight while he edged forward to peer through the leaves. The track up ahead had reached a fork, and on the wider branch of the track a long line of Guinean militia was heading toward them. They were dressed in a mismatched assortment of uniforms and old rags. Some wore faded European coats, others loose tunics. A few had remnants of military caps. Most carried muskets, while others bore spears or curved blades.

He counted twenty men, and he crept back to rejoin the detachment. “We need to wait until they pass the fork. They’re about forty yards away, so they’ll soon march past, and we can continue. In the meantime, remain out of sight and don’t make a sound.”

He watched as the Guineans reached the fork, but things didn’t go to plan. They didn’t march past. Instead, they stopped. Several dropped to the ground and unshouldered their muskets. They leaned them against a tree and began filling their pipes. Within moments thin threads of smoke curled upward.

One man gathered dry twigs and piled them to make a small fire. Another crouched next to the kindling to strike a flint. Soon, the small fire sputtered to life. They weren’t about to move on. If the Guineans remained there, the narrow path to Bissau was blocked. Worse, if they strolled around to check out the surroundings, they’d be found. It would result in a vicious skirmish, and if any of them escaped, they’d race back to Bissau and sound the alarm.

He glanced back along his line. Eyes watched him, waiting for orders. There was only one order he could give, only one thing they could do.

He beckoned Blythe and Baker closer. “We have to take them, all of them. We’ll split into two groups and flank them through the brush.”

Blythe nodded immediately. Baker’s face was unreadable, but after a brief pause, he inclined his head.

“We have to get in close and open fire together. After the first volley, we rush them and make sure none got away. If they do, it could mean the end of this mission.” He caught each man’s gaze in turn.

“Not one man escapes. None. Corporal Baker, take half the men to the right flank, Lance-Corporal Blythe, bring the rest of the men with me, and we’ll take the left flank. Any questions?”

There were no questions, and he gave them the signal to move out. The Marines melted into the undergrowth, dividing into two squads creeping toward either flank of the unsuspecting militia. The jungle was alive with the buzz of insects, and a faint breeze blew, causing the leaves of bushes and trees to rustle, so the jungle swallowed sound.

They parted the branches carefully, keeping their muskets raised and careful to avoid entangling them in the foliage. Crawford crouched behind a broad trunk, perhaps fifteen yards from the nearest man. He could see them clearly now. One laughed at some crude remark. Another stirred something in a small pot over the growing fire.

He raised his hand and held it raised. Waited until he was absolutely sure. Lowered it sharply.

“Fire!”

The jungle exploded in noise, and hundreds of birds took flight from the trees as the coordinated volleys shattered the piece. Several militia men dropped instantly, bodies convulsing before falling still. Smoke rolled thick through the trees, and more screams echoed around them.

The surviving men scrambled for their weapons, confusion turning to panic. They fired wildly into the foliage, balls cracked through branches, and splinters flew.

Crawford reloaded swiftly, hands moving by instinct. “Forward and kill,” he shouted.

The Marines fired another volley at closer range that felled two more militia, and they were on their feet, charging into the disorganized and dispirited group. Seven or eight remained standing, and they fought back fiercely. One man charged with a spear, only to be cut down by Blythe’s bayonet. Another fired point-blank into a Marine’s shoulder, dropping him with a cry as the jungle turned chaotic.

Smoke hung heavy, and visibility shrank to yards. Men shouted and screamed. Crawford saw one militia man break away and run into deeper brush.

“After him!”

He saw another man do the same, and it was a moment of maximum danger. If even one escaped to sound the alarm, the mission would be compromised. He plunged into the jungle and went after him. Branches tore at his sleeves, and a moment later the ground dipped suddenly so he nearly stumbled and fell.

Ahead of him, the man moved quickly, weaving through terrain that would’ve been familiar to him. Harry pressed on harder, lost sight of him briefly, then spotted movement to his right. Too close, and too late. He hadn’t run far. Instead, he’d doubled back. He sensed the danger an instant before it happened.

The man lunged from concealment, musket already raised. He twisted and brought up the sword, but the blade caught on a low overhanging branch. He had a brief respite when the militiaman’s musket misfired, producing a dull sputter rather than a report. They were suddenly within a few feet of one another.

The Guinean snarled and dropped the useless musket, snatching a machete from his belt, and charged. Crawford attempted to pull his sword free, but in his haste, it twisted and tangled in overhanging vines. While he was freeing it, he spotted Corporal Baker standing several yards away, his musket raised, aimed directly at him.

He’d assumed the Corporal had changed, that he’d buried his resentment against the former ‘gentleman ranker’ and had become a conscientious NCO. He’d made a big mistake, and now that mistake was about to cost him his life. With his sword blade still entangled in the branch, whichever way he went, he would face either the machete or Corporal Baker.

He froze in indecision, heard the ‘bang’ as the musket fired in a cloud of smoke, and simultaneously the Guinean disappeared. For a moment he didn’t know what’d happened, only that he hadn’t been hit. Then he saw Baker calmly reloading, and a few yards away, the body of the man he’d shot. It didn’t seem possible, but the man who until recently had been his personal nemesis had just saved his life.

He didn’t stop to consider the implications. He made a last desperate effort, freed the blade and parried just in time as the second militiaman came for him with a machete. Steel rang sharply as blade met blade, and the force jarred his arm. The man was strong, and he was quick.

He slashed again, low and fast. Crawford stepped back, barely clearing the arc of the blade as it whistled toward him, and once again he almost stumbled on the uneven, treacherous ground. The man pressed forward, his machete flashing in short, vicious strokes.

He parried and retreated, parried and retreated, seeking space to counter. The man feinted left, then lunged right, the machete slicing across his sleeve and grazing his forearm. Pain flared but he adjusted, shifted from retreat to engagement, and although the thickness of the foliage still made wielding his long blade tricky, he had another means with which to fight.

He stepped inside the next swing and drove his shoulder forward to unbalance the man as he made a powerful slice at him, and the machete whistled past his ear. He riposted, a quick thrust that the man knocked aside with surprising skill.

They circled one another among tangled roots and low branches. The man spat and attacked again, a downward chop aimed at his collarbone. He caught it on his blade, sliding the machete aside, then pivoted sharply and struck, his left hand bunched into a fist that connected with the man’s head. He felt the shock all the way up his arm.

The sudden contact of hard fist against bone shocked him, and his arms rose to protect his head. It was enough of a window, and he went in low with punch after punch into his belly, using his left while he kept his sword raised high in his right hand. Waiting for the opening.

The opening came. The man’s hands dropped again to protect his belly, leaving his head and the upper part of his body wide open. Harry didn’t hesitate and swung the sword down on his neck with a blow so hard the blade cut deep into his shoulder. It severed a major artery, causing a fountain of blood to spurt up into an overhanging bush.

His eyes widened in shock. Crawford pulled the blade from the wound, held it high and slashed down again. The man staggered back, dropping the machete, cupped hands clutching at his neck, as if he could catch the blood and somehow restore it to his body. He stared at the English officer for a moment, then collapsed to his knees and fell forward into the dirt.

He stood over him briefly, chest heaving, then he turned and started back to rejoin his men. On the way back, he met Baker, who was watching him, musket reloaded. He still couldn’t believe it. The man who not so long ago would’ve happily seen him dead, had not only saved his life, but he appeared to be standing guard over him in case more militia arrived to join the fight.

Crawford nodded. “Appreciated, Corporal.”

For the first time, the brutal man’s thick lips twitched in a ghastly semblance of a smile. “Worth an extra tot of rum? Sir.”

“I reckon so, Baker.”

They returned to where the men had just finished polishing off the militia. The gunfire had ceased, and Blythe stood over one man who’d fallen on his back, struggling to free his bayonet he’d buried deep into his chest.

Smoke drifted past lazily, the last echoes of the battle. His men moved methodically among the fallen, ensuring none remained capable of getting back up. Crawford countered the numbers, and found two of his men wounded, but they were alive. No deaths. The Guinean militia lay scattered among the brush. No one had escaped. Father Connolly was going from man to man, saying a brief prayer over each one, some kind of absolution. Crawford doubted it would ease their souls into heaven.

He met Blythe’s gaze. “Any problems?”

“Nossir. It’s done.”

He nodded. “Check them again, make certain, in case any are faking.”

Baker crouched beside a body, then rose.

“Yes, Sir.

Crawford looked around and noticed that the small fire still smoldered, but there were no other signs of life. The jungle was quiet once more. He wiped his blade clean on a fallen man’s ragged coat and slid it back into its scabbard.

“Form up, we’re moving out.”

They helped the wounded to their feet, formed into a column of twos, and stepped over the bodies of the men they’d killed. Marching past the fork, every man knew that ahead of them was the road to Bissau.

Chapter Eleven

The final march to Bissau was a blur of sweat and scratched skin. Father Connolly guided them through the thickest cover he could find, always keeping them away from open trails. Twice they heard voices and halted, crouched in silence while patrols passed nearby. Once they lay flat in wet grass while a pair of militia men walked within a dozen yards.

His burns pulled and stung beneath his clothes, the new skin tender and easily irritated. He ignored it, as he ignored the discomfort of searing heat and constant insect bites. Pain was a constant, something he couldn’t escape, but he refused to let it slow him.

The Marines moved better than he’d dared hope. They were tired, hungry, footsore and scratched raw, but they remained disciplined. Each man knew why they were here. This wasn’t merely a march into hostile territory, this was to aim a blade at the heart of the savage trade in human beings.

They also had no illusions about why they were headed. Bissau, a fortress town where fast ships waited, their chains ready for the next profitable voyage across the Atlantic. The detachment reached the outskirts in the early hours while darkness still held. From the cover of the trees, they could see the town as a shadowed outline, the fortress squatting above it like a clenched fist.

He signaled them to halt, and they waited until he’d worked out how to slip into the town without being spotted. Then they moved forward in small groups, across stretches of open ground, hugging walls for cover, moving between buildings without making a sound. A dog barked once and then fell silent. Somewhere a man coughed, and another man laughed. Somewhere else a door creaked.

He felt an entire town slept around them, unaware that a detachment of Royal Marines was creeping into its belly. Connolly found an unguarded storehouse, a squat building of rough timber and stone. It was close enough to the fortress that Crawford could smell the dung and sweat from the nearby square.

The storehouse was protected by a double door secured with a crude lock. Blythe produced a small tool, and a couple minutes later the lock and surrendered with a soft snap. He gave Crawford a look, but he knew what he meant and shook his head with a smile. “I didn’t see it, Lance-Corporal.”

He grinned with relief. The mere possession of a pick lock could result in the man’s arrest and imprisonment. Although there were times when ownership of a pick lock may warrant an extra tot of rum. This was one such time. They slipped inside. The air within was stale and thick with the smell of old grain and damp wood. Stacked crates formed narrow aisles. Burlap sacks leaned against walls.

To be sure, he counted his men again in the darkness. All present. Father Connolly settled himself near the entrance, eyes alert even though the older man must be close to exhaustion. They’d made it this far, and they were alive.

They had to wait for the diversionary attack, due to take place at two bells of the forenoon watch, approximately two hours after daybreak, and they still had to find Alice and Kofi.

They would stage the attack to create chaos in the town and draw the defenders away from the harbor. When Ashcombe’s ships arrived, there’d be chaos in the town, and if their plan went well, every man would’ve rushed to the defense of the fortress so the fleet could sail in unopposed. That was the theory, but it would be touch and go.

If Ashcombe’s squadron was held back by wind or tide, Crawford’s small force would be trapped inside a hostile town and their end would be bloody and merciless. He understood the risk, yet he also understood this had to be done. The rulers of Bissau were evil men who continued to profit from the brutal treatment of men and women kidnapped from inland and brought there for the start of their ongoing voyage to the Americas.

Many wouldn’t make it, and in some cases a ship would arrive with more dead than alive, following an attack of some mysterious tropical disease. The Guineans had fired the first shot, attempted to wipe out the fleet at anchor in Freetown, but now the Royal Navy had to finish it.

He was determined to finish it. Not for money, not for promotion, and not for reputation. This was about strangling the trade at its source. Burn the ships and kill the slavers who operated them. Demonstrate that the African coast wasn’t theirs to profit unchallenged from human bondage.

He lay in the gloom between sacks, trying to rest, but his mind refused. Minutes crawled past, and at last, darkness began to thin and sky beyond the horizon began to lighten. The first gray light seeped in through cracks in the storehouse boards. He shifted carefully and moved toward a narrow gap where he could watch the square outside.

It was beginning to stir. Lanterns were extinguished, and voices rose and fell. A gang of laborers was working to build a structure in the center of the square, a gallows. Two thick uprights, a crossbeam, and two ropes coiled beneath like sleeping serpents. They were planning an execution.

He wasn’t sure how it would affect his mission to create a diversion, whether it would help or hinder things. He didn’t concern himself with the execution. Hangings were a common sight in Freetown, and most of the time the scum deserved their grisly fate. More men arrived. Militia, all armed with muskets. Like the militia they’d encountered on the journey, some were in ragged uniforms, some in fine coats, most a mixture of both.

The crowd swelled as people from outlying villages drifted into the town and approached the square. More men appeared, some obviously more prosperous, traders, and a number of sailors. All looked on expectantly, waiting for the suffering to begin for their amusement.

More people arrived, and the square was almost full, so this had to be a major execution. He felt uneasy, as something stirred at the back of his mind, but he forced himself to focus on working out how best to use what was happening in front of them to their benefit. Yet still, he felt unease shift into something sharper.

He looked again, and a line was forming near the fortress gate. They were bringing the prisoners out. The crowd parted as they were led forward. At first, he couldn’t make out faces with so many people pressing in around them. Then they started moving them toward the center of the square, toward the gallows.

He felt an icy dread. Two prisoners, a man and a woman. Kofi and Alice Featherstone. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Her hands were bound, her hair was loose and tangled. Her face looked bruised, but she wasn’t cowed. Her chin was lifted, eyes fixed forward with stubborn defiance even as the crowd jeered.

Kofi walked beside her, wrists tied, shoulders squared. His face was set in a kind of hard calm, but Crawford could see exhaustion in the way he moved. They’d been caught, and they were about to hang them.

He moved before his mind had completed the thought.

“Blythe,” he whispered harshly. The junior NCO crawled close, and Crawford pointed through a crack in the timber wall of the warehouse, “I want you to look at this.”

He looked, and his face tightened. “Oh, God. Sir, what can we do?”

“I want you and Baker to fall in the men and get them ready to move.” The two NCOs pushed the Marines into line and looked at Crawford, “Load.”

Muskets were brought up silently, powder poured, ball rammed home. They checked the flints, working with quick, practiced motions that reflected their constant training.

His voice was low, intense, fighting back the emotion he felt. “We can’t allow this, and we will not allow it.”

Father Connolly moved to his side and touched him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Lieutenant, there are at least sixty armed men out there.”

Crawford glanced back at the square, and then at the priest. “Then we will kill sixty men.”

Connolly held his sleeve. “You must not do this,” he hissed, “Any rescue attempt is doomed. You will all die, and you will fail in your mission. The fleet will arrive to find nothing but your bodies, and the diversionary attack will have failed.”

He forced himself to look at the priest. “You want us to watch them hang?”

Connolly grimaced. “No, no, all I’m asking is that you give yourself time to think.”

“I am thinking. I’m thinking that I won’t let them die while I’m no more than a few yards away.”

The priest shook his head. “If you attack now, they will slaughter you and your men. They’ll cut you down before you even reach the gallows. And even if you did reach them, you’ll be dead soon after, and they’ll still hang those two people.”

He knew the priest was right, which made the agony he felt deep inside much worse. He turned back to the crack in the wall, trying to force his mind to coldly calculate his options. The militia were not in full battle order. Many were relaxed, talking, laughing, so they expected no threat from inside the town. Their attention was fixed on the gallows, the day’s main entertainment.

He saw movement at the fortress gate. Men were gathering, forming a corridor of sorts, almost like an honor guard, as if waiting for someone of importance. He continued to watch as the gates opened fully.

A litter emerged, carried by four sweating, muscular bearers. On it sat a man so large he seemed more a mound of flesh than a human being. His robes glittered with jewelry. Gold and colored stones caught the dawn light. Rings on his thick fingers, a chain across his chest, and a turban adorned with huge, flashing jewel.

The crowd murmured and bowed as he passed.

Connolly whispered, “That will be the Almamy.”

He stared at the spectacle. The fat man’s face was smug, heavy-lidded, satisfied, as if he were arriving at a feast. They were carrying him forward to witness the execution. Crawford’s mind raced. The Almamy, the ruler, the supreme authority.

If we can disrupt his approach, it might scatter the crowd, confuse the militia, and create an opening. But how?

Father Connolly’s voice was low. “Lieutenant, you cannot stop this.”

His gaze remained fixed on Alice and Kofi. Her eyes swept the crowd, searching perhaps for a miracle, perhaps for nothing at all. Kofi’s expression was stony, but he could see tension in his shoulders, anticipating what was coming.

His throat tightened. “I don’t agree,” he said quietly. Connolly stared at him as Crawford’s voice hardened into certainty, “There is a way to stop this.”

He turned from the crack to face his men. They were crouched among the sacks, muskets loaded, eyes bright with a mix of fear and readiness.

Blythe leaned forward. “Sir, what are your orders?”

He held up one hand, telling them to wait while he thought it through. They were outnumbered, deep inside an enemy town, and ordered to wait two more hours for the right moment to start the diversionary attack.

That was the plan, but Alice and Kofi stood under a rope. He made his decision.

We will act. Not recklessly, not blindly, but in the disciplined, military way. We will strike fear into the militia, and we will save the lives of Alice and Kofi.

He turned back to the crack one more time. The Almamy’s litter was nearing the gallows, and the executioner was adjusting the rope as the crowds’ baying rose.

Crawford felt time compress. He’d decided to launch the diversionary attack, rescue them from the gallows, and simultaneously keep the attention of the Bissau militia away from the port. But it was too early. He looked at his men.

“Hold. Not yet.”

Blythe frowned slightly, but Baker nodded.

His eyes flicked across the square, searching for anything, any weakness, any lever to pull.

There must be something! There is. A powder store!

A powder store that if it exploded would create chaos and mayhem, but to reach it, he’d have to get past the crowd eagerly waiting to see the executions and a horde of militia. He could make the attempt, but if he failed, Alice and Kofi would still die. And failure was the most likely outcome.

He had something else on his mind. That fat, bejeweled, greasy potentate they’d carried out on the litter had something that didn’t belong to him. Something Crawford recognized, something that made him seize with hot anger. A telescope, but not any telescope. He’d last seen it in the hands of his brother when he first went to sea as a newly minted midshipman.

There was no question about its true ownership. The brass barrel was covered in dark leather, the surface stitched with three contrasting leather bands that encircled it to provide extra grip in heavy weather. A unique instrument made by W. and S. Jones of Holborn, London, makers of fine nautical optics.

He doubted the man who currently possessed it had killed his brother and stolen it, but he had little doubt of this man’s involvement. His minions would’ve carried out the murder and passed on their trophy to their master. Crawford vowed that before he left Bissau, he’d see that man dead.

* * *

Earlier that morning the Almamy had risen with a furious temper. The failed raid on Freetown was like a raw wound. Ships lost, men drowned or captured. One paltry English sloop destroyed in return. It hadn’t been the decisive humiliation he’d envisioned, and it hadn’t broken the British grip on the coast.

He disliked nothing more than defeat, and he would attack again, this time in more overwhelming force, but at least this day would slake at least some of his thirst for blood. He reclined heavily on the cushions of his litter as his bearers carried him from the cool interior of the fortress toward the square. His robes glittered with gold thread and stones, chosen deliberately to reflect his authority.

The noise of the crowd swelled as he emerged. Men bowed, some knelt, and others simply stared with hungry anticipation in their eyes. Executions were theater, and he always exploited them to the full. Although he could neither read nor write, one of his advisors had told him of a Roman emperor who used the theater of executions and fights to the death to entertain the crowds. A strategy of which he heartily approved.

He shifted his bulk and adjusted the jewel-studded rings on his fingers. His eyes moved lazily toward the gallows. The two prisoners stood beneath it. A man and a woman. He was about to give a wave for the proceedings to begin when his gaze fixed upon the woman. Even from a distance, he could see the pale oval of her face, the tumble of her hair cascading over her shoulders. Her clothing was torn and stained from captivity, but her posture was straight. Defiant. Unafraid.

Nothing like others he’d seen dragged out for execution. His breath slowed with anticipation and arousal. He leaned forward slightly. “Bring me closer to them,” he muttered.

The bearers adjusted course, carrying him nearer the scaffold. Guards shoved the crowd back to clear space. Now he saw her more clearly. Bruised, yes. Exhausted, yes. But her eyes burned. Not pleading, not broken. This was a woman with fire.

Something stirred in his lower belly. He had many women in his fortress, most of them captives from inland villages, but this one was different. Exotic in her own way, a trophy as befitted a powerful ruler.

He had to have her. He raised one hand and snapped his fingers at a nearby guard.

“Bring the woman here. I do not want her hanged.”

The guard blinked, surprised. “My lord?”

“Bring her back to the fortress,” he snarled, impatience sharpening his voice, “Put her with my women.”

The guard hesitated a fraction. “And the man?”

He shrugged. “Hang him.”

The guard bowed quickly and turned away. Below the scaffold, soldiers moved to separate the prisoners. Kofi stiffened as hands grabbed Alice’s arms and she twisted violently.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

He struggled against his restraints. “Leave her!”

A man cuffed him on the side of the head. “She will not be executed. The ruler of Bissau has decided to take her back to the fortress. Your execution will proceed as planned.”

Her eyes widened as she saw them adjust the rope around Kofi’s neck. “No!” she cried, fighting harder, “If you hang him, hang me, too!”

They tightened their grip. “You will come with us,” one of them growled, “The Almamy has chosen you to be one of his women. It is an honor.”

For a heartbeat she froze. Then she screamed. “If you hang him,” she shouted hoarsely, “I’ll kill myself!”

The guard holding her laughed. “You will not kill yourself. We will not allow it.”

She turned on him with blazing fury. “I will throw myself from the fortress wall or cut my throat with a piece of broken glass. If he hangs Kofi, I will die before nightfall.”

The guard faltered. She wasn’t weeping, wasn’t bargaining. This wasn’t a ploy. She meant every word. He glanced toward the litter.

“My lord,” he said, bowing low, “The woman resists. She says if we hang the man, she will kill herself before the day is out.”

The Almamy’s expression darkened. “You mean she is defying me?”

“Lord, she says she will throw herself from the wall. Or cut her throat.”

The huge man’s fleshy lips tightened. He’d seen in her eyes a steely determination. She was capable of carrying out the threat. If she died, he would lose a precious jewel, and when he’d set his mind on owning something, he hated the thought of losing it.

Yet the square was full, and the gallows stood ready. The crowd had gathered for blood, and they expected blood. If he halted both executions, disappointment could sour quickly into unrest. Murmurs could turn into anger. The situation could become dangerous. He thought for a few moments, then waved one jeweled hand dismissively.

“Take them both back to the fortress. Put the man in a cell.”

The guard blinked. “My lord… the crowd… Is that wise?”

“Bring out two other prisoners,” the Almamy interrupted irritably, “You can hang them instead.”

He hesitated. “Lord, we have no prisoners awaiting execution.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t care! Open the cell door and choose the two nearest men. Bring them here and hang them.”

The guard bowed deeply. “As you command.”

He returned to the scaffold, where Alice and Kofi were still struggling against the men holding them. “You will both go to the fortress. Neither of you will be hanged.”

Kofi stared in disbelief. Alice’s chest heaved as she searched his face for truth. “This is a lie.”

“I do not lie. The ruler of Bissau has decreed that you will live.”

They pushed them together and hustled them toward the fortress gate. Ahead of them, the litter was already being carried back. Behind them, the crowd began to murmur loudly as dissatisfaction and disappointment spread. Soldiers hurried toward the fortress and disappeared inside.

Moments later, they dragged two bewildered men out, dressed in rags and screaming in terror. They hauled them toward the gallows, and the crowd roared approval. The first of the unfortunate replacements was forced onto the platform, and at that moment Kofi turned to him.

“That man, I know him, he’s from my tribe.”

Her face hardened. “These people are savages. Barbarian scum.” Her voice trembled with fury, “For them, human beings are a commodity. Bought, sold, and used for their convenience. And murdered for their convenience.”

Behind them, the body dropped, and the rope snapped taut. The crowd cheered. Kofi looked at her. “He is dead. You know what will happen to you when they get you inside the fortress?”

She didn’t look at him. “I know.”

The heavy doors loomed closer, and moments later the shadow of the fortress swallowed them.

“You will kill yourself?”

She regarded him with a calm expression. “No,” she said softly, as the gates closed behind them with a thunderous crash. She lifted her chin, “I will kill him.”

* * *

The fortress gates slammed shut with a sound like it was Judgement Day. From the shadowed storehouse, he watched through the crack in the boards. Saw Alice and Kofi vanish into the darkness beyond the stone walls.

For a moment he couldn’t move. It was as if they’d been snatched from one fate only to face another. Then his training kicked in. He drew his timepiece, the chain glinting faintly in the sliver of light that seeped into the warehouse.

It was almost time to start the diversionary attack. Almost time for the fleet to appear, guns run out, ready to sink every vessel in the port. If the ships arrived and opened fire, they might kill the prisoners to prevent them from escaping.

He pushed the thought aside. Somehow, he’d get into the fortress and stir up the wrath of the defenders. Engage them in a desperate fight to keep their eyes averted from Ashcombe’s ships. God willing, they’d fight their way through to wherever they were holding Alice and Kofi.

He turned to his men. “Stand to.”

They got to their feet, faces grim, muskets held close. Blythe’s eyes were bright, excited, fixed on Crawford’s expression as if reading orders before they were spoken. Baker was calmer, an experienced veteran. The man wouldn’t let him down, not anymore.

Outside, the square began to change. The crowd, swollen moments before, started to disperse. Some drifted away, laughing, talking, already moving on to purchase food and drink. Others lingered, staring up at the gallows where the two hastily chosen men still dangled, bodies swaying gently, feet turning slowly in the air.

At first the fortress gate remained shut, but suddenly, he spotted more activity at the front. The gates opened, and people began to trickle inside. Some wore bits of uniform. Others looked like wives and children. They’d be off duty militia with their families, come to watch the entertainment. They’d be housed inside the fortress and now they were returning to their homes. The idea came to him as they opened the gates.

He glanced at his men. “We go now.”

Blythe’s brows lifted. “Go where, Sir.”

“Straight through the gate. We’re going to attack the fortress and create the diversion as ordered.”

A murmur ran through the Marines. Father Connolly moved closer. “You intend to force an entry.”

He met his gaze. “Yes.”

Connolly exhaled slowly. “I know what you’re about,” he said quietly, “You’re going into the fortress to rescue Alice and Kofi.”

He didn’t deny it. “We are, and we’ll create the diversion at the same time. The two operations are complementary.”

The priest nodded slowly, and a look of grim determination settled on his face.

“I told you I used to be a soldier before I became a priest, or had you forgotten?”

He shook his head. He hadn’t forgotten, although it had come as a surprise. Connolly’s gaze flicked to the dangling bodies on the gallows.

“I can’t stand by any longer and watch this butchery take place daily without I try to do something to stop it. I want to come with you, but I need a weapon.”

Crawford hesitated.

He’s tough, sure. Hardened. But he’s older, much older, and this is going to be a hard fight. A priest could slow us down. He could be wounded or even die on us. And yet, he helped us get here, and he kept up as well as any man. Besides, we’re about to be severely outnumbered. I can’t turn down an extra man.

He looked at Corporal Baker. “Find him a weapon.”

He produced a musket that belonged to an injured man who would have no need of it and handed it to Connolly. The bayonet was already fixed, and the blade caught the light, razor sharp. He took it with a reverence that was not religious. More practical.

He tested the weight, the balance, then nodded. “This will do until I find something I’m more used to, like a sword.”

Crawford nodded. “After we attack, there won’t be any shortage of swords lying on the ground. In the meantime, don’t do anything reckless.”

Connolly’s mouth tightened. “I’m not the one you need to warn about recklessness, Lieutenant.”

He didn’t argue and glanced back at the square, measuring the distance. From the warehouse door to the fortress gates was perhaps one hundred and fifty yards. One hundred and fifty yards across an open square with a crowd of onlookers still dispersing. One hundred and fifty yards to cover before the gate guards recognized what was happening and slammed the doors shut.

If that happened, they’d be trapped outside. Under fire, pinned in the open. Yet if they hesitated, the opportunity would vanish. He drew his sword slowly, the sound of steel leaving the scabbard quiet but an unmistakable foreshadowing of what was to come.

Men tightened grips on muskets. Bayonets gleamed. “When we go, we go fast, so check your straps and make sure your equipment is secure.”

In the next few seconds, a dozen checks took place. Blythe moved to the warehouse door, placed his hand on the handle and looked back at Crawford. He nodded, and Blythe pulled the door open. Sunlight blazed into the gloom that made the Marines squint.

For several seconds, no one outside noticed the red-coated soldiers standing inside. Then someone turned and stared. His mouth opened to shout a warning. It was time.

“Go,” he shouted, racing out into the open.

They surged out behind him and charged into the open square. People scattered, startled cries resounding across the open space. Men stumbled away, and women shrieked, pulling children aside. A few militia lounging near the gate straightened abruptly and fumbled for weapons. Crawford led from the front, sword raised, the Marines sprinting in a tight mass behind him, boots pounding on the earth.

They hit the first knot of men and shoved through, using their shoulders and musket butts to clear a space. A man reached for Crawford’s arm, but he struck him across the face with the flat of his blade, then pushed him aside with a hard shove. Another man tried to bar their way, lifting a club, but a Marine smashed him down with the butt of his musket.

A militia man leveled his musket, and Crawford’s sword flashed. The man fell, his throat slashed open, blood spraying across the dust. The crowd screamed and broke in panic. They ran harder, a race against time to reach the gates before they closed. One hundred yards. Ninety.

The gate guards saw them, and he saw the sudden rush as they began hauling the heavy doors inward. They were almost out of time.

“Faster,” he shouted.

They gave it their all, sprinting toward the gates that were slowly, inexorably closing. Seventy yards. A militia man stepped into their path with a curved blade. A Marine drove a bayonet into his chest and ripped it back out without slowing. The man folded.

Sixty yards. A bunch of militia rushed out in front of them, trying to form a line to block them. He cut down the nearest man. Slashed the second. Punched the third square in the mouth when the press became too tight to swing his sword properly. He wasn’t done, but he wasn’t alone. Father Connolly stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, the bayonet on his borrowed musket flashing as he tore into them, leaving a bloody trail as they continue to race forward.

Fifty yards. The gates were halfway closed, men straining on the iron handles, their faces contorted with effort. An officer joined them, shouting orders, and muskets fired from several militiamen who’d formed up outside the gate. A ball hissed past Crawford’s head, but he didn’t flinch. There was no time to flinch.

“Marines,” he bellowed, “Halt.”

They skidded to a stop as their training kicked in, and they obeyed the order. He pointed with his sword. “Those men near the gate, fire a volley. I want them all dead.”

Muskets came up, flints already cocked.

“Aim,” he snapped, “Fire.”

The volley crashed out like thunder, and a cloud of smoke burst outward. He was already moving again, and he shouted, “With me, move!”

They sprinted through the smoke, and as it cleared, they saw the result. The men who’d attempted to close the gate lay sprawled in the dust. One convulsed briefly and then was still. The gates were still half open. Twenty yards.

More men rushed forward to take the fallen guards’ places, but he didn’t slow. It was a mad sprint, boots hammering, breath burning. He reached the gates just ahead of the men, and an Arab wearing a dirty, stained robe, stepped in front of him holding a spear.

Crawford hacked the spear shaft aside and drove his sword into the man’s shoulder, leaving him screaming in agony. He wrenched out the blade and shoved him aside. Two more men surged at him at once. He slashed one across the face, leaving him with blood cascading down, then drove a fist into the other’s throat. He gagged, staggered, and fell.

Almost there, and he shoved into the narrow gap. He was inside the fortress, sword swinging, cutting and parrying by pure instinct. Blythe and the others hit the gate moments later. Bayonets stabbed. Muskets clubbed. Men screamed.

The defenders fought desperately, but they hadn’t expected disciplined soldiers to burst among them with steel, powder, and shot. He shouted at them to reload while he pushed deeper, cutting at the men in front of him and forcing them to back away, giving his men time and space to load their muskets.

A man grabbed his arm. He pivoted and slammed an elbow into the man’s jaw, then finished him with a short sword thrust. He could hear his Marines coming up behind, accompanied by the brutal rhythm of their bayonets finding flesh.

He heard Baker shout that they were reloaded and awaiting orders to fire.

“Not yet. Keep moving into the fortress,” he bellowed, “Kill any man who gets in your way.”

They hacked into the demoralized and dispirited defenders, leaving bodies sprawled in bloody heaps on the ground. Crawford forced his mind to focus on why they were there. The diversion, and the rescue. They’d created a furor, enough to keep every defender’s eyes averted from the sea. He glanced in that direction in case Ashcombe’s ships were visible.

They weren’t. The sea was empty, but when they did arrive, they’d have less opposition. The crews manning the cannons facing out to sea were rushing away, heading to the fortress. Whoever was in charge had concluded the danger came from landward. The priority was to reinforce the fortress defenders and the defense of the fortress. Which meant as they’d carried out their primary task, all eyes were looking away from the sea. Now it was time to concentrate on the rescue.

He lifted his sword and pointed deeper into the fortress. “Keep moving!” he shouted.

They followed him forward into the black heart of the enemy. They reached the fortress, the Citadel, at a fast run. The central section of the fortress was the hard core, occupied by the ruler and his entourage. The place where they’d keep prisoners in a deep, dark dungeon.

It rose ahead of them, a dark mass against the sunlit sky, stone walls thick and high. A narrow stretch of open ground lay before it, scraped bare by countless boots. Beyond that yawned the moat, a wide, deep trench dry of water. The wall above was lined with defenders, muskets pointed downward, waiting to pick off those who were foolish enough to attempt to cross.

Access to the Citadel was by a drawbridge, useless to them because it was raised. He slowed just enough to survey what lay in front of them. He’d hoped for a side door. A postern gate. Anything. There was nothing, just the moat and the raised drawbridge, protected by a parapet bristling with muskets.

The moment they stepped out into the open, the parapet would erupt with smoke and fire. The moat would become a trough filled with dead men. Survivors who tried to crawl back out would be shot before they even made it halfway.

It looked formidable, and for the first time he sampled the taste of possible defeat. Yet Alice and Kofi were inside. Defeat wasn’t something he was prepared to contemplate.

He glanced left and right. The Marines were hunched behind huge chunks of broken stone that gave them some cover. Smoke from the earlier fighting still hung in the air, mingled with the sharp smell of burnt powder.

Lance-Corporal Blythe watched him, waiting for the next order. Baker was going from man to man, assessing their ammunition state, and checking for wounds. Crawford forced himself to think. The drawbridge was the only way without attempting to cross back the killing ground. Yet it had to be lowered, and it could only be lowered from inside.

The militia would shoot any man who tried to get across. There was only one way to distract them, and that was to make them focus on the danger from incoming musket fire, so they were looking the other way. His job would be to slip around to the rear and find a way to get inside and drop the drawbridge. It felt impossible. He had to face facts.

It is impossible, suicidal. But there are prisoners inside. Kofi likely chained in darkness in the cold depths, and Alice at the mercy of the bloated despot who rules Bissau.

Crawford looked at Baker. “Corporal, line the men up. Muskets aimed at the parapet but keep them behind cover. When I give the order, I want rapid volley fire.”

Baker nodded. “Aye, Sir.”

“Start shooting in two minutes, not before. I want you to keep their heads down as best you can and make them think the assault is about to hit them across the moat.”

Blythe frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll circle the Citadel and try to find another way in while they’re all looking this way.”

“Do that, Sir, and you’re likely a dead man.”

“It’s a risk I have to take.”

He looked at the men. “Fire from cover and make every shot count. If we go into that trench without the bridge down, we die.”

They nodded grimly, and he scanned the fortress line. There was no sign of any alternative way to breach the Citadel. He had to find something on the far side, or they were finished.

“I’ll do my best to find a way in so I can reach the drawbridge and lower it.” He looked at Baker. “Corporal, you know what to do.”

“Yessir, I know what to do. I’m coming with you. Blythe is a good man. He’ll handle the men, make sure they don’t let you down.” Baker stepped closer and kept his voice low, so the men didn’t hear what he had to say, “I haven’t always done right by you, but things are different now. You need me.”

Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “You’re needed here.”

“You can’t do this on your own. Two men have a better chance than one. If I’m going to do anything useful before I die, I want it to be this.”

He hesitated. He didn’t trust Baker’s motives entirely. Not after everything that’d gone before. But he’d seen changes in the man. Less cruelty. More discipline. A willingness to follow orders without using brutality and bullying tactics.

There was something else. He couldn’t deny that what he said was likely true. One man alone with no one to watch his back would be vulnerable. Two men, moving fast and coordinated, might succeed.

He gave a short nod. “Very well but stay close. No heroics. Lance-Corporal Blythe, you know what to do.”

“Aye, Sir.”

He glanced at Baker. “Two minutes.”

“Two minutes, understood.”

He checked his own weapons, sword at his side, pistol in his belt. The pistol would be his last argument if a sentry stepped out.

He caught Connolly’s gaze, and the priest nodded. Then they moved, slipping away from the detachment, keeping low, hugging the shadows cast by the fortress wall. In the meantime, the Marines had started shooting. Blythe kept them firing in disciplined volleys. The defenders above immediately returned fire, concentrating pushing back these foreign infidels who dared to attack their inner sanctum.

Crawford and Baker were unnoticed as they crept through the shadows. Baker moved surprisingly quietly for a man his size, and he kept close. He’d left his musket behind as ordered, and he carried only a short blade and a pistol.

On the far side of the Citadel, they reached a buttress. It offered a sliver of cover, and a narrow postern gate on the far side of the moat. They still had to cross it, but a quick scan of the ramparts told them the defenders had gone to the front to help repel the attack expected to come from there.

He looked at Baker. “We’ll have to climb down into the moat and up the other side to that gate. We’d better pray that it’s open. When we’re inside, we need to reach the drawbridge housing above the gate and lower it.”

“How do we do that? How do those things work?”

His mind raced, and the simple answer was he’d no idea. A drawbridge was heavy. It needed a winch, a capstan, a counterweight, and they’d have to find the controls that operated those things.

“We’ll know when we get there. Let’s go.”

They let themselves down to the bottom of the dry moat, walked to the other side and looked up to the postern gate. It was several feet above their heads, and he gestured for Baker to stand beneath it while he clambered onto his shoulders, using him as a ladder.

The big man stood in place, hands pressed against the worn and chipped stone. Crawford reached up to the ledge below the gate, pulled himself up, and lay flat on the ledge. He reached down to assist Baker. Pulling him up was a struggle. He was big and heavy, but his boots scrabbled on the uneven stone, and he managed to get sufficient purchase to aid the effort to pull him up.

They stood outside a thick, hardwood door, and Baker put his hand on the handle. They both held their breath as he tried it. If it didn’t open, they were as good as finished. It opened, and they stepped into the Citadel. Inside was darkness.

They could hear faint sounds. Echoes, voices, the tramp of boots, more voices, female voices. The whisper of silks and the faint scent of perfume.

Baker leaned close. “I reckon we’ve arrived at the whorehouse.”

“It’s no whorehouse, Corporal. More likely this is the harem, where they keep the Almamy’s women. We’ll get closer and check it out.”

He heard a low chuckle. “I wouldn’t mind checking it out, Sir.”

“This isn’t right time. We’re here to reach the other side of the Citadel and lower the drawbridge.”

“Yessir.”

Crawford was acutely aware that time was short. Already the scattered militia outside the fortress could be gathering to attack the Marines from behind, and if they were still outside the Citadel, they’d be caught between the defenders on the wall and the men coming in behind them.

They crept along a narrow passageway, and the female voices grew louder. He reached a latticed door and peered through the mesh. The scent was overpowering, and female voices were chattering loudly and excitedly. It was a large room lit by two candles that dispelled some of the darkness, and he was able to make out faces.

Including a face he knew well. Alice Featherstone, still scratched and bruised, still dressed in the same sailor’s pants and striped shirt she’d worn on the journey. She was surrounded by a dozen women, and they were giving her a hard time. Barking questions at her in their alien tongue, which she didn’t understand. Each time she shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand, they slapped her over the head.

Baker peered through the lattice, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the women. “Jesus Christ!” he murmured.

Crawford hissed at him to be silent. He gently tried to open the door, but it was locked. They’d have to shoulder it open to release Alice, but the door looked solid, and the lock mechanism was heavy, solid iron. It could take time to get it open, but if they took too long, more militia could arrive and hit the Marines from behind.

He gestured for Baker to step to one side and put his mouth close to his ear so he could murmur softly without being overheard. “Getting that door open could be difficult, what you think?”

He nodded. “It looks pretty tough, but why do we need to get it open?”

“To release the Englishwoman.”

“I get that, Sir, but like I said, why do we need to get the door open?”

“How else can we do it?”

He grinned. “Leave it to me, Sir. You ready?”

“Do it.”

He went back to the door, raised his two mighty fists and smashed them through the lattice. Unlike the door, they were flimsy, designed for ornamentation and to give ventilation more than security, and his fists went straight through. Screams erupted from the women as he ripped away the remainder of the wooden lattice.

Crawford was by his side, and he looked at the girl. “Alice, it’s me. Quickly, we’re getting you out of here.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Harry? Thank God.”

She sprinted for the door, and he helped lift her through the gap where the lattice had been.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, yes. What do we do now?”

He explained that the rest of the men were outside the Citadel, and they had to lower the drawbridge so they could get inside before reinforcements arrived. “We need to hurry. We have to find a way to lower it.”

He took her hand, and they raced silently through the empty passages. It was apparent that most of the occupants of the Citadel were up on the wall, either preparing to blast the Marines out of existence, or in the case of the civilians, to watch the slaughter.

As they got closer, they heard renewed bursts of musket fire, and he had no way of knowing if more defenders had arrived from outside. Nothing they could do about it now, and another musket volley crashed out. Disciplined, so it had to be his men. They were still firing, no sign of a disorganized panic to fight off a rush of men from the outside.

More muskets fired, this time a ragged fusillade from the parapet, and a cloud of smoke temporarily blanketed the open area at the side of the drawbridge where he’d seen a tiny entrance. It had to lead to where he expected to find the mechanism that raised and lowered the bridge. The musket smoke gave them the opportunity to get across without being spotted, and he seized the moment.

“Now.”

They raced across the open space and squeezed into the narrow entrance, shoulders scraping stone. Darkness swallowed them, and the air inside smelled of mold and old iron. Alice had followed him, and Baker brought up the rear, cursing softly as his wide shoulders almost made it impossible to squeeze through, but he struggled and eventually forced himself inside.

They were in a passage that angled upward slightly, then opened into a cramped chamber with a winch housing secured to the stonework. A thick linked chain, coated with heavy grease, ran to the outside.

The mechanism was secured by a locking pin, a bar as thick as a man’s wrist, driven through an iron bracket. It looked simple enough. Remove the pin, release the winch, and let the drawbridge drop. But if it dropped too fast, it could splinter, or snap the chain, or jam. It would have to be lowered rather than suddenly dropped.

They explored the mechanism and Alice spotted a handwheel. “They may have used this to ease the tension and lower it slowly.”

He examined it. It was crude, but it looked workable. Baker watched over his shoulder. “Do you know how to work this thing? If we get it wrong, they’ll trap our men outside.”

“I think I know enough. It doesn’t look too complicated.”

He tested the handwheel. It resisted, then shifted slightly, and the bridge moved perhaps an inch. The chain tightened, and he pointed to the locking pin. “Help me remove it.”

Baker gripped the bar and pulled. It didn’t budge. “Damn it,” Baker muttered, “We need to pull harder.”

They pulled harder, and the pin shifted a fraction. Then it struck again. Outside, muskets roared again. The chamber vibrated faintly with the percussion of gunfire and men’s shouts. Above their heads, boots stomped on the parapet. More men arriving to bolster the defenses.

They were out of time. He drew his sword and wedged the blade beneath the pin, using it as a lever to ease the pressure from the massive weight of the bridge. Baker pulled, jaw clenched, and the pin came free with a sudden jerk.

They both nearly fell backward as the chain groaned. He pulled out his damaged sword and grabbed the handwheel.

“Ease it down slowly.”

They turned the wheel and felt the tension lessen a fraction, then the chain began to run slowly. Outside, wood creaked. The drawbridge was lowering, but now there was a new sound. Shouts from inside the fortress. Footsteps pounded toward the chamber, and his eyes met Baker’s. They had only moments left.

“Keep turning.”

Baker used his brute strength to crank the wheel, sweat trickling down his still bruised face. The chain ran faster, and the drawbridge dropped another foot, then another. The firing outside intensified.

Crawford raised his sword, drew his pistol, and turned toward the doorway as footsteps thundered closer. If anyone came through that door, he’d stop them. They were almost there, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to prevent them lowering the drawbridge to give access to his Marines.

Almost there, and he held the pistol steady. Baker continued to crank, the chain clattered, and the drawbridge continued to descend. A moment later it stopped, fully down, and he heard a cheer from his men who’d been waiting for this moment and were on the way.

They were just in time. He climbed onto the drawbridge in time to meet the Marines with Lance-Corporal Blythe in the lead. Their boots pounded on the thick timbers of the bridge, and scarcely two hundred yards away, a savage horde of armed men was rushing toward them.

They’d almost made it across, and he shouted for Baker to start raising the drawbridge. A moment later he called back. “I can’t. The damn thing is stuck!”

Chapter Twelve

He didn’t know how they made it under fire and without taking casualties, but suddenly they’d arrived. One moment the drawbridge had been a cliff face of wood and iron, and the next it was down.

They surged forward, muskets clutched tight, but behind them a mass of militia was running toward the newly lowered drawbridge to attack from the rear. And above them, the parapet erupted in shouting as men shouted orders and boots pounded above them, the defenders running to meet the newly arrived Marines.

The flood of militia began rushing toward the bridge, and more men poured from the parapet, intending to deal with the sudden shock of an enemy force inside their stronghold.

He shouted, “Baker, raise it. You have to raise the bridge to stop them reaching us.”

Two Marines joined him and wrenched at the mechanism, straining with all their might, but nothing happened. For one moment it looked like they might have freed it as the drawbridge groaned and shifted an inch. Then it jammed again, and no amount of muscle would move it.

It was seized. The chain was caught, and the bridge wouldn’t rise to stop the savage horde from storming across. If they couldn’t raise it, they were wide open, and the large, screaming mob of armed men would overwhelm them in seconds. They’d be crushed.

He glanced out from the narrow doorway, and another group was running toward them, brandishing every kind of weapon and shouting for their blood.

Death was seconds away. Unless they did something. He did the only thing he could do.

“Form up,” he roared. Training took over and they snapped into position, “Ten men facing outward and ten facing inward.”

Men pivoted, backs nearly touching, wheeling into two ranks in seconds. They made a disciplined wedge of redcoats at the mouth of the Citadel, determined to hold the bridge, yet every man knew it was a fantasy. They didn’t stand a chance.

He moved along the line, making sure they were ready. “Load!”

They moved like automatons. Powder, ball, ramrod, wadding pushed into the barrels, and powder into the pan, ready for the flint to strike. Their motions were practiced, steady. But not enough. Outside, the first of the militia ran onto the bridge. Inside, they were massing, bunching into a thick knot of men, preparing to surge.

“Front rank, prepare to fire,” he snapped. Muskets leveled. Flints cocked.

“Fire.”

The volley cracked like thunder, throwing out smoke and ball. The first men on the drawbridge fell, tumbling over one another. A few dropped their muskets and crawled away, shrieking in agony.

He didn’t waste time before giving the next order.

“Rear rank, fire!”

The volley crashed out toward the men bunched inside the Citadel, and several fell.

“Reload.”

His Marines moved with perfect rhythm. The ten men facing outward fired, and the ten facing inward fired.

“Reload.”

Volley after volley slammed into the men trying to rush them and more went down, although they were being more careful, searching for cover or some prone to escape the merciless fire. But not all. Several men, braver than the others, rushed forward into a new volley and three went down hard.

It was working, but it couldn’t last. Whoever was giving the orders for those idiotic, head-on attacks would soon realize he had to try something else. Or his men would kill him to prevent him from sending them to their deaths.

So far, his men had done everything he could’ve asked of them, but rigid discipline and accurate shooting wouldn’t be anything like enough. There were too many. He saw more militia racing toward the bridge, stepping over bodies, driven forward by shouting men behind them.

Inside, more defenders had gathered, massing for an attack. Forming a human wave preparing to throw themselves at the enemy and prevail by sheer force of numbers. When it came, they’d rush them and tear them apart.

His mind raced. The mission was collapsing into a desperate fight for survival, and there was no way out. Then a voice cut through the noise.

“Harry.”

He turned. Alice appeared from the drawbridge chamber, where he’d assumed she’d gone to take cover. He’d assumed wrong. Her face was streaked with sweat and grime, and her eyes were bright with urgency.

“I’ve been searching the drawbridge chamber,” she shouted over the crash of another volley, “I found a passage that leads deeper into the Citadel.”

He stared at her for a split second. “A passage?”

“It’s a way out,” she insisted, “If you stay here, you’ll all be killed. We can use this passage to get deeper into the Citadel and at least give us some time.”

He looked back at the two fronts of battle. The enemy outside was regrouping once again for another rush. The enemy inside was also readying for a renewed attack.

He had no choice. “Prepare a final volley!”

His men understood and raised their muskets once again.

“Outward line, fire.”

The drawbridge erupted again. Smoke rolled across the planks. More militia fell.

“Inward line,” Crawford shouted, “Fire.”

A second volley crashed out, cutting down the front men and forcing the rest to duck away.

“Retreat into the chamber. Move!”

They broke formation and ran, boots pounding on stone, rushing into the drawbridge chamber. He followed last, sword drawn, pistol ready. Except there was one man missing. Father Connolly paused to deal with a militiaman, quicker than the others who was wielding a huge, two-handed sword. The priest stood before him, musket with bayonet fixed ready to parry the long blade.

Crawford started forward to help the older man who was in imminent danger of being killed. His intention was to attack the man with the sword, but Connolly didn’t need any help. Despite his advancing years, he wielded the musket with astonishing skill, tangled the blade of the bayonet with that of the two-hander, and seemed to perform some feat of swordsmanship that didn’t seem possible.

He twisted the bayonet, flipped it left, flipped it right, and jerked it forward and back. The maneuver tore the sword out of the man’s grasp, and Connolly stepped back to give himself space. He then took a step forward, this time with the bayonet pointed toward the man’s belly. He pushed hard and it went deep, so deep the man made an unearthly scream as his entrails spilled out in front of him, and he fell on his back. The priest snatched the blade out of his belly and ran to join Crawford, who’d just witnessed an awesome display of fighting technique.

They slammed through the opening into the drawbridge chamber, and Alice shouted, “This way!”

They ran into a passage that was low and cramped. It smelled of damp stone, mold, and something worse. Ordure, the stench of human beings packed in together, trapped with the products of their bodies.

They kept running, and behind them, the defenders poured into the chamber with triumphant shouts. They’d found the entrance to the passage, but it was so narrow it forced them into a single straggling line that bought the beleaguered Marines some breathing space.

They ran deeper into the Citadel. The passage curved and then straightened. Rough stone walls pressed even closer, and the air grew hotter, fouler. They reached a row of locked cells set into the stone, iron bars across small openings. Faces pressed behind them.

Men and women, nearly naked. Skin stretched tight over bone, eyes dull with hunger and despair. Some stared out without comprehension. Others reached toward them with shaking hands.

A feeling of hot anger surged through him, and his throat tightened. They were slaves held like cattle, awaiting purchase and onward shipment, probably across the Atlantic. Human beings chained and packed in cramped, dark holes, awaiting either a lifetime of slavery on the plantations, or death by drowning should the ship founder.

He was ordering the men to locate the keys to get the doors open and free them, when a faint voice came from one of the cells.

“Sir.”

He froze.

“Over here, it’s me.”

He peered through the bars. The man’s face was smeared with grime, but his eyes were still fierce and alive. “Kofi!”

He grinned through the bars. “Sir, I can’t believe you’re here, and neither could I believe it when they didn’t hang me. But it’s only postponed, most of these cells hold captives waiting to be sold. Then they will go across the Atlantic.” He paused, “This cell is the condemned cell.”

While he waited for the men to find the keys, he looked inside. It was packed with men, twenty of them crammed into a space eight feet by eight feet. Pressed together so tightly they could barely move. Sweat glistened on dark skin. Most looked half dead.

Baker appeared with the key and began to unlock the door, but Crawford turned when he heard a noise. Footsteps, getting closer, and then they came into view, racing along the passage, heading toward them, the leading men brandishing machetes. A huge crowd surged behind them, and when they realized they’d found the impudent attackers, they whooped and screeched bloodcurdling cries.

Blythe appeared at Crawford’s side, his eyes wide. “Sir, they’re coming.”

“Did you find the rest of the keys?”

Alice stepped forward and held up a ring “Here.”

He seized them and passed them to Blythe. “Get the cells open, all of them.”

One by one the doors opened, freeing the people, but it was touch and go whether they’d make it before the vengeful horde was on them. As the doors opened, the prisoners hesitated, as if they couldn’t believe what was happening. Hesitation turned to certainty and joy, and they began pouring out. The trickle became a rush as more and more bodies flooded into the passage, staggering, coughing.

The men in Kofi’s condemned cell surged out and clustered around him, almost falling over one another in their desperation to be free.

Crawford glanced at the onrushing men and knew they couldn’t hold them. He also knew there was nowhere else to run, but Kofi grabbed his arm. “Leave it to us.”

They were very close, scores more than before, eagerly anticipating the blood of the Marines soaking into the floor. What could twenty or so men do against their vastly bigger numbers. Perhaps not much, but they didn’t expect that what waited for them was more than just a handful of Marines.

Kofi shouted in his own language, and the prisoners turned toward him. Crawford couldn’t make out the words, but he understood the message. If they didn’t fight now, their captors would lock them back in these cells. Send them across the Atlantic for lives of slow death.

The men from the condemned cell would end up on the gallows. Kofi pointed down the passage at the approaching militia, and he shouted a single word. One word was enough to ignite their simmering rage, and something snapped in them.

Hands grabbed at loose stones. Lengths of lumber lying on the floor, and rusty and abandoned chains. A woman stooped and picked up a heavy iron manacle, gripping it like a club. They blocked the passage, forcing the militia to stop when they reached them. The first man screamed at them to get out of the way. They didn’t.

Suddenly, the narrow corridor became a slaughterhouse. The first militia wielded their machetes, but although their blades tore into three or four of the freed prisoners, the rest pressed forward, and a horde of enraged, desperate men and women gave them no quarter.

The passage was filled with screams, the meaty sounds of wood, stone, and steel smashing into skulls. They crawled with their bare hands, pulling their tormentors toward them for others to beat them bloody and beat them some more. Bodies fell, and it became a rout as half the militia retreated in panic, backing away from the terrible, bloody fate awaiting them if they remained.

They left the other half broken and dying on the stone floor. Crawford stared at what they’d done, at the raw power of desperation. Then his training returned.

“We have to move,” he shouted.

Baker grabbed his arm. “Sir, where do we go?”

“We go on, deeper into the Citadel. We’re not done here.”

They forced a path through the chaos, followed by the prisoners, now armed with muskets, bayonets, and machetes dropped by dead defenders. They pushed along the passage, going deeper into the Citadel until the floor began to slope upward, and they came to a door that led out into the open.

More militia were outside, and they charged into them. He’d expected the freed prisoners to hesitate, God only knew they’d suffered enough, but they didn’t wait. Kofi shouted again, his voice fierce, and they surged forward, a vengeful, tidal wave of humanity.

The beleaguered defenders tried to stem the tide, and shots cracked out. Men fell, but still they came, firing captured muskets and charging with their clubs and iron. The Marines fought alongside them, gradually pushing the defenders back until the last man had run.

Crawford shouted. “With me, we’re going in.”

A robed man wielding a huge, two-headed axe suddenly charged out of a side door, heading straight for him. He still had his sword in his hand, blade bloodied, and he instinctively parried, knowing that huge, heavy weapon would beat down his much lighter blade. Suddenly, a figure rushed forward. Father Connolly, wielding the heavy two-handed sword he’d acquired during the fighting, and it was at least a match for the axe.

The two men fought, trading blows, and the priest almost failed to avoid a swinging, scything blow that would’ve taken his head off. He didn’t miss it entirely. The edge of the blade struck a mighty blow as it whistled past, and for a moment he stumbled and almost fell.

He tried again, stood over him, lips stretched into a triumphant smile as he raised the axe high to deliver the coup de grace. Connolly dropped to one knee and thrust his sword forward, pushed it into his belly, and kept pushing as a fountain of blood spurted out on the ground.

At first, it seemed like he was immortal, couldn’t be killed. The triumphant smile remained in place, so he pushed harder and harder until suddenly, there was no more resistance, and he knew the blade had exited behind him. It was then he realized the reason the smile remained in place was because he’d frozen in shock when the blade first went in. Slowly, he fell backward, dropped the axe, and the priest withdrew the blade before his body hit the ground.

He nodded his thanks and surveyed the scene. The way ahead was clear, the last of the militia scattering, and he shouted, “Keep moving. We’re going in to finish this.”

They surged across the open ground, dodging desultory musket fire from a few defenders trying to rally at the edge. Bodies lay everywhere. Blood slicked stone. There shooting was panicked and lacked accuracy, and none of the Marines were hit.

Almost out of nowhere more defenders poured out into the open and attacked them head on. The fighting was bloody, chaotic, and they were outnumbered. It was also touch and go, but everything changed when more prisoners spilled out into the open, intent on revenge.

The militia faltered, overwhelmed the fury of those they’d held in the cells awaiting sale to the slave traders. Crawford led his Marines to fight side by side with the freed prisoners, pushing to the front, sword flashing.

All around him, men and women who’d been kept chained in darkness only minutes before were fighting with everything they had, screaming for vengeance against their former captors. Crawford reached a flight of stone steps that led up to the top of the Citadel and looked out to sea. There was no sign of the fleet.

* * *

He couldn’t believe what was happening. Not inside his impregnable fortress, in the heart of Bissau. He’d been listening to the ordered crack of disciplined volleys. His men didn’t fire with discipline volleys, their firing was wilder, more erratic. Then there was something else. A roar. A chaos of screams, and more musket fire.

He stood in the inner chamber of his quarters, a vaulted room of heavy stone and carved wood, its doors bolted. Tapestries hung on the walls, rich and deep in color. Jeweled blades and polished muskets adorned racks.

Forty men stood around him. His personal guard. Elite troops, every man hand-picked, well fed, drilled, and sworn to defend him to the death. Their uniforms were cleaner than the militia. Their muskets were of the best quality and well maintained. Each man wore a curved sword at his hip and a dagger in his sash.

They were silent. Waiting. Across the chamber, Mohammed Hassan stood beside a narrow window slit, peering into the smoke-filled courtyard below. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Red-coated Royal Marines, fighting alongside a horde of freed prisoners from the cells below. Fighting, and winning. Most of fortress defenders were melting away. A few were still fighting, but many were stretched out on the ground, hacked to pieces.

He felt a tremor of fear and glanced behind him to check that his four bodyguards hadn’t run. He was reassured. They were still there. The four, big, brutal killers who’d broken into the merchant’s house in Freetown and butchered a man with machetes while his young wife watched.

After they fled to Guinea, he’d been more than satisfied to employ them to protect him. They were hardened men, broad-shouldered, scarred, well used to violence. He looked at the Almamy, resting in his carved chair, almost like a throne. His jeweled robes glittered even in the dim light, and rings flashed on every finger. His beard was oiled and braided. Gold hung at his neck.

So far, he had no idea of how bad things looked, but he’d soon find out. The sounds of fighting were getting closer. Hassan stared back down into the courtyard, and he wasn’t encouraged. They’d be there in minutes. He continued to look out, searching for any sign that things may not be as bad as they looked. That maybe reinforcements were even now rushing into the Citadel.

He swung around when a voice barked a single word. “Report.”

He didn’t turn right away. He was watching more half-naked men and women pouring into the courtyard, all armed with muskets, clubs, and iron bars. Freed prisoners, and they’d suffered terrible treatment at the hands of the slavers. He was under no illusions. If they got their hands on men like him, it would be a bloodbath.

He swallowed as he turned to reply. “Mighty One, the outer defenders are falling back.”

The huge man’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible.”

“The English Marines have crossed the drawbridge and released the prisoners, who have joined the attack.”

He rose heavily to his feet and moved toward the window. Pressed one eye to the slit and recoiled. “Where are my men?”

“Some are dead, and some ran.” He watched the last of the defenders overwhelmed by sheer numbers of enraged prisoners, who set about butchering them with machetes. Bodies lay strewn along the stone.

“Those men who ran will be punished,” the Almamy growled.

Hassan lowered his voice. “Mighty one, there is a danger.”

He turned sharply. “A danger?”

“A danger that they may overrun the entire fortress.”

The ruler of Bissau shook his head. “No fortress of mine will fall to a rabble.”

Hassan met his gaze steadily. “Of course, of course, but if anything does go wrong, they will not treat you as a ruler. You would be taken prisoner. Perhaps put on trial, perhaps even hanged from the gallows. You know the punishment they have decreed for those who pursue the slave trade. They will not show mercy.”

Hassan leaned closer.

The Almamy’s eyes flicked back to the window as another volley of gunfire echoed around the walls. He saw one of his men cut down by a volley of musket fire, and a group of prisoners rushed forward to hack the survivors into pieces.

He exhaled slowly. “Are you suggesting that I abandon my fortress?”

Hassan chose his words with care. “No, Mighty One, but if there is a temporary setback, we should ensure your safety. If the fortress holds, we can return. If it falls, you live to rebuild your army and take it back.”

The huge man hesitated, considering the danger, still unable to comprehend this was happening.

Hassan pressed the advantage. “You told me of a servant’s staircase that leads down to the kitchens, and from there a long staircase that leads to the stables outside the fortress. We can saddle the horses and escape.”

He hesitated. This could not be happening. He’d always been the predator. Never the prey. But the noise from outside couldn’t be ignored, and it was getting closer.

He made his decision. “It would be wise to be certain.”

Hassan bowed slightly. “As you say. Perhaps it would be wise to order your personal guard to cover your exit.”

He nodded and turned to the captain of his elite troops. “You will hold the invaders at all costs.”

He bowed deeply. “We will die before they get past us,” he said.

“I expect nothing less,” the Almamy grunted.

The forty elite guards made preparations at once. Muskets were checked. Swords drawn, and they formed up inside the chamber doors. Then they marched out to the antechamber, ready to kill any man who made it that far.

Hassan watched them go. Forty disciplined men would buy them time, and time was all they needed. When the doors closed behind them, only Hassan, his four bodyguards, and the Almamy remained. The ruler gestured toward a tapestry at the far end of the chamber.

Behind it lay a narrow door. At a gesture from Hassan, one of his men pulled it aside. A tight spiral staircase descended into darkness. The Almamy gathered his robes, walked to the top of the staircase and began to descend, grumbling at the indignity of having to turn sideways and squeeze through the narrow gap.

Hassan and his men followed close behind. The staircase was narrow, barely wide enough for a single man of normal build, and not for a man as bulky as the ruler. The stone steps were worn smooth by years of quiet use, and the air grew cooler as they descended.

Above, the sound of renewed battle echoed around them as the elite guard joined the fight. They heard shots, shouting, steel on steel.

Hassan didn’t look back. He knew men of the elite guard would hold back the savage horde and buy time, but nothing more. They emerged into the rear of the kitchens. They were empty because the servants had fled. Pots lay overturned, and fires burned unattended beneath iron cauldrons. The smell of spicy stew mingled with the smoke.

They hustled the Almamy through a rear door into a tiny courtyard and crossed to another door. It gave access to the long, spiral staircase that went down to the stables outside the fortress, built into the base of the wall. They descended the long staircase until they reached the stables, and chaos reigned even there. Stable hands were shouting, and horses stamped and tossed their heads nervously at the smoke and the sound of gunfire.

One of Hassan’s men seized a bridle and began saddling a horse. Another pulled open a stall and dragged out a second animal.

The Almamy panted slightly, sweat beading on his brow. “Faster,” he demanded.

Hassan looked out across the town and narrowed his eyes. Some freed prisoners had already broken out from the fortress and were racing toward the town. No doubt looking for loot and for more of their tormentors to kill.

The last horse was saddled, and the Almamy mounted with assistance, robes gathered awkwardly over the saddle. Hassan swung up onto a horse, and his four bodyguards mounted and drew their blades.

The gate from the stable yard exited to a narrow track that led into the town. From there, they would find a route into open countryside where they would find somewhere to hide. “We need to go now,” he shouted.

They spurred their horses forward, leaving the battle for the fortress behind them. Before they reached the town, they saw a mass of men moving in. Militia, hundreds of them, rushing to fight off the attack. Perhaps escape wouldn’t be necessary.

* * *

The Citadel was theirs. Taken by force of will and the sheer desperation of the freed prisoners. Men and women who would rather spill their blood than be locked in darkness again. But it was not a total victory. When the smoke cleared after the last militia had fled, he realized the important targets had vanished.

There was no sign of the ruler of Bissau. No sign of Mohammed Hassan. And no sign of the four murderers who’d taken up employment as Hassan’s bodyguards. He led his men deeper into the fortress, driven by the grim certainty they had to be hiding in the inner chambers.

They pushed forward and failed to find the quarry, but they did find forty heavily armed men. Better dressed than the usual rabble guarding the fortress. There was no question, they’d run into the ruler’s elite personal guard who’d remained behind to cover his retreat.

They were in a broad chamber adorned with tapestries hung on the walls, alongside weapons racks bristling with swords and spears. They waited in disciplined ranks, muskets held low, blades at their hips, calm and murderous.

He halted the Marines at the doorway, and the freed prisoners waited further back. These men had not run like the militia. They’d be skilled fighters, and the fact they hadn’t run told him they’d put up a hard fight. To the death. Too bad, they had to get past them. He lifted his sword.

“Forward!”

They rushed into the gaudy chamber, and the fight exploded with savage intensity. Steel clashed against steel, and muskets blasted at close range. The air filled with the acrid odor of burnt powder and the screams of the wounded and dying.

He pushed forward in the center, leading by example, the duty of every British officer in Her Majesty’s service. His sword moved like lightning, cutting and thrusting, parrying and riposting. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, the pain from his burns forgotten. Foremost in his mind was the grim certainty that every man he struck down was a step closer to victory.

A man lunged at him with a curved sword. He parried, stepped inside his reach, and drove his blade through his chest. Another came at him from the side. He twisted, slashed across his forearm, then slammed his fist into the man’s face. Bone cracked, leaving the man temporarily stunned which gave him the opening for the finishing thrust. He squealed in agony as the blade punched into his belly.

Crawford cut and punched his way through the enemy ranks, carving a path for the rest of his men to follow. His sword was an extension of his arm, and his fist the answer when there was no room to swing steel.

Two men closed on him at once. One tried to thrust his blade aside while the other reached for his throat. He pivoted hard, drove a shoulder into the nearest man, and punched the other in the mouth so hard that broken teeth scattered across the floor like discarded pearls. He recoiled in shock, and Crawford seized the moment and slashed deep into the second man’s chest.

Blood spouted over the floor, and he fell. He didn’t stop. The storm was raging around him. Father Connolly fought on his right side, wielding the two-handed sword like a madman. The priest’s cassock was torn, his face streaked with other men’s blood mixed with his sweat, but his eyes burned with ferocious purpose. Each mighty swing of the heavy blade drove them back, and if he was too slow, cleaving through bone.

On the left side, Baker fought like a demon with the bayonet fixed to his musket. He jabbed and feinted, using the long steel blade to hold his enemies back, then stepping forward when they wavered and plunging the sharpened steel into their bellies. His movements were quick and efficient, determined and ferocious. No longer the bullying brute Crawford had once known. He was a fighting man. A Royal Marine.

Blythe led the rest of the Marines, maintaining discipline even inside the chaos, forging deeper into the enemy. Behind them, freed prisoners pressed forward, using clubs and stolen machetes to attack with desperate fury. Yet still the elite guard didn’t break.

They fought hard, they fought expertly, and they fought well. Time blurred into a sequence of screams and blood. Crawford’s right arm grew heavy, and his knuckles were split and bleeding. His breath rasped in his chest, and at last he was reminded of the burns where sweat had soaked through the bandages.

He kept pushing forward. Step by bloody step, hacking, slashing, punching, his flanks protected by Corporal Baker and Father Connolly. The three men were battered and bloodied but fighting furiously.

Most of the ruler’s personal guard fell, but the last man standing wasn’t done. He held up a curved sword, stepped forward, and tried to drive his blade into Crawford’s side. He caught it on his blade and forced the man back. He tripped and stumbled, leaving him wide open to Crawford’s counterstroke that drove into his throat.

Silence descended on the chamber, broken only by ragged breathing, and the clink of metal as men readied their weapons for the next action. It didn’t happen. Crawford stood in the center of the chamber, his sword lowered but ready. Baker leaned on his musket, the bayonet stained dark. Connolly’s two-handed sword rested on the floor as the elderly priest steadied himself.

Lance-Corporal Blythe looked around, scanning for more threats. There were none, and for a moment it felt like victory. Until Crawford went to the narrow window slit, looked outside and realized they had yet to achieve a final victory.

A horde of militia had just crested the hill beyond the town and men were pouring toward them. Not a few dozen. Two hundred at least, maybe three hundred. They would’ve been militia stationed in the outlying areas, and when they learned of the attack, they came running, muskets in hand, blades flashing.

He considered the situation, and it wasn’t good. They were on their own. The prisoners they’d freed were scattering toward the town, exhilarated and exhausted. Some looting, some fleeing, some still killing. Their bloodlust was up, and he considered if any people were entitled to bloodlust, it was them.

We can’t hold against the vast numbers of militia. We have to find a solution. The operation was timed to coincide with the arrival of the fleet, but where is the fleet? Where’s Ashcombe?

He looked out to sea beyond the harbor, and there was no sign of British sails. No thunder of naval guns.

If they don’t arrive soon, the militia will swarm all over us, the bloody fight will resume, and it’ll only end when every man in my detachment is dead. Everything we’ve done, all the blood we’ve spilled has been for nothing.

It was worse. The men they’d wanted dead more than anything, had gone. The Almamy, the bloated despot responsible for the enslavement of so many, Mohammed Hassan, the ship’s captain who’d been prominent in running the trade, and the four men who’d murdered Alice Featherstone’s husband, all gone. All these men, any of whom could’ve been guilty of the murder of his brother, vanished. Out of reach.

Until he saw movement below the fortress wall where there were stables. Men were saddling horses. One, huge and fat, dressed in glittering robes. Another man, lean and sharp. Hassan, followed by four burly men his four bodyguards. The men who’d murdered Alice’s husband.

He watched them mount, watched them gather their reins, and watched them ride along a narrow lane that led away from the fortress toward the town.

He pulled back from the slit, cold with rage. “They’re getting away. We must stop them.”

Blythe stared. “Who’s getting away, Sir?”

“Hassan,” Crawford snapped, “and the Almamy. And the men who murdered Mrs. Featherstone’s husband.”

She rushed forward from the rear of the chamber, stepped over the bodies of the elite guard, reached the window slit, and peered out. She looked back at him, her face filled with fury.

“I can’t believe they’re getting away,” she shouted, “Is there nothing we can do to stop them?”

Crawford forced himself to think. His Marines were exhausted and low on powder and ball. In addition, a savage horde was about to descend on them from outside the fortress. He looked at again to check the progress. They were closer.

“We can’t go after them, not yet. The prisoners are fighting their way toward the town, but the moment we step outside we’ll have another fight on our hands.”

Father Connolly looked up. “Perhaps there is a way out. They must’ve used another way to get down to the stables.”

Of course!

“Search this floor, there must be an exit that leads down there.”

Baker quickly found a narrow staircase hidden behind a tapestry. “I think this might be it, Sir.”

“It has to be. Quick, men, there may still be time to catch up with them. Follow me.”

They raced down the narrow, winding stone steps and emerged in a kitchen. Smoke from abandoned stoves drifted through the room lazily. Pots lay overturned. Food was spilled across the floor, and on the other side they spotted a door swinging open. They rushed through and found themselves in a small open space with a door opposite that led into the stables. All they needed was to find horses, and they could go after them.

They found saddles. They found loose bridles. They found trampled straw and fresh dung, but no horses. They were gone, and the men they wanted more than anything to bring to the gallows were getting further away with every second that passed.

He fought back his fury and considered the immediate problem. The battle wasn’t over. Hundreds of militia were still coming, and Ashcombe’s ships has failed to arrive. He felt a heavy weight pressing down on him. They’d been within a whisker of success, only to see success sliding through their fingers.

Blythe was staring out to sea, and he suddenly shouted, “Sail ho! They’ve arrived.”

He followed his gaze, and there was no question. A dozen warships of the Royal Navy had come into sight, all sails set, advancing toward the harbor like a wall of white, billowing canvas, and dark wood. Frigates and sloops, their gun ports open, guns run out.

The fleet would destroy the slave vessels while they were at anchor. He scanned the unguarded entrance. The defensive guns were still unmanned, and the Royal Navy could arrive unchallenged and carry out the planned, systematic destruction.

Destroy the slave ships, and then sanitize the town of every man known to be involved in the evil trade in human lives. Naval warships would disgorge Marines to come ashore and carry out the sweep. The ruler of Bissau had escaped, but he’d have no men to serve him. Hassan and his bodyguards would have no ship, and that meant no income. His mind filled with renewed purpose, and he seized Baker by the arm.

“I need a half-dozen men. Now.”

The Corporal straightened. “Sir?”

“We’ll find horses in the town and go after them. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m not letting them get away.”

His eyes flared with grim satisfaction. “Yes, Sir.”

Crawford looked at Blythe. “Take the rest of the men and go down to the harbor to cover the arrival of our ships. Keep the militia off the waterfront.”

Blythe saluted. “Aye, Sir.”

Crawford looked around the chamber at the exhausted Marines, at Connolly holding his great sword, at Kofi and at Alice. The battle was not over, and he was determined to finish it. “Move out!”

He led them into the town. Ahead, the Royal Navy’s guns hammered the harbor. The air shuddered with each broadside. Smoke rolled inland in gray sheets, carrying the scent of burning timber and pitch. Out on the water, slave ships were dying, their masts cracking and their rigging collapsing in flames.

Hassan and the other men had disappeared into the twisting belly of Bissau, and the Marines went after them. Kofi followed at the rear with Alice, and Father Connolly trailed in the rear. They suddenly came upon a large, ornate house, whitewashed and trimmed with carved wood, fronted by a courtyard.

A balcony ran along the upper floor, supported by columns. Decorative lanterns hung beside the double doors. Wrought iron gates sealed the entrance, their bars ending in sharp points. The house of a wealthy man. The kind of man who would keep horses stabled at the rear. The kind of man who’d grown rich trafficking in human lives.

“Slave money,” Baker grunted.

Crawford nodded once. “No question. There’s bound to be stables at the back,” he said, “We’re sure to find the horses we need.”

The double gates that gave entry to the grounds were locked. Crawford went straight to the iron latch. The lock was heavy, meant to deter thieves and vagabonds. He glanced at Blythe. “Break it open.”

He and another Marine stepped forward and used their muskets like clubs. Wood splintered. Iron groaned, and within minutes the lock gave way. They shoved the gates inward and entered the courtyard.

An expensively dressed man burst out of the house, shouting, his face red with outrage. He wore a fine coat with gold trim, trousers of good cloth, and polished boots. Behind him came two more, both armed with blunderbusses. Thick barreled weapons designed to scatter shot into a crowd at close range.

“Get off my property,” the wealthy man bellowed, “Now! Or I will…”

Crawford lifted one hand sharply. His Marines brought their muskets up, ready. His voice was loud.

“Fire over their heads.”

A volley cracked out, chipping masonry from the balcony above. They all ducked, swung around and rushed inside, slamming the front door firmly shut.

He wasn’t interested in them. “To the rear,” he snapped, “Find the stables.”

They raced around the house into a cobbled yard behind it. Sure enough, in front of them lay a substantial stable block. A long low building of stone and timber. He went forward and yanked the doors open.

Inside were several horses. Not the tired nags of ordinary traders. These were superb Arab stallions. Tall and proud, coats gleaming even in the dim stable light. Their heads lifted as they entered, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar intrusion.

He pointed. “Take them all. Saddle up fast.”

Leather tack hung on pegs, and saddles were stacked in a corner. They worked quickly. One horse more skittish than the others snickered and whinnied. Kofi moved at once, steadying the stallion, speaking softly into its ear, and the horse calmed.

There were more than enough horses to go round, and Alice strapped a girth with fierce efficiency. Within minutes they were mounted. They clattered out of the stable yard and into the street, hooves ringing on stone.

They followed the direction they’d seen them riding, and scanned every street they passed, searching for any sign of their quarry. He was surprised they weren’t fleeing toward open country, but deep into town. Into the roughest quarter of Bissau. A warren of dingy bars, foul alleys, and brothels whose doors never truly closed. The kind of place where men disappeared in smoke and stink and woke without memory, if they were lucky enough to wake at all.

Convinced they couldn’t be far ahead in this dark shadow world, he slowed them to a walk and warned them to keep their eyes peeled. They rode carefully, heads turning, scanning each street.

The place was a maze. Dark, garbage-covered alleys, with wary men watching from doorways. Women with tired eyes leaned against walls, measuring them with blank calculation. The smell was thick, a mix of sweat, cheap liquor, rotting food, and something worse.

There was no sign of them, and he felt his frustration rising.

Until Baker raised a hand. “Halt.”

They stopped, and the Corporal pointed to the mouth of a narrow lane. “They came this way.” Horse dung. Fresh, still steaming. He eyes narrowed.

He nodded once. “Single file, follow me.”

They rode down the lane with muskets ready, hooves muffled now by damp earth. The walls pressed close. The air was stale. It stank like old urine and rotting flesh. They were halfway along when a musket fired from mere feet away.

The shot missed his head by inches, passing so close he felt the heat of the discharge. Splinters flew from the wall behind him, and his horse reared. He yanked the reins hard to quieten the animal. In the flash of the shot, he’d seen a heavy door swing shut, set into the wall of a single-story stone building.

“We’ve found them.”

They dismounted, and Baker and two more Marines attempted to open the door. The thick oak didn’t budge a fraction. Crawford looked at it closely. They’d constructed it with iron bands across the timbers with huge hinges and locks of even heavier iron. A door built to withstand anything.

Crawford inspected the building, looking for another way in, but there was none. No windows, just featureless stone walls. He looked up, and the roofline looked to be low enough to reach if he could climb up.

He looked at Baker.

“Keep battering at the door. Make them think we’re coming through that way. I’ll climb onto the roof and see if there’s another way in.”

The Corporal nodded. Crawford swung himself up onto the saddle of his horse, using it as a step. He grabbed the roof edge, hauled himself up and rolled onto the top, but it wasn’t the roof. He was on top of a wall, looking down into a courtyard.

The six men were there, along with the six horses. Hassan. The Almamy. And the four murderers, the bodyguards, clustered together, arguing among themselves, their voices sharp and panicked.

One of the bodyguards was snarling at another, clearly furious that the musket shot had been fired too early and it’d missed. They could hear the Marines battering at the door from the street side, each thud echoing through the courtyard like the drumbeat of doom.

At the far end of the yard, another bodyguard wrestled with a rusty bolt on a rear door. It wouldn’t move, no matter how much he cursed and yanked. If he succeeded in getting it open, they’d spill out into an adjacent alley, and once again they’d vanish.

He had no time for finesse. He drew his pistol and dropped into the courtyard. The shock of the landing jarred through his body, but he stayed upright while every head snapped toward him.

Hassan stared, his eyes wide with shock. A split second later he shouted a single word, and one of his bodyguards charged. He came with a curved blade raised, and Crawford fired. The pistol kicked, and the man spun, falling hard after the ball pierced his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Two more surged at him, blades flashing. This time he drew his sword to meet their blades. He parried the first strike, stepped inside the man’s reach, and cut him down with a precise slash across the throat.

The second lunged with his blade aimed at Crawford’s ribs. He pivoted, punched him in the face with his free hand to break the attack, then drove his sword clean through his belly, so he collapsed to the ground, gurgling, spraying blood over the stones.

The fourth bodyguard abandoned the door bolt and drew a huge scimitar, the blade longer than Crawford’s sword and wickedly curved. He charged with a ringing cry, and still off balance from dealing with his previous opponent, he dropped to one knee to avoid the blade slicing into his neck.

He stood next to one of the men he’d dealt with earlier and noticed the weapon in his sash. He snatched it up, pulled back the hammer, and fired from inches away. The ball struck the charging man high in the chest, and the scimitar fell from suddenly numb fingers as he crumpled.

The courtyard had filled with the stink of powder and blood, and now only the two remained. The Almamy, huge and sweating, eyes darting wildly. And Hassan, leaner, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.

The Almamy raised both hands, sweaty palms outward, his jeweled rings flashing.

“Wait. Wait.” He took a step toward him and paused, “Tell me how much you want.”

He stared at him. “What price do you put on justice?”

Behind him, the battering on the front doors became louder.

The panicked, sweating mound of blubber nodded eagerly. “I can give you gold,” he insisted, “Jewels. Land. Ships.”

Crawford thought of the slave cells. Thought of nearly naked prisoners, half dead with hunger and thirst, packed into them. He thought of Kofi chained in the darkness of the ship’s hold. He thought of Alice Featherstone watching her husband hacked to death.

He stepped closer. “What I want is justice.”

His eyes narrowed. “They were just slaves.”

“No, they were men, women, and children. I want justice for them, for those your men murdered, and I want justice for my brother.”

Several feet away, Hassan tensed, like a man about to spring. Crawford saw it and shifted his stance, ready. That moment wood splintered, and the doors had finally cracked.

He was concentrating on the threat from Hassan when he spotted a sudden movement from the ruler of Bissau. A small pistol slid into the fat man’s hand as smoothly as a conjurer’s trick. The Almamy’s eyes hardened, and he fired.

The shot sounded like a hammer blow inside the enclosed courtyard. Crawford felt the impact in his right shoulder, like a hot iron had been driven clean through him. His arm went numb, and his sword dipped, almost falling from his fingers. Pain flooded through him in a sickening wave.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain upright, but Hassan didn’t hesitate to take advantage. He snatched up a dropped machete from the stones and rushed at him, the rusty blade coming around in a glittering arc intended to take off his head.

He reacted on instinct, threw his sword up in a clumsy parry that sent fresh agony through his shoulder, and steel rang as he knocked the blade aside by inches. Hassan wielded the machete and hacked at him again. He tried to respond, but his right arm was almost useless, and each attempt to lift the blade sent fresh agony lancing through him. His grip was weakening, and his vision began to blur.

Hassan’s face was set in a savage triumph. If he didn’t do something fast, he was going to die. He retreated two steps, then another two, boots skidding on stone slick with blood. Hassan came in again, scimitar cutting down toward his chest.

He made the decision in a split second and shifted his sword to his left hand. The movement felt wrong, and the sword suddenly seemed heavier. He parried again, but it was late and unsteady, his blade barely catching the scimitar’s edge.

Hassan grinned, tasting victory. “You’re finished, Englishman.”

He forced himself to breathe through the pain and keep his blade moving, however awkwardly it felt. He parried again, stumbled, and almost went down. Hassan’s machete sliced the air a fraction of an inch from his ribs.

He slashed back in return, a crude, feeble cut. Hassan laughed, harsh and contemptuous, before he came in again. Again, their blades tangled. For an instant they were chest to chest, both straining, steel grinding. Until Crawford pushed with his left arm, twisting hard, using his whole body to force him back into a pool of blood, and they both fell.

Hassan’s grin widened, as he let the scimitar go and his hand slid to his sash. A dagger appeared, short and deadly, and he stabbed for Crawford’s belly. With his sword gone in his right arm almost useless, he had only one weapon left.

His fists. He knocked the dagger thrust aside and drove his fist into Hassan’s face. The punch landed with a wet crack of breaking bone. He rolled away, eyes wide with shock, but Crawford went after him until he was inches away.

This time he fought like a man stripped to the raw truth of survival. He hit Hassan again and again, his left fist smashing into his face, leaving his mouth a ruined, bloody scar. He used everything he had, his forearm, his shoulder, his knee, anything that would damage his opponent.

Hassan tried to fight back, swung the dagger wildly, but he stayed inside the arc, crowding him, smothering the blade, and slammed a fist into his throat. The Arab gagged, faced a curtain of blood, eyes watering, almost closed. He punched him in the temple, putting every last of his strength into the blow. Hassan stumbled and fell to one knee. He seized his hair to hold his head steady and drove another fist into his face. More bone gave. Blood sprayed across the stones, and Hassan tried to speak, tried to beg. At first, only choking sounds came out. His eyes were wide with fear.

“Mercy,” he croaked.

Crawford gave him a cold smile. “I’ll give you the same mercy you gave the people you enslaved, the people you murdered.”

He hit him again and again, until his head lolled, and his body sagged and collapsed. He lay in the dirt like a side of battered meat, blood pooling beneath him. At that moment, the front door crashed open.

They surged into the courtyard, the Marines with muskets raised, bayonets fixed. Kofi burst in behind them, eyes blazing, and he saw Hassan.

“I want him,” he shouted.

Crawford stepped aside, breathing hard, blood running down his right arm. He figured this man had suffered enough to earn the right to finish him.

“You’re welcome.”

Kofi didn’t hesitate. He seized a fallen machete and went to work with a fury that was a mix of madness and the desire for justice for what he and his people had suffered. The blade rose and fell, and the courtyard filled with the sickening sound of steel biting flesh.

The Almamy was still alive, half sprawled against a wall, the discharged pistol in his trembling hand. He saw the Marines. He saw Kofi chopping Hassan into little pieces, and he saw Crawford moving toward him.

“Gold,” he gasped, “My entire fortune if you let me live.”

Crawford paused when he heard another sound. Footsteps, the rush of bodies, and a bunch of freed slaves burst into the courtyard, drawn by the noise, faces wild, eyes smoldering with the memory of their chains. They recognized the Almamy, and they charged.

Once again, Crawford stepped aside. More than anyone, these people were entitled to finish this man. He led his Marines away as the screams echoed off the stone.

Afterword

They moved through the town, heading toward the harbor.

Bissau was burning. The Royal Navy had arrived in full force. A dozen warships loomed offshore, and their guns were doing their work. Slave ships at anchor were being blasted into splinters. Masts toppled. Sails caught fire. The harbor was wreathed in smoke and flame, the water slick with debris.

Marines from the newly arrived ships had rowed ashore and were intercepting slaver crews trying to swim away to escape. Some flailed in the water and were dragged out, coughing and sobbing, only to be bound and marched away.

The work of the detachment was done. He stood them down and found a bollard on the wharf, lowered himself onto it, and sat heavily. His right shoulder throbbed with pain, and he pressed his left hand over the wound to staunch the bleeding.

Father Connolly joined him, still carrying his huge sword. His face was streaked with soot and sweat, but his eyes were strangely calm. Alice arrived and knelt beside Crawford for a moment, her hand hovering near his shoulder as if afraid to touch him. Kofi joined them, blood spattered across his chest and arms.

But not his blood. Hassan’s blood. They looked out across the harbor, watching the destruction of the slave fleet. Burning ships collapsed into themselves and slowly sunk. Two hours later the Galatea arrived and tied up next to the wharf. He fought back a smile when he saw the lawyer, Hardwick, on his hands and knees, swabbing the deck. When he’d served out his time, perhaps he’d think again before he defrauded widows who’d trusted him to take care of their affairs.

Captain Ashcombe walked ashore with his usual brisk stride, eyes sharp, studying the devastation with satisfaction. Crawford rose stiffly and went to meet him, ignoring the protest of pain in his shoulder. He saluted with his left hand.

Ashcombe looked him up and down, then nodded. “Second Lieutenant Crawford, you’ve done damn well. Damn well, indeed.”

“I had good men, Sir. My Marines are the best.”

“No doubt, no doubt. Tell me what happened before we arrived.”

He told him about taking the Citadel, freeing the prisoners, and taking on the elite guard. He also described the grisly end of the ruler of Bissau. Ashcombe listened without interruption. When he’d finished, his expression softened a fraction.

“No doubt you’ll be pleased to get back aboard ship, Second Lieutenant. I’ll report your actions to the Admiralty and recommend they award you a decoration.” He went to protest that the men deserved a decoration more than he did, “I will consider it. In the meantime, is there anything you need?”

Crawford regarded Alice, then looked back at Ashcombe. “Yes, Sir. A few days’ leave when we arrive back at Freetown. I have personal business to attend to.”

“Granted, you can have five days to attend to your business. Then I want you back aboard.”

“I am most grateful, Sir.” He glanced toward Alice, Kofi, and Connolly. “Captain, what about these people? They were vital to the success of our mission, and to express our gratitude it would be a great service if you allowed them to return to Freetown aboard ship.”

Ashcombe considered for several seconds, then returned a quick nod. “Very well. Half the ships will remain here for mopping up operations. We will be ready to sail with the rest of the flotilla on the evening tide.” He fixed Crawford with a calculating look, “I expect to see you aboard two hours before we depart.”

“Aye, Sir.”

They remained by the harbor, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the destruction. Smoke drifted across the water. The cannon fire lessened, replaced by shouted orders and the crack of small arms as Marines hunted fugitives through the streets.

Alice turned to Crawford. “I believe our business is done.” She drew a slow breath, “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

He started to speak, but she put a finger to his lips.

“Harry, when we get back to Freetown, I would like you to call on me from time to time.”

He nodded. “I will call on you every time I get the chance, should you wish it.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “What about you, Harry?”

He looked at her, then out at the harbor to give himself time to frame a reply. “An officer of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines would always defer to a lady.”

THE END

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