The Call of Zulina (26 page)

     Barrels of fresh water—4

     Bread loaves—4

     Buckets of dried fish—3

     Pot of boiled meat—1

     Sacks of fresh vegetables—2

     Pot of boiled beans—1

P
ieter DeGroot shoved the checked-off list into his pocket and pushed the last of the supplies up the tunnel to Antonio. Only then did he rock back on his heels and heave a sigh of relief. Had the fortress not been in a state of absolute pandemonium, it would have been impossible for him to gather such a great store of supplies without raising suspicion. But as it was, no one paid any attention to the kitchen, nor was a guard posted at the storage room where the munitions were kept.

The last time Pieter saw Joseph Winslow, he was heading for his bed, bellowing in pain and anger. Lingongo raged in fury on the grounds outside. She had slipped her passageway bolts free only to discover that the doors had been secured from the inside, locking her out of an entire wing of her own slave fortress! What enraged her even more was the knowledge that slaves walked around inside, unshackled and armed.

Where the English sailors were, Pieter could not begin to guess. But he did know he could not keep up his thievery for long. The kitchen pantry was growing sparse and so was the arms storehouse. Besides, Joseph Winslow had already sent out a desperate call for help to all the slave-holding establishments up and down the African coast. It was only a matter of time before reinforcements and armaments of every kind would flood in and crush the rebellion. The poor wretches in the dungeon would all be slaughtered; he had no doubt of that. But at least they would go down fighting and with their bellies full. He would see to it.

Pieter waited until Antonio, still inside the dungeon, pushed the cover back over the upper opening, and then he made his way down the tunnel. At the bottom, he leaned back in the inky darkness and listened. Silence. He eased the lower door open just wide enough to squeeze through and dropped down to the stone landing.

Immediately, a tongue of fire ripped across his back and sent him reeling to the floor. Stunned and confused, Pieter struggled to his feet. But before he could clear his head, another blow ripped around his legs and he crumbled to his knees. The next lash knocked him flat. This time Pieter didn’t try to get up. He lay still, screaming in agony.

“Put him in irons!”

There was no mistaking the voice. It was Lingongo.

Pieter strained to turn his head in her direction. Lingongo had her eyes fixed squarely on him. They never wavered, not even as she carefully rolled up her whip and tucked it under her arm. Across her face spread a stone-cold smile that offered not one bit of mirth.

Tom Pitts and Henry Taylor rushed toward Pieter and grabbed hold of his arms, but Pieter managed to shove them away. He forced himself upright.

“Stop yer fightin’, you rotter of a traitor!” Tom sneered as he kicked Pieter in the stomach.

Pieter reached out to grab Tom's booted foot, but it spun before his eyes and his arms flailed helplessly in the air. More blows, then everything went dark, and Pieter dropped to the floor.

When Pieter regained his senses, Henry Taylor was lashing him to a hook in the wall. “Henry—” Pieter gasped.

“You gone and done it to yersef,” Henry whispered. “Don’t think I's enjoyin’ this, bindin’ you down like any old slave.”

Henry jerked Pieter's arms back over open wounds, cut clean through to the muscle by Lingongo's whip. Pieter yelped in pain.

“I's bindin’ you, but I won’t chain you, mate,” Henry whispered with a strange gentleness. “That I will not do.”

Between cries and groans of agony, Pieter did his best to mumble his gratitude.

When Henry offered him a drink of water from the jug, Pieter gulped ravenously.

As Henry stepped up to leave, Pieter said, “She was right there waiting for me, Henry.”

“Aye, that she was,” Henry agreed. “Knowed you was in the tunnel, she did.”

“How did she know?” Pieter asked. “Who told her?”

Without a word, Henry picked up the jug and walked to the cell door. But just before he stepped out, he paused and turned back to Pieter. “I’ll tell you this much, mate,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “I’d rather ’ave a anchor tied ’round me neck and be tossed clear to the depths of the deep blue sea than be in yer ’ide, Pieter DeGroot. I sure ’nough would.”

“Who told her?” Pieter asked again.

The door shut. Outside, a key turned in the lock.

Pieter's blood trailed all the way from his prison cell, down the stone hallway, through to the landing, to the tunnel opening where Lingongo had lain in wait. At that very moment, under Lingongo's watchful eye, two slaves worked with hammers and spikes and freshly cut planks, erecting a wall to seal the tunnel opening.

“Make it solid!” Lingongo ordered. “No one or no thing must ever pass through there again.”

But Pieter knew nothing of this. Pain settled over him like a heavy cloud, and he drifted in and out of hazy consciousness. Once again he saw himself aboard
Dem Tulp
. He heard his crewmen's dying gasps and watched helplessly as Africans threw themselves overboard, then bobbed in the sea and reached out to him before they sank forever. He listened again to the cries of horror and despair that poured from the mouths of every person—black and white—on that doomed ship. And, oh, the unbearable agony of his mangled back. Surely that, too, was just a part of the terrible nightmare. With great effort, Pieter struggled to awaken from the awful dream that reverberated and echoed with howling screams. As he dragged himself back to consciousness, he discovered the cries were his own.

Pieter squinted through swollen eyes and peered into the dusky gloom. He was alone in a rank, rat-infested cell. At the sight of the sodden mess of a floor, befouled with his blood, he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut again. Then he faded back into a hazy twilight of agony.

Sometime later—minutes? hours? days?—racked with pain and groaning for water, Pieter once again forced his eyes open. Before him stood the despicable Lingongo. Pieter jerked awake, but the apparition did not disappear.

“I watched you from afar because I thought you might be an exception for a white man,” Lingongo said, her voice even and controlled. “One who could reason and make rational decisions. Not a fool like the others. Not like Joseph Winslow.”

Pieter said nothing. Though it took every bit of self-control he could muster, he refused to give Lingongo the satisfaction of hearing him groan.

“When I heard whispers of a traitorous white man, I thought it could be any one of that pitiful lot of sailors. I even suspected my own husband. But I never thought it would be you. I am disappointed by your betayal, yes, but even more, I am disappointed in myself because I did not suspect you.”

Pieter struggled to his feet so he could look Lingongo in the eye.

“And you, Lingongo, royal princess of a proud and ancient people,” Pieter said, his voice thick and his words slurred. “Who are you to speak to me of traitors? Are you not the worst of traitors to your people?”

Lingongo's eyes flashed. “Do not dare speak to me of such things!” she snapped. “Long ago a choice not of my making was forced upon me. I could be a slave trader, or I could be a slave. I made my decision, and I made it well. I will be a slave to no man. I will not!”