for what the Dutch now had to sell. So in the spring of 1642 Ruyters
had left a few bales of Brazilian sugarcane with Benjamin Briggs, then
a struggling tobacco planter on Barbados, suggesting that he try
growing it and refining sugar from the sap, explaining the Portuguese
process as best he could.
It had been a night over two years past, at Joan's place, when Briggs
described what had happened after that.
"The cane grew well enough, aye, and I managed to press out enough of
the sap to try rendering it to sugar. But nothing else worked. I tried
boiling it in pots and then letting it sit, but what I got was scarcely
more than molasses and mud. It's not as simple as I thought." Then he
had unfolded his new scheme. "But if you'll take some of us on the
Council down to Brazil, sir, the Dutchmen claim they'll let us see how
the Portugals do it. We'll soon know as much about sugar-making as any
Papist. There'll be a fine fortune in it, I promise you, for all of
us."
But how, he'd asked Briggs, did they expect to manage all the work of
cutting the cane?
"These indentures, sir. We've got thousands of them."
He'd finally agreed to accept the Council's proposition. And the
_Defiance _was ideal for the run. Once an old Spanish cargo vessel,
he'd disguised her by chopping away the high fo'c'sle, removing the
pilot's cabin, and lowering the quarterdeck. Next he'd re-rigged her,
opened more gunports in the hull, and installed new cannon. Now she was
a heavily armed fighting brig and swift.
Good God, he thought, how could I have failed to see? It had to come to
this; there was no other way.
So maybe it's time I did something my own way for a change. Yes, by
God, maybe there's an answer to all this.
He thought again of the sight bills, now locked in the Great Cabin of
the _Defiance_ and payable in one week. Two thousand pounds. It would
be a miracle if the Council could find the coin to settle the debt, but
they did have something he needed.
And either way, Master Briggs, I intend to have satisfaction, or I may
just take your balls for a bell buoy.
Now a white shallop was being lowered over the gunwales of the
_Zeelander_, followed by oarsmen. Then after a measured pause a new
figure, wearing the high collar and wide-brimmed hat of Holland's
merchant class, appeared at the railing. His plump face was punctuated
with a goatee, and his smile was visible all the way to the shore. He
stood a long moment, dramatically surveying the low-lying hills of
Barbados, and then Captain Johan Ruyters began lowering himself down
the swaying rope ladder.
As the shallop nosed through the surf and eased into the sandy
shallows, Dalby Bedford moved to the front of the receiving delegation,
giving no hint how bitterly he had opposed the arrangement Briggs and
the Council had made with the Dutch shippers.
"Your servant, Captain."
"Your most obedient servant, sir." Ruyters' English was heavily
accented but otherwise flawless. Winston recalled he could speak five
languages as smoothly as oil, and shortchange the fastest broker in
twice that many currencies. "It is a fine day for Barbados."
"How went the voyage?" Briggs asked, stepping forward and thrusting out
his hand, which Ruyters took readily, though with a wary gathering of
his eyebrows.
"A fair wind, taken for all. Seventy-four days and only some fifteen
percent wastage of the cargo. Not a bad figure for the passage, though
still enough to make us friends of the sharks. But I've nearly three
hundred left, all prime."
"Are they strapping?" Briggs peered toward the ship, and his tone
sharpened slighdy, signaling that social pleasantries were not to be
confused with commerce. "Remember we'll be wantin' them for the fields,
not for the kitchen."
"None stronger in the whole west of Africa. These are not from the
Windward Coast, mark you, where I grant what you get is fit mostly for
house duty. I took half this load from Cape Verde, on the Guinea coast,
and then sailed on down to Benin, by the Niger River delta, for the
rest. These Nigers make the strongest field workers. There is even a
chief amongst them, a Yoruba warrior. I've seen a few of these Yoruba
Nigers in Brazil, and I can tell you this one could have the wits to
make you a first-class gang driver." Ruyters shaded his eyes against
the sun and lowered his voice. "In truth, I made a special
accommodation with the agent selling him, which is how I got so many
hardy ones. Usually I have to take a string of mixed quality, which I
get with a few kegs of gunpowder for the chiefs and maybe some iron,
together with a few beads and such for their wives. But I had to barter
five chests of muskets and a hundred strings of their cowrie-shell
money for this Yoruba. After that, though, I got the pick of his boys."
Ruyters stopped and peered past the planters for a second, his face
mirroring disbelief. Then he grinned broadly and shoved through the
crowd, extending his hand toward Winston. "By the blood of Christ. I
thought sure you'd be hanged by now. How long has it been? Six years?
Seven?" He laughed and pumped Winston's hand vigorously, then his voice
sobered. "Not here to spy on the trade I hope? I'd best beware or
you're like to be eyeing my cargo next."
"You can have it." Winston extracted his hand, reflecting with chagrin
that he himself had been the instrument of what was about to occur.
"What say, now?" Ruyters smiled to mask his relief. "Aye, but to be
sure this is an easy business." He turned back to the planters as he
continued. "It never fails to amaze me how ready their own people are
to sell them. They spy your sail when you're several leagues at sea and
build a smoke fire on the coast to let you know they've got cargo."
He reached for Dalby Bedford's arm, to usher him toward the waiting
boat. Anthony Walrond said something quietly to Jeremy, then followed
after the governor. Following on their heels was Benjamin Briggs, who
tightened his belt as he waded through the shallows.
Ruyters did not fail to notice when several of the oarsmen smiled and
nodded toward Winston. He was still remembered
as the best first mate the _Zeelander_ had ever had--and the only
seaman anyone had ever seen who could toss a florin into the air and
drill it with a pistol ball better than half the time. Finally the
Dutch captain turned back, beckoning.
"It'd be an honor if you would join us, sir. As long as you don't try
taking any of my lads with you."
Winston hesitated a moment, then stepped into the boat as it began to
draw away from the shore. Around them other small craft were being
untied, and the planters jostled together as they waded through the
light surf and began to climb over the gunwales. Soon a small, motley
flotilla was making its way toward the ship.
As Winston studied the _Zeelander_, he couldn't help recalling how
welcome she had looked that sun-baked afternoon ten years past. In his
thirsty delirium her billowing sails had seemed the wings of an angel
of mercy. But she was not angelic today. She was dilapidated now, with
runny patches of tar and oakum dotting her from bow to stern. By
converting her into a slaver, he knew, Ruyters had discovered a prudent
way to make the most of her last years.
As they eased into the shadow of her leeward side, Winston realized
something else had changed. The entire ship now smelled of human
excrement. He waited till Ruyters led the planters, headed by Dalby
Bedford and Benjamin Briggs, up the salt-stiff rope ladder, then
followed after.
The decks were dingy and warped, and there was a haggard look in the
men's eyes he didn't recall from before. Profit comes at a price, he
thought, even for quick Dutch traders.
Ruyters barked an order to his quartermaster, and moments later the
main hatch was opened. Immediately the stifling air around the frigate
was filled with a chorus of low moans from the decks below.
Winston felt Briggs seize his arm and heard a hoarse whisper. "Take a
look and see how it's done. It's said the Dutchmen have learned the
secret of how best to pack them."
"I already know how a slaver's cargoed." He pulled back his
arm and thought again of the Dutch slave ships that had been anchored
in the harbor at Pernambuco. "A slave's chained on his back, on a
shelf, for the whole of the voyage, if he lives that long." He pointed
toward the hold. "Why not go on down and have a look for yourself?"
Briggs frowned and turned to watch as the quartermaster yelled orders
to several seamen, all shirtless and squinting in the sun, who cursed
under their breath as they began reluctantly to make their way down the
companionway to the lower deck. The air in the darkened hold was almost
unbreathable.
The clank of chains began, and Winston found himself drawn against his
will to the open hatchway to watch. As the cargo was unchained from
iron loops fastened to the side of the ship, their manacled hands were
looped through a heavy line the seamen passed along the length of the
lower deck.
Slowly, shakily, the first string of men began to emerge from the hold.
Their feet and hands were still secured with individual chains, and all
were naked. As each struggled up from the hold, he would stare into the
blinding sun for a confused moment, as though to gain bearings, then
turn in bewilderment to gaze at the green beyond, so like and yet so
alien from the African coast. Finally, seeing the planters, he would
stretch to cover his groin with manacled hands, the hesitation
prompting a Dutch seaman to lash him forward.
The Africans' black skin shone in the sun, the result of a forced diet
of cod liver oil the last week of the voyage. Then too, there had been
a quick splash with seawater on the decks below, followed by swabbing
with palm oil, when the _Zeelander's _maintopman had sighted the low
green peaks of Barbados rising out of the sea. They seemed stronger
than might have been expected, the effect of a remedial diet of salt
fish the last three days of the voyage.
"Well, sir, what think you of the cargo?" Ruyters' face was aglow.