Guardian (16 page)

In the sunless hold the days and nights rapidly melded into each other as the heavy dhow wallowed its ungainly way northwards. It rolled like a pig and the stench of the mounting volume of human excrement merely thickened the already foetid air of our cramped prison. It hadn't taken me long to give up on the struggle to keep clear of the surging bilge water with its nameless contents but, much more importantly, I was determined, desperate, to gain some respite from the lurching, staggering gait of the lateen-rigged vessel. Ungainly and heavy, the old slaver slammed into, or rolled over, rather than with, the long ocean breakers hunching themselves into towering slopes as they were forced up by the slowly shelving shoreline. It didn't matter where you were on the eastern seaboard, from several miles off-shore the floor of the ocean bed angled steadily up towards the jagged coral banks and creamy beaches of the brooding coastline. So, for the most part, my fellow sufferers sat in sullen, unresponsive silence, simply staring towards the only source of light that streamed down through the open hatch. Hopeless it might have seemed but, despite everything, I was just as unready to give up as my newfound ally, Adam.

Between us, we had managed to persuade the crew that letting the prisoners go up, a few at a time, to the rope-cluttered deck, would be good for the health of the ship. In any case, those few precious minutes exposed to salt-laden air that tasted like a rare wine as it was sucked greedily down into our overwrought lungs was worth any and every effort. Even the harsh glare of the sun slitting our eyes as it glittered off a thousand facets of the deep-blue jewel on which we floated, gave welcome assurance that the Hell below was not the only reality.

And it wasn't long before the two of us, ears cocked warily towards the hatch, were raking quietly and earnestly over the information we had gleaned about the crew. We debated endlessly around the option of jumping overboard, but were always forced to face the inescapable – even if we survived the ubiquitous sharks and managed to stay afloat long enough to reach land, there were very few breaks in the reef stretching hundreds of miles to north and south of our supposed position. One raking wave tumbling us across the razor-sharp coral, not to mention the serried ranks of long-spined sea urchins, would be enough to abruptly terminate any foolhardy venture. In the end we had to reluctantly agree that going overboard was tantamount to committing suicide which, to some of our fellow prisoners at least, might well have held some attraction. But neither of us was yet ready to concede defeat or bring others into our confidence. The more who knew we were even contemplating escape, the more chance someone would buy themselves a short-lived respite in exchange for the information. As it was, I was taken aback by the latent hostility still being shown towards me, despite all my efforts on their behalf. Being white obviously had its drawbacks. Still, of one thing I was certain: the crew's demeanour showed they were confident there was nothing to fear from their slaves. No particular watch was kept and even when batches of us were allowed on deck, little was done to restrain or police us. I could only presume these slavers had never faced organised rebellion. A status quo I had every intention of changing.

And to that end, I remember outlining a recklessly simple plan to Adam, merely trying to gauge his reaction. “We can't swim for it, so there's only one other option. We have to seize the ship. We've only seen one guard topside, and he's armed with a rifle. Both times we've been up he's been sitting by the starboard rail, keeping in the shade from the sail, and I could swear he was asleep last time. Apart from him, we've only seen a half-dozen or so crew, plus the one at the stern behind the steering oar, who looks like he could be the owner, judging by the way he's dressed. We must assume he's armed as well, so I couldn't deal with both of them at the same time. To have any chance, there have to be at least two of us involved and none of this other lot looks as if they would know which way is up, no matter what the stakes. Which means, either you go for the owner, or I'm the one who has to hope he can't shoot straight. I know I'm getting weaker with each day's passing, so I'm going to try to persuade them to let us up on deck when they come to feed us this evening, just before sunset. Then, if there's still only one guard, I'm going to have a go at him. Adam, I don't know about you, but I don't think we can afford to wait another day. So, just let me have a few seconds without interference and with luck I can dump the guard overboard. If we pick the right time, darkness should at least work in our favour if it comes to a shooting match. I'm serious, Adam. I'll do it anyway, but, if you'll help, we have a real chance of pulling it off. That rifle is the key. Get it and there's a likelihood we'll succeed. Believe me, I'm a good shot and I won't hesitate to kill. They'll know we're desperate, especially when we free the other slaves, and we'll demand they take us in through the next break in the reef, or I'll threaten to shoot them one at a time and, if the worst comes to the worst, take a chance we can sail this thing on our own. At a guess, we must be somewhere near Malindi by now. So what do you say? Are you with me?”

I watched Adam hesitate. Actually, I could see the shadows of doubt flickering across his expressive face. “Come on, Adam, what've you got to lose? Once you're sold on, you'll probably die anyway. Isn't it better to die trying to get free, rather than be worked to death because you chickened out when you could have done something?” Desperation can make fools of us all and selfish fools at that.

I'll never forget it. Adam looked straight at me and sighed.

“Paul, you haven't heard me, have you? I've already told you, I will not kill or put anyone's life at risk for the sake of my own freedom. If I am to die, so be it. What really matters is that my spirit is already free. Yes, they can break my body and I can't stop them. Does that make me afraid? Yes, it does. But they can't touch what really counts. My spirit. They can't do that, because I belong to Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, and he will look after me, even if that means death at the hands of some slave owner. Death in this world is really only the beginning of real life, not the end.”

As I looked at my new friend, I wondered if he had lost his sanity. I had listened to him many times since my arrival on the ship, but I still didn't believe what he had to say about this God thing. Certainly, Adam was a good guy. There was no doubt in my mind about that. Possibly a little deluded, even though he had a strange knack of calming everyone around him (not just me). Even when things took a turn for the worse, he seemed to bring hope just by being there. That was the stupid thing. One part of me really wanted to believe Adam, to accept what he had to say and to fall under his spell, to let his tales of a God who cared become the reality that Adam said He was. But there was only one way to act now, as far as I was concerned, and that was to take any and every opportunity to hit back, to gain the upper hand, to determine my own fate, particularly if there was even a halfway chance of success. I couldn't help it. With the passage of the last few days that initial, half-felt rage had blossomed into an all-consuming hatred that was eating me up. It was no longer ‘half-felt'. Fury at my perceived fate was almost overwhelming me. Anger against those whom I perceived to be the cause of so much trouble, coupled with a burning determination to get my own back, was informing my every thought. So, in disgust I shook my head at him and dismissed him with a shrug. The self-styled all-action man, I turned back to contemplating the hatch with its beckoning beams of light.

The odd thing was, when it came to the time, it was surprisingly easy to convince the crew to let us up on deck again and once there, I stood looking around me, aware of Adam's presence within an arm's length to my right with two other nameless prisoners standing behind him. True, the guard was awake, but his weapon was leaning against a nearby cask, whilst he sat on the gunwale, leg wrapped firmly round a convenient stanchion. I watched him idly applying himself to plaiting one of the palm leaves kept on the deck for use by any crewman who needed shade.

Slowly, under the pretence of looking to see what he was doing, I eased myself closer. I didn't dare get too close for fear of alerting him. Glancing aft, I was able to see the owner still up at the stern, but standing now, eyeing us through the rapidly encroaching darkness as the sun slipped below the horizon. For a moment my courage deserted me and I felt my hands beginning to tremble but, even as I did so, a hand pressed my arm and Adam's voice whispered encouragement. Unable to turn around, I could only listen as my friend pledged himself to draw fire, anything to give me a fighting chance. And in that instant, I knew he was offering to die for me. For a moment there was stillness around us, only the soughing of wind in the rigging and breaking water slapping at the hull disturbed the tableau.

Standing loosely, feet spread against the ship's roll, I felt overwhelmed, but knew it was now or never and so, balling my fists, I gave Adam a grateful glance and a whispered command to “go” before stepping swiftly across the short distance separating me from the guard. Surprise was complete and the man had time only to widen his eyes as my shoulder took him full in the chest and he flipped backwards, arms flailing as he swayed too far over the railing on which he had been sitting, and which now simply added to his balance problem. Even as he went over, I had already turned towards the rifle, aware of a rising crescendo of shouts towards the stern. Grabbing the gun, I levered the action in one smooth movement, back and forward, automatically checking it was cocked and loaded even as I was bringing it level with my shoulder. In the few seconds that had elapsed I was almost surprised to see how far Adam had got, but even as I sighted down the rifle, I knew I was too late.

Abdel-Aziz was facing Adam, balance thrown forward onto the balls of his feet, right hand stretched in front of him, a pistol pointing directly at the racing form coming directly towards him. There was no fear, just a tight look of anger etching his face and even as I took it all in, a gout of flame lanced outwards directly towards Adam and the gun-wielding hand started tracking towards me. Desperately, I pulled the rifle's trigger and watched the shot tear through the man's left arm, but it didn't stop him. As the pistol came into line with me I heard the crash of its explosive force and felt the momentary tug of a bullet passing through the fleshy part of my thigh. The blow knocked me sideways, staggering against the roll of the ship and throwing my aim too far left to draw down on the man at the stern, and as a combination of pain and ship's movement delayed my reactions I could hear the slap, slap of swiftly running feet coming from behind. Feeling as if I was swimming in molasses, I turned my head in slow motion towards the sound, only to discover I was way behind the curve ball and the last thing I saw or felt was the clubbing fist that caught me squarely between the eyes.

For all that it was considerably less than a hundred miles, the journey had seemed never-ending, particularly as she'd had to persuade the two ferry operators on the route to open up, despite the late hour but, as dawn opened its first bleary eye, Roz was finally able to relax and wriggle her shoulders to ease the tension. Slowing for the first time in some while merely allowed her teeth to stop rattling in sympathy with the rough corrugation patterning the mixed grey and white coral dust road that wound in and out of the never-ending coconut plantations Every turn faithfully reflecting the meandering coastline. She longed for a drink, any drink, to relieve the burning dryness of her throat and wash away the vile metallic taste of dust. It was everywhere. In her hair, her clothes, gritting her eyes. Every crease on her sweat-cooled body sported a dark line where the dust had coagulated – and light khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt hadn't helped.

Leaving in a hurry had seemed a good idea at the time, but she had failed to bring even the basics of food, water and mosquito-proof clothing. A fact she had spent most of the journey regretting. Being night, she couldn't even rely on the ubiquitous totos
⁽¹⁾
, who usually lined the route wherever it passed through a village, desperate to tout their wares of sweet-tasting green coconuts and roasted cashew nuts. She loved their eager smiles as they stretched on tiptoe, trying hard to peer into passing cars and wishing they were old enough, tall enough, to see into her adult world. But, despite their absence, she was already beginning to feel better as she recognised the palm-fringed outskirts of Malindi. Drawing level with the first outlying shack, she soon spotted the unmarked trail that would lead her down its rutted, coral-strewn pathway to her old home. For a moment all weight of concern lifted from her shoulders and a small smile played around her lips, lighting up her clear blue eyes as they drank in so many familiar childhood scenes. It was too early for the compound's white tenants to be up and about, but from within the line of servants' quarters she could see early stirrings as families she had known most of her life rose to greet the new day, handfuls of kindling and larger sticks already gathered to revive the slow-burning fires banked the previous evening against the dew-laden night air. She let the Jeep rock to a halt, killing the engine as heads turned to stare inquisitively at this unexpected intrusion. She could sense the uncertainty quivering in every line of their suddenly nervous bodies, until one by one they began, hesitantly, to recognise her.

The change, when it came, was complete. With real joy lighting their friendly faces, the whole group relaxed, to gather swiftly and noisily around her, hands outstretched in greeting as the haunting cadence of a true and heartfelt African welcome roused even the laziest children still playing possum under the soft skins thrown casually across their Spartan cots.

“Eh! You come back, Memsahib kidogo”

She was much too tired and too relieved for even a hint of annoyance to develop over the reminder of days long gone, when she really had been ‘the little lady'. “
Anyway
,” she thought, “
it's only a term of endearment
.” More importantly, she could see the unspoken question in their eyes, but the conventions of African courtesy forbade asking until the guest was well settled and immediate needs addressed. Which, if she allowed them free rein, could take half the morning. Nevertheless, she was more than grateful for their consideration and sank gladly onto a log while Mama M'baneo bustled around preparing an impromptu breakfast of fresh pau-pau, posho
⁽²⁾
and dark, steaming coffee. There had been plenty of time on the journey to think through her next move and the realisation that these old friends were her main if not only hope had long since settled any doubts. They of all people along this hot and humid coast would know what might be done. Of that she was certain. Flicking back her long blonde hair, she let the worries go and gave herself over to their warm ministrations.

“There are nearly always dhows in the harbour, Memsahib Roz. At this time of the year, with the trade winds blowing, they come and go every day. They say some have slaves on board, but no one can be certain which, because they keep the slaves hidden. But if the dhow with the copper post comes in, we will see it and if we do, we will let you know. What you do after that will be for you to decide. It will not be easy to get on board, but we will do what we can to help you. Kimau's uncle is a fisherman and he has a fine boat. If you like, we will talk to him and try to persuade him to take you out, but he will only go at night after he has finished the day's fishing. Anyway, night is the only time it might be safe, as the Arab slavers carry guns and they are not afraid to use them.”

Roz smiled her gratitude and ducked her head with pleasure at their immediate and unstinting support. She didn't want to get them involved if there was any danger and just their offer to keep an eye out for this one particular dhow was enough for now. “You haven't asked me why I don't go to the police for help and I am grateful for that. I can't tell you at the moment, but believe me, it's important the police do not reach Paul before I do. However, if we don't find him in the next few days or if, when we do, it all looks too dangerous, then I'll have to ask for their help. But it will only be as a last resort.”

Several heads nodded. They had little love for their local police and most of them would rather run a few quiet risks for their
memsahib kidogo
than give the police an excuse to crawl all over them. With the day now firmly established, the ubiquitous heat was beginning to build and Roz felt she had rested long enough. She knew it wouldn't be long before uncertainty would once again start to tap-dance its way around her consciousness and the inevitable emergence of the family renting the main house would quickly ‘up' the ante. It was time to get going.

Standing, she beckoned them closer. “I don't know how long it is since Paul left Mombasa, but there's really no time to waste. Please, Kimau, will you and N'jerogi come with me now to the harbour so you can speak to your uncle? For all I know, we may need his boat tonight. Once we've dropped you off, Kimau, then N'jerogi can show me the best place to keep a lookout for this dhow.”