July 30, 1704 - Martinique
William entered the jeweler's shop where he found only Monsieur Molyneaux and the larger man who guarded the shop. The guard inclined his head only a little as did William. Monsieur Molyneaux stood up immediately and came out from behind the large table which served as a workspace and shop counter. He greeted William both cordially and with the formality of a man used to working with men of high stations. They both kept business short, though William made several inquiries as touching the Maastricht and the Fort Royal prison. Monsieur Molyneaux was careful with his answers, but William learned enough from the man to alter his course for the day by mere degrees.
Once on the street again, and weighed down with more coin than the previous day, the trio continued on to other errands. William brought them to many places as the afternoon progressed, stopping at a total of eight establishments, including four counting houses, three taverns, an inn, a sugar baron's shop and a brothel. Two counting houses and the sugar baron showed real interest in seeing the fluyt, and William promised to meet with them at various appointed times throughout the following day. Only the brothel owner offered to buy the Maastricht sight unseen, but his asking price was so low that William glared at the man for such an insulting offer and the man shrank away, closing the door without a word just to be out from under such a look.
With this business done, they made for the Fort Royal prison.
. . .
Elsewhere on the island a company of some few soldiers, a mixture of agitated mourners, a magistrate and a condemned slave stood about for a gruesome, but seemingly necessary ritual of death. The afternoon was thick with humidity there, though the night had been both pleasing and cool. The sun shone, but only where the canopy of the nearby jungle did not block out the sky. The sugar plantation was surprisingly quiet for a working day, apart from the sobs and soft condolences which passed among the living.
Oduduwa stood apart from the pressing mourners. Proud, but heartbroken. He had come to the island by slave ship some two years back, alone among many, but for his younger sister. They had both survived a voyage which often took many in the passage, and while their life at Martinique had been neither too hard, nor too rewarding, they had enjoyed the small joys of one another's company. Slaves in the new world almost never enjoyed the privilege of family, for ties were often separated by distance and death, but these two had lived and worked side by side. Even the taskmaster of the harsh sugar trade had been kind to them, for fate had placed them in the gentler hands of these modest proprietors.
Life had been good of late. Life had been almost bearable of late. The young master of the blossoming plantation had spoken openly of the kind alterations of freedom and position for the slaves. The young master had proved to be an idealist in this regard and Oduduwa could see that the young man had meant what he said, so life had been good of late, made better by the promise of change.
Oduduwa had gone to sleep with a full belly and a laugh on his lips.
Now Oduduwa stood on the grass in chains he had not worn in two years. And now Oduduwa understood that death would not go quietly into the night and forget him and his sister. No. Death had come to take them after all. Death was a patient taskmaster. Death had placed a bloodied instrument in his hand and stolen his sister in the night. Death had come and gone in silence and left him to pay the awful price from which no slave returns.
Oduduwa's trial was already over. The whole of it had come and gone with only two witnesses heard. One man had discovered Oduduwa with the bloodied implement. The other had found the body of the fallen sugar baron. No one had been called in Oduduwa's defense.
. . .
The one and only witness to the slaying stood in a patch of shadow just outside the plantation. He didn't smile or gamble about, though he was as giddy as he had been since discovering Meg in the hold of the 'Dog. His face was as quiet as the trees, but oh how he danced inside. It had been many years since Tawny had framed an innocent so absolutely. He couldn't remember the last time he had watched a man stand condemned for his atrocities. It was heady stuff and Tawny stood transfixed with delight as they marched the unknown slave to a carefully selected tree in view of the road and the slave quarters. Tawny stared in fascination as they put the noose around his neck and hauled him up.
One moment there was a man with faculties and feelings. And in another moment, there was a wild flailing thing with no thought but breath and oblivion.
Tawny almost exploded from the jungle. He clapped both hands over his mouth to keep from screaming wild, foul, maddening things. He was so suddenly overcome with delicious obscenities that he almost couldn't keep them to himself, and he pressed his hands over his lips with as much force as he could muster. He wanted to run out into the open and cry "I've killed again! Tawny's killed him a man without his hands!" Still he clamped his hands over his mouth. He gripped his face to stave off this mad need to confess. He pressed so hard that he reopened his wounded ear and it ran yellow and red as he laughed into the muffling pulse of his palms.
Still the slave kicked at nothing and Tawny was forced to sprint headlong into the jungle to keep himself from incrimination.
