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“If we’d arrived earlier,” Phillipe murmured, “while they’re all gathered as they are, distracted with eating, would have been a good time to attack.”
Caleb shrugged. In days gone by, he might have leapt precipitously at the chance and rushed in, but for today and the foreseeable future, he was determined to adhere to the script of a reliable and responsible commander. He could almost hear the voices of his three older brothers, all of whom would lecture him to take his time and plan, and find and secure every advantage he could for his men in the upcoming skirmish, which was guaranteed to end as a bloody massacre.
He, Phillipe, and every man in their company knew and accepted that they would need to kill every slaver in Kale’s camp. That Kale and his men were engaged in trading in others’ lives—men, women, and children, too—had made the decision, the resolution, that much easier to make. The men gathered around the fire pit ranked among the lowest of the low.
Kale spooned up the last of his stew, chewed, swallowed, then looked across the fire pit at the large man Phillipe had earlier noted. “Rogers—you and your crew can rest up, then head back to the settlement midafternoon. If you don’t find a message from Muldoon waiting—no suggestion of who to grab next—use your own judgment. See if there are any more sailor-boys we can snatch. Dubois, at least, will be grateful.”
Rogers grinned and saluted. “We’ll see what we can find.”
Phillipe shifted to whisper in Caleb’s ear. “We need to attack before Rogers leaves.”
Caleb studied the group, then replied in the barest murmur, “They’ve just eaten their main meal for the day, and it was stew. Heavy.” He glanced at Phillipe. “In this heat, an hour from now, they’re all going to be half asleep.”
Phillipe blinked his dark-blue eyes once, then he grinned wolfishly and looked back at the camp.
Several minutes later, after having seen Kale retreat with three of his men into the main barracks while the rest of the slavers spread out in groups, quietly chatting, Caleb tapped Phillipe on the shoulder, then carefully crept back to where their men waited.
Phillipe followed. At Caleb’s signal, the group moved farther back, away from the camp and deeper into the concealing shadows.
They chanced upon a natural clearing big enough to hold them all. Most of the men had been hauling seabags and packs containing their tents and supplies; Caleb waited while they shed them, then at his intimation, they all hunkered down in a rough circle. He looked around, noting the expectant faces and also the confidence—in him and his leadership—conveyed by their steady gazes; all had fought under his orders before, and his own men had been with him for years. “Here’s how we’re going to approach this.”
Not recklessly but responsibly—with all due care for the safety of his men and prospective success.
Clearly and concisely, he laid out the elements of his plan—in essence a version of divide and conquer. He invited input on several aspects, and Phillipe and a number of others made inventive suggestions that he readily incorporated into the whole. In less than half an hour, they’d hammered out a solid plan, one to which everyone was ready to lend their enthusiastic support.
“Right, then.” He looked around the circle, meeting each man’s eyes. Then he nodded decisively. “Let’s get to it. Move into position and wait for my signal.”
The men melted away in twos and threes, some going west, others east, ultimately to encircle the camp.
When all others had left them, Phillipe dipped his head in wry acknowledgment. “That was well done.”
Caleb knew Phillipe wasn’t referring to how he’d made the plan but to the way he’d doubled up the less experienced, less strong fighters among their men. Five of his men and five of Phillipe’s, as well as himself and Phillipe, were well able to take care of themselves in any company—even against slavers of the ilk of Kale and his crew, all of whom would, without a doubt, prove to be vicious fighters. Vicious and desperate, for they would quickly realize that they were outnumbered. Caleb shrugged. “I just want us all to walk out of this and, given this climate, with as few cuts as possible.”
They’d brought various salves and ointments in their supplies, but in tropical climes, infection was always a danger.
“We’d better get into position.” In such close quarters, pistols would be useless—as likely to hit a friend as an enemy. The fight would be all bladework. Both Caleb and Phillipe reached for their sword hilts and loosened the blades in the scabbards, then they checked the various knives strapped about their persons.
Satisfied they were as prepared as possible, Caleb indicated the spot from which they’d earlier studied the camp. He and Phillipe had, of course, taken the most dangerous positions. They would lead the charge—as they usually did—by storming into the camp from the open end of the horseshoe-shaped space, making as much immediate impact as they could.
Two other men would attack from positions to their right and left. Others would come in from the paths flanking the main barracks and also from between the smaller huts.
Meanwhile, their bosuns, Caleb’s Carter and Phillipe’s Reynaud—both hefty men too slow on their feet to be good in a sword fight on open ground, yet as strong as any wrestlers—would prevent Kale and the three closeted with him in the main hut from immediately joining in the fight.
“So helpful of Kale to take three of them with him,” Phillipe murmured as they scuttled into position behind the large-leafed palms.
“All he needs to do is stay there for just a few minutes longer...” Caleb peered across the camp, then grinned. “Carter’s in position.”
“Reynaud, as well.” Phillipe met Caleb’s eyes. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Caleb felt his grin take on a familiar unholy edge. “Now.”
They sprang to their feet and rushed into the camp. They fell on the nearest pair of men lolling on the logs and dispatched both before they’d even struggled to their feet. No quarter, no fighting fair—not with cutthroats like this.
By then the other slavers had leapt to their feet, but before they could move to engage Caleb and Phillipe, they were distracted by, and then forced to turn and defend against, the rest of Caleb and Phillipe’s company.
Straightening, Caleb glanced over the heads and confirmed all was on track.
Long before the first shout had sounded—before Kale was alerted to the disruption—Carter and Reynaud had clambered onto the barracks’ porch and spilled their burdens of cleaned logs made from branches three and four inches thick before the door. Then they’d leapt back and put their spines to the barracks’ front wall. Two others had joined them, waiting to pounce when Kale and company emerged at a run—and pitched every which way on the rolling logs.
Caleb swore as a loose slaver made a run for him, cutlass swinging; he had to look away and miss the action on the porch.
Clang!
Caleb’s sword met the slaver’s cutlass. He threw the man back, then advanced, sword whirling.
The slaver was shorter than Caleb’s six-plus feet and scrawny to boot. Caleb’s longer reach and greater strength soon put paid to the villain. He fell, eyes rolling up. Caleb yanked his sword free of the man’s chest and turned.
Chaos filled the camp. The fighting was ferocious, every bit as desperate as Caleb had foreseen. There were more men down, but as far as Caleb could tell, all were slavers. The fighting in front of the barracks was intense, but his and Phillipe’s men now held the porch itself, an advantage in the circumstances.
But he couldn’t see Kale.
Another slaver rushed him, and he had to turn and deal with the man. That took longer than he would have liked—the man had had some training somewhere and was taller and stronger than most of his fellows. He actually managed to nick Caleb’s forearm, which reminded Caleb that he wasn’t fighting any gentleman; he lashed out with his boot, catching the slaver unawares and driving his heel into the man’s midsection. The slaver doubled up, and then he was dead.
A sudden flaring of instinct had Caleb swinging around, counting heads—almost desperately searching for something going wrong.
His gaze fell on Phillipe, who was engaged in a furious battle with the man known as Rogers.
Phillipe was tall, but had a fencer’s build—all supple wiriness. He was lethally fast with any blade. He was currently fighting with the traditional sword most captains favored; the blade flashed and gleamed as he countered Rogers’s every strike.
But Rogers was stronger, heavier, and had a longer reach—and was wielding a much heavier, wickedly curved blade. From the feverish anticipation in Rogers’s face, he believed he had Phillipe beaten. Phillipe was, indeed, hard pressed but still countering fluidly, his elegant features distorted in a snarl.
Caleb knew better than to distract his friend.
Then Phillipe gave Rogers an opening.
With a triumphant roar, Rogers swung and struck—
Empty air. Phillipe wasn’t anywhere near where Rogers had expected him to be.
Phillipe straightened behind Rogers. He slammed the hilt of his sword into Rogers’s nape, then plunged a knife that seemed to appear out of thin air into the man’s back.
Rogers gasped and collapsed. Phillipe whirled, saw Caleb watching, and snapped off a grim salute.
In concert, they turned toward the main barracks and waded anew into the fray, assisting their men as they swept on toward the porch, leaving nothing but dead slavers behind them.
Caleb tapped two of their men on their shoulders and, with a hand sign, set them to scout the edges of the fight to ensure no slaver, sensing impending doom, attempted to slip away. It was imperative that no word of Kale and his men’s fate reached Freetown.
Rogers falling had marked the turning of the tide, but Caleb and his company were too experienced to let down their guard. As Caleb and Phillipe pushed forward, their men fell in around them, forming an unstoppable wave. Together, they put paid to the last of the slavers.
All except Kale.
His back to the raised front of the barracks’ porch, the man was a dervish, keeping a semicircle of Caleb and Phillipe’s men at bay with a pair of flashing blades.
With Robert’s description of Kale’s potential menace etched in his brain, Caleb had warned their men that unless they had an easy and definitely lethal shot at Kale, they were to hem him in but not engage.
As Caleb and Phillipe joined their men, the circle drew back fractionally, leaving the pair of them standing shoulder to shoulder facing Kale.
They’d halted at a respectable—respectful—distance. Kale took stock of them, his blades now still.
The slavers’ leader was shorter than Caleb, shorter than Phillipe, but Kale was the very epitome of wiry, and the way he held himself, at ease but on the balls of his feet, poised to explode into action, with his curious twin blades—slightly curved like elongated scimitars—held firmly and perfectly balanced, but with loose, supple wrists, screamed to the initiated that he was lethally fast.
Fast, fast, fast.
There was a flatness in his wintry eyes that stated he’d killed so many times it had become all but instinctive—a part of his nature.
From the corner of his eye, Caleb saw Phillipe’s jaw set, then Phillipe reached to his other side—to Reynaud, who understood the unspoken command and placed his loaded pistol in Phillipe’s hand.
Kale had tracked the movement. He sneered. “What? No honor in your justice?” He spat the last word, but not at Phillipe. Kale’s gaze had fastened on Caleb, and the challenge was clearly directed at him.
Caleb met Kale’s gaze. In the art of manipulation, Caleb knew beyond question that he could give Kale lessons, but...that wasn’t the point here. He knew he was being goaded, that Kale wanted to fight him, believing he, Kale, would win, and that doing so would somehow win his freedom, at least from immediate dispatch. In situations such as this, for men such as Kale, surviving even an hour more meant an hour’s more chance to escape.
Or to take others with him on his journey from this world. A revenge of sorts.
If Caleb had been operating as he usually did, he would have responded immediately, and he and Kale would fight; he’d never walked away from a challenge—or from a fight—in his life. However, this time...what was right?
Head tilting, Caleb continued to regard Kale while weighing the pros and cons. He’d lectured his men against taking undue risks; shouldn’t he hold himself to the same standard regardless of Kale’s baiting?
But what of that sticky wicket called leadership? How he dealt with this situation would inevitably impinge on his standing with his men, and with Phillipe’s, too.
More, Kale had questioned—had maligned—justice. Not Caleb but the concept of justice they were there to serve.
Didn’t that demand some answer? Not just on his part but on behalf of their whole company?
Didn’t Kale’s challenge speak to and question the validity of why they were there, and more, the justification for what they had done—the lives they’d already taken that day?
Beside him, Phillipe shifted, darting a glance at his face. “Caleb...we are judge and jury here. Curs such as he have no claim to the honor of a fair fight in lieu of sentence.”
Who said I intend to fight fairly? Kale certainly won’t.
Kale’s pale gaze hadn’t left Caleb’s face. Phillipe might as well not have spoken for all the reaction Kale gave.
But Caleb’s steady regard was something Kale found more difficult to tolerate. His lip curled in a sneer. “What, son—cat got your tongue?”
Caleb smiled. “No. I’m merely debating the irony of engaging with vermin such as you over the value of justice.”
Kale blinked—then he exploded into action. Blades swinging, he launched himself at Caleb.
Phillipe cursed and stepped back, smoothly bringing the pistol to bear. Startled, all the other men leapt back.
But Caleb had seen Kale’s muscles tense. Without a blink, he’d whipped up his sword and a shorter blade and slapped Kale’s slashing swords aside.
Then it was on. Caleb could not—dared not—take his eyes from Kale’s. He tracked the man’s whirling blades by the infinitesimal shifts in Kale’s attention; Caleb didn’t fall into the trap of trying to keep both blades in view.
In less than a minute, Caleb was wishing he’d let Phillipe shoot the bastard; Kale was beyond lethal—and he was a better swordsman than Caleb. He was no slouch, but Kale was in a class of his own.
Unfortunately, the time for justice via pistol had passed. He and Kale were moving too quickly for even a marksman like Phillipe to attempt a shot.
Although Kale knew that, he also knew that with Phillipe standing just out of reach with the pistol in his hand, Kale wasn’t leaving the circle alive.
That realization was etched in Kale’s face; it infused his fighting with a snarling, animalistic fury and a nothing-to-lose strength, which, combined with his precise fluidity, made his strikes difficult to predict, much less counter.
Playing defense wasn’t Caleb’s strong suit, but he forced himself to do it—to concentrate on keeping Kale’s blades at bay and letting the man batter at him, trying to break through.
He was justice—he represented justice—and Kale could try as hard as he wished to break through his guard and triumph. But he wouldn’t. Caleb wouldn’t let him.
Caleb was taller, stronger, had a greater reach—and most telling of all, he was younger than Kale.
If Kale couldn’t break through his defense...eventually, justice would triumph.
He was watching for the moment that realization worked its way into Kale’s conscious mind. It did, and Kale blinked.
Then he lashed out with one foot, aiming for Caleb’s groin.
But Caleb had already danced aside.
He had far longer legs. Before Kale could recover, Caleb stepped in and smashed his boot into the side of Kale’s knee.
Kale screamed and teetered.
Moving like a dancer, Caleb pivoted behind Kale and ruthlessly slashed down on first one, then the other of the man’s wrists. Kale screamed again as he dropped both swords.
Caleb reached for Kale’s shoulders, intending to push the man to his knees—
“Aside!”
Caleb flung himself to the left as Phillipe’s pistol barked.
Kale crumpled, then fell.
Caleb had landed on his side; as he pushed to his feet, he saw the stiletto that had tumbled from Kale’s now-lifeless hand.
Caleb snorted. “I believe,” he said, resheathing his sword and long knife, “that justice has been served.”
Phillipe shook his head at him, then handed the pistol back to Reynaud. Then Phillipe bent, picked up Kale’s twin blades, and ceremonially presented them, hilt first across his sleeve, to Caleb. “And to the victor, the spoils.”
Caleb grinned. He reached out and closed his hand around one hilt and with his chin gestured for Phillipe to take the other. “I believe that’s the pair of us. Thank you for intervening.”
Gripping the second blade, slashing it through the air to test its balance, Phillipe lifted one shoulder. “It seemed time. You’d played with him long enough.”
Caleb laughed, then, smile fading, he looked around at their men. “Injuries?”
Unsurprisingly, there were more than a few cuts and slashes, of which Caleb and Phillipe had their share. Only three gashes were serious enough to warrant binding. They had lost no one, and for that Caleb gave mute thanks. The fire had gone out. Working together, they lifted the dead aside, then they restoked the blaze, boiled water, and tended every wound.
Once that was done, Caleb climbed to the barracks’ porch and, his hands on his hips, surveyed the camp. He grimaced. “I hate to break it to you all, but we need to clear this up.”
Phillipe had climbed to stand beside him. On the voyage to Freetown, Phillipe had read Robert’s journals and so understood Caleb’s direction. He sighed. “Sadly, I agree. We need to make Kale and his men disappear.” Phillipe gestured. “Poof—vanished without a trace.”
“With no evidence of any fight left, either.” Caleb looked at their men. They would feel the effects of the battle later, but for now, they were still keyed up with energy to spare. “Right, then. We need to leave this camp looking as if Kale and his men have just walked out and away. Here’s what we’ll do.”
It took them four hours of hard work, but finally, the camp lay neat and tidy, silent, and oddly serene, as if waiting for occupants to arrive. They’d carted the bodies into the jungle along the unused track to the east, then found a clearing a little way off the track and buried all the bodies in one large grave. Caleb had fetched Robert’s journal from his pack, along with the sketches Aileen Hopkins, who had joined Robert on his leg of the mission, had made of certain slavers; by comparing those with the dead men, Caleb felt certain that, as well as Kale, they’d removed not only the large leader of the slavers in the settlement—Rogers—but also the one Aileen had dubbed “the pied piper,” the slaver with the melodious voice who was key to luring children from their homes with promises of gainful employment. As the last body was tipped into the grave, Caleb had shut the journal. “With any luck, we’ve completely exterminated this particular nest of vermin.”
Once all was done, Phillipe paused beside Caleb at the edge of the now-peaceful clearing and scanned the area; they’d even groomed the dust with palm fronds, and not a hint of the fight remained. “All in all, a good day’s work.”
Caleb agreed. “So Kale has mysteriously vanished, and no one is likely to guess to where, much less why.”
After one last glance around the clearing, he turned and fell in beside Phillipe. They made their way into the jungle. No one had even suggested spending the night in the slavers’ camp. Instead, they’d set up a makeshift camp in the clearing where they’d left their packs and supplies.
Caleb walked into the clearing to find crude tents already erected and a fire burning brightly beneath the cook pot. Aromas much more enticing than the charnel scent of death rose on the steam. They all sat—all but slumped. They checked wounds, then when the meal was ready, everyone ate.
Largely in silence. There were no songs around the campfire, no tall tales told. They’d all killed that day, and while they were accustomed to an existence in which life was too often cut short, as the energy of battle ebbed and left them deflated, they each had their own consciences to tend, to appease and allay.
The fire burned low, and quietly, with nothing more than murmured good nights, they settled on their blankets and reached for sleep.
Tomorrow, they would embark on the next stage of the mission.
Tomorrow, they would take the path to the mine.
CHAPTER 2
“John told me at breakfast that he doesn’t know how much longer he can drag his heels over opening up the second tunnel.”
Katherine Fortescue glanced at her companion, Harriet Frazier; the pair of them had elected to stretch their legs in a stroll around the mining compound during their midmorning break from their work in the cleaning shed.
Of course, the real purpose of their stroll was to facilitate communication; while they walked, they could talk freely, with no one likely to overhear their exchanges.
The “John” to whom Harriet referred was her sweetheart, Captain John Dixon, the erstwhile army engineer who had been the first of their company to be kidnapped from Freetown. When Dixon had refused the mercenary leader Dubois’s invitation to plan and implement the opening of a mine to exploit a newly discovered pipe of diamonds for unnamed backers, Dubois had merely smiled coldly—and the next thing Dixon had known, Harriet had joined him in his captivity.
The threats against Harriet that Dubois had used to force Dixon to acquiesce to his demands were, quite simply, unspeakable. Harriet carried a fine scar on her cheek that Dixon still regarded with sorrow and remembered horror. But Harriet bore the mark with pride. In her eyes—indeed, in the eyes of all the captives now there—Dixon had only done what he’d had to, what he’d been forced to do to ensure he and Harriet survived.
And he and all of them continued in that vein, using that as their touchstone; if they didn’t survive, they couldn’t escape.
Despite their carefully cultivated appearance of being resigned to their lot, every man, woman, and child of their company had banded together, and all were unswervingly committed to escape.
Escape first; retribution could come later.
Katherine had long grown accustomed to keeping her features composed; she and Harriet maintained unconcerned, outwardly unperturbed expressions as they paced slowly around the well-worn clockwise circuit that would take them from the cleaning shed, where they worked at chipping heavy concretions of ore from the rough diamonds extracted from the mine that had eventually been constructed, past the eastern end of the long, central, main barracks building in which Dubois and his band of mercenaries worked and slept when they weren’t on guard, either at the gates of the compound, pacing the perimeter, escorting groups of captives to fetch water from the nearby lake, or perched in the high tower that stood at that end of the long building.
Shading her eyes, Katherine glanced up at the pair of mercenaries on lookout duty in the tower. “Given how our output from the shed has been dwindling,” she murmured, “I can—sadly—see John’s point.” She glanced at Harriet. “Let’s meet tonight and see how the others feel. There’s only so long we can put Dubois off without damaging our own position.”
The “others” were the de facto leaders of their small community—the officers who had been kidnapped, plus Katherine and Harriet. Katherine had been taken because, as a governess, she had experience managing children, but another of her skills was fine needlework, and Dubois had quickly recognized the sharpness of her eye and the quality of her work in the cleaning shed; he had effectively made her the spokesperson and leader of the women and children.