Chapter 1

Algoa Bay, Cape Colony. November 1874.

The slight bow wave of the La Santísima Trinidad made a soft, rhythmic gurgling sound as it curled away from her sharp bow and spread across the darkening blue water. The three-masted schooner moved almost lazily through the early morning sea, her hull rising and falling with the long Indian Ocean swell.

She carried only a quarter of her full spread of canvas.

The remaining sails hung furled against the spars, their heavy folds secured with lines that creaked softly whenever the ship rolled. It was enough sail to keep her steerageway, but not enough to let the schooner gather any real speed. Entering Algoa Bay demanded patience. A ship could afford to be slow. It could not afford to lose control of her heading in confined water.

The South-Westerly wind came steadily over the stern quarter, cool against the warmer air of the approaching morning. It filled what little canvas was exposed with a deep, occasional thump, followed by the long groan of timber and rigging as the schooner answered the pressure.

High above the deck, the masts and spars stood black against a sky that was slowly changing colour.

The night had not quite surrendered yet.

To the east, beyond the dark horizon of the Indian Ocean, a thin line of pale gold had appeared. At first it was barely distinguishable from the grey-blue of the dawn. Then it widened, slowly illuminating the underside of the clouds. The first rays of the November sun crept over the horizon, touching the tops of the distant swells with scattered flashes of silver.

Behind the schooner, the open Indian Ocean stretched away toward the horizon.

Ahead lay Algoa Bay.

The coastline was still mostly shadow, but the rising light gradually revealed its shape. The headlands emerged first, dark and massive against the brightening sky, followed by the long sweep of the bay itself. Here and there, points of land caught the first sunlight and seemed to float above the mist hanging close to the water.

The La Santísima Trinidad altered course by a few degrees.

The helmsman eased the wheel over, and the schooner answered slowly. Her wake widened behind her, two pale ribbons of disturbed water stretching back into the darkness.

There was little sound aboard her.

The sea whispered against the hull.

The rigging creaked.

Canvas snapped softly overhead.

Somewhere forward, a block knocked against a mast in an irregular rhythm, the wooden tok ... tok ... tok carrying surprisingly far across the quiet morning air.

Even the gulls had not yet begun their noisy assault on the approaching vessel.

For the men aboard the La Santísima Trinidad, this was simply another arrival.

For the land ahead, it was the beginning of something else.

The schooner slipped onward toward the mouth of Algoa Bay, riding the last of the ocean swell as the sun finally broke free of the horizon.

Its first golden light touched the sails. Then the mast. Then the deck.

The first sunlight touched my face as I stood near the starboard rail. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the warmth settle on my skin. After weeks of travelling, sleeping in strange beds and on ships that never seemed to stop moving, the simple sensation of sunlight felt almost luxurious.

Behind me, the ship creaked and groaned as she made her way into Algoa Bay. La Santísima Trinidad. The Holy Trinity.

There was very little holy about the vessel.

Beneath my feet, below the main deck, were five hundred souls in chains. Men and women who had been bought at the slave market in Zanzibar and were now being carried across the Indian Ocean toward a future none of them had chosen. Cuba. Sugar plantations. A life of forced labour.

I had known what the ship carried when I stepped aboard. I had chosen to remain a passenger. Perhaps that made me a coward. Perhaps it made me practical. I preferred the latter.

I had left France from Marseilles, travelling south across the Mediterranean toward Alexandria. From there, my journey had taken me to Port Said and through the Suez Canal, that remarkable new waterway that had only been open for a few years.

I remember standing on deck as Egypt slipped past us, watching the banks of the canal slide slowly by while ships from Europe and the Orient passed one another on the narrow ribbon of water.

The world was changing. And changing quickly.

From Suez, I continued eastward, eventually reaching Zanzibar. That was where I found passage aboard the La Santísima Trinidad.

I had not come to Africa for adventure. I had come because a man had stolen something that did not belong to him. A priceless family heirloom.

The object belonged to an Austrian family, and the man who had taken it had disappeared beyond the reach of the people who wanted it returned.

My task was simple. Find him. Recover the heirloom. Bring it home. Receive the reward.

At least, that was how it had sounded when I accepted the commission. I consider it a commission. All bounty hunting is a commission in some way. Some for the thrill of the hunt. Some not so thrilling but rewarding. And money buys the whisky...

Now I stood on the deck of a ship carrying five hundred human beings in chains, entering a continent I somewhat knew, with another eight hundred and seventy miles of wilderness between me and Zoutpansberg in the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek. The distance did not concern me.

Distance could be measured. Terrain could be crossed. Men could be followed.

It was the man I was looking for who concerned me. Because somewhere beyond that distant shoreline, he was hiding.

And I intended to find him.

I noticed the ship slowing.

It was subtle at first. The bow wave diminished until it was little more than a low swell spreading away from the stem, and the steady rush of water along the hull lost some of its urgency. Then came the rattle of the anchor chain running through the hawse-pipe, followed by the creak and groan of canvas and rigging as the remaining sails began to come down.

Men moved along the deck, hauling on lines and gathering the canvas before rolling and securing it to the yardarms.

I frowned and looked aft. Something was happening.

The crew had begun gathering on the main deck. There was an uneasy order to their movements, the sort of purposeful activity that told me this wasn’t merely another change of sail.

The captain appeared from beneath the quarterdeck.

He removed his jacket and shirt without a word, folded them neatly and placed them on a barrel beside the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck.

I watched him for a moment before curiosity got the better of me.

“What’s up?” I asked. “We’re still well beyond the longboat’s reach of shore.”

“We have a little matter to take care of,” he muttered through his beard.

He walked towards the mainmast. A sailor stepped forward and handed him a cat-of-nine-tails. That got my attention.

I had seen the instrument before. I knew exactly what it was capable of doing.

The crew began forming a loose circle around the mainmast, leaving enough space for the whip to be used without striking anyone standing nearby.

My first thought was that some sailor had been caught stealing or disobeying an order.

Then two men appeared at the hatch leading below. They were escorting a girl. She couldn’t have been much more than twenty.

She walked between them with a strange, almost effortless grace. It was not the stumbling submission I had seen from frightened people before. There was something in the way she held herself that reminded me of the courts of Europe—the quiet dignity of someone accustomed to being observed rather than ordered about.

A slave, yet she carried herself with pride. She did not avert her eyes. Instead, she looked directly at the captain. That caught me even more than the whip.

The sailors led her to the mainmast and tied her wrists together above her head, securing them tightly to the mast.