There's little chance they'll be plotting any revolts. Half of them are likely blood enemies of the other half."

The first mate lashed the line forward with a cat-o'-nine-tails, positioning them along the scuppers. At the head was a tall man whose alert eyes were already studying the forested center of the island.

Winston examined him for a moment, recalling the haughty Yoruba slaves he had seen in Brazil.

"Is that the chief you spoke of?"

Ruyters glanced at the man a moment. "They mostly look the same to me, but aye, I think that's the one. Prince Atiba, I believe they called him. A Niger and pure Yoruba."

"He'll never be made a slave."

"Won't he now? You'll find the cat can work wonders." Ruyters turned and took the cat-o'-nine-tails from the mate. "He'll jump just like the rest." With a quick flick he lashed it against the African's back. The man stood unmoving, without even a blink. He drew back and struck him a second time, now harder. The Yoruba's jaw tightened visibly but he still did not flinch. As Ruyters drew back for a third blow, Winston reached to stay his arm.

"Enough. Take care or he may prove a better man than you'd wish to show."

Before Ruyters could respond, Briggs moved to begin the negotiations.

"What terms are you offering, sir?"

"Like we agreed." Ruyters turned back. "A quarter now, with sight bills for another quarter in six months and the balance on terms in a year."

"Paid in bales of tobacco at standing rates? Or sugar, a.s.suming we've got it then?"

"I've yet to see two gold pieces keeping company together on the whole of the island." He snorted. "I suppose it'll have to be. What do you say to the usual exchange rate?"

"I say we can begin. Let's start with the best, and not trouble with the bidding candle yet. I'll offer you a full twenty pounds for the first one there." Briggs pointed at the Yoruba.

The Dutch captain examined him in disbelief. "This is not some indentured Irishman, sir. This is a robust field hand you'll own for life. And he has all the looks of a good breeder. My conscience wouldn't let me entertain a farthing under forty."

"Would you take some of my acres too? Is there no profit to be had in him?"

"These Africans'll pay themselves out for you in one good year, two at the most. Just like they do in Brazil." Ruyters smiled. "And this is the very one that cost me a fortune in muskets. It's only because I know you for a gentleman that I'd even think of offering him on such easy terms. He's plainly the pick of the string."

Winston turned away and gazed toward the sh.o.r.e. The price

would be thirty pounds. He knew Ruyters' bargaining practices all too well. The sight of the Zeelander's decks sickened him almost as much as the slaves. He wanted to get to sea again, to leave Barbados and its greedy Puritans far behind.

But this time, he told himself, you're the one who needs them. Just a little longer and there'll be a reckoning.

And after that, Barbados can be d.a.m.ned.

"Thirty pounds then, and may G.o.d forgive me." Ruyters was slapping Briggs genially on the shoulder. "But you'll be needing a lot more for the acres you want to cut. Why not take the rest of this string at a flat twenty-five pounds the head, and make an end on it? It'll spare both of us time."

"Twenty-five!"

"Make it twenty then." Ruyters lowered his voice. "But not a shilling under, G.o.d is my witness."

"By my life, you're a conniving Moor, pa.s.sing himself as a Dutchman."

Briggs mopped his brow. "It's time for the candle, sir. They're scarcely all of the same quality."

"I'll grant you. Some should fetch well above twenty. I ventured the offer thinking a gentleman of your discernment might grasp a bargain when he saw it. But as you will." He turned and spoke quickly to his quartermaster, a short, surly seaman who had been with the Zeelander almost as long as Ruyters. The officer disappeared toward the Great Cabin and returned moments later with several long white candles, marked with rings at one-inch intervals. He fitted one into a holder and lit the wick.

"We'll begin with the next one in the string." Ruyters pointed to a stout, gray-bearded man. "Gentlemen, what am I bid?"

"Twelve pounds."

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen pounds ten."

"Sixteen."

As Winston watched the bidding, he found his gaze drifting more and more to the Yoruba Briggs had just purchased. The man was meeting his stare now, eye to eye, almost a challenge.

There were three small scars lined down one cheek--the clan marks Yoruba warriors were said to wear to prevent inadvertently killing another clan member in battle. He was naked and in chains, but he held himself like a born aristocrat.

"Eighteen and ten." Briggs was eyeing the flickering candle as he yelled the bid. At that moment the first dark ring disappeared.

"The last bid on the candle was Mr. Benjamin Briggs." Ruyters turned to his quartermaster, who was holding an open account book, quill pen in hand. "At eighteen pounds ten shillings. Mark it and let's get on with the next one."

Winston moved slowly back toward the main deck, studying the first Yoruba more carefully now--the glistening skin that seemed to stretch over ripples of muscle. And the quick eyes, seeing everything.

What a fighting man he'd make. He'd snap your neck while you were still reaching for your pistol. It could've been a big mistake not to try and get him. But then what? How'd you make him understand anything? Unless . . .

He remembered that some of the Yoruba in Brazil, still fresh off the slave ships, already spoke Portuguese. Learned from the traders who'd worked the African coast for . . . G.o.d only knows how long. The Portugals in Brazil always claimed you could never tell about a Yoruba.

They were like Moors, sharp as tacks.

His curiosity growing, he edged next to the man, still attempting to hold his eyes, then decided to try him.

"_Fala portugues_?"

Atiba started in surprise, shot a quick glance toward the crowd of whites, then turned away, as though he hadn't heard. Winston moved closer and lowered his voice.

"_Fala portugues, senhor_?"

After a long moment he turned back and examined Winston.

"_Sim. Suficiente_." His whisper was almost buried in the din of bidding. He paused a moment, then continued, in barely audible Portuguese. "How many of my people will you try to buy, _senhor_?"

"Only free men serve under my command.'

"Then you have saved yourself the loss of many strings of money sh.e.l.ls,_ senhor_. The _branco _here may have escaped our sword for now.

But they have placed themselves in our scabbard." He looked back toward the sh.o.r.e. "Before the next rainy season comes, you will see us put on the skin of the leopard. I swear to you in the name of Ogun, G.o.d of war."

Chapter Two