“I couldn’t help but notice . . . that you seen to be drinking something. Perhaps you have something to spare?”
“I don’t know,” said the head watchman doubtfully. “Do you have coin?”
“I wish,” the slaver responded dolefully. “We don’t get paid until we get to Hispaniola.”
The head watchman sighed. “Well, in the interest of international amity, we can share.”
He handed over a skin. “This is our little local specialty. It’s made from a fruit that grows here, ananas. Some people call it pineapple.” He declined to mention that the little beverage was then distilled—it was handy having a glassmaker in the colony—to ninety proof.
So far, so good. Carsten had told him, “Don’t just go up and offer them a drink, let it be their idea. And feign reluctance.”
The mood of the erstwhile ship defenders passed from celebratory to somnolent. The head watchman gestured to the waiting assault team. The two Tritón crew members were quickly gagged, bound and dragged off.
From a point out of view of the deck of the Tritón, a colonist used a hooded lantern to signal to the Eikhoorn, which was waiting quietly downstream. It slowly approached the other side of the Tritón, moving on muffled sweeps.
With the Eikhoorn’s swivel guns commanding the deck of the Tritón, there was no reason for further delay. One of Coqui’s arrows, six feet long, took down a man who came up on deck as the assault team, lead by Heyndrick, snuck onto the dock. It was the wrong time to use the head.
The assault team came across the plank, and spread out quickly. The most experienced fighters opened the hatches and jumped down. The second mate was surprised in his hammock. The most resistance came from the cook, who was obviously both a light sleeper and a man who liked to keep the tools of his trade close at hand. The cook managed to grab one of his knives and threaten to carve Henrique into little pieces. Henrique maneuvered him so his back was to the entranceway, and another Gustavan put the cook back to sleep.
The rising sun reddened the waters of the Paramaribo.
“The slavers’ longboat just came around the bend.” said one of the Gustavans, crouching beside the readied cannon. There were perhaps a score on board.
“Good,” said the gunner. “The angle is set. When it comes even with that rock—the one whose top looks like a parrot’s beak—light the fuse and blow the sucker out of the water.”
The longboat crew couldn’t possibly have seen the lit fuse. But they may have caught a glimpse of the men hiding by the cannon. For whatever reason, at the last moment, they backed water, and the ball missed them. Just barely; they were still sprayed.
With surprise lost, the Gustavans brought other cannon into action. A second shot was fired, then a third, bracketing the longboat.
The longboat might nonetheless have tried to reach the Tritón—figuring, with some justice, that the colonial militia probably weren’t skilled artillerists—but at that point the Eikhoorn, which had been downstream, swept past the prow of the Tritón, her swivel guns all manned. They were formidable antipersonnel weapons.
The longboat swung around, trying to claw its way back upriver, and out of the range, at least, of the fort’s cannon. The first officer of the Tritón might well have intended to beach the longboat as soon as he was safe from cannonshot, and lead his men inland, to neutralize the Eikhoorn’s swivel guns, too.
However, in changing direction, the longboat lost speed, and that made it a better target. A cannonball holed it, and it sank quickly.
* * *
The Tritón—newly dubbed Der Vrijdom—was now anchored in two fathoms of water, off the east bank of the Suriname River. The slaves were brought up from the hold as gently as possible, still shackled.
They stood blinking in the sun, knowing that there were strangers on board, but not knowing the significance. Then the former crew of the Tritón were brought before them, in shackles. Even the captain, his mouth gagged because he had demonstrated an amazing gift for continuous invective.
The slaves’ eyes widened as they took in this sight.
Then Maurício, the only black among the Gustavans, came aboard. Heyndrick had loaned him a military uniform. Maria had put a harpy eagle feather in Maurício’s hat, and hung one of her iridescent CD quarter-slices around his neck. The inner circle—Carsten, Maria, Heyndrick, Dirck and, to Heyndrick’s annoyance, Henrique—had decided that Maurício would be their most convincing spokesman, and that he should be “dressed to impress.”
Maurício knew several of the African languages. He gave the slaves the same message in each of them. They were about to be set free. Their captors were now captives, but were not to be harmed. The Africans were now among people who wanted to be their friends. Their new friends couldn’t take them back across the sea, but could give them a new place to call home, so long as they behaved as good neighbors. They would help each other.