Which was, rather plainly, their purpose; why else would twenty-five strong men all armed to the gills be trooping through such a godforsaken place?
Three nights before, Caleb, in his ship, The Prince, closely followed by his old comrade-in-adventure, Phillipe, in his ship, The Raven, had slipped into the estuary on the night tide. They’d kept to the north shore, well away from the shipping lanes leading into Freetown harbor, and sailed deeper down the estuary and into Tagrin Bay, reducing the risk of detection by any naval vessels going into and out of the harbor; according to Robert’s information, the West Africa Squadron should now be in port, and Caleb would prefer to avoid having to explain himself to Vice-Admiral Decker.
They’d anchored off the southern shore of the bay at a spot Caleb judged was due north of Kale’s Homestead. According to Robert’s map, miles of jungle lay between the slavers’ camp and the ships’ positions; Caleb hadn’t known how passable that jungle would be, but his confidence had been bolstered by the intelligence they’d gained from natives living in a village nearby. Phillipe had a way with languages—another excellent reason for inviting him along—and he’d quickly established a rapport with the village elders. The villagers had known of the slavers’ camp, but, unsurprisingly, avoided it with a near-religious fervor. Sadly, they’d known nothing about any mine or similar enterprise anywhere in the vicinity, but they’d been happy to point out a narrow track that, so they’d insisted, led more or less directly to the slavers’ camp.
Unfortunately, the villagers hadn’t known the name of the slavers’ leader. Caleb clung to the hope that he and his men weren’t going to find themselves at some other slavers’ camp entirely—and trudged on. They’d set out on the previous morning, leaving skeleton crews on their ships and taking the strongest and most experienced of their men. Seizing a slavers’ camp would be no easy task, especially if there were any captives currently in the slavers’ clutches.
Turning that prospect over in his mind—wondering what he might do if it proved to be so—Caleb led the way on.
He almost didn’t trust his eyes when, through the dense curtain of trees, palms, and vines, he glimpsed a pale glow—indicating a clearing where daylight flooded in, banishing the jungle’s pervasive gloom.
Then their narrow track ended, opening onto a wider, better-maintained path, one clearly frequently used.
Caleb stopped and held up a hand; the men following halted and froze. He sent his senses questing. A rumble of male voices was faint but discernible.
Phillipe leaned close and whispered, “We’re twenty to twenty-five yards from the perimeter.”
Caleb nodded. “This wider path must be the one between the camp and the mine.”
Rapidly, he canvassed his options. Although Phillipe was the more experienced commander, he waited, silently deferring to Caleb—this was Caleb’s show. Another reason Caleb liked working with the man. Eventually, he murmured, “Pass the word—we’ll creep nearer, keeping to the jungle, and see what we can see. No reason to let them know we’re here.”
Phillipe turned to pass the order back down the line. Of their party of twenty-five, thirteen were from Caleb’s crew and ten from The Raven’s. Because of Caleb and Phillipe’s previous joint ventures, their men had worked together before; Caleb didn’t need to fear that they wouldn’t operate as a cohesive unit in what was to come.
After one last searching look around, he ventured onto the wider path, placing his feet with care. He followed the well-trodden trail, but halted just before a curve that, by his reckoning, would expose him to those in the clearing. Instead, he slipped silently sideways to his right, into the cover of the jungle. Quietly, he skirted the edge of the clearing, continuing to move slowly and with care, shifting from north to west. Eventually, he reached the western aspect; on spotting a clump of large-leafed palms closer to the clearing’s perimeter, he crouched and crept into the concealment the palms offered. A swift glance behind showed Phillipe following him, while the rest of their men hunkered down, strung out in the shadows, their gazes trained on the activity in the camp.
Caleb returned his attention to the clearing and settled to study Kale’s Homestead. He recognized the layout from Robert’s notes—the horseshoe-shaped central space with a large barrack-like hut across the head and four smaller huts, two on each side. Caleb and his men were at the open end of the horseshoe, virtually directly opposite the main barracks. According to Robert’s diagram, that meant the path from Freetown should be somewhere to their right; Caleb searched and spotted the opening. The path he and his men had briefly followed entered the clearing to the left of the main barracks, while another path—one Robert had deemed unused—straggled away into the jungle from the right of that building.
Having established that reality matched the picture of the camp he’d carried in his mind, Caleb focused on the people moving in and out of the huts and sitting about the central fire pit.
Phillipe settled alongside him, and they tuned their ears to the low-voiced, desultory chatter.
After a while, Phillipe leaned closer and whispered, “That large one—he acts like the leader, but from Robert’s description, he can’t be Kale.”
Caleb focused on the slaver in question—a heavyset man, tall, and with a swaggering gait. “I think,” Caleb murmured back, “that he must be the man who leads Kale’s men in the settlement.” After a moment, he mused, “Interesting that he’s here.”
“Useful that he’s here,” Phillipe corrected. “If we eradicate all here, chances are Kale’s operation won’t simply rise again under some other leader.”
Caleb nodded. “True.” He scanned the area and the huts. “It doesn’t look like they have any captives—the doors of the smaller huts are open, and I haven’t seen any hint there’s anyone inside.”
“I haven’t, either.”
Caleb grimaced. “Kale’s not out there. Is he here, but in the barracks, and if so, how many men are in there with him?”
Phillipe’s shoulders lifted in a Gallic shrug.
Just then, one of the men hovering about the large pot slung over the fire pit raised his head, looked toward the barracks, and yelled, “Stew’s ready!”
Seconds later, the barracks’ door opened. Caleb grinned as a slaver of medium height and wiry build, with a disfiguring scar marring his features—from Robert’s description, the man had to be Kale—emerged, followed by three more men.
“How helpful,” Phillipe murmured.
Another man emerged from the path to Freetown. Caleb nudged Phillipe and nodded at the newcomer. “They did have a lookout on that path.”
Phillipe studied the man as he joined his fellows. “It doesn’t look as if they’re seriously concerned over unexpected company—odds are there was only the one lookout.”
“That’s the way I read it, too.”
“All told, that makes thirteen.”
His eyes on the scene unfolding about the fire pit, Caleb merely nodded. Phillipe settled again, and they watched as Kale, handed a tin plate piled with stew by one of his henchmen, sat on a log and started eating. His men followed suit, sitting on the logs arranged in a rough circle around the fire.
They’d barely taken their first mouthfuls when the muted tramp of feet had everyone—Kale and his men, as well as Caleb, Phillipe, and their company—looking toward the path from the north. The path Caleb believed led to the mine—the same path they’d briefly been on fifteen or so minutes before.
Four men—slavers by their dress and Kale’s men by their composure—appeared. They hailed Kale and exchanged greetings with others in the group.
“So you got our recent guests settled, then?”