Dubois waited for a heartbeat, then calmly asked, “Where did you come from, and what brought you here?”
Excellent questions to which Caleb had answers prepared. But he knew better than to just trot them out. Instead, he thought of Royd and attempted to look haughtily uncommunicative.
He knew he was clearly marked as the leader of this band—the one all the other men would take their cues from. He wasn’t the heaviest or largest man of their company, but he was the tallest bar Phillipe and, at least to most people’s eyes, appeared the most physically powerful and therefore the most dangerous.
That was deceptive, because Phillipe was infinitely more dangerous.
But Caleb hadn’t had to exchange so much as a glance with his friend for Phillipe to stay in a secondary role; they’d played this “sleight of man” more times than either could count and knew the value of concealing Phillipe’s true talents.
So Caleb kept his lips firmly shut, kept his gaze—not precisely challengingly but levelly—fixed on Dubois, and waited for the man to respond. He’d already concluded that, as Dubois desperately needed strong men for the mine, he wouldn’t kill any of them—not unless they gave him sound reasons to do so, which they wouldn’t. Caleb was already looking forward to joining the others in the compound.
He wasn’t looking forward to what he knew would come next, but consoled himself with the truth—it was necessary. Dubois would never be comfortable having Caleb in the compound if he hadn’t had a chance to establish his authority. It was better to get that little ritual out of the way here. Phillipe and their men would know what he was doing. Katherine wouldn’t, and he was sorry for that, but he could explain and apologize later.
Once they were both back in the compound and free to associate.
His reckless side thought that a fitting reward for him taking this tack.
Sure enough, when he continued to keep mum, Dubois gave a soft—rather pleased—grunt. He removed the dagger from Katherine’s breast, grasped her arm, and shoved her at the mercenary who had descended to stand at his shoulder.
“Hold her.” Without taking his gaze from Caleb, Dubois handed over the dagger as well.
Once his man had taken the blade, Dubois stepped into the clearing and walked, slowly, toward Caleb.
Caleb watched him come.
Dubois halted before him, not quite a yard away. He was shorter than Caleb by several inches, but more powerfully built.
Dubois transferred his pistol to his left hand—then in an explosion of movement, he viciously backhanded Caleb across the face.
Caleb had seen the blow coming; he had to fight not to duck. He did turn his head at the last moment, avoiding the worst of the force behind the blow. But Dubois wore a heavy ring; it tore across Caleb’s right cheek.
Katherine cried out.
As he righted his head, Caleb caught a fleeting glimpse of her, white-faced and struggling futilely against the mercenary’s hold—and told himself not to wink.
Then Dubois plowed a fist like a rock into Caleb’s gut, then stepped to the side and slammed his linked fists across Caleb’s nape, all but felling him and driving him to his knees.
Head hanging, Caleb gasped. He let himself fall forward, but caught himself on his braced left arm; his right arm was clutched—not entirely for effect—across his bruised stomach. He felt ridiculously proud of himself. Chanting “responsibility” in his head had worked—had stopped him giving in to instinct, blocking the blows, and striking back.
He was the youngest of four brothers; the one thing the other three—and their friends and his—had taught him was how to fight, especially hard scrabble, outside the rules. They had also—unintentionally—taught him how to fake injury and weakness; there was some benefit in being the youngest, and he’d been quick to claim it.
Every one of his men would by now have guessed his tack, even if they might not understand his reasoning. Phillipe had jerked, once, but then had grown deathly still, holding against the instinct to intervene. Or retaliate.
From the corner of his eye, Caleb watched Dubois’s heavy boots move as the mercenary—who walked surprisingly lightly on his feet—circled him, watching for any sign of him fighting back.
When Caleb made no such move but continued to labor to breathe, Dubois halted on Caleb’s right, locked his fingers in Caleb’s hair, and hauled Caleb’s head up.
Dubois’s gaze bored into his eyes. “I’ll ask again. Where did you come from?”
Caleb let the air saw as he drew it in and came upright on his knees to ease the tension on his scalp. “The coast north of here. We were put off a ship—a merchantman—in Freetown. We hired a fishing boat and followed the estuary shore east, just to see what we could find.” He paused to artistically draw a deeper breath, then went on, “There’s a native village north of here. They told us about a slavers’ camp hidden away up here, so we thought we’d come and take a look—see if there was anything worth plundering.” A doctored version of the truth. He shifted his gaze to Katherine; the rest of their invented tale was a calculated risk. “We came across her two days ago. She said she needed to talk to others, but there might be money in it for us if we took a message to the settlement for her.” He gave a slight shrug, “No skin off our noses to see what she came up with—we saw your defenses, and we weren’t about to mount any noble rescue.”
Dubois chuckled, a chilling sound. He released Caleb’s hair. “What was the name of the ship you left in Freetown?”
Caleb opened his mouth to answer—
“Not you.” Dubois’s gaze shifted to Phillipe. “You.”
Phillipe didn’t hesitate. “The Aberdeen Rose.”
“And what class of ship was she?” Dubois swung around and pointed at Quilley.
“Three-masted freighter.”
“And how many oars were there in this fishing boat you hired?” Dubois jabbed a finger at Norton.
“No oars. Single mast and a jib.”
Thank heaven they’d rehearsed their tale. That Dubois was smart enough to check their veracity by asking them all for different details...again, Caleb reminded himself of just how canny the man was, how dangerous to underestimate.
Dubois even thought to ask Ellis, “How much did the fishing boat cost to hire?”
Ellis blinked, then looked at Caleb. “I don’t know. It was the capt’n who arranged it.”
Which, of course, was the correct—and convincing—answer.
Dubois turned away and ordered two of his men to search the packs and seabags for any stray weapons, money, and powder. Also any documents; Caleb shared a quick glance with Phillipe and knew a moment of abject relief that, after much debate, he’d tucked Robert’s diary into the satchel he’d dispatched to London.
No forgotten weapons were discovered.
Finally satisfied, Dubois looked down at Caleb, then kicked his nearest shin. “Get to your feet.”
With becoming slowness, as if every joint hurt, Caleb did. Phillipe grasped his elbow and helped him up.
More or less upright, but hunching so his eyes were lower than Dubois’s, Caleb looked hesitantly at the mercenary captain. “Now what?”
Dubois’s smile was that of a delighted jackal. “Fate, my friend, has clearly smiled upon me. You and your men are the answer to my prayers—you are precisely what I need to deliver on my contract.”
CHAPTER 9
Katherine stumbled along, her arm in Arsene’s unbreakable grip. She couldn’t think—could still not get her wits to function. The sensation of helpless witlessness, of her awareness being somehow adrift, felt the same as when she’d first found herself in Kale’s clutches.
The compound’s gates loomed ahead. She and Arsene were in the lead. Caleb’s men followed, two by two, carrying their packs and seabags, with the mercenaries, muskets still i
n their hands, flanking the column.
Caleb and Lascelle walked at the rear of their men, with Dubois trailing behind—no doubt gloating.
She hadn’t had a single clue that he’d followed her, not until he’d spoken.
Had he followed her?
Or had he already been in the jungle when she’d left the compound? She hadn’t seen him that morning, but that wasn’t unusual. Now she thought of it, Dubois had enough men in the compound for the group with him to have been in the jungle since daybreak; if they’d left before it was light, none of the captives would have known.
But why had Dubois thought to follow her? What had she done that had made him so suspicious?
They passed through the open gates. The guards on either side grinned widely, called greetings to their fellows, and made various ribald comments about the new captives.
Just inside the compound, Arsene jerked her to a halt by one of the gateposts. The heavyset mercenary held her securely, close beside him, and still openly brandished Dubois’s long dagger. Arsene called orders to the mercenaries to march the captured men to the fire pit and have them sit.
Several of the men glanced at Katherine as they passed; to her surprise, rather than glaring or staring sullenly at her, most sent faint smiles—clearly meant to be reassuring—her way.
There she stood, wracked by guilt over having led Dubois to them...and they smiled at her?
Still stunned, still unable to think clearly, she raised her gaze and looked beyond Caleb’s men—at her fellow captives. Many had heard the unexpected tramp of feet. The children had slowed in their busy backing and forthing and then stopped to watch. Several of the women had come out of the cleaning shed and around the barracks to see. Some children with their wits about them had darted into the mine and spread the word, and men were starting to gather at the entrance to the mine; Katherine saw Dixon, then Hillsythe and Hopkins, appear and join them.
The look on everyone’s face was closed. Katherine might not yet be able to think, but she could still feel. Despite the universally impassive expressions—showing no hint that their owners had known Caleb’s men were nearby—she could feel the deflation, the puncturing of their newly acquired hope.
The deadening sensation settled in her gut, then spread, insidiously dragging her emotions down. To have regained hope, only to have it snatched away...
No. We mustn’t think like that.
If they did, they’d die, here, in this hellhole. They couldn’t give up, not now, not ever.
She dragged in a deeper breath, straightened her spine, and lifted her head.
Harriet, standing across the yard by the corner of the barracks, her arms crossed over her waist with her hands clutching her elbows, hunched as if trying to protect herself against a blow, saw. A second passed, then Harriet straightened; she released her elbows, lowered her hands, and stood tall, too.
The change was subtle, but person by person, it rippled through the watching crowd, and the atmosphere transmuted into one of silent yet steadfast cohesion and support.
Everyone waited to see what happened next.
Caleb’s fifteen men had finally trudged past, steered by the flanking mercenaries toward the fire pit. Caleb himself, his cheek marred by the long gash Dubois had inflicted and moving with less than his customary grace, walked past, Lascelle at his elbow. Fleetingly, Caleb met her gaze; she stiffened, steeling herself to bear his condemnation...instead, that brief glance seemed...apologetic?
She blinked. Obviously, her wits had yet to regain their customary facility.
Dubois halted beside Arsene; he watched Caleb and company move into the compound with transparent satisfaction. “Seventeen strong men accustomed to hard labor.” Dubois turned and looked her in the eye. “How can I possibly punish you, Miss Fortescue, when you have single-handedly accomplished what Kale and so many others have signally failed to do and given me the men I need to accomplish my task here?”
Oh, yes. Dubois was gloating. She retained enough sense to keep her lips firmly shut and evince no reaction.
Dubois studied her face, then smiled. He looked back at the men about the fire pit. “I wonder how our new recruits, and even more, perhaps, those already here, will view you being the instrument of my salvation.” Dubois’s cold smile widened. “It will be amusing to see.”
He surveyed the scene for a moment more, then said, “Meanwhile”—he nodded at Arsene to release her—“if you please, Miss Fortescue, come with me.”
He set off for the fire pit. She dallied as long as she dared; she handed her basket to Arsene, settled her gown, shook out her skirts, then followed. She knew what Dubois had intended—having her trail at his heels like his lapdog as he approached his new captives. Those were the little games he played, but along with the others, she did her best to deny him—or at least thrust a spoke into his wheel.
Caleb’s crew was now sitting in a partial circle about the fire pit.
Dubois halted at the edge of the circle of logs, taking up a position behind Caleb—a position that underscored his control, wordlessly declaring that Caleb was now under his command, his inferior.
As she stopped two paces from Dubois, she saw Caleb’s shoulders tense, but he didn’t twist around to look up at Dubois. The other men glanced at Caleb, then lifted their gazes to Dubois.
Coldly, dispassionately, Dubois surveyed them, then stated, “You are here to work, to assist in our mining operation.” Imperiously, he beckoned Dixon forward. “Captain Dixon will see you settled into your new accommodations.” He looked at Dixon. “There’s space aplenty, I believe.”
His features tight, Dixon nodded.
“Excellent.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Dubois spoke, ostensibly to the newcomers, but in reality reinforcing his edicts more generally. “You will start work tomorrow morning alongside your compatriots. During the rest of today, Captain Dixon will assign you to the appropriate teams. I suggest you use the time to familiarize yourself with the work you will be expected to perform and with the camp’s routines. For myself, I demand but one thing of you—that you work hard, consistently, and perform the tasks allotted to you to the best of your ability. I care for nothing else—and as those already here will attest, I am prepared to allow a great deal of leniency just as long as you meet my requirements.”
He paused, then, his voice subtly altering, menace sliding beneath his smooth tones, stated, “You have already heard what I will do should anyone cross me, and I’m sure those already here will confirm that I am a man of my word. Unless you wish to have such an outcome on your conscience, I would advise you to take my, and their, warnings to heart.”
Dubois allowed several seconds to pass in silence, giving his words—his threats—time to sink in and take hold, then he glanced down at Caleb, then turned to Katherine. “Miss Fortescue, as a measure of my welcome, perhaps you would take the gallant captain to the medical hut and tend his wound.”
Caleb finally swiveled on the log to look up at Dubois, then at her. A coldly calculating expression on his face, Dubois smiled at Caleb, then stepped back and waved in invitation. “We wouldn’t want infection to set in. I need you hale enough to work, and it’s not really possible to amputate a cheek.”
His expression entirely unresponsive, Caleb returned Dubois’s gaze for an instant, then he smoothly shifted and got to his feet. Reminding himself of what he shouldn’t know, he switched his gaze to Katherine; she was, he was pleased to see, holding up well. “Which way?”
She glanced once at Dubois, then gestured past the central barracks. “Over there.” She moved to walk around the circle.
Caleb stepped over the log on which he’d been sitting and, ignoring Dubois, in three long strides, reached her side. Behind him, he heard Dubois instruct Phillipe and their men to go with Dixon. Thus far, all was proceeding smoothly; they were inside the
compound, and no one had got hurt. Well, except for him, and a cut cheek, bruised stomach, and sore neck were hardly anything to moan about. He met Katherine’s eyes. They were close enough for him to risk a quick, reassuring smile. “Lead on.”
She saw the smile; a puzzled look filled her eyes, but she faced forward and kept walking.
His expression once more impassive, he matched his pace to hers and glanced around, taking in the relative distance between the buildings, their elevations off the ground, and other minor but potentially useful details, marrying his previous view from the rock shelf above with his new perspective.
He studied the large, central barracks into which the mercenary carting their weapons had lugged them. Presumably, Dubois’s armory was—wisely—located close to his and his men’s beds.
Katherine led him around the cleaning shed to the medical hut—a large single hut located to the rear of the compound below the face of the hill that contained the rock shelf; other than the hut’s roof and a sharply angled view of the left wall, they hadn’t been able to see much of the structure from their lookout. Like all the other huts in the compound, the walls were built of roughly hewn planks, with a roof of thatched palms supported by a framework of beams fashioned from the boles of large palms and trees. The façade proved to be wide, with a decent-sized window on either side of the door, which had a set of three wooden steps leading up to it; in common with the other huts, the medical hut was raised several feet above the ground.
After directing a single, faintly frowning glance at him, Katherine led the way up the steps, opened the door, and went inside.
Caleb followed, scanning the area within before pulling the door shut behind him. It was dim and cooler inside. The narrow central hallway ended in a door. Two other doors opened into the rooms on either side.
Katherine had paused in the doorway to the right. She pointed at the door at the end of the hall. “That’s the storeroom, and”—she indicated the door opposite and the room into which she intended to go—“we have two treatment rooms.” She walked into the room.