Shortly before dinner, Sibylla was sitting at the table in her drawing room. She wanted to write a letter to her father, but her mind kept returning to her meeting with Qaid Hash-Hash that afternoon. He had deigned to speak with her only after she had had him informed that she was in possession of something for which he was searching. Of course, he had known what it was and had flown into a terrible rage when she had refused to divulge Benjamin’s hiding place for his treasure. But she had shocked and subdued him with her proposal that the entire amount be used to rebuild Mogador with only one stipulation: that he proclaim to the whole city that Benjamin Hopkins had always been a respectable businessman and never involved in the slave trade.
“Why did you not just keep the money, Mrs. Hopkins?” he wanted to know when she was leaving.
“Because I wish to give it to someone who really needs it,” she said, thinking of André. She added, “And no one needs it more than the citizens of Mogador.”
How grand, she thought triumphantly, to see such respect on the governor’s face!
Sibylla dipped her quill in the inkwell and returned to the letter. She wanted to inform her parents about the bombardment of Mogador and tell them that Benjamin was killed as a result. She also wanted to suggest to her father that she continue managing Spencer & Son’s business in Mogador permanently. She would not, however, mention the slaves or the money under the sundial.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes,” Sibylla called.
Nadira entered. “The captain of the Queen Charlotte is here, my lady. He insisted on seeing the master. I told him that the master was dead. And so he wants to speak with you.”
“Where is he?” Sibylla shot out of her chair. Brown! At last! For months she had waited to confront him.
“I have shown him into the master’s old office.”
“Thank you, Nadira.” She ran along the gallery. But when she reached the door to Benjamin’s office, she stopped dead in her tracks. The red-haired, bearded man inside might have been wearing the uniform of a captain for the Spencer & Son Shipping Company, but he was definitely not Nathaniel Brown.
When the stranger beheld Sibylla, he quickly removed his bicorne and bowed awkwardly. “My sincerest sympathy, Mrs. Hopkins, for the death of your husband. My name is William Comstock, and I’m helmsman and temporary captain of the Queen Charlotte.”
Sibylla motioned to the divan and sat on a chair. “Why temporary captain? What has happened to Brown?”
“Dead, Mrs. Hopkins. Killed in a mutiny.”
She was horrified. Mutiny was a serious crime, punishable by hanging. “Tell me,” she demanded.
Comstock reported that they had been on the open seas when some of the crew had mutinied. Brown, all the officers, and the first mate, who had tried to overpower the leader, were murdered. But then a quarrel had broken out among the mutineers and the leader had had several of his cronies hanged on the mainmast.
“That was good for us loyalists, Mrs. Hopkins, ’cause then it was easier to kill the leader and those other criminals. And now we are here, because we had got off course quite a bit and Mogador was the nearest port.”
Sibylla needed a moment to recover from the shock. The only good that had come out of the mutiny was that the contemptible Nathaniel Brown had descended into hell!
She crossed her arms and looked at Comstock. “You have acted bravely, Comstock, but there is something I must ask. How was it possible to transport so many slaves on the Queen Charlotte without my father’s knowledge?”
The man grew pale. “I don’t understand, madam . . . what do you mean?”
“Don’t play me for a fool! I know that the Queen Charlotte secretly transported slaves and not just one time.” She swallowed before continuing. “And I also know how my husband figured into it. So, out with it!”
Comstock cleared his throat. “The Queen only got loaded to half capacity in Mogador. When she left, she didn’t set course for America, but south to Cape Juby. That’s where we took on the blacks and then sold them in the Caribbean. In the logbook, we said there was storms, calm, fog, and the like to explain the delays.”
“And the whole crew participated?” Sibylla asked, repulsed.
“The officers were bribed, and Brown told the ordinary sailors he would throw them into the ocean if they didn’t cooperate. It’s some of them that mutinied. They wanted their cut.”
“And what about you, Comstock? Did you receive your cut?”
He hung his head. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t have taken a shilling but for my wife. She was so ill, and them doctors is such cutthroats.”
She bit her lower lip and pondered his words. Finally, she said, “At least you are being honest now. And you proved your loyalty to the company during the mutiny. For that reason, I will not say another word about this contemptible slave trade—on condition that, from now on, you are a reliable and loyal employee of Spencer & Son.” She scrutinized Comstock.
He jumped out of his seat and bowed low. “Thank you, Mrs. Hopkins! That’s really very generous of you, Mrs. Hopkins!”
“Very well then.” Sibylla got up and accompanied him to the door. “Sail home to London and brief my father on the events, but leave my husband’s name out of it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Qasr el Bahia, end of June 1840
“You have company, André!” Udad bin Aziki, sheikh of the Chiadma Berber, shaded his eyes and squinted to the east.
“Who could it be?” André wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
It was almost noon and the sun was bearing down relentlessly on the flat roof of the left watchtower of Qasr el Bahia. He and Udad’s sons had been busy since early that morning covering the holes in the roof with palm fronds. They were using a thick mixture of clay, sand, straw, and dung that bin Aziki had put together. Once the mud had dried, it would keep the interior of the watchtower cool despite the sun’s heat, and conversely, warm, by holding in the accumulated heat.
“I see only a dust cloud,” Aziki reported. “It’s not very fast, but it’s big.”
“I don’t think it’s the Ait Zelten,” said André, also watching the cloud. “But we should lock the gate just in case.”
Ever since André had settled at Qasr el Bahia, Ait Zelten men had been skulking around the premises. While they never came close, they followed the activity there with both suspicion and curiosity. Their sheikh had never paid André a visit, but his men were still letting their herds graze on his land. Winter and spring had been very dry, so that the low pastures already did not provide enough nourishment for the herds. Since André knew the Berbers depended on whatever the barren land gave them and that, aside from their horses, their goats and sheep were their most prized possessions, he left them in peace in the hopes that the sheikh would later remember his generosity.