Rachel shook her head. What had she gotten herself into?
After a half hour’s walk, they came to a wooden jail-like structure with logs pointed on the tops and woven together in a secure fence. The stench overwhelmed Rachel, but she refused to show any revulsion.
“Your father is in there,” her aunt said simply and disappeared into the bush along the trail.
Once inside, she saw a white man beating a small child who was screaming in pain. A young woman, possibly the child’s mother was trying to stop him.
Rachel cleared her voice and then asked, “Are you Austin, the owner of the barracoon?”
The man spun around and let the child go at the sound of her voice. Her mother pulled her away toward the back of the house.
“Who are you?” he demanded, but she was fairly sure he knew her. They both shared the same light blue eyes she saw in her mirror every morning.
“I’m your daughter. I’m leaving for England soon and I wanted to see for myself where I came from.”
The expression on his face moved from enraged to questioning and finally to calculating, all in the lapse of a few minutes.
“Why would you want to go to England? There’s nothing there for women like you. I can tell you that.”
“Women like me? You mean a mulatto?”
“Summat like that.”
“Why would I want to stay in Africa?”
“Because I’m your father and I need you.”
She hoped her face did not give away how revolted she was at his words. She stayed silent, forcing him to keep talking.
“There’s money to be made in dealings with the Ibi tribe, and your Grand-da is the head man.” He rubbed his silver-blonde bearded chin with a speculative grin. “If you were to stay with me, we could get him to cut us in on more of the money.”
Of all the horrible things she remembered from her early years in the barracoon, he was the worst. But now, she could see him for what he was - a tired, useless old man who preyed on the lives and fears of others.
When Chris returned much laterfrom the governor’s house to the shore boat to take him back to the Thistle, the Freetown apothecary, Dr Peregrine, awaited him with a grim tale.
It didn’t take long for the man to catch him up to Rachel’s wrong-headed plan to put herself in harm’s way with the dangerous Ibi tribe.
Although he hated to take his men out on a night-time mission and expose them to the dangers of the miasmas of fever, he knew he couldn’t wait until morning. It would take a full day of rowing and poling up the Sierra Leone River to make it to Port Loko.
And besides, the Ibi, and the treacherous barracoon owner, Austin, were always good for a hundred or so slaves being readied for illegal transport down to the sea.
He kept the attack party small - himself and eight marines.
Rachel’s auntwas waiting for her outside her father’s house. All she asked was, “Have you seen enough of your father?”
“More than enough, but I wish we could take that small girl and her mother with us, away from him.” Even as she said the words, Rachel was sure the child was her half-sister. She could not leave her behind.
Her aunt went back inside and brought the woman and child back out with her.
“Won’t he miss them?” Rachel was beginning to suspect her aunt was a ghost with special powers again, but she still seemed substantial when she touched her hand.
“He won’t miss them until the drink wears off.” Her aunt produced a bottle of a clear liquid from behind her and hid the bottle behind a nearby tree.
Although neither the woman nor her child spoke any English, she placed her hand on Rachel’s arm and squeezed.
When they came to the outskirts of the village, her aunt pointed to the largest hut in the center of all the other houses, with smoke curling out through a hole in the roof. “That’s your grandfather’s house.”
When the woman turned to walk away with the others, Rachel panicked. “You’re not going to make me face him alone, are you?”
