have been the witch doctor. I ran down the dock and boarded
the Hermione. Hector stood at the end of the dock, eyes fixed on the advancing
slaves and called out “To me, Doctor!”. Menting
slapped the struggling Margarate hard and half dragged, half carried her to the
ship. We were able to push away from the
dock just as the slave things emerged from the path onto the beach.

As the island faded in the distance we fugitives were
still sitting on the deck, in silence. Hector was in conversation with the
mate, who was steering a course for Saint Martins. I feared that if I stood and
walked over to join them my legs might fail me. Hector walked over, sat next to
me and offered me his flask. He smiled (for the first time sincewound and the housekeeper
prepared a meal for us while Menting, Hector and I talked with Margarate about
what had just happened. It seemed things had been even worse than she had
hinted to her father in her letters. Her husband’s drinking and brutality
disgusted her. He and his overseer worked the slaves without mercy, and at last
a sickness took hold in the slave quarters. One of the slaves had been an
important man in their land, a witch doctor of some sort. He undertook the care
of the sick men but, despite his best efforts the slaves began to die, two or
three a day at first and then ten or a dozen. The fool Colbert tried to bully
the native, who soon grew cold and defiant. One night as he sat over his dinner
the