Chapter 4.
Many Good Men
“Oh, I say, Balderthump. This looks a little awkward does it not?”
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“Indeed it does, m’lord.”
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With the ring of steel on steel, four long, curved knives were drawn from their scabbards, the finely honed edges glistening in the feeble light from a new moon. A flick of one knife indicated Lord Wrinklebottom should climb down from the barrel. Another, that they should walk towards the door.
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“I suspect now may not be a good time to resist, m’lord,” opined Balderthump.
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“Excellent advice, Balderthump,” agreed Lord Wrinklebottom.
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They stooped as they went through the low door. A fearful stench hit them on the other side. Lord Wrinklebottom choked and raised his hand to his mouth. Balderthump did the same.
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To their left, a rough wooden fence enclosed a patch of dirt otherwise surrounded by the mud brick wall. Pressed against the fence was the mass of dark bodies. Slaves. Or rather, kidnapped African tribespeople destined to be slaves. Hundreds of them, pressed into a dirty holding area barely big enough for a few donkeys. Here and there, Balderthump could see a desperate face, or eyes peering through the timber and the darkness.
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“Poor souls,” murmured Lord Wrinklebottom glancing to his left and right. “What a horror.”
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There was little time to take in the enormity or the brutality of it. A sharp prod from a knife reminded them there was no time for loitering and directed them to a low, square mud-brick building. They were pushed roughly inside. A single flickering lamp on a crate illuminated the room.
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Two other men sat on crates in another corner of the room. They looked up as Lord Wrinklebottom and Balderthump entered.
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“Look here, my good men,” began Lord Wrinklebottom, “I demand to know the meaning of this!”
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One of the men waved them towards another crate in the corner of the room, but otherwise ignored them. Lord Wrinklebottom hesitated for a moment, then sat on the crate. Balderthump stood tall and still beside him with his white gloved hands crossed in front of him.
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The same man waved his hand again and grunted a command to one of the knife-wielding men who then disappeared outside. Everyone stood still, apparently waiting, but for what neither Balderthump nor Lord Wrinklebottom could tell.
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Time passed. The stench from outside permeated the whole building. Balderthump raised a gloved hand to his nose to block some of the smell.
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“I say,” said Lord Wrinklebottom standing up again. “I demand to know what is going on! This is intolerable! I am a peer of the British Empire and I demand to be treated with respect!”
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The man who appeared to be in charge simply motioned with his knife for Lord Wrinklebottom to be quiet and sit down again.
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“I suspect they don't understand, m’lord,” whispered Balderthump. The man glared at Balderthump. Balderthump nodded and was silent. Lord Wrinklebottom growled and sat down again.
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The strange standoff continued for some twenty minutes. Lord Wrinklebottom struggled to contain his outrage, but Balderthump persuaded him to save his indignation for whoever they were waiting for.
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With barely a sound the bearded man returned bringing with him another man, clean-shaven and dressed in a white robe with a blue cord around his waist. He turned to look at his visitors. Lord Wrinklebottom rose and glared back at him.
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“To what do I owe the honour of this visit gentlemen?” The man in the white robes spoke perfect English.
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Balderthump stood firmly on Lord Wrinklebottom's toes and answered before Lord Wrinklebottom could open his mouth. “My master is on a reconnaissance mission to secure the best slaves for his extensive plantations in the State of Georgia.”
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“Is that so?” the white-robed man replied with a sneer, but also a slightly furrowed brow. “And what brought you to this place?” he asked coldly. “Surely the markets of Marrakech would serve your purpose more effectively?”
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“Purely coincidental, sir,” replied Balderthump. “We made some enquiries and were directed to the dock area. We happened to stumble across this delightful place and thought you might be able to help us secure the man-power we require. We are in the early stages of an extensive expansion of our plantings and require many additional workers. But my master will not take just anyone. He demands the best and insists on selecting every one of his workers personally. Hence we came looking for the source of good men. Many good men.”
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“Really?” The white-robed man raised an eye-brow but looked unconvinced. He stepped forward and breathed rudely into Lord Wrinklebottom's face with a slight sneer.
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“So, is this true, ‘master’?” he asked sarcastically.
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“Indeed it is, my good man, and I protest at your treatment of a peer of the realm.” Lord Wrinklebottom raised himself up as far as his moderate stature would allow and glared back at the white-robed man. “I have immediate need of more than three thousand workers, and as my good man has said, I insist, I insist,” he emphasised, “on choosing every one myself.”
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“Most caring of you,” sneered the man in white, but Balderthump could see he was thinking over their story. After a brief pause, he nodded quickly at the four bearded men and before Balderthump or Lord Wrinklebottom could react, a man had each of their arms twisted tightly up behind their backs and bound firmly with a rough rope.
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“I say, I say!” protested Lord Wrinklebottom loudly, but received a sharp slap for his efforts. He and Balderthump were pushed harshly back to back onto the one crate and tied together with another rope.
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“Could I suggest, next time you come to pay us a visit, you make enquiries at the door rather than trying to climb over the wall,” spat the white-robed man. “I may or may not see you again in the morning,” he added ominously, then turned and left the room.
