Grey stood up as they came in, Azeel hovering protectively behind Rodrigo.
The young man stopped, taking a deep breath before bowing deeply to the gentlemen.
“Your…servant. Sah,” he said to Grey, and then straightened, turned upon his axis, and repeated this process to the general, who watched him with a mixture of fascination and wariness.
Every time he saw Rodrigo, Grey’s heart was torn between regret for what the young man had once been—and a cautious joy in the fact that some of that splendid young man seemed still to be present, intact, and might yet come back further.
He was still beautiful, in a way that made Grey’s body tighten every time he saw that dark, finely carved head and the tall straight lines of his body. The lovely cat-like grace of him was gone, but he could walk again, almost normally, though one foot dragged a little.
It had taken weeks of careful nursing by Azeel—she was the only member of Grey’s household who was not terrorized by Rodrigo’s mere proximity—with help from Tom, who was afraid, too, but thought it wasn’t becoming for an Englishman to admit it.
Rodrigo had been nothing more than a shell of himself when Grey had rescued him and Tom from the maroons who had kidnapped them, and no one had expected that he would survive. Zombies didn’t. Drugged with zombie poison—Grey had little notion what was in the stuff, beyond the liver of some remarkably poisonous fish—and buried in a shallow grave, the person attacked by a houngan woke after some time to find himself apparently dead and buried.
Rising in a state of mental and physical disorientation, they numbly followed the orders of the houngan, until they died of starvation and the aftereffects of the drugs—or were killed. Zombies were (justifiably, Grey thought) viewed with horror by everyone, even by the people who had once loved them. Left without food, shelter, or kindness, they didn’t last long.
But Grey had refused to abandon Rodrigo, and so had Azeel. She had brought him slowly, slowly back to humanity—and then had married him, to the extreme horror of everyone in King’s Town.
“He’s got back most of his speech,” Grey explained to the general. “But only Spanish, that being his first language. He only remembers a few scattered words of English. We”—he smiled at Azeel, who ducked her head shyly—“hope that will improve, too, given time. But for now…he tells his wife things in Spanish, and she translates them for me.”
He explained the situation briefly to Azeel and Rodrigo—the young man could understand some English, if spoken slowly, but his wife filled in the missing bits for him.
“I would like you to go with me to Cuba,” Grey said, looking from one to the other. “Rodrigo could go where I could not go, and hear and see things I couldn’t. But…there might be some small danger, and if you choose not to go, I will give you enough money for passage to the colonies. If you do choose to come with me, I will take you from Cuba to America, and you will either remain in my employment or, if you prefer, I will find you a place there.”
Man and wife exchanged a long look, and at last Rodrigo nodded.
“We…go,” he said.
* * *
—
Grey had never seen a black person turn white before. Azeel had gone the color of grimy old bones and was clutching Rodrigo’s hand as though one or both of them were about to be dragged off by slavers.
“Are you given to seasickness, Mrs. Sanchez?” he asked, making his way to them through the confusion of the docks. She swallowed heavily but shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the Otter. Rodrigo was unable to take his eyes off her and was anxiously patting her hand. He turned to Grey, fumbling for English words.
“She…scare…” He looked helplessly back and forth between his wife and his employer. Then he nodded a bit, making up his mind, then looked at Grey while pointing to Azeel. He lowered his hand, indicating something—someone?—short. Then turned to the sea and flung his arm wide, gesturing to the horizon.
“Africa,” he said, turning back to Grey and putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders. His face was solemn.
“Oh, Jesus,” Grey said to Azeel. “You were brought from Africa as a child? Is that what he means?”
“Yes,” she said, and swallowed again. “I was…very…small.”
“Your parents? Were they…” His voice died in his throat. He’d seen a slave ship only once, and that at a distance. He would remember the smell for as long as he lived. And the body that had bobbed up suddenly beside his own ship, thrown overboard by the slaver. It might have been dead kelp or a blood-bleached scrap from a whaling ship, bobbing in the waves, emaciated, sexless, scarcely human. The color of old bones.
Azeel shook her head. Not in negation but in a vain refusal to think of dreadful things.
“Africa,” she said softly. “They are dead. In Africa.”
Africa. The sound of the word prickled over Grey’s skin like a centipede, and he shook himself suddenly.
“It’s all right,” he said to her firmly. “You are free now.” At least he hoped so.
He had managed her manumission a few months before, in recognition of her services during the slave rebellion during which the late Governor Warren had been killed by zombies. Or, rather, by men under the delusion that they were zombies. Grey doubted that this distinction had been appreciated by the governor.
Grey didn’t know whether the girl had been Warren’s personal property, and he didn’t ask her. He’d taken advantage of his own doubt to tell Mr. Dawes, the governor’s erstwhile secretary, that as there was no record of her provenance, they should assume that she was technically the property of His Majesty and should thus be omitted from the list of Governor Warren’s belongings.
Mr. Dawes, an excellent secretary, had made a noise like a mildly consumptive sheep and lowered his eyes in acquiescence.
Grey had then dictated a brief letter of manumission, signed this as acting military governor of Jamaica (and thus His Majesty’s agent), and had Mr. Dawes affix the most imposing seal in his collection—Grey thought it was the seal of the department of weights and measures, but it was done in red wax and looked very impressive.
“You have your paper with you?” he asked. Azeel nodded, obedient. But her eyes, large and black, lingered fearfully on the ship.
The master of the cutter, having been apprised of their presence, now popped up on deck and came down the gangplank to meet them.
“Lord John?” he asked respectfully, bowing. “Lieutenant Geoffrey Rimes, commander. Your servant, sir!”
Lieutenant Rimes looked about seventeen, very blond and small for his age. He was, however, wearing proper uniform and looked both cheerful and capable.