established that reality matched the picture of the camp he’d carried in his mind, Caleb focused on the people moving in and out of the huts and sitting about the central fire pit.
Phillipe settled alongside him, and they tuned their ears to the low-voiced, desultory chatter.
After a while, Phillipe leaned closer and whispered, “That large one—he acts like the leader, but from Robert’s description, he can’t be Kale.”
Caleb focused on the slaver in question—a heavyset man, tall, and with a swaggering gait. “I think,” Caleb murmured back, “that he must be the man who leads Kale’s men in the settlement.” After a moment, he mused, “Interesting that he’s here.”
“Useful that he’s here,” Phillipe corrected. “If we eradicate all here, chances are Kale’s operation won’t simply rise again under some other leader.”
Caleb nodded. “True.” He scanned the area and the huts. “It doesn’t look like they have any captives—the doors of the smaller huts are open, and I haven’t seen any hint there’s anyone inside.”
“I haven’t, either.”
Caleb grimaced. “Kale’s not out there. Is he here, but in the barracks, and if so, how many men are in there with him?”
Phillipe’s shoulders lifted in a Gallic shrug.
Just then, one of the men hovering about the large pot slung over the fire pit raised his head, looked toward the barracks, and yelled, “Stew’s ready!”
Seconds later, the barracks’ door opened. Caleb grinned as a slaver of medium height and wiry build, with a disfiguring scar marring his features—from Robert’s description, the man had to be Kale—emerged, followed by three more men.
“How helpful,” Phillipe murmured.
Another man emerged from the path to Freetown. Caleb nudged Phillipe and nodded at the newcomer. “They did have a lookout on that path.”
Phillipe studied the man as he joined his fellows. “It doesn’t look as if they’re seriously concerned over unexpected company—odds are there was only the one lookout.”
“That’s the way I read it, too.”
“All told, that makes thirteen.”
His eyes on the scene unfolding about the fire pit, Caleb merely nodded. Phillipe settled again, and they watched as Kale, handed a tin plate piled with stew by one of his henchmen, sat on a log and started eating. His men followed suit, sitting on the logs arranged in a rough circle around the fire.
They’d barely taken their first mouthfuls when the muted tramp of feet had everyone—Kale and his men, as well as Caleb, Phillipe, and their company—looking toward the path from the north. The path Caleb believed led to the mine—the same path they’d briefly been on fifteen or so minutes before.
Four men—slavers by their dress and Kale’s men by their composure—appeared. They hailed Kale and exchanged greetings with others in the group.
“So you got our recent guests settled, then?” Kale’s words came in a distinctive, gravelly rasp, further confirming his identity.
The man who’d led the group grinned. “Aye—and Dubois sent his thanks. That said, he made a very large point about needing more men. Emphasizing men. He says he wants at least fifteen more.”
Kale swore colorfully. “I’d be thrilled to give him more if only those blighters in the settlement would just let us do what we do best.” He grunted, then shook his head and returned his attention to his plate. “Sadly, they’re the ones who pay the piper, and they pay his highness Dubois, too, so he’ll just have to make do with those we can give him.” Kale waved the newcomers to the pot. “Sit and eat. You’ve earned it.”
The four did, gratefully settling with the rest.
Conversation was nonexistent while the men ate. Caleb would have felt hungrier had he not insisted that his party consume a decent breakfast before they broke their temporary camp that morning. He’d never favored fighting on an empty stomach, and he’d felt quietly confident that they would find Kale’s camp that day.
“That’s seventeen now,” Phillipe murmured. “Not quite so easy.” He sounded, if anything, pleased.
Caleb softly grunted. He verified Phillipe’s headcount and, again, thanked the impulse that had prompted him to invite Phillipe and his crew to join his mission. A day out of Southampton, one of The Prince’s main water kegs had sprung a leak. Determined to adhere to the maxim of “take no unnecessary risks,” Caleb had made the small detour to the Canary Islands. Before he’d even moored in Las Palmas harbor, he’d spotted the distinctive black hull of The Raven. While the keg was repaired and refilled and his men arranged for extra supplies, Caleb had spent an evening catching up with his old friend. And on discovering that The Raven, along with its experienced crew and captain, was presently unengaged, Caleb had invited Phillipe to join him on his mission. He’d made it clear there would be no payment or likely spoils, but like Caleb, Phillipe was addicted to adventure. Bored, he’d jumped at the chance of action.
Phillipe was a lone privateer, and while he’d originally sailed for the French under Bonaparte, exactly who he sailed for these days was unclear. However, the war with France was long over, and on the waves, any lingering political loyalties counted for less than longtime friendship bolstered by similar devil-may-care traits.
To Caleb’s mind, twenty-five men against seventeen was precisely the sort of numbers he needed in this place, at this time, to eradicate Kale and his operation. The slavers would fight to the death and would do anything and everything to survive. Caleb didn’t want to lose any of his men, or any of Phillipe’s, either. Twenty-five to seventeen...that should do it.
By the time he’d sailed into Las Palmas, he’d already discarded the notion of leaving Kale undisturbed and, instead, picking up the trail north from the “Homestead” and making directly for the mine. That was his mission, after all—to locate the mine, learn what he could of it, and then get that intelligence back to London. However, heading north to the mine with Kale and his men effectively at his back didn’t appeal in the least. More, returning to London without eliminating Kale and his crew would simply leave that task to whoever returned to complete the mission. No commander worth his salt would attempt to attack and capture the mine with Kale still in his camp, a potential source of reinforcements for whatever forces were already at the mine.
But Kale had to be removed in a way that would not immediately alert the villains behind the scheme—the “blighters” Kale had referred to—or Dubois and any others in charge at the mine. That was Caleb’s first hurdle—the first challenge on this quest.
“If we’d arrived earlier,” Phillipe murmured, “while they’re all gathered as they are, distracted with eating, would have been a good time to attack.”
Caleb shrugged. In days gone by, he might have leapt precipitously at the chance and rushed in, but for today and the foreseeable future, he was determined to adhere to the script of a reliable and responsible commander. He could almost hear the voices of his three older brothers, all of whom would lecture him to take his time and plan, and find and secure every advantage he could for his men in the upcoming skirmish, which was guaranteed to end as a bloody massacre.
He, Phillipe, and every
