It didn't take long for an agreement to be reached. What use did people who couldn't even steer a ship have for one? If they could get someone to send them back home, they'd be happy to get rid of it. And the kind Captain Ambrose was happy to find them a ship belonging to the company that employed him, for an appropriate fee, of course.

Such a nice man.

"But...we no can go back now?" The translator asked.

They were sitting at a foldable desk that had hurriedly been taken out and placed on the deck of Mr Ambrose's ship. There wasn't much room between the stacks of cargo, but one look from Mr Ambrose was enough to tell me he'd rather tie me up and throw me in the cargo hold than let me set one foot on that other ship. In fact, judging by the cold sparkle in his eyes, he might still tie me up later anyway.

Hm...honeymoon material.

"Not at the moment." Mr Ambrose's response to the translator brought me back to the here and now—unfortunately. Till later, sweet fantasies. "Your own men can't steer the ship, and I can't spare someone long enough for a trip all the way back to Africa. Besides, your provisions are already nearly used up. Do you wish to starve in the middle of the ocean?"

The translator's head slumped. "But...then what we supposed to do?"

"There's only one choice," he decided in a firm voice. "Sail straight west, where this ship was originally heading."

It should not really have been possible for a group of people with skin as black as obsidian to actually turn pale. But the delegation sent by the Tresoro's crew did a pretty good imitation.

"But...but that place..." The translator sent an anxious glance past Mr Ambrose to where humble little me was sitting with an appropriately cold look on my face. His meaning was clear. That place to the west was full of greedy tyrants and slave drivers.

"Don't worry." Reaching out, Captain Ambrose the Compassionate patted the young man's hand. "You won't be caught again."

"But...in that place...the people captive in ship belly are...big?"

"Big?"

The man gesticulated. "Big. Great."

"Indeed?"

The young man nodded earnestly. "Much money. Much power."

"Is that so?" A not-at-all compassionate glint suddenly appeared in Mr Ambrose's cold eyes. "We'll see about that."

"Land ahoy!" a shout suddenly came from above. "Land ahoy!"

Turning to the west, I stared into the distance. Mist hung over the ocean, obscuring the horizon. Yet, out of that mist, something was already rising. A gigantic metal arm, proudly holding aloft a flickering torch.

Behind me, I heard a folding chair scraping across the deck. A moment later, a tall figure in a ten-year-old mint-condition tailcoat stepped up beside me. In a low voice, too soft for anyone else to hear, he said, "I hear statues make nice wedding gifts."

"Grrk!" I nearly choked on my own spittle. Whipping my head around, I stared at him. His chiselled, beautiful face didn't betray a hind of anything. He couldn't really be thinking...?

He couldn't.

Could he?

Damn and blast that man!

Eyes narrowing, I peered up at him. "What are you really planning on doing?"

"Why, of course I'm helping these poor souls get to a safe place. To liberate the huddled masses yearning to breathe free."

"In return for what? A ship the ownership of which you'll probably not be able to retain?"

"Oh, I won't, will I?"

"Do you take me for a fool, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

Silence.

I jabbed an elbow into his ribs. "That sort of question from your wife warrants an immediate 'no'!"

"Indeed?"

"Oh yes, indeed!" I jabbed a thumb behind me. "Do try and pretend! Something is off about what you're doing. That ship over there...it's not just extravagant. It's too extravagant. As in...royally extravagant. Those fancy-dressed people locked up below deck, screaming for the bastardos negros to let them out—who exactly are they?"

"Pray, how would I know?" he enquired innocently, his statue-like face still not betraying a single little thing. "We only encountered these people by chance."

"But you do know." Eyes narrowing, I took a step towards him, gazing up at his chiselled, impeccable façade. "Do you think I got hitched to you without getting to know you, Mister? You've known who they were from the moment the name of that ship was mentioned!"

"Did I indeed?"

"What exactly are you hoping to accomplish?" I gestured to the massive statue in the distance. "Taking them all to that place?"

"I heard it's the home of the brave and the land of the free."

"Yes, one half is free to enslave people, and the other free to shout themselves hoarse about it! And you want to sail a ship full of rebel slaves, with the actual owners locked up in the cargo hold, into the biggest harbour within range? What could possibly be your goal? The slaves will be arrested! The owners will be arrested! There will be a scandal the size of Bloody Buckingham Palace, and a lawsuit that's every solicitor's wet dream! Everything will be a huge mess, and all people on that Spanish ship, regardless of skin-color or origin, will most likely be detained...for...months..."

There was a long, long pause.

"Oh."

"Indeed." Mr Rikkard Ambrose gave a curt nod. "It's really quite amazing how long lawsuits in the United States tend to take. People can be tied up for months and be far too busy to deal with...other matters."

Like their misappropriated ship, you mean?

Oh, that sly, stony son of a...!

I would definitely have had more to say on the subject. But at that moment, the deck under my feet swayed, and I felt something that wanted to come out a lot more urgently than words.

"Bluuurgh!"

"Just so you know, Mr Linton, the money for any additional meals will come out of your own pocket."

"Hey! Right now, I'm the boss around here, rememb—bleeeargh!"

"You were saying?"

"M-Mr Ambrose?"

"Yes?"

"Will you be needing help with your scheming before we reach land?"

"No."

"Excellent. Bluuurgh! Grrg! Nnmmf!"

After a while, I came up for air, just in time to see the giant statue of a lady in a bedsheet pass by. For some reason, I couldn't really appreciate the sight. Right now, any woman that wasn't puking her guts out was an eyesore, even if she was a hundred feet tall and made out of metal.

Just then, the bank of mist covering the horizon parted, and a vast harbour appeared in front of us. Behind the harbour rose a city of tall buildings rising high into the sky. Horse carriages were rushing along the waterfront, people were running and shouting everywhere, carrying crates, barrels and stacks of goods. But I didn't pay much attention to the bustling scene on the shore—mostly due to the massive fleet taking up most of the harbour.

Ships.

Ships upon ships upon ships. Towering ones, with seven, eight, or even ten masts. And atop the tallest mast of each ship fluttered a flag in red, gold and red, with a tower, a lion and a crown emblazoned upon it.

I swallowed.

During my studies of Spanish, I had come across a variety of flags belonging to said country. Such as, for instance...the Royal Spanish War Ensign. The flag used exclusively on war ships under the direct command of the Spanish Imperial Crown.

I licked my lips, which suddenly felt dry. Not taking my eyes off the ships for an instant, I leaned over towards Mr Ambrose.

"Say...you dragged me to this place because someone was making trouble for one of your businesses, right?"

"Correct."

"Tell me...who exactly is it that is going up against you?"

"No one I cannot handle."

"And those people you 'can handle'...they wouldn't happen to be Spanish, would they?"

Silence.

Sometimes, I really wanted to grab my dear husband and smash his face against a rock. The only reason I did not was that I knew it would be the poor rock that wouldn't survive.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the distance between our ship and the former slaves' vessel had slowly but surely started to grow wider. It now looked as if the two ships were merely coincidentally sailing into the harbour at the same time. After all, a massive, elegant Spanish warship, and a simple British merchant ship—why would they have anything to do with one another?

Just then, a bell started ringing. Not a church bell, though. Whoever was ringing this bell, it was clear they were less worried about God than about the hell someone was about to pay. Instantly, small boats flying the stars and stripes rushed out towards the approaching Tresoro, the words Harbor Authorities emblazoned on the bow. One of the reasons they were in such a hurry was probably because of the massive Spanish warships on their heels.

"Seems like things are getting...interesting," I managed to squeeze out.

"Indeed."

"Interesting?" The translator, who had been staring in horror at his comrades on the other ship, whirled around, his face aghast. "This terrible! They all catched! They all be in irons again! It terrible!"

"Terrible?" Mr Ambrose cocked his head. "I say it is interesting. Why don't we make it a little more interesting?"

Snapping his fingers, he gained the instant attention of his men.

Darn him! Did he already forget that I'm supposed to be the boss here now?

"Aye, Sir?" A sailor came rushing up to him, hurriedly standing at attention.

Apparently he did. And so did everyone else.

Leaning over, Mr Rikkard Ambrose whispered a few simple words to the sailor. Words which, incidentally, were too low for me to hear, the sneaky son of a bachelor!

"Understood, Sir!" Nodding, the sailor dashed off towards the railing and, pulling out two small flags stuck behind his belt, began waving them wildly. Only moments later, someone appeared on the distant harbour pier and also started waving flags. Then, another moment later, someone on one of the harbour authority boats leapt up from his seat as if stung by a whole swarm of bees, and rushed to his captain. The captain screamed something to the rowers, and the boat suddenly sped up, quickly reaching the Tresoro.

Ropes and ladders shot up towards the railing. Men leapt up, and started scaling the side of the ship. The translator watched this entire scene with horror. The black-skinned crew was quickly driven back, and only moments later, two finely-dressed Spaniards were led out of the bows of the vessel onto the deck.

"Bastardos! Pendejos!" one hurled at his rescuers. "Finally, you're getting me out of here! Took you long enough! What sort of miserable tugurio is sis so-called United Estates of America? I shall expect to be compensated for sis lack of action! Lead me to se Spanish ambassador sis instant, or—"

He was interrupted by the click of the handcuffs closing around his wrists.

"Maximo Emilio Reyes Espiridion Victor De La Fuente, you are hereby arrested on the charges of assault, kidnapping, and false imprisonment. You shall be taken to the harbour authorities' detention cells, before being transferred to a prison by the New York Police Department. Come peacefully. If you resist, we will be compelled to use force."

"Wha...who... who se hell do you think you are? I am Maximo Emilio Reyes Espiridion Victor De La Fuente, you bastardos! Maximo Emilio Reyes Espiridion Victor De La Fuente, brother of se—"

"We can add resisting arrest to the list of charges, I think." The officer at the front turned towards his subordinates. "Agreed?"

"Definitely, sergeant!"

"Couldn't be more right, sergeant!"

"Let's book'em, sergeant!"

"Impudence!" The other Spaniard leapt forward. "You dare lay your hands on a nobleman of se Spanish Empire? I shall not estand for this! I—"

"Ah, thanks for reminding me." With a metallic sound, another pair of handcuffs closed around the second man's wrists. To judge by the expressions on the faces of the ex-slaves standing at the side, they were enjoying the show very, very much. "Francisco Enrico Ronaldo Damian De Ravera, you are hereby arrested on the charges of assault, kidnapping, and false imprisonment. You shall be taken to the harbour authorities' detention cells, before being transferred to a prison by the New York Police Department. Come peacefully. If you resist, we will be compelled to use force."

"Cucaracha asquerosa! Let go of me! You should arrest sem!" He jabbed his finger at the staring ex-slaves. "You should arrest sose negros! Sey dared to imprison us! Sey stole our ships! Sey—"

He was interrupted when he was shoved over the railing of the ship and caught by another man standing below on a boat. But not before his head soundly thumped against the side of the ship.

"Aagh!"

Taking a deep breath, I turned away from the scene to face Mr Ambrose. Beside him, the poor translator stood, his mouth agape, his eyes wide as dinner plates that had been magically enlarged. Walking past him, I patted his shoulder. "Take your time."

"Glnk."

Reaching Mr Ambrose, I stopped beside him. "Well, that was...interesting."

"Indeed."

"Do you know what I find particularly interesting?"

Silence.

"What I find particularly interesting is that those charming law enforcement officers already knew those two people's names before they even stepped onto their ship,"

"Quite fascinating, is it not?" Mr Ambrose said with a deadpan face. "I never knew the American police had such exceptional abilities."

I was tempted to reach out and pinch him. "Neither did they, I fancy."

Just then, shouts came from the left. Glancing over, I saw that we had reached a pier, and ropes were being thrown ashore and fastened. Instantly, I forgot all about slaves, secrets, intrigues, and psychic American policemen. All I could think of was the wonderful solidity that lay ahead.

Ground! Ground! My kingdom for some steady ground!

Clutching my roiling stomach, I stumbled down the gangway and, the moment I reached land, did my best pope imitation.

"Yes! Yes! Finally!"

One last time, I kissed the ground. Ah...ground. Floor. Earth. Such a wonderful collection of words. Maybe I should write a poem about it?

"Well, well..." came a cool voice from somewhere above me. "To think that barely a week after the wedding, my wife would already be cheating on me? With cobblestones, no less. The morals in this day and age..."

"You!" From the ground, I aimed a kick at his legs—which he neatly dodged by stepping sideways. Pushing myself halfway up, I glared up at him. "Cheating, my arse!"

"You also have done that?" He shook his head. "The decay in morals is even worse than I thought."

Straightening the rest of the way, I imperiously dusted off my peacock vest and sent him a glare that informed him who among the two of us was the queen of banter, and he'd better remember that. I was just about to shoot something very smart back at him when, beside Mr Ambrose, the translator stumbled down the gangway, looking dazed.

"Wha-what just happen?" he managed to squeeze out.

"The first winds of a wonderful shitstorm, I'd say." Grabbing the poor, befuddled man by the arm, I waved to the rest of the delegation of ex-slaves who had just come down the gangway, gazing at everything around them as if they were in a dream. An exceedingly weird one. "Everyone, come over here!"

"W-what happen? What we do now?"

"What I say," Mr Ambrose answered, with the natural talent of a ruthless tyrant. Snapping his fingers, he gestured. "You! Come here!"

Only then did I notice the slim, black-clad figure with the briefcase clutched under his arm. Striding over, he bowed. "Mr Ambrose, Sir."

Ah. Seems I've been demoted from boss again. Bugger.

"This," Mr Ambrose stated, "is Mr Fox from Fox, Fox & Cunningham, a most reputable firm of solicitors."

I raised an eyebrow. "Most respectable?"

"Indeed. Their firm belongs to the most influential British businessman, and focuses on liberating victims of the slave trade. Why, they even help them find work afterwards."

"R-really?" hope shone in the translators eyes. Oh, the poor little fellow.

"Really." Mr Ambrose nodded solemnly. "You all go with him. He will take care of you and your friends. Once you have won your freedom, he will find work for you, for very reasonable wages."

Tears of joy shone in the ex-slave's eyes. Bowing deeply, he jabbered half-English, half-incomprehensible thanks. Soon, the whole group had been rounded up by Mr Fox, and had been led off down the street. I, for my part, gazed after them for a moment, then turned around to cock an eyebrow at Mr Rikkard Ambrose. "Reasonable wages?"

"Indeed. Wages unnecessary to be paid unless I have a special reason."

Reaching into my pocket I touched my rather slim wallet. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"I couldn't say." Gesturing for me to follow, Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode off down the street. "Let's go!"

"Our luggage?" I asked, hurrying after him.

"Karim will take care of it. Come! We have an appointment."

"Let me guess...you're taking me to a luxury hotel for a romantic dinner and a tantalizing night in the honeymoon suite?"

"No. I'm taking you to a luxury hotel for a romantic business discussion in a meeting room."

Grinning, I slid my arm around his waist, feeling him stiffen beneath me. "Ah! That's the man I know and love!"

We reached the hotel roughly a quarter of an hour later. He hadn't been lying when he said it was a luxurious one. The palatial six-story building, decorated with Corinthian columns and colourful flowers and flags, had a long red carpet spread out at the entrance, welcoming anyone willing to spend huge amounts of money.

So what the heck was Mr Rikkard Ambrose doing here?

"Mr Ambrose, Sir!" The concierge came rushing forward as soon as we stepped into the entrance hall, his face pale, his upper body repeatedly bowing like a woodpecker. "What an honour to have you here! Please, rest assured that I have managed this place well for you in your absence."

Ah. So that's it.

"Can I offer you anything? A drink? A meal? We have just hired a new chef from Paris that is famed for his bœuf bourguignon, and the wine from the Rhone Valley that we've acquired fits excellently with—"

"Silence."

Instantly, the man snapped his mouth shut.

Mr Ambrose pointed at the board full of hanging keys behind the man. "The keys to meeting room five. Now. I have a meeting with my agent, and I do not intend to be late."

"R-right away, Mr Ambrose, Sir! As you command, Mr Ambrose, Sir!"

An instant later, a key landed in Mr Ambrose's open hand, and he marched off towards a certain door. I followed, intently inspecting his face.

"So...agent? Are you thinking about becoming a professional singer, my dear husband?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "Not that kind of agent."

"Hm."

I thought about using my prerogative as boss to demand to know what was going on from my underling—but, on the whole, I decided it might not be wise.

"Mr Ambrose!"

The moment we entered the meeting room, a small man with a bowler hat leapt up from where he had been squirming on a chair and rushed towards the both of us. I probably would have paid a little more attention to him if, through the window behind him, I hadn't been able to see the two struggling Spaniards being dragged ashore.

It's true what they say. New York truly provides a beautiful view.

Unaware of my enjoyment of the local vista, Mr Ambrose gestured towards the man I presumed was his agent. "Tell me the situation."

"It's horrible, Mr Ambrose, Sir! Completely horrible!" The poor man wrung his hands. "I've just received a telegram from your overseer. The situation over there in the west is out of control. The local authorities are slowly bending under the pressure. It seems that the opposition has invited in some very powerful and influential people straight from Spain, and the moment they arrive, all our support will crumble!"

"Is that so?" Mr Ambrose enquired. By now, I wasn't the only one watching the two Spaniards in the distance being dragged into a police carriage. Their oily beards were twisted this way and that, and their fancy silk clothes were in tatters.

"Oh yes, Sir! The opposition over there is already laughing at us! Especially that bastard Navarro! He openly goes around calling us stupid fools who got in over their heads, challenging people they cannot mess with!"

Just then, the two Spaniards were shoved into the carriage, and the door with the barred window was slammed shut behind them.

"Indeed?" Mr Ambrose's eyes narrowed infinitesimally as they zeroed in on where, in the distance, a certain coach was now making its way towards the harbour authorities' prison. "Well then, let's not keep Señor Navarro waiting, shall we? I very much look forward to meeting him."

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

The matter of the slaves being arrested in the circumstances described above is, in fact, true, and did have some legal basis back in those days. The Fugitive Slave Act of 1793 stated that escaped slaves in the United States would have to be returned to their owners, and Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 reinforced that this was the case even if the slaves managed to escape to a state in which slavery was technically outlawed. What would happen to slaves from outside the United States would probably have been in a legal grey area.

Just goes to show, justice and law are most definitely not always the same.

Oh, and regarding the way the Spaniards are talking in this chapter - those aren't typos. Spaniards have trouble pronouncing an "st" or "sp" at the start of a word, Thus, a Spaniard would likely pronounce "United States" as "United Estates". This part of a Spanish speaker's accent is even evident in the very name of the language: the Spanish word for "Spanish" is "Español".

Regarding the way the authorities phrase their arrest—you might have been expecting the customary "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court..." but this kind of procedure, called the Miranda Warning, wasn't put in place until 1966. Before that point, there was nothing policemen were obliged to say before making an arrest.

End of the history lecture. Are you still awake? ;-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Cucaracha asquerosa—Disgusting cockroach!