The first light of dawn shimmered faintly over the waves, staining them in amber and gold. The small fishing boat cut through the morning haze, its oars dipping rhythmically into the calm water. John sat slouched near the stern, the sea breeze sharp against his face, his eyes following the faint silhouette of the coastline ahead.
He could already make out the contours of Mombasa Island rising from the mist, a haze of palms, coral stone houses, and minarets just catching the glow of morning. The fishermen murmured among themselves in Swahili, their voices low but animated, until one of them suddenly pointed towards something off to starboard.
John turned, squinting into the glare. There, anchored further out from the port, was a large schooner. Not the tidy British merchant vessel he might have expected, but something altogether more secretive, her hull dull and her sails furled tight, with men moving quickly upon the deck. A smaller dhow was tethered alongside, its hold open, and from it men were being herded up a gangplank under the watch of armed sailors.
It took only a moment for the sight to settle heavily in his chest. The realization came quietly, like the slow surf against sand.
Slavers.
He could tell by the way the captives were bound, by the hurried, furtive glances of the crew, and by how far from the port they'd anchored. The British had made much of stamping out the trade in these waters; pamphlets in London called it "the triumph of civilization." He'd even read speeches where the Crown claimed the Indian Ocean was now a sea of freedom.
Yet here it was, hidden in plain view, under the same dawn that gilded the Union Jack flying over Fort Jesus.
He exhaled slowly. "So this is what the Empire doesn't print in its papers," he muttered to himself, earning a puzzled glance from one of the fishermen.
They rowed on, the ship and its cargo of misery fading into the brightening horizon. The closer they came to Mombasa, the livelier the scene grew. The harbor was already stirring, a living mosaic of color and sound.
John leaned forward, watching with a mixture of wonder and weariness. Arab dhows with curved prows glided between the piers, their lateen sails painted ochre by the morning sun. The British steamers, black and belching smoke, loomed above them like heralds of a new order. The air was thick with the mingled scents of brine, spice, and burning coal.
Along the waterfront, Swahili porters carried tusks of ivory on their shoulders, their bare feet slapping against the stones. Indian banyans in long white robes stood nearby, pens scratching across their ledgers as they tallied weight and payment. Arab merchants argued in the shade of their awnings, and European overseers, stiff in cotton suits, watched it all unfold, as though overseeing a vast and natural order of things.
John couldn't help but marvel at it all, the collision of worlds, the rhythm of trade and toil, but beneath that fascination was something else: a quiet recognition of the tide of power, how it crept and reshaped every shore it touched.
When the fishermen finally brought the boat to dock, John pressed a coin into the old helmsman's palm. The man's eyes widened as the glint of gold caught the sun. "Asante," John said softly.
"Asante, bwana," the man replied with a grin, bowing his head before the crew pushed off again into the morning swell.
John stood there for a moment, the weight of land under his feet strange after so many days adrift. His limbs still ached from hunger and exhaustion, and his wound; a raw, throbbing line across his side, burned with every breath. He needed a doctor.
He made his way through the narrow, coral-walled streets, past the cries of hawkers selling fruit and cloth. He knew this place, at least in part; he had called at Mombasa before with the Bay Hound, and there was one English physician he recalled, a Dr. Lambert, who kept a small clinic not far from the harbor.
By the time John reached the modest building, the heat had already begun to press down like a weight. The doctor, a wiry man with silver hair and a perpetually furrowed brow, looked up from his desk with surprise.
"Good Lord, John! You look as though you've wrestled the sea itself."
"Something close to that," John managed a tired smile.
The examination was brisk but thorough. Lambert cleaned the wound, applied carbolic acid, and bound it tightly. His expression darkened as he worked. "This cut of yours is deeper than it first appears," he said finally. "There's infection setting in."
"I figured as much."
"You'll need proper care, my boy. The sort you won't get here. If you value that side of yours, and your life, you should sail back to England as soon as you can."
John sighed, staring at the worn floorboards. England. He hadn't thought the word in days. "I'll see what passage I can find."
The doctor gave a nod, then softened. "You're lucky, you know. The sea doesn't let many go twice."
After settling his bill, more than he'd hoped, though he paid without hesitation, John stepped back into the brightness of the day. The air shimmered, the voices of the market ringing faintly through the alleys. He turned toward the docks again, his steps slow but steady.
At the harbor office, he found the booking clerk behind a counter of polished teak, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "Passage to England?" the man asked, scanning a list.
"There's a steamer leaving for Suez in three days' time. From there, you can connect north."
"That'll do," John said, pulling a few folded notes from his pocket. He had managed to exchange part of the gold earlier at an Omani merchant's stall, at a loss, of course, but enough to buy him a ticket and perhaps a few days' provisions.
As the clerk tallied the amount, John asked, almost offhandedly, "You wouldn't happen to have heard any news of the Bay Hound, would you?"
The man looked up. "The Bay Hound? Oh, she left port weeks ago. Haven't heard a word since. Why do you ask?"
John hesitated. "Just curious. I served on her once."
The clerk shrugged. "No reports of distress, if that's what you mean."
John nodded, thanked him, and stepped outside into the midday light. The heat pressed heavy on his skin, but his thoughts were far colder.
If the Bay Hound had gone down, there'd have been some mention of it, a wreck reported, a rumor passed. Yet nothing. Could the mutineers have survived? Was the captain among them? Or had the sea buried the truth, as it so often did?
He walked to the edge of the pier, the tide lapping gently at the stone. Somewhere behind him, the call to prayer rose from a distant mosque; before him, gulls circled lazily over the harbor, crying into the wind.
He could almost imagine the Bay Hound still out there—adrift, its timbers blackened, its crew silent ghosts on the tide.
For a long while, John stood there, staring into the horizon. The sea glittered as though mocking him, indifferent and eternal. Whatever had begun with that cursed voyage was not finished, not yet.
He turned finally, the ticket folded neatly in his pocket, and made his way back through the crowd.
Three days, he thought. Three days, and he'd be bound for Suez, then England. But as he walked away from the shore, the faint echo of waves followed him; soft, insistent, like a whisper he couldn't quite shake.