Solomon Key

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Peter Archer, or Red Pete as he was known to his crewmates, crept silently across the deck of the Blue Crane, which lay at anchor in sight of Port Royal. It was a moonless night, and the crew lay in drunken slumber after a night in port. Even the captain had imbibed to excess. This might be Pete’s only chance.

He crept belowdecks, making his way down to the hold where Blue Crane’s human cargo was bound. His heart raced. Could he really do this? Why was he risking his life for someone he barely knew?

“He’s your friend,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe your only friend.”

He smelled the cargo hold long before he reached it. The foul odor of humans kept at close quarters for a prolonged period. The foul stench of sweat mingled with the stink of feces, urine, and stale air. He retched as he unlocked the hold and clambered down into the midst of the Africans who would soon be sold at auction.

Caesar was awake. His dark skin rendered him nigh invisible down here in the blackness of the hold. He sensed, rather than saw, Pete.

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