settled across the fields of cane. Swallows twittered among the tall
palms, and the half-light was spotted with darting bats. The heat of
the long day still immersed the hillside. On the far western horizon,
where the sea disappeared into the Caribbean mist, three of the great
ships of the Ingles fleet had begun preparing their sails. They too
seemed to be waiting for the appearance of the new Yoruba moon.
He began with a review of their weapons. There would be difficulties.
Since the cane knives had been removed from the slave quarters on most
of the plantations and secured in the great house, it would be
necessary to break in and take them back, which meant the advantage of
surprise would be lost. For spears, they would have to try and seize
some of the pikes the _branco_ now had in readiness to protect the
island from the fleet. Again that meant bloodshed.
Also, their numbers were still uncertain. All the Yoruba had agreed to
rise up, and final preparations had been coordinated across the island
using the _iya ilu_ drum. But the other men of Africa? What of them?
The Ibo nursed historic hatreds toward the Yoruba, and their response
to the plan for rebellion had been to shift on their feet, spit on the
ground, and agree to nothing. There were also Ashanti and Mandingo.
These he trusted even less than the Ibo. Command would be difficult:
there were too many languages, too many loyalties, too many ancient
grievances.
The men in the hut finally concluded that only the Yoruba could be
relied upon. When the day of war comes, you only trust your own blood,
your own gods.
After the moon had disappeared, he'd cast the cowries, praying Ogun
would presage the defeat of the _branco_. The men required an omen.
And an omen there had been. At that exact moment the silence of the
night was rent by sounds of gunfire rising up from the western shore,
faint staccato pops through the trees. They were as drumbeats that
carried no words, yet their message was unmistakable. Ogun, the god of
war, had spoken--not through the pattern in the cowries on a tray, but
with his own voice.
Fear suddenly gripped the men in the hut. What was Ogun's purpose in
answering the cowries this way? Thus their council of war had dissolved
in meaningless talk and confusion. Finally the misgivings of the elders
emerged.
There must be, they said, no rising against the _branco _unless success
was assured. The elder Tahajo recalled the famous proverb: _Aki ida owo
le ohun ti ako le igbe_--"A man should not attempt to raise up
something he cannot lift." The other men had nodded gravely, taking his
mouthing of this commonplace to demonstrate great sagacity.
Then young Derin, in a flagrant breach of etiquette amongst a council
of elders, had dared to cite an opposing parable: _Bi eya ba di ekun,
eran ni ikpa dze_--"When the wild cat becomes a leopard, it can devour
great beasts." We must become brave like the leopard, he urged. When
the _branco _see our boldness they will quake with fear as we go to war
against them.
Tahajo had listened tolerantly, then countered again: _Alak-atanpo oju
ko le ita eran pa_--"He who has only his eyebrow for a crossbow can
never kill an animal."
So it had continued long into the night. Atiba had no choice but to
wait until the elders decided. Finally they agreed that Ogun would have
them go to war only if they had weapons to match those of the _branco_.
That was the message in the gunfire that had erupted the moment the
cowries were cast. Atiba must assure them he could find muskets, or
there would be no rebellion. . . .
He stroked silently on through the surf. Now the dark outline of the
_branco's_ ship loomed above him, still, deserted. Soon he would find
what he had come to learn.
He grasped a salt-encrusted rope ladder which dangled from the side and
pulled out of the water. He did not bother using the rungs; instead he
lifted himself directly up.
His feet were noiseless as he dropped onto the deck. A quick
reconnaissance revealed only one sentry, a fat _branco _snoring loudly
in a chair on the high deck at the back of the ship. He slipped up the
companionway, gripping each weathered board with his toes, and stood
over the man, wondering if he should kill him, lest he waken suddenly
and sound an alarm.
Then he remembered the words of Shango that night in the mill house. It
would be a bad omen to spill innocent blood before the rebellion even
began. Shango had declared he would only countenance the killing of men
who threatened harm. Also, lying beside the man was an empty flask,
which surely had contained the strong wine made from cane. This snoring
_branco _would not soon awaken.
He turned and inched his way back down the companion-way. The only
sounds now were the gentle splash of surf against the side of the ship
and the distant chirp of crickets from the shore. He moved stealthily
along the creaking boards until he reached the locked door at the front
of the ship, the place where the _branco _captains stored their
weapons.
He tried to still his heart, feeling it begin to race with
anticipation. If there were weapons here, muskets or pikes, they would
be easy to seize when the moment came to rise up. There would be no
need to storm the plantation houses for guns and spears, and their
plans could proceed in total secrecy till the moment the _branco
_slaveholders were surprised and cut down.
He recalled the rumor that the _branco _who owned this ship had bought
and freed two hundred white slaves, and then had given some of them
weapons to fight the warriors of the Ingles fleet. Surely he had more
muskets and pikes than any of the _branco _planters. How many would be
left?
He slipped the machete from his waistband and wedged it silently under
a hinge on the heavy wooden door. The wood
was old and the nails pulled easily. When the three hinges had been
removed, he laid the machete on the deck and lifted the door around.
The interior of the fo'c'sle was dark, but he dared not try to make a
light. The risk was too great that he might set off any gunpowder
stored here. Instead he felt his way forward.
The space was crowded with racks, and in them were rows of new pikes
and half-pikes, hundreds. Then his hand touched a row of long steel
cylinders.
Musket barrels.
Ogun had answered their prayers.
This ship had an arsenal that would equip an entire army, a cache that
would ensure their victory. The second week following, seven days
hence, the time sacred to Ogun, he would bring the men and they would
overwhelm the ship, seize the weapons. . . .
He had turned to grope his way back to the deck when he first saw the
two silhouettes against the dim light of the doorway. A tall man was
there, blocking his exit, and next to him was the outline of a _branco
_woman.
"John, what in the name of hell are you doing in the fo'c'sle?" The
voice sounded tired and annoyed. "Is this how you stand watch?"
"Hugh, take care." It was the voice of the _branco _woman he remembered
from the first night in the boiling house.
He froze against a wall and reached for his machete.
It was missing. Like a fool he'd left it outside.
Quietly he lifted one of the pikes from the rack and inched slowly
toward the figures in the doorway.
Through the dark came a shout from the other end of the deck. The
sleeping _branco _had awakened. "God's wounds, Cap'n. I'm watching this
ship like a hawk over a henhouse. There's no need to be carry in' on."
The man laughed. "Lest you upset the lady."
"John, is that you?" The tall man's voice quickened. "Then, by Jesus,
who's . . .?"
Atiba lunged toward the doorway, his pike aimed at the tall shadow.
The man had already feinted back against the shrouds. He carried no
sword, but a pistol had appeared in his right hand, as though by magic.
With the other he shoved the _branco _woman back against the shrouds,
out of reach. The pike missed him, tangled in a knot of lines dangling
from the mast, and was lost.
Then the glint of his machete caught Atiba's notice and he dropped
toward the darkness of the deck. He rolled twice, bringing himself
within reach of its wooden handle. He was on his feet, swinging for the
man, when he heard the crack of the pistol and felt a tremor in his
wrist.
The tip of the machete blade sang into the night, but the stump was
still left, and still deadly. Now the fight would be at close quarters.
He told himself he welcomed that--and sprang for the dark silhouette.
He was thrusting the blade upward, toward the tall man's neck, when he
heard an unexpected click from the pistol barrel, followed by a hard
voice. It was a threat that needed no translation.
"No, by God. Or I'll blow your bloody head off."
The hot muzzle of the pistol was against his cheek.
But his blade was against the man's throat.
"_Meu Deus_. Briggs' Yoruba." The man quickly switched to Portuguese.
"_Felicitacao_, senhor. You're every bit as fast as I'd thought. Shall
we call it a draw?"
It was the _branco_, the one who had freed his slaves. The last man on
the island he wished to kill. Shango would be incensed.
"I think one of us must die." He held the broken blade hard against the
flesh, and he could almost feel the pulse of blood just beneath the
skin.
"It's both of us, or neither, by Jesus. Think about that."
"Your pistol had only one bullet. It is gone."
"Take a look and you'll see there're two barrels." The tall man had not
wavered.
"Shall I just blow the thievin' bastard to hell, Cap'n?" It was the
voice of the man who had been asleep. From the corner of his eye Atiba
could see him standing by the foremast. There was the click of a
flintlock being cocked.
"No, John. He's like to slit my throat in the bargain with what's left
of his God-cursed machete." The words were in English. Then the man
switched back to Portuguese. "A trade, senhor. A life for a life."
"In Ife we say we cannot dwell in a house together without speaking to
one another. But if you betray me, you will answer for it to all my
clan. Remember that." The broken machete slowly pulled away, then
dropped to the deck.
"Hold the musket on him, John. I don't know whether to trust these
Africans." Again Portuguese. "Life for life. Agreed." He lowered the
pistol, then slipped it into his belt. With an easy motion he pulled
down a lantern hanging from the shrouds and struck a flint to it. A
warm glow illuminated the open door of the fo'c'sle, and the tanned
face of the _branco _woman. "Now. Atiba the Yoruba, you be gone and
I'll forget you were ever here. Briggs would likely have you whipped
into raw meat for his dogs if he ever found out about this." The
_branco _was looking into his eyes. "But you probably already know
that. I salute your courage, senhor. Truth is, I once thought about
having you help me."
"Help you?" He studied the _branco's _face. "For what purpose?"
"If you weren't too stubborn to take orders, I'd planned to train you
into a first-class fighting man. Maybe make you second-in-command for a
little war of my own. Against the Spaniards." The man was outlined in
the pale light. "I'd hoped we might fight together, instead of against
each other."
"That is a strange idea for a _branco_." He was studying the scar on
the tall man's cheek. "But then you have the mark on your cheek like
the clan sign of a Yoruba. Perhaps the place you got it taught you
something of brotherhood as well."
"It was a long time past, though maybe it did at that. I do know I'm
still a brother to any man I like. You were once in that category,
senhor, till you came on my ship trying to knife me. Now you'd best
tell me what you're doing here."
"I wanted to see your ship."
"Well, you've seen it. You also tore off some hinges."
"I will replace them for you." He smiled. "Wrapping a razor preserves
its sharpness."
The man seemed momentarily startled; then a look of realization spread
through his eyes. Finally he turned and spoke in English to the fat
_branco _holding the musket. "John, fetch a hammer and some fresh nails
from below decks. You know where ship's carpenter keeps them."
"What're you saying, Cap'n?" The fat _branco_ had not moved. "You'd
have me go aft? An' the musket I'm holdin' on the bastard? Who's to
handle that whilst I'm gone?"
"I'll take it." The _branco _woman stepped forward.
"Give it to her."
"You'd best keep a close eye, Cap'n." The fat man hesitated. "I think
this one'd be a near match for you. . . ."
"Just fetch the hammer, John."
"Aye." He reluctantly passed the musket and began backing slowly toward
the hatch leading to the lower deck.
Atiba watched him disappear into the dark, then turned back to Winston.
"You do not own slaves, senhor. Yet you do nothing about those on this
island who do."
"What goes on here is not my affair. Other men can do what they like."
"In Ife we say, 'He who claps hands for the fool to dance is no better
than the fool.'" He glanced back at the arsenal stored in the dark
room behind him. "If you do nothing to right a wrong, then are you not
an accomplice?"
The man suddenly seemed to understand everything. Without a word he
walked over and shoved the door against the open fo'c'sle. "Let me give
you some wisdom from this side of the wide ocean, my friend. I think
all the drumming I've been hearing, and now this, means you're planning
some kind of revolt. I'm not going to help you, and I'm damned if
you're going to use any of my muskets." He reached up and adjusted the
lantern. "I've done everything I can to end slavery. Nobody on this
island listens to me. So whatever you do is up to you."
"But without weapons, we have no chance of winning our freedom."
"You've got no chance in any case. But if you steal some of these
muskets of mine, you'll just manage to kill a lot of people before you
have to surrender and be hanged." He watched the fat man emerge from
the hatch. "I'd hate to see you hanged, Atiba the Yoruba."
"What's the savage got to say for himself, Cap'n?" The man was carrying
a hammer. "Was he plannin' to make off with a few o' those new
flintlocks we got up at Nevis?"
"I think he was just exploring, John." The words were in English now.
"Help him put the door back and show him how to fix the hinges."
"As you will, Cap'n. But keep an eye on him, will you? He's like to
kill the both of us if he takes a mind."
"Katy, keep him covered."
"God, but he's frightening. What were you two talking about?"
"We'd best go into that later." He glanced at Mewes. "John, give him
the hammer."
The fat _branco _reluctantly surrendered the tool, then warily reached
to hold the hinges in place. There was a succession of quick, powerful
strokes, and the door was aligned and swinging better than before.
"Now go on back to Briggs' plantation. And pray to whatever gods you
have that he doesn't find out you were gone tonight." He picked up the
broken machete and passed it over. "Take this. You're going to need
it."
"You know we will need more than this." Atiba reached for the handle,
turned the broken blade in the light, then slipped it into his
waistband.
"That's right. What you need is to leam how to wait. This island is
about to be brought to its knees by the new government of England. In a
way, it's thanks to you. When the government on this island falls,
something may happen about slavery, though I'm not sure what." He took
down the lantern from the shrouds. "But if you start killing whites
now, I can assure you you're not apt to live very long, no matter who
rules."
"I will not continue to live as a slave."
"I can understand that. But you won't be using my flintlocks whilst
getting yourself killed." He held the lantern above the rope ladder and
gestured for Atiba to climb down into the shallow surf. "Never, ever
try stealing muskets from my ship. Mark it well."
Atiba threw one leg over the gunwale and grasped a deadeye to steady
himself. "I think you will help us when the time comes. You speak like
a Yoruba." He slipped over the side with a splash, and vanished into
the dark.
"God's blood, Cap'n, but that's a scary one." Mewes stared after him
nervously. "I got the feelin' he seemed to know you."
"I've seen him a time or two before." He retrieved the musket from
Katherine and handed it back to Mewes. Then he doused the lantern.
"Come on, Katy. Let's have a brandy."
"I could use two."
As they entered the companionway leading aft to the Great Cabin he
called back, "By the way, John, it'd be just as well not to mention to
anybody that he was here. Can I depend on you?"
"Aye, as you will."
He slipped his arm about Katherine's waist and pushed open the door of
the cabin. It was musty and hot.
"I've got a feeling that African thinks he's coming back for the
muskets, Katy, but I'll not have it."
"What'll you do?" She reached back and began to loosen the knot on her
bodice, sensing a tiny pounding in her chest.
"I plan to see to it he gets a surprise instead." He lit the lamp, then
pulled off his sweaty jerkin and tossed it into the corner. "Enough.
Let's have a taste of you." He circled his arms around her and pulled
her next to him. As he kissed her, he reached back and started unlacing
her bodice. Then he whispered in her ear.
"Welcome back aboard."