Ama (57 page)

Their old clothes, confiscated when they came on board, had been laundered and pressed with a hot iron while they were anchored off St. Thomas. These were now distributed. Ama retired to her place on the quarter-deck and cried quietly as she examined her ragged cloth inch by inch. It was all she had from home, her only memento of Tabitsha, of Nowu, of Itsho. She wrapped the cloth around her and tucked it in above her breast. It seemed to her a hundred years had passed since the day she was captured.

There was laughter on deck.

“I feel I am a human being again, dressed in my old cloth,” Kwaku's mother told Ama. “Even the men! Look how vain they are, strutting around, throwing their torn cloths over their shoulders as if they were wearing royal kente! It is like the yam festival, with everyone dressed in his best.”

Except
, Ama thought ruefully,
that for most of us our best is much the worse for wear.

“Mr. Williams,” she called to the nephew, who was passing.

The English consul had been aboard and she was disturbed by something she had heard him tell the captain.

“Yes, Pamela, what is it?” he asked with a smile.

She had suspended her boycott of the whites. What purpose did it serve when it was clear that they would soon part company, never ever to meet again?

“What is a ‘scramble?'” she asked him.

She saw his face darken. His explanation was confused. She knew he was dissembling. And he knew that she knew.

“Mr. Williams, sir. I think you know why I ask. I heard the Englishman who came from the town advising the captain to sell us in a ‘scramble.' I just want to know what that means.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Pamela. Pamela. Why do you always look for trouble? I am beginning to think that your command of English is a curse on you.”

“Just tell me. What does it mean?”

“I am sorry, but I am not at liberty to do that. Now you must forgive me.”

And he resumed his constitutional.

* * *

The Bosun guided the long boat through the hundreds of canoes and small craft which crowded the approaches to the wharves. Many were piled high with baskets of fruit and vegetables, on their way from the islands and outlying farms to the city markets. There was a shouting and a screaming in strange languages as the vessels were poled in. Most of the sailors were black or mulatto. The few whites looked as poor as their darker fellows.

Can they all be slaves?
Ama wondered.
Whites and mulattos too?

The Bosun threw a line to Alsop who was waiting for them at the bottom of a wide flight of steps set into the stone wall. Bruce was there too. He helped them as they stepped out. Ama's bare feet splashed in the water and she nearly lost her footing on the wet step. She felt dizzy. The land seemed to roll away from her.

“Careful as she goes, Miss Desdimony,” Bruce laughed. “You'll get yer land legs soon enough.”

“Over there,” he commanded them, as they came to the top of the steps.

The first load, all men, sat on the stone flags, waiting.

“Pini do. Pini do,” one of the men teased Bruce as they approached.

Another got up and performed a fair imitation of Bruce's dancing. Bruce flicked his whip in mock anger. The laughter was relaxed and good-humoured. Strangers together now, in a strange land, slaves and crew had this at least in common, that they had shared a hazardous voyage and survived.

How quick we are to forgive and forget,
Ama mused.
Now that our paths are about to diverge for ever, we begin to see human beings on the other side. But what is that to us now? It is too late. Soon we will be crawling on our hands and knees in the ‘scramble' and the crew will return to their own country and then back to Africa for another cargo of misery.

She looked about her. The bustle and scurry of the scene drove out her melancholy thoughts. Gangs of African men, barefooted and bare-chested, pairs, fours, sixes, eights, carried sacks and barrels suspended by ropes from heavy poles which rested on their shoulders. Some sang or chanted as they went. None paid any attention to the newly arrived slaves.

“What a strange way to carry things,” said Kwaku's mother, “Why don't they just put the loads on their heads as we do back home?”

She was anxiously scanning the sea for
The Love of Liberty
's long boat, hoping that Kwaku might be in it. Ama followed her gaze.

“So many ships,” Ama said, running out of fingers to count them with. “Do you think that all of them have come from Africa? No wonder this place is so full of black people. It is almost like being at home.”

A hawker with a headload of oranges approached them. He began to rattle off his sales patter in one language after another. The first Ama recognised from its sound as Portuguese; she laughed as he said a few words of Asante. He spoke Hausa too; and Dagomba.

“More languages than ships,” she said to Kwaku's mother.

“Master of oranges,” one Asante man said to him, “we would like to buy your wares, but we have only just arrived in this your country and we have no money yet. Won't you let us have some on credit?”

But the man ignored him and continued on his way.

“Look at that fellow,” said Kwaku's mother. “I think he must be mad.”

The man in question was dressed in a waistcoat, no more. He stood at the edge of the wharf directing a stream of invective out over the water, barely pausing to take a breath.

“What an enormous thing,” giggled one of the younger girls, causing general merriment.

Men and women had not been allowed to mix on board. Now, sitting in close proximity, old drives were re-awakened.

“That's nothing,” said one of the young men. “You should see mine.”

The orange seller returned as the laughter subsided.

“Santo Antonio de Padua,” he said; and then dropping into fluent Asante, “He thinks he is Saint Anthony of Padua, one of the gods of the white man's religion. He is talking to the fish in the sea, telling them to behave. Quite mad! The life of a slave has driven him crazy.”

And he passed on, describing circles in the air around his temple with his index finger.

“Mama, look,” cried Kwaku.

An ornately curtained sedan chair passed close by, born on the shoulders of four men, all dressed in rich matching livery down to their ankles and bare feet. A gloved hand pulled a curtain a little to one side and Ama caught a glimpse of a pale female face peering out from the gloom within.

The cliff behind them had been in the shadow. Now as the sun climbed, they could see more clearly the steep paths which were the only connection between the
Cidade Baixa
and the
Cidade Alta
. At the lower end of each, several sedan chairs were lined up. Small boys employed as touts, harried potential customers with the call, “
cadeira, cadeira senhor
,” running after them and quarrelling amongst themselves.

“Sister Ama, look, a horse, a horse!” cried Kwaku. “Now I have seen a real horse. At last.”

The rider was a white man, dressed in uniform and with a sword hanging by his side. He reined in his mount and ran his eye over the seated slaves. He summoned Alsop and asked him a question in Portuguese.

Alsop opened his arms wide, palms up.

“No savvy Portugeez,” he said. “Spick Eengleesh?”

Butcher had the crew marshal the slaves into a line, four abreast. Then he walked slowly from one end to the other, ticking off each four with his forefinger and counting under his breath. As he completed his second count, a sedan chair came to a halt opposite where Ama stood with Kwaku and his mother. The bearers, poorly dressed these, lowered the conveyance to the ground. With a flourish, two of them drew aside the grubby curtains and out stepped Horatio Cooper, the British consul.

“Ah, Mr. Butcher is it?” he said, as he paid his fare.

“I have sent my own
cadeira
for refitting,” he explained, “so I had to hire one by the roadside. Now where is your captain?”

He took out a pocket watch and looked at it.

“Ah, I see him approaching now. Good morning, Captain Williams. Precisely on time. It is such a pleasure to deal with one's own countrymen, I must tell you. The Portuguese have little enough concept of time; but even that their Brazilian offspring have lost. Are you ready to move off?”

“Butcher, everything in order?” Williams asked.

On hearing his affirmative reply, Cooper hailed a passing
cadeira
.

“Is it far?” Williams asked. “Shall we not walk?”

“Walk? No sir. Unheard of. No person of quality in Bahia walks. It would be the cause of gossip. This is a small town, you understand. The governor would be sure to make a butt of me at his next soiree. After you, Captain. We will take the lead and show the way.”

They passed first along one edge of a vast market. It looked much like the markets Ama had seen in Africa, a forest of temporary tables displaying a great variety of goods, both buyers and sellers mostly black; but the scale, the scale was much greater; there were just so many people, so much traffic, such animated bustle and noise. Everywhere there seemed to be bales of goods, crates, baskets and barrels; and sweating black men. At the entrance porters and hawkers crowded around those who approached, singing out the praises of their wares or offering their services.

Only the filth was worse. The ground was carpeted with muck, decaying vegetables, and other rubbish. Coming from a slave ship they had some special experience of bad smells, but this was really something.

“That must be the fish market,” said Kwaku's mother, holding her nose.

Ahead of them the curtained sedan chair bobbed up and down.

As they entered a winding, narrow street, Ama saw a sign on the corner of the first building.

“Ru-o De-rei-ta,” she mouthed silently.

It's not much different from English,
she thought.
I already know the letters, so it shouldn't be too difficult to learn.

The stone buildings which flanked the street were built hard up against each other. Most had shops or workshops or warehouses on the ground floor; many had small balconies overhanging the roadway. Here and there there was a small untidy garden tucked in between the buildings, planted with fruit trees. On one balcony several high spirited young girls, whites, flowers in their hair, chains around their necks, long earrings glinting in the sun, giggled and screamed. One leaned over the ornate iron railing, looked down at Ama and her fellows and said something to her friends. They all burst out laughing.

“Ru-o San Ped-ro,” Ama read, as they turned off into another narrow street, recalling that she had seen the word Ruo before and guessing what it meant.

“Ruo, ruo, ruo,” she repeated to herself, to impress the word upon her memory.

Here the buildings were old and the paint on the walls peeling. The paving stones were uneven and irregular. Her eyes on her surroundings, Ama stepped into the shallow gutter which ran along the centre of the street. She slipped and almost lost her balance.

“Shit!”

“Ama!” said Kwaku's mother.

“Sorry. The word escaped me. But just look at that!” she replied, struggling to keep up as she scraped the excrement off her foot.

The street of Saint Peter was still in the shade of the cliff which loomed above. It was lined with small workshops. The wares of the iron smiths and copper workers, hatters and makers of guitars and drums were hung outside on display. In the dim spaces within Ama could see people at work.

Peddlers and bearers with all sorts of sacks or boxes born on heads or shoulders met and passed them. Others overtook them. All in a hurry. None paid the slightest attention to the procession of slaves.

At the end of the street there was a solid stone building, its great wooden double doors wide open.

Williams and Cooper stepped out of their
cadeira
. A uniformed official conducted them into the building. Then the slaves were marched straight through the doors and into a spacious hall. As the last of them marched in, the doors closed behind them with a resounding bang.

* * *

Ama clapped her hands to her ears.

Feeling confused and giddy, she closed her eye. Someone pushed her and spoke harshly. It was a black man. She noticed that he was wearing boots; and that he wasn't averse to using them.

She had been so intrigued by the passing show of the
Cidade Baixa
that she had completely forgotten her apprehension about the coming ‘scramble' whatever that might be; now it returned.

The man herded them like sheep, pushing and pulling and abusing them loudly in a language none of them understood. Ama looked around, trying to get her bearings. The hall was square in shape. Massive columns rose to support a high, ornately plastered dome, unlike anything she had seen before. High clerestories lit the centre of the hall. Beyond the columns there was an aisle with a lower ceiling.

Temporary wooden barriers had been erected between the columns. The ushers shepherded the slaves into the central arena and forced them to sit down, facing outwards. Williams and Butcher, the consul Horatio Cooper and two other white men whom Ama had never seen before watched from a raised platform on one side. When they were satisfied with the arrangements, the two strangers led Williams and Butcher on an inspection, with the consul in attendance as interpreter. Jointly, they took an inventory of the slaves. As each was counted, an usher hung a wooden board with a number around his neck.

Ama was confused and afraid. The mysterious word ‘scramble' obsessed her. Soon, it seemed to her, its terrible meaning would be revealed. Then, gradually, old habits prevailed.
Pull yourself together.
If something is going to happen here today you might have to react quickly,
she told herself. She twisted her board round and read the number, “117.”

She had become separated from Kwaku and his mother. On her right sat one of Tomba's womenfolk, a stranger. Though it was hot the woman was shivering. Ama took her hand and spoke to her.