The Call of Zulina (25 page)

He put Gamka in charge of the door from the dungeon to the tunnel.

Antonio would be responsible for getting messages down the tunnel to Pieter DeGroot and also for bringing supplies back up through the tunnel.

“Food!” Safya called out to Cabeto. “With so many hungry ones, we need more food.” She shook her head in exasperation. “And we have no cooking fire! What are we to do about that?”

“Ask the Dutchman what he can do,” Cabeto instructed Antonio. “What he brings us, we will eat. Cooked or not, we will be grateful for it.”

It was now midday. Grace noticed that Cabeto periodically shifted a few inches to the left
—
just enough so that the shaft of light from the grate fell directly across him. How his face glistened in the sunlight! Such a strong profile he had! Such piercing eyes! In spite of herself, Grace pushed away from the stone wall and inched forward. Never before had she seen so powerful a man as this Cabeto, not even among the well-muscled slaves who toiled in her father's fields. Perhaps— though she could not say for certain—not even Yao.

“Ohla,”
Grace breathed.
“Ohla Cabeto!”
Cabeto turned and looked into Grace's face. “You call me honorable leader?” he asked her in disbelieving puzzlement. Grace looked away as humiliation flamed in her cheeks.

“An honorable leader would not drag a lady into a dungeon. An honorable leader would not allow an innocent lady's hand to be mutilated. No, Grace. Do not call me
ohla
. I do not deserve it. Most of all, not from you.”

Grace reached out and touched Cabeto's arm. “If not leader, may I call you ‘friend’?” she asked.

Cabeto didn’t get a chance to answer because at that moment the boy Hola ran up to him and demanded, “I want a musket too!”

“A musket is not easy to shoot,” Cabeto told the boy.

“But—”

Ikem called out to Hola, “You and me, we not shoot white man's firesticks. You stay by me, boy. I teach you to fight brave like a son of Africa. You be African man, not white man.”

No longer did Ikem speak of being a good slave and cooperating peacefully with his master. To Cabeto, Ikem said, “I be old and full of experience. The time has come that we must fight. I not fight like white man, but I have understanding of many years. I ask you, Cabeto, give me men to be my own—old men like me. We fight, too, but in ways of Africa. Boys too young to fight with you, like Hola here, we bring them with us and we teach them to fight in the old ways.”

Cabeto considered Ikem's words.

“You the leader, my brother,” Ikem pressed. “No other has the power of your hand. The ancestors be with you alone.”

“Are you asking my permission to lead a group of African fighters?” Cabeto asked.

“No, my brother, not permission,” Ikem said. “Lead them I will. I ask your blessing.”

“Then you have it, my friend,” Cabeto told him.

As Grace watched from the shadows, two men who had pleaded separately for peace—a ritually scarred old man and a powerful young
ohla—
clenched hands in a united alliance for battle.

T
he ruler of the most powerful chiefdom in the Kingdom of Gold, the king, the Great and Powerful One, had permitted his daughter to stand before him and freely voice her complaints. He had even tolerated the abominable behavior of her boorish husband who pushed his way in, unannounced and on his own. Perhaps that is why his son dared approach him with neither invitation nor permission and presumed to speak on behalf of the ancestors.

“A new swarm of locusts blew in on the wind,” Obei declared in a most inappropriate voice of insolence accompanied by a careless wave of his hands.

Did the prince think him both blind and deaf? Even as they spoke, men and women spread out across the millet fields to slap and stomp at the swarming insects. Witch doctors and diviners were also at work, their
ase
increasing with each potion they concocted and with each animal they sacrificed.

“It is as the wise men say,” Obei continued, a tone of accusation coating his voice in bitterness. “The land mutters and complains.”

Because Obei was his firstborn son, the king listened to him, but with every word his displeasure grew. Such arrogance! Such insulting audacity! Prince or not, how could he dare speak in such a way to the only great ruler, the one who dressed in the black kente cloth woven with broad gold strokes, the one who had the right to richly bedeck himself with the heaviest royal gold jewelry, who alone could put the porcupine ring of military prowess on his finger? Why, his feet rested on the Golden Stool! Did his son have no respect for the spirit of the nation?

What Obei was careful not to mention was that purpose and intention stood behind both his visit and his words. Whether the king agreed or disagreed with his statements mattered not in the least. The point was to hold his father's attention while the elders gathered with other dignitaries of the chiefdom in a secret meeting to discuss whether the king was still capable of carrying out his responsibilities, or whether it was time to pass the power of the
sika’gua
to Prince Obei.

The locust invasion was but the latest disturbance of the natural order that the wise men took to be signs that it just might be time to dispose of the ruler. They had already endured long, dry months when the rain that should have come stayed away. That was also a sign. Still, it was true that such things did occur in the natural order of life. Of more concern than these was the king's decision to melt down some of the royal gold to buy weapons from the white man. No! A successful king should be adding gold to the treasury, not taking it away. But the gravest alarm arose from the matter of the alliance the king had forged with the Englishman—the alliance he paid for with his favorite daughter.

“This nation was created by the ancestors,” an elder stated at the beginning of the secret meeting.

“Yet it must be maintained by war,” responded a respected warrior.

“White men look at Joseph Winslow and they laugh,” a second elder said. “Because he is the husband of the daughter of our king, when they ridicule him, they also ridicule us. Joseph Winslow is an offense to the pride of our nation.”

“A wise king would not give his daughter to an outsider in marriage,” the oldest and wisest of the elders said. “Certainly not his favorite daughter. Not even in exchange for many, many ships filled with guns and enough kegs of gunpowder to fill an entire village.” Everyone nodded his agreement. And the oldest and wisest added, “He certainly would not give her to a white slave trader. And most certainly not to such a one as Joseph Winslow.”

This talk had been said before. But now word had come to them of the rebellion at Zulina slave fortress. “Lingongo herself appealed to her father for help,” yet another elder exclaimed. “It is one thing to make war on an enemy people and take captives for sale. Even our ancestors made slaves of war captives. But to fight alongside the white man against Africans in chains?”

“No!” shouted the warrior. “I will not!”

The nation teetered on the brink of disaster. On this point, all the elders agreed. It was punishment from the ancestors, they insisted. Well-deserved punishment.

“But he is king,” the oldest elder pointed out. “And as such he has magical powers we do not possess. We must be careful. We must be very wise and very careful.”

At that same moment, the king—who had heard enough of his son's endless babble—gestured toward his golden snake sword, then to his shield emblazoned with the likeness of defeated enemies, and then around the throne room to the horns of buffalo and the teeth of lions.

“My magical powers raised me high to this throne,” he informed his son, “and they will keep me seated here. Do you doubt that? If so, then challenge me, O great prince, and see what happens.”

At the mention of a personal challenge, Obei drew back and blanched.

“Does it surprise you to know that your plot does not take me by surprise?” the king asked. “By challenging me, my son, you have angered the spirits. For the past several nights they have given me warnings in my dreams. Oh, yes, this is why I listened to your sister, and it is also why I endured her fool of a husband. It was because of what I already knew.”

Obei, whose mouth had been running over with so many words, suddenly found himself stricken silent.

“You say we are in a time of crisis. In that you are correct,” the king said. “As are the elders who plot alongside you. But what you and they have neglected to see is that crisis makes people careless and desperate. And so it is precisely such times that give others the opportunity to bring new life to our nation. But only if we act carefully and wisely.”

For a long time, the king did not dismiss his son. Instead, he sat on his throne, cool and comfortable in his royal
kente
cloth and gold adornments, and watched the prince sweat and worry.

No wonder the king's people respected him so deeply. No surprise that their fear of him was so intense.

     Gunpowder barrels—3

     Crate of muskets, pistols stacked on top—1

     Lead balls in leather sacks—4

     Knives—5