The Call of Zulina (31 page)

Proudly, and with a great show of importance, Obei went to the throne room to inform his father that he desired permission to approach him. The king was extremely busy, the prince was told. All day Obei waited for an invitation, and the longer he waited, the more irritated he grew. Finally, as the sun sank into the grasslands, Obei decided he had waited long enough. He was a prince, and he would not be barred from the king's presence. So he pushed his way past his father's guards.

When Obei burst into his father's royal presence, he stopped and stared. It was true, the king was busy. He was busy laying out plans with Tutu, Obei's younger brother.

“You gave a carved stool to me!” Obei accused.

“I gave a more powerful one to your brother,” the king replied.

“The
ntumpane
,” Obei said. “They say our warriors are on their way to the fortress to fight alongside Africans. They say we are going to do battle against the white man.”

“Is that what they say?” the king responded. “Perhaps that is what you hear only because that is what you want them to say. Perhaps you do not like the message their king has ordered them to speak.”

Obei also knew the language of the royal drums perfectly. But even he, the firstborn of the Great and Powerful King, did not know everything.

“Your brother does not fight against me, Obei,” the king said. “He sees the wisdom of working with the white men, of taking the muskets and gunpowder they offer us. He understands that unpleasant compromises are necessary if we are to remain the most powerful and respected kingdom on the coast of Africa.”

Obei looked at his brother and asked, “Tutu, who do you back in this battle?”

“Even now our warriors fight with Lingongo alongside the white men,” Tutu said.

“No!” Obei shouted. “The ancestors would never permit such a thing!”

Only because he was desperate did Obei dare to steal into the sacred
nkonnwafieso
in the dark of the night to seek out the blackened stools of death. But he was not the first one there. Already calabash halves lay open, filled with special food and drink, offerings for the ancestors.

Obei boiled with anger. What did Tutu think? That his older brother would give up without a fight simply because the king refused to stand beside him? Hah! Obei was like a porcupine that cannot be harmed. He could defend himself against the white man's guns, and he could defend himself against the attacks of his own brother. When his spines were shot off, they would grow back again, and they would be stronger than ever. Just like the porcupine, that was Prince Obei.

C
abeto searched all morning for his brother. Finally, he found him sitting alone in a far cell, watching three children laugh and play. Quietly, Cabeto moved over and folded himself up next to Sunba.

After a long silence, Sunba said, “It frightens me to hear children laugh. I wonder what will happen to them.”

“Perhaps they will walk free with the rest of us,” Cabeto answered. “Or perhaps we will all die like heroes.”

Cabeto waited for his brother to speak again. After a few moments, Sunba asked, “Do you wonder, my brother, if I am the traitor?”

“No,” Cabeto said. “It cannot be you.”

“How can you be certain?” Sunba asked.

“Do you not remember our father's proverb? He would tell us that even if a log soaks a long time in water, it will never become a crocodile. Much has happened, my brother. But all the horror cannot change you into something you are not. The traitor is not you.”

Again they fell into a long silence.

Finally, Sunba said, “I do not want to be chief, Cabeto. You are the leader. If more trouble comes or if we see times of celebration and power, I will be by your side to help you.”

“I thank you,” Cabeto said.

“Do we need to speak of Tungo?” Sunba asked.

“When two brothers fight, a stranger reaps the harvest,” Cabeto answered. “Tungo looks out only for Tungo.”

How long the brothers would have sat together and enjoyed the calm of one another's presence is hard to say. Certainly, they had not had nearly enough time when Grace burst in upon them.

“Cabeto! Sunba! Tungo stirs up trouble with his talk of war,” she cried. “He frightens the new people.”

With a sigh of resignation, Cabeto stood up.

“Yes, my brother,” Sunba repeated with the trace of a grin. “You can be the leader.”

As the three entered the dungeon, Tungo jabbed his musket toward them and accused, “And where is this leader you talk about? He conspires with the daughter of the lioness and the slave trader!”

“We do not conspire, Tungo,” Cabeto said wearily. “Please. Unless we stay together, we will all share the same end.”

“No, not all of us,” Tungo shot back. “Not the traitor.”

His eyes brimmed with hatred, and he fixed them on Grace.

Now Gamka jumped up beside him. “Tungo and I will not listen to a leader who harbors a traitor!”

“I am not—” Grace protested.

“Gamka says what we all know!” Tungo yelled. “I say, throw her out and let her crawl back to her own people. Let her crawl back to where she belongs!”

Both Cabeto and Grace tried to speak, but the confusion in the room fast changed to anger, and no one would listen.

“No!” Ikem bellowed. He stood up in front of Tungo, his scarred face transformed into fierce anger. “It not be her. The traitor not be Grace.”

The room fell silent.

“How do you know, old man?” Tungo asked sharply.

“Trustees, men of Africa—the white man brought them to attack us,” Ikem said. “When they see us fight in ways of their fathers, with hands and knives and wits, some drop white man's guns and pick up knives to join us. And some hold their guns but shoot white man attackers.”

“Yes, yes,” Tungo said impatiently. “We all know that, and it was good. But that tells us nothing about the traitor!”

“One trustee who put gun down and took up knife to fight beside me was with the lioness when she see the traitor leave the tunnel,” Ikem said. “The lioness made the traitor very afraid. He said he would give the Dutchman in trade for his freedom.”

“So you knew all the time and you did not tell us!” Tungo accused. “Well, who is this traitor you protect?”

Ikem searched over the crowd. Then he pointed to one man and said, “Him!”

In the stillness of the dungeon, where not even a child moved, Gamka suddenly jumped up and bolted for the entrance. But Grace leaped in front of him and blocked his path. As Gamka faltered, men piled onto him and pinned him to the floor.

“It was not me,” Gamka cried. “I am a warrior, not a traitor!”

Tungo strode over to him. “Let him up!” he ordered. Slowly, hesitantly, the others loosened their grip and backed off.

“Thank you, Tungo,” Gamka said. Tears of relief filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks. “I knew you would believe me. We are the real warriors here, you and me. We—”

Tungo pulled out his knife.

Gamka started to sob. “I can still do much to help us, Tungo … all of us. I’ll talk to the lioness. When you went to look for the Dutchman and Antonio, I stepped out of the tunnel and she saw me! Tungo, the only one she really wants is her daughter. All we have to do is hand Grace over to her, and she will let us go. Please, Tungo, it is what you wanted! Trade Grace for our freedom! Please!”

Tungo grabbed Gamka's hair, jerked his head back, and raised his knife.

F
rom the library, silent and empty without Grace, to the dining room where no one ate anymore, then across the inside kitchen and out to the ridiculous parlor, Lingongo paced through the London house. Up the stairs to the bedchambers and back down again. Out into the courtyard and back inside, and then once again to the library to start all over. Lingongo must have made the round a hundred times, pacing long into the night. Each time she turned back to the library, her frustration grew. How was it that those miserable rebels managed to turn everything around to their advantage? To always make her look the fool? Well, this must not continue. It
would
not continue! She would see to that.

As Lingongo passed the parlor window, she caught the rustle of movement outside. But when she looked out, she could see only darkness. Quietly … ever so carefully … she made her way outside and over toward the mango trees. That's where she saw Joseph. He had rounded up his favorites from among the compound's slaves and chained them together. Lingongo stifled her amazement—not at the gathered slaves or even at her husband's unexplained actions at this strange hour, but at the unaccustomed look of determination etched across his pasty face. Many years had passed since she had seen Joseph Winslow wear that look.

“Move!” Joseph ordered the column of slaves.

Lingongo ran around to the outside and positioned herself in front of her husband. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Are you taking them up to the fortress? In the middle of the night?”

Joseph ignored her.

“They will only join the rebels!” Lingongo insisted. “More slaves will only make them stronger.”

Without so much as a glance, Joseph stepped around her.

“Does your foolishness know no bounds?” Lingongo cried in exasperation. “Is there no end to your idiocy?”

But something in Joseph had changed. For the first time, he seemed immune to his wife's stinging words. Grasping a whip in one hand and a pistol in the other, he prodded his bound slaves past her and out across the freshly dug sweet potato field. With a flick of the whip, Joseph forced the men to jog out to the stone wall. He opened the gate, and they disappeared through it.

Joseph rushed the men along the dark pathway, down in the direction of the baobab tree. The occasional person on the road stepped aside to let the chained column pass, then stood and gaped after it. Without pausing at the great tree to show even the slightest reverence to the ancestors, Joseph turned to the narrow road on the left and marched the slaves up toward Zulina. He didn’t slow his pace until he arrived at the fortress gates. Suddenly exhausted, he paused, but only long enough to catch his breath and mop the perspiration that dripped from his mottled face. Then he set about unchaining his column of slaves.

“They's brush yonder. And twigs down below too,” he said as he swept his arms around him. “’Eap ’em all up ’round the fortress door over there!”

The slaves set to work. Yet even as they gathered the brush and piled it up, Joseph barked out commands. “More! ’Eap it up round ’em windas too. Pile it ’igh, I say! More! More!”

He punctuated every command with a snap of his whip, and each snap landed across the back of whichever slave was unlucky enough to be within range.

Finally, in exasperation, the slave Joseph called Tuke threw his arms wide and exclaimed, “Please, Master, look ’round. There be no more for us to gather.”

Tuke's words seemed to yank Joseph out of his frenzied daze. He looked around him and blinked. As best he could tell, the ground had indeed been picked clean
—
although with only the hint of first light, it was difficult to tell for certain.

“They's still the gunpowder,” Joseph said.

Over to one side, two trustees stood guard over four barrels.

“Put ’em in amongst the brush!” Joseph ordered. “Next to the wall. Space ’em out a bit now, but make it powerful right there.” He motioned to the outer wall above the dungeon.

When the job was done, Joseph ordered, “Now roll up ’em barrels o’ palm oil we brought from the storeroom.” Motioning to the heaps of brush, he shouted, “Soak ’em piles down till no oil be left! Not one drop!”

Lingongo had watched her husband take off across the sweet potato field, and she had done nothing. She understood him in his weakness. She was used to that, and she worked it to her advantage. But his sudden show of strength confused her. She waited and waited for him to regain his senses and come creeping back, but as the time wore on and he didn’t return, she grew increasingly uneasy. So with nothing but the waning stars of early morning to guide her, she turned her steps toward Zulina.