Ama (34 page)

“My excuses, Madam,” he said to Ama, “for the vulgarity.”

“However, let me be frank with you,” he continued. “I have not been well of late. A surgeon on a ship out of Liverpool gave me a thorough check-up last week and advised a sea trip. For the sake of my health. So I have left the shop in the capable hands of my assistant, Horatio Smith. You have met the young man? No? I shall send him to call on you. A capable merchant, if somewhat lacking in experience. My thirty years on this infernal coast have started to take their toll and I must begin to arrange my succession. A meeting might be useful for both of you.”

Without waiting for a rejoinder from De Bruyn, Brew turned to Ama and, putting his hand over hers, said, in Fanti, “Tell me about Kumase. When did you come from there?”

“About a year ago, please,” she replied, “Or more.”

“What were you doing there?” he asked.

Ama dropped her eyes.

“I understand. You were a slave. There is nothing wrong with that. Are you Asante yourself or a donko?” he asked.

“My people are called Bekpokpam. The Bedagbam kidnapped me and sent me to Kumase,” Ama replied, wondering how she could bring this interview to an end without being rude to Mijn Heer's guest.

De Bruyn, meanwhile, was growing restive at his exclusion from this discussion in Fanti. The man's easy familiarity with Pamela upset him.

“I have some good connections in Kumase,” said Brew. “The king's young cousin was my house guest for some years. Did you see the King while you were there?”

“I saw him often. I worked for the queen-mother, Nana Konadu Yaadom,” replied Ama.

“Is that true now?” asked Brew, his mind working overtime.

He had dreams of acquiring a monopoly on trade with Asante. Young Smith would lead a mission to Kumase. This Pamela could be extremely useful to him.

“Mr. Brew, would you like to spend the night ashore? If not, it will soon be dark and you should return to your ship without delay,” said De Bruyn, trusting that his curt welcome would induce Brew to refuse.

“Now that is most kind of you, Governor,” replied Brew. “I should be most happy to accept your invitation. To tell you the truth, a sea journey may be good for the health, but the company on my brig is not the most stimulating. Human intercourse, you know, that is what life is about. One cannot spend all one's time reading books.”

“I notice,” he continued, nodding his head towards the glass fronted cabinet in which De Bruyn kept his library, “that you are something of a reader yourself. Dutch or English?”

“Mainly English,” replied De Bruyn. “Are you fond of books?”

“In moderation,” said Brew. “The golden rule. All things in moderation. Except for wine, women and good food. May I have a look?”

“I compliment you, Governor,” said Brew as he examined the books. “A most excellent collection. Astley's Voyages. Dr. Johnson. Gulliver. Dean Swift was my countryman, you know: both of us from Dublin; Goldsmith too. Tom Jones. That's a romp, is it not? Poetry? No poetry? Pope? Addison?”

“No, poetry is not my strong point,” replied De Bruyn. “Too much like hard work. My English is largely self-taught, as you will no doubt have noticed. I spent a year in London in my youth and what I know I picked up then.”

“Ah, well,
de gustibus
, you know. I admit to a fondness for poetry myself. Who sends you your books?”

Even as he carried on this conversation Brew was scheming how to acquire the unusual slave girl.

“Captain David Williams, for one,” De Bruyn replied. “
The Love of Liberty
, out of Liverpool. I am sure you have met.”

“Williams?
The Love of Liberty
? Yes, of course,” said Brew.

He had no recollection of the man.

“Some curious children's books too. You have a family here?”

“No, Pamela has been using those for her English lessons. The Reverend Philip Quaque kindly sold them to us.”

“Quaque, eh? Impudent black boy that. I was a Christian before he was born, a proper Christian I mean, born and bred in the religion. Quaque is no more than a converted pagan, clothed in a thin veneer of civilisation. Yet he expects me to sit under his flat nose and listen to him pointing out my faults to me. He tried it once. I will not give him a second chance. Is he a friend of yours then, Quaque?”

CHAPTER 19

“Pamela,” cried De Bruyn, rushing into the room in great haste one morning.

She was working at the table by the window.

“The
Love of Liberty
has just dropped anchor. You remember me telling you about Captain Williams?”

“My good Minister, you must excuse me,” he told Van Schalkwyk. “You will have to curtail your lesson.”

“Of course, of course, Director,” said the chaplain, gathering up his books and throwing farewells to his pupil over his shoulder as he waddled out of the room.

The cannon began the salute. Ama covered her ears. The noise always disturbed her.

“Pamela, I hope you have my dress uniform ready,” said De Bruyn.

“The slave quarters are full to capacity,” he said, thinking aloud. “Williams has always been a good customer. If I play my cards right he might fill his holds at a single stroke.”

Is that how he intends to keep his promise to improve conditions in the dungeons?
Ama wondered as she laid his clothes out on the bed.

“Ama,” he said when he had washed his face, “we must entertain Williams in style.”

He was standing at the window staring out to sea. She stood behind him and put her arms around his chest.

“Calm down, Mijn Heer,” she said. “Captain Williams is just another Englishmen, isn't he? What is so special about him? Why are you so excited?”

He turned and kissed her gently on the lips.

“Perhaps he has brought us some new books,” he said. “Wouldn't you like that?”

He thought for a moment.

“I shall order a room prepared for him. After the rigors of the voyage, he will want the comfort of a female companion.”

“No doubt,” Ama replied, turning her face away.

He sees every female slave as just a vagina on two legs
, she thought bitterly, not for the first time.

“Oh, let's not have that argument again,” he said, reading her thoughts. “Here, won't you help me with these boots?”

“You are too sensitive. We didn't bring this custom from Amsterdam, you know: it was the Fanti kings who taught it to us. This is the renowned Gold Coast hospitality of which they are so proud. And I've told you before: the female slaves enjoy a night out, a warm bath, a good meal and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to sleep in a real bed with a soft mattress; and with a white man too. The other women envy the one who is chosen. Some of them haven't had a man in months. And when the lucky girl returns to the dungeon they are all agog to hear her story. Believe me: that's how it is.”

Another cannonade. Ama's anger rose.
Did they envy me too, when I was stripped and humiliated like that in the courtyard
? she wondered.
Did they envy poor Esi when Jensen raped her
?

“I hope she cuts his prick off, that lucky girl,” she mumbled to herself, taking a dislike to Williams even before she had met him.

De Bruyn was standing before the glass, pulling on his jacket.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Augusta's advice came to her.
I had better get a grip on myself. This is no time for an argument that will lead nowhere
, she thought.

“I beg your pardon, Mijn Heer, it was nothing,” she replied.

“We will have him in for dinner tonight, just the three of us. I am sure you will like him. He is a most original man, always bubbling with interesting ideas. He brings a breath of fresh European air into this dismal corner of the world. He will charm you, just wait and see.

“I shall instruct chef to put on a real spread for him. That will make a change from maggoty ship's biscuits! And you will wear your best dress, I trust.”

“How do I look?” he asked, but his voice was drowned by another blast from the cannon.

He kissed her again. Then he sought her eyes. She looked down.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“No, no,” she said, turning away. “Go and welcome your guest.”

* * *

Ama sat stretched out in her favourite armchair by the south window, reading.

Normally, wearing cloth, she would be curled up, but in this dress that was impossible. Mijn Heer had told her she would spoil her eyesight reading by candlelight, but she had just had to finish this chapter before the boring dinner party for the English captain.
They will talk, talk, talk,
she thought,
and most of it I won't understand.

But
, it occurred to her,
it might be interesting to practice my English on a real Englishman.

She looked across at the tall clock. The pendulum swung back and forth. They were late. Mijn Heer had not been back the whole afternoon. He really was in love with this Williams. She felt a pang of jealousy. Then she laughed at herself.
Me jealous of a man, and an Englishman at that?
Mijn Heer was hers and hers alone. She had really conquered him. She thought of her namesake, Richardson's Pamela.
I've learnt a thing or two from her
, she thought.
How I would like to meet and talk with her. Or even just receive a letter from her. Mijn Heer says it is just a story book, that there is no real Pamela Andrews, that Samuel Richardson wrote all the letters himself, out of his head. I wonder if he is telling me the truth. Maybe I should ask Williams. He's an Englishman. He should know. Maybe he knows Richardson, or even Pamela herself.

She put the book aside, rose, stretched her arms, yawned, took a deep breath and went to the mirror. Mijn Heer was right: white really did suit her. This was his favourite dress. Like the rest, it had originally been one of Elizabeth's, a ball gown he called it. There had been balls at the Cape. Mijn Heer had demonstrated to her how they danced the minuet. If that was a sample of the way the whites danced, she had told him, she didn't think much of it. But perhaps it was just that Mijn Heer was such a poor dancer. He was so stiff. She couldn't imagine him mastering the graceful movements of the
adowa
. In any case there were no white women for the men to dance their minuets with at Elmina.

Elizabeth's ball gown was made of a rich brocaded satin, sparkling white. The bodice was laced up tightly from behind, forcing her bust up against the low neckline. Mijn Heer loved her to wear it; he said the white cloth showed off the beauty of her black skin. But it was heavy and hot and uncomfortable.

Augusta had been teaching her to sew.

“Maame Augusta,” she had asked her, “when you were married to Mijn Heer did you have dresses like this?”

Augusta had laughed.

“Of course not. There were no white women in the Castle in those days and no white women's dresses either. What would a Fanti woman like me do with such a dress? I would have been the laughing stock of Edina.”

But she could see how Elizabeth's dresses suited Ama. As for the townsfolk, they used different criteria when it came to judging white men's wenches.

Ama had had an idea. She would take the dress apart, secretly, without Mijn Heer's knowledge, and sew it together again in a different style.

“That's a crazy idea,” Augusta had reacted. “It might make Mijn Heer very angry.”

Reluctantly, Ama had bowed to her veto.

Her hair had grown fast. When it was long enough, Augusta's youngest daughter, Kuku, had come to plait in the local style.

Now she took a piece of blue satin which Augusta had given her and wrapped it around her head in an elaborate turban. She wondered if Mijn Heer would like it.

Ama was still standing at the mirror when she heard the approaching voices.

“Pamela,” called De Bruyn as he opened the door, “Come and meet Captain Williams.”

She could hear the liquor on his voice. She turned. His face was flushed. He continued his conversation with the visitor.

“Williams,” he said, “shall we just summarise our afternoon's discussion before we settle down to eat?”

Then he saw her. His eyes opened wide, he rubbed them and looked again, up and down. He caught her eye, smiled and tilted his head in approval. Ama sighed with relief. He took her hand and gave it to Williams, who bowed slightly.

“I have been frank with you, Captain,” continued De Bruyn. “I am overstocked. Ever since the Asante opened the road from the north, there has been a veritable flood of slaves. My dungeons are full. Yet if I were to refuse to buy, the dealers might take their business elsewhere, even to your countrymen at Cape Coast. So I am prepared to offer you a special deal: a bargain rate of six ounces of gold for a male, four for a female and three for a child. You make your own selection. What's more I'll take all your trade goods. There is only one condition and that is that you fill your holds here at Elmina. Accept my offer and you could be on your way to Barbados within a week.”

“You tempt me,” replied Williams, “but you must allow me to sleep on it. We can talk about price when my surgeon reports to me on his inspection of the stock. As to buying four hundred slaves at a go, most of them Cormantynes, I shall have to think about that very carefully. You know the problem. With so many of them all from one place and many probably speaking the same language, trouble is almost inevitable.”

“But think of the advantages. You spend only a week in this insalubrious climate. The slaves are all fit and well when you set sail; not to speak of your crew. Should you be lucky with the winds, you might even arrive in Barbados without a single loss; and after a short voyage the slaves would be so healthy that they would command the highest prices.”

“It's certainly an attractive proposition. Cormantynes do indeed fetch a high price in Barbados. However they are also well-known for their reluctance to be ruled,” replied Williams.