The Call of Zulina (18 page)

“D
on’t ye be goin’ down into the dungeons wi’ them Negroes no more! It jist ain’t civilized! They's savages! Wot ye think ye doin’ anyway, mixin’ wi’ the likes o’ them?”

It wasn’t unusual for Pieter DeGroot to be rebuked for what he had come to think of as his daily rounds. Since he was forced back to Zulina a second time, every seaman at the fortress had taken a turn at upbraiding him at least once, and that included the captain of the filthiest ship in the harbor who was himself on the receiving end of most tongue-lashings.

At first, after he returned to Zulina, Pieter had answered each challenge by patiently explaining his position. “I have no other use for my time,” he would say. “And if I can bring the poor wretches even a small measure of comfort and relief from their sufferings, well, where is the harm?”

The retort he received was always the same, and it never failed to bristle with what one English captain labeled “righteous and just anger.”

“It jist ain’t befittin’ a white man,” the captain said, “an’ right there is where the ’arm is! We gots to ’old up our standards as civilized Christian men, is wot!”

So Pieter DeGroot gave up any attempt to answer the critical voices. As for the belligerent ones, he never tried. He shut his mouth and let those around him rage. But this time was different. This time it was an ultimatum, and it came from Joseph Winslow himself. With the owner of Zulina—his host, upon whose kindness and favor he depended—Pieter tried a different tack.

“I was concerned for the condition of your … your valuable merchandise … Admiral,” Pieter said with careful and measured respect. “Since your reputation as a shrewd businessman and a respected English gentleman is known far and wide, I was certain you would be equally concerned. I am correct, am I not?”

Joseph Winslow's bluster failed him completely. He wasn’t at all prepared for such a response.

“Well, yes,” he sputtered. “But ye doesn’t wants to … that is, ye cain’t be going to … see ’ere, me lad, the problem is … well, wot I means to say is that when ye …”

Pieter's silent gaze remained steady. “Jist stay away from me slaves!”

Pieter didn’t respond.

Slapping the Dutchman on the back, Joseph suggested in his most conciliatory tone, “Now then, me good fellow, won’t ye come along an’ toss the dice with me an’ the lads? ’Tis a right proper way fer the likes o’ us to while away the time. Got me a lucky
juju
, me does, an’ I's of a mind to show ’im off. Come along now and we’ll ’ave us some fun.”

To watch this man quiver with anticipation—to
actually
salivate at the idea of gambling his money away—well, it intrigued Pieter immensely. Which, in addition to pure boredom, was why he finally consented to allow Joseph to pull him along one corridor after another, with Joseph stopping to look in cell after cell in search of his mysterious
juju
—his magic amulet. Turning a corner, they ran up against three African trustees toting a large pot of boiled beans between cells.

“’Tonio!” Joseph exclaimed with glee. “Ye be the very one I's needin’! Drop that pot and come along wi’ me. Now, me lad!”

“
Sí, señor
,” mumbled Antonio. He set his end of the pot down on the stone walkway and followed the white men.

“’Tonio talks
juju
to the gods,” Joseph informed Pieter. “If n ’e prays over ’em dice, I cain’t lose. Jist last night I got me more gold pieces than I could ’old in me two ’ands put together. Jist ye watch an’ see.”

High up in the corner room of Zulina, where the sun shone in through three windows and the breeze blew comfortable and cool off the water, half a dozen boisterous men were throwing ivory dice. Each had a tankard of rum beside him at the large table. Off to one side sat a basket containing a handful of gold coins. When Joseph and his companions entered, the dice stopped rolling and the room fell silent.

“’Ere I is wi’ me
juju!”
Joseph announced. He turned to Pieter and said, “While ’Tonio is prayin’ over the dice, me lad, you toss some gold into the basket fer the both o’ us.”

“I’m not a gambling man,” Pieter protested.

“Suit yersef,” Joseph said with a shrug. “Jist toss in me share then.” When Pieter didn’t promptly reach for his purse, Joseph said impatiently, “’Ere now, lad. Ye's livin’ in me quarters and eatin’ me food, ain’t ye? It's time ye done right by me. Throw somethin’ in the basket. ’Urry now!”

It was not a request; it was a command. Reluctantly, Pieter opened his purse. He had only one gold coin left. Sadly, he tossed it into the basket.

As Joseph took his chair, he grabbed up the dice and handed them to Antonio. “Pray the juju!” he ordered. His eyes shone with greedy anticipation.

Antonio lifted his head and intoned:
“iEscuche, Dios! iEscuche!
May the gods pour out their blessing upon us.
Tsua Tsua Tsua manye aba …
”

Even before Antonio finished, Joseph whipped the dice around in his two hands and tossed them onto the table. A double six. Joseph laughed out loud and snatched up the basket of coins, and then he emptied the pile of gold in front of him.

“Git me some rum, ’Tonio,” Joseph told him. “A ’ole tankard. Then start another
juju
prayer! We's on a roll agin today, we is!”

They had been playing long enough for Joseph to lose all his gold and win some of it back again when the door flew open. Lingongo stood in the doorway, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes.

“Here you are, you worthless fool of a no-good husband!” Lingongo exploded. “You gamble away our gold while some wretched savage cowers within these very walls and plots evil against us. You allow him to snatch up your daughter and then to hide out under your own roof! Can you not understand? He makes you look like a feeble buffoon in front of everyone, and you do absolutely nothing to stop him!”

Joseph struggled to his feet, his face crimson. “’Ere now, Woman … don’t ye be carryin’ on so, or I’ll ’ave to raise me ’and to ye, I will!” But the tankards of rum made him unsteady, and the humiliation muddled his brain. So, buffoonlike, he stumbled and staggered and slurred his words.

With lightning speed, Lingongo's hand shot out. Her whip slashed across the table and sent tankards, dice, and gold pieces flying in all directions. As the men ducked and scattered, desperate to escape this wild woman, they knocked chairs over and pushed into each other. Only Pieter, beside Antonio and well behind the others, did not make a move.

“Go!” Lingongo shrieked at Joseph. “Find the troublemakers and hang them by their necks over the front gate. Let everyone see what happens to those who dare challenge the owner of Zulina!”

I
t was Antonio who carried the warning to the dungeon.

When Tungo heard it, his face contorted in fury. He thrust his finger in Grace's face and demanded, “Her! Rip off her fancy white man's clothes! Then chain her to the wall where she cannot betray us!”

“I’m not a part of them!” Grace protested in frustration. “Look at me! If I was, would my father and mother have deserted me like this? Would they have left me in your hands even after you chopped off my finger?”

“He who sleeps in the jungle must be aware of the leopard,” Tungo stated coldly. “When the fight starts, black will stand with black, and white will stand with white. What color will you be then?”

“I’m just as black as I am white!” Grace implored.

“How will we know for certain before it is too late?” Gamka challenged.

Cabeto raised his voice and pleaded for calm. “We do not have to fight the lioness and the white traders!” he insisted. “We can go to our villages and live honest lives in our own homes. If we must come against the white man, we can do it another day. A day when we are united and well armed—”

But Gamka had heard enough. “I am a warrior, and I for one will never dare turn my back on you!” Gamka yelled at Grace.

“If the slave trader searches the cells as Antonio said, he will also come here,” said Kwate. “When he does, he will find his daughter. And he will see that all of you walk free with chains unlocked—”

“Grace and I can hide in the tunnel,” Cabeto said. “Then you and Tungo can put the rest back in chains. Let the white trader and his woman come and look, if that is what they want to do. They will find everyone just as they left them. Then they will be satisfied and they will go.”

“No one will put chains on me again!” Gamka shot back. “I am a warrior, and I will fight!”

With a sudden wail of despair, the boy rose up from his place all alone on the floor. Safya rushed to him and pulled him to herself. She hugged and caressed him and gently crooned, “There, there, young one. All we have done is to frighten you. No one even stopped to ask your name.”

“I have no name,” the boy sobbed. “They call me Guedado because I am wanted by nobody.”

“We will not call you by that name,” Safya said firmly. “No, here you will be called Hola—one who saves. You will bring us good fortune and hope for a future. Come, Hola, you will sit with me.”

But the boy wouldn’t move. So Safya sat down beside him, and there she remained.

“The muskets!” Tungo ordered impatiently. “Come, we must make ourselves ready.”

He and Gamka hurried to the chest Cabeto had dragged up from the tunnel. Tungo lifted out a musket and waved it high in the air as he shouted, “I will take one! Who else will do the same?”

“I will!” said Gamka, and he, too, grabbed a musket. “But I will toss it to the ground the moment I find a proper spear.”

“Who else will take one?” Tungo called. “Come, arm yourselves! Kwate! Antonio! Sunba! Will you fight like warriors? Or will you cower like frightened slaves?”

No one moved.

“Cabeto speaks right,” Kwate said. “We do not need to fight. It is better to be a calm and silent water than a raging flood.”

Tungo sneered. “It is true that the wise men have much to tell us. But they also say it is the calm and silent water that drowns a man.”

The talk came to an abrupt end at the sound of Lingongo's voice. She was in the corridor just outside. “Throw this door open,” she commanded. “I will inspect the dungeon myself!”

Tungo sprang to his feet and raised his musket high. Bellowing, he charged wildly toward the still-closed door. With the speed of a panther, Cabeto pounced on him and slammed him to the floor.

Outside, the voices stopped short.

“Get her into the tunnel!” Cabeto commanded in a ragged whisper as he nodded in Grace's direction.

Antonio grabbed Grace's arm and pulled her across the room. But before they reached the tunnel, Gamka leaped over the gun chest and positioned himself squarely between them and the grate. He raised his musket and pointed it directly at Grace's face.

“No!” he said with a menacing growl. “We will not run. And none of us—not even the white one—will hide.”

Like a leopard stalking his prey, Sunba sank down into a silent crouch. His muscles tensed as he faded into the shadow of the wall. Ever so slowly he inched his way toward Gamka.

A key rattled in the lock outside the dungeon door. After some effort, it slipped into place and turned.

“Let me up!” Tungo raged as he struggled against Cabeto. “A warrior fights, and I am a warrior!” But he could not break Cabeto's iron hold.

As the heavy wooden door scraped over the stone floor, a baleful wail arose from Hola. Safya enfolded the terrified boy in her arms and hugged his trembling body tight as she gently rocked him.

In one confusing instant, Sunba sprang toward Gamka just as Antonio shoved Grace away from him. Gamka whirled around toward the opening door and fired the musket.

A high-pitched shriek pierced the air and echoed off the stone walls. In a terrified panic, Udobi, the quiet one, tore free from her husband's grip and dashed toward the dungeon stairs, screeching like a wounded animal in mortal pain.

“No!” Ikem cried out in alarm.

But he was no match for his woman's blind hysteria.

In the confusion, Grace and Antonio made a dash for the tunnel and tugged on the door.