The Call of Zulina (8 page)

“Enemies, is it then!” Joseph answered in a barely controlled voice. The color rose in his mottled cheeks. He picked up a magnifying glass and lifted it to his eye. “Them trustees is hand-picked by mesef, Woman. I's the boss and they's me workers. They does the work and I tells ’em wot to do. That's ’ow it is.”

“And who makes certain they do what you tell them to?” Lingongo retorted. “Only a fool would trust his business to slaves.”

Carefully, methodically, Joseph laid down the magnifying glass. Then he folded his map, taking care to place it precisely on the right-hand corner of his desk. He picked up the glass again and with the tail of his shirt, he polished it before he set it back down on top of the map. Only then, with everything in order and perfectly positioned on his desk, did he lean back in his chair and look up at his wife.

“Gunpowder be dangerous, Woman,” he said. “Why ye so all-fired set on pilin’ it up ’ere behind our ’ouse? Come a fire, we all be blowed to bits o’ nothin’. Let ’em trustees watch over it like they's s’posed to. It blows up at the fortress, it be slaves wot's dead an’ not us.”

“You are a lazy simpleton!” Lingongo hissed. She had long since given up any attempt to disguise her disdain for her husband. “Those trustees of yours would turn on you the minute they got the chance. Zulina is yours only as long as you rule it with a strong hand. Only as long as you force the slaves to cower before you. And cower they do not.”

Joseph winced, but he refused to back down. Not this time. Instead, he shoved his chair back, stood up to his full height, and stepped forward to face his wife. “Me trustees is faithful to me ’cause they respects me,” he said. “But if’n ye sees it different, then ye jist march yersef up there an’ take charge. Ain’t no one stoppin’ ye.”

Lingongo's clenched jaw quivered and her eyes flashed with fury. An African could not take charge of a slave fortress. She knew it and so did he. Otherwise, Lingongo would have taken over long ago. Otherwise, her father never would have needed Joseph Winslow in the first place.

But then Joseph's uncommon bravado began to crumble. Lingongo towered over him by a good four inches, and he felt every bit the way he looked—small and flabby and pale and blotchy-cheeked. When he had first laid eyes on her, he was fit, and his tanned arms were roped with muscles. But the years had worn heavy on Joseph Winslow. His shoulders slumped, and his washed-out, rheumy eyes darted away from Lingongo's steady glare. He never could stand up to his powerful woman. They both knew it.

“The ships’ll be fillin’ up soon,” Joseph said, taking a step back and assuming a more conciliatory tone. “We’ll be tradin’ ’em muskets off so's we kin ship slaves out agin. So they's really no need to bring the firepower down ’ere, me dear.”

Lingongo said nothing.

Joseph pulled his eyes away from her piercing glare. But immediately, against his will, he looked back up at her … and he waited.

When Lingongo finally spoke, her voice no longer burned with the anger and disdain to which Joseph had grown accustomed. “Word came to me from my father,” she said. “Strength is with the
sika’gua.
The spirits of the ancestors indicate that it is time to prepare for war with the kingdoms of Oyo and Allada. Once the fighting starts, other nations will bring on wars of their own. With so many kingdoms battling, more than enough captives will be available to us. Then the ships will be full, especially if we have the most valuable trade goods—muskets and gunpowder.”

Now Lingongo had Joseph's full attention.

“You must gather up all the firepower you can from the ships as they come in to the harbor. Offer the other captains all the cloth and beads and metal bars you have. Be shrewd in your trades, my husband. Make them think they are getting the best of you. Only we know about the wars. And only you and I know what will bring the best exchange once the fighting starts. When that happens, we will have what is of real value right here in our storeroom. Right here in back of our own house, where no one else can reach it. Then we will be able to set the price however high we want it.”

Joseph ran his hand through his unruly mop of red hair. War between the African kingdoms. In the slave trade, nothing could be better than that. However the battle went, slave traders were the winners. The warring sides captured each other, and both sides sold their captives to the traders. Lingongo was right. In times of war, the most valuable medium for barter was arms and gunpowder. So if he owned all the munitions …

For a man who craved respect, Joseph Winslow put up with a great deal from the proud and demanding Lingongo. It angered and humiliated him to be ridiculed and mocked and held in contempt by his own woman. And not just any woman, but an African woman!

“’Tis a good plan,” Joseph said with a hint of a grudge in his voice tempered by more than a touch of caution. “We kin do this, Woman, ye and me.”

Despite all, they made a good pair, Joseph Winslow and his African wife. In a business sort of way, that is. If he could just settle this marriage affair with Mr. Hathaway, Joseph's life would be in a very good place. Hathaway's wealth would be most welcome in the Winslow coffers—most welcome, indeed.

The problem with Lingongo was that she would not hold her sharp tongue. Not even in the company of men. Not even before other men of the sea—other white men. It was downright disgraceful, is what it was.

L
ingongo studied her husband's knit brow, and she knew his thoughts exactly. Yes, yes, yes … Captain Joseph Winslow had given up so much to live in Africa, and his wife did not show him proper respect.

Well, why should she respect him?

It was because of him that she was imprisoned in this ridiculous pretend white man's world, locked inside stone walls. She—Lingongo!—born a princess, the first daughter of the greatest ruler of the greatest nation on the Gold Coast of Africa. She, who had caught the eyes of men of wealth and power long before she reached an age appropriate to be given in marriage. She, who had every right to expect a life of luxury, who possessed a whole room filled with beautiful handwoven
kente
robes available to her every day because every day for her was a joyous royal occasion. She, who had so much gold jewelry in her chests that were she to fully adorn herself, she would require three servants to support her arms and her head. She, who had every right to expect to marry royalty and live out her life in pride and supreme comfort.

Because Lingongo was born a princess, respect, reverence, and strength were her due. And as the eldest and favorite of her father's many daughters, she had every right to expect to one day be declared the
ohemmea
and to share his royal power. It was when the beautiful Lingongo's prospects for a life of royal luxury were at their height that her father, the great king whose feet rested upon
sika’gua
—the Golden Stool of power— called her to him.

“Prepare for a wedding ceremony, my daughter,” he said.

Oh, the excitement! It was no secret that of all his children, Lingongo was the favorite of her father. What a wonderful union this was sure to be!

“Tomorrow you will marry an English sea captain,” her father said. “His name is Joseph Winslow. After the wedding, you will leave my house and this village, and you will go to live with your husband in his house.”

Because she knew she was her father's favorite, and because she knew that he would endure from her what he would endure from no other person, Lingongo dared to argue with the unapproachable king.

“I will not marry a white man!” she protested.

“But you will,” her father said, not unkindly but with the decisive voice of authority that told her he was the king and she would be unwise to argue further. “You will marry him because I need you to do so. It is not enough for a princess to look beautiful, Lingongo. She must also serve her people. And with the war drums beating, no one can serve this kingdom now as well as you, my daughter.”

Always, Lingongo had been the strong one
—
the one among all her sisters and brothers with an iron will that could not be bent. Perhaps that was why the great king chose her to seal the deal with the man who now controlled Zulina, the man through whose hands every bit of firepower in that area of Africa must pass. The one who alone could ensure who would possess the might and power of the area. And fortuitously, the one who—were he married to Princess Lingongo—would never have the strength or the will to rise up against him.

“I would rather die than endure such a marriage!” Lingongo cried. “Do not force me, Father, or I will kill myself!”

But the agreement had already been made. By the time Lingongo was informed of it, muskets and gunpowder were on their way to her father's storehouse.

“The marriage will take place tomorrow,” the king said. “You do not have to like the Englishman, my daughter. You need only be a worthy princess to me and to your people.”

Lingongo said no more. For twenty-five years, she had not liked the Englishman. But for twenty-five years, she had been a worthy princess.

Bowing to his daughter's pleas, the great king made arrangements for her to remain in his house until Joseph Winslow built and furnished his London house—two years, since so much of it arrived in sailing ships from England. But once it was completed, Lingongo's father sent his daughter to live with her husband. A cadre of slaves accompanied her that day, all bearing gifts of fine furniture (which Joseph Winslow spurned), gold jewelry (which he never saw), and fine royal cloth (which was all Lingongo ever wore from that day forward). Lingongo accepted the gifts, and she served her people well. But she did not forgive her father for exchanging her for power and wealth.

Never again could Lingongo walk proudly and hold her head high among her people. No longer did she or any children she might bear have a place in the royal line of a noble people. Never would she forget what her marriage had cost her. And never would she let Joseph Winslow forget—not for a day, not for one single minute.

Yet Joseph was far from the complete fool his wife took him to be. Although he was loath to admit it, he was well aware of where he would be without her—just another English sea captain on a slave ship, battling for survival against the treacherous sea and against the volatile crew and unpredictable human cargo packed aboard. Maybe not even that. With his love of the dice, and the abundance of rum he required to keep his fingers nimble, he needed no one to remind him that his losses in the back rooms and beside the docks were far greater than his sporadic and meager winnings.

Except on one fortuitous day. Joseph Winslow was a brash and confident young seaman back then, who loved a good game of lanterloo sharpened with a tankard of rum. In swaggered a certain boisterous captain by the name of Nathaniel Barbabella who immediately fell under the spell of the carved ivory lanterloo fish that Joseph slapped down on the table before him. With a tankard in one hand, Barbabella snatched up the dice in the other. He gave them a good shake and then tossed them across the table. Flushed with drink, he stayed in the game round after round, the stakes doubling with each play. Next morning, when the rum had worn off, Joseph Winslow announced that he was now the proud owner of Barbabella's ship along with its cargo packed full with firearms and gunpowder. In response, the distraught captain flung himself into the ocean and drowned. The very next day, Joseph Winslow received a summons to appear before the great African ruler.

Joseph had not planned to marry. No, no. He intended to live a carefree life, earning just enough on his slave voyages to keep him in gambling money, and then sailing off in time to escape the consequences of any possible misdeeds. But the African king did not ask Joseph his plans. The king stated his own will and declared that it be done.

Oh, yes, Joseph understood his position in the partnership. Lingongo was certain of that. Much was not to his liking. She was certain of that as well. Yet Lingongo brought alliances along with her, and she brought Joseph vital information
—
such as the news of the upcoming wars among the African kingdoms.

It was only because of her father's great influence in personal matters, and because of Lingongo's great influence with her father, that Joseph had been able to secure Zulina as his own. Owned by Joseph and controlled by Lingongo, that's what the slave fortress was. For, as both of them well knew, she was the only reason he could gather up the gold that fed his ever-growing hunger for a fling of the dice and the all-night sprees of lanterloo accompanied by his growing taste for rum.

Lingongo looked back at her husband. His eyes were on her. Just as she knew what he was thinking, he knew exactly what was in her mind. They had been together too long. Yes, they did need each other. Although neither would admit it out loud.