The Call of Zulina (9 page)

“No one anchored at Zulina is offerin’ muskets o’ pistols o’ gunpowder fer sale,” Joseph said.

Lingongo's eyes flashed with irritation. “Of course, no one offers it to you. But if you were to show them you had gold, then you would find it for sale. Everything is for sale if you are willing to pay the price.”

Her husband, owner of the largest, most powerful slave-trading compound on the Slave Coast! Yet the riffraff that sailed white man's death ships into Africa dared to argue and dispute with him as though they were his equal. And all because of her foolish husband's penchant for making bets on cards and drinking rum as he rolled the dice.

“But, me darlin’, they is no gold fer payin’ ’em,” Joseph said.

“Find Jasper Hathaway. If he wants to marry Grace, his loyalty should lie with us. Tell him if he wants to be the husband of your daughter, he must lend you the money you need. Then use it to buy the firearms.”

“No, I won’t do it!” Joseph said. But he hastened to add, “Anyway, it ain’t fer sure ’e’ll even …”

“Do it!” Lingongo snapped. Then slipping back into her conspiratorial tone, she cautioned, “But do not tell him anything about the upcoming wars, Husband. That is only for the two of us to know.”

Giving their daughter to Jasper Hathaway as his wife was one thing. Trusting him with the secrets of their business was quite another.

“Them muskets and powder’ll be in our storeroom tomorrow, me darlin’,” Joseph promised.

He was out the door and on his way across the courtyard when Lingongo called out, “The slaves who bring it—after they finish their work, they must die.”

B
lowing grit dusted the sun-baked road as Grace picked her way through the rocks and the clumps of dead grass. Clouds of sand shrouded the sun in a yellow-brown haze. Grace paused to catch her breath, then she lifted the hem of her skirt and wiped at her perspiration-soaked forehead.

It was not the suffocating sun that distressed her so or even the endlessly blowing sand. It was the desperate, wailing moans—as though the very stones of Zulina fortress were crying out in agony.

Why did I ever set my feet on this accursed road?
Grace moaned to herself.

Because she’d had no choice. Because it was either this way or back to her mother's house and then to Jasper Hathaway. And so what if people are unhappy up there? People are unhappy everywhere.

“Such foolishness!” Grace scolded out loud.

Lingongo's words! Grace had to look around to make certain her mother wasn’t following her. She wasn’t, of course, but her words certainly were.

“You are a fool, Grace! Just like your father!”
That's what Lingongo always said.
“You and Joseph Winslow, two of a kind!”

Well, maybe Grace did do some foolish things. But she never could understand why her mother always added that last part. Grace and her father, two of a kind? They were nothing alike. Her skin was the color of rich cocoa cream with just the barest hint of fire in her black hair. Why, anyone could see she was much more like her African mother than her English father. But Lingongo never seemed to see anything of her own people in Grace. Certainly not even a touch of African royalty. She was too busy pointing out the weaknesses of Grace's inferior English half.

No!
Grace told herself.
I am not a fool. And I will not be one now! I can still turn around and go back to the baobab tree. I can wait for Yao, however long it takes.

But when Grace turned to retrace her steps, she froze. Far down the zig-zagging road, she could just make out a line of people trudging up behind her.

A search caravan!
Grace decided.
Mother must have sent them to catch me and force me back home!

Grace turned and bolted up the road. But in her haste, she lost her footing and slipped on the loose rocks, landing on her hands and knees. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and sprang forward, only to stumble again.

Go!
Grace ordered herself.
Run!

She must focus on the road ahead. She knew that. Yet she couldn’t resist the temptation to grab a quick glance over her shoulder. When she did, she saw to her dismay that the line of people was closer.

Panic consumed Grace, muddling her thoughts and throwing her into confusion.
Forward! Forward! Faster! Faster!
It was all she could think as she plunged ahead. But dark blue embroidered kidskin slippers were never intended for such a road. Nor was a long day dress with a billowing skirt. Grace's feet slipped on the rocks and she stumbled on the uneven road, heavily pockmarked by footsteps dug into the thick mud during the rainy season.

Tears of frustration and despair flooded Grace's eyes. It was no use. She couldn’t outrun her pursuers. And even if she could … Grace wiped her sleeve across her face. For the first time she dared look up at the fortress that loomed ahead. An enormous structure it was, hostile and foreboding.

Hide!
That's what she must do.
But where?
On her left was a barren incline that dropped precipitously over the side. On the right, a rock-strewn embankment rose up steeply with absolutely nothing to offer cover. Frantically, Grace ran to her left and peered over the edge. Nothing below but a clump of acacia bushes bristling with inch-long thorns.

“
Joam
!”

A voice. And on the road just below her!

Slap, slap, slap.

Grace recognized that sound—bare feet on hard ground. She had no more time to think. Scrambling over the rocky side, she slid down the steep embankment. She braced herself against the pricks and gashes of the sharp thorns and stomped out a small nest for herself in the thornbushes, then she forced her bruised body into the refuge.

Everything fell silent. Even the wind stilled for a few moments, suspending the swirling cries in the air.

Cautiously, Grace inched forward and peered out from her hiding place. Far below, the Winslow compound that Lingongo so proudly claimed as her own stretched out across the vast grasslands. Grace scanned the landscape for her father's stone wall. Strange that as imposing as that wall was, it wasn’t the first thing she saw. No, the first thing she saw was a large stand of tamarind trees just like the ones that grew beside the slave quarters—the ones in which she and Yao used to play.

Once again Grace's eyes burned with tears for what used to be. Or maybe for what never really was.

Shuffling feet and rattling chains yanked Grace out of her reverie. She couldn’t see anyone, but when a sharp cry rang out, she shoved herself more deeply into her thorny refuge. Just below the spot where Grace slid over the side, the road made a sharp turn. Once the line of people rounded that curve, they would again be in her line of sight. Grace caught her breath and waited.

Within moments, the first man trudged around the bend. In spite of herself, Grace let out a strangled gasp. It was no search party! The man below her was an African. His hands were tied and his feet chained. He was a slave. There was no doubt about that. But … what was that on his neck? Grace stretched forward to get a better view.

A collar! The man was locked into a rough wooden collar about three feet long. As she watched, another man rounded the bend. The other end of the first man's collar was locked around that second man's neck. The two Africans were yoked together, like a pair of oxen plowing a field.

As Grace stared, yet another person came around the bend. Then another and another and another. Not all were locked in neck collars. Some were shackled with long, loose chains. But all were bound, and all were lashed at the wrist and ankle. And all, tied together at the neck, were fastened into one long rope train.

Eleven … twelve … thirteen …

Grace tried to count the people as they emerged around the bend. It was hard because the line swayed and stumbled as though the train of captives had walked and walked until they could hardly pick up one leg after the other and still keep moving. Yet they didn’t dare slow down, Grace could see that. Unchained Africans with guns and spears moved back and forth along the straggly human train, prodding and threatening anyone who lagged.

One woman had a baby tied to her back with a dirty cloth, and she kept falling farther and farther behind the man in front of her. Finally, the rope attaching the woman to the man was pulled so taut it looked as if it might strangle both of them. An African man wearing a white man's shirt ran over and jabbed repeatedly at the slow woman with his spear. She roused herself and, gasping and straining, managed to drag forward a bit more quickly.

Grace forced her eyes away from the struggling woman and looked down the line—a young boy who could not yet be in his tenth year … a woman ripe with child … two young girls clutching their bound hands and sobbing … several strong young men who stared straight ahead. All were tied together. One after the other, they stumbled along in the rope train.

Then she saw him. Before she could catch herself, Grace let out a strangled gasp and cried out loud, “Yao!”

He was the last person in line. His neck was locked into the back end of a wooden collar, his ankles tethered in chains. And his hands were lashed together behind his back.

“Lingongo!” Grace spat accusingly through clenched teeth.

The guard in the white man's shirt swung around and searched the incline, and then he fixed his gaze straight at Grace's hiding place. She shrank further into her acacia nest and pulled her head down as low under the thorny branches as possible. Lacy leaves of gray-green dipped down and danced in front of her face.

The African man took a step toward her hiding place and paused to survey the underbrush.

Grace hardly trusted herself to breathe.

Foolish, just like Lingongo always says I am!
Grace cried silently.
Why, oh, why did I say her name out loud?

Slowly, the guard moved forward, stomping down the grass in his path until he was so close that Grace could see beads of sweat glistening on his blue-black forehead. All he had to do was lower his eyes, and he would stare straight into her face. Grace willed herself to stop the trembling that had started in her legs and moved up to her arms. If she didn’t, she would cause the entire thornbush to quake.

A sudden shriek jerked the man's attention back to the rope line of people. The woman with the baby tied to her back had fallen. Her little one tumbled loose and now hung upside down with his head on the ground. It was he who shrieked so piteously

“Up!” black-man-in-white-man's-shirt ordered as he ran back. He jabbed at the fallen woman, all the while ordering, “Up! Up! Up!”

The woman grabbed for her baby with her bound hands and tried to rise, but she kept stumbling and falling back down. She couldn’t get her footing because the human train never slowed its pace. Every time she seemed about to get back on her feet, the moving line yanked her down again.

Forgetting the black man in the white man's shirt, Grace stretched forward.

The man in front of the woman kept walking, and the woman behind her stared straight ahead as she lifted one foot after the other. They dragged the woman along between them. Grace could see the woman's mouth moving as she continued to grab for her screaming baby. Then the baby was silent. After that, the woman stopped trying. Still the line didn’t stop.

“Won’t anyone help?” Grace breathed through her tears. This time no one heard her. Misery swallowed up her words.

Then Yao shuffled past her hiding place. Grace could see fresh whip slashes crisscrossing his already deeply scarred back. Yet he held his head high. Even chained and beaten, he walked with pride.

Grace covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her anguish.

Long after the captives had passed out of sight, after the hot wind had swallowed up the sound of their footsteps, Grace trembled among the acacia thorns.

To come up this forbidden road had never been her intent. Yet it would be useless to go back to the baobab tree now. If she returned to the place where the roads met, which one would she take? She had hoped to get aboard a ship and leave Africa, but that was before she climbed over the wall—before she saw this other side. Now she knew she could never make it to London by herself. Even if she did, how could she manage in a place she knew only through books? Charlotte Stevens? She wouldn’t speak to Grace in Africa, so why would she help her on the other side of the ocean? Grace would be even more of a stranger there than she was here. She didn’t belong in Africa, and she certainly would not belong in London.