by Lou Cameron
The planter wasn’t kidding and it was easy to see why he was so fat, now. Two black girls loaded the little rosewood table to overflowing with big silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, cold cuts, red Dutch cheeses, and a choice between coffee, tea, or Holland gin, depending on which jug you fancied. The girls wore the black uniforms and white caps and aprons of French parlor maids. But one of them had tribal scars on her otherwise pretty face. As they left, Van Horn said, “They’re Ashanti. If you like dark meat I’ll tell them to sleep with you, later. I have them nicely domesticated.”
Captain Gringo helped himself to a slab of ham between slices of cheese as he said, “I thought the Bush Negroes had given up on slavery, Van Horn.”
The planter nodded and said, “They have. Both those girls had been condemned to death for adultery by the tribal elders. I talked them into letting me have them. To an Ashanti, being a servant is a fate worse than death, so the elders found it amusing, too.”
“You’re in contact with the wild tribes in the interior? I thought they killed white men on sight.”
Van Horn laughed and said, “They do, usually. I told you I was raised here and my people were Dutch. The Netherlands signed a peace treaty with the tribal elders a while back and both sides seem rather oblivious to the advantages of ignoring a promise. Suffice to say, I’ll need the co-operation of the Ashanti, Kru, and Ibo tribes when it’s time to take over. I’ve been cultivating them with occasional presents and medicine. They have brains enough to take quinine for a jungle fever and there’s a lot of that going around in the hills.”
Captain Gringo was about to ask a dumb question about runaway slaves in a French colony having a treaty with the authorities of another colony just to the north. He helped himself to some coffee as he considered the awesome chips Van Horn was piling up without the French government having a clue about his game plan. He’d seen a rag-tag bandito make himself the dictator of a country with less. It was small wonder Van Horn seemed so smug. He had a mess of pissed off French toughs ready to fight for him and his rear was guarded by tough African warriors as well!
He didn’t see how the colonial authorities would ever stop Van Horn’s power play, and what the hell did he care? The colony was already being run by a brutal system and if Van Horn and his gang didn’t revolt against it, somebody else was bound to. At least Van Horn seemed to know what he was doing, so the bloodshed would probably be less than if there was just a mad uprising by the oppressed prisoner population.
Captain Gringo would have liked to keep some things to himself, but that damned Gaston started asking about the Dreyfus Affair and how the conspiracy to free him fit in with Van Horn’s plans.
The planter frowned and said, “I don’t care one way or the other about Captain Dreyfus. He doesn’t sound like the kind of recruit I’m looking for. They say the idiot is still patriotic to France and considers himself a French officer and gentleman, despite all they’ve done to him. He’ll be set free with the others when we take over, of course. After that, if he behaves himself, he’ll be treated like anyone else. I can’t see giving him a position in my new government. They say he’s a bit stuffy about due process and the French constitution.”
Since Gaston had opened the sack, Captain Gringo said, “This international whatever must be planning some sort of coup to get him off the rock. Are you saying you haven’t heard about other rebel bands, Van Horn?”
The planter shrugged and said, “Oh, there are dozens of conspiracies going on all the time here on the mainland and out there on the island. Most of them are simply concerned with escape. But since nobody ever escapes, one tends to doubt they’re important.”
Captain Gringo took a sip of coffee and said, “I seem to have heard or read some escape stories from Devil’s Island. Somebody must get out once in a while.”
Van Horn shook his head and said, “Not from Devil’s Island itself. It’s never been done and never will be, unless and until I take over, of course. The popular tales of escape from Devil’s Island are concerned with escaping from here—the mainland colony. That’s difficult enough. The few who’ve made it were trustees who managed to somehow get through the surrounding swamps and jungles to the outside world. Many think of this whole colony as Devil’s Island. But the true rock is an escape-proof cell block complex miles off shore and surrounded by shark infested breakers. There’s no way to get Dreyfus out without taking the whole island, and of course it’s built like a fort to withstand such a siege.”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “That’s what I keep telling people. Okay, you’re not in with Claudette’s gang and God knows who they are in the first place. When do I get to see my machine guns?”
Van Horn brightened and said, “Ah? You two are in?”
Captain Gringo glanced at Gaston, who reached for another sandwich and said, “Why not? We are soldiers of fortune and everyone else we meet down here seems intent on crossing us double. May one ask when we see some front money, M’sieur Van Horn?”
The planter reached in his coat and took out two envelopes. He handed them over as he explained, “I’ve had these ready for you gentlemen since I heard you were in the country. Had not you found me, I’d have found you, sooner or later.”
Gaston opened his envelope to count the money, but Captain Gringo just put his away. He was feeling better about Van Horn, even though he still didn’t like his type. The deal seemed up-and-up. What was the point of feeding and bankrolling guys you meant to screw in the near future?
Of course, what happened in the distant future was still up for grabs, but it looked like they were okay for the moment, and a guy on the run took his moments as they came.
He yawned and Van Horn said, “Forgive me, I can see you gentlemen have had a long day. The guns and further planning can wait until morning. Why don’t you two get some rest? I’ll have my servants show you to the guest rooms.”
The planter reached for a bell cord and pulled it. The two girls came in and he spouted something at them in Dutch, Ashanti, or some other odd lingo. Each took one of the guests by the hand to lead him out of the room, leaving Van Horn to eat the rest of the food … presumably.
Gaston had drawn the one with tribal scars. She giggled and said something that sounded dirty to the one leading Captain Gringo. She lowered her head and looked embarrassed.
They were taken up a flight of stairs and Miss Scar Face took Gaston into one room while the one with Captain Gringo showed him into another and switched on the lights. Van Horn lived high on the hog indeed if he had his own electricity this far from anywhere important. He wondered what the simple native girl thought of the wonders of modern science. She looked uncomfortable enough in clothes. As he inspected the luxuriously appointed room she stepped over to the four poster bed and began to undress. He asked her what she thought she was doing and she answered in the lingua franca of the back country, “Le Grand Chef said I was to make you comfortable. Don’t you wish for to fuck me?”
He said, “Not against your will. What is your name?”
“I am called Tonda. I no longer am allowed to have a will of my own. What is the matter, sir? Am I not pleasing to look upon?”
Tonda was pleasing indeed to look upon as she peeled off her one piece uniform and sat on the bed to remove her slippers. Her body was a Greek statue carved from mahogany and polished to a smooth patina. Her face was pure African albeit fine boned and regal. As she shucked her sandals she moved up on the bed, pulled the coverlet down, and reclined on the clean linen in resigned welcome, long limbs parted to expose a smooth shaven groin. He took off his gun rig, hung it near the head of the bed, and sat down beside her to undress as he said, “I can see you’re not anxious, Tonda. You can go to your own quarters, now, but thanks for the offer just the same.”
She sat up on one elbow with a puzzled expression. She said, “I was told by Le Grande Chef to sleep here tonight. Do you think I’m ugly, or is it because I am Black? I know some of you refuse to put it in a Black woman, but.
..” He laughed and said, “You’d be surprised where I’ve put it in my time, Tonda. I’m not being shy because I don’t think you’re pretty enough for me. I just don’t like to mix pleasure with pain and you know you hate this business, don’t you?”
Tonda dabbed at her eye and sobbed, “Oh, yes. But I have never met a man so understanding since they banished me from my tribe. I tried to tell the elders they were mistaken, but they said I was a woman taken in adultery and since then I have been, all too often!”
“It was a bum rap, eh? Well, don’t worry, Honey. I’ll be good. If you can’t go back to your quarters without answering a lot of silly questions, we’ll just pretend we’re brother and sister or something.”
He slid under the covers with her and as his leg brushed her warm flesh he frowned and repressed a dumb suggestion about her wearing a night gown at least. He doubted if she knew what one was. She asked, “Aren’t you going to turn out the lights?” and he said, “No. I hate waking up in the dark in a strange bed. Cover your face with the sheet if the light bothers you.”
He wasn’t quite up to falling asleep himself just yet, so he reached out to his nearby shirt for a smoke and some matches. The door was locked from inside and Tonda sure wasn’t carrying concealed weapons. But he wished she could sleep somewhere else. He wasn’t feeling horny for her. Aside from the fact that she didn’t want to, he’d worn himself out on the trail with Mimi.
He smoked and meditated as Tonda lay quietly beside him, gazing up at him. He ran all the tales he’d heard through his mind and decided he hadn’t missed anything that mattered right now. He was still keyed up, but his muscles complained that it had been a long day and tomorrow could turn out even longer. So he snubbed out his half-finished cigar and moved down into the bed, enjoying the sensuous feel of clean linen on his naked skin after the grubby sleeping arrangements he’d been having lately. He saw Tonda was still watching him and asked, “Aren’t you asleep yet?”
She said, “You are very strange. I was afraid at first. But now I feel I can really trust you.”
She snuggled closer and he said, “Hey, let’s not be that trusting, Tonda. I’m still a man and you’re a beautiful woman. I only said I’d behave if you would. I wouldn’t want you to think I was a pansy.”
Tonda laughed and said, “I didn’t think you were effeminate even before I saw you with your clothes off. To tell the truth, that thing of yours is frightening. Is it still soft?”
“Oh, come on, I can be as gallant as the next guy, but this is getting to be cruelty to animals! Do you want to make love or not? I told you it was up to you, Goddamn it.”
Tonda sighed and said, “I know, and I think you mean it. That is what seems to be arousing me. Do you know that I have hated every man who’s had me since the elders sent me here as an outcast?”
“I had that part figured, Tonda. What in the hell is your hand doing in my lap?”
She murmured, “Oh, it’s even bigger, hard. If I still refused you, would you let me sleep untouched in your arms?”
“Not if you don’t stop playing with me, damn it! I don’t get this game, Tonda. I said I wouldn’t abuse you against your will, but...”
“Abuse me, then. I want you to. It has been so long since I’ve been in bed with a man I did not hate.”
He thought that sounded reasonable, so he took her in his arms and kissed her, running his free hand gently over her mahogany curves as she in turn pulled him aboard and spread her long dark thighs in welcome as she guided him in with her hand. As he entered her she gasped, “Oh, let me get used to it a little at a time. I am still very tense and confused about my feelings.”
Tonda hadn’t been introduced to him as a blushing virgin, so what the hell. He didn’t want to waste anything on her tonsils, so they wound up on the floor, the rug under her tail bone affording a new nice angle of attack. He pounded her to glory and this time even she was ready to pack it in for a while. The rug had doubtless been a little rough on her back.
He helped her back in bed and they lay entwined, too out of breath to smoke or even talk much. He thought she was asleep, from her relaxed contented breath on his sweaty chest. But as he started to doze, Tonda asked, “Can I trust you, Dick?”
He frowned and answered, “What do you mean trust me, Honey? We’ve done everything I can think of that doesn’t hurt.”
“Not really,” she said. “There are a few naughty things I only do with men I really like. But maybe later. I meant, could I trust you if I told you something?”
He patted her reassuringly and Tonda said, “I am in love. Don’t be offended, I don’t mean you don’t fuck good or that I don’t like to do it with you. But there is a boy, in my village, and ... oh, this is ridiculous. How can a man who’s just come in me be expected to understand?”
He said, “I understand, Tonda. What we have is, well, good honest lust. You mean there’s a guy who means more than sex to you, right?”
“Oh, you are so understanding, Dick. I think I love you too, a little. I know M’Chuma can’t make me come any better, but...”
“A come is a come. You’re talking about a guy you want to just be with all the time, a guy you’d kill for even when you didn’t feel like sex.”
A tear ran down her cheek to his chest as she snuggled closer and said, “Oh, I see you have been in love, too. What is the magic, Dick? M’Chuma is an ordinary lover and not as handsome as many men I’ve slept with. But I want to be with him at sunset, just holding his hand and not saying a word as we grow old together.”
He nodded and said, “Magic is the right word for it. Nothing else about love makes sense. Is this M’Chuma the guy they caught you with in your tribal village?”
“Oh, no. M’Chuma is my husband! Or he was, until the witch doctor said bad things about me. There was no other man. I swear this. But, of course, you do not believe me.”
“I believe you,” he lied, keeping this thought to himself as Tonda rambled on about a jungle triangle involving herself, her husband, and a horny old witch doctor who should be ashamed of himself if half she said were true. The question was how much of it was true. He knew she could trust him. But could he trust her, if this were some dumb kind of test?
His suspicions grew as she said, “If only I could get away from this plantation, Dick, I know that if I could speak to M’Chuma alone for only a moment, he’d believe me. They would not let me speak to him alone as they pelted me with dung and shaved off my hair. The elders took M’Chuma away and they were going to kill me until Le Grand Chef bought me from them as his slave. I don’t want to be a slave, Dick. I am from a royal Ashanti clan. My grandfather sat on his own stool by the chief’s. Will you help me get back to my village?”
It was a tough question. She was asking him to double cross the planter they both seemed to be working for. It was an even-money bet that Van Horn had put her up to it. The girl might or might not be a real wild Ashanti. She wore no tribal marks he could see and he’d seen all of her from every angle. She wore shoes like she’d grown up in them, too.
He knew she was waiting for him to say something, so he patted her again and said, “We’ll talk about it another time, Tonda.”
“Does that mean you won’t help me get away?”
“It means I have to think about it. I don’t want to do anything Le Grande Chef would be upset about and—”
“Oh, I hate you!” she sobbed, pulling away and sitting up as she added, “I did everything I could to make friends with you, but you are just like all the other men! None of you want anything but pleasure from any woman!”
He watched, bemused, as she angrily pulled on her sandals and got dressed, calling him nasty names and making uncalled for remarks about his poor old pecker.
She went to the door, unlocked it, and said, “I didn’t enjoy it. I hated it. So there!” and slammed the door behind her. He rose, smiling crookedly, and muttered, “Can’t go back to your own quarters without permission, eh? Damn it, Walker, I sure admire the way
your brains have started working again.”
He locked the door with a grin and went back to bed. As he stretched out he sighed and closed his eyes. It felt good to be alone at last in a clean soft bed. As he pulled the sheet over him he became aware he had half an erection. He growled, “Go to sleep, you silly old bastard. I know she promised to get to the dirty stuff later, but enough is enough.”
He rolled over and tried to go to sleep. He needed sleep more than he needed anything Tonda had to offer, right now.
But he couldn’t help wondering, as he dozed off, what if the poor kid had been on the level? She’d sure acted sore for a gal just kidding around and if there really was anything to her story...
Forget it! he warned himself, It’s probably bullshit in the first place and even if it isn’t, you don’t owe anybody a trip into the uncharted jungle to deliver a lady you just screwed hell out of to her Ashanti warrior husband!
~*~
He told Gaston Tonda’s story as they had breakfast alone on a back veranda the next morning, Van Horn apparently having left earlier on some errand. Gaston agreed he’d had no other choice but to evade the issue. When he asked Gaston if the other girl had tried similar games, the little Frenchman laughed and said, “Mais non, she simply squeezed me dry as a lemon. One gathers she was trying to make lemonade in her forbidding interior. We did not talk much. In the first place she speaks some trés strange dialect and in the second, her mouth was full most of the evening.”
“Hmm, the two of them spoke some sort of dialect that could have been African last night. Have you seen either of the girls this morning?”
“Mais non, as you saw when that rather ordinary mulatto served this meal just now, the valient seductresses would seem to have the morning off.”
He popped some toast in his mouth as he added, “All in all, one would say they earned it. I find the story of your bedmate trés droll. A woman trying to get back to her husband is seldom so enthusiastic with other men, non?”