Ama

by Manu Herbstein

  His king was under attack. Ama perceived the threat. It was De Bruyn’s move.

  “Mijn Heer,” she said to him and showed him with her outstretched finger how his queen could take off a threatening white knight.

  “Pamela,” he replied, his eyes wide in astonishment, and suddenly took her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips.

  He had forgotten Van Schalkwyk’s presence. Now he covered his embarrassment by demonstrating to Ama that the move she had suggested was not quite as clever as she had thought and would certainly lead to the loss of his queen. His position was indeed irrecoverable. Soon the Minister was calling Check! at every move and finally Checkmate!

  “Check,” said Ama, “Checkmate!” looking at De Bruyn with sympathy and the two men laughed.

  In the excitement of the game she had lost all her reserve. Now she was shy again.

  “Another?” suggested Van Schalkwyk.

  De Bruyn yawned and stretched his arms.

  “No thank you,” he replied, “That’s enough for one session. But let’s have a night-cap.”

  He poured the two cognacs as Ama put the chess things back in their place. When she came back he offered her a sip from his glass. The liquor was too strong for her and she screwed up her face and shook her head when she had tasted it. They laughed. The couple’s obvious intimacy increased Van Schalkwyk's loneliness. He gulped down the brandy which he had been swilling round his mouth.

  “Director-General,” he said, “You have discovered a young woman of astonishing intelligence. I have never before come across such a clever black, let alone a female.”

  “Well, you don’t have much to do with the natives,” said De Bruyn. “And what about Augusta? You know Augusta, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know Augusta,” replied Van Schalkwyk, “and I admit that she is clever, and especially quick, so I am told, when it comes to business. But Augusta is an older woman with a lifetime of contact with Europeans and their ways. She speaks some Dutch, but can she read or write? She can reckon, no doubt, but has she learnt to keep books of account? And can you imagine Augusta mastering chess, as Pamela seems to have done, by watching a single game?”

  “Well, no, I must admit that chess is not Augusta’s style. What exactly are you suggesting, though?”

  Van Schalkwyk had suggested nothing but De Bruyn had read his mind.

  “Well, no doubt Miss Pamela will soon pick up Dutch from you. Indeed, probably more quickly than we whites seem to be able to pick up Fanti. However, I think you might consider also teaching her to read, perhaps even to write and figure arithmetic.”

  “What would be the benefit of that?” asked De Bruyn.

  “Well,” replied Van Schalkwyk, improvising, since he had not yet considered the implications of his suggestion, “It would be an interesting experiment. I mean, to see just how much she can absorb and how quickly. She could read to you. And in the course of time, she might be brought to receive the grace and salvation of Our Lord.”

  “No,” said De Bruyn, “I am no schoolmaster and I would not have the time.”

  Jensen, he thought, would waste little time in getting back to the Ten a message that Director-General De Bruyn was spending several hours a day teaching a slave girl to read and write. He could imagine the consequences. Then he had a brain-wave.

  “You would have to teach her. It would do you good. You have plenty of time on your hands. But if she is to read to me, you would have to teach her English, not Dutch. All I read in Dutch is correspondence from Amsterdam. For relaxation I read only English and a little French. De Foe, Richardson, Fielding and of course Shakespeare and Milton; there is nothing in Dutch to match them. We can teach our neighbours across the Channel a thing or two when it comes to painting pictures and, of course, trade, but you have to admit it, we have not produced a single writer in Dutch who can match the English.”

  He had a pleasant mental picture of Pamela reading to him each afternoon while he sat back, relaxed, and smoked his pipe. Then they would talk about the book. In spite of his education, Van Schalkwyk was not much of a reader. What use is a good book, De Bruyn thought, if you cannot share your pleasure in it with another?

  Van Schalkwyk needed no convincing. He anticipated with secret joy the prospect of spending several hours each day with Pamela. The arrangements were quickly made. Augusta would call each morning to train the girl to perform her domestic duties. In mid-morning, the Minister would take over and teach her spoken English, reading and writing. If that proved successful he would teach her also to count and do simple arithmetic. De Bruyn would speak to her henceforth only in English. The Minister would pay a visit the very next day to Cape Coast, there to solicit from the Rev. Philip Quaque, who conducted lessons for a small group of mulatto children in his rooms in Cape Coast Castle, an English primer and simple reading materials.

  “Just tell Jensen to fix you up with a hammock and bearers,” said De Bruyn, “and don't forget to convey my greetings to the English governor.”

  Ama could make nothing of this conversation, though she realised that it concerned her. She was suffused with the excitement and stimulation of her first encounter with chess. After Van Schalkwyk had left, they quickly undressed and went to bed. She hugged De Bruyn tightly and kissed his lips in innocent gratitude.

  CHAPTER 16

  One morning, while Van Schalkwyk was still in Cape Coast, De Bruyn sent for Augusta.

  They shook hands formally and exchanged greetings. He asked after her health and that of her husband and her children. For a while, they talked business, about cloth and the glut of slaves. Then De Bruyn reached for his pipe. Augusta shifted her weight on the narrow wooden chair.

  “Well,” he asked, “what do you think?”

  “Think about what, Mijn Heer?” she asked innocently.

  “About the girl, Pamela,” he replied.

  “Oh,” said Augusta, “The girl. Well, she is quite pretty; a bit bush, but all the donkos are like that. On the other hand she learns quickly and she is polite and obedient. A good girl, I would say. But why do you ask?”

  “Oh, Augusta, you know how I value your opinion and how I rely on your advice. Were we not once man and wife?”

  “How is she . . .?” Augusta asked, looking him in the eye and screwing up her face in an attempt at a wink.

  De Bruyn coloured. It amused Augusta to make him blush.

  “Oh, that,” he replied. “Augusta, no woman has been so good for me.”

  “Not since you, of course,” he hastened to add. “You know, Elizabeth was like a stone in bed.”

  Are all white women like that? Augusta wondered. If they had some of their own women here, would they still chase after our girls as much as they do?

  “Ah, Elizabeth,” she replied.

  Elizabeth was the only white woman she had ever got to know at close quarters and she had not been impressed. As for herself, she had been fifteen when her father had sent her to live with the young De Bruyn and eighteen when he had left for the Cape. She had given him the years of her prime. But that was long ago.

  “Augusta, I am going to get Rev. Van Schalkwyk to teach her to read and write. What do you think?”

  Augusta was surprised.

  “I am not a fit one to answer that question, Mijn Heer. Teach her to understand Dutch, by all means. But what good will it do a donko girl like that to read and write? When you have finished with her, you will sell her like the rest and send her over the sea.”

  “No, Augusta. This girl is different. She may be a slave, but I really love her. If she learns to read and write and becomes a Christian, I might even marry her. What would you say to that?”

  “Let me tell you a story, Mijn Heer. After you left me, all those years ago, and went to the Cape, there came a young black man by name of Capitein, Jacobus Capitein. One of your people had bought him when he was a child and taken him home with him. When he was grown the Company sent him here as chaplain. He set up a school for some chil
dren in this very castle. The new Director then, de Pettersen, had brought his wife with him, and he put his own two small daughters in the school. The rest were mainly castle offspring. Poor Capitein. He tried to teach them reading and writing and Christian matters, but the children preferred to play on the beach. My father wanted me to go to the school, but I refused. I said I was already a married woman.”

  And she thought, even though you, my husband, had abandoned me.

  “Capitein? I have seen the name in the old files. When I first arrived here, the chaplain was a man called Ketelanus. Do you remember him? He was a bad influence. On Sundays he would preach the word of our Lord in the church and the rest of the week he would spend fornicating with the female slaves. Like Jensen. The company had to sack him. He was bad for discipline. Then there was no chaplain at all. Not until I left.

  “Capitein, eh? What happened to him in the end?”

  “Trouble, trouble; poor man. He wanted to marry my sister, Ekua Amankwaa, the second daughter of my mother’s brother. My uncle was willing, but Capitein said he must first send the girl to Holland to learn to be a Christian. Ekua was her mother’s only daughter and the mother would not let her go. So the Company sent him a white girl from Holland instead, Antonia she was called. Not that that did him much good. Some of the whites did not like having a black man preaching to them about fornication with black women. They said he was sending reports about them to Holland. No doubt they were jealous that the Company had sent him a wife, and a white woman at that, while they were not even allowed to go into the town at night. You know what I mean? Especially one Hubert van Rijk. He was another scum, like your Jensen. He used to get drunk and then he would abuse Capitein. Capitein wanted to leave the work, but the Company wouldn’t agree. He was an unhappy man. He did not hear Fanti well and our people treated him as if he were a white man. But the whites, except for the Director himself, treated him like a black.

  “Then he started trading; but he was a bad businessman and he soon got into debt. Next thing he fell ill and died and that was the end of Capitein. His grave is in your cemetery. I think they sent the wife back to Holland.”

  “What happened to his school?”

  “It died with him. Some of his pupils are still in the town. Sister Ekua is there too. They have forgotten everything he taught them, except a few Dutch words. Christianity is good for you whites. As for us, we already have Tweneboa, the spirit of the Benya and seventy six other gods in our town and that is enough.”

  “But what do you think might go wrong if I taught Pamela to read and write?”

  “I am not saying that anything would go wrong. It might even keep her out of mischief. Mijn Heer, you know you are not as young as you once were. She is a pretty girl. I wouldn’t let Jensen get anywhere near her.”

  “Ag, Jensen, never mind him. Anyway I shall let her stay in my room for the time being. By the way, we have decided to teach her English, not Dutch. Then she will be able to read my books to me. Will you try to explain all this to her, please?”

  Augusta thought, he will spoil this girl, teaching her to read books, putting ideas into her head and then throwing her out when he is tired of her. As for men, they are like children; and we women are their playthings.

  But she left these thoughts unspoken and took her leave.

  She had completely forgotten her promise to talk to De Bruyn about Esi. By the time Ama summoned up her courage to remind her, Esi had been sold and shipped to God knows where.

  * * *

  “Ah, Hendrik, back from your travels?” De Bruyn greeted Van Schalkwyk on Monday evening.

  “I missed you at Church yesterday, Director,” replied the Minister.

  “Ah, Church, yes,” De Bruyn dissembled. “I was a little, um, indisposed.

  “What will you drink, Hennie?” he continued, closing the discussion on that subject and busying himself with the decanters.

  As he poured the drinks, he recalled the lazy Sunday morning spent with his Pamela.

  “Well, what have you brought from our English friends?” asked the Governor.

  “Greetings. The English Governor expressly asked me to convey his warmest respects to you.”

  “The hypocrite!” interjected De Bruyn.

  “And also from Philip Quaque. A charming young man and most hospitable, I must say. Highly educated too. He had an English wife, you know, Madam Catherine, they called her.”

  “Ah, yes. She came to visit Elizabeth once, but they didn’t get on.”

  “She was an educated woman, it seems, and helped him with his school, but she died after only a year on the Coast. A lonely woman, I gather. She had no friends of her own sex, indeed no friends at all besides her husband. And he has few enough. He mourns her still, though he has remarried. A lonely man, Quaque, too. He despises his own people for the heathens that they are. He is really a kind of black Englishman. He says the English tongue was sent by heaven as a medium for religion and civilisation. On that account he will not use his native Fanti and indeed he claims that he can no longer speak it or understand it.

  “Now the English . . . Well the English are an uncouth lot if you ask me. The Governor is an irreligious man. Quaque tells me that he loses no chance to undermine his position as chaplain and will suspend divine service on a Sunday on the slimmest of pretences. He certainly did not attend last Sunday. But,” and Van Schalkwyk paused, “then neither did you, Director, yesterday!”

  “I know the English governor,” said De Bruyn, ignoring the last comment, “And I cannot say that I like him. But what about our little project? Was Quaque able to help?”

  “Aha!” he exclaimed as Van Schalkwyk opened the buckle of a leather satchel he had brought with him and began to extract a small hoard of books.

  “The late Madam Catherine,” said Van Schalkwyk, “purchased a large number of children’s books in London. Her intention was to use them in the school. However, Quaque regards most of them as frivolous and unsuitable for educational use. He says he prefers to use religious texts for his teaching. He agreed to let me take them all and added some more serious volumes of which he has several copies. Like all of us, he complains that he is short of money and I therefore took the liberty, on your behalf, and knowing your love of books of all descriptions, of purchasing them from him. Here is the bill.”

  De Bruyn raised his eyebrows.

  “Let me see the books,” he said, impatiently.

  The Minister handed them to him one by one.

  “A New Playbook for Children,” De Bruyn read aloud, “Or an Easy and Natural Introduction to the Art of Reading, in which is Introduced a Great Variety of Providential and Proverbial Maxims with Several Little Moral Tales and Fables in Prose and Verse in order to Render their Little Lessons a Diversion rather than a Task.”

  He paused for breath and then continued, “The Whole Embellished with a New Set of Initial Letters Containing the Whole Alphabet - aha, that’s what we need; and now here is a little poem:

  “The Cynic Tutor fruitless lectures reads.

  “He who gilds o’er his Precepts, best Succeeds.

  “An excellent philosophy which, it would seem, your friend Quaque might well practice, and you too, if you please, Hennie. Printed and sold by Thomas Harris, Bookseller and Stationer in Aldergate East, Seventeen Hundred and Forty Nine. Well, not exactly the latest edition. Price six pence. In that case, we can hardly complain, can we?

  “Now what is this? Mr. Weston’s New and Compendious Treatise of Arithmetic. Well I suggest that you leave the arithmetic for a later date. Concentrate on the reading. But this is not frivolous stuff. By no stretch of the imagination. What can the man mean?”

  Van Schalkwyk preferred to let that question pass.

  “Look at this curious chapbook,” he said, “published by one John Newbery. The History of Goody Two Shoes; otherwise called Mrs. Margery Two-Shoes with the Means by which she Acquired her Learning and Wisdom, and in consequence thereof, her Estate.”

 
“Well, now, her estate, you say?” asked De Bruyn. “That might be a somewhat premature ambition to plant in the breast of an illiterate slave girl, don’t you think? Let me look at that, please. Ah, you missed something, Hennie, you old devil you. It says here From the original manuscript in the Vatican at Rome, and the cuts by Michael Angelo. What! Papist propaganda and at a price of just six pence? Now what is one to make of that? Let me see the rest, please.

  “But this is a treasure trove, Hennie. You deserve a promotion. Do you know, I am going to sit down and read all of these myself? Yes, and I shall recommend to the Company that they create a new post of Archbishop of Elmina, especially for you.”

  “You should not make fun of the Reformed Church, Director. I have two books left. Look at this one.”

  “Hennie, Hennie. A History of Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. Abridged from the works of Samuel Richardson, Esq.”

  Ama, who had been busy ironing De Bruyn’s linen, came up, hesitated when she thought she heard the name De Bruyn had given her, and then curtsied shyly to Van Schalkwyk.

  “Well?” De Bruyn asked her.

  “Good morning, sir,” she stuttered the rehearsed reply and, giggling, covered her face with her hands.

  “Excellent, excellent, my child,” replied Van Schalkwyk, applauding.

  “Good evening,” De Bruyn frowned at her.

  “Never mind, never mind. An excellent beginning. Morning or evening, what is the difference? The finer points will come with time. Show the girl the book.”