“Undress the guards and take their clothes,” he told them, “then shackle them and chain them. Run the chains around those trees. But do not harm them.”
When this task had been completed he ordered them to take up their loads, together with whatever weapons and implements they could carry. By dawn they were at the foot of the hill he now thought of as his own.
* * *
It took them time to recover from their ordeal. They were hungry and dirty. Some had been marching for a month. They had festering sores from the manacles. As they convalesced, he interviewed them, one by one, assessing character and identifying useful skills. There were many mouths to feed now, but there was seed and there were farmers. The rains would come soon and in a few months they would celebrate their first harvest. In the meantime, they depended on Tomba’s skill as a hunter, trapper and gatherer of the edible vegetable bounty of the forest. The younger and fitter men soon began to help.
He could have taken his pick of the women, but he declined. The men and women soon paired up. Since there were fewer women than men, some women took more than one husband, contrary to all previous custom. They spoke many tongues but most understood Susu and since this was Tomba’s only language, Susu became their lingua franca. Tomba allocated sites and on these there rose, at first rough shelters and later, more substantial dwellings with walls of stone and sun-baked bricks.
When they had recovered health and spirits and begun to fall into the routine of their new life, Tomba called the men together. He had not lost his pain and anger at Sami's abduction but he had taught himself to contain his feelings within broader ambitions.
“It is not enough that you have been freed. Every day more slaves are being brought down to the coast to be sold. The people who live by the sea have grown fat on the suffering of others. It is time for this to stop.”
For the second raid Tomba changed his tactics. His men surrounded the camp. He fired the first shot into the air. Immediately afterwards each man with a gun followed suit. The slave traders believed that they were being attacked by a much superior force. Taken completely by surprise, they offered no resistance.
* * *
Tomba’s village grew.
There was limited space on the hill so he set up a satellite settlement on a similar hill nearby. The struggle against the slave traders became more intense. News of the raids spread. The caravan masters became more vigilant. In one battle, several of Tomba’s men were killed.
The cost of tightening their security reduced the profits of the traders and they began to desert this stretch of the coast. The chiefs of the coastal villages became more and more desperate. They could survive on fishing and a little shifting agriculture on the fringe of the forest, but the luxury of the good old days seemed to have disappeared for good. As the white slavers got to hear of the consequences of Tomba’s mischief, fewer and fewer ships dropped anchor offshore.
A meeting was called. Old feuds and territorial conflicts were set aside in the common interest. No single village had resources to match those of the brigands. A deserter who had taken unkindly to Tomba’s iron discipline, disclosed the whereabouts of his hidden redoubt. The chiefs decided to dispatch an expeditionary force to destroy the interloper. It took them three days to agree who would lead the battalions. Once they had done so, they all got drunk to celebrate the forthcoming victory.
They underestimated the strength and determination of Tomba’s forces. Their general was inexperienced and incompetent. Tomba’s men ambushed the war party and killed every man.
At once he dispatched a small force to each village. As soon as the full disc of the rising moon became visible, the raiders slipped quietly into the target villages and fired the thatched roofs. Then they slipped away again, unseen.
The villages had suffered a devastating blow. The chiefs assembled again, this time in more sober mood. Their very survival was at stake. They decided to mobilise every active male.
When their meeting was in its third day a ship, which they recognised by its flag as English, dropped anchor some way offshore. It was the first such ship to stop on that reach of the coast for some considerable time. The chiefs at once dispatched an invitation to the Captain to join their deliberations.
* * *
Tuesday, 10 a.m. Dropped anchor south of the mouth of the River Nunes. Gave orders for the long-boat to be prepared. Scanned the beach and observed what appeared to be a gathering of local notables. Amongst them the chieftain of the village at the mouth of this river, whom I recognised from my previous visits. A devious rascal if ever there was one. Almost at once a canoe was launched through the breakers. The principal passenger was a shifty-eyed mulatto who gave his name as John Smith. Strong scent of native liquor on his breath. Spoke passable English. Said he bore instructions to invite me to attend a meeting of the most important “Kings” of the region, which was that very day in session. The Negro potentates in question remained assembled on the beach awaiting my reply.
Tuesday 4 p.m. Went ashore in the longboat. Usual interminable exchange of courtesies and gifts. (I being the recipient of the courtesies and my hosts the recipients of the gifts). Using Smith as an interpreter, the “Kings” solicited my help in the conduct of a military adventure. The enemy, one Tambo or Tomba, I was told, had been raiding the slave caravans and setting the slaves free. A party sent to capture him had not returned. All slaughtered, most likely. On the same night the thatched roofs at several villages were set alight simultaneously. And mysteriously, since no one saw any of the arsonists.
Wednesday, 10 a.m. Sent ashore six men, fully armed, seven kegs of powder and a four-pounder with twenty balls. The condition of this military aid is that I shall have a selection of as many of the captives as I choose at a fixed price of no more than ten pounds apiece for a male, eight for a female and six for a child. Since I understand that Tambo or Tomba may have as many as a hundred men under his command, I may be fortunate to have an excellent bargain. The cost of the gunpowder will be recovered from the proceeds of the sale. The cannon will be returned.
Wednesday, 4 p. m. Ordered the carpenter to complete the preparation of the holds. He is the most competent man in an otherwise hopeless crew.
Thursday, 10 a.m. Watched the departure of the “army” through my glass. I counted three hundred men, about half of them equipped with muskets, the rest with spears, machetes and various other weapons.
Saturday, 10 a.m. The “army” returned after dark last night. Evidently successful. Will go ashore shortly.
Sunday 10 a.m. Conducted morning service at 8 a.m. Gave thanks to God for the successful prosecution of this little adventure. Some ninety males, females and children were captured in the battle. Ten bodies were found and an unknown number escaped into the forest. The leader, called Captain Tomba, was captured. He is reported to have put up a courageous and prolonged resistance, but that might well be an exaggeration designed to enhance the reputation of the victors. I have retrieved the four-pounder, resisting pressure to sell it to the local chief. Five of the attacking force succumbed and one of my men was slightly wounded.
The slaves are kept in open lodges, chained together in threes or fours under the care of a grometto. They are all in good condition, in spite of the war, but dejected in consequence of their defeat and capture.
Tomba is a young man, tall and strong and of a bold, stern aspect. He seemed to despise his fellows for allowing themselves to be examined by the surgeon. He refused to rise or stretch out his limbs when so commanded by the chief. This provided the latter with an excuse to subject him to an unmerciful whipping. The manatee strap left his back a raw mess of torn flesh and blood. The chief was consumed by rage and would certainly have killed the fellow, had he not considered the loss of revenue this would entail. Tomba bore the beating without flinching. I saw him shed an involuntary tear which he tried to hide, as if ashamed.
The surgeon having been instructed to complete his examination this day, we load tomorrow and expect
to sail the next day.
CHAPTER 24
It was the breakers which brought Ama to her senses. The first big wave lifted the bow of the canoe and drenched them all with the cold salt spray. Then two rows of brawny arms thrust their wooden blades down into the water. They were singing, these Edina men. To them this was just another day’s work.
The women lay huddled in the belly of the canoe. Coarse ropes bound them to each other and to the boards on which the paddlers sat. Not a week before, a desperate woman had jumped out of a canoe and drowned. The ropes were there to prevent a recurrence of that unfortunate, costly incident.
The young girl next to Ama threw up. Ama wiped the vomitus from her breast and strained against the cords to raise her head. The women’s panic-stricken screams were lost in the roar of the surf. As the bow rose again, Ama caught a glimpse of the massive castle looming above the beach they had just left. The boat balanced for an instant on the crest. Then her head was thrown down against the boards and a wave of bilge water washed over her.
Fear rose in her throat as the bow rose yet again; for a moment they hung motionless in space; then the canoe rode down on the far side and the paddles drove them on to the next encounter. In spite of herself, Ama was exhilarated. She was alive again. It was if she had been reborn.
Then it was over: they had passed into the gentle swell beyond the breaking waves.
“It’s rough today,” said one paddler.
“But we came through it in style,” said another.
“As we always do,” added a third.
“By the grace of Onyankopon,” said a fourth.
“I will insist that the white man gives us each a tot of brandy for our efforts,” shouted the captain, who stood precariously at the stern, using a long paddle to steer.
The crew raised a cheer as they dug into the water. The canoe sped on its way.
The woman behind Ama said in Asante, “It is calmer now. Perhaps we are dead and have joined our ancestors.”
“But where are they, then?” asked the young girl next to her. “I never thought death would be like this.”
Ama thought, I have fought and overcome; the danger has brought me back to life.
* * *
She had been as good as dead, for how long now, a week, a month? She could not tell. She had a vague recollection of being carried down the stairs, one man at her feet, another holding her under the armpits. She had lain motionless for hours, just where they had thrown her, in the female dungeon. Her whole body had been suffused with pain, her violated anus, her bruised ribs and her back and buttocks, where she had been bumped on the steps. But she had not groaned. She had just lain there, on the cold stone floor, her mind blank. Numbed, without fear, she had waited for death. She had felt no emotion of any sort, seen no vision of Itsho or of her mother Tabitsha. Nothing. No hunger, no thirst. Only a void; only the pain. She had not felt the damp rising from the bare stones. She was not aware of the other women in the dungeon and none of them had paid any attention to her. Each was drowning in a private quagmire all her own.
Vroom unlocked the padlock and opened the iron door.
“Out, out!” he commanded the women.
He was in charge of the gang of castle slaves whose job it was to swill and sweep the dungeons.
The women rose stiffly to their feet and filed out into the courtyard, blinking in the sunlight. Only Ama remained. Vroom rolled her over with his bare foot. Then he saw who it was.
“Sister Ama,” he said.
“Sister Ama,” he said again, “Sister Ama,” but still she made no response.
She just lay there.
The castle slaves drew water from the great cistern which the Portuguese had constructed beneath the courtyard, filling tubs for the women to wash in.
“Here, you,” Vroom ordered a young girl, “take this woman and help her to bath. Then rinse her cloth for her. Do you understand?”
The girl attached herself to Ama.
“It was my mother,” she said, “my mother and my sister Amponimaa.”
No one else would listen to her. She told Ama endless stories, stories about her mother and her sisters, stories about forest spirits, Ananse stories. At least Ama did not tell her to hush. But Ama heard nothing. The girl fed her with the gruel which was brought to them twice a day and helped her to the bucket. Ama did as she was told, but she saw nothing, said nothing. She was a living corpse. Even when the surgeon subjected her to the customary intimate examination, poking his fingers into her, flexing her arms and legs, using a whip to make her jump, forcing her lips open to examine her teeth, even when his assistant had pressed the red hot iron into her right breast, branding her for life with the ornately scribed letters “L-o-L “, she did not flinch.
Now, tied down in the belly of the canoe, all this came back to her in a rush.
* * *
“ Ere, Fred, eres a loikly un fer yer,” said Joe Knox as he dragged Ama up over the lee gunwale. “Got a bit of flesh on er, this un as.”
Ama thought that she heard English, but the accent was so strange that she could not make out the meaning of the words.
“Stan up straight now, an les get a look at yer,” he ordered.
Bewildered, Ama did as she was told. She looked around her. Before her stood the tall main mast, stretching up into the sky. Stays and rigging ran out from it in all directions.
“Nice pair o tits,” said Joe.
“Ere Fred, look at this uns boobs,” he called, weighing each of Ama's breasts in a palm. “What dye think, eh?”
Ama stepped back and gave him an angry look; but she let the English profanity which rose to her throat die on her lips. Her mind was beginning to work again. It would be better if these white men did not realise that she understood their language. She took her wet cloth and rewrapped it under her armpits.
“Okwaseá. Foolish man,” she spat out at him in Asante.
“Knox, stop foolin around,” called the Bosun from the quarter-deck, cutting short Joe's reply.
* * *
The women sat in the shade of the long boat. Ama ran a palm over the stubble on her shaven head and looked back towards the shore. There again, dominating its surroundings, was the massive edifice of Elmina Castle. It looked quite different from this angle. Suddenly, she was sure she recognised the windows of Mijn Heer's apartment. In her excitement, she grabbed the arm of the woman next to her and stretched out a finger to point; but then she drew back: who would believe her story, even if she saw fit to tell it? The woman stared at her. Ama smiled back weakly, embarrassed.
A ladder had been placed against the threshold of the open doorway halfway up the castle wall. On the beach below stood armed men, white men. One at a time, male slaves emerged from the dark interior and descended the ladder. When they reached the bottom, the whites shackled them together at the ankles, two by two.
A wave carried a canoe towards the shore, the crew working feverishly at their paddles. As it struck ground they jumped out and dragged the vessel a short way up the sand.
The guards forced the waiting slaves into the canoe and chained them to the seats.
Ama looked around. She had been aboard a ship only once before, when she had seen Mijn Heer off on his fateful journey to Axim. Now she was to be a passenger, of sorts, herself. She fanned her face with her hand. The air was still. The sky was clear and the sun stood directly overhead. Even in the shade of the long boat, it was hot. She dropped her damp cloth around her waist and then used a corner to wipe the sweat from her face. The cloth was faded and torn. It was the same cloth that she had been wearing when Abdulai had raped her.
What is it in the nature of men, she wondered, that makes them treat women with such violence? Abdulai, Akwasi Anoma, Jensen. I am still young and yet already I have been raped three times. Jensen was the worst. These sailors seem bent on the same course. I shall have to watch out for myself. I hate all white men.
She yawned and turned to look in the opposite direction, o
ut to sea. For the first time she saw that there was a man trussed to the foremast, his arms stretched out and tied to a horizontal spar. Like Van Schalkwyk's pictures of Jesus Christ, she thought. Even the loin cloth. The sun fell on the man and his body shone with sweat. There were red welts on his black skin. Nearby there was a open-topped barrel, with a metal ladle hanging from the edge. Ama rose and walked the few steps to the barrel, a little uncertain on her feet as the ship rolled in the swell. She dipped the ladle into the water and sipped the contents to make sure it was potable. She drank the rest and filled the ladle again. Then, holding it carefully to stop the water spilling, she raised it to the man's lips. He drank greedily and thanked her silently.
The sweat was running into his eyes. She looked around for something to wipe his face with. There was nothing. She loosened her cloth and used it to mop his face, his neck, his arms and, gently, his whip-marked torso. Then she wound the cloth around her again.
“More water?” she asked him in Asante.
“Allo, allo, allo. Wots this now? Mary Madilin in person, is it now? Wipin the preshus feet o Cappin Jesus Tomba Chris isself, is it?”
This was Fred Knaggs. He whipped the ladle from her hand and put it back on the barrel.
Jabbing a finger at her, he said, “This ere water is fer crew, see? Not fer likes o yous. An if theres any feedin and drinkin o this ere Cappin Tomba to be done, twill be done by us, never by yous. Do you savvy?”
“Fuckin imprudence,” he muttered to himself.
Ama looked at him blankly and returned to her seat. The women murmured to one another.
Knaggs looked towards the shore. It would be all of five minutes before the next canoe reached the ship. He turned to address the slaves sitting under the long boat.
“Honbil ladies and genkmunk,” he said, pausing briefly to make sure that he had attracted the attention of his mates, “it is me great honner to interduce yous-all to the famous Cappin Tomba.”
He drew blood from Tomba's chest with a precise flick of his whip. Tomba flinched. The women watched, uncertain of what was going on. Only Ama had some inkling of what he was saying.
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