Local Customs

by Audrey Thomas

  “Well, Letty,” said George, releasing his serviette from its ring, “Everything all right? Any complaints?”

  I did not tell him I was having trouble sleeping when I retired to my own room at night. I did not tell him I was sure someone stood outside my door. Instead I listened to his stories of what the palaver had been that day: mortgages, pledges, property agreements, and pawns. All to be arbitrated by the Gubbner. A lends B his cutlass for a month because B says he needs it to cut down a bamboo tree; but B uses the cutlass to cut odum wood, which he proceeds to sell. A can claim his cutlass back before the end of the month and compel B to give compensation for the sale of the wood.

  “It all sounds very tiresome.”

  “It would be, except that the Fantees are great orators, positive Romans when they get going. Imagine giving an impassioned speech over a torn shirt.”

  “Perhaps if it’s your only one?”

  “Perhaps. But I sometimes think the bit of rag is only an excuse for a heated debate. And they can be quite poetic. One of the standard retorts is: ‘Bery good. Bery good. Me loose, me go for eat stones for chop.’”

  “So you enjoy being Solomon?”

  “In a way. But what I do is important, also. The natives have to learn that they will get a fair hearing if they come to me. They don’t need to bribe petty chiefs or present gifts to receive what passes for justice here. Over the years I have built up quite a reputation for impartiality. They may go away grumbling if they lose the case, but they know I have examined it from all sides.

  “However, we need the missionaries as well. I know you don’t care for Thomas Freeman, but if the British are ever to rule here, Christianity must prevail and the old superstitions be discarded.”

  “Do you think that will happen?”

  “I hope so; I wouldn’t be out here if I didn’t think it was important for us to establish ourselves on this coast. Not as slavers — that’s over and done with — but as benevolent rulers, as Christian rulers, as kind, just men.”

  “What if they don’t wish to be ruled?”

  “They will have no choice. I do worry about the Ashantee — these people are kittens compared to the Ashantee. If we can subdue them, I think we shall prevail.”

  “And then?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What then? When they’ve been subdued?”

  We went every Sunday to hear Mr. Freeman preach. As we strolled along the avenue the people smiled and dipped their heads. I think the men would have tugged at their forelocks if they’d had them.

  Although the roof and windows were not yet installed in the new chapel, it held many more people and so Mr. Freeman chose to preach there. It also, he said, reminded him of the lay preachers who had stood in the open and preached to the country people back home. He drew inspiration from that thought.

  I thought his sermons very clever; he adapted them to suit the people for whom they were intended. “Cut your coat to suit your cloth” as the old saying goes. Yam harvests came into it, fevers came into it, snakes came into it (of course). Lots of talk, also, about devils and false gods. Lots of references to Jesus-God and how He sacrificed Himself for You (pointing) and You (pointing) and Yes, even You (pointing to a little group of boys leaning in at the windows). The boys grinned, showing their bright white teeth.

  He had a beautiful preaching voice and he could get quite worked up as he went on, dabbing at his forehead and lips with a big white handkerchief.

  He spoke in English and then, Joseph, the most fluent of those already converted, translated all this into Fantee. He had told us one evening, when he came to dine, that after observing the power of the paramount chiefs, who spoke to the people only through a linguist, he had decided to adopt this principle for his preaching. He felt it gave him more power this way, and he even had the translator hold a mahogany stick with a cross carved onto the top.

  When Mr. Freeman talked to me or conversed at the dinner table, he kept his voice soft and low. But when he preached! When he was filled with the spirit, how he boomed, how we seemed to be in the very presence of a God-drenched messenger. I always felt it was such a pity he had chosen as his interpreter Joseph Bannerman, a pleasant enough fellow, but with no fire. Mr. Freeman’s sermons, when given in English, could stir even a cynic like myself, but Mr. Bannerman? Everything was presented in the same monotone, no great hills, no deep valleys, no triumphs or despairs. I hoped he would abandon this “linguist” idea (surely he was already the linguist and God the great chief or king?) and learn the Fantee language.

  When I died, he was still anxiously awaiting word from the Wesleyan Committee about a new wife. I suggested to George that perhaps he should order two, since the mortality amongst missionary wives was so high.

  “Or why stop at two? Why not half a dozen? Like ladies-in-waiting.”

  George: “I will pretend I didn’t hear that.” (But I could see he was suppressing a smile.)

  The Castle band sometimes helped out with the hymns. Mr. Freeman would sing a line in his nice baritone; we would all repeat it; then another line, repeat; another, and so on.

  An-chent of Days

  (An-chent of Days)

  Who sit — ethroned in Glo-ree

  The band also played in front of the Castle on Sunday afternoons. They were mostly very old men in very old castoff uniforms. Why was I surprised that their repertoire consisted mostly of old Jacobite airs? A large and appreciative crowd usually collected for this performance. The old trumpeter received the most applause when he performed one of his solos.

  Mrs. Topp had her baby, a boy, William Kofee. There was an outdooring as well as a christening; George and I were asked to be godparents, and from somewhere George produced a silver christening cup. (Later he said it had been left behind years ago, when a Mrs. Bowdich, who had lived at the Castle, lost her infant daughter.) Mrs. Bailey, who was always knitting, produced an entire layette, more suitable perhaps for a temperate clime, but very impressive. I had nothing to give but my blessing and some castile soap. I made a note to send for something with the next boat.

  George

  I WAS DELIGHTED FOR THE TOPPS — a big, strong, healthy boy. I was also a little envious.

  Mr. Freeman

  I WAS DELIGHTED FOR THE TOPPS, although I was not too happy that Mrs. Topp, a good Christian, insisted on the outdooring ceremony. I must admit I was also a little envious of their happiness.

  Brodie Cruickshank

  I WAS SO PLEASED THAT EVERYTHING had gone right. Now if the child could manage to get through the first year without dying of some fever or another. It made me realize once again that it was high time I took me a wife.

  Letty

  DID SHE CRY OUT? Did her suffering Christian self get the better of her more traditional self? I screamed and screamed; the pain was red-hot; the flames of Hell would be nothing compared to it.

  Mrs. Bailey would insist on telling me all about “our Dulcie” and how she had “woke up the whole neighbourhood.” And yet our Dulcie was expecting another; how could she? Mrs. Bailey hoped she would be back home in time for the confinement; she was already knee-deep in little knitted soakers.

  “There’s something about new life, isn’t there, Mrs. Maclean, that makes it all seem worthwhile.”

  Clack. Clack. Clack. As she turned the heels on another pair of wee booties.

  “Ibrahim,” I said, “one of the children left this doll outside my door. Would you know whose it is? They aren’t supposed to come up to our apartments unless invited, but I shouldn’t like the child to get into trouble.”

  When he turned around to look at what I was holding out, he uttered a cry, snatched it from me, and threw it on the fire.

  “Why, what did you do that for?”

  He was shaking all over, and muttering.

  “What are you saying?”

  “No good, Madame. She no good a-tall.”

  “George,” I said that evening, “something peculiar happened today.”


  George

  I DIDN’T WANT TO FRIGHTEN HER so I laughed it off, but from then on I had Isaac move his sleeping mat up to the top of the stairs. He was very reluctant to do so — no doubt Ibrahim had told him about the doll, but I insisted. And then I went to make some inquiries down in the town. The gates were opened at 5:00 a.m. every morning and closed at 8:00 p.m. each night unless we were entertaining. The keys were always brought to me at 9:00 p.m. And yet I couldn’t believe this doll had been placed there by any of the soldiers or servants. I put the word out; if any ju-ju of any sort was found within the Castle grounds, I, personally, would find out the perpetrator and throw him in prison for “long time.” I said “him,” but I wondered.

  Letty

  MR. FREEMAN CALLED ON ME about once a week, usually just to report on how well things were going with the mission. He had brought out yards of black gabardine and white calico and as the people converted and declared themselves for Jesus and the one true God, he had pants and shirts made up for the boys and men, skirts and blouses for the girls and women.

  “To set them apart, you know. And each receives a badge to go on the pocket over the heart.”

  “Is this not a bribe — the new outfit, the badge?”

  “How so? They must first complete their studies and submit to baptism. Only then will they receive their new clothes. They will stand apart; they will look smart.”

  “And others will be impressed.”

  “That is my hope.”

  (I thought the black-and-white theme made Christianity look rather dull. This was a people who loved colour.)

  “They will also receive a Bible, and in it will be written their name, the date of their baptism and my signature.”

  “The Bible is full of difficult words; will they be able to read it?”

  “Not at first, perhaps not for many years. But they will know it contains the Word of God. That is enough for the present.”

  “They will like the stories,” I said. “The Bible is full of good stories.”

  He cleared his throat. “Dare I ask you, once again, if you would be willing to help out?”

  “You may ask, but my answer will be the same. I’m afraid I’m too busy just now. Perhaps later on.”

  Mr. Freeman: Too busy talking about novels and poetry to Brodie Cruickshank.

  Letty: Why couldn’t I spare an hour or two a week to teach the little savages? Get one of the carvers to make a set of wooden letters: A is for Africa, B is for Bamboo, C is for Castle, D is for … what could D be for? D is for Don’t Want to Do it.

  “Doesn’t it bother you,” Mr. Freeman said, “living in the Castle?”

  “Actually, it’s very comfortable. George has done everything possible to ensure that that is so. I was quite surprised and delighted when I saw our quarters.”

  “Do you know why these castles and forts were built, Mrs. Maclean? Cape Coast, Elmina, Anamaboe, Dixcove …?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you to live in such a place?”

  “All that is ancient history.”

  “Really? Five years is ‘ancient history’?”

  “There has been no slave-trading here for a long time.”

  “Hmm. Have you been down to the dungeons, Mrs. Maclean?”

  “No.”

  “Men like my father, who was only a boy at the time, were captured in the Interior, shackled together, and marched down here or to places like this. People who had never seen the sea. Terrified. Separated from family and home. Crammed into rooms — no, cells — with little ventilation, so many together that often they slept standing up. Do you know what the floor of those cells is paved with, Mrs. Maclean? You have a lively imagination; use it.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because you need to know, you who are so enamoured of the picturesque. Picture this, Mrs. Maclean. Maybe one hundred people crammed into a cell eight feet by ten feet, or even smaller. Taken out into the sunlight once a day to be sluiced down by their jailors. The sunlight, Mrs. Maclean. You know how it makes us blink, how you yourself cannot go out in it without your parasol. Imagine how their eyes felt — that sudden glare! And then shut up in the almost-darkness once again.

  “You know what they did, sometimes, with the strongest men? They hung them upside down to weaken them a bit, to make sure they didn’t start anything. And then, finally, they were taken out and led single-file through what the abolitionists called ‘The Door of No Return.’ Shoved into canoes, hauled on deck the slave ships, tossed into the hold. Men, women, children. Nobody will ever know how many, Mrs. Maclean; good records were not kept. Thousands and thousands at any rate. Shipped to the plantations of the New World. If they died en route, they were tossed overboard. ‘Full fathom five …’ Oh yes, I know my Shakespeare. I sometimes think that is why the sea is so relentless here. It’s the bones of all those dead Africans, stirring things up. Hoping the castles and forts will tumble down.

  “My father was taken to Jamaica, where he worked for years, first cutting cane and then in the rendering huts, stripped to the waist in temperatures no human being should ever have to endure. But then, slaves weren’t human beings, were they? Fall behind at all and you were whipped. My father’s back was covered in raised scars; he was a gardener, as I became, but he never took his shirt and jacket off even on the hottest day. If I think about what they did to my father my faith wavers. But it is not for me to question the ways of God. There has to be a reason for all that horror, and some day it will become clear. All that so you could put sugar in your tea!”

  “I think you should go now, Mr. Freeman.”

  “And I think you should make a visit to the cells. Don’t go at night; hundreds of bats fly around down there. Some say they are the souls of those who were confined there. Who knows?”

  Letty

  I DID NOT LOOK AT HIM. How dare he tell me all this? I never owned a slave; no one in my family ever owned a slave. Of course it was horrible, but what could I do to make it better?

  At the door, he turned.

  “I’ll leave you to think on these things, Mrs. Maclean. The floors of those cells are still paved with layer upon layer of human excrement. Good day.”

  It was shortly after that when I began to feel unwell.

  He sent a little note around the next day, with some garden eggs and green beans from his garden. He apologized for perhaps “going too far.” After all, he could not afford to lose George Maclean’s good will and he did enjoy the dinners at the Castle. He said he got carried away. I did not reply to his note, but neither did I mention the incident to George.

  Brodie Cruickshank

  I HAD A GREAT DEAL OF BUSINESS to get through at Anamaboe and so I didn’t see Letty for several days. When I finally returned to Cape Coast, she seemed very subdued.

  “Is something troubling you?”

  “I don’t sleep through the night. And I have bad dreams.”

  “It sounds to me as though you have a touch of fever. Why don’t you get the surgeon to have a look at you?”

  “No. No. I’m fine. It’s just that it’s so noisy here at night.”

  “Isn’t London noisy at night?”

  “Not where I live … lived! Very quiet. And I tended to write very late at night, in London, after I’d been out for an evening. Here we go to bed quite early — or I do. I’m not sure when George actually sleeps.”

  “Are the essays going well?”

  “Oh yes. There are no worries on that score.”

  “Would you read to me?”

  “I’d be delighted. I’ve missed our afternoons. Perhaps I’m just a bit melancholy as I know they are drawing to an end.”

  I was amazed at how much she had accomplished in just a few short weeks. Each woman was described so precisely I could actually see them. The essays were thoughtful, philosophical. It was almost as though she had the uncanny ability to look into Scott’s brain and clearly see his intentions. The women were th
e most interesting; they were the focus of the book, after all, but the men were interesting, too. Her humour is evident throughout:

  It is no paradox to say that the country is never so much enjoyed as by the dwellers in cities. How many there are who live eleven months on the hope of the twelfth given to some brief and delightful wandering. Even in the dull and mindless routine of a watering place, where shrimps and gossip are the Alpha and Omega of the day, there is refreshment and relief …

  I was simply dazzled by these little portraits.

  “If you were just starting out, Letty, these essays would make your name. As it is, they will make your star shine even brighter.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I do.”

  She remained thoughtful for a few minutes and I was about to take my leave when she said, “The other day Mr. Freeman suggested I should re-read Robinson Crusoe. I said I had reread it many times, but he just smiled and shook his head.”

  “Had you been discussing shipwrecks, perhaps, or self-reliance?”

  “No, nothing like that. We were ‘discussing,’ or rather, he was delivering a harangue about the slave trade. I found it most offensive. What has Robinson Crusoe to do with the slave trade?”

  “I begin to see what he was getting at; Crusoe was heavily involved in the slave trade.”

  “Surely not!”

  “Yes. He was. That’s how he got the money that his friends put by for him when he was lost.”