1636: Seas of Fortune (26 page)

* * *

Coqui crawled through the brush. In due course, he came close enough to hear Kojo struggling with his bonds. He motioned for Kojo to stay still, and cut him free. Kojo then whispered to him what had happened.

“You’re sure they left the paddles in the canoe?”

Kojo nodded.

“Then our best bet is to make our escape in their canoe. On my signal . . .”

Coqui studied his surroundings with his eyes, ears, even his nose. Then he made a sharp arm gesture, and he and Kojo ran, half-crouched, for the canoe. Coqui cleaved the tie line with his machete, and Kojo jumped in and grabbed a paddle. As Coqui pushed the little craft into the water, they could hear the colonists rouse themselves. “Huh, did you make a noise? Wasn’t me! So what was that snap I heard? You stupid shithead, you just stepped on me! Hey, where’s the prisoner! Shit, they’re stealing our canoe!”

Coqui pulled himself into the canoe as the first kidnapper stumbled down to the bank and fired in the wrong direction.

Once he was sure he was out of range, Coqui yelled, “have a nice walk back home!”

* * *

After they were safely away, and had beached and hidden the canoes, they talked about what to do next. Kojo told them that these weren’t the first colonists to harass him, only the nastiest. And predicted that it was only a matter of time before like-minded whites went after his fellow explorers Coqui and Tetube, even though they weren’t gold miners like Kojo.

They decided to leave the Suriname River—there were too many potentially gold-hungry Gustavans traveling on it—and enter the swamp-and-ridge country to the east. There were African and Indian camps there, and they could take refuge with them. They would have a message taken to Maurício, Coqui’s brother-in-law, at New Carthage, and he would let them know when Maria and Henrique returned. Maria and Henrique would protect them. At least, if Maria forgave Kojo for breaching her trust.

Gustavus

The acting governor, Carsten Claus, looked up from his paperwork. “Heyndrick. How may I help you?”

“Carsten, something very odd is going on. First the Ashanti stopped mining, and then the whites.”

“What are they doing instead?”

“Doing? I have no idea. They have disappeared into the forest.”

“Without explanation?”

“None that any of their friends are willing to share with me, at least. I am afraid that as the boss’ cousin, I’m not likely to get a straight answer.”

Carsten stood up, and started pacing. “Shit, I don’t need this now, I have to go upriver to check on the English at Marshall’s Creek. Dirck’ll be in charge in my absence, so tell him what you’ve told me. . . .”

He stopped in mid-stride, and laughed. “I hate it when I do that.” He sat back down, and leaned back. “I suppose it’s not the end of the world. They’ll tire eventually of whatever it is that has caught their fancy, and we can go a few months without bauxite mining. It’s just being stockpiled until Essen Chemical gets the kinks out of their aluminum refining process.”

With this rather tepid assurance, Heyndrick left.

Not for the first time, Carsten Claus wished that the official governor, Heyndrick’s cousin David Pieterszoon de Vries, had as much enthusiasm for governing as he did for exploring, trading, and starting colonies. He had not skippered the last supply ship to service Gustavus, and the captain of that ship had not been willing to venture a guess as to when David might deign to reappear.

The next day, Carsten took the
Siren
upriver, leaving the colony in the hands of Captain Dirck Adrienszoon, the commander of Fort Lincoln. On the journey south, he thought about Heyndrick’s warning. Adrienszoon was competent, if a bit on the unimaginative side. But Carsten didn’t think it likely that anything would happen that Dirck couldn’t handle. It wasn’t as though the Gustavus Colony was producing anything that the Spanish or French would deem so valuable as to justify the expense of a major invasion force.

* * *

Elias, the carpenter’s apprentice, was thinking, for once, of gold, not skinny-dipping Indian girls. Rumors were circulating, whispered by one lad to another—always under an injunction of secrecy—that Kojo had found a gold nugget. As big as an up-timer’s baseball. Unfortunately, the rumors disagreed as to where this golden baseball had pitched itself into his lap. Some said the gold was farther up the Suriname, others remembered Kojo’s little expedition and favored the Marowijne. And still others agreed that Kojo had found gold on that trip, but urged that he only pretended to go to the Marowijne, and in fact had sailed westward, to the Saramacca.

They couldn’t ask Kojo, because he had apparently gone into hiding. Or perhaps returned to his El Dorado for more gold.

On a tributary of the Lawa River, in Eastern Guiana

Afia ever so carefully transferred the remaining river sand, and a bit of water, to her smallest
calabash
. This one she had dyed black, to make specks of gold easier to spot.

Ama, Antoa’s wife, came up beside her. “
Mena wo akye
.” Good morning.

Afia bowed her head respectfully. “
Yaa Ena
.” Thank you, Respected Elder Woman.

She swirled the water around a bit, rinsing the sand.

“Ah.” In her hair she had several feathers from various Suriname birds. They weren’t there purely as ornamentation. The tips had been cut off and the hollows inside plugged with wild cotton. She pulled out one of these quills and unplugged it. Then, with wood tweezers, she carefully teased out the shiny grain of gold she had just spotted, and stored it inside the quill.

“Keep up the good work,” said Ama. She then showed the other Ashanti a sample of the sand that Afia had been panning.

* * *

“What’s this? What’s this?” asked Antoa. “Yes, it is gold.” He raised his voice, “Afia has found a fine nugget. Let us dam this creek, so we can dig into the mother-of-gold.” He meant the richest layer of gravel.

Ama put her lips beside Afia’s ear and whispered. “The hen knows when it’s daybreak, but allows the rooster to make the announcement.”

* * *

Elias finished writing his note, and left it where the master would find it. Hopefully not right away, however.

He swung the sack containing the last of his gear over his shoulder, and slowly opened the door a crack. He stuck his head out and looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear.

Then . . . he gurgled as the door was closed and held, trapping his head.

“Where do you think you’re going, young Elias?” And then his master’s hand closed on the nape of his shirt, and pulled him inexorably back into the room.

* * *

Elias sat on the floor in the corner of the room, eyes downcast, as Master Carpenter Lorenz Baum examined the contents of the sack. “It appears you are ready to embark on some great adventure. Care to tell me about it?”

The silence grew.

“If there’s anything a carpenter can find quickly enough, if needed, it’s a nice, long, hefty stick. . . .”

“Note.” Elias muttered.

“Note what?”

“I put a note in your Bible. Thought you wouldn’t find it until Sunday.”

“You’re in no position to be critical, Elias. Let me see . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . Very generous of you, offering to pay me double the usual apprenticeship release fee once you returned victoriously from the gold fields of the Marowijne.” He crumpled the note, and tossed it into Elias’ lap.

“Tell me, Elias, did you listen to Maria’s lecture on gold mining?”

A vigorous nod.

“I suppose I am not surprised; I remember it was well attended. It was doubtless more romantic sounding than the ones on rubber or bauxite. I can assure you that I paid close attention to what she said. I bet you’ve forgotten that she said that even in a gold rush, most miners made less money than they would have digging ditches.”

“But if you struck it rich—”

“Well, Elias, I’d bet my last thaler that it’s easier to get rich selling equipment to the gold miners, than trying to find it yourself.

“So this is what I propose. You tell me who is planning to go treasure hunting, and help me make and sell them wooden pans and rockers and whatnot. And once one of the colonists—not an Ashanti—finds gold, I will release you from your contract, if that’s still what you want.

“But for now, put this stuff back where it belongs, get some sleep . . . and don’t forget that we old master craftsmen are very light sleepers . . .”

* * *

Sometime later, the
Patientia
, a small Dutch fluyt, made its way up the Suriname River. The captain’s intent had been to make his New World landfall in the Windward Islands of the Caribbean. However, a hurricane had forced him to divert southward, out of harm’s way. He then decided to make just a short stop at Gustavus, for drinking water and fresh fruit.

But Lorenz and Elias had set up a stall in the market square, where they were selling dugout canoes, mining equipment, instructions, and maps.

Within twenty-four hours, the entire crew of the
Patientia
had bought prospecting gear, deserted, and crossed the Suriname like a swarm of locusts looking for crops to devour.

A day later, the first and second mates decided that the crew would not be reappearing any time soon, and joined the gold rush.

The
Patientia
’s captain held out until the end of the week.

African Market Village

Maria Vorst spoke. “I understand you’re running a witness protection program, Maurício.”

“Maria, you’re back!” They embraced. “What in the name of all the saints is a ‘witness protection program’?” Maurício inquired.

“Something I heard about when I was living in Grantville. I understand that since a certain gold rush started, you’ve had the three principals in hiding.”

“I do.”

“I’d like to speak to them.”

* * *

“I wish we had never found the gold, Maria,” said Coqui. “It drives your people crazy.” Kojo vigorously agreed.

“Sorry about that.” Maria noticed that Tetube was standing protectively close to Coqui. “I see you have a girlfriend.”

Coqui grinned and put an arm around Tetube. “I have a wife, once it’s safe for me to leave Maurício’s village and bring her home for a proper ceremony.”

“I am glad you mentioned that,” said Maria. “Henrique and I would like to help you do just that. Take you by ship to Fort Kyk-Over-Al, and then you can paddle back from there. You remember the way?”

Coqui nodded curtly, and Maria blushed. She realized that it was the equivalent of asking a burgher from Amsterdam if he remembered how to get to church. Or to the neighborhood tavern.

“Excellent. I think you told me that the trees with the sticky milk, the ones that we saw near Marshall’s Creek, also grow near your own village.”

“Cousin trees. Not quite the same. But they have the sticky milk inside.”

“I understand. We would like you and your people to collect the seeds for us, and cover them with banana leaves, or something similar.” The banana had been brought to Brazil from West Africa in the sixteenth century. “And keep them dry, very dry, but without putting them in fire.

“We will come get them, and give you and your people something nice in exchange. What do you think they might like?”

Coqui considered this. “Steel knives and axes. Iron fishhooks. Glass beads.”

“What about me?” asked Kojo. “Should I go with you, or stay here?”

“Stay here. Captain de Vries will return, soon enough, and I have letters for him about your situation. You have your gold, so you can buy back your children. But we need to find a trustworthy Spanish agent to handle the matter, and that’s best done in Europe. You’ll go to Hamburg with him.”

“I am sorry I told the others, Maria,” said Kojo sorrowfully. “I was afraid you would punish me.”

“Some secrets are too big to be kept.”

Near the River Lawa, Eastern Guiana

The Ashanti continued to work the creeks along the Lawa. They had decided that they would wait at least for the middle of the wet season before heading back to their village on the banks of the Suriname. In Ghana, their homeland, it was customary for whole households, even whole villages, to relocate to the goldfields when the rains began. They would loosen the deposits in the streams, making them easier to work, whether by panning or the usually more productive shallow pit mining. But later in the rainy season, the pits would be flooded and unworkable, and at that point they would take advantage of the higher water level to paddle back the way that had come.

Some of the Ashanti thought that there was no point in heading back, that they should found a new village here on the Lawa, or at least somewhere nearby. But the chief decided that they couldn’t do this without at least giving some kind of notice to Gustavus. After all, they had agreed to help the colonists mine bauxite.

“Dammabo” Creek

They heard it over the rustlings of the leaves and the gurglings of the water: “
Kro kro kro kro ko kyini kyini kyini kro kyini ka ka ka kyini kyini kyini kyini ka.”
The Ashanti froze for an instant, then the men set down their tools and reached for their weapons, as the women took cover in the vegetation lining the Dammabo. What they had heard was the call of the
kokokyinaka
, the “blue plantain-eater,” the “clockbird” that greeted the morning, the “drummer’s child.” It was a bird of their forest homeland, and in the two years they had lived in Suriname, they had never seen one.

To hear it now, late in the day and far from Ghana, could mean only one thing: the lookout they had posted where the creek waters mingled with those of the Lawa had spotted hostile, or potentially hostile, intruders.

Most of the Ashanti men crouched behind the boles of the great trees, with muskets or bows readied. Owisu and another man crawled through the jungle wall and headed down toward the Marowijne, seeking more information.

Exchanging bird calls, they caught up with their sentry, who explained why he had raised the alarm. “Two men we know, Heinrich and Erasmus, were panning where the Abonsuo meets the Lawa.” An
abonsuo
was what they called a
calabash
when it was used for gold panning; the Abonsuo was the creek immediately downstream of the Dammabo. “I saw them when I did my walk-around. I came back here.