Coffins (27 page)

June 22

Found Señor de Souza in fine fettle. And why would he not be, considering his vast estate, and all that he owns and commands? He has him a magnificent house, very like a Spanish castle in miniature, (though built of wood) with more than thirty rooms, and several lesser buildings, all surrounded by a formidable wall fixed with iron spikes. My host likes to joke that he should be called “Count de Souza” because he can count so many things he owns. By way of demonstrating, he ticks off five hundred bottles of prime French wine, three hundred slaves, and his own personal harem of ninety women. By them and others he brags he has fathered a hundred sons, and doesn't bother to number the girls. As well as the “Count,” he fancies himself the “African Casanova.” You wouldn't know it to look on him, as he's a small and wizened man, with wrinkled skin the color of pale ash, and half his teeth gone.

Still, those teeth he's got bite sharp enough! In his official capacity de Souza makes to remind me that by setting foot upon the soil of his port, I am placed under the protection of Gezo, King of Dahomey, and that no American or British authority may touch my person or my ship so long as I remain. By the grin of his few yellow fangs he makes clear that he has the power of life and death in Whydah and is not hesitant to use it, though his pikes are headless at the moment.

We have us a splendid breakfast in his best room, presented on silver plate and chased goblets, served by his liveried slaves, who effect to speak the French language, and might, for all I know. They bring us quail eggs in casserole, thick slabs of Italian bacon, salt beef in sauce, some form of raisin pudding, and a light pastry the “Count” calls “Spanish bisket”, dripping in dark honey. Wine, of course, and pitchers of native beer. The cunning fellow inquires of my family and seemed to remember me well enough, though our dealings have been modest, compared to some who trade here.

I assume that all is well, and the enterprise will soon advance into the bargaining stage. It isn't until the last crumb vanishes into his wet little mouth that de Souza confesses a “slight problem.”

All six of his barracoons are empty! There's not a captive left in Whydah. A slave port with no slaves for sale!

“My dear captain,” says he, having lighted his cheroot. “I have my usual sources in Aros, but Aros is presently at war, and all is turmoil. The war will produce more captives no doubt, so you must have patience.”

Patience! If I wait for his little wars to end, it may be months, and this, as well he knows, is impossible. Yet I hold my tongue, knowing his mortal temper—de Souza has killed five unarmed men in “duels,” some struck down in the back. He smiles sweet as a water snake, the old fraud, and says I'm free to try another port, one farther along the coast—he has heard there are slaves to be had in Sierra Leone. I make clear that Sierra Leone won't do. I been cheated there, once upon a time, and swore never to return, and might be hanged if I did.

“There is one other possibility,” says he, “and I freely give you my permission to pursue it, if you so desire.”

“And what does the Count suggest?” asks I.

“You might journey inland and treat with the king directly. I will collect my tax in any case, for each captive that leaves this port.”

This I never tried, having always dealt with de Souza. King Gezo has a fearsome reputation for fits of pique and temper. It is well known that only three years back he had a hundred slaves beheaded because one of them stole a single cowrie shell. It is said that his palace is decorated with human skulls, as proof of his absolute power, and his willingness to use it. Few white men trade with him directly.

“My dear fellow, you've gone quite pale,” says de Souza. “Have no fear of Gezo. He may be the King of Skulls, but they are all black skulls, and he always buys a man before he cuts off his head. I will tell you what I will do. I will lend you the use of my emissary. He will treat with Gezo, and if a head gets misplaced, it will be his head, not yours, ha! ha!”

De Souza has a price for this “favor,” of course, which is five barrels of gunpowder. I agree without argument, and am to meet with his emissary on the morrow. He is called Monbasu.

June 23

Left
Whippet
in Sweeney's charge, with orders to fire the ship rather than let it be seized, and departed this day for Gezo's palace, in the company of de Souza's emissary.

I'm much surprised to find Monbasu most affable, and keenly intelligent, which is shocking in a nigger fellow. Must be because he's very high born, of the same clan as the king, and very rich in his person. Young Monbasu arrives at de Souza's gate in grand style, reclining in a slave-borne litter, accompanied by a retinue of armed warriors, which are slaves he owns himself. He wears brightly colored robes, a woven tunic of fine quality, and a peculiar little gold-braided hat upon his well-formed head. This hat, I am told, is a badge of his clan.

Monbasu is very quick to smile, and speaks English better than Señor de Souza. “Oh, yes, I am a man of many tongues,” he says with a laugh. “In my mouth is a Portuguese tongue, a Spanish tongue, a French tongue, and a little Dutch tongue. And of course I have several tongues of the Dahomey tribes.”

He has also a new gold tooth of which he's very proud. “Slaves will be no problem,” he promises. “My cousin the king has many slaves, more than he can feed. Monbasu fix, you will see.”

We travel in style and comfort, borne on litters, carried overland into the heart of Dahomey, greatest of the slave kingdoms. The curious bobbing rhythm of the litters is like a ship at sea, and some way comforting.

As we bob along, whisking away the flies that penetrate our cozy little compartment, Monbasu regales me with wondrous tales of his wit and cunning. Some of them may even be true.

June 25

We arrive this day at the palace of Gezo, King of Dahomey. I am much surprised by the quality. The way niggers exaggerate, I'd been expecting a thing more crude, a kind of African log cabin with a thatched roof, maybe. Instead I'm amazed by the royal splendor. Gezo's palace rivals that of some of the European kings. The walk are of various exotic woods rather than stone or marble, but inside each of the spacious chambers (there are more than one hundred) is encrusted with painted carvings, elaborate gold inlay, and woven mats and rugs of sublime distinction, from as far away as India. Indeed, the king has a great love of rugs, and collects them, as he collects human skulls.

I hoped to meet with the king directly, but Monbasu says such things can't be hurried at the palace. He counsels patience. First we must dine in the royal hall, then we must drink palm wine with the king's council of advisers, and then, perhaps, we will meet with Gezo himself, provided the king is in an expansive mood.

“While we wait you may avail yourself of the royal privilege,” Monbasu suggests with a sly wink. When I ask what he means by royal privilege, he says a guest of the king may select as concubine one of the many female palace slaves, provided she is not part of Gezo's personal harem, which is, of course, forbidden.

“The king owns everyone in the palace who is not related to him by blood,” he says, his gold tooth flashing. “Pick wisely and you will be a happy man.”

Monbasu looks puzzled when I tell him his Yankee captain may be a sailor and a slaver, but he's also a married man, and so must decline his kind offer.

I'm in “Rome,” but the thought of doing as the “Romans” do is disgusting. Share a bed with a nigger concubine? Makes my skin crawl to think on it. They are comely but very black. God would not allow it, even if base instinct might be inclined so.

There are no latches upon the door, but I've been left to my own privacy. If one of the comely royal maids should lean into my chamber and show me her black bosom, she will be admonished to leave! That I swear on this true log.

June 28

Three days and nights in the kingdom of Dahomey, and already I am beginning to feel that my world, the world I left behind, the world of
Whippet
and Becky and White Harbor, is but a pale dream.

How is such a thing possible, for a man of phlegmatic humors? For the first time, I understand how a white man might be seduced by the intoxicating darkness of Africa. No, I have not taken me a maid. In that I remain firm. But I have supped of the vitality here, that seems to be in the very air, an intensity and tumult of the senses, like the smoky, fragrant incense they burn.

I will make a list, and count the difference.

1.
Beautiful
. Much of Dahomey is beautiful beyond description, a beauty never seen by the likes of me, being a very feast for the eyes and senses.

2.
Ugly
. Much of Dahomey is as ugly as death itself. It is appalling, violent, and hideous beyond description.

The Beautiful and the Ugly, dwelling in the same place. Somehow the contrast has brought me to full awareness at all times, and makes it impossible to sleep.

The drums don't help, as it comes to sleeping. They are most always drumming about something. Monbasu has tried to explain the complications of the drumming, and what it means, but a Christian can't understand. The religion of Dahomey is some form of witchcraft, and each drum the voice of a different god. I seen what the drums do with my own eyes, which is drive the niggers into frenzy. Frenzy like an addle-brained man throwing a fit, except there are hundreds of 'em, dancing and worshipping. They kill chickens and smear the blood upon their persons, and blow powders in each other's faces, and then speak in the languages of their gods, that no one can make out, not even themselves.

Monbasu says the worshippers surrender their souls to the sorcerers who cast the spells and beat the drums and drink the blood of goats. I ask what is the attraction of such a religion, if it makes those who practice it give sorcerers the power of life and death over supplicants?

Monbasu is much amused. He's been drinking palm wine and though he don't join in the wicked dancing, I can tell he would like to, but for my presence. “Is your own religion so different?” he asks.

“Very different,” says I, quite hot to make him understand. “Couldn't be more different. Christian priests don't have that mortal power, only God himself does.”

“Oh, very different,” Monbasu agrees. “Our sorcerers do not speak for god, they become gods. Much better, I think, to be a sorcerer than a priest, ha ha!”

He's too clever a cove by far to win me an argument on that or any subject. I find Monbasu much like the others of his clan, all very clever and cunning and friendly. We have met with Gezo's council, all of 'em Monbasu's blood relations, and dined with them most affably. After supping very well on roast goat and honey tubers, they ask if I want to see Gezo's Amazons. They use a Dahomey word for Amazon, but they mean the battalion of ebony-black warriors, all of 'em women, that has been trained with spear, sword, and shield. These Amazons they got are fiercely loyal to the king, who owns them every one, and are renowned in battle, and much feared. They're a strong bunch, some of 'em tall as men, and march around naked, but for their swords and shields. I am not too blushed to look upon them, because black nakedness is not the same as white nakedness. The color itself is a kind of clothing.

The king's Amazons have not a hair upon their private parts! I must ask Monbasu if they shave or pluck. He will know. But he's vanished somewhere into the palace grounds, leaving back a note that begs for my patience. “All is well,” he writes, “all will be granted. Trust Monbasu.”

The strange thing is, I do trust the fellow, as much as any of his race can be trusted. So I wait, and think pure thoughts of Becky and the boys.

My door has no latch. If the comely maids apply, I must be vigilant.

June 29

Disaster!

Monbasu has been arrested! Word comes that he violated the harem taboo, and his skull will soon decorate the royal dining hall. I'm fearful of being seized, too, for enjoying his company. The king's counselors, who are cousin to Monbasu (and to the king), tell me to be calm, and that I'm in no danger, but who can be believed, for surely Monbasu was betrayed by these very cousins? I'm told the forbidden assignation has long been suspected, and that the royal spies finally assembled the necessary evidence. It's no small thing, arresting a man of the king's own clan, but they've managed to extract a confession from the concubine herself, and now the thing is done. The female's name is Tambara, and I'm told she is a comely lass, but hardly worth it, as Gezo will no doubt have Monbasu's head, his new gold tooth, his many slaves, and everything he owns.

They have confined me to my chamber. It be a large room, lavishly decorated with rugs and billowing silk curtains, and a great feathered ceiling fan turned by unseen captives. And yet I take no comfort here. I've been betrayed, used by the wicked Monbasu as beard for his diddling intrigue! Surely the king will have me tortured for his pleasure and want my head, too, as warning for others of like inclination.

Tried writing to de Souza, to implore that he put in a good word, but no one will take my letters, not for any bribe. My door is latched now, from the outside.

How I hate the drums. The drums pound inside my head like the cannon of a pursuing frigate! Stupid man, they beat, stupid man, stupid man. I pray for Becky, that she shall never know how her husband came to his end, for the stupidity of trusting a laughing nigger.

July 1

Should be midway across the Atlantic on this day. Instead I languish within this luxurious prison! They bring me ample food and palm wine (called “gin” locally) and keep suggesting that the “white captain” sample other delicacies. D—m the conspirators! Temptations of the flesh are nothing but a trap. Had I taken a comely maid for comfort, the cabal of blood cousins would surely have denounced me to their king. My refusal to give into the dark temptations has saved me thus far.