Drum (6 page)

The first canoe, partially tented with tiie same striped fabric which had shaded Tamboura on his first day, with its Krus glistening with palm oil, swept up to the pier with a flourish, where it was moored by half a hundred black hands eager to reach out and draw it closer. There was a flutter beneath the awning and it parted to show Ama-jaUah, resplendent in pure white muslin and reeking of cheap French perfume. A board was laid from pier to canoe and he walked over it—carefully so as not to lose his balance; slowly, to retain his dignity; and majestically, to impress the cadaverous, unshaven Spaniard and the young, pink-cheeked Englishman.

They greeted each other in Hausa, using the stilted phrases of Islamic courtesy, and after the greeting all waited expectantly vmtil a volley of shots was fired from the factory. Meticulously Ama-jallah counted the shots on the fingers ot his hands. Twenty-one! He beamed his satisfaction. Only royalty received that salute. It put him, in a good mood and he walked along between Mongo Don and Jonathan, making sure that they measured their gait to his, not he his to theirs. In deference to him, they walked a step behind him as they progressed slowly up the path that led by the barracoons, past the whitewashed log walls of the factory, the warehouses, the offices, and across the hard-packed earth of the clean-swept compound to the Mongo's porticoed home, bordered by a row of feather-duster palms which gave no shade but did manage to decorate with a fluff of greenery.

Mongo Don allowed Ama-jallah to ascend the steps of the wide-roofed portico first. He motioned to the ornate chair, beribboned and decorated with tufts of dyed ostrich plumes and swags of varicolored beads, in contrast to his own chair which was not decorated. Ama-jallah seated himself, carefully arranging his robes. He spoke for the first time since he had left the pier. His Hausa words were slow but fluent.

"May Allah bring peace to your household, Mongo Don."

"And may you find peace here. Your Highness."

They sat silently for several minutes as Ama-jallah studied, with seeming indifference, the gifts lined up on the edge of the porch. His dark eyes glittered with cupidity. When Mongo Don motioned to Jonathan to bring the gifts, the Arab scanned them one by one, apparently without interest, although the crystal chandelier did cause him some wonderment.

"To hang in your father's throne room," Mongo Don explained, realizing how incongruous it would look, hanging from the rafters under the thatched roof of a mud hut,

Ama-jallah graciously accepted the explanation without giving any indication that he had never seen such an implement of civilization before. But he seemed satisfied and he reached inside his djellabah to draw out a parchment, covered in Arabic script. He read from it slowly and apologetically as though the mere mention of business was beneath his royal dignity.

"One hundred and thirteen slaves, consisting of ninety-eight young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-seven years. Fifteen women, four with babies, six pregnant and five virgins. Seventy-two prime tusks of ivory. Six bales of ostrich and other plumes. Gold dust and nuggets in a quantity to be weighed."

He allowed the paper to flutter from his hands as an evidence of its worthlessness. Jonathan retrieved it and handed it back to him but he waved it away with utter unconcern.

"With your permission, Your Highness"—Mongo Don was sufficiently humble although he was inwardly cursing the arrogance of this would-be princeling—"we shall have the slaves unloaded and taken to the barracoons and the other goods delivered to the factory."

A languid right hand, slightly raised, was Ama-jallah's consent. He rose slowly and called for his slave Akeem who squatted at the foot of a palm tree. With a short nod to Mongo Don and an even shorter one to Jonathan, he descended the steps and made his way across the compound to the guest house, where he had stayed several times before and where he knew he would find two slaves, male and female, carefully selected for his use.

Mongo Don and Jonathan watched his studied progress across the compound.

"Arrogant young pup!" Jonathan wrinkled his nose in the Arab's direction.

"But our best supplier—always prime merchandise! Brings

only fine strong young men and that's what they want in Cuba these days. They're breeding slaves over there now— afraid of the Abolitionists in England. Must tell him to be on the lookout for more wenches. They want them too."

"Wenches didn't used to bring much."

"No, but they will from now on. Keep Ama-jallah buttered up. Doesn't cost anything but a sacrifice of your own pride. Keep him eating out of your hand by making him think that he and his black papa are the most important personages in Africa. It costs little and you'll gain much."

"It goes against the grain." Jonathan's straightforward bluntness could not stomach the affectations of the Arab.

"What do you care as long as it piles up good solid English pounds for you in Liverpool? And now to work, Jonathan. Send the men from the warehouse to vmload the canoes and lose no time in unlocking those poor wretches. Cattle they may be but even a dog can suffer pain. Take them to the empty barracoon that we cleaned and fumigated last week. Don't put them in with the slaves that we have been holding. Give them preferential treatment these first few days to condition them. Let them rest all the afternoon. At sunset have them chained and taken down to the stockade in the river and let them wash themselves. Issue a bucket of soft soap for every canoe load and make sure they wash their heads, to get rid of the lice. I only hope none of this lot have crabs. After they've rested, give them a good supper— a hearty stew of meat and vegetables, then issue them a couple of kegs of palm oil so they can rub each other down. Clean, oiled, rested and their bellies full, they'll condition quickly and think they're in heaven. By tomorrow, you'll see no unhappy wretches but a grinning, happy bunch of prime slaves, Ama-jallah always brings the best—Hausas, Fullahs and sometimes even Mandingos."

Jonathan started to leave, to follow out the Mongo's commands. He knew exactly what to do himself but he realized it gave his uncle a feeling of authority to tell him and he suffered it good-natxiredly.

"And guards?" Jonathan asked, already knowing the answer.

"Two in each comer blockhouse and have others walk the roimds outside the stockade tonight. The poor bastards are too lame and tired to run away but we'll take no chances."

Mongo Don turned and walked into the house, passing through the long common room with its litter of shabby.

though once ornate, furnishings and into his bedroom. He looked at the canvas propped against the easel, the simpering face, the rosebud lips, the delicate blonde hair and the staring blue eyes. Why torture his soul? There wasn't a white woman in a thousand miles except some broken down whores in Calabar. And, after all, why should he paint a white woman? He knew he'd never see one again. He'd never last the year out.

His hand smeared the wet paint over the canvas, which he lifted off the easel and regarded with mingled hatred and sorrow. His fist crashed through it and he threw the torn daub to the floor. A sudden spell of dizziness caused him to grab one of the bedposts for support. Then slowly, walking like a man in a dream, he went into the other room and returned with a larger canvas on a stretcher and stood it against the easel. Its blank whiteness mocked him. There was, he knew, some message which he wanted to paint on it but what it was he did not know. It had something to do with Africa and it certainly was not the simpering grace of a heartless coquette. Something deeper, richer, greater and grander than that must be put on the canvas while he was still able —something that would tell the world about these last seven years, some monument he could leave behind him. It would not tell about the heat and squalor and flies; it would not depict a black wench with her thick lips, nor an avaricious young Arab Prince. Instead it must be somethiiig big, something wonderful, something strong and vigorous.

But, as always, it eluded him. He fell back on the unmade bed. The sheets reeked of Jobeena's musk and it nauseated him but he was too weary to get up. If he called her back tonight, as he probably would if MacPherson didn't arrive, he must tell her to scrub her armpits and douse them with scent.

chapter t

Exhausted as he was, Tamboura had felt the contagion of general excitement as the canoes neared their destination. With the hope of liberation from the days of cramped travel, he was shouting as lustily as the Krus themselves when their boat, the third in the line, was maneuvered up to the rickety wharf by the towing canoe, and the many black hands reached out from the wharf to secure it. No sooner were they alongside than their handcuffs were loosened and they were helped out. Their legs were so cramped they were scarcely able to stand but they managed to propel themselves stiflf-legged along the slippery bamboo flooring of the pier and at last onto solid ground. For the first time since Tamboura had left his home village, he was not bound in any way— his feet and hands were free and there was no constricting rope around his neck.

Led by a Negro guard, wearing an old scarlet military jacket and nothing else, they were taken to the neighboring barracoons. These were an extensive part of the settlement of Yendo Castle, heavily stockaded by tree trunks of hard wood as thick as a man's thigh, sunk deeply into the ground with some fifteen feet standing clear, the tops axed into sharp points. Metal chains bound them together and at the comers there were sentry boxes raised above the stockade. A wide door of metal-bossed planks opened on well-oiled hinges and they filed in. Within the stockade there was nothing but a cleanly swept hard dirt compound, but the walls of the stockade were lined with a double tier of wooden shelves, covered by a thick thatch of roof.

As their contingent entered, they could see the other two canoe loads which had preceded them, already stretched out on the shelves, and they were quickly assigned their spaces, two men to a shelf. Tamboura and M'dong were on the upper tier; Sabumbo and the fellow who had been in front of him in the canoe—a young Fullah by the name of

Khandago—were on the lower tier. They lost no time in resting their aching limbs on the hard, clean planks which, although not as comfortable as their beds of hides at home, seemed nevertheless a paradise after the constrictions of the canoes. They even had the comfort of a wooden log, securely spiked to the bed, for a pillow. For a few moments before sleep came they luxuriated in the joy of stretching out at full length, easing their cramped and swollen muscles. But who could keep awake after the many weary nights on the river, sleeping only in fitful snatches between the mosquitoes, the rigid immobility and the physical nearness of a hard male body in front and behind? Tamboura scratched where the insect bites itched the worst, settled his head more comfortably against the log pillow and dropped off into a deep sleep.

He was not disturbed until late afternoon when M'dong, who was already awake, shook him and pointed to the same red-jacketed guard who had led them in. The man was now going from shelf to shelf, waking the men. He had no whip and he was rough but not vicious. The whole policy of the slave factory was to treat the men well during their first days. Unshackled, with a bed to sleep on, food in his belly and no work to do, a man would usually be sufficiently happy not to miss his home village. There were new friends to make, new sights and new experiences to interest him. He was soft-talked into the coming joys of passage on the big ship and exhilarated by the prospects of becoming a stud in another world where his only duty would be to serve an uninterrupted procession of women all night and sleep and eat all day. It was a gratifying prospect and most were willing to undergo the curtailment of their liberty within the stockade in order to gain the greater reward that was promised to them.

They were told to scramble out from their bunks and line up. Once again, Tamboura inserted himself between Sabumbo and M'dong. Instead of the grass rope which had bound their necks together, a thin chain with equally spaced neck-rings was passed from one to the other and each neck was snapped into its collar.

The big door of the stockade opened and they were led down to the river, where another stockade had been erected out into the water, more for the purpose of keeping the crocodiles out than keeping the slaves from escaping. Here they were told to walk out into the water until it reached

their knees. They were furnished with bunches of grass and some slimy stuff which Tamboura had never seen before but which made a white lather all over his body when he applied it. Unlike the white clay, it did not stick to his skin but washed off when he sat down in the water. The clay which Kanili had applied to Tamboura's body had worn off days ago, and now it seemed as if his skin had been thickened by a layer of sweat, dead insects and the unwashed excretions of himself, M'dong and Sabvunbo. After so many days of filth and sweat it was good to be clean again.

They scrubbed themselves with the handfuls of grass and washed each other's backs, making a game of it and sloshing the water over one another's heads. The hours of rest, the joy of physical cleanliness and the cool water had almost restored them to normal, and when, dry and clean, they were led back to the barracoon, the iron collars and chains were removed and they were given palm oil to rub themselves with. Here again, teamwork was employed, and M'dong's hand anointed Tamboura's back, rubbing the oil deep down into his pores, so that his body shone like polished ebony.

Then, and most welcome of all, they were fed with a plentiful stew of meat and vegetables, flavored with salt and little peppers. It was served in large wooden bowls— one bowl to each four men—^with round thin circles of cassava bread to mop it up. Between Tamboura, Sabumbo, M'dong and Khandago, there was no quarreling for the chunks of meat. They showed their village training by each graciously insisting that his neighbor take the largest piece and their only remarks were words of disapproval of him who took the smallest. After they had finished the stew, they were given limes to suck and water to drink and told that they could sleep again.