The Call of Zulina (24 page)

The dungeon thundered with shouts of victory.

Grace caught her breath. “Are we free?” she asked. “Can we just walk out?”

“Out of the dungeon, yes, but not out of the fortress,” Tungo said.

“Es verdad,”
Antonio agreed. “The doors at the ends of the passageways
—
surely they are bolted tight. Probably nailed shut,
también.
To make certain that we cannot leave.”

The dungeon filled with excited chatter as everyone talked at once.

Everything had changed. No longer could Antonio come and go openly. No more did he have Joseph's ear, and he certainly could not rely on the slave trader's trust. And what of Pieter DeGroot? Where did he stand? No one knew for sure. Only one thing was certain: this day—this one day—they had been victorious! Now the precarious tunnel was no longer their only way in and out of the dungeon. Although Antonio no longer had Joseph Winslow's ear, he still had his keys. All of Zulina was potentially theirs.

In the midst of the euphoric chatter, Cabeto looked at Grace. “No, we are not free,” he told her softly. “But we will be!”

Ikem, who had remained aloof from the others throughout the entire confrontation, suddenly stood up. He raised his hands high in the air and commanded, “Listen!”

Immediately, everyone stopped talking. In the silence, the others could now hear what only Ikem had heard through the noise. The ever present moans and cries of the fortress had ceased. In their place was the undulating sound of voices calling out to them from hidden places beyond the dungeon's walls.

In mixed languages and many tongues the voices pleaded, “Me, too … oh, please, me too! Do not forget about me, my brothers and sisters! Come and free me too!”

“B
enjamin! Benjamin, where are you off to?” Henrietta Stevens, still in her nightdress, called out from her bedchamber. “You promised you would spend this time with Charlotte and me, yet here you are, off once again!”

Henrietta didn’t like to show her irritation because it was not the way civilized ladies behaved. Nor did she appreciate being forced to step out of her room still in her nightclothes. But how, pray tell, was one to behave in a civilized way when forced to exist for two entire months on the edge of a heathen jungle with a husband who appeared to have deserted even the vaguest pretense of living as an Englishman? Every other year she dutifully sailed across the ocean—at great personal inconvenience and peril, she was always careful to point out— and forced herself to stay for two long months at her husband's side on the African slave coast. And being an exemplary wife and mother, she not only saw to their daughter's proper upbringing in London, but she also insisted that the girl accompany her on her trips to Africa.

Fortunately, Henrietta had the good sense to make her position quite clear the moment Benjamin first told her he was giving up his slave ship in order to manage a slave house on Africa's coast. Otherwise, she would most assuredly be expected to spend even more time out here. Yes, her husband earned good money. For that she was most grateful. And as he told it, he was much safer here than he had ever been on the slave ships. But Henrietta had her own health and well-being to consider. And there was, of course, Charlotte.

“Go back to your room, my dear,” Benjamin Stevens urged. “You and Charlotte stay inside today and busy yourselves with your lace.”

At the first light of dawn, before his wife and daughter had even begun to stir, before the infernal wind had a chance to get the better of them all, Benjamin Stevens had eased out of his house and headed down the sandy shore.

Despite Henrietta's opinion of his living conditions, he found his house here most comfortable. Simple and utilitarian, that's what it was, exactly what a white man's abode on the coast of Africa should be. He had not the slightest use for the foolish extravagances of Joseph Winslow, who forever crowed about his ridiculous London house. Why should Stevens build anything for Henrietta and Charlotte anyway? They were in Africa so seldom. And now with Charlotte being married off to a man he had never even met, he knew full well that he was not likely to see her again. Not unless he left the slave house without an overseer for a minimum of three months. How could he possibly do that?

So long as the sun was not yet high in the sky—or if he waited until after it had begun to set—Stevens enjoyed the comfortable walk to the slave house he managed for a group of British investors. It was just a complex of shelters on the sandy coastline actually, but a most effective operation. African traders marched captives in coffles into the factory where he checked them over and had them manacled. Then they were securely chained to the walls and floors inside various rooms according to their age, sex, and value. When Stevens had a good supply of slaves ready for sale, he hoisted a signal flag to alert nearby ships that he was open for business. His was not a huge fortress like Zulina, but Benjamin Stevens worked hard, and his profits were enviable.

It was just as the ship carrying Henrietta and Charlotte and their trunks from London arrived in the harbor that the drums had started. In the days since, drumbeats whirled through the air ever more urgently. Stevens couldn’t understand what they said, but the slaves chained up in his holding cells clearly did. Something was happening, and it made him most nervous.

“Benjamin!”

“Go inside, I told you!” Stevens ordered. He was a patient man, but there was a limit to his endurance.

This morning, as he had headed toward the slave houses, Benjamin Stevens had shaded his eyes and gazed out to sea, the same as he did every morning. But to his amazement, he saw that three ships had anchored during the night and that at least two more were sailing his way. What did it mean? Slave pickings were slim right now. Almost a month had passed since he had flown the signal flag. Why, then, the sudden rush of ships?

It was Charlotte Stevens, as she stared out the window because she had nothing else to do—“Not even glass to keep the wretched bugs and mosquitoes out!” Henrietta had groused when she saw her daughter resting her chin on the window ledge—who first saw Benjamin approach with the strangers.

“Look, Mother,” Charlotte called. “Father has one … two … three … four … five … six
—
he has
nine
white men with him!”

Henrietta had already composed the speech she would pour out on her husband when he finally returned home. She had given up so much and suffered so desperately just to spend some time with him, she had planned to say, and look how thoughtlessly and rudely he treated her. And Charlotte
—
on the very eve of her marriage! Why, it was little wonder his daughter did not plan to come back to Africa. As a matter of fact, in consideration of his present behavior, she herself might be forced to come to the very same decision! (Here, Henrietta had planned to pause long enough for the effects of her threatened punishment to soak in.)

Righteous indignation. That was the tone she would assume. And she would sprinkle it with a generous helping of personal pain.

Henrietta waited at the door, the words of her recriminating speech already filling her mouth. But when she saw the set of her husband's face, she forgot all about the speech. Instead, she asked, “What is it, Husband? What has happened?”

Stevens motioned the men toward the parlor. Then he took his wife's arm and led her to the back of the house.

“Joseph Winslow!” he said. “That arrogant old windbag has really done it this time!”

G
race sank wearily back against the coolness of the stone wall. She brushed unruly wisps of hair away from her eyes and mopped the dripping perspiration from her face. She was exhausted—utterly and thoroughly exhausted. Forty-seven people, she had counted. Forty-seven men, women, and children chained in the dank stone holes and locked rooms. It had taken hours to unshackle all of them. But now one entire wing of Zulina was free.

“Can ton!”
a gap-toothed man behind her proclaimed in a loud, gravelly voice.

Grace looked over at him and then at the small clutch of people gathered around him. In spite of her weariness, she couldn’t help smiling. In the Dogon language,
can ton
meant “a village of their own.” At first, with so many desperate souls from such a variety of tribes and tongues, confusion reigned. People scurried from room to room in search of family, or even desperate to catch sight of a villager they recognized. Something familiar, that's what they longed to find. But now everyone was beginning to settle into small groups with others who spoke the same language or in some other way reminded him or her of home.

“Muskets … pistols … gunpowder … lead balls—” From the far side where they hunkered together, Grace could hear Cabeto's voice as he ticked off his list to Antonio. Then Cabeto stopped abruptly and demanded, “The Dutchman. Can he really get all these for us, Antonio?”

“He will try,” Antonio answered. “He can promise no more than that.”

“Knives too. And spears,” Gamka interjected impatiently. “Tell the Dutchman Africans do not fight like white men. Firearms are not enough for us. We need knives and spears. Tell him bows and arrows too.”

“Knives, maybe,” Antonio answered with a wave of his hand. “But not spears or bows and arrows. He will not find those in the white man's storehouse.”

“You tell him—” Gamka began, but Cabeto interrupted in a rock-solid voice.

“You tell him, ‘Thank you,’” Cabeto said. “The Dutchman can only get us white man's arms, and he risks his life to do that. We understand, and we are thankful. We ask nothing more.”

Grace turned slightly away from Oyo and readjusted herself. She slumped down until her left shoulder rested firmly against the hard stones, then she propped her hand under her head. From this position, she could see Cabeto framed between Antonio and Sunba, with Gamka on his other side.

What a strange man he is, this Cabeto!
Grace thought, and a strange flutter moved through her.
I do not understand him in the least.

Cabeto raised his hand as he talked and gestured toward the door. It was that same rock-hard hand he had clamped down on her mouth just before he dragged her out of her old life and into this violent new world. His voice rang with enough authority to still Gamka and save her life from Tungo's murderous scheme, yet it had filled with tears when he told of the slavers’ assault on his village. Cabeto, who kidnapped her, was the same man who humbly asked her forgiveness. Cabeto, who consistently argued for peace, was the same man who commanded this desperate band of men and women preparing to fight a battle they could not possibly win. Who was this Cabeto—a man of peace or a man of war? A man she could learn to trust, or a man in whose presence she must forever be on her guard?

“Ah keen!”
Tungo cried from atop the water barrel where he had positioned himself.
“Ah keen!”

Grace sighed. One thing was certain—Cabeto was nothing like Tungo. Tungo, who bellowed out his battle plans for all to hear, then boastfully pronounced himself
ah keen
! A strong warrior doesn’t need to announce himself. Soon enough, what he is will be obvious to everyone simply by his actions.

Yet the more Tungo called out his self-proclaimed “strong warrior” title, the more his confidence grew. He jumped down from the barrel and strutted about waving his arms and his gun in the air, and then he proudly proclaimed himself the honorable leader of the victorious rebels.

“Ohla!”
he yelled as he leaped into the air and thrust his musket high.
“Ohla Tungo!”

Men and women stopped what they were doing to stare up at him. They silenced their talk in order to listen. And yet, it was not to Tungo that they turned for guidance. No, it was to Cabeto. Cabeto, who didn’t announce himself or proclaim a proud title. Cabeto, who got busy and did what needed to be done. When Cabeto gave instructions, people not only listened but also rushed to obey.

Grace watched Cabeto, and she smiled.

“Tungo, we must have a strong leader who will make certain the doors are at all times secure from the inside,” Cabeto said in a voice that did not allow for discussion. “You will be that man. Take whoever you need to help you.”

Then Cabeto turned to his brother: “Sunba, you will guard the passageway. You, also, take who you need.”