1636: Seas of Fortune (22 page)

“Henrique could write the letter, couldn’t he? Portugal being under the Spanish crown, they would honor a Portuguese document. And I wouldn’t think a minor port official in Havana is going to have been informed that Henrique is a heretic.”

“Probably not. But then there’s the other problem. The financial one. He would have to buy his children. And he doesn’t have any money.”

“Well, it’s going to take him months, if not years, to learn Spanish, and more important, how he must act if he wants to be successful. The important thing is that we can give him a reason to hope.”

A moment later she added, “A reason to live.”

* * *

Carsten Claus looked out across the expanse of the Suriname. The river was perhaps half a mile across here. The vegetation on the far bank was dense; there could be an army of Africans hiding there, for all he knew. He wished he knew how the troublemakers were arming themselves. He suspected that the Portuguese in Belém do Pará, or the Spanish in Santiago de León de Caracas, were involved, to harass the USE. But would they arm slaves who had been taken off a Portuguese-crewed, Spanish-licensed ship? Could any of the colonists have been so short-sighted as to sell arms to the ex-slaves without permission?

To reassure the colonists, he had put the
Eikhoorn
on river patrol duty, and banned the Africans from fishing within a mile of the colony. He was waiting for the
Eikhoorn
to return from upriver; he had some questions for its skipper. But what he wanted most of all was for David de Vries to show up with a ship of force, and more colonists, so that they clearly outpowered and outnumbered the Africans. David should have been here a month ago.

At least, if their African informants were correct, he could now put a name to the problem: Imbangala. Maurício, sitting beside Carsten, had just explained to him that since 1615, the Portuguese of Luanda had used the Imbangala as mercenaries in their wars with Ndongo. Ndongo warriors, if captured in battle, were exported to the New World to work on plantations and in the mines. But the Imbangala? Since they were allies of the Portuguese in Luanda, Maurício hadn’t expected to find them sold into slavery. Perhaps these had disobeyed orders? Or had the Portuguese beaten the Ndongo into submission, and decided the Imbangala had outlived their usefulness?

Carsten expressed the hope that the Gustavans’ African friends were, indeed, friends. Maurício nodded, but offered no reassurances on that score. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then both realized simultaneously that they were no longer alone, and turned their heads.

“Forgive the interruption,” said Maria.

Carsten forced a smile. “How can a visit from you be considered an interruption?”

“You perhaps know that Maurício and I have been researching the whereabouts of the children of one of the Coromantees? We think it very likely that they were shipped to Havana. I wondered—could the Anti-Slavery Society send someone there, to find and redeem them? I am sure it would be very good publicity, to reunite the children with their father.”

Carsten swatted a mosquito. “The Society has discussed the possibility of redemption.”

“And?”

“Decided against it. First, because our financial resources are limited. Second, because we fear that any concerted policy of that kind would just encourage the slavers to fetch more slaves so they could sell them to us for a quick profit. We would be, what’s that American term, a ‘revolving door.’ Once naval resources can be spared to stop the slave trade at its source, and we have better funding, we may reconsider redemption.”

“So what would you recommend?”

“Well—” Carsten was distracted by the appearance of the
Eikhoorn
, just coming around the upriver bend. It reminded him of the exciting day that they had seized the
Tritón
, and sunk its longboat, not many yards from where the
Eikhoorn
was plowing back downriver.

The longboat. He started cursing.

“Carsten, what’s wrong?” asked Maria.

“We know from the reports that the Africans who have been causing trouble have weapons. I just figured out where they got them from.” He pointed upriver.

“I don’t understand . . . oh . . . the longboat? But wouldn’t the weapons all be rusted?”

“By now they would be. But if they were found early enough, not irretrievably. The rust could have been scraped off.”

“But how would they have known where to look? You don’t suppose a colonist told them?”

“Perhaps. It might not have been evil in intent. A colonist might have bragged about the battle. Anyway, I will have the damn boat brought up. We’ll take a count of how many bodies, guns and swords are still there, and that will let us make a good guess as to what was taken.”

Carsten stood up. “The crew of the
Eikhoorn
is going to have to wait a little longer for their supper, I’m afraid. As for your problem, I think you are going to have to find a way for your Coromantee protégé to find the money himself. If he does, then the Society could perhaps find a trustworthy agent to send. A priest, perhaps.”

* * *

The three Ndongo warriors, Mukala, Aka, and Miguel, studied the bodies of their fallen comrades. Both bore diagonal gashes on their foreheads, but their death wounds were elsewhere.

“Imbangala,” Mukala said. The Imbangala were in the habit of distinctively marking their kills so that each warrior could claim the bodies of the enemies he had slain, have them carried back to the camp by his slaves, and then eat them with the proper formalities so that their ghosts couldn’t haunt the slayer.

Miguel pointed to the death wound. “That wasn’t made by a spear.”

“No,” Mukala agreed. “It’s a slash, not a thrust.”

“And look how clean the edges are,” said Aka. “That wasn’t made with sharpened wood, or flint. It was a cut from a steel blade.”

“This is very bad news,” said Miguel. “The whites are arming the Imbangala with cutlasses. That is the only possible explanation.”

“We should have wiped out the filthy Kasanje Imbangala right after we landed,” said Mukala. “We had the advantage of numbers then.” Many Ndongo, warriors and farmers alike, had been captured and shipped to the New World, to work Portuguese sugar plantations and Spanish silver mines. There were relatively few Imbangala on the slave ship because most were Portuguese allies. But Kasanje, who led one of the Imbangala bands, had set up an independent state in 1620, and so his people were fair game.

“That is easy to say now,” reproved Aka. “But we were so thirsty we could barely move our limbs when we were freed.” The slave ship had gone first to Angola, and tried its luck, even though it didn’t have a proper license and therefore had to collect slaves on the sly. It ventured farther north, among the Coromantee, Eboe and Mandinka, only because it hadn’t been able to fill its hold. So the Angolans had endured the privations of middle passage longer than any of their brothers in suffering.

Mukala made a gesture of propitiation to the gods. “Powers forbid we suffer so again!”

Miguel added thoughtfully, “If we had attacked the Imbangala immediately, the whites might have feared that we would attack them next, and turned their swivel guns on us.”

“Do you think the Imbangala have guns, too?” asked Mukala. “If so, we are in big trouble.”

“Don’t know, but we better tell the elders what we found.” Aka pointed at the bodies. “In the meantime let’s rig a sled for these bodies. I’ll not leave them for the Imbangala. And be quick about it; we don’t know when they’ll be back.”

A few days later, the Ndongo moved their encampment some miles farther east, away from the Gustavans and, they hoped, the Imbangala.

* * *

The Gustavans’ spirits were lifted by the somewhat belated arrival of the four-hundred-ton, eighteen-gun
Walvis
, their lifeline to the USE. It was commanded by Captain David Pieterszoon de Vries, president of the USE-chartered United Equatorial Company—their employer. It was accompanied by a
jacht
, the six-gun
Siraen
.

He brought news that was both welcome and unsettling. Welcome, in that peace had finally come to the Low Countries. Unsettling, in that there was now a Catholic king in the Netherlands, Don Fernando. The colonists, many of whom came from the Netherlands, were mostly Protestants, and therefore not inclined to trust the ex-cardinal infante’s promise of religious tolerance—even if Fredrik Hendrik was now a “trusted advisor.”

On a personal level, Maria was overjoyed when David brought word that her brother Adolph and his wife Catarina had survived the Spanish invasion. Her cup of happiness overflowed when David gave her a letter from Adolph.

This reaction was somewhat tempered once she had read the letter. Adolph was a professor of medicine, and the curator of the Leiden Botanical Gardens.

He complained about the damage the Spanish troops had done to the garden. He complained that the students weren’t paying attention in class. And he complained that the administration had unfairly reprimanded him for not showing more activity.

It was, he pointed out, all Maria’s fault. He would have sent his
Catalogus plantarum
to Elzevier for publication two years ago if Maria hadn’t sent him all those new plants from Grantville, thus throwing him off schedule. And then made matters worse by sending him exotic specimens from Suriname.

To add insult to injury, since she was gallivanting around the New World, without the slightest regard for her reputation (and for the damage she was doing, by association, to his dignity as a professor), that meant she wasn’t back home drawing the plant illustrations for him.

At the end of this litany, he closed by hoping she was well.

Maria crumpled up the letter and tossed it into the Suriname River. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s a brother,” she announced.

* * *

David digested the news without any more change of expression than an up-timer might have seen on the faces carved upon Mount Rushmore. But he knew that the Imbangala couldn’t be allowed to get away with killing colonists, even ones who foolishly ventured into their territory.

“All right, this is what we’ll do. First, we need to fortify the town and Fort Lincoln. Fortunately, I brought cement, and instructions on how to use it to make concrete. Concrete is stronger than wood, and doesn’t need to be carved like stone. Besides cement, we need sand, gravel and water, but I believe this country has those materials in abundance.

“I also have the materials for a proper gatehouse, that is, I brought a portcullis and the like. And I have cannon in ballast. They are
pedreros
that were being sold off and replaced by newer designs, but they should be fine for fighting these Imbangala.

“We will need the Africans or the Indians, or both, for fighting in the forests. While the colonists are seeing to the defenses, we will send out emissaries. Heyndrick and Maria, you’ll take the
Eikhoorn
upriver to talk to the Coromantee. And see if Captain Marshall, or his Indians, are willing to offer any assistance.

“Henrique and Maurício, you’ll go to the Mandinka and the Eboes.”

“The Ndongo are much more numerous, and they are already at war with the Imbangala,” interjected Maurício. “Wouldn’t I be more use talking to them?”

“Perhaps, but we know that they are also more hostile to Europeans, thanks to what the Portuguese have been doing in Luanda the last hundred years. I can speak Portuguese—I was Jan Pieterszoon Coen’s right-hand man in Asia. But I can tell them honestly that I am Dutch, and the Portuguese are my enemies. Present company excepted, of course.

“Also, we hear that they’ve moved pretty far to the east. We’ll need a big ship like the
Walvis
to force its way back to windward, find them, and move them some place more useful. And I’d be needed to skipper the
Walvis
in any event.

“Coqui will come with me, to talk to the local Indians. And also—what’s her name?”

“Tetube?”

“Right. The lass who witnessed Imbangala atrocities first hand. Anyway, we’ll organize a Grand Alliance, and put down the Imbangala for good.”

* * *

“He’s coming, he’s coming!” the Mandinka children shrieked, running up the path to their village.

“Who’s coming, children?” said the adult on guard duty.

“‘He Who Talks’!”

The Mandinka had quickly realized that Maurício was one of the select few who had more than the usual mortal allotment of
nyamo
, the secret energy that allowed one to practice sorcery. It was held by great hunters, skilled blacksmiths,
gree gree
men, and of course the
nyancho
, the hereditary warrior aristocracy from whom they drew their rulers.

Had not Maurício presided over the ceremony in which their shackles were removed? No doubt his
nyamo
had subdued the cruel whites who had crewed the slave ship, forcing them to yield up the key and accept the loss of their property.

When they learned that Maurício spoke the languages of all the Europeans, and seemingly all the Africans, that was further proof of his power. The Mandinka did argue as to whether this was a natural, spontaneous manifestation of his
nyamo
, or whether he actually cast a spell when he wanted to learn a new language. But either way, he was a man to be respected, even feared.

* * *

Henrique, watching the fuss made over Maurício, was privately amused. He knew of the epithet, “He Who Talks,” which had been given to Maurício, and had told Maria that once the Africans knew Maurício better, they would no doubt change it to “He Who Talks Too Much.”

But for the moment, it worked to the Gustavans’ advantage. Henrique and Maurício were ceremoniously ushered into the hut of Faye, the leader of the Mandinka.

* * *

“So,” concluded Heyndrick, “the people who freed you now call upon you to fight with them against the Imbangala threat.”

The reaction of the Coromantee miners wasn’t quite what he had hoped for.

“What’s in it for us?” asked Antoa.

“That’s right,” said Owusu. “We’re here on the west side of the river, and the Imbangala are on the east. Let the Imbangala and the Ndongo kill each other.”