1636: Seas of Fortune (23 page)

Heyndrick tugged nervously at his earlobe. “Maurício tells me that the Imbangala have crossed rivers before.”

Antoa shrugged. “They’re afraid of your ships with the cannon, so they aren’t going to cross.”

“Perhaps not this month, or next, but they will cross once they have enough numbers. If only to get at our goods,” Heyndrick warned.

“The good whites are helping me find my children,” interjected Kojo. Heyndrick gave him a quick smile of thanks.

“Fine, when they bring the children to you, we can talk again,” said Antoa.

Maria whispered to Heyndrick.

“Let us talk more after dinner,” Heyndrick declared.

* * *

“That didn’t go quite as well as I had hoped,” Heyndrick muttered. “What makes you think that they will be more receptive after dinner?”

“Actually, it’s tomorrow morning that they will be more receptive,” said Maria. “So don’t press too hard after dinner.”

“I would think that tonight, when they’re drunk, they’ll feel more martial than tomorrow morning, when they’re all nursing hangovers.”

“Trust me, I know the Coromantees. And now you must excuse me.” Maria rose.

“Where are you going?”

“I must be polite and help the Coromantee womenfolk prepare dinner.”

* * *

Heyndrick followed Maria’s advice. The next morning, Owusu and Antoa were the first to lay their spears at Heyndrick’s feet.

Heyndrick was dumbfounded.
What had happened?

Maria gave him a nudge. “Uh, thank you,” said Heyndrick. “Take up your weapons, warriors.” He raised his pistol. “Victory!”

They brandished their spears. “Victory!”

* * *

“What just happened there?” asked Heyndrick, as the
Eikhoorn
made its way upstream toward the Marshall’s Creek settlement.

“I had a word with the womenfolk, as I told you. And they made it clear to our valiant warriors that if they didn’t go off to war, the ladies would make them
wish
they were
already dead.
”

* * *

The crew of the
Walvis
’ pinnace pulled at the oars. They picked their way through the mangroves, and stared into the verdant growth of the Suriname coast. Now and then the leaves were disturbed as a bird landed or took flight, but they saw no sign of the presence of man.

David de Vries, sitting beside the helmsman, wondered just how, exactly, he was going to find the Ndongo, let alone bring them into the alliance.

Coqui stood at the prow, and occasionally gestured to turn one way or another. David hoped that he, or the local Indian woman, Tetube, who sat behind him, had some idea of where to look.

Eventually, they beached the boat, and left a couple of guards behind. The rest followed Coqui and Tetube, who led them to a trail. Tetube, it seemed, knew of a friendly Indian village in the area.

Friendly to her tribe, at least.

But there wasn’t cause to worry. The Indians were indeed friendly. And while they had no contact with the Ndongo, they knew another tribe, which traded with them. David distributed a few presents, and acquired a new guide, who went back to the pinnace with them and directed them to the mouth of a nearby creek. Not far up it, they encountered a Ndongo fisherman.

When he spotted them, he immediately sat down and reached for a paddle. Clearly, his trust in the good intentions of a party of white men, even here in Suriname rather than in Africa, was minimal. However, after a moment he obviously decided that there was no way he could outpaddle the crew of the pinnace, even for the moments needed to reach the bank and disappear into the forest. He set down the paddle and slumped, head bowed.

David identified himself as the “Father” of the Gustavans. The fisherman recognized the name of the colony and this seemed to soften his attitude toward them. At least fractionally. David rummaged in a chest and produced a metal fishhook, which he presented to their new acquaintance. That finally loosened the fisherman’s tongue.

He told David that if he brought the visitors to the village unannounced, his people would assume he was acting under duress. He asked David to let him bring word of David’s arrival to the villagers, and assured him that he would receive a proper welcome if he did this.

After a moment, David agreed. Although not without some anxiety as to what, precisely, was the Ndongo concept of a “proper welcome” for white men.

The fisherman headed upriver, and, once he was out of sight, David had Coqui and the other Indians in the party climb trees on either side of the creek, to warn David if the approaching party appeared to be hostile.

Perhaps an hour later, several dugout canoes came down the river. The first canoe had just a few men in it, unarmed. Behind them, but obviously holding back, were two more canoes, both carrying bowmen and spearmen. Clearly, the Ndongo were ready to either parley or fight, as the situation dictated.

David, an experienced explorer, managed to persuade the Ndongo of his good intentions, and the Ndongo invited the Gustavan party to follow them back to their settlement.

The Ndongo, of course, didn’t need to be convinced to fight the Imbangala. Their concerns were over how did the Imbangala get European arms and was David willing to supply their equivalent to the Ndongo.

David explained Carsten’s theory as to the Imbangala windfall, and assured the Ndongo that the Gustavans would give them weapons, provided they came back with him to his ship.

“No, not your ship,” they cried. “You might be trying to put us back in shackles.”

David told them that they didn’t have to come on board, they would be given the arms on the beach. But the arms could only be handed over where the crew of his ship could see the interchange and see that the Ndongo weren’t up to any tricks.

The Ndongo saw the sense of this and agreed.

They came to the beach and admired their new cutlasses. “Guns?” one of them asked hopefully.

“Some other time, perhaps,” said David.

Beginning of Long Dry Season (September to November, 1635)

With the Gustavans’ support, the friendly African and Indian tribes built up their defenses, and set up patrols, curtailing the expansion of the Imbangala. But it was all a big distraction from more productive activities, and it wasn’t long before the allies were debating how to bring the Imbangala to a decisive battle. Especially now that the rains had stopped, and it was easier and safer for the Europeans to enter the forest.

David summoned a grand council of the score or so of tribal leaders, African and Indian, large tribes and small ones.

“Can your scouts locate the Imbangala encampment?” David asked the Ndongo leader, Lucala.

“Perhaps. But destroying the camp does not defeat the Imbangala. They are not a settled people, they are a mercenary troop. We would, at best, deprive them of their slaves and their women, and perhaps the children they are training for war.”

Faye, leader of the Mandinka, stood up. “A thousand pardons for the interruption. But rather than search the jungle for these pestilent Imbangala, why not bait them into a trap?”

“What kind of bait? And what kind of trap?”

* * *

Borguri trembled with rage. “Who has seen this, besides you?” he asked the warrior.

“Just a slave, oh great and wise leader.”

“Kill him.”

Borguri tore down the sign, and mutilated it with his sword. He then got out his tinder and flint, made a fire, and burnt it. Finally, he collected the ashes and tossed them into the nearby stream.

* * *

The next day, a second sign was found. Like the first, it featured a caricature of Borguri, wearing woman’s clothes, and surrounded by various Ndongo symbols of ridicule. Maria was good at drawing things other than plants and animals. And her Ndongo informants had thought instructing her to be great fun.

A necessary skill for drawing wild animals, especially those of the rainforest, was the ability to draw from memory, from a fleeting glance. Maria had remembered Borguri from the deck of the slave ship—despite the ravages of thirst and imprisonment, he was formidable, and received deference from the other Imbangala—and, when the Ndongo described Borguri to her, she realized who they were referring to, and could draw him. Especially with the Ndongo by her side as she drew, quick to point out errors to her.

This sign was seen by a large party of warriors and slaves. Borguri had it chopped to pieces, and burnt, and then he peed on it. He then ordered an immediate raid on the nearest African village, and the sacrifice of six slaves to achieve success.

They arrived at the village only to find that it had been deserted, with all the inhabitants and their moveable possessions gone, and the crops destroyed. They did leave behind a lot of signs, however.

Borguri had to kill one of his warriors that night, who, in his cups, made derogatory remarks about Borguri’s leadership. It was clear that Borguri had to take quick action, but it wasn’t so clear what his target should be. The source of the signs was clearly Gustavus, but Borguri knew that a direct attack on Gustavus, or on Fort Lincoln, would be suicidal.

The answer came a few days later, from one of his spies. This fellow prudently remained in his dugout canoe as he conveyed his news. A dozen or so miles east of Fort Lincoln, in the strip of land between the Great Sea and the Commewijne River, a fetish hut had been built, at a site which the European leaders and the African sorcerers deemed propitious for that purpose. Inside the hut, there was a wood statue of Borguri, surrounded by curse objects and more of the insulting signs. In exactly a week’s time, there would be a ceremony at which the statue would be burnt, in a ritual that would assure the ignominious defeat of Borguri and the Imbangala.

Borguri asked him more questions, assuring himself that the fetish hut was out of cannon range of Fort Lincoln. Then he gave his orders.

Wait. Was that a smirk he saw on the face of his spy? He grabbed a spear and threw it.

The insufficiently prudent agent toppled into the water.

* * *

The Imbangala and their Indian allies crossed the Commewijne River in a swarm of dugout canoes. Borguri left behind the children trainees, with a few wounded regulars to supervise them, as a rear guard.

Borguri led the rest of his war party in the direction of the reported fetish hut. His Caribs scouted ahead and to the flanks, watching for an ambush. They found no one.

At last, the war party entered the clearing that held the fetish hut. They milled about it, singing war songs and building up their courage. At last, one of the Imbangala strode into the hut, and triumphantly grabbed the infamous statue.

His triumph didn’t last long. With the statue dislodged, a spring-loaded pan rose. Inside the pedestal, a concealed trigger mechanism, protected from the tropical damp by rubber and tar, struck a spark, igniting priming powder inside. This lit a safety fuse, which in turn set off the barrels of gunpowder arrayed beneath the floor of the hut. The wood planks fractured, and the shards hurtled upward.

The bold Imbangala, still peering curiously at the statue in his hand, was impaled. So, too, were several of his companions. Others simply fell into the pit.

Borguri wasn’t one of the victims of the trap. He immediately ordered the Imbangala back to the boats (and didn’t trouble himself as to whether his Indian allies were doing the same). They got there, only to discover that their escape had been cut off.

The fluyt
Walvis
, the captured caravel
Vreedom
and the
jacht Eikhoorn
had taken advantage of the the great depth of the river Commewijne, even well upriver, and were already patrolling it, and firing their cannon and swivel guns at any likely targets.

Borguri briefly considered attacking the ships. It was true that his warriors only had to cross some five hundred feet of water, from the north bank of the Commewijne to the sides of the ships, to attack them, but the high tumblehome hulls of the
Walvis
and
Vreedom
would be difficult to assault from the low-slung canoes. The
Eikhoorn
was a more manageable target, but it, like the larger ships, had boarding nets out. For that matter, their decks were packed with Coromantee, Eboe, Mandinka and Arawak warriors, and there were musketeers in the rigging.

Where are the Ndongo?
he wondered.

He got his answer. The Atlantic Ocean, the Suriname River, and the Commewijne River formed a horizontally stretched C, facing east. The Ndongo had been hidden, screened by friendly Indians, far enough to the east to escape detection by the Imbangala’s scouts. Once the Imbangala attacked the fetish hut, they surged westward, driving the Imbangala against the reinforced defenses of Fort Lincoln at the confluence of the Suriname and the Commewijne.

Borguri was one of the last to fall. He had his back to a great tree trunk, and several Ndongo approached him. Borguri dared them to pick a champion to fight him, one on one. The Ndongo backed off slightly, and heatedly argued whether this challenge should be accepted and, if so, which had them had precedence.

At last Faye arrived, a Dutch cutlass in hand. “What is the problem here?” They explained.

“Young idiots,” he muttered. The Ndongo stiffened.

“Bowmen!” Faye’s people raised their bows.

At that, Borguri charged. To no avail. The Ndongo danced back, taunting him and pricking him with their spears, and first one arrow and then another plunged into his body.

Borguri sank to the ground. Faye moved forward, and swung his cutlass. Borguri sank to his knees. “This is real life, not a song,” he admonished the spearmen. “Defeat your enemy at the least cost to yourself.” Faye made a final sweep, beheading Borguri.

Akan village, Paranam

“Kojo, months ago, we spoke of what must be done to recover your children.”

“I remember, Maria. At home, I had gold. I was an
obirempon
, a holder of an elephant’s tail.” It was the Akan way of saying that he was a gold-mining tycoon. “Here, I am but a leaf in the forest. How will I ever be able to buy back my children?”