1636: Seas of Fortune (24 page)
Read 1636: Seas of Fortune Online
Authors: Iver P. Cooper
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Alternative History, #Action & Adventure
“There is a way of getting gold from streams, rather than by digging holes in the ground. My friend from America, Lolly, calls it ‘panning.’ You take a shallow dish—”
“You need not explain this ‘panning,’ Maria. All the women and children of the Ashanti know how to gather the flecks of gold which the River God has scattered amidst the gravel.”
“And do you know how to do this?”
“Of course. I was a child once. And I watched my wife teach our children, and saw my Mansa find her first nugget.”
“Well, I wish I could just give you the gold you need, but I can’t. But I have consulted our oracles”—that was how the Africans interpreted her references to encyclopedia articles—“and learned that there is river gold in this land.” She started drawing in the sand. “This is our river, the Suriname.” She added two more sinuous curves. “And the Saramacca to our west, and the Marowijne to the east.
“Upriver, the Marowijne forks like so.” She drew in the Tapanahoni and the Lawa, and then added an “X” between the locations of the up-time towns of Grand Santi and Cottica. She twirled her finger around it. “Here, somewhere, there is gold.”
Maria then swept her hand over the upper Suriname and Saramacca. “Here, too, but I can’t be more specific.”
“How do I get to these places? How long is the journey? How friendly are the Indians?”
“You will need to go by canoe. Tetube said that she can guide you. And Coqui said he will go, too, he is bored.” Maria suspected that Coqui’s offer had less to do with boredom than with the chance to get to know Tetube better.
“We Akan usually don’t mine gold alone. It’s most often a family enterprise. I will see if any of my people want to come along.”
Maria grimaced. “I must ask you not to. I want this kept a secret. I don’t want all the Gustavans running off to look for gold when they should be farming to keep themselves fed.”
Fort Lincoln, Suriname
“Getting the colonists to follow orders without griping was hard enough. But if every plan you make has to be presented to every kinglet in this Little Africa you have created, in some kind of grand palaver, you will go insane before the rains return,” said David.
“What do you suggest I do?” asked Carsten.
“Get the chiefs together and tell them that you want them to meet and pick a paramount chief. Someone to represent them on all save the most important matters.”
“Right, I’ll do that.”
* * *
The chiefs had been huddled in the great ceremonial hut for twelve hours straight. Carsten had told them a few hours earlier that none of them would be leaving it until they picked the chief of chiefs.
Now and then, Maurício was called in to clarify some point or other that they were arguing about. No one wanted an error in translation to get a blood feud started. Finally, after a long waiting period, he decided to snatch some sleep while he could.
Perhaps an hour later, the curtain that had been hung over the hut opening to keep mosquitoes out was pushed back once again, and Faye stuck his head out. “Maurício, please,” he said.
Carsten sighed. “Maurício!” he called.
“He’s asleep,” said Henrique.
“Well, wake him up. We want them to finish one of these days.”
Still rubbing his eyes, Maurício arrived, and entered the hut.
He emerged a few minutes later, looking wide awake, even a little wild-eyed.
“Well? Have they picked a paramount chief, yet?”
“Yes,” said Maurício. “For the love of God . . . Me.”
Maria gave a whoop. “All Hail Maurício, King of the Jungle!”
Tears of the Sun, Milk of the Moon
Winter 1635 to Early 1637
Surinamese Short Wet Season (December 1635–January 1636),
On the banks of the Coppename, Western Suriname
Maria Vorst, artist, botanist, and author, mulled over the tribulations of life in the Suriname rainforests. Frequent downpours. Oppressive heat when it wasn’t raining. Hungry crocodilians looking for a human-sized snack. Venomous snakes that didn’t take kindly to passers-by. Hordes of biting, stinging and otherwise annoying insects. Tropical diseases that could kill you or make you wish you were dead.
She loved it anyway.
But all good things must come to an end.
Maria peered into the bush. “Just a little farther, Henrique, and we’ll be through.”
The down-time Europeans thought the jungle was impenetrable, hundreds upon hundreds of miles of dense vegetation. In fact, Maria suspected that all too many up-timers thought the same, their knowledge of the jungle being based primarily on vague recollections of Tarzan movies.
As she had explained to the readers of her popular travelogue,
Into the Rainforest with Musket and Paintbrush
, “the rainforest floor is dark, shaded by the rainforest canopy. Since it’s dark, there’s not a lot of vegetation.” To Maria with her artist’s eye, the true jungle was like a cathedral, with an emerald roof, and great open chapels for the worship of nature.
The “jungle” only looked like an up-time Hollywood movie jungle if you were on the river, where there was plenty of sunlight to make plants happy. But if you wiggled or cut your way through the “jungle wall” bordering the river, you entered the true jungle, the Green Cathedral.
Henrique da Costa raised his machete and took another swing.
* * *
Henrique and Maria first met in Fort Kykoveral, back in 1634. Henrique was a Marrano, a Jew who had practiced his religion in secret in Catholic Brazil, and Maria was a steadfast Protestant, of the Arminian persuasion. In a world divided by religion, it didn’t bode well for romance. An early flirtation had fizzled out.
Still, they were close friends, with a love of the outdoors, and so they talked as they settled into their respective hammocks that night. Henrique, who had lived in the Amazon for many years, had taught her the trick of rocking oneself to sleep. You fastened a rope to the side of the hammock, and led it off at right angles. Wrap it halfway around a convenient tree trunk and lead the free end back. Give it a couple of pulls, and the hammock would rock back-and-forth for many minutes.
But Maria wasn’t ready for sleep just yet. “Henrique, I received a very interesting proposal from the Danes. The Danish East India Company wants to set up rubber plantations in Asia. Preferably near their trading post at Tranquebar, in southeastern India, but if need be, elsewhere. We know that rubber can be grown in plantations in Malabar, Ceylon, Burma, Siam, Cochinchina, Malaya, Sumatra, Java and Borneo—it’s in the up-time books.”
“So they want us to teach them how to tap the milk of the rubber tree, huh?”
“They don’t just want tapping lessons, they want rubber tree seeds.”
“Why should we help them kill off our rubber industry? Isn’t that what the British did to Brazil in the old time line?”
“They have pointed out to David’s shareholders that it is only possible to harvest wild rubber in South America, because the South American Leaf Blight spreads too easily when the trees are close together.” An up-time book on South America had mentioned the failure of the Ford rubber plantation at “Fordlandia” and a modern edition of
Encyclopedia Britannica
had made more general reference to the blight. “Gustavus will get shares in the rubber plantations as compensation. And in addition, the Danes will bring us seeds and cuttings for other tropical plants: cacao, sugarcane, and perhaps even coffee. So we’ll have plantations of our own.”
“Ah. Something for everyone.”
“But the rubber tree seeds they want aren’t those of the local species,
Hevea guianensis
. They want
Hevea brasiliensis
.”
Henrique stopped rocking. “So that’s why you’re talking to me.”
“That’s right. You ran the rubber tapping operation in the Tapajós before the Portuguese discovered you were Jewish. So you know exactly where to look for good producers.”
“And I also know the ‘back door’ into the Amazon.” Henrique and his servant Maurício, with the help of the Manao Indians Coqui and Kasiri, had discovered a connection, the sometime-lake Rupununi, between the Amazon and Essequibo river basins.
“We can retrace your escape route.”
Henrique pondered this for a while. “I don’t know whether to hope for a final encounter with Bento Maciel Parente, or not.” Henrique had sought to protect “his” Indians from Parente, and it was Parente who had been Henrique’s most dogged pursuer during his flight.
“He’s not worth your taking unnecessary risks, Henrique.”
Henrique grunted. Maria couldn’t tell whether it was a grunt of agreement.
“Wait,” said Henrique. “Rubber tree seeds have to be planted within a few days or they just die. At least, the ones here do. And it will take months to pack them out of the Amazon by my ‘back door.’ And a couple more months, at least, to get them back to Europe.”
“A few days, if they aren’t protected from dessication or fungal attack. But the encyclopedia says to pack them in dry soil or charcoal, and I have done experiments with our native Guianan seeds that suggest that with the right packing material and containers, we can keep them viable for a month or two. Maybe longer with a fungicide.”
“But surely we can’t get them back to Europe that soon.”
“The Danes have promised me a very fast ship, although I am not permitted to reveal details, and I think that I might even be able to plant the seeds in soil while still on board, as long as I do it once I am sure we are outside of the range of the leaf blight. Then I can keep the seedlings alive in Wardean boxes.”
“Well, I’m glad for you, Maria. I know you have wanted to see the Amazon, and it’s nice that you will be able to do so at someone else’s expense.”
Maria sat up in her hammock. “Henrique, look at me. After we go to the Amazon, I am returning to Europe. The king of Denmark has decided that he should have a botanical garden and he wants me to be the curator. He is going to build me a greenhouse, since the winters are so cold in Copenhagen, and I will be able to go on expedition to Asia. To Asia, Henrique!”
“I see.”
“Don’t look glum. You could come with me. I would welcome a partner of your experience.”
“I don’t know, Maria. In the Amazon, I am an expert. But in Asia, I would be a, a . . . what is that American term?”
“Greenhorn?”
“That’s the one.”
“I think you underestimate how quickly you would adjust. I know that I have read up-time books about naturalists who traveled all over the world. Gerald Durrell, for one.”
“I’ll think about it.”
African Market Village, Near Paramaribo
Carsten Claus ducked his head as he entered the audience room of the “Jungle King” and then stood for a moment in appreciation of its rude grandeur.
The jungle king was seated on an ornately carved stool, and an attendant was briskly waving a large palm branch. The great monarch wore a loincloth, a cavalier’s hat with a rakishly positioned harpy eagle tail feather, and a necklace whose pièce de resistance was a pierced fragment of an old CD.
“Well, Maurício, you’ve certainly come up in the world.”
Maurício made a deprecating gesture.
“Tempore felici, multi numerantur amici. Cum fortuna perit, nullus amicus erit.”
It was a reminder that despite his present appearance, he was one of the better educated men in the colony.
“So how’s the king-ing business going for you?”
“Well enough. With great regret I had to dismiss the proposal that as chief-of-chiefs I should take a wife from each of the African tribes making up our little confederation.”
“You didn’t fancy yourself the Sultan of Suriname, complete with seraglio?”
“It sounded good in theory. And among Kasiri’s people, the chiefs are polygamists, so she didn’t reject the proposal out of hand.” Kasiri was an Indian from Manao in the Amazon. “But there weren’t a lot of women among the slaves we freed; perhaps one in three. And most of the ones who were of marriageable age got hooked up pretty quickly after the landing. So I’d have to either to take another man’s wife away, which is asking for trouble, or pick from the few unattached women of each tribe. Who of course are the ones who didn’t get picked already, if you get my drift.”
“Well, I have a little project to take your mind off political marriages, or the lack thereof. I got an interesting letter from the Danish East India Company—”
“The East Indies are half a world away from here.”
Carsten shrugged. “There’s no Danish
West
India Company to tell them to bugger off. It has come to their attention that plants grow rather vigorously here. Perhaps you can interest some of your tribesmen in going into the vegetable oil business? Palms, perhaps?”
“For cooking?”
“I think the Danes are more interested in biofuel.” His eyes strayed to the bowl of fruit on the table beside Maurício.
“Help yourself,” said Maurício. “As you said, plants grow rather vigorously here, so there’re plenty more where that came from.”
Carsten reached for a passion fruit, and took a quick bite. “What a luscious juice it has.” He spat out a seed. “The fuel’s to support a pet project of Maria’s, that they’ve been corresponding with her about.”
“Well, if it’s for Maria, and it’s paying work, by all means.”
Surinamese Short Dry Season (February to March) 1636,
Gustavus (Paramaribo)
Lorenz Baum, the colony’s master carpenter, rolled up the plans. “And what did you say this structure was for?”
“A watchtower,” Carsten Claus, acting governor of the colony of Gustavus, said.
“Well, you certainly want a watchtower that isn’t going to fall down anytime soon. It is quite . . .” The carpenter hunted for the word he wanted. “Substantial.”
“It’s forty-plus feet tall; I don’t want it blown down.”
“It will have tripod supports fixed in concrete. It would take a hurricane to blow it down. And Maria said that according to those up-time encyclopedias, hurricanes never hit this coast.”
“Well, if you really want to know . . .” Carsten lowered his voice, and the carpenter involuntarily leaned closer. “It’s Maria’s idea. Make it fancy enough, and we can put it about to the Indians and the Africans that it’s a magic thing, that it will do all sorts of bad things to anyone who attacks the town, and even worse things to anyone who tries to burn it or knock it down. And that way, if we have a falling out, they will think twice before attacking.”
“Oh. That makes a strange kind of sense. Well, I best be getting back to the shop and make sure that apprentice of mine is working and not trying to spot the Indian girls skinny-dipping.”
Fort Lincoln, Near the Mouth of the Suriname River, Suriname
It was nearly sunset when the strange canoe slipped up the Suriname river. The sentinel in the watchtower at Fort Lincoln blew on a conch shell, summoning his sergeant.
“Well, I hope this was worth interrupting my dinner,” that worthy grumbled.
“It’s a canoe,” the sentry said, handing over the scope. “It has a sail, but it doesn’t look like a Carib sail. Don’t they use a square sail, with a mast up front?”
The sergeant squinted. “That’s a spritsail; European influence, for sure. I see two . . . no, three people. . . . You don’t suppose there’s a Spanish army hiding in that palm-thatched hut at the stern?”
The sentry started to apologize for disturbing the sergeant.
“No, no, you did the right thing. By the markings on that sail . . . I think our intrepid explorers have returned. Coqui, Tetube and Kojo, that is.”
“Where from?”
“Maria told me that she had sent them to explore the Marowijne.” That was the river that, in the world the Americans came from, had marked the border between Dutch and French Guiana. “She said that Tetube had kinfolk among the tribes there.”
“Wonder if they found anything interesting?”
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Like El Dorado?”
The sentry grinned sheepishly. “There’s always hope . . .”
“Perhaps. Given the course they’re on, I don’t think they plan on stopping here, so I guess we aren’t going to find out anything tonight.”
Gustavus Colony, Paramaribo, Suriname
Coqui, Tetube and Kojo arrived at the Paramaribo dock, tired but pleased with themselves, some minutes later. They asked the dock guard whether their friends were in town. He told them that Maria Vorst and Henrique da Costa were out exploring the Coppename River in western Suriname, and intended to visit the Dutch at Fort Kykoveral, farther west. Maurício, Henrique’s former servant and the present “chief-of-chiefs” of the rescued Africans, was visiting with the Eboe, whose village was on the Commewijne some miles to the east. And his wife Kasiri, Coqui’s sister, was with him.
Kojo was disappointed at the news, but he invited Coqui and Tetube to come back with him to the Ashanti village, farther upriver. The village was a circle of huts. The smell coming from the cooking pots in the center started Coqui’s stomach rumbling, much to Tetube’s amusement.
The travelers might have preferred to sleep, but there was food, drink and dancing. And more drink. Soon, Coqui and Tetube fell asleep.
“More
piwari
for the rest of us,” Kojo commented.
Antoa, the leader of the local Ashanti, grinned. “Well, how was the trip?”
“I told you—”
“Yes, yes, I know about the color of the Marowijne, and the strange birds, and the Indians you met. But you know what I am really asking about. And you owe me a debt, you know. From before we were taken by the Bad People.” By which he meant slavers.
“Tell no one else,” said Kojo. “At least not until Maria gives permission.”
“She is a powerful seeress, I will do nothing to offend her.”
