The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (19 page)

I asked the guides if they knew of a white man living in a village to the north-east. They shook their heads. I would have thought they would have: it was not that long ago and the man had children. But Africa, like the sea, is a place without memory.

January 5
— A long day. We reached the fort at 1100 and locked the slaves into the barracoons. The dungeons were very crowded because the chieftain had brought about 400 captives who had been there waiting for three days now. The barracoons stink of sweat and shit. The sergeant brought the chieftain to me as soon as we had finished putting away the slaves. He was a tall man who wore orange robes and carried a finely carved staff. He wanted me to look at the slaves immediately, saying over and over again how he had brought me only the strongest, healthiest slaves since he knows I am such a great trader and he knew I would be very pleased and so on. I cut him short and told him I would examine the slaves after noon. I could have done so at once, but my men had to eat and rest after the long march. I, too, wished to simply be by myself for a while. I went for a walk along the beach and sat there for about an hour. It was so peaceful just resting there watching the gentle rocking of the
Kush
as she lay anchored offshore, listening to the crash of the waves and feeling the wind caress my cheek. It was with great reluctance that I finally got up. But business was business.

My men brought the slaves 10 at a time into the Palaver Hall while the soldiers stood guard. The examination was an accustomed routine for me, of course, but this time I had both physicians examine each slave. I wanted only the healthiest ones for this last trip. I kept a close eye on each examination: I had no medical training but long experience had given me an instinct for those slaves who, though healthy, might try to kill themselves or who might die through sheer apathy on the journey back to the New World. Two soldiers restrained the Africans while the physicians went through the routine – eyes, teeth, hair, genitals and anus, squeeze the arms and legs, poke the stomach – while I watched to see how each slave reacted. Many stood as though the two physicians were not really there, some shivered all through, others cringed, women and children often wept. I slowly culled from each group. There was no particular reaction that made me think a particular African would not survive, but my perceptions had been proved right often enough for me to trust my judgment. By dusk I had chosen 316 slaves. This meant a cargo of 609. I was usually a loose-packer, so my normal complement was about 450. But I decided to tight-pack for this last trip, hence the reason I hired the extra physician, for tight-packing always resulted in more deaths. I was quite aware of the advantage of tight-packing, since you might end up with a greater total of slaves to sell by the time you reached home. Even loose-packers such as myself always lost about fifteen out of every hundred slaves, but I had always favoured this method in order to avoid as many deaths as possible (which is why I chose the slaves so carefully in the first place – I am not a heartless man). But I had to change my method on this trip, having Maria and the infants and the farm to consider. After the slaves I had chosen were put into a curral, my men set about branding them. While Mr. Cebola saw about our supplies, I sat down with the chieftain over a bottle of cane liquor to haggle. He laughed all the way through our bargaining, but he was ruthlessly shrewd. After an hour, we settled on a price both of us were happy with. He laughed again and spit on his palm and shook my hand. ‘Now, friend me,' he said, ‘Me de have thing thing extra special a you.' I said, in the same simple language we used to communicate, ‘Friend me, you leave nothing fi me a trade but me clothes pon me back. You make me poor too bad.' He roared with laughter, banging his stick on the table in appreciation. ‘Friend me, when you see what I de have, you go beg you God a find more gold.'

We went down to the dungeons, to a small cell where we sometimes put very violent captives. I peered through the bars into the dim interior and, for a few moments, I could have sworn that the cell was empty. Then I saw him, standing chained to the stone wall as though he were part of it: a huge Negro with a bald head, a powerful chest and thick limbs. He stood perfectly still, his wrists manacled in front of him, his legs planted like tree trunks on the earth floor. In the shadows, I could not see his eyes but his face was without expression. It was his stillness, and the earth-brown tunic he was wearing, that had caused me not to see him. ‘Way tribe a he?' I asked. I found that I had whispered the words, as though I did not want to disturb the massive, motionless figure. ‘He a come fi de north,' the chieftain said. ‘Egypt?' I asked. He shrugged. ‘Musta bin trouble trouble for he a tek,' I said. ‘Nah, nah, him a no trouble,' the chieftain replied. This may or may not have been true. The chieftain wouldn't have wanted me calling a lower price because the slave was a fierce warrior. ‘How much you wan a he?' I asked. He named a figure. I laughed and named a lower figure. He called the same figure. I looked at him in surprise and raised my first figure a little. He called the same figure again. I realized then that he was not going to budge: the chieftain knew that, if I did not buy, he could easily sell such a fine specimen to the next trader for the price he was asking. I looked at the African in the cell and, though I could not see his eyes, I seemed to feel the weight of his gaze upon me. There was no doubt that he would fetch the best price on the auction block, which meant I would turn a tidy profit even paying what the chieftain was asking. So, after a little more haggling for appearances' sake, I agreed to his price. I did not even bother to examine the African: it was obvious that he was in perfect health. I am well satisfied with this day's work. We begin loading in one hour.

January 6
— All the slaves were loaded between 1900 last night and the wee hours of this morning. The moon cast a good light, but I am always more nervous when the Africans can see the land as we are taking them out: they are more apt to do something foolish. However, the slaves were quiet for the most part and were loaded into the hold without any trouble. All have been manacled, the hatches battened, and the crew is taking a few hours sleep before we raise anchor. I am not at all tired, for the real journey begins now. It is now 600 hours. I shall have Mr. Cebola rouse everyone in 30 minutes. In the meantime, I am glad of this respite. I have been on the deck, fixing these last minutes in my mind: the moon casting its silver radiance from a cold gray sky, the waves clucking against the ship's hull, and the featureless land off to stern. There is a sadness in my heart, knowing that I shall most likely never see this place again. But the winds of life oft decide where we shall be blown and it is a wise man who trims his sails to suit.

1300 hrs
 – We raised anchor at 700 hrs and I stayed at the helm until 1100 hrs. Good wind, seas calm. As always, I feel the difference in the yaw of the ship, even hear her boards creak differently, now that the hold is full. I went down during the first feeding to make a personal examination. I did not stay in the hold long – the air down there has already grown heavy and warm. I suppose this doesn't bother the Africans too much since they are used to it. But the children, whom I do not normally carry, have been kept on deck tied to the rail. This tight packing, I already see, increases the workload: it will take longer to bring the slaves up for exercise, more washing down of the hold will be needed, the physicians will have to make more checks, more food has to be cooked, feedings will take longer. However, once we bring enough slaves back in good condition, it will be worth it.

I have ordered the Egyptian manacled to the prow. I want him to have space to stretch and will feed him twice a day. He overlooks the coming sea like a living figurehead, and as I stand at the ship's wheel watching his powerful shoulders under the brown tunic he wears, I feel that all the omens are good.

January 7
— The nightmares have begun again – as I am back on the sea, I suppose. But there was a difference last night: the Shadowman was no longer chasing me. Instead, I was lashed to the mast of the
Kush
in the midst of a terrible storm, the skies black and filled with whips of lightning, and the Shadowman, hidden by sheets of rain, stood at the wheel of my ship. He was heading towards a rocky coast; I awoke just before we would have foundered, my heart beating like a crazed bird in my breast.

January 8
— I must stay calm. It can be nothing but coincidence or, more likely, I am imagining a resemblance. I had the same dream again last night. Only this time the lightning flashed bright enough through the sweeping rain for me to see the Shadowman clearly for the first time: he is the Egyptian. I must have shouted in terror in my dream, for the cook knocked at my door to ask if I was all right. I answered yes, feeling as though I was lying.

It is absurd, of course. It is not that the Shadowman, a figment of my mind, looks like the Egyptian. It is that the Egyptian looks like the Shadowman. Strange that I did not recognize this the first time I saw him in the cell, for the Egyptian has the same size and shape. Or perhaps I did realize it and ignored it – but we cannot choose what to ignore in our dreams. So all that has happened is that the resemblance of the Egyptian has lent a face to my nightmare. I need not worry about this. But I confess: I cannot shake the feeling that this is an evil portent.

800 hrs
 – I have not taken a close look at the Egyptian since I bought him. All Africans seem alike to me and I never look at them too closely, anyway. The physicians examined him and pronounced him healthy. He has remained bound in the prow since we set sail, with a piece of canvas strung between rail and stay to protect him from the heat of the sun. But now I find I want to look at him myself. I am trying to resist this impulse because I know it is a sign of weakness: I only want to convince myself that he does not really look like the Shadowman. After all, if I have never really looked at the Egyptian how could I have dreamed him? He has been tied facing away from me since we set sail, but the Shadowman's features are now branded in white fire in my mind: smooth pate, sensual lips, slitted eyes. I do not want to go and look at the Egyptian, but I must. For, if my impulse is a sign of weakness, to not follow it would be an even greater sign of weakness: because I am fearful that, far from not looking anything like the Shadowman, the Egyptian will turn out to be his exact image.

900 hrs
 – It is as I feared. The face I saw in my nightmare is the same face that stands looking over the bow of my ship. But it proves nothing! My mind has pasted a face I know onto a figment of its dreams. How could I have been dreaming of the Shadowman before I met the Egyptian? I am no seer and, besides, in my dreams the Shadowman pursues me. This slave was captured and is now my property, chained at my pleasure on my ship.

I will confess: I did almost panic when I saw the face of my nemesis become flesh. I even put my blunderbuss to his skull (yes, although he was in irons I was fearful enough to approach him armed). But to blow out his brains would have been an even greater act of fear, for would I not have then been surrendering to my nightmares? Would I not have been granting them power over my actions? And how long would it be before another slave assumed the appearance of the Shadowman? Most importantly, killing the Egyptian would have meant a loss of profit. So I stayed my hand. It is the bravest thing I have ever done in my life. I must admit to a great feeling of pride, and even triumph. Maria would be pleased with me.

The Egyptian is a strange one, though. He did not speak, although I addressed him in pidgin, Portuguese and five different African tongues. Were he a traveller, as I surmised, he must have known at least one. But he merely continued looking out to sea. Were he not so big, I would surely have struck him. I could have ordered him whipped with the cat o' nine tails for his insolence, but I see that even my men, although free of nightmares, are cautious of him: he still wears the brown tunic he was captured in. It is an odd material, hard to describe – it looks like both cotton and wool. But I have heard that these Egyptians possess some sciences that we do not, for they have built massive pyramids and their nobles do not decay in their tombs. One can only assume that the Egyptians learned these secrets from the Phoenicians or the Athenians. I decided not to punish the Egyptian for his insolence. I can recognize that he is not like the other Africans. His eyes are slanted, almost like those of the people of Cipangu, and his nose straight, like a white man, although the nostrils are flared. His skull has a certain nobility of shape and he holds himself as though unaware of his chains. A fine beast. It only now occurs to me that I never saw his eyes, as he was squinting against the sunlight coming off the waves.

January 9
— No nightmares last night. No doubt from confronting and defeating my fear. The weather continues to hold.

January 11
— I have lost one of my crew, Diego Alecar. It was his own fault. A swaggering lout of a man, Alecar has damaged slaves before but I have kept him on because he is – was – a first-class sailor who was also able to take the helm and do simple navigation. This time, he apparently got a notion to have the Egyptian dance during the exercise period. (I was in my cabin at the time.) Third mate Trabejar tells me that Alecar took the bullwhip to the Egyptian – Alecar must have had some
cerveza
hidden somewhere, for he would have known he would be at least fined – whipped if he inflicted any lasting damage on my property. At any rate, Trabejar says, ‘The Negro caught the lash on the first stroke, freed his hands from the manacles, and hit Alecar with his fist.' I write Trabejar's exact words because the incident is so unbelievable. He insists that the Egyptian hit Alecar with his bare fist and struck only one blow. Luckily, I heard the commotion and came on deck before the crew could kill the Egyptian – and, judging from what happened with Alecar, a few of them would probably have suffered the same fate before they brought the Egyptian down. As captain, I of course conducted last rites for Alecar: the entire left side of his face was sunken, as if he had been hit by a large stone. I stopped the crew from taking revenge on the Egyptian and, armed with a blunderbuss, put him back in irons myself. This time I made sure his manacles are secure. The previous ones were badly-forged, for when I checked I found the clasps broken. The Egyptian gave no trouble; he must see that I am the leader here and that I do not fear him. But he has still never spoken nor shown any expression. The men think I should throw him to the sharks. I point out to them that he will bring an excellent price and that they now have a greater share in the profits. So they calm down. Alecar was not much liked, anyway.