Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Atiba moved noiselessly along the wet sand of the shore, crouched low, the wind in his face, just as he had once stalked a wounded leopard in the forest three days north of Ife. This part of the harbor was almost deserted now; only two frigates remained, and they were both lodged in the sand, immobile. One was the great, stinking ship that had brought him to this forlorn place. He hated it, had vowed never to be on it again. Furthermore, tonight its decks were crowded with drinking, singing branco. The other one would have to supply what he needed—the one belonging to the tall Ingles branco with the mark on his cheek.

  He secured the stolen machete in his waist-wrap and waded into the water. When the first salty wave curved over him, he leaned into it with his shoulder and began to swim—out away from the shore, circling around to approach the ship from the side facing the sea.

  As he swam, he thought again of what he must do. It was not a mission of his choosing. He had finally agreed to come because there was no other way to placate the elders. Until last night he had not realized how much they feared the arms of the branco. . .

  "We must be like the bulrush, not like brittle grass," Tahajo, the oldest and hence presumed the wisest, had de­clared. "A bulrush mat will bend. A grass mat breaks to pieces. Do not be brittle grass, Atiba, be like the bulrush. Do what we ask of you."

  "Tahajo's wisdom is known throughout Ife." Obewole, the strongest of them all, had next conceded his own fear. "Remember it's said you cannot go to war with only a stick in your hand; you must carry a crossbow."

  Atiba had intended the meeting in his hut to be their final council of war. Last evening was carefully chosen, auspi­cious. It was the fourth night of the new moon on the island of Barbados. In Ife it would have been the fourth day of a new month, and also the last day of the week—a cycle of four days dedicated to major gods of the Yoruba pantheon; Shan­go, Obatala, Orunmila, and Ogun. The appearance of the new moon was important and signified much. By telling the beginning of the month, it scheduled which days would be market days, which were sacred, what god was responsible for the birth of a child.

  They had waited quietly in his thatched hut as twilight settled across the fields of cane. Swallows twittered among the tall palms, and the half-light was spotted with darting bats. The heat of the long day still immersed the hillside. On the far western horizon, where the sea disappeared into the Caribbean mist, three of the great ships of the Ingles fleet had begun preparing their sails. They too seemed to be wait­ing for the appearance of the new Yoruba moon.

  He began with a review of their weapons. There would be difficulties. Since the cane knives had been removed from the slave quarters on most of the plantations and secured in the great house, it would be necessary to break in and take them back, which meant the advantage of surprise would be lost. For spears, they would have to try and seize some of the pikes the branco now had in readiness to protect the island from the fleet. Again that meant bloodshed.

  Also, their numbers were still uncertain. All the Yoruba had agreed to rise up, and final preparations had been coor­dinated across the island using the iya ilu drum. But the other men of Africa? What of them? The Ibo nursed historic hatreds toward the Yoruba, and their response to the plan for rebel­lion had been to shift on their feet, spit on the ground, and agree to nothing. There were also Ashanti and Mandingo. These he trusted even less than the Ibo. Command would be difficult: there were too many languages, too many loyalties, too many ancient grievances.

  The men in the hut finally concluded that only the Yoruba could be relied upon. When the day of war comes, you only trust your own blood, your own gods.

  After the moon had disappeared, he’d cast the cowries, praying Ogun would presage the defeat of the branco. The men required an omen.

  And an omen there had been. At that exact moment the silence of the night was rent by sounds of gunfire rising up from the western shore, faint staccato pops through the trees. They were as drumbeats that carried no words, yet their mes­sage was unmistakable. Ogun, the god of war, had spoken—not through the pattern in the cowries on a tray, but with his own voice.

  Fear suddenly gripped the men in the hut. What was Ogun’s purpose in answering the cowries this way? Thus their coun­cil of war had dissolved in meaningless talk and confusion. Finally the misgivings of the elders emerged.

  There must be, they said, no rising against the branco un­less success was assured. The elder Tahajo recalled the fa­mous proverb: Aki ida owo le ohun ti ako le igbe—"A man should not attempt to raise up something he cannot lift." The other men had nodded gravely, taking his mouthing of this commonplace to demonstrate great sagacity.

  Then young Derin, in a flagrant breach of etiquette amongst a council of elders, had dared to cite an opposing parable: Bi eya ba di ekun, eran ni ikpa dze— "When the wild cat becomes a leopard, it can devour great beasts." We must become brave like the leopard, he urged. When the branco see our boldness they will quake with fear as we go to war against them.

  Tahajo had listened tolerantly, then countered again: Alak- atanpo oju ko le ita eran pa—"He who has only his eyebrow for a crossbow can never kill an animal."

  So it had continued long into the night. Atiba had no choice but to wait until the elders decided. Finally they agreed that Ogun would have them go to war only if they had weapons to match those of the branco. That was the message in the gunfire that had erupted the moment the cowries were cast. Atiba must assure them he could find muskets, or there would be no rebellion. . . .

  He stroked silently on through the surf. Now the dark out­line of the branco's ship loomed above him, still, deserted. Soon he would find what he had come to learn.

  He grasped a salt-encrusted rope ladder which dangled from the side and pulled out of the water. He did not bother using the rungs; instead he lifted himself directly up.

  His feet were noiseless as he dropped onto the deck. A quick reconnaissance revealed only one sentry, a fat branco snoring loudly in a chair on the high deck at the back of the ship. He slipped up the companionway, gripping each weath­ered board with his toes, and stood over the man, wondering if he should kill him, lest he waken suddenly and sound an alarm.

  Then he remembered the words of Shango that night in the mill house. It would be a bad omen to spill innocent blood before the rebellion even began. Shango had declared he would only countenance the killing of men who threatened harm. Also, lying beside the man was an empty flask, which surely had contained the strong wine made from cane. This snoring branco would not soon awaken.

  He turned and inched his way back down the companion- way. The only sounds now were the gentle splash of surf against the side of the ship and the distant chirp of crickets from the shore. He moved stealthily along the creaking boards until he reached the locked door at the front of the ship, the place where the branco captains stored their weapons.

  He tried to still his heart, feeling it begin to race with anticipation. If there were weapons here, muskets or pikes, they would be easy to seize when the moment came to rise up. There would be no need to storm the plantation houses for guns and spears, and their plans could proceed in total secrecy till the moment the branco slaveholders were sur­prised and cut down.

  He recalled the rumor that the branco who owned this ship had bought and freed two hundred white slaves, and then had given some of them weapons to fight the warriors of the In­gles fleet. Surely he had more muskets and pikes than any of the branco planters. How many would be left?

  He slipped the machete from his waistband and wedged it silently under a hinge on the heavy wooden door. The wood

  was old and the nails pulled easily. When the three hinges had been removed, he laid the machete on the deck and lifted the door around.

  The interior of the fo'c'sle was dark, but he dared not try to make a light. The risk was too great that he might set off any gunpowder stored here. Instead he felt his way forward.

  The space was crowded with racks, and in them were rows of n
ew pikes and half-pikes, hundreds. Then his hand touched a row of long steel cylinders.

  Musket barrels.

  Ogun had answered their prayers.

  This ship had an arsenal that would equip an entire army, a cache that would ensure their victory. The second week following, seven days hence, the time sacred to Ogun, he would bring the men and they would overwhelm the ship, seize the weapons. . . .

  He had turned to grope his way back to the deck when he first saw the two silhouettes against the dim light of the door­way. A tall man was there, blocking his exit, and next to him was the outline of a branco woman.

  "John, what in the name of hell are you doing in the fo'c'­sle?" The voice sounded tired and annoyed. "Is this how you stand watch?"

  "Hugh, take care." It was the voice of the branco woman he remembered from the first night in the boiling house.

  He froze against a wall and reached for his machete.

  It was missing. Like a fool he'd left it outside.

  Quietly he lifted one of the pikes from the rack and inched slowly toward the figures in the doorway.

  Through the dark came a shout from the other end of the deck. The sleeping branco had awakened. "God's wounds, Cap'n. I'm watching this ship like a hawk over a henhouse. There's no need to be carry in' on." The man laughed. "Lest you upset the lady."

  "John, is that you?" The tall man's voice quickened. "Then, by Jesus, who's . . .?"

  Atiba lunged toward the doorway, his pike aimed at the tall shadow.

  The man had already feinted back against the shrouds. He carried no sword, but a pistol had appeared in his right hand, as though by magic. With the other he shoved the branco woman back against the shrouds, out of reach. The pike missed him, tangled in a knot of lines dangling from the mast, and was lost.

  Then the glint of his machete caught Atiba's notice and he dropped toward the darkness of the deck. He rolled twice, bringing himself within reach of its wooden handle. He was on his feet, swinging for the man, when he heard the crack of the pistol and felt a tremor in his wrist.

  The tip of the machete blade sang into the night, but the stump was still left, and still deadly. Now the fight would be at close quarters. He told himself he welcomed that—and sprang for the dark silhouette.

  He was thrusting the blade upward, toward the tall man's neck, when he heard an unexpected click from the pistol barrel, followed by a hard voice. It was a threat that needed no translation.

  "No, by God. Or I'll blow your bloody head off."

  The hot muzzle of the pistol was against his cheek.

  But his blade was against the man's throat.

  "Meu Deus. Briggs' Yoruba." The man quickly switched to Portuguese. "Felicitacao, senhor. You're every bit as fast as I'd thought. Shall we call it a draw?"

  It was the branco, the one who had freed his slaves. The last man on the island he wished to kill. Shango would be incensed.

  "I think one of us must die." He held the broken blade hard against the flesh, and he could almost feel the pulse of blood just beneath the skin.

  "It's both of us, or neither, by Jesus. Think about that."

  "Your pistol had only one bullet. It is gone."

  "Take a look and you'll see there're two barrels." The tall man had not wavered.

  "Shall I just blow the thievin' bastard to hell, Cap'n?" It was the voice of the man who had been asleep. From the corner of his eye Atiba could see him standing by the fore­mast. There was the click of a flintlock being cocked.

  "No, John. He's like to slit my throat in the bargain with what's left of his God-cursed machete." The words were in English. Then the man switched back to Portuguese. "A trade, senhor. A life for a life."

  "In Ife we say we cannot dwell in a house together without speaking to one another. But if you betray me, you will an­swer for it to all my clan. Remember that." The broken machete slowly pulled away, then dropped to the deck.

  "Hold the musket on him, John. I don't know whether to trust these Africans." Again Portuguese. "Life for life. Agreed." He lowered the pistol, then slipped it into his belt. With an easy motion he pulled down a lantern hanging from the shrouds and struck a flint to it. A warm glow illuminated the open door of the fo'c'sle, and the tanned face of the branco woman. "Now. Atiba the Yoruba, you be gone and I'll forget you were ever here. Briggs would likely have you whipped into raw meat for his dogs if he ever found out about this." The branco was looking into his eyes. "But you prob­ably already know that. I salute your courage, senhor. Truth is, I once thought about having you help me."

  "Help you?" He studied the branco's face. "For what purpose?"

  "If you weren't too stubborn to take orders, I'd planned to train you into a first-class fighting man. Maybe make you second-in-command for a little war of my own. Against the Spaniards." The man was outlined in the pale light. "I'd hoped we might fight together, instead of against each other."

  "That is a strange idea for a branco. " He was studying the scar on the tall man's cheek. "But then you have the mark on your cheek like the clan sign of a Yoruba. Perhaps the place you got it taught you something of brotherhood as well."

  "It was a long time past, though maybe it did at that. I do know I'm still a brother to any man I like. You were once in that category, senhor, till you came on my ship trying to knife me. Now you'd best tell me what you're doing here."

  "I wanted to see your ship."

  "Well, you've seen it. You also tore off some hinges."

  "I will replace them for you." He smiled. "Wrapping a razor preserves its sharpness."

  The man seemed momentarily startled; then a look of realization spread through his eyes. Finally he turned and spoke in English to the fat branco holding the musket. "John, fetch a hammer and some fresh nails from below decks. You know where ship's carpenter keeps them."

  "What're you saying, Cap'n?" The fat branco had not moved. "You'd have me go aft? An' the musket I'm holdin' on the bastard? Who's to handle that whilst I'm gone?"

  "I'll take it." The branco woman stepped forward.

  "Give it to her."

  "You'd best keep a close eye, Cap'n." The fat man hesi­tated. "I think this one'd be a near match for you. . . ."

  "Just fetch the hammer, John."

  "Aye." He reluctantly passed the musket and began back­ing slowly toward the hatch leading to the lower deck.

  Atiba watched him disappear into the dark, then turned back to Winston. "You do not own slaves, senhor. Yet you do nothing about those on this island who do."

  "What goes on here is not my affair. Other men can do what they like."

  "In Ife we say, 'He who claps hands for the fool to dance is no better than the fool.' " He glanced back at the arsenal stored in the dark room behind him. "If you do nothing to right a wrong, then are you not an accomplice?"

  The man suddenly seemed to understand everything. With­out a word he walked over and shoved the door against the open fo'c'sle. "Let me give you some wisdom from this side of the wide ocean, my friend. I think all the drumming I've been hearing, and now this, means you're planning some kind of revolt. I'm not going to help you, and I'm damned if you're going to use any of my muskets." He reached up and adjusted the lantern. "I've done everything I can to end slav­ery. Nobody on this island listens to me. So whatever you do is up to you."

  "But without weapons, we have no chance of winning our freedom."

  "You've got no chance in any case. But if you steal some of these muskets of mine, you'll just manage to kill a lot of people before you have to surrender and be hanged." He watched the fat man emerge from the hatch. "I'd hate to see you hanged, Atiba the Yoruba."

  "What's the savage got to say for himself, Cap'n?" The man was carrying a hammer. "Was he plannin' to make off with a few o' those new flintlocks we got up at Nevis?"

  "I think he was just exploring, John." The words were in English now. "Help him put the door back and show him how to fix the hinges."

  "As you will, Cap'n. But keep an eye on
him, will you? He's like to kill the both of us if he takes a mind."

  "Katy, keep him covered."

  "God, but he's frightening. What were you two talking about?"

  "We'd best go into that later." He glanced at Mewes. "John, give him the hammer."

  The fat branco reluctantly surrendered the tool, then war­ily reached to hold the hinges in place. There was a succes­sion of quick, powerful strokes, and the door was aligned and swinging better than before.

  "Now go on back to Briggs' plantation. And pray to what­ever gods you have that he doesn't find out you were gone tonight." He picked up the broken machete and passed it over. "Take this. You're going to need it."

  "You know we will need more than this." Atiba reached for the handle, turned the broken blade in the light, then slipped it into his waistband.

  "That's right. What you need is to leam how to wait. This island is about to be brought to its knees by the new govern­ment of England. In a way, it's thanks to you. When the government on this island falls, something may happen about slavery, though I'm not sure what." He took down the lantern from the shrouds. "But if you start killing whites now, I can assure you you're not apt to live very long, no matter who rules."

  "I will not continue to live as a slave."

  "I can understand that. But you won't be using my flint­locks whilst getting yourself killed." He held the lantern above the rope ladder and gestured for Atiba to climb down into the shallow surf. "Never, ever try stealing muskets from my ship. Mark it well."

  Atiba threw one leg over the gunwale and grasped a deadeye to steady himself. "I think you will help us when the time comes. You speak like a Yoruba." He slipped over the side with a splash, and vanished into the dark.

  "God's blood, Cap'n, but that's a scary one." Mewes stared after him nervously. "I got the feelin' he seemed to know you."

  "I've seen him a time or two before." He retrieved the musket from Katherine and handed it back to Mewes. Then he doused the lantern. "Come on, Katy. Let's have a brandy."

  "I could use two."

  As they entered the companionway leading aft to the Great Cabin he called back, "By the way, John, it'd be just as well not to mention to anybody that he was here. Can I depend on you?"

  "Aye, as you will."

  He slipped his arm about Katherine's waist and pushed open the door of the cabin. It was musty and hot.

  "I've got a feeling that African thinks he's coming back for the muskets, Katy, but I'll not have it."

  "What'll you do?" She reached back and began to loosen the knot on her bodice, sensing a tiny pounding in her chest.

  "I plan to see to it he gets a surprise instead." He lit the lamp, then pulled off his sweaty jerkin and tossed it into the corner. "Enough. Let's have a taste of you." He circled his arms around her and pulled her next to him. As he kissed her, he reached back and started unlacing her bodice. Then he whispered in her ear.

  "Welcome back aboard."