“What,” Kwaku scoffed, “and build a mill and sell cones of sugar to the Portuguese to take away in their ships? You are crazy.”
“We don’t need that white man sugar,” Mawuwo said. “Chewing cane, that is plenty sweet. Let us sneak in and steal some palm wine. We are free men, we should get drunk.”
“You will be dead men if you get drunk in the Povoação.” Yenenga, who had been sitting quietly with Joanna and the other women, all engaged in weaving baskets or mending nets or their few ragged garments, spat into the fire in turn. “I would not trust one of you to bring palm wine safely away from the settlement without sampling it within a hundred paces. We can make our own palm wine, though I do not recommend it. Drunken men are careless men, and careless men are dead men. I am going to sleep. There is work to be done in the morning.” She rose and stalked away from the firelight toward her hut.
When the big storm started, Joanna, Yenenga, a young woman named Brou, and Brou’s husband, Nunke, were making their way down the mountain to the beach to collect coconuts. It was raining, as it rained every afternoon. Brou carried her baby curled up in a length of cloth tucked around her waist, his cheek against her back, his moist mouth hanging open as he slept. Yenenga trailed the others as she scanned the area around the barely visible track for useful plants and barks, a sharp knife ready in her hand.
“This island’s two seasons are not hot and hotter, as they say.” Joanna wrung out her hair, which, like her clothes, was drenched. “They are wet and wetter.”
A forked crack of lightning split the air, followed by a rumble of thunder and the sound of branches breaking.
“Yenenga? Maybe climbing trees is not a good idea this afternoon.”
“Dat lightning not so near,” Yenenga said. “Tunder come far behind. When he catch up, den time to worry.”
“Should we turn around?” Brou asked, twisting to see the baby’s face.
“We’re almost there,” Nunke said. “You want to give him to me?”
As he spoke, the baby woke, squalling as a fat raindrop hit his nose.
“Never mind,” Brou said. With a practiced movement, she swung the cloth around to position the baby’s head beneath her breast and thrust her nipple into his mouth. The baby subsided with a grunt of satisfaction and started to suck.
“This wind will throw plenty of coconuts to the ground,” Yenenga said with one of her sudden shifts into fluency. “We will not have to climb any trees to get a good haul.”
“We cannot get any wetter,” Joanna said. “We might as well go on.”
Cracks and peals of thunder punctuated their journey as Joanna squinted through the torrential curtain of rain, picking her way down the overgrown path. When a flash of lightning illuminated the scene, she enjoyed its strangeness, her companions looking like colorless ghosts and the massive vegetation all around her transformed from its everyday green lushness into the stuff of dreams.
They came out on the beach and stood under a dripping canopy of palms. The trees’ trunks creaked and groaned as they swayed, and the wind shrieked as it tossed the flapping fronds from side to side. The tide was abnormally high, leaving only a sodden ribbon of beach. Towering rows of breakers rolled in toward the shore. The vast sky suddenly lit up, as a simultaneous crash of thunder overrode the ceaseless roar of the waves.
“That was close!” Joanna could not hear her own voice over the howling of the wind.
Brou crooned to the baby, jiggling him and walking in circles as he flailed his tiny fists and wailed inaudibly, his mouth stretched wide. Yenenga was laughing, face and arms raised to the heavens as she exulted in the power of the storm.
Nunke shouted something, pointing out to sea. Peering toward the horizon, Joanna could see nothing but the roiling of the baleful ocean. Though it was only midafternoon, the sky was almost black. A jagged spear of lightning ripped the sky with a crack of thunder on its heels. Then a broad flash lit up the whole expanse of sea and heavens, with a growl so long and loud that Joanna’s ears rang.
“Look! A ship!” Joanna hurried over to Yenenga and tugged at her arm to get her attention. She drew Yenenga over toward Brou, who stood staring with the baby, enveloped in the now sopping cloth, clasped tight against her breast. Only the top of his head peeked out. Nunke, hunched over as he bucked the wind, hurried to them. He put his arm around Brou and laid his cheek against hers so that their two heads tented together, protecting the baby.
Yenenga also put her arm around Brou and beckoned to Joanna to huddle close.
“It is a slaver,” Yenenga said. She spoke quietly, but with their four heads touching, the others could hear. “That last bolt of lightning has dismasted it.”
“Kheboso the lightning god does not like his people enslaved,” Nunke said. “That is how he makes his opinion known.”
Fires had broken out on the ship. Joanna could make out the tiny scurrying figures of sailors trying in vain to extinguish them. Another flare of lightning showed that the ship, unable to maneuver, had slammed into the jagged rocks that could only be seen at the lowest of low tides. It began to break up.
Brou gave a cry of anguish.
“The devils, the devils! Look what they are doing!”
Sailors hauled a long string of limp and cowering figures up out of the bowels of the ship: Africans who had been chained together in the hold. As the broken masts and booms swung wildly, they hauled the Africans to the rail, still chained, and hoisted them overboard. As they did so, the fire spread until the whole hull was alight.
Yenenga raised her arms again, her expression wrathful now, and began a sonorous chant in her own language.
“I ask the Sky God to curse the slavers,” she broke off to say.
“I think it is working,” Joanna said. “It is hard to make out at this distance, but it looks as if some of the slaves were not chained. They are picking up burning brands and fighting the slavers.”
“The Lightning God has done his part,” Nunke said with satisfaction. “Look, the whole ship is burning as it sinks.”
“They must stop fighting if any are to escape,” Joanna said.
“If they do, they will drown,” Brou said. “Even if they can swim, they will not reach the shore.”
A towering wave, driven by the wind, crashed on the shore, spilling a foaming field of seawater that ran forward so close to their feet that they jumped backward. The surf ebbed slowly down the beach to meet the next mighty breaker.
“Do you care if they escape?” Yenenga asked.
“I hope the slavers do not!” Joanna said. “If they discover the encampment, I do not know what will happen.”
“If they do,” Nunke said, “we will kill them. They will be half dead already if they manage to swim this far.”
“There is no hope for the chained Africans,” Joanna said, “but those who seized the brands and fought—I could not see if any jumped.”
“A few leaped into the sea,” Yenenga said, “but they must still swim a great distance in violent seas. If they do not know how, or if they are burned or wounded, there is little hope for them.”
“We must help any who manage to reach us,” Brou said. She kissed the top of the baby’s head. Replete with milk, he had gone back to sleep. “Between death and life, I am for life.”
“I am for death to slavers,” Nunke said, “and freedom for slaves.”
“B’ezrat Ha’shem,” Joanna said. “God’s will be done.”
Chapter 41: Diego
The Mediterranean was a convivial sea compared to the empty ocean I had crossed with Admiral Columbus. When we met galleys flying the crescent flag of Islam, we hailed them and exchanged courtesies. More often than not, Amir knew their captains, and the men could sometimes hail acquaintances among their crews. More circumspect when we encountered the well-armed ships of the various lands of Christendom, we withdrew our oars, made sure no flag flew from our masts, cast out our nets, and took on the semblance of a simple if somewhat overequipped and overcrewed
fishing boat. In any case, the approaching vessels could see that Esperanza carried no ordnance and therefore considered the galliotçik harmless.
As it happened, the first moment of peril we encountered came not at sea but on land. Shortly after we passed Malta without incident, two of our water casks sprang leaks. It was imperative to replace them while we could. The farther behind we left the Ottoman Empire, the less leisurely our voyage could be and the more filled with potential danger, which might force us to implement our “run and hide” strategy without regard to the needs or condition of Esperanza or the crew. Luckily, Tunis was not far. I looked forward to setting foot on land and getting my first glimpse of the Maghreb.
Tunis was a jumble of boxlike houses, all dazzling white with blue doors and shutters that echoed the color of the sea. Short, stubby palm trees bristling with fronds could be seen behind the walls of dwellings, and an occasional smooth white dome thrust upward from a larger building toward the cloudless sky. As we made our way through the winding, narrow streets, we could see through arched doorways into courtyards decorated with elaborate tilework of pale turquoise, ochre, indigo, and white. The air smelled of jasmine.
We left the pilot in charge of Esperanza with two sailors and two oarsmen to guard her. One sailor and one oarsman escorted us. The cook accepted a pouch that held coin enough for abundant provisions and disappeared in the direction of the produce, meat, and spice bazaars. The men would eat well tonight. Amir and I would be offered his family’s hospitality, not only for the evening meal but overnight. We gave the remainder of the crew a few hours liberty, along with a small amount of coin.
“Even a Muslim city like Tunis,” Amir said, “has its share of dockside whores and establishments where they can gamble and get drunk. However, they know that I will flay them if they are not aboard and ready to depart when we return in the morning.”
Amir led the way. As we walked single file through a narrow alley blue with shadows, he said, “My grandfather’s home is not far, and I have sent a pigeon, so the household will be expecting us. There is a public fountain not far away. My jaddi’s men will take charge of obtaining water barrels and transporting them to the ship, so we need only rest and enjoy ourselves. Musa and Kemal can take refreshment and then join the others or return to Esperanza as they choose.”
At that moment, the oarsman Musa, who walked last in line, gave a startled cry. I whirled to see him fighting off two ruffians robed in black. I clapped my hand to my waist and drew out my dagger, regretting that I had left my sword on the ship. As I leaped to Musa’s aid, a shout from Amir and a string of curses from Kemal alerted me that three more villains were coming at us from the other end of the alley. I cast a quick glance upward on the chance that more enemies were poised to leap down at us from a rooftop or creeping toward us atop a courtyard wall. I saw none. That meant we were not too heavily outnumbered.
Each of our enemies had a knife in either hand, but so did Kemal and Amir, who were already forcing the trio back step by step. None bore a sword, whose length might indeed have proved more hindrance than advantage, so narrow was our battlefield. I kicked an attacker’s knife away from Musa’s throat. Panting, he retrieved it as I slashed at the villain’s forearm. A quick breath on the back of my neck warned me that the other man we fought had come up close behind me. I ducked in time to avoid his lunge. But his knife took Musa, rising and turning too slowly with a knife in either hand, in the shoulder. He gave a cry of pain and dropped both knives as he clapped his other hand to the deep slash, already oozing blood.
I moved to shield him from our attackers, scrabbling to seize one of the fallen knives and kick the other away without losing a moment. We would have been quickly overcome had not a flying knife taken one of the ruffians in the throat. I cast a quick glance behind me to see Amir already launching a second dagger through the air. It whizzed past my nose as I leaped back. My second opponent fled back the way he had come. Amir’s knife caught him high in the back but did not bite deeply enough to stop him. In the meantime, a band of men in white turbans had appeared, blocking the far end of the alley. The bright steel of their drawn swords caught the light as they advanced. The three ruffians who had engaged Amir and Kemal brushed past me as they howled and fled.
“Cousins,” Amir panted, grinning as he dropped his arms, chest heaving.
Within minutes, we were installed in great comfort in a luxuriously carpeted chamber in Amir’s grandfather’s home, responding with all the courtesy we could muster to apologies from the patriarch himself for having encountered brigands in his city.
“It is not your fault, jaddi,” Amir said. “There are brigands everywhere. They must have seen us come ashore and followed us, considering sailors at liberty a promising source of coin.”
“Brigands in broad daylight, only paces from our door! It is a disgrace!” His grandfather’s eyes flashed. “It shames me, as it would any householder in Tunis. I will send men to the docks to make sure the rest of your men have not been attacked as well.”
“Thank you, jaddi. They were in a larger group, and Diego and I probably caught their eye as promising richer pickings. But it cannot hurt to check.”
“I have already sent for a physician for your crewman,” Amir’s grandfather said. “The knife must have nicked a vein, as well as cutting through muscle. It will need stitching. And he has lost enough blood that he must rest. You must all stay here tonight.”
“You do me too much honor, effendi,” Musa said. His voice was weak, and he was pale with shock. “It is nothing. I can return to the ship.”
The wound had already been bound with a white turban cloth. Kemal knelt by Musa as he lay propped on cushions, pressing the wound with both hands to discourage the flow of blood.
“Don’t be a fool, Musa,” Amir said. “The wound is serious. You will let the physician clean and stitch it. Then you will accept a nourishing broth and a good night’s rest. It will be many days before you can pull an oar.”
“Captain! No!” Musa protested. “I must row. You need me.”
“Unfortunately,” Amir said, addressing me rather than the oarsman, “that is true. Nonetheless, he cannot row. It is a problem we must solve.”
“I do not like the idea of recruiting a stranger,” I said, “at this point in our venture. I don’t suppose one of your cousins here can row?”
“Those who have a taste for adventure,” Amir said, “like me, are no longer living under our grandfather’s roof. Let us see if one of our sailors can be persuaded to trade tasks with Musa until he recovers fully.”
“I will do it, Captain,” Kemal said.
“You are too skinny,” Musa scoffed. “A rower’s arms must be thicker than his oar at the very least.”
Kemal was indeed a wiry fellow, adept at climbing the rigging, as well as a knowledgeable seaman, attuned to wind and sails. While we did not need a precise number of sailors, as we did of oarsmen, I would be loath to lose his skills.
“Perhaps one of our sailors has experience at the oars,” I said. “We will hold you in reserve, Kemal, and the offer does you honor.”
“There is one,” Amir said, “but here comes the physician. Let us discuss it later.”
“Miguel is a fisherman by trade,” he told me when we were alone, “but he has rowed. He has not much experience of larger sailing vessels, but he is intelligent and willing. I took him on because Portuguese is his native tongue. He will make a good spokesman when the time comes.”
“I had no experience at all when I shipped on the Santa Maria,” I said. “But if he is no sailor, why did he not sign on as an oarsman?”
“Because he got his experience as a slave,” he said, “chained to an oar on a Muslim pirate’s galley. I got him in trade and freed him. I share the sultan’s opinion that voluntary oarsmen make better rowers.”
“In that case,” I said, “he may yet be unwilling to row, and I would not blame him. We must give him the option of refusing and take up Kemal’s offer if he
does.”
Fortunately, Miguel had no objection to rowing, since it served the expedition.
“I owe the captain my freedom,” he said, “as well as my employment in a strange land. For that I must be grateful. I am willing to be put to whatever use you can make of me.”
Slavery and suffering had clearly taken its toll. Miguel was not young. His face was deeply grooved and his eyes the saddest I had ever seen. Neither freedom nor gratitude had restored his happiness or any liveliness he might once have possessed.
“How came you to be captured by corsairs,” I asked, “if you do not mind my asking? It must have been hard indeed for a Christian to endure.”
“I was bound for Istanbul,” he said, “so it is an irony of fate that in the end I got there.”
“A miracle, surely,” I said lightly.
“I do not believe in miracles,” he said. “Nor did I care, either before or after my enslavement, in what place my body came to rest. And I am not a Christian.”
“What!” I could not conceal my surprise. Looking into his eyes, I wondered how I could have missed the familiar despair deep within them. “You are Jewish then, as am I.”
“Am I indeed?” Miguel said bitterly. “I am, by birth and blood. But tell me, can a man call himself a Jew when he hates and mistrusts Adonai?”
“You lost someone dear to you,” I said.
“My only son,” he said.
“On the docks in Lisbon, perhaps?” I asked.
“You know what happened, then. They tore him from my arms. Two weeks later, my wife in her despair took poison. Since then, I have neither prayed nor wept. The corsairs but chained a man already dead. Not even freedom brought me joy.”
“I cannot offer you joy,” I said. “But it may please you to know, as all the crew soon must, that we go to seek survivors of that terrible abduction. We are bound for São Tomé.”
Chapter 42: Joanna
Three men emerged from the foaming breakers and staggered through the surf, their dark skin gray with exhaustion. One of them fell to his knees, buffeted by the succeeding waves every time he tried to rise. He inched forward on his belly, using his elbows to drag himself along. Another, limping, supported his fellow. The latter, head hanging, had his arm slung around the lame man’s neck. Joanna ran forward to help them, the others at her heels. A quick glance showed her that the ship was gone. Not even a broken spar remained. No heads bobbed in the water. The sky lit up one last time. With a final rolling growl, the storm departed, though the torrential rain still fell. The survivors of the wreck were so drenched that it was impossible to see their wounds until the party had made its way, with painful slowness, to the shelter of the trees.
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