The Kingdom on the Waves

by M. T. Anderson

  They burst forth from the orchard, most armed with scythes and grubbing hoes, one with a fowling-piece. We presented our muskets, and the men, struck with fear, held back.

  Serjeant Clippinger urged them to join us; but they did not respond. Clippinger then requested us to urge them to throw off the bonds of slavery. “Tell them, boys.”

  There was a mighty silence, in which both sides awaited attack from the other, the protests of the cattle heard down by the river. We regarded their array: men with blades, men with guns.

  Said Isaac the Carpenter, “Join our number, brothers.”

  But they did not move. They blinked; and one lifted and dropped his elbows; but they stood firm.

  And gently, Slant said to them, “The bodies, the bodies facing that way is free. The bodies facing this way is slaves.”

  We were all, slave and free, struck with the oddity of his statement; it was unclear what this pronouncement signalized; but Pomp, seizing upon our friend’s meaning, said, “He right. You step over and face that way, you is free. Look at your persons.” Our enemies eyed their weapons and rocked upon their feet. Impassioned now, Pomp urged them, “You just turn your foot a little bit — a few inches — you free. Turn your hip, and you free. Move your leg so three toes face that, that apple tree, and you going to feel the wind in your face.”

  They did not stir. At last, he pled, whispering, “Just turn on the grass. Like a child in the morning.”

  They looked at us uneasily, and Clippinger addressed them: “Step lively away, boys, or we must needs fire.” They did not move; and so Clippinger ordered us to ready our arms — unneedful, as we already presented; and still they stood strong for their master; and Clippinger shook his head in a show of distaste, and our hands shook upon the triggers, and we all knew that we would fire, and they would die.

  And then, the man with the fowling-piece discharged it at us, and several of the others rushed forward. Clippinger instanter ordered us fire, which we did, having no choice — we fired right upon them — and one fell — three reaching our line, the others, following the blast, retreating.

  Bayonets made short work of two who reached us, Clippinger dancing about with his hanger. The other, wounded, fled.

  We watched them scramble through the orchard. There was no utility in firing again; Clippinger accounted it little worth the loss of powder and shot. Our spoils were below, and to the riverside we repaired, there to embark. We could not speak.

  No more resistance was offered us. Some fifteen minutes later, our launch set forth on its final leg, leaving dock and bloody ground behind.

  The boat gained the ketch and we climbed aboard.

  We were unharmed; we left the bodies of three of our brethren upon the brown grass.

  As we left the scene of this massacre behind us, my thoughts were engrossed with visions of Bono, known to me since before my breeching, and our desperate feud, our tussle in the dark. First, a sorrow at our division; a confusion that we should come to blows; and then anger: I am no longer a child in pudding-cap and skirts to be pinched and teased; and if he demand the awed obeisance of the babe I was . . .

  At noon, there was a wind upon the river, and we shivered upon our deck.

  Later

  We are returned to Norfolk’s ruins and the Crepuscule. Our raid is applauded as a success; the choicest of the meats have already been disbursed among the galleys of the wealthiest among His Lordship’s supporters.

  Now returned, I avoid Bono as best I can, though his smoldering gaze often lingers upon me. When I departed, his eye was swollen so large it was almost shut. I fear our intercourse cannot be other than filled with animosity.

  None of us who were out upon that foraging raid have much taste for company. We do not recount our adventure. A gloom has settled over us all. We avoid even our own society, so much as may be avoided when we must sit knee to knee. We do not speak. Slant watches over us all; Charles feigns sleep.

  In the evening, I could little abide company, and when we were admitted above for our period of exercise, I removed myself from the others. Standing upon the fo’c’sle deck, I surveyed the black ruins of the town and the small duties carried out by light of sunset and cresset on other ships: the watch upon one whistling, another engaged in holystoning the deck, and on the Peace and Plenty, women in wide beaver hats taking the air.

  Bono came to me. He came to my side and stared out across the water. I would not look at him.

  We did not speak, but watched the small waves and the gentle protocols of falling night.

  At length, he whispered, “Her name was Morenike.”

  And then he went below.

  January 19th, 1776

  This day, heartening news of the situation upon the shore: Two prisoners were taken Thursday last; they have been questioned, and admit that the enemy is as distressed in their lodgings as we are in ours; that they are cold and sickly and, being militia and thus little used to campaigning, they wish to return to hearth and plow. The fire spread far into the countryside, and now the rebels are huddled in the blackened ruins as fitting punishment for their incendiary havoc.

  Though there has been no word between Bono and myself, there is communication enough as we pass; the sight of his still-bloated eye serves as apt reminder of our struggle.

  Today he came to my side with one of the drummers of the Regiment, which sturdy youth I have seen perform most astoundingly in the course of our dances. I had not seen this youth upon our own ship before except in time of festival; he was not of our Company.

  For a long while, Bono and I surveyed each other, both, I’ll warrant, with some sullenness in our countenances; and then Bono said, “I present Private Olakunde. Private Nothing. Olakunde is of the Oyo Empire. He may be able to . . .” Bono shrugged and walked away.

  ’Twas an offering for peace; a palliation of our enmity; for Bono knew how this should please me, for I sought always word of Oyo, my mother’s country.

  I greeted Private Olakunde and praised him for the excellence of his performances upon his drum, for which he thanked me. I noted to him that I had not seen him before on the Crepuscule, save when he had come once for one of the palavers; and he indicated that several of his Company had been transferred to this ship, for his ship’s captain say, no more they stay on he ship; very sick, that ship. He made a noise of disgust and regret with his tongue and teeth.

  We spake for some moments about his drumming, he informing me that he had learned to drum praise in his own country, which was the empire of Oyo; that there, drummers beat out the praise of those who pass upon the streets or in the great houses; and that those flattered by their report place coins upon the drummer’s forehead, and that this was the profession in which he had excelled before, three years ago, he was taken out of that land. He hath two drums now, one of his own making, and one issued by the Army, upon which he beats out the music and signals of the white men, our officers.

  Upon inquiry, I found that English was the least of his languages, preceded by his own tongue and the speech of the Mandingoes. Thus, his English was not of the best; and I, in faith, could not speak any word of the language of Oyo. So though we had great will to speak to the other, we were constrained in our discourse; I fretted at my ignorance.

  It was then, with infinite care, that I introduced the topic of my mother, and told him that I wished to know more of her country. He awaited her narrative, and I told him what I knew: that she was the princess of the Egba people in the Oyo Empire, and had been seized in a battle, and the other scraps I recalled from the stories told me as a child.

  I pressed him: “Do you know of the Egba?”

  “I know Egba,” he assented. “South from Oyo City. From Ake, Kemta, Igbore.”

  My heart rejoiced at this hint, and I pressed: “Then you have perhaps heard of their king? You have perhaps heard of the fate of their king and his daughter?”

  He looked at me with discomfort. “I don’t know no Egba king. I don’t know Egba too m
any.”

  I pled, “There is no word of their sovereign family? Or a raid made upon the royal house of the Egba?”

  These questions but increased his uneasiness. “Maybe some king I don’t know.”

  “Please pardon these importunities,” said I. “I fear these questions cause you some secret uneasiness.”

  He judged me with a look; and then owned, “No king. Egba people, no king.”

  I heard him with astonishment. “Now? Perhaps the King was dispatched — overthrown — at some time. Seventeen or eighteen years ago.”

  “Egba people, people in Egba Forest, each town rule by they Ogboni — many old men together, many old women. Ogboni.”

  This account of some species of republic among the Egba was unwelcome as gall; providing the bitterness of doubt when I longed for the balm of reassurance. My mother had not been unspecific when she spake of her royal Egba parentage and my birthright.

  Olakunde saw my evident distress; and he rushed to soothe: “No, maybe some king I don’t know. I don’t know Egba people too many. Maybe you mother father, he sent by Egba people to Emperor of Oyo. He sent like a king to Emperor house.”

  I knew not what to think.

  “You mother, she have”— he indicated lines upon his face. “She have three . . . ?” He drew his fingers across his own markings.

  I replied that she did not. His uneasiness at my reply led me to suspect that, had she had the scars he inquired after, the proof of her nobility might have been made more sure. As ’twas, he could neither affirm nor deny her account of her childhood.

  My face must have been expressive of my uncertainty and the disappointment of frustrated hopes for confirmation, for perceiving my confusion, he rushed to mollify me, either through the ministrations of truth or the gentle balm of lie. He averred (thought I, over quickly) that perhaps my mother’s parents — she father, she mother — had been waiting for her nuptials to apply the scars.

  “You mother name,” he asked. “What she name?”

  I replied, “Morenike.”

  “She have more name?”

  “I know not other names.”

  “Three name.”

  “I know not.”

  The one name revealed little, for, said he, Morenike was but one name of three, and said nothing of her family.

  He has, however, told me of its meaning.

  Her name, Morenike, signifieth, “Now do I have one to pet.”

  January 20th, 1776

  Sick with the fever. I cannot hold the least thing in my stomach.

  January 21st, 1776

  Sick with the fever. I cannot perform my duties. Where I am lain, there is no light to read by, so I must add dullness of mind and fatigue of spirits to discomfort of body.

  Others rally and improve.

  Later

  Some action is undertaken. I awoke to a heavy cannonade, startled, sweating — and found that the lively among us were swarming up the ladders to see what transpired — shoved back and warned away by the sailors above, who shouted that we must remain below.

  As I write, we hear the thunder of cannon-fire. We know not what it signifies.

  In the quiet following the bombardment, I have received a visit from Pomp and Slant, who have hitherto kept themselves away from the sickly end of the deck, sending as their envoys only looks of compassion and, in the hours of my waking, waves of the hand. They came now to my side, cloths wrapped about their faces to repel the contagion.

  “Never thought it would be so slow,” said Pomp. “War. I did think hazard. And I did think blood. I think, ‘Boy, you going to have to show some bravery now.’ But I didn’t think just it would be this waiting. I didn’t think just listening. And all the sick.”

  Slant could not speak for anxiety. He did not want to open his mouth near the ill, for fear something would leap in.

  January 23rd, 1776

  Awoke today to find Bono and Olakunde at my side; Bono has told Olakunde of my fiddling and spake in the most flattering terms of my abilities as a musician. Olakunde and I talked of music, though with little success, me knowing none of the terms of Oyo musicianship and he knowing none of ours, save those few learned when he was taught to coax a British drum to speak in the English military style by the drummers of the 14th.

  He did tell us of the great orchestra which played at the court of the Alafin, the Emperor of Oyo, for which Olakunde’s father had played the fife. Olakunde explained, “Alafin of Oyo a very great man. He so great man, no man ever see him sit or see him stand. No man ever see him eat. No man ever see him talk. When he wish for talk, he whisper, he whisper him thought, and he eunuch men sing it out to every body. He hold the iru kere over him mouth and whisper through it.”

  Bono inquired what the iru kere might be.

  “Cow tail,” said Olakunde. “Holy. He hold it over him mouth and whisper by it. We call it iru kere.”

  “Sure,” said Bono. “Our King also speaks through a cow arse. We call it the Prime Minister.”

  I thought this jest low; not least because it merely confused Olakunde, who understood it not, and he delivered some looks of confusion before I reassured him and bade him to ignore Bono’s whimsies.

  I asked Olakunde to describe the country of Oyo, as I had begged my mother when she lay upon her sickbed; and he replied with some confusion that he did not know what I wished him to recount; to which I replied that I wished to know any fact of its solidity: the nature of its cities, the smell of its dirt, the diurnal round of its people, any small chore my mother might have engaged in. And so I asked questions and he spake as Bono sat by soberly and listened.

  Olakunde told me of the cities, that they are moated and have great walls, and are surrounded by rings of forest which are designed to repel the incursions of horsemen; and he spake of the mansions of that place, where many families of one geniture live together around one fine atrium. He told me of the language and its singing, as had my mother when she lay close to death, her one final gift to me.

  He related that the manner in which one sang a word designated its meaning, so that ilu, a word for drum, might, sung differently, signify a town; that ayan, a cockroach, might, differently lilted, represent some smell; and so with iya: which was at once, depending on the singing, a mother or a separation.

  When Olakunde had left to receive his meal, Bono said to me, “You find out what you need to know?”

  I considered, but did not speak.

  He asked, “When will you know enough?”

  “When, for the first time, I finally know and understand her.”

  “Then it’s a long time you will wait.”

  “I do not understand the least particle of her.”

  He said, “Who understands any other body?”

  “Do you understand your mother?”

  “My mother ain’t one of the world’s great mysteries. She likes a good lot of butter and prefers sons to daughters.”

  I nodded, and laid my head back upon my blanket. He observed that my gaze was fixed absently upon the stanchions, and after a time grew tired of waiting, and asked me what I thought of.

  Said I, “Is not a mother always just a separation, differently sung; for is not our exit from the womb the —”

  “Sweet mercy in a firkin!” swore Bono. “Not another word of your damn metaphorizing! By God, don’t you have vomiting to do?”

  “I was observing merely that —”

  “You wax philosophical and I’ll shove my elbow in your mouth.”

  And thus Bono cajoled me into smiling. He told me of some altercation on the deck, a comic encounter in which “the spotted Serjeant Clippinger” faced off against one of the corporals of the Queen’s Own Loyal Virginians and was forced to retreat with apologies. He enlivened an hour, and then departed to mess with our fellows.

  I write this sitting up upon the flock-bed I have been lying on with the sick. I have every hope for a quick recovery.

  Later

  I have been, since my
interview with Olakunde, in a state of considerable ferment, painting for myself the land that would be mine, had my mother not been torn away from it. This evening, I related to Olakunde the full dimensions of her tale, or I should rather say, the story she told me: not simply the tender prince, the cruel rival, the battle, but also the residence among the Collegians and their cages, charts, and paraphernalia.

  He thought upon what I had told him; and in return, he has told me this tale, a tale of the Venus of my mother’s people, their Aphrodite, the goddess Oshun.

  THE TALE OF OSHUN

  In long time ago, in Oyo, they a beautiful woman, she name of Oshun. She beautiful past all other lady. She beautiful in she face. She beautiful in she hair. She beautiful in she mouth, in she eyes, in she hands. She walk, and all the Oyo mens, they love her in they belly; they want her in they arms.

  But Oshun, she too fine for mens of she own Oyo country. The gods above, in the sky, the orishas, they has big want for Oshun too. Oshun say, “I marry some orisha god, then I never want nothing.” She take Shango for husband, Shango, orisha for lightning. When Shango talk, there fire in he mouth. Them days, he King over Oyo. She take him for husband. She think, “This fine, for true-true. My husband, he King of Oyo and orisha for lightning.”

  Then she see Ogun, orisha of iron. He say to her, “Oshun, woman, you leave Shango. You hark here: I the iron orisha. I make for farmer can hoe. I make for slave can scythe. I make for butcher can cut and butcher can chop. I make spear. I make Dane gun and I make fetters. I make chain. This a world of iron, Oshun, and I is the master of iron. You take me, sure.”

  So she leave Shango and go to Ogun, and then she Ogun wife. She live in a iron house.