The Aftermath

by Samuel C. Florman

  It was early evening when the fleet put ashore in a deserted cove. They made camp and prepared a supper of fish and rice. Afterward, Queen Ranavolana called together all the men.

  "My good and strong men—my pirate army and navy—I salute you and wish you good hunting tomorrow!" She stood on a makeshift platform before a roaring campfire, and her words rang out into the night. At first the men were unsure how to react to this intimidating presence; but after an instant they erupted in cheers. Their shouts echoed along the beach and reverberated off the nearby waves.

  From her childhood reading the queen conjured up memories of pirate tales, of rough men adrift upon dangerous seas. Those were days of adventure! Now she had the opportunity to create such times again. She would write the script and she would star in the show. The unsuspecting quarry would be witness to her craftiness and ruthlessness. If they resisted, well, it was the way of the world that they should pay. Too bad ... but that was reality: her reality.

  When the cheers subsided, she continued: "The world—a new world—is yours for the taking. Your leaders will guide you, and you must follow them without question. They know of my master plan and how it must be executed. There can be no deviation from the plan if we are to succeed in our mission. Do you understand me? Do you believe me? Do you follow me?"

  An even greater cheer erupted from the massed men as they stood for their queen, waving their machetes and guns. The sub-commanders, Louie, Patel, Chaudri, and Waddell, spontaneously lifted her to their shoulders and held her aloft for all to see. When she was lowered to the ground, she smiled at her trusted lieutenants, waved to the men, and walked away from the fire to be by herself in the darkness.

  Queen Ranavolana breathed heavily, her head reeling from the frenzy of adulation. She felt high, drugged, ecstatic—yet suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of apprehension. Her plans were in place, the men raring to go into action, the element of surprise—she hoped—still on her side. Why, then, this onset of nagging doubt and distressing premonition of failure? What had she done wrong? Or, what might she have overlooked?

  She came to the place where the boats were moored. They rocked gently in the low tide, shadows on the water. They looked like the pleasure craft they had once been rather than the war vessels to which they had been converted. A hundred yards away she could hear the men whooping and laughing, in contrast to the deadly quiet of this sandy cove.

  One of the sentries stepped forward to confront her, but when he saw who she was, he bowed his head and stepped back to allow her free passage. She saluted him and walked on through the cold wet sand.

  —————

  After days of rain and clouds, the sky had miraculously cleared, and the sun shone on the southeast shore of the African continent. A beautiful day for a wedding.

  A crowd gathered in and around the pavilion on the beach. The huppah had been erected close to the water's edge, making an enchanting scene. At the appointed time the music struck up, and the brides walked down the aisle, one at a time as planned, looking positively radiant. Everyone played their parts to perfection, and the three ceremonies were performed without a hitch. The formal rites were followed by brief readings that had been selected by various members of the nuptial party.

  First, Captain Nordstrom read a hymn of the Great Plains Indians provided by Roxy. She had learned it years before during a visit to a western reservation and determined then to have it read on her wedding day:

  O Morning Star! when you look down upon us, give us peace and refreshing sleep. Great Spirit! bless our children, friends and visitors through a happy life. May our trails lie straight and level before us. Let us live to be old. We are all your children and ask these things with good hearts.

  Then Herb's parents recited the Seven Blessings, a traditional part of many Jewish marriage services. It ends with "Blessed are you, Holy One of All, who created joy and gladness, bride and bridegroom, mirth and song, pleasure and delight, love, fellowship, peace and friendship."

  The three couples stood, holding hands and smiling. Happiness and love were in the air.

  Next, Wilson Hardy, recalling his own wedding ceremony more than thirty years previously, read from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer:

  The union of husband and wife in heart, body and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy; for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity, and, when it is God's will, for the procreation of children and their nurture in the knowledge and love of the Lord.

  Sarah had asked her parents to read from the Song of Solomon:

  My beloved spake and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.

  And Mary's parents, beaming, but with tears in their eyes, addressed their daughter and her new husband and everyone present with the traditional Irish blessing:

  May the wind be always at your back.

  May the road rise up to meet you.

  May the sun shine warm on your face,

  The rains fall soft on your fields.

  Until we meet again, may the

  Lord Hold you in the hollow of his hand.

  Each participant spoke as clearly and loudly as possible, consistent with the propriety of the occasion, but it was difficult to tell how much the assembled guests could make out.

  "We could really use a sound system," Tom Swift muttered. "There ought to be a special prayer for the engineers who are working to restore our electrical and electronic facilities. Damnation."

  Mary hushed him, but she and the others were thinking much the same thing—not least the clergy, who probably had never been called upon to preach without at least the option of microphone and loudspeaker. What had it been like for all those thousands of years, trying to communicate using only an unenhanced human voice? How could large groups of people function? What about those famous orators: Cicero, Henry the Fifth of England, Robespierre, Daniel Webster, William Jennings Bryan? How many individuals really heard George Washington's Farewell or Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. The vacuum tube, which first made possible the amplification of electrified sound impulses, wasn't even invented until 1907.

  "Well, these are questions for a different time," thought Wil Hardy. "For the moment, it really doesn't matter one whit whether or not our words are heard clearly by the multitudes."

  Still, to those who were able to hear the exchange of vows, and the selected readings, the familiar, hallowed words were a comfort and a consolation. And to those beyond the range of the participants' voices, the ceremony and celebration that followed was a welcome community-building event.

  —————

  An invitation to the wedding had been extended to all the inhabitants of Engineering Village and to many of the Inlanders as well, although the travel involved would make it impractical for more than a few of them to attend. There were about twenty-five hundred people altogether, many of whom attended out of courtesy and curiosity, watching diffidently from afar as if observing a theatrical event. Plans had been made to serve about fifteen hundred meals. Shortly after the recessional, the ship's orchestra broke into a spirited hora, and each of the newly married couples was hoisted aloft on chairs and carried about. They were surrounded by a crowd of revelers who held hands, circling and kicking in time with the music. Soon the hora gave way to a tarantella, and then an Irish jig, which Mary's parents led with marvelous agility. The six just-marrieds considered showing off their line-dancing skills—for old times' sake (just six months ago!)—but the wedding dresses did not accommodate those western steps. They also figured that the majority of the people present would be ready for some honest-to-goodness fox-trots, jitterbugging, and disco.

  Sure enough, as the musicians shifted to jazz tunes and then rock, people all over the beach broke into lively dance. The serenity of the wedding service was transformed into the m
erriment of a carnival. If there were indeed evil fates who had sent the comet to crush the human spirit, they must have been astonished by the scene.

  After everybody had danced to the point of exhaustion, the meal was served. Buffet tables were loaded with such a variety of spectacular dishes that one could readily imagine there had never been an errant comet, that the survivors were instead off on a grand vacation or living in an idyllic land of milk and honey. The next day, everyone knew, they would return to a diet heavy with corn meal, corn mush, and corn bread. But for the moment there was a cornucopia of beef, mutton, and fowl; a dazzling variety of vegetables and fruits; a stunning display of ornately decorated pastries; and delicious bread made from fine white flour.

  Within the past week, the populace had been heartened to learn that a small crop of wheat had been harvested, and that two water-powered gristmills were turning out flour of excellent quality.

  The bridal party and a few special guests sat at a large table, using an assortment of chairs and stools made of every imaginable material and in every conceivable design. The rest of the assemblage sat or stood or lounged, as all had become used to doing, some within the pavilion and others spread out like picnickers in a park.

  While they ate, they were serenaded by singers and musicians who had been recruited from among the Inlanders by Roxy and Sarah. White groups alternated with black; they played rock music and folk, and sometimes a marvelous combination of both. Most sang the lyrics in English, but Afrikaans and tribal languages were also heard.

  Then, as the meal came to an end, Sarah rose and walked to the central area that was serving as a stage. She wanted personally to introduce the next performers, the Zulu Male Voice Choir. Eight Zulu men—none of them young—dressed simply in shirts and trousers, stepped forward and started to sing. The sound they made was familiar yet exotic, sort of gospel with an African tribal intonation. As Wil Hardy found himself tapping his feet and swaying in place, Sarah told him a little about what he was hearing.

  This was music known as mbube ("lion") or sometimes called cothoza mfana ("walk steadily, boys"). The unique art form had its roots in American minstrel shows that visited South Africa in the 1890s. Mission-educated South Africans combined elements of this minstrelsy with ragtime, western hymns, and Zulu song. From the 1930s to the 1960s, when many blacks were compelled to leave their homes—the men obliged to find employment in remote mines, fields, and factories—performers of mbube became enormously popular in the migrant worker communities. After hearing a few selections, Wil could understand why. Fantastic, he thought. Not only the sound and style, but also the story of how it came to be. American minstrel shows traveling in South Africa in the 1890s! Another of the quirks of history that he found so enthralling.

  "So you see," said Sarah, reading her husband's mind, "art has its historical tales, every bit as fascinating as technology's."

  Hardly had the choir finished taking its bows, after a few encores demanded by the audience, when another performer came, leaped really, to center stage. This man was dressed in tribal regalia, and there was no tinge of Western influence in his manner or sound. He radiated Zulu exuberance and pride from head to toe. Roxy introduced him as Ezekiel Motsima, an imbongi, a praise poet, a chanter of izibongo, praises.

  As Deborah Frost had explained in one of her seminars, this ancient genre had been widely used in Southern Africa by speakers of Zulu, Ndebele, and Xhosa. In its earliest form, tribal leaders were the primary focus of the praises, and the stress was on macho virility and prowess in battle. In more recent manifestations, political groups had used izibongo to seek partisan advantage, praising one official or another at ceremonies, or even at trade union rallies.

  There is also a long-standing practice of reciting praise poems for ordinary people on special occasions, particularly weddings. Ezekiel told the wedding party that since the most renowned imbongis had been swept away by the Event, he, an amateur, would do his best to serve in their stead. To these observers, however, he seemed very much the professional.

  First he chanted some traditional praises for national leaders of the past. After calling out the lines in Zulu, he gave the audience rough translations and encouraged them to call out "Musho!" (Speak him!) if they were so moved.

  He is awesome...

  One who overflows with compassion, helper of those in danger.

  Broad-shouldered one...

  Violent flooder like the Thukela River, who cannot be restrained...

  Then, taking up shield and spear, the imbongi started to intone war cries, which the audience accompanied with clapping hands.

  Our blood!

  It quivered!

  Get out of our path!

  You've provoked us!

  We are the courageous ones!

  Our hearts are angry—as red as blood!

  Finally, in the spirit of banter and jest often employed at family celebrations, he called out praises that he had prepared for the three grooms—obviously using information supplied by Roxy. He called Herb "the jokester who upsets the people with his impudence." Tom was teased as "the man who loves machines too much, who ought to love trees." And he called Wil to task for keeping his head down in books all the time.

  "Stand up," he yelled, waving his spear close to Wil's face. "Stand up, show us you can put down your pencil, kiss your new wife, and do a dance."

  The young recording secretary had no pencil to put down at that moment; but he did stand up, kiss Sarah, and twirl her about in an impromptu waltz.

  With that, the brides called out in unison, "Musho! Say him!" And the call was echoed by the surrounding crowd, most of whom had not made out the imbongi's words, but who were swept up in the exhilaration of the moment. "Musho! Musho! Musho!"

  By now, it was growing dark along the beach, and several large bonfires were set ablaze. The brides had planned for the day to end with a grand songfest. To lead the singing, Roxy called upon a chorus she had helped to form among the citizens of Engineering Village. It was a curious assortment of engineers, spouses, and members of the crew. If there was one main shared characteristic, Roxy said, it was that many of the participants had, at one time or another, sung in a church choir. Indeed, the program opened with two spirituals, "Shall We Gather at the River?" and "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Then came such time-honored favorites as "Oh Susanna," "Good Night, Ladies," and "Coming Thru' the Rye." For some reason, members of the chorus had taken a special fancy to American Civil War music: "Dixie," "Tenting Tonight," and, inevitably, "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." All joined in, singing lustily, yet with an underlying trace of sadness. The authors of those songs lived in hard, uncertain times in which optimism and melancholy were closely mixed. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord..."

  No one could have reckoned on the solo that came next. Donald Ruffin, the often irritating leader of the electrical engineers, was one of the last people anyone present would have expected to be a singer, much less the possessor of a magnificent baritone voice. He stepped forward and with only the slightest backing from a single guitar started to sing "Shenandoah." By the time he reached the last verse, tears rolled down the cheeks of many of his listeners.

  Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you, Far away, you rolling river.

  Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you.

  Away, I'm bound away, Across the wide Missouri.

  Contemplating the vast continental wilderness of early America, feelings of loneliness welled up within Wilson Hardy, Jr., feelings that even romantic love could not keep at bay—and certainly not cocky plans for technological conquest. How much more vast and lonely is the wilderness in which we find ourselves, Hardy mused, here on the coast of Africa, with the rest of the world in ashes. This day that had dawned so bright and hopeful seemed to be ending in gloom.

  "You're supposed to be happy," Sarah said, sensing his mood, although in the deepening dusk he was able to brush away the tears before she could see them.

  "I'm overcome with h
appiness," he said, kissing her on the neck. What he said was true, even as fresh tears welled up in his eyes. Just the mood of the moment, he thought, brought on by the haunting music, and possibly one glass of wine too many.

  That mood changed abruptly when he heard the shots. He knew they were shots even though he had never been in the vicinity of live gunfire. There were no firecrackers to celebrate the weddings and no cars around that could be backfiring. The noise seemed to come from out on the water. Looking in that direction, Wil saw flashes of light. The streaks pointed upward. Somebody was shooting into the air. Within seconds, a sailing ship came within range of the light from the bonfires. He saw the red sails. Then the name, painted in black: king radama.

  "Good grief," Herb said, as the boat rode right up to the edge of the beach, "it's the Dragon Lady herself!"

  "Jeezuzz!" Wil Hardy muttered.

  Mary O'Connor Swift said, "Wil Hardy, you shouldn't be taking the Lord's name in vain on your wedding day." It was clear that she had no clue as to what was happening—and what was about to happen.

  Several boats sailed into view, and the wild-looking crews leaped into the surf and made anchors fast. The queen stood in the bow of her vessel, holding the rigging with one hand, a rifle aloft in the other. She looked like a painting, Wil Hardy thought—a dark perversion of Washington Crossing the Delaware.

  14

  She was dressed in light canvas trousers and a brilliant red blouse, with her hair swept up in a large multicolored bandanna, just as she had been described by Harry McIntosh and his crew of fishermen. It could be none other than the self-anointed Queen Ranavolana.