by Eric Flint
"Ngola means 'ruler' in the Kimbundu tongue." Mbandi smiled thinly. "The Portuguese called us all rulers, then? That is a bad way to treat one's king, how they treated us."
He spoke absently, his eyes on the open atlas, as they hadn't been before. Nichols turned the book about and slid it slightly across the desk. "Show me where?"
"I do not know these names." Mbandi peered down at Central Africa. "But the rivers… Here, the Lukala. My father fought a great battle there in his youth, when we gained independence from Kongo and a kingdom of our own. And the Kwanza-there I fought my battle, the year of our Lord 1619, against the Portuguese and their Imbangala mercenaries. He won his battle, and I lost mine."
"You were a warrior?" asked Nichols neutrally.
Mbandi grinned. "A farmer, as he was. Even farmers fight when there is need… My soba called us, and we came, and fought. And lost. He was killed, they say, along with many other sobas, and the city fell the next day; great Kabasa overrun and the kingdom lost with it, the king himself long fled. I was already marching west in a coffle."
Nichols set his face. "To a ship?"
"Yes. They baptized us there, at Luanda port, so that the ones who died aboard ship would find grace. I cannot say if that was a wrong thing… but the ship itself was a very wrong place, very hard, and some did die. I lived to see Brazil, and that too was a wrong place." He shivered again, glanced down, relaxed. "There are many strange names here."
"Yes." Nichols pointed. "English, French names for countries. Lines on a map, most of them… What happened to your city happened almost everywhere. The Belgians-here. The Germans-here. The French-here, here, and all through here. They brought-will bring-trade goods, and take away human beings, until all this-" He spanned a hand over the subcontinent "-is bled half to death."
"Yes. This is what Father Montoya wishes to stop."
Nichols blinked. "Stop the slave trade? Why does he want that?"
"Why should not any good man? But all things are one, to such a man as he is. He sees the links of them. The great chain of misery." Mbandi set his face in stillness. "I am such a link. In Brazil, I was angry when the work-drivers hurt me, afraid I might be killed. I fled into the jungle, full of my anger and fear, and nearly starved on the journey. To Sao Paolo, the paulistas' kingdom. I joined them. I did… many bad things, to prove myself, to survive. I did not care who suffered them."
A Chicago alley surfaced in Nichols' mind, jolt of a pistol butt gripped in his hand as he whipped a weeping juvie's face to blood; a boy no older than he was. Blackstone, baby! You fuckin' well know Rangers own this turf! He drew a breath. "Yes-I understand, I think. You hit back. Anyone will do, sometimes."
"We marched west. To Lareto and San Mini, the strange black-robes and their Guarani cattle. Good wealth to be taken…"
"Gold?"
"Guarani," said Mbandi bleakly. "For slaves. They fetched much money in Brazil… So many of us were Christian, though, that we did not harm the fathers-only taunted them, sometimes pricked them with our spears. They went on, unafraid. Father Gustav gave a sermon while we raided. I came to mock… and stayed, to hear. I could not run away from fear in the deepest jungle, but this man could stand against it, and calm others too. Our loot was nothing next to that… The following day I slipped away from the march back to Sao Paolo, and sought out Father Gustav. He blessed me and took me in." Mbandi touched a hand to his crucifix. "This is his own. After eleven years, it is a great gift, but not so great as what he gave me then. A new life, a good life."
"Different boot, same kick up the ass," muttered Nichols in English. He grinned momentarily. "Mine was a Marine high-top, and damn did it hurt…"
"But I was only one. There were thousands more taken from my homeland, from elsewhere, each year to Brazil, and each year more ran as I had." Mbandi beat his palm gently on the desktop. "Captive-slave-runaway-paulista. You see, then, the chain? Two years ago the paulistas came in great numbers, drove us downriver, smashed the missions, took many slaves. The Company of Jesus believes that they have defeated us forever. And so my journey here began."
He hesitated. "Father Montoya might have sent Father Gustav. He spoke Spanish and Latin very well, and a little English, and he… he had chosen to fight for the Guarani, like Father Montoya. But I am of the Malanje highlands. I know that ground, and the mountains farther east. I speak many Bantu dialects, some Kiswahili, and the Mandinga trade tongue. And… it was guessed that I might be of some interest to you, Herr Doctor."
Nichols grinned. "That was true."
"But… it was hard, to leave him there. Very hard. Perhaps in a few years more, he might have ordained me as a member of the Company. He was my confessor, my friend."
"And he had already taught you German, you said."
"Yes. Words come easily to me, since boyhood. I learned many dialects to speak with the different kijiko at the capital, when raising crops."
"What are kijiko?"
"King's laborers. We would say 'kinder,' I think."
"You use children to take in harvests?"
"No-not small child. Law-child, dependent. Captives from battle."
"POWs?"
Mbandi shrugged. "I do not know that word."
"I suppose you wouldn't…" Nichols tasted the next word, found it bitter, spoke it anyway. "Slaves?"
"No. That is what I was, in Brazil. My father would not treat another man like that, nor would I. Nor even the worst of our kings."
"But he owned men, you are saying. You owned men."
"The king's tendala did. I owned only their work." Mbandi spread his palms on the desktop. "Herr Doctor, you have not farmed? No? The beans do not grow themselves. It needs skill and work. He who has the decisions must have the, the…"
"Ownership?"
"The ownership, yes, for a plot larger than I may tend as my own."
"You can own the land, without owning the men!"
"No, we cannot. That is strange to me. Everywhere, here, there are barricades-fences," he said in puzzlement. "Holding in nothing but empty fields… Land is land. A man takes what no one else is using, grows what he needs. That, he owns. And what his kijiko grow, he owns through them…"
"Okay. Look." Nichols pushed back from the desk, crossed his arms. "Just tell me what you want, Mbandi, what you came here for."
"I have angered you," said the traveler slowly, straightening. "I did not wish to. As I said, I have done bad things, but only when others have hurt me. And it is Father Montoya's wishes I speak of."
"It doesn't matter. Hell, German POWs raised Allied crops during WWII…" Nichols realized he was muttering in English again. "So. No matter. Father Montoya wishes to stop the slave trade, you say. But quinine will make it easier for Europeans, Arabs, anyone to go into Africa and take them. In this time, diseases are weapons. You would disarm a continent."
"He has two ways of logic. Firstly… of numbers. We speak of young men here. Slave-takers-Portuguese or Imbangala, no matter-may only take whom they defeat. As the coastal states weaken, they will lose more battles like mine, and fight among themselves to survive. More defeats, more captives. More kijiko… Yet many more young men die from the fevers than die in fighting-even in Ndongo highlands-and many, many in Brazil, or the sugar islands. Fewer of us from Africa die when taken there, and so we are more of value as slaves. If quinine becomes common, cheap, then the fighters will not die, the workers will not die."
"I see," said Nichols. He rubbed at his chin, reflecting that malaria killed without regard to skin color-thousands of Europeans, but millions of Africans. No good having a guard dog that rips out your own throat. "There are other fevers quinine does not treat… but those may be reduced by good water, or proper treatment of wastes. So not the same… rate of replacement."
"Secondly, of men. For any man outside of Africa, to go there is a bad risk. Many die of fevers. So-if it is dangerous to go to Africa, then only dangerous men will go. Only the greatest wealth can draw them, and they value no one's life,
even their own. If they risk so much, they want much; wealth that walks on its feet. With quinine, better men may go without the bad risk, and trade in kinder ways. We have much to trade: Hausa gold, fine steel from Sudan. Ivory, pepper, Mandinga cloth. In a few years, quinine…" He shrugged. "In Kabasa, we too had an orchestra. There will be others. We may trade in ways of life, not the taking of it."
Nichols nodded slowly. "Father Montoya is… wise. And what of you? Why do you do this-will you go home, then, to Ndongo? Settle there when you are done with the seeds?"
Mbandi looked away, to the far wall, and far past it. "I cannot go home. There has been word through the Company, from Luanda. A new king in Kabasa palace, set there by Portugal. The true king is long dead. His sister, Nzinga, fought on for years from islands in the Kalandongo River, gained allies, seized another land's throne. Now she is queen of Matamba, kingdom to the east, riding on spears back into Ndongo. There will be more kijiko. The saying is 'the victors eat the country.' No one will talk of seeds there, with killing to do and wealth that walks. I cannot go home." He shifted, looked down to Nichols. "I think it is the same with you, Herr Doctor? We have a Kimbundu word: malungu, a fellow-traveler on a ship that will never return. You and I, we are malungu. It is not the distance. Men may cross any distance. It is the changes… the time."
"Yes," said Nichols. He reached out and gently closed the atlas, smoothed the spine.
"I do this for Father Gustav." Mbandi blew out a hard breath. "This is his crucifix. This is his robe. You asked what I wanted. Only what Father Montoya wants-your help.
"I cannot make men grow these cinchonas. It needs years, nearly as many as a man's to grow of age. I cannot keep them growing after I move on, when another man may come and raise another crop; cannot ask a family to squat on a jungle slope and wait. People must live… And it is dangerous in places. If there are Imbangala about, I must hire them as guards or face them as enemies."
"You need gold, then," said Nichols.
"Yes. Beads, if you have fine ones. Good iron nails. Horses."
"A fifteen-year supply of trade goods? That will take time," said Nichols. "Months, perhaps. Governments move slowly. No matter. There will be much to talk about while you wait."
Mbandi blinked. "But-No, Herr Doctor. There is very little time, and I have lost much of it already. Winter is colder each day. The harbors will freeze, the winter storms will close in. I must leave within ten days at most, or I will lose half a year; and I do not know how many years I have."
Nichols nodded slowly, thinking a moment of rats and fleas. "None of us do… But if we cannot decide in that time?"
"Then I must leave without help, and do what I can."
"Very well. You must tell me exactly-" Nichols glanced aside at the thump of the door knocker. "Busy day. Excuse me." He rose, made his way to the front door, opened it.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Nichols."
Nichols recognized the creased face and well-pressed cassock immediately. "Hello, Father, I wasn't expecting you."
Father Kircher pursed his lips and made a whooshing sound. "No one expects the Grantish Inquisition," he cackled.
"Oh, for-" Nichols leaned against the wall for a moment to gather his strength. "Who showed you that?"
"Heinzerling, of course."
"Of course… Seriously, how did you know so fast?"
"Of your visitor?" Father Kircher smiled benevolently, shifted to German. "Ah, Herr Doctor, by that darling girl whom I shall one day steal away from your wearying service, and place in my own-that is, the Company's. At a higher wage, too."
"Margritte. Figures." Nichols stayed with stubborn English. "I'll double your offer, Father."
"Generous, but can you afford such?"
"Sure, I'll dock half her pay for gossiping. Come on, he's in here." Nichols gestured the Jesuit past him in the hallway, swung shut the door, and hurried after, brushing past Kircher into the study. "Mbandi! This is Father Kircher, one of our Jesuit priests. If you would…"
He checked words and step alike as he caught sight of Mbandi's face: startlement, even fear, and then hardening, a man locking down his emotions. Caught off guard, or just caught? he thought an instant; then-"Father Kircher, this is Matthias Mbandi. He has just arrived from South America." Nichols knew Kircher well enough to afford Mbandi the courtesy of not saying, "claims to have just arrived." The Jesuit would frame the statement as such from logic if nothing else.
Mbandi lifted his chin slightly. "Good day, Father."
Kircher inclined his head. "It's considered an honor to welcome a procurator," he replied, adding with another nod to Nichols: "Ah, a Jesuit provincial representative, sent to report and negotiate in Rome… It's never been my privilege before."
"I have not come to report," said Mbandi. "To protest, perhaps. Or to testify… There will be no more procurators from Uruguay province. Nor a father-provincial to send them. Father Montoya may perhaps already be dead."
Kircher's smile dissolved. "What has happened?"
"Father Montoya has left the Company. There was a letter I was to have-" He shook his head. "No matter. You must believe me when I say that Father Montoya will have no further dealings with those who have abandoned him and his people. I thank you for the welcome, but I cannot accept it either. I, too, have renounced the Company. I will walk the world alone."
"If what you say-" Kircher paused, visibly shifting his thoughts from Jesuitical strategy to the human scale of a weary, wary man; Nichols warmed to him for it. "Matthias, many who study to become full Jesuits never succeed in their lifetimes, and some who do, fail in a task, and are punished-but there is no casting out. There is room in God's service for all. If you have come so far, in such urgency, then do not fear anything at the end of your journey. I am offering no punishments."
"Again, I thank you. But while I may yet fail in my task, I do not leave because of failure… not because of my failure, or Father Montoya's. Because of our abandonment. I will serve man, and God, upon my own, with more loyalty than I have seen offered to him and me. If you had seen-"
"Matthias! This is wrongful!"
"-if you had seen, when San Ignacio fell, when, when the paulistas began herding together their cattle-"
"Mbandi," broke in Nichols. "He does not know. You may tell him what you told me."
The traveler collected himself. "I-Of course. When we received the orders to withdraw…" He sketched the events much more bluntly than he had when speaking to Nichols, either from urgency or from no need to convince-or to sway. He finished, leaving three men standing silent in the room for a time, while the fire chuckled to them.
Kircher broke the silence first. "Your letters and your money were stolen. What was not?"
"The burden I will carry now."
"Cinchona seeds," said Nichols. "A large quantity."
"That would require a large effort… Did you gather them yourself, Mbandi?"
The traveler set his face. "That was Father Gustav's work, and Father Montoya's gift. To the United States of Europe, in hope of assistance. And to Africa, merely in hope."
Father Kircher visibly weighed his next words before he spoke them. "That is the act of a generous and good man. But it is also that of a provincial of the Company, serving its authority-and subject to it. As you state you were when you took up this burden."
"Do you claim the seeds for the Jesuits, then, Father?" said Nichols, keeping his own voice calm.
"No. That is not my place-and this man is your guest, Doctor. But I must raise the subject. In fact, there is a great deal to decide here, and you will agree that is more than may be judged by a medical official. Nor, thankfully, by myself."
"You intend to refer to the superior? Isn't he attending in Rome?"
"I believe this is a matter not for God, but for Caesar," said Kircher dryly. "President Piazza, in this case… Matthias, know that you are welcome at the Company dwelling. Please know that, always."
The traveler bowed silently; Kircher turned a
way and rustled from the room.
"He will appeal to the ruler here, then?" said Mbandi after the door had closed. "To this president?" At Nichols' nod, he hunched. "We should hurry, if you know a quicker way. The first to speak in a dispute is often the victor."
"With some men, yes." Nichols sighed. "Not this one. It will not be an… official meeting. And you are exhausted. You may rest here; I will summon Margritte to keep company with you."
"I should be there," said Mbandi.
"You will truly not speak with Father Kircher?"
"I have renounced the Company," repeated Mbandi, as though stating the obvious.
"Do you realize how this will appear to anyone judging a… dispute?"
The traveler shrugged. "Appearances are no concern to me."
"Trust me; it would be a concern to this president." Nichols deliberately sat at his desk again, and reached across it. "We have some little while. Would you like to see the atlas again?"
"Ed, it's phenomenal. There's a whole other Thirty Years' War going on in Angola!" Nichols turned in his pacing as he spoke. "1624 to 1658, civil war, raiding, treaties broken like pie crust. Nzinga becomes queen, eventually, and cuts some deals with the Portuguese. It doesn't end well. Nothing really did there…"
He turned again. Seated at the upstairs taproom's single table, Governor Ed Piazza watched him steadily. A mug of small beer rested beside him, untouched; the location had been chosen to make this meeting as unofficial as possible, not for the beverages. His slight slump wasn't inattention; a Croat musket-ball had smashed ribs and a shoulder blade, two years ago, as he defended the high school he'd once been principal of.
"But look what the Dutch did in Java! A pound of seeds that an English botanist got to them, and in a few years they had plantations of cinchona. Hundreds of thousands of trees. And there's places all over Africa with mountain rain forests. Zaire, Cameroon, Tanzania, Rwanda. You remember our Rwanda, Ed? Jesus, what if we could stop that four hundred years in advance? Or keep Leopold's butchers out of the Congo?"
Governor Piazza nodded. "It would be a hell of a thing to be able to do, yes." He was a small thin-faced man; smaller behind a coarse-planked table. Pain had whittled down his features during a convalescence extended by work. His lips were often pinched, as they were now-as they'd been when Nichols dug a flattened chunk of lead out of him, sharing half an ampoule of morphine with another casualty. He'd offered Piazza the bullet as a keepsake. No, Doctor. Trophies are for sports.
