“I mean it, Maurício. Teach Portuguese to us, and English or German to Africans. Earn some money.”
“Perhaps I will. I can teach the Mandinka trade talk, too. The problem isn’t just us talking to the Africans, it’s getting them talking to each other.”
* * *
The Eboe stood up, shading his eyes with one hand and hefting his fishing spear in the other. He kept his balance in the canoe with the ease of long practice. He had often gone fishing on the Niger and its tributaries. The dugout canoe, made by one of the local Surinamese Indians, was made from a strange tree, but he had learned to handle it quickly enough.
It was a good time to fish; early on a Sunday morning, when the colonists of Gustavus, across the river, were at prayer, or enjoying their day of rest.
There. A dark shape in the water. He threw.
Missed. The float bobbed in the water, as if it were laughing at him. He shrugged philosophically, and pulled on the retrieval line. He took in a few feet and then it resisted. Clearly, the spear was caught in something.
Back home, he might have chosen to abandon the spear. Here, he couldn’t afford to do so. The Gustavans had freed the blacks, but that didn’t mean that they felt obliged to give them much in the way of goods. For anything more than water, and a bit of food, they expected the blacks to work. The hospitality of the Indian tribes also had its limits.
He didn’t care about the spear shaft—there was plenty of wood around—but a metal spear point, made by the Gustavan smith . . . that was another matter.
He tied the near end of the rope about the canoe, as best he could, and then dived into the water.
When he emerged, his teeth were chattering. Not with cold, but with fright. There was a boat, with dead men, resting on the shallow river bottom. And not just any men, but the terrible white men who had taken them across the Great Sea. Had they turned into river demons?
He clambered into the canoe and just lay there, trying to calm down. The pleasant warmth of the sun had a lulling effect. He drew a knife, and was about to cut the rope away and head back to shore, when he had a change of heart.
If the bad men turned into river demons, surely they would have drowned someone weeks ago. And there would have been talk.
So these were just dead men. Dead men still holding their weapons, and with other valuable goods on their persons.
Who needs a spear shaft, if one has a sword? he thought. And with that, he paddled the boat closer to the sunken longboat, and then jumped back into the water.
Some time later, he beached the canoe, and gazed with satisfaction at the pile of goods heaped beside him. A half dozen cutlasses, a gold bracelet, and other odds and ends. He was rich now, by the standards of the ex-slaves. Rich beyond his wildest dreams.
With this, he would be an ozo, a big man. A giver of great gifts. And when he ran out, he could slip back here, and collect more goods. He would have a round stool, with three legs, and a stool carrier. He would have the town smith make him an iron staff, with bells attached. He would wear a red hat.
As he mused over these attractive possibilities, he was grabbed from behind. He tried to reach for one of the weapons so close to his feet, but the attackers pulled him back, away from the canoe, and tapped the side of his head with a war club.
When he came to, he was hanging, head down. One of his fellow ex-slaves, from an unfamiliar tribe, was studying him. Three others, who seemed from their markings to be of the same tribe, lounged nearby.
“Ah,” the warrior said to his fellows, “our fish is squirming. Should we toss him back into the water, or throw him into the pot?” His filed teeth suggested that this was not a metaphor.
The Eboe had no idea what they were saying, but was pretty sure it didn’t bode well for him. He began pleading for his life, first in his native tongue, then in Mandinka trade talk.
The warrior held up one of the weapons. “Where did you get these?”
“Spare me, and I will show where to find more.”
Near modern Paranam, Suriname
Heinrich Bender held up the chunk of rock. “This is what we are looking for.” Kojo had asked Maurício whether the Gustavans had any mines, and one thing had led to another.
Kojo, and the two Coromantee he had brought with him, studied the specimen. Kojo took it in his hand, then returned it with a moue of distaste.
“Worthless clay. We gold miners, not dirt farmers.”
“This is bauxite,” said Henrich. “Very useful. The Americans can make it into a metal which looks like silver but is as almost as light as wood. They call it ‘aluminum.’”
“You smelt it?” The Coromantees had been smithing for centuries.
“Not exactly. Uh—Maria, could you explain?”