Borguri had to kill one of his warriors that night, who, in his cups, made derogatory remarks about Borguri’s leadership. It was clear that Borguri had to take quick action, but it wasn’t so clear what his target should be. The source of the signs was clearly Gustavus, but Borguri knew that a direct attack on Gustavus, or on Fort Lincoln, would be suicidal.
The answer came a few days later, from one of his spies. This fellow prudently remained in his dugout canoe as he conveyed his news. A dozen or so miles east of Fort Lincoln, in the strip of land between the Great Sea and the Commewijne River, a fetish hut had been built, at a site which the European leaders and the African sorcerers deemed propitious for that purpose. Inside the hut, there was a wood statue of Borguri, surrounded by curse objects and more of the insulting signs. In exactly a week’s time, there would be a ceremony at which the statue would be burnt, in a ritual that would assure the ignominious defeat of Borguri and the Imbangala.
Borguri asked him more questions, assuring himself that the fetish hut was out of cannon range of Fort Lincoln. Then he gave his orders.
Wait. Was that a smirk he saw on the face of his spy? He grabbed a spear and threw it.
The insufficiently prudent agent toppled into the water.
* * *
The Imbangala and their Indian allies crossed the Commewijne River in a swarm of dugout canoes. Borguri left behind the children trainees, with a few wounded regulars to supervise them, as a rear guard.
Borguri led the rest of his war party in the direction of the reported fetish hut. His Caribs scouted ahead and to the flanks, watching for an ambush. They found no one.
At last, the war party entered the clearing that held the fetish hut. They milled about it, singing war songs and building up their courage. At last, one of the Imbangala strode into the hut, and triumphantly grabbed the infamous statue.
His triumph didn’t last long. With the statue dislodged, a spring-loaded pan rose. Inside the pedestal, a concealed trigger mechanism, protected from the tropical damp by rubber and tar, struck a spark, igniting priming powder inside. This lit a safety fuse, which in turn set off the barrels of gunpowder arrayed beneath the floor of the hut. The wood planks fractured, and the shards hurtled upward.
The bold Imbangala, still peering curiously at the statue in his hand, was impaled. So, too, were several of his companions. Others simply fell into the pit.
Borguri wasn’t one of the victims of the trap. He immediately ordered the Imbangala back to the boats (and didn’t trouble himself as to whether his Indian allies were doing the same). They got there, only to discover that their escape had been cut off.
The fluyt Walvis, the captured caravel Vreedom and the jacht Eikhoorn had taken advantage of the the great depth of the river Commewijne, even well upriver, and were already patrolling it, and firing their cannon and swivel guns at any likely targets.
Borguri briefly considered attacking the ships. It was true that his warriors only had to cross some five hundred feet of water, from the north bank of the Commewijne to the sides of the ships, to attack them, but the high tumblehome hulls of the Walvis and Vreedom would be difficult to assault from the low-slung canoes. The Eikhoorn was a more manageable target, but it, like the larger ships, had boarding nets out. For that matter, their decks were packed with Coromantee, Eboe, Mandinka and Arawak warriors, and there were musketeers in the rigging.
Where are the Ndongo? he wondered.
He got his answer. The Atlantic Ocean, the Suriname River, and the Commewijne River formed a horizontally stretched C, facing east. The Ndongo had been hidden, screened by friendly Indians, far enough to the east to escape detection by the Imbangala’s scouts. Once the Imbangala attacked the fetish hut, they surged westward, driving the Imbangala against the reinforced defenses of Fort Lincoln at the confluence of the Suriname and the Commewijne.
Borguri was one of the last to fall. He had his back to a great tree trunk, and several Ndongo approached him. Borguri dared them to pick a champion to fight him, one on one. The Ndongo backed off slightly, and heatedly argued whether this challenge should be accepted and, if so, which had them had precedence.
At last Faye arrived, a Dutch cutlass in hand. “What is the problem here?” They explained.
“Young idiots,” he muttered. The Ndongo stiffened.
“Bowmen!” Faye’s people raised their bows.
At that, Borguri charged. To no avail. The Ndongo danced back, taunting him and pricking him with their spears, and first one arrow and then another plunged into his body.
Borguri sank to the ground. Faye moved forward, and swung his cutlass. Borguri sank to his knees. “This is real life, not a song,” he admonished the spearmen. “Defeat your enemy at the least cost to yourself.” Faye made a final sweep, beheading Borguri.