Gustavus (Paramaribo)
Lorenz Baum, the colony’s master carpenter, rolled up the plans. “And what did you say this structure was for?”
“A watchtower,” Carsten Claus, acting governor of the colony of Gustavus, said.
“Well, you certainly want a watchtower that isn’t going to fall down anytime soon. It is quite . . .” The carpenter hunted for the word he wanted. “Substantial.”
“It’s forty-plus feet tall; I don’t want it blown down.”
“It will have tripod supports fixed in concrete. It would take a hurricane to blow it down. And Maria said that according to those up-time encyclopedias, hurricanes never hit this coast.”
“Well, if you really want to know . . .” Carsten lowered his voice, and the carpenter involuntarily leaned closer. “It’s Maria’s idea. Make it fancy enough, and we can put it about to the Indians and the Africans that it’s a magic thing, that it will do all sorts of bad things to anyone who attacks the town, and even worse things to anyone who tries to burn it or knock it down. And that way, if we have a falling out, they will think twice before attacking.”
“Oh. That makes a strange kind of sense. Well, I best be getting back to the shop and make sure that apprentice of mine is working and not trying to spot the Indian girls skinny-dipping.”
Fort Lincoln, Near the Mouth of the Suriname River, Suriname
It was nearly sunset when the strange canoe slipped up the Suriname river. The sentinel in the watchtower at Fort Lincoln blew on a conch shell, summoning his sergeant.
“Well, I hope this was worth interrupting my dinner,” that worthy grumbled.
“It’s a canoe,” the sentry said, handing over the scope. “It has a sail, but it doesn’t look like a Carib sail. Don’t they use a square sail, with a mast up front?”
The sergeant squinted. “That’s a spritsail; European influence, for sure. I see two . . . no, three people. . . . You don’t suppose there’s a Spanish army hiding in that palm-thatched hut at the stern?”
The sentry started to apologize for disturbing the sergeant.
“No, no, you did the right thing. By the markings on that sail . . . I think our intrepid explorers have returned. Coqui, Tetube and Kojo, that is.”
“Where from?”
“Maria told me that she had sent them to explore the Marowijne.” That was the river that, in the world the Americans came from, had marked the border between Dutch and French Guiana. “She said that Tetube had kinfolk among the tribes there.”
“Wonder if they found anything interesting?”
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Like El Dorado?”
The sentry grinned sheepishly. “There’s always hope . . .”
“Perhaps. Given the course they’re on, I don’t think they plan on stopping here, so I guess we aren’t going to find out anything tonight.”
Gustavus Colony, Paramaribo, Suriname
Coqui, Tetube and Kojo arrived at the Paramaribo dock, tired but pleased with themselves, some minutes later. They asked the dock guard whether their friends were in town. He told them that Maria Vorst and Henrique da Costa were out exploring the Coppename River in western Suriname, and intended to visit the Dutch at Fort Kykoveral, farther west. Maurício, Henrique’s former servant and the present “chief-of-chiefs” of the rescued Africans, was visiting with the Eboe, whose village was on the Commewijne some miles to the east. And his wife Kasiri, Coqui’s sister, was with him.
Kojo was disappointed at the news, but he invited Coqui and Tetube to come back with him to the Ashanti village, farther upriver. The village was a circle of huts. The smell coming from the cooking pots in the center started Coqui’s stomach rumbling, much to Tetube’s amusement.
The travelers might have preferred to sleep, but there was food, drink and dancing. And more drink. Soon, Coqui and Tetube fell asleep.
“More piwari for the rest of us,” Kojo commented.
Antoa, the leader of the local Ashanti, grinned. “Well, how was the trip?”
“I told you—”
“Yes, yes, I know about the color of the Marowijne, and the strange birds, and the Indians you met. But you know what I am really asking about. And you owe me a debt, you know. From before we were taken by the Bad People.” By which he meant slavers.
“Tell no one else,” said Kojo. “At least not until Maria gives permission.”
“She is a powerful seeress, I will do nothing to offend her.”
Kojo sat in front of Antoa, his body hiding his actions from the rest of the villagers. He pulled out a pouch, and carefully shook out the contents. Several nuggets of gold came to rest on his outstretched palm; the largest was the size of his thumbnail. “See? I found enough of these to pay for the release of my children from the Spanish. More than enough, actually.”