Caribbee Part 45

"I'm d.a.m.ned if we'll arm these savages and let them loose

on the island. Next thing, they'd try and take over. It'd be the end of slavery. Which means the end of sugar."

"Doesn't have to be. Let them work for wage and start treating them like men. Then, instead of worrying about having them at your back, you'd have them holding your defenses."

"That's about the d.a.m.nedest idea I've ever come across." Briggs spat into the sand.

"Then you've got a choice. You can have slavery, or you can win independence. Either you get them to help, or you end up a slave to the Commonwealth yourself." He glanced at Katherine, then back at Briggs as he continued. "And the same goes for your indentures. How in h.e.l.l do you expect this island to hold out against England when half the men here would just as soon see you lose? But give the slaves, and the indentures, a stake in this, and you'll have a good ten or fifteen thousand fighting men here. Morris has maybe three, four hundred. He'll never take Barbados. I want you to tell that to the Council."

"I'll be party to no such undertaking." Briggs squinted through the sunshine.

"Then give my regards to the admiral when you sit down to sign the surrender. I give you a week at most." He turned and touched Katherine's arm. "Katy, if you'd like me to see you home, then wait over there by that shade tree while I make gunnery a.s.signments."

Atiba moved noiselessly along the wet sand of the sh.o.r.e, crouched low, the wind in his face, just as he had once stalked a wounded leopard in the forest three days north of Ife. This part of the harbor was almost deserted now; only two frigates remained, and they were both lodged in the sand, immobile. One was the great, stinking ship that had brought him to this forlorn place. He hated it, had vowed never to be on it again. Furthermore, tonight its decks were crowded with drinking, singing _branco_. The other one would have to supply what he needed-- the one belonging to the tall Ingles _branco_ with the mark on his cheek.

He secured the stolen machete in his waist-wrap and waded into the water. When the first salty wave curved over him, he leaned into it with his shoulder and began to swim--out away from the sh.o.r.e, circling around to approach the ship from the side facing the sea.

As he swam, he thought again of what he must do. It was not a mission of his choosing. He had finally agreed to come because there was no other way to placate the elders. Until last night he had not realized how much they feared the arms of the _branco_. . .

"We must be like the bulrush, not like brittle gra.s.s," Tahajo, the oldest and hence presumed the wisest, had declared. "A bulrush mat will bend. A gra.s.s mat breaks to pieces. Do not be brittle gra.s.s, Atiba, be like the bulrush. Do what we ask of you."

"Tahajo's wisdom is known throughout Ife." Obewole, the strongest of them all, had next conceded his own fear. "Remember it's said you cannot go to war with only a stick in your hand; you must carry a crossbow."

Atiba had intended the meeting in his hut to be their final council of war. Last evening was carefully chosen, auspicious. It was the fourth night of the new moon on the island of Barbados. In Ife it would have been the fourth day of a new month, and also the last day of the week-- a cycle of four days dedicated to major G.o.ds of the Yoruba pantheon; Shango, Obatala, Orunmila, and Ogun. The appearance of the new moon was important and signified much. By telling the beginning of the month, it scheduled which days would be market days, which were sacred, what G.o.d was responsible for the birth of a child.

They had waited quietly in his thatched hut as twilight

settled across the fields of cane. Swallows twittered among the tall palms, and the half-light was spotted with darting bats. The heat of the long day still immersed the hillside. On the far western horizon, where the sea disappeared into the Caribbean mist, three of the great ships of the Ingles fleet had begun preparing their sails. They too seemed to be waiting for the appearance of the new Yoruba moon.

He began with a review of their weapons. There would be difficulties.

Since the cane knives had been removed from the slave quarters on most of the plantations and secured in the great house, it would be necessary to break in and take them back, which meant the advantage of surprise would be lost. For spears, they would have to try and seize some of the pikes the _branco_ now had in readiness to protect the island from the fleet. Again that meant bloodshed.

Also, their numbers were still uncertain. All the Yoruba had agreed to rise up, and final preparations had been coordinated across the island using the _iya ilu_ drum. But the other men of Africa? What of them?

The Ibo nursed historic hatreds toward the Yoruba, and their response to the plan for rebellion had been to shift on their feet, spit on the ground, and agree to nothing. There were also Ashanti and Mandingo.

These he trusted even less than the Ibo. Command would be difficult: there were too many languages, too many loyalties, too many ancient grievances.

The men in the hut finally concluded that only the Yoruba could be relied upon. When the day of war comes, you only trust your own blood, your own G.o.ds.

After the moon had disappeared, he'd cast the cowries, praying Ogun would presage the defeat of the _branco_. The men required an omen.

And an omen there had been. At that exact moment the silence of the night was rent by sounds of gunfire rising up from the western sh.o.r.e, faint staccato pops through the trees. They were as drumbeats that carried no words, yet their message was unmistakable. Ogun, the G.o.d of war, had spoken--not through the pattern in the cowries on a tray, but with his own voice.

Fear suddenly gripped the men in the hut. What was Ogun's purpose in answering the cowries this way? Thus their council of war had dissolved in meaningless talk and confusion. Finally the misgivings of the elders emerged.

There must be, they said, no rising against the _branco _unless success was a.s.sured. The elder Tahajo recalled the famous proverb: _Aki ida owo le ohun ti ako le igbe_--"A man should not attempt to raise up something he cannot lift." The other men had nodded gravely, taking his mouthing of this commonplace to demonstrate great sagacity.

Then young Derin, in a flagrant breach of etiquette amongst a council of elders, had dared to cite an opposing parable: _Bi eya ba di ekun, eran ni ikpa dze_--"When the wild cat becomes a leopard, it can devour great beasts." We must become brave like the leopard, he urged. When the _branco _see our boldness they will quake with fear as we go to war against them.

Tahajo had listened tolerantly, then countered again: _Alak-atanpo oju ko le ita eran pa_--"He who has only his eyebrow for a crossbow can never kill an animal."

So it had continued long into the night. Atiba had no choice but to wait until the elders decided. Finally they agreed that Ogun would have them go to war only if they had weapons to match those of the _branco_.

That was the message in the gunfire that had erupted the moment the cowries were cast. Atiba must a.s.sure them he could find muskets, or there would be no rebellion. . . .

He stroked silently on through the surf. Now the dark outline of the _branco's_ ship loomed above him, still, deserted. Soon he would find what he had come to learn.

He grasped a salt-encrusted rope ladder which dangled from the side and pulled out of the water. He did not bother using the rungs; instead he lifted himself directly up.

His feet were noiseless as he dropped onto the deck. A quick reconnaissance revealed only one sentry, a fat _branco _snoring loudly in a chair on the high deck at the back of the ship. He slipped up the companionway, gripping each weathered board with his toes, and stood over the man, wondering if he should kill him, lest he waken suddenly and sound an alarm.

Then he remembered the words of Shango that night in the mill house. It would be a bad omen to spill innocent blood before the rebellion even began. Shango had declared he would only countenance the killing of men who threatened harm. Also, lying beside the man was an empty flask, which surely had contained the strong wine made from cane. This snoring _branco _would not soon awaken.

He turned and inched his way back down the companion-way. The only sounds now were the gentle splash of surf against the side of the ship and the distant chirp of crickets from the sh.o.r.e. He moved stealthily along the creaking boards until he reached the locked door at the front of the ship, the place where the _branco _captains stored their weapons.

He tried to still his heart, feeling it begin to race with antic.i.p.ation. If there were weapons here, muskets or pikes, they would be easy to seize when the moment came to rise up. There would be no need to storm the plantation houses for guns and spears, and their plans could proceed in total secrecy till the moment the _branco _slaveholders were surprised and cut down.

He recalled the rumor that the _branco _who owned this ship had bought and freed two hundred white slaves, and then had given some of them weapons to fight the warriors of the Ingles fleet. Surely he had more muskets and pikes than any of the _branco _planters. How many would be left?

He slipped the machete from his waistband and wedged it silently under a hinge on the heavy wooden door. The wood

was old and the nails pulled easily. When the three hinges had been removed, he laid the machete on the deck and lifted the door around.

The interior of the fo'c'sle was dark, but he dared not try to make a light. The risk was too great that he might set off any gunpowder stored here. Instead he felt his way forward.

The s.p.a.ce was crowded with racks, and in them were rows of new pikes and half-pikes, hundreds. Then his hand touched a row of long steel cylinders.

Musket barrels.

Ogun had answered their prayers.

This ship had an a.r.s.enal that would equip an entire army, a cache that would ensure their victory. The second week following, seven days hence, the time sacred to Ogun, he would bring the men and they would overwhelm the ship, seize the weapons. . . .

He had turned to grope his way back to the deck when he first saw the two silhouettes against the dim light of the doorway. A tall man was there, blocking his exit, and next to him was the outline of a _branco _woman.

"John, what in the name of h.e.l.l are you doing in the fo'c'sle?" The voice sounded tired and annoyed. "Is this how you stand watch?"

"Hugh, take care." It was the voice of the _branco _woman he remembered from the first night in the boiling house.

He froze against a wall and reached for his machete.

It was missing. Like a fool he'd left it outside.

Quietly he lifted one of the pikes from the rack and inched slowly toward the figures in the doorway.

Through the dark came a shout from the other end of the deck. The sleeping _branco _had awakened. "G.o.d's wounds, Cap'n. I'm watching this ship like a hawk over a henhouse. There's no need to be carry in' on."

The man laughed. "Lest you upset the lady."

"John, is that you?" The tall man's voice quickened. "Then, by Jesus, who's . . .?"