The Mountain of Gold (32 page)

These moves, and the consequent transfer of victuals from ship to ship and ship to shore, took the best part of three days, primarily because such work was simply an impossibility in the middle part of the day. At last, and when I finally thought we were ready to proceed up river, Belem came back on board to inform me of a new complication.

'The King of Kombo,' he said, 'is displeased that you have come past his territory and not visited him to pay your respects. This means, of course, that he wants you to pay the dues he thinks himself entitled to from ships that pass his shore.'

This was an imposition that I would gladly have avoided, but I was mindful of the honour of my master King Charles and, more immediately, of the potential fate of the Charles Island garrison once the powerful deterrent provided by
Seraph
's guns had moved upriver. Consequently, very early the next day a suitably impressive embassy was put ashore by the
Seraph's
longboat. This consisted of myself, dressed in one of my better frock coats; Belem; O'Dwyer and a dozen soldiers, uniformed to impress; a dozen of my crew, including Carvell and Ali Reis, who were accustomed to such hot climes; and Lieutenant Castle, who spoke some Portuguese and could thus ensure that the pilot, whom I had mistrusted since his gesture of support for O'Dwyer, interpreted accurately.

Even so early in the morning, the sand was burning and the cracked red ground inland from it nearly roasted a man's shoes. There was almost no wind. Belem said that the village of the king was some ten of our English miles from the landing place. I was concerned that the aged, crippled pilot would struggle on such a journey, but I was soon proved wrong; the old man swung along on his crutches without an apparent concern in the world. The flocks of vultures that circled above us would have to wait some considerable time to feast on the bones of Jesus Sebastian Belem, it seemed. By contrast, the normally jovial Castle, a man more accustomed than most of us to hot climes than most of us, struggled to keep up from the very start, perspiring from every pore and gulping in great breaths of air. I suggested that he turn back, or stay where he was, but he would have none of it; he was lieutenant of the
Seraph,
he said, and honour demanded that his place be at his captain's side.

Soon afterwards, all conversation ceased. Each man was too intent on staying alive in that ferocious heat: blinking and taking breaths became tasks that required conscious effort, and I was sweating so much that I began to imagine myself a creature of water, not of flesh. Our hands came up mechanically to deter the insects that swarmed relentlessly about us. Familiar birds (egrets, terns, lone eagles, the ubiquitous vultures) shared the air with strange species of every colour: blue, red, yellow, green, a veritable rainbow in flight. We sighted the occasional monkey or antelope, and many oxen and cows—which were allowed to roam free, the natives having but little idea of how to farm them to good effect—but alas, my mind was too set on resisting the heat and staying alive to take much interest in such fauna. About an hour into the journey, I was lost in thoughts of Cornelia, and a pleasant vision of making love with her in the Ravensden ice-house, when...

An almighty explosion rent the air, close to my right ear. Birds scattered in every direction, animals visible and invisible cried their fright or defiance. I knew it at once for what it was; had heard enough muskets roar in my time. Like every other man in the company I flung myself onto the hard, roasting red ground, fearing that we were under attack .

Like every other man in the company
but one.
I looked around, saw there was no other evidence of an attack, and got to my feet. The whole company gathered around the one soldier who remained standing, a young Londoner named Baynes, and examined his musket. We took turns to touch the barrel, and to look at the cock stand, which was half bent.

The gun had been fired spontaneously by the heat.

After a march of perhaps four hours, ever deeper into the palm trees that fringed this whole coast, we came in sight of the village where the King of Kombo held court. This was a circular enclosure surrounded by a stockade of wooden hurdles; whitewashed round houses, perhaps two or three hundred in all, lay within. Goats were everywhere, seemingly taking the place of sheep in these parts. They seemed smaller and coarser than our English goats, although one kind had a shiny black skin that matched its owners' in a manner pleasing to the eye. The people themselves took not the slightest notice of us, for as Belem explained, they were well used to seeing white men coming to pay tribute to their king. The men of this Mandingo nation were tall and jet-black, wearing only cloths around their loins or, in a few cases, long white cotton shirts that reminded me of the surplices of our clergy. All wore a profusion of leather amulets, or gris-gris as Belem called them, on every available piece of flesh—about their foreheads, around their necks, on their arms and ankles. These were somewhat akin to the relics of the Popish church, the papist Belem explained: this amulet to protect against flood, that against fire, and so forth. Some men carried spears or bows, but most were merely sitting about on the ground in groups, playing a game which seemed to require the rapid movement of pebbles between holes cut into a wooden board. The women eyed us rather more curiously. Some bore their babies upon their backs. All were naked to the waist, wearing only a garment of cotton upon their lower parts; all had fantastical decorations worked into the skin of their backs. I wished my Cornelia with me, to witness this scene, but then I thought better of it; if she saw such skin-decoration, she would undoubtedly want some for herself.

The king's palace—little better than a larger version of the huts of his people—lay at the centre of the village. A guarded gate led into a yard, where two men, clad identically to the others in the village, bowed to us and led us toward the large royal hut.

'Tetees,' the Portugee said. 'The heralds. They will lead us to His Majesty's presence.' He nodded toward the other men who milled around the yard, eyeing us more curiously than those outside. 'Braffoes and cabasheers,' murmured Belem. 'Captains and officials of the King of Kombo.'

So very like a court of Europe, I thought, were it not for the searing heat, the profusion of naked flesh and the strangeness of the setting. The tetees led us up to the entrance of the hut. The flap was pulled back, and we were led inside. Blessedly, it was a little cooler within; but only a very little.

The interior of the great hut was matted, and contained no furniture at all. Seven women sat around the wall at the sides, seemingly entirely uninterested in the proceedings; I later learned from Belem that these were the king's wives. Various braffoes and cabasheers also stood by the wall. Two men were playing a stringed instrument not unlike our lute; another played a raised, organ-like instrument (a balafon, Belem called it) with seventeen keys, which were played by striking them with a soft round ball at the end of a stick. As for the king himself, he sat in the very centre of the hut. He had no throne, and I wondered how in the name of heaven he ever managed to lower himself onto the mat, or rose from it thereafter. For the King of Kombo was the hugest man I ever saw. This vast creature was clad plainly, in the same manner as his subjects, in a simple cotton shirt and breeches. The only symbol of his royal authority was a pointed cap not unlike an episcopal mitre. Apart from his great size, the most remarkable thing about him was the gris-gris adorning his body. For unlike those worn by his subjects, the king's gris-gris were chiefly of gold.

O'Dwyer, Castle and I followed Belem's lead, for he had informed us of the etiquette of this court during the first, and more talkative, part of our march. The old Portugee made towards the throne, bowing as low as his infirmities would permit. We placed our hands upon our breasts, which His Majesty reciprocated. The king then extended his vast hand. Each of us in turn stepped forward, gripped the upper part of the royal hand, then the lower, then joined palms and shook hands. Finally, we sat down before the enormous presence of His Majesty the King of Kombo.

O'Dwyer took the lead, as the senior officer among us, his rank of colonel giving him sufficient authority to deal with all such local chieftains and potentates. This, after all, was the sole reason why this so-unworthy renegade had been granted his otherwise unjustified rank, or so the Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor of England, had informed my brother. The Irishman apologised profusely for our tardiness in paying our respects to His Majesty, but indicated the bags of money and bottles of brandy that we had brought in tribute, trusting that these would be sufficient compensation for our inexcusable disrespect. Whatever my opinion of O'Dwyer, it was impossible to deny that he managed this saccharine speech with far greater aplomb than Matthew Quinton could ever have brought to it. The king's fearsome expression mellowed more than a little.

The king spoke no English, as was to be expected, but had the pidgin-Portuguese of the coast and relied upon Belem's interpretation. He expressed gratitude for our tribute, proclaimed his undying esteem for the King of England, but then focused entirely on O'Dwyer. 'I have seen many Englishmen, Colonel,' said the king through Belem, 'but I have never before seen one that could pass so readily for an Arab.'

'Why, Majesty,' I said mischievously, 'Colonel O'Dwyer, here, is not an Englishman but an Irishman, which is something quite different. What is more, he has spent many years living as a Moor. He tells us he has been in these parts before—or at least, somewhere beyond the upper reaches of this river.'

O'Dwyer's glance at me could have been taken for a gracious acknowledgment by those who did not know him better. However, the king was delighted by the revelation, and ordered refreshment brought forth. Attendants came out with bottles and cups, and poured a light, almost clear liquid.

'Palm wine,' whispered Belem. 'Pray it is fresh, for after half a day or so, it will turn sour. Good for a man's health, though—cleans out the kidneys and makes him piss.'

We raised our cups to salute the king, he raised his to us, and we drank. I was more than a little relieved to find that the bitter-sweet palm wine was perfectly tolerable to my English palate; indeed, it was not unlike a young white wine when first brought into England. The wine was accompanied by bowls of rice, the great staple of those parts, and by the meat of a bird not unlike to pheasant. All in all, the entire affair was proceeding in a most satisfactory way, and once we had concluded the meal, O'Dwyer formally asked the king's permission to return to our ship and proceed through the waters of his realm to the upper reaches of the river.

The vast king shrugged, which in his case meant a slight quivering of his mighty mound of flesh. 'Ah, my friends,' he said through Belem. 'Of course I wish to aid my royal equal King Charles. But it is difficult. I hear other counsels.' He was evidently uncomfortable now, searching for the words. I exchanged a glance with O'Dwyer, who was as perplexed as myself. 'I hear the counsels that told me to invite you here in order to detain you,' the king said, 'and not to allow you to proceed up the river. The counsels put forward by the other envoy who has come to us.'

Before I had time to digest this news, the king raised his hand. One of the guards pulled upon the curtain and signalled to some man or men beyond. The King of Kombo said, 'It is so difficult to weigh the relative merits of different lands, and the arguments that their envoys present. Thus it is with you, representing your mighty King Charles—and the ambassador, here, representing the most illustrious King Louis.'

The name 'Louis' did not require Belem's translation. The French ambassador stepped into the royal presence. As he did so, I felt that powerful shock which usually comes only with the death of a loved one or a severe wound.

The French ambassador was the Seigneur de Montnoir.

Montnoir was dressed exactly as at our first meeting aboard the
Wessex.
The silver-starred black cloak of a Knight of Malta enveloped him like a shroud. As in our previous encounter, he seemed entirely oblivious to the ferocious heat. His face was the same blank skeletal mask.

I looked upon him in a dream of shock and bewilderment as he bowed to the king.

'Your Majesty is most gracious,' Montnoir said in surprisingly fluent Portuguese, translated back to us by Belem. 'It is pleasing to renew my acquaintance with Captain Quinton.' His nod in my direction certainly betokened no pleasure. 'And I have desired to meet this other gentleman for a very long time. He goes by many names, but I believe I should now salute him as Colonel Brian Doyle O'Dwyer.'

O'Dwyer smiled and bowed in acknowledgment. If he felt dread at the appearance of his would-be interrogator—and perhaps executioner—he did not show it.

The King of Kombo's expression, so benevolent but a few minutes earlier, was now harsh and hostile. 'The French envoy, here, offers me gold. A great deal of gold, in fact, on condition that I prevent the English expedition sailing up the Gambia, wipe out your fort on the Island of Dogs, and hand over to him the person of Colonel O'Dwyer, here present. Would that be the state of it, My Lord Montnoir?'

As Your Majesty says,' Montnoir said silkily, sensing that his triumph was near.

'Whereas the English seize an island of my kingdom, and then do nothing but offer me cheap trinkets and a vague promise of the future friendship of King Charles. Now, I understand from the many traders upon this coast that King Charles is set but uncertainly upon his throne, and has little money.' Instinct demanded that I protest, but how could I protest against the simple truth? And dear God, if even this mere local potentate knew of our monarchy's dire weakness, then what hope did my cause stand? The king continued, 'Whereas these same traders tell me that the France of King Louis is mightier by the day, as the gold brought by the Lord Montnoir amply proves, and has also made alliance with my old friends, the Dutch. And why should I, the King of Kombo, care if one white man is handed from the custody of another white man to yet another?' Even the confident O'Dwyer grimaced at that. 'So. This seems to be the heart of this case. The king will think upon it.'