But at that pass a good Portugal came to my aid. This was a certain merchant, by name Nicolau Cabral, that was the younger brother of Pinto Cabral that had sailed with me on my voyages when I was a pilot here. This younger Cabral, knowing of me from his brother’s stories, sought me out and said, “I intend making a journey of trade into the kingdom of Kongo, where I think there is much profit to be had. And my brother says you are a man of valor, and of skill in languages, and with great knowledge of the peoples of the land: so I would have you as my partner in this venture.”
I embraced this Cabral most warmly, and told him he was my salvation, for that I was penniless and seeking earnings for my homeward passage and the comfort of mine old age when I should reach England. And so it was agreed, that I would guide him and shield him from harm, and I was to have a portion of the profits of the venture to mine own, even though I put up no capital for it. Moreover, he said, even if we did not return a profit on our commodities, he undertook to pledge me enough money to pay for my passage. The which offer gave me great joy, although I said, “It will not be necessary to exact those terms from you, I think, since we will return well loaded with treasure.”
2
In this way I found myself yet again a wanderer in the forests and wastelands of Africa, who had thought by this time to be long since on his voyage home.
Yet was it not a burdensome ordeal. When one has been gone from home beyond fifteen year, as was now the case with me, what matters it to have a little more delay? I could not let myself go home a pauper. I confess to you also that I was fearful of returning to England, though it had been my dream so long, for it frightened me that I might be altogether bewildered in that land from its many changes. And the other thing that led me away from my great homeward goal was the knowledge still that there was too much African in me, that I was out of consort with the spirit of my native land and must yet strive to put Calandola behind me; for the taste of forbidden meat still sometimes rose to my tongue.
We set forth, Nicolau Cabral and I, into the province of Mbamba, that lieth northward of Angola, through cities that were named Musulu and Lembo and Nkondo. These were Christian places, having long been under the influence of the Portugals. Yet it was a strange kind of Christianity they did practice here, that I found strongly repellent.
This was, I suppose, in the town called Musulu. One evening an hour after sunset, I heard abundance of people singing, but in such a doleful tone as caused horror. I inquired of my servants what that meant, and they answered, it was the people of the town that came to discipline themselves in church, because it was a Friday in March. I went to the church to see it for myself, and found a Romish priest there, who lit two candles and rang the bell. The blackamoors in the meanwhile remained outside the church on their knees, singing the Salve Regina in their language, with a very doleful harmony; then being come into the church, the priest gave them all holy water. He offered some of it to me, but I did not take my place at the stoup. The worshippers were about two hundred men carrying great logs of wood of a vast weight, for the greater penance. The priest spoke a few words to them, saying, “If we do not undergo penance in this world, we shall be forced to endure it in the next,” and again he looked toward me, thinking me a good Paptist and expecting me to kneel down. I did not, but I stayed to watch, telling myself that although I could never do penance enough for my sins, yet I was not about to do it under the auspices of Rome.
The blackamoors were all on their knees, and they disciplined themselves a whole hour, I suppose, with leather thongs and cords made of the bark of trees. Several times did the priest with gestures invite me to participate. But of what value would flagellating my body be to the purging of my soul? It was prayer that I needed, and the descent of divine grace, not whips. So the ceremony soon grew wearying to me, and I went out, to find Nicolau Cabral in search of me.
“What,” he said, “are you a Roman now, Andres?”
“Not quite yet,” said I. “But I have been witnessing a most joyless rite.” And I took him within, and showed him the blackamoors still flogging themselves in Jesu’s name. And the priest still exhorted them, saying that they had committed sins against the majesty of God, who is merciless to the penitent but most harsh to those who are not. Cabral drew me by the arm and took me out of there, saying it saddened him to watch it; for though he was of the Roman faith he held no sympathy for this flogging, and I think he inwardly believed it had been better to leave these folk in their paganism than to give them so bitter a taste of the love of our gentle Savior.
But before we left that place we found the true reason for this extreme penitence, which was that the people of the town had learned that the Jaqqas were menacing the frontier, and by punishing themselves did somehow hope to win God’s favor against the man-eaters. At the sound of the name “Jaqqa” I caught in my breath, and bit down hard on my lip, for I was much appalled.
I said, “And are they far from here?”
“No one knows that,” replied my informant, a Bakongo man named Nsaku that had been traveling inland. “They flit like ghosts from place to place, as always.”
“Is Imbe Calandola yet their king?” I asked.
“Their king is said to be a dread monster, that eats children for his noon-meal,” said Nsaku, “but I know not his name. I know only that we must implore God’s mercy against these creatures, or they will destroy us.”
Cabral to me said, “It is reported that you lived among them a time, Andres.”
“Aye,” said I. “That I did, before they were defeated under Don João Coutinho.”
“And was it a terrible torment to be their captive?”
“Aye. I would not speak of it, so painful was it.”
“I quite understand, my friend. The marks of the suffering are inscribed on your face.” And he smiled kindly upon me, and we gave Nsaku some shell-money for his information, and we made ready to move on from that place. As we went forth into the dark forest I felt heavy fear descending upon me, like a tangible weight, that we might meet with a troop of Jaqqas in this deep wilderness. It is not that I dreaded dying at their hands; I think I had long since passed beyond such fear of death as I might once have had. Nay, what I truly feared was that I would see them encamped in some clearing, with their kettles and their music and all, and I would throw off my Portugal clothes and run to them, and fling myself before Imbe Calandola and beg his forgiveness, and give myself into their nation once again.
Does that sound like madness to you? Aye, so it does to me. But it was a most plausible madness; for Calandola was real to me and England only a phantasm, now, and much of the time my mind lay in a hazy borderland between the real and the unreal. I had at first embraced the Jaqqa way only so that they might bring me closer to the coast, and hope of home; but in some fashion along my travels with them the infection of them had entered my flesh, and I was still raging with it in a distant corner of my being. I thought I had broken with the Jaqqas when I did send Kulachinga to Don João Coutinho to betray Calandola; I thought then that it marked my adherence forever to civilized Christian things; and yet here was I in the Kongo forest all atremble, lest I should find them in yonder ollicondi grove and be swept willy-nilly into new allegiance to their dark lord and master.
But we encountered no Jaqqas, God be thanked, and came unhindered into the capital zone of the kingdom of the Kongo.
Now this was the place where the Portugals first had taken root on this side of Africa, insinuating themselves into a kingdom that already was rich and well advanced to civility. There were black kings here long ago, some of them great ones. When the Portugals came, an hundred year and some ago, they gulled these folk into accepting the Papist faith, and into becoming allies of Portugal, which meant, in time, that Portugal swallowed them up. Christians did they become, with Christian ways and dress and names, and strutted about telling themselves they were much enlarged by these new customs, while quietly the Portugals did suck the wealth from their land through flattery and deceit. It is the old story, that will be repeated wherever the guile of Europe meets the innocence of Paradise, I fear.