FICTION — RESTIVE SOULS
The Tale of Shyllandrus Zulu: Chapter 9
Chapter Nine of Part Two: The mystery behind the murder of Ahyoka of the Ani’-wa’`ya deepens
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A Restive Souls excerpt
As told to eminent historian Emmet Bolo by the high priestess Zulu West.
Chapters 1&2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5.1
Chapter 5.2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12.1
Chapter 12.2
Restive Souls Part 2: Carolina Rising
Zulu’s Tale (1801–1804)
9
As dessert was brought to the dining room, a loud commotion interrupted the conversation. My eyes had been captive to a tall, sponge-like butter cake held by an exceedingly tall man named Jenkins. I guessed from the proud look on his face that he was also the baker. Jenkins wore a tightly wrapped purple turban with a gold cross chevron on the front.
I had never seen him in the banquet hall, only in the fields where I walked during weekly blessings. His eyes weren’t on me as I glanced away. I stood up and approached the window, followed by Jenkins, who had gingerly placed the cake and its tin plate on the table.
Two gunshots sounded outside before a man on a horse rode swiftly past the window. Other horsemen followed, galloping past, all with Vanguard of Mary militia dressings under their saddles. The governess’s guards entered the dining room with worried looks.
I looked at Jenkins. “What is it?”
“I can’t know your grace. But perhaps they have things in hand?” He spoke in a thick accent I barely understood — Gullah, I thought, but mixed with an unfamiliar dialect. He reminded me of what my kin had told me some of my ancestral people looked like.
He was so tall that he had to bend his neck to walk through the doorway; a very dark, very thin man with strong, supple, toned musculature around his shoulders and upper arms, probably from fieldwork. His cheeks were hollow, but he didn’t look underfed. He wore an open-shouldered cowskin vest that covered nothing but his bare skin. The vest itself he kept open with but a thick leather sash around the stomach.
I sensed he wanted to be of service to the militiamen for whatever they were doing.
“You wish to help them,” I said.
The governess had by now joined me, she on my left, Jenkins just behind on my right, followed by her guards.
“Yes ma’am,” he muttered quietly.
“And have you applied for duty?”
“I am Nguni. It is forbidden.”
I looked behind to stare at him, desiring suddenly to find someone to slap. “By whom?” I demanded.
“It is by way of the commander, I believe.”
I was mortified. I was also curious to know why Jenkins was in Charleston. There were few Nguni or Zulu in these parts. The turban was a curious accouterment for a Nguni, but I reminded myself that we all borrowed fashion from one another in this new country.
The commotion outside subsided.
“Do you believe it is safe to step outside?” I asked Jenkins.
“It is safe, your grace,” he said confidently. He left to retrieve a lantern and a torch.
“What is your Nguni name?” I asked as he handed me the lantern.
“I am Mpangazitha,” he answered.
“A warrior’s name,” I said. “I know you as Jenkins. Why?”
“He is a white man who killed my slave master just before the war. I honor him with my name.”
“Well, Mpangazitha Jenkins, I will see to it that you are given entry into the militia. We shall not separate our nations in this new homeland.”
“There are few friends of the Nguni within the militia, your grace. We are given our roles, and mine remains outside the militia.”
“Then our commander will also be given a new role, as a street sweeper in Charleston,” I said with a calm smile.
“He is very skilled in battle,” replied Jenkins, “and an enemy you would not wish upon yourself. He is a man whose men will follow him into a tarpit.”
I grasped Jenkins by his long arms and looked high up into his eyes. “I do not care.”
I was impressed with his Gullah now. It was ragged, but I realized that he had mastered it well given that his native tongue was quite different.
Jenkins and I approached the door of the banquet hall. “You should remain here,” I said to the governess.
“I have been honored to be your guest. I shall be honored to share your danger. We are allies, are we not? Our two nations.”
“If we were not previously, we are now,” I smiled, waving her along as we stepped through the doorway of the banquet hall, then into the anteroom.
I listened for a thud, wondering if Jenkins might forget to bow his head at the doorway in the commotion. As the three of us stepped outside into the cool late summer night air, I noticed two sentries had taken position. Summer had not receded yet, but a slight chill had accompanied the rains.
“I sense no danger,” said Jenkins.
I noticed the cooling air’s fragrant scent, which came from Wild Henry’s garden in the form of a mélange of flowering nectars.
I heard distant drums muffled by the woodlands from where they originated. Someone on congregational lands was holding a small celebration or feast.
A horse quickly approached.
When it halted, its rider, a man with thick, black, curly hair under a wide-brimmed hat and who wore a long, dark black curled mustache, dismounted, saying in perfect, unaccented English, “Tsărăgĭ scouts, your grace, I believe.” I had seen the man on the grounds but did not know him by name.
Two other men on horseback were close behind.
“Why?” I asked.
“Possibly searching for the same men we are. Possibly probing our defenses. I can only make those two guesses. Our men are in pursuit, but they will be difficult to track once they are in the thick of the forest, especially with nightfall.”
“Where is Commander Ohemeng?” I asked. I thought it curious that this man, who was not even an Afriker, much less an Ashanti, would be a militia scout, but that poor Jenkins was somehow disqualified.
“He is along the Sharpened Edge,” replied the man. The Sharpened Edge was a series of crude fortifications that ringed the central congregational grounds. The fortification consisted primarily of a series of fences made from thin twisted wrought iron rope joined and segmented by sharp blades.
The Sharpened Edge was probably razor-edged fencing made primarily of Devil’s Rope, which was invented by the famous metallurgist Finneas Jewell in the late 18th century, initially as a means for preventing cattle from wandering off grazing land.
I looked at Jenkins. “Can you ride, Mpangazitha?”
He nodded. “Yes, your grace.”
“And saddle a horse?”
“Yes,” he answered, nodding again.
“Saddle up and accompany this young man,” and I looked at our scout. “Command Ohemeng to return here post haste at my behest.”
“Your grace?” asked an alarmed Jenkins. He surely didn’t want to confront Ohemeng with such a request.
“I believe you heard me. Now. Off you go.”
Surprisingly, the scout reached up to give Jenkins a friendly slap on the back of his shoulder as Jenkins handed him his torch before leaving to saddle the horse and retrieve another torch.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“Diego José Francisco de Paula Ruiz, your grace.”
“Does Commander Ohemeng treat you fairly? Answer me in confidence. What you say here stays here.” I pointed to my head.
“He is a stern man, not one of great humor. But fair? Very much so. The men, we would all die for him twice.”
His sincerity leeched through his skin. His eyes spoke the same words as his lips. This was a good thing. Whatever was holding back Jenkins was not impermeable.
“Thank you,” I said. Although I was not the Tribune of the Vanguard of Mary Congregation, as its founder I had the authority to possibly end Ohemeng’s career. I knew now that I would not need to consider such harsh remedies to Jenkin’s situation.
I was perplexed, however, about this business regarding the Nguni. There would not have existed any historical hostility between an Ashanti and a Nguni based on homeland politics. The geography was too wrong for that. And the presence of Ruiz told me that the problem was not one of general prejudice.
Jenkins returned with a saddled horse and a torch.
“I ask you, Diego José Francisco de Paula Ruiz, to be sure to allow Mpangazitha to deliver my call for the commander,” I said.
Ruiz nodded, then mounted his horse and turned it toward the garden. He and Jenkins trotted down the trail on their horses, through the garden, and out toward the forest, their torches disappearing as if the forest had eaten their light.
Margaret had been silent the entire time. I turned to face her. “Is everything quite all right, my dear?”
She took off her bonnet, shook out her luxuriously long auburn hair, and seemed to take in the air. “May I make a confession?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t particularly enjoy hats.”
I smiled at this. “Well, you needn’t wear it on my account, or on anyone else’s, either.”
“If you don’t mind, then, I will deposit this awful thing inside the anteroom for the time being.”
Our arrangement with the governess had been to provide lodging for the night before her journey home. I began to wonder if the congregational grounds were a safe enough respite for her. In many ways, I took the constant dangers for granted. I was not inclined to think of the safety of guests because overnight guests were not common.
Most diplomatic calls were made in the city proper of Charleston, where the Vanguard of Mary also had a few buildings. These were usually low-level meetings involving inter-congregational affairs.
Now that the Carolina Union was an independent nation, our burned-out and tattered capital would need a rapid rebuild to accommodate diplomats. Many of us were unsure that we were up to the task.
We possessed the labor and many of the skills, but some of the sophisticated engineering capabilities were missing. This was one of the reasons many of us were determined to accelerate university learning.
I thought about these things as I pondered Margaret’s comfort. The city center, I concluded, was probably less safe than congregational grounds. The All Saints Congregation House in the city’s center was well fortified and an excellent forum for receiving diplomats, but it didn’t contain a housing unit.
The militia on the congregational grounds was stretched thin, but it would have to suffice. I had no clue about the capabilities of her guardsmen, but I assumed they were recruited from the New England Federation’s most elite units.
“I believe you are safe, my dear,” I said to the governess, following her into the anteroom. “Would it be horribly rude of me to send you to your guest quarters while I conduct further congregational business?”
“Of course not. It would not be proper for me to investigate your affairs, which can be the only true effect of my lingering,” she smiled.
“Go to Bedíàkṍ. She will help see to your guest room and your comfort. You will, of course, be invited to dine with us at breakfast, and we shall call on you to be sure later this evening you are comfortable.”
“That will be a pleasure, your grace.” I assigned the two men who had accompanied Ruiz to guard her, then took a walk along the dark garden grounds. Normally there would be some children playing on the grounds and a small feast or two, but the events of the day had extinguished those possibilities.
Nevertheless, a man was slowly riding on his horse, quietly lighting torch lamps.
I felt strangely at peace despite the day’s events so far. When humans disappeared, the sounds of the forest sang from the divine hymnals of a spirit that I worshipped. Like all of us, I was incapable of understanding this being that could create such beauty as where I stood now. The forest became its own world, filled with animal sounds that somehow mixed with a silence that held more life than the world’s largest creatures.
Commander Ohemeng arrived before any further news of the hunting party. Ohemeng had not participated in the hunt, because he was mostly concerned that congregational grounds were protected.
He was accompanied by a heavily armored cavalry. Many wore polished breastplates and tall, spired helmets with armor-plated brims, covered by red fabric, that curved upwards.
On each side of the helmet’s spire was a curved, sharp blade that narrowed at the top. The blades, which met each other at their tips to complete a sort of circle, could in theory be dislodged from the helmet and thrown at an enemy, but nobody had heard of it being done in battle.
The base of the spire on Commander Ohemeng’s helmet was wrapped by a small metallic serpent, to represent his higher authority. Some other men wore small, tight-fitting armored caps with no bill or ornamentation. The pants of all the cavalrymen were dark green, covered by tall black boots.
Ohemeng called his cavalry the Eso of Ikoyi, in honor of the cavalry that rode for the Oyo Empire. He was ordinary in stature, with a round face that reminded me of a dark but happy moon. His eyes somewhat belied the stern demeanor that James of Vanguard, the Ga-Adangbe scout, had suggested. They were wide and expressive, with what I detected to be a deeply burrowed sense of belonging and even happiness, rare in a professional soldier.
The Oyo Empire was an empire that included Benin, The Kingdom of Dahomey, and other small West African nations. It was absorbed by The Ashanti Empire, which in turn was absorbed by the Kinlaza House after the House Wars of the 1840s.
Jenkins appeared from behind Ohemeng’s Eso cavalry as Ohemeng dismounted and bowed to me. Ohemeng’s eyes narrowed as he spoke in the stern voice I had been told to expect. “The Nguni has informed me you have commanded my presence, your grace.”
“He is Mpangazitha,” I said. “He who devours his enemies.”
I allowed the baritone hoot of a barred owl and other evening sounds of the forest to manifest the moment. There was much rustling about among the horsemen while they made various adjustments to their presence and uniforms. A raven screeched from a nearby tree.
“We must speak privately,” I said. I did not want to chastise him in front of his men.
Ohemeng nodded. I put my arm around his shoulder as I guided him down a long path toward my residence, where Bedíàkṍ had lit an outside torch. Post lanterns, now lit, dotted the landscape.
“We have not spoken in well-nigh a month,” I said.
“It is not my intention to avoid you, your grace. It is my intention to shelter you from the various storms that frequent my work.”
“A noble experiment, but as you may know, not at all possible. I ride with the winds here. Stormy or elsewise. I have no intention of cowering from them, for better or worse. I call you here, Ohemeng, not to question any of your tactics or even to assess progress in any of your endeavors. That is the realm of the Tribune and the congregation as a whole. And besides, I trust your skills. That will never be a question.”
The Vanguard of Mary Congregation’s Tribune was a man named Moon Falling, a First Settler from the Akenatzy nation, which was a nation that had been largely wiped out by the Virginia Militia in 1676. Handpicked by Zulu West when she started the Vanguard of Mary Congregation, he spent most of his time evangelizing amongst First Settlers in the woodlands of the Carolinas and Georgia and is credited with sparking the conversion of many East Coast First Settler Nations to Christianity.
He did not reply, so I continued. “As you know, clerics have ears to the ground. When we are given information, it can come from anywhere. Even the birds speak to us, Commander Ohemeng. The squirrels scatter one way and then another, allowing us to decipher the meaning of why one warrior rides with a momentary lilt to the left, and another with a momentary lean to the right. The owl that you hear in that tree above may take a night off from setting his call into the forest’s night. This, too, tells us things.”
“Yes, your grace. We know the woodlands well ourselves. We learn much from these things.”
“This Nguni you speak of. He wishes to fight. I saw it in his eyes today when riders came to tell us some news. But the forest, it tells me of a resistance that blocks his entry.” I was stretching the truth. The only part of the forest that had told me this was Jenkins himself, whom I did not wish to expose to retribution.
Ohemeng stopped walking and shook his head. His reply was unexpected. “I may not be fit to command, your grace. I must confess to this.”
“I do not understand.”
“I am sure I do not have the authority to speak the things I must speak to clarify the situation with the Nguni man.”
“Anything you say to me will be held in confidence. I am an emissary to the Lord, not to other people. As such, you have my word that mine are the only earthly ears that will hear of this.”
“The Zulu have great kinship with the Nguni. I was not in favor of a Zulu priestess those years ago when you ascended to a deaconship in the All Saints Congregation.”
He was silent after saying that. His face looked like it was being held back by invisible hands to prevent him from saying more.
“You may proceed,” I said. His change of heart had been well noted in the community. He had led our military well since then.
At that, for a moment, the white of his eyes seemed to change to a dark red, as if an evil spirit had consumed him before his eyes blinked again to reveal their original white.
“A Nguni man killed my father for a small portion of food.”
“A sorrowful thing,” I said in sympathy. It was becoming evident that more Nguni than I had thought lived in these lands. Even one more was a surprise. “But a slaver’s actions more so than a slave.”
“Yes, your grace, that is so.”
“And if that man had been Ashanti? Would you have disavowed your nation?”
“He was not Ashanti, your grace. He was Nguni.”
“And if he had been Mandinka? Fula? Yoruba? Igbo? Wolo? Would you cast aside those warriors from the Vanguard of Mary militia? Because of the actions of one man?”
“I must resign my post,” he said unemotionally.
“You shall not resign your post, Commander Ohemeng. We shall not double the offense. Instead, you shall wear this.”
I removed my Ama-khubalo, which was an amulet made of bark and shell I wore around my neck in the way of the sangoma to protect against evil spirits. “I offer this as protection from my nation to yours. It shall double in strength when Mpangazitha is instated into the militia. He will go on to do great things. His name attests to this. He will devour his enemies, and he will become your greatest warrior. As this happens, the amulet will grow in strength.” I didn’t know this. I had received no visions or premonitions. Yet I somehow sensed it to be true.
For a moment, I thought I noticed tears welling up in Ohemeng’s wide, expressive eyes.
“Your grace, I shall wear this with great pride, and I ask your forgiveness.” He bowed.
“Trust me when I say that when a Zulu priestess offers her Ama-khubalo, you have found forgiveness.”
“Mpangazitha has not received training, but I will allow him to ride with us today to learn our ways.” He took off his helmet and bent his head in anticipation of receiving my grace. I took it and kissed the top of it. He stepped back three steps, then bowed, holding on to the amulet with two fingers.
We returned to Ohemeng’s cavalry unit, where Mpangazitha seemed to be laughing with several men, pointing toward the forest line. There, out of a thick cluster of trees, men on horses slowly emerged flanking two soldiers on foot holding yet another man tied to a plank. The man was Roland Chastain. I probably could have recognized him in the darkest of rooms.
I glanced at Ohemeng, telling him who I saw. Ohemeng looked pleased. He couldn’t know it was Chastain but for the fact that a white fugitive had been the focus of a hunting party, and now, a white man was in captivity, and that his name was Chastain.
I could see that Chastain was not conscious. He looked to be savagely beaten. One of his captors said, “We had some difficulty getting him out of the brush.” The snarl and ill humor of his captor’s smile suggested a dark intent. Upon closer inspection, Chastain’s injuries were superficial, with several long, thin lacerations on the face.
I looked at the man who made the remarks, who then said, “I swear to all who can hear, your grace, that we had to pull him from a thorn bush, where the fool was hiding. And he hit his head on a rock before falling, or some such.” The beginnings of a mischievous smile formed on his lips.
I sighed, not caring as much as I thought I should.
“Take him to the high priestess’s residence,” said Ohemeng, looking at me. “If that is acceptable, your grace.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I didn’t want the fugitive in my home, bound or otherwise, but we had no facilities for criminals on congregational grounds. I also knew this was Ohemeng’s way of making sure I would be an influence on Chastain’s treatment, especially after the man who had described the capture finished by saying, “I would have liked to have given him a good thrashing.”
“We need to question him. We shall keep him outside the actual residence.” said Ohemeng to me. “Your presence may influence the proceedings into a less ruthless interrogation than he may otherwise deserve.”
This I knew.
Chastain grumbled as he awoke. When his eyes opened, he sighed and closed them, then opened them again to glance around.
I nodded. Ohemeng waved the men on. Everyone, including his Eso men, made their way to my residence. I had a vision of feeding thirty armored men on horses in the banquet hall with bowls of unprepared grains and seeds.
“Where is the rest of the hunting party?” I asked the man who had announced Chastain’s presence.
“Still in pursuit,” he replied.
When I looked at Ohemeng, he said, “My information is precisely as yours. Diderot sent the team before I had a chance to offer instruction. It was the right thing to do. The gang had already made their escape, and Diderot was in the environs of the crime. He would make a fine commander himself if he so chose. I can’t think of a finer man to lead the hunt, nor a better tracker.”
Ohemeng was correct. Diderot would have made a fine commander. But he was a nomad, a mercenary, although a mercenary for noble causes rather than for riches. He was also a politician, builder, diplomat, and mercantilist. If you yearned for a military commander who interfered with every conceivable project associated with your congregation, Diderot was the perfect fit.
Chastain was brought to my residence, untied, and placed in a chair outside. Several men hovered over him, two holding assegai with long wooden handles and imposingly sharp iron tips.
“Your grace,” said Ohemeng. “You are not a warrior. But you are the only one among us who witnessed the crime against Ahyoka of the Ani’-wa’`ya. May I request that you interrogate the criminal Chastain?”
I nodded. I, too, felt that I was most suited to do so. I asked for one of the spears and pressed its blade against Chastain’s neck. “Who did you run with into the forest? Who were the killers of our guest?”
“A woman of the cloth threatens me,” Chastain responded. “Tsk, tsk, but a savage was is a savage still.”
I pressed harder, drawing a small drop of blood. “I will wield this in such a way that your death is a slow one, fiend.” I wanted to cut his throat and feel the excitement of doing so. I had run out of patience with the man, and knowing he was involved in Ahyoka’s death compounded the growth of the wicked energy within me.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“You will take us to the Tsărăgĭ encampment from which they came and point them out to us,” I offered with some bravado, knowing that it was impossible to know which Tsărăgĭ village they had come from.
“What tells you they were Tsărăgĭ?” A crooked smile emerged from his thin lips. A beard was in its early stages of growing back.
Ohemeng pushed Chastain’s head backward by pushing against the top of his eye sockets. “Savages like me are quite adept at a clean removal of the eyes,” he snarled. “Both at once.”
“You are looking for bounty hunters,” said Chastain through a twisting grimace. “That is who took me, and that is who killed the Injun.”
“That makes no sense,” I replied. “Why her, and not Diderot or anyone else?”
Ohemeng said, “Bounty hunters would not so have easily slit the throats of three Tsărăgĭ guardsmen in the manner you have described, your grace.”
At that, Chastain’s eyes opened wide. “They did what?”
“They killed three Tsărăgĭ bodyguards, who were probably highly skilled warriors,” said one of the men who had carried Chastain to the congregational grounds. “You are not comparable even to the scraps of the bottom of a kettle of stew in terms of importance for our hunt. We are looking for killers, not cowardly woman-haters.”
Chastain looked like he was thinking about something when he said, “There was blood on their clothing and hands when they apprehended me. But they were not Tsărăgĭ. They were Irish. They were no less Irish than the mayor of Dublin himself. They had masks on. I couldn’t see their faces. But their accents were Irish.”
“Masks?” I asked. “Of what kind?”
“Powder masks of some such. Maybe clay. Brown-colored things, with an exceedingly long chin that narrowed to a long point. Large eye slits. I remember them well.”
“How many were they?” asked Ohemeng, with fingers still poised against the brows of his eyes.
“Three. They were joined by a fourth after we left Charleston and traveled a ways. Then we were brought to an encampment of some kind. Not all Irishmen. Some English, some were speaking German. And some other language I didn’t recognize.”
Ohemeng asked, “All white men?” as he pressed again against Chastain’s eyebrows.
Chastain nodded quickly.
I wondered if Adwoa could have known they were not Tsărăgĭ when she sensed Chastain’s presence at the confluence of the two waterways. “Were you at the meeting of the Foster River and Cooper Creek for any time?” I asked.
“We were beside the meeting of two rivers. I don’t know their names. That’s where these savages found me.” He looked at the men who had brought him to the congregational grounds. “The bounty hunters made their escape. The rest of the hunting party gave chase. You now know as much as I know.”
“No, in fact, we do not,” I replied. “Why are three Irish bounty hunters after your head?”
He was silent.
“Answer our eminence’s question,” demanded Ohemeng.
But he remained silent.
“I shall be truthful,” said Ohemeng. “When I remove an eyeball, it happens so quickly that I don’t believe that it hurts too terribly much. What makes a man scream is the shock as his eyeballs are presented to him in the palm from my hand to his hand. The awareness that the sickly, moist feeling in their palms had once given him sight. The knowledge of what has happened is unbearable.”
“He did a crime elsewhere,” proposed one of Ohemeng’s men. “A worse one yet than what he did here.”
I considered that. Chastain had been in Charleston for more than a year before his first assault, but not much more.
Ohemeng started to push against Chastain’s skull again. I knew Ohemeng would not follow through on his threat, but Chastain didn’t.
“They hunt me because I shot an important man from New York in the head. I was paid to do so.”
“Who did you shoot?” I asked.
“A man named Burr.”
The paragraphs in this excerpt are reformatted to allow for more white space than the original text from the novel. This is sort of a Medium audience thing.
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