The Negro was then instructed to disembark. He complied timidly and waded to shore.
No sooner had he done so than we heard cries from the undergrowth. Cries that must have implied ‘Judas!’ in the guttural tongue they were uttered. A horde of African warriors poured onto the beach, screaming and aiming their spears at the scout team. Guns went off and Negroes fell. Many stumbled back in fright as they saw their comrades crumble to the ground without making contact with the enemy. Theirs was a mixed feeling of terror and indignation. What was this magic the white man possessed that could level their entire army? The multitude scattered in various directions though some foolhardy individuals still lunged at the scout team—a number strong enough to crush them despite their primitive weapons.
During this skirmish, I caught a glimpse of Hookes. He was barking orders at his men, instructing them to fire with caution. Under no circumstances were shots to be fired in the scout team’s direction, he told them. He barked with a sense of urgency but despite the grim expression on his face, I observed a faint trace of his contemptuous grin. This made an impression on me— one of doubt and unease. I was now convinced that Hookes’ inclusion in this mission was a grave mistake as his soundness of mind was in question. Being in a position of authority, such a temperament would only complicate the situation.
Suddenly, the cannons jerked and fired, filling the deck with black smoke. On the shore, there were loud explosions. Negroes sailed through the air in limp forms—some with parts of their body blown off! Many tried to retreat into the shadows but were cut off by the flaming balls and mauled in the process.
In response, a stream of arrows sailed through the grey skies, cascading into our ship and surrounding waters with such velocity that the crew had little time to take cover. One sailor caught an arrow in the neck— another in the chest. Cries went out and guns were fired.
Hookes must have observed my horror for he approached me briskly through the cloud of smoke. “This is no place for anyone but a soldier, Dr. Cromwell. Perhaps you should retire to the cockpit at this point?”
I was grateful for this suggestion and took my cue gladly.
The cockpit was a small cabin below deck where surgeons could attend to the sick and wounded without fear of attack. It was now my haven of solace. I closed the hatch and lay down on the bed, allowing my mind to drift to more pleasant affairs—more humane environments. I tried hard to focus but nothing came. My head was filled with gunshots, defiant cries, and falling soldiers. There was no room for fresh thought.
Suddenly, I heard a heart-rending, discordant gurgle from behind me and sprang up in a flash. Summing up courage, I turned round slowly and, against my intuition, peered through the porthole from where the sound had come.
A bloody black hand dangled freely in front of the window, smearing the glass with bright red prints! Cautiously, I traced the hand upwards to discover a wounded African warrior suspended by his feet from the rail above. Blood trickled down his head and flailing arms from a deep gash in his chest—right of his sternum. He was bleeding profusely and his left arm was twisted in an awkward position. Ghastly white eyes shot out from his blood red face and rolled around in agony and desperation. The eyes roamed for awhile until they settled on me. All of a sudden, they came alive with blazing fury! He clawed frantically at the ship’s side, trying to reach the porthole.
I stepped back warily, inching towards the bedside drawer where a pistol was always kept. Swiftly, I drew it open and fumbled for cold steel. I felt paper, cloth, a Bible . . . then something smooth and cold. I pulled it closer. However, there appeared little need for the firearm as the African warrior, in a desperate attempt to reach me, had lost pints of blood and, ultimately, consciousness. Slowly, he rolled his eyes back for the last time and released a disturbing death-rattle before plunging into Davy Jones’s locker.
I collapsed on the bed in relief, gradually realizing that my heart was pounding terribly and that my throat was bone dry. I watched the floorboards overhead as they creaked under people’s weight with the occasional thud suggesting a fall. Urgent commands were being made at every corner and there were gunshots all around me. The characteristic smell of gunpowder filled the air.
The battle was still raging. My heart was still pounding.
I lay there for awhile staring blindly at the ceiling. The freckled faces of my son and daughter smiled back at me, luring me home.
I winced. What had I gotten myself into? What in the world had I been thinking?
The defiant cries were slowly fading into the night and the cannons were silent once more. I could now hear waves crashing against the side of our ship and sending sprays into the sky. Normalcy had returned. But was this a good or bad omen?
A bugle sounded from above my cabin and was met with cheers from the crew. I heaved a sigh of relief.
The battle was over. We had cleared the first hurdle.
END?
Culled from ‘…And the Night Hissed‘
Claude Opara
Claude is a Nigerian author, artist, architect and project manager. An avid movie watcher, history buff and football fan, he also has a penchant for travel and adventure. Claude has authored a few books ...And the Night Hissed being his first novel, a historical thriller about a slave raid gone awry. He has also written and published two lighthearted comics and a children's storybook under his An African Legend series. Claude is also the co-founder of Teambooktu.com.
Interesting.