Nobody's Slave by Tim Vicary

up the beat of the single one that had been throbbing before, and the dark hills all around them pulsed with a beat that was taunting, triumphant. And in the middle of the drumming, there was a great crack and boom like thunder from somewhere down by the river, and someone near the main gate screamed.
    Men on the walls began shouting and hurling insults back into the night, but Nwoye sat strangely silent.
    ‘That was the thunder-magic of those witch-devils they have brought to help them. Tomorrow we must throw them into the river, or they will destroy us.’
    ‘What witch-devils, Nwoye?’ Ezinma's voice was alarmed,
    ‘The red-face who came from the canoes this afternoon. The Sumba brought a few of them earlier, but now many more have come. They are harder to kill than the Sumba, for their leaders have chests of steel. Their thunder weapons are powerful too, but I doubt if  they can do us real harm. The walls of Conga are too thick, it will take many iron balls to break them down.’
    ‘Who are the red-face, Nwoye? What is different about them?’ It was a question Madu had seldom dared to ask, for he knew there was something evil, almost forbidden about the answer. Could that story of  Ikezue’s really be true, that their faces were red because they ate people? He hoped that this time, Nwoye might tell him.
    But Nwoye sat for a moment, silent, and then stood up abruptly.
    ‘Now is not the time for you to learn,’ he said. ‘It is enough for you to know that they are men, who can be killed, as we can; and that we will have to fight them tomorrow. Let us hope that your foot heals quickly!’
    Then he strode away into the darkness. And as he went, Madu had the strange sensation that Nwoye, too, was afraid.

9. River Horse
    S O IT was that, a few days later, Tom found himself on another expedition inland. After his conference ashore, the Admiral had sent a small force off under Robert Barrett, and they had waited expectantly. But after two days a messenger had returned with the news that they were not enough. If they wanted slaves, they would need more men and cannons to help the Sumba king break down the walls of the rebel town.
    So John Hawkins, gambling all his forces in hope of large rewards, had stripped the fleet of every man he could spare and set off upriver.
    It was hard rowing against the current, for in the centre of each boat was a squat, heavy cannon. And they did not just have to row. Three times they came to shallow rapids which the laden boats could not pass, so they had to heave the clumsy guns ashore and trundle them along the uneven, narrow footpaths. The forest steamed with damp heat, so that they were drenched and exhausted in a few dozen yards.
    At first the Africans stood around, disdainfully looking on. Then the Admiral seized a rope to heave with the sailors, and gave orders for the other gentlemen to do likewise. Immediately the attitude of the Africans changed, and Tom and the other exhausted sailors found themselves surrounded, and then thrust aside, by dozens of black, muscular figures who heaved the guns forward at a great rate.
    The African warriors were only willing to help, it seemed, if the finely dressed English gentlemen would help first. As the day wore on, this distinction became even clearer. To Tom’s surprise, it seemed that the Sumba viewed the English as no more than ignorant, useful savages with a few magical instruments for fighting. In the evening they wandered freely through the sailors' camp, pointing at and fingering their strange clothes and beards, laughing so loudly at a man with red hair that a fight broke out. The Admiral had to speak firmly to their chief, to ask his men to keep away. Yet even when he did so Hawkins' manner was so polite, so diplomatic and respectful, that Tom felt furious, ashamed – and a little afraid, as well.
    The Sumba warriors had tattooed bodies, short crinkly braided hair, and teeth that were filed to sharp points like those of a dog or