Nobody's Slave by Tim Vicary Page A

wolf. They wore few clothes, but those they did wear were of soft, fine quality. Their spears and arrows were sharp, and several wore necklaces of shells and shiny stones. They treated the sailors like dirt, and seemed to regard themselves as superior or at least equal to Admiral Hawkins himself.
    Hawkins seemed unworried by this, but Tom seethed with fury. Surely the right thing to do was to go ashore and capture these savages, not help them and trade with them like this. That would be the way to avenge Simon’s death!
    The second morning they were attacked by a river-horse. They were rowing up a broad, deep stretch of river between thickly wooded banks, watching as the Africans darted between them on their impossibly narrow canoes, some half-standing in hollowed-out logs little more than six inches across, which skimmed across the water like arrows.
    Suddenly there was a cry from astern, the crack of breaking oars, and the pinnace from the Angel rose absurdly up in the air, and then capsized, tipping its crew and gun into the water. From beneath it appeared a great black monster, far larger than a bull, its mouth open to reveal huge, cavernous pink jaws that broke the backs of two sailors before they could be rescued.
    Yet although the monster was angry, it did not eat them - indeed, later that day they gathered from the Sumba that it ate no meat at all. As it swam away Tom had seen its short, stumpy legs, and the Sumba mimed how they would lie in wait for such a beast when it came ashore, block up its path back to the river with fallen trees, and then shoot it to death with arrows. The skin, it seemed, was very tough - here the bosun agreed, for he swore he had seen his musket-ball bounce off it - but the flesh inside was good, or at least so Tom imagined, from the expressive smacking of lips, rolling of eyes and rubbing of stomachs by the Sumba.
    They reached the city on the second day. The huge black-bearded figure of Robert Barrett stood on the bank, guiding them in to a little shingle beach. All around him was a crowd of Sumba warriors, some pounding out a deafening welcome on their drums, while others screamed defiance at the town on the opposite bank of the river. 
    Tom was surprised how near the town was - only a quarter of a mile away, across a smooth area of  grass by the river. And he was astonished at its size. He had imagined that all Africans lived in primitive villages. Yet here was a real city, as big as his own home town, Totnes in Devon - and eight thousand people lived there. He could see some of the buildings over the walls, and though most of them were simple thatched huts, there were several much larger ones, laid out around the central market-place to which the streets seemed to lead - some as big, or bigger than his father's house at home.
    ‘Right, lads, get those guns into position. Quick as you can!’ As the boat beached Admiral Hawkins leapt over the bows, exchanged a few words with Robert Barrett, and then turned to direct the boat crews. He was quite calm, precise as always, unworried by the uproar around him.
    ‘That one over there, behind the screens! Come on, you lubbers, heave!' The bosun roared his encouragement as they wrenched the heavy gun into position behind the wicker screens which Robert Barrett’s advance party had prepared to protect the gunners.
    ‘Do we fire now?’
    ‘No. Await your orders. First I must look around, and have a conference with the African king.’  Hawkins stood calmly on their right, the sun flashing on his armoured chest, looking at the town. The wooden walls were at least ten feet high, protected by thorn bushes and a ditch in front. There were two massive timber gates. All along the wall they could see spears and the heads of warriors, watching them across the river.
    ‘’Twill be a tough nut to crack, this’n,’ muttered Andrew Baines, shoving his lank brown hair out of his eyes.
    ‘Don't you believe it, boy.’ The bosun spat contemptously,