one, though, he was different. Something indefinable hung over him. Something in his manner and his voice—something about his laugh—caused Grace to quake to the depths of her soul. She bitterly regretted having ever left the London house and climbing over the compound wall.
“Her father will pay for her,” the wiry African stated.
“We will offer her for trade, Tungo,” Cabeto said. “In exchange for our people's freedom — yours and mine.”
Tungo shot a look at Cabeto. Even in the near darkness Grace could see the greedy glint in his eyes. “And for muskets and gunpowder. And for gold.”
“I know nothing of muskets and gunpowder,” Cabeto insisted, “and I care nothing for gold. If the white man will allow my kinsmen to return to our village and live in peace, I will not seek revenge.”
Tungo glared at Cabeto. “That is not all I want. The white man and his askari —his soldiers—must pay for what they have done to us. We will rip this slave house out of their hands. Over their dead bodies, we will dance and beat the drums of durbar .”
“Such wild talk!” Cabeto scolded. “Your way will kill all of us.”
Tungo put his face close to Cabeto's. “Now is the time!” he hissed. “The white man's daughter walked into our lair, and he will pay richly to get her back. He will give us anything we demand. If he does not …” Here he gave the tangle of Grace's hair a hard yank. “If he does not, we will slit her throat!”
A scream burst from Grace's lips. With the sudden strength that comes from terror, she wrenched herself away from Tungo's grasp.
His fists clenched, Cabeto reared up to his full height. Towering over Tungo by half a head, he commanded, “No! We will not kill her!”
Immediately, Tungo's demeanor changed. “No, no,” he insisted in a conciliatory tone. “You misunderstand me, my brother. I did not mean we would really kill her. We will only say we will kill her. When her father hears our words, he will give us whatever we ask. It is the way the white man does business.”
For a moment Cabeto held his aggressive stance. Then with a shrug, he turned away. “Ask for guns and gold if it pleases you,” he said. “I want only to see my kinsmen free.”
Tungo didn’t answer. He brushed Grace with a hard glance and then turned and ducked out through the still-open doorway.
Grace expected Cabeto to follow, but he did not. Awkward and silent, he stayed where he was.
“I should not have brought you here,” he murmured. “This is a fight of your father and mother, not of you.”
“Would … would he really kill me?” Grace asked.
“Certainly, he would,” Cabeto answered. “Why not? After what your father does here in his prison, almost any African would kill you.”
Grace stared at Cabeto in disbelief. “ His prison? What do you mean by that? My father is the captain of a ship. He's an English admiral. Not a—” Sudden and unexpected tears flooded over Grace, and she wept. “I saw a slave mother and her baby dragged to death because she couldn’t keep up with the other slaves she was tied to, so she—” Now Grace was sobbing. “My father is a proud man, and sometimes a foolish man … but he is not a … not a murderer. He does not kill mothers and their babies … not even if they are only slaves—”
“Your father is the captain of a ship. That much is true,” Cabeto said with icy bitterness. “He is part of the maafa— the horrible disaster, the ships of death. He steals people from Africa and forces them across the water so he can sell them to the white cannibals. He calls them slaves, but they are my people.”
Grace swiped a sleeve across her tear-streaked face. “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “My own mother is African!”
“Yes, the lioness. A traitor to her people. We all know of your mother. She is your father's partner in the work of the most
“Her father will pay for her,” the wiry African stated.
“We will offer her for trade, Tungo,” Cabeto said. “In exchange for our people's freedom — yours and mine.”
Tungo shot a look at Cabeto. Even in the near darkness Grace could see the greedy glint in his eyes. “And for muskets and gunpowder. And for gold.”
“I know nothing of muskets and gunpowder,” Cabeto insisted, “and I care nothing for gold. If the white man will allow my kinsmen to return to our village and live in peace, I will not seek revenge.”
Tungo glared at Cabeto. “That is not all I want. The white man and his askari —his soldiers—must pay for what they have done to us. We will rip this slave house out of their hands. Over their dead bodies, we will dance and beat the drums of durbar .”
“Such wild talk!” Cabeto scolded. “Your way will kill all of us.”
Tungo put his face close to Cabeto's. “Now is the time!” he hissed. “The white man's daughter walked into our lair, and he will pay richly to get her back. He will give us anything we demand. If he does not …” Here he gave the tangle of Grace's hair a hard yank. “If he does not, we will slit her throat!”
A scream burst from Grace's lips. With the sudden strength that comes from terror, she wrenched herself away from Tungo's grasp.
His fists clenched, Cabeto reared up to his full height. Towering over Tungo by half a head, he commanded, “No! We will not kill her!”
Immediately, Tungo's demeanor changed. “No, no,” he insisted in a conciliatory tone. “You misunderstand me, my brother. I did not mean we would really kill her. We will only say we will kill her. When her father hears our words, he will give us whatever we ask. It is the way the white man does business.”
For a moment Cabeto held his aggressive stance. Then with a shrug, he turned away. “Ask for guns and gold if it pleases you,” he said. “I want only to see my kinsmen free.”
Tungo didn’t answer. He brushed Grace with a hard glance and then turned and ducked out through the still-open doorway.
Grace expected Cabeto to follow, but he did not. Awkward and silent, he stayed where he was.
“I should not have brought you here,” he murmured. “This is a fight of your father and mother, not of you.”
“Would … would he really kill me?” Grace asked.
“Certainly, he would,” Cabeto answered. “Why not? After what your father does here in his prison, almost any African would kill you.”
Grace stared at Cabeto in disbelief. “ His prison? What do you mean by that? My father is the captain of a ship. He's an English admiral. Not a—” Sudden and unexpected tears flooded over Grace, and she wept. “I saw a slave mother and her baby dragged to death because she couldn’t keep up with the other slaves she was tied to, so she—” Now Grace was sobbing. “My father is a proud man, and sometimes a foolish man … but he is not a … not a murderer. He does not kill mothers and their babies … not even if they are only slaves—”
“Your father is the captain of a ship. That much is true,” Cabeto said with icy bitterness. “He is part of the maafa— the horrible disaster, the ships of death. He steals people from Africa and forces them across the water so he can sell them to the white cannibals. He calls them slaves, but they are my people.”
Grace swiped a sleeve across her tear-streaked face. “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “My own mother is African!”
“Yes, the lioness. A traitor to her people. We all know of your mother. She is your father's partner in the work of the most
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