without paying him a due. His promissory notes were honoured by bankers in New York or Marseille. Alone or in partnership, he commissioned a fleet of Baltimore clippers.
These new ships were designed to out-tack any cruiser of the Royal Navy. They had tall raking masts, sleek black hulls, and he named them after seabirds: Fregata , Albatroz, Gaivota, Alcatraz, or Andorinha-do-Mar.
But they sailed at a sharp angle of keel: even in a moderate sea, the crew had to batten the hatches and close the gratings. The temperature in the hold shot up, and the cargoes died, from heat, from dysentery and lack of air.
Like every self-respecting slaver, he blamed his losses on the British.
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EACH YEAR, WITH the dry season, he would slough off the habits of civilization and go to war.
His first task had been to reform the Dahomean army. He and the King got rid of the paunchy, the panicky and the proven drunks. And since Dahomean women were far fiercer fighters than the men â and could recharge a muzzle-loader in half the time â they sent recruiting officers round the villages to enlist the most muscular virgins.
The recruits were known as the âKingâs Leopard Wivesâ.
They ate raw meat, shaved their heads and filed their teeth to sharp points. They learned to fire from the shoulder not the hip, and never to fire at rustling leaves. On exercises they were made to scale palisades of prickly pear, and they would come back clamouring, âHou! Hou! We are men!â â and since they were obliged to be celibate, were allowed to slake their lusts on a troop of female prostitutes.
Dom Francisco insisted on sharing all the hardships of the march.
He crossed burning savannahs and swam rivers infested with crocodiles. Before an attack on a village, he would lash leaves to his hat and lie motionless till cockcrow. Then, as the dawn silhouetted the roofs like teeth on a sawblade, a whistle would blow, the air fill with raucous cries and, by the end of the morning, the Amazons would be parading before the King, swinging severed heads like dumb-bells.
Dom Francisco greeted each fresh atrocity with a glassy smile. He felt no trace of pity for the mother who pleaded for her child, or for the old man staring in disbelief at the purple veil spread out over the smouldering ruins.
For years he continued in this self-directed nightmare. But one day, before the sack of Sokologbo, he was hiding behind a rock when some small boys came skipping down the path, waving bird-scarers to shoo the doves off the millet fields. He would never forget their gasps as the Amazons pounced from the bushes and garrotted them one by one.
All that morning, as the Dahomeans did their work, he buried his face in his hands, muttering, âNo. Not the children!â and never went to war again.
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BUT THE KING became a warrior more frightful than any of his ancestors.
He broke Grito in 1818, Lozogohé in 1820 and Lemón in 1825. He killed Atobé of Mahi, Adafé of Napou and Achadé of Léfou-Léfou. He made the Atakpameans eat their fathers in a stew. He swore to defeat the Egbas in their stronghold at Abeokuta, and he told the Alafin of Oyo to âeat parrotsâ eggsâ.
He was not cruel. He too sickened at the sight of blood and would avert his eyes from the executions. He longed to end the cycles of war and revenge â yet he could never resist the temptation to acquire more skulls.
The skulls of his enemies assured him that he was alive in the world of real things. He drank from skulls, he spat into skulls. Skulls formed the feet of his throne, the sides of his bed and the path that led to the bed-chamber. He knew the name of every skull in his Skull-House and held imaginary conversations with each in turn: the lesser enemies were piled on copper trays, but the great ones were wrapped in silk and kept in whitewashed baskets.
Not that he could have spared many victims
These new ships were designed to out-tack any cruiser of the Royal Navy. They had tall raking masts, sleek black hulls, and he named them after seabirds: Fregata , Albatroz, Gaivota, Alcatraz, or Andorinha-do-Mar.
But they sailed at a sharp angle of keel: even in a moderate sea, the crew had to batten the hatches and close the gratings. The temperature in the hold shot up, and the cargoes died, from heat, from dysentery and lack of air.
Like every self-respecting slaver, he blamed his losses on the British.
Â
Â
Â
Â
EACH YEAR, WITH the dry season, he would slough off the habits of civilization and go to war.
His first task had been to reform the Dahomean army. He and the King got rid of the paunchy, the panicky and the proven drunks. And since Dahomean women were far fiercer fighters than the men â and could recharge a muzzle-loader in half the time â they sent recruiting officers round the villages to enlist the most muscular virgins.
The recruits were known as the âKingâs Leopard Wivesâ.
They ate raw meat, shaved their heads and filed their teeth to sharp points. They learned to fire from the shoulder not the hip, and never to fire at rustling leaves. On exercises they were made to scale palisades of prickly pear, and they would come back clamouring, âHou! Hou! We are men!â â and since they were obliged to be celibate, were allowed to slake their lusts on a troop of female prostitutes.
Dom Francisco insisted on sharing all the hardships of the march.
He crossed burning savannahs and swam rivers infested with crocodiles. Before an attack on a village, he would lash leaves to his hat and lie motionless till cockcrow. Then, as the dawn silhouetted the roofs like teeth on a sawblade, a whistle would blow, the air fill with raucous cries and, by the end of the morning, the Amazons would be parading before the King, swinging severed heads like dumb-bells.
Dom Francisco greeted each fresh atrocity with a glassy smile. He felt no trace of pity for the mother who pleaded for her child, or for the old man staring in disbelief at the purple veil spread out over the smouldering ruins.
For years he continued in this self-directed nightmare. But one day, before the sack of Sokologbo, he was hiding behind a rock when some small boys came skipping down the path, waving bird-scarers to shoo the doves off the millet fields. He would never forget their gasps as the Amazons pounced from the bushes and garrotted them one by one.
All that morning, as the Dahomeans did their work, he buried his face in his hands, muttering, âNo. Not the children!â and never went to war again.
Â
Â
Â
Â
BUT THE KING became a warrior more frightful than any of his ancestors.
He broke Grito in 1818, Lozogohé in 1820 and Lemón in 1825. He killed Atobé of Mahi, Adafé of Napou and Achadé of Léfou-Léfou. He made the Atakpameans eat their fathers in a stew. He swore to defeat the Egbas in their stronghold at Abeokuta, and he told the Alafin of Oyo to âeat parrotsâ eggsâ.
He was not cruel. He too sickened at the sight of blood and would avert his eyes from the executions. He longed to end the cycles of war and revenge â yet he could never resist the temptation to acquire more skulls.
The skulls of his enemies assured him that he was alive in the world of real things. He drank from skulls, he spat into skulls. Skulls formed the feet of his throne, the sides of his bed and the path that led to the bed-chamber. He knew the name of every skull in his Skull-House and held imaginary conversations with each in turn: the lesser enemies were piled on copper trays, but the great ones were wrapped in silk and kept in whitewashed baskets.
Not that he could have spared many victims
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