Read Online The Viceroy of Ouidah by Bruce Chatwin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bruce Chatwin
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LATER, Francisco Manoel found himself in a room at the Capitania, where the cityâs founding fathers peered from the dark panelling and Joaquimâs partners were seated round a table.
A man in gold epaulettes and a red sash got to his feet, twirled a terrestrial globe, pointed to the Fort of St John the Baptist at Ouidah, and raised the candidate to the rank of lieutenant. The commission carried no salary, but came with two free uniforms, a passage to Africa and permission to trade in slaves. None of the officers knew what had happened to the Governor of the Fort, or to its garrison. At the end of the interview, everyone rose to their feet to congratulate the man they knew would be a corpse.
On his last night ashore, with the slaving brig Pistola stowed and ready for sea, he went to a farewell Mass at the Hospice of Boa Viagem.
The church was lit by a double row of crystal chandeliers and the walls were covered with panels of blueand-white tiles. The tiles were painted with galleons â galleons dashed on rocks, toppled by waves, lashed by leviathans or battered in gunfights â yet always saved by the Blessed Virgin who hovered in an aureole above the masthead.
The captain and sailors sat in the front pews.
All were men with blood on their hands; yet all gazed longingly at the milk-white body of Our Dying Lord, identifying His Agony with their agony and calling on Him to pacify the sea.
The priest said a short prayer to the Patron of Slavers, St José the Redeemed, and a longer one for the souls of the Black Brethren who would be ransomed for the Christian fold. Nasal responses rose to the roof, where the Prophet Elijah, in spirals of smoke and flame, continued his chariot journey towards the Almighty.
Candles blazed on the altar, and the light flickered on the golden wings of angels.
From his seat at the back, Francisco Manoel saw the priest exhibit the ciborium and the crew file meekly towards him: Corpus Domini Nostrum Jesum Christum ... Corpus Domini Nostrum ...â
Without a second tor reflection, he joined them â making a treaty with the hand in lace cuffs and letting the wafer wetten on the tip of his tongue.
Outside, the storm had blown over. Stars shrank and expanded in the blue void. Lightning flashed over the island of Itaparica, silhouetting the shipâs yardarms out in the fairway.
The Mass ended, and the sailors stood outside the church holding up the shipâs mizzen topgallant by its tack and clews. The choir sang an anthem and the priestâs golden chasuble detached itself from the angels and was seen moving slowly down the aisle.
The procession passed through the green doors.
Boys in purple cassocks carried a silver cross, a stoup and a palm-frond aspergillum.
Drops of Holy Water pattered onto the canvas.
âBless, O Lord, this ship Pistola and all who sail in her. Bear her as you bore the Ark of Noah over the floodwaters. Give them your hand as you gave it to the Apostle Peter when he walked upon the waters of the sea ...â
FOUR
HE LANDED AT Ouidah between two and three of a murky May afternoon smelling of mangrove and dead fish. A band of foam stretched as far as the eye could reach. Inland, there were tall grey trees which, at a distance of three miles, anyone might mistake for waterspouts. He was the only passenger in the canoe: the crew knew better than to set foot in the Kingdom of Dahomey.
At the start of the voyage he had gazed at the new element with the innocent awe of the landsman. He saw boobies. He saw fleets of medusas, ribbons of sea-wrack, the prismatic colours on the backs of bonitos and albacores and the pale fire of phosphorescence streaming into the night.
Then, as the ship sailed into the horse-latitudes, the sails hung slack, shark fins swirled on an oily sea, everyone lost their tempers, and the mate smashed a sailorâs teeth in with a marlinspike.
A shower of red rain spattered the deck the day they sighted the African
A man in gold epaulettes and a red sash got to his feet, twirled a terrestrial globe, pointed to the Fort of St John the Baptist at Ouidah, and raised the candidate to the rank of lieutenant. The commission carried no salary, but came with two free uniforms, a passage to Africa and permission to trade in slaves. None of the officers knew what had happened to the Governor of the Fort, or to its garrison. At the end of the interview, everyone rose to their feet to congratulate the man they knew would be a corpse.
On his last night ashore, with the slaving brig Pistola stowed and ready for sea, he went to a farewell Mass at the Hospice of Boa Viagem.
The church was lit by a double row of crystal chandeliers and the walls were covered with panels of blueand-white tiles. The tiles were painted with galleons â galleons dashed on rocks, toppled by waves, lashed by leviathans or battered in gunfights â yet always saved by the Blessed Virgin who hovered in an aureole above the masthead.
The captain and sailors sat in the front pews.
All were men with blood on their hands; yet all gazed longingly at the milk-white body of Our Dying Lord, identifying His Agony with their agony and calling on Him to pacify the sea.
The priest said a short prayer to the Patron of Slavers, St José the Redeemed, and a longer one for the souls of the Black Brethren who would be ransomed for the Christian fold. Nasal responses rose to the roof, where the Prophet Elijah, in spirals of smoke and flame, continued his chariot journey towards the Almighty.
Candles blazed on the altar, and the light flickered on the golden wings of angels.
From his seat at the back, Francisco Manoel saw the priest exhibit the ciborium and the crew file meekly towards him: Corpus Domini Nostrum Jesum Christum ... Corpus Domini Nostrum ...â
Without a second tor reflection, he joined them â making a treaty with the hand in lace cuffs and letting the wafer wetten on the tip of his tongue.
Outside, the storm had blown over. Stars shrank and expanded in the blue void. Lightning flashed over the island of Itaparica, silhouetting the shipâs yardarms out in the fairway.
The Mass ended, and the sailors stood outside the church holding up the shipâs mizzen topgallant by its tack and clews. The choir sang an anthem and the priestâs golden chasuble detached itself from the angels and was seen moving slowly down the aisle.
The procession passed through the green doors.
Boys in purple cassocks carried a silver cross, a stoup and a palm-frond aspergillum.
Drops of Holy Water pattered onto the canvas.
âBless, O Lord, this ship Pistola and all who sail in her. Bear her as you bore the Ark of Noah over the floodwaters. Give them your hand as you gave it to the Apostle Peter when he walked upon the waters of the sea ...â
FOUR
HE LANDED AT Ouidah between two and three of a murky May afternoon smelling of mangrove and dead fish. A band of foam stretched as far as the eye could reach. Inland, there were tall grey trees which, at a distance of three miles, anyone might mistake for waterspouts. He was the only passenger in the canoe: the crew knew better than to set foot in the Kingdom of Dahomey.
At the start of the voyage he had gazed at the new element with the innocent awe of the landsman. He saw boobies. He saw fleets of medusas, ribbons of sea-wrack, the prismatic colours on the backs of bonitos and albacores and the pale fire of phosphorescence streaming into the night.
Then, as the ship sailed into the horse-latitudes, the sails hung slack, shark fins swirled on an oily sea, everyone lost their tempers, and the mate smashed a sailorâs teeth in with a marlinspike.
A shower of red rain spattered the deck the day they sighted the African
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