Chapter 287: Fleeing West
Angola, Matala.
West of Matala lies the Kingdom of Luenda. The Kingdom of Luenda was never completely eradicated by East Africa because it straddles both sides of the Kwango River. East Africa only took the land on the east bank.
The kingdom itself was originally based on the west side of the Kwango, so when Luenda encountered East Africa's army, most of its population simply fled west across the river. This time, Luenda's losses were not great.
Further west of Luenda is Matala, one of the Portuguese colonial outposts in Angola's interior. It holds no special mineral resources but does have flat land and ample rainfall, so the Portuguese established extensive plantations here, mainly cultivating palm trees and coffee.
Matala's plantations are run by two owners: one, north of town, is managed by Oliveira; the other, south of town, by Adros. At this moment, both men are riding on horseback, making their rounds through the plantations.
In the fields, Black slaves toil under the sun, each bearing a branded mark and shackles. One white foreman guards every forty or fifty slaves. Under the scorching sun, these foremen wield whips, ready to lash the slaves to "liven" them up. If anyone's caught slacking, the result is brutal.
On both sides of the road stand crude wooden crosses, about two meters high, tied with hemp rope. After years of exposure to sun and wind, each cross has turned pitch-black, as if coated with grease. But up close, one can see it's not the wood's natural color. From the cross's backside, the original yellowish wood is faintly visible – the black stains come from repeated coverage of native blood, baked in the weather over the years.
These crosses serve as instruments of punishment in the plantations, used on slaves who are lazy or defiant, or sometimes simply to make an example of them. They tie a slave to the cross and whip him, or in severe cases, leave him hanging there for two or three days.
As Oliveira and Adros trot through their plantation, the workers – whipped, shackled slaves – keep their eyes down, toiling away.
Oliveira, perched on his horse, calls over to Adros:
"Adros, have you noticed recently that the number of natives has been going up? I've chased three groups away near my plantation just yesterday."
"Indeed," Adros replies, "no idea what's going on in Luenda. Could they be in turmoil again?"
"Very likely. Tribes in Luenda are always fighting. Maybe it's just the usual inter-tribal warfare."
"But something's not adding up. If Luenda's in chaos, the locals wouldn't normally flee west, right? They know Angola. Hardly see us as paradise!" Adros points out.
"That's true. Typically, it's natives running away from us, going east. Now they're crossing over from Luenda into our side – that's strange. Could something be scarier than us?"
"Yes, if something's so terrifying that the natives no longer fear us, they'd come from the east to Matala. There must be some formidable threat."
After thinking, Adros speculates: "Could it be that the west is hit by plague and these natives are fleeing en masse to our area?"
That idea chills Oliveira and Adros. In Angola, plagues are all too common. If that's the case, they're all in danger.
"We'd best take this seriously," Oliveira says. "Let's send men to capture a few of those natives and figure out what's happening."
…
At the owners' command, plantation guards head out to catch any suspicious groups of natives. Soon, they seize a handful of seemingly healthy refugees.
"Why are so many of you traveling west in large numbers?" the interpreter asks.
"Glug glug glug…" comes the reply from the natives.
After some time, the interpreter turns to Oliveira:
"Señor Oliveira, their dialect isn't quite the same as Luenda's. I'm having trouble translating, but I've gathered a few points."
"Not Luenda? So who are they?" Oliveira asks.
"They say they were driven west by a group of strangers, passing through Luenda's land, but the Luenda folks wouldn't let them stay, so they kept going until they reached here. As for that group that chased them, it apparently dresses 'like us.' So they tried to bypass our plantation out of fear."
"Dresses like us? We haven't had any big operations lately," Oliveira says to Adros.
"Indeed not. And the governor's office hasn't issued any orders. In fact, I'm the furthest western outpost in Angola," Adros replies. "So it must be someone else. If they caused such a commotion, it has to be a strong faction. I do have a suspicion."
"Hmm?"
"You recall the traveling caravans that passed by last year? They said some German power cropped up in the east, capturing Kazembe. Could it be them?"
"But what about them having the same attire as us?"
"Maybe the natives can't tell the difference between us and the Germans. They see a white face and think we're all the same," Adros says.
Oliveira doesn't want to guess. "Ask them to describe anything obvious about those strangers."
The interpreter questions the captured natives one by one. In the end, he shakes his head.
"Señor Oliveira, none of them have actually seen what these people look like. They just followed their tribe, fleeing from the 'white-faced devils' out west who apparently eat people. By the natives' account, many tribes were destroyed, so they all ran west under their chief's orders."
"Where's their chief?"
"He was apparently one of those shot dead by our men," the interpreter responds.
They've gotten no real answers, leaving Oliveira furious. "String them up on the crosses!" he orders.
So these "white-faced devils" might not be them specifically, but Oliveira still feels insulted.
Adros speaks up: "If we need accurate news, we should approach the King of Luenda. Let's dispatch someone to speak with him."
"I suppose that's all we can do," Oliveira says.
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