A PLACE CALLED FREEDOM - Book review

Ken Follett’s novel A Place Called Freedom was published in 1995 and is a fascinating dive into history. 

The prologue or whatever (it’s untitled) is a conceit that we could do without; it mentions an iron neck-collar worn by slaves: ‘This man is the property of Sir George Jamisson of Fife, AD 1767’.

The book is broken into three parts: Scotland, London, Virginia.

Mack McAsh is a young miner in Fife; a slave to the mine owner, Sir George. ‘Life was hard for miners, but it was harder for their wives’ (p116). Mack speaks up about the injustice he and his fellows endure and is brutally punished: ‘... you have to understand that they don’t feel pain as we do’ (p132).

Lizzie Hallim used to play with Mack when they were bairns, but now they are worlds apart. She is attractive, indeed. ‘I can get a husband whenever I like. The problem is finding one I can put up with for more than half an hour’ (p14). Her mother needs Lizzie to make a match that will save their property and land since her father has died leaving much debt. The obvious answer is Jay Jamisson, son of Sir George...

This is a time of unrest in the colonies, Boston boycotting all British import, and even giving up tea!  This problem may also affect the lucrative business of transporting and selling seven-year slaves – criminals sent from England to the New World: ‘130 or 140 convicts packed into the hold shoulder-to-shoulder like fish in a basket’ (p44).

Anxious to have his freedom, Mack escapes the mines and finds himself in London, where he falls foul of the law – thanks to the intervention of the Jamissons. He faces the Westminster magistrate, Sir John Fielding. ‘Fielding was blind, but that did not hinder him in his work’ (p249).

Follett has done his research – as he always does. There’s a passage concerning ‘the Blind Beak’ Fielding in The Fatal Shore: A History of the Transportation of Convicts to Australia 1787-1868) (published in 1986) by Robert Hughes. Fielding, half-brother of Henry, was ‘able to identify3,000 different malefactors by their voices alone’ (ibid p26). Due to the American War of Independence, no more convicts were sent to the Americas, so the prison hulks of Britain were overflowing; the government therefore had to resort to transporting felons to Australia instead of to Virginia.

However, this story occurs before the First Fleet to the antipodes, before 1776 in fact. Jay and George Jamisson are classic villains. The fate of Lizzie and Mack are inevitably entwined.

The 567 pages fly by to a satisfactory ending.

Editorial comment:

‘I think to myself’ (p3) – ‘I think’ is adequate!

‘he thought to himself’ (p214). Enough said...

THE TWILIGHT OF THE DAWN - Book review

Elizabeth Nell Debus’ historical romance was published in 1989; but I’ve just got round to reading it! 

It begins in May 1860, eleven months before the Civil War started. The story is from the viewpoint of eighteen-year-old Gabriele Cannon. The Cannons own a vast Louisiana plantation and a couple hundred slaves. She has an older brother Tom. Gabriele’s widowed father Oliver would like to free his slaves but state laws forbid it. Both Tom and Gabriele have been brought up with their aunt Mat’s slave girl Veronique; the latter is an accomplished dressmaker and earns money with her skill, though her earnings go to the aunt!

The novel is well written, with often lyrical descriptions, and captures the hopes and fears of the young Gabriele. Debus exhibits an understanding of the environment and all the people, the free and the enslaved.

‘And then she felt herself lifted as her mount left the earth, and for one moment in time, as the mare ran through air, the rider’s whole-body became light, buoyant, filled with a sense of union with the day, with the animal beneath her, with the world that bounded the life of Gabriele Cannon’ (p9).

While catching crayfish in the creek she observes a passenger on the deck of an approaching steam packet boat. This scene is artfully evoked by the cover painting by the artist David Bergen. Shortly afterwards, she is introduced to the passenger she had spotted: Alex St Cyr, an old friend of Tom’s, and Alex’s northern cousin, Jordan Scott.

Inevitably, both Alex and Jordan are attracted to Gabriele. Jordan’s family owns a lucrative shipping business. There is discussion concerning the lack of freedom of slaves to which Tom is sympathetic, while those who work on Scott ships are free men. Tom argues: ‘Legally (your seamen) are free. No one can actually sell them – but they are bought over and over again. Bought for low wages and given scandalous living quarters – not only in ships, but in factories all over the north’ (p93). It’s all very amicable, they agree to differ. Jordan intends to improve the lot of his workforce, but history interferes with his intentions.

Throughout, Gabriele is sympathetic to the plight of the slaves, even though compared to many plantations they are ‘treated well’.

Gabriele’s father is away a lot, involved in the politics, hoping to find compromise, but to no avail. His unexpected death means Gabriele must go into mourning dress.

Come April 1861, the die is cast – and very many will die as a result. Tom was drilling the home guard, as the military had moved north to combat the Yankees: ‘Spring sunshine, still pale and soft in late April, bathed the marchers with an almost veiled light, delicately gilding the long barrels of their rifles, staining their faces with the faint wash of gold’ (p223).

The fighting is virtually all reported: by newspapers or by witnesses who are usually fleeing. Terrible though the battles were, it is mainly only the results Gabriele sees: the wounded by the score.

Alex does not don the Confederate uniform, but becomes a blockade runner, his ship eluding the northerners. Jordan is fighting on the northern side. Tom too was away, fighting for the Confederacy. Gabriele and Aunt Mat coped, running the plantation.

When she finally relinquishes her mourning clothes, Gabriele appraises herself. She is older, and possibly wiser. The colour of her face ‘seemed fresher now, as though the heavy black of her mourning clothes had laid a film of grey over her skin that had now been removed’ (p235). She had ‘grown up’.

She had begun to realise that ‘The hardest battles are not with things outside ourselves, but with those within that work to make us lesser beings than we truly are’ (p247).

At 433 pages, this surprisingly was not a slow read. Interest was maintained throughout, with the reader wanting to know the fate of all of the finely drawn characters. In the mix: the disappearance of Veronique; a secret that Aunt Mat harboured; and the bonds of friendship that even war could not break, despite the friends being on different warring sides.

This historical saga is a fair and readable rendering of a young woman’s situation in a period fraught with complex issues, distress, privation and danger.

In these febrile times it is unlikely that Debus would find a publisher for this heartfelt honest book. I note that it doesn’t have any reviews on Amazon; and it doesn’t fare too well on Goodreads – averaging 3.5 stars. I’d give it four stars for the quality of the writing and the author’s sympathetic immersion in a past time.

The title is taken from HG Wells’ The Discovery of the Future: ‘The past is but the beginning of the beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn.’ 

Saving Africa’s Elephants

Tonight on BBC TV there’s part one of two of 'Saving Africa's Elephants' that features Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall campaigning to save the African elephant. Although these magnificent beasts have been ‘protected’ for over two decades, they’re still being slaughtered for their ivory. It’s a sick illegal trade that should have been stopped long ago. But then again, we’ve been saying that about the human slave trade – which hasn’t been stopped either…

Endangered species and their support have been close to my heart for many years.  That might account for the fact that I’ve featured various aspects of their plight and the illegal trade in my writing. No preaching, just facts used in the story.

‘Endangered Species’. A short story featuring half-Spanish half-English private eye Leon Cazador on the track of dealers in exotic pets. See SpanishEye, a collection of 22 Cazador cases.

Blood of the DragonTrees. Laura Reid likes her new job on Tenerife, teaching the Spanish twins Maria and Ricardo Chávez. She certainly doesn’t want to get involved with Andrew Kirby and his pal, Jalbala Emcheta, who work for CITES*, tracking down illegal traders in endangered species. Yet she’s undeniably drawn to Andrew, which is complicated, as she’s also attracted to Felipe, the brother of her widower host, Don Alonso. Felipe’s girlfriend Lola is jealous and Laura is forced to take sides – risking her own life – as she and Andrew uncover the criminal network that not only deals in the products from endangered species, but also thrives on people trafficking. Very soon betrayal and mortal danger lurk in the shadows, along with dark deeds …

Cataclysm. Third in the ‘Avenging Cat’ series. We again meet Laura and Andrew, this time in Shanghai on the trail of illegal trade in endangered species. This is primarily an adventure featuring Catherine Vibrissae and her vendetta against the crooked CEO Loup Malefice, but her path crosses with Laura's during her investigations.

* CITES - Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora is an international agreement between governments. Its aim is to ensure that international trade in specimens of wild animals and plants does not threaten their survival.

An enjoyable romp

Today, I just spotted a new review for Cataclysm, #3 in the 'Avenging Cat' series, on Amazon.com.

It seems that Cat has at least one fan out there.

So, thank you 'Stuart' for the purchase - and this review:

As before our intrepid, free climbing, former fashion-model heroine is in pursuit of the baddest of bad guys, Loup Malefice, who was responsible for her father’s death. 

This time around she corners him in China, with the intention of doing damage to another of his manufacturing interests. 

Then other issues intervene such as a little slave trading, a little drug running, and a little plan to commit genocide. The tale is topical too. Aside from the human trafficking, there is a sideswipe at the trade in endangered species, the commercial friction between China and the West, and even the ongoing aggravation between China and Japan. To say more would be to say too much. 

All in all an enjoyable romp with lots of interesting stuff about China and its way of life that most of us probably never knew. 

In summation, a terrific story...

 And the e-book is still available for a great price.

Saturday fiction - 'Immigration crisis' - an excerpt

The immigrant crisis has dominated the news for many days, yet it has been a problem for years. The numbers of the dispossessed have vastly increased, true. What do they hope to find when they get to their destination? Yes, many are only too glad to feel ‘safe’, having escaped from terror, hate and the threat of death. Yet, despite the slave trade having been abolished for centuries, it still exists – fuelled by the unfortunates who seek a ‘new life’. Every day, refugees, immigrants, and the homeless will be sucked into illegal work by opportunists.

Today’s fiction excerpt from Blood of the Dragon Trees concerns this serious issue.

[Jalbala Emcheta. Conservationist. 6ft 2ins, skin mahogany, close-shaved head, coal black hair; high-domed head; full lips, marvellous smile. Almond-shaped eyes. Ebony – very dark brown eyes. Broad nose with flaring nostrils. Lantern jaw, high cheekbones, pearly teeth. Iron-muscled body, massive shoulders, pronounced biceps, defined pecs, washboard stomach. Voice – bass.

Jalbala is an associate of Andrew Kirby; they work for CITES. While investigating in Tenerife, they’re led to a network of people smugglers. Jalbala sneakily joins a group of fresh ‘recruits’ brought ashore from a smuggler’s boat, intent on obtaining incriminating evidence… ]

The week was a long ordeal of starvation rations, hard labor and a few minor beatings, but Jalbala stoically accepted his lot. His body ached in every muscle, mainly from work, but he was determined to fit in.

Including him, there were twenty-two in the new group, so Mustapha had been accurate on that point, too. It seemed that the rest of the group hadn’t noticed the switch. They were probably – and understandably – wrapped up in their own fate at the time.

            Some days he was put to work in a field, picking melons. The open air was preferable, but the sun quickly sapped his strength and gave him a pounding headache, the first signs of dehydration. In the fields, Jalbala got to know the woman he’d pulled out of the water. Her name was Nadira. She was twenty-four and had left her two young boys with her parents. Her husband had been killed and she wanted to fend for herself. ‘Europe is where I will make money and bring my children up,’ she told Jalbala with conviction.

Other days, he worked under immense sheets of plastic. Within these greenhouses, he found it difficult to breathe in the very humid 140^oF. Light and heat seemed to radiate from every surface. The days melded into an amorphous mass of time within Jalbala’s surreal world, where the sky was white, suspended by arched wooden ribs, just inches above his head.

Toiling in the suffocating greenhouses, Jalbala made friends with one of the men who’d been landed from the ship. Talking made them even more breathless, but Jalbala needed information and Jope was glad to pass the time while doing monotonous work.

Jope spoke French. He was Senegalese, with a wife and a five-year-old daughter. He’d been an electrician, earning £25 a month.

            ‘Why talk in British pounds?’ Jalbala queried. ‘Your currency is francs, isn’t it?’

            Jope shrugged. ‘I don’t know why, but they preferred discredited pounds, rather than our francs or euros.’

            He went on. He’d been enticed by a friend who said that in the Canaries he could earn at least £1,000 a month. ‘I decided to improve my family’s lot. I spoke to my wife and we agreed. I took our family savings and went to the coast.’ He eventually caught a ship sailing from Dajla in Mauritania. ‘I want a house and I want to educate my children,’ he told Jalbala. ‘The journey cost £800. I worked for three months to add the wages to our savings.’

            Jalbala felt for the man. The money that ruled – and ruined – Jope’s life, was peanuts to the majority of people in the UK or the States. Everything was relative, he supposed. Both the States and the UK were still hurting from the credit crunch and massive borrowing. Yet he’d seen in England that large sections of the workforce were still intent on striking for higher wages. What planet were they on?

            ‘Why do you ask so many questions?’ Jope said.

            Really good question, Jalbala thought. ‘I’m a reporter. I want to expose the people who put you through this.’ He only wished that was true; maybe some aspects of it could be.

            Somewhere near, guard dogs barked and Jalbala knew that not far from their side strode sadistic men with pickaxe handles and baseball bats.

***

Jalbala’s stomach growled. After days of poor food and backbreaking work, he felt drained, weak, weary, and he ached all over. He was fit and strong, but the others weren’t, so he had no idea how the women coped.

            He worked in the fields, a huge plastic collecting basket strapped to his back. As he’d been shown, he sliced off melons and slung them over his shoulder to land in the basket. After a while, their combined weight started to tell, threatening to rip his shoulders off. The field was filled with his fellow illegals, women and men. Nadira, the woman he’d pulled out of the water, was over on his right, Jope on his left. They both bowed with a will, determined to work towards their freedom.

            A wave of depression swamped Jalbala as he realized they were being duped. They’d never get legitimate papers. Food and so-called lodging would be deducted from their miniscule wages; complications would arise over the required forms. They’d be made to work till they dropped, and then Black Beard or one of his men would come along with a baseball bat to encourage them to work some more.

            Already, one of their tent walked with a serious limp, thanks to ‘encouragement’ from a guard. Jalbala decided he could not wait much longer. He’d noticed a couple of guards watching him, as if making sure he pulled his weight. The slightest excuse, they’d give him a good hiding, and it might be so harsh he wouldn’t recover fully from it. Commonsense and honest fear told him he couldn’t delay more than a week. He must get the evidence soon.

***

He and ten other men occupied Jalbala’s tent; the women were accommodated separately. He waited until everybody in his tent was asleep then silently rose from his bedroll and tiptoed over the sleeping bodies of his fellow immigrant workers.

Hardly daring to breathe, he reached the tent flap and eased it aside. The sentry dozed, which wasn’t surprising; after the first two nights, all of the illegals seemed resigned and incapable of fighting a way out. Besides, they had to continue working to earn the official papers they’d been promised.

            Feeling the tension in every muscle, Jalbala stepped out. Nobody else was anywhere near. He slunk into the shadows and headed to the east section of the plantation. 

            As he moved, he listened.

But there was only the constant sound of cicadas. No dogs growling anywhere near.

            He reached the fence barrier and found a suitable spot, near a cluster of banana plants.

Cicadas close by stopped their racket for a few seconds, then, apparently satisfied they were not under threat, they resumed their loud noise.

Barbed wire sections overhung the other side of the fence.

He removed his right shoe and prized the heel free. It swiveled to reveal a hollow occupied by a plastic sealed miniature transmitter, its tiny light emitting a red flash.

            It only took a few seconds for him to bury the transmitter behind one of the young banana plants, by the fence. He covered his tracks, sure he could find the plant again tomorrow in the dark.

***

‘The signal pinpoints this position,’ Kirby said, pointing to the map on the lieutenant’s desk. ‘Next to the boundary fence.’ He sounded unusually cheerful. For the last few days, he’d seemed very quiet, withdrawn, almost depressed.

            Vargas slapped Kirby on the back. ‘Good. I’ll get Sergeant Alvarez to drive you to the spot.’

            ‘Well, make it close to the spot, Lieutenant. We don’t want to alert them.’

            Vargas nodded. ‘Just so.’ He picked up his desk phone. ‘You know, this might work.’

            ‘I hope so.’

            ‘Send in Sergeant Alvarez,’ Vargas said into the phone.

            ‘Sí, teniente,’ came the reply.

            A sudden heaviness descended on his chest as Vargas replaced the receiver. ‘Until now, Jad has been taking a risk,’ he said. ‘Once he gets the delivery, that risk multiplies tenfold. If they catch him…’ He shook his head and held the worried eyes of Kirby. ‘Well, it will not be pleasant, I assure you…’

           ‘No, I guess not. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for the next couple of nights,’ Kirby confessed.

***

The next night, Jalbala slunk out of his tent again, the only sound the raucous buzz of cicadas. He made his way to the banana plant where, hidden behind it, was a small canvas bag. His heart gave a slight flip of pleasure as he picked it up. He quickly checked that the handheld video camera, cushioned within a thick roll of bubble-wrap, was intact. Clearly, their plan worked. Kirby had tracked the transmitter accurately and lobbed the bag over the fence, probably earlier tonight.

He tucked the bag under his shirt and made his way to the tent. Now for some interviews.

            When he got back, he gently shook Jope awake.

            ‘I’ve got the camera,’ Jalbala whispered. ‘Are you still willing to speak?’

            Jope nodded.

            ‘And have you found anyone else who will speak?’

            ‘Yes.’ Cautiously, Jope clambered over the sleeping bodies and shook two men awake. He whispered to them and they nodded.

Jope and the others had spoken in measured tones about their mistreatment and how they came to be there. Jalbala got Jope to film him and he presented his testimony, too. Gradually, however, others in the tent woke up due to the sound of voices. Despite exhaustion, many of the workers were light sleepers, as if keeping one ear cocked in case there was an official raid. They’d all been told to disperse in every direction if the police descended on their plantation.

They were very tense moments and Jalbala’s pulse seemed to race on overdrive, but no alarm was raised. Yet the rest inside the tent shied away, giving the four of them wary glances. He hadn’t appreciated that not all the illegals would condone his actions. As far as they saw it, this was their chance to get a well-paid job. Nothing he said derailed them from that belief.

Jalbala considered breaking into the women’s tent for more evidence, but discarded the idea as foolhardy. Maybe Nadira would speak on camera, but his presence in the tent might cause concern or even alarm among the other women. He couldn’t risk it.

            After filming, he decided to take the camera in the bag back to the banana plant and lob it over the fence. On a number of days, there’d been evidence of searches in the tents. He had no idea what they were looking for; maybe drugs, or written notes.

            Most of the occupants in the tent were still awake when he left. The second journey to the fence seemed to take much longer. Maybe because he was carrying incriminating evidence, evidence that could cost him his life.

            Once at the banana plant, he stood still, listening. Nothing. No voices, no footfalls. The cicadas had stopped. They had last night, too. But for some reason they were keeping quiet. Why? Getting paranoid, he told himself, and lobbed the bag over the fence. He heard it land but couldn’t see it. Somewhere in the shadows. He hoped Kirby found it. Would he check for it tonight? If he didn’t, would it be visible to any of Black Beard’s men tomorrow? He had no way of knowing. He must trust to luck – which abruptly seemed to run out on him.

            A powerful torch beam blinded Jalbala.

            ‘Trying to run off, eh?’ The voice belonged to Black Beard, somewhere in the dark behind the torch.

            Jalbala raised his hands and slowly edged sideways away from that section of fence. Let them think that, he thought.

            ‘Come on, step forward,’ said Black Beard. ‘Accept your punishment like a man!’

            Jalbala heard the slapping of a hand against the wood surface of a baseball bat. I never was a good sportsman, he thought.

*

Blood of the Dragon Trees published by Crooked Cat Publishing as an e-book and paperback

Some review excerpts:

‘This is a breathless read - totally satisfying.’

‘Set on the idyllic holiday island of Tenerife, the novel exposes how illegal traders in endangered species and also human trafficking, thrive on making a massive fortune from their disgusting activities there…  a masterfully written fictional story based on these appalling facts - a thriller and romance rolled into one that draws you in with plenty of suspense and fast paced action. Each chapter ends with a hook leading you eagerly on to the next. The characters and all the location settings on the island are colourfully realised.’

‘The crimes are appalling, the characters well drawn and credible, and the settings superb.’

‘What a fantastic fast-paced read this is! The plot twists and turns and keeps us guessing.’

‘Nik Morton’s experiences and his writing put the reader in the novel and I felt like I had physically and emotionally travelled hand in hand with the characters through their arduous ordeals.’

Amazon COM here

Amazon UK here

FFB – Lord of Darkness

‘In the destructive element immerse’ – Lord Jim (J Conrad)

I have been in a time-machine and have savoured the richness of smells, tastes,sounds, prose and colours of 16^th century Africa. And what a journey. ‘There is a voyage outwad and there is a voyage inward, and my twenty years inward to the heart of African deviltry took me father indeed than Drake himself could have gone.’ This voyage inward gripped from beginning to end – even after the end. As a fictional travel autobiography, Lord of Darkness was most convincing, so true in fact that the author came across as one humorous, wise and compassionate Andrew Battell and not as Robert Silverberg, author of Lord Valentine’s Castle et al.

Battell and many of the other characters existed. According to Silverberg, all we know of Battell is that he went to sea in 1589 when Spain and Portugal were at war against England; that he was captured on the Isle of Sao Sebastian off Brazil, shipped to Angola, where he had twenty years of adventures before returning to England. He then dictated his memoires which were subsequently printed in a much-edited form in 1625 and again in 1901. Upon these bones has Silverberg fashioned flesh. The account of Andrew Battell of Leigh in Essex, born in 1558, is certain to be regarded as an outstanding work, comparable to Robinson Crusoe and King Solomon’s Mines.

Although best known for his varied and numerous Sci-fi novels, Silverberg has been prolific in producing non-fiction books, among them the mythical land of Eldorado, The Longest Voyage, an account of the first six circumnavigations of the world, and The Realm of Prester John (1972). After a journey to Africa, he wrote Downward to the Earth, a sci-fi novel in which were embedded some homages to Joseph Conrad (one of my many favourite authors). All this knowledge and research, the influence of Conrad and the Hakluyt Voyages and Discoveries, coupled with a masterful style that captures the feel of the 16^th century, has inevitably been distilled into this remarkable Lord of Darkness, within which one can embark on a mind-broadening, often gruesome odyssey of young yellow-haired Andrew. He was new to the world beyond Leigh and began by looking at everything with the blinkered eyes of ignorance. In truth, he found that travel broadens the mind; aye, wondrously so. Perhaps armchair travel does, too. For there is much cogent philosophy, wisdom and compassion within these pages, besides excellent description and humour.

Though a prisoner, Battell had been given a modicum of freedom to seve as a pilot; thereafter, he undertook two trading voyages, before falling in with man-eaters, the Jaqqa. He continually allied himself with the powerful to retain his modest freedom, as reflected in his simple philosophy:

‘No sailor ever reached home by sailing into the jaws of a storm. I try to keep my sheets aligned so that I will move ever forward, or at least not find myself capsized.’

His intention was to bend to adversity, but never to give up hope that one day he might return to England. He was not given to despair, which is remarkable considering the privations, betrayals and disappointments he endured: ‘wholly English within me, that does not like to rush forward and claim defeat as a bride.’

These quotations give a less than adequate indication of the style; it seems exactly right. His choice of words seem apt, too: ‘catercorner’ rather than ‘diagonally’ and ‘rampscallery roguey army of cutpurses and rackrents and dandiprat costermongers, the dregs of Lisbon… to defend Angola against the forces of darkness.’ The insult of today is so pauperised, as is the description of explicit sex. In both these areas Silverberg restores some long-abandoned words that that, unlike many books on the shelves today, Battell’s descriptions don’t seem coarse or clumsy or purely sensational, but almost poetic. And then there is the language – ‘fetish’ and ‘albino’ come from Spanish/Portuguese sources; and ‘Your accent is broad, though you have the words and the sense quite aptly. You speak our words in the flat English way, without music. Speak you more in the throat and in the nose… Put some savoury spice in them. I think it is your English food, that is so empty of taste, that causes you to speak your words in such a flavourless way.’

Battell was educated to be a clerk but followed his father and brothers to sea. He had read a lot, was familiar with Marlowe, the Book of Solomon, and Marcus Aurelius – all employed in their appropriate place – as well as two quotations familiar to sci-fi enthusiasts: ‘folly it is to bid time return’ (Matheson/Shakespeare); and ‘a stranger in a strange land (Heinlein/Moses). He befriended Portuguese and natives, man-eaters and a slave-girl, Matamba.

Slavery antedated the coming of the whites, but the Portuguese ‘refined it… into something most monstrous.’  This terrible trade in human beings was inaugurated by the Portuguese, but the Dutch, British, French and other European nations soon joined in, setting up trading factories along the African coast. Founded in 1576, Luanda became the principal centre for the export of slaves from Angola to Brazil. During the 400 years of trade – 1450-1870 – over ten million Africans were transported to the Americas. Here, as in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Flash for Freedom and Roots, we see the cruelty and indignity inflicted during this forced demographic change.

The title of the book refers to Calandola, a Jaqqa whose influence on Battell is both hypnotic and demonic. He and his people are invested with a strange grandeur and a fascinating frightfulness. The Jaqqa creation myth, history and philosphy are held up against the religion and philosophy of the time: Battell found little to choose between them. At least the ferocious Jaqqa made no pretense at piety. Henceforth, Battell’s soul was captive.

 
There are court-intrigues, trials by ordeal, strange beasts, bizarre illnesses, bravery, anthropological detail, and politics and power-hunger. The sex scenes – and the gruesome horrors – are described with an ease and openness. Double standards are questioned: the rite of circumcision is touched upon, also for females – as Battell says, ‘the life of a woman is sufficiently hard as it is, without her having to give up that thing, too.’
 
Many characters deserve mention, not least the tragic, long-suffering slave, Matamba. But Battell’s great passion was the beguiling Dona Teresa; she altered his life. She was shameless, their relationship vying between love and hate: ‘a superfluity of passion that does turn to rage and foul sour juices when it is thwarted’ was how she explained one betrayal. Yet towering above all is the overpowering Calandola, who was anointed daily with the fat of human victims to give his large physique a terrible burnished gloss. He is a memorable creation: an evil Umslopogaas. Whilst with the Jaqqa, Battell observed that his world was bounded by cauldrons and drums and ollicondi trees; so too was mine as I vicariously shared his sojourn. Ultimately, ‘Calandona was real to me and England only a phantasm, now, and much of the time my mind lay in a hazy borderland between the real and the unreal.’

If you like history with flesh on it, unrestrained and vivid through eye-witness accounts, then this book is for you.

I wrote this review for the BSFA in 1984; the book has lingered since.