A Respectable Trade. Philippa Gregory

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ mean borrowing,’ Sarah snapped.

      ‘I mean forward selling,’ Josiah said steadily. ‘I can sell Daisy’s cargo while she is still at sea and complete the payment for the Queens Square house with the money.’

      ‘It is a risk,’ Sarah said. She glanced at Frances, hoping for support. ‘If the ship sinks then we have to carry the loss and repay the buyers of the cargo. I am sure Frances would not want us to take such a risk just for her benefit.’

      Frances gave Josiah a demure smile. ‘If you think it is worth the risk, Husband, then I must follow your judgement. And if it ensures that we get the house …’

      ‘Very wifely,’ Sarah commented acidly.

      ‘As soon as Mr Waring is ready to leave I will complete the sale and we shall move to Queens Square,’ Josiah declared, closing the subject. ‘But I am glad to have heard that Captain Lisle is well. The Daisy always was a lucky ship. God speed to her as she sets sail!’

      When the Daisy was ready to leave, the little shelter that they had made on her deck was dismantled, and the slaves returned to the hold. Mehuru was not strong enough to stand, he lay on the dirty straw and watched the others hold out their hands for manacles and their feet for leg-irons.

      The sun shimmered on the blue water, the quayside of St Kitts wavered before his dazed eyes. The dark green terraced hills melted slowly into the low beautiful grasslands of his home. Mehuru thought that soon his body would release its tenacious grip on life. Soon the pain would be over. Soon he would be home. If the gods were kind to him, if his ancestors sought his soul, he would be home and lying on the breast of the kindly fertile earth of Africa once more.

      The captain, watching them as they were chained and sent below, noticed for the first time that Mehuru’s skin and muscles were wasting away.

      ‘What the devil is ailing him?’ he demanded. ‘Is he sick?’

      They watched him when the food came and saw that he lay, his face turned away. Then they came and bolted an iron mask around his head with a funnel going into his mouth. Twice a day they poured scalding soup down his throat. The first day Mehuru felt nothing, he was floating and gliding down the sweet river of his home. But that night he was tortured with pain as his shrunken stomach griped on the food. Next day he felt the spiteful heat of the soup, burning his throat and his mouth. The third day he fought them, but they got it down despite his struggles. The fourth day they took the mask off and he knew he was hungry. He came back from his journey into darkness and he heard Snake’s voice counselling patience and wisdom. He knew himself to be wiser for having risked everything. He tried to find within himself some power as a survivor, as a living ghost, since all his power as a man, even as a human being, had been stolen from him.

      The ship set sail. Mehuru felt himself rolling on his shelf again and wondered if he was to spend the rest of his life in half-darkness with the wash of waves pouring through the grating, longing for his home and forever in exile. He would not fast again, he could not bear the grip of the white men and the sharp evil pain as the boiling soup threatened to drown him. Instead he ate his share of the common pot of food.

      It grew bitter, colder than any weather Mehuru had known before. When they were ordered on deck to dance Mehuru could not recognise the sea, could not recognise the sun. The waters were a deep sullen grey, the wind had a smell behind it which was icy cold. He could not comprehend where the sun had gone, it seemed to be walking farther and farther away and it was losing its heat and strength. Every day it grew smaller and paler. Mehuru thought that the ship was sailing into permanent night. When the shadow of the grating moved across the floor of the hold the squares of sunlight were insipid and pale. Through the grille he could see the sky veiled, slurred with clouds. He had never seen a sky so thick. Even in the rainy season at home the storm clouds would suddenly part and the sun would burn through. He and one of the other men lay close together for warmth. Mehuru missed the others who had gone. They seemed very few in the echoing hold, and they were fearful and could not comfort each other.

      One of the infants became sick. They thought she was dying of the cold. Mehuru saw that as the sun sickened and grew weaker the child sickened too. There was nothing they could do for her. She cried a little, very pitifully, and then died while a woman held her and rocked her. When Mehuru brought the little body up on deck for burial they took her roughly from him and tossed her over the side. Her arms and legs flew up as she went over and Mehuru had a heart-stopping moment when he thought she cried out. But the ship plunged down into the deep grey waves and her little black head bobbing in the water was hidden from him.

      Days stretched beyond counting, weeks, and then months. They took the flux – dysentery – and one of the men died and another of the infants. The weather was too stormy for them to dance on deck, and besides they were all growing weaker. Mehuru wondered if they would sail on and on until they were all dead. When they were called up to empty the waste pail, two of the boys slipped through the nets hung around the rigging to keep them on board and flung themselves into the sea. Mehuru felt shame at their loss. He should have given them hope, he should have given them a reason to live. But there was no hope and there was no reason to live.

      The bucket of food grew more and more stale but it did not rot. Unbelievably it was too cold for that to happen. Then in the night Mehuru felt the rhythm of the heaving ship steady and change. He heard the yell of the men dropping the sails. There was a long time of rocking gently as if they were anchored, and then a new jerky movement as the ship was taken into tow.

      Mehuru waited in the darkness of the hold, listening for any clues which might tell him what was happening on deck. Once again he heard the urgency of the ship nearing port and the growing noise of a quayside. The others woke, the women clutching each other in fear, the children whimpering. There was a foul sour smell of dirt, like an old midden. It penetrated even to the fetid hold of the slave ship. There was a dreadful noise of people shouting, and a screech of machinery working. Mehuru gathered his blanket around his shoulders and trembled a little with cold and fear. Then the grating was lifted off, they were ordered on deck, and they climbed out unsteadily and stood, shivering in the cold, looking around them.

      They could see little for it was not yet dawn and there were only a few lanterns lashed to the rigging and to the side of the ship. A chain was passed along their line, linking one neck collar with another, and they were ordered to walk down a ridged bridge of wood to the quayside. Mehuru, his insteps flinching from the cold hard cobbles, touched ground for the first time in six months. He had never felt freezing stone before, he could not believe the ache of coldness in the high arched bones of his feet. They whipped him and the others with light biting blows on his shoulders and his back, and they shouted at him, as men shout when they herd cattle. The cold air in his face and the cold hardness beneath his feet told Mehuru that he had arrived into some dreadful exile in the land where all the men were dead men; and Snake alone knew what they wanted of him.

      Mehuru breathed deep, three, four times, of the icy dirty air, and tried to hold down his panic. Before him was a high building with no lights showing and arched doorways like gaping mouths leading to storerooms. A small door at the side of the building opened at their approach and they were ordered into a hallway, through another door into a kitchen. The warmth and the smell of cooking gave him a sharp pang of homesickness, but then a blow on his back forced him forward and they were through the kitchen before he had time to look around.

      At the far end of the kitchen there was a stout wooden door standing open and four steps cut downward into rock. Mehuru and the others stumbled down, their chains jerking at each other’s necks as they were pushed roughly into line around the walls of the room. It was part cellar, part cave. Mehuru saw a couple of old barrels of wine, and a rack which had once held bottles. Hammered into the soft red sandstone of the walls were new iron rings СКАЧАТЬ