A Respectable Trade. Philippa Gregory

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      Miss Cole nodded and beckoned Frances to follow her. Frances went towards the doorway and then hesitated. Ahead was a narrow passage-like cave, carved from the dark red sandstone of the cliff, illuminated by the horn lantern which Sarah hung high on a peg hammered into the soft stone.

      At its highest the roof of the tunnel was only about six feet; Frances could see the scrape marks of the picks and shovels where the cellar had been hollowed out from the cliff. The floor was bumpy, rutted in parts by the rolling of barrels of sugar and wine. A heavy acrid smell wafted towards her. A smell of old long-stored wine, and a new smell of men and women left for months in their own dirt, a smell of degradation and despair. She recoiled but Miss Cole took hold of her arm and drew her forward.

      ‘This is where the money comes from to buy your embroidered morning dresses,’ she said sharply. ‘Money has to be earned in this world. This is how we earn ours. It’s a good trade and an honest trade.’

      ‘It was just the smell …’

      ‘The ships smell worse than this and we send our sailors out in them. The lead works poison their workers and yet your uncle buys their shot. You have been hidden from the real things, the dirty things, Sister. But now you are the wife of a man who makes his living by the sweat of his brow, whose hands are dirty at the end of the day. And I am proud of it. I don’t want to be a lady who knows nothing of the real world. I am ready to earn my daily bread.’

      Sarah’s face was exalted in the flickering light. Frances pulled her arm away. ‘I am ready to play my part,’ she said with simple dignity. ‘I have taken a share in the prosperity of this family. I am ready to work, Sarah, and I was never a lady of leisure. You need not lecture me.’

      ‘Good,’ Sarah said briefly, and led the way, sure-footed down the familiar passage. As Frances followed, the smell of sweat and grief and infection grew stronger.

      ‘There!’ Sarah said avidly. ‘Look at them! And in good condition too! I shall pay Captain Lisle a bonus!’

      Frances blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the darkness. The tunnel had widened into a circular cave, lined with silent people. She could dimly make out the gleam of the candlelight on shining eyes and there was a soft chink of a chain as someone moved. She had a sense of a mute crowd, filling the small cellar. They were chained like dogs to each other, and to rings in the walls. Each man, each woman, each child had a light iron collar bolted around their necks and above this shackle their faces were dulled with pain, weary with hopeless grief. She could see stains of pus on the collars where the blisters had gone septic, and bloodstains where they had worn their necks raw.

      One ring on the neck collar held the chains for the manacles on the hands, another ring held the chain which roped them together in pairs, the links passing from behind their heads up to bolts on the walls. Their feet were in heavy leg-irons locked to the floor. The place smelled of excrement and the sweet sickliness of diseased flesh. Frances clamped a hand over her mouth to hold back the nausea and above it her face was white as a cave-fish in the gloom, her eyes as black as theirs.

      None of them looked at her. None of them cared enough to look at her. Those whose eyes were open stared blankly at the space before them, or looked down at their feet, skin puckered from standing barefoot in the mulchy straw. Mostly they were sitting on the stone bench cut out of the wall of the cave, leaning against the wall, their heads tipped back against the damp stone with their eyes tight shut.

      Frances found her breath and whispered: ‘My God!’

      Miss Cole looked at her pale face. ‘What is it?’

      ‘I did not know,’ Frances said. She looked around the cellar at the thirteen black faces still as heartbroken statues in the shadows. The cruelty of the Trade suddenly opened before her, like a glimpse of hell beneath her feet. ‘I did not know,’ she said.

      Miss Cole nodded briskly as if that confirmed her poor opinion of Frances. ‘Well now you do,’ she said, and turned to go up the steps again.

      Frances started to follow her, but then she froze. She had a strange feeling of being observed. She felt it so strongly it was as if someone had put a warm hand on the nape of her neck. She spun around, forgetting the roughness of the floor, and had to put her hand on the damp wall to steady herself.

      One of the slaves was looking at her. His skin was black, as dark as the skin of a ripe grape, his nose flared, his mouth a sculptured perfection. His cheeks were scarred with curious blue lines drawn in intricate patterns on his cheekbones. The same pattern was etched like a headband around his forehead. He had been standing with his head thrown back against the wall, the blank look of all the captives in his eyes. But something about her had drawn his attention, and his head had come up, the chain attached to the collar around his neck chinked. His eyes met hers.

      He looked at her as if he knew her. She felt a jolt – as tangible as a light slap in the face. She had a strange falling sensation as if she were about to faint. The moment seemed to last for a long long time as she stared at him and he looked back at her.

      ‘Come along, Frances.’ Miss Cole’s voice was spinster-sharp.

      Frances did not move. She stared at the man. He stared impassively at her.

      Miss Cole came back a few steps to see what had attracted Frances’s attention. ‘Oh, you are looking at his tattoos, are you?’ she said. ‘Grotesque, isn’t it? And pagan. One of our captains told me that the ones who wear those tattoos are the wizards and priests of their pagan beliefs. He would have talked with the spirits and foretold the future.’ She laughed one of her rare laughs. ‘He couldn’t have been a very good fortune-teller!’

      Frances looked at him. His face was still impassive.

      ‘Do they not understand English at all?’ she asked.

      ‘They’ll have to learn,’ Miss Cole said, holding open the door at the end of the passage. Frances turned unwillingly and walked away from the man. ‘The whip is all the language they know now.’

      Frances paused at the doorway and looked back at him. She longed to touch him, just lightly, a soft touch with her fingertip on the inside of his wrist where his black skin was soft.

      He turned his head to watch her go, until all he could see was the hem of her grey gown and the shadow of the closing door.

      The door at the head of the passage closed abruptly, shutting out the daylight and the sound of voices. The slaves were left in darkness.

      Mehuru leaned his head back against the damp wall again and closed his eyes.

      He did not despair. The Snake’s counsel was ambiguous, not always to be obeyed. Like all gods he teased with false knowledge. Mehuru kept his mind turned inward and waited for the earth under his feet to stop rocking. One of the women was crying but the children were shocked and silent. They looked to Mehuru to advise them, to speculate about what would happen next. The smallest of the children was not yet three and he watched Mehuru’s face with the large trusting eyes of a baby. Mehuru shook his head and looked away from the child. He did not know what would happen. He could be of no comfort to anyone.

      In a little while the door opened again and the man brought them loaves of strange-tasting bread, slices of cooked meat that tasted like old dry beef, and some hard good fruit with a green skin and white sweet flesh. There was clean sour-tasting water to drink in a pan.

      After a short time the man came back and made them СКАЧАТЬ