Suki, page 24
‘They ain’t to my taste,’ Jack said with perfect truth. ‘I like better company. If I could have had one of the chief’s women ’twould have been a different matter. Besides, I’m in ill humour after such discourtesy.’
So they took the longboat back to the Bonny Beaufoy, where Mr Reuben found an old sail and rigged it up on deck like a rough tent to shelter them from the sun. Still brooding under the insult he’d been offered, and aggrieved that he’d had no chance to answer it, Jack checked that his pistols were still in working order and flopped himself down in the shade, suddenly aware that he was exhausted.
The sun was so bright it hurt his eyes and the dazzle of light from the water was sharp as razors. Everything about this place was extreme: the sky too high, the heat too cruel, the jokes too spiteful, the threat of danger overwhelming. It was as if it had all been created over-large and over-extravagant: rivers as wide as lakes, a sea that heaved and bubbled with fish, forests steaming, flies as thick as black rain, birds that flew like flames, and everything in strong, clear, pulsing colours, from the pink dust in the square to the brilliant reds and golds of their extraordinary sunsets. The bosun was right. ’Twas no place to dally in. The sooner they were out of it the better.
‘We made a good start, I believe, Mr Daventry,’ Mr Tomson said, coming up alongside them. ‘Howsomever we shall need a linguist when it comes to bargaining, I’m a-thinking. That ol’ Wan Four ain’t a man to be trusted.’
‘Amen to that, sir,’ Jack said. ‘’Tis a foul old fraud. That’s my opinion of it. He’ll cheat us if we give him half a chance.’
‘The men shall have a night ashore to slake their appetites, Mr Reuben,’ the captain said, ‘or we shall have a mutiny else. We’ll take the morning tide to the Bissagos Islands. We can find provisions there.’
Which despite a contrary wind and considerable difficulty, they eventually did.
After the stink and tension of their encounter with Chief Wan Four, the villages of the Bissagos Islands were reassuringly civilised: the streets well swept and lined with proper wood-built houses with shaded balconies and shuttered windows, the taverns cheerfully crowded and selling rum and brandy, the bawdy houses serving a colourful clientele. There were even carriages about, although most of them were drawn by mules, and the street traders offered their wares from stalls instead of squatting beside a basket on the ground. The inhabitants had style and were a different altogether from Wan Four’s dusty tribe, being half-European and half-African, with features in a range of intriguing combinations and skins in every shade of brown from cafe au lait to the palest china tea. Most of them wore proper clothes if a trifle old-fashioned and most spoke a recognisable language, if not English then Portuguese or French or some such. In short it was a place to find allies.
Captain Tomson found one within minutes of their arrival. Her name was Mamma Poll and she was a stout cheerful woman who lived in a large white house with an impressive array of servants and retainers. She greeted the captain like an old friend.
‘What I can do for you, Missa Tomson?’ she asked, sliding a calculating look from him to the purser and from the purser to Jack. ‘You want woman?’
‘Not this time, Mamma,’ the captain said, smiling at her. ‘We’m after a linguist, if you got one to hand. We came to trade with Mwamba an’ so forth, an’ what do we find when we gets here but he’s up an’ gone an’ so forth, an’ the new feller don’t speak English so good an’ so forth.’
‘Plenty-plenty linguiss,’ Mamma said. ‘Tomorrow you come. I find.’
But time was relative on these islands. It was five days before Mamma found them their interpreter, who was a pretty young woman with long, straight brown hair and a long straight English nose. But she drove a hard bargain. It took three more days before she and the captain could agree a fee. Nobody minded the delay. The food was palatable, the drink potent and the whores were obliging, providing you paid them enough. As Mr Reuben said with monotonous frequency, ‘I don’t mind how long we stays hereabouts. Months ’ud suit me. Anything’s better than old Wan Four an’ his stinking savages.’
He was quite downcast when they left.
Jack tried to encourage him. ‘Our slaves could be ready for us by the time we get back.’
‘They could just as easy make us wait for ever an’ a day, knowin’ them fellers,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t trust a one on ’em.’
And sure enough there was no sign of any slaves when they returned and when their linguist asked how long it would be before their arrival the answer was vague. ‘Two to three weeks, two to three months.’
‘We could all be dead by then,’ Mr Reuben said.
Eight days on the Bissagos Islands had revived Jack’s spirits. ‘You speak for yourself,’ he grinned. ‘I mean to be alive and rarin’ to go.’
‘’Twill be a long wait an’ there’s narry a thing to do in a pig heap like this.’
‘I shall see the sights,’ Jack decided. ‘I’ve a mind to explore the path through that forest and see where it leads.’
The bosun’s eyes dilated in alarm. ‘You’ll do it on your own then, me hearty, if that’s the size of it,’ he warned. ‘There’s narry a man Jack’ll join ’ee. ’Tis a fearsome place, full a’ wild beasts an’ corkindiles an’ such like. You’ll be torn to shreds an’ ate alive.’
Jack was encouraged by such forthright disapproval. Having lost face so publicly, he needed to restore his reputation. ‘I shall take my pistols,’ he said. ‘And make shift to defend myself.’
‘You can’t shoot a swamp with a pistol,’ Mr Reuben said, lugubriously, ‘and none but a fool would walk alone in a forest. ’Tis the worst of follies.’ But he looked at his friend with grudging admiration. Whatever else might be said about Mr Daventry, he certainly had ‘bottom’.
‘Watch out for the savages,’ Mr Tomson warned. ‘They’m a plaguey load of swabbers and as like to stab you as spit at you.’
So, being suitably encouraged, Jack set off on his adventure, pausing just once and briefly at the edge of the trees to stand with one foot on a fallen bough to pose and wave goodbye, for if he were to run risks it was imperative that his shipmates knew of it.
Nothing could have prepared him for the height and density of the mass he entered, nor for its heat, its stink, its noise, its humidity, its obliterating darkness. Once inside he could see that the trees grew so close to one another that their upper foliage had entwined into an immense heaving canopy. It was so thick that the sunlight couldn’t penetrate at all, and even before his eyes grew accustomed to darkness he knew that, although there were no savages about, which was some comfort, it was full of creatures, for it creaked and rustled and resounded with eerily unfamiliar noises. Within seconds he was ankle deep in water, and in what was left of the light, he could see that the mud he was sloshing through was the colour of blood.
But he walked on, as the darkness deepened and the trunks grew so close to one another and were so huge and dark and horribly entwined that it was impossible to tell where one tree ended and the next began. Iridescent beetles flashed points of fire as they crawled up the trunks within inches of his eyes, great flies rose in a buzzing cloud or darted straight at his head so that he had to duck to avoid them, long-tailed monkeys screamed in the branches, voiding streams of strong-smelling piddle, brightly coloured birds, with beaks like black claws, perched or hung upside-down trailing their tails or flew out of the foliage cawing and shrieking, huge snakes coiled sinister about the branches or hung suspended among the tendrils, taut and threatening, and in the matted tangle of the canopy jewelled eyes watched his progress, bright, suspicious and unblinking. Soon sweat began to bead his forehead and to run in a palpable stream down his spine.
This, he thought, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, is far enough. I have made my stand. There ain’t a thing to be proved by pressing on with none to see. But as his eyes cleared he saw that the path was coming to an end and that there was light ahead and, pressing forward, he emerged on the banks of the river beside a wide expanse of muddy marsh. To his left and a mere hundred yards away was a sizeable village, its houses built of mud brick and well thatched, with a wide street between them thronged with savages. So they’re a deal richer than they want us to know, he thought. They make a good living out of slaving. But he realised that to get back to the quay he would either have to run the gauntlet of their spears and suspicion or face the jungle for the second time. He sat on the nearest tussock of grass to give the matter thought, aware that thirst had dried his mouth and was cracking his lips.
The river was as wild as the jungle and there was a strong current running. It carried a deal of debris and was a most unappetising green, so he would have to look a little further to find a patch that was clear enough to drink, especially as there was a line of extraordinary creatures lying at the edge of the water blocking his way. At first he thought they were dead trees or fallen branches, for they lay perfectly still and their skins were as rough as bark and exactly the same colour, but then he noticed that they had mouths and that most of them were gaping open, as if they were waiting for prey to fall into their jaws. He could see the ranks of their sharp, pointed teeth and even the ridged roofs of their mouths, palely pink amidst all that green. What tales he would have to tell when he re-joined the ship!
A sharp sting brought him back to his present position. There was a small long-legged fly sitting on his wrist, bent forward to bite. He flicked it away, noticing that it had drawn blood. Then he saw that there were three more of the creatures on his forearm and, angry at their presumption, he slapped at them and managed to squash one into a flat sticky mess of threadlike legs and spilled blood. Time to get back, he decided, thirsty or no. There could be clear water beyond the village. Once he’d got through.
It was a nerve-wracking walk, for the savages were all intensely interested in his sudden appearance and clustered about him, pointing and laughing. If they set upon me, I shall be lost, he thought, and he pulled his pistol from his belt and carried it before him to indicate that he would fire if he were attacked. After a few paces he found that it seemed to please them if he inclined his head to right and left as he strolled and remembered that this was how the chief had behaved as he was carried to the beach on that great litter of his. So the procession continued and lengthened and, although they clamoured about him and followed after him, laughing and calling, none touched him and presently he reached the end of the street and passed the last house, which was two storeys tall and built of stone. Since it was thronged with savages who all carried spears, he assumed it was a guardhouse of some kind, and his heart sank at the realisation that this was where he could be attacked. One pistol against so many spears was a parlous odds.
But although they laughed and pointed, they waved him through and applauded when he knelt at the water’s edge to slake his thirst. It had, after all, been entirely successful.
‘I came to no harm you see,’ he told his crew mates later that evening, when he’d described the sights he’d seen, stressing how calm he’d been — naturally — and what light hearted risks he’d taken.
‘Did you see the corkindiles?’ Mr Reuben asked.
‘I did sir, and broke a few jaws for ’em for laughing at me.’
The boast was much enjoyed. ‘Aye! Be like,’ his shipmates said. And declared that they wouldn’t put it past him.
‘’Tis a mortal hard place,’ Mr Reuben said, ‘an’ you’m a man of bottom for to tackle it, my lubber.’
‘Right on both counts, Mr Reuben,’ Jack agreed. ‘And I ain’t been ate alive, as you see.’
‘Except by them pesky mosqueeters,’ the bosun said. ‘You’m a-covered in bumps.’
‘Fleabites!’ Jack told him dismissively. ‘I’ll take no harm from a nip or two.’
His fever began a fortnight later, as he was sitting on deck smoking his pipe at the end of the day, and it began abruptly with a shaking fit so acute that he had to lie down under the strength of it.
‘I’ve t-t-took a chill,’ he said, struggling to speak through chattering teeth. ‘’T-t-t-twill pass.’
It got rapidly worse. Soon his head ached so much it was as if it were being pounded with a hammer and his limbs were so painful he moaned at every movement despite himself. Within hours he was vomiting and delirious.
‘Jungle fever,’ the surgeon said, looking at the pallor of his face and noting how pinched his nose had become, ‘on account of his trip to the marshes. Downright folly, which I said at the time. He shall have quinine when he reaches the third stage.’
Jack felt too ill to care what stage he’d reached or what was done to him. He was far out at sea, tossed from a heat so extreme that he was drenched in sweat and couldn’t bear the slightest cloth upon his body, to a cold so terrible that he shook and shivered until he was afraid he would break his bones. He was exhausted by vomiting, torn by torments in his back and belly, crack-lipped with a thirst that couldn’t be slaked. From time to time a ragged sleep dragged him mercifully away, but then his mind was racked by nightmares. He was whipped by witches and mocked by hideous old harridans, who offered him food and snatched it away before he could take it from their hands, who slapped and punched him mercilessly. Pretty women loomed into his shivering mind, their images shifting and shimmering as though they were reflections in the sea and he feared they were ghosts, but he turned to them for help even so, his hands outstretched, pleading, ‘Oh love me! Love me!’ and was spurned by every single one until he yearned with his old childhood anguish that he would never be loved by anyone in all his life. And he groaned as he slept. When pain pulled him back to consciousness, he was glad to see the familiar timbers of the ship beside him, anguished though he was.
Days and nights blurred and he was awash with sweat again. Then there was a hand holding a beaker and a calm voice telling him to drink.
‘Is this death?’ he asked, struggling to focus his eyes.
‘No, sir,’ the voice said stolidly. ‘’Tis quinine. Drink it down.’ The dispassion of the voice calmed him. ‘Will it cure me?’
‘That’s as maybe,’ the surgeon said. ‘’Twill depend on your fighting spirit. ’Tis a mortal bad fever.’
There are others ill, Jack understood. ‘Who else?’
‘Ship’s boy and Mr Gurney. Died on me last night.’
The news was chilling but it roused Jack’s determination. ‘I’ll not die on you,’ he promised. If he died she would be proved right and could claim that he was worthless. Whatever else he must prove her wrong, fight back as he had fought against the harridans who beat him as a little thing, outface this malady as he’d outfaced the savages, refuse to submit as he had refused in all the years of his exile, prevail against her cruelty, conquer her hatred. ‘I ain’t took on this job and come all this way just to die of a fever, sir. Give me the potion.’
It was so bitter it made him gasp, but he forced it down — gulp by gulp — and presently slept again.
When he woke the dreadful heat had left his body, and Mr Reuben was sitting beside him.
‘Thas more like it, my lubber,’ the bosun said. ‘Could you fancy some grub?’
He had no appetite at all but he knew he must eat to recover. He struggled to sit up, to smile, to look alive. ‘Aye, sir,’ he said, speaking with an effort. ‘I do believe I could.’
Even so it was a long convalescence, for the fever and the sweat returned every third day. But at least he knew they would pass and each attack was easier to endure than the last.
‘Are the slaves come yet?’ he asked as he roused himself from the fourth attack.
‘No, sir,’ the surgeon said, ‘which is something to be thankful for. Time enough for slaves when the slave master is recovered. Eat well and mend, that’s my advice to ’ee.’
‘I will, sir. I do.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the surgeon said, permitting himself the first smile Jack had ever seen on his taciturn face, ‘you do indeed.’
Chapter 18
Far away from the sick heat of the Slave Coast, in the night time quiet of the farmhouse at Twerton, Suki lay asleep in her room under the eaves, with William snug in the crook of her arm. Outside her shuttered window the snow was falling again, white flakes drifting like feathers, softly and silently. They eddied in the warm air above the chimneys, curtained before the doors and windows, swayed gracefully away from the gusts of a harsh north-easterly, settled delicately and weightlessly on the white plains of the deserted fields, where the trees stood black and humpbacked under their new white burden.
It was no weather to be out of doors. The roads were blocked for miles around, the landmarks submerged, the winter horizon nothing but a treacherous shadow. By day, the walls of the farmhouse were damp and dark, and the garden had become a wilderness, the familiar hollows of herb bed and vegetable patch filled and forgotten. Chickens huddled together in their fetid coops, the old sow snored in the sty, the horses snorted steam in the cold air of their stables, and inside the candlelit house, Farmer Lambton and his household were barricaded in for the siege of the winter. A log fire was kept blazing in the hearth, and the warmth was carefully contained, draughts excluded by linsey woolsey curtains at the doors and windows, and every crack and cranny padded with felt. Annie declared ’twas a time for good filling meals and fed them accordingly — pies and stews, broths and pickles, warm bread and hot toddy, potatoes baked on the hearth and puddings boiled in a cloth.
The days passed slowly and, although Suki was glad she had fewer chores, she felt stultified by this winter, penned in by snow with no hope of news from anyone, even Ariadne or Lady Bradbury. Annie and the two babies took a lot of her time, for little Constant was a sickly child and didn’t thrive, despite having two good feeds a day. The sight of his poor little peaky face sent Annie into a gloom, but she was loathe to hand him over completely to Suki for fear of what her husband would say. She tried to comfort herself by believing that he was one of those babies who would grow slowly, and publicly Suki agreed with her, although she was privately of a very different opinion, especially when she compared the poor little thing to her own dear fat William, who was bouncing with health and grew as you looked at him. Still at least she had the chance to practise her new skills, and she’d applied herself diligently.
