by S. I. Martin
‘You’re alright now, lads. The Porto boys have gone. Took one look at us then …’ the tiny, bearded tar blew air through his teeth and flicked a wrist. ‘You’re amongst friends here.’
‘We owe you our lives,’ Georgie intoned.
‘Ohhh, I don’t know about that. You owe us nothing more than a good drink, I’d say.’
‘Well,’ William said. ‘Drinks for all, then. To your good health!’
Although he addressed the company, his entire attention was trained on a single individual; a large, jolly-looking black man who returned his stare with an inquiring smile. The face was familiar, but William couldn’t place it. He noticed Georgie’s silence and unusually tense manner.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ ventured the black seaman. ‘You’re from London, aren’t you?’ His gaze jumped between their faces, and William took his cue from Georgie and said nothing. He was sure he’d crossed paths with this stranger before, but where? … when? …
The sailor stepped up to Georgie and stared directly into his face.
‘Yes,’ he stated. ‘I do know you.’ His voice dropped several registers. ‘London, St Giles. Drury-side. That black man’s ken in Brydges Street, the Charioteer. That’s where I know you from.’
‘Maybe,’ said Georgie flatly.
‘The name is Julius, friends. Julius Bambara.’
‘Well, brother Julius,’ said William. ‘What say we retire to the bar? What’s your pleasure?’
‘They’ve only spirits in this part of the world. Some wines, but mostly rum, rum and rum.’
‘No ale?’ pipped William plaintively.
‘None,’ Julius replied.
‘Well, rum for all, then.’
Georgie held William’s sleeve and pulled him backwards while Julius left the room.
‘That man is dangerous. I know him of old. He’s a blabbermouth.’
‘I have also seen him before, I think,’ William added. ‘Can’t say where from, but I do know him.’
‘Beware, William. Watch your words.’
The Eagle’s Nest also served as a lodging house. Rows of triple-tiered bedding filled the four upstairs rooms. Some of the bunks held snoozing occupants. Georgie and William reserved bedspaces for themselves on the second floor and stowed their luggage as unobtrusively as possible before returning downstairs to join the party drinking their health.
William ordered a dinner. He kept one eye on the vast quantities of rum being consumed while the other was trained on Julius who was circling the room on a none too subtle course towards him. Georgie appeared to be enjoying himself amongst a band of privateers. William overheard him regaling them with unlikely stories of tobacco smugglers and customs men he had known back in New York.
At the mention of the colonies, William was suddenly assailed by a combined wave of anxiety and guilt. He took a long gulp from his bottle. Images of his wife and children rose unchecked. This was no place for a husband and a father. What was he doing here? He needed more strong drink, or perhaps a woman’s company, maybe a visit to the church on the square: he needed sanctuary. His mind fluttered feebly along avenues of possible pleasures, but he had lost his appetite for excitement. His powers of self-delusion were spent.
‘So, what ails you, brother?’ Julius’s face bobbed before William’s. He was holding a bottle similar to his own.
‘Just thoughts, friend. Errant thoughts.’
Julius drew up a stool and perched beside him. ‘First time in Brazil?’
William nodded.
‘Fine country, wouldn’t you say?’
William was lost for words. The African seaman twitched frantically like a clockwork toy, jumping up from his seat every other second and looking left and right out of the window. ‘I know just what you need. I was like that myself, first trip out here. Thinking much the same as you. Asking: what do the blacks here do for fun? That’s it, no?’
‘Something like that,’ William conceded.
‘Well, let me tell you, you’ll have the time of your life out here. Stick with me. I’ll show you some assemblies you’ll not believe. Ever heard of Xango?’
‘No,’ William lied. Thanks to Gullah’s instruction, he was well acquainted with the Yoruba pantheon, but it wasn’t a subject on which he felt this man could enlighten him.
‘That’s a rout and a half for you. I’m off there myself this evening. Just by the old market. Come with me, if you like.’
William said hmmm.
‘I recognize that look in your eye,’ said Julius. ‘It’s homesickness. The old London longing. You must have been there some time.’
‘A few years.’
‘Great town, London. Best place in the world. D’you ever buck up with Frank Barber?’
‘No. Never.’
Julius’s mouth dropped open in amazement. ‘How come?’ he asked. ‘Everybody knows old Francis! He was a good bud of mine, y’know. Gave me a saying I’ll never forget.’ Julius waited for William’s prompt. It wasn’t forthcoming, but he continued nonetheless. ‘When a man’s tired of London, he’s tired of life. For London hath in it all that the … the … oh something or other. I forget. But it’s true, tho’, isn’t it? Tired of London … tired of life. Me, I’m getting back out there first chance I get.’
William found himself startled at the man’s words. ‘You’re going back?’
‘That’s what I said. Soon as I cadge a berth on an outbound vessel. That’s where I’ll be. Thameside. Back home.’
Back home. Hot chestnuts and mulled wine – that’s what they’d be selling in the Piazza right now. Logfires blazing a warm welcome from the windows of packed kens at every slushy corner of the Court End. Books, gambling parlours, high conversation, Stepney ale. William swallowed drily and looked at the platter of salt cod and potatoes being carried to his table by an old sea-dog.
‘I want you to do me a favour,’ he blurted. ‘When you get back to London, that is.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Anything for a brother.’
‘There’s a friend I’d like you to contact. I believe he resides there still. I want you to deliver a note, if you’ll be so kind.’
‘I see no problem there. Who is this fellow? Where can I find him?’
‘His name is Buckram.’
Julius froze.
‘Yes, just Buckram,’ William continued. ‘Nothing more. He can be found at the sign of the Charioteer, Brydges Street, Drury-side. You are familiar with it, I understand?’
‘Familiar with both the place and the man.’
‘You know him?’
‘Know him? Me and Buckie go back a long, long way. He’s another old bud of mine. There’s only one Buckram in this world. Tall fellow, prankster, wild card, good bud.’
‘That’s Buckie, alright.’ William felt himself sigh with relief. ‘So you’ll do me this service then, and carry a note for him? I’ll pass it to you later this evening.’
‘Why gladly. But a note?’ Julius cackled. ‘Don’t you know Buckram can’t even read a sundial at the North Pole!?’
‘You may find he’s changed,’ William snapped.
‘Well, like I said: anything for a brother. It’ll be my pleasure.’ Julius drained his bottle and banged it on the table.
‘Another, friend?’ William offered.
‘And another and another.’ Julius smacked his lips. ‘Welcome to Brazil.’ He excused himself and staggered to the jakes.
William prodded the leathery slab of fish and the water-logged potatoes. Outside the window, the sun was rising high above the bustling square. Some sort of fruit and vegetable market was in progress. Were it not for the cloudless sky and the squads of slaves fetching and carrying for every stall-holder it would almost have resembled the Piazza at Covent Garden with the church to one side.
‘What were you two gabbling about?’ Georgie had appeared suddenly and silently in Julius’s seat.
‘Nothing. Just the “black life”, y’know.’
‘We have to leave this
place. They’ll be asking questions about us when they sober up in a day or so. Have you told that wretch anything about us?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Good.’
William placed a spoonful of potato in his mouth. It dissolved to the consistency of semolina. Georgie started slapping out a jaunty beat – half military, half African – on his side of the table. Although it was a merry rhythm, William was aware of its growing pace and intensity. He sensed Georgie’s stare settle upon him. It was a feeling akin to being drawn through a press.
‘William.’
William swallowed his bolus of potato and felt it slide down to his belly where it fizzed furiously in a pool of rum. For the second time in his life, he looked directly into his friend’s eyes. They were jet-black and seemingly without pupils. Or maybe nothing but pupils. He had never noticed this before. These are not the eyes of a mammal, he noted deliriously. An immense intelligence grew shapes and shimmered free in those depths.
‘William, I have known for some time now, since Plymouth in fact, that this is where we must part.’
‘Plymouth? What do you mean?’
‘My friend, I saw you down at the docks there. You had a gift, you said, for Newton. A flask of gin, or something, I believe. I followed you through the streets, and your destination was the Exchange rather than any Halifax-bound boat. And there, if I am not mistaken, you passed a letter across the counter for postage overseas. I can only assume the letter was for your wife’s attention. From your silence during the voyage and your behaviour since landing I must take it that you will be heading for Nova Scotia some time soon. Leaving me to perish alone in some Amazon backwater, eh?’ There was no anger in Georgie’s voice. In fact his face had re-set to its habitual smirk. ‘For an actor, you are cursed with a weak spirit, William Supple. Surely, you must have known I’d bear no ill-will to your desire to be with your loved ones in a safe place. After all our times together I never suspected that you were actually afraid of me. You are tho’, aren’t you?’
William inclined his head slowly and sliced another potato with his spoon. ‘Afraid of you, Georgie?’ he said. ‘Maybe. Yes, sometimes I think I am.’
‘Well, that makes two of us, then,’ said Georgie. He re-commenced his table-top tattoo, this time more softly, sombrely.
‘What are you going to do, Georgie? What about the quilombo? The black free state?’
‘That is my dream, not yours, remember? It was never your intention to accompany me there. That you have voyaged thus far with me is a consequence of your own vacillation, but I thank you, nonetheless, for your companionship. You made a rough voyage all the smoother.’
William made to protest, but Georgie silenced him, as only he could, with an upraised palm.
‘I haven’t been idle during our brief time on this shore. I am making travel arrangements for us both …’
‘Us!’ William screeched.
‘Yes,’ Georgie continued calmly. ‘There is a Dutch merchant ship bound for New York in two days’ time. They have berths for a few passengers more. I think you should be one of them.’
‘But you? What’ll you do, Georgie?’
‘My journey will take me inland as planned. Tomorrow I’m to meet with an Indian guide. A good man, so they say. He’ll take me to where I need to go.’
For a short part of eternity neither man spoke.
‘So, this is to be our last night together,’ Georgie announced. ‘Let’s celebrate.’
‘Here? How?’
‘In the old style. A night on the town.’
‘Julius mentioned some black hop down by the old market somewhere. What say we …?’
‘No!’ barked Georgie. ‘I have already accepted an invitation from our friend over there.’ He glanced towards the bar where a white sailor raised a drink in salute. ‘We’ll be routing with them. It’ll be safer. Should trouble arise, they can always claim we are their slaves, purchased in Barbados, eh?’
William tried to laugh, but tears welled in his eyes.
‘Y’know, I’ll miss you, Georgie George.’
‘Yes.’ Georgie blew a single, high clear note from the neck of his bottle. ‘I’ll miss me too.’ He shrugged himself out of his frock coat and let it fall to the floor. ‘Especially that old thing.’
They drank.
Early the next day, before the town was awake, George shook William from his bunk and ordered him to collect his things. Still groggy from the night before, William took the letter to Buckram from his pocket and tiptoed over to Julius’s bed. He placed it in the sleeping African’s kitbag then slipped out of the Eagle’s Nest and into the mist-shrouded morning.
He followed Georgie across an empty Praça da Independência. A stout, copper-coloured man was waiting for them on the steps of the church.
‘William,’ said Georgie. ‘This is Hector. Hector, William.’
The Indian grunted a greeting.
‘He knows a place out by Olinda where you can stay till tomorrow. A fishing village some miles down the coast. It’s safe. You’ll be out of harm’s way there.’
They arrived at the little Indian settlement shortly before noon. It was just as Georgie had described it. Tranquil: no white faces. Georgie’s last words to him as he saddled up a pair of mules for his journey were, ‘Whatever you do, William Supple, make sure you get on that boat for New York. This is no place for a man such as yourself. You are going to be very rich and very happy in cold, old Canada. Should you meet Charles and his brothers up there, be sure to give them my regards. Godspeed, William Supple. Godspeed.’
Then he was gone. And William, alone and hungover, walked to the sea, shedding his clothes as he went.
William raised his head from the ocean and inhaled deeply and steadily. He shook himself from his morbid reveries. Two more voyages, he thought. That’s all. Two more, then I’m home and free. He turned his back on the swelling currents gathering beneath him and started to swim back towards the shoreline. With each stroke he felt his strength returning, and warming to the sensation he swam all the harder. He knew now that he would survive, even as a farmer eking a living from the harsh Nova Scotian soil. No more acting for William Supple. No more noble, savage deaths on the white man’s stage. Time to play himself, unscripted. He would triumph anew in his new role as the good father and the good husband in a new world. And London Bridge could fall down without him.
London, 24 December 1787
Buckram stood by a snowman outside the door of the Charioteer and listened to the shouts and laughter of several people in the bright, draughty room. The alehouse was full this afternoon, and through the frost-coated window he watched Old Morris being chased round the tavern by a villainous-looking white man with a hot poker. Ten or so men, all white and wearing the all-in-green uniforms of the Queen’s Rangers Hussars, caroused and cheered on the deadly game. Offaly Michael was still there. He sat glumly on a stool behind the bar, his arm in a sling.
It had been over a year since Buckram had taken a drink in a Drury-side alehouse. His breath steamed up the window-pane. A very drunk young soldier stared out at him, trying to ascertain if the well-built black man with a satchel was really wearing a fantail hat, a pigtail wig and a triple-collared redingote greatcoat. Tacked to the wall above the soldier was Henry Prince’s brown paper sketch of Georgie George. The King of the Beggars, with folded arms and head thrown slightly back, sneered imperiously down at the company. The sketch was plastered with kisses and signatures from his forlorn female admirers. Buckram grinned. Georgie, wherever he was now, wouldn’t be seen dead in such a place, he was sure of it.
He stamped snow from his high-low boots and glanced at his gold fob watch. A quarter past four. He was late for work.
Strangely enough, making a living, and life in general, had become easier since Georgie and William’s departure. Buckram’s old bilker contacts had come in useful and had helped him, at some cost, to convert his small stash of gold ingots into common coin. With the proceeds, and wi
th Pete Fortune as his proxy, he had secured the lease on a poky, two-horse stable in Langley Street next to the smithy’s. He even had enough money to employ Cato, the lipless young beggar, as a stablehand and dogsbody. Buckram kept a room in Wapping High Street, far from the temptations of the Court End. He ate regular meals and travelled by hackney cab. He dressed warmly and well. By his own efforts he had learned to read, write and keep accounts. Where once he’d haunted taverns, he haunted booksellers. He read Sterne and Smollett. To his great surprise, he’d come across a recently published pamphlet by Otto Cugoano entitled Thoughts and sentiments on the evil and wicked traffic of the slavery and commerce of the human species. He read the work in a single sitting, marvelling at the sensation of holding in his hands the condensed thoughts of someone he had met face to face. He had never known such an eloquent, concise condemnation of the slave trade, and reflecting on its words (as he did almost daily), he often felt compelled to join one of the radical groups or anti-slavery associations now springing up all over the city. But Buckram never made it to a political meeting. Business always beckoned him, and business was good. And he was lonely. Never more so than now: the festive season. Family time.
He walked away from the Charioteer and headed back to Langley Street. The roads were clogged with beggars and cripples of every description. On Russell Street he found himself waist-deep in a sea of street urchins who reeked of gin. He batted them aside and stalked off towards the Piazza, trying to suppress the now familiar panic welling in his solar plexus. It was the children’s eyes, he realized; they had bored into him and tapped a stream of memory he’d long forced beneath his everyday horizon. All they’d demanded was a penny or two for their Christmas family meal. But he found himself unable to give. Feeling half-paralysed, he marched himself across the Piazza through the greying snow and came to the corner of James Street where he halted, shivering anew in the grip of his unaddressed problem. There was a hole in his life – a Charlotte-sized hole, which the presence of children always brought to the fore.