by Wilbur Smith
"He means it, Jim," Mansur said. "Let's get away from her."
Jim ignored the suggestion and held up one of the fish. Vars vis!
Fresh fish," he yelled back. "Straight out of the sea. Caught an hour ago." The man at the rail hesitated, and Jim sensed his opportunity. "Look at this one." He pointed at the huge carcass that filled most of the skiff. "Steenbras! Finest eating fish in the seal There's enough here to feed every man on board for a week."
"Wait!" the man yelled back, and hurried across the deck to the group of officers. There was a brief discussion, then he came back to the rail. "Good, then. Come! But keep clear of our bows. Hook on to the stern chains."
Mansur dropped the tiny sail and they rowed under the side of the ship. Three seamen stood at the rail, aiming their muskets down into the skiff.
"Don't try anything clever," the petty officer warned them, 'unless you want a ball in your belly."
Jim grinned up at him ingratiatingly and showed his empty hands. "We mean no harm, Mijnheer. We are honest fishermen." He was still fascinated by the lines of chained women, and stared up at them with revulsion and pity as they shuffled in a sorry line along the near rail. Then he switched his attention to bringing the skiff alongside. He did this with a sea manlike flourish, and Zama tossed the painter up to a seaman who was waiting in the chains above them.
The ship's purser, a plump bald man, stuck his head over the side and peered down into the skiff to inspect the wares on offer. He looked impressed by the size of the giant steenbras carcass. "I'm not going to shout. Come up here where we can talk," the purser invited Jim, and ordered a seaman to drop a rope-ladder over the side. This was the invitation Jim had been angling for. He shinned up and over the high tumble-home of the ship's side like an acrobat, and landed on the deck beside the purser with a slap of his bare feet.
"How much for the big one?" The purser's question was ambiguous, and he ran a pederast's calculating glance over Jim's body. A fine bit of beef, he thought, as he studied the muscled chest and arms, and the long, shapely legs, smooth and tanned by the sun.
"Fifteen silver guilders for the entire load of our fish." Jim placed emphasis on the last word. The purser's interest in him was obvious.
"Are you an escaped lunatic?" the purser retorted. "You, your fish and your dirty little boat together are not worth half that much."
"The boat and I are not for sale," Jim assured him, with relish. When he was bargaining he was in his element. His father had trained him well. He had no compunction in taking advantage of the purser's sexual predilections to push him for the best price. They settled on eight guilders for the full load.
"I want to keep the smallest fish for my family's dinner." Jim said, and the purser chuckled. "You drive a hard bargain, kerel' He spat on his rieht hand and proffered it. Jim spat on his own and they shook hands to seal the bargain.
The purser held on to Jim's hand for a little longer than was necessary. "What else have you got for sale, young stallion?" He winked at Jim and ran his tongue round his fat, sun-cracked lips.
Jim did not answer him at once, but went to the rail to watch the crew of Het Gelukkige Meeuw lower a cargo net into the skiff. With difficulty Mansur and Zama slid the huge fish into it. Then it was hoisted up and swung on to the deck. Jim turned back to the purser. "I can sell you a load of fresh vegetables potatoes, onions, pumpkins, fruit, anything you want at half the price they will charge you if you buy from the Company gardens," Jim told him.
"You know full well that the VOC has the monopoly," the purser demurred. "I am forbidden to buy from private traders."
"I can fix that with a few guilders in the right pocket." Jim touched the side of his nose. Everyone knew how simple it was to placate the Company officials at Good Hope. Corruption was a way of life in the colonies.
"Very well, then. Bring me out a load of the best you have," the purser agreed, and laid an avuncular hand on Jim's arm. "But don't get caught at it. We don't want a pretty boy like you all cut up with the lash." Jim evaded his touch without making it obvious. Never upset a customer. There was a sudden commotion on the foredeck and, grateful for the respite from these plump and sweaty attentions, Jim glanced over his shoulder.
The first group of women prisoners was being herded down below decks, and another line was coming up into the open air for their exercise. Jim stared at the girl at the head of this new file of prisoners. His breath came short and his pulse pounded in his ears. She was tall, but starved thin and pale. She wore a shift of threadbare canvas, with a hem so tattered that her knees showed through the holes. Her legs were thin and bony, the flesh melted off by starvation, and her arms were the same. Under the shapeless canvas her body seemed boyish, lacking the swells and round contours of a woman. But Jim was not looking at her body: he was gazing at her face.
Her head was small but gracefully poised on her long neck, like an unopened tulip on its stem. Her skin was pale and flawless, so fine in texture that he imagined he could see her cheekbones through it. Even in her terrible circumstances she had clearly made an effort to prevent herself sinking into the slough of despair. Her hair was pulled back from
her face, plaited into a thick rope that hung forward over one shoulder, and she had contrived somehow to keep it clean and combed. It reached down almost to her waist, fine as spun Chinese silk and blonde, dazzling as a golden guinea in the sunlight. But it was her eyes that stopped Jim's breath altogether for a long minute. They were blue, the colour of the high African sky in midsummer. When she looked upon him for the first time they opened wide. Then her lips parted and her teeth were white and even, with no gaps between them. She stopped abruptly, and the woman behind stumbled into her. Both lost their balance and almost fell. Their leg irons clanked, and the other woman thrust her forward roughly, cursing her in the accents of the Antwerp dock lands "Come on, princess, move your pretty pussy."
The girl did not seem to notice.
One of the gaolers stepped up behind her. "Keep moving, you stupid cow." With the length of knotted rope he hit her across the top of her thin bare arm, raising a vivid red welt. Jim fought to stop himself rushing to protect her, and the nearest guard sensed the movement. He swung the muzzle of his musket towards Jim, who stepped back. He knew that at that range the buckshot would have disembowelled him. But the girl had seen his gesture too, recognized something in him. She stumbled forward, her eyes filled with tears of pain from the lash, massaging the crimson welt with her other hand. She kept those haunting eyes on his face as she passed where Jim stood rooted to the deck. He knew it was dangerous and futile to speak to her, but the words were out before he could bite down on them and there was pity in his tone. "They've starved you."
A pale travesty of a smile flickered across her lips, but she gave no other sign of having heard him. Then the harridan in the line behind her shoved her forward: "No young cock for you today, your highness. You'll have to use your finger. Keep moving." The girl went on down the deck away from him.
"Let me give you some advice, kerel," said the purser at his shoulder. "Don't try anything with any of those bitches. That's the shortest way to hell."
Jim mustered a grin. "I'm a brave man, but not a stupid one." He held out his hand and the purser counted eight silver coins into his palm. He swung a leg over the rail. Till bring out a load of vegetables for you tomorrow. Then perhaps we can go ashore together and have a grog in one of the taverns." As he dropped down into the skiff, he muttered, "Or I could break your neck and both your fat legs." He took his place at the tiller.
"Cast off, hoist the sail," he called to Zama, and brought the skiff on
to the wind. They skimmed down the side of the Meeuw. The port-lids on the gun ports were open to let light and air into the gun decks Jim looked into the nearest as he came level. The crowded, fetid gundeck was a vision from hell, and the stench was like a pig-sty or cesspit. Hundreds of human beings had been crowded into that low, narrow space for months without relief.
Jim tore away his gaze, and glanced up at the ship's rail, high above his head. He was still looking for the girl, but he expected to be disappointed. Then his pulse leaped as those unbelievably blue eyes stared down at him. In the line of women prisoners the girl was shuffling along the rail near the bows.
"Your name? What's your name?" he called urgently. At that moment to know it was the most important thing in the world.
Her reply was faint on the wind, but he read it on her lips: "Louisa."
Till come back, Louisa. Be of good cheer," he shouted recklessly, and she stared at him expressionlessly. Then he did something even more reckless. He knew it was madness, but she was starved. He snatched up the red stump nose he had kept back from the sale. It weighed almost ten pounds but he tossed it up lightly. Louisa reached out and caught it in both hands, with a hungry, desperate expression on her face. The grotesque trull in the line behind her jumped forward and tried to wrest it out of her grasp. Immediately three or four other women joined the struggle, fighting over the fish like a pack of she-wolves. Then the gaolers rushed in to break up the melee, flogging and lashing the shrieking women with the knotted ropes. Jim turned away, sick to the guts, his heart torn with pity and with some other emotion he did not recognize for he had never experienced it before.
The three sailed on in grim silence, but every few minutes Jim turned to look back at the prison ship.
"There is nothing you can do for her," Mansur said at last. "Forget her, coz. She's out of your reach."
Jim's face darkened with anger and frustration. "Is she? You think you know everything, Mansur Courtney. We shall see. We shall see!"
On the beach ahead one of the grooms was holding a string of harnessed mules, ready to help them beach the skiff. "Don't just sit there like a pair of cormorants drying your wings on a rock. Get the sail down," Jim snarled at the other two with the formless, undirected anger still dark upon him.
They waited on the first line of the surf, hanging on the oars, waiting for the right wave. When Jim saw it coming he shouted, "Here we go. Give way together. Pull!"
It swept under the stern and then suddenly, exhilaratingly, they were
surfing on the brow of the curling green wave, racing on to the beach. The wave carried them high, then pulled back to leave them stranded. They jumped out and when the groom galloped in with the team of mules, they hitched on to the trek chain. They ran beside the team, whooping to drive them on, dragging the skiff well above the high-water mark, then unhitched it.
Till need the team again first thing tomorrow morning," Jim told the groom. "Have them ready."
"So, we're going out to that hell ship again, are we?" Mansur asked flatly.
"To take them a load of vegetables." Jim feigned innocence.
"What do you want to trade in return?" Mansur asked, with equal insouciance. Jim punched his arm lightly and they jumped on to the bare backs of the mules. Jim took one last, brooding look across the bay to where the prison ship was anchored, then they rode round the shore of the lagoon, up the hill towards the whitewashed buildings of the estate, the homestead and the go down that Tom Courtney had named High Weald after the great mansion in Devon where he and Dorian had been born, and which neither of them had laid eyes on for so many years. The name was the only thing that the two houses had in common. This one was built in the Cape style. The roof was thatched thickly with reeds. The graceful gabled ends and the archway leading into the central courtyard had been designed by the celebrated Dutch architect, Anreith. The name of the estate and the family emblem were incorporated into the ornate fresco of cherubs and saints above the archway. The emblem depicted a long-barrelled cannon on its wheeled carriage with a ribbon below it, and the letters "CBTC' for Courtney Brothers Trading Company. In a separate panel was the legend: "High Weald, 1711'. The house had been built in the same year that Jim and Mansur were born.
As they clattered through the archway and into the cobbled courtyard, Tom Courtney came stamping out of the main doors of the warehouse. He was a big man, over six foot tall, heavy in the shoulders. His dense black beard was shot through with silver and his pate was innocent of a single strand of hair, but thick curls surrounded the shiny bald scalp and bushed down the back of his neck. His belly, once flat and hard, had taken on a magisterial girth. His craggy features were laced with webs of laughter lines, while his eyes gleamed with humour and the contentment of a supremely confident, prosperous man.
"James Courtney! You've been gone so long I'd forgotten what you
looked like. It's good of you to drop in. I hate to trouble you, but do any of you intend doing any work this day?"
Tim hunched his shoulders guiltily. "We were almost run down by a Dutch ship, damned nigh sunk us. Then we caught a red steenbras the size of a cart horse It took two hours to bring it in. We had to take it out to sell to one of the ships in the bay."
"By Jesus, boy, you've had a busy morning. Don't tell me the rest of your tribulations, let me guess. You were attacked by a French ship-of the-line, and charged by a wounded hippo." Tom roared with delight at his own wit. "Anyway, how much did you get for a cart horse-sized steenbras?" he demanded.
"Eight silver guilders."
Tom whistled. "It must have been a monster." Then his expression became serious. "Ain't no excuse, lad. I didn't give you the week off. You should have been back hours ago."
"I haggled with the purser of the Dutch ship," Jim told him. "He will take all the provender we can send him and at good prices, Papa."
A shrewd expression replaced the laughter in Tom's eyes. "Seems you ain't wasted your time. Well done, lad."
At that moment a fine-looking woman, almost as tall as Tom, stepped out of the kitchens at the opposite end of the courtyard. Her hair was scraped up into a heavy bun on top of her head, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up around her plump sun-browned arms. "Tom Courtney, don't you realize the poor child left this morning without breakfast. Let him eat a meal before you bully him any more."
"Sarah Courtney," Tom shouted back, 'this poor child of yours isn't five years old any longer."
"It's your lunchtime too." Sarah changed tack. "Yasmini, the girls and I have been slaving over the stove all morning. Come along now, all of you."
Tom threw up his hands in capitulation. "Sarah, you're a tyrant, but I could eat a buffalo bull with the horns on," he said. He came down off the veranda and put one arm around Jim's shoulders, the other round Mansur's and led them towards the kitchen door, where Sarah waited for them with her arms powdered to the elbows with flour.
Zama took the team of mules and led them out of the courtyard towards the stables. "Zama, tell my brother that the ladies are waiting lunch for him," Tom called after him,
I will tell him, oubaasl' Zama used the most respectful term of address for the master of High Weald.
"As soon as you have finished eating, you get back here with all the men," Jim warned him. "We have to pick and load a cargo of vegetables to take out to the Lucky Seagull tomorrow."
The kitchen was bustling with women, most of them freed house slaves, graceful, golden-skinned Javanese women from Batavia. Jim went to embrace his mother.
Sarah pretended to be put out, "Don't be a great booby, James," but she flushed with pleasure as he lifted her and bussed her on both cheeks. Tut me down at once and let me get on."
"If you don't love me then at least Aunt Yassie does." He went to the delicate, lovely woman who was wrapped in the arms of her own son. "Come now, Mansur! It's my turn now." He lifted Yasmini out of Mansur's embrace. She wore a long ghagra skirt and a coir blouse of vivid silk. She was as slim and light as a girl, her skin a glowing amber, her slanting eyes dark as onyx. The snowy blaze through the front of her dense dark hair was not a sign of age: she had been born with it, as had her mother and grandmother before her.
With the women fussing over them, the men seated themselves at the top of the long yellow-wood table, which was piled with bowls and platters. There were dishe
s of bobootie curry in the Malayan style, redolent with mutton and spices, rich with eggs and yoghurt, an enormous venison pie, made with potatoes and the meat of the spring buck Jim and Mansur had shot out in the open veld, loaves of bread still hot from the oven, pottery crocks of yellow butter, jugs of thick sour milk and small beer.