Sacred Hunger

by Barry Unsworth

  I would be hard put to describe this difference; they are rough and reckless men almost all, yet I feel that it exists, and is indeed one of the elements determining the constitution of this floating commonwealth.

  Some are always alone, like Hughes and a man called Evans, who never speaks; but most have made alliances of one sort or another. The strong have their satellites who also have theirs, in a chain of being like the order of creation which we are told governs the universe. Haines has Libby for attendant and Libby a man named Tapley, a most unpleasant vicious fellow to all appearance, who in his turn lords it over poor Charlie, the cabin boy. At the apex there is Captain Thurso with Barton as his messenger and voice; and Thurso carries a passenger nobody sees but himself, a kind of divine supercargo who relays messages from some more abstract deity, some wielder of wind and current.

  I am growing convinced that our captain interprets the universe as a system of signals addressed to himself, which is what many do who end in Bedlam; but he has this world of the ship to govern, he has people to judge and punish, he can force the shape of things to suit his sickness. How many of our governors and judges would end poor frothing Bedlamites without this resource, I wonder? And perhaps it is natural so to force the world, if one has the power to do so. We know so little of it in any case —we are so little skilled at reading the evidence.

  We see appearance only. Then, if we are in a dream, why not be our own interpreters, like Thurso, and turn madness to good account?

  Paris paused, and laid down his pen. Perhaps it was wrong to think of systems, to seek coherent principle in this random human community of the ship.

  The words of his revered Maupertuis came back to him: One constructs for oneself a satisfactory system only when one is ignorant of the characteristics of the phenomena to be explained… What was one left with then but isolated phenomena, fast losing distinctness—the look in a man’s eyes, the start of blood on the pale skin, the patter of drops on the deck. So to what end do I pass distractedly from observation to speculation to some wild call to take on sufferings not my own? I have enough with my own. As if in the duress of a dream it came to him again: my blood, my pain. And now, clamouring for inclusion, there was Thomas True, who soiled his bedding and was flogged for it, and Cavana, with his confiding air and the putrid discharge of his eyes…

  It was with a sense of fleeing that he rose, passed out of his cramped cabin and mounted until he could see the rail of the quarterdeck and the dark figure of the helmsman beyond and a scattering of stars. He became aware again of the ploughing ship, the endless complaint of the timbers. With this the familiar sense of unreality descended on him; he was adrift among strangers, set on no purpose that he could call his own. And yet they were not strangers, like him they were captives here; fellow-captives can never be strangers though one knows nothing of them but this—it was one of the lessons of his prison days.

  As he stood there he heard eight bells sounding, signalling the end of the watch. Mounting to the deck, he saw a figure he thought was Barton come down the ladder and disappear below. Two or three men stood talking in low tones at the forecastle, having just come off the watch. It was time for him to present himself in the small stateroom adjoining the captain’s cabin where, in company with Barton and Thurso when the business of the ship allowed it, he was accustomed to take his evening meal.

  He found the two men at table already, presenting the attitudes that in the course of these weeks at sea had come to seem heraldic to Paris, the one heavy-set and fearsomely immobile, with a face the colour of dark brick and eyes that looked always furious at not being able to burrow further in; the other servile, watchful and jaunty, with a habit of raising his narrow face as if sniffing.

  “Well, sir,” Thurso said, “I believe you have had a busy day.”

  Paris saw a faint grin come to Barton’s face, just enough to show the edges of his sharp upper teeth.

  It was a regular joke with both captain and mate that his days were not much occupied; but in this present remark he thought there was a hint at his ministrations to the man who had been flogged. “I do what comes in my way,” he said.

  “Aye, do you? More will come in your way yet.”

  Paris made no immediate reply to this and so was saved from having to reply at all, as Charlie entered at this moment with a tray from the galley. Morgan had that day killed one of the pullets they had brought on board with them and boiled it with onions and black pepper—his invariable way with a winged creature. It lay glistening on its platter now, flanked by a mash of turnip and potato and a jug of oily gravy of Morgan’s own devising. Charlie, who had been promised some of the soup, was bearing himself—and the food—with some ceremony until Thurso growled at him to look sharp, which put him in such sudden fear that he set the tray down too hard and spilled a little of the gravy, for which he was sworn at by Barton and threatened with a caning.

  “Aye, aye, the boy is a born fool, let him go,” Thurso said with surprising mildness.

  “Mr Barton, be good enough to carve the bird for us.”

  “Why the fatted calf?”’ Paris asked, risking a note of levity; he knew the captain’s moods by this time and sensed an air almost of jocularity about him, though the small eyes still ranged over objects as if searching for the cause of what made them less than satisfactory. “Is there something to celebrate?”’ he said.

  The mate, having carved and served with remarkable dexterity, had a mouth now bulging with chicken and mash, and a fork freighted with more of it already moving upward—he was a neat and voracious eater.

  “Explain the situation, Mr Barton,”

  Thurso said, in his hoarse monotone.

  Barton lowered his fork with visible reluctance.

  “This will be our last evening for supper in here till we have our full copplement of quashees an” are under way for Jamaica. We are to have the samples hoisted in here tomorrow an’ laid out.”

  ‘Samples?”’ Paris had still not understood.

  “Stock the place out,” Barton said indistinctly—he had resumed eating while Paris hesitated.

  “We are approaching Africa, Mr Paris,” Thurso said. “Within ten days or so I expect to be sighting Sierra Leone. This room will be our showplace, our shop, sir. The caboceers who come aboard with slaves for sale will be able to see a selection of our goods. It is important they get a fair view of what we are carrying. The negro is appealed to through his eyes, Mr Paris.

  I know these people. I was dealing for slaves before you were born.”

  “Their eye is caught by shine an” shimmer,”

  Barton said, pausing to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Bright colours is what they likes, an” jewelly, glittery things. It is no use in the world to explain or describe anythink to them—they have no patience to listen, they cannot hold it in their minds.”

  ‘Perhaps it is that they don’t believe us,”

  Paris said, and was surprised to see a sudden gleam of humour come to the mate’s face.

  “Not believe us?”’ Thurso said. The idea seemed completely new to him. “I am known on that coast,” he added after a moment.

  ‘Bigob, sir, I believe you are,” Barton said. “So the captain thought,” he added, turning to Paris, “since this is our last occasion here for a good bit, we had better have one of the fowl. An” a very good thought, say I.”

  Thurso turned his head slowly. ‘My thoughts are not in your province, Mr Barton. Good or bad, they are beyond your ken.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” The mate looked aside with his accustomed expression of wariness. He did not, however, seem particularly chastened by the rebuke, though he had fallen silent.

  “So they come out to the ship, then?”’ Paris asked.

  “Those selling slaves, I mean. We do not go into harbour?”’ But he saw instantly that he had once again given occasion for the conspiracy of contempt Thurso had such relish for, saw it in the way the captain leaned stiffly forward in his chair an
d glanced to include the mate.

  “Harbour?”’ Thurso said. “Off the coast of Sierra Leone? Where is your geography?”’

  “Haw, that’s a good ‘un,” Barton said, permitting himself a subservient echo. “Show me a blessed harbour there, I would like to see one.”

  “We may get through the surf with the longboat to trade downriver,” Thurso said, “but we cannot stand inshore, not in those seas, Mr Paris. You are talking about the Windward Coast of Africa.”

  “I see, yes,” Paris said. “My ideas of the coast are vague, I will admit.” He looked from the one to the other. They were united now in knowledge, but he sensed an understanding between them much older. They had known each other before this voyage, his uncle had said so. Thurso had asked for Barton as his mate.

  Something there was between them, though friendship it could hardly be called. It seemed more in the nature of a shared secret…

  “You and Mr Barton have sailed together before, I believe, sir?”’ he said. He saw the look of satisfaction disappear from the captain’s face and his brows draw together suddenly.

  “Sailed together?”’ Thurso looked at the man before him, noting again the big, slightly awkward frame, the deeply marked face, touched by the sun now, showing the paleness of the eyes by contrast. These eyes were regarding him steadily and they did not turn away from his frown. He was being stared at aboard his own ship and with eyes that contained some impertinent, some hateful quality of perception, of understanding. He caught sight of Barton nodding and turned his rage that way. “Damn you, do you sit there agreeing against me? I sail together with nobody.” He turned his eyes back to Paris and said less violently, “The captain sails together with nobody. Mr Barton has been my first officer on a previous voyage, so much is true. You have a lot to learn, Mr Paris.”

  “I know it, sir, and I am doing my best,”

  Paris said.

  “I fancy you will understand things a deal better when we have slaves aboard. At present you think yourself superior to the business, I can tell. You are one of those who despise the money that is made from it. But mark my words, sir, you will go with a whip in your hand and a pistol in your belt like every other man aboard.

  Depend upon it, the keeper will very quickly decide which side of the cage he is on.”

  “Will he so?”’ Paris spoke without pause for reflection, impelled by pride and a passionate sense of opposition. “You are admirably clear in your mind, if I may say so, as to who is caged and who is free. I know something of the matter, having seen both sides, but still cannot always see the difference.”

  “Both sides?”’ Thurso’s voice had no register for feeling; it came as hoarse and uninflected as ever; but his eyes were fastened on the surgeon’s face. “How do you intend that remark?”’

  Not caution but enmity restrained Paris now. He was silent for some moments then said more calmly, “There are many would think the keeper is behind bars too, sir, for all his pistol and his whip.”

  Thurso compressed his lips and looked aside.

  It was clear that he regarded this as not worth answering.

  Delivered now from the rage that had possessed him, he maintained an unbroken silence for the rest of the meal and Barton, out of prudence or inclination, followed suit, though Paris felt the mate’s eyes on him from time to time.

  He was relieved when he was able to get to his feet and bid the others goodnight. Somewhat to his surprise Barton rose with him and the two men left together. Up on deck they stood for a while at the stern. The moon had risen and stood clear of the sea to eastward in faint wreaths of cloud.

  Barton seemed disposed to linger. He took a short-stemmed clay pipe from his pocket. “Fair weather,” he said, nodding towards the faint track of moonlight on the dark sea. “When the clouds look singed-like round a low moon I alius find it follers with good weather. I don’t know why it is, but I have alius found it so.”

  “Well, I hope it proves so this time again,”

  Paris said.

  There was silence between them for some moments, then Barton said in accents of sympathy, “By God, he is a tartar, though, our captain. The way he shot up at you tonight! An” you give him no cause. He has done the same with me, many’s the time, but you are a man of learnin’ an’ scallership, so you are bound to feel it more.”

  “I did not mind so very much.” Paris spoke coolly, warned by Barton’s flattering tone. He knew the mate for a cunning fellow and in a way dispassionate a dangerous combination. He said, “He seemed in good enough spirits to begin with. Something in my question annoyed him.”

  Barton puffed at his pipe in silence for some moments, looking down at the track of the moon, which was broader and brighter now. “It was not in the question,” he said. “It was in the way you looked at him.

  Captain Thurso does not like to be looked at.

  He sets himself above it, if you get my meanin”.

  But “tis all bound up with the ship. He was put out of temper by our bein” so far eastward of the reckonin’, which as we have had fair winds and weather, must be owin’ to a demon of a current settin’ to eastward, an’ out of all nature strong, sir, it cannot be supposed less than twenty mile per diem from the time we passed the parallel of Cape Still Vincent. That is what put him out, Mr Paris.

  Men like you and me, we take a broad view. Rain or shine, what’s the difference?”’ Barton paused, raising his face and smiling. The moon was clear of the cloud now, less blanched, more radiant. Light from it fell on the mate’s face. ‘What is a current?”’ he said. “It is just a settin” of the water. It is like anythin’ else in this world, tempery. Everythin’ is tempery in this world, whether it is the toothache or the love of wimmin. But he takes it all personal. Now we have had a sightin’ of Tenerife to the west of us, so we knows where we are again.”

  ‘Well, it is strange,” Paris said. “We can observe the movements of the heavenly bodies, we can chart the course of the planets, but not that of our own ship in a little stretch of water.”

  “By God, that is true.” Barton spat over the rail and laughed with apparent delight. “It never come to me in quite that way before,” he exclaimed. “That is wit, that is what it means to be a man of education. But you have been in the school of life too, haven’t you, Mr Paris? You have seen both sides of the cage.”

  Paris remained silent for a short while, looking out to sea. The African coast lay somewhere to the east of them, in the direction of the moon—it seemed to him now that the ship was keeping to the broad track of moonlight. The sails were blanched. He made out a dark figure sitting alone in the cross-timbers of the mainmast and wondered if it were Hughes, who often sat there at night. He sensed the attentiveness of the man waiting beside him. The mate’s question had come concealed in praise. Barton had a nose for weakness, for the festerings of spirit; and he was subtle enough to know that dislike is no impediment to confidences, that men of a certain cast of mind will confide even where they distrust, because not to do so shows fear or shame.

  “Them was your words, I think,” the mate said softly.

  “Yes,” Paris said, “a physician sees a good deal of life, you know.”

  He saw Barton relax his shoulders as if in some release of tension. The mate paused a moment, then said in a different tone, “All the same, he was right, the captain was right.”

  “In what way?”’

  “There is nothin” like fear for keeping men together.

  Nothin’ else will do it, not on a slaveship. It is one of the chief snags of the trade that the merchandise has a tendency to rise on you. You wait till we have got upwards of two hundred negroes chained between decks, all of’em ready to dash your brains out if they gets a chance, an’ twenty men to guard “era, feed ‘em, wash ‘em down, exercise ‘em up on deck. By God, Mr Paris, then you will see what fear can do to a man of learnin” an’ scallership. It will bring him down to the level of the lowest scum aboard what can’t write his own name.”r />
  Barton’s pipe was finished. With a gesture curiously dandified he took a silver thimble from his waistcoat pocket, fitted it on his little finger and pressed out the last spark in the bowl. The tone of these last words had been hostile—perhaps through disappointment at his failure to draw Paris out; but he now raised his face again in the peering way characteristic of him, almost benevolent-seeming.

  Moonlight caught the thimble in a running gleam as he returned it to his pocket. ‘allyes,” he said, “you will know which side you are on, whatever you meant in there. You will live in fear like the rest.”

  He nodded, still smiling, and turned to go below. “It smells of hexcrement,” he said. “You will get to know the smell, because them two hundred or so blacks will be shittin” in fear too.”

  Paris stayed alone on deck some minutes longer, then returned to his cabin. He was too disturbed in mind to think immediately of sleeping. It seemed to him that he had grown more impressionable in these last weeks, more easily affected by what he felt emanating from others. He looked more closely and saw more—not by conscious intention but somehow helplessly. Increasingly of late he had felt drawn into conflict with Thurso, a struggle too mortal for their short acquaintance: it was as if they had recognized each other as heirs to some ancient feud. Just now, on deck, Barton’s rhetoric had oppressed him, and the moral vacancy he felt behind it. The mate had a sort of degraded subtlety about him, a scavenger’s instinct for scents of weakness. And Paris felt himself that it was a weakness, this vulnerability to impression, this too-strong sense of other human beings comalm like a failure of manhood. He blamed it on his isolation. In the removal of all that was customary in his life, some customary skin of protection also had gone, it seemed.