by John Harris
Copyright & Information
The Claws of Mercy
First published in 1955
© Juliet Harris; House of Stratus 1955-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Harris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
0755102207 9780755102204 Print
0755127366 9780755127368 Mobi/Kindle
0755127641 9780755127641 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Harris, wrote under his own name and also the pen names of Mark Hebden and Max Hennessy.
He was born in 1916 and educated at Rotherham Grammar School before becoming a journalist on the staff of the local paper. A short period freelancing preceded World War II, during which he served as a corporal attached to the South African Air Force. Moving to the Sheffield Telegraph after the war, he also became known as an accomplished writer and cartoonist. Other ‘part time’ careers followed.
He started writing novels in 1951 and in 1953 had considerable success when his best-selling The Sea Shall Not Have Them was filmed. He went on to write many more war and modern adventure novels under his own name, and also some authoritative non-fiction, such as Dunkirk. Using the name Max Hennessy, he wrote some very accomplished historical fiction and as Mark Hebden, the ‘Chief Inspector’ Pel novels which feature a quirky Burgundian policeman.
Harris was a sailor, an airman, a journalist, a travel courier, a cartoonist and a history teacher, who also managed to squeeze in over eighty books. A master of war and crime fiction, his enduring novels are versatile and entertaining.
Author’s Note
“…People who do not like spending any time alone or who are dependent on amusements not of their own making are unsuited to a country like Sierra Leone.”
From a paper prepared by the Information Bureau, Royal Empire Society, and duplicated by Her Majesty’s Stationery Office for the Colonial Office.
Part One
One
It was already hot, with the breath-catching closeness of an oven, as the rays of the sun – still far from its summit in the brassy sky – rebounded off the surrounding mountains with a violence that was almost physical. In spite of the early hour, Freetown wore a jaded mid-day look, dusty and drained of energy, and as the sun flared higher over the hills, the heat began to radiate even from the old grey walls near the river and the port seemed to huddle under the slopes like a shabby old beggar.
It rose, white and brown and gaudy green, up from the Portuguese Steps to Tower Hill; from Clyne Town to Kongo Town; from the Mohammedan quarter beyond Kissy and past the stained green statue of William Wilberforce; past the Law Courts and the Cathedral; through the flat, unshaded façades of seedy bars and cloth shops, that mass of cast-iron balconies and tin roofs from a dead era; and up the slopes of the hill where the bungalows of the Creoles and Whites stood among the trees. Farther to the east and west among the palms were the unpainted boxwood houses that abutted, dry and sun-drenched, on the town centre; and beyond them the mud and beaten-tin dwellings of the poor with their rusting roofs and their air of old junk.
Jimmy Agnew, approaching the wharf between the glaring whitewashed buildings, led by a small boy in a pair of torn shorts through which his shining black bottom showed, felt as though he were being slowly fried. There was no air and no shade and the streets appeared to sizzle in the sun.
He mopped his face, half stifled, and told himself cheerfully he’d soon get used to it. ‘Those who enjoy a sunny hot summer in England will probably enjoy the tropics,’ the Colonial Office pamphlet had informed him enthusiastically when he had taken the job, but there was nothing in England he could ever remember like this breathless West African heat which had caused him to toss on his bed throughout the night feeling like a herring on a griddle. Even now, he could feel the sweat trickling down his spine and legs and the dampness of his shirt. He was already beginning to wish he had taken a car to the wharf as he had been advised instead of deciding to walk as a means of seeing the place.
Only a trickle of brightly-hued, chattering people was moving about the streets yet, and the song of the town, that swelling, high-pitched sound of an African crowd, was still only a murmur. A black clerk went past, stiff in a smart starched suit of dazzling drill, and wearing a white topee with a conscious superiority over the lesser men around him – the Hausa trader in a dust-sweeping robe of striped pyjama cloth and a tawdry gold-embroidered smoking cap who was crouched over his calabashes of wares; the labourers with their banjo-voices striding for the waterfront with slapping feet and flying shirt-tails; the farmer with the trussed live pig on his head; the mammies, in chemise-like frocks and bearing baskets of fruit, or paper-stoppered ginger-beer bottles, their heads knotted in gaudy Madras handkerchiefs.
Absorbing the noise and the riot of breathtakingly crude colour, Jimmy stared about him, bemused by the impact of this teeming new land upon his senses, which were still used to the less dramatic environments of England. Its smells, its colours, its vast life, were all of them too rich, too full, to have anything but a hammer-blow effect on a newcomer.
And, at that moment also, he felt a little dazed. The enthralling first glimpse of flying fish which was the indication that he was approaching the Equator wasn’t far behind him; and the roar of the anchor cable as it crashed into the water – the sound of a portcullis clanking down in front of all his former life – still echoed in his ears.
He stared as a busload of Africans chugged by, the bus inevitably overloaded, noisy, old-fashioned and creaking, its passengers chirruping like a lot of excited monkeys. A pair of vultures in the centre of the shimmering road skipped clumsily to one side as the vehicle passed; ugly, bald old ladies in rusty black, their scaly feet stirring the dust in little puffs as they moved.
An African girl, her face bluish with the powder she wore, her dark lips faintly purple under her lipstick, ran past him up the worn steps to a set of offices, and Jimmy was instantly aware of something about her that he had sensed in the whole of Freetown immediately he had passed through the Customs Sheds the previous day – something strong and vital but not yet completely civilised, something that showed in the fatal application of white powder on a coal-black skin, something gaudy and over-coloured – something that was in the too-green lushness of the vegetation and the too-rich redness of the earth…
It was while he was in this absorbed trance that Earnshaw found him.
“Oy! You there! You Agnew?”
Jimmy found himself facing a lean withered man with a face wrinkled like a walnut. He wore oil-stained shorts faded with too much washing and held up by a length of electric light cord, and a battered bush hat with a brim like a switchback which, when he lifted it to scratch his head, disclosed a dusty-looking thatch of iron-grey hair that seemed to have been thrust on en
d by an electric shock. Grubby stockings wilted over unpolished shoes and he had the hard-bitten look of a stable-lad – a burnt, brown man who belonged not so much to Africa as, with nets and ferrets, to the broad autumn fields of Shropshire.
“That’s right,” Jimmy said, turning towards him. “You Mr Twigg?”
The other’s wily grin showed broken stained teeth. “Not me, old lad,” he said slowly. “Earnshaw’s my name.”
He lit a cigarette with the deliberate air of one who had never done anything impulsive in his life, and stood smoking, obviously in no hurry to depart; and Jimmy, casting round out of the corner of his eye for an escape from the sweltering sun, took advantage of the pause in his progress to slip unobtrusively into a patch of shade under the awning of a shop doorway.
“What did you say your first name was?” Earnshaw was asking.
“I didn’t.” Jimmy’s reply was accompanied by a sheepish grin. “I never do if I can help it. It’s Francis Theodore St John Agnew.”
“Jesus!” Earnshaw looked sharply at him. “Honest?”
“Most people call me Jimmy.”
“I should think so.” Earnshaw regarded him with the bright-eyed interest of a sparrow. “It’s a proper jaw-breaker, isn’t it? I know how you must feel. My name’s Archibald.”
He thrust out a grimy fist to a fellow-sufferer and Jimmy took it, mopping the perspiration from his face with his other hand.
“Twiggy sent me down for you.” Earnshaw held out his packet of cigarettes. “Couldn’t get away from the mine. One of his nigs creating a bit of trouble. He sent his regards and hope you don’t mind. Fag, old lad?”
While Jimmy was lighting the cigarette, Earnshaw turned to the carriers with Jimmy’s baggage. “Okay, mate,” he said out of the corner of his mouth to the nearest of them. “Shove it down here. My blokes’ll take it now.”
Edging farther into his patch of shade from the glare of the sun – Earnshaw seemed able to stand in the full awful blast of it and enjoy it – Jimmy paid for the carriers, and Earnshaw set off again in a flat stride that was almost a strut, like his neighbours wasting no time on anyone else, far ahead of the more polite and less experienced Jimmy who was pausing to apologise to the mammies he jostled. Earnshaw moved with such dexterity through the growing crowd that Jimmy, his eyeballs already itching with the sweat that ran off his forehead, was finding it difficult to keep up with him. They were walking in the centre of the road now with the rest – the narrow sidewalks, cluttered up with salesmen and tailors and fruit vendors, seemed too full already for comfort – and for a minute, as he did a hop, skip and jump to avoid a small black boy on a bicycle, Jimmy almost lost Earnshaw among the noisy African throng with its satellite hordes of dogs and children.
“Hot, isn’t it?” he said, manfully cheerful as he gained ground a little.
“Gets ’otter.”
“Much hotter?”
“Like the ’Obs of ’Ell.”
“Oh!”
Earnshaw’s hurry slackened a little out of sympathy. “We thunk you like to go up by river,” he said as Jimmy caught up with him again. “Give you a treat. Roads is so bloody dusty this time of the year. I seen ’em. And them ferries! Gawd! Gev me the pip years since.” He spoke with a magnificent disregard of past and present tenses, in quick, dancing phrases which were like a poacher’s footfalls. His voice was a low boozy shadow that matched them. “You feel better when you get to Ma-Imi,” he said. “It’s cooler there.”
“I’m not for Ma-Imi,” Jimmy shouted over the heads of the passers-by. “I’m going beyond there to a new mine at Amama. At least according to the letter I got from Twigg – with a chap called Otto or Gotto or something.”
Earnshaw stopped dead, so suddenly that an African labourer following close behind cannoned into him, apologised and passed on without his batting an eyelid in his concentrated stare. He looked at Jimmy for so long without speaking that Jimmy began to feel there was something wrong with his clothes and glanced quickly down at himself.
“Gotto?” Earnshaw said at last. “Gotto? You going to be stuck up in Amama on your own with him? Oh, you poor bastard! You got it cut off the crusty part, old lad. You have, proper.”
Earnshaw’s grubby clothes gave him a raffish appearance startlingly contrary to everything Jimmy had expected of a white man in Africa, but they also gave him the air of knowing what he was talking about, so that he seemed horribly prophetic. Suddenly the heat striking out from the whitewashed wall of a cloth shop alongside that was candy-striped with the shadows of a palm-tree’s fronds seemed twice as choking.
“What’s wrong with Gotto?” Jimmy asked.
Earnshaw gave a low cackle of mirthless laughter that sounded like the rattle of dry palm leaves. “What’s wrong with a nail in your shoe?” he asked.
“Sounds a nice chap.”
“Ever broke your leg? Ever rupture yourself?”
“Go on,” Jimmy said. “I’ll buy it. What is wrong with him?”
Earnshaw glanced at him again with a shrewd, shining glance under his eyebrow that made him look like a scruffy old fox. “You not heard about Gotto?” he asked in that shifty drawl of his that was sly and yet oddly boisterous. “No, of course you not. Oh, well, you soon will. He got ever such a jolly nature. You’ll curl up laughing.”
He looked again at Jimmy with a bright black eye that gleamed like a polished raisin under a bushy eyebrow as shocked into stiffness as his hair, and tried to reassure him.
“Nemmind, old lad,” he said. “I hang out at Amama meself. I see you right if you in trouble.”
“Trouble?” Jimmy was beginning to feel unexpected tremors of apprehension. This job he had come out to do had seemed straightforward enough in the advertisement he had read in the Daily Telegraph and through the ordeal of the interview in the London office, but now it seemed to have hidden complications he hadn’t bargained for and he felt vaguely as though he had been lured by a set of false pretences to a climate that was enough in itself to wither all his ambitions without any other difficulties arising from some unknown individual with a flair for confusion.
He looked sideways at Earnshaw. “What sort of trouble?” he asked again, warily this time.
“With Gotto, I mean.” Earnshaw sounded almost casual – as though trouble and Gotto were synonymous.
“I see. And why trouble?”
“It’s usual.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Yah. He’s like that.”
Earnshaw shrugged, as much as to suggest that if Gotto hadn’t driven Jimmy post-haste back to England within a fortnight, there was something wrong with his calculations. Then he blew the cigarette end from his mouth with a popping noise and set off once more at a speed which made Jimmy gasp as they threaded through the growing crowds, paying no heed to the climbing sun which made the roadway a pattern of violent blacks and dazzling whites.
At the wharf, quivering and alive in the swift water of a falling tide, an ugly boat wallowed in the sunshine which drew waves of heat up from her iron decks. Beyond her, the river stretched, flat and glittering, to Tasso Island and the opposite shore.
As Earnshaw hailed her, Jimmy was conscious of several black faces turning in his direction, all of them curious, and suddenly his neat khaki seemed indecently new and unmarked.
Earnshaw bent to the starters of the engines as Jimmy’s luggage was lifted aboard. “OK Suri,” he called into the cabin. “Let’s ’ave some music!”
A black face bearing a martyred expression popped up abruptly through the hatchway. “Music, boss? Again, boss?” The words were a plea for mercy.
Earnshaw stared back aggressively. “Yes, again. And why not?”
“Boss,” the African protested in a whine. “Already plenty times today. Plenty plenty times.”
“What about it? Let’s have it plenty plenty more times. I like a bit of good music.”
Suri sighed visibly and disappeared, and a second later the howl of an ancient gramophone roared ou
t.
“I yi yi yi yi I like you vairy much,
I yi yi yi yi I theenk you’re grand.”
An unrecognisable voice screeched out the almost unrecognisable words as the tune roared across the shining water, as incongruous as a drunk at a funeral in the glowing African forenoon.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Earnshaw said.
“Enchanting.”
“Carmen Mirandy.” Earnshaw, a touch of awe and reverence in his voice, failed to notice the expression on Jimmy’s face. “Only record I got left. Had it years. She musta sang that song hundreds of times up and down these ’ere creeks.”
“She sounds a bit hoarse.”
The sarcasm was lost on Earnshaw. “Oh, that’s where it’s worn,” he pointed out. “Down to the laceholes, it is. But all the rest got bust so this one got used a bit more than normal. Had ’em sent out special, too. Costs money, that does. Knew a barmaid in Swansea useta sing like that. Like a linnet. Honest. Tattoed down both arms and a voice like Vera Lynn. Finished up taking in washing. Gin,” he ended. “Voice went.”
He squinted at the brassy ball climbing over the palm-tufted green of the hills and wiped the sweat off his wrinkled face with the back of his hand. “Jesus,” he commented. “And they call it the Dark Continent!” He glared round at his crew. “OK, you keggy-handed set of bastards, let go them ropes and let’s be off. Jump about a bit.”
The black boys grinned bright betel-mouthed grins and let go the ropes and the boat began to move forward, dodging a heavy sprit-sailed Susu canoe loaded to the gunwales with fruit as it glided into a mooring.
For a while, Earnshaw’s attention was engaged as his boat swung out into the river and turned up-stream away from the port. He threw his weight on to the wheel to swing the vessel round another fruit boat, swore at its helmsman in a stream of oaths whose eloquence matched their picturesqueness, dodged a bumboatman’s canoe, revved the engines fiercely to avoid being swung by the tide on to the anchor cable of a merchant ship, and eventually came back on to his original course, all without turning a hair, while Jimmy watched open-mouthed throughout the manoeuvring. Africa’s rivers seemed as shockingly overcrowded as its streets, he decided.