The Claws of Mercy

by John Harris

  “Boss,” Momo said. “I tell them. But I do not like it. It is wrong. It is dangerous.”

  “OK, Momo.” Gotto thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts with an air of finality. “You seem to know so much you’d better go and get yourself a better job – perhaps as a manager somewhere. They’re employing black men nowadays, I hear. Perhaps you’d like to start your own mine. I’ll find another shift boss. You can consider yourself out as from now.”

  Momo’s expression didn’t alter, and his eyes were steady on Gotto’s face.

  “Boss, you sack me, you change my job, I want to see Boss Twigg.”

  Gotto glowered at the black man, his fingers twitching. “Trying to pull the big-time stuff, eh? Trying to kid me you’re important enough for Twigg to go over my head, eh?”

  “Boss, I want to see Mister Twigg.”

  Gotto glared a moment longer, then he threw up his hands and turned away. “OK, OK,” he said. “I’ll forget it this time. I don’t want to cause Twigg any trouble. He’s got enough to do without you going belly-aching round him. Forget it. I’ll overlook it – but it’s only to save Twigg the effort of having to come up here.” He whirled and pointed. “That’s all though. Get that straight. Only to save dragging Twigg up here.”

  Momo watched him with placid confidence. “Boss, I go down there,” he said. “I don’t mind. I see Boss Twigg at Ma-Imi.”

  “Oh, God, man,” Gotto said irritably. “Forget it, can’t you? I withdraw it if you’re going to make a song and dance act out of it. Now get on with your own job. Go and tell those fishermen to clear off and let’s have no more of it.”

  As Momo left the hut, Jimmy turned on Gotto, his temper bringing the colour to his face. Outside he could hear Momo’s low voice describing the interview, then there was a sudden burst of shouting and a stone landed on the tin roof.

  “I suppose he’s told ’em some cock-and-bull story,” Gotto commented coldly.

  “More likely he’s told them the truth,” Earnshaw said.

  “Listen, Gotty,” Jimmy said angrily. “Are you going on with this nonsense?”

  “You can’t go back on your word. Saying what you mean represents a lot to these people. They can’t trust you otherwise.”

  “Are you going on with it?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then, count me out. I’m having nothing to do with it.”

  As Jimmy stamped from the hut, suddenly unable to be within a yard of Gotto and keep a civil tongue in his head, he had to fight his way through a forest of waving black arms. Behind him, lumps of ironstone were starting a clamorous tattoo on the roof and the wooden sides of the hut. Then the crowd spotted Gotto’s labourers taking advantage of the diversion to drag the canoes off the mud once more, and the shoving match started all over again. For a while neither side showed any willingness to set about the other seriously but in the end the fighting began again, spreading in fits and starts as friends and relations of the combatants joined in. Stakes appeared from nowhere and boundary posts were wrenched out for weapons. Several people fell into the water and one or two of the small boys shrieking excitedly on the fringes of the uproar were trodden on. The jetty began to look like a battlefield, with pieces of ironstone and stakes scattered everywhere and the few casualties limping painfully to safety.

  While the attention of the crowd was engaged in forming sides for a final free-for-all, Gotto managed to escape from the hut to his car, and, as the shouting and the shoving started again, he hurried off up the road towards the trees.

  Ten minutes later, Sergeant Asimani and three court messengers – the Protectorate police – very upright and very correct in their blue uniforms and sandals, climbed out of his car and marched down towards the jetty and advanced on the fishermen.

  For a moment, the shrieking crowd became silent, mostly with surprise, then the shouting welled up again. There was another noisy argument and black arms gesticulated more violently and one of Gotto’s unwilling labourers was stretched flat on the mud with a swing from a two-by-four stake. As one of the fishermen started a struggle with a policeman, Sergeant Asimani felled him with a scything blow from his fist and the stones and brickbats began to fly again. Asimani and his men were well disciplined, however, and they advanced in a straight line on the stone-throwers who backed away and eventually began to jump into the water and swim for safety. As the noise died down, the canoes were dragged sullenly off the stone-littered mud into the river and paddled towards King Tim by their owners.

  There was an ugly silence round the jetty as they moved slowly downstream and out of sight round the bulging mangroves.

  Jimmy watched them go from the rising ground beyond the mud, his eyes squinting against the sun that glittered on the water. Behind him, Earnshaw flicked his fag-end away. His face was set and angry.

  “Son,” he said. “Remember what I said when I first seen you.”

  “You said a lot of things.” Jimmy was still staring at the canoes, only half his attention on what Earnshaw was saying. “Which one was it?”

  “I said you’d got it cut off the crusty part. That’s what I said.” Earnshaw drew a deep breath and reached for another cigarette. “And seeing ’ow things is working out, old lad, I reckon I wasn’t far wrong.”

  Part Two

  One

  The dry season advanced and as the new grass became parched and brown, Jimmy’s pink face changed to a healthy sunburn and eventually to the sallow yellow of West Africa.

  The dusty mine office grew dustier as the heavy hanging cloud over the workings covered everything with a fine flat film, and always they could shake the red powder out of the folds of the plans, or write their name in it on the seats of the chairs.

  Clerk Smith, entering the office with his sweeping brush in his hand for his daily diffusion of the dirt on the floor, stopped dead as he found Gotto sitting in his chair staring in front of him with that blank fretful manner which characterised him. Smith turned slowly round, one eye all the time on him, and tried to edge past him towards the veranda, holding his breath as his large feet in their white shoes shuffled on the gritty concrete floor.

  Gotto was aware of him but for some time he didn’t speak. He was hot, his hair plastered to his forehead, his face coated with the dust that caked on the perspiration oozing from his skin. His mind was withered with the awareness that he was now as disliked in Amama as he had been in Ma-Imi.

  He sat up abruptly as Clerk Smith reached the veranda. “What the hell are you creeping about like that for, you fool?” he demanded loudly.

  Dropping the brush with a clatter, Smith leapt a good two feet in the air and came down facing Gotto, his eyes rolling in his black face, his mouth open and flabby. He spread his pink palms in an agonised gesture of explanation.

  “Boss, I see you t’ink,” he babbled, the words tumbling off his tongue in his haste to appease. “Plenty important t’ings. ‘Okay, Clerk Smith,’ I say. ‘You go for be quiet’.”

  He stared at Gotto, jigging from one foot to the other and itching to gain the safety of the veranda.

  “What’s the matter, you stupid idiot?” Gotto growled, his stiff upright posture subsiding slowly. “You afraid of me or something?”

  Smith laughed, a nervous high-pitched cackle that convinced neither of them. “Afraid Boss? Clerk Smith no afraid anyt’ing. Clerk Smith fight de lion. He wrestle de bush-cow. He go chase de leopard.”

  “You’re a liar. You hate my guts, don’t you?”

  Smith’s face split in a nervous smile and he spread his hands again, trying to impress the angular angry man at the desk. “Boss, you good man. You braver dan de lion. You de cleverest, bravest, wisest man in all de world.”

  He paused to watch the reaction.

  “You’re a liar,” Gotto said again, but this time there was no hostility in his voice.

  Smith’s eyes stopped rolling immediately with the certain knowledge that he had touched on Gotto’s soft spot with his flattery. He leane
d forward anxiously. “Boss, you sick? You got belly humbug?”

  “No.” Gotto’s reply was a fretful bark.

  “Dat ole Earnshaw? Dat ole Boss Jimmy? Dat Doctor Romney? Dey make you angry, Boss?”

  “They always make me angry.”

  “Boss, dey plenty bad men.” Smith’s concern was touching, and Gotto’s posture relaxed still more. “Boss, dat Romney villain man. He steal black man’s sister, black man’s wife.”

  Gotto’s eyes brightened as he stared through the doorway where the sunshine, by its sheer strength, was forcing itself into the shaded room. “You mean that self-righteous old fool has black girls?” he asked.

  “Boss,” Smith went on, “dat doctor no doctor at all. I t’ink he t’ief man. He pinch t’ings. Sergy Asimani promise bring his police boys and take him calaboose, but Sargy Asimani plenty afraid. Boss, I t’ink he kill people in dat ole hospital.”

  Gotto’s eyes widened, then he scowled as he realised it was only Smith’s imagination that was running away with him.

  “You’re a liar,” he snarled again, his relaxed expression disappearing immediately.

  “No, Boss. I no lie to you. I ’gree for you too much.” Smith’s black face was distorted with earnestness as, never one to miss the histrionic possibilities of a scene, he beat his breast to prove his words. “Other black boys no like hard boss. Hard boss make black boy work. Black boy no like dat,” he ended eagerly, quivering like a spaniel in his efforts to please.

  “You’re damn’ right there, Smith,” Gotto said dreamily. “But it’s all they understand. It’s a pity a few other people don’t see it my way. The output’s started to go down and a bit of the old-fashioned spur’s what’s wanted to push it up again.”

  “Boss,” Smith said eagerly, anxious to consolidate his success as he found Gotto’s temper improving. “Other white bosses too soft.”

  “Think so, Smith?” Gotto glanced sideways at the black man without moving his head.

  “Boss, I suttinly t’ink so. But, you good boss. Why dey no make you bigger boss? Why dey no pay you more money?”

  “That’s something I’d like to know.”

  “Boss, we two both alike. You clever man. I clever man.” Smith pursued his theme enthusiastically. “I read. I write. I type better dan de Queen England. Don’t I, Boss? Boss,” he concluded as his enthusiasm ran away with him. “Dey no pay me ’nough also.”

  Gotto lifted his head from his hands and stared hard at the black man, who backed away quickly.

  “You’re not a bad little bloke,” he said, to Smith’s surprise, suddenly friendly. “We’ll have to see what we can do for you.”

  Smith’s eyes widened until they seemed to be all whites and he did a little fandango of glee. “Boss, you give me big job?” His voice rose to an excited squeak. “You make me important black man so I go buy gramophone by-’n-by? Boss, I ’gree for you. I ’gree for you too much.” Then he stopped dead, a dismayed expression spreading across his face. “Boss, what dat ole Boss Jimmy say when he find out?”

  “He can go and jump in the creek,” Gotto growled. “He can go off with his precious Stella and do what he likes with her.”

  “Boss–” Clerk Smith’s eyes opened wider at the suggestion of scandal – “what he do? He get her with piccaninny? Missis Swannack she plenty mad den, dat old Jesus lady.”

  Gotto said nothing and Smith went on, his eyes dreamy as he contemplated his own future. “Boss Jimmy get plenty trouble. He get sent home to England. You give Clerk Smith his job. Black boy call me Boss Smith. I get black trash for clerk. I get plenty money, buy gramophone and Carmen Mirandy, all same Boss Earnshaw.” His face split in a shining anticipatory grin which faded slowly into an expression of bewilderment. “Boss, where you get de wages for Clerk Smith’s new job?”

  Gotto had moved to the door now and he prodded at the dust between the cracks on the veranda with his stick. His eyes still had a faraway look in them. “We can always find we’re overstaffed with labourers,” he said. “We can always get rid of one of them!”

  Smith’s expression became crafty and a little malicious. “Dat ole Melikuri Tom no-good black man,” he commented thoughtfully. “He say you bad boss. He say you drive black boy too hard. He say too much work in Amama mine. He kick Clerk Smith udder day. Say Clerk Smith lazy good-for-nothing black trash. He too big-for-boots.”

  “Well, we’ll have him out for a start, eh? We don’t want his kind.”

  Clerk Smith grinned again, his happiness gurgling in his throat. “Boss, you de finest boss all de world. Any black boy say you bad boss, I kick him backside.”

  Gotto spoke over his shoulder in reply. “Much better you tell me his name,” he said distantly. “Then I kick his backside – or I sack him. Savvy? We don’t want people who make trouble. Boss Twigg is coming from Ma-Imi soon and we want a good mine when he arrives. See what I mean?”

  “Boss–” Smith was prepared to accuse half of Amama for the privilege of being important, willing to sell his soul to the devil if it meant getting his hands on a gramophone like Earnshaw’s. “I tell you plenty. I listen all time to de black boys.”

  “And the white boys, too.”

  Smith halted, his eyes swinging again in panic. “White bosses, too?”

  “Why not? The whole bloody shower of ’em are working against me, aren’t they?” Gotto’s bitterness burst out once more. “The whole damn’ lot are trying to edge me out of here. Just because I’m not soft with the boys. No, if you want to be the Gestapo, Smith, you’ve got to be the Gestapo all the time.”

  “Gestapo, Boss?”

  Gotto grinned. “Personal assistant,” he said.

  Smith nodded gleefully. “Yes, Boss. Gestapo, Boss. Dat good job.”

  He watched Gotto, an angular silhouette in the harsh light, overcome to the point of faintness by the desire to please, to provide him with news about everybody, real news or imaginary news. Where there was no real news, imagination could easily supply it. “Boss,” he said. “Dat Momo bad man also. He tell black boys no work hard so Boss Gotto get de sack.”

  “I thought something like that was going on.”

  “Boss, he tell ’em knock you on de head. Dat Momo man black savage, Boss. He in de pay dat Doctor Romney. Dat Ole Doc he want you for his hospital. He want for chop you up–”

  Gotto sprang to life, and snatching up a book from the table threw it at Smith’s head. “You bloody black liar,” he stormed. “You’re telling your damned lies again!”

  Returning the following morning to the office from the creek where he had persuaded the ancient pile-driver to drive the first upright into the mud for Earnshaw’s jetty, Jimmy found Clerk Smith sitting at his desk with his feet up on the plans, just as he had often seen Gotto doing.

  Hot and dusty and shrivelled by the sun, the sweat in his shirt smearing a blue blotch from the indelible pencil in his pocket, Jimmy stood in the doorway wiping the inside of his hat and grinning at Smith.

  “What’s all this, Smith, old son?” he asked cheerfully, not surprised by anything he found in Africa, least of all in the volatile Smith. “You been promoted? Only the big shots can put their feet on the desk, you know.”

  “You go ’way, Boss Jimmy.” Smith waved a hand pompously. “I pussonal clerk. I tell pussonal t’ings. Clerk Smith got new job.”

  Jimmy’s brows came down in a frown as he immediately suspected Gotto of some new foolishness. “What’s that?” he snapped, slamming his hat on his head. “New job? What new job?”

  “I Gestapo,” the black man pointed out haughtily. “Boss Gotto make me. I sit in de chair. I tell all people what to do.”

  “Do you, by God?”

  Jimmy was advancing round the desk now and Smith’s eyes began to roll as he made a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “Boss Jimmy, I pussonal clerk.”

  “Get your shoes off that desk and get back to your own damned office,” Jimmy shouted in an explosion of anger that was directed ch
iefly at Gotto, and Smith dropped his feet and backed away, knocking over the chair. “I don’t know what all this damned gibberish is that you’re talking but you can get the hell out of here. If you want to be a personal clerk, go and be a personal clerk next door where you belong.”

  When Gotto appeared, Jimmy faced him angrily.

  “What’s all this nonsense about you setting Smith on as a personal clerk or something? What do you want with a personal clerk?”

  “I can trust him.”

  “Does he get more money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ha!” Jimmy snorted. “I’ll bet that wasn’t what Twiggy intended.”

  “Twigg put me in charge. He trusts me.”

  “Like hell he does. Where are you getting the extra wages?”

  “I’ve sacked one of the shovel boys.”

  “Have you, by God?” Jimmy was beginning to shout now. “Listen, man. Twiggy expects us to provide him with ironstone not personal clerks. Who did you fire?”

  “Melikuri Tom.”

  “Another Mende!”

  “What about it?”

  “God, man,” Jimmy said disgustedly, “you’ve been warned half a dozen times. By Alf Momo. By Romney. One of the boys got half his ear bitten off last time. These black boys take it seriously.”

  Gotto had backed away to the door, suddenly white-faced and desperate. “Leave me alone,” he burst out. “You’re worse than my mother. She was always at me like this. ‘Why don’t you do this?’ ‘Why don’t you do that?’ ‘You wouldn’t have neglected me like this if your father had been alive!’ That was her special moan and, God, I was always doing things for her. I never went out. I stuck in with her to keep her company until I wanted to scream, listening to the same old wireless programmes. Moan, moan, moan. All the time. And you’re the same. I don’t believe half of what Romney says, anyway. He’s a bloody old rogue. I hear he sleeps with the African nurses he employs at the hospital.”