The Claws of Mercy

by John Harris

  Dr Romney’s gang of boys were moving in the neighbourhood, clearing the gullies and ditches of the sticks that choked them, so that the water could flow freely; spraying the stagnant pools with paraffin to prevent mosquitoes breeding. The river was a muddy-looking flood that brought small trees and fallen boughs and brushwood with it from the upper reaches where the falls gushed in full spate over the filling river beds.

  Gotto hung about the bungalow until it was dark, hardly able to sit still in his nervous excitement. To be wanted, to have someone, and a woman, an attractive woman, anxious to see him a second and a third time, was a new experience for the ugly frustrated man, and it was heady in its impact. Beneath the joy that kept bubbling up in him, however, doubt added a sobering caution. For too many years he had been the subject of rebuffs and laughter, and he was quite prepared for this sudden friendliness of Zaidee’s to turn out to be a huge, humourless jest. His mind went daily through the mechanics of suspicion and self-assurance but the unmanageable tumult that Zaidee’s interest had stirred up in him was too strong to be held in check merely by misgiving and he found it difficult to read, to work, to concentrate on anything beyond the exhilarating thought of Zaidee.

  Jimmy watched him pottering about the bungalow, smoking cigarette after cigarette, expecting half the time for a safety valve to blow off in a cataclysmic burst of temper.

  “What’s got you?” he demanded. “You’re like a cat on hot bricks lately?”

  It was on the tip of Gotto’s tongue to tell him the truth, to brag about Zaidee, the Zaidee who had always attracted wolf whistles in Freetown from the sailors off the ships, the Zaidee who was coveted by half the white men who came to Amama, and hated by all the white women. He wanted to boast, to feel he was a conqueror and to let everyone know he was a conqueror. It was with difficulty that he hung on to his secret.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement.

  Jimmy watched him putting matches and cigarettes and money into his pocket, obviously in an elated mood. “Thought you’d got a girl or something,” he joked. “Thought it might be Zaidee, in fact,” he ended with a quick glance over his shoulder.

  Gotto whirled round, obvious happiness bubbling in him and his words burst out in his excitement louder than he had expected. “That’d make ’em all sit up, wouldn’t it, if it were true?”

  “It would if it were but let’s hope it’s not,” Jimmy said pointedly.

  “What do you mean?” Gotto’s brows came down and his jigging movement stopped abruptly.

  Jimmy picked up a newspaper with a yawn and started to read. “Where Zaidee is, Indian Joe’s just behind.” There was a pontifical finality to the statement. “The only thing I like about her is the way she walks – especially in trousers.”

  Gotto stared at him from the middle of the room, his mouth working with rage, then he whirled on his heel and disappeared through the mesh door. A moment later, Jimmy heard the car start up and the sound of the engine dying away.

  For the next few weeks, Gotto never went near the mine. He claimed sickness as his excuse, yet he looked better than he had ever done, and he was strangely dominant and boastful. He refused naturally to take his so-called sickness to Romney for a diagnosis and went off every day in the car.

  “Must get some air,” he claimed. “Must get to the hills a bit.”

  As he drove away on the third day, Jimmy stared after him through the sheeting rain which made every leaf of every palm stream like a waterfall and set the drips clunking like an arpeggio into Amadu’s tin dishes about the floor. Then he grabbed his hat and oilskin and searched out Earnshaw.

  “He’s gone off again,” he said, avoiding Earnshaw’s eyes, “but, as it happens, it suits me fine. If he wants to play the fool somewhere, now’s my chance to make the mine hum. And I’m taking it.”

  Alf Momo was called to the office immediately and Earnshaw, dropping in later on his way to the jetty, found Jimmy already installed behind Gotto’s desk, holding court with a sulky-looking Clerk Smith.

  “There are the loading returns, the fuel tally and the accounts,” he was saying. “See that Suri gets ’em to take down to Ma-Imi. He’s responsible enough. He’ll see they get to the right department.”

  “Boss–” Smith’s high, whining voice had an aggrieved note in it – “already I am too busy.”

  “Not for this, Smith, old son,” Jimmy said briskly, brushing aside his objections. “Get ’em typed out. Savvy?”

  “OK, Boss,” Smith mumbled. “Tomorrow I do it.”

  “No. Not tomorrow. Nor the week after. Today. Now. They’re overdue.”

  “Boss–” Smith sounded indignant as he hugged the papers to his breast – “today I muss tell labourer boys where to go.”

  “Never mind the labourer boys. Your job’s to type. I’ll tell the labourer boys what to do.”

  “Boss Gotto say I tell labourer boys–”

  “Well, I say you don’t.”

  Smith’s face became desperate and crafty as he sought an excuse – any excuse – to avoid the menial tasks of the office. “Boss. De telephone. Boss Gotto tell me to git it repaired. I go now.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t! You stay here.”

  “Boss Gotto tell me.”

  ‘I know he did. And the clock. And half a dozen other things as well. And they’re still not repaired. Well, never mind, we’ve managed up to now. We can manage a bit longer.”

  “Boss–” Smith twisted his face into a forced smile as he tried another avenue of escape – “you clever boss–”

  “That’s right, Smith,” Jimmy said with a grin that made the black man’s heart sink. “I am. Too clever for you. Now hop it.”

  Earnshaw grinned, took up his usual position against the doorpost and lit a cigarette.

  As Smith went out, grumbling to himself, Jimmy turned to Alf Momo by his side. “Right, Alf,” he said. “There are three lorries unserviceable at the moment. Get ’em going again. If you have any argument with the mechanics, shoot ’em in here. I’ll sort ’em out.”

  “Yes, sah!” Momo grinned happily. “This good, sah, to see you in that chair, Boss Jimmy. You belong.”

  “Thanks, Alf.” Jimmy didn’t even look up as he pawed through the papers on the desk. “And when you’ve got ’em serviceable, take one of ’em and go and get some of that rice you know of. We’ll see the boys get one good meal at least. I’ll be responsible. I’ll square Twigg if there’s any fuss. We’ll get it first and he can ask questions afterwards. OK?”

  “Yes, sah!” Momo’s face seemed to be one big smile.

  “And when you’ve got the lorries sorted out, come back here and you can help me go through some of this damned rubbish. I shall need a hand. I don’t think it’s been done since Jarvis left.”

  As Momo turned away, Jimmy halted him again. “Oh, and Alf, before we do that, we’ll scout round the workings in the station wagon with one of the foremen. I think we can divert some of this damn’ water that’s flooding them. Tomorrow, we’ll go and see the headman at King Tim and sort out that little problem. Think we can do it?”

  “You and me together, Boss Jimmy, perhaps we can.” Momo gave him a gay little mock salute and disappeared.

  “Blimey,” Earnshaw said from the door. “Ain’t you the boy for work? What’s ’appened to all that bumph what was on the desk?”

  “Dumped,” Jimmy said. “Most of it was Gotto’s tripe. A long list of wrongdoers for Asimani. All neatly tabulated. He must have spent hours over it. What a mind he must have. I’ve had Asimani up already and told him to forget everything that’s happened. We’ll start afresh.”

  “What ’e say?”

  “I think he was relieved. Saves him a lot of work.”

  “Not ’arf. And what about all them rules and regulations Master-Mind was writing out? I seen a great pile of ’em ’ere the other day. You dumped them?”

  Jimmy laughed. “Yes. That’s all dumped, too. The next thing that’s
going to be dumped will be Clerk Smith if I can manage it. I’ll get a boy from Swannack’s school. He’ll soon learn to type.”

  “You going to tackle the rest of the troubles?”

  “Yes. I’m going over to King Tim to see the headman. I’m taking Alf Momo.”

  “Taking an escort?”

  “No. I’m not afraid. I’ll get nothing out of ’em with a gang of Asimani’s boys.”

  “Think you’ll get anything without ’em?”

  “Yes, I will.” Jimmy’s young face was hard with determination and Earnshaw nodded.

  “You might at that, old lad,” he said.

  “I’ll call off this damned quarrel or bust.”

  “How about the mechanics and labourers? They’ve had a beano lately.”

  “You’re telling me. I’ll see them tomorrow.”

  The following day, the African employees found a whirlwind descending on them. The mechanics in charge of the lorries, used to laziness under Gotto’s indifferent rule, had already been driven back to work by Alf Momo and were occupied in straightening out the bent mudguards which had been the meagre excuse for useless vehicles for weeks. Electricians were set to work on ignition troubles and a tireless Jimmy, spattered with red mud, drove the labourers to fight against the clock to repair banks broken down by rain, to clear gullies jammed with rubbish that was diverting water through the workings, to remove earth washed from the hillside across the roadways.

  “Alf,” he said, pointing through the rain, “if we fell those few trees along that bank, we can make a quicker route to the jetty. Save time on every trip. Get the boys on it, will you? They can use the logs to shore up the sleepers on the railway. If it sags any more, there’s going to be an accident and the whole outfit’s going to finish up on top of someone.”

  “Jeeze,” Earnshaw commented. “Them boys of yourn don’t know what’s ’it ’em.”

  “I haven’t started yet,” Jimmy said.

  “Gawd help ’em when you do.”

  Jimmy grinned. “I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly think they’re pleased. After all, work means money for ’em.”

  “You fixed the fishermen yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “How you do it? That boyish smile o’ yourn?”

  Jimmy grinned again. “Alf helped. I drank a lot of palm wine, I know that. It took all morning and I’d got a hell of a head afterwards. Alf drove the station wagon home. But we’re all pals together again now.”

  “They coming back to the jetty?”

  “No. I’m clearing ’em a strip of mud just outside the mine area. The boys are on it now. That way, Gotto won’t be able to sling ’em off again when he comes back.”

  “Cute, aintcha? Perhaps he won’t come back. He ain’t got long now.”

  “Suits me fine if he doesn’t.”

  “Seen any more of Assissay and his pals?”

  “No. I think they’ve heard what’s happened. I don’t think they’ll come.”

  Earnshaw grinned. “I don’t think they will, kid. Keep it up. You’re doing all right.”

  The chatter and roar of the diggers began to echo again through the trees as new targets for output were set – and reached – and in a remarkably short time, shelters that had slowly wilted through three or more rainy seasons were straightened and men laboured more willingly beneath them at the ends of the conveyors.

  “Boss–” Clerk Smith in his office was bewildered and complaining at the amount of work that was suddenly thrust on him – “dis no good for black man. Too much busy.”

  As they entered the third week, Jimmy became aware of a new tidy appearance about the mine that existed in spite of the weather, and what was better, a new spirit. All the sullen resentment that had existed seemed to have vanished and the labourers were singing their rhythmic songs again as they swung their shovels in the rain.

  “Nearly three weeks he’s been away,” Jimmy told Stella gleefully. “Three more weeks off his tour. Three weeks nearer to him going home. If only he’ll stay away a bit longer, we’ll make this mine begin to look like a paying proposition.”

  “Jimmy” – Stella looked worried – “do you know where he goes?”

  “Maybe,” Jimmy said. “But I’m not very bothered. So long as he keeps out of the way.”

  “Jimmy dear, the Mission boys are talking about him. They’re saying he goes to see Zaidee Soloman.”

  “I should say they weren’t far out.”

  “There’s more to him than we suspected, Jimmy. I mean – being able to get Zaidee.”

  “Wonder how it happened,” Jimmy mused. “I wonder what she used as bait. He’d run a mile if she winked at him. I wonder what’s she after, too. Probably trying to make us keep quiet about the rice or something.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous? – Zaidee and Gotto, I mean, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy frowned. “Could be,” he agreed. “But personally, I’m inclined to let him have his bit of fun. It might sweeten him. And, anyway, it keeps him out of the way and let’s me get on with the washing. If she can only keep him amused and away from the mine a little longer, we’ll make a job of it yet.”

  The steady and sickening descent of the rain went on, the brown water boiling in the ditches and bubbling under the eaves of the bungalow, while every banana leaf and every blade of grass dripped its weight of water to the sodden earth in differing notes. The roads became red sheets of mud and the undergrowth, glittering with dripping diamonds, was bright green again as the dust of months was washed away. The wild cucumber under Jimmy’s window was swollen and almost grown now and the plantain tree had reached the sill itself. The river was a seething dark brown torrent which roared round Earnshaw’s trembling jetty in swirls of creamy foam, and the mangroves held wraiths of mist which never seemed completely to disappear. Mildew spread on books, clothes and any unused objects faster than the house-boys could track it down and brush it off, and there was an atmosphere of gloom which came not so much from darkness as from absence of sunshine.

  But, in spite of the weather and the discomfort, the work at the mine went on and Jimmy couldn’t contain his pleasure.

  “We’re doing it,” he said, as he swung Stella into his arms and danced an indecorous fandango on the veranda of the Mission bungalow. “We’re doing it. We’re beating him, Stella.”

  Gotto had other ideas, however, and when he finally returned to work he was angry and domineering. And there was a subtle difference now. His anger came not from lack of confidence so much as from imperious over-confidence. Those little tricks which betrayed his temper as worry were gone, though there was still nervousness in his gestures, as though he were being driven by some outside force he wasn’t sure of and at a pace that was barely within his control.

  Tempers suddenly grew more frayed again and nerves were on edge once more, and Samuel Assissay was seen at night with the men in Freetown suits and glasses, which stood out among the tattered shorts and dirty shirts of the crowds who listened to them. The half-forgotten grumblings started again with their assistance and fights broke out so that Romney’s surgery was busier than it had been for years. That very isolation which left Amama untouched by the worst of civilisation also permitted the murmurings to grow without reaching the District Commissioner.

  Within three days of his return, Gotto had sent the dhobi boys and latrine boys on strike and had driven down to Sergeant Asimani’s twice to report some imagined offence. Tempers rose still more rapidly so that a shoving match between one of the foremen and the driver of a ditched scraper became a fight and the foreman was stretched on the ground with a blow on the head from a lump of rock.

  Clad from head to foot in an oilskin, and bitterly disappointed at the turn of events, Jimmy managed with a considerable amount of tact to sort out the grievance and get the boys back to work.

  “Listen, Gotty,” he said, confronting him. “All I’ve done since you came back is sort out arguments. What’s come over you? The output’s going down like stink ag
ain and we’d managed to pull it up a bit.”

  Gotto stared coldly at him. “OK,” he said. “If you know what’s wrong, you look after the workings and I’ll look after the jetty. If you’re so clever, let’s see what you can do.”

  He seemed anxious to be rid of the responsibility and glad to take over the simpler supervision of the pile-driver. But the outburst of temper he immediately displayed by the leaking steam engine was monumental enough to result in a noisy demonstration of those gymnastics of anger so beloved of an African crowd with a grievance, and black hands, having failed to make an impression by gesticulation, began to reach for brickbats.

  As Gotto strode away, he was startled to see a large piece of rock land in a spattering of mud by his feet He turned round to see where it had come from and was just in time to dodge another as he bolted for the car.

  He found Jimmy in the workings talking to Alf Momo.

  “Mutiny,” he shouted as he tumbled out. “Get Asimani and his men! Send someone down to the District Commissioner! They’ve been stoning me!”

  “My God,” Jimmy said. “It doesn’t take you long, does it? Stay here. I’ll sort ’em out.”

  “They’ll murder you.”

  “I’ll chance it.”

  “They’re throwing rocks.”

  “I’m good at rock-throwing myself.”

  Gotto turned towards the car. “I’ll go down to the District Commissioner’s,” he said.

  Jimmy pushed him aside and climbed into the car himself. “If you don’t want a quick ticket home, I should stay where you are.”

  He drove towards the jetty, his heart thumping painfully near his throat, depressed by the certainty of calamity. He found the pile-driver labourers in a large group shouting and quarrelling, and as soon as they saw Gotto’s car the stones started flying again.

  “White man de oppressor!”

  “White man go home!”

  The windscreen starred as a rock struck it, and Jimmy stopped and opened the door. A piece of wood hit him on the shoulder as he climbed out and stones began to splash round his feet and bounce off the car as he slammed the door behind him.