The Claws of Mercy

by John Harris

  “Git for go! White man git for go!”

  “Samuel Assissay say white man no good!”

  Jimmy straightened himself up abruptly and advanced on the labourers. Gradually the shower of stones dwindled, then as the ringleader bent to pick up another missile Jimmy shoved out a foot and he went down on his face in the mud from what was nothing more than a neat schoolboy trip.

  Immediately, the expressions of the volatile Sierra Leoneans changed to broad grins as the unfortunate man picked himself up and began to brush the mud from himself.

  “You damned great fool, Malaki,” Jimmy said angrily. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, throwing rocks at me?”

  “White man no good,” the black man spluttered, spitting out mud.

  “Don’t be a damn’ fool or I’ll tell your wife about you. She’ll handle you. She doesn’t want you to go calaboose, you fathead.”

  The grins of the crowd grew wider as the black man began to look sheepish, and Jimmy laughed, a strained laugh that sounded unnatural to him. “You great clown,” he went on. “What have I ever done to you for you to heave rocks at me?”

  The black man’s head began to hang and Jimmy turned to the rest of them. “OK, the rest of you get back to what you were doing and let’s have no more of this damn’ nonsense.”

  “Boss Jimmy, dat ole Gotto–”

  “Never mind Gotto,” Jimmy interrupted quickly before the complaints could become a torrent. “I’ll see to Gotto. Now get back to your work. And if I see any more of this bloodiness, there’ll be real trouble. Savvy?”

  When Jimmy arrived at the Mission bungalow that evening, he found that Swannack’s state of mind matched his own.

  “Son,” he said. “The atmosphere around here is something I’ve never known before.”

  “It’s that fiend Gotto,” Mrs Swannack shouted – inevitably from another room where she was sorting out schoolbooks. “Father, why don’t you go down to Asimani and complain?”

  “Asimani’s got enough people complaining,” Swannack said, immediately starting to flap his hands in agitated defence of his theory.

  “Well, why doesn’t he pass the information on to where it will do some good?” As she appeared in the doorway, Mrs Swannack looked like Samuel itching to get at the Amalekites. “Jimmy, they catcalled me today in the town. Me and Stella. In Amama. Me! ‘White Missis go home,’ they said. One guy threw a stone. It hit the car. Scratched the paint. I got out and told him what I thought of him. If I could have laid my hands on him, I’d have had him down to Asimani’s double-quick. I’ve been brought up on the Old Testament. He quit when he saw me coming. He sure did. There’s too much bad feeling in this town. You know what they’re saying, Jimmy? – that Zaidee Soloman’s behind all this. Everybody’s talking. Gotto’s been seen at her house at night. Now, what would he be wanting there? There’s only one thing I can think of for she’s a sinful, deceitful woman.”

  She turned to Swannack again. “There’s mischief afoot,” she said dramatically. “It needs stopping. Everybody in the town knows about it. Why don’t you let me report that Gotto to Asimani, Father?”

  Swannack looked baffled and the hair on his face seemed to droop with his bewilderment. “I guess it’s on account of the poor guy being busy enough already,” he said. “It seems real silly for me to report Gotto to him when it’s Gotto who’s doing all the complaining.”

  “Then report him yourself to the Commissioner, Father.” Mrs Swannack’s sharp eyes gleamed with the prospect of battle. “Or let me. I’ll go. I sure will. I’ll be glad to.”

  “Our duty is to the Lord,” Swannack said, beginning to grow flustered. “Not to the law. It’s our duty to pray for the poor misguided man that he’ll be set on the right road, not to engineer his downfall. They tell me he’s the sole support of an aged mother.”

  “Oh, Lord, that mother of his,” Jimmy whispered to Stella.

  When they were alone, Stella turned to him.

  “Jimmy,” she said, “when I arrived here, everyone seemed to enjoy life. Everybody was God’s children. Now they’re all griping and ready to quarrel. I was with Mother in that car today. Jimmy, it terrified me. Mother must have been ashamed of me. I’m not made to do battle with Philistines as she is. She wanted to get out and set about them. She didn’t turn a hair.”

  “I’ll bet she didn’t,” Jimmy grinned.

  “Jimmy, they just stood around and hissed and yelled. A great mob of them round the car. Samuel Assissay was there. I heard him shouting. ‘White man go home,’ they were saying ‘White missis t’ief missis.’ Jimmy, what’s happening to us all? My folks are missionaries. They’re not here to harm anyone.”

  Jimmy scowled at the floor.

  “Stella, this business is getting too damned organised for my liking. They stoned Gotto today. They tried to stone me–”

  “Jimmy, no!”

  “Oh, it didn’t last. But these two incidents – Gotto and me – they couldn’t have been connected with your little circus here in Amama. Obviously there’s someone in the background encouraging it on. And it isn’t Samuel Assissay. I don’t think he’s got the brains. And it’s not Indian Joe. He loves it, of course, but all he does is let it take its course now. That’s what worries me – these people who are organising it. The big cheeses are joining in. I’ve caught one of ’em at it already, a nasty-looking piece of work with a smart suit and all the answers. I don’t like those boys. They’re too clever.”

  He looked out at the rain which was falling again, sparkling as it crossed the beam of yellow light from the windows, gurgling in the gutters and hissing in the pools.

  “Stella,” he said. “When I got back from sorting out that little lot at the jetty for him, you know what he had the nerve to say to me? ‘You’ve got to insist on what you know is right. You’ve got to force your will on them. That’s all these black trash understand.’ Even after he’d been stoned. What do you do with someone like that?”

  “Sounds dangerous talk to me,” Stella said. “Sounds the sort of stuff you get out of a political pamphlet. Clerk Smith’s talk.”

  “That’s what I thought. But nobody in their senses believes that rubbish.”

  “Friend Gotto obviously does.”

  “I suppose he does. He can convince himself of anything. He can transform facts simply by brooding on them. I expect he repeats his own version over and over to himself until the rights and wrongs of it are as sharp to him as the blacks and whites of a crossword puzzle.”

  Stella smiled. “Mother sees things a bit like that with religion, bless her.”

  “When I told him I’d already reported him to Twigg, all he said was, ‘I thought I could rely on you to stab me in the back.’ He’s so certain he’s right and that everyone else is wrong. Stella, how much longer dare we let him continue? How much farther can we let him go? Every stupidity we’ve evaded responsibility for has been followed by a worse one. We’ve got to do something eventually.” He shrugged. “But all we do is think he’s getting near his leave and put it off till the next day in the hope that Twigg will do something instead. We’ve been doing that ever since he started.”

  He looked at the rain again. “Blast Gotto,” he said angrily.

  “Jimmy,” Stella said, “ought we to let this affair with Zaidee continue?”

  “We can’t stop it. It’s not illegal. They frown on these affairs with coloured women but they still go on.”

  “But shouldn’t Twigg know? Or the District Commissioner?”

  “They couldn’t do a thing, Stella darling.”

  “Well, Earnshaw then. He could.”

  “God, no!” Jimmy turned quickly. “He mustn’t know. Or there’d be murder done and then Archie would be in trouble. We don’t want that.”

  “He’s bound to find out sooner or later.”

  “So long as it’s later. Gotto might have gone home by that time and then it’ll be too late.”

  “Jimmy dear, are you sure you’re bein
g wise?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I’ve got to chance it. Damn him, he’s caused me more trouble than all the black labourers put together. And he’s worse than ever now. He was bad enough before when he was just miserable. Now he’s getting vicious and he’s dangerous.”

  He looked hard at Stella. “Listen, Stella darling,” he said seriously, taking her hand. “Do me a favour, will you? Don’t wander far from the Mission – at least not till Gotto goes home and this thing sorts itself out a bit, not till it settles down.”

  “Is it bad, Jimmy?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “All right, Jimmy. I’ll stay home.”

  “It’s just that I don’t want you to get into any trouble, that’s all.” Jimmy glanced at her and scowled. “Oh, hell, you know what it’s all about. I love you and I’m worried.”

  “Jimmy darling, please don’t talk about that. You know what it’ll lead to: just an argument and then we’ll quarrel. And I don’t want to quarrel. There are already too many people quarrelling.”

  Jimmy kissed her gently. “Stella, I won’t. We’re not going to quarrel. There’s nothing so important as us being happy. Neither Gotto nor Amama nor the mine nor anything. We haven’t so much longer together. You’ll go home eventually, I suppose. I only want you to believe in all the things I’ve said about us. I want you to trust me–”

  “Jimmy, I do–”

  “–and more than that, I want you to need me. One day you probably will. I hope it won’t be too late when you do.”

  Their anger against Gotto had dispersed when Jimmy had finished speaking, and they sat in silence for a while, not looking at each other, then Stella glanced up under her eyebrows.

  “Jimmy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jimmy, you’ll be careful, won’t you? I mean, with Gotto. And the people in Amama.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”

  “Of course I am. Be careful, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy gave her a grim smile. “Stella,” he said slowly, “where I come from, they resisted the Romans, the Norsemen and the Normans. They resisted Napoleon and finally Hitler. And the Agnews were always there in the front shouting the odds and making a damn’ nuisance of themselves – to both sides. Let ’em all come. The bigger they are the harder they fall. It would take more than Gotto to scare me – more than Gotto or any damn’ trouble he cares to stir up.”

  “Jimmy, will it get worse?”

  Jimmy kissed her and did his best to reassure her, then spoiled it all by trying to impress on her that if trouble did arise, she would be his first concern.

  Stella looked at him, her eyes shining with trust. “Would you really come and look for me, Jimmy, if this trouble comes you say isn’t going to come – in spite of everything? In spite of me saying no all the time, Jimmy?”

  “You know I would, Stella. You know damn’ well I would.”

  “Oh, Jimmy!” Stella moved closer to him and held his hand as he put his arm round her. Suddenly she felt very close to tears.

  Nine

  Jimmy was awakened early next morning by Amadu, whose face was grey under his black skin. His hand was trembling so that the cup of tea he held out spilled into the saucer.

  “What’s the matter with you, Amadu?” Jimmy asked, as he pushed the mosquito net back.

  “Plenty trouble, Boss. Plenty plenty trouble.”

  “Black boys been after you again?”

  “No, Boss.” Amadu beckoned. “Come, Boss. Come with Amadu.”

  Puzzled, Jimmy followed the agitated man, still in his pyjamas, still holding the cup of tea. Amadu led him through the bungalow and on to the veranda where he stopped and pointed to a bunch of chicken feathers and cowrie shells which had been tied to the unpainted wooden upright which supported the roof. The previous night’s rain still dripped into the puddles below and the feathers were wet and bedraggled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Boss–” Amadu was quaking – “that ju-ju. Bad ju-ju.”

  “Ju-ju? What, that?” Amadu nodded furiously. “What’s it mean, Amadu?”

  “Bad ju-ju on house. Mean all die. Boss, I go. I leave.”

  Jimmy studied the black man’s trembling form. “I take ju-ju down, Amadu. What then? You no leave?”

  “Yassah, Boss, I leave,” Amadu gabbled, his voice rising. “Ju-ju bad. All people die. Medicine man fix ’um.”

  “That’s nonsense, Amadu,” Jimmy said gently.

  Amadu shook his head feverishly. “No nonsense. All men die for ju-ju.”

  “Well, look, Amadu, I give you good dash – plenty money – if you fix breakfast first. Savvy?” Amadu stared at the chicken feathers on the upright then his greed overcame his fear, and he nodded. “Boss,” he said. ‘I fix breakfast. Den I go.”

  Jimmy stared at the bunch of feathers and shells, his face thoughtful, remembering all the stories he had ever read about witchcraft and black magic, suddenly aware of the dark forces that existed in Africa, and continued to exist in spite of the white man’s wisdom.

  Amadu was watching him carefully, then he turned and picked up a bunch of bananas from the table on the veranda. “Boss Jimmy,” he said. “I bring you dese. I bring dem befo’ I see dat ole ju-ju.”

  “Thanks, Amadu. What are they for?”

  “You good, Boss Jimmy. Not like other white boss. You dash me plenty cigarettes. You bring me home when black boys in Amama Town go sock my head. You no get angry wit’ me. My piccaninny called Jimmy.”

  “Thanks, Amadu. That’s nice of you.” Jimmy felt oddly touched.

  Amadu’s eyes flickered once more to the chicken feathers. “Boss, I go git de breakfast,” he said quickly. “Den I git for go. I no come back.”

  As he hurried into the back of the house, Gotto appeared in his dressing-gown.

  “What’s got that stupid idiot?” he asked.

  “How do you feel, Gotty?” Jimmy turned slowly towards him, sipping his tea. “You all right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “No pains? No headaches?”

  “No.”

  “No stomach cramps? No touches of colic? No bowel disorders?”

  Gotto frowned. “No, you fool. Why?”

  “Just wondered, because you’ve got a ju-ju on you.”

  Jimmy indicated the bunch of chicken feathers. “They’ve put a spell on us.”

  Gotto stared at the feathers for a while then he laughed. “That boloney doesn’t take you in, does it? They’re just a lot of savages.”

  “Maybe,” Jimmy said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is all boloney if you don’t believe in it. But at least it’s a symbol of what they think of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jimmy drew a deep breath. “Even if it can’t do us any harm,” he said, “at least it means they’d like it to do us some harm.”

  Gotto sounded less convinced as he replied. “You don’t believe all that nonsense, though, do you?”

  Jimmy turned to him. “Do you?”

  Gotto laughed again. “Me? Not damn’ likely.” He stopped and looked again at the chicken feathers, frowning suddenly. “There isn’t anything in it, is there?”

  “Well, I remember reading a story by Somerset Maugham who’d lived in the East long enough to know a bit about these things. It was about a chap who’d had a ju-ju put on him – a white man. He didn’t believe in it either, but on the boat going home – long after he was away from the place – he got hiccups.”

  “What happened?”

  “He couldn’t stop and gradually he lost weight and–”

  “And died?”

  “Yes.”

  Gotto laughed again, but more nervously. “Author’s licence,” he said. “That’s all. Author’s licence. It couldn’t happen. I mean, could it?”

  “Ask me another.”

  Gotto stared hard at the chicken feathers, his face sharp and suspicious now.

  “What do they do?”

  “Romne
y tells me they do all the usual mumbo-jumbo. Kill a goat or something and dip the feathers in the blood. Something of that sort. Then the old witch doctor recites his rubbish over it. And that’s that.”

  “I’ve heard of witches making little clay models of people and sticking pins in them.” Obviously Gotto was not so sure of himself and his opinion now. “It all depends on how much you believe in it, doesn’t it? That’s all. It’s as simple as that.”

  But he went on staring at the bunch of feathers, his eyes narrow and glittering and suspicious, his long bony nose outthrust, his forehead puckered by a frown. And Jimmy noticed he lit a cigarette quickly as he walked away.

  “I’m going to Asimani with this lot,” he said as he reappeared shaved and dressed. “I’ll have that witch doctor shoved away.”

  “Then the fat will be in the fire.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  Jimmy studied Gotto with a feeling of baffled frustration. Nothing seemed to exhaust his capacity for punishment. “I should wait until after breakfast,” he said. “Amadu’s offered to make us some before he leaves.”

  “Is he leaving?”

  Jimmy nodded at the ju-ju. “That was enough to convince him he didn’t like the smell around this place.”

  “I’ll soon fix that.” Gotto threw away the cigarette in his fingers and bawled into the kitchen quarters at the back of the bungalow. “Amadu! Come here! One-time! Doublequick!”

  Amadu appeared, rolling his eyes and keeping his distance.

  “What’s all this damn’ nonsense about leaving us?”

  “No nonsense, Boss. I go.”

  “Because of this thing here?” Gotto flung an arm in the direction of the ju-ju.

  “Yassah, Boss. Plenty bad ju-ju. I go.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish. Who’s going to look after us?”

  “No savvy, Boss. Amadu go.”

  “I’ll raise your wages.”

  “No, Boss. I go.”

  Gotto had started in what for him was a reasonable manner, but seeing he was getting nowhere and that Amadu was proving stubborn, he exploded.