Golden Hill

by Francis Spufford

  There was more here, than I understood, but I was glad of the Mystery all the Same, for obediently the Rage was converted to a trembling and reverential Suckling, at the very Rear of his Cage, and thence to a renewed Stupor in the Straw, gloriously silent save for a saw-toothed Snore. I might pity his Infirmity, was I not so heartily grateful.

  And so He has remained for two – three – four blissful Hours, and I begin to collect Myself, and to win free of the Trembling He induced in Me, and to gather such Calm in Me as is necessary for Explanation. Now: You must know, Father, that I am not come here in New-York, in any Spirit of idle Adventure, but rather, to do a Duty such as You will respect once I expound It, at the Request of—

  But I have a Visitor. When Reynolds told Me so, and I heard the light Feet of a Woman upon the Stair, my Heart leapt: but it was not She, for whom I discover in Myself even the Willingness to be gloated upon, but instead the African Maid of the House, Zephyra, looking powerful Wary. She trod, as if She did not trust the Floor, and She station’d Herself at the furthest Extremity of my Cage away from my Neighbour’s. This was to speak to Me in Privacy, I first presum’d, yet then must admit a Correction, by judging of her Tension as She turn’d her Face away from the other Cage, and the flickering Glances she gave from the Corners of her Eyes, as if a Danger lay behind Her. Which seem’d to Me excessive, for though He was assuredly noxious, as I had Reason by now to know, He was safely penn’d.

  ‘Hallo,’ I said, and then unable to repress a Hope, ‘Have You a Message for Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said She, and her Voice, which I had never heard before, prov’d deep and full of Vibration, like the String of a Violin-Cello. She lean’d in close, giving me Occasion again to observe, what uncommunicating Pools of Dark her Eyes were; and said with hush’d Emphasis:

  ‘Mewura, wo ne gyefwo a me twen no?’

  I blink’d, feeling Myself of a Sudden teetering on a dangerous Edge. ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You do not understand Me,’ She said wonderingly. Then again, but bleakly and flatly, this Time: ‘You do not understand Me.’ A most woeful and grieving Look of Disappointment fill’d her Face for a Moment, before, almost more woefully, It was flick’d away by a great Effort of Will, drawn back as if It had never been, behind her customary Blank. A Door had open’d, and as quickly clos’d, upon a Room in which something Desperate transpir’d. A Tragedy, but of what Sort, there was no Time to determine.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I make a Mistake. Sir.’ And at once She turn’d away, and made to sidle off towards the Stair, with her Face averted.

  ‘Wait!’ I cried, louder than I had meant. ‘Please, wait.’ She paus’d, but did not come back. ‘I regret,’ I said, ‘that I cannot – answer You – as You desire. As I see You require. But – please – would You tell Me, how your Mistress does?’

  ‘What you doing,’ she said. Do-ing. The Syllables were separate, the -ing rumbling and humming on her Palate. ‘If you not—’ She stopp’d again. ‘I think You a crazy Man.’

  ‘Please?’

  She tightened her Mouth, by that Act making a perfect Miniature of ironic Scorn.

  ‘Please?’

  Zephyra sigh’d.

  ‘She sit and she chew she Lip and stare. She more mad than ever. She want to sit all alone, but her Father say, no: now there no Thief to watch and catch, she go with Miss Flora. So she sit now mostly at Van Loon’s, and chew she Lip there.’ Are You happy now, you Fool? – her Face added, transparently.

  Neither of Us had observ’d, that my vile Companion had ceas’d to Snore. He had, however. More than that, restor’d by the black Bottle, he had awak’d with his Animal Spirits return’d to rampageous Life, and was rear’d up, clinging to the criss-cross Mesh of the Cage, with his Tongue hanging forth, glist’ning, and his scrawny Hips thrusting in similitude of the Act of Love.

  ‘Black Meat!’ he cry’d with hoarse Relish, staring at Zephyra. ‘Wery dark, but that don’t signify, if You have the Taste for It! If you wet your Yard in – the – Pink – of – it!’ Each of the latter Words, accompany’d by a Thrust, the Disarrangement of his torn Breeches showing his Excitement all too clearly.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said.

  ‘She’s in pup, though, but that’s no Matter. That’s Prime – for bigger Teats and fatter Haunches. Come here, Darling. Come over here, I got – Somefink – for – You—’

  ‘Shut your Mouth,’ I commanded, or rather entreated, having no Way to enforce any Command: in any Case, entirely in vain. ‘Don’t listen to Him,’ I said to Zephyra, who was cowering, again with that same strange excess of Fear, for one who was securely cag’d; as if in Him she fac’d a Tiger, rather than Vermin. ‘Don’t be afraid. He is vile, but pitiful.’

  ‘He is sasabonsam.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, bleakly.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, while He went on shouting, trying to draw Her back towards Me with my Eyes, like two People caught together in a Storm, ‘are You truly with Child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is the Father?’

  ‘Who You think.’

  ‘Mr Lovell?’

  ‘I sleep down in Kitchen. When Girls sleeping, I hear him Feet come creeping on the Stair. He says, Come here Girl, come here you Bitch, I am lonely.’

  ‘Does Tabitha know?’

  She shuddered.

  ‘It will be alright.’

  ‘How it be “alright”? How?’ Then, in a Rush, as if her Disappointment were a Liquid that must spill, the Jug being shaken: ‘I think you Lord Eshu. He know all Language. He make Trick, like You; He change, like You; he both Kind, any Kind, like You. He know the Trick that make the weak One strong. I pray to Lord Eshu and Lord Jesus. I say, help Me, change Me, save Me. You come. I think You come for Me. No; You just a crazy Man. A stupid Man.’

  Upon which she turn’d in earnest, and swirl’d off down the Stairwell as rapidly as Ink down a Drain, leaving me with my Cellmate’s Cries of Disappointment, which rather than diminishing then, only changed Key, and mounted to a quivering Rapture, for He was Frigging himself. I sat down on the Floor with my Back to the Operation, that being the only Means by which I could even pretend to shut It out, and awaited its Termination in Gasp and Squeak and Spatter.

  ‘You are disgusting,’ I said quietly, in the Snuffling afterward. I spoke to a Point in the Air a Foot or so before Me, but He heard.

  ‘Am I?’ He said, seeming highly delighted at this Compliment. ‘Oh, I am, Boy, am I? Yes I am, for I do offend your delicate Nose; yes I am, for You are so clean; yes I am, for all your Thoughts are righteous; yes I am, for my Shit smells, and I don’t deny it; yes I am, wery disgusting, for I turn Myself inside out, and show in the Day what you do at Night. Oh, I am. I am, I am, I am, I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am—’

  There was such a Species of Malignancy, in this Repetition, as I cannot rightly convey; Something, so insinuating and so tireless, so happy in the Degradation of its paltry Flesh, that I could almost, in my desperate State, believe It the Work of a Spirit sent to torment Me, a Spirit but hous’d in the derelict Body of my Companion, and working it (so to speak) mechanically, jerking its Limbs to dance by pulling with Glee upon Strings, spewing Repetitions of Filth from its Jaw by cranking a Lever. Such were my Thoughts, at any Rate, there being no Corrective to Fancy, for Me to take a Hold on, while the Taunting continu’d, it seeming not to weigh with Him, what He said, so long as He kept poking at me continually with Speech. At length He grew bor’d, however, of addressing my Back, which I kept firmly turn’d to Him. He try’d, to throw Straw at Me, but it would not fly across the Space between the Cages: and so He return’d to his first Means, of securing my Attention.

  ‘Boy. Boy. Boy. Boy. Boy—’

  But it gave Me Pleasure now, to think I was denying Him Something that He wanted, and I was enabled, for a Time, to ignor
e Him. He grew obsequious, He grew plaintive, He grew beseeching.

  ‘I can be wery good, if I puts my Mind to It,’ He said. ‘Come, Sir, don’t deny Me a Trifle of Company. I can suit Myself to your Innocence, see if I can’t; suit Myself to You as neat as any Tailor, Ha Ha. I can be all Sweetness and Light, I shall talk of Sweethearts and not of Cunts. Come, Sir. Come, Boy. A little Talk. Just a little Talk. Won’t the Time fly faster, if We talk? A little Talk, Sir. A little Civility. A little Parlay-voo between Unfortunates. Between Brothers, Sir. Between Brothers in Adwersity, Sir—’

  ‘I am not your Brother.’ You would have reproved the Sentiment, Father, on Grounds of Theology, but in any Case it was a grievous Mistake to say it aloud, for He chuckled with Satisfaction, and immediately his Grovelling vanish’d, or rather metamorphos’d.

  ‘Ain’t You?’ He said. ‘Well, that’s a Relief, then, a powerful strong Relief to my poor Sensibilities, ain’t It, for who’d be a Brother to a prim Prick-Drip like You? Who’d own You, you Milk-for-Spunk? You Pox-Ooze. You Flux-Breath. You Cockless Pretender. You walking Hole. You Piss-Puddle. You—’

  ‘Reynolds!’ I shouted, discovering that it was possible, to be converted in the Twinkling of an Eye, without at all anticipating It, from an apparent Calm to a shaking Fury. (Or rather, perhaps, a shaking Compound of Fury and Fear.) I was up, and rattling the Bars, and shouting for the Keeper, before I rightly knew what I was doing. He came, after I had shouted for a Minute or two, with heavy Feet and a heavy Frown.

  ‘Can You not silence this Moon-Calf?’ I cry’d. ‘Can You not give Him a Kick to quiet his Nonsense, before I lose my Wits with listening to Him?’

  ‘What!’ Reynolds said. ‘Kick the poor Monster?’ He look’d across at the other Cage, and there lay its Inmate, curl’d peaceably upon the Floor, as if He had never mov’d. I almost doubted It myself. ‘I had as soon give You a Kick, Jackanapes,’ He said, ‘for You are the One who is giving the Trouble. Shall I?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ said I bleakly after a Moment, observing his Brawn.’

  ‘Then don’t give Me Cause to fetch out my Keys.’

  Straightway He was gone, my Tormentor rose from the Straw, grinning like a Jack o’ Lantern with all his brown Teeth.

  ‘That won’t work, Boy,’ He said. ‘You’re stuck with Me, You are. Now I’ve thought Me, since You won’t be civil, of the wery Story to treat You right for It; to medicine up your Disrespect. And hey hey, It’s a true ’un. All the better, eh? For so You may jes’ picture It, as I tell It, and know It happen’d, but five Years back, in this wery Place, in these wery Streets, on our lovely Common, where I’m sure You po-litely stroll’d, You Puppet, while You was po-litely purposing your po-lite Robbery. But This ain’t polite; no. This has got some Gristle in It; and some Marrow too. Well: You have noticed, ain’t You, that the old Fort where His Nibs lives is the Worse for Wear? All scorch’d up like a half-burned Log. Now the Night that happen’d I was drinking in Hughson’s Tavern, over by the River, and about the Middle of the Candle a little Welsh Bugger (His Name I can’t recall) puts his Head in the Door and cries, Lively boys, there’s Somefink afire. We tumbles out onto the Cobbles, for to get a Look-see, though the Frost was hard and biting, and to be sure, there’s Sparks in the Sky, and a red Glow like Hell’s Locker had sprung open, beyond Trinity Spire. ’Tis the Fort for Sure, said Caesar, a Nigger belonging to Vaarck the Baker; and Sarah Hughson, the Tavern-keep’s Lady, She holds up her Hands, like one warming Theirself, and says, There’s a Hearth I’m glad to see lit, and there’s all the big Houses too on Broad Street might burn, for Me. She being angry because Hughson her Man was in Chokey downstairs here, for receiving Goods. I remembers the Words, for I give ’em in Court later. Well, We laugh’d, and We went back in and drunk a Toast or Three to Fire. They was jolly Fellows, in Hughson’s: Caesar and Prince who was John Auboyneau’s Nigger, and Newfie Peg who lodg’d there with Caesar’s Brat. Prince and Caesar, They call’d Theirselves the Geneva Club, for They lift’d Barrels from out the Warehouses, to sell ’em to Hughson, and that’s why the Gin was cheap, and no Fuss when You puk’d. Peg was Caesar’s Girl, but you could have her for a Shilling, or for a Glass, when the Thirst was on Her. Jolly Fellows, yes, and many a Jolly Night the Capting had with ’em. But in the morning—’

  I had no Notion whereto this Story was tending. Yet perhaps it tended somewhat to my Relief, for though the Monster had seem’d to threaten Something by it, He now was winding Himself, I judg’d, into a Labyrinth of Foul Anecdote, where He might wander reminiscing till He lost Wits and Lucidity again for the Exercise, and I hop’d might leave Me be. I hop’d it most desperately, for I still trembled. Moving soft so as not to disturb his Flow, and nodding from Time to Time, I ventured to sit down and privily took up my Pen again.

  I am writing in the Straw now while pretending to listen. Father, another of the short Days is darkening, and the Air is gathering up again in Stars and Splinters the Ice the Morning melted from it. It seems hard if I must pass this remaining Portion of my Life in the Lap of another’s Delirium.

  ‘So, Some said the Frenchies done it, and Some said ’twas the Spaniards, come to put the Pope upon Us; but Most agreed, in a Panick, it must be the Niggers done the actual Deed of the Burning; and Mr Horsmanden, as is Recorder and Justice along of De Lancey, He sees This, and being a quick old Screw for Anything to an Advantage, He says to Himself, I’ll make Somefink of This. And He snatches up Caesar and Prince and a Dozen more besides, and in the Court He says, a grand Conspiracy, Gents, a heinous and dastardly Plot, and don’t the People love It. Well, I see which Way the Wind is blowing, and when it comes my Turn, to go Witness, I does my Best to dish the Niggers too, and give ’em a few shrewd Blows in the Telling, of how They laugh’d at the Tragic Sight.’

  ‘What, your Friends? The Jolly Fellows?’ I said, incredulous despite Myself.

  ‘Oh, You is awake. – I’ll awake You in a Minute, I’ll be bound. – Yes, Caesar and Prince and the Others.’

  ‘You did not think that, perhaps, being their Friend, you might stay your Hand?’

  ‘Ain’t You simple, then! No, it don’t do to be too pertickler in this World. You must take your Pleasures where You find them; a Drink and a Joke one Day, and the Next, whatever the Day brings. I never thought I owed a Fellow a Debt, that We shared a good Time; nor He, Me; so best to get in first, before He can get at You. Anyway. Prince and Caesar and the Niggers, They go down, a-course; and Horsmanden says, Gents, We must have special hard Punishments, so all the World may mark. And Prince and the Others, They must be burned on the Common, slow, but Caesar, says Horsmanden, since that He purposed to set up as King, must be broken on the Wheel. Which the People was wery satisfied with: You could hear Them growl, in the Court. The only Problem being, that Nobody in New-York knowed the Trick of It, not Peters the Hangman, not Nobody. And when the Call went out, does Anyone know how? – why, not a Soul replied, there being, Boy, Things as are wanted to be done in the World, which Few want the doing of, no Matter how fierce they growl. Well, thinks I, a Chance for the Capting, and foolish not to take it. I’ll do it, I says, for I have seen it done in the Brazils. (Which was nearly true.) So, Boy, picture Me on the Morrow, out upon the Common, with poor Caesar truss’d to the Wheel of a Wagon, and Me furnish’d with a Crowbar, and also a Barrel of Beer, for to wet my Whistle with while I work’d, which I took wery kind, it being likely to be a lengthy Job; and a Crowd round about me, eager-like yet hesitant, glad the Lot of ’em that ’twas to be my Hands on the Crowbar. Good Morning, says I to Caesar. Friend, says He, won’t You give Me a Ding on the Head first off, and let Me out quick? Sorry, says I, We must give ’em a Show. And I grins at Him, for what is Life without a little Pleasure in’t? But though I speaks so confident, I am to speak true working by Guesses; They have give Me a Book, a Surgeon’s Book, with a Map of all the Bones, but the Capting has never been much of a Reader. Says I inside my Head, well, let us commence Operations with the Shins, for They are near the Surf
ace, and will make an easy Target while I gets my Eye in—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear This.’

  ‘Don’t You? Don’t want your Medicine? Then You are Plumb out of Luck, Boy; for You shall hear it, every word the Capting chuses to medicine You with. I swings the Bar—’

  I cover my Ears, I sing with all the Force of my Lungs, I crouch in the Dusk and try to crawl away into this Trail of Ink, but I cannot block it out. Night comes, but He goes on remorseless, with no End in sight, either of the dreadful Story or of the poor screaming Victim it concerns – for there are, says the Monster, one hundred and fifty-six Bones in the mortal Tower, and He means Me to hear of the clumsy, patient, methodical Splintering of them all, running in at my Ear like a Venom, churning my Guts till I spew (to his high Satisfaction) into the Straw. ‘Then come the Ribs,’ He says.

  Father, I can hardly see to write. His ruin’d Countenance bobs in the Dark, talking, talking, with cheerful indifferent animal Glee. I do not understand how Anyone can be so lost, so content to be devour’d by Impulse. This may seem a strange Declaration, from One who deliberately lost Himself in London, with Nothing in his Pocket, but the sad Truth about Me, Father, is that however low I wandered, I always knew I could come back. I would return and stand conceal’d behind the Park Trees opposite Lord ——’s House, sometimes, in those first Weeks of my Wanderings, and just look upon It. And having seen It was still there, with a Door that would open to Me at the Price merely of a few Recriminations, I was enabled to trudge away again. Though sometimes the Temptation was strong. You see, I have never doubted my Safety. Such was the Reason for my Impatience, at all your Proclamations of Danger.

  I remember the Moment – as You purposed I should never forget It – when You bared your Arm and, seizing Me, drew up the Sleeve on Mine, and laid it besides yours on the Table, and bade Me attend to the Colours of our Skin. Yours, a Brown like well-milked Coffee; Mine, for it was Summer, a faint yet insistent Amber. ‘This is our Destiny,’ You said. ‘The Lord has given it Us, and We must find his Grace in It.’ And You drew for Me the liveliest Picture you could, with all the Resource You were wont to dedicate in Sermons to rendering Hell-Fire, of the Cruelties awaiting Me on account of that Colour, were I not careful. Of Slaveries, Plantations, Chains, Whips, Floggings, Burnings; of a whole World of Terrors lying, as You made It sound, just beyond the first Milestone on the Road out of the Parish. You represented to Me, that my only Safety was at Home; my only Passport, in the wider World, the Protection of Lord ––—. I was I suppose Five Years of Age, and I ran to my Mother to hide my Head in her Apron, the Whiteness of her Arms round Me seeming then a Kind of Promise of Exemption, a Freedom from all You had named. ‘He must understand, Martha,’ You said, when She protested. But I would not believe, not then, not later, that We had no Choice but to hide Ourselves. Or that the Chance of You having a Slave for a Father, and my having One for a Grandfather, must be a perpetual Doom upon Us. Or that We must forever accept from Lord ––— a Kindness precious near to Ownership. I would not believe You. Your Fear, I said to Myself, was a Disease of your Soul, individually. I would not catch It. I would not consent to be afraid.