Ace, King, Knave

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Ace, King, Knave Page 23

by Maria McCann


  His family would know by now. Everyone would search for him, the women wailing. A slave would be sent to the next village to ask if strange men had passed that way, and if anyone had been taken from there. The younger ones would cry, and Father would say to them: ‘You see what happens when children stray too far from home!’ Most likely nobody had seen the man and woman enter the compound. It grieved him that his father would never know of it, and would die thinking him a foolish, disobedient boy.

  After eating three of the fruits, he bent forward and lost consciousness, his weariness mastering him even in this dangerous situation. He dreamed of the evil woman lying in the grass. Vultures and pigs broke her open, ants hissed in her bones.

  He woke to the smell of cooking fires. Some distance away a young girl was seated on a log, stirring a pot. He was given rice and something strange and hot-tasting, which he ate in the company of two older men. From their poor clothing and humble manners, he understood that they were slaves, even before one of them, who could speak his language, told him he should always eat with them, never with anyone else in the compound.

  That was when he understood. The rule was the same in his father’s house: slaves do not eat with the freeborn. He had been rescued from the kidnappers in order to become a gift elsewhere.

  Even Dog Eye, sitting late over his wine, once called to Fortunate to come and sit by him, demanding to hear the story of his life. Fortunate could see that Dog Eye thought of this as a kindness, though he himself spent much time pushing the memories into darkness and did not want to bring them out into daylight for the pleasure of Dog Eye or any other white person. With a man of his own race, who knew what such sufferings were, he might speak more freely.

  Dog Eye, however, knew nothing of these feelings and was not accustomed to be checked in his desires, so Fortunate told him quickly, squeezing weeks and months into a very short time: that he was seized by kidnappers, then taken from them and made a slave in a village near the west coast.

  ‘Were they cruel to you?’ Dog Eye at once asked. ‘I’ve heard the natives trepan each other as easily as they take a bird.’

  Fortunate did not know the meaning of trepan. He said, ‘African master is not cruel.’

  ‘Not so cruel as a white, you mean.’

  ‘My father having slaves. It was ―’

  He lacked the words to explain that inferiors were given good food and not overworked. ‘Not cruel,’ he repeated.

  ‘And your master wasn’t so bad?’

  Fortunate shook his head. The women were especially kind: one of them had dealt with him in a motherly way, patting him when he cried. Yet Fortunate never felt safe in their compound, especially when one of the older slaves told him that further downriver lived evil, red-faced people who had no pity and who bought slaves from the local chiefs.

  ‘Will they sell us?’ Fortunate had asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the slave said. ‘Men are taken downriver from here and put into boats.’

  ‘To row them home?’

  ‘The red-faced people have no houses. They have no crops. They live on the water.’

  ‘What do they eat?’

  ‘Human flesh. They take hundreds of men and come back for more.’

  After about a month, the same slave told him that he was indeed to be sold on. Fortunate went to the master, the slave translating, and begged with tears in his eyes not to be given to the red-faced cannibals. The master said he should not be sold to them but to a kinsman, who would treat him well.

  This was the sort of lie told to children, to make them go meekly. When the time came, Fortunate was taken downriver to an island the cannibals called James. It was here that he at last saw one of the ships he had been told about, as big as an entire village, and its red-faced monsters. It was riding in the river below the island, but they were not to enter it, so, along with hundreds of others, Fortunate was chained in a suffocating room until the ship should be ready. A man who spoke his language told him he was lucky. He had arrived shortly before sailing, whereas some of those waiting in chains had been rotting in that room for weeks or even months.

  He wondered if he would ever tell Dog Eye the story of the cannibal monsters. He knew now that the people were not cannibals, and was almost used to their ugliness. They seemed not to see their own red faces, but called themselves white. They thought pallor was beauty, even when it came with twisted bodies and bad teeth. None of this could be said to an Englishman.

  ‘You made the middle crossing, did you not?’

  ‘Middle ― ?’

  ‘You went by boat to Annapolis.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve heard philanthropists say it’s an earthly hell. What’d be your word for it?’

  Fortunate ignored the puzzling word philanthropists. He was astonished at Dog Eye: a word to call the voyage! How could he imagine one word could convey it?

  After two days they were herded on board. The ship gave off a loathsome smell, as did the men whose faces resembled those of evil spirits. Fortunate was amazed to see that they behaved almost as viciously to one another as they did to the Africans, punishing accidents with blows and whippings. There was one good thing, however: they kept blacks with them who could speak various languages and who were sent among the people for reassurance. For the first time, Fortunate understood that the monsters had fields and crops. He would not be eaten but put to work, growing tobacco.

  Then came a time he would gladly have been killed, a time he cannot keep out of his dreams but never willingly remembers when awake. At Annapolis he came off the boat like a mad animal, cringing and half blind.

  ‘Well?’ said Dog Eye.

  He looked into his master’s face and said, ‘Death.’

  ‘Indeed! If it’s so bad, why don’t they all kill themselves?’

  ‘The masters,’ was all Fortunate could say. Again he saw the nets spread to stop people from flinging themselves over the side, but though his eyes filled, he lacked the words to make Dog Eye understand. ‘Maryland. Cruel there.’

  ‘To you?’

  In the elegant house near Annapolis he saw whites sitting back to be fanned in the summer heat, while black men and women went about their labour hampered and tortured by metal contrivances: chains, muzzles. This was done for the least fault, perhaps the oversetting of a pot.

  ‘Chains in mouth,’ he said. The words are inadequate for the hideous thing he saw screwed into the cook’s face, but Dog Eye stares.

  ‘Whose mouth, in the name of Christ? Yours?’

  ‘For a woman not to eat.’

  Yet when Mr Watson sailed for England, bringing Fortunate with him, Fortunate’s terror was greater than before: each time he had changed masters, it had been for the worse. When he first understood his position – that because of a game, he now belonged to Dog Eye – Fortunate could have gone on his knees to Mr Watson and begged not to be left behind. He had seen so many tricks played on Africans that he sweated with fear of this laughing man who put wine and gold in his hands while those around watched and also laughed.

  ‘You were glad, then, to come into my service?’ Dog Eye said.

  He nodded.

  ‘You didn’t look it.’

  ‘Afraid. Afraid hurt.’

  ‘O no,’ Dog Eye assured him. ‘It was Mr Watson I hurt.’

  Fortunate could make nothing of this, but then many of Dog Eye’s sayings and doings were hard to understand. The master sometimes treated him with such indulgence that they dined together at the same table. At other times he was taken among hard-faced men who frightened him, or women who fed him sweetmeats and patted him as one might pat a child. He was taught to make punch and was sick after drinking it. He learned the loading and firing of pistols, something of the games of cards, and a couple of dances. It did not escape him that Dog Eye often went among people who were drunk, or that the women who came to the house were of the lowest kind. Fortunate puzzled over that mysterious thing, the honour of an Englishman. His father wo
uld not have liked to see him the master, let alone the servant, of such a man as Dog Eye.

  Yet in all this disorder and unseemliness were moments of joy, as when one of the women taught him an English dance. All three of them laughed so heartily that he saw tears run down Dog Eye’s cheeks. A man grows accustomed to strange, even shocking things, if they ease his loneliness. After a few months Fortunate thought of Dog Eye as a kind master and protector, almost a friend.

  Since the marriage there has been more bickering than dancing. Still, what has changed once can change again, and in ways impossible to imagine: how could Fortunate have understood, before leaving his father’s house, what lay in wait for him? Why should Dog Eye not go back to the old ways one day, taking Fortunate with him, and their life together begin anew?

  31

  Betsy-Ann steps away from Haddock’s and hails a pair of chair-men who promptly size her up.

  ‘One-and-sixpence,’ says the front man. ‘In advance.’ An old hand, he can tell your rising courtesan from the commoner who might find it worth her while to bilk him and he’s put her down as the second kind. All this Betsy-Ann, as shrewd as he, reads in his rapid, calculating glance. Ned has provided, however, so she produces the fee with a flourish and settles herself inside the chair. She has no desire to trudge through the city, keeping a wary eye out; she wants to mull things over.

  She set off yesterday to Haddock’s for pleasure and pastime. Pleasure and pastime there was, and still is, if she includes the parting indulgence of this chair-ride. Why, there is scarcely a jolt: trained to hold steady, the men take each cobble in their stride, imparting a wonderful smoothness to the motion of the whole. It comes to her that the chair-men are her brothers, sweating for the gratification of others. From the look they bestowed on her, however, she doubts they would acknowledge the relationship.

  But enough of the chair-men; this is a time to think of Ned, with whom nothing is ever simple. Does he truly wish to set her up again? Or is his smiling free-handedness nothing but a rig to get the Spanish trick and make it his own? Suppose he had it, and could thumb his nose at Kitty, would he then cast off Betsy-Ann? ‘Once bitten, twice shy’ – there’s wisdom in that. And Ned’s a known biter – only look at his autem mort! The poor thing’s bitten to pieces!

  She told the men to set her down some way from home. For a second she’s tempted to call out to them and ask, instead, to be taken to where Ned lives – it’s about the same distance – but that’s the sort of thing a lovesick child would do, a sure sign, should he catch her at it, that he could count the trick his own.

  Was there ever a time when, for such a sweet rendezvous as last night’s, she would have surrendered it? Perhaps, at the very beginning. Since then, the game’s moved on. She knows now what it is to be put aside, left to shake down with another man: damned if she’ll be caught that way again. Dimber Ned must show a bit more spirit: he must join hands with her, pull her free, take her once more into his keeping.

  After the spotless elegance of Haddock’s, the casual filth of her street leaps to her eyes like spilt blood. She sees it all afresh, even the scar on the front door where there was once a brass knocker, long since twisted off. In the passage Liz-the-Moan has found herself a chair from somewhere and sits with it pushed up against the wall since the chair is missing a back leg. For a miracle she contrives to get up without oversetting the thing, but despite her eagerness to pour out the usual medley of tittle-tattle and complaint, Betsy-Ann won’t be held back and gives her a bare good-day before hurrying upstairs, eager to get a fire going.

  Unlocking her door, she finds the main room unoccupied but disarranged: a gown that she laid over a chair now lies crumpled upon the floor. With a tut of irritation she hurries to it and shakes it out. Here’s a nuisance! The bodice is blotched with dirty finger-marks as if fumbled by a coal-heaver – that won’t come off in a hurry. A faint sugary perfume hangs in the air. Turning to see what else has been soiled, she observes a heel of bread on the table next to a plate of cold beef, and on the other side of the plate, a jug. Ah, yes. She knows the smell now for spiced nantz and also perceives, lurking beneath it but growing stronger as she approaches, the sickening stink of that coat, which she at last spies thrown down between the table and the wall, seemingly flung off and left there. All this is the doing of Sam Shiner, once so particular that he would run his fingers along the shelves for dust.

  But why leave the meal untouched? Has he dropped into bed drunk? No: from where she stands she can see the bed. The bedchamber itself is scarcely more than a cupboard, its contents a bedstead and a box of clothing. Nevertheless, she cannot rest until she’s stepped inside and looked all round. He’s been home, but when? He’s been away so long, surely – her heart misgives her – he didn’t pick last night?

  The bedchamber, having gapped floorboards and no hearth of its own, is always cold. She closes the door to it. Still a draught from somewhere. Not the window frame; that was stuffed with rags long since. It’s blowing from the far corner – and now, for the first time since entering, she notices a faint line of shadow around the cupboard door where the Eye lies concealed.

  He’s been in there.

  She runs to it, fearing the worst, and with clumsy fingers searches through her baskets and boxes. She’s forgotten how many she had of each – this is what comes of neglect – but it seems to her he hasn’t taken anything. Or if he has, he’s been fly about it.

  At last she comes to the box containing the satin shoes. They lie snug within, white and innocent as butterbeans, her black pearl earrings pushed down into the toes. She’s about to replace the box lid when she sees something is wrong. Her shoes are lying the same way round, one treading on the other. Betsy-Ann always packs them the same way, soles outwards, so as not to soil the satin.

  So he took them out. For what? It comes to her that he might have started poking about the Eye long ago, or . . . more recently. Betsy-Ann shivers. Suppose he saw the coral fawney in this box, before she took to wearing it? Seeing a trinket in a box proves nothing, to be sure, but she recalls how curious he was. He seemed to have an inkling, even then. She pictures it: Sam comes in, finds her gone. He knows what’s in the boxes, and he remembers the fawney, so he looks to see if she’s taken the shoes with her. He turns them up in their usual place.

  Well, that’s all right. He could make nothing of that. And he’s no notion what they are to her. Has he? But when was he in here? Last night?

  Was he home last night?

  She closes the Eye, then stands listening a few seconds before turning her attention to the floorboard by the hearth. Snatching the knife from the table, she levers up one corner until she can distinguish a faint gleam beneath, then pushes the board down flush with the floor surrounding it. She wipes the knife and returns it to its place.

  What more? She’ll have to wait until Sam reappears, hear what he’s got to say for himself. In the meantime, she may as well make up the fire. Let’s warm ourselves at least. A quick stir with the poker reveals rubies among the ashes. When was that lit? She hurriedly criss-crosses pieces of kindling and tips a glistening mound of coal over them. The usual greyish-yellow fog bubbles up and blows off into the chimney and Betsy-Ann realises how cold she is. She can hardly wait for the brisk flames of the mature fire in place of this sulky, smoky beast.

  All at once her sleepless night comes over her. It’s too much trouble to get up again and go about her business; she sits back on her heels for a blessed minute or two, closing her eyes, and allows herself to doze. It is thus that Sam Shiner finds her kneeling before the hearth, her chin dropping on her chest.

  ‘Why, Betsy-Ann,’ he says, and she is at once awake and on her guard: something different in his voice.

  ‘I dozed off,’ she says, struggling upright. ‘Lucky I didn’t fall in the fire.’

  Sam’s hands are scrubbed and he’s steady on his feet. Is it possible that he’s sober? ‘I’ve been talking with Mrs Ward,’ he says. ‘She’ll give us the
rooms another year, same rent. But you, where’d you get to? You had me worried.’

  He is sober.

  ‘I can’t be forever shut up in here, Sammy.’

  ‘No more you can,’ he says, studying her. ‘By the look of you, you’re fairly worn out.’

  ‘I’ve been with Lina. The poor mort’s nothing but one big ache.’

  She’s expecting more questions but instead Sam crosses the room and embraces her. A flash of terror goes through Betsy-Ann: she’s breathing ratafia, she’s been smoked with beeswax, basted in Ned’s juice and sweat. And now she remembers the toilet table with its rose-scented cologne which she, stupid bitch, must go splashing in her hair. Her only hope is the dullness of Sam’s nose: were it any sharper, he’d hardly have lasted a week in resurrection.

  He says nothing, at any rate, but releases her and sits down opposite the meat and bread.

  ‘You’ve come at the right time,’ he says. ‘Fancy a morsel of beef?’

  Betsy-Ann seats herself beside him, catching an evil whiff from the nearby coat. Sam rises again to fetch the mustard pot from a shelf.

  ‘I don’t care for this bread. You have it.’

  ‘How finicky we’re getting,’ Betsy-Ann says. She takes a bite from the bread, which tastes no different from any other, and puts it down.

  ‘And a drop of nantz. You won’t see it again. I’m packing it in.’

  ‘Are you, Sammy? What’ll you drink?’

  ‘Beer.’ He shoves the plate towards her. ‘Here. There’s enough for two.’

  Does he suspect she’s been feeding elsewhere? She takes a mouthful of bread and beef and makes a show of enjoying it.

  ‘Your Englishman’s natural food, is beef,’ Sam observes between chews. ‘Unless he’s one with peculiar tastes.’

 

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