Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Are you a virgin?’ one asks. Baakira?

  She has heard the word once before when her grandmother refused to allow a neighbouring merchant to take Zena as his wife. Now she pretends not to understand. The man redirects the question to the guard.

  ‘That one can be whatever you want her to be,’ the man replies. ‘She is beautiful.’ He makes the word sound as if it is an insult.

  A boy next to her is ordered to open his mouth and another man, who has emerged from the throng, holds the tongue down with a stick so he can check the child’s teeth. If there was anything in the boy’s stomach he would vomit, but as it is he only makes a dry sound as if he is being strangled. His eyes dart in distress, but no one does anything. As the man moves towards Zena, she keeps her gaze averted. He pulls her head back and stares into her face but he does not use his stick to probe her mouth. He lingers though and she can feel his breath on her skin. Then, slowly, he lets go and walks carefully right around her.

  Not him. Zena has never prayed. It was not her grand-mother’s custom. However, the phrase runs through her head again and again, as if she is pleading with some greater being. Not him.

  A bell is rung though it can hardly be heard over the throng of voices. The man instantly retreats into the crowd. Zena raises her eyes just long enough to see that there are several finely dressed Arabs now turning away, who have looked but not come forward. Perhaps one of those. It occurs to Zena that her grandmother has endowed her with a sense of optimism. Even here and now, she feels optimistic. I will be all right, she tells herself, though she is batting off a cold shadow that is creeping from behind.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the auctioneer begins. ‘Today, fresh from Abyssinia, we have a selection of the finest. The absolute finest!’

  A scrawny girl is pushed forward into the sun beside the auctioneer’s podium. Her dress is badly torn, exposing the top of her legs. Her shoulders are slumped and one of the guards pokes her to make her stand up straight.

  ‘And for this little one!’ the auctioneer tries to whip up the crowd. ‘She’ll brush up well enough. A price beyond rubies perhaps?’

  Zena heaves in a breath, only glad that all eyes are now on the auctioneer and that momentarily she is not the focus of attention.

  ‘What am I bid? Twenty, sir? No, surely not? Come now. She is a little thin perhaps but is there not more? I beseech you. Ah, thirty. Thank you . . .’

  And the auction has begun.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lieutenant James Raymond Wellsted has not taken dinner at the captain’s table, but instead he remains on deck as the shimmering, marmalade sun disappears in a blaze into the vivid, blue sea and the stars rise. He has some dates and tack in his pocket and that will do him fine. The night sky in Arabia is breathtaking and little enough in Wellsted’s life has caused him to take in his breath in wonder, so he greatly appreciates the huge, low moon and the clarity of the studded constellations so close to the equator. Especially now, when so many of his fellows have died. Staring at the moon is the closest he allows himself to get to expressing sentiment. The last few days have been grim and Wellsted already misses each victim of the sickness – two of whom he has known for more than ten years for they were midshipmen together. The younger members of the crew have taken to asking his advice of late on matters of navigation and Wellsted has taken his mind and theirs off the death toll by playing the expert and showing them what they need to know to guide the Palinurus towards Suez, where the brig is set to rendezvous with Captain Moresby on the Benares and make an attempt to sound the very northern limit of the map.

  Wellsted wishes he had been stationed aboard Moresby’s vessel. Quite apart from the buckets of vomit and the delirium that has reigned of late aboard the Palinurus, conditions are cramped and that has made the atmosphere worse now that Haines has made known his objections to Wellsted’s manuscript. The captain appears to care more about Wellsted’s scribbles than he does about losing half his officers.

  Thirsty, the lieutenant makes his way to the galley and orders hot coffee. Aboard ship the coffee is not as good as ashore. He has watched the Arabs carefully as they grind the roasted beans and brew them over the campfire with a witch’s pocket of spices, but no matter how exactly he emulates their actions, right down to using a rough mat of palm fibre to strain the liquid of its grains, he never can make his concoction taste as good. Still, James Wellsted prefers even poor ship’s coffee to the liberal dose of alcohol the crew imbibe daily. The lieutenant likes his head to be clear. He likes Arabia too. He finds the language comes naturally, the flowing robes give a sense of freedom and the undiscovered nature of the land provides an unspoilt enticement.

  Back at the prow, he savours the dryness the coffee leaves in his mouth. Haines’ dinner is finishing and he can hear the midshipmen leaving the cabin, laughing and drunk as they make their way below deck to squeeze their tired bodies into closely packed hammocks. They are pleasant enough – gentlemen’s sons, all three of them, rich in family money and social advantages. Like Wellsted, they left home very young but unlike him they never saw the hideous poverty of the English streets (for it is easy, passing in a carriage to ignore it). Bombay with its skeletal beggars and stinking slums on open display shocked them, the pitiless harshness of Arabia is worse and the rampaging malaria over the last few days has reduced them to tears privately, though each has done his duty and masked his shock from the men. Still, the youngest, Henry Ormsby, has taken to drinking a good deal. He carries a hip flask of brandy inside his jacket. When he arrived on board he had to be warned about gambling. Pelham, one of the crew, a sardonic ne’er-do-well with few brains and fewer teeth, was caught dicing with the young gentleman and was deemed to have taken advantage of Ormsby’s youth and the ready supply of bright shillings from the youngster’s family allowance. The man was flogged for the offence. Unfairly, in Wellsted’s view. Ormsby had begged to be allowed to play and had gambled his money fair and square. If he had won he would have pocketed the winnings.

  Captain Haines, with his moral standard hoisted ever high, was scandalised, of course. Wellsted, however, was brought up in Marylebone with his grandfather, Thomas, at the helm. Thomas clawed his way up from a cottage with a dirt floor. He’d worked hard and taken every opportunity that God had given him, and some that were sent by the devil too. A truculent, unforgiving old man, his life’s purpose is to see to it that at least one of his grandchildren rises in society. He pushed his son into the upholstery business and then begged, borrowed and stole to make sure that his workshops were stocked with fabrics so fine that both staunch traditionalists and the avant-garde of the ton sent their business to the Wellsteds and paid, more or less, whatever Old Thomas chose to charge.

  ‘Where do you find these wonderful silks?’ the ladies breathe. ‘I have never seen any fabric so perfect in my whole life.’

  The wily old man says nothing – but it is not a complete coincidence that James’ younger brother, Edward, is apprenticed to the customs service the same year that James joined the Bombay Marine.

  When the Indian naval commission came up, Thomas spent almost the entire family savings on securing the pos ition for James.

  ‘He’s bright. He’ll go far. He’s our best chance,’ Thomas insisted.

  James’ parents were slack jawed. It was a fortune, but they complied. Iron of purpose, Thomas dominated the Wellsted household for years, marshalling the entire family behind his purpose: to rise. To this end he made sure that his grandchildren understood the poverty around them on the streets – the constant threat of sliding backwards, of having nothing at all. He’d show them the hoi polloi as if to say, ‘This is what’s possible’, you can belong in the salons of gentlemen customers, all fine damasks and mahogany finishes, with the fire stoked and the servants scrubbed, well fed and respectful, but you can fall too and fall far. As a result, James has seen ragged gin whores aplenty and a regular freak show of pestilence. In London decay simmers constantly, breaking through the surface
if only your eyes are peeled. The whole, crowded city is built on a barely contained plateau of shit – open sewers in the streets. Never far away, the Thames is a stinking, rancid, stagnant strip of thick slime, running through the centre of the city. Nothing can live in it.

  In such surroundings, people are cruel and even in the gentrified streets of Marylebone, women, children and animals are beaten till they cower by their husbands, fathers and masters. Worse, James’ grandmother died in the front room of number thirteen, of the pox. Blood gushed from her ears and her sphincter lay open permanently for two days as vitality (if you could call it that) seeped from every orifice. In the end, exhausted and ravaged, she begged to die. The boy was a mere eight or nine and, his eyes already open to the world, about to leave for his dearly bought commission.

  ‘Well now, James Raymond,’ his grandfather said, standing dry-eyed over his wife’s dead body. ‘The old lady will not live now to see you make the Wellsted fortune. We can go no higher, your father and I. It’s the education, you see. Whereas you, with all your letters, well, you can take us up. By hook or by crook, Jamie boy, whatever you have to do to win the prizes, for there will be prizes and no mistake. Make us proud.’

  An ant crawls over the old woman’s milky eye. She has been dead less than an hour.

  ‘Swear you’ll bring it home, James.’ The old man grips the youngster’s wrist and slams the child’s hand down on the corpse’s stiffening breast. ‘Swear to me on your grand-ma’s dead body that you’ll shine. You’ll make a gentleman no matter what. Steal it, plunder it, swindle it or earn it fair. It doesn’t matter to me. Swear on her broken body or go to hell yourself.’

  The harshness of Arabia does not shock James Wellsted one bit. He has few scruples about writing his memoirs. He has credited those he believes require credit – Chapman gave Wellsted use of his diaries before he died and he offered help when he was writing about geological specimens. Another officer advised on the Greek translation the lieutenant used. Wellsted will be damned if he’ll kiss Haines’ arse. He knows that the captain is not generally liked, and his objections to what Wellsted has done are questionable. He’d simply have liked to get his account in first. Well, damn the old man – it’s first past the post, the British way and the captain will simply have to lump it.

  Against the sound of the lapping waves, Wellsted does not hear Haines approaching in the darkness.

  ‘I could have you up on charges, Lieutenant, for refusing the captain’s orders. Dinner in my cabin, I said.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was an order, sir. I thought it more an invitation.’

  Haines makes a derisory grunt. His breath is sour. Wellsted can smell it keenly on the thick, evening air.

  ‘I’m so hurt,’ the captain mumbles, ‘that so many good men, who have now given their lives for the service . . . that you are stealing their credit. It is wickedness, Wellsted, not the act of a gentleman.’

  ‘I found what I found in Socotra,’ Wellsted replies evenly. ‘I simply noted down what I had done. I have named the others.’

  Haines snaps. ‘You were my assistant. An assistant, that is all.’

  Wellsted does not rise to the bait. They have had this argument before and Wellsted can put his hand on his heart and say that the majority of what he claimed in his memoir is his own work. He’ll find his way, by hook or by crook and it will be a better memorial of the men who’ve died than Haines’ interminable snivelling.

  The captain, still outraged, waits a few moments but Wellsted only stares silently towards the inky outline of the shore.

  ‘You were right not to come to my cabin tonight, I suppose,’ Haines continues in a vicious tone. ‘It is a good idea for you to eat alone. It will give you time to think – to consider. Shall we say for the rest of the tour, Lieutenant Wellsted?’

  James knows the man is insulting him. For any officer to be banned from the captain’s table is a dreadful blow. Certainly, the gossip of such disciplinary action will animate the crew for days and when they make port it will be wondered at all over the service. Captain Haines has the outer appearance of bluff liberality, but those who work with him know well enough that he is dogged in his thinking and takes a dislike often to individual members of the crew with little reason. For James, banishment from Haines’ cabin is little skin off his nose, in the long run. The worst the captain can do is work him hard and neglect him a little and he’s survived worse than that. Also, as things stand on board, Wellsted is the only senior officer, which puts Haines over a barrel. The midshipmen are green as gooseberries in a lush, English summer and the captain needs the lieutenant to continue the survey. If Haines hoped that Wellsted would baulk at social disgrace, he is disappointed.

  ‘As you wish, sir. I shall dine alone.’

  The captain brushes his palms together as if he is cleaning them. ‘Well then, carry on, Wellsted. Keep the watch, will you?’

  For hours there is nothing on the sound but the endless, penetrating blackness relieved by the low, whirling brightness of the stars. If you stare at them long enough they send your head spinning. The temperature has plummeted so that the night is merely pleasantly warm after the searing intensity of the day’s sunshine and Wellsted keeps watch comfortably without his jacket. By the light of a candle that is magnified only slightly by a brass ship’s lamp, he writes home to Molyneux Street. Neither his father nor his grandfather can read but he knows his younger siblings, infants when he left, will have learnt, as he did in his time, and will relay the household correspondence to the older generations. ‘Once a person can read,’ Old Thomas said so solemnly that he could have been quoting from the Bible, ‘a person can be employed to hold office, a person can marry above his station, a person can execute wills.’ All the young Wellsteds are literate, even the girls. James’ letters home are relayed, like most Arabian traffic, via Bombay and take weeks to arrive. Still, he writes regularly, never hoping for a single word coming in the other direction, for it is not the Wellsted way.

  An hour or so before dawn, he smells the day’s cornbread baking in the galley and his appetite is sharpened. He wonders briefly if the last supply of bitter water they managed to obtain further down the strait is responsible for the fact the coffee on board is so substandard. The water is difficult to stomach without mixing it with something, and the men have been taking it with sheep’s milk. Perhaps that is the key. His mouth is watering now and his stomach grumbles – he knows there is some cheese left – hard and mostly rind, but he has a yearning for it nonetheless. He is about to make his way to the galley when Ormsby reports to take over Wellsted’s duties and allow the lieutenant a few hours of sleep before the day’s survey gets properly underway.

  ‘Morning.’ The lad stretches and reaches inside his jacket for his flask. He offers it, but James declines. Then, shrugging his shoulders, Ormsby takes a draught and smacks his lips as the liquor hits his bloodstream.

  ‘Will you break your fast with me?’ James offers.

  Ormsby nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ he says.

  ‘Good. We can fetch it from the galley and eat here. We’ll see the sun come up. Then I must sleep, I think.’

  ‘This weather’s quite the thing for a picnic. It feels almost fresh this morning,’ Ormsby smiles.

  ‘Give it an hour or two!’

  Ormsby’s eyes fall to the small bottle of dark ink and the roughly made quill his superior officer has been using. His pupils shrink and he feels uncomfortable. Wellsted has been writing again. This is what has caused all the trouble and he is hoping that there will be no more. The captain has been moody for weeks on end and has taken it out on everybody.

  ‘I’m writing home, you idiot,’ the lieutenant says fondly. ‘My grandfather likes to keep up. He’s an invalid these days. I send a letter now and then – to keep the old boy going.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ormsby nods, though he can hardly really understand. His grandfather, after all, is a committed Christian, a Conservative and the brother of a duke, who scarcely if
ever leaves his well-run and comfortable estate in Gloucestershire and would be horrified had he seen even half of what James took as read during his Marylebone childhood. The most the old man hopes from his grandsons is that they will be good eggs.

  ‘Yes. My family likes the odd letter too,’ Ormsby says. ‘They are awfully fond of news. I should really write to them more.’

  He wonders if he might see some interesting fish today – the coral reefs are teeming with brightly coloured, odd-looking marine life and Ormsby has been sketching what he sees. It keeps him amused and he is hoping, if he can learn to swim, that he will be able to make a comprehensive study of the shoals of strange creatures, for as his grandfather says, the Lord’s design is in everything.

  ‘Come on,’ says Wellsted. ‘There is the last of the cheese left. We can toast it on top of the oven.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The very same day that Zena is auctioned off, on the kind of brisk but sunny English summer morning of which men in the desert can only dream, at his cousin’s substantial, terraced, stucco mansion on Cadogan Place, William Wilberforce, a man of principle and a social pioneer, receives the news that the Bill for the Abolition of Slavery is set to pass the Commons. He celebrates by catching influenza and three days later he is dead. It is decided to bury the old man’s body in Westminster Abbey, close to his venerable friend, William Pitt. He is, after all, one of Britannia’s own – a national treasure. The funeral is an enormous event. Both Houses of Parliament suspend their business for the duration as a mark of respect, and most members actually attend the obsequies personally. All over the British Isles toasts to the new, enlightened age are drunk by Whigs and Tories alike and Wilberforce is universally mourned from the public house to the pulpit and back again. His obituary is read aloud at a hundred thousand breakfast tables. In Wilberforce’s home town of Hull private subscriptions flood in to erect a monument one hundred feet high to his memory. Ladies across the country pray for the great man’s eternal soul, dab handkerchiefs to fresh tears and furiously cross-stitch samplers of the better-known liberal maxims concerning slavery including the famous Am I Not A Man And Your Brother? Immediately there is earnest talk of Wilberforce’s beatification, despite his personal commitment to the cause of Evangelical Anglicanism and lifelong antagonism to the Papacy. Mild-mannered, staunchly Protestant ladies in the Home Counties are heard to say, ‘Still, dear Mr Wilberforce was a saint. He was, wasn’t he?’