On Starlit Seas

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On Starlit Seas Page 5

by Sara Sheridan


  Maria shook her head.

  ‘It’s safe, or safe enough – it declared for the Emperor early and it’s out of the general run of the fighting. All shipping has been curtailed, but you should more easily pick up passage from there to England. If nothing else, you will certainly find a berth to North America, where you can change vessels. It should keep you out of trouble.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maria smiled. ‘I’m not afraid of a spat, Lord Cochrane.’

  Cochrane tapped the chart, pleased he’d found some kind of a solution. ‘Quite,’ he said.

  Her delight seemed to brighten the candlelight. The admiral smiled. When Maria had first married Thomas Graham, the young captain had been impressed by his wife’s mettle. He said she was as tough a woman as he had ever met and that was probably true. He had hoped to have sons, Cochrane expected. There was something indomitable about Maria – like Britannia. He’d heard that she kept her head during a Chilean earthquake the year before when men of greater age and experience had panicked. Afterwards she was discovered calmly taking notes, recording the way the land had risen, for publication, she said. ‘We do not know nearly enough about these phenomena. And there is only one way to learn,’ she had snapped, as her would-be rescuers attempted to remove her from the aftershocks.

  ‘You women! Lady writers.’ The admiral refilled his glass. ‘Do you never think it would be easier to travel somewhere there isn’t either a war or a hurricane? With a maid?’

  Maria laughed. She was relaxed now she had found her route. ‘I do not relish help, Lord Cochrane, either in my toilette or in my travels. But I’m glad of your offer. Natal will do very well, thank you.’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  The admiral blushed. He rolled up the chart and took a long sip of wine. ‘This is not to be part of your scribblings, dear lady. Please, for the sake of posterity, leave without my interference. By rights I should not be accommodating you. It will be our secret.’ Cochrane returned to his seat. ‘You have gone quite Brazilian,’ he declared.

  ‘Well, I shall miss the excellent coffee.’ Maria grinned. ‘I have become an aficionado. Do you imagine they might serve me in London’s coffee houses when I get home?’

  His Lordship hooted. This was what made Maria such sterling company. ‘Next you’ll be attempting to trade in stocks, madam, or take a seat at Westminster,’ the admiral said indulgently.

  Maria would support such advances, but she knew he was joking. ‘I’m looking forward to riding in the park under the trees and, oddly, to an English pudding, boiled in a cloth and eaten with a spoon,’ she said.

  Cochrane’s eyes stopped dancing. ‘Yes. Of course,’ he said, suddenly serious. The admiral missed England but he wouldn’t admit it.

  Maria bit her lip. She had not meant to sadden him. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas,’ she started, but Cochrane lifted his hand.

  ‘I’d love that too,’ he said. He pulled himself up. ‘Well, we shall only have you for a few more days. Kitty and the children will be sad to see you go, my dear.’

  ‘Only a few days?’

  ‘Indeed. The surgeon assures me that the men who are going to die will have done so by the end of the week. I’m replacing their numbers with slaves – letting them work off their price. Along with their freedom, they shall have the first wages of their lives, and we shall be at full capacity. I’ve never had such eager conscripts, though now we must train them.’

  ‘That must be why the men are calling you Papa Cochrane.’

  ‘Are they?’ Cochrane blanched, genuinely discomfited by the news. ‘Good heavens, Kitty will be appalled. And you must promise me, Maria, not to do anything foolish. Rio Grande do Norte is the best I can manage – you must make your way carefully from there.’

  Mrs Graham put out her hand and they shook upon it.

  When Lord Cochrane called for Angelino, the footman came promptly. The admiral comforted himself that the quality of serving staff in Brazil was marvellous.

  ‘Bring Mrs Graham a night light,’ he instructed. ‘I’ve work to do and she needs to get to bed.’

  ‘Night night, Papa Cochrane,’ Maria teased.

  Walking along the corridor, Mrs Graham resolved to sit up late, watching the pan-tiled roofs of Recife against the mackerel sky. She was bound to miss the sky south of the equator when she made it home, but at least here was a night or two when she could curl up comfortably beside the window and enjoy it.

  Angelino held open the bedroom door and lit the candles inside. A strange fellow: he kept peering at her. She dismissed him. ‘That will be all.’

  She must be careful. The Cochranes were people to whom she could admit her weaknesses, but respect for a lady was too easily lost. You could be yourself up a mountain or even in the jungle, but when you reached civilisation a lady was expected to simper and take the long route. Maria never could stand it for long.

  5

  Natal

  Will Simmons tracked down Dourado the next day. As Henderson had advised, once away from the docks Will obtained directions to the merchant’s house easily. Natal was a town of faded grandeur. The sun was still on the east side of noon and the day’s heat was building in intensity. The air smelled so pervasively of baking that there was no telling from where it emanated. A small group of barefoot boys played half-heartedly with a rubber ball in the dust, staring with eyes as hard as diamonds. A baby cried from inside what appeared to be an abandoned building with boarded windows. Off the marketplace, broken-down carts strapped to thin mules ferried baskets of vegetables to the market square.

  Not far on, Simmons stopped. He caught his breath before he knocked on the door of the tall, ornate building with shabby orange shutters. In England the home of a prosperous merchant would be crisp in appearance, everything shipshape, but here it was nebulous, the pale-pink stucco so muted that from a distance you might think the whole structure was a dream. It felt as if it were crumbling before his eyes, the paint peeling in long strips and the brasses mottled. Simmons was shown inside by a butler who opened the door as if startled that there was a visitor. Dressed in a gaudy brocade jacket, the man had skin as dark as a roasted coffee bean. Silently, he showed Simmons through the shady hallway. After the walk uphill, the cool of the house was a relief. Dourado sat in his study, resplendent on a red leather chair dotted with studs. A plump merchant in the middle years of life, he was evidently delighted by Simmons’s arrival. Once their business was transacted, he invited Will to stay for port and biscuits.

  Port had become a potent political symbol in Brazil, and Dourado refused to sell the supplies in his warehouse, aware that it might mark him as an unpatriotic recidivist. He was canny, for as the Brazilians claimed the land and the Portuguese drew back, men were hung for far less than a Portuguese taste in liquor. Still, it seemed a terrible shame to let the vintage casks go to waste, so Dourado marked them for his personal use and he was stolidly drinking his way through the entire stock. Simmons – English, newly arrived and therefore unoffended by the provenance of the proffered drink – was an unexpected connoisseur. He lapped up the ruby nectar, showing appreciation not only for the port itself but also admiring Dourado’s antique glasses with barley-sugar stems, of which the older man was particularly proud.

  Dourado refilled the glasses and decisively snapped a biscuit in two, causing his long lace cuffs to ripple. It was pleasant to have fresh company. Of late, Natal had come to a halt culturally. Even the opera house had lain empty for months. Nonetheless the town continued a hub for timber, rum, salt, tobacco, sugar and cacao beans – treasures from the plantations inland and the booty of the jungle, which sprawled to the south like a vast emerald pool into which Senhor Dourado and his like dipped occasionally for their profit, if not their pleasure. It was for reasons of profit that Dourado tarried in the slow, sleepy provinces rather than move south to the court. For the most part he was happy with his decision. Still, sometimes the company palled and he longed for Natal’s happier days, before the war had broken out, when the
re had been a different concert every evening and an opera at the weekend.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said.

  Will shrugged. ‘There was a problem with the last shipment. The captain proved unreliable. From now on you’ll be dealing with me, if that’s all right, sir? And if it turns out well, we may scale up. The gentlemen will be in touch.’

  Dourado nodded. The Bridge Club, or as he knew them, os ingleses – the Englishmen – had been excellent customers for over ten years. They had sought him out, recommended by an acquaintance long since passed on. Dourado had no names or addresses for his London-based clients, but they paid in advance – a rarity in an untrusting world – and despite occasional changes to their timetable, os ingleses had proved largely reliable. For this, he afforded them a good price and regular service. The boy seemed fresh, unlike many of the captains who had arrived to pick up the biannual parcel. ‘Will you stay for luncheon, Senhor Simmons?’

  Simmons looked momentarily tempted but shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. Natal had already supplied him amply this morning with hot doughnuts fried at the dock. Besides, he had another meeting. Henderson had promised to secure the boy a cargo of cacao beans on commission. Will had thought to buy the beans from Dourado at first, but Henderson swore he would find it cheaper and, after all, the more money Will made, the more he would keep. Dourado might supply the Old Street Bridge Club with their precious parcel, but they had left no instructions as to where Will was to procure the rest.

  ‘I have to get back to the harbour,’ he said dutifully. ‘I’m sampling cacao.’

  Dourado considered this. The old merchant’s eyes were reptilian. One hand balanced on his belly, obscured by the frill of his cuff, while he sipped his drink with the other.

  ‘I can supply you,’ he offered with a slow, deliberate blink. ‘You need only ask. My warehouse has a plentiful stock. Rum. Cacao. Sugar. Salt. Whatever you need.’

  Simmons shook his head. ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’ll come back to you, if I may?’

  It was most unlikely that Dourado would be able to match Henderson’s deal. It transpired that the captain could source beans directly from the mountain farms. Henderson had agreed a flat fee for this service and hadn’t been greedy, which boded well for negotiating the passage. Simmons would stick with that. It was clear the captain was an enthusiast. ‘Occasionally they even send a bag or two of wild beans,’ he had said, his eyes gleaming, for wild chocolate was a particular prize.

  ‘Perhaps, with your permission, I might stay to dine on my next visit?’ Simmons said courteously, turning to Senor Dourado and laying his empty glass on an inlaid side table. ‘I shall no doubt be back in Natal later in the year and on that occasion I hope to remain longer. It would be a pleasure to break bread with you, sir.’

  The merchant gave a mannered nod. His thin tongue flicked across his lips. He could wait. In fact, he’d enjoy it.

  Will carefully stowed the block of chocolate in a long leather bag on his belt. In the heat, he had abandoned his English jacket with its useful pockets. ‘It will not spoil?’ he asked.

  Dourado shook his head and showed not the slightest surprise. If the Englishmen chose not to tell their couriers the nature of the goods, which were frankly unspoilable, then he would not betray their confidence.

  ‘No,’ he promised, reaching out a cool hand and grasping Will’s firmly. ‘It is very . . . dense. I look forward, Mr Simmons, to seeing you again.’

  *

  Back on the quay, Captain Henderson had repaired to a bar. He dragged one of the chairs outside, where he could take advantage of the pleasant breeze off the ocean, and called for rum and a plate of fruit. The local custom was to siesta over the hottest part of the day, but since he’d arrived in Brazil as a child Henderson had never held with that. Instead he preferred a leisurely lunch and the opportunity to read. Now taking off his hat, he pulled his dark hair back from his face and settled to his meal. The mango was ripe, the fragrance mouth-wateringly sweet. On the dock, he watched a group of barefoot fishermen working in the sun repairing a jangada’s sails. One of them was playing a drum, setting a rhythm reminiscent of the slave ships, upon which, no doubt, some of them had made their voyage to Brazil. The sail was white with mottled golden markings, faded by the sun. They’ll quit soon, Henderson thought, settling in his chair. Perhaps Will might be back by then.

  The captain liked the new arrival. The crew of the Bittersweet were a hand-to-mouth bunch with predictable rough pleasures, but Simmons had a real passion for travel. The Englishmen had stayed up late talking as the beeswax candles burned low and the cabin became scented with warm honey and spirits. As they talked, Henderson had been transfixed by the idea of a return to England. An excuse to go home and see what was there. Now the captain adeptly sliced the fruit on his plate and, with the busy dock moving behind him and the drumbeat measuring his thoughts, he wondered if London was the same as when he’d left. He slipped a slick morsel into his mouth and downed a shot of rum. He had not been home for more than ten years: in fact, now he came to count, it was nearer twenty.

  The place still had a vague hold on him. He found the country of his birth difficult to remember with exactitude. If he tried, the small house near Covent Garden where he had resided swung into his mind’s eye, a jagged array of half-recalled snippets in a cloud of confusion. The place had smelled of lavender and thyme, which fragranced the smooth satinwood drawers and the heavy damask pillows. He had been young then – a whippersnapper devoted to his mother. Afternoons, as the rain trickled down the window, he’d sneak into the kitchen for hot bread and a slice of cheese eaten with a glass of milk and a slug of brandy. Every morning a tutor gave him lessons in languages and mathematics, history and fine art. Once a week a dancing master arrived and the dining room was cleared so he could learn Scotch reels. Then in the evenings he’d read aloud by the fire as his mother wrote her journal. Mrs Henderson was an enthusiast who noted everything.

  Henderson wondered if the house might still be there and, if so, who might live in it. Was it still a place of leather-bound books and butter toffees? Were the shops in Covent Garden as grand? Had the buildings on the fringes of Soho been completed? A pang stung his chest. He had not thought of the place for years. He was a man now – a captain and very far away.

  When his mother died, it had been James who organised the burial despite his tender age. The family’s solicitor wrote to the boy’s father. Then the sole occupant of the house, or at least its sole master, the youngster, waited. The staff continued to do his bidding. The tutor arrived every morning. The dancing master came once a week. Money was released to cover the accounts. Apart from the absence of Mama, nothing changed.

  ‘We must be patient, James,’ the solicitor said when the boy visited him in his offices on Broad Street.

  Yet while the tardy reply surely made not one jot of difference to the solicitor, James could not be patient. To him, his father’s instructions meant everything, for the rest of his life hinged on them, and the truth was that he had no idea what might transpire. He remembered sitting, the clock ticking loudly in the drawing room, waiting to know. Waiting, in fact, to have something to do. Anything. Even just to eat dinner. One day he walked to the British Museum with his tutor. Thereafter he resolved to take a constitutional promenade every morning. He toured the park, fed the ducks and stared at the horses. Once he even flirted with a maid, carrying the girl’s shopping basket to a house off Soho Square, not far from his own.

  In time, his father sent instructions that the boy was to come to Brazil. The letter weighed heavily in James Henderson’s young hands. He read it three times and sank onto the bottom step in the hallway. He had no idea how far Brazil was. He was only twelve years of age, and though he had the measure of a hundred yards or even a mile or two, five thousand miles was incomprehensible. However, still a child, he did as he was bid, leaving the solicitor to close up the household and forward the last of the family’s English affairs while h
e took passage. A child travelling alone, he was older than the youngest of the crew, and set out in style, quite the gentleman. He carried with him a map of Brazil that he had found in a periodical. He studied the picture nightly.

  ‘I’m looking forward to life in the colonies,’ he remembered saying, envisioning a traditional plantation house, an abundance of household servants and a stable of horses, if not the searing heat and humidity, which came as a shock.

  His family was respectable. His father owned a small plantation. Or at least that was what his mother had always believed. For all her reading, she had been naive and, worse, she had endowed her only son with the same malady. Even now, years later, he did not like to think of the disappointment that greeted him when he had disembarked.

  Henderson poured another drink and tried not to brood. He was too old to go through all that again. He passed a hand over his rough chin and turned his attention to a fracas that was building at the quay. Something was going on. The dockside was as busy as ever, but people were showing no sign of quitting their employment for the slow afternoon hour or two that went with the sun. In fact, quite the reverse. Such a crowd was gathering that it blocked his view of the horizon.

  Henderson craned, but he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. The fishermen stood on tiptoes beside their raft, the drum abandoned and the patchy golden sail crumpled over the mast. Several self-important officials bustled out of their offices and a couple of messengers were sent into town to alert anyone well connected who might have an interest. Something was about to transpire.

  Henderson stood up to check the Bittersweet. It seemed unaffected. The serving girl came with more rum in a pottery jug. ‘You’ve got a nice face.’ She winked brazenly.

  Henderson smiled. Women liked it when he didn’t shave. They liked a real man – grizzled but with the manners of a gentleman, or what they thought was a gentleman. Then he caught sight of the cause of the stir and he discounted any notion of an indulgent afternoon dallying upstairs. He nudged the girl to one side. ‘Bring me coffee,’ he said.

 

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