On Starlit Seas

by Sara Sheridan

  Standing up, he made out a ship in his line of vision, sailing towards the harbour. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ he breathed, for within a few hundred yards of the dock there was a frigate with both the British and Brazilian flags hoisted. Henderson pondered what that might mean. So far there had been no trouble at Natal and certainly no battleships this far north under any flag. No wonder the crowds were gathering.

  The girl shrugged and shimmied back to the bar as the captain finished the last of his rum without taking his pale eyes off the incoming vessel. Was the war set to come this far north?

  The British ship docked smartly, the familiar naval whistles prompting the crew like clockwork. A smooth-cheeked junior officer was dispatched ashore to settle the papers. The crowd obstructed the boy’s progress and fired questions at him in Portuguese as he pushed his way through. His crewmates tarried on deck and appeared to feel no need to enquire about the crowd’s intent or indeed communicate with them. It was very English. Henderson liked the coolness of it. Usually the stallholders would be plying their wares over the side, but everyone wanted to know what the ship was doing before trying to make a profit. Henderson strained to see as the ship’s captain moved to greet a lady emerging from his cabin.

  Henderson straightened. This was a strange development. Usually the presence of a woman wouldn’t trouble him. Henderson was used to female attention. He was tall, strong, well dressed and capable, to say nothing of the fact that, while he wasn’t rich, he certainly had money. The captain made no bones about it. He took female attention when he wanted it and ignored it when he didn’t. But something about the woman on the British vessel caught his eye. The lady was immediately intriguing though, he had to admit, it couldn’t have been her looks that caught his attention. Respectably dressed in a clean, well-made grey outfit, her dark-brown hair was smoothed into a tidy bun under a demure hat. She was in her thirties, petite and pale-skinned – nothing extraordinary, but nonetheless Henderson couldn’t take his eyes off her. What was remarkable, it dawned on him, was her absolute lack of adornment. Women of all classes in the Brazils moved in a veritable swathe of flowers, wrapped themselves in brightly coloured shawls and cut back their clothes to show enticing strips of flesh, which, in most cases, was available for hire and, occasionally, to purchase outright. Apart from elderly widows, females here decorated themselves with diamanté, polished turquoise, dyed feathers, ribbons, amber beads and pearls. Respectable or not, they shimmered all day and all night. Not this one. Even in the bright sunshine, she was so buttoned up that she might as well have been in uniform. Her cheeks were not rouged and her hair sported no oil. He couldn’t see as much as a sliver of gold and not a single ribbon. What on earth was she doing here? In a single smooth movement she stretched like a long grey cat and twisted her wrists. Then she gave the naval captain a thin smile and tidied herself primly, as if that were needed. Finally, she raised a dark parasol. In all, if Henderson was honest, he found the woman’s presence more perturbing than the warship.

  When his coffee arrived, Henderson allowed the bitterness to sharpen his mind without taking his eyes off the deck. The woman had the deportment of a ballet dancer. She was moving towards the gangplank, her parasol casting an elegant shadow.

  The crowd on the dock shifted as the British captain descended with the woman behind him. In their wake, two sailors carried a brown leather trunk and three smaller bags. They pushed through the gathering. As one man asked a question in Portuguese, the captain, his hand on his sword, answered staunchly that he was only seeing this lady safely settled then he would be on his way. The crowd continued to bark their concerns. It must be intimidating, Henderson thought, but the woman showed no sign of being cowed as the Brazilians fired questions like unrelenting cannon. What was happening at sea? What was the news? Without slowing, the captain calmly answered these enquiries. The rebels were routed in Recife and almost all of Bahia had fallen, though not yet Maranham. The ship would leave immediately.

  ‘We have no orders for Natal,’ he said.

  The relief was palpable along the dock and the news spread. The crush loosened. Several men peeled off into the bars. A woman let out a yawn and headed, no doubt, for a thin mattress in a shuttered dockside room. One or two people took off towards town to spread the tidings. Bahia has fallen. The ship is leaving. It has no business here.

  With the mystery of the frigate’s appearance solved, slowly the crowd backed off. A line of port officials shrugged and, slapping each other on the back, headed to the taberna for lunch. Vendors started to sell beads, cotton, knives and bananas to the crew. Three women dressed in lavishly ruffled red skirts flirted over the side and money changed hands. The captains of two or three vessels bought drinks from a stall and toasted each other. The fisherman by the jangada went back to the beat of his drum.

  Meanwhile, the English officer and his grey lady strode towards in Henderson’s direction, towards town. The woman’s demeanour was impeccable, undisturbed except by one youngster who, transfixed by the captain’s naval uniform, was running ahead, squeaking intermittently with excitement. This appeared to amuse her. Henderson saw a smirk flicker across her face. He laid a coin on the table to pay and, without really knowing why, stepped into the street as the English party passed.

  ‘Might I be of assistance?’ He doffed his hat. ‘I know Natal and I’d happily help.’

  They were striding at what could only be described as a military pace. The lady shook her head curtly. The English captain barked, ‘Move along now, sir,’ and strode faster. The woman kept up with him without turning a hair. Her eyes betrayed no shock at the sights of the quay as they unfolded – not the sweating deckhands, the prostitutes crowding the ship, the hubbub of stalls, including one where three slaves were for sale, their ankles manacled. She might as well have been walking through a country garden as she moved inexorably away from the water.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘We’re fine, thank you, sir,’ the English captain insisted. ‘Please get out of the way.’

  Henderson stopped, still-eyed, and stepped to the side. He was not a fellow who was generally dismissed. He considered following the officer and the lady as they turned towards town, but he thought better of it. The woman, he noted, was wearing a haunting orchid scent. It hung in the air, fresh among the fetid sweetness of the dockside. The atmosphere around her seemed cooler because of it. And he realised, though the captain was clearly not her husband, the woman was wearing something gold after all – a wedding ring. The disappointment that turned his stomach surprised him. He was a practical man, or at least he had been since he arrived in Brazil. Once he realised he was not the son of a respectable plantation owner, his expectations were quickly doused. His father put him to work running spirits north and sugar south (for that was how he had started) and ever since there had been no room in his life for dreams or fancy. He made excellent money. He had an education. He ran a tight ship. What more might he aspire to? Now this dowdy Englishwoman caught his imagination and for the life of him he couldn’t understand why.

  He stared after her as she disappeared around the corner like a shadow, the sailors struggling with her cases. A grin spread across Henderson’s face as he strolled back to his chair to wait for Simmons.

  ‘I wonder what your name is?’ he said under his breath.

  ‘Senhor?’ the waitress asked.

  ‘Rum. More rum.’

  Perhaps it had simply been too long since he’d seen an Englishwoman.

  *

  The British ship set sail within two hours and the woman did not reappear on the dock to wave it off. Henderson was glad when Simmons arrived to distract him, and the two men drank, waiting for the samples of cacao to arrive. Time in the colonies was an elastic matter. Henderson didn’t carry a timepiece. There was no point. Matters transpired at their own pace. In the shade, sheltered from the heat dripping like flame from the sky, several street children slept with a pack of mongrel dogs they had
adopted.

  ‘You missed it.’ Henderson grinned. ‘There was a frigate done up to the nines. Fifth class. She dropped into port and didn’t even fully resupply.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t attack here?’ Will asked.

  Henderson shook his head. ‘I can’t see it. It’s the state capital all right, but it’s not nearly as strategically important as other towns on the coast. Besides, it was a royalist ship – Brazilian, not Portuguese – and Natal’s Brazilian through and through. That’s just the feeling up here.’

  Will gulped his beer. Even warm, it was refreshing. ‘It doesn’t feel like a capital,’ he said. ‘I’d say it’s more like a market town. In the provinces. Hereford. Somewhere like that.’

  Henderson shrugged. He had never been to Hereford. What he knew was that Natal was always relaxed, like a loyal old retainer left in charge of a stately home, taking off his shoes, cooling his feet in His Lordship’s fountain and enjoying the cellar. The architecture of the town was quite fine. The atmosphere was easy. There had been no fighting. ‘All the action has been around Recife and Bahia. The court is further south – it’s safe there.’

  The revolution held allure. When the war started the captain had thought of presenting himself to Cochrane as a gentleman volunteer but, though he could sail, he had no military experience. Besides, however competent on the water, he doubted a smuggler and for that matter the son of a smuggler would be welcome at His Lordship’s cabinet.

  In time, the shadows lengthened and work resumed on the dock. A while after the clock tower struck five, a thin farmer emerged from the crowd wearing loose, homespun trousers and a dark-brown shirt that blended with his skin so exactly that the two were almost indistinguishable. As he leaned in to shake hands, Will caught a whiff of woodsmoke and beans. The man was clearly delighted to see Henderson. He clapped the captain on the back and bowed very low, his limbs like sticks and his black eyes small as pinheads and just as sharp.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need to rush,’ the captain assured him.

  ‘Here?’ he asked.

  Henderson nodded. ‘Just set up to one side.’ He handed the farmer a drink.

  The man downed the shot. Then he unpacked two small sacks of roasted beans, a pestle and mortar, and a chocolate pot for heating the drink. He set up his equipment on the cobbled quay, chattering in swift Portuguese, which Henderson intermittently translated as he lounged on the inn’s veranda in a ragged patch of shade. The farmer set a fire in a small circle of stones. It was an intriguing ritual and the rhythm lulled any worries Simmons had about his lack of knowledge. In no time the chocolate paste was transferred into the whisking pot with a slug of hot water. The aroma that rose was extraordinary.

  ‘Have you ever had it fresh?’ Henderson asked.

  Simmons shook his head. On board, the ship’s cook had used block chocolate. This smelled different – strong, almost like coffee. The farmer tipped in raw sugar and added chilli powder from a flacon in his pocket. Then he poured.

  Simmons coughed as the scent of chilli caught in his throat, but when he tasted it, it was like the chocolate melted into him. The boy could swear his senses were enhanced. He could see more clearly. Somewhere along the dock someone was playing a pipe. The music crept closer. Will felt his pulse race as if he might float to the sand dunes beyond the last jetty. Somehow the chocolate in his mouth had disappeared.

  The native’s tiny eyes sparkled. He laughed, revealing the even yellow teeth of a skeleton. Then the farmer held up a finger and proceeded to the next bag of beans.

  Henderson said, ‘That one was the cheaper of the two.’

  Will tried to focus.

  The captain continued smoothly. ‘I don’t remember chocolate being drunk widely at home. In fact, I don’t remember it at all. I was young when I left.’

  ‘New manufactories are on the rise,’ Will garbled, the ideas coming together in his mind. ‘They make a powder that is cheaper than the slabs. I haven’t tried it.’

  ‘What brought you, Mr Simmons, to the idea of importing the stuff?’

  Simmons halted. He had no intention of telling Henderson about the activities of the Old Street Bridge Club, but he had never thought to concoct a story that would make sense without them.

  ‘Why should the toffs have it all?’ he stumbled. ‘I’m a businessman.’ He ran his finger along the inside of the cup to pick up the remains of the chilli chocolate. ‘All men should have cacao. And women too. It’s on the rise and this stuff is delicious.’ He blushed. ‘Isn’t it delicious?’

  Henderson stopped. The boy was lying or at least concealing something. The only reason to continue after Trinidad, if chocolate was your game, was for the quality and Simmons had never tasted such fine chocolate before. So what was the boy doing here and why was he trying not to reveal it?

  ‘Most enterprising.’ Henderson let it pass.

  Will smiled. ‘I shall make more money from this than from what I was doing before.’

  At least that was said with conviction.

  The next beans were darker, but that meant little when it came to flavour. Simmons peered into the pot as if he were considering the world’s mysteries while the farmer whisked so vigorously he must be surely be hurting his arm.

  Would I run something of which I had no knowledge? the captain wondered.

  He never had. It was the first principle his father had instilled. Still, Simmons was offering an excellent rate at no financial risk. Henderson was set to profit more than he would running the same cargo up the western seaboard to the burgeoning ports of Boston and New York. Perhaps, he mused, it was simply time to return to England. It would be interesting to see the place with adult eyes. He remembered little of London – only tiny details that intrigued him. Perhaps something of his old life lingered. To know it as he knew Rio or Washington or New York suddenly appealed. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of returning before.

  The farmer held out the second sample.

  Simmons sipped. ‘Oh, I like this one.’

  The man nodded, as if concurring that the boy had made an excellent decision. Then he barked some figures. Henderson cut in, speaking so swiftly that it was impossible to pick out individual words. The men argued solidly for the best part of five minutes, with the farmer looking as if he had been hit in the stomach and an expression on Henderson’s face as if the man had uttered some dreadful obscenity. In the end they shook hands.

  ‘Some of both. Sixty/forty,’ Henderson announced, the deal done.

  Simmons looked contented. He was enjoying himself so much that he no longer cared about making money. The coin he was spending wasn’t his anyway. He was sure Henderson had driven a good-enough bargain. He picked up the pewter cup and licked it. There was something about drinking this thick liquor in the heat that made him feel languorous.

  ‘And some wild beans?’ The boy fancied himself a connoisseur.

  Henderson entered into a fast-paced discussion that resulted in his hand being shaken.

  ‘How long till we leave?’ Simmons enquired.

  Henderson thought he detected a crestfallen shadow pass across the boy’s face when he assured him that with luck they could set sail in two days, maybe three. Then, the deal done, the men ordered rum.

  ‘To London,’ Henderson toasted, and Will clicked his tankard as they settled contentedly to watch the sun sink below the horizon and the nightly promenade along the balmy dock of vagabonds, freshly arrived sailors and whores. The smell of roasting meat rose from the street stalls in a sizzle and a fiddle player begged for coin as he rasped a haunting melody. Life could not be more perfect.

  6

  Natal

  Maria Graham woke early and was served breakfast in her room. The eggs came with a chilli condiment that set her mouth on fire. She downed her coffee to douse it and set off about her business.

  By contrast, it was with a sore head that Captain Henderson emerged into the searing sunshine from
the shadows of his cabin. The flat stench of stagnant seawater hit him in a wave as he perused the quay and remembered that although he had had a pleasant evening with Mr Simmons he had not elicited the information for which he had hoped. Henderson knew from experience, however, that when a man offered a portion of money up front it was expedient to respect his privacy.

  With the Bittersweet set to depart, the crew were hard at work, scrubbing and waxing the surfaces and checking the ropes. Henderson’s mate, Clarkson, was a reliable taskmaster. The captain strode across the deck and dipped his head into a barrel of tepid water. There was no breeze today. These places never changed. He ran a hand over his hair. He must, he knew, look a sight. In Brazil that didn’t matter, but if he was going back to England he was damned if he’d arrive looking anything less than dapper.

  Taking the matter of his sartorial propriety in hand, Henderson waved vaguely as he headed down the gangplank and across the dock, making for the city. There was a tailor near the market square who had a good reputation. The sun was almost at its height and Henderson kept to the sharp shadows between the bonds and dockside bars. The heat made the captain’s skin prickle. Over the years he had never got used to the tropics. It was an inconvenient trait for a ship’s captain in these parts. Still, from the shadows you could see more clearly.

  The first he noticed of Mrs Graham was her fragrance – a light but lingering trail that rendered everything more vivid. Henderson’s grogginess disappeared and he felt a remarkable sense of clarity. As he looked up he saw her coming from the direction of town, striding purposefully through the crowd, still wearing the same grey dress as the day before. The captain pulled back, letting her pass, glancing towards the commercial quarter and then over his shoulder at her receding figure. There was something about her. Something inexplicably important. He knew of a certainty that the tailor would simply have to wait. He must follow this woman and find out more. On the fringes of his cocked hat, his hair was tied in a ponytail, already almost dry in the sun. He ran a hand over the scrape of beard that grizzled his chin and wondered if he should have shaved. No. He was respectable enough. He fell into step.