Maria appeared at home amongst the hubbub. Henderson noticed she clasped her purse carefully, clearly aware that it was easy to have your pocketbook picked. He dodged through the throng, keeping her in sight as she inspected the ships, stopping at one vessel after another but setting off again almost immediately. Henderson hung back. As he passed he asked a Norwegian deckhand what the lady had wanted, but the man spoke neither English nor Portuguese. Henderson decided that keeping the woman’s figure in sight was more pressing.
Ahead of him, Maria continued methodically making her way along the moorings. A shipment of sugar was being loaded, hoisted precariously with uneven ropes. She passed it and paused for only the merest second at the Bittersweet, then she shrugged her shoulders. This was Henderson’s chance. He clutched nervously at his starched cuff.
‘You do not rate the Bittersweet, madam?’ He bowed.
Maria turned. She barely nodded, recognising him from the dock, the day before. The man who had accosted her. ‘I expect she does not sail for England.’
‘You are mistaken. We are for Falmouth, or very close, and after that I will sail up the Thames. I have a fancy for London. I lived there as a boy.’ Her eyes, he noted, were so hazel they verged on green.
‘And I suppose you are the captain of this vessel?’
‘James Henderson, madam, at your service.’
‘She seems a trifle light for the job, Captain Henderson.’
‘She handles a dream, Mrs . . .’
‘Graham.’
Maria considered a moment. Unlike Henderson, she was solely focussed on her passage. She knew there would be no British naval vessels at Natal, but she had hoped to find a decent passage. The Bittersweet was a tub compared with any other ship she had sailed on, and it had to cross the Atlantic, which was no millpond, as Cochrane had pointed out. For a start, the body of the boat lay peculiarly low in the water for a ship she estimated to be of some ninety feet. For another thing, it was very old-fashioned. The deck looked like a Portuguese caravel or perhaps a Dutch fluyt, the like of which had not been seen in His Majesty’s navy or indeed any other since the days of Lord Nelson’s grandfather, and Lord Nelson had been dead for almost twenty years. Maria had promised Cochrane to be careful – this was exactly the kind of fellow he had implored her to avoid. He seemed too keen, for a start, and his manner was a trifle familiar.
‘Thank you for your kindness, Captain Henderson, I may come back to you.’
Henderson persisted. ‘There are not many, Mrs Graham.’ He sounded a good deal more confident than he felt. He now wished he had shaved.
‘Many of what, sir?’
‘Ships bound for England. Mostly from Natal, vessels sail south for either the capital or the whaling, or north for the Americas. Anyone going west normally makes for Lisbon, although at the moment that route is not much in use. There are few of us English here and we are very far from home.’
Mrs Graham perused him coldly. She did not relish being herded into making a decision, or the sense of foregone conclusion that emanated from Henderson’s person. There was something of the rough dandy about this man and she didn’t like that either. He had not shaved.
‘As I said, Captain Henderson, I may come back to you. Thank you for your kindness. Good day.’ She turned away.
Henderson felt as if he had been slapped in the face. He stood on the dock, reeling. Women generally accommodated him, particularly if he tried to be charming and engage them in conversation. ‘Oh.’ The word popped out of his mouth like a button off a fat man’s waistcoat.
Seemingly unaware of his continued presence, Mrs Graham disappeared onto a Danish merchant vessel as the captain collected himself. A flash of her grey dress passed above his head. He drew himself up. He was certainly not going to stand here, staring after her. Gathering his wits, he set off in the direction of the tailor’s, though as he strode up the hill he could not stop running over the conversation. The exchange might have gone better, he realised drily, though he was unsure exactly how. She had seemed to expect something from him – something else.
A block from the old concert hall he turned down a side street past a stall selling fresh pastries and honeyed nuts. The journey to England would take six weeks at least, and although he would arrive in summertime he judged it best to pick up a warm scarf and some thicker vestments. The captain’s birthday was in June, but he recalled one year when he was five or six shivering in the cold as his birthday cake had been cut. His mother had drawn the scene in her journal. The motley collection of woollen items he wore on his regular trips to American cities would never do for the English capital. To stroll around Mayfair in sartorial disarray would be an insult to his entire upbringing.
At the tailor’s door, Henderson hovered, finding himself reluctant to enter. The spectre of Mrs Graham lingered in his mind’s eye. Perhaps she had rejected him because he looked unkempt. Ladies, he dimly recalled, were particular about a chap’s appearance. Given the look of most sailors on the quay, he knew he was a veritable Beau Brummell, but still. In the sunshine on the doorstep, a grey cat was asleep. Its tail flickered.
‘I shouldn’t have let her get away,’ he muttered.
With consternation, he noted it felt as if he might never have a chance to redeem himself. What if their few words this morning turned out to be the only chance he had to speak to Mrs Graham? This was an unpleasant sensation. Henderson glanced back down the hill in the direction of the docks and worried that she had found passage on another ship. Then he worried that she had returned to the Bittersweet and he had not been there.
The captain fished in his pocket, took out his pipe and lit up, leaning against the wall as the wisps of smoke curled round him. He had not met a lady in several years – the women on the docks were of a different mettle. The Dutch woman in Washington to whom he frequently sold his cargo might have been a lady once, but Mrs Graham was another thing altogether. She was a study in restraint. The only showy thing about her was that perfume. Its richness reminded him of marzipan. He tried to imagine he was still English – fresh off the ship and brimful of manners. A gentleman. What would he have done? He had been better then.
On a whim he knocked out his pipe against the door frame and turned back to the square. There was nothing for it but to make enquiries about where the English dona was staying. He dodged between the shadows cast by tall palms over the stalls that peppered the marketplace. A small crowd of dark women thronged around a barrel of olive oil and an argument was taking place between two men in front of a wheel of cheese. After three attempts, Henderson was directed to a conselho by a girl selling leather belts and drawstring purses.
‘The new Englishwoman lodges there.’ She gestured. ‘Grey dress.’ She mimed Mrs Graham’s bun with a flick of her fingers. ‘Yes. That way.’
It was a Brazilian house. Further up the hill there was a scattering of premises inhabited by British merchants. These did not have the quality of crumbling paint that characterised even the most respectable Brazilian street. Henderson did not see any of the English socially, and only occasionally for trade. He could not say if that was because he avoided them or they avoided him. It was interesting that Mrs Graham had not chosen to stay among her own kind – a good sign, he thought.
Small birds swooped from the roof as he rapped at the door. Their trajectories seemed suicidal as they dived through the intense blue horizon, whizzing like bullets past the thin gutters and pulling up impossibly only seconds before crashing onto the cobbles.
‘I would like to leave a message for the English dona,’ Henderson said when the housemaid answered. ‘Bring me a pen and ink. Bring some paper. I must write a note.’
*
Later, much calmer, having visited the tailor and eaten a light meal standing up at an open-fronted stall, Henderson returned to his cabin. For some hours now he had been wondering if his phrasing had been correct. Miles away, he jumped at an unexpected and rapid knock on his door that recalled his attention to business.
Henderson caught his breath and only let it go when Simmons appeared smiling in the door frame. This, the captain realised, was probably timely.
Will had clearly had a good day. The scent of strong spirits preceded him, but he was not rolling drunk and his golden skin was highlighted pink in places where he had sat in the sunshine. ‘I heard there’s a fight with good odds tonight,’ he said. ‘Beyond the beach. Bare-knuckle.’ Simmons nodded at the freshly delivered top-hat case on the captain’s table. ‘That’s fancy,’ he commented.
‘London,’ Henderson said by way of explanation. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’
The youngster poured himself a brandy. ‘You’re going up west when we get in then? A silk topper and all. Captain Henderson, are you, by any chance, a toff?’ he teased.
Henderson shook his head sadly. ‘I would like to visit the place that was my family home in Soho. I don’t know if I’ll pass for a gentleman.’
Simmons flopped into a chair, set to tarry. ‘Well, you’ve got the hat. They’ll like that. And if you’re to pass for a nob you’ll have to be clean-shaven. That’s the fashion. London’s changing. Everyone says so. They call it development – new docks in the East End. I’d recommend you fetch yourself a decent blade, Captain. A fella needs protection, gentleman or not. London’s a hard place. What was it like when you were there?’
Henderson smiled apologetically. He didn’t say that he remembered very little except for his mother and she, most certainly, was gone. He had taken fencing lessons, but the purpose of these had never been clear. Still, a wave of nostalgia washed over him for the way he imagined his childhood home.
‘I’m curious to see it,’ he admitted. ‘And if I need a blade, I’ll take your advice.’
Simmons nodded. He fanned himself with a small piece of card with tattered edges that he drew from his pocket. ‘When we get in I’ll show you the other side of the city, where the toffs don’t go, or at least not many. We can visit the Rose Tavern.’
Henderson laughed. ‘The Rose Tavern? There must be hundreds of those. Run by Mrs Smith no doubt. Off the high street.’
‘Off Old Street – I have friends opposite. Investors. You turn down Mallow Street . . . Mallow Street, mind—’
‘I won’t stay long.’ Henderson cut in. ‘I just want to see it again. See how it feels.’
‘Cold and bloody wet,’ Simmons joked. ‘I won’t be staying. Next time I was thinking I might come by way of New York. I’d like to see it.’
Henderson shrugged. ‘New York is a small place. Not exotic. And if you don’t like the cold, I’d avoid their winter. In January the Hudson is even greyer than the Thames.’ The captain perked up. ‘This fight you mentioned – I know the place.’ It would do him good to take his mind off Mrs Graham. The woman had been haunting him.
Will sprang to his feet. ‘Lead on,’ he said.
The moon was low but not full. The men set out along the dock in conversation. As they dropped onto the dark beach, Simmons declared, ‘There can be no better place in the world than this.’
Henderson had to agree. The beach was beautiful. The stars lit the sand and balmy air rode in as the waves washed up on paradise. A few hundred yards ahead, a glow in the sky radiated from the spot where the fight was set to start. Some of the crowd carried torches. The sound of a woman busking floated towards them and the smell of frying pastries wafted on a cinnamon cloud. Two boys with a black dog on a tether shared a sausage. Further up, where the sand gave way to scrub and clustered palm trees, the sound of laughter floated across as ramshackle spectators wandered onto the beach from between the trees. Reaching the gathering, Henderson realised there must be a couple of hundred people. The ring was marked with a square of stakes roped at right angles, and the crowd milled round, eating, drinking and making bets. Two huge black men sat in opposite corners. Their skin was oiled so it shone in the flickering lamps, which threw grotesque shadows on the uneven sand.
Simmons licked his lips. He loved a ruck. Henderson eyed the fighters. He was at home here. The captain was solid enough to make a showing, should he ever be tempted into the ring.
One of the black men was bigger than the other, but not so much bigger that the smaller man might not make up for it by sheer determination when his blood was up. The fight would come to that. As one of them turned, Henderson made out a sequence of scars on the man’s back. He had been flogged viciously, and not long ago.
‘Are they freed men?’ he asked one of the bookmakers.
The man nodded curtly as he picked his teeth with a sliver of bone. Behind him, a black-eyed Negro woman hovered as if she was tethered to him.
Will decided to cut the chit-chat. ‘Three to one.’ He held up his fingers and pointed to the fighter on the left.
The bookmaker took the money and passed Simmons a scrap of cork marked with an indistinct scrawl. The woman’s eyes shone as she watched the cash change hands.
‘You?’ Simmons asked.
‘I never gamble,’ Henderson said. ‘These fights are fixed.’
Will shrugged. He didn’t want to believe it. Besides, even if it was fixed, he could still win.
The crowd jostled, finding their places. Henderson was about to mention they might have a passenger on the voyage home. A lady. Then an old man rang a bell and everyone turned to watch. I can tell him later, he thought.
There was a moment of calm as the crowd’s attention focussed. The bell rang once more and the fighters started pounding. One man dodged a blow and landed a sound punch to the other’s face, then jumped out of the way so that the retaliation missed. The crowd exploded. It was an exciting start.
‘He’s a regular Mendoza, straight off,’ Simmons shouted, excited, as the man hopped backwards and forwards so his opponent couldn’t land a punch. ‘Look at him.’
‘He’ll get tired in no time,’ Henderson replied.
Prizefighting could go on for hours. It was simply a matter of how long the men lasted. These two were chasing each other round the ring like whippets on a track. It was exciting, but it couldn’t last.
After a minute or two, Henderson turned to talk to Simmons, but the space beside him was vacant and he noticed his friend was over to the side, no longer watching the fight. The woman with the black eyes leaned sinuously towards him as she whispered into his ear. Simmons curled his hand lasciviously around her waist. Henderson grinned.
The first fighter’s face was swelling and a thick trickle of blood snaked down his dark skin, but he started to land his punches. Henderson caught the whiff of sweat and the salty tang of blood on the heavy night air. It was like watching two dogs, or perhaps two bullocks.
‘You’re missing it,’ Henderson shouted as he glanced towards Will, but Simmons was no longer anywhere to be seen. Always wary, the captain checked the whereabouts of the bookmaker. He was right beside the ring, shouting encouragement to the first fighter in heavily accented Portuguese. The woman was gone. Henderson grinned once more.
The boxer’s strategy was having an effect now. The dancing fighter slowed and took an uppercut to the chest that left him heaving while the other boxed his ears. The dancer let out an animal sound and the crowd jeered. The two boys strained to hold on to their dog, which was barking and pulling on the lead. It seemed as if the whole crowd moved behind the slow boxer as he went in for the kill. The other man was strong, though, and took the blows. He even landed a couple of solid punches. Both men had swollen lips and eyes, blood streaked their chests, and they were panting hard. But the second fighter just kept landing punch after punch.
‘Go on!’ Henderson bayed.
The big man pounded on, but the second fighter stood there like a statue after all his dancing and took blow after blow. Above the crowd Henderson could swear he heard a sharp crack, a broken rib likely, and then the huge man keeled over like a felled oak. A flurry of sand rolled to the edge of the ring. Everyone stared. The fighter stopped in confusion, as if he hadn’t expected it so early. Then he nodded, slowly raising his a
rm in victory as the crowd screamed. Half a dozen spectators ran into the ring. The old man dodged the jubilant bodies and tried to revive the unconscious fighter by pouring a bucket of seawater over his head as the prizewinner took a lap of honour. Three girls, no more than thirteen, flung streams of fuchsia at the victor’s feet, baring their breasts wantonly in their excitement as the fighter turned to check his mate, who was still on the ground. Clearly this was not the way it normally worked. The prizewinner looked bemused. The crowd hesitated, the cheers dying down. All at once, everyone’s attention was focussed on the unconscious man.
The old man shoved the fighter’s shoulder and then slapped him – a sharp crack in the silence. Time froze. A wave broke on the balmy black beach. The old man listened to the chest. Then he put his hand beneath the fighter’s nose. People held their breath. Once more he slapped the man, this time harder. There was no movement. The old man looked up. He shrugged.
‘Il es morte,’ the cry started.
A quiet mixture of panic and excitement flowed across the crowd. A woman flung herself onto the dead fighter’s body, howling and gulping the air like sweet wine. The prizewinner stared in shock at what he had done, his face carved out of rock.
‘Il es morte. Il es morte.’ The phrase became an anguished babble, everyone on a knife edge of shock and glee. The prizewinner’s eyes were wide as he crossed the ring and gently shoved his opponent with his foot.
‘Ade.’ He called the man’s name. ‘Ade?’
His lip quivered.
And then, slowly, the dead man moved. He pushed off the howling female on his chest and sat up straight, like a golem brought to life. The prizewinner grinned and flung his arms around the fellow. The crowd went wild. The dead man raised his hand and they cheered till their lungs were fit to burst. The second fighter’s face betrayed his relief. Everyone was laughing. Strangers flung their arms around each other. Women screamed for joy and splashed in the surf. Spirits were higher than when the fight had been won.
On Starlit Seas Page 7