‘Ade! Ade!’ they chanted, fists punching the air.
Four men hoisted the resurrected corpse onto their shoulders and paraded along the beach.
Henderson smiled. It made a charming show. He backed off and sat on one of the dunes. A second later, Simmons came to join him.
‘I had me a negress,’ he said proudly. ‘Did that one win then?’
‘No. Strangely, he’s the loser. They thought he was dead.’ Henderson laughed.
‘In that case, I tripled my money.’
Simmons headed into the crowd to find the bookmaker.
‘Ade! Ade!’ everyone was shouting.
The second fighter had been escorted away, taking his prize money and leaving the crowd dancing like lunatics under the dark sky.
‘Three to one.’ Simmons motioned at the man with the bone toothpick.
The fellow’s smile disappeared. He cocked his head to one side, a tiny slick of sweat above his upper lip. ‘Que?’ he said.
‘My bet. Three to one.’ Simmons fished the scrap of cork out of his pocket.
‘Ade.’ The man pointed and then shook his head to communicate that the fighter now jubilantly playing in the surf had not won the fight.
‘I bet on the other one.’ Simmons grinned.
The bookmaker moved quickly, but not quickly enough to fox Simmons. The Brazilian’s blade of best English steel flashed in the low light. If he had expected this to warn off the white man, he was mistaken. In one deft move, Simmons cut in, competently grabbing the fellow’s forearm and wrestling him to the ground, where the boy held the knife at the man’s jugular, his face sharp.
‘Meu dinheiro,’ Simmons insisted. My money.
Henderson grinned. Simmons had only been here a couple of days, but he’d picked up the important words.
‘You better pay.’ He leaned in, adding his translation skills to the threat just to be clear. ‘Você tem que pagar.’
The bookmaker held up his hands in surrender. He reached into his pouch and took out a few coins, his eyes betraying his terror.
Simmons nodded, pocketed the money and backed off. ‘Obrigado,’ he said. Thanks.
It was on the tip of Henderson’s tongue to say what a formid-
able team they made as Simmons turned to walk back along the beach with his winnings. It was pleasant to be surprised by someone – perhaps in Simmons’s speed there lay a clue to why he had lied yesterday about his business arrangements. In any case, the boy’s skills with the blade belied his easy manner. But before Henderson could ask where he’d learned to fight like that, the black-eyed girl Simmons had just had in the sand dunes appeared and rushed into his arms.
Will froze with his mouth open. Henderson smiled at the girl, and then, with a dull ache in his chest, he realised what she’d done as Will Simmons fell onto the sand, a stream of blood pooling beside him.
‘Jesus.’ Henderson reeled in shock just long enough to allow the bookmaker to grab back the money with one hand and take hold of the girl with the other. She gave a snake-like smile as she stuck her bloody knife into her belt, and in a flash the couple disappeared into the darkness.
Henderson knelt, pulling Simmons into his arms.
‘Shit,’ Will whispered.
‘I’ll get you back to the Bittersweet.’ Henderson tried to lift his friend, but Simmons let out a sigh more terrifying than any injured howl.
Men were running up the beach joyfully shouting ‘Ade vivo’ as Will Simmons’s breath grew wheezy.
‘Take it back to them in London.’ He spat the words with difficulty. ‘Ask for the gentlemen at the Rose. Give them everything, you understand? I have the key. In my hat. The Old Street Bridge . . .’
‘Hush, none of that.’ Henderson quietened the boy.
He lifted Will and turned to walk back along the sand. On the Bittersweet, Big Al Thatcher had sewn up many a barbarous slash and cut on a bare wooden slab in the galley. He was a solid Yorkshireman and he’d sort this out. Not every knife wound was mortal. But after only a few steps, Henderson realised it was no good. The crowd on the beach was screaming, dancing and singing in celebration, but the boy wasn’t breathing. James Henderson was carrying a corpse.
7
Natal
Maria had no intention of unpacking. The lodgings were clean and well kept, but she knew she wouldn’t be staying long. The captain to whom Cochrane had entrusted her safety had offered to secure her passage before he left. Now it occurred to her perhaps on this occasion it would have been easier to let him. It was too late now. This was her second day at port and she had yet to find a suitable ship on which to travel, nor direct passage, except with Captain Henderson, whose vessel she judged as suspect as his person. Aside from the Bittersweet, there were two ships bound for Africa, but they were set for Calicut thereafter and there was no saying when a suitable passage might arrive on the Ivory Coast to take her north to Europe. Plucky though she was, Maria knew her odds in all things were better from the dark continent of South America than the one that lay opposite. On the upside, from Natal it was an easy matter to get to the northern states – anywhere from Trinidad to Boston or New York, from where she could find an Atlantic passage with relative ease. This, however, would potentially add weeks to her voyage, and a deal of expense. It was infinitely preferable to find a direct berth.
She pored over the maps, trying to calculate, as Thomas would have done. It came to this – she had two choices. One was to make for Trinidad and hope to find a ship to take her east (a reasonable proposition, but slower), the other was to hazard a passage with Captain Henderson, which, if it came off, would see her in Piccadilly delivering her manuscripts to John Murray inside of six weeks, perhaps seven. She pondered the possibility – weighing up Thomas Cochrane’s undoubted horror at the cut of Henderson’s vessel and the discomfort she felt at Henderson’s eagerness to engage her interest when he had pushed her to embark with him on the dock. Gentlemen did not behave that way. But, she reasoned, he had written then, afterwards. Madam, the letter had started, I hope I have not discomforted you. I apologise if this is the case.
That night, after dinner was served on the heavy mahogany dining table on the first floor of her lodgings, the landlady, festooned in jewellery of bright Vauxhall glass, brought tisane to Maria’s chamber. Mrs Graham sipped alone, sitting at the window, an Englishwoman on her travels, watching the line of pale-pink buildings that snaked towards the square, their carved buff gables cutting into the starry velvet sky. Maria was accustomed to summing up new places, and in her estimation Natal was a quiet trading town like an assortment of others up and down the coast. The faded buildings were attractive, but there was nothing much of interest to fill them in the way of commercial goods or ideas. Put plainly, Natal was a backwater. The smell of baking wafted across the warm air from a hundred ovens. It was a familiar fragrance, redolent with rosemary. Maria reached for a small biscuit. Sweet as honeycomb, it melted in her mouth. She nibbled, leafing through her journal. She had sketched as she made her way across the country – a sedan chair in Bahia and a picture of slaves dragging a hogshead in Pernambuco. Each image brought back a memory. She felt strangely hungry. I ate scarcely an hour ago. I cannot have an appetite, she chided herself.
The food had been dreadful on her passage from Recife – cornbread and unseasoned meat. She had been tempted to take to the galley if only to find a few flakes of salt or crumbs of pepper or chilli (which no ship in the Southern parts could possibly lack). A little spice would have made a world of difference. However, when it came to it, even the great Maria Graham did not dare to openly criticise a ship’s cook. In her experience they were formidable men and quite capable of not only holding a grudge but acting upon one too. The food in the conselho was far better. She had enjoyed a satisfying if spicy breakfast and a more than adequate dinner of soup, fried fish and roasted vegetables. The tisane and biscuits were soothing, but she felt a curl in her stomach. Perhaps it is this uncertainty, she thought. The conundrum of
what to do.
After Captain Henderson’s letter had arrived the day before, Maria asked some locals for references and it transpired that Henderson was well known at the port as a competent captain. However, as far as anyone knew he had not made an Atlantic crossing. He seemed a decent enough fellow of his type – a small-time trader, she guessed – but the ship was hardly inspiring and the whole situation was just what Cochrane had warned her against. Maria didn’t fear the sea but, as taught by her father, she respected its power. In her experience the ocean had no intent to drown travellers. The Atlantic was merely a highway and fatalities were surprisingly rare, though, in high storms and with bad navigation, they did happen. She had spent a good deal of her life on board ships and prided herself on being able to judge a captain’s ability. A lot depended on the measure of the man. So far, she’d describe Henderson as steady, if perhaps one for the ladies – which might be put down to his rough good looks and even his confidence. If not young, he was younger than she was. He had clearly been brought up in the colonies, for which allowances had to be made. He seems able and he’s certainly honest, she thought. He said his was the only ship and he was right.
Henderson’s note lay in her lap and she read it again. I shall render you my own cabin, madam, he promised, should you choose to trust yourself to my stewardship. It was well phrased, she thought, and he wrote with a fair hand. By all accounts he knew the shores of the eastern seaboard. She examined the narrative style – formal and a little old-fashioned, she decided. With a smile, she wondered what John Murray would make of it. The thought of seeing her old friend again was what made her keenest to return to London, and not only because he would buy her manuscripts. Murray had been Maria’s mentor since she had started to write. In the beginning, he had found her editorial work where she had honed her skills.
‘You are quite mad, girl,’ Lady Dundas had declared with disdain. ‘This is tantamount to employment. No lady in our family has ever worked.’
Maria folded Henderson’s letter carefully. Perhaps she had misjudged him simply because he was eager. There was no crime in that, but at sea she would have no defence from his eagerness and it was plain he was no gentleman – not really. Her mind flashed back to the jungle and, with a smile, she recognised the poor man couldn’t be a worse ordeal than da Couto, and she’d managed that.
I might ask to inspect this cabin of his, she thought.
Below her, the street was deserted. A snatch of carefree laughter wafted into the night.
‘I should read before retiring,’ she said out loud.
There was a book by the bed. Maria hesitated as her limbs sank into the soft cushions. The trip through the jungle had left her exhausted and she had been rushing for the week or two since – helping at the naval hospital, sitting up late with the Cochranes at night and playing with the children early. Downstairs, the grandfather clock in the hall chimed ten. Maria shifted and at last, and with her head resting on a pillow embroidered by the landlady’s daughter, the renowned Mrs Graham was overtaken by sleep.
*
The next morning, fully refreshed and with her toilette settled, Mrs Graham hoisted her parasol to protect her skin from the brazen sun and made for the docks. It was early, but she was glad to see Captain Henderson was already at work, overseeing the loading of his cargo. Maria settled to wait in the shade. There was little purpose in disturbing a man when he was busy. She enjoyed the sights and sounds of the dockside – ports were places of freedom. From above, she could hear a sailor in an upper room, whining as he had a tattoo cut into his arm. Two street children loitered by a warehouse, hoping to snatch whatever might drop from the bundles that were delivered, or to pick a pocket if a rich and careless enough prize happened their way. A pig wearing a collar wandered along the cobblestones, and to one side three sailors ate steaming doughnuts, watching her as she sat patiently while Henderson’s cacao beans were hoisted, the dust from the sacks peppering the hot air. The captain was squabbling with the thin farmer who had delivered his goods. They were shouting in Portuguese so fluent that Maria could not follow the words.
Henderson, however, appeared ill at ease. He evidently did not notice her. Eventually the farmer relented and the men shook hands, though the captain was still not willing. He handed over some money and raised his hands as if he had surrendered.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, slowly enough for Maria to translate. ‘I have no need of it now.’
‘You will take it north and sell it,’ the farmer replied, waving him off. ‘It’s top quality.’
Then, with his purse of coins in hand, the little man walked away as the captain shouted to his crew to load the beans. Henderson seemed different from the last time Maria had seen him – he was agitated and less jovial. However, if he really hadn’t wanted to accept the delivery she didn’t suppose he would have. He was twice the size of the little farmer, for a start. Observing him now, there was something about the captain that reminded Mrs Graham of a black dog, the kind of animal that could fight to the death but instead might make a good-natured and solid companion. Maria stopped. If the captain was in poor humour, perhaps this wasn’t the moment. Still, she had her business to attend to. She had decided to investigate the Bittersweet. If he was loading, she might not have long.
‘Captain Henderson.’ She moved forward, trying out his name.
He looked up as if he was coming out of a dream. ‘Oh. Good morning.’
‘Are you set to sail? Do you still have a berth for London?’
Henderson paused. Then he bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m no longer for London, madam. There’s no need.’
Maria hovered. This was entirely unexpected. He had been so eager. If she had been concerned that he had designs on her, the worry evaporated.
‘But I have a need,’ she insisted. ‘I must get home. And I’m afraid you were quite right. Natal enjoys little regular passage to and from England. I’m relying on you – on what you said yesterday. Your letter.’
Henderson peered at her, as if he was looking for some hidden intent.
‘I wondered,’ Maria continued smoothly, ‘if I might look at the cabin?’
His eyes showed no objection, so she turned smartly and boarded, with him trailing behind, too troubled, it would seem, to reply.
‘She looks less strange from the deck, doesn’t she?’ Maria smiled. ‘The Bittersweet is a most unusual vessel. At first I thought her Chinese, she is so low and flat. Have you seen a sampan, Captain? I have only had the pleasure of inspecting a drawing, but the style is similar. There is also something of the galleon about the Bittersweet, don’t you think?’
Henderson said nothing, but he motioned Mrs Graham ahead. She strode confidently into his cabin. It was strange – he had not anticipated what it would feel like to have a lady aboard. She seemed contented and with her she brought an air of purpose and calm. He was certainly enjoying that.
The cabin was larger than she expected and better fitted. A finely carved oak table at one end was covered with charts. Against one of the panelled walls there was a well-made cabinet containing decanted port and brandy, and on the other there were shelves and two fitted trunks.
‘I’m keen to get home. Will you help me?’ she asked. ‘In your letter, you see . . .’ She scrambled in her bag.
Henderson tried to remember what he’d written. Dealing with Simmons’s body had pushed everything out of his mind. The lack of care shown by the authorities for a sailor killed in a brawl did not surprise him, but the amount of money in the boy’s effects certainly had, alongside the key in his hat and the oddly bound bar of chocolate, ready to be grated and added to hot water or milk to make a drink, which, no doubt, would taste rather musty, given the chocolate’s poor quality. Whoever Simmons’s associates were at Old Street Bridge, he would send on the effects from the north. Plenty ships left from New York for London. Given the money involved, he had decided he would take the balance of the arrangement fee he’d agreed with Will an
d something in addition for executing the matter. Then he would wash his hands. London had been a foolish idea, best abandoned. Now the contents of his letter to Mrs Graham came back in a flood. He’d been tremendously courteous, he recalled. He noticed that he felt calmer now she was here, still in that grey dress with her dowdy hat, the air around her redolent with orchid oil. Perhaps all women in England had this effect. Perhaps they all smelled of flowers and exuded a calm and measured purpose. He couldn’t remember.
‘I am afraid my plans have changed, madam,’ he repeated. ‘An acquaintance died last night unexpectedly. It was for his sake that I was to go to London.’
‘For his sake? You do not fancy seeing London yourself? You mentioned you had an interest . . .’
Henderson looked flustered. ‘Indeed, but it was business that took me there.’
‘What is your cargo?’
‘Cacao. We sail with the tide for New England.’
‘And there is no need of cacao in England proper? Come, sir.’
Henderson dropped onto one of the wooden chairs. He took off his hat and laid it on the table, passing a hand through his hair. ‘I hear there is demand. England loves its exotic foodstuffs, so they say. Simmons told me they are making cacao into a powder. But I do not know what this cargo is worth there.’
‘I have seen the powder.’ Maria’s tone was enthusiastic. ‘It is manufactured with a press. A most ingenious advance. Captain Henderson, I shall speak frankly. I’m in great need of returning to London. I have two manuscripts to deliver to my publisher and supplies to locate for the Imperial Emperor. I have been engaged, you see, as tutor to Princess Maria da Gloria. I will be no trouble, I promise. In fact I shall have to work during most of my passage – making a fair copy of my terrible scrawl. You have changed your plans once. I hate to trouble you, but might you change them again? This cabin will do nicely. I would be terribly grateful and I can pay. It may not be the full commission you had hoped for from your friend, but it is something. It would greatly oblige me.’
On Starlit Seas Page 8