The Guineaman

  In the first few days of their acquaintance, Kite was bombarded with information about men and women of every station in the island’s hierarchy. From the Governor and his staff, by way of army officers, plantations owners, merchants, advocates, ship-masters, slave traders and overseers, Wentworth delivered himself of a discourse on the subtle social gradations, stressing of course, the connections, alliances, divisions and pretensions among the white community. He grew salacious when referring to these men’s wives, indicating the uses of making love to Mrs This, or Mrs That; that the Misses The Other were marriageable for their money, though not their looks, and that Kite, if he knew what was good for him, would make no moves to advancement without first consulting him.

  ‘If you do that, Kite, you will not regret it.’ Wentworth concluded his introductory remarks with a smile that Kite found amusing. ‘Ah,’ he said seriously, ‘but I forgot, you co-habit openly…’

  Despite the man’s obsession, Kite did not dislike him. Had he personally entertained any desire for integration with Antiguan life, he would have found Wentworth’s patronising a mild irritant; as it was he merely recognised that Wentworth was warning the new clerk. Kite should not presume to tread on the preserves that Wentworth regarded as his own province.

  ‘I understand,’ Wentworth said with a hint of disdain, ‘that you do not intend renouncing your blackamoor.’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘I shall not hold that against you, Kite. Mr Mulgrave himself sets us an example not to be dismissed as mere licentiousness for indeed, my word, it is not in his case. For licentiousness you must look at the concubinage of Mr Lomax of the Crown Plantation! My word, sir, yes. And I feel so sorry for his wife who is so kind a creature, or of George Radley from Willoughby… My word, they are hedonists alongside whom Mr Mulgrave is a perfect and most wonderful gentleman…’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Kite replied drily.

  Setting aside this torrent of obsessive social pretension, Wentworth displayed a masterly grasp of the commercial activity not merely on the island of Antigua, but of the region, explaining the inter-relationship between the adjacent French possession Guadeloupe and Antigua; of the trade in slaves with Cuba; of the export of muscovado and sugar, of rum and molasses to Liverpool, London and Bristol, and of the importance of the trans-shipment of commodities to and from the Thirteen Colonies of North America. Under this general picture of a vigorous trade, Wentworth spoke of the necessary currency transactions, of the growing importance of banking and credit, supplying asides at every opportunity to demonstrate a coup here, a timely loan there, the swift taking up of a lading and the faster settlement of an advantageous freight-rate made by the House of Mulgrave. Many, though not all Wentworth admitted, were entirely due to his own acumen. He stressed that of Mulgrave in the matter of investment, of the ships in which Mulgrave had a part, but never a whole interest. ‘Only a fool owns sixty-four sixty-fourths in a ship, Kite, only a fool… Oh dear, yes…’ Wentworth chuckled, emphasising this recondite wisdom.

  He, like the obviously much admired Mulgrave, applied only three principles to commerce; the first was to keep one’s word, the second was to be inquisitive and constantly seek out new opportunities, the third was never to place too many eggs in one basket.

  It took three months, much of which was spent tediously at his ledgers, for Kite to begin to truly comprehend the complexities of his new employment. He wrote and copied out letters, pasting them in the company’s guard books, he learned to draft bills of lading, becoming familiar with phrases such as Bound by God’s Grace, and Delivered in the like Good Order and Well Conditioned at the Aforesaid Port, the Danger of the Seas and Mortality only Excepted… That by such documentation, thousands of Africans were sent into hard labour in the sugarcane fields of the Indies and the plantations of the Carolinas, faded from his perception as the middle passage of the Enterprize seemed more and more like a bad dream.

  Wentworth patronised him, especially once he learned that Kite was from hum-drum origins. It pleased Wentworth that Kite was not a name to set aside that of Wentworth or Mulgrave. But Kite found this tolerable. After the long and terrible weeks aboard the Enterprize, the steady routine of his life in the House of Mulgrave brought a great peace to him.

  He no longer felt he was escaping, only that the dimming past was forgiven, if not forgotten. He was, of course, seduced by Puella; their relationship grew wonderfully and their self-engrossment grew daily as Puella’s English improved. Mistress Dorothea proved a kind and tolerant teacher and Kite learnt that although an Antiguan born woman, her situation was otherwise not dissimilar to Puella’s. Like Wentworth, Dorothea had been picked up off the street and openly made Mulgrave’s mistress. Shunned by the island’s white society for this unholy admission of blatant concubinage, the naturally solitary Mulgrave had simply turned his considerable abilities to the despised opportunities offered by trade. In this he had become an institution and never, despite the disdain of formal convention, lost his romantic aura as far as the white ladies of the island were concerned. The men, many of whom over-populated their estates with half-caste bastards, joked about Mulgrave’s failure to beget ‘pickaninnies’ on his black mistress. The failure seemed to confirm the inadequacies of those who trafficked in mere ‘goods’, though there was not a man among them who would not have leapt eagerly into the beautiful Dorothea’s bed had the opportunity offered. Their thin lipped white-skinned wives wilting in the heat or suffering vapid attacks in the heavy rains, envied Dorothea’s indisputable beauty, marvelling at the uprightness of her carriage and the voluptuousness of her figure.

  By the time Kite had familiarised himself with his new tasks, Puella had mastered sufficient English to exchange more than a minor daily dialogue with him. In another manifestation of his changing luck, Kite learned that Dorothea’s mother had belonged to the same tribe as Puella. It took some days before Dorothea had so far recalled the tongue of her childhood that the two could gossip freely, but thereafter her coaching of Puella was swift and sure, for the common origin quickly built a bond between the two women. For all his courtesy towards her, Dorothea never felt herself even a common law wife to the austere and remote Mulgrave. He was a man for whom intimacy was something permissible only in his bedroom. Otherwise he stood quite alone in the world and although Dorothea knew Mulgrave better than any other person living for a truly kind and shy man, a man who had seen her cared for and secure long before he had taken her to bed, she mourned her lack of children. That, she thought in contrast to the white planters, was a measure of his power. Withholding the potence of his copious seed, convinced her that she was loved by a white spirit too powerful to conceive like a simple man. By such reasoning Dorothea could explain his fabulous wealth and the respect Mulgrave commanded, and from it too, she drew the secret empowerment of herself, for hers was, she knew, a position much envied, especially by the white women.

  Though Puella and her young cousin could not compensate her for her lack of children, Dorothea was overjoyed to have them in Mulgrave’s huge and gloomy house. She liked Kite too, about whom she knew a great deal, thanks to Puella’s confidences. Kite was a handsome contrast to the sweating Wentworth who always treated Dorothea with a confused mixture of fascination and terror.

  The swiftly burgeoning friendship between the two women soon led to Puella being freed from her odious leg-irons. Pompey was similarly freed, but his was a less happy situation. Whether the abuse to which he had been subjected aboard the Enterprize, or earlier in the baracoons on the banks of the Sherbro, Pompey proved a simple soul. He was destined to remain no more than a barefoot house-boy for the rest of his life, soon passing from Kite’s ownership to that of Wentworth.

  Kite sold him for a nominal guinea to his new acquaintance and Wentworth was pleased with the bargain. It was not long before Pompey appeared in St John’s in a livery devised, Wentworth was fond of saying, by Mrs Robertson, wife to one of the garrison’s officers, whom he described as ‘a part
icular frined’. Dressed thus, Pompey was seen everywhere his master went, holding Wentworth’s hat and cane until he had drunk his dish of chocolate with his hostess. Mulgrave’s misanthropy encouraged Wentworth to undertake all business errands between the House of Mulgrave and its clientele, errands which Wentworth, with his talent for flattery and admiration usually succeeded in turning to some form of personal advantage. Mulgrave did not object to this and Wentworth, having learnt much of his demeanour from his benefactor, never over-stepped the limits of propriety. But his own natural sociability, a not unaffected subservience and the adroitness of his mind when considering matters of trade, made him generally welcome, for Wentworth had learned the benefits of giving disinterested advice. When this invariably proved beneficial, his stock rose and he acted as a magnet for business, a fact which Mulgrave was not insensible of.

  Though Kite’s work was dull, his presence and competence freed Wentworth to pursue a greater volume of business. One afternoon, after Kite had laboured at his desk for a period of some six months and the year drew to its close, when, incongruously, the community of St John’s prepared to celebrate Christmas in insufferable heat, Kite was summoned by Mulgrave.

  He was reading newspapers brought that day in the newly arrived packet and he set the broadsheet down with a rustle, to regard Kite above clasped hands. Upon these he rested his chin. It was a sign, Kite had learned, that Mulgrave was in an unbending mood. ‘I wish you to dine with me this evening, Mr Kite. An hour after sunset, shall we say?’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’ Kite gave a half bow and withdrew. Shortly afterwards Wentworth returned from his daily visit to the harbour and the ships on whose behalf Mulgrave and Company acted or in which they had an interest. He too was swiftly summoned and similarly invited.

  ‘I am to dine with Mr Mulgrave this evening,’ Wentworth said when he returned from Mulgrave’s private office, a satisfied smile on his face.

  ‘So am I,’ Kite countered, amused that the news put Wentworth’s nose out of joint.

  ‘That’s odd…’ Wentworth frowned and added, ‘I’ve only ever known him ask us to dine before on one occasion.’ Wentworth nodded. ‘Oh yes, it was the night he told Cornford, your predecessor, that he had been informed that Cornford had been left three thousand pounds a year and that in view of this fact it would be in neither Cornford’s nor Mulgrave and Company’s interest that he should remain in the company’s employment.’

  ‘I see. Then Mulgrave knew before the beneficiary,’ remarked Kite.

  ‘Well, that’s his way,’ Wentworth said as if it were sufficient explanation for Mulgrave’s apparent prescience. Kite saw that the single precedent was working on Wentworth’s innate anxiety.

  ‘Well, Mr Wentworth,’ Kite said drily, preserving the social distinction Wentworth insisted on in the counting house, ‘I am certain I am not to be told I have come into three thousand a year…’

  ‘Nor me, damn it…’

  ‘Perhaps our master is about to reveal the fact that he knows you to already have that sum on your own account,’ Kite teased.

  ‘Would that it was true…’ Wentworth said awkwardly.

  Kite laughed. ‘You are colouring up, sir, I have heard it to be true…’

  ‘Who told you?’ Wentworth snapped, taking the bait.

  ‘Miss Cunningham…’

  ‘You do not know Miss Cunningham, Kite… do you?’

  Kite shook his head. ‘No, sir, I do not…’

  ‘Then you tease me…?’

  ‘I fear I do. Will you fight me?’ Kite grinned, slipping off his stool and putting up his fists. ‘Come fight me Mr Wentworth, ‘tis damned tedious here today.’

  Wentworth waved Kite aside. ‘Get on with your work, Kite, making money is never tedious if you engage your whole intelligence upon it, to be sure.’

  Kite sighed. ‘That is true, Mr Wentworth.’

  ‘I shall see you at dinner, Kite.’

  On reaching the house he repaired at once to the wing generously set aside for his accommodation. Apprised of his arrival, Puella quickly appeared. She wore a simple gown made of scarlet cotton, such as might have been worn by the wife of a comfortable shop-keeper in Cockermouth. She ran to him, kissed him and, as he sank into a chair, knelt and removed his shoes.

  ‘Puella, you are a wonder.’

  ‘You like some lemonade?’

  He nodded and she ran off, to return a few moments later with a glass of the cordial. He took it, leaned back and she kneeled again at his feet. Absently he tousled her hair as he drained the glass, then he smacked his lips and she took the glass from his hand and set it upon an adjacent table before sitting on his lap. After kissing, he said, ‘Puella, I shall not be dining with you tonight.’

  ‘Oh, Kite, I cannot dine with not you.’

  ‘Without…’ Kite corrected.

  ‘Without you. What you eat tonight?’

  Kite shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I shall eat, Puella, but I know with whom I shall eat whatever I do eat.’

  She tapped the end of his nose which she regarded as a curiously aberrant and pert a proboscis. It was her way of responding when he teased her. ‘Kite, you horrible!’

  Kite smiled and said seriously, ‘I am dining with Mr Mulgrave and, Puella, I think he has something important to say to me, and to Mr Wentworth.’ He frowned. ‘Has Dorothea said anything about him being unwell? I mean sick?’ he added hurriedly.

  Puella shook her head and lowered her eyes. ‘No, Kite. Dorothea told me Mr Mulgrave was still good for her,’ and she whipped up the hem of her skirt and rubbed herself with a giggle.

  Kite frowned. ‘Puella, you must not do that. It is not what a lady would do…’

  Puella slipped from his lap and stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. ‘Puella is not a lady; Puella is a black whore…’

  Kite was on his feet in an instant, one arm round her waist, the other across her mouth. He was horrified. ‘Puella! You are not to speak those words! Never!’

  Puella smiled triumphantly up at him. ‘Come then, Kite, you be good for Puella…’

  An hour later Kite walked the length of the verandah, his footfalls creaking the timbers, the warm night air filled with the loud chirrup of a myriad of cicadas. He found Mulgrave sitting alone in a cane chair, sipping lemonade.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Kite.’ A black servant emerged from the shadows and set down a glass alongside Kite as he lowered himself into one of Mulgrave’s extraordinary whicker chaise-longues. They had hardly wished each other good health, when Wentworth arrived, puffing dangerously and clearly discomfitted to find his junior already ensconced with their host.

  Wentworth lived above the counting house and found Kite’s residence under Mulgrave’s private roof a touch irksome. He had, Kite thought, expected some alteration in his circumstances when he acquired a black servant in the person of Pompey, and his anxiety that Kite would replace himself in Mulgrave’s plans, seemed to have revived in recent weeks.

  Perhaps Wentworth knew something of what was to transpire that evening. After a few moments conversation about the affairs of the day, they went in to eat. The meal was sparse, the wine good but limited and the conversation non-existent. Mulgrave seemed unaffected, but both Wentworth and Kite felt the suspense intolerable. As the servants drew the cloth and Mulgrave selected a cigar from a humidor, he indicated they might join him in a smoke or help themselves from a decanter of rum. Wentworth accepted both, Kite neither. Mulgrave raised his eyebrow and waved the servants out. Having drawn upon his cigar and sent a feather of blue smoke across the table so that the candle flames flickered, he leaned forward on his elbows. Sitting on his left, Kite stared at the way the candlelight etched Mulgrave’s features. The man was handsome, in a long-faced and lugubrious fashion, his grey hair swept back over his head into a tight queue at the nape of his neck where it was severely clubbed in a ribbon as black at the suit he habitually wore.

  The jagged furrow of the scar which seamed his face supported the wide
-spread rumour that Mulgrave had fought a duel. His opponent’s ball had disfigured Mulgrave’s face, his own, it was said, had found a more effective target.

  ‘Well gentlemen,’ Mulgrave said in his low bass voice, as he secured the undivided attention of his young colleagues, ‘you will be wondering at the meaning of all this joyless conviviality.’ He looked at the two young men and Kite thought he saw in the dark eyes a sardonic sparkle. ‘From time to time in a man’s life, there come moments when matters shift their ground. One such moment has come to me and therefore to you also.’ He turned to Wentworth with his slight smile. ‘You Wentworth, I have always regarded as a protégé. It is true that you are a somewhat out-of-elbows fellow, always running and puffing, but you have been a faithful servant and, while I know that from time to time you have accumulated on your own account, you have never cheated me…’

  Kite watched Wentworth suffer under the ruthless assessment that was, it was obvious, all too true. It made Wentworth’s earlier protestations over his acquisition of capital rather amusing. At least, Kite reflected, in his own case he had neither enjoyed so long an acquaintance with Mr Mulgrave, nor had he had anything more than a modestly gainful employment from him.

  ‘So, Wentworth, it is my intention to pass the whole of my business over to you once I have secured such capital as I personally require…’

  Wentworth’s eyes opened wide and he half-gasped, then his expression collapsed, like a man about to burst into guffaws of mirth, or howl at terrible news. With a kind of strangled cry, Wentworth buried his head in his hands, and his shoulders shook so that he seemed shaken either by great mirth, or great grief. Mulgrave merely glanced at his protégé and went on steadily, like a ship dashing aside a wave, Kite thought irrelevantly.

  ‘One does not live forever, and I have an account elsewhere that I wish soon to settle in a private manner.’ Those few words, it was clear to Kite, were all they were ever either going to have by way of explanation, but this thought had scarcely struck Kite, than Mulgrave was speaking of him.