The Guineaman

  Seeing her, the woman stepped forward, smiled and held out her hand. ‘Puella,’ she said, ‘my name is Sarah Tyrell, I have brought you the fur Captain Kite purchased this morning. I am afraid I am also responsible for the cut on his cheek…’

  Kite, trying to distinguish sincerity from condescension, wondered if she would have been so ready to make amends if Puella had been white. Confused, Puella took the proffered hand and bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘Shall we go below?’ Kite said, aware that he had been out-manoeuvred and the extraordinary tripartite encounter had brought all work to a standstill even before the sun set.

  As he reached the foot of the steps and turned into the cabin, he asked coldly. ‘Is it Mrs Tyrell, or Miss, Madam?’

  ‘It’s Mrs, Captain. My husband is a merchant and ship-owner in this town.’

  ‘A man of substance, I imagine.’ Puella said. She had drawn herself up and stood, perfectly composed, waiting for an opening into the conversation.

  Mrs Tyrell looked at Puella in surprise. ‘Why…I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘Would you care for tea or chocolate?’ Puella asked courteously.

  ‘Why tea would be perfectly splendid, thank you.’

  ‘I am afraid I shall have to attend to the matter myself,’ Puella explained, ‘there are no servants to wait upon us since the steward is otherwise employed at the moment.’

  ‘Of course…’ Mrs Tyrell was clearly surprised at Puella’s elegance, courtesy and cool self-assurance.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Mrs Tyrell?’ Puella indicated a chair beside the repaired cabin table as she withdrew to the adjacent pantry.

  ‘We have just suffered in a hurricane,’ Kite explained awkwardly, ‘hence our presence in Newport.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Tyrell said, removing her gloves. ‘I am, er…’

  ‘I think it best, Madam, in the circumstances, if we swiftly let bygones be bygones.’

  ‘That is kind of you, Captain.’ She paused, clearly gathering herself. ‘I behaved unforgivably. I had no idea your Puella was so, so charming. Please…’

  Kite capitulated and smiled sympathetically. Sarah Tyrell’s fine mouth was working with some emotion and there was the faint glint of remorseful tears in her eyes.

  ‘The matter was between us,’ he said consolingly.

  ‘You are very considerate, Captain.’ Her voice was husky and there was a pregnant pause before Mrs Tyrell coughed and asked with forced interest, ‘where did you say you came from in the Antilles?’

  ‘From St John’s, in Antigua.’

  ‘Would you have known the late Joseph Mulgrave? He was long linked with my husband in commerce…’

  ‘We knew him well,’ Puella said, bringing in a tray with cups and saucers. ‘I took his name, along with Kite’s when I received my manumission.’

  ‘I see…’ said Mrs Tyrell, digesting this intelligence and further amazed at Puella’s command of English.

  As they waited for Puella to reappear with the tea-pot, Kite explained their connection with the house of Mulgrave, discovering that she knew of Wentworth and that a commercial connection still existed between her husband’s enterprises and Mulgrave’s successor.

  ‘Do you trade in slaves?’ Puella asked, pouring the tea.

  ‘Well, er, yes, I’m afraid we do, Puella.’

  ‘And are you afraid that you trade in sugar and rum, Sarah?’ Puella asked with disarming candour, looking up and handing the elegant white woman her tea.

  Kite froze, suddenly, inexplicably, outrageously and confusingly sympathetic to both victims, but Mrs Tyrell rose to the occasion. ‘No Puella, we are not apologetic about trading in sugar and rum, perhaps we should be, since they are directly linked with the trade in slaves.’

  ‘There are some who…’ Kite began, but Puella broke in.

  ‘Kite should be. He takes me because he finds he is in love with me but he still carries slaves.’

  Kite made a self deprecating gesture. ‘I annoyed Puella, by taking a few blacks from Antigua to Jamaica…’

  ‘Love makes people do extraordinary things,’ Mrs Tyrell said with sententious obscurity, sipping her tea.

  ‘Like striking a man with a whip?’ Puella asked.

  ‘Puella!’ Kite protested, astonished at how she knew. Had she overheard his remark to Jones and the master-rigger?

  ‘No, she is right, Captain Kite, right to question me as to why I did it.’ Mrs Tyrell’s hand went out to restrain Kite as Puella coolly sat down with her own cup of tea. ‘The trouble is Puella, I am not certain that I can explain it. I had heard, of course, that there was a schooner at Roberts’ yard and that the master had on board a Guinea woman. It is not unknown for such things to happen, even here in Rhode Island…’ Mrs Tyrell paused with a sigh. ‘The plain truth is that I was bored. I encountered Captain Kite in the furrier’s and confronted him with… with what I thought at the time was his outrageous behaviour. Now I feel foolish and contrite and regret what I did, the more so since making your acquaintance.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kite with relief, admiring Mrs Tyrell’s considerable moral courage in confessing so handsomely, ‘there’s an end to the matter then.’

  ‘Perhaps I can make some amends,’ Mrs Tyrell said, placing her drained cup on the table before her and addressing Puella. ‘Tomorrow night, please come and dine with us. I shall send a carriage and I shall not take a refusal. My husband will be pleased to met you both and, Captain Kite,’ she turned to Kite, ‘who knows, this meeting may yet end happily with benefits for all of us.’

  Though Kite graciously accepted the invitation, Puella resisted it. Partly through jealousy, partly through fear and largely because of being pregnant. She had no wish to embark upon a social event so ill-prepared, in conditions of such local hostility.

  But Kite put up contrary arguments; Mrs Tyrell’s acceptance, no matter howsoever it had been gained, cocked a snook at the prejudice of the townsfolk. It did not take much intelligence, Kite said, to see that Mrs Tyrell was a woman of influence, only a woman of influence would have sought to make a scene in the furrier’s. She was also a woman of courage, for she had needed nothing less, he argued, to come aboard and apologise. Moreover, he went on, warming to the subject of acceptance, the commercial advantages that might result from any association that sprung up from a dinner, were worth cultivating for their own sake. Puella rejected this as an argument for her own presence at the meal.

  ‘If you must dine with her, dine without me,’ she protested, ‘if you care so much about money, leave me here. I know she has her eyes on you; her husband will be old and she will be wanting you…’

  ‘Good heaven’s Puella, she’s not Kitty Robertson…’

  ‘No!’ flared Puella, ‘but here you are arguing to increase trade and put money into Kitty Robertson’s pocket!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake Puella, if I see an advantage in trade it is to put money in our pockets,’ an exasperated Kite protested. They fell silent, then Kite rallied. ‘Look, Puella, I cannot pretend that any of this is easy for you, but when you get to England you cannot, no by God, I will not let you, hide away. You will have to enter society and play your part as my… as my wife. You are carrying my child and I shall,’ he said with sudden resolution, ‘make you my wife.’ Then without waiting to see the impact his words had had upon her, for they had had too profound an effect upon himself, Kite blundered on. ‘Look, my darling, you astonished that woman with your composure and dignity. I saw it in her eyes. You held your head up in Antigua, and you can do it here. These people here are unaffected when compared with the wives of the merchants of Liverpool and London. See this as your entrance into society, it will not be so terrible.’

  ‘Suppose she is making some plan to, to…’ Puella was weakening, Kite sensed, as she struggled to find words to express herself.

  ‘To humiliate you?’

  ‘Yes, to humiliate me.’

  ‘I cannot believe that. She is not that sort of person. She is passionate an
d quick tempered, but I think not ungenerous and unkind.’

  ‘She would humiliate me if she made love to you and if she is passionate…’

  ‘Puella…’ Kite said reproachfully, embracing her. ‘I love you. Only you.’

  ‘She is dangerous to me, Kite,’ Puella whispered. ‘I feel these things. You cannot understand.’

  ‘My darling,’ Kite soothed, ‘in three or four days we shall be at sea.’

  After a little they spread the bearskin on the deck.

  Afterwards, Kite had to admit, the evening was an undoubted success and though it left him personally disturbed, it proved a triumph for Puella. Anyone who supposed the blacks ignorant and inferior to the whites would, had they known the astonishing transformation that Puella achieved, have instantly changed their mind. Puella rose from their extemporised couch transformed, invigorated and confident. Kite foolishly ascribed this to the intensity of their love-making on the bearskin.

  That evening when Jones informing them of the arrival of the Tyrell’s carriage Kite, who had often privately nurtured the conceit that Puella was a native princess, had no doubt of the matter as he led Puella ashore

  Puella’s condition, though well into its term, was not yet obtrusive. She had readily assumed the character of the grande dame by hiding her burden under the ample elegance of one of Dorothea’s dresses. Mulgrave had kept Dorothea expensively and, so far as Antiguan fashion allowed, fashionably dressed. Dorothea and the local dressmaker favoured the brilliant colours loved by the Africans, so Puella’s skirt, while it paid due reverence to the wide mode of the day, was of a brilliant scarlet silk, which sussurated over a petticoat of yellow. Puella had cinched in the laced bodice, sufficient to both accommodate her growing belly and to expose her increasing bosom in the fashionable manner, while her ebony shoulders rose from tulle trimming of the very latest manufacture. She set off Kite’s blue broadcloth coat, buff waistcoat, white breeches and hose, and silver-buckled shoes to perfection. Overall she wore the foxskin coat, while he affected a caped cloak of heavy wool worsted.

  Kite had been anxious lest the Tyrells had indeed meditated some ritual humiliation, but there were no other guests present and while it was possible that none had been invited in order to save their hosts from embarrassment, Kite thought not. It was clear from the outset that Sarah Tyrell sincerely wished to make amends, or at least to signal that as her disinterested intention. Equally clearly, her husband was too much a man of commerce to be unduly troubled over superimposed conventions when they ran contrary to business opportunities. Besides, to hide the fact that they were entertaining a black woman was impossible, the servants who waited at table would carry the news about Newport within hours, though they concealed their feelings well enough at the time. Tyrell, bending over Puella’s hand as he courteously greeted her, set the tone within the hearing of his manservant by welcoming her as ‘Mrs Kite’.

  Tyrell was, as Puella had predicted, much older than his wife. A tall, soberly dressed man who wore a half-wig and, though far less taciturn and obscure, somewhat reminded Kite of Mulgrave. Grave in his deliberations, he had the same quality of measuring everything carefully before any commitment, knowing that once made, that commitment was permanent. Beyond the difference in their ages, he was an odd contrast to his wife; a man clearly used to being listened to and obeyed.

  ‘Shall we go directly in to dinner?’ he asked, though it was clear that he had no intention of doing anything else. It proved a shrewd move; the Tyrells were too polished to allow the conversation to become stilted. As the soup was swiftly served, Tyrell’s question about the hurricane drew a general account from Kite. After this Sarah sought a few personal details from Puella’s ordeal during the tempest, while Tyrell led Kite towards the subject of commerce by way of a concern for the Spitfire’s spoilt cargo. Having drawn his young guest and made his own assessment, Tyrell asked whether Kite would carry some documents, bills of exchange and debentures to London on his, Tyrell’s, behalf.

  ‘I am not certain when I shall be in London,’ Kite had said carefully, catching Sarah Tyrell’s eye and colouring at her smile. ‘But I am certain that I can attend to the matter.’

  ‘I supposed, foolishly it seems, that you were making for London, but you are intending to land at Bristol, are you?’ Tyrell asked.

  ‘No sir, It is my intention to return to Liverpool. I have an interest in a company there…’

  It was clear that as soon as Kite mentioned Liverpool and his partnership with Makepeace, Tyrell showed a greater interest in cultivating a connection with Kite. On his return to England, it transpired that Mulgrave had intended to act as agent for a number of colonial trading houses, among which was Tyrell’s. Tyrell now encouraged Kite to assume the task.

  ‘Liverpool is a growing place, Captain, and is already eclipsing Bristol…’

  It occurred to Kite as Tyrell expatiated on the mutual advantages that could arise, that Sarah Tyrell had picked up some hint of an advantage in securing the friendship of Kite early in their tea-party aboard the Spitfire, but he did not judge her too harshly for it. Looking across the table to where she was listening to Puella, he found it easy to forgive her. She had clearly charmed Puella, for she was speaking animatedly and, though he was attentive to Tyrell, he caught the drift of Puella’s discourse, a reminiscence of her early life up to the time of her captivity. She had never spoken of it to him, and the facility with which Sarah had drawn from her the story of her youth, distracted him from Tyrell’s conversation.

  When the women withdrew, Kite accepted the cigar Tyrell offered him. ‘Would you take a small shipment of these?’ Tyrell asked, rolling the tobacco leaf alongside his ear. ‘You see, Captain, I think we can do business,’ Tyrell passed the decanter. ‘Rhode Island is famous for its seamen and its ships, its rum and its slaves, but as it grows rich on these commodities, there is a corresponding growth in demand for English manufactures. We produce much in the colonies now, but a pair of English pistols, or a fine hanger from Messrs Wilkinson, will command a higher price than a home-made article. As for London modes… well, you are a young but not an inexperienced man in the matter of woman, Captain.’

  Kite seized the opportunity. It was not that he warmed to Tyrell, but he sensed the man spoke the truth as he saw it. ‘You have been kind to us, sir. You will be aware that the presence of my, er, wife has caused some controversy.’

  Tyrell raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘That is true, Captain Kite, but I am not entirely immune to the lady’s attractions. Don’t forget that I knew Mulgrave, knew him quite well…’

  ‘And you visited Antigua?’

  Tyrell nodded, adding, ‘and I knew Dorothea.’ He blew cigar smoke at the ceiling. ‘I also know my wife is responsible for the disfigurement of your face…’

  ‘Please,’ Kite said hurriedly, ‘it is not important, Mr Tyrell. The matter is over and best forgotten.’

  ‘That is generous of you, Captain.’ Tyrell paused then, draining his glass, asked, ‘so may we join hands in business?’

  ‘I see no objection, Mr Tyrell. You are already associated with Wentworth and he with me…’

  ‘And I know Makepeace, though I have to confess I do not much warm to him.’ Tyrell smiled. ‘You had better call me Arthur,’ he said smiling and rising to his feet. ‘Shall we join the ladies?’

  Following suit, Kite felt he had been granted an honour and inclined his head. ‘William Kite, at your service Arthur.’

  On that they shook hands and left the dining room.

  Only when the were returning to Roberts’ yard did Kite feel any disquiet. He was not quite certain how it happened, for the food and wine had relaxed him, but he recalled that Tyrell had been showing Puella a small portrait of a Mohawk chieftan which was said to be of some antiquity, when he had felt Sarah Tyrell’s hand on his arm.

  ‘Congratulations, Captain, on your good fortune,’ she breathed, and Kite looked down at her fine dark eyes and red mouth. He seemed perplexed. ‘Puella
’s anticipated confinement,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, she told you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sarah chuckled. ‘I noticed.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘No you don’t Captain, but no matter.’ She paused, ‘we shall meet again, I am sure.’

  ‘I, er, I hope so Madam…’

  ‘Call me Sarah,’ she said, her finger reaching up and touching his scabbed cheek. ‘You will not forget me, I think, William.’

  Kite glanced quickly at her preoccupied husband and the attentive Puella. ‘No,’ he replied, his heart beating foolishly, ‘it would be very difficult to do that.’

  She smiled and he felt his response said more than he meant, and yet paradoxically, he wanted to say more.

  ‘Until the next time,’ she whispered, drawing away from him and holding her hand out to Puella as she and Tyrell turned away from the little wooden panel that bore the image of the Mohawk sachem. ‘Richard has been showing you his great, great, oh I forget how many greats, grandfather…’ It was a statement, graciously made, a rounding off of the evening by setting a light-hearted seal upon it. Perhaps, Kite thought in the confusion of the aftermath of his moment of intimacy with Sarah Tyrell, she had meant the evening as much for Puella as for him, and as much for him as for her husband. It had been a great making of amends. But in the carriage going back to Roberts’ shipyard, as he cradled Puella under his arm, there grew a conviction that it had been chiefly for herself. The conceit tormented him as he lay awake beside the sleeping Puella, possessed of unfaithful thoughts.

  ‘Good night, Captain,’ she had said as they parted, ‘it was a fair wind that blew you hither.’

  Held from sleep he damned the woman who only yesterday had struck him with her riding crop, and whom he had viciously wished to strike across her lovely face. And he hoped the spirits would not be so unkind as to spoil Puella’s new-found happiness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Corsair