by Adrian Speed
“Attitudes of the time, my dear,” Sir Reginald opened the door for me, “not mine.”
“One day I am going to take you to a place where foppish Englishmen are hated,” I grimaced as I hauled myself into the carriage. “Boston, 1776, perhaps.”
“Oh no, my dear, they quite liked me back then,” Sir Reginald gave a weak smile. “I'll be waiting for you in Timbuktu.”
“All right,” I pulled the door shut. The carriage smelt of new leather, probably imported from England. As promised, a small trunk emblazoned with my name waited inside.
“Onitsha please, driver,” Sir Reginald called up to him. The driver flicked the reins and the carriage began to move. Sir Reginald followed it for a few steps.
“Do you remember where we first met Hannah?”
“Sure,” I gave him an odd look. “My first summer in England. You were prancing through Hyde Park with some contraption strapped to your back mumbling like a mad man about something. Then you ran up to me and demanded my help.”
“Did you trust me then?” Sir Reginald asked. “Even though I appeared a mad man?”
“I did,” I squirmed.
“Then trust me now, you will be fine.” Sir Reginald gave me one firm nod, took his hat off and broke away from the carriage. “You will be fine,” he asserted one last time, and I, feeling a little guilty about my mood, waved to him through the carriage window.
After a few moments I fell back into my seat. The carriage shook wildly even on the flat, smooth mud-sands of Nigeria. My eyes flickered to the trunk waiting for me on the other seat and I sighed.
I opened it with a click and pulled out a dress. Not quite the most ghastly thing I'd ever seen, and at least there weren't any corsets. As I reached to close the curtain I saw a brief flash of lightning. Sir Reginald was gone and wouldn't be back in my timeline for two weeks, not until we reached Timbuktu.
I was alone.
Chapter XVII
Onitsha sat like a Nigerian Cairo at the head of the river delta providing a safe haven for all the ships needing to travel the river. There had always been a ramshackle city here but the British had taken the ancient collection of fishing jetties and rebuilt it.
As I looked out of the window I thought it still looked like just a few fishing villages even now, a chicken scratch of a town. Few of the roads were paved. Hovels of scrap wood and sheet metal gave way to brick buildings and warehouses, and a railway station hugged the waterfront. The carriage moved into the harbourside where the colonial buildings clustered. For all the claims of bringing civilisation to Africa, the colonials had virtually built their own city within the native city, like the Forbidden Palace of Beijing.
Outside the carriage window I heard a thousand languages spoken by a thousand mouths. Arabic, English, French, I could make those out, but there were hundreds more I couldn't.
The carriage swept past an ocean-going steamer and continued until it drew up by a collection of smaller vessels. I checked my trunk for tickets and passport. I was to sail on the SS Livingstone, although I wasn't sure which that was.
Outside, sailors, porters, officials and the public thronged a paved space already full of crates and rigging. Shouts and calls rang out that no doubt meant something to someone, somewhere, but to me was all so much noise and chaos.
“Which ship were you wanting, Miss?” the driver's deep voice rumbled down from above.
“The Livingstone?”
“Right you are, Miss,” the carriage made a turn to the left and continued down the harbour. I spied the Livingstone at the end, a cargo ship like the others, drawn up against the harbour, but one of the larger ones. Still small compared to the ocean-going vessel, it had two chimneys each about the width of a fat man, and the wide, shallow shape of a river ship. Smoke billowed out and it was clearly preparing to get under steam.
I hope I'm not late, I thought, grabbing my trunk in preparation to run, just in case. That would be true irony, to be late even when you have a time-machine. I paused, my dedication to truth got in the way. No, it wouldn't be ironic, it would be cruel coincidence.
“Here we are, Miss,” the driver drew up as close as he could to the Livingstone and reined in the horse. He dropped down and opened the door.
I stepped out, pulling at my skirt so I didn't trip over it, and the driver hauled my trunk out.
“Take your trunk ma'am?” A porter doffed his cap to me, an Irishman by the sound of him. “The Livingstone, right?”
“Er, yes,” I said, looking a little flustered as he pulled the trunk onto a dolly and wheeled it away. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing, Miss,” the driver said, his voice like the echoing of distant mountains. “Sir Reginald paid me when he chartered the carriage.”
“Well, thank you very much,” I bowed my head to him and stepped towards the gangway to the Livingstone.
Onitsha was not yet a major shipping centre to rival London or New York. It had no office to process tickets and passports, but a little clerk sat at a desk next to the gangplank.
“Tickets please,” he said, fiddling with a fussy pair of glasses on the end of his nose. He took the ticket I offered, checked my details, stamped it, and then checked my passport. “You'll be required to show this passport again to the border officials when you enter French West Africa,” the clerk said and handed the passport back to me, “so keep it to hand.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking back the documents. Without further hesitation I stepped aboard the ship.
“It's a cargo ship, Robert!” a middle-aged woman's voice barked from a port-hole. “Full of sailors and coal!”
“Well the Niger isn't the Mississippi or the Nile, they don't have any dedicated passenger liners,” a man's voice replied, also middle-aged. The harmonics on this voice identified it as a husband's voice, the sort of husband who would continue to do whatever he wanted, no matter what his wife said. “The Livingstone came very highly recommended.”
“By merchants! This is hardly what you promised me, Robert,” the woman sniffed. “An African cruise, this is not.”
My attention faded as I reached the top of the gangplank where a white-suited sailor greeted me. “Welcome aboard,” he said as I stepped on deck. He was a short little man, with skin burnt red by the sun. “Miss Hannah Delaronde? I'm Parker, first mate, and this is Captain O'Hara.”
The Captain stood behind him. He was taller than his second-in-command by almost two feet. He stared into the middle distance with a face of stern concentration and seemed to be holding his breath. The glass in his hand smelt of gin strong enough to crinkle paint.
“Pleasure to have you aboard.” The Captain didn't meet my gaze but he did manage to tip his cap.
“I think you're the last of our happy little company,” Parker said. “I can show you to your berth if you would like, Miss.”
“Er, thank you, that'd be very kind,” I waved him on, making it clear that he should lead the way. The Captain staggered off towards the central island where the funnels climbed towards the sky. I tried not to think about the fact that the man in control of our lives was drunk out of his mind.
“We have ten cabins down here. Only half of them are occupied at the moment. We'll pick up more passengers as we go up-river.” Parker showed me down a companionway near the prow that descended so fast it could almost be called a ladder. In the long skirts I’d been forced to wear by early-twentieth-century social mores it was a wonder I didn't fall down it head first. “Five cabins on the portside and five on the starboard side, you know which they are, Miss? Port is left, starboard is right.”
“Yes, I've been on a boat before.”
“Sorry Miss, always worth refreshing the memory.” Parker showed me down a thin corridor lined with doors. On a ship, I remembered, space was paramount. Everything was designed to be as small as possible without driving the inhabitants mad. “You're on the starboard side here,” Parker opened a door that looked like every other. “Cabin six.”
&nbs
p; I looked inside. Two narrow beds stacked one on top of the other were built into the wall. A desk so small it would be better called a nightstand stood on the other side with a small mirror. Two wardrobes flanked two chests of drawers, and my trunk sat on the bed.
“Here is the shower, Miss.” Parker opened one of the wardrobe doors to reveal a tiny plumbed room barely big enough for one person, with a shower head at the top. “Wash-stand here,” he lifted up the nightstand table-top to reveal a porcelain basin, “and a water-closet here, Miss.” The second wardrobe door revealed a commode crammed into another tiny space. So, I thought, actually no wardrobes at all, just drawers. “And it's just you in this cabin, Miss.”
“Well that's a relief,” I looked around. With the two of us inside, there was barely enough room to breathe.
“Please don't forget your mosquito net at night, Miss.” Parker pointed to a roll of netting tucked into a small pouch at the head of each bunk. “Worst time for mosquitoes. This is malaria country and Onitsha is the last hospital for, ooh, probably until you get to Morocco, Miss.”
“OK,” I nodded. “I'll remember.”
“Everything from the first bulkhead for’ard is passenger space, Miss, so if you'll follow me I’ll show you the other facilities we have on board. Oh, and here's your key, Miss.” Parker handed it over and I slid it into a pocket.
One thing I had to praise Sir Reginald for, every dress he had packed for me had pockets sewn into hidden places. I didn't know what I would do in a world without pockets.
Parker led me back down the way we had come, past the companionway up to the deck and through a door. Inside was a large wardroom that ran the width of the ship and almost as deep, with several sofas, lounge chairs and a few small tables and chairs, many of them wicker. A bar was built into one side, laden with enough alcohol to preserve a shark. Overhead several open skylights and a large, lazy fan sent wafts of air around the room, but it was fighting a losing battle against oppressive humidity.
A man the size and disposition of a barrel of gunpowder crammed into one of the wicker chairs, straining its ability to hold together. He had the moustaches of a walrus, and despite his age still looked like he could kill a man.
“Parker!” he barked, waving his glass at the first mate. “Another whisky and tonic.”
“Don't bother the first mate; I'll ring for one.” A young man with hair dark as coal walked over to the bar and pressed a button. Somewhere else in the ship the dull ringing of a bell sounded.
“I'll bother whoever I like,” the walrus-man scoffed.
A native Nigerian appeared at the bar.
“A whisky and tonic for Sir Oinks-a-lot over there,” the young man said and slumped back to his seat at a table. He had numerous papers all over the desk and was reading a book. He looked like the students I went to university with, soft and with a lot of book knowledge hiding behind young eyes.
“This is the wardroom, Miss,” Parker said, smiling nervously. “This is where our passengers can congregate freely and where breakfast and dinner are served. As you can see, you can also ring at any time for extra service. It's charged to your room.”
“And costs an arm and a bloody leg,” walrus-man growled as the bartender handed over a drink.
“Thankfully not literally,” the young man snapped, and turned his attentions to me.
“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” He offered his hand to shake. “David Jones.”
“Hannah Delaronde.” I returned the handshake. It was still a young man's shake. I suspected he was younger than I was by at least a year or two.
“And it is my pleasure to introduce Sir Oinks-a-lot,” Mr Jones bounced over to the human walrus. “A marvel of modern medicine, truly. A pig that walks like a man, but with one important clue to his true nature. No matter what opinion he expresses all you hear is the snorting and snuffling of pigs!”
“My name,” the walrus-man growled as I tried to stifle a laugh, “is Major Stoat and you know it! And I'll thank you to stop your incessant mocking before I lose my temper as a gentleman!”
A small, polite cough came from the corner and I noticed a man sitting by the porthole reading by the daylight from outside. He looked about thirty, maybe a little older, and thin. Everything about him was thin, his face, his legs, his torso, his hands and fingers. He looked almost as though a garden cane had taught itself to read.
“And how can I forget our dear brother monk!” Mr Jones bounded over to the thin man and grabbed him by the shoulders. “A very devout and holy man, he has come to join the mission and teach the dark savages about a Jew who died nearly two thousand years ago.”
“Ahem, I'm only a teacher.” The man’s Scottish accent was almost sing-song. “The mission is simply the easiest way to reach those in need.” He stood up to greet me properly. “Thomas Peterson.” He offered his hand. “And it is a pleasure to meet you Miss Delaronde.” He flinched when I shook it. Standing up, he seemed rather nervous and jumpy. Tall enough to scrape his head on doorframes, he shrank down to look much smaller.
“What do you teach, Mr Peterson?”
“English, mathematics, history, the sciences,” Mr Peterson shrugged. “I teach whatever is necessary.”
“He used to teach at one of the best schools in Scotland, can you believe that?” Mr Jones said excitedly. “Which is admittedly rather like the best whisky still in Norfolk, but nevertheless, he gave it all up to give those poor starving Nigerians some books to chew on instead of food.”
“I felt they would be better served by my teaching than the sons of rich city men,” Mr Peterson tried to smile.
“Indeed!” Major Stoat snorted.
“Anyway, I am here now.” Mr Peterson folded himself into his chair and flicked through a book. From what I could see it appeared to be an Arabic–English dictionary. “Doing good works. There's no going back to Edinburgh.”
“If you'll follow me, Miss, I can show you the rest of the ship,” Parker offered.
“Yes, good thinking,” I nodded and made to follow the sailor. “It was a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen.”
“Oh please, no need to lie on our account,” Mr Jones reclined into his chair and stuck his feet up on the table. “Talk to you later Hannah.”
Parker led me out through a different door than I had come in. The corridor beyond was identical to the other one, except the cabins were all on the left.
“These are the cabins where the rest of our guests are staying,” Parker said as I counted them off, one, two, three, f— someone burst out of number four, a middle-aged man in a beige suit with dark stains from the heat. He had the look of a clerk but the confidence of a king.
“What the devil is good for the heat?” he said when he saw Parker. “Is it lots of alcohol or no alcohol?”
“The bar can serve you any number of cool drinks—”
“And charge me a fortune I have no doubt.” He frowned at me and mopped his brow. “My apologies, madam, I would offer my hand but I fear I'd only drip on you. I am Mr Rothberg.”
“Hannah Delaronde,” I nodded my head to him, which seemed to pass muster.
“Oh, really, this heat is too much,” a woman's voice sounded from inside. My memory clicked. This was the couple I'd heard when I climbed aboard. “It's setting my heart a flutter.”
A middle-aged woman with fading red hair, in a dress twenty years out of date – not that I could tell – came into view. She wore a native flower on her dress, wilting, like her.
“I can have some chilled water brought to your room, madam,” Parker suggested. “It will be cooler when we get underway. There’s quite a breeze on deck.”
“Then let us get a blessed move on,” Mr Rothberg said as he approached us, heading for the wardroom. “You stay there, Martha, I'll be back with something to drink.” With four of us in the corridor he had to shuffle past us rather uncomfortably.
“Miss Delaronde, wasn't it?” Mrs Rothberg looked to me.
“Yes. Mrs Rothberg?”
“Yes.”
The three of us stood there for some time, waiting for the awkwardness to pass.
“Well, Parker was just giving me a tour of the ship,” I said, making motions to go. “I am sure I will see you again soon.”
“Yes, good day, Miss Delaronde.” Mrs Rothberg retreated into her cabin.
“The stairs are just here, if you remember,” Parker pointed at them redundantly, through the door that separated the companionway from the corridor. “Now, if you were to go downstairs you'd find the crew cabins, the laundry room and the kitchen. We don't prevent passengers from travelling down there, but we cannot advise it except in an emergency when a steward cannot be found.”
“Understood. Just boring stuff down there.”
“So if you'll follow me back up to the top deck,” Parker climbed the steps and I followed.
I had forgotten just how bright the sun was. Down in the ship it was, well, not gloomy, but much darker. Here the sky stretched from horizon to horizon burning bluer than sapphires, and the sun didn't just shine, it beat the landscape with its rays.
“Over there is what we call the island,” Parker pointed to the centre of the ship where the funnels stood. “You needn't concern yourself with it, only the entrance to the engine rooms and so on.” He led me on down the deck. “Passengers are allowed anywhere on deck but we do ask for you to watch for your personal safety. This is a working ship and there are often sailors or cargo on the move.” As if to punctuate his point a harbour crane lowered a crate into the hold. It didn't have to lower very far; the ship must be almost full. “There are numerous life-rings,” Parker patted a box containing one. “If you think someone has fallen overboard do not hesitate to use one. We'd rather lose a life-ring than a person.”
“Understood,” I nodded. We were about half-way down the length of the boat, near the entrance to the hold on the starboard side, away from the harbour.
“This is our sun-shade, for the passengers,” Parker pointed to a small building in front of us, not much taller or deeper than a garden shed. “It allows for good views of the landscape, keeps off the sun, but lets in the breeze. It's very popular with – Oh! Sorry!” Parker span on his heel and put a hand over his eyes. I looked on. A couple were kissing in the sun-shade, and quickly broke their embrace.