Curse of the Purple Pearl

by Adrian Speed

  I finished my drink. The cool glass ran with beads of condensation, almost as if the glass itself was sweating. Mr and Mrs O'Connor had gone back to their own conversation, after I turned out to be dull. Mr Jones looked deep in thought as he poured over his notes, and Major Stoat entertained himself with his glass of whisky.

  “I'm heading to the top deck,” I announced as I left the room. “I'll be back for supper.”

  “It's dinner,” Mr Jones chided. “Unless you're expecting an intimate family meal.”

  “Dinner then, I’m so sorry.” I bowed to his wisdom literally with over-exaggerated hand gestures. Mr Jones's irreverence for things was rather contagious.

  I made my way through the ship out onto the top deck, and gasped at the beautiful sight above me. The sun had set but the horizon towards the sea was burnt as yellow as Van Gogh's sunflowers. Above me was inky-blue twilight, and in the distance behind, hanging over Africa, the darkness encroached, carrying with it the stars. The evening felt so thick you could cut a slice.

  As the ship steamed up-river a firm breeze whipped up. Darkness and foreboding shrouded the forest on both sides. This was the first forest I’d ever seen that looked like no human had ever touched it. Even the “wild” forests of Canada were thinned by the hand of man, kept under control, gardened. This was pure jungle.

  “It's a dark continent,” Mr Peterson's voice came out of the twilight. I looked around, but he wasn't talking to me. I couldn't see him, but it sounded as though it came from the sun-shade. I crept closer. “And I don't just mean because it has only recently been explored. It's dark of knowledge. The Arabic kingdoms are long gone. Mansa Musa's Mali disappeared centuries ago. The Mutapa peoples of East Africa and the Great Zulu kingdom are all gone. It's up to Europe now to relight the candle. To bring all the great gifts of the renaissance to these people.”

  “And that's why you left Scotland?” Mrs Rothberg's voice was clear.

  “Well, I...I, hm,” Mr Peterson struggled. “I left Scotland...I left...I left Scotland because...” He coughed and the sound of him tapping his knees echoed out. “I am a certain type of person, Mrs Rothberg. And a certain type of person like me could suffer very greatly if that fact got out. A...different type of person threatened to reveal to everyone that I was a...certain type of person if I didn't do what they wanted. I didn't do what they wanted and now everyone at the school boards knows that I'm...a certain type of person. And I can't show my face in Edinburgh again.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “Mrs Rothberg, how much more could you punish me? The mission doesn't care; they'd take a murderer to teach English if he offered,” Mr Peterson gave a nervous laugh. “I'm a damned soul, Mrs Rothberg, and this is where I belong.”

  I withdrew before I heard anymore, feeling too guilty to keep listening. Secrets like that were meant only for the person being told. I wondered, however, how stupid the man had to be to share them on a ship where if you talked loudly at the prow you could be heard at the stern.

  Speaking of the stern, a familiar, shadowy figure stood there, staring out at the sunset.

  I joined Albert leaning on the railing.

  “You again,” he muttered. “Are you following me?”

  “I can't help it if you just happen to be everywhere I want to go,” I smiled at him. “It's a small ship.”

  “It is.” Albert ran his tongue around his teeth and stared out at the river. “You know that damn Major is going all the way to Timbuktu?”

  “I do.”

  “How far are you going?”

  “Timbuktu.”

  “Well, perhaps it won't be a completely hellish experience.”

  Chapter XIX

  I awoke the next day feeling the comforting motion of the ship, gentle, almost like the motions a mother uses to comfort a baby. I untangled myself from the mosquito net and pulled on another of the practical dresses Sir Reginald had chosen. One day I would find out how he, a man who wore an identical suit every day in every time period, had been able to pick out clothes that suited me. Like all the clothes I thought I suited, it was blue, a pastel blue, the colour of Barcelona's sky two hours after sunrise.

  “Two eggs, poached, please,” I asked of the waiter at my table in the wardroom. “With some brown toast?”

  “Certainly, madam,” the Nigerian nodded and took my order to the kitchen.

  Most of the passengers were assembled for breakfast. The lounge furniture was pushed back and folding tables had been placed around for breakfast. Mr and Mrs Rothberg were reading, Mr Rothberg favouring the most recent Financial Times to make it to Nigeria, while his wife read the sort of dainty romantic book women of a certain age favoured.

  Major Stoat did not look like he had moved from his chair all night. He was still there now with a table brought to him, shovelling scrambled egg and bacon into his mouth, reminding me of earth-moving machines in open-cast mines.

  Mr Jones and Mr Peterson were talking over a table. It could have sat four people, but Mr Jones had filled it with scribbles. I couldn't make out all the details of their conversation but it sounded as though Mr Jones was mocking the poor Scot.

  Albert was nowhere to be seen, but the O'Connors soon made themselves known.

  “Waiter!” Mr O'Connor burst into wardroom with a crash. In one hand he held a line supporting two fish the size of dinner plates, still wriggling; his other was draped around his wife, as was she around him. “Whack these on the head, fry them and serve them with a slice of lemon.”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” a waiter hurried out and took the fish gingerly. They were asphyxiating rapidly but seemed unwilling to die.

  “What's the point in buying food when the river is teaming with it, after all?” Mr O'Connor said, plonking himself down at the table with the gravitas of having wrestled a bear, rather than just waiting for a fish to be stupid enough to bite a hook. “Especially at these prices.”

  “Onitsha's prices,” Mr Rothberg said returning to his paper.

  “It's still ridiculous,” Mrs O'Connor said. “We're paying four times as much as in Lagos.”

  “Lagos is a major commerce centre for West Africa.” Mr Rothberg didn't look up from his paper but brought a piece of toast to his lips. “Onitsha is three buildings surrounded by a tribal village. And on top of that the ship must make a living. It is simple economics.”

  “Ah, well, we just avoided 'simple economics' with a good rod and a firm hand,” Mr O'Connor sneered. “Got a good look at the wildlife around here too, didn't we, my dove?” At this he took and held his wife's hand.

  “There's at least one pride of lions in this jungle,” Mrs O'Connor agreed. “And the further north we go the more likely we are to find the real goodies – rhinoceros, elephant, perhaps even giraffe.”

  “Mm, you're not going to shoot them are you?” Mr Peterson almost dropped his fork.

  “Well not now.” Mr O'Connor gave Mr Peterson what he no doubt thought was a winning smile. “Unless it's something we could easily transport. Maybe a prize lion. Or one of the deer with the great horns...Ibex.”

  “Mm, you, er, you really shouldn't,” Mr Peterson coughed nervously. It sounded almost like a choked laugh. “It may seem difficult to believe but humans can create, er, extinction events. The, er, the American buffalo used to, ah, cover the country from California to, er, Buffalo, New York. That's a, um, that's a town.” He added nervously.

  “The Americans wanted to wipe the beasts out.” Mrs O'Connor rolled her eyes. “Do away with the buffalo and the Red Indians in one stroke and build farms there. We're doing nothing of the kind.”

  “We're not immoral people, Peterson,” Mr O'Connor raised his hands. “We're not shooting the young here, or so many the populations can't recover. We're simply going to find some impressive-looking specimens and shoot them to return to Ireland.”

  “But ah, if everyone in Europe who could afford to do the same did so, then, er, the population of such animals would be dramatically reduced,�
�� Mr Peterson said slowly. “I have some books that—”

  “Look, Peterson,” Mr O'Connor's smile faded to a scowl. “You're here to, what, educate the savage?”

  “Well I—”

  “Well I won't tell you how pointless it is to try doing that and you don't tell me I am going to wipe out species that number in the millions, is that all right? Can we call that fair? Good.” He turned to see a waiter returning with two plates of fish, freshly filleted and fried. “Oh, excellent, thank you.” A second waiter brought my eggs and toast.

  “I er, I think I'll take some air.” Mr Peterson pushed back from the table and left awkwardly. He walked as if his limbs were held together with elastic bands.

  “Oh, this heat is simply murder,” Mrs Rothberg said and began fanning herself with her book. There was a fan in the ceiling but was not doing a good enough job. “It sets my heart a flutter.”

  “Yes dear,” Mr Rothberg was drenched in sweat but seemed to have lost the will to care. He regularly mopped his brow and forgot about it.

  “My father had a weak heart you know,” Mrs Rothberg shook her head. “He was only forty-two, god rest his soul, when it gave out.”

  “And how old are you now, Mrs Rothberg?” Mr Jones leaned over the back of his chair, the only one impertinent enough to ask.

  “Old enough to worry about it,” she shot him a scowl. “I think Mr Peterson has the right idea. It is much cooler up top, despite the sun.” She pushed back her chair and bustled to follow him.

  I ate my toast in silence, afraid of what opening my mouth to speak might cause.

  “Peterson wasn't in the war either,” Mr Jones cast an eye towards Major Stoat.

  “Teaching is work of national importance,” the Major replied without appearing to think about it. He scowled the moment the words were out of his mouth.

  “So you can make sure the boys can properly appreciate the importance of Chaucer on modern literature before they get sent off to drive tanks and shoot Germans?” Mr Jones asked.

  “If you're trying to get a rise out of me boy, I'll deny you.” The Major turned his eyes to a book instead.

  “Mr O'Connor didn't go to war either, are you going to have a go at him?”

  “O'Connor is Irish, he...well, you know the trouble with the Irish,” Major Stoat said.

  “Oh yes?” Mr O'Connor turned at that. He was smiling, but clearly hiding a thunderstorm.

  “The Irish don't want to be British,” Major Stoat said hastily, his moustache quivering. “You can't compel a man to fight when he doesn't want to!”

  “Oh, really?” Mr Jones smile broadened.

  “Oh, dash it all,” the Major groaned and slunk behind a large glass of amber liquid. “I'm not saying anything. If I don't say anything you'll go away.”

  “Don't be so sure,” Mr Jones chuckled to himself.

  “Where is Albert, er, Mr Fairfax?” I tried to change the subject.

  “Damned if I know,” Mr Jones shrugged. “He might still be in bed. I think he's sharing with Peterson. I'm stuck with Lord Blowhard over there.”

  “Maybe he's on the top deck.” I devoured my eggs swiftly and made to leave. Thankfully no-one tried to keep me there. Mr and Mrs O'Connor were being uncomfortably close, Mr Rothberg was reading the paper, Mr Jones was scribbling, and Major Stoat appeared to be trying to meditate to make Mr Jones's head catch fire.

  Up on deck I found the familiar silhouette I was looking for. Albert stood at the gunwales watching the landscape roll by, accompanied by a man I recognised as the Captain as I approached.

  The smell of gin hit me at a distance of ten feet.

  “Good morning, Albert, Captain.”

  “Good morning, Miss Delaronde,” Albert said glumly.

  “Morning,” Captain O'Hara nodded. The glass in his hand was filled to the brim with fizzy, clear liquid and ice. No guesses what he'd drunk for breakfast.

  “We were just talking about the war,” Albert said, surprising me. “Apparently it was a hairy business around here.”

  “Oh, saints preserve us it was,” the Captain nodded. “German Cameroon was only two hundred miles away and there was daily threat from submarine boats. O'course, they couldn't get far up-river but our ship was drafted into hauling military loads around the place. Every day I thought I'd wake up to torpedo strike.” He paused, and patted his pockets. At length he brought out a thermos flask. “G&T, girl?”

  “Er, no thank you,” I smiled as I refused.

  “Holds off malaria,” the Captain insisted and pressed it into my hands. At a loss, I took it. I unscrewed the cap and used it as a cup. The gin and tonic inside was three times stronger than I was used to, and as bitter as tree bark.

  “Strong stuff,” I gasped. It felt as though the gin had fused the sides of my throat together.

  “Terrible disease, malaria,” the Captain shook his head despondently. “Seen too many damn good sailors take their chances with the mosquitoes and die. It never leaves you, you know, even if you fight it off. The doctors say it lives on in your liver even if you survive, and it can strike again.” He took a long swig from his own glass. “Came for my first captain in the end. He was sixty and we were sailing around the horn, a thousand miles from malaria country when it hit him. He'd shaken it off forty years before when it returned to claim him. Dead in three days with a fever of a hundred and five. A hundred and five, by the saints.” He drank some more. “But those mosquitoes will never get me, not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “I am sure they won't have time before liver poisoning sets in,” Albert nodded.

  “That's right! That's right!” the Captain nodded and then slunk to the railing. He stared out at the shore. The scrub land had been cleared in places. Simple scratch farms clustered around hovels. In the distance a telegraph pole spanned the continent. “I never wanted to be here you know. A good Derry boy should never be so far from Ireland. I keep putting in applications with the White Star and Cunard liners, get a good working retirement, you know? But they don't want to hear it if you haven't been with the company since you were a cabin boy.”

  “I think the transatlantic crossing would regularly send you as far away from Ireland as Nigeria,” I said, foolishly applying logic to emotions.

  A whistle blew near the funnels. The Captain jerked his head towards the prow of the ship. We were rounding a meander on the same heading as another ship and neither seemed to want to get out of the way.

  “Oh, saints preserve us from daft lunatics.” Without pausing to say goodbye he dashed off to the control room leaving Albert and me in silence.

  “Would you, er, would you like this?” I offered Albert the thermos cup I was still holding.

  “It's not that bad is it?” Albert took the cup and sniffed. His sinuses corroded instantly. “Oh well,” he drained in one gulp the small amount I had poured. He tried to be manly about it, but I saw his eyes water as it went down. “Christ, how does the man stay standing?” he wheezed.

  “I have no idea,” I said as the ship swiftly moved to pass around the other boat, a barge about forty feet long, much smaller, but enough to throw off the current pilot. The steamer glided past the barge easily with the Captain at the helm. “But he knows his craft, even if he’s so perpetually sozzled his blood could be used as preservative fluid.”

  “Sozzled?”

  “You know,” I struggled to find a polite word and failed. “Drunk.”

  “Ah, that's a good word for it,” Albert nodded.

  “I’m surprised you were talking about the war,” I said, knowing instantly it was the wrong thing to do. Albert shut down almost like a robot. His shoulders sagged and his face set firm.

  “The Captain brought it up.” Albert turned away from me to look at the river, still vast and wide here. Entire islands sat inside it. Native fishermen were casting nets into the water.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “I just...I, hmm.” I trailed away to nothing. “You weren't at breakfast.”

 
; “I ate early,” Albert said. “Two years of routine rather grinds a groove into your soul.”

  “I see.” I nodded. The two of us watched the river. Fishing birds flitted around us, occasionally diving into the water.

  “What do you want to do with your life, Hannah?”

  “Build something that will last forever.” The question came so far out of nowhere I answered it without thinking. My hand rushed to my mouth as if I could cram the words back in.

  “Then is it a new pharaoh I'm witnessing?” Albert raised an eyebrow but his mood didn't appear brighter. “Are you going to waste your father's money on some great artifice of stone in New York or somewhere?”

  “I just want to make my life matter, somehow,” I frowned at him angrily. “I have a good head for numbers; engineering seemed like a good way to do it.”

  “Ah, the dream of everyone young,” Albert didn't take his eyes off the river. “The dream to make your life matter.” He spat each word out like a grape pip.

  “I'm at least a year older than you,” I crossed my arms.

  “But what does it matter if you leave behind you a monument?” Albert growled. “'My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings, Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair', is that not the line engraved on a stone foot in the Egyptian desert?”

  “I think that was a poem—”

  “Lives don't matter, Miss Delaronde,” Albert growled. “Whether you're the greatest of pharaohs or the lowest farm hand, none of it will matter.”

  “I...I disagree.” I stammered. “Surely…I mean, what do you want to do with your life?”

  “What does it matter?” Albert slunk his head down, still head and shoulders above me. “Evelyn's gone, my parents are dead, everyone from Harrow is dead. The Somme took most of them.” Albert coughed. “Sorry, Miss Delaronde. I'm not in a good mood this morning. Or any morning.”

  “You can call me Hannah.”

  He didn't reply. I stayed silent. The river banks moved past us. The water here was like glass, and wide as an ocean. The boat moved so softly you could almost imagine we were staying still and the world was rotating around us.