A Respectable Trade. Philippa Gregory
Читать онлайн книгу.
let his concern for Siko be the principal, the only thing in his mind. While he could think of himself as a master, as a man of property with obligations, he could pretend that he did not belong in the nightmare storehouse, soiled with his own mess, with dirty hands and matted hair. He thought his sanity depended on him remembering that he did not belong there, that he was not a slave, he was a Yoruban envoy on a mission for the Alafin himself.
After about a month in which conditions in the storehouse grew worse and worse, there was a gathering, like some nightmare market. A new boat, a white man’s boat, had come upriver from the coast, bringing two white men. Mehuru readied himself to explain to the men that he must be released. All of the captives were dragged one at a time from their prison and brought out to a white man, who lolled on a chair under a tree.
It was Mehuru’s first sight of a white man, the race that was destroying his country. He had expected a towering demon or an impressive god – not this dirty weakling. His skin was pale, his clothes were grey and foul and the stink of him as he sweated in the sunshine was so bad that he could even be smelled above the stench from the storehouse. The man was wet all the time. He lounged on a chair in the shade but he did not sit still and consider his purchases. He shifted all the time in his seat, getting hotter and hotter and his terrifying pallor went an even more frightening flushed red colour and all his face grew shiny and wet with sweat.
When they pulled Mehuru forward by a twitch on the rope around his neck he was so shocked by the corpse face of the man, and the disgusting thick clumps of stubble hair on his chin and at the open neck of the dirty shirt, that for a moment he could barely speak. But then he drew himself up to his full height and looked the man in the eye.
‘I am an envoy of the Yoruban federation,’ he said clearly. ‘I must be released at once or there will be severe reprisals.’ He repeated the sentence first in Portuguese, the language of the slavers, and then in all the African languages he knew. ‘I demand the release of my personal servant and my own freedom,’ he said.
The white man turned his head to one side, coughed and spat a gob of infected yellow phlegm. He nodded to a second white man who stepped forward. Mehuru forced himself not to flinch; the man was rancid with the stink of drink and a sharp acrid smell of old sweat. Mehuru breathed in through his mouth and repeated the speech again in Portuguese.
The white man did not even reply. He put his filthy hands in Mehuru’s face and pulled back his lips to see his teeth. Mehuru jerked back, and staggered over the chains at his ankles.
‘How dare you!’ he cried. At once two of the African slavers seized him from behind and held him in an unrelenting grip.
‘Let me go!’ Mehuru shouted. He bit off his panic and spoke clearly in Portuguese. ‘You are making a serious mistake,’ he said urgently. ‘I am an envoy for the Yoruba federation.’
The white man nodded to the guard to hold him firmly, leaned down and pulled aside Mehuru’s loincloth. He pulled back the foreskin of his penis to see if he were infected, and then nodded at the guard to make him bend over, to see if the flux had left blood on his anus.
Mehuru’s outraged shout was stifled in his throat. When he felt the dirty hands on him he choked with shame. Siko was watching him, his eyes wide with horror. ‘It’s all right,’ Mehuru called in hollow reassurance. ‘We will get to their leaders and explain.’
It was bravado, not courage. That night when Siko had wept himself to sleep and was lying with his limbs twitching with dreams of freedom, Mehuru sat quietly, dry-eyed and horrified. The fingerprints of the white men burned on his skin, the recollection of their washed-out stares scorched his memory. They had looked at him with their pale eyes as if he were nothing, as if he were a piece of meat, a piece of Trade. They looked at him as if he were a nobody, and Mehuru thought that in their horrible transparent eyes he had seen the death of his individuality. He thought that if he lost his sense of who he was, of his culture, of his religion, of his magic power, then he would be a slave indeed.
Only the god, Snake, was with him in that long desolate night. Mehuru called on him to save him from the men who were as white as ghosts, and the Snake god laughed quietly in his long throat and said, ‘All men are dead men, all men are ghosts.’ Mehuru did not sleep that night, though he was weary through to his very bones.
The next day the chosen hundred were herded into canoes and taken down the river. Mehuru no longer depended on his powerful status as a representative of the Alafin of Yoruba. He kept a sharp lookout instead for a chance to escape and run, run like a slave, for freedom.
But even that could not be done. Not on the river journey, not when they were unloaded on the beach at the coast. The slavers had done this too often. Mehuru saw that they were practised in the handling of many angry, frightened people. They never came within reach, they whipped them into line with long whips from a distance. Mehuru kept watching for a chance to order the whole line of them to run – run in a great line towards the market place of the town – and in the confusion find hammers to shear the chains, and spears to kill and then scatter. But there were too many too lame to run fast enough, and too many little children crying for their mothers, chained in the line.
He waited, pretending obedience and waiting for his chance. They were herded through the little village at the mouth of the river and down to the wide white-sand beach where boats, white men’s boats, were drawn up with the waves washing around their keels.
When he saw the ship, the great ship, bobbing at anchor beyond the white breakers, his heart sank. It was the ship of his dreams come for him at last. The hot humid wind which blew steadily on shore brought the smell of death as clearly as if he could already hear the widows crying. Mehuru stared at the water around the ship and saw the swift movement of a shark’s fin – just as he had seen it in his dream. He looked at the prow which he had dreamed slicing so easily through the water and knew that it would cut through miles of seas. Even the rope of his dream was stretched out tight, as the ship bobbed on her mooring. It was all as he had known it.
Mehuru embraced despair then. The ship had been coming for him for months, he had seen it set sail, he had seen it arrive off his own coast, and now here it was at last, waiting for him. He closed his eyes as a man will close his eyes in death and let them herd him, like a sacrificial goat, on board.
Frances Scott, now Frances Scott Cole, closed the door of what was to be her bedroom and looked around her. It was a plain room bereft of any trimming or prettiness. The bed was a massive four-poster in dark heavy wood and had a small table beside it. The wash jug and ewer stood on another matching side table. There was a chest for her clothes and a mirror on the wall. It had been Josiah’s; now he would use the adjoining room, except for the nights when he might choose to sleep with her.
The room smelled. The whole house stank of the midsummer garbage of the dock. Only in a rainstorm or at high tide would the air smell clean to Frances, who had not been brought up on these fetid river banks.
Josiah still had not bought his house on Queens Square; but he had promised to find a house soon. As the date of the July wedding drew near, Frances had agreed to live for the first months of her wedded life over a warehouse on the Bristol quayside.
The room was in half-darkness. Only a little cold moonlight found its way in through the casement window, obscured by the brooding cliff which towered over the back of the house. Even at midday the room would be dark and damp. Frances put her candle down on the bedside table, went over to the mirror and unpinned her hair. Her reflected face looked impassively back at her. She had been a pretty child but that had been many years ago. She was thirty-five now and no-one would mistake her age. Her forehead was lined, around her mouth were the downward lines of discontent. Her pale skin was papery and dry, around her dark eyes were slight brown shadows. She suffered from delicate health, inherited from her mother who had died of consumption. Her great beauty was her dark hair which showed no grey. She looked what she had been only yesterday – a lady clinging on to fragile social status, of uncertain health, unmarried, impoverished, and ageing fast.
But