Respectable Trade (34 page)

“What did he do?” Frances was smiling, thinking that the
eso
might be a little band of singers, or farmers, or some primitive group.

“He leads fighting men,” Mehuru replied. “Those on horses.”

“Cavalry?” Frances asked, surprised. “You had horses?”

“Yes. An army of horses.” Mehuru hesitated, gathering the words. “A hundred horses to a lord; each lord obeys a higher. At the top a commander, and he reports to the
alafin
—the king.”

Frances blinked. It all sounded rather complicated for a tribe of naked cannibals. “Who else reported to the
alafin
?”

“The prime minister and the council of nobles.” Mehuru thought. “Seven lords who choose the
alafin.
And then there is our church—a chief priest who keeps the oracle with chiefs under him. I worked for him.”

“You were a priest?”

Mehuru nodded. There was a distant look in his eyes, as if
he could barely remember. “I was a diviner of the oracle. I spoke on grave matters. The oracle spoke against slavery. I took the message.”

“But niggers are slavers. You keep slaves yourself,” Frances protested.

“Not like you,” Mehuru told her gently. “A criminal may be sentenced to work as a slave, or a freeman may sell himself. . . .” He had an abrupt vision of Siko, who had sold himself into Mehuru’s protection and had been betrayed. He would never find the boy now; he was far away in the Sugar Islands. It was most likely that he was already dead. He had been a slight boy, not strong enough for backbreakingly cruel work in the fields or in the sweltering heat of the boiler houses or feeding the roaring, cane-crushing machines for ten, twelve hours a day. Mehuru looked away, his throat suddenly tight. “I cannot tell you.”

“But human sacrifice . . . You do human sacrifice with your slaves. . . .”

Mehuru stared blankly at her. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said with immense dignity. “I think you must be thinking of another country. Murder is a crime in any of the Yoruban countries.”

Frances felt snubbed. “I was told that all of Africa was a pagan country, practicing human sacrifice and . . .” She paused. She could not mention bestial sexual practices. She flushed scarlet. “And . . . impropriety.”

“Africa is a very large country,” Mehuru explained patiently, as a man might speak to a stubborn and stupid child. “There are many different nations and many different ways of doing things. In Yoruba we live in cities cleaner than this one, we have laws which forbid actions that your laws allow, we trade, we farm, we hunt, our brassware is famous, our gold mines are wealthy, our leather and art goods are sold miles away, even across the Sahel Desert. Why, you have some of our leatherwork here.”

“African leather?” Frances queried disbelievingly.

“Mr. Cole’s leather slippers,” Mehuru replied.

Frances thought of Josiah’s beautifully worked leather slippers. “Those are Moroccan,” she corrected him. “From an Arab country.”

Mehuru shrugged. “We sell leatherwork to the Arabs, and they sell it on. You have named it for the trader, not the makers. That leather is certainly Yoruban work.”

“It’s not possible,” Frances protested. “For Yoruban leather to get to North Africa would be a most tremendous journey. Thousands of miles across Africa and across the desert.”

Mehuru nodded. “We have very great trade routes. And mighty cities along the routes.” A shadow crossed his face. “We
had,
” he corrected himself, his voice very low. “When the slavers came, the routes became unsafe. I am afraid that all that may be finished.”

He paused. Frances was looking down at her hands, pleating the fabric of her gown between her fingers and then smoothing it out. She was wearing a morning gown of muslin threaded with a blue velvet ribbon with a matching blue velvet jacket. It was one of her prettiest dresses; she rarely wore it. The skirt was creased from her fiddling, and as he watched, she spread it out and put a hot hand on it.

“Mehuru,” she said very softly.

“What is the matter?”

She looked up quickly at the kindness in his tone, and he saw her lip was trembling, and her face was filled with some suppressed emotion, her hands, her whole body was shaking. “Mehuru,” she whispered.

“Are you ill, Frances? Shall I call one of the women?”

He got to his feet, and she put out a hand to stop him. He checked at the touch on his arm, suddenly understanding her. Drawing in a breath, he froze, looking at her intently.

Mutely, she raised her white face to him; her trembling lips were pitiful. He scanned her expression from her dark eyes to the neck of her gown, where he could see the thudding of her
pulse in the hollow of her collarbone. And as he looked, her breath came faster, the color rose and rose into her cheeks, and her eyes filled inexplicably with tears.

Silently he drew back. “I shall call one of the women for you,” he said, and left the room.

J
OSIAH TOOK HIS BREAKFAST
in an expansive mood at the top table of the coffee shop. He had a message from
Rose,
who had passed a Bristol privateer off Africa. Captain Smedley wrote that they had made good speed and were off Goree Island, on the coast of West Africa. He was too discreet to refer to Josiah’s illegal order to sell slaves to the Spanish colonies; he merely promised that he would ship as many as he could buy and pack them tight. Already the holds were half filled. Josiah was to repose every faith in him and to know that he understood exactly what was required.

“You’re early, Josiah,” Stephen Waring remarked, taking a seat beside him.

“The early bird . . .” Josiah said.

“Have you thought any more about my colliery?”

Josiah shook his head. “It’s a likely venture, I agree, but I have another project that must have first call of my capital. And you are the man to advise me, if you will.”

Stephen nodded, snapping his fingers for a plate of ham and a pint of ale. “If I can,” he said, smiling his sharp smile. “You are a Merchant Venturer now. You have only to ask and there are a dozen men who will assist you.”

Josiah glowed slightly. “I don’t forget it. And it is that which makes me bold enough to ask you what the Venturers plan for the Hot Well. I hear that you seek a tenant to take over the lease. Is that right?”

“Indeed,” Stephen said cautiously. “I don’t know for sure. I have heard some rumor to that effect, but I don’t know. Would you be interested in the lease?”

“I would!” Josiah said. “On the right terms, of course. But I think that with a little investment and with the advice of my wife and her family, I could venture to take the lease on.”

“I had no idea that you would ever shift from shipping, Josiah.”

“A man can spread his investments,” Josiah proclaimed boldly. “It makes sense to spread your investment in these days.”

Stephen nodded. “I shall inquire,” he promised. “And then, if you wish to pursue it, you could bring it up at the monthly dinner. I would be prepared to support your bid to buy the lease.”

“You would?”

“My dear fellow, why not?” Stephen smiled. “A new member and a new colleague? I would be delighted to be of service to you.”

“I would certainly make a bid,” Josiah said, abandoning his usual caution. “I would need to see the figures of the investment in the Well, and the profits.”

“Very misleading,” Stephen murmured. “I can tell you in confidence, Josiah. The Venturers have poured money into the premises and left no capital to run it. We have built a magnificent building, established an excellent name; there is now every reason in the world for it to prosper. The Venturers want rid of it. They want nothing more than a return for their money and someone else to take on the day-to-day expenses.”

“And so a man coming in fresh . . .” Josiah said excitedly.

“Would find all the work done for him,” Stephen supplemented. “All of the rebuilding, the new colonnade of shops, the new pumping station, the filtering of the water, all done, all ready to run at a profit. The one thing against it is the ready funds. If you have those—you have only to pay your wages and you will make money in your second month of trading.”

“Just wages and trading money?” Josiah confirmed.

Stephen smiled. “I would do it myself, but it is so far out of
my usual line of business. And I lack a wife with the friends and acquaintances of yours. You are a lucky man, Cole. This opportunity could have been made for you.”

“Will no one else take it up?”

Stephen shrugged. “They will snap it up as soon as they see it. But if you had the money to put down on it and my support, I would think it would go to you. There will be the lease to buy, of course, and an annual rent.”

“How much would that be?”

“As I say, I have not seen the figures. I should think you would need about two thousand pounds.”

Josiah looked aghast. “So much?”

“It’s an expensive purchase. And a handsome profit. But I would not advise it, Josiah, unless you have substantial sums to hand.”

“I do have,” Josiah said stubbornly. “I do have substantial sums. If the terms are right.”

Stephen speared a forkful of ham and ate. “Your judgment is sound. Shall I get the figures for you to look at?”

“Yes,” Josiah said. “I would be interested if the terms were right.”

“Of course.” He smiled pleasantly. “I only wish I had the skill to take it on myself.”

T
HE COOK HAD MELLOWED
toward the slaves since their Easter party. The kitchen seemed very empty after Brown and the scullery maid had left, and Cook had only the slaves for company. In the evenings they all sat together in the kitchen, and Mehuru, Kbara, and the three women dined at the kitchen table with the children seated at a smaller table by the fire. Since John Bates had left, Cook ordered all the work in the kitchen; now that Brown had gone, Elizabeth ordered the work that needed to be done in the house, and Mehuru took overall responsibility for the security of the house and backyard.

Slowly, the division between enslaved and free was melting, and the kitchen was a home and a workplace to them all. The warmth of the kitchen range made it more comfortable than the cold attic bedrooms, and after supper the boys would clear the plates, the girls would wash them, and the children would put them away while Kbara, the three women, and Cook drew up their stools to the fire and talked. Mehuru stayed at the kitchen table, reading. Frances had joined the circulating library at the Hot Well, and once a week she sent Mehuru to change her books. He brought back the novels she wanted, and for himself he brought back histories and studies in geography and long, difficult books on political economy. He was desperate to learn more about the world than Frances could tell him, and he suspected the glib simplicity of Frances’s explanations.

The little boy who had been named James coughed constantly, and Elizabeth called him from his work to sit at her feet at the fireside. He had been only two when he was taken from Africa. He could not remember the warmth. He thought now that he had been cold forever, and he had forgotten his mother’s face.

“You should tell Mrs. Cole about his cough,” Cook said to Martha. “Tell Mrs.—boy sick.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Both boys,” she said. “I will tell.”

“Could be nasty,” Cook said. She looked thoughtfully at the child, whose eyelids were heavy. “Course, you can’t tell if he’s pale or not under the black.”

“I can tell.” Mehuru looked up with a half smile. “He is pale, and he is very hot in the evenings, and he coughs often.”

“Better tell Mrs. Cole,” Cook repeated. “She won’t want to lose him. Not when he’s learning to talk and waiting on her in the morning so prettily.”

“Yes. He has to be fit for sale,” Mehuru said coldly.

Cook looked down at the boy. He was sitting on the floor staring into the range, leaning back against Elizabeth’s knees.
The door of the firebox was open, and the embers made a dream landscape, as intricate and lovely as the winding path of a river at home.

“Doesn’t seem right,” Cook said, suddenly dissatisfied. “I wager his mother misses him.”

“It will be as if he is dead for her,” Elizabeth said suddenly. Her English was slow and stilted, but they could understand her. “He was her only child, he told me.”

The little boy was not listening to them, far away in a dream of a place where it was always warm, where he could remember a taste, a haunting taste: the sweet, bland, softness of mango. His eyelids drooped, his head nodded. Elizabeth bent down and lifted him into her lap. His body lolled in the sweet collapse of childhood.

“Doesn’t seem right,” Cook repeated. “Shall you all be sold?”

“I don’t know,” Mehuru replied. “They will need some of us to work in the house. She has not said which she will keep.”

“I don’t want a new set,” Cook grumbled, getting to her feet. She shut the fire door and untied her apron. “I’m for my bed,” she said.

Elizabeth gathered the little boy closer. He was half asleep, limp with his fever, his forehead hot and dry. Mary picked up the other little boy, and they walked together to the kitchen door, each one with a child on her hip. Mehuru watched them go, walking as easily and as steadily as if they were in their own country, on their own earth, with their own babies held close.

“It’s not right,” Cook said. She looked at Mehuru and saw his face set with bitterness. “Aye,” she said. “It’s not right.”

F
RANCES LAY ON HER
back in bed and watched the cold light of the moon walk slowly from one side of the room to the other as the hours slid away. There were no clouds to shield the sharp
sickle of the spring moon. The fire in the grate had died into soft white ash. The house was still and silent.

She could not sleep. She lay without moving, listening to the steady thud of her heartbeat. She thought that she would never sleep again. She knew that on the floor above, in the attic, Mehuru was asleep. If she called out, he might wake. If she crept from her bed and went softly up the stairs and opened his door, she would see him. For a moment she let herself imagine that she could go to him—imagined her feet on the cold floorboards, on the creaking attic stairs, imagined the door swinging wide and him sitting up in bed, his dark eyes opening and saying to her, “Frances?”