Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [122]
His mood, which had veered towards self-pity with these last words, and the sense of his solitude, grew suddenly inflamed again as he glanced at the diseased slave. His lower lip had begun to tremble. With a violent gesture, startling to those around, he took off his hat and cast it with all his force on the ground before him. He took a stride towards the woman, advancing his face furiously at her. ‘God damn your eyes,’ he shouted, ‘I am not going to feed you, do you hear? Do you think I am running a charity?’
The woman was astounded. A strained and staring quality of alertness had appeared on her face. Some low and broken sounds came from her that might have been words of entreaty. She shrank from the inexplicable fury on the white face near her own, glanced quickly to either side of her as if seeking a path for flight, then wildly up at the blank and colourless sky above the barracoon.
‘Do you hear me?’ Owen seized her arm and tugged at her as if in an infuriated attempt to compel her straying attention. ‘Not another mouthful,’ he shouted. ‘You can get out.’ Enfeebled by illness and emotion, he could not drag her back and forth as he seemed to intend. With an effort he swung her round and pushed her violently forward so that she took some staggering steps towards the edge of the trees. Liberated thus, she stopped and stood still for some moments, as if incredulous. She raised her head to look again at the sky. There was blood round her ankles with the chafing of the fetters. It came to Paris, with a sensation of surprise, that she was beautiful. He saw her swallow at hope or fear. Then she moved forward again lightly and rapidly, without a glance behind, and disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
There was a short silence. Then Owen appeared to notice his hat. He retrieved it and restored it to his head with an attempt at a flourish. ‘I think you will agree I handled that with proper firmness,’ he said. His hands were trembling and after some moments he thrust them into the pockets of his jacket. ‘You think it is funny when a man is cheated, Mr Simmonds?’ he said. ‘Well, I must spoil your joke – those Susu people would not have known her condition when they sold her to me.’
Whatever his private opinion, Simmonds had the grace to assent to this, and the examination was resumed, though Paris found his mind still on the diseased girl and the lightsome way she had stepped into the dark refuge of the forest. He found nothing amiss with the remaining slaves and left the bargaining to Simmonds. This passed reasonably quickly as it was a question merely of agreeing on the purchase price in bars – Owen would come out to the ship within a day or two to haggle with the redoubtable Thurso and make his choice of the goods.
When this was concluded and the slaves back in the barracoon, the three men returned to the house. They took their rum on the verandah. Owen pressed them eagerly to stay the night but Simmonds was for returning downriver. He made it a matter of duty that the slaves should be conveyed that night but in fact he was not properly easy in his present company and the place was lonely. His shipmates were at Tucker’s, there would be drink in plenty there, and women.
Owen turned to Paris. Would he not stay? He could get off early in the morning, there would be time enough. ‘The life is