Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [155]
‘Well, sir,’ Thurso said, ‘it is a question of time for all of us, one way or another. If I am obliged to wait for more favourable prices, some of the slaves already purchased will die on my hands.’ He had no hope now of getting any reduction in the prices; he knew obduracy when he met it, and he had met it now in this slack-wristed, invalidish fellow. But long experience had taught Thurso that an argument is rarely lost completely, if it is persisted in; and certain concessions he was still hoping for. ‘What is to stop us trading independently?’ he said.
The Governor smiled at this, not very pleasantly. ‘There is no independent trade here, my friend,’ he said. ‘Not as far as our writ runs – and it runs far. You have heard no doubt what happened to the Indian Maid? Very sad business. They were attempting to trade privately upriver and were cut off by the natives and two killed and their longboat a total loss. We could do nothing to help them.’
‘I have heard what happened to the Dutchman with the Corymantee negroes aboard.’ Thurso fixed his eyes on the other but could detect no slightest change in the expression of his face.
‘The natives are very loyal here,’ the Governor said, with a return to his more nonchalant manner. ‘They see the Company as their father.’
If Thurso had doubts on this score, he gave no indication of it. After a long moment he said, ‘Well, it seems that I shall have to trade on your terms, sir, if I want to trade at all.’
‘I am glad you take that view, Captain. You will have your pick of the slaves, sir, I can promise you that.’
And it was on this note of harmonious accord between them that Thurso obtained the spoils of the vanquished, which he had all this while, in his dogged and cunning fashion, been pursuing: on the understanding he would take the slaves presently in the dungeons, subject to their being passed as fit, the Governor agreed to let him have eight armed men and two canoes for a week’s absence on private business, the expenses of this to be charged to the Company.
Meanwhile Delblanc had not yet made clear to the surgeon the nature of the advice he was seeking, though both men had made some inroads into the brandy by this time and had grown fairly confidential with each other. The painter occupied a single, square-built chamber, which seemed to have been intended originally as a guard-room. It was high on the ramparts, at the same level as the governor’s quarters, but facing east, away from the sea.
The night was warm and Delblanc’s windows were open; he had stretched squares of fine bobbin-net across them to keep out insects. ‘I carry those nets around with me wherever I go,’ the young man said. ‘I had rather do without a bed than without those.’
Moonlight shone through these precious screens, silvering the mesh, as if to confirm Delblanc’s high estimate. Though earlier wreathed about in cloud, the moon had ridden clear now and hung in the sky, serene and radiant. Blanched pools lay below the casement windows and Delblanc’s shadow fell momentarily across them as he walked to and fro, holding his glass. An array of paints and brushes and jars lay on a low trestle table against one wall. In the centre of the room, masked by a square of pale cloth touched down one edge by moonlight, a canvas stood on an easel.
‘This moonlight is amazing