Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [250]
‘We have no choice,’ he said. ‘It makes no difference what is decided about the Indians and what are the rights and wrongs of rescuing them. Personally, I think they should be rescued. But above all the men who have taken them must be killed. Some of you have already said it. Suppose they come back? Suppose they have seen some of us? We cannot afford not to suppose it. They might return in more strength. Even if not, can we take the risk of stories about us being carried up and down the coast? You know we cannot. We must go after them now, before they escape us.’
Delblanc was a man transformed. He was still wearing the waistcoat and breeches with which he had left the ship, torn and muddied now; but nothing else about him seemed the same. The years of vague theory, half-ironic rhetoric, generous, egalitarian sympathy, came together now in this focus of fierce clarity. More than he had wanted anything in his life, he wanted this desperate experiment to succeed. All the people before him, black and white, whether they knew it or not, had been enslaved. He intended now that they should live in peace and freedom, without coercion, in this untouched corner where they found themselves. Four lives seemed little against such a dream.
To Paris, his friend’s face had become unrecognizable almost, cold, preoccupied and yet elated too. ‘You are talking about killing four men in cold blood,’ he said.
‘Yes, I am, of course I am,’ Delblanc said, with a vehemence barely held in check. ‘Don’t be a fool, Matthew. Are you suggesting it should be left to the bungling of hot blood, a thing like this, affecting the lives of all of us?’
For a moment then it had seemed to Paris that here, in the close heat of this rocky clearing where they stood, with the cicadas loud around them and the sun harsh on the blades of the palmetto, they were once more engaged in the old argument as to the relative merits of reason and nature that had occupied so much of their time aboard the Liverpool Merchant. But now the positions were reversed: it was Delblanc now who was the enemy of impulse …
For a moment Paris continued to look into his friend’s face, uncertain how to answer. Then quite suddenly he knew that this man, whose openness had so drawn him, was leaving his deeper reasons unspoken. It was typical of Paris that to understand this by intuition was to feel partly convicted of it himself. He was going to speak but Delblanc, as if sensing himself discovered, drew closer and muttered, too low for anyone else’s ears: ‘We must kill them. Don’t you see? It is providential – they are mixed white and black, just as we are. By killing them we cancel the distinction. It is the only way … It is the only thing that will keep us together.’
That had been the knowledge shared by these two, never afterwards referred to by either. But it was Tiamoko who settled things. He came from a society where the respect of women was important, and the scorn of the Foulani woman had affected him more than his impassive demeanour had indicated. With an abrupt swing of mood he now stepped forward and declared himself willing to kill these slave-takers alone and unaided if need be.
Others followed suit. In the end all the men took part in the pursuit, divided into two groups, one keeping close to the line of the shore, the other, guided by Hughes, striking further inland. But for the sake of silence and surprise only six made the final approach, three white and three black, and they were drawn by lot once it was known where the slave-takers had camped.
‘Who dem six?’ All the children knew the names: Paree, Kavna, Barba, Kireku, Kadu, Zobi. It was a roll of heroes.
‘Dey foller dem slave-taker. Now it git dark, night come down.’ Jimmy opened his eyes as wide as they would go. ‘What dey go do? Dem slave-taker ’fraid in de night-time, dey ’fraid crocdile, for sample. What else