Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [31]
ELEVEN
Seated in his cabin, Thurso listened with satisfaction to the sighing and creaking of his ship as she felt the movement of the tide beneath her. She was a good one, he knew it. The sign had been given, the seal of blood was on her. He looked for some moments without speaking at the faces of the three men he had asked to step up here. Barton he knew of old. His second mate, Simmonds, sat opposite, directly under the lamp. He was younger, with fair hair and calm blue eyes and a nose that had been broken once and mended badly. Haines, the bosun, was brawny and dark-complexioned, with a mass of oiled curls and glittering, close-set eyes.
‘Now listen well,’ Thurso said at last. ‘It is but a few words I have to say but I want them remembered. As you know, we are all but ready for sailing. We are light of some of our salt beef still and all the fetters have not been taken aboard, but that will be seen to shortly and then we need wait only on the wind. I don’t want any of the crew mistreated in the meanwhile. They cannot be allowed off the ship but they can eat their fill and while we are in harbour they can be served a half pint of grog per day for each man – no more, or they will fall to fighting. Keep ’em busy as far as possible, but there is to be no use of the rope’s end till we are under way and out past the Black Rock.’
The harsh whisper of the voice ceased for a little while and Thurso seemed to consider. When he resumed, it was on a note that seemed intended to be more jovial. ‘I don’t want any of the beggars jumping overboard and swimming for it, as I have known happen on other ships. Whether they sink or swim, it is the same loss to us.’ He paused again, looking closely at each face in turn – an old, disconcerting habit. Raising a thick forefinger, he said, ‘Anything untoward and you will answer for it. That is all I have to say, gentlemen. Mr Barton, you will stay behind, if you please.’
When the others had gone both men relaxed in their different ways, one moving less, the other more. Barton shifted in his seat and raised a narrow, watchful face. ‘They have done you proud for a cabin, Captain Thurso,’ he said. ‘Hoak panels, mahigonny table.’
‘Don’t you concern yourself with my cabin, Mr Barton. I can see for myself how my cabin is appointed. My cabin is not in your province.’
‘No, sir, a’ course not, only remarkin’.’ Barton risked a note of humorous alacrity only possible when he judged his captain to be in the best of moods. But his eyes had narrowed at the rebuke and there was nothing humorous in their expression.
‘You keep to your side of things and I will see you all right,’ Thurso said. ‘You can leave the sea for good. You know what that side is, don’t you? You will do my shouting for me when we are at sea. When we get to the Slave Coast you will go upriver with me and you will deal together with me for the gold dust on the proportions we have agreed, and you will say nothing about this private dealing to any man either aboard ship or on land. You keep to this and I will see you all right.’
‘You know me, you know Barton. We have dealt this way before.’
‘Aye,’ Thurso said grimly, ‘I know you well. Take some brandy. You know me too, don’t you? You know the Guinea Coast too, don’t you? If you don’t keep faith you will not see Pool Lane again, nor the ladies of Castle Street. You will not dip your wick there again, I tell you.’
Barton made no reply to this, merely swallowed some of the contents of his glass, then worked his lean jaws appreciatively. ‘This is a excellent brandy,’ he said. ‘First class.’
‘Never mind the brandy, damn you. You are getting too familiar. This is my last voyage, as you know. I intend to run a tight ship, same as always. Better than ever, for the last. Try to abuse your position and you will soon discover that Thurso has no favourites at sea.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Thurso raised his head. ‘I feel her straining,’ he said. ‘She is pulling at her moorings. I am going to take care of my owner’s profits too, same as