Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [69]
‘Well, sir,’ Thurso said, ‘I believe you have had a busy day.’
Paris saw a faint grin come to Barton’s face, just enough to show the edges of his sharp upper teeth. It was a regular joke with both captain and mate that his days were not much occupied; but in this present remark he thought there was a hint at his ministrations to the man who had been flogged. ‘I do what comes in my way,’ he said.
‘Aye, do you? More will come in your way yet.’
Paris made no immediate reply to this and so was saved from having to reply at all, as Charlie entered at this moment with a tray from the galley. Morgan had that day killed one of the pullets they had brought on board with them and boiled it with onions and black pepper – his invariable way with a winged creature. It lay glistening on its platter now, flanked by a mash of turnip and potato and a jug of oily gravy of Morgan’s own devising. Charlie, who had been promised some of the soup, was bearing himself – and the food – with some ceremony until Thurso growled at him to look sharp, which put him in such sudden fear that he set the tray down too hard and spilled a little of the gravy, for which he was sworn at by Barton and threatened with a caning.
‘Aye, aye, the boy is a born fool, let him go,’ Thurso said with surprising mildness. ‘Mr Barton, be good enough to carve the bird for us.’
‘Why the fatted calf?’ Paris asked, risking a note of levity; he knew the captain’s moods by this time and sensed an air almost of jocularity about him, though the small eyes still ranged over objects as if searching for the cause of what made them less than satisfactory. ‘Is there something to celebrate?’ he said.
The mate, having carved and served with remarkable dexterity, had a mouth now bulging with chicken and mash, and a fork freighted with more of it already moving upward – he was a neat and voracious eater.
‘Explain the situation, Mr Barton,’ Thurso said, in his hoarse monotone.
Barton lowered his fork with visible reluctance. ‘This will be our last evening for supper in here till we have our full copplement of quashees an’ are under way for Jamaica. We are to have the samples hoisted in here tomorrow an’ laid out.’
‘Samples?’ Paris had still not understood.
‘Stock the place out,’ Barton said indistinctly – he had resumed eating while Paris hesitated.
‘We are approaching Africa, Mr Paris,’ Thurso said. ‘Within ten days or so I expect to be sighting Sierra Leone. This room will be our showplace, our shop, sir. The caboceers who come aboard with slaves for sale will be able to see a selection of our goods. It is important they get a fair view of what we are carrying. The negro is appealed to through his eyes, Mr Paris. I know these people. I was dealing for slaves before you were born.’
‘Their eye is caught by shine an’ shimmer,’ Barton said, pausing to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Bright colours is what they likes, an’ jewelly, glittery things. It is no use in the world to explain or describe anythink to them – they have no patience to listen, they cannot hold it in their minds.’
‘Perhaps it is that they don’t believe us,’ Paris said, and was surprised to see a sudden gleam of humour come to the mate’s face.
‘Not believe us?’ Thurso said. The idea seemed completely new to him. ‘I am known on that coast,’ he added after a moment.
‘Bigob, sir, I believe you are,’ Barton said. ‘So the captain thought,’ he added, turning to Paris, ‘since this is our last occasion here for a good bit, we had better have one of the fowl. An’ a very good thought, say I.’
Thurso turned his head slowly. ‘My thoughts are not in your province, Mr Barton. Good or bad, they are beyond your ken.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’ The mate looked aside with his accustomed expression of wariness. He did not, however, seem particularly chastened by the rebuke, though he had fallen silent.
‘So they come out to the ship, then?’ Paris asked.