Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [70]
‘Harbour?’ Thurso said. ‘Off the coast of Sierra Leone? Where is your geography?’
‘Haw, that’s a good ’un,’ Barton said, permitting himself a subservient echo. ‘Show me a blessed harbour there, I would like to see one.’
‘We may get through the surf with the longboat to trade downriver,’ Thurso said, ‘but we cannot stand inshore, not in those seas, Mr Paris. You are talking about the Windward Coast of Africa.’
‘I see, yes,’ Paris said. ‘My ideas of the coast are vague, I will admit.’ He looked from the one to the other. They were united now in knowledge, but he sensed an understanding between them much older. They had known each other before this voyage, his uncle had said so. Thurso had asked for Barton as his mate. Something there was between them, though friendship it could hardly be called. It seemed more in the nature of a shared secret …
‘You and Mr Barton have sailed together before, I believe, sir?’ he said. He saw the look of satisfaction disappear from the captain’s face and his brows draw together suddenly.
‘Sailed together?’ Thurso looked at the man before him, noting again the big, slightly awkward frame, the deeply marked face, touched by the sun now, showing the paleness of the eyes by contrast. These eyes were regarding him steadily and they did not turn away from his frown. He was being stared at aboard his own ship and with eyes that contained some impertinent, some hateful quality of perception, of understanding. He caught sight of Barton nodding and turned his rage that way. ‘Damn you, do you sit there agreeing against me? I sail together with nobody.’ He turned his eyes back to Paris and said less violently, ‘The captain sails together with nobody. Mr Barton has been my first officer on a previous voyage, so much is true. You have a lot to learn, Mr Paris.’
‘I know it, sir, and I am doing my best,’ Paris said.
‘I fancy you will understand things a deal better when we have slaves aboard. At present you think yourself superior to the business, I can tell. You are one of those who despise the money that is made from it. But mark my words, sir, you will go with a whip in your hand and a pistol in your belt like every other man aboard. Depend upon it, the keeper will very quickly decide which side of the cage he is on.’
‘Will he so?’ Paris spoke without pause for reflection, impelled by pride and a passionate sense of opposition. ‘You are admirably clear in your mind, if I may say so, as to who is caged and who is free. I know something of the matter, having seen both sides, but still cannot always see the difference.’
‘Both sides?’ Thurso’s voice had no register for feeling; it came as hoarse and uninflected as ever; but his eyes were fastened on the surgeon’s face. ‘How do you intend that remark?’
Not caution but enmity restrained Paris now. He was silent for some moments then said more calmly, ‘There are many would think the keeper is behind bars too, sir, for all his pistol and his whip.’
Thurso compressed his lips and looked aside. It was clear that he regarded this as not worth answering. Delivered now from the rage that had possessed him, he maintained an unbroken silence for the rest of the meal and Barton, out of prudence or inclination, followed suit, though Paris felt the mate’s eyes on him from time to time.
He was relieved when he was able to get to his feet and bid the others goodnight. Somewhat to his surprise Barton rose with him and the two men left together. Up on deck they stood for a while at the stern. The moon had risen and stood clear of the sea to eastward in faint wreaths of cloud.
Barton seemed disposed to linger. He took a short-stemmed clay pipe from his pocket. ‘Fair weather,’ he said, nodding towards the faint track of moonlight on the dark sea. ‘When the clouds look singed-like round a low moon