Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [91]
‘It has broke men’s hearts, Captain, to my sartin knowledge,’ Barton said after a moment. ‘But we have a first-rate selection of goods here, upon my soul, there is what would please the most contrary and pernacious animal among ’em. An’ some of ’em are pernacious difficult to please, as you an’ I both know, Captain, havin’ been –’
‘What I know is not in your province,’ Thurso said, rousing himself. ‘You keep to your place and I’ll keep to mine. I am just talking to you at present, Barton, that is all. We are in business together for the gold dust, as agreed. That is as far as things go between us.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Seeing Thurso’s head lowered again in a return of that dark musing, Barton allowed his face to fall into an expression of faintly smiling indifference.
So the two men stood for some time in silence in that festooned and cluttered emporium, surrounded by goods of extraordinary variety: hanging strings of yellow glass beads, copper bands threaded together, rolls of tobacco, cases of muskets, brass basins and copper pots, iron bars, linen handkerchiefs, pewter mugs, silk ramalls, bright red and deep blue bafts, chintzes, checked cottons, knives and cutlasses and gold-laced hats.
Paris, approaching from the hatchway, glancing round the open door, saw them thus – standing silent in this cave of treasures, among coloured stuffs and shining surfaces – and he had an immediate feeling that these two also were on display, among the objects of commerce. This lasted only a moment. Then Thurso raised his head and saw him and said, ‘Well, it is our doctor,’ with the usual intonation of sarcasm.
But Paris could not return so soon to the tone of their everyday dealings. Whether he knew it or not, Thurso for the moment was transformed: bareheaded here, with his square-set figure and greyish poll, his attention momentarily disabled or distracted among sheen of cloth and gleam of metal, the reflecting surfaces of knife blades and mirrors and beads, it was possible to think of him as a stout and deferential ironmonger or draper – almost Paris expected to see an apron on him. Then he turned his head, the light fell on the square cage of his temples and jaws and the trapped and furious eyes within it, and the impression vanished.
Paris began to speak, but he was interrupted by a sharp, wailing cry from above.
‘There they are,’ Thurso said. ‘Mr Barton, I want the brandy we drew off hoisted below the quarterdeck awning. I want you to speak to Johnson and make sure he primes the swivel guns. The small arms will remain under lock and key, but you and Simmonds and Haines will carry pistols, if you please.’
‘Aye-aye, sir.’ Barton was already out of the room and making for the hatchway.
‘As for you, sir,’ Thurso said, ‘I shall want you up on deck with me. You had better wear your hat. Hats always impress these people. A naked-headed man is not rated so high with them.’ He had himself donned a cocked hat. Under its shadow his eyes seemed to have retreated further. Something like a smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘You may find yourself with something to do at last, Mr Paris,’ he said.
Paris went back to his cabin to fetch his hat. He had only the low-crowned black one which he had worn on his visit to the Kemps and which had, unknown to him, aroused such antipathy in his cousin Erasmus. He put it on, for lack of anything more imposing, and ascended hastily to the deck.
Here for the moment there seemed only what there had been before, the hot sun, the welcome breath of the northern trade wind, the distant thunder of the surf. The tapping of Wilson’s mallet continued to be heard, there was a smell of hot pitch and black fumes of it were hanging everywhere. Standing on the afterdeck some yards from Thurso, he heard the boatswain order McGann to take the cauldron off but leave