Girl on the Orlop Deck (14 page)

As they rowed to shore, he discovered that the little town was called Roseau, and it turned out to be a very little town indeed. The quayside was cobbled and ringed by sizeable houses, one of them obviously the governor’s mansion because that was where they were taking the letter, and another that looked like a factor’s house, but apart from that there was very little else. There was a cobbled road that led out of harbour and ran from one side of the town to the other, but all the other buildings were either wooden shacks or mud huts thatched with palm leaves and there were no shops or inns or stables and hardly anybody about. It was quiet and peaceful just as he’d expected, and that was what he needed, a place to sit in the sun and think. If he could find somewhere to sit, apart from in the dust.

He made himself comfortable on one of the bollards, took out his tobacco pouch and his pipe, filled it, working slowly and methodically, lit it with his tinder box and took the first rich mouthful, enjoying it to the full. Then he gave himself up to the inadequacy of his memory and the puzzle of his thoughts.

Two years ago when he’d first asked Marianne’s father if he could
come a-courting, he’d had a vague idea that what he wanted was a wife and children and a good job to support them all. He’d marched off to church on his wedding day feeling cock sure that he was getting what he wanted. He could remember that clearly. Feeling cock sure. Full of himself and how well he’d done. And yet it had all gone wrong, all of a sudden and without any warning. He still couldn’t understand why. He knew he’d got drunk and that drink had addled his memory, but that didn’t help him. He knew she’d been unkind to him and that he’d stormed off out of the house and gone to the inn to get away from her, but apart from that he had no other memory of the day at all. And here he was, sitting in the sun trying to make sense of things, without the least idea of how to go about it. And there was someone whistling. The sound made him irritable. How could he think when there was someone whistling?

It was a small brown-skinned boy who was ambling over the cobbles towards the governor’s house carrying a hammer and a bag of nails. A carpenter’s apprentice, Jem thought, and a very slow one. He watched as the boy picked up a paling that had fallen out of the white picket fence and proceeded to ease it back into position. It was one of the first jobs he’d done himself when he was apprentice to old man Henderson. He remembered standing in the street with his bag of nails and his hammer, while people hustled and pushed all round him and he had a sudden vision of Mr Henderson, standing with his legs astride, watching him and saying, ‘Don’ ’e pay ’em no mind, my sonny. You got a job to do.’

He was a wise ol’ bird, Jem thought. Him an’ his sayin’s. ‘One thing at a time’ and ‘Order an’ method’ and ‘Make a list’. We were always making lists. He could remember standing in the workroom, writing them. ‘Make a list, my sonny. Then you can be sure you’ve got things in the right order an’ you can tick ’em off that ol’ list one by one as you do ’em. Order an’ method. Tha’s the style.’

Very well then, he would try a little order an’ method and make a list. He’d have to do it in his head because he didn’t have pencil and paper handy, not being much of a writing man. But what of that? He could make a list well enough without writing the thing down. All he had to do was work out what sort of a list it was going to be. Very well then, he would make a list of where he was and where he would rather be and see what came of it.

For a start, he thought, I’m a ship’s carpenter and I would rather be a
carpenter ashore an’ my own master. That much was very clear. Second, I’m tired of bein’ at sea, on account of ’tis always throwing us about – what no man would endure more than five minutes if he was in his right mind – an’ I would rather live ashore on good firm dry land and never, ever be seasick no more.

Third, I got a battle to face and no stomach for it. Who wants to be blowed to Kingdom Come with a cannon ball? I certainly don’t. An’ if I lives through it I would like to take my pocketful of silver an’ leave the navy honourable.

Fourth, I’m tired of whores – what are all the same when it comes down to it – an’ I’d like a woman of my own and a home for us both to live in. And it occurred to him, sitting there in that easing sunlight, with the steadying rhythm of the child’s hammer in his ears, that he already had a woman of his own and that he’d been a blamed fool and walked off and left her. A woman of his own, who had good thick hair the colour of a ship’s rope and good strong hands what were used to work and had walked along beside him on their wedding day, laughing and holding his arm. He could see her in her blue dress, sharp and clear as if she was standing before him with a bunch of flowers in her hand and the wind fairly bowling her along.

Then all manner of pictures began to fill his mind, the wedding breakfast and all those meat pies and custards, their room with its new counterpane and the furniture he’d made to please her, feeling so wild for her he couldn’t control himself because there’d been such an urge on him, and her stopping him, saying he’d hurt her. And he remembered his anger, feeling it all over again as he sat there calmly smoking his pipe in the sun, the terrible strength of it, because he couldn’t believe he’d hurt her. Wouldn’t believe it. That was more like it. Wouldn’t believe it. And he’d gone on being angry with her all these months, telling everybody she was a harridan and a nagging wife, and convincing himself that she’d been making it up. But what if she hadn’t been making it up? What if he
had
hurt her? Men
did
hurt their women sometimes. He knew that now for he’d listened to enough rough talk below decks about how women were ‘asking for it’ and how they ‘liked’ being hurt. Plenty of men hurt their women and they did it deliberate.

He could see her now, standing in the middle of the room with a trickle of blood running down her leg, the image so clear and detailed it made his chest ache with regret and yearning. He might have hurt her,
even though he hadn’t meant to. He probably had hurt her. I should have stayed there and let her talk to me, he thought, instead of rushing off to the Dolphin. That was a fool’s trick. I ran off an’ left her an’ she was my wife. Well then, if I can find her when I gets home an’ if she’ll have me, what en’t partic’ly likely given what went on ’atween us, I should like to settle down with her in a home of my own and treat her proper. That’s what I’d like. Failing that I shall have to find someone else, what I’ll choose for myself this time instead a’ lettin’ Ma suggest it. That was a damn fool thing to do, now I comes to think on it, for I didn’t know a blamed thing about my Marianne beyond what Ma had told me. But then I done a pack a’ damned fool things in them days, seems to me. He was uncomfortable with regret and guilt, which wasn’t his style at all. Fifth, he thought, turning his mind to something else.

But he never got around to thinking what the fifth point would be because there was someone calling him ‘Ahoy there, Mr Templeman!’ and his shipmates were waving and pointing to show that the longboat was going back.

‘No peace for the wicked,’ he called, and stood up to obey orders. Four points were enough. They’d shown him the way he wanted to go.

As they rowed the longboat back to the ship they saw that they’d got company. There was a sloop hove to alongside.

‘Now what?’ the rowers asked, as they climbed back on board.

‘’Twill be a message,’ Jem said.

And it was. There’d been a change of plan. The
Sirius
was to stay in harbour and wait for the arrival of the rest of the fleet.

Marianne had been waiting for the fleet for over a week but even though she’d walked down to the harbour twice every day there’d never been any sign of a ships at all apart from the fishing boats and she was heartily sick of seeing them. She did her best not to get disheartened, but it was difficult.

Looma was full of sympathy. ‘You want dey to come, dey don’ never come,’ she said, as if she was a seasoned traveller.

‘They must come soon,’ Marianne said. ‘Surely to goodness.’

‘We mek de supper,’ Looma said. ‘Tomorrow dey come, maybe.’

Marianne was glad of her company for without her the days would have been intolerably long. She helped her to cook, cutting up her
peculiar
vegetables and rolling chunks of goat meat in her rough flour; she
served the food in the now familiar wooden bowls; she even sat beside of one of her ‘birthing’ mothers as the poor woman laboured and groaned through a long hot afternoon. But whatever she did, the ships refused to arrive.

‘I’m beginning to think I en’t meant to go home,’ she confided to Looma one idle afternoon, as the two of them were squatting on their haunches cutting up vegetables. And shrugged. ‘Perhaps ’tis just as well.’

Looma might have had a poor command of English but she was shrewd. ‘Why you say dat?’ she asked.

‘On account of I stands to be flogged for desertion,’ Marianne explained, ‘even if I can find a ship to take me aboard. That’s what they does to deserters. They only got my word I was ill. I can’t be sure they’ll believe me an’ if they don’t …’

Looma put down her knife, got off her haunches, stood up and straightened her skirt. ‘I see ’bout dat,’ she said. ‘You come wid me.’ And she walked off into the sugar cane, her spine straight with determination.

Marianne followed her, feeling very surprised. How could a slave do anything to stop her being flogged? ‘Where are we going?’ she called, as she struggled through the harsh canes. That horrible bird was laughing again. Kaa, kaa, kaa.

Looma’s voice echoed back to her. ‘You see presen’ly.’

‘What will I see?’

‘You see de massa.’ Looma called back. She was picking up speed now, striding between the canes and Marianne was finding it hard to keep up with her.

‘Who is the massa?’ she called.

But they were too far apart for conversation and there was nothing for it but to follow where she was being led.

After what seemed a very long time they emerged into a large clearing where there was a cinder path leading to the back door of a large stone house, a gentleman’s house, built in the latest style, all white paint and neat, gleaming windows, with a green lawn spread out before it and flower beds edging the path full of bold red and yellow blooms.

Looma had paused to catch her breath, ‘What you name when you ship boy?’ she said, when Marianne caught up with her.

‘Matt Morris.’

‘I don’ tell him you woman,’ Looma said. ‘He don’ needs for to know dat. I tell him you ship boy wid fever. You unnerstand?’

Marianne understood perfectly.

Looma nodded. ‘Dis way,’ she said, and set off towards the door where she knocked discretely.

They were answered by a small girl in a servant’s gown and a white cap and apron.

‘How’s you keepin’, Corryanne?’ Looma said, and the child nodded and smiled by way of an answer. ‘I’s come for to see de massa.’

‘Dis way, if you please, Missy Looma,’ the child said, and led them into very large kitchen. To Marianna’s wondering eyes it seemed to be full of women all preparing food and all looking at her in a decidedly suspicious way. They reached a door that looked as though it led to a cupboard or a larder but no, when it was opened, she saw that they were facing a narrow staircase, which they climbed in almost total darkness until they reached a plain door covered in green baize.

The servant child gave a timid knock and was told to ‘Come in.’

‘If you please, Massa,’ the child said. ‘Missy Looma here.’

‘Show her in,’ the voice said, and the child stood aside so that Looma and Marianne could walk through the door. They’d emerged from dusty darkness into a blaze of white light that made them blink. Sitting at the centre of it was a man in a bob wig and a fine brown suit. He had a
newspaper
on the table by his elbow and he was drinking tea from a bone china cup for all the world as if he was one of the nobs.

‘What’s this then, Looma?’ he said.

‘If you please, Massa sir,’ Looma said, ‘dis here is a ship’s boy what need you for to help him.’

‘Does he indeed?’ Massa said, making a wry face as if he was amused. ‘And what is that to you?’

‘I nurse he when he sick, Massa, sir. He tell you.’

‘Go ahead then, boy,’ Massa said. ‘Have a name do you?’

Marianne told him her name and plunged into her tale, explaining that she was ship’s boy on the frigate
Amphion
and that she’d taken a fever when they came ashore for supplies and been left behind. ‘I was too sick to walk, sir, an’ that’s the truth of it,’ she said. ‘An’ now I’d like for to go back to my ship only I’m afeard they won’t believe me when I tell them where I’ve been on account of they only got my word for it an’ if they don’t believe me, I shall be flogged, sir, as a deserter.’

‘Um,’ Massa said. ‘And we don’t want that do we, Looma?’

Looma was beaming broadly.

‘Very well then, Master Morris,’ Massa said. ‘I tell ’ee what’s to be done. You are to go back to the kitchen and wait there until I send for you. Tell Cook she’s to feed you. And while you’re stuffing your face, I will write a testimonial for you that will be a match for any captain alive. Now be off with ’ee.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Marianne said and gave him a grateful salute.

It was a very good letter, addressed ‘To Whom it May Concern’ and written in a strong bold hand to certify that Master Matt Morris had been on the MacKenzie sugar plantation on the Island of Barbados ever since being set ashore from the frigate
Amphion
of His Majesty’s Navy, and that he had not returned to his ship on account of being overtaken with a great sickness from which he was now fully recovered. It was signed with a flourish,
John Stewart MacKenzie
.

When Marianne had read it, she read it aloud for a second time so that Looma could hear it. ‘John Stewart MacKenzie,’ she finished. ‘En’t that your name too, Looma?’

Looma shrugged her shoulders. ‘Dat all us name,’ she said. ‘We his slave. He own we. He give we de name. We all MacKenzies.’

Marianne didn’t press her any further about it, for she could see it upset her. ‘’Tis a fine letter,’ she said.