Signals of Distress (13 page)

George put his lips to Aymer’s ear, and whispered, ‘You let that blackie go. You know you did. And, more’s the point,
they
know you did, those sailors standing
there.’

Aymer didn’t dare to look. ‘What do those fellows want? Do they mean harm?’

‘They’ll not do any harm themselves. They mean to be spectators to it, though. It’s the captain who will break your bones.’

‘Captain Comstock?’

‘He’s the one. He is the only captain you’ve robbed, I hope.’

‘Well, yes … well … no!’

‘How many captains, then?’

‘Good heavens, George, do you mistake me for a highwayman? I am not guilty of a spate of crimes. Or any crimes at all. No one could wish to break my bones. Besides, the captain is a
gentleman, or ought to be, if he is worthy of command. He would not strike me. What example might that set? If he has grievances then he should settle them by law. This is not America, I hope. The
law is clear. We have emancipated slaves and habeas corpus here. He will not strike me in my native land.’

‘Who can tell what he might do? I just know this: you stick your bum in fire and you must sit on blisters. You interfere in someone else’s life, and there’s a price to pay. And
that’s the truth, for captains and for gentlemen, no matter what the law might say.’

George put his arm round Aymer’s shoulder and led him into the blackness of a courtyard where they could not be watched or heard by the two Americans. Aymer couldn’t see his face, so
couldn’t tell if there was any mockery in the new, honest tone to George’s voice. ‘The wisest thing for you is to let me find a horse and tackle, Mr Smith. Then hide yourself
under my bed, or in the loft above the stables, until it’s dawn. And then it’s flesh and leather and you’re away back home and no damage done to you excepting saddle
sores.’

‘I have no choice, you think.’

‘You have a choice. It’s blisters here, or saddle sores at home. If your backside’s got any brain it’ll settle for the sores. You put a sovereign in my hand to find the
horse and it’s as good as done, and done so cheaply on account of my esteem for you, sir. For no one likes to see a fellow black and blue for meaning well but doing harm. One sovereign ought
to settle it. Though two would put four legs beneath the horse, instead of three legs and a limp …’

‘Two sovereigns, George? I now begin to see your strategy …’

‘Save yourself two sovereigns then, and you’ll see this in’t no strategy. It’ll cost
ten
sovereigns for Fearful Phipps to set and mend your bones. Save yourself
eight, Mr Smith, and do it quick because that is the captain I can hear and you’ll be caught.’

They stood on tiptoe looking over the courtyard wall into the lesser, sloping darkness of the lane. Twenty or so crewmen and Wherrytowners were descending, clustered round two lanterns on a
pole.

Their path was steep and slippery and dark, and women had to hold strangers’ arms to stop themselves from falling in the snow. There was a lot of laughter, clutching, tumbling,
apologies.

‘He’s there,’ said George, pointing, ‘and in good hands, poor man.’

The captain followed fifteen yards behind the rest, almost out of lantern light. But there was no mistaking his square build, nor Mrs Yapp’s oval one. She had her arm wrapped round the
captain’s waist. Her bonnet was inclined towards his chest. They were too engrossed and, like the Norrises, too impassioned by the warming congruences of church to pay much heed to anything
but how they’d seal the Sabbath with a little commerce of the flesh. She had the captain’s dollar in her hand.

‘Stay still,’ said George.

‘I will not hide myself. This is a public place, and I am well within the law.’ He was too frightened to stay still, or quiet. So Aymer Smith, with George and Whip on either side,
stepped into the lane and stood beside the
Belle
’s fat mate and in the congregation’s path. He had no plan, except to keep his dignity, tell nothing but the truth, and hide
behind the law. Shipmaster Comstock would benefit, in Aymer’s view, from some enlightenment. And some plain speaking.

Stand firm
, he told himself. Though standing firm was difficult in his fine-weather boots. He’d put his feet too close together and too parallel. He lost his footing and he had to
grasp the mate for balance. When he had regained his poise, he found himself surrounded by the crowd. The Wherrytowners amongst them raised their hats and said
Goodnight
; the Americans
offered guffaws, whistles and expletives, and waited for their captain to arrive.

‘Good evening, Mrs Yapp,’ Aymer said, his voice uneven and a little high. ‘I understand you have my clothes and other things in your safe keeping. If this is so, then I’d
be obliged if you could let me have them back, and ditto sheets, as I am tired and not a little feverish and would be glad to go to bed …’ He sniffed and coughed to illustrate his
point.

‘Dear Lord,’ said Mrs Yapp. ‘A ghost!’ And burst out laughing.

Shipmaster Comstock let her go, and advanced to within a foot of Smith. Their gelid breaths made tiny, short-lived clouds, back-lit by lantern-light.

‘Good evening, Captain Comstock,’ Aymer said. ‘I trust you had a halfways decent day.’

A
halfways
decent day? What should the captain make of such effrontery? What should he say, with his crew stood by, and people from the town? He had intended to intimidate the man and
then to thrash him. He clenched his fist. The nugget of his ring protruded from his finger. He’d knock Smith to the ground with just one blow. And then he’d stamp on him. But he was now
discovering what Aymer had discovered moments earlier, that icy snow on sloping stone without a woman’s arm to keep you steady provides poor footing for a fight, or even for a dressing-down.
He slipped, and Aymer had to – briefly – hold his hand. God Damn It that they had to meet like this, in public view, the captain thought. He’d like to hold on to the
fellow’s hand and break all twenty-seven bones. He’d like to have him in his crew, and flogged for mutiny. Alice Yapp tugged at the captain’s coat: ‘Don’t get too
wild.’ Aymer Smith had backed away. For the moment Comstock was reduced to words. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said at last, attempting something out of character, a note of irony.
‘I understand you have
my
property in your safekeeping. I’d be
obliged
as well if you could let me have it back, as Mrs Yapp and I would like to go to bed.’

‘I have no property of yours …’

‘Well, then, I think you have.’ He shook off Mrs Yapp and took two careful steps towards Aymer. He made a fist again.

‘Then, search me, sir, and you will see I’ve not.’

Captain Comstock was infuriated now. ‘My dear man Otto has been robbed from me! Do you deny that you pulled back the bolt, and sent the fellow out to die of cold?’

‘I did not …’
Did not mean to leave the poor man cold
was what he meant to say. Instead he fumbled for the words. He wasn’t rough enough for this. His eyes were
wet. His chest was tight. His lip and voice were trembling. Was it the image of poor Otto, dead in snow? Or was it just that Aymer’s fear was stronger than his dignity, and lies were safer
haven than plain speaking or the law? He said, ‘I did not pull back any bolt,’ and sounded like a boy.

‘You did, sir.’

‘No, sir, you are mistaken. Nor do I understand what vexes you.’ He stepped two paces back.

‘It vexes me that you deny your meddling … that you have sent into this night of wind and snow a man who has enough misfortunes as it is.’

‘Misfortunes of your making, Captain Comstock.’

The captain stretched and caught Aymer by the coat. ‘No, sir! I rescued Otto from the fields. I paid good dollars for the man in open auction. He does not suffer from unkindnesses aboard
my ship.’ (His men grunted their agreement.) ‘I work him no harder than any of my sailors here, and in the galley too, where there is always food and warmth for him. He is not muzzled
like some black cooks. He helps himself. He eats at will. What kind of food and warmth will he find now that you have put him out of doors, like some poor dog? Like
my
poor dog indeed. Not
only do you steal my man, you steal my dog as well.’ He swung his arm and caught Aymer round the side of his head. Aymer hadn’t seen it coming. There was a storm in his ear.

‘
There
is your dog!’ Aymer pointed to Whip, who, luck would have it, was sitting in the snow behind the captain. ‘I will not press you for your apology, though it is
clear to anyone with eyes that I have earned it.’

‘You’ve earned yourself a beating,
Mister
Smith.’ The captain let go of Aymer’s coat and spread his feet in preparation for the knock-out blow which he now planned
for Aymer’s chin. The sailors clapped their hands and whistled. ‘Defend yourself.’

The Wherrytowners were uneasy now. Bewildered, too. It wasn’t long since they had been at prayer and sharing hymns with the Americans. It wouldn’t do if bones were broken on the
Sabbath. Blood on snow would bring bad luck, and who needs bad luck when their men would put to sea at midnight?

‘Call Mr Phipps. He’ll settle it,’ one said. And even Mrs Yapp was alarmed by fisticuffs between her guests. ‘Apologize or pay up, Mr Smith,’ was her remedy.
‘And then we’ll put this little contretemps to bed … For God’s sake, find your tongue.’

Aymer kept his hands down by his side. He sniffed and coughed and blinked his eyes. ‘This is not just,’ he said. ‘What must I say to reassure you, Captain Comstock? I am a
businessman, and well regarded hereabouts …’ (There was no one to grunt agreement.) ‘I am a son of Hector Smith & Sons. We have markets for our soaps in Boston, New Orleans
and Philadelphia. I have no grudge against America. I have my errands here as well, in Wherrytown. Speak if you will to Walter Howells, who is our agent in these parts, and is acquainted with my
standing. And should you doubt it that my errands here are innocent then you should talk with your own man, Ralph Parkiss. We were companions on the coast today and we have had no dealings with an
African. I do not broadcast any views on slavery. I have no interest in your man. I did not put him out of doors, nor make the fellow cold. I did not pull the bolt for him. He is your loss, not
mine. My loss is this. My sheets are stripped. My clothes and bag have disappeared. My books are seized …’ He paused for breath.

Comstock’s hands were at his side as well. He looked uncertain and diminished. There wouldn’t be a beating after all. Aymer was – almost – believed. Perhaps he
wasn’t guilty of anything but hot air and timidity and tears. This much was obvious to everyone: he hadn’t fled on the
Tar
with Otto and the dog as they’d all presumed.
Here was the living – quaking – evidence of that. Here was the little dog. They had misjudged the man.

‘You struck me, sir, in full view of all these witnesses,’ said Aymer. He rubbed his face, and checked his hand for blood. ‘I cannot think what recompense can settle this.
Apologies are not enough.’

‘Shake hands, the two of you,’ suggested Alice Yapp. ‘Then sleep on it. There’s no use nursing it.’

‘I am too bruised about my ears to sleep. I hope no lasting damage has been done.’

‘Well now, maybe we
ought
to sleep on it, like Mrs Yapp suggests,’ the captain said. He blew out cloudy air. He felt he’d made a fool of himself. The Wherrytowners would
think he was a hot-head and a bully. They would not mistake that for captaincy. The crew had seen him weaken when they had hoped for bruises and broken bones. ‘Well now,’ he said
again.

Mrs Yapp stepped between the two men. ‘Let’s see the pair of you shake hands,’ she said again. She was getting cold. ‘We have been hasty, Mr Smith. You’ll not be
blaming the captain, I’m sure.’ She took him by the wrist and held his arm up. She dug the captain in the ribs until he put his hand out too and said, so softly that his men
couldn’t hear, ‘Then, I am mistaken maybe, Mr Smith. I see I might regret my hastiness …’

‘And your bad temper,’ prompted Mrs Yapp.

‘I think I am man enough not to hold grudges,’ Aymer replied. ‘Let this be but an episode.’ The captain took his hand, and stopped it shaking. How pleasant it would be to
crack some finger bones.

Many of the Wherrytowners hadn’t known that Otto had escaped, and now they were both angry and alarmed. They didn’t want an African at large, amongst their fields and flocks and
families. What kind of man was he, they asked. Could he do any harm? What kind of flesh might he hunt for? What magic did he know? Would it be wise to send for soldiers, or could they hope the cold
and snow had finished him, just like the captain said? Comstock was too angry and too thwarted to say much. He wanted just the privacy of Alice Yapp in bed. She held his arm again and they set off
for the inn. But one or two of the Americans were quick to tease the Wherrytowners with tales of Otto’s superhuman strength, his tiger temper and his monstrous appetite: ‘I’ve
seen him chewing leather boots.’

‘
And
he likes human hams!’

‘Flesh pudding.’

‘Finger pie.’

And then another added, ‘Make sure your daughters don’t give birth to Africans.’

Aymer volunteered his expertise. He was recovered now, or, at least, he had stopped shaking and could pretend that Captain Comstock’s odd outburst had caused him no embarrassment.
‘The Africans are a noble race of men,’ he said. Unlike Americans. ‘They have their grievous faults, of course, and high qualities as well, much as the rest of us who are not
Africans … There are as many saints and thieves in Africa as there are here …’ He looked directly at the mate. And then he had an inspiration, one which should have been
suppressed but which, if voiced, would clear his name, he hoped. Where was the harm in it? He called out to the captain’s back, his voice a little sharper than he’d meant:
‘Perhaps – and now this history becomes more clear to me – your African has stolen my affairs … my clothes, my few possessions. My sheets!’ Everybody turned to hear.
‘… At least the man finds warmth in them wherever he might be … There is a staircase from the courtyard of the inn. It leads directly to my room. The coincidences of our two
losses at one time cannot be dismissed. We can presume your African is well equipped against the night. If he were not, I think he would have crept back humbly to his lodging at the inn. No, he
will have found himself some little snug, an outhouse or a stable. He has my carriage rug. Some decent clothes. A set of sheets. And soap to wash himself, fit for the aristocracy.’