Signals of Distress

by Jim Crace

  ‘Please take some, if you want.’

  ‘I like a luxury,’ she said, and took three bars, and curtsied, plumply.

  Aymer was alarmed. He couldn’t be sure if she’d been flirting. What was the ‘anything’ she’d offered him? Food? Hearthside hospitality? Or sin? Would she try to slip between his sheets – and legs – at night? And if she did, would Aymer take her in his long, thin arms, or would he flee, in his nightshirt, onto the balcony and down the wooden staircase to the cold and salty courtyard? Were blushes really so much healthier than cold and damp? He didn’t have the courage to find out.

  ‘There is no need to move the other beds,’ he said. ‘I’ll share a room with the Americans. I think we must allow the Norrises to keep their privacy.’

  ‘No, Mr Smith. I cannot let you sleep with sailors of that kind. Same as I said, they’re rough. Their language will offend you, and their nighttime habits …’

  ‘Well, then, perhaps it would be better if Mr Norris and his wife were to share with me. Shift out two beds for sailors, and let the other two remain. Our beds are curtained, so we can count on privacy. My language and my nighttime habits can give no offence. Besides, I am already acquainted with Mr Norris and he has introduced his wife. Perhaps, if my business can be completed rapidly, I will depart on the coastal packet tomorrow, and then this room can offer total privacy again.’

  ‘That is a rare suggestion and a kindly one.’

  ‘Surely I can make this sacrifice for just one night.’ Aymer put the remaining two bars of soap on the widest of the beds.

  OTTO WOULD NOT get a bed. There were no volunteers to share with him, though there were many townspeople in the inn’s courtyard keen to stand around and stare, to examine his face, to try a smile, to test a word or two, to comprehend this first encounter with an African. What did they know except what they’d learned at fairs or from sailors or in the farthing pamphlets they’d bought from pedlars? That Africans were ruled by dogs or dined on dogs or smelled like dogs? That Africans didn’t wear clothes and had no tongues, no names, no navels? That black men didn’t dream? The Wherrytowners did their best to catch sight of a navel or a tongue, to find his oddities. ‘Well, Blackie,’ one man whispered in Otto’s ear, ‘what news from the Devil?’ But he didn’t wait for a reply.

  Otto was conscious and in less pain. His ankle wounds had crusted. The bruises on his forehead were already blue. His eyesight was restored. He sat on the seaweed in the cart, eyes closed, and did his best to think of other things. But the oddness of the leafless trees he’d seen, the hardness of the sky, the stony torpor of the land, the mud, unsettled him so much that he was close both to tears and to fury. He had to concentrate, amid the din, to steel himself against the courtyard ghosts. He’d learn to dream himself elsewhere, but first he wanted things for which there were no words. He wanted warmth and food and sleep, and could not summon them. Shipmaster Comstock and his crew could be excused their neglect of him. They all were bruised. They all were cold. Their tempers were worn thin by the six-mile walk along the coast and by the prospect of some weeks ashore. They had no energy for anyone except themselves.

  They put Otto in the tackle room beneath the wooden balcony. They covered him in horse blankets woven from rough perpetuanna wool, and made him comfortable on straw. They shut the bolts. ‘It’s best to let him rest,’ Shipmaster Comstock said. The captain had more pressing problems than the African. He had his ship wedged on the bar. He had fifteen sailors and a dog to feed and pacify. There were hard letters to be written: to the owners of the Belle; to the various agents further down the coast who had arranged passages from several ports for emigrants to Montreal; to the Bostonian family of the seaman, Nathaniel Rankin, who had drowned; to the livestock merchants who had shipped the cattle that now were grazing freely at Dry Manston, still a half-day’s voyage short of the Belle’s second destination, and their owners at the port of Fowey. He had to find the means to dislodge his vessel before it broke up on the Monday tides, and dock it in Wherrytown. He had to find the wrights and riggers to carry out repairs. He had to justify himself. Thank God that there were men like Walter Howells. In their brief conversation on the beach, the man had introduced himself as someone who could alleviate the captain’s burden, for some decent recompense. Already he had undertaken to herd the cattle at Dry Manston and find secure grazing for them. And he had promised more.

  Comstock and his men were tired. They ate the bread and soup which Mrs Yapp prepared. They longed for sleep. It was midday. Aymer had stood on the bedroom balcony and watched the caravan of men arrive. The Norrises were there below, their passage tickets in their hands, anxious to discover what their travel prospects were. A small, untidy dog with a bearded throat and white hair on its chin and eyebrows ran wildly in the yard, barking at the townspeople as if they were the newcomers and the dog belonged. The horse-drawn cart was stabled with its horses. George began to unload the bed of seaweed and stack it in the inn’s fuel store. Aymer couldn’t see the African. The sailors who carried him into the tackle room obscured the view. At last the sailors followed Mrs Yapp into the inn. The Norrises walked once more down to the quay, and the townspeople returned to their nets and pots and laundry. Now the courtyard was empty except for the dog which was turning horse manure with its nose and eating some.

  Aymer came down from the balcony by the wooden stairs. He tried to see inside the tackle room, but the single window had been boarded. There was no sound. Aymer knocked on the door and then drew the bolts. The black man had his back against a saddle and a saddle-cloth. It was too dark to see his face, although the draughty winter light that slanted through the open door displayed the healing rawness of his ankle where the chain had been.

  ‘Are you sleeping?’ Aymer said. Evidently not. The man’s reply was a fusillade of words. Aymer couldn’t recognize the language but he knew the tone. Here was a man who, had he got the strength, would have taken Aymer by the throat. The shouting brought the dog to Aymer’s heels. She spread her legs and growled into the vociferous darkness of the room.

  Aymer put the bolts back in place. He went into the warm breath of the stables where he could hear George at work. ‘Is there a good physician in Wherrytown?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s not,’ said George. ‘Are you unwell? That shoulder’s giving trouble, is it, sir?’

  ‘It is, indeed. But I was thinking of that poor man who is locked up.’

  ‘The African?’

  ‘He has a wounded leg and should be seen.’

  ‘There’s no one here to see him, except the horse doctor, but I suppose the fellow won’t want shoeing or getting his tail docked. I hear, though, that those Negro men have tails …’

  ‘You are a provocation, George. No doubt, in time, I will learn to treat your banter as comedy. But for the moment I would be glad to hear you talking plainly. Tell me, to whom do you resort if you are ill?’

  ‘I resort to bed and hope that Mrs Yapp will tend to me.’

  ‘Is Mrs Yapp a healer, then?’

  ‘No, she in’t.’

  ‘What must I do to get an answer out of you?’

  ‘It seems to me you’re getting answers by the score.’

  ‘But not the one answer that I seek.’

  ‘What answer do you seek? You say, and I’ll repeat it for you, word for word, so long as it is short.’

  ‘I do not know the answer that I seek and that is why … Dear Lord, I need someone to treat a wounded man. Is that not plain enough?’

  ‘It’s plain you want a healer, then. There’s only one, and that is Mr Phipps, the preacher. He pulls the Christian teeth round here, and sets the bones for those that are contrite.’

  ‘Then kindly fetch him.’

  ‘I’ve my work to do.’

  ‘I’ll see to it that you are recompensed.’

  ‘With something shinier than soap, I hope.’

  ‘A shilling, George. Produce the healer here at once. Be my man while I am lodging at your Inn-t
hat-has-no-name, and the shilling will be yours. Can I count on you?’

  ‘You can count on a shilling’s worth.’

  Aymer went back to his room to find some gift to pacify the African. He took a cake of soap, but wondered if the man might take offence. And so he added his dry rations, the food he’d brought from home in case the catering in Wherrytown was bad: the great bar of black bread, the Bologna sausage, the chocolate, the anchovy paste. He took, too, the jug of sweetened drinking water from his bedside. He could have called on Mrs Yapp for provisions, but Aymer felt that in some way the African was placed in his safekeeping. Once more he drew the bolts on the tackle room and opened the door. The little dog accompanied him and didn’t bark. There was no fusillade.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Aymer. No reply except a sigh. ‘I’ve brought you food to eat.’ He mimed the cramming of his mouth, then put his gifts in the shaft of light on the bricked floor between the man’s good ankle and his bad. There was no hesitation. Otto drank the water from the jug. He ate the sausage and most of the bread. He smelled the soap and anchovy and put them to one side. He smelled the chocolate and rubbed it on his lips before dispatching it. He didn’t mind the dog sniffing at his ankle and then licking the dried blood. He stroked her neck and chin. It seemed they were old friends, the least regarded creatures on the Belle.

  ‘I’ve sent for a physician. A Man to Make You Well,’ Aymer explained, thinking that emphatic language would be understood. The African stayed in the shadows. He made no sign of gratitude. He turned the dog’s ears in his hand, the double-sided velvet skin. He tugged and stroked the long, dung-crusted hair beneath her chin. At last he seemed to speak. But if this was speech then it was meant for the dog and not for Aymer: ‘Uwip. Uwip. Uwip.’

  Aymer didn’t like his philanthropy to be less heeded than a dog. He wanted Otto to himself. So he repeated what he heard, ‘Uwip’. The dog’s ears straightened and her head turned. ‘Uwip, Uwip,’ said Aymer, with more force. The dog came to him and pushed her nose into the crotch of his trousers – expecting what? Some treat perhaps. Again, Otto called to the dog. He didn’t like to lose the animal. ‘Uwip, Uwip.’ The dog returned and for her trouble was rewarded with the anchovy paste.

  ‘Her name is Whip!’ Aymer said, delighted at his deduction. ‘So now we have a word in common. And I will teach you more. My own name …’ He pointed at his chest. ‘Aymer Smith of Hector Smith & Sons. Can you say Smith? Smith. Sm.Ith. Smi.Th.’ He wasn’t listened to. He had no audience. A cold and wounded man abducted from his home has no appetite for lessons.

  It wasn’t long before George returned with Mr Phipps. The preacher first examined Aymer’s shoulder in the courtyard, asking him to hold his arm above his head and then to exercise his fingers.

  ‘The bone is bruised,’ he said. ‘I cannot find a fracture, but your shoulder is inflamed. You should rest the arm. It would be wise to strap it to your chest. Sleep on your side. Are you in pain? Then purchase laudanum, and ask Mrs Yapp to prepare a poultice of witch hazel and cicely. That will thin the bruise, with God’s good offices.’

  ‘Is there an apothecary where I can purchase laudanum?’

  ‘No, there is not. You see the kind of town we are. But Walter Howells who is a trader here has some supplies. Our Mr Howells has some of everything, excepting virtue. Now let me see this other injured man.’

  They brought a lantern from the stable and hung it from a rafter in the tackle room. The preacher didn’t speak. Nor did he touch the patient. He peered into his face and examined the damage to his forehead and eye. He looked for several seconds at the weeping ankle.

  ‘My knowledge does not stretch to Africans,’ he said. ‘I do not know their constitutions. I would not wish to interfere. More harm will come of that than good. Our remedies are not for him. A medicine that makes us well might make him feverish.’

  ‘You cannot tend his wounds?’

  ‘I cannot stand between this man and God.’

  ‘You will not save him, then?’ Aymer was perplexed.

  ‘I can and will if there is water left inside that jug. For water is the Almighty’s medicine. The greatest service I can render this man or any man is baptism, the wet cross on the forehead. If he devoutly wishes it.’

  ‘He cannot understand a word you say.’

  ‘Then he is an Innocent and we should pray for him. That is the balm and poultice I prescribe. His wounds will heal in God’s good time.’

  ‘Or he will die.’

  ‘We all will die in God’s good time, but not, I think, of bruises. The man will be mending by tomorrow. It will be the Sabbath. Come to my chapel for evensong and we can offer prayers for him. You are baptized yourself, I trust?’

  ‘I am a Sceptic, Mr Phipps.’

  ‘Then we shall pray for you as well.’

  Aymer would make do without the laudanum. He didn’t want to trade with Walter Howells. The pain didn’t merit it. But he persuaded Mrs Yapp to make a warm compress and find the linen for a sling. He walked down to the quay in search of the Norrises and to deliver a newly written letter for his brother, Matthias. If he encountered Walter Howells then it could do no harm to have his arm strapped up. It made him unassailable, he felt, and just a little dignified. The Tar was being loaded with its homeward cargo: fresh and salted fish. Its decks were being scrubbed in preparation for the passengers. Aymer would not be aboard. He had decided he would stay in Wherrytown.

  My dear Matthias, he had written,

  I am arrived in Wherrytown and have sustained an injury at sea during the worst of storms. I am not well enough to travel yet and so I must remain amongst the kelpers here. Already I have seen our agent, Mr Howells, face to face, and we are making progress with the bad news that I bear, though he is not a man of feeling or of judgement. My lodging is tolerable though I must share with sailors. They are Americans, wrecked in the same storm that injured me. Amongst their cargo was an African, a slave. I know you think it is my duty to be at your, my brother’s, side at Smith & Sons, but I would claim a greater duty to a greater Brotherhood. I think it is my task and obligation to serve the sacred cause of Negro emancipation by visiting upon this man the benefits that Mr Wilberforce has brought about in our own land but which, alas, do not yet flourish in America. Despite my deprivations I am convinced of the propriety and fortuity of my coming here. It may be that Smith & Sons are obliged to break the kelping contract with their friends, but I can make amends on both of our behalves by offering the Freedom of this land to a man whose prospects have been nothing more than Slavery and Chains. Do not concern yourself for my well-being.

  Aymer gave this second letter to the Tar’s mate. He waited on the quay for the return of his first, but the mate could find no trace of it. What would it matter if both were delivered to Matthias? Aymer had, after all, relished the final line of the original letter and didn’t wish his brother to be spared. He was invigorated, flushed with his philanthropy and a touch in love. His cheeks were pink with wind and optimism. He would be admirable. He would excel.

  At last, he saw the Norrises returning from their walk, arm in arm, along the front. He waved with his free arm and almost ran to meet them with the news that they could share his room and were invited to share his table, too. Katie’s sandy hair was a flapping flag of colour on the sea.

  4. Aymer’s Duty

  MRS YAPP had baked squab pies, with horse bread and potatoes. Winter cooking.

  ‘What’s squab?’ asked Captain Comstock. He’d come to collect food for Whip and Otto, but had stayed for warm brandy and kitchen comforts. ‘Fish, fowl or fur?’

  ‘That depends,’ said George, ‘on what the cook’s got spare.’

  ‘And what is spare today?’

  George prodded the meat off-cuts and bones on the kitchen block, the hardened autopsist. ‘It might be cormorant,’ he said. ‘It could be cat.’ He put his nose into the meat. ‘It in’t fish. And that’s a blessing and a rare thing in this town, to eat a pie that has no
fish.’

  ‘At least we know what it’s not,’ said Comstock.

  Mrs Yapp took a handful of grey feathers from the waste, and showed them to the captain. ‘This squab is pigeon,’ she said. ‘There’s apple, bacon, onions, mutton, pigeon. Makes it nice.’ She made a well in the crusts of three pies and broke a raw egg into each. Then she poured in beer. The gravy of the pies steamed like chimneys on a pastry thatch.

  ‘That’s to still the squabs,’ George said. ‘They’ll be too drunk to fly.’

  Comstock sniffed the steam. He couldn’t wait to eat. He’d lived too long on pickles, salted meat and biscuit on the Belle. ‘My dog’d love a bowl of that,’ he said.

  ‘Your dog? I’ll not bake pies for dogs.’ She gave the captain two chipped bowls. ‘There’s scraps and gravy for the little dog. And bread and pilchards for the black fellow. Will he drink beer?’

  ‘Best not. His temper’s unpredictable.’

  Comstock found his way by lantern light into the upper lane and down the open and bladdery alleyway into the courtyard. He called for Whip and took her and Otto’s food into the tackle room. He felt embarrassed, waiting on the man who had been the Belle’s galley boy. The two men didn’t speak. Comstock satisfied himself that Otto had recovered from the storm and from the tumbles he had taken. The ankle was mending. He seemed both calm and comfortable. That was a blessing. The last thing that the captain needed, on top of all his other woes, was a riotous and ailing slave. The tackle room would be a decent billet – and a kennel – for a night. Tomorrow was the Sabbath. Captain Comstock would see if there were warmer quarters for Otto, inside the inn perhaps – but he suspected that the Wherrytowners would not welcome an African beneath their eaves. They’d stared and pointed at the man as if he were a creature at a fair. A slave was worthy of more respect than that, so long as he was biddable, and free of vices and diseases. Perhaps it would be for the best if Otto were kept out of sight in the tackle room, away from local eyes and fingers. Matters would improve, he hoped, and Otto could enjoy more latitude once Wherrytown was used to him. So long as he was supervised, his muscle would be useful in the restoration of the Belle. Comstock watched his man and dog eat for a while and then he shut the bolts on them, though Whip could get out if she wanted to. There was a cat hole in the door, and Whip was hardly larger than a cat. He hurried back to squabs and Alice Yapp. He had an appetite for both.