by V. E. Ulett
The other recruit foisted on him in Algiers, Maximus was less sure about. He’d not been so taken up during the time aloft that he’d failed to notice Jugma Bora’s haunted look, like an animal in the slaughterhouse. Maximus was offended. His ship was the product of a modern age of navigation, not an abattoir where people expected to die.
Maximus turned to his passenger, another first voyager. He now felt Miriam was part of the life of the ship, having shown herself equal to the strange requirements of Nonesuch. Miriam Albuyeh Kodio Blackwell sat across from him reading Howard’s On the Modification of Clouds.
“Shall I send for seaman Bora?” Maximus asked. The language lessons were of course suspended during the last active days. “It is his off watch.”
Miriam looked up at him, glanced out the stern windows, and at the chronometer over his head.
“It is the time of sunset prayers, but I should be obliged if you did send for him in another half hour.” Miriam set down the Philosophical Journal containing the transcription of Howard’s lecture. “You recall me to the duty before me, Captain Thorpe. I had best remove my head from the clouds.”
Maximus had not at all wished to do so, to hurry his guest toward a dangerous and uncertain future. Guilt flooded in. He knew he was doing just that, it was his assigned duty on this mission. The trouble was, Maximus was finding that he should like to keep Miriam there with him, with her lovely head firmly in the clouds.
“Bora is a Mohammedan, I collect?” Maximus ventured. “As I take it you are too, ma’am, since you know their ways.”
By her change of expression, Maximus realized he’d blundered again. Trespassed a personal boundary, as when he’d asked her to call him by his first name.
“Iran is an Islamic country,” she said. “As is much of Java and Malaya, Jugma Bora tells me. So it is natural you should think I am Muslim. Do I take it, sir, since you are from a Christian nation, you are also a Christian?”
His simple bow and assent belied a complicated history, and Maximus cursed whatever impulse made him bring it up. He was born to a Roman Catholic family of Scotland, but must declare for the Anglican church and England in order to serve as an officer in the King’s Navy.
“You would be surprised at how much Christianity and Islam have in common, perhaps, Captain Thorpe,” Miriam said, with a kind smile.
For a moment he had forgot with whom he was dealing. “How is that, Ma’am?”
“They are both monotheistic: There is only one God. Both have certain moral laws or tenants. And within both Christianity and Islam, there exist many divisions or sects.”
She was a woman a man could really talk to, and his enthusiasm led Maximus to ask another impertinent question. “How did you come to such knowledge of the world’s great religions?”
He was relieved when Miriam smiled.
“Like you, Captain, I enjoy reading.” She motioned round at the many books that had made their way from Maximus’s private space into her sitting area. “If I have a love of learning, of the getting of knowledge, it is probably due to an English step-father who believed a girl’s mind as worthy of developing as a boy’s.”
Miriam stopped speaking and peered at him in a self-conscious way. Maximus wondered if other women of Persia were half so beautiful and wise.
“Mr. Francis Blackwell, the diplomat,” Maximus said, with a nod.
“I was forgetting you will have had my history from Lord Exmouth.” Miriam frowned. “I came to maturity in Muslim countries, and was educated by a westerner and a Christian. As to which I cling to I must say neither, since I have put myself beyond the pale of both.”
Maximus’s throat went dry. That such a lovely, modest, intelligent woman could feel this way shocked him. He hoped he didn’t pry too much into her affairs. “How can that be?” he asked.
Her dark eyes took on an inward, weary cast. “I left my home in Iran, and the protection of my mother and brother, and went among foreigners. I go about unveiled, and live in the company of men who are not my brothers, or my father, or husband. Neither Christians nor Muslims countenance such things.”
His first instinct was to argue with her, to deny and assert extenuating circumstances. To claim no one would think the worst of a woman unprotected in the world, making her own way among foreigners. But wouldn’t they? Maximus knew the answer, the world was a scandal loving unromantic place. He could hardly look into Miriam’s face, it was so clouded over with trouble and pain.
“I beg your pardon if I have distressed you with my unseemly curiosity,” Maximus said at last. He was deeply sensible of his own part in Miriam’s difficulties, and he determined, rather than dwell on his guilt and desires, to try to aid this young person he was growing fonder of daily. “I shall send for seaman Bora now, with your leave. And I should wish to begin another course of study with you, if you are willing. To impart some of the anatomical knowledge I came by in Edinburgh.” Maximus didn’t add, as he did inwardly, so that she should be able to thrust a knife into the most vulnerable parts of a man—or woman.
Sounds of a commotion on deck reached Miriam, Captain Thorpe, and seaman Bora seated round the table in the great cabin. Clomping steps were heard on the after hatchway companion ladder and after knocking, Mr. Dodd loomed in the great cabin doorway.
“What is it, Mr. Dodd?” Captain Thorpe half rose from his seat.
“Flying fish, sir. Two of the devils became involved with the wind-engine, sir, I am sorry to report.”
“Och, no!” Captain Thorpe was on his feet at once. “Improper securing of the wind-engine, Mr. Dodd, this is what comes of it! Miss Miriam, Bora, you may continue the lesson on the gangways and forecastle.”
On deck Captain Thorpe turned aft to deal with the fouled engine, while Miriam and Jugma Bora walked forward. As they wove through the seamen pirouetting and leaping with nets to collect the flying fish still coming aboard—everyone knew flying fish ate well indeed—Miriam repeated to Jugma Bora the simple phrases they’d been practicing in the cabin. Together they halted on the quieter forecastle and Miriam fell silent, watching the white foam slide down Nonesuch’s sides into a purplish sea as the ship parted the waves.
“I know you were raised in the harem,” Bora said of a sudden, in Malay.
Miriam opened her mouth to protest such familiarity, but Jugma Bora interposed.
“Very well, you understand me. Save your blame, I will hear it when you answer in the same tongue.”
With a swift glance toward the quarterdeck where Captain Thorpe was bent over the wind-engine, Miriam nodded and turned her gaze again on the bow wave thrown hypnotically up and up.
“Your conduct announces it,” Jugma Bora continued in his native Siamese, “to all but the clueless foreigner.” He jerked his head toward the knot of officers and seamen surrounding Captain Thorpe. “The way you read men and your surroundings, as though your life depended on it. Maybe it did?”
“No,” Miriam said in the language of Siam. “You know nothing.”
“Good on you, Miss.” A satisfied smirk crossed Bora’s face. “Now, open your ears and learn. I know a woman like you, raised to lead a circumscribed life. Even more so in my honored aunty’s case, the fashion of the day imposing physical subservience on her body.”
Jugma Bora paused and Miriam shivered, imagining what this could mean. Night closed round them. Phosphorescent points of light began to appear in the sea surrounding the ship, like twinkling reflections of the first stars in the heavens above.
“She was meant to be a silent decoration to some rich man’s household but this aunty married well, to a man with many ships. He built an empire from those ships and the rich cargos of the South China Sea. And then her husband died.”
Mesmerized by the never ending bow wave, and the sparkling surface of the sea, Miriam concentrated on Jugma Bora’s last words, spoken in Mandarin. She searched her mind and found understanding and ability.
“What became of honored ancestor?” she said.
&
nbsp; “No, not ancestor for she lives yet.” Jugma Bora shook his head, speaking Malay. “Honored Aunty took control of the fleet of ships, three hundred and more. This woman, shrewd and fearless though raised to modesty and obedience, increased the plunder of her husband’s house a thousand fold. Think of it, Miss, what it would mean to such a woman to be the commander, instead of the commanded!”
Miriam turned her gaze from the brilliant multi-faceted light of sea and sky and for the first time met Jugma Bora’s eyes. The eager expectancy on his face startled Miriam, she felt pulled from a trance and struggled to remember the language they’d been speaking and the import of the words.
As though to prompt her, Bora said, “What would it mean to you, Miss, to command such a ship as this one? Were you to bring this ship a prize to my honored aunty, she might make you her heir.”
A shadow moved out of the darkness behind Jugma Bora’s left shoulder. All was quiet on deck, the smells of frying flying fish drifted from the galley stove. Miriam watched Captain Thorpe approaching to join them, she wondered how long he’d been there listening, hidden by the gloom.
Miriam leaned toward Jugma Bora, and very low in Malay, she said, “What it would mean is mutiny, and I beg you will speak no more about it.”
Captain Thorpe pointed out to Miriam the Table Mountain with a ring of cloud suspended half way down its slopes, which also formed a mane and ruff round the dome shaped Lion’s Head. Lion’s Rump, Devil’s Hill, and a vast range of mountains lay beyond. Before the Cape was raised Miriam hadn’t spent much time on the upper deck. She’d been obliged to keep out of the way of the swaying up of the guns, and the stowage down into the hold of the great balloons. Captain Thorpe and Mr. Dashwood were so taken up in their labors that Miriam hardly exchanged a word with either one. She sensed a certain hesitation, an unnatural formality in his manner, as Captain Thorpe named the Table Bay landmarks to her.
Miriam wasn’t rid of the uncomfortable feelings left by their last serious conversation and what he might have overheard of her lesson with Jugma Bora. Why she’d spoken so openly before to Captain Thorpe, of faith and other private matters, she didn’t know. The afterglow of exhilarating flight might account for part of it. It couldn’t be the reason she’d accepted his offer of instruction in “anatomy”. Miriam would have to be much thicker-headed than she was not to realize Captain Thorpe was teaching her self-defense—to fight. She’d gone about violating every tenant of silence, of modesty, of keeping herself to herself, that had ruled her life to this point. Miriam couldn’t be easy on that score, Jugma Bora’s legends of fabulous women notwithstanding.
“Jupiter is making our number, sir,” Mr. Dodd reported.
“So I see, Mr. Dodd, I thank you.”
Captain Thorpe turned to Miriam, and made a stiff bow. “The next signal will be ‘captain repair aboard’, ma’am, so I must take leave of you.”
Captain Losack, HMS Jupiter, the senior officer on the Cape of Good Hope station, was known in the Service for two things; an eccentric wife who accompanied him in his sea-going commands, and the keeping of an excellent table. Upon his entrance in Jupiter’s cabin, the captain’s lady accosted Maximus with the declaration she’d seen a woman on the deck of Nonesuch. She thrust a glass of Château Lafite into his hand, and demanded the particulars.
“Why, ma’am, that is Miss Miriam Blackwell. She is my guest for the Eastward passage. She is to be met by her father, a gentleman in the diplomatic service.”
“Is she an Oriental?” Lady Losack, as she was known to the crew of HMS Jupiter, turned to her husband. “One can always tell by the head-scarf. A veil or a turban are sure signs of your Mohammedan.”
Maximus’s face flushed. “Miss Blackwell is a Persian lady, ma’am. As to her faith, we are not well enough acquainted that I should have discovered that much.”
“What a honey’d way of speaking you Scotsmen have, Maximus. Any lady would be proud to have such a champion.” Lady Losack all but winked at him. “May I call you Maximus? Such a strong name, it brings to mind the Romans. Were you called after an Emperor or a Caesar, sir?”
“My father was an antiquities scholar, ma’am.” Maximus bowed, wondering if he’d been this goddamn forward and impertinent with Miss Miriam.
Hours later Maximum went down the side of Jupiter into his own boat, well lubricated with superior wine and vittles. In his pocket was a letter of invitation that Maximus believed, in the muzzy headed glow of the moment, could not but bring pleasure to his lady guest.
Next day Miriam and Mr. Dashwood stood together on Nonesuch’s larboard gangway, watching the captain’s gig approach. Miriam was to be rowed ashore to meet Captain Thorpe in Cape Town for the start of their excursion. Beyond the village of Cape Town, growing sunshine lifted the clouds draped like a damask shawl round the shoulders of Table Mountain.
“I know this outing can hardly please a retiring lady like you, Miss Miriam,” Mr. Dashwood said, shaking back his long hair as it stirred in the gentle breeze.
The invitation to dine at the home of a Dutch landholder where the British governor’s lady hostess was holding court didn’t please Miriam, but she would be sorry if that much was evident to Mr. Dashwood.
“There is no help for it, I am afraid, Mr. Dashwood. I was spotted on deck, Captain Thorpe informs me. Resistance is futile.” Or worse would call more unwanted attention to her. Miriam tried for a cheerful tone. “I would have to confine myself below decks to avoid notice, a thing I’m most unwilling to do. For what is life without sunlight and fresh air?”
Miriam expected the enthusiastic lieutenant to agree with her. Instead, as though she hadn’t spoken at all, Mr. Dashwood said, “It is want of sensibility on the Captain’s part, that he cannot see you prefer to remain anonymous to the shore. If you wish I will meet Captain Thorpe on the quay and make your excuses, I would be perfectly happy to do so.”
Miriam suppressed the first sharp retort that rose to her lips.
Mr. Dashwood mistook her hesitancy for delicacy of manner and indecision. “He was advised to hire an ox-cart for the drive to Groot Constantia, instead he has gone ahead to scour the town for the best horse and carriage.” Mr. Dashwood sniffed. “I will say nothing of a certain national tendency for showing away.”
Miriam took a deep breath. “I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. Dashwood, but it is a glorious day and I must say I’m rather looking forward to seeing something of Africa.”
The eighteen or twenty picturesque farms, as though transplanted from Holland each with its own flour mill, were left far behind at the bottom of Devil’s Hill and Table Mountain. The pony trap driven by Captain Thorpe was wending its way through a hilly, verdant countryside. Jostling along, and having narrowly avoided an ox-cart, Miriam thought it incumbent on her to comment on the conveyance.
“How did you come by your skills, Captain Thorpe?” she asked, clasping her head scarf under her chin with one hand. “You are a capital whip.”
Captain Thorpe chuckled, over her use of the latest slang phrase or maybe because it was a day to gladden the heart. High cumulus cloud drifted in a vast, piercingly blue sky overhead.
“One learns a few things at university, ma’am,” Captain Thorpe said. “How to drive four in hand, how to fight with sword and pistol. In Edinburgh they are much given to dueling.”
“How unfortunate. Or is it not so for you Physical gentlemen? Since you may practice your art by sewing on their ears, and putting them back together.”
Captain Thorpe laughed and glanced at her with an appreciative glint in his eye. “I shall slow the horse if you wish.”
They were at a walking pace when the road, with grape vines on one hand stretching away across the hills, made a turning and ran beside a long barn, with an adjoining corral or outdoor pen. Miriam noticed guard towers at the outside corners of the complex.
“What is this place?” She shuddered and wished she hadn’t asked, for she began to see what it was as they drove slowly past.
Captain Thorpe frowned. “It is a place they keep slaves. A prison for the ones who tried to run away, or committed some other transgression.”
Miriam stared through the fencing of the corral area, inside were posts and large wooden triangles stained red with blood. “I thought...is not slavery abolished in Britain, sir?” Her lips felt odd and numb.
“This is not exactly England,” Captain Thorpe said, not unkindly. “And I apprehend this place is a private concern, run by the local landholders. Those who own these beautiful vineyards you and I have been admiring.”
Whose food and wine they would shortly be eating and drinking; Miriam hoped it might not stick in her throat. They were driving past the extreme end of the corral. Inside of it, a number of women and children were gathered. As the pony trap came level with them, the women pushed their arms through the spaces between the wooden slats and the children cried out with one voice.
Miriam at last turned back round on the bench seat from staring at the heartbreaking little group. Captain Thorpe’s face was grave, and she suspected he’d understood their speech. “How can women and children be confined in such a place!” Hesitating, she added, “What did the children say?”
“I wish I had known the track runs this way,” he muttered, as though to himself. Captain Thorpe turned to her. “Please, Miss. They said please.”
Miriam and Captain Thorpe were seated across from one another, and far down the table from the Governor’s hostess, Lady Anne, and her important guests, Captain and Lady Losack. Upon arrival they’d been cordially greeted by this triumvirate, along with a collection of officers of the 31st Highlanders, and a number of civilians. Among the Scottish officers was an army surgeon of Captain Thorpe’s acquaintance, Doctor Polidari, who was Miriam’s left hand neighbor at table. On her right was a clergyman who was already eyeing her askance, but with whom she would be forced to converse at some point during dinner.
