Rose

by Martin Cruz Smith

  A moment passed before the Hannays and Rowlands noticed that the rest of the lounge was watching, rapt. Not that Hannays or Rowlands ever seemed to care, particularly; it had occurred to Blair before that the Bishop and his family set their own laws of conduct, and that for them other people existed no more than as heads daubed on a backdrop. In that distorted context, Hannay seemed to have especially staged this event.

  The Bishop turned to all. “Now for the surprise. In the first part of the program, a pageant of children engagingly portrayed the martyrs who suffered gloriously for their mission: to spread the Bible and the Word of God throughout England. Today Britain has a mission to lift the many new peoples of the earth out of their ignorance and to take them that same Word. Fortunately, we are blessed with new heroes, as you shall see when we reassemble upstairs.”

  In the middle of the stage was a closed mahogany case as tall as a man. While the band played “Rule, Britannia,” the orphans returned to the stage in blackface, black wigs and “leopard skins” of spotted muslin. The boys held bamboo spears and cardboard shields; the girls carried coconuts. Their eyes and teeth shone.

  “Africans,” Lydia Rowland told Blair.

  “I can see that.”

  A solemn girl in a tiara and an ermine robe of braided wool rolled over the boards on a canvas ship pushed by two “Africans.”

  “The Queen,” Lydia said.

  “Right.”

  “Rule, Britannia” quavered to a finish, and Queen and ship trembled to a halt next to the case. When the applause diminished, Bishop Hannay joined her, thanked her and the other orphans, and let a second round of applause die.

  “This is the dawn of a new age. We are exploring a new world, bringing it light in exchange for dark, freedom in exchange for shackles and, instead of primitive survival, a share in a trade that brings tea from Ceylon, rubber from Malaya, steel from Sheffield and cloth from Manchester on steamers from Liverpool that burn Wigan coal, never forgetting that our enterprise is only blessed when the Bible leads the way.

  “As you know, my nephew, Lord Rowland, has manifested a passion for this dangerous task. Particularly in the Gold Coast of West Africa, he has labored to free natives from the yoke of slavers, to bring those natives under the protection of the Crown, and to deliver them from superstitious ignorance by the lamp of the Church.

  “Only this morning Lord Rowland arrived in Liverpool from Africa on an Atlantic mail ship. He was on his way at once to London to address the Royal Geographical Society about his explorations in the Gold Coast and the Congo, and to report to the Anti-Slavery League about his efforts to stamp out that inhuman trade. Wires flew back and forth until we persuaded him to honor this benefit not with a formal speech but with his presence. He will go immediately from this theater to the station. I know that London is anxious to receive him, but Lord Rowland shares the family sentiment that Wigan comes first.

  “During his travels in Africa, Lord Rowland has incidentally gathered artifacts and curiosities that he deemed worthy of study at the Royal Society. He has consented to a first public exhibit of one such specimen here today for this benefit before it travels with him to London. Perhaps I do so with special pride, but I know I speak for us all in welcoming Lord Rowland.”

  A slim man with golden hair appeared onstage to take Hannay’s handshake. As the Bishop left him onstage alone, every row in the theater stood to applaud. Lady Rowland proudly rose to tiptoes. As Lydia Rowland clapped, her fan spun on her wrist. The band roared back into “Rule, Britannia” with more fervor than before.

  “Explorer! Emancipator! Missionary!” the Queen started to read her scroll The rest of her words were overwhelmed by acclamation.

  Rowland accepted the homage with an absolute stillness that focused all the more on him. It was a natural theatricality that had worked in Africa as well, Blair remembered. He was a little changed from the more robust man who had first arrived in Accra. That was the effect of Africa, Blair thought. First the skeleton came home, then the flesh, then the shock of leaving equatorial weather for the cold piss of the English spring. He almost felt sorry for the man.

  Rowland’s hair fell in wings at his forehead and was matched by a wispy beard. The stage lights seemed to lean toward him, to illuminate a balance of even features. Staring toward the rear of the theater, he had the beauty of someone philosophical, Hamlet before his soliloquy. Like Hamlet, responding absently to adulation as if it were irrelevant, which provoked it more. Hannay made his way back to the front row. Rowland’s attention followed the Bishop; his eyes found his sister in the crowd and focused on her for a moment, then on Charlotte, whose arms were stiff by her side. His eyes moved restlessly on until he located Blair in the row behind. There was a glitter to the gaze, a shifting of light within.

  “Rule, Britannia” ended with a flourish of horns, followed by murmurs throughout the theater. Rowland stepped in front of the mahogany case and executed a diffident nod that seemed to be interpreted as a hero’s modest bow. Still sharing the stage, the orphans were a line of white smiles on dark faces. Of course if they really were Africans, Blair thought, they would be running for their lives.

  “That is too kind, much too kind. The Bishop has asked me to say a few words.” Rowland paused as if reluctant to intrude. His voice filled the theater effortlessly. Which was important for explorers; they made their fame with books and lectures as much as exploration. Perhaps he was being petty, Blair told himself, just because he himself hadn’t been invited to lecture anywhere but Mary Jaxon’s kitchen.

  “The journey itself,” Rowland said, “was not remarkable. Passage from Liverpool on a mail ship of the African Steam Ship Line bound for Madeira, the Azores, Gold Coast, Sierra Leone. Endless trip until we transferred to a frigate of the Royal Navy on patrol to interdict slave ships. Thence to Accra, in the Gold Coast, to pursue slavers on land.”

  Rowland brushed his hair from his eyes and took note of the “native” orphans for the first time. “On land. The worst feature of coastal Africa is the proliferation of mixed bloods. While Portuguese half-castes are superficially attractive, English blood mixes badly with the African and produces a muddied, mentally enfeebled race. It is one more reason for an Englishman to remember that he has a higher mission in Africa than the Portuguese or Arab trader of flesh.”

  What about a mix of Celts, Vikings and Normans? Blair thought.

  “Imagine, if you can,” Rowland said, “a world of profuse and untamed nature, peopled with slaves and slavers, infested by every kind of predator that God in His curiosity could create, infected by a spiritual ignorance that can worship the baboon, the chameleon, the crocodile.” He touched the mahogany case. “Animals were, in fact, another objective, with the aim to further science—British science—through the study of rare specimens. I repeat that this exhibit is purely scientific and pray that it does not offend.”

  Rowland opened the doors of the case. Inside, bedded on white satin, were two black hands cut off at the wrist. Spiky black hair covered the back of one hand. The other was reversed to show a black, deeply creased, leathery palm with flat, triangulate fingers. The wrists wore bands of beaten gold.

  “These are the hands of a great soko, or gorilla, that I shot near the Congo River. I had surprised him and his group while they were feeding. I felt deeply privileged to see them because, despite their great size, sightings are so rare. This is only the third specimen brought from Africa.”

  Blair heard Charlotte Hannay whisper to Earnshaw, “You approve?”

  Earnshaw said, “Absolutely. Not only on scientific grounds, but also for national prestige.”

  Blair saw Charlotte’s eyes darken with revulsion.

  “What do you think, Blair?” Earnshaw turned and demanded.

  “Maybe the rest is coming in another box.”

  “Imagine a gentleman like him standing up to savages and apes.” Chief Constable Moon insinuated himself next to Blair. “He seems to know you.”

  “I thi
nk we know each other.”

  “He must cut a figure in Africa.”

  “Excellent posture, beautiful clothes.”

  “Something else, surely.”

  Charlotte looked to catch Blair’s answer. Blair saw Rowland look down from the stage at the same moment. “Totally insane.”

  Blair’s words were swallowed as the brass band picked up the self-satisfied strains of “Home Sweet Home.” Rowland listened in the distracted manner of someone listening from a distance. Or about to escape.

  Moon tugged on Blair’s sleeve.

  “What is it?” Blair had to shout to be heard.

  Moon shouted back, “I said, I’ve found Silcock.”

  “Who?”

  “Silcock, the man you were after. If you want. It’s your investigation.”

  They rode along the canal in the Chief Constable’s carriage, all black lacquer and brass like an undertaker’s coach. Blair kept his hat on despite the pricking on his temple where stitches rasped against the hatband. Leveret had come along at Moon’s insistence. The afternoon had narrowed to a tunnel of dark clouds. Mill chimneys were lit sideways like columns along the Nile.

  Moon was still thrilled by the event they had left. “Quite a sight, those hands. Educational, as Mr. Earnshaw said. What do you think, Mr. Leveret? Should we show those hands to every naughty boy in Wigan and scare some improvement?”

  “Is that what you’d do?” Blair asked.

  “Made all the women take a step back, didn’t they? I’d say having a pair of hands like that to show would improve behavior all the way around.”

  “Ask Lord Rowland. Maybe he could get you another pair. The Royal Society could have one pair and you’d have the other. Use them at school or in the home.”

  “You’re being humorous? Is Mr. Blair being humorous?” Moon asked Leveret, who squirmed on his seat like a tall man trying not to be noticed. “One of the things I liked about your father was that he had no sense of humor at all.”

  “He didn’t,” Leveret agreed.

  “I always knew where he stood, and I’d like to think I know where you stand.”

  Leveret looked out the carriage and nodded.

  “I wasn’t joking,” Blair told the Chief Constable. “You’re at least the scientist that Rowland is.”

  Moon swung the weight of his attention from Leveret to Blair. “But it must deeply impress the natives when Rowland stands up to a giant ape.”

  “It does, I’m sure. He not only stands up to the ape, he tracks it, traps it and blows its head off.”

  “Lord Rowland is a marksman, I hear. And specimens, as Mr. Earnshaw was saying, are the beginning of zoology.”

  “Taxidermy.”

  “Well, whatever you call it, it’s the start of science and civilization, isn’t it?”

  Blair let it go. He had thought Rowland was in Cape Town or Zanzibar, halfway round the world. It was a shock to see him in Wigan, hailed like the Second Coming. He also smarted from the idea that he had misread Earnshaw. If the man wasn’t a suitor, why was he wasting Charlotte Hannay’s time? He poured powder across his palm.

  “Arsenic?” Moon said. “I don’t believe that in his expeditions Dr. Livingstone uses that, does he?”

  “He uses opium.” Blair tossed the dose down and felt a bitterness spread through his mouth and brain. “Tell me about Silcock.”

  “Sort of a thug, sort of a sport. If he didn’t take your money at cards, he’d catch you in the alley afterwards. I warned him off Wigan twice in January, the second time after the fire. Anyway, we have him in a corner now.”

  “Has anyone asked him about Maypole?”

  “No. Have you ever been in trouble with the law yourself, Mr. Blair?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you have the look. Not quite a wolf in sheep’s clothing. More like a wolf with a scarf around his neck. Someone might say, ‘Oh, he’s wearing a collar.’ I would say, ‘No, he’s planning to eat.’ When I hear you had a dust-up with Bill Jaxon and got the better of him, it inclines me to think my instinct was right.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Everywhere. I hear he thinks you’re after a favorite girl of his. You’re not so stupid as that, are you?”

  Blair felt a frying along the sutures that Rose had sewn. Could be arsenic, could be Moon.

  “Not so stupid, surely, as that?” Moon repeated. “The women are worse than the men. A fact. Are you aware that in the infirmaries of the British Army most of the beds are filled with victims of venereal disease passed on by prostitutes and loose women?”

  “It’s passed both ways, isn’t it?”

  “But innocently or professionally, that’s the difference.”

  “In peacetime I thought it was the soldier’s profession to pass venereal disease.”

  “You have your joke again, Mr. Blair, but in the south of England loose women are isolated in special hospitals for their own good. Here in the north there is no control.”

  “How would you identify them? Bare arms? Pants?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “You mean pit girls?”

  “I mean that pit girls are females who have reverted to the wild state. It’s not just a matter of dresses or pants. Do you think Parliament would investigate these women if it was just a matter of pants? Pants are merely a symbol of civilization. Do I care whether they wear pants or seashells or go about stark naked? Not a fig. But I care about the rules. I can tell you from sad experience that civilization is nothing but rules adopted for the general good. I don’t know how it is in the South Seas, but once an Englishwoman has dressed in pants she has divorced herself from decency or the considerations due her sex. Granted it’s only a rule, but it’s what separates us from the apes. The pit girl has her allure, there’s no denying that. The Bishop himself, when he was a young man, before he was a man of the cloth, used to slip into town through the old Hannay tunnels to call on the girls. Was it Saint Valentine said, ‘Give me chastity, Lord, but not yet’?”

  “Saint Augustine.”

  “Well, that was Hannay. More than one girl had to leave Wigan with her ticket punched, if you get my meaning.” Moon leaned forward intimately. “I ask you, how do Africans civilize their women?”

  Blair sat back. “I’ve never heard it put that way before. You’re a regular anthropologist.”

  “A policeman has to have an open mind.”

  “They scarify them, put plugs in their noses, plates in their lips, weights on their legs, cut off part of their sexual organs.”

  Moon pursed his lips. “Does it work?”

  “The women think it’s normal.”

  “There you are,” Moon said. “Best rule of all.”

  Canal traffic had to stop at locks to rise or fall to the next stretch of water, but it was clear to Blair as he scrambled down to the towpath that the last lock in Wigan was not functioning at all. Boats idled bow to stern in long lines on either side of the lock, and on the towpaths a crowd had gathered, boatmen joined by patrons from canalside beerhouses, boat children spread out on the banks above.

  The boats themselves were marvels of design; fifty-foot “narrow boats” were capable of carrying twenty-five tons of coal or, for pottery factories, flint and bones. More, each boat was a home with a six-foot cabin into which a family of seven typically squeezed, the bows of their boats decorated with fanciful white castles or red Lancashire roses. Despite the imminence of rain there was an atmosphere of a crowd diverted by a street pantomime. Tow horses, Clydesdales, stood forgotten at their lines. Dogs raced back and forth on boat decks. Moon, Leveret and Blair had to push their way through.

  A boat aimed upstream was in the south lock. Its crew—father, mother, two boys, three girls, agitated dog, goat with enormous teats, two molting cats—were on deck and looking over the stern tiller at a man chin-deep in water. His clothes swam around him.

  A lock was a simple affair of two basins—one for “up” traffic, the other for �
��down”—each with two pairs of gates. The dimensions, however, were exacting; the boat was seven feet across and the lock was eight feet across, leaving six inches of clearance on either side and about a foot at either end. The boat was tied forward until the bow fender nudged the gate; otherwise the man in the water couldn’t have been seen at all.

  Water level in the locks was controlled by “paddles,” built into the lock gates, that had to be cranked up or down. But it was an old lock, pounded by boats every day; the “up” gate leaked in noisy sprays and the level was perceptibly rising. It wasn’t a bad problem in normal circumstances; water level would equalize with the “down” gate open. Now the motion of the water rocked the boat against the walls and thumped it against the downstream gate. Each time the man in the water had to go under and then climb back up to a tenuous handhold on the punched and splintered oak of the gate or the slime-covered bricks of the lock wall.

  Moon said, “Somehow Silcock seems to have caught his foot in a paddle in the ‘down’ gate. The lock isn’t big enough for Silcock and the boat, but we can’t open the ‘up’ gate without raising the water and drowning him. We can’t open the ‘down’ gate because the boats behind are packed so tight. He’s trapped himself very smartly.”

  “Why don’t you crank the paddle off his foot?” Blair asked.

  “That’s the obvious solution,” Moon said. “Every boat carries a crank—a ‘key’ we call it, as Mr. Leveret could tell you, one of his grandfathers being a lockkeeper—but the boatman managed to rip off the ratchet nut the key fits on. We could have a hundred keys, but none will work.”

  Blair saw divers in the water outside the downstream gate. Moon said, “The men are diving for the nut, but this canal, with all the coal dust that fell in it, is black as the river Styx. We’re waiting for another; in the meantime, how does the old saw go: ‘For want of a nail a horse was lost, for want of a horse a battle was lost’?”