Ill Will

by Michael Stewart

  ‘But I am, sir. I gave you my word.’

  ‘Sooty words measure less than those of a gentleman. I’ll take your word, but you look after your sister. Make sure she’s fit for fettling. Here, while you’re standing there taking up space, give me a hand with this.’

  He stood up and walked over to the window.

  ‘It’s a two-man job, is this.’

  He reached for a set of ladders and placed them under some bookshelves.

  ‘Hold them steady.’

  It looked more like a one-man job to me but I held them firm while he climbed the steps and reached for a book on the top shelf.

  ‘I used to have a head for heights, you know, but not these days. It was a ladder such as this that Jacob saw the angels ascending. Come the day, I’ll need Jesus himself to fix them to the gates.’

  He climbed back down, holding a blue leather-bound volume. He took the ladders slowly and seemed relieved when he was at the bottom.

  ‘Here, take this.’

  He handed me the book, eyeing me in a curious way, as though he recognised something in me.

  ‘You’ve a good, strong frame, I’ll grant you that.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, only if you take a mettled stallion with a thick cresty neck and you breed it with a docile filly you get a beast that is both strong and compliant.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’

  ‘I had a fall, you know. Some years back. Took the wind out of my sails.’

  He pointed over to his desk.

  ‘Put the book there.’

  I carried it to the desk and plonked it down.

  ‘Right, I’ve got work to do, and you’re in the way. Off you go and next time I see you I’ll expect to see your sister too. And think on, prayers and broth. A sufficient quantity of each.’

  I spent the rest of the week following up the few leads I had left and trying to get more information on Jonas Bold, but I managed to discover absolutely nothing and all my leads were duff ones. My method was sound – to ply them with drink first, loosen their tongue – but no matter how loose they became, once the name of Bold was muttered, they’d clam up again.

  By Friday evening, with Emily still off work, and me no nearer my end, I resolved to cut my losses and do as I’d promised Emily. I was disheartened to admit defeat but I was not going to disappoint her again. We would move on to the next town. We would take up grave graft once more.

  I’d been talking to Enoch about work further afield and he’d told me there was plenty in a port called Lancaster, north of Liverpool town. There was work on the dock there, and there were graves. It was far enough away for us to start afresh. I had failed to find out who I was and was resigned that perhaps I never would.

  It was late and the warehouse contained only me and Pierce Hardwar. I went to his office again. I made sure I had my knife to hand. I was going to get what I was owed. I knocked on the door and he bade me enter. He was sitting behind his desk, working by the light of a lantern, which illuminated the gold brocade on his yellow waistcoat and the two watch chains that hung either side. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, and a yellow neck scarf. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair.

  He looked over his spectacles and nodded, folding his arms as though they were the wings of an insect. The light from the lantern sparkled on the gold rims of his glasses.

  ‘Well? Where is she?’

  ‘She’s not coming, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And I’ve finished, sir.’

  ‘But we had a deal. You gave me your word.’

  ‘No, I mean, I’ve finished for good.’

  He shook his head to and fro, and peered over his spectacles again.

  ‘You’re quitting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘Forget about her. The deal is off.’

  ‘The deal is off? Ha! You don’t get to break my deals. That’s not how it works.’

  He unclasped his folded arms and began to tap on the table with his index finger.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s not happening.’

  Pointing his bony finger at me, he said, ‘Now listen, I say what you can do and what you can’t do.’

  ‘I don’t wish to cause trouble, sir, but I’ve other business I’ve been called to, an urgent matter.’

  ‘The only excuse I accept for not turning up for work is a funeral, your own funeral. What business could be more urgent than my business?’

  His finger was wagging now, erratically.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, sir. It’s a private matter. Now, if you’d just settle up—’

  ‘Not at liberty?! A private matter?! A fucking sooty coming in here, shouting the odds like he’s boss and I’m the lackey. And then expects me to give him money. You’ve got a fucking cheek, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  I shrugged but stayed my ground.

  ‘That’s me done.’

  He stood up from behind his desk.

  ‘I’ll say when we’re done, boy, not some fucking sooty half-breed. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I’ll be needing my wages before I go. Four and thruppence.’

  He was about to say something but was lost for words. His cheeks had purpled with rage.

  ‘You’ll pay me what I’m owed,’ I told him. ‘I’ve earned that money fair and square.’

  ‘Wha . . .?! Who do you . . .?! Get out of my office. Now!’

  I saw Hindley with his whip. Boot. Club. Kicking me in my guts. Laughing in my face. I reached for my knife and brandished it. I edged closer to his desk.

  ‘I want that money and I’m not leaving till I get it.’

  Quick as an eel, Hardwar yanked open the top drawer of his desk and reached in. He pulled out a flintlock. He pointed it in my face.

  ‘Sit down.’

  I felt my heart quicken but I held my resolve.

  ‘Take it easy, Mr Hardwar. There’s no need for your finger to be on that trigger.’

  ‘Sit the fuck down. Now.’

  He had a frenzied look in his eye.

  ‘I’ll do as you ask, sir, but please, lower your aim.’

  I took my seat at the other side of the desk.

  ‘You think I wouldn’t shoot you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve shot men before. I’ve shot plenty. No one leaves my charge without my say-so. I say when someone comes and someone goes. Me. I’ve got the law on my side. The judge of this town is an old friend of mine. I dined with him only last week. All I have to say is that you came to rob me. Shooting a man in self-defence is no crime. Especially a sooty.’

  I could see the murderous intent in his eye but I tried to retain my composure. He moved around his desk, keeping the gun aimed at my head.

  ‘Put the knife down.’

  I dropped it onto the floor.

  He placed the cold metal of the barrel against my forehead. I closed my eyes.

  ‘You asked for this, nigger.’

  I felt no fear as I waited for my end. I thought only of the warm place waiting to receive me. So I would beat Hindley to hell after all. The thought saddened me. Would I meet my mother there?

  ‘Say your prayers, you miserable son of a whore.’

  I heard the click of the trigger but no explosion. I opened my eyes. The flint hadn’t sparked. Hardwar looked aghast.

  Without even thinking, I snatched the pistol from his grip and smashed him in the face with it. He went down. I picked up my knife and held it close to his throat.

  ‘Get up.’

  He struggled to his feet.

  ‘Sit back where you were.’

  He stumbled over to his chair and collapsed into it, a line of blood visible at the point where the gun had connected.

  ‘Now you’re going to talk. You’re going to give me answers. Or I’ll slit your throat.’

  ‘What is it you want to know?’r />
  ‘You just called me a son of a whore. Why did you call me that?’

  At first he didn’t say anything. He held a handkerchief to the cut on his forehead and shook his head from side to side. I took a step towards him.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Just an expression.’

  ‘You know something. You’re hiding something. I can tell. I’ll give you one last chance to talk. That stuff the other day about horse breeding. And now this. Why son of a whore?’

  He twiddled nervously with one of his sideburns and cleared his throat.

  ‘I knew your Mr Earnshaw.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I knew him quite well, as it happens. It’s not the first time your Mr Earnshaw visited Liverpool.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  Hardwar hesitated and I moved the knife a little closer to his pallid face.

  ‘He was here nine years ago or thereabouts, to collect you, as you know, but also the year before that, and the year before that again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His business goes back as long as my tenure here, to before you were born. He was once quite the visitor of this town, I’ll have you know. Couldn’t stay away.’

  ‘How come you by your information?’

  ‘I know Jonas Bold.’

  I sat down in my chair but made sure he could see the knife gripped in my hand.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He took out his pipe with shaking fingers. He reached for a still from a vase and held it to a lighted candle, then he used the still to light the tobacco.

  ‘He used to be a merchant, like many men round here. A very wealthy one. Your Mr Earnshaw invested some money in a business proposition that Mr Jonas Bold was raising finances for.’

  He blew out a plume of smoke and squirmed in his chair.

  ‘And what was this business venture?’

  ‘The purchase of a certain fleet. The purchase of its crew, cargo and captain.’

  ‘And what was the ship for?’

  ‘On its outward journey, the transportation of gin and cotton, as well as a variety of worsted goods. To the west coast of Africa. On its middle passage, the transportation of negroes to the West Indies. To be bartered for sugar and rum, for transportation and sale to the motherland.’

  ‘And Mr Earnshaw was aware of this?’

  ‘He was.’

  Hardwar rocked in his chair and sniffed.

  ‘What was the ship called?’

  ‘The ship they called Harmony.’

  ‘And on its homeward-bound journey?’

  ‘It was carrying not just rum and sugar on its cargo. As was usual.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘A very small selection of negresses.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘They were the choicest negresses, you understand, carefully selected. No common-or-garden sooties. Most agreeable and pleasing to the eye. Hand-picked by the discerning eye of Jonas Bold himself. Tried and tested.’

  ‘They were sold into prostitution? And Mr Earnshaw knew this?’

  ‘He did. He made a special attachment to one of the negresses. Your mother.’

  My brain reeled. My mother. Mr Earnshaw. Special attachment. I didn’t want to put the pieces together.

  ‘Are you . . . are you saying that Mr Earnshaw is my father by blood?’

  ‘That is the case, yes.’

  I tried to let the news sink in. My head was whirling. The room was swaying. I saw Mr Earnshaw at the dock, taking me by the hand, telling me he’d look after me. I saw him in his chair, by the fireplace, his blistered feet in a bowl of hot water, telling Hindley to treat me like a brother. I saw Mrs Earnshaw, confused. ‘Why have you brought an orphan back? Why would you bring him all this way? You’re going soft.’ I saw her scratching her head. I saw Nelly feeding me broth, me in bed with fever. ‘Oh yes, he was a rum’un, was Mr Earnshaw, back in the day. He got up to stuff. No one knows the half of it.’

  ‘And why did he return? Why come back seven years after the transaction to collect me?’

  ‘He was being blackmailed.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was the one who was blackmailing him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I could. And I needed the money.’

  It all made sense, Cathy. The fiddle, the whip, they were guilt presents. He knew he’d done wrong. To carry me and those gifts, for three days over barren moorland and treacherous coach lanes, no one in their right mind would do that, unless they had to, to reconcile their conscience. My father, who I’d only ever known as a benign figure, a protector, a saviour, was cast in a new light. I saw the full picture. I saw the reason for his kindness, Cathy, and it was his conscience. It was his guilt. He’d kept the secret from Mrs Earnshaw, I had no doubt of that, and from all of us, all those years, carrying it inside his heart like a black lead weight.

  ‘I want you to know, he wasn’t a cruel man, just a weak one. Plucky, certainly, but fond with it. My reasons for blackmailing him were not personal. I did not set out to hurt him. I just saw an open purse. I quite liked the fellow. He did me no injury.’

  My father. He was talking about my father. I could hardly comprehend.

  ‘What about my mother?’

  He twiddled with his sideburns.

  ‘She died a few years after you were born.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Took her own life. As many do. She was buried in an unmarked grave.’

  Dead. She was dead. The chance of being united with her in this world, snatched from my grasp.

  ‘How did she kill herself?’

  ‘She fell into a complete state of stupefaction. Took to her master’s loft. Stretched out on the bare boards and refused all sustenance. It was a tragedy. To see such a fine negress wither away like that. I’ll never forget her face, all hollowed out. We tried to revive her but it was no use. Eventually she starved to death above Bold’s parlour.’

  I couldn’t take it in. I breathed deeply and clung onto the arms of the chair.

  ‘What was she called?’

  ‘Lilith. They called her Lilly for short.’

  ‘I meant her African name.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I doubt you’ll ever find out. There were no records, other than what she raised at the marketplace.’

  ‘What part of Africa was she from?’

  ‘I bought her from a bazaar in Banjul.’

  ‘You bought her?’

  ‘Yes, along with others. Mainly male negroes. A few children too.’

  ‘Where’s Banjul?’

  ‘Gambia. Where the Gambia river meets the ocean. No papers came with her. No one spoke her language. We called her Negro Number Twenty-nine. She was a slave in Africa. Born a slave, no doubt. Buying her and shipping her to Barbados was a kindness.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘There’s a lot of talk these days about abolishing the trade. Lot of stuff and nonsense. If you were to abolish the trade now what would happen? I’ll tell you what would happen: you would be abandoning the negroes to a wretched situation.’

  He was becoming more confident now. He was warming to his theme.

  ‘Niggers are natural thieves. And cannibals. Slavery stops thievery, slavery stops cannibalism. Slavery on the plantations brings happiness to the slaves. Niggers are an inferior race, incapable of living as free men, or free women. People talk about them being packed as close as books upon a shelf, or like herrings in a barrel, but in reality, the voyage from Africa to the West Indies is one of the happiest periods of a negro’s life. You mark my words.’

  He smiled his crooked smile and took a puff of his pipe. It had gone out. He took out the tobacco tin and prised it open. I thought about the half-built galleon in the dock the day we arrived. The tiny compartments, not even a foot in height. Hundreds of them. They were not being built for indigo or sugar, but for h
uman cargo.

  He emptied the bowl of the pipe with the old tobacco, scraped the bowl, and filled it with the new stuff. He tamped it down with his thumb. I pictured him with my mother. His bony fingers on her skin. His insect arms around her.

  I leapt up and over to where he was sitting and held the knife at his throat. He dropped his pipe.

  ‘Wha . . .?!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Did you ever touch her?’

  ‘Many men enjoyed your mother. On many occasions. She was a comely wench.’

  I pressed the blade to his flesh.

  ‘Did you? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I . . . there were so many back then. It’s hard to remember. One nigger is much like the next. I may have entertained myself. But no more than the next man. I assure you of that. I was never greedy. Rest assured, your mother died young, but she didn’t die in vain. She brought great pleasure to many a lusty gentleman.’

  Hardwar laughed and tried to supress it but he couldn’t help himself. For two years I’d watched Mrs Earnshaw dote on you, Cathy, and dote on Hindley. I’d wanted to know why my mother had abandoned me. There had to be a reason but how could she do it? And I’d been jealous of you both. Now I saw the reason and I tried to shove the image out of my head. I could feel the heat rise again and the spiralling upwards. The room blurred in front of me. I gasped for breath. Motes of dust that had been floating in the light froze. I wasn’t aware a clock had been ticking but I was now aware that the ticking had stopped. I could feel a vein pulse in my neck as though it was about to burst. I clutched the knife and thrust the blade into Hardwar’s mouth and out of his cheek.

  He fell to the floor. I jumped on top of him and pulled the knife out of his mouth. I used it to skewer an eyeball. I plucked the jelly from the end of the blade and tore off his breeches. He was too shocked to scream.

  I grabbed his genitals. His gonads were as warm and soft as a chicken’s gizzard.

  He cried out, spluttering on the blood that was streaming from his mouth and eye socket.

  ‘Please, please, don’t! I’ve money. Plenty. Take it all. You . . . you don’t need to do this.’

  ‘Where does Jonas Bold live?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  I held the knife under his ball sack.

  ‘I’ll give you one more chance. If you don’t tell me the address of Jonas Bold, I’ll cut out your pisser and shove it down your gullet.’