“I hate you no longer,” said I. “I loathe the deed you did me, but you were only the first of many betrayers, and how can I have room in my heart to hate them all? Nay, Cocke, I feel nothing toward you now, nothing!”
“I am in pain. For Christian mercy’s sake, put me away, and end my suffering.”
“That I will not do,” said I. “Sit here and reflect upon your life, and tremble, and grow old in this room, for aught I care. I sail soon for England. Shall I convey your greetings to friends in Leigh?”
“I know no one... no one...”
He commenced the weeping movement again, and this time tears in faith did come, most copious, a river down his withered cheeks. I rose and departed without taking my leave of him.
“Battell, in Jesu name!” he called after me. “Come back! Give me my despatching!”
I walked swiftly through the dockside streets, my head all in a whirl at seeing him here, and him brought so low, and begging for death. I thought of the words that had passed between us, and my telling him that I hated him no longer. But did I? Nay, my anger had not subsided; but the Cocke I detested was the one of the isle of São Sebastiao, and not this wretched old man. I would gladly have struck dead that other; for this one I felt only sorrow and compassion, that he was a sufferer on the earth like us all, and a sinner, who was in his punishment and would have punishment more, and who showed at least the outer signs of repentance. Methought me that the finest revenge I could have taken upon him was the one I had taken, that is, to leave him alive in his misery and his pain, and not to destroy him, which I think I could have done with the back of my hand, as one destroys a buzzing fly. Now there sat he in his room, knowing that the deliverance of his death had been within ten inches of him and had not been granted him. That must be bitter indeed to him.
And so did I leave him, for another two days. Then did my heart soften to him: even unto Abraham Cocke of the May-Morning and the Dolphin. And I resolved that I would meet evil with good, as the Lord hath enjoined upon us. So I did send one of my Negro boys to the marketplace to obtain a certain poison that the blackamoors do use in the hunting of fishes, by which they cause the stunned creatures to rise to the surface of a pond to be netted. And I told the boy to take the phial of this stuff to the inn, and give it to Cocke, and say to him, “This is of Andrew Battell, for charity’s sake, to speed you on your way.”
I know not if he did use it, but I think he did. For the next day my wanderings took me toward that inn, and I saw a coffin being carried from it, and I asked of the innkeeper, who said, “It is the churlish Englishman, who died in the night most suddenly.”
And so his soul now undergoes purgation for his many misdeeds, even the grievous one that by negligence or malevolence he did upon me; and that account is now closed, between Abraham Cocke and me. I have sometimes said a prayer or two for his repose: even for the repose of that man Cocke.
In my last days at São Paulo de Loanda I did also meet a second person out of prior years, that was also mightily transformed and gave me much surprise. This was as I passed outside the great church of the town, when its bell was tolling, and a dozen black nuns did come forth, all clad in their zevvera-striped habits, and their heads downcast. These holy women went in a file past me and toward their nunnery, all but one, who dropped from the rank and stood hesitating, looking back to me. And I looked to her, but only in a casual way, for I knew no nuns. Yet did she stand, and look, and search my face, and at last she moved closer to me, and said in a soft and gentle voice, “You are Andres, are you not?”
“That I am.”
“And am I a stranger to you?”
I smiled and said, “I know you not, good sister.”
“Ah, I think you know me very well,” said she.
I peered close, and still it was a mystery, she being a woman of middle years with a round hearty face, and bright warm eyes, and a skin that was more of a reddish-brown hue than black. And as I stared upon her, the veil of the years did drop away, and I saw in my mind not a nun, but a girl of perhaps fourteen, bold and naked, with high outrising breasts and strong plump buttocks, and a mark of slavery inside her thigh over against her loins; and I felt shame at that, for it is no noble thing to hold so intimate a vision of a nun. But also I did see that saucy naked girl entwined about my body, and in my memory I heard her gasping sounds of delight, and hot waves of astoundment did surge through my soul.
“Matamba?” I said, with a stammering.
She nodded. “But that is not my name now. It was not ever my name, though I did not mislike it that you called me that, Andres. I am Sister Isabel now, and as Sister Isabel will I die.”
“Ah, this does my heart good, to see you once more!” I cried. “For I searched some long time for you upon my return to this city. But no one knew of you.”
“Nay,” she said, “the Matamba that was your slave is dead, and the Matamba that was used so commonly in the whore-market is dead, and only Sister Isabel lives within this body. Oh, Andres, Andres, how I joy that the Lord has preserved you! Come, take my hand, let us renew our friendship!”
And she did seize both my hands in hers, and squeeze them most firmly, which caused me new shame.
“Is this permitted?” I asked. “You a nun, and all?”
“There is no harm in our touching,” said she. “For we are old friends, and we have no secrets between us. Will you follow me within?”
“Aye.”
I went with her into the church, Roman though it was, for it was cool and dark and empty in there, and we could sit, I no longer being eager to stand about under the hot sun. We took to ourselves a bench and sat facing one another, this nun and I, and her eyes did gleam with pleasure, and her smile was like the clear dawn light.
“I thought you had perished among the Jaqqas,” said she. “For so was the story given about, that you had been taken by them, and slain long ago.”
“It was not so. I gave myself unto them, freely, preferring their company to that of Portugals.”
“Aye, and did you? You dwelled with the Jaqqas, then?”
“And dined beside their king, and mixed my blood with the king’s brother, and did many another strangeness of which I do not care to speak. For these things I know some little guilt.”
She studied my face with care, and said after a time, “God will pardon you for all.”
“So do I entreat Him constantly. And you? This nunning—what led you there?”
“Why, what other harbor was there for me? When you were gone, they would have made me a whore again, and indeed some of the Portugals did treat me so; but I took me to the Fathers, and offered myself into their service, and they gave me my vows four years past. And I am greatly happy. I am escaped of all torments now.”
“Aye,” said I. “Your voyage is made, and you are at rest.”
“So it is. I comfort the ill; I console the dying; I make my prayers and do my offices. It is for this that I was put into the world, Andres, though I was a long time finding it. And to you I owe my life.”
“To me, forsooth?”
“Aye,” said she, and took my hand again, warmly, more like a lover than like a nun. “For that you bought me out of slavery, and took me to dwell with you, and showed me how it is that decent Christian men do live their lives. That was my salvation, since otherwise I would have been a slave in America, and very likely long ago worked to death. And then you saved me a second time, when I had been thrown to the whore-market; and you nursed me, and recovered me into my health. I give thanks ever, that you were bestowed upon me by God.”
“And I have given thanks many times for you, Matamba.”