‘I have no property of yours …’
‘Well, then, I think you have.’ He shook off Mrs Yapp and took two careful steps towards Aymer. He made a fist again.
‘Then, search me, sir, and you will see I’ve not.’
Captain Comstock was infuriated now. ‘My dear man Otto has been robbed from me! Do you deny that you pulled back the bolt, and sent the fellow out to die of cold?’
‘I did not …’ Did not mean to leave the poor man cold was what he meant to say. Instead he fumbled for the words. He wasn’t rough enough for this. His eyes were wet. His chest was tight. His lip and voice were trembling. Was it the image of poor Otto, dead in snow? Or was it just that Aymer’s fear was stronger than his dignity, and lies were safer haven than plain speaking or the law? He said, ‘I did not pull back any bolt,’ and sounded like a boy.
‘You did, sir.’
‘No, sir, you are mistaken. Nor do I understand what vexes you.’ He stepped two paces back.
‘It vexes me that you deny your meddling … that you have sent into this night of wind and snow a man who has enough misfortunes as it is.’
‘Misfortunes of your making, Captain Comstock.’
The captain stretched and caught Aymer by the coat. ‘No, sir! I rescued Otto from the fields. I paid good dollars for the man in open auction. He does not suffer from unkindnesses aboard my ship.’ (His men grunted their agreement.) ‘I work him no harder than any of my sailors here, and in the galley too, where there is always food and warmth for him. He is not muzzled like some black cooks. He helps himself. He eats at will. What kind of food and warmth will he find now that you have put him out of doors, like some poor dog? Like my poor dog indeed. Not only do you steal my man, you steal my dog as well.’ He swung his arm and caught Aymer round the side of his head. Aymer hadn’t seen it coming. There was a storm in his ear.
‘There is your dog!’ Aymer pointed to Whip, who, luck would have it, was sitting in the snow behind the captain. ‘I will not press you for your apology, though it is clear to anyone with eyes that I have earned it.’
‘You’ve earned yourself a beating, Mister Smith.’ The captain let go of Aymer’s coat and spread his feet in preparation for the knock-out blow which he now planned for Aymer’s chin. The sailors clapped their hands and whistled. ‘Defend yourself.’
The Wherrytowners were uneasy now. Bewildered, too. It wasn’t long since they had been at prayer and sharing hymns with the Americans. It wouldn’t do if bones were broken on the Sabbath. Blood on snow would bring bad luck, and who needs bad luck when their men would put to sea at midnight?
‘Call Mr Phipps. He’ll settle it,’ one said. And even Mrs Yapp was alarmed by fisticuffs between her guests. ‘Apologize or pay up, Mr Smith,’ was her remedy. ‘And then we’ll put this little contretemps to bed … For God’s sake, find your tongue.’
Aymer kept his hands down by his side. He sniffed and coughed and blinked his eyes. ‘This is not just,’ he said. ‘What must I say to reassure you, Captain Comstock? I am a businessman, and well regarded hereabouts …’ (There was no one to grunt agreement.) ‘I am a son of Hector Smith & Sons. We have markets for our soaps in Boston, New Orleans and Philadelphia. I have no grudge against America. I have my errands here as well, in Wherrytown. Speak if you will to Walter Howells, who is our agent in these parts, and is acquainted with my standing. And should you doubt it that my errands here are innocent then you should talk with your own man, Ralph Parkiss. We were companions on the coast today and we have had no dealings with an African. I do not broadcast any views on slavery. I have no interest in your man. I did not put him out of doors, nor make the fellow cold. I did not pull the bolt for him. He is your loss, not mine. My loss is this. My sheets are stripped. My clothes and bag have disappeared. My books are seized …’ He paused for breath.
Comstock’s hands were at his side as well. He looked uncertain and diminished. There wouldn’t be a beating after all. Aymer was — almost — believed. Perhaps he wasn’t guilty of anything but hot air and timidity and tears. This much was obvious to everyone: he hadn’t fled on the Tar with Otto and the dog as they’d all presumed. Here was the living — quaking — evidence of that. Here was the little dog. They had misjudged the man.
‘You struck me, sir, in full view of all these witnesses,’ said Aymer. He rubbed his face, and checked his hand for blood. ‘I cannot think what recompense can settle this. Apologies are not enough.’
‘Shake hands, the two of you,’ suggested Alice Yapp. ‘Then sleep on it. There’s no use nursing it.’
‘I am too bruised about my ears to sleep. I hope no lasting damage has been done.’
‘Well now, maybe we ought to sleep on it, like Mrs Yapp suggests,’ the captain said. He blew out cloudy air. He felt he’d made a fool of himself. The Wherrytowners would think he was a hot-head and a bully. They would not mistake that for captaincy. The crew had seen him weaken when they had hoped for bruises and broken bones. ‘Well now,’ he said again.
Mrs Yapp stepped between the two men. ‘Let’s see the pair of you shake hands,’ she said again. She was getting cold. ‘We have been hasty, Mr Smith. You’ll not be blaming the captain, I’m sure.’ She took him by the wrist and held his arm up. She dug the captain in the ribs until he put his hand out too and said, so softly that his men couldn’t hear, ‘Then, I am mistaken maybe, Mr Smith. I see I might regret my hastiness …’
‘And your bad temper,’ prompted Mrs Yapp.
‘I think I am man enough not to hold grudges,’ Aymer replied. ‘Let this be but an episode.’ The captain took his hand, and stopped it shaking. How pleasant it would be to crack some finger bones.
Many of the Wherrytowners hadn’t known that Otto had escaped, and now they were both angry and alarmed. They didn’t want an African at large, amongst their fields and flocks and families. What kind of man was he, they asked. Could he do any harm? What kind of flesh might he hunt for? What magic did he know? Would it be wise to send for soldiers, or could they hope the cold and snow had finished him, just like the captain said? Comstock was too angry and too thwarted to say much. He wanted just the privacy of Alice Yapp in bed. She held his arm again and they set off for the inn. But one or two of the Americans were quick to tease the Wherrytowners with tales of Otto’s superhuman strength, his tiger temper and his monstrous appetite: ‘I’ve seen him chewing leather boots.’
‘And he likes human hams!’
‘Flesh pudding.’
‘Finger pie.’
And then another added, ‘Make sure your daughters don’t give birth to Africans.’
Aymer volunteered his expertise. He was recovered now, or, at least, he had stopped shaking and could pretend that Captain Comstock’s odd outburst had caused him no embarrassment. ‘The Africans are a noble race of men,’ he said. Unlike Americans. ‘They have their grievous faults, of course, and high qualities as well, much as the rest of us who are not Africans … There are as many saints and thieves in Africa as there are here …’ He looked directly at the mate. And then he had an inspiration, one which should have been suppressed but which, if voiced, would clear his name, he hoped. Where was the harm in it? He called out to the captain’s back, his voice a little sharper than he’d meant: ‘Perhaps — and now this history becomes more clear to me — your African has stolen my affairs … my clothes, my few possessions. My sheets!’ Everybody turned to hear. ‘… At least the man finds warmth in them wherever he might be … There is a staircase from the courtyard of the inn. It leads directly to my room. The coincidences of our two losses at one time cannot be dismissed. We can presume your African is well equipped against the night. If he were not, I think he would have crept back humbly to his lodging at the inn. No, he will have found himself some little snug, an outhouse or a stable. He has my carriage rug. Some decent clothes. A set of sheets. And soap to wash himself, fit for the aristocracy.’