They put Otto in the tackle room beneath the wooden balcony. They covered him in horse blankets woven from rough perpetuanna wool, and made him comfortable on straw. They shut the bolts. ‘It’s best to let him rest,’ Shipmaster Comstock said. The captain had more pressing problems than the African. He had his ship wedged on the bar. He had fifteen sailors and a dog to feed and pacify. There were hard letters to be written: to the owners of the Belle; to the various agents further down the coast who had arranged passages from several ports for emigrants to Montreal; to the Bostonian family of the seaman, Nathaniel Rankin, who had drowned; to the livestock merchants who had shipped the cattle that now were grazing freely at Dry Manston, still a half-day’s voyage short of the Belle’s second destination, and their owners at the port of Fowey. He had to find the means to dislodge his vessel before it broke up on the Monday tides, and dock it in Wherrytown. He had to find the wrights and riggers to carry out repairs. He had to justify himself. Thank God that there were men like Walter Howells. In their brief conversation on the beach, the man had introduced himself as someone who could alleviate the captain’s burden, for some decent recompense. Already he had undertaken to herd the cattle at Dry Manston and find secure grazing for them. And he had promised more.
Comstock and his men were tired. They ate the bread and soup which Mrs Yapp prepared. They longed for sleep. It was midday. Aymer had stood on the bedroom balcony and watched the caravan of men arrive. The Norrises were there below, their passage tickets in their hands, anxious to discover what their travel prospects were. A small, untidy dog with a bearded throat and white hair on its chin and eyebrows ran wildly in the yard, barking at the townspeople as if they were the newcomers and the dog belonged. The horse-drawn cart was stabled with its horses. George began to unload the bed of seaweed and stack it in the inn’s fuel store. Aymer couldn’t see the African. The sailors who carried him into the tackle room obscured the view. At last the sailors followed Mrs Yapp into the inn. The Norrises walked once more down to the quay, and the townspeople returned to their nets and pots and laundry. Now the courtyard was empty except for the dog which was turning horse manure with its nose and eating some.
Aymer came down from the balcony by the wooden stairs. He tried to see inside the tackle room, but the single window had been boarded. There was no sound. Aymer knocked on the door and then drew the bolts. The black man had his back against a saddle and a saddle-cloth. It was too dark to see his face, although the draughty winter light that slanted through the open door displayed the healing rawness of his ankle where the chain had been.
‘Are you sleeping?’ Aymer said. Evidently not. The man’s reply was a fusillade of words. Aymer couldn’t recognize the language but he knew the tone. Here was a man who, had he got the strength, would have taken Aymer by the throat. The shouting brought the dog to Aymer’s heels. She spread her legs and growled into the vociferous darkness of the room.
Aymer put the bolts back in place. He went into the warm breath of the stables where he could hear George at work. ‘Is there a good physician in Wherrytown?’ he asked.
‘There’s not,’ said George. ‘Are you unwell? That shoulder’s giving trouble, is it, sir?’
‘It is, indeed. But I was thinking of that poor man who is locked up.’
‘The African?’
‘He has a wounded leg and should be seen.’
‘There’s no one here to see him, except the horse doctor, but I suppose the fellow won’t want shoeing or getting his tail docked. I hear, though, that those Negro men have tails …’
‘You are a provocation, George. No doubt, in time, I will learn to treat your banter as comedy. But for the moment I would be glad to hear you talking plainly. Tell me, to whom do you resort if you are ill?’
‘I resort to bed and hope that Mrs Yapp will tend to me.’
‘Is Mrs Yapp a healer, then?’
‘No, she in’t.’
‘What must I do to get an answer out of you?’
‘It seems to me you’re getting answers by the score.’
‘But not the one answer that I seek.’
‘What answer do you seek? You say, and I’ll repeat it for you, word for word, so long as it is short.’
‘I do not know the answer that I seek and that is why … Dear Lord, I need someone to treat a wounded man. Is that not plain enough?’
‘It’s plain you want a healer, then. There’s only one, and that is Mr Phipps, the preacher. He pulls the Christian teeth round here, and sets the bones for those that are contrite.’
‘Then kindly fetch him.’
‘I’ve my work to do.’
‘I’ll see to it that you are recompensed.’
‘With something shinier than soap, I hope.’
‘A shilling, George. Produce the healer here at once. Be my man while I am lodging at your Inn-that-has-no-name, and the shilling will be yours. Can I count on you?’
‘You can count on a shilling’s worth.’
Aymer went back to his room to find some gift to pacify the African. He took a cake of soap, but wondered if the man might take offence. And so he added his dry rations, the food he’d brought from home in case the catering in Wherrytown was bad: the great bar of black bread, the Bologna sausage, the chocolate, the anchovy paste. He took, too, the jug of sweetened drinking water from his bedside. He could have called on Mrs Yapp for provisions, but Aymer felt that in some way the African was placed in his safekeeping. Once more he drew the bolts on the tackle room and opened the door. The little dog accompanied him and didn’t bark. There was no fusillade.
‘What is your name?’ asked Aymer. No reply except a sigh. ‘I’ve brought you food to eat.’ He mimed the cramming of his mouth, then put his gifts in the shaft of light on the bricked floor between the man’s good ankle and his bad. There was no hesitation. Otto drank the water from the jug. He ate the sausage and most of the bread. He smelled the soap and anchovy and put them to one side. He smelled the chocolate and rubbed it on his lips before dispatching it. He didn’t mind the dog sniffing at his ankle and then licking the dried blood. He stroked her neck and chin. It seemed they were old friends, the least regarded creatures on the Belle.
‘I’ve sent for a physician. A Man to Make You Well,’ Aymer explained, thinking that emphatic language would be understood. The African stayed in the shadows. He made no sign of gratitude. He turned the dog’s ears in his hand, the double-sided velvet skin. He tugged and stroked the long, dung-crusted hair beneath her chin. At last he seemed to speak. But if this was speech then it was meant for the dog and not for Aymer: ‘Uwip. Uwip. Uwip.’
Aymer didn’t like his philanthropy to be less heeded than a dog. He wanted Otto to himself. So he repeated what he heard, ‘Uwip’. The dog’s ears straightened and her head turned. ‘Uwip, Uwip,’ said Aymer, with more force. The dog came to him and pushed her nose into the crotch of his trousers — expecting what? Some treat perhaps. Again, Otto called to the dog. He didn’t like to lose the animal. ‘Uwip, Uwip.’ The dog returned and for her trouble was rewarded with the anchovy paste.
‘Her name is Whip!’ Aymer said, delighted at his deduction. ‘So now we have a word in common. And I will teach you more. My own name …’ He pointed at his chest. ‘Aymer Smith of Hector Smith & Sons. Can you say Smith? Smith. Sm.Ith. Smi.Th.’ He wasn’t listened to. He had no audience. A cold and wounded man abducted from his home has no appetite for lessons.