It wasn’t long before George returned with Mr Phipps. The preacher first examined Aymer’s shoulder in the courtyard, asking him to hold his arm above his head and then to exercise his fingers.
‘The bone is bruised,’ he said. ‘I cannot find a fracture, but your shoulder is inflamed. You should rest the arm. It would be wise to strap it to your chest. Sleep on your side. Are you in pain? Then purchase laudanum, and ask Mrs Yapp to prepare a poultice of witch hazel and cicely. That will thin the bruise, with God’s good offices.’
‘Is there an apothecary where I can purchase laudanum?’
‘No, there is not. You see the kind of town we are. But Walter Howells who is a trader here has some supplies. Our Mr Howells has some of everything, excepting virtue. Now let me see this other injured man.’
They brought a lantern from the stable and hung it from a rafter in the tackle room. The preacher didn’t speak. Nor did he touch the patient. He peered into his face and examined the damage to his forehead and eye. He looked for several seconds at the weeping ankle.
‘My knowledge does not stretch to Africans,’ he said. ‘I do not know their constitutions. I would not wish to interfere. More harm will come of that than good. Our remedies are not for him. A medicine that makes us well might make him feverish.’
‘You cannot tend his wounds?’
‘I cannot stand between this man and God.’
‘You will not save him, then?’ Aymer was perplexed.
‘I can and will if there is water left inside that jug. For water is the Almighty’s medicine. The greatest service I can render this man or any man is baptism, the wet cross on the forehead. If he devoutly wishes it.’
‘He cannot understand a word you say.’
‘Then he is an Innocent and we should pray for him. That is the balm and poultice I prescribe. His wounds will heal in God’s good time.’
‘Or he will die.’
‘We all will die in God’s good time, but not, I think, of bruises. The man will be mending by tomorrow. It will be the Sabbath. Come to my chapel for evensong and we can offer prayers for him. You are baptized yourself, I trust?’
‘I am a Sceptic, Mr Phipps.’
‘Then we shall pray for you as well.’
Aymer would make do without the laudanum. He didn’t want to trade with Walter Howells. The pain didn’t merit it. But he persuaded Mrs Yapp to make a warm compress and find the linen for a sling. He walked down to the quay in search of the Norrises and to deliver a newly written letter for his brother, Matthias. If he encountered Walter Howells then it could do no harm to have his arm strapped up. It made him unassailable, he felt, and just a little dignified. The Tar was being loaded with its homeward cargo: fresh and salted fish. Its decks were being scrubbed in preparation for the passengers. Aymer would not be aboard. He had decided he would stay in Wherrytown.
My dear Matthias, he had written,
I am arrived in Wherrytown and have sustained an injury at sea during the worst of storms. I am not well enough to travel yet and so I must remain amongst the kelpers here. Already I have seen our agent, Mr Howells, face to face, and we are making progress with the bad news that I bear, though he is not a man of feeling or of judgement. My lodging is tolerable though I must share with sailors. They are Americans, wrecked in the same storm that injured me. Amongst their cargo was an African, a slave. I know you think it is my duty to be at your, my brother’s, side at Smith & Sons, but I would claim a greater duty to a greater Brotherhood. I think it is my task and obligation to serve the sacred cause of Negro emancipation by visiting upon this man the benefits that Mr Wilberforce has brought about in our own land but which, alas, do not yet flourish in America. Despite my deprivations I am convinced of the propriety and fortuity of my coming here. It may be that Smith & Sons are obliged to break the kelping contract with their friends, but I can make amends on both of our behalves by offering the Freedom of this land to a man whose prospects have been nothing more than Slavery and Chains. Do not concern yourself for my well-being.
Aymer gave this second letter to the Tar’s mate. He waited on the quay for the return of his first, but the mate could find no trace of it. What would it matter if both were delivered to Matthias? Aymer had, after all, relished the final line of the original letter and didn’t wish his brother to be spared. He was invigorated, flushed with his philanthropy and a touch in love. His cheeks were pink with wind and optimism. He would be admirable. He would excel.
At last, he saw the Norrises returning from their walk, arm in arm, along the front. He waved with his free arm and almost ran to meet them with the news that they could share his room and were invited to share his table, too. Katie’s sandy hair was a flapping flag of colour on the sea.
4. Aymer’s Duty
MRS YAPP had baked squab pies, with horse bread and potatoes. Winter cooking.
‘What’s squab?’ asked Captain Comstock. He’d come to collect food for Whip and Otto, but had stayed for warm brandy and kitchen comforts. ‘Fish, fowl or fur?’
‘That depends,’ said George, ‘on what the cook’s got spare.’
‘And what is spare today?’
George prodded the meat off-cuts and bones on the kitchen block, the hardened autopsist. ‘It might be cormorant,’ he said. ‘It could be cat.’ He put his nose into the meat. ‘It in’t fish. And that’s a blessing and a rare thing in this town, to eat a pie that has no fish.’
‘At least we know what it’s not,’ said Comstock.
Mrs Yapp took a handful of grey feathers from the waste, and showed them to the captain. ‘This squab is pigeon,’ she said. ‘There’s apple, bacon, onions, mutton, pigeon. Makes it nice.’ She made a well in the crusts of three pies and broke a raw egg into each. Then she poured in beer. The gravy of the pies steamed like chimneys on a pastry thatch.
‘That’s to still the squabs,’ George said. ‘They’ll be too drunk to fly.’
Comstock sniffed the steam. He couldn’t wait to eat. He’d lived too long on pickles, salted meat and biscuit on the Belle. ‘My dog’d love a bowl of that,’ he said.
‘Your dog? I’ll not bake pies for dogs.’ She gave the captain two chipped bowls. ‘There’s scraps and gravy for the little dog. And bread and pilchards for the black fellow. Will he drink beer?’
‘Best not. His temper’s unpredictable.’
Comstock found his way by lantern light into the upper lane and down the open and bladdery alleyway into the courtyard. He called for Whip and took her and Otto’s food into the tackle room. He felt embarrassed, waiting on the man who had been the Belle’s galley boy. The two men didn’t speak. Comstock satisfied himself that Otto had recovered from the storm and from the tumbles he had taken. The ankle was mending. He seemed both calm and comfortable. That was a blessing. The last thing that the captain needed, on top of all his other woes, was a riotous and ailing slave. The tackle room would be a decent billet — and a kennel — for a night. Tomorrow was the Sabbath. Captain Comstock would see if there were warmer quarters for Otto, inside the inn perhaps — but he suspected that the Wherrytowners would not welcome an African beneath their eaves. They’d stared and pointed at the man as if he were a creature at a fair. A slave was worthy of more respect than that, so long as he was biddable, and free of vices and diseases. Perhaps it would be for the best if Otto were kept out of sight in the tackle room, away from local eyes and fingers. Matters would improve, he hoped, and Otto could enjoy more latitude once Wherrytown was used to him. So long as he was supervised, his muscle would be useful in the restoration of the Belle. Comstock watched his man and dog eat for a while and then he shut the bolts on them, though Whip could get out if she wanted to. There was a cat hole in the door, and Whip was hardly larger than a cat. He hurried back to squabs and Alice Yapp. He had an appetite for both.