into his brain. The first of these is that Easton is a man who defies every authority but his own; the second is that even though one out of his last two guests was decapitated, Easton has emerged from the controversy with the grace and ease of a man who has never sinned. But most of all, more fearsome than all the show of power and the impressive line of cannons below, is the calmness and geniality of the man. When explaining Baxter’s death he soothed them all as though he were a giant playing with babes. Such is the discrepancy of power between captor and captives. He could crush them both in an instant if he wished.
That night George stays in his own cabin. Easton has claimed to have a headache, an intelligence delivered with the gesture of placing a handkerchief to his temple as though he were somebody’s maiden aunt tired from too hectic a social pace.
George now sits upon his bed rather pensively, his heart quickening whenever he hears a footstep nearby in case it be the slave coming with his supper. And at last there is a knock.
“Come!” he says quickly.
The slave enters with a large tray. Her movements are silent and graceful as usual. She does not look at George directly which disappoints him at first. Somehow he had half-believed some intimacy may have developed at breakfast when he secretly witnessed her shyness. He realizes now, as he watches her place the tray on the side table, pick up the wine jug and pour the wine into a goblet, that such an idea was absurd. He cannot expect intimacy by merely observing. The wine makes a pleasing, sloshing sound and George urgently tries to think of something to say. But it is already too late. She gives the merest bow without looking at him and walks to the door.
“Stop!” he cries suddenly.
She turns startled. Her hand remains on the rim of the open door.
“Just a moment, please.”
He wants her to close the door again but doesn’t quite know how to ask. He gives a nervous laugh. The slave merely gazes back at him. Although she is mainly expressionless there is the ghost of a question overcoming her features.
“Please,” he says, standing and motioning her back into the room with what he hopes is an encouraging gesture.
Her large eyes watch him for a moment and then she obeys, closing the door, her fingers sliding along the wood as she does so. She walks a pace or two into the room. George notices her hair properly for the first time. His dreams had tried to recreate it in Rosalind’s free-flowing style. He can see now under the rim of her bonnet that it is of a curious texture he has never seen before—intricately curled and crinkled like blackened moss.
George looks down for a second as though the cabin’s gold-fringed rug might give him a clue as to what he can say. Then he smiles and glances again at the slave’s face. The expression has changed. It is more curious and perhaps a little wary.
“Thank you for bringing my food,” he says. The words catch in his throat with their obvious stupidity. The slave’s frown turns into a bemused smile.
“You’re welcome,” she says. Although he has heard it before, her voice still surprises him with its mellow tone. He is not sure what he was expecting. Perhaps he thought she would sound like the tropics—intemperate and savage. He did hear once that, when they feel threatened, black slaves talk either in crude grunts or in crow-like screeches. This slave’s voice was not only soft; it was almost cultured.
“I hope our words today at breakfast did not offend you,” he says quickly.
The smile disappears.
“Why do you want to talk to me?” She asks but makes no move to leave.
He hesitates, then speaks gently, “You must forgive me. This ship, everything here, is strange to me.”
She surveys him intently for a moment.
“Easton is strange to you?”
George is taken aback by the question, especially the phrasing of it. She calls him plain “Easton,” and she seems willing to talk about
That night George stays in his own cabin. Easton has claimed to have a headache, an intelligence delivered with the gesture of placing a handkerchief to his temple as though he were somebody’s maiden aunt tired from too hectic a social pace.
George now sits upon his bed rather pensively, his heart quickening whenever he hears a footstep nearby in case it be the slave coming with his supper. And at last there is a knock.
“Come!” he says quickly.
The slave enters with a large tray. Her movements are silent and graceful as usual. She does not look at George directly which disappoints him at first. Somehow he had half-believed some intimacy may have developed at breakfast when he secretly witnessed her shyness. He realizes now, as he watches her place the tray on the side table, pick up the wine jug and pour the wine into a goblet, that such an idea was absurd. He cannot expect intimacy by merely observing. The wine makes a pleasing, sloshing sound and George urgently tries to think of something to say. But it is already too late. She gives the merest bow without looking at him and walks to the door.
“Stop!” he cries suddenly.
She turns startled. Her hand remains on the rim of the open door.
“Just a moment, please.”
He wants her to close the door again but doesn’t quite know how to ask. He gives a nervous laugh. The slave merely gazes back at him. Although she is mainly expressionless there is the ghost of a question overcoming her features.
“Please,” he says, standing and motioning her back into the room with what he hopes is an encouraging gesture.
Her large eyes watch him for a moment and then she obeys, closing the door, her fingers sliding along the wood as she does so. She walks a pace or two into the room. George notices her hair properly for the first time. His dreams had tried to recreate it in Rosalind’s free-flowing style. He can see now under the rim of her bonnet that it is of a curious texture he has never seen before—intricately curled and crinkled like blackened moss.
George looks down for a second as though the cabin’s gold-fringed rug might give him a clue as to what he can say. Then he smiles and glances again at the slave’s face. The expression has changed. It is more curious and perhaps a little wary.
“Thank you for bringing my food,” he says. The words catch in his throat with their obvious stupidity. The slave’s frown turns into a bemused smile.
“You’re welcome,” she says. Although he has heard it before, her voice still surprises him with its mellow tone. He is not sure what he was expecting. Perhaps he thought she would sound like the tropics—intemperate and savage. He did hear once that, when they feel threatened, black slaves talk either in crude grunts or in crow-like screeches. This slave’s voice was not only soft; it was almost cultured.
“I hope our words today at breakfast did not offend you,” he says quickly.
The smile disappears.
“Why do you want to talk to me?” She asks but makes no move to leave.
He hesitates, then speaks gently, “You must forgive me. This ship, everything here, is strange to me.”
She surveys him intently for a moment.
“Easton is strange to you?”
George is taken aback by the question, especially the phrasing of it. She calls him plain “Easton,” and she seems willing to talk about
Similar Books
