Read Online The Lazarus Curse by Tessa Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tessa Harris
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letter deliberated for a moment, then frowned. He rose, consulted with a colleague, and returned to deliver the news. Looking down his nose through spectacles, the official told Thomas that the Elizabeth had been directed to a sufferance wharf.
“This ship is not here, sir,” he informed Thomas, “but downriver. You’ll need to take a ferry.” He clamped a piece of paper into his hand. On it was written the name of the wharf.
The young doctor could not hide his frustration and groaned at the news. This new world of customs and excise was completely foreign to him. Even the language that was spoken on the quayside with its strange vocabulary may as well have been ancient Greek. He would have to reenter the fray and take to the water in search of the Elizabeth.
Steeling himself for the onward journey, Thomas left the Customs House and ventured once more onto the wharf. A lighter had just berthed at the quayside and the gangplank had been lowered. Two seamen were the first to disembark, but instead of walking away from the ship, they stationed themselves on the quay, as if waiting for something. Thomas did not have to watch for long to find out what cargo they had been carrying. From the deck below a Negro man emerged, followed by another and another. He counted about two dozen in all, and three women. The men wore the red coats of the British Army. Some were limping and were supported by their fellows. Others were clearly wounded, their arms in slings or their heads bandaged. The women bundled themselves in thin shawls and looked anxious.
Most of them kept their eyes to the ground, as if they were still wearing the slave yokes from the auctions. They were bloodied and they were bowed. But there was one man who stood prouder than the rest. He was looking about him, taking in the detail of this cold and drab place where he now found himself, and as he looked about him, his eyes latched on to Thomas. Their gazes met fleetingly and it was as if their two worlds came together for a split second and each understood the other, before they were lost in the melee once more.
A crowd had gathered to watch the arrival of these strange visitors. A horse-drawn tumbrel pulled up and the seamen began shepherding them on board. One woman spat at a Negro man as he passed her. Fists were raised, insults hurled. “Monkey men!” shouted a sailor, who proceeded to jabber and swing his arms, much to the amusement of the mob.
Thomas felt his blood course through his veins at the sight. He knew these people to be Black Loyalists. They had fought for King George against his fellow Americans and in return they had been granted their freedom. He felt no animosity toward them. Any man would have done the same. Yet it was clear that although they were no longer in chains, the taunts and jeers of the white men and women who stood on the quayside with their fists raised were as cruel as any plantation overseer with a bullwhip. Thomas suddenly felt a great sorrow wash over his anger. Despite their newfound freedom, he knew their color would enslave these people in England.
In the attic room of the Carfaxes’ villa, the houseboy’s head rolled on the bare ticking. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and his skin was as hot as a branding iron, yet his teeth chattered with the cold. It was Phibbah who found Ebele collapsed on the floor in the hallway. His slave name was Sambo, but she refused to call him that. His mother was an Igbo. His name meant mercy and that is what she prayed her weakling son would be shown when she had handed him over at the plantation to be seasoned. Phibbah dragged him out of sight before the mistress saw him and Cato carried him upstairs to the attic room where the male slaves slept.
There they had removed the ridiculous silk turban he was forced to wear on his head. If anything he should have worn a fine headdress of carved wood and antelope horn, the mark of a brave warrior people, not the costume of the
“This ship is not here, sir,” he informed Thomas, “but downriver. You’ll need to take a ferry.” He clamped a piece of paper into his hand. On it was written the name of the wharf.
The young doctor could not hide his frustration and groaned at the news. This new world of customs and excise was completely foreign to him. Even the language that was spoken on the quayside with its strange vocabulary may as well have been ancient Greek. He would have to reenter the fray and take to the water in search of the Elizabeth.
Steeling himself for the onward journey, Thomas left the Customs House and ventured once more onto the wharf. A lighter had just berthed at the quayside and the gangplank had been lowered. Two seamen were the first to disembark, but instead of walking away from the ship, they stationed themselves on the quay, as if waiting for something. Thomas did not have to watch for long to find out what cargo they had been carrying. From the deck below a Negro man emerged, followed by another and another. He counted about two dozen in all, and three women. The men wore the red coats of the British Army. Some were limping and were supported by their fellows. Others were clearly wounded, their arms in slings or their heads bandaged. The women bundled themselves in thin shawls and looked anxious.
Most of them kept their eyes to the ground, as if they were still wearing the slave yokes from the auctions. They were bloodied and they were bowed. But there was one man who stood prouder than the rest. He was looking about him, taking in the detail of this cold and drab place where he now found himself, and as he looked about him, his eyes latched on to Thomas. Their gazes met fleetingly and it was as if their two worlds came together for a split second and each understood the other, before they were lost in the melee once more.
A crowd had gathered to watch the arrival of these strange visitors. A horse-drawn tumbrel pulled up and the seamen began shepherding them on board. One woman spat at a Negro man as he passed her. Fists were raised, insults hurled. “Monkey men!” shouted a sailor, who proceeded to jabber and swing his arms, much to the amusement of the mob.
Thomas felt his blood course through his veins at the sight. He knew these people to be Black Loyalists. They had fought for King George against his fellow Americans and in return they had been granted their freedom. He felt no animosity toward them. Any man would have done the same. Yet it was clear that although they were no longer in chains, the taunts and jeers of the white men and women who stood on the quayside with their fists raised were as cruel as any plantation overseer with a bullwhip. Thomas suddenly felt a great sorrow wash over his anger. Despite their newfound freedom, he knew their color would enslave these people in England.
In the attic room of the Carfaxes’ villa, the houseboy’s head rolled on the bare ticking. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and his skin was as hot as a branding iron, yet his teeth chattered with the cold. It was Phibbah who found Ebele collapsed on the floor in the hallway. His slave name was Sambo, but she refused to call him that. His mother was an Igbo. His name meant mercy and that is what she prayed her weakling son would be shown when she had handed him over at the plantation to be seasoned. Phibbah dragged him out of sight before the mistress saw him and Cato carried him upstairs to the attic room where the male slaves slept.
There they had removed the ridiculous silk turban he was forced to wear on his head. If anything he should have worn a fine headdress of carved wood and antelope horn, the mark of a brave warrior people, not the costume of the
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