Respectable Trade Read online

  Of the Load of five hundred and seventy-three, I have lost only ten by them drowning themselves, and in a long voyage with most of them Unchained you will know that Shows my care. One of them managed to Pierce a vein in her Arm by hammering her spoon flat and Stabbing until she was through the skin, and I lost near a dozen this way, who Learned the trick and Bled to death during the Nights, and another Twenty whose cuts oozed and turned Black and thus poisoned themselves. Twenty-two of them Starved themselves to death and Vomited up when we got the brace on them and forced Slabber down their throats, and could not be saved, and near a Dozen are being fed by force now. Four made a party to Hang themselves and made their own Rope for the purpose from their clothes. In the haste of Loading, according to your Orders, some were taken on with the Flux, and it is spreading to the others. Thirty have already died from the illness, and Four of my crewmen whom I sorely miss. Four babies have died in their Mothers’ arms, but we do not know Why.

  Altogether, then, we have near five hundred for sale, and we will start preparing them for inspection and auction next Month. Nearly a hundred look poorly. Some are Old with drooping breasts and others sick. But we will Bung up the ones with the Flux, and Bootblack those with sores. Trust me—I will be rid of them.

  The ones I cannot Clear I will sell in a Scramble, and any I cannot be rid of I Will Drown on my way to Jamaica.

  I will buy as much Top-grade sugar as I can conveniently obtain and Load and make all Speed home. I hope this meets with your Satisfaction, Sir. For my own Pride, I regret the loss of so Many, but that was a Risk we ran, as you yourself acknowledged at the Time. The profit will no doubt console Us both.

  I remain your obdt. servant,

  Stephen Smedley

  (Capt).

  Josiah read the letter from Captain Smedley in the back parlor, which Frances had furnished as an office for him. He read it through once again, and then he drew a sheet of paper toward him. He estimated that there would be about four hundred and fifty slaves who could pass as fit once Captain Smedley had finished painting their sores and blocking their anuses. They could be sold for a total of about twenty-two thousand pounds. A scramble—when greedy or poor planters paid an entrance fee at the gangway and were allowed down into the hold to take potluck in the dark, grabbing as many slaves as they could and only finding if they had sick or even dying workers when they dragged them out into the daylight—would earn no more than a couple of hundred pounds.

  Once Rose docked and Josiah shared the profits with his partners, he should be left with little more than ten thousand pounds. He nodded. He had overcalculated the amounts as a man always does, speaking grandly to Sarah of profits of fourteen thousand pounds. But even this would clear all his debts and leave him with a profit greater than Cole and Sons had ever shown before.

  More slaves had died than he would have believed possible, and there were more sick and unsellable slaves than Cole and Sons usually carried. Never before had a captain written in a matter-of-fact tone about dumping sick women and children over the side. Josiah shrugged. He would come out of the venture with enough profit to settle all his debts and still show a handsome margin.

  He went to the fireplace, where coal and kindling were laid. He took a tinderbox to the incriminating letter, carefully lit the corner, and sat back on his heels to watch it flame up and then crumple to ash. The letter had taken two months to reach him. He might confidently predict that the sale of slaves had now gone through and Rose was even now on the seas, headed for home, rich with sugar in her hold and bullion locked safe in the captain’s cabin. On this leg of the voyage, she was insured, overinsured. Josiah’s gamble—overloaded slaves smuggled to the Spanish colonies—had paid off.

  “Two more months and I am clear,” he said softly to himself. “Two more months and it will be November, and she will be home laden with gold and sugar.”

  He went back to his desk and looked at his other letters. One was addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand. He opened it and read, then reread, the letter.

  It was a summons to appear before the Bristol magistrates. He had been summonsed by the Merchant Venturers’ Company for failing to comply with the terms of their lease—namely, to provide water from the famous healing spa the Hot Well for the needy poor of Bristol.

  For a moment Josiah was too stunned to take in the meaning, and then he felt himself gripped by a rage so total that he could not see the letter in his hand, nor the desk, nor the window before him overlooking the little backyard where Kbara was slowly sweeping.

  “My God,” he said. He was almost awed by the passion that shook him. “My God.”

  He could not think why they should persecute him for the little tap, why they, who had grown rich on the sweat of the Bristol poor and on the blood of the slaves of Africa, should suddenly suffer a crisis of conscience about one little tap. He had heard Stephen Waring’s warning, but he had never dreamed that the Merchant Venturers’ Company—his own club, his own newfound friends—would take action against him.

  He rose from his chair—he almost staggered—and, clasping the letter to his chest, went to find Frances.

  She was seated in the ornate parlor, with some sewing in her hands. She put it down as soon as she saw his face. “Josiah?”

  “Read this,” he said, and thrust the letter at her.

  He watched her face as she read it through, and read it through again. He saw her grow suddenly wary, as if she had found something to fear.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked her. “Waring warned me, but I had no idea they would go so far. Why should they take me to court for such a trifle?”

  Frances frowned. “Did he warn you that they would take you to court?”

  “No! I would not have believed it if he had! He told me only that he had heard that the company wanted the tap open. I had no idea. . . .” Josiah trailed off. “I would have opened it if they had insisted. But why should they insist? Why should they want to spoil the spa with sickly paupers hanging around and collecting water in buckets? Why should they want beggars at the Hot Well?”

  Frances shook her head. “I don’t know. It makes no sense. I thought their whole idea was that it should be elegant and exclusive.” She thought for a moment. “When is the hearing?”

  “Next week.”

  “Can you open the tap before then? Prevent this case getting to court?”

  “I should think so. It is only bolted off. But I don’t see why I should! Why should anyone ask it of me?”

  “Do you have a lawyer, Josiah?”

  He shook his head miserably. “I have never needed one before,” he said. “All my dealings, all my father’s dealings, were done on a handshake. You can ask anyone; when I give my word, that is as good as a bond. I have never used a lawyer. I have always thought them more trouble and expense than they were worth.”

  “I think we need a lawyer now,” Frances decided. “There is something happening here, and we need a friend who can tell us what is going on.” She opened the summons again. “Who is the presiding magistrate? Mr. John Shore?”

  “That is Stephen Waring’s brother-in-law,” Josiah said. “And his partner.”

  Frances’s face was grave. “I think we need a lawyer.”

  THE LAWYER’S ADVICE WAS simple. Even Josiah conceded that he had given value for money. The tap was to be opened at prearranged times every day, and only then could the needy of Bristol disturb the gentility of the spa by queuing for their water. There was no fine to pay, and aside from the lawyer’s fee there were no costs incurred. Josiah went before the magistrate, John Shore, who nodded pleasantly to him from the bench, while Josiah explained that there had been an oversight and that all was remedied now. It turned out to be a simple little matter.

  Josiah would have kept it from Sarah if he could, but the week after the court hearing she read of it in the newspaper. A journalist made a great to-do over it, writing as if a moral victory had been won over the grasping new tenant of the Hot Well. It ap