Читать книгу Local Customs - Audrey Thomas - Страница 10

I ALMOST DID’T GO TO FORSTER’S THAT NIGHT, for I was still recovering from a bad bout of fever and would have preferred dining alone. However, Matthew Forster was chairman of the Committee and I knew he was counting on my being there. Other members had been invited “and they will be most interested to hear how things are going along out there.” I knew that most of them really didn’t care so long as they made money. The abolition of the slave trade in ’33 had hit them in their purses and they were anxious that other trade goods should be found. Gold, palm oil, ivory from the north: none of these added up to the enormous profits of the slave trade. Of course we on the coast were not supposed to traffic in slaves and I never did, but I was an exception. It is not that I had ever been an active abolitionist, but somehow, putting a price on a human being — of whatever colour — bothered me. I arrived at the end of it, when the writing was on the wall and there was a desperation about the business — get as many niggers as you can before the curtain comes down. It was pretty nasty and some trading still went on, in spite of our patrol boats trying to apprehend the slave ships as they left. Not many were caught; those old captains knew all the bays and coves along the coast like the back of their sunburnt hands.

The drawing-room was full of people by the time I arrived, but Matthew must have been looking out for me, for I was barely in the door before he greeted me, grabbed my arm, and said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Through the crush around her I had a glimpse of dark hair, a tartan ribbon, and a bit of tartan shawl. I assumed this was some long-lost cousin of mine that Matthew had dug up.