Part One

One

 

 

It was already hot, with the breath-catching closeness of an oven, as the rays of the sun – still far from its summit in the brassy sky – rebounded off the surrounding mountains with a violence that was almost physical. In spite of the early hour, Freetown wore a jaded mid-day look, dusty and drained of energy, and as the sun flared higher over the hills, the heat began to radiate even from the old grey walls near the river and the port seemed to huddle under the slopes like a shabby old beggar.

It rose, white and brown and gaudy green, up from the Portuguese Steps to Tower Hill; from Clyne Town to Kongo Town; from the Mohammedan quarter beyond Kissy and past the stained green statue of William Wilberforce; past the Law Courts and the Cathedral; through the flat, unshaded façades of seedy bars and cloth shops, that mass of cast-iron balconies and tin roofs from a dead era; and up the slopes of the hill where the bungalows of the Creoles and Whites stood among the trees. Farther to the east and west among the palms were the unpainted boxwood houses that abutted, dry and sun-drenched, on the town centre; and beyond them the mud and beaten-tin dwellings of the poor with their rusting roofs and their air of old junk.

Jimmy Agnew, approaching the wharf between the glaring whitewashed buildings, led by a small boy in a pair of torn shorts through which his shining black bottom showed, felt as though he were being slowly fried. There was no air and no shade and the streets appeared to sizzle in the sun.

He mopped his face, half stifled, and told himself cheerfully he’d soon get used to it. ‘Those who enjoy a sunny hot summer in England will probably enjoy the tropics,’ the Colonial Office pamphlet had informed him enthusiastically when he had taken the job, but there was nothing in England he could ever remember like this breathless West African heat which had caused him to toss on his bed throughout the night feeling like a herring on a griddle. Even now, he could feel the sweat trickling down his spine and legs and the dampness of his shirt. He was already beginning to wish he had taken a car to the wharf as he had been advised instead of deciding to walk as a means of seeing the place.

Only a trickle of brightly-hued, chattering people was moving about the streets yet, and the song of the town, that swelling, high-pitched sound of an African crowd, was still only a murmur. A black clerk went past, stiff in a smart starched suit of dazzling drill, and wearing a white topee with a conscious superiority over the lesser men around him – the Hausa trader in a dust-sweeping robe of striped pyjama cloth and a tawdry gold-embroidered smoking cap who was crouched over his calabashes of wares; the labourers with their banjo-voices striding for the waterfront with slapping feet and flying shirt-tails; the farmer with the trussed live pig on his head; the mammies, in chemise-like frocks and bearing baskets of fruit, or paper-stoppered ginger-beer bottles, their heads knotted in gaudy Madras handkerchiefs.

Absorbing the noise and the riot of breathtakingly crude colour, Jimmy stared about him, bemused by the impact of this teeming new land upon his senses, which were still used to the less dramatic environments of England. Its smells, its colours, its vast life, were all of them too rich, too full, to have anything but a hammer-blow effect on a newcomer.

And, at that moment also, he felt a little dazed. The enthralling first glimpse of flying fish which was the indication that he was approaching the Equator wasn’t far behind him; and the roar of the anchor cable as it crashed into the water – the sound of a portcullis clanking down in front of all his former life – still echoed in his ears.

He stared as a busload of Africans chugged by, the bus inevitably overloaded, noisy, old-fashioned and creaking, its passengers chirruping like a lot of excited monkeys. A pair of vultures in the centre of the shimmering road skipped clumsily to one side as the vehicle passed; ugly, bald old ladies in rusty black, their scaly feet stirring the dust in little puffs as they moved.

An African girl, her face bluish with the powder she wore, her dark lips faintly purple under her lipstick, ran past him up the worn steps to a set of offices, and Jimmy was instantly aware of something about her that he had sensed in the whole of Freetown immediately he had passed through the Customs Sheds the previous day – something strong and vital but not yet completely civilised, something that showed in the fatal application of white powder on a coal-black skin, something gaudy and over-coloured – something that was in the too-green lushness of the vegetation and the too-rich redness of the earth…

It was while he was in this absorbed trance that Earnshaw found him.

“Oy! You there! You Agnew?”

Jimmy found himself facing a lean withered man with a face wrinkled like a walnut. He wore oil-stained shorts faded with too much washing and held up by a length of electric light cord, and a battered bush hat with a brim like a switchback which, when he lifted it to scratch his head, disclosed a dusty-looking thatch of iron-grey hair that seemed to have been thrust on end by an electric shock. Grubby stockings wilted over unpolished shoes and he had the hard-bitten look of a stable-lad – a burnt, brown man who belonged not so much to Africa as, with nets and ferrets, to the broad autumn fields of Shropshire.

“That’s right,” Jimmy said, turning towards him. “You Mr Twigg?”

The other’s wily grin showed broken stained teeth. “Not me, old lad,” he said slowly. “Earnshaw’s my name.”

He lit a cigarette with the deliberate air of one who had never done anything impulsive in his life, and stood smoking, obviously in no hurry to depart; and Jimmy, casting round out of the corner of his eye for an escape from the sweltering sun, took advantage of the pause in his progress to slip unobtrusively into a patch of shade under the awning of a shop doorway.

“What did you say your first name was?” Earnshaw was asking.

“I didn’t.” Jimmy’s reply was accompanied by a sheepish grin. “I never do if I can help it. It’s Francis Theodore St John Agnew.”

“Jesus!” Earnshaw looked sharply at him. “Honest?”

“Most people call me Jimmy.”

“I should think so.” Earnshaw regarded him with the bright-eyed interest of a sparrow. “It’s a proper jaw-breaker, isn’t it? I know how you must feel. My name’s Archibald.”

He thrust out a grimy fist to a fellow-sufferer and Jimmy took it, mopping the perspiration from his face with his other hand.

“Twiggy sent me down for you.” Earnshaw held out his packet of cigarettes. “Couldn’t get away from the mine. One of his nigs creating a bit of trouble. He sent his regards and hope you don’t mind. Fag, old lad?”

While Jimmy was lighting the cigarette, Earnshaw turned to the carriers with Jimmy’s baggage. “Okay, mate,” he said out of the corner of his mouth to the nearest of them. “Shove it down here. My blokes’ll take it now.”

Edging farther into his patch of shade from the glare of the sun – Earnshaw seemed able to stand in the full awful blast of it and enjoy it – Jimmy paid for the carriers, and Earnshaw set off again in a flat stride that was almost a strut, like his neighbours wasting no time on anyone else, far ahead of the more polite and less experienced Jimmy who was pausing to apologise to the mammies he jostled. Earnshaw moved with such dexterity through the growing crowd that Jimmy, his eyeballs already itching with the sweat that ran off his forehead, was finding it difficult to keep up with him. They were walking in the centre of the road now with the rest – the narrow sidewalks, cluttered up with salesmen and tailors and fruit vendors, seemed too full already for comfort – and for a minute, as he did a hop, skip and jump to avoid a small black boy on a bicycle, Jimmy almost lost Earnshaw among the noisy African throng with its satellite hordes of dogs and children.

“Hot, isn’t it?” he said, manfully cheerful as he gained ground a little.

“Gets ’otter.”

“Much hotter?”

“Like the ’Obs of ’Ell.”

“Oh!”

Earnshaw’s hurry slackened a little out of sympathy. “We thunk you like to go up by river,” he said as Jimmy caught up with him again. “Give you a treat. Roads is so bloody dusty this time of the year. I seen ’em. And them ferries! Gawd! Gev me the pip years since.” He spoke with a magnificent disregard of past and present tenses, in quick, dancing phrases which were like a poacher’s footfalls. His voice was a low boozy shadow that matched them. “You feel better when you get to Ma-Imi,” he said. “It’s cooler there.”

“I’m not for Ma-Imi,” Jimmy shouted over the heads of the passers-by. “I’m going beyond there to a new mine at Amama. At least according to the letter I got from Twigg – with a chap called Otto or Gotto or something.”

Earnshaw stopped dead, so suddenly that an African labourer following close behind cannoned into him, apologised and passed on without his batting an eyelid in his concentrated stare. He looked at Jimmy for so long without speaking that Jimmy began to feel there was something wrong with his clothes and glanced quickly down at himself.

“Gotto?” Earnshaw said at last. “Gotto? You going to be stuck up in Amama on your own with him? Oh, you poor bastard! You got it cut off the crusty part, old lad. You have, proper.”

 

Earnshaw’s grubby clothes gave him a raffish appearance startlingly contrary to everything Jimmy had expected of a white man in Africa, but they also gave him the air of knowing what he was talking about, so that he seemed horribly prophetic. Suddenly the heat striking out from the whitewashed wall of a cloth shop alongside that was candy-striped with the shadows of a palm-tree’s fronds seemed twice as choking.

“What’s wrong with Gotto?” Jimmy asked.

Earnshaw gave a low cackle of mirthless laughter that sounded like the rattle of dry palm leaves. “What’s wrong with a nail in your shoe?” he asked.

“Sounds a nice chap.”

“Ever broke your leg? Ever rupture yourself?”

“Go on,” Jimmy said. “I’ll buy it. What is wrong with him?”

Earnshaw glanced at him again with a shrewd, shining glance under his eyebrow that made him look like a scruffy old fox. “You not heard about Gotto?” he asked in that shifty drawl of his that was sly and yet oddly boisterous. “No, of course you not. Oh, well, you soon will. He got ever such a jolly nature. You’ll curl up laughing.”

He looked again at Jimmy with a bright black eye that gleamed like a polished raisin under a bushy eyebrow as shocked into stiffness as his hair, and tried to reassure him.

“Nemmind, old lad,” he said. “I hang out at Amama meself. I see you right if you in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Jimmy was beginning to feel unexpected tremors of apprehension. This job he had come out to do had seemed straightforward enough in the advertisement he had read in the Daily Telegraph and through the ordeal of the interview in the London office, but now it seemed to have hidden complications he hadn’t bargained for and he felt vaguely as though he had been lured by a set of false pretences to a climate that was enough in itself to wither all his ambitions without any other difficulties arising from some unknown individual with a flair for confusion.

He looked sideways at Earnshaw. “What sort of trouble?” he asked again, warily this time.

“With Gotto, I mean.” Earnshaw sounded almost casual – as though trouble and Gotto were synonymous.

“I see. And why trouble?”

“It’s usual.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Yah. He’s like that.”

Earnshaw shrugged, as much as to suggest that if Gotto hadn’t driven Jimmy post-haste back to England within a fortnight, there was something wrong with his calculations. Then he blew the cigarette end from his mouth with a popping noise and set off once more at a speed which made Jimmy gasp as they threaded through the growing crowds, paying no heed to the climbing sun which made the roadway a pattern of violent blacks and dazzling whites.

 

At the wharf, quivering and alive in the swift water of a falling tide, an ugly boat wallowed in the sunshine which drew waves of heat up from her iron decks. Beyond her, the river stretched, flat and glittering, to Tasso Island and the opposite shore.

As Earnshaw hailed her, Jimmy was conscious of several black faces turning in his direction, all of them curious, and suddenly his neat khaki seemed indecently new and unmarked.

Earnshaw bent to the starters of the engines as Jimmy’s luggage was lifted aboard. “OK Suri,” he called into the cabin. “Let’s ’ave some music!”

A black face bearing a martyred expression popped up abruptly through the hatchway. “Music, boss? Again, boss?” The words were a plea for mercy.

Earnshaw stared back aggressively. “Yes, again. And why not?”

“Boss,” the African protested in a whine. “Already plenty times today. Plenty plenty times.”

“What about it? Let’s have it plenty plenty more times. I like a bit of good music.”

Suri sighed visibly and disappeared, and a second later the howl of an ancient gramophone roared out.

 

“I yi yi yi yi I like you vairy much,

I yi yi yi yi I theenk you’re grand.”

 

An unrecognisable voice screeched out the almost unrecognisable words as the tune roared across the shining water, as incongruous as a drunk at a funeral in the glowing African forenoon.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Earnshaw said.

“Enchanting.”

“Carmen Mirandy.” Earnshaw, a touch of awe and reverence in his voice, failed to notice the expression on Jimmy’s face. “Only record I got left. Had it years. She musta sang that song hundreds of times up and down these ’ere creeks.”

“She sounds a bit hoarse.”

The sarcasm was lost on Earnshaw. “Oh, that’s where it’s worn,” he pointed out. “Down to the laceholes, it is. But all the rest got bust so this one got used a bit more than normal. Had ’em sent out special, too. Costs money, that does. Knew a barmaid in Swansea useta sing like that. Like a linnet. Honest. Tattoed down both arms and a voice like Vera Lynn. Finished up taking in washing. Gin,” he ended. “Voice went.”

He squinted at the brassy ball climbing over the palm-tufted green of the hills and wiped the sweat off his wrinkled face with the back of his hand. “Jesus,” he commented. “And they call it the Dark Continent!” He glared round at his crew. “OK, you keggy-handed set of bastards, let go them ropes and let’s be off. Jump about a bit.”

The black boys grinned bright betel-mouthed grins and let go the ropes and the boat began to move forward, dodging a heavy sprit-sailed Susu canoe loaded to the gunwales with fruit as it glided into a mooring.

For a while, Earnshaw’s attention was engaged as his boat swung out into the river and turned up-stream away from the port. He threw his weight on to the wheel to swing the vessel round another fruit boat, swore at its helmsman in a stream of oaths whose eloquence matched their picturesqueness, dodged a bumboatman’s canoe, revved the engines fiercely to avoid being swung by the tide on to the anchor cable of a merchant ship, and eventually came back on to his original course, all without turning a hair, while Jimmy watched open-mouthed throughout the manoeuvring. Africa’s rivers seemed as shockingly overcrowded as its streets, he decided.

Earnshaw accepted the compliment of his astonishment with the bland boredom of one who had seen everything – most of it twice – and Jimmy, gagging in the heat that swept up to him in waves from the engines, studied him for a while, trying to make out his official capacity at the Ma-Imi mine.

“You work for the mine, too?” he asked eventually.

“Nah! Not me.” Earnshaw’s contempt was withering. “I work for meself and happy as a parrot on a kitchen table doing it, I am.” He appeared to be impervious to the heat, and indeed his withered frame looked as though all the moisture had long since been dried out of it and he had been left with the dehydrated look of a prune.

“Admiral of the Sierra Leone Navy I am,” he said. “Do all the fetching and carrying up-river. Supplies for Amama. There isn’t no deep-water anchorage, see? Spare parts for Ma-Ima. Petrol and goods for the United Africa Company farther up at Moyamba. I got a fleet o’ wog boats converted to barges and scows and a few of these here powered jobs to tow ’em. Archibald Earnshaw Incorporated. Large as life and twice as nasty. Mayor of Amama. That’s me. Anything you want, just mention my name.”

They moved across the bright, blinding surface of the water, through the steamers and tugs and the crowding canoes carrying fruit down-river to the market at Kru Bay, through the clusters of bumboats still hovering round the ship which had brought Jimmy to Africa the day before, their occupants offering all manner of cheap merchandise as souvenirs, or shouting their willingness to dive for shillings while wearing top-hats, frock-coats or even water-wings.

Earnshaw’s eyes were narrow as he studied Jimmy, whose round pink face, just a little dazed still, wore a look of intense curiosity that made him seem even younger.

“You met Twigg, your boss, yet?” he asked.

“No.” Jimmy grinned. “What’s he like?”

Earnshaw replied with another question. “You play cricket?” he asked.

“No. Why?’

“You soon see.”

 

Henry Twigg, the manager of the Ma-Imi mine, a handsome man, lean and stringy like a faded athlete, met them with a jeep as the boat drew into the landing-stage there.

The sun had reached its summit in the sky by this time and the heat-saturated earth was flinging back the glare. Sirocco waves were coming from the engines in blasts that scorched the face and the cabin roofs were too hot to sit on. The early blueness of the heavens had changed to a shrill metallic glow that was reflected dazzlingly in the unruffled water.

The landing-stage was a bare stretch of broken concrete slabs where small green lizards basked in the sun, disappearing in sudden zigzag flashes like coloured darts of flame as the boat nosed alongside. A grimy, rust-covered coaster with awnings rigged and sagging in the stillness was loading in a hanging cloud of dust below a conveyor that was bleached to the colour of old bones.

Twigg drove them through the dense vegetation to the mine area, talking all the way through the fumes from a faulty exhaust that wafted back in cloying folds, dulling Jimmy’s mind and taking away all thought beyond the desire to get out of the jeep and breathe what would be comparatively fresh air.

“Laid on a party for you tonight,” he was saying. “Might as well enjoy yourself, old boy, before you pass on. Quieter up at Amama where you’re going. No club or welfare up there. Bit of tennis, that’s all.

“Me, I prefer cricket,” he went on almost casually and Earnshaw muttered under his breath from the rear seat.

“Oh, Gawd,” he said. “Hold your hat on. Here it come.”

“You play cricket at all?” Twigg turned to Jimmy with disarming unconcern.

“A little,” Jimmy lied, deciding to be diplomatic in view of Twigg’s obvious enthusiasm and Earnshaw’s shifty muttering.

“Good show. You can organise a team up at Amama and we’ll arrange matches. Earnshaw can transport the teams.”

“Ho, can ’e?” Earnshaw growled almost inaudibly just behind Jimmy’s ear. “Catch ’im doing it.”

“We’ve got a matting wicket here,” Twigg continued gaily through the clouds of dust that came into the jeep at one side and out at the other. “On concrete. Only trouble, there’s a crack at one end and it leaves a bad patch. Damned annoying. Cost me a lot of money, that pitch, and it’ll have to come up in the end, I suppose.”

Jimmy was staring about him, wide-eyed, enjoying the experience of being in Africa. “What sort of top soil is it here?” he inquired.

“Oh, the usual,” Twigg replied casually. “Damn’ dusty. Crumbles too quickly for cricket. Jolly keen on cricket here. Pity you’ve got to go up to Amama tomorrow. Might have found you a game.”

He blew a blast on the jeep’s horn that sent a couple of mammies scuttling for their lives and roared into the residential area of the Ma-Imi mine.

 

The concrete bungalows, like a neat army camp, fronted on to a dusty square, where a group of black boys lazed with the dogs under a cotton tree whose buttressed trunk seemed as antique and immovable as Africa itself. Overhead, the inevitable vultures hung, like jagged rents in the shining sky, and beyond, the forest crept down from the hill where they dug the ironstone. Over the tops of the trees, Jimmy could see the roofs of uglier, more utilitarian buildings which he assumed were the crushing plants, the offices and laboratories, and the head of the railway that ran through the bush to the water’s edge.

He was itching to see more of the mine but it was only after a meal and a sleep and a great many hints that Twigg condescended to conduct him round. He had been showing him photographs of his cricket team, a lot of bored Africans, with, in the centre, Twigg himself holding a bat and wearing a striped blazer, and he looked up, faintly irritated by the interruption.

“The mine?” he said. “Well, yes, I suppose I can show you round. Come on. Might as well go now. Mustn’t be long. Got to be back for the party tonight. Welcome to Africa sort of thing. Help you to get to know everybody.”

He drove furiously away from the bungalow, wiping his moist face with a purple handkerchief as he negotiated the blind bends between the trees, while Jimmy hung on with both hands and began to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

“You’ll be on your own up at Amama,” Twigg said through the dust, which Jimmy had by now added to the heat and the crowds as the major discomforts of Africa. “Except for Gotto. He’s all right,” he went on in a non-committal manner which was hardly a recommendation. “Not exactly a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. Doesn’t play cricket,” he ended, as though this failing placed the absent Gotto beyond the pale. “Doesn’t play any damned game, in fact,” he said with a burst of irritation. “Can’t understand a chap who doesn’t play anything.”

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the river. “He went up today. He’ll show you around. He’s been up before on relief and he knows his way about. It’s dead easy, of course. No overburden. You can nearly scrape up the ironstone with a teaspoon. Opencast, of course, like this. Rich. Damn’ rich. Always had a sneaking regard for the place myself. Nice and quiet.

“Only thing against it is the distance. No telephone, y’see. If there was, you’d always get the wrong number anyway. You always do out here. Between you and me, we’re not making much profit out of Amama. It’s too small and we need a heavier and faster railway, but I want to prove its potentialities. God, this heat!”

His concluding sentence was tacked to the others, almost as though it were more information about the mine.

He halted the jeep to mop his face with the purple handkerchief and, having finished, showed no inclination to start it again. “Of course,” he said, sitting back. “You’ve no crushing plant or anything like that. All you’ve got to do is see that the stuff’s loaded on the old railway and sent down here. We’ll do the rest. Just look after Gotto, that’s all. That’s enough for anybody. I’ll be up in a couple of months to see how you’re getting on.”

He stopped flapping the flies away with his handkerchief to light a pipe, blowing out clouds of blue smoke which hung motionless on the still, dry air. “You’ve no engineer,” he continued between puffs. “Earnshaw sees to anything like that if you need it. If it’s too much for him, we send up from Ma-Imi. And you’ve got Alf Momo. He’s shift boss. African. Very clever. Fine type of chap. Pity he don’t get on with Snotty Gotty.”

Jimmy’s growing apprehension burst out of him at last.

“What’s Gotto like, sir?” he asked.

“He’s all right,” Twigg said again, but, Jimmy noticed, once more without any marked enthusiasm. “Pity Jarvis got malaria and had to be sent home. Still–” he flashed his brilliant smile at Jimmy “–chance to get rid of Gotto, eh, till he goes home. Only a few months now, thank God. I shall miss Jarvis, though. Jolly good cricketer. All these blasted people they send out to me these days are tennis players and it’s a hard job getting the Africans interested. The bastards prefer football.”

“About the mine, sir,” Jimmy prompted feebly as he saw Twigg’s attention wandering again. The red scar on the hillside was not much nearer to them than when they had set off.

“Oh, yes, Amama.” It seemed to require an effort of concentration for Twigg to return to the subject. “A sort of experiment. Any setback would shut the place down immediately. We’re not as big as the Development Company people at Marampa. We can’t afford snags. They only want results in London. Easy money, that’s all. Big returns for no outlay. Still, they have agreed to a new concrete jetty so the lorries can get closer to the conveyor. That’ll be part of your job. There’s a gang of Africans handling it. I know it’s not strictly our line of country but we have to do these things out here. Especially in a place like Amama. It ought to be ready before the rains come.”

He sighed. “That’s the trouble with this coast. The rains. A hundred and fifty inches of it and all in a few weeks. It ruins everything. Farming. Soil. Sport. You get sick of it. Sort of ‘Oh, what the hell!’ It gets under the concrete, y’know.”

“The concrete, sir? Which concrete?”

“The cricket pitch.” Twigg’s eyebrows lifted in surprise – as though Jimmy had not been paying attention. “Have to relay the damn’ thing after every rainy season. Always cock-eyed or something. And the damned rats eat the string off the bat handles. Awful hard to keep going.”

Jimmy was beginning to see himself arriving at Amama with no more foreknowledge of the place than that cricket there was difficult.

“What equipment have you got up there?” he asked.

“Cricket equipment?”

“No. The mine.”

“Oh, the mine. Not much. All the usual. Diggers. Scrapers. A dumper. A few lorries. Euclids, most of them. All old stuff. All we could spare from here. Plenty of labour, though. Wonderful material for a cricket team.”

“You seem keen on cricket, sir.”

“Oh, rather.” To Jimmy’s anxious eyes it seemed that their tour of inspection was over. Twigg had switched off the jeep’s idling engine. “Rather. Cricket breeds gentlemen. Wouldn’t have half the trouble we do out here if they only played more cricket.”

He mopped his face again. “Look, old boy,” he said abruptly. “Let’s head the other way. No need to mess about round the workings. It’s hot and dusty at this time of the year and there’s no sense in sweating more than necessary. I don’t suppose you’re all that keen on seeing them, are you?”

“Well, no, sir.” Jimmy had felt it was his duty to find out something about his work but Twigg didn’t seem concerned. “I just thought I’d like to get to know a bit. That’s all.”

“Plenty of time tomorrow, old boy.”

“Aren’t I going up to Amama tomorrow?”

“Oh, hell, yes! And while you’re at it, you’re taking one Samuel Assissay with you. Bloody agitator–”

“Agitator?”

“Yes. One of these mission-educated Africans who thinks he’s Christ’s brother-in-law. Spouts the Bible and wants the Whites out of Africa.” Twigg waved a hand airily. “Shipping him back to his home village. Comes from up-country somewhere beyond Amama. Earnshaw will take him up with you and drop him there out of my territory. Let someone else worry about him.”

“Is he dangerous?’

“God, no, old man! Just a nuisance, that’s all. Stirs my boys up. More ju-ju than agitator. Too much mission talk in his head. Keep him away from Gotto, for heaven’s sake.”

 

In spite of Twigg’s words, Jimmy’s first sight of Gotto at Amama the following day was disappointing.

As they turned into the creek out of the main stream – with Carmen Mirandy going full blast once more like a fairground steam organ in the cabin – the spit of land with its amphitheatre of trees looked shining and golden in the deep tranquillity of the afternoon and, to Jimmy, sweating on the foredeck as far away from the engines as he could get, disturbingly hot.

A rusting conveyor overhung the glittering brown water – obviously a home-made contraption rigged by the departed Jarvis. It looked as though it needed as many men to keep it standing as were required to see that the ironstone was loaded on to it and into the string of barges below. The landing jetty, a ramshackle affair of grey weathered wood on stilts, as impermanent-looking as the conveyor, with a hut at its shoreward end, looked incapable of holding a dozen people let alone the throng which was gathered on it. There appeared to be no space anywhere for another human being. From one end to the other it was packed with black figures, most of them children. In the middle at the front were two solitary white people, a man and a woman.

Earnshaw peered over the edge of the steering well as they rounded the bend. “Oh, Lor’,” he said. “Swannack’s waiting to give you an ’ero’s welcome. He always does this for strangers.”

“Who’s Swannack? More trouble?”

Earnshaw shifted his fag-end from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. “Nah. Missionary. Bible-basher. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. Yankee, but he’s all right. Don’t get in your hair much. His daughter’s here on a visit. From the look of her photo on her ma’s dresser, she’s no Carmen Mirandy but she got it in all the right places and in the right amount.” He smirked at Jimmy, sly, wily and suggestive. “Company for you, old lad. Company’s a good thing to have here. I got Zaidee.”

“Zaidee?”

“Zaidee Soloman. She’s my girl. She’s a widder. Don’t use her married name, though. Her old man runs the store at Amama. There isn’t no United Africa Company here, see. Indian Joe’s his name – Joseph Soloman. Yusef Suleiman, if you want his real monicker. He’s a Syrian and he’ll be out to do you.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“That’s all right, old lad. Watch him. When it comes to fiddling, he could blind you with science. He’s a right boy. If he wasn’t, there’d be no Zaidee. The Syrians don’t mix much normally. They stick to their own kind.”

“And Zaidee?’

“Her ma had a bit of nig in her somewhere and Zaidee’s butter-colour. One of coffee, two of milk. Heat don’t affect her. Nig blood keeps her cool.” He glanced at Jimmy and went on in his flat whine as the boat approached the jetty. “We been going steady for a bit, y’know. She likes a white bloke. Fancies she’s white herself. Makes her a bit crusty sometimes when she finds she’s not. Mind, I’m not one of these blokes what have a different darkey girl hanging round the place every other night. They’re dead common, they are. All you get outa that lark is a bad reputation and kinks in your spine.”

Earnshaw grinned and scratched his dusty hair. “But you need company, old lad. You get sick of being alone. You got to keep it on the run, you know.”

“I’ll be all right,” Jimmy said defiantly. “I’ve got Gotto.”

Earnshaw gave a bark of laughter and Jimmy frowned. “What’s wrong with this Gotto?” he demanded.

“You see soon enough.”

“Listen,” Jimmy said angrily. “Everybody seems to know this blasted Gotto. What is wrong with him? Has he got two heads or something?”

Earnshaw grinned shiftily. “If it was me coming to work with him,” he said portentously, “I’d call out the perishing Navy.” He glanced shorewards where they could hear a voice counting slowly – “One – two – three–” and he turned towards the cabin.

“OK, Suri,” he called. “Switch off the gramophone. ’Ere it comes.”

Even as Carmen Mirandy was cut explosively short in mid-sentence, fifty young trebles, led by an aggressively high-pitched contralto, came across the water in a wavering hymn, slightly too slow and a little off-key.

“Onward, Christian Soldiers,” came the brassy contralto.

“Marchy nasty war,” came the fifty young trebles.

“Wither Crossy Jesus,

Goin’ Gone befar.”

The hymn followed them as Earnshaw edged in and out of the mud banks, back-tracking on itself as they turned in a big sweep under the towering mangroves that edged the river and finally blaring off in a triumphant serenade as the engines were switched off and Earnshaw signed to his crew to make fast.

“Them Swannacks do it better every time,” he commented heavily. “Nice timing, Rev.,” he shouted to the jetty. “Finish just as we arrive. Proper smashing it was. Solid bar gold.”

“The new guy like it?” The white man on the jetty grinned proudly.

Nudged by Earnshaw, Jimmy nodded hastily. “Jolly good,” he said enthusiastically and Swannack grinned again.

“It’s the one we know best, brother,” he said. “We all like that one. It makes a nice welcome.”

While his wife fussed among the black children, marshalling them into order – “Bryma. Malaki. Into threes. Hurry up there, you, Lamina. Back to the schoolroom” – Swannack climbed down on to the boat. He was a hefty man with black hair growing in tufts all over his face – from his eyebrows and on his cheeks – so that he looked a little like a worn-out old broom.

“Pleased to meet you, son,” he boomed as he shook hands with Jimmy. “Glad to have you join our little flock.”

Mrs Swannack was climbing aboard the boat now, a middle-aged, bony woman with a straight back and a thin mouth, obviously bursting with energy despite the heat that dewed her upper lip and made her hair lank with moisture.

“This him?” she said, staring with bold eyes at Jimmy who felt a little like an exhibit in a sideshow. “Please to meet you, son. You play tennis?”

Swannack flapped a hand in protest. “Give the boy a chance, Mother.”

“Let him answer for himself, Father.” Mrs Swannack’s tones were brisk and authoritative. “He’ll be glad to play tennis before he’s been here very long. Soon get sick of sitting. You play tennis, son? My daughter’s arrived,” she pointed out, as though this were an event of considerable importance – not only to her but to Africa generally. “Father fetched her from the airfield yesterday. Graduated at Morrisonville Academy, Idaho. She’ll want a partner and that Gotto sure is a wet hen. You play tennis, son?”

Her manner was as aggressive as her voice, demanding not only attention, but an immediate answer. Her bright piercing eyes, glowing in the shadow of the bush hat she wore top-dead-centre, were fixed intimidatingly on Jimmy and he said that he did, instantly aware of the aggrieved look that would have appeared on Twigg’s face had he been there.

“That’s good,” Mrs Swannack was saying briskly, obviously having little time for the Christian virtues of patience and resignation. “All I wanted to know. Come to the party tomorrow. After afternoon service. Cup of tea. Home-made wine. A prayer. Meet my daughter.”

Jimmy had begun to think that if Mrs Swannack’s daughter were anything like Mrs Swannack, meeting her might prove a doubtful pleasure. He began to foresee a hard-bitten devil-dodger like her mother with a mouth full of thundering Bible texts and a mind convinced of the sanctity of her mission in life.

Swannack was mildly rebuking his wife.

“Give the boy a chance, Mother,” he was saying again. “Let him land first.”

“While my daughter’s here, I don’t want her to say Africa’s no place for company,” Mrs Swannack retaliated loudly. “We shall need her. Working for the Lord doesn’t bar us from friends. Come on, Father, back to the schoolroom.”

She bustled from the boat, cocking a leg over the rails and climbing from the catamaran to the jetty as easily as if she’d been mounting a staircase in her own home.

Swannack offered Jimmy a cigarette. “You attend church, son?” he asked placidly. “Always pleased to see newcomers at our services. How about tomorrow?”

Jimmy was on the point of finding out Swannack’s religion and, as an excuse, claiming allegiance to a different one, but the ground was cut from under his feet as Swannack went on. “Doesn’t matter whether you’re Baptist, C of E, Methodist, Total Immersionist, Holy Roller or what, son. I cater for ’em all. I cover all denominations, so’s not to miss anybody. Come tomorrow.”

“Father,” Mrs Swannack bawled peremptorily from the end of the jetty. “Back to the schoolroom. Routine, Father, routine.”

Swannack made a moue of disgust which seemed girlish in one of so much bulk. “Women!” he said angrily, and climbed off the boat after his wife.

“Christ!” Earnshaw sighed with relief, and, lifting his hat with its switchback brim, mopped his forehead. “Them Swannacks fair exhaust me. OK, tie ’er up, Suri, you black sinner,” he said. “And don’t go making a muck of it, or I nobble you. By God, I will.”

As they stepped on to the catamaran, a white man came towards them down the jetty and Earnshaw turned quickly back to the boat.

“Oh, Gawd,” he said to Jimmy. “Here it comes. You-too-can-be-the-life-of-the-party hisself. You nip off and have a good laugh with him and I’ll get the boys to bring your luggage up.”

The newcomer was very tall and yellow with mepacrine, and with a large, bony nose like a beak below pale hair and eyes. As he peered forward, he reminded Jimmy for all the world of the herons and cranes they had seen among the mangroves on their trip up the river. His long awkward legs, their skin tinted by the climate, heightened the impression.

“Hallo,” he said in a sharp, high voice without offering his hand. “You’ll be Agnew, I suppose. My name’s Gotto.”