Lord of Darkness by Robert Silverberg
Whilst I was in São Paulo de Loanda waiting, a Dutchman named Janszoon that was trading there said to me that there was another Englishman in the city, old and ill, living in an inn by the waterfront. The news that a countryman was here did buoy my spirits greatly, for that I had not seen anyone of mine own race in twenty years, since Thomas Torner had made his escape from Angola. Indeed, I did have some wild notion that this old Englishman might even be Torner, who perhaps had been wandering all this while on paths similar to mine, and in the end had been beached upon the same place. So I went me to the inn, and said to the Portugal that was the keeper, “Do you have an English lying here?”
“That I do, but he is a foul wretch, and most surly.”
“I would see him, even so.”
“You will only catch a plague of him.”
“And if I do, then I will die aiding a countryman, which is not a scurvy thing to do.”
The innkeeper shrugged, as if to say it was on my own head whatever happened, and took me to an upstairs room, dark and stale, and called inside, saying, “You have a guest, fellow!”
Out of the darkness came a bitter grumbling muttering noise, and no more.
I went in. So sure was I that this was Torner that my mind was filling already with the tales to tell him, of all my travels and pains and wives and the like, one story tumbling over another in a wild hasty scramble in my head, and which was I to tell him first?
But the man in the room was not Thomas Torner.
He was a small pasty-faced shrunken withered man, with a round bald head and a stringy thin beard, who sat palsied and feeble by the window. When I entered, he looked up at me but did not see me, for his eyes were pale and sightless, and he sniffed at the air as though he would find me out by smell alone.
I said, and it was not easy to frame English phrases after so long a sojourn here, “They say you are an Englishman.”
“Aye.”
“So am I also, that has been twenty years on this shore.”
To this he said nothing.
I said, “Are you unwell? Can I give you any aid?”
“I would die, but I cannot. My life is over, yet I live on.”
“Never say you would welcome death, until the moment when death is upon you. Come, brother, let us walk about, and seek the fresh air of the shore.”
“Let me be.”
“The breeze will set your blood coursing again, and restore you to life,” said I.
“Let me be. I have no wish to be restored to life.”
“I beg you, brother—”
“Damn you, let me be!” cried he in a screech-owl cry, that had more pain than anger in it. Spittle flecked his face, and he rose part way from his seat, making claws at me, but he could not rise, and trembling he fell back, huddled, shaking. In a very low voice he said, “D’ye see, I am too weak to stand! And yet I am unable to die. Yet death spurns me.”
“I see that,” said I. And my heart went out for him, for that he was a sorrowful mortal man in dire distress, and it was my Christian duty to comfort him. I pulled over a second chair, and sat beside him, and said, “Let me help you in what way I can, for if one Englishman does not help another here, who will do it for us?”
He looked at me less darkly, and some ease came over him.
“Tell me how you came to this place, friend,” said I.
“By the Portugals,” he replied, “who had me a slave in their galleys five years, and whipped me once until I could no longer walk aright, and then afterward my sight went from me; and they had me in São Tomé, but did not want me there, and dumped me down to die.”
“You have suffered much.”
“I am altogether destroyed at their account. But they had reason to injure me, for I once was a privateer captain, and roved King Philip’s seas and took heavy plunder from his ships, until I was taken in my turn.”
“Ah,” I said, “and I was a privateer once also, though precious little plunder fell to my share. What is your home place?”
“Essex,” said he. “I am of the town of Leigh, that is close by the sea. Do you know it, perchance?”
“Aye,” I said.
And a great shiver did run down my spine at what I had heard from him, and I was half stricken by amaze, and my breath came in sudden ragged bursts out of my pounding bosom; for I did peer close, seeking to discern the outlines of his face beneath the changes the years had worked on him, this being a man not so much older than I, from my very town, and I saw that I did know him, though it was almost outside the scope of belief that this man could be—this man—
“My name,” said he, and though he said it in a scratchy whisper it exploded in my ears like the bombard of an hundred cannon, “My name is Abraham Cocke.”
“Ah, so I thought!”
And for an instant I thought me to strike him dead, as many times I had fancied I would do, if ever I met with that man again. But how strike this feeble ancient villain, that was so ruined by time and adversity already?
“You know of me?” he said.
“You are that great captain,” said I, “that sailed out of the Thames in the April of 1589 with two pinnaces bound for the River de la Plata, that were called the May-Morning and the Dolphin.”
He half rose again, and opened his blind eyes wide, though it availed him naught to do it, for he could see me not.
“You know those ships? You recall that voyage? Who are you? In Jesu’s name, who are you, man?”
“I am Andrew Battell.”
“Andrew Battell?” He said the name quietly, curiously, as someone would who had never heard it before. “Battell? That is a name of Leigh, is it not?”
“Thomas James Battell was my father, and my brothers were the mariners Thomas and Henry and John.”
“Ah. I know those names.”
“And the name of Andrew Battell is unknown to you?”
“It rings in my mind, but I do not place it properly.”
“Nay,” said I, “it is so many years, you surely have forgotten. But we fought together against the Armada, on the Margaret and John.”
“Aye. I remember that ship well.”
“And afterward, you were going with the May-Morning and the Dolphin privateering—”
“Aye.”
“And I was of your crew.”
“It is so long ago, good Andrew.”
“Aye, twenty-one years, this April. And we sailed in African waters first, to São Tomé, even, and then westward, a hard voyage, and much loss. D’ye recall, Captain Cocke?”
“Aye, a hard voyage.”
I shivered with the rage I felt, remembering. “And there was an isle called São Sebastiao, beneath the Tropic of Capricorn, where we were sore hungry. And you did choose a party of men to go ashore for gathering food and water.”
“It was so long ago. I cannot recall. There were so many voyages, so many islands.”
“You did choose a band of sailors, and send them to the isle, and then a party of Indians fell upon them. And slew some of us, and some escaped. But we were lost there on that isle, for that our captain had sailed away without making search for us, and I was among those men, Captain Cocke.”
“Ah,” said he, in a voice from the tomb. “Ah, I do think I recall it slightly, now.”
I put my face near to his and most sternly said, “I recall it more than slightly, for it stole all my life from me, to be marooned there. For I came into the hands of the Portugals, and by June of ’90 they had me in Angola as a prisoner, and I have been here ever since.”
“Ah. And you are Andrew Battell, of Leigh?”
“The very man.”
“I thought those mariners were dead, that went to the isle for food and water.”
“And never came near to look for us?”
“But if you were dead, why then should we have risked the lives of the others?”
“And if we were not dead? And if we still lived, Captain Cocke, and were to go on into a life of slavery, because that you
His face was gray, his head was bowed. His body shook as if with tears, but his cheeks were dry.
I said, “I vowed that if ever I found you I would tear you arm from leg, Cocke, for destroying my life.”
“Aye. Then slay me,” said he bleakly.
“You had my life from me. You sent me into monstrous perils and torments.”
“Slay me, then,” said he again. “It was not my intent, leaving you there. I felt sure you were all of you dead. But it was a sin, a most grievous sin, not to have looked. Slay me.”
He was not afraid. He was pleading for my vengeance.
Ah, then! Strike him now?
“I will not,” said I.
“What is that you tell me?”
Darkly I said, “We are old men, and my life has gone its course, and I think the sands are nearly run out for you. What pleasure is it in killing you now? What revenge? Will it give me back my twenty years, Cocke?”
“For Jesu sake, do it!”
“That I will not.” And I said, “Why are you so eager to die?”
To which he said, “Do you not see me. Blind and broken and feeble as a trampled spider? Why should I live? Ah, you hate me so much that you will punish me by letting me live, is that it, Battell? Aye. Aye, I understand that. I took your life from you, and you punish me by giving me mine. But that is cruel of you, most monstrous cruel.”
“I hate you no longer,” said I. “I loathe the deed you did me, but you were only the first of many betrayers, and how can I have room in my heart to hate them all? Nay, Cocke, I feel nothing toward you now, nothing!”
“I am in pain. For Christian mercy’s sake, put me away, and end my suffering.”
“That I will not do,” said I. “Sit here and reflect upon your life, and tremble, and grow old in this room, for aught I care. I sail soon for England. Shall I convey your greetings to friends in Leigh?”
“I know no one…no one…”
He commenced the weeping movement again, and this time tears in faith did come, most copious, a river down his withered cheeks. I rose and departed without taking my leave of him.
“Battell, in Jesu name!” he called after me. “Come back! Give me my despatching!”
I walked swiftly through the dockside streets, my head all in a whirl at seeing him here, and him brought so low, and begging for death. I thought of the words that had passed between us, and my telling him that I hated him no longer. But did I? Nay, my anger had not subsided; but the Cocke I detested was the one of the isle of São Sebastiao, and not this wretched old man. I would gladly have struck dead that other; for this one I felt only sorrow and compassion, that he was a sufferer on the earth like us all, and a sinner, who was in his punishment and would have punishment more, and who showed at least the outer signs of repentance. Methought me that the finest revenge I could have taken upon him was the one I had taken, that is, to leave him alive in his misery and his pain, and not to destroy him, which I think I could have done with the back of my hand, as one destroys a buzzing fly. Now there sat he in his room, knowing that the deliverance of his death had been within ten inches of him and had not been granted him. That must be bitter indeed to him.
And so did I leave him, for another two days. Then did my heart soften to him: even unto Abraham Cocke of the May-Morning and the Dolphin. And I resolved that I would meet evil with good, as the Lord hath enjoined upon us. So I did send one of my Negro boys to the marketplace to obtain a certain poison that the blackamoors do use in the hunting of fishes, by which they cause the stunned creatures to rise to the surface of a pond to be netted. And I told the boy to take the phial of this stuff to the inn, and give it to Cocke, and say to him, “This is of Andrew Battell, for charity’s sake, to speed you on your way.”
I know not if he did use it, but I think he did. For the next day my wanderings took me toward that inn, and I saw a coffin being carried from it, and I asked of the innkeeper, who said, “It is the churlish Englishman, who died in the night most suddenly.”
And so his soul now undergoes purgation for his many misdeeds, even the grievous one that by negligence or malevolence he did upon me; and that account is now closed, between Abraham Cocke and me. I have sometimes said a prayer or two for his repose: even for the repose of that man Cocke.
In my last days at São Paulo de Loanda I did also meet a second person out of prior years, that was also mightily transformed and gave me much surprise. This was as I passed outside the great church of the town, when its bell was tolling, and a dozen black nuns did come forth, all clad in their zevvera-striped habits, and their heads downcast. These holy women went in a file past me and toward their nunnery, all but one, who dropped from the rank and stood hesitating, looking back to me. And I looked to her, but only in a casual way, for I knew no nuns. Yet did she stand, and look, and search my face, and at last she moved closer to me, and said in a soft and gentle voice, “You are Andres, are you not?”
“That I am.”
“And am I a stranger to you?”
I smiled and said, “I know you not, good sister.”
“Ah, I think you know me very well,” said she.
I peered close, and still it was a mystery, she being a woman of middle years with a round hearty face, and bright warm eyes, and a skin that was more of a reddish-brown hue than black. And as I stared upon her, the veil of the years did drop away, and I saw in my mind not a nun, but a girl of perhaps fourteen, bold and naked, with high outrising breasts and strong plump buttocks, and a mark of slavery inside her thigh over against her loins; and I felt shame at that, for it is no noble thing to hold so intimate a vision of a nun. But also I did see that saucy naked girl entwined about my body, and in my memory I heard her gasping sounds of delight, and hot waves of astoundment did surge through my soul.
“Matamba?” I said, with a stammering.
She nodded. “But that is not my name now. It was not ever my name, though I did not mislike it that you called me that, Andres. I am Sister Isabel now, and as Sister Isabel will I die.”
“Ah, this does my heart good, to see you once more!” I cried. “For I searched some long time for you upon my return to this city. But no one knew of you.”
“Nay,” she said, “the Matamba that was your slave is dead, and the Matamba that was used so commonly in the whore-market is dead, and only Sister Isabel lives within this body. Oh, Andres, Andres, how I joy that the Lord has preserved you! Come, take my hand, let us renew our friendship!”
And she did seize both my hands in hers, and squeeze them most firmly, which caused me new shame.
“Is this permitted?” I asked. “You a nun, and all?”
“There is no harm in our touching,” said she. “For we are old friends, and we have no secrets between us. Will you follow me within?”
“Aye.”
I went with her into the church, Roman though it was, for it was cool and dark and empty in there, and we could sit, I no longer being eager to stand about under the hot sun. We took to ourselves a bench and sat facing one another, this nun and I, and her eyes did gleam with pleasure, and her smile was like the clear dawn light.
“I thought you had perished among the Jaqqas,” said she. “For so was the story given about, that you had been taken by them, and slain long ago.”
“It was not so. I gave myself unto them, freely, preferring their company to that of Portugals.”
“Aye, and did you? You dwelled with the Jaqqas, then?”
“And dined beside their king, and mixed my blood with the king’s brother, and did many another strangeness of which I do not care to speak. For these things I know some little guilt.”
She studied my face with care, and said after a time, “God will pardon you for all.”
“So do I entreat Him constantly. And you? This nunning—what led you there?”
“Why, what other harbor was there for me? When you were gone, they would have made me a whore again, and indeed some of
“Aye,” said I. “Your voyage is made, and you are at rest.”
“So it is. I comfort the ill; I console the dying; I make my prayers and do my offices. It is for this that I was put into the world, Andres, though I was a long time finding it. And to you I owe my life.”
“To me, forsooth?”
“Aye,” said she, and took my hand again, warmly, more like a lover than like a nun. “For that you bought me out of slavery, and took me to dwell with you, and showed me how it is that decent Christian men do live their lives. That was my salvation, since otherwise I would have been a slave in America, and very likely long ago worked to death. And then you saved me a second time, when I had been thrown to the whore-market; and you nursed me, and recovered me into my health. I give thanks ever, that you were bestowed upon me by God.”
“And I have given thanks many times for you, Matamba.”
“Sister Isabel, am I now.”
“Pardon. Sister Isabel. But I have been mindful of our love, and the sweetness of it. Is it a blasphemy to think of such things now? Now that you are—”
“Nay,” she said. “It was true, and real. It need not be denied. I gloried in your embrace, Andres.”
“And I in yours.”
“And we had our time, and a fine time it was, and now we have moved on into other worlds, and so be it. What will you do now?”
“Return to England at long last.”
“Ah. When is that?”
“A few days, no more.”
“The Lord go with you, and speed your journey, and give you a happy return.”
“So pray I also, Sister Isabel.”
“You go alone?”
“I have two boys, slaves. I will ask them to accompany me, for I know not what will become of them here, and they are fond of me, and I of them.”
“There was a Portugal woman once—”