The Sacred River by Wendy Wallace

Author:Wendy Wallace
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

THIRTY-THREE

The crew had cleared the luncheon table and the three passengers were lingering over coffee, Eyre smoking a cigar and Effie Simpson retelling the story of their wedding day while Jim nodded in confirmation. It was past the heat of the day and the breeze off the water was cool. Mrs. Simpson interrupted her reminiscing to complain of a chill and her husband went below to the cabin to retrieve her wrap.

Eyre, prompted in equal measure by the sound of a disturbance up ahead and by a desire to avoid being alone with Mrs. Simpson, rose and went to the edge of the deck. The river was in a meander and the bank on the left side loomed high overhead, a cliff of dried black mud. Heading toward them at a clip from around the bend, propelled by the water’s fast flow, was a rusty hulk, lying low in the water.

Eyre’s first impression was not of the likelihood of imminent collision, although the captain of their dahabeah was heaving on the rudder, shouting at the crew. Eyre was transfixed by the cargo of the craft that was heading straight at them. It was loaded, not with cotton bales or sugarcane but with men. Hundreds of them, packed like sheep, on an unshaded deck. There wasn’t sufficient space to allow a single one of them to lie down or even to sit. The babel that rose from the wretches on seeing the dahabeah—the screams and cries and invocations to Allah—was deafening.

Clad in the ragged robes of peasant farmers, most of the men had their wrists bound. The few free men held in their hands long whips, the korbaj, or scourge of hippopotamus hide, that was offered for sale on occasion to tourists. As the shouts and beseeching cries increased in volume, the overseers began setting about the captives, lashing them across the heads and faces and backs, cursing them as sons of dogs. Profanities were the one part of the Arabic language that it had amused Eyre to pick up.

“Christ,” said Jim Simpson, standing beside Eyre, holding a lace mantilla in his large hands. “Bloody thing’s going to run into us.”

Moments later, a juddering shock ran through the timbers of the boat, sending the coffee cups skidding off the table and prompting screams from Effie Simpson. Irritated, Eyre tossed the end of his cigar into the water. The collision could mean only two things: delay and further expense.

The captain, Rais Mohammed, sprang into action, pushing the two vessels apart with his bare hands, inspecting the damage to the dahabeah, and issuing orders to the crew. His commands went unheeded. The sailors were in shouted conversation with the unfortunates on the hulk, who were still being belabored by the whips of their captors. One man had fallen overboard and was thrashing about in the water, his hands bound. His head sank and rose and sank again.

Eyre turned away.

“Can’t we get going, Rais?”

“In good time,” said the captain. “These poor fellows are sending messages to their families, with the men.

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