start thinking I must go back to where the child was hid before the crows got to her, the crows and the rats; and, before I gathered my wits, had even stumbled to my feet. I lay down again with my coat pulled over my ears and tears coursing down my cheeks. My thoughts ran to Friday, I could not stop them, it was an effect of the hunger. Had I not been there to restrain him, would he in his hunger have eaten the babe? I told myself I did him wrong to think of him as a cannibal or worse, a devourer of the dead. But Cruso had planted the seed in my mind, and now I could not look on Friday’s lips without calling to mind what meat must once have passed them.
‘I grant without reserve that in such thinking lie the seeds of madness. We cannot shrink in disgust from our neighbour’s touch because his hands, that are clean now, were once dirty. We must cultivate, all of us, a certain ignorance, a certain blindness, or society will not be tolerable. If Friday forswore human flesh during his fifteen years on the island, why should I not believe he had forsworn it forever? And if in his heart of hearts he remained a cannibal, would a warm living woman not make a better meal than the cold stiff corpse of a child? The blood hammered in my ears; the creak of a branch, or a cloud passing across the moon, made me think Friday was upon me; though part of me knew he was the same dull blackfellow as ever, another part, over which I had no mastery, insisted on his bloodlust. So I slept not a wink, till the light paled and I saw Friday dead asleep a few paces away, his horny feet that seemed never to feel the cold sticking out from under his robe.’
‘Though we walk in silence, there is a buzz of words in my head, all addressed to you. In the dark days of Newington I believed you were dead: you had starved in your lodgings and been given a pauper’s burial; you had been hunted down and committed to the Fleet, to perish of misery and neglect. But now a stronger certainty has come over me, which I cannot explain. You are alive and well, and as we march down the Bristol road I talk to you as if you were beside me, my familiar ghost, my companion. Cruso too. There are times when Cruso comes back to me, morose as ever he was in the old days (which I can bear).’
‘Arriving in Marlborough, I found a stationer’s and for half a guinea sold him Pakenham’s
‘The weather remaining fine, Friday and I sleep under hedgerows. For prudence sake we lie low, for we make an irregular couple. “Are you his mistress?” asked an old man of us, as we sat on the church steps yesterday eating our bread. Was it a saucy question? The fellow seemed in earnest. “He is a slave whose master set him free on his deathbed,” I replied — “I accompany him to Bristol, where he will take ship for Africa and his native land.” “So you are returning to Africa,” said the old man, turning to Friday. “He has no speech,” I put in — “He lost his tongue as a child, now he speaks only in gestures. In gestures and actions.” “You will have many stories to tell them in Africa, will you not?” said the old fellow, speaking louder, as we do to deaf people. Friday regarded him emptily, but he would not be deterred. “You have seen many sights, I am sure,” he continued — “great cities, ships as big as castles. You will not be believed when you relate all you have seen.” “He has lost his tongue, there is no language in which he can speak, not even his own,” said I, hoping the fellow would go away. But perhaps he too was deaf. “Are you gipsies then?” said he — “Are you gipsies, you. and he?” For a moment I was lost for words. “He has been a slave, now he is returning to Africa,” I repeated. “Aye,” he said, “but we call them gipsies when they roam about with their dirty faces, men and women all higgledy-piggledy together, looking for mischief.” And he got to his feet and faced me, propped on his stick, as though daring me to gainsay him. “Come, Friday,” I murmured, and we left the square.
‘I am amused now to think of this skirmish, but then I was shaken. Living like a mole in your house has quite taken away my nut-brown island hue; but it is true, on the road I have barely washed, feeling none the worse for it. I remember a shipload of gipsies, dark and mistrustful folk, cast out of Galicia in Spain, stepping ashore in Bahia on to a strange continent. Twice have Friday and I been called gipsies. What is a gipsy? What is a highwayman? Words seem to have new meanings here in the west country. Am I become a gipsy unknown to myself?’
‘Yesterday we arrived in Bristol and made directly for the docks, which Friday showed every sign of recognizing. There I stopped every seaman who passed, asking whether he knew of a ship sailing for Africa or the East. At last we were directed toward an Indiaman standing out on the road, due to sail for Trincomalee and the spice islands. By great good fortune a lighter just then berthed that had been conveying stores to it, and the first mate stepped ashore. Asking his pardon for our travel-stained appearance, assuring him we were not gipsies, I presented Friday as a former slave from the Americas, happily now free, who wished to make his way home to Africa. Regrettably, I went on, Friday was master of neither English nor any other language, having lost his tongue to the slave-catchers. But he was diligent and obedient and asked for no more than to work his passage to Africa as a deck-hand.
‘At this the mate smiled. “Africa is a great place, madam, greater than I can tell you,” he said. “Does your man know where he wishes to be set down? He may be put ashore in Africa and still be farther from his home than from here to Muscovy.”
‘I shrugged off his question. “When the time comes I am convinced he will know,” I said — “Our feeling for home is never lost. Will you take him or no?” “Has he ever sailed before?” asked the mate. “He has sailed and been shipwrecked too,” I replied — “He is a mariner of long standing.”
‘So the mate consented to take us to the master of the Indiaman. We followed him to a coffee-house, where the master sat huddled with two merchants. After a long wait we were presented to him. Again I related the story of Friday and his desire to return to Africa. “Have you been to Africa, madam?” asked the captain. “No, sir, I have not,” I replied, “but that is neither here nor there.” “And you will not be accompanying your man?” “I will not.” “Then let me tell you,” said he: “One half of Africa is· desert and the rest a stinking fever-ridden forest. Your black fellow would be better off in England. Nevertheless, if, he is set on it, I will take him.” At which my heart leapt. “Have you his papers of manumission?” he asked. I motioned to Friday (who had stood like a stick through these exchanges, understanding nothing) that I wished to open the bag about his neck, and showed the captain the paper signed in Cruso’s name, which seemed to please him. “Very well,” said he, pocketing the paper, “we will put your man ashore wherever in Africa he instructs us. But now you must say your farewells: we sail in the morning.”
‘Whether it was the captain’s manner or whether the glance I caught passing between him and the mate I cannot say, but suddenly I knew all was not as it seemed to be. “The paper is Friday’s,” I said, holding out my hand to receive it — “It is his only proof that he is a free man.” And when the captain had returned the paper to me, I added: “Friday cannot come aboard now, for he has belongings to fetch from our rooms in the city.” By which they guessed I had seen through their scheme (which was to sell Friday into slavery a second time): the captain shrugged his shoulders and turned his back to me, and that was the end of that.
‘So the castle I had built in the air, namely that Friday should sail for Africa and I return to London my own mistress at last, came tumbling about my ears. Where a ship’s-master was honest, I discovered, he would not accept so unpromising a deck-hand as Friday. Only the more unscrupulous — of whom I met a host in the days that followed — pretended to welcome us,· seeing me, no doubt, as an easy dupe and Friday as their God-sent prey. One of these claimed to be sailing for Calicut, making port at the Cape of Good Hope on the way, where he promised to set Friday ashore; while his true destination, as I learned from the wharfmaster, was Jamaica.
‘Was I too suspicious? All I know is, I would not sleep easy tonight if Friday were on the high seas destined a second time, all unwittingly, for the plantations. A woman may bear a child she does not want, and rear it without loving it, yet be ready to defend it with her life. Thus it has become, in a manner of speaking, between Friday and myself. I do not love him, but he is mine. That is why he remains in England. That is why he is here.’
III
