Secret of the Sands. Sara Sheridan

him. Zena has never prayed. It was not her grandmother’s custom. However, the phrase runs through her head again and again, as if she is pleading with some greater being. Not him.

      A bell is rung though it can hardly be heard over the throng of voices. The man instantly retreats into the crowd. Zena raises her eyes just long enough to see that there are several finely dressed Arabs now turning away, who have looked but not come forward. Perhaps one of those. It occurs to Zena that her grandmother has endowed her with a sense of optimism. Even here and now, she feels optimistic. I will be all right, she tells herself, though she is batting off a cold shadow that is creeping from behind.

      ‘Gentlemen,’ the auctioneer begins. ‘Today, fresh from Abyssinia, we have a selection of the finest. The absolute finest!’

      A scrawny girl is pushed forward into the sun beside the auctioneer’s podium. Her dress is badly torn, exposing the top of her legs. Her shoulders are slumped and one of the guards pokes her to make her stand up straight.

      ‘And for this little one!’ the auctioneer tries to whip up the crowd. ‘She’ll brush up well enough. A price beyond rubies perhaps?’

      Zena heaves in a breath, only glad that all eyes are now on the auctioneer and that momentarily she is not the focus of attention.

      ‘What am I bid? Twenty, sir? No, surely not? Come now. She is a little thin perhaps but is there not more? I beseech you. Ah, thirty. Thank you …’

      And the auction has begun.

       Chapter Eleven

      Lieutenant James Raymond Wellsted has not taken dinner at the captain’s table, but instead he remains on deck as the shimmering, marmalade sun disappears in a blaze into the vivid, blue sea and the stars rise. He has some dates and tack in his pocket and that will do him fine. The night sky in Arabia is breathtaking and little enough in Wellsted’s life has caused him to take in his breath in wonder, so he greatly appreciates the huge, low moon and the clarity of the studded constellations so close to the equator. Especially now, when so many of his fellows have died. Staring at the moon is the closest he allows himself to get to expressing sentiment. The last few days have been grim and Wellsted already misses each victim of the sickness – two of whom he has known for more than ten years for they were midshipmen together. The younger members of the crew have taken to asking his advice of late on matters of navigation and Wellsted has taken his mind and theirs off the death toll by playing the expert and showing them what they need to know to guide the Palinurus towards Suez, where the brig is set to rendezvous with Captain Moresby on the Benares and make an attempt to sound the very northern limit of the map.

      Wellsted wishes he had been stationed aboard Moresby’s vessel. Quite apart from the buckets of vomit and the delirium that has reigned of late aboard the Palinurus, conditions are cramped and that has made the atmosphere worse now that Haines has made known his objections to Wellsted’s manuscript. The captain appears to care more about Wellsted’s scribbles than he does about losing half his officers.

      Thirsty, the lieutenant makes his way to the galley and orders hot coffee. Aboard ship the coffee is not as good as ashore. He has watched the Arabs carefully as they grind the roasted beans and brew them over the campfire with a witch’s pocket of spices, but no matter how exactly he emulates their actions, right down to using a rough mat of palm fibre to strain the liquid of its grains, he never can make his concoction taste as good. Still, James Wellsted prefers even poor ship’s coffee to the liberal dose of alcohol the crew imbibe daily. The lieutenant likes his head to be clear. He likes Arabia too. He finds the language comes naturally, the flowing robes give a sense of freedom and the undiscovered nature of the land provides an unspoilt enticement.

      Back at the prow, he savours the dryness the coffee leaves in his mouth. Haines’ dinner is finishing and he can hear the midshipmen leaving the cabin, laughing and drunk as they make their way below deck to squeeze their tired bodies into closely packed hammocks. They are pleasant enough – gentlemen’s sons, all three of them, rich in family money and social advantages. Like Wellsted, they left home very young but unlike him they never saw the hideous poverty of the English streets (for it is easy, passing in a carriage to ignore it). Bombay with its skeletal beggars and stinking slums on open display shocked them, the pitiless harshness of Arabia is worse and the rampaging malaria over the last few days has reduced them to tears privately, though each has done his duty and masked his shock from the men. Still, the youngest, Henry Ormsby, has taken to drinking a good deal. He carries a hip flask of brandy inside his jacket. When he arrived on board he had to be warned about gambling. Pelham, one of the crew, a sardonic ne’er-do-well with few brains and fewer teeth, was caught dicing with the young gentleman and was deemed to have taken advantage of Ormsby’s youth and the ready supply of bright shillings from the youngster’s family allowance. The man was flogged for the offence. Unfairly, in Wellsted’s view. Ormsby had begged to be allowed to play and had gambled his money fair and square. If he had won he would have pocketed the winnings.

      Captain Haines, with his moral standard hoisted ever high, was scandalised, of course. Wellsted, however, was brought up in Marylebone with his grandfather, Thomas, at the helm. Thomas clawed his way up from a cottage with a dirt floor. He’d worked hard and taken every opportunity that God had given him, and some that were sent by the devil too. A truculent, unforgiving old man, his life’s purpose is to see to it that at least one of his grandchildren rises in society. He pushed his son into the upholstery business and then begged, borrowed and stole to make sure that his workshops were stocked with fabrics so fine that both staunch traditionalists and the avant-garde of the ton sent their business to the Wellsteds and paid, more or less, whatever Old Thomas chose to charge.

      ‘Where do you find these wonderful silks?’ the ladies breathe. ‘I have never seen any fabric so perfect in my whole life.’

      The wily old man says nothing – but it is not a complete coincidence that James’ younger brother, Edward, is apprenticed to the customs service the same year that James joined the Bombay Marine.

      When the Indian naval commission came up, Thomas spent almost the entire family savings on securing the position for James.

      ‘He’s bright. He’ll go far. He’s our best chance,’ Thomas insisted.

      James’ parents were slack jawed. It was a fortune, but they complied. Iron of purpose, Thomas dominated the Wellsted household for years, marshalling the entire family behind his purpose: to rise. To this end he made sure that his grandchildren understood the poverty around them on the streets – the constant threat of sliding backwards, of having nothing at all. He’d show them the hoi polloi as if to say, ‘This is what’s possible’, you can belong in the salons of gentlemen customers, all fine damasks and mahogany finishes, with the fire stoked and the servants scrubbed, well fed and respectful, but you can fall too and fall far. As a result, James has seen ragged gin whores aplenty and a regular freak show of pestilence. In London decay simmers constantly, breaking through the surface if only your eyes are peeled. The whole, crowded city is built on a barely contained plateau of shit – open sewers in the streets. Never far away, the Thames is a stinking, rancid, stagnant strip of thick slime, running through the centre of the city. Nothing can live in it.

      In such surroundings, people are cruel and even in the gentrified streets of Marylebone, women, children and animals are beaten till they cower by their husbands, fathers and masters. Worse, James’ grandmother died in the front room of number thirteen, of the pox. Blood gushed from her ears and her sphincter lay open permanently for two days as vitality (if you could call it that) seeped from every orifice. In the end, exhausted and ravaged, she begged to die. The boy was a mere eight or nine and, his eyes already open to the world, about to leave for his dearly bought commission.

      ‘Well now, James Raymond,’ his grandfather said, standing dry-eyed over his wife’s dead body. ‘The old lady will not live now to see you make the Wellsted fortune. We can go no higher, your father and I. It’s the education, you see. Whereas you, with all your letters, well, you can take us up. By hook or by