‘Hasn’t said a word since we picked him up,’ Dufrêne said. Truth was, he’d beaten the man badly after the shock of seeing him suddenly there, leaning against a tree, as though he’d appeared up out of nowhere. ‘But I’d say he’s jumped a penal gang. They won’t miss him. Thought he might be put to good use by you two.’

Bergerard turned towards the agent. He didn’t like the man and it was all clear and plain in his face. Dufrêne saw it, held up his glass and grinned. Fucking Parisians, he thought. All he wanted was Girodet’s money.

‘To science!’ he said and clinked his son’s glass, threw back the rum. He poured another. ‘To the furthering of human knowledge!’

There were footsteps outside. The door swung open and Girodet walked in.

‘And look,’ Dufrêne said, ‘here comes the bloody devil himself!’

Dr Antoine Girodet stepped inside and immediately noticed the man sitting against the opposite wall. His first thought: excellent. A white man, someone to reason with. Mostly it was hell making the Negroes understand what he wanted of them; maybe this time it wouldn’t be so frustrating.

‘A gift for the wonderful doctor!’ Dufrêne said.

‘He’s no good to me dead,’ Girodet said. ‘Have you given the man any water, food?’

‘He’s not dead yet,’ Dufrêne said. ‘And providing a man’s last meal on earth isn’t in our bargain, Monsieur Docteur de la guillotine.’

Girodet frowned, then looked at Bergerard. ‘Tell the cook to bring something.’ He pulled out a leather purse, tipped some coins into his hand and put the small stack on the table where the agent and his son were sitting.

‘That’s it?’ Dufrêne said.

‘Why? Have you something more for me?’

The agent swore. ‘You can feed us at least, then.’

‘I always do,’ Girodet said. ‘Christophe, and something for our friends here.’

Just then, the door to the outbuilding opened. Girodet turned to see Josephine over his shoulder. She was wearing clothes he’d given her (left behind by his wife), a yellow dress and white shawl. He knew why she’d come. He saw her scanning the room. Josephine had been asking about the slaves, the ones she’d been brought in with (‘Where have they gone?’) and all the others. Girodet told her the Portuguese had taken them.

‘Why not me?’ she’d said.

‘Because you are mine.’ He’d paid Dufrêne three times the money for her.

The agent now held up his glass. ‘My beauty! My Josephine!’

She ignored Dufrêne and looked around, saw the white man sitting on the floor. He’d lifted his head up now and was squinting at her through his swollen eyes. And in that moment, Josephine saw her brother’s obia hanging around the man’s neck.

GREAT SOUTHERN LAND