by Marie Evelyn
So Ian’s tiresome ‘slave’ prank hadn’t been so far off the mark after all. Becky sat back in her chair and tried to think how the Barbados venture would work. If the plan was to follow the fates of certain rebels on the island, it would be ridiculous to omit the names of the plantations they were assigned to and the men they were indentured to. But would Clara feel compromised by what they discovered? Surely she couldn’t expect an account of the rebels’ new lives to sweep over such details?
Becky ran her finger down the rest of the list of the men transported with Pitcher on the Betty. One unusual surname leapt out: Thomas Gehalgod. At the bottom of the list was a paragraph:
The Bille of mortallity of the said Rebells that dyed since they were reced on Board and were thrown overboard out of the said Ship were …
There followed three names, one of which was Thomas Gehalgod. Becky shivered. Would it have been better to be hanged than left in a ship’s hold with untreated wounds and then thrown overboard with, presumably, little ceremony?
At least Thomas Gehalgod hadn’t had to work for William Darnley, whom Becky instinctively felt would have been as mercenary as his descendent. Maybe that was the only positive aspect to dying at sea.
She had paid five pounds for a photograph licence but found the camera on her new phone wasn’t really up to capturing the information. She sorely missed the smartphone she had had at the Essex Gleaner. She took the book to the helpdesk to find out if they could photograph the pages for her.
‘We could,’ said the woman on the desk. ‘But you know this book is online, don’t you? You could access it anywhere.’
Becky groaned. She could have done the research at home after all. It had been a wasted trip and a waste of Clara’s money. God knows what Matthew would have to say if he found out.
‘Since you’re here you should visit the key places,’ said the woman, ‘the battlefield itself and the church at Westonzoyland.’
‘The church?’
‘St Mary’s. It’s where King James’s men locked up the injured rebels – left them there with festering wounds overnight. The church had to be fumigated with frankincense afterwards.’
‘Oh,’ said Becky, unsure how to react to this generously dispensed information. ‘Thank you. I might do that.’
But she knew she wouldn’t. It would mean finding a taxi and spending even more of Clara’s money being driven round the sights. If only she could drive; if only she had a car.
She went back to where she had been sitting to pick up her things and realised her phone was vibrating. It was Joe’s number.
‘Just a second,’ she said. She retrieved her rucksack, nodded thanks to the woman on the helpdesk, and walked out.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked once outside the centre. Joe never rang her when he was at work.
‘Fine. Just wondered how you were getting on.’
‘So-so,’ said Becky, touched he would bother to ring but unsure how much of her disappointment to share.
‘That doesn’t sound good. What’s wrong?’
‘You remember I said Clara’s son doesn’t want me to write the book?’
‘No, you said he didn’t think you were serious about it.’
‘OK, I think it’s more than that. I’ll explain tomorrow when I’m back.’
‘Explain now,’ he said and hung up.
Becky stared at her phone, baffled, then turned as she heard the roar of a motorbike pulling up alongside her. Joe raised his visor and gave a big grin.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or express astonishment his bike had got him this far. Now she thought about it, he had left much earlier than usual this morning; she had assumed he had a busy day at work planned. ‘You haven’t thrown a sickie, have you?’
Joe made a face. ‘No, I haven’t. I do get days off, you know, and I thought you’d like to see the actual locations as well as just visit the Centre.’
‘I’m rather touched, to be honest,’ she said. ‘Actually, it’s really nice to see you.’
He shrugged off her affection. ‘Come on. Let’s go to the battlefield and then you can tell me why pillock son doesn’t want you to write the book.’
‘You know where it is?’
‘Yup, I went by on my way here. I’ve even borrowed a fine hat for you to wear.’ He opened the bike’s top box and took out a helmet. Becky hesitated. She was nervous of bikes and could never have made the journey here as a pillion passenger, but she didn’t want to be churlish. She put on the helmet, secured her rucksack on her back and held on to her little brother.
The journey took about half an hour during which Becky only occasionally opened her eyes. She kept them open when she realised Joe had slowed down and they were passing a church. A bit further on he pulled up in a space on a quiet main road and they got off.
‘It’s a fairly short walk,’ said Joe and Becky followed him, impressed (and surprised) that he was so organised.
‘I’ve read up on it a bit,’ he said, casually, once they were some way along the path. ‘Monmouth didn’t want to fight in the end, as he knew he would lose, but one of his commanders persuaded him he had no choice. So he decided to launch a surprise night attack on the Royalist troops camped at Westonzoyland. He led five thousand men – most hadn’t even had any training – and horseback cavalry for miles in the rain – in pitch black and in silence. I mean: respect.’
Becky laughed. ‘Sounds impossible. Surely with horses you’d hear them.’
‘Monmouth had the horses’ hooves bound with cloth to muffle their steps,’ said Joe. ‘Can you imagine that? Seeing thousands of men and horses marching through the fields with no noise?’
‘No,’ said Becky. ‘Spooky.’
‘Apparently some people still see them today, especially on the anniversary of the battle. This is it.’
The battleground looked like a peaceful meadow to Becky. She gazed at the sunlit field but couldn’t conjure up the image of a pitched battle here in the dark.
Joe was looking at a map and turning round at various angles, as if trying to orient himself. ‘Right. Got it,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard of the rhines?’
Becky shook her head. Her book on The Stuarts did not contain many details about the battle itself.
‘The drainage ditches. An ancient means of trying to control flooding that were key to the outcome.’
For the next twenty minutes Joe pointed out where the respective armies would have probably stood, where the rhine Monmouth failed to cross would have lain three hundred years before and where Monmouth’s commander, Lord Grey, had ‘ballsed up’ so that instead of crossing the rhine and attacking the Royalist army, he had led his cavalry straight back into his own side.
Becky listened to Joe with amazement and pride. He seemed to have suddenly discovered history, albeit a rather morbid brand. He had certainly devoured facts about artillery, describing the different fire power of the trained soldiers and the badly equipped Monmouth rebels, who bravely yelled at the Royal Army to cross the rhine and fight like men instead of firing over the water at them. He was rather over-fascinated by the idea of men being turned into corpses by musket shot and cannon ball and the injured trying to crawl away.
‘In an age without antibiotics,’ said Becky.
‘Nice.’
Her phone vibrated again and she answered it, while Joe continued studying his map and comparing it with the land around them.
It was Alex Wilson. ‘Becky? Bad news I’m afraid. Matthew insisted on a background check. You can’t really blame him. If you’re going to be living in the house and his office is there too. It was just meant to be a formality …’
Becky knew what was coming next.
‘I didn’t expect to find anything. Especially not drugs.’
‘It was a caution.’
‘I know. But Matthew’s not taken it too well.’
‘OK,’ said Becky, walking away from Joe so he wouldn’t be able to overhear her. ‘I’ve got a younger br
other who’s not bad but who got into a bit of trouble. He was caught with dope in his pocket and I said it was mine. I’ve never tried it and I don’t even smoke.’
There was a sigh down the phone. ‘Why did you take the rap for him?’
Because he’d only started selling soft drugs to fund his online gambling habit. Because, after a slightly wild youth, he had expressed an interest in joining the police and Becky was so hopeful this could be the answer to his problems she would have done anything to get him sorted out. If she’d known the ‘police’ idea was no more serious than his other vaguely expressed desires to join the army or the French Foreign Legion she would never have put herself at risk.
‘Because he’s my younger brother,’ she said.
There was another sigh. ‘I’ll have a word with Matthew.’
‘Thanks.’ She could hear a conversation in the background and recognised other Bajan accents. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at the Monmouth.’
‘The hotel? So you’re in Essex?’
‘No, I’m not flying over until next week. I’m in the Monmouth in Barbados. Matthew’s got two hotels, didn’t you know?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Look, I’ll ring you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to Matthew.’
Becky said goodbye and realised Joe had wandered over and was looking quizzical.
‘OK?’ he said.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she assured him.
Alex had seemed to accept her explanation of the drugs caution but Becky thought Matthew was bound to use it as an excuse to prevent her going to Barbados. Still no need to bother Joe, who was making such an effort to help her out.
He looked over the battlefield one more time. ‘I think that’s probably as much as I can tell you.’
‘You found out loads of stuff I didn’t know,’ said Becky. ‘I hadn’t thought about the battle at all to be honest. I was just reading about what happened afterwards.’
‘Shall we go pick up the bike, then?’
They headed back to the main road.
‘So why doesn’t pillock man want you to write the book?’ Joe asked when they were part-way there.
‘I’ll have to tell you a bit about what happened after the battle to explain why,’ said Becky. ‘As you know, the rebels lost. Many of them were hanged but King James II had others transported to work as indentured labourers in the colonies. Really he was just donating them to his friends who owned the plantations but he did it under the guise of being the merciful Christian.’
‘So that’s where Barbados comes in?’
‘Exactly. Clara wants to write a book about the fate of the rebels who were sent there as exiles.’
‘That sounds good. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that, although in theory they were only sentenced to four years, none of them came back. They became, well, white slaves pretty much and the plantation owners wouldn’t release them.’
‘Bastards. But what’s that got to do with pillock man?’
‘I learnt today at the Heritage Centre that it was Clara’s family – or I think her husband’s family – who owned one of the plantations on Barbados that were given many of the men.’
‘Ah. Maybe she feels guilty and wants to – what’s the word when you want to put something right?’
‘Atone,’ said Becky. ‘But she wouldn’t have anything to be guilty about. She’s black, or certainly of colour.’
Joe frowned. ‘So a black woman wants to write about white slaves. Her husband must be white. What does he think of it?’
‘She’s a widow.’
‘Ah right,’ said Joe. ‘So she felt bad that she married into one of the old plantation families but she had to wait for her husband to peg it before she could write the book. But, of course, her son wouldn’t want the book written because basically it exposes his ancestors as slave owners.’
‘Er, I think something like that,’ said Becky, though Joe’s thought processes had jumped much further ahead than hers.
‘But you’re working for her not her son so you can tell him to sling his hook, can’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I can. We’ll all be sharing a house for a start.’
Joe made a face. They had almost reached his bike but Becky realised the church back along the road was the one the Heritage Centre receptionist had mentioned.
‘I want a quick look in there,’ she said. Joe looked pained and she laughed. ‘You don’t have to come in. Just loiter round the graveyard.’
They had both endured weekly church visits to a service their mother must have chosen for its complete lack of joy and vitality. On his fourteenth birthday Joe had said he would never set foot in a church again and had stuck firm, despite their mother’s tantrums, punishing silences and dropped dishes. Becky – either out of loyalty to her mother or maybe because she couldn’t face the emotional consequences – endured the services until, at eighteen, she decided facing her mother’s disappointment was more palatable than hearing about God’s wrath.
Joe followed her reluctantly into the churchyard. Some of the older gravestones looked as weathered as sucked grey lozenges.
‘Do you think we might find rebels buried here?’ he said, becoming interested again.
‘Doubt it,’ said Becky. ‘Anyway the executed men would have been left hanging on gibbets rather than given a decent burial. But their descendants might be here.’
And it was possible some of the men imprisoned in the church had died of their wounds overnight and been buried in the churchyard. She shivered at the thought and was quite relieved to see a sign saying the information centre inside the church was now closed for the day. ‘If a gravestone’s that old you probably wouldn’t be able to read the inscription anyway.’
But Joe was pointing at some grey chunks of stone off the main path, which could only be reached by walking over other graves. ‘What about over there?’
The sun was dipping towards the horizon and, while the church tower basked in the remnants of the evening sun, shadows stalked the gravestones. The area Joe was heading for looked quite gloomy.
She followed him gingerly over the tussocked grass, surprised to find herself inwardly apologising to the inhabitants over whom they trod.
‘These look ancient,’ said Joe, squatting in front of one of the old slabs.
Becky bent down and examined another, which was stubbled with moss and lichens. She rubbed her finger over it but couldn’t tell if the indentations were memories of letters carved or simply natural indentations in the rock.
‘I can see a date on this one,’ said Joe, ‘1721 or ’31.’ He sighed. ‘Too late to be a Monmouth rebel.’
‘He may have been, said Becky. ‘A few managed to escape.’
Joe peered at the stone again. ‘T – H – may be an O?’ he read. ‘And something about “god”.’
Becky joined him. ‘Thomas.’ She scratched off some moss, stared and then scratched some more. ‘That is strange.’
‘What?’
‘I think it says “Thomas Gehalgod”.’
‘Weird name,’ said Joe.
‘Exactly,’ said Becky. ‘It was the name of one of the men who was transported to Barbados. Or at least he was meant to be. He died on the ship and was thrown overboard.’
‘His son?’ said Joe. He sounded disappointed.
‘Maybe. I wish I could read the rest of it.’
To her surprise, Joe kneeled on the grass and produced a key to cut the lichen away. After a few minutes he stopped. ‘I feel like I’m rubbing away actual stone.’
‘The first word is “my”, I think,’ said Becky. ‘The second word begins with “f”. That could be an “e” and an “r” at the end. And the last word looks like “keeper”.
‘There could be a “t” in there,’ said Joe, pointing, ‘but the second letter – after “f” – nope, that’s gone.’
‘My father is my keeper’?’
Joe ran his fingers over the
stone. ‘Not “is”. I think that’s “was”.’
‘My father was my keeper?’
‘Could be.’ Joe stood up. ‘It’s not very religious, is it?’
‘No,’ said Becky. ‘It’s a small “f”, which seems a bit disrespectful if it meant God the Father. Plus it sounds a bit limited, doesn’t it? God was my keeper, instead of God is my keeper through eternity.’
He sniggered. ‘Maybe Thomas got disillusioned.’
‘Maybe,’ said Becky. ‘Or it could be a simple statement about his real father. Perhaps this is Thomas Gehalgod Junior referring to Thomas Gehalgod Senior who was thrown overboard.’
Joe gave a grin. ‘Or it could be that Thomas Ge – whatever his name was –’
‘Gehalgod.’
‘… wasn’t injured but had a deal with someone on the ship to say he died before the ship got too far and he swam back and lived out his natural life.’
Becky laughed. ‘OK, let’s assume that happened. Thomas Gehalgod survived.’
Thanks to Joe she felt far more positive than she had at the start of the day. They headed back into Taunton for something to eat and then found Becky’s hotel. When she realised Joe was going to get back on his bike and return to Essex she tried to persuade him to stay overnight. But Joe was adamant he needed to go back so he could get to work on time the next day.
As she saw him off Becky wondered at how much he seemed to have grown up in the past few days.
Chapter Five
Two days had passed and Becky had had no contact from Alex. She rang Clara to give her an update following her visit to the Heritage Centre and to point out she still had some money left over but Clara seemed in no hurry for her change.
‘Did you find out anything interesting?’ asked Clara.
‘You mentioned someone called “Pitcher”. I found a Daniel Pitcher was sent to Barbados.’