Matthew slumped back against the planking and closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening to him, no, it was just a dream, and if he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, he’d wake to the dark dawn of a winter morning at Hillview, Alex snoring softly by his side. The screeching noise of the hatches recalled him brutally to this new reality, and he crossed his arms in a self-hug, trying to stop himself from trembling.
“Don’t fret, lad,” the unknown voice said. “It is just them coming down with food and water.”
Matthew nodded and sat immobile until the hatches were back in place.
“Here.” A piece of bread was placed in his hand and a strong hand on his nape supported him while he drank. “You have a nasty bump to your head.”
Matthew raised a shaking hand to his head and winced. “They clobbered me! I was walking back to the inn and…” He frowned with the effort to remember; low voices arguing over his head as they dragged him along, another painful clap to his head, a creaking cart, someone holding him down while his wrists were fitted with chains, and then nothing.
“I’ve been abducted,” he said, a surge of anger rippling through him. Luke! This was the work of his hell-spawn of a brother and now, oh dearest Lord, now there was no one there to protect his wife and son!
He twisted his head to the side and threw up the half-masticated bread. The man beside him patted his shoulder, and to his embarrassment Matthew felt his eyes fill up with tears.
“It’s no shame,” the man said, “we all weep.”
“I have to get back, if not he’ll destroy them.”
“Who?”
“My brother, God curse his soul,” Matthew said.
He must have talked for nigh on an hour, as he told this stranger of the hatred and rivalry that existed between him and his brother. He described finding his first wife, Margaret, in bed with Luke and how his brother had connived to have him accused of treason. Several years later, when Matthew finally returned home with his new wife, Luke had in a fit of rage beaten Alex so badly she lost the bairn she was carrying. His newfound acquaintance made a disgusted sound at this.
“A year later he threatened her again, and I should have killed him then as I should have killed him so many times before. Instead I sliced off his nose.” And now…Matthew studied his surroundings and the chains around his hands. “What has he done to me?”
The man sat back on his heels. “He’s sold you into indenture, I reckon. All of us are going as indentured to Virginia, being the beneficiaries of the good king’s mercy.” He spat as he said that. “I’m James McLean - condemned to hang for preaching that all men are equal. I dare say they begrudged me the length of rope required, and so I’m here instead.” He sighed and shuffled his feet. “I won’t be preaching much where we’re going. I won’t be preaching much at all for the rest of my days.” A flicker of despair flew through his brown eyes and Matthew pressed his hand.
“Of course you will.”
James shook his head. “Seven years, aye? And I am three and fifty…”
Over the coming days, Matthew listened to the stories of the men around him, in many cases heartbreakingly similar, tales of hunger and of being driven from their homes for not keeping up with rents and taxes. Tales of how they were forced to steal to feed their families, and of how they’d been arrested and condemned to hang for their theft, only to have the sentences commuted to years of servitude somewhere far across the sea.
He could see it in their eyes; the resignation, the lack of hope. None of these men expected to ever make it home again, supposing they would either be worked to death or find themselves too poor to ever pay the passage back to wife and bairns. Not me, he promised himself, I won’t die far from home, I’ll somehow make it home to Alex and to Mark.
*
One night as he lay unable to sleep, drowning in worry for his son and wife, Matthew recalled that he had in fact left them some protection. Simon would take care of them, and Matthew thanked the Lord for having signed a deed of guardianship, stating clearly that in the event of his demise it was Simon, not Luke, who was to stand as father to Mark.
It almost made him laugh to think of Alex’s reaction at not being considered an adequate guardian. His peculiar, God-given wife would argue that she was fully capable of defending her son, and he could see her eyes slitting into flashing sapphires as she remonstrated with Simon. He shifted on the hard boards, attempting to shut out the sound of the chains. His wife… He ran his hand up and down his forearm, pretending it was her caress he felt. It made him weaken with longing for her.
“Alex.” He smiled when he said her name, struck by the certainty of what she would do. She’d come after him, find him, and in his gut a flower of hope grew. If anyone could do such, it would be her, but it would cost her, because Simon would never let her take Mark with her – nor should he. He rolled over on his side. Poor Alex; to be torn from another son, just as she’d lost Isaac to the vagaries of time. But deep inside, he was dizzyingly happy as the conviction in him grew, that no matter the cost to her, she would come for him.
*
It was difficult to hold on to that ray of hope over the weeks that followed. For a month they lay at anchor in Plymouth, and while the other in the hold were allowed out on deck to take air, Matthew was kept sitting in the dark, the captain making a point of informing him that he would be given no chance to escape. Matthew raged in his chains and on one occasion lost his temper completely, which resulted in him crawling in pain as the cudgels rained over his shoulders and back.
“You mustn’t provoke them,” James chided him. “You must keep your head down.” But it was too late, and the guards found one reason after the other to taunt and manhandle Matthew. Bend, he told himself, bend Matthew Graham or they will break you. Mostly he did, but sometimes the injustice of it all was too much, and that was how he came to be chained to the main mast in nothing but his shirt, unable to escape the biting iciness of the March wind, as the Henriette Marie began her long journey across the open sea.
To distract himself from his helpless shivering and the way his fingers and toes ached with cold, he thought about the day he’d found Alex, a strangely dressed lass lying sprawled face down on a hillside. He stretched his chapped lips in a weak smile as he recalled those odd breeches – djeens, she’d called them – and her short hair. And he’d known, already then, that this lass was somehow meant for him, a gift from God no less, for how else to explain the propitious coincidence that had him on the moor just when she came tumbling through time? He laughed; Alex was somewhat more sceptical to this whole divine intervention, voicing that it was all due to the fluke lightning storm, a freak misalignment in time.
When he was brought back down into the hold, he was unconscious with fever, small bubbles of lucidity popping through his brain. At times he recognised the man who sat by his side, and he’d make an effort to smile at this familiar person before being dragged under yet again.
James’ face was the first thing Matthew saw when the fever finally broke, and he slumped into a deep dejection. In his delirious dreams he’d been home, wandering green fields and wide woods, laughing as he chased Alex up the slope, holding his wee son in his arms. Now he woke to chains and creaking boards, to men who coughed and farted in their sleep, and the despairing insight that mayhap he wouldn’t make it, maybe he would die without ever seeing her again.
*
They all thought they would die some weeks later when the Henriette Marie was tossed from wave to wave, all of her protesting when the sea slammed into her creaking sides. For days the storm raged, sweeping anything not securely lashed to the deck overboard. In the hold they sat in ice cold water as huge waves broke above them, sea water cascading through the hatches. It was a relief to see a pale spring sun filter through, and James led them in grateful prayer that this, at least, they had survived.
All of them were allowed out on deck to dry themselves and the hold was mopped up as well as could be done. The captai
n even accorded them a tot of brandy, muttering something about them being worth nothing to him dead, before ordering them back down into their dark damp quarters.
Three men died; one of what James said was the ague, shivering to death, two of consumption, coughing their lungs apart. Where the other men drew back, afraid of catching these deadly diseases, James sat with them, talking to them and soothing them as best he could.
“Are you not afraid then?” Matthew said.
James just shrugged. “If I die, I die.”
“But…don’t you want to live, to return to your family?”
James sighed and picked a weevil or two out of the bread. “I’ll not be going back, Matthew. I feel it in my bones.”
“Of course you will, we’ll help each other.”
James didn’t reply, his eyes misting over. “We’ll help each other,” he said after a while. “And mayhap one of us will make it home.”
“Both of us,” Matthew insisted, making James give him an exasperated look.
“You don’t know, do you? Most of us will die before our years of service are up, treated like beasts of burden on endless fields.”
“Not me.”
James gave him a sad little smile. “Nay, lad, not you.”
Matthew shivered at his tone and threw a look down his own tall frame. It would be just like it had been in gaol, with him singled out for the heaviest work on account of his size and strength. He’d spend never ending days in back-breaking labour – yet again – and a frightened voice in the pit of his stomach wondered how long it would take before he began to wear down. Matthew shook himself. He was here wrongfully, and once they’d landed he’d find someone he could complain to. But even as he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t help. Who would listen? Who would care? He leaned back against the planking and sighed.
“She’ll come, my Alex will come.” His woman; she’d come for him.
“Of course she will,” James said. Matthew closed his eyes. He could hear it in James’ voice, that he didn’t believe she would.
*
The day the ship anchored in the James River, the men in the hold sighed in relief. Land, soon there would be land beneath their feet, and nothing could possibly be as bad as the sea crossing, could it? A low buzz of excitement spread, the younger men surreptitiously inspecting their wasted bodies. Did they look healthy enough? Only James sat in silence.
To Matthew, the heat came as a shock. It was May, and the humidity hung like a drenched blanket around him, making it an effort even to breathe. He stared at the buildings huddled together on the swampy island, and up his spine snaked a tendril of fear. What kind of land was this? Everything was green, a heavy, smothering green, and just moving made him perspire, sticking his worn and grimy linen shirt to his skin. He couldn’t breathe, his throat closing up in protest at this hot, wet air. How could anyone work in this?
He was manhandled into a boat and rowed across, and the following minutes he spent in a daze. Only vaguely did he understand he was being sold, and when he tried to object that he was not an indenture, that he was a kidnapped man, he was laughed in the face. Had he not been in chains he would have struck the huge man in front of him, but now he just gritted his teeth and swore that someday that bastard would choke on his contemptuous laughter.
He saw James disappear from him, tried to call his name and assure him they would meet again, but a hard hand wrenched him off in another direction, shoving him and six others from his ship towards a waiting cart. Chains were struck off to be replaced by ropes, they were tied to the tailgate like dumb animals and the huge overseer, Jones, gave Matthew a taunting smile, all the while fingering the strop he carried. Matthew broke eye contact and stared down at his feet.
Much later they were finally allowed to stop. Chests were heaving with the unfamiliar humidity and their clothing hung damp and uncomfortable. None of them had said a word, concentrating on keeping up with the cart. Jones ignored them, leaving them to stand, still tied, and said something in a low voice to the two drovers. They all laughed, eyes slinking in the direction of the new men.
“Three years,” Matthew heard one of them say. “No more than that.” With a sinking feeling, he understood they were betting on their survival. It made his stomach turn itself inside out.
Chapter 4
Mrs Gordon quickly decided travelling by sea had its advantages, and spent most of her days chatting up the cook or one of the sailors, coming back to share nuggets of information with Alex, who to her surprise discovered she was prone to seasickness and therefore remained in bed.
“Did you know the captain’s crossed the Atlantic thirty times?” Mrs Gordon asked, sitting down on the single stool.
“Great. I suppose that means he knows what he’s doing, right?”
Mrs Gordon nodded and went on to tell Alex one more blood curdling story after the other, stories of shipwrecks and pirates and ships sitting becalmed for weeks in the middle of the ocean, the whole crew convinced that soon they would die, maddened by thirst.
“Are you doing this on purpose?”
Mrs Gordon laughed and said that as distraction it served, did it not?
After a couple of claustrophobic days in the dark cabin, Alex made her way out on deck, sniffing the fresh air with appreciation. For the first time since they set off, she had woken hungry, and she’d consumed a hearty breakfast consisting of salted fried pork, beer and somewhat stale bread.
“We’ll be anchoring off Plymouth tomorrow,” Captain Miles told her, coming to join her by the railing. “We have one new passenger coming aboard.” He smiled at Alex and went back to studying the sea. “Your companion tells me you’re on your way to join your husband.”
“Yes, in Virginia.” She wasn’t about to tell him more than that. “How long will it take?”
“Seven to ten weeks, depending on the weather and the winds.”
Late June then, she sighed, wondering how she would stand it. The last few nights he’d been so close, and she had arched herself to meet his touch only to bang her head against the wall of the berth and jerk awake. She missed him; there was a jagged hole inside of her that grew larger with every day. Their son sat aching in her heart, but Matthew, well him she missed with everything. With her hands, where she wanted nothing more than to let her fingers rest against his skin, with her mouth, with her breasts… Every part of her was left diminished, damaged, now that he wasn’t here to blend seamlessly into her.
“You’ll find him.” Mrs Gordon appeared like a giant, overweight magpie by her side.
“You think?”
Mrs Gordon tut-tutted with irritation. “Of course you will.” She cocked her head to one side and gave Alex a swift pat. “He’s not dead, lass, and as long as he’s alive you’ll find him. He calls to you, doesn’t he? Just like my Robbie—” She broke off. Alex regarded her narrowly, studying her in a way she’d never done before. Always black, never anything but black, except for her old-fashioned caps and collars that stood starched and white. And not once had Alex thought to ask.
“How long were you married?”
“Twenty years.” Mrs Gordon’s short fingers caressed the ring she wore on her pinkie. “Twenty years and four lasses, and then all five died within a year.” She shrugged off Alex’s hand. “I was very blessed, aye? I loved and was loved.” She tightened the shawl around her and patted Alex on the arm. “So do you, no? You love him so much you’d die for him.”
Alex nodded.
“That’s why you had to go after him. You’d never have forgiven yourself if you didn’t.”
*
It was not the most elegant of entrances. Despite several attempts, the new passenger was unable to clamber aboard using the rope ladder, and Alex hung over the railings watching while a rope was tied round his waist to hoist him aboard instead. The man landed in a heap, but quickly regained his feet, brushing at his cloak, his breeches – well, his everything – before turning to face the captain. With a flourish he bowed, swee
ping his flashy hat off his head. Alex took one look at his face and was sure she would die. There, on the spot.
“At your service; Ángel Benito Muñoz de Hojeda – from Spain.”
Alex gawked at him. It couldn’t be! Ángel was dead! Well, to be precise, he wasn’t even born yet, but he’d died in 1999, she saw him die with her own eyes. And now he was here, in 1661, or at least someone looking eerily like him and using the same name was here, and it made her throat clog. She retreated behind the captain, but managed to curtsey and mumble an adequate greeting, all the time fearing her guts would drop out and land with a sickening plop on the deck.
Unbidden and definitely unwelcome, the image of her mother wrapping herself round a frozen Ángel and self-combusting them both into nonexistence sprung to the front of Alex’s mind. Oh God, oh God! Just thinking of it made her hyperventilate; her mother some sort of witch, and Ángel, God curse him, Ángel was a lowlife, a living contradiction of his given name. She stared down at the oak boarding and counted back from a hundred in an attempt to calm down.
She peeked at the stranger; Holy Matilda! This could be Ángel´s twin!
“A mouthful, all those names,” Mrs Gordon remarked.
“My friends call me Benito,” the stranger smiled. “Don Benito.”
Alex softened. Not the same then; besides, this man had warm eyes and a tentative but genuine smile – not at all like the future Ángel Muñoz. She smiled back and dropped her eyes to his extravagant petticoat breeches, decorated with yard upon yard of pink ribbon at waist and knee. My, my; a budding fashionista – down to the polished buckles of his shoes.
“And what may a Spanish gentleman be doing so far from home?” Captain Miles said, sounding as if Spanish gentlemen were a dangerous species best thrown overboard.
“I’m an envoy of the Tabacalera.” There was a slight hesitation in Don Benito’s reply, dark eyes sliding to the side. Hmm, thought Alex, grinning internally at Mrs Gordon’s sharp look in the Spaniard’s direction.
Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 3