“Now? Alone?” Don Benito shook his head. “It’s too dangerous, hija.”
“I have to, it will help me think.” She threw him a pleading look.
Don Benito rolled his eyes and sighed. “Just there and back.”
“Absolutely,” she assured him, hurrying upstairs to find her shawl.
*
Don Benito tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and set off. She was quiet, no doubt lost in thoughts of her own, and he didn’t mind, enjoying this silent companionship. He had written a letter to Louise during the day, and was still weighing whether he should send it to her or not. It was the first time since he had been separated from her that he had put words to his feelings, and he had been surprised at how much he had to say, how effortlessly the quill had flown across the paper.
“Fifteen days,” Alex said, her eyes on the Regina Anne that was riding the swell.
“Yes,” Don Benito replied, feeling a shadow cross over him. He scratched his chest, wondering where he’d be a year from now. Alive, he hoped, even if sometimes he had doubts. Alex gave his arm a squeeze.
“You can still go the other way. No one will ever know.”
“We’ve discussed this repeatedly,” he said, “and the answer is still the same; no, I cannot.” They stood in silence and stared out across the sea, a heaving darkness under a slightly less dark sky.
Both of them turned at the loud sounds from behind them. A large man staggered out from the dirt road beyond the customs house. The man’s breathing was a noisy painful thing, and when he moved, a length of chain moved with him, scraping over the stony ground. It was too far away to see him properly, but the whites of his eyes stood out in his dark face, and even in the weak light of the half-moon it was obvious to Don Benito that he was hurt – badly hurt.
Two other men appeared from the road, one with a cudgel in his hand. They laughed, said something in a casual tone to the two men sauntering behind them, and the man in chains backed towards the water’s edge.
“Alex…hija, no.” Don Benito eyed them nervously, one hand on Alex’s shoulder. The slave uttered a guttural sound, and tried to move away. One foot stomped down hard on the dragging chain, and the abrupt jerk threw the fugitive off balance. He went down on his knees and they set upon him, cudgel whistling through the air.
“Stop!” Alex yelled. “For God’s sake, stop!” She took hold of the sleeve of the man closest and pulled.
“This is none of your concern ma’am,” the man said, “and I would that you remove elsewhere lest this be too distressing for you to watch.”
“Alex,” Don Benito was at her side. “Come, we must leave.”
The interrupted man bowed his agreement and went back to his business, pummelling the nearly unconscious man.
“You’re going to kill him!” Alex pulled free from Don Benito’s grip and kicked the man, sending him to land sprawled across his victim.
“Alex!” Don Benito attempted to drag her backwards, but she shook him off.
The man got back on his feet and turned towards Alex, bared teeth glinting in the weak light.
“You, ma’am, are acting most inappropriately.”
“So are you,” Alex retorted. “You’re beating a man who’s already down and out.”
“He’s a fugitive slave. To be more precise, he’s my slave – mine to do as I wish with.” He nodded in the direction of his men, and the whimpering hulk was pushed off the edge to land in the water.
“He’ll drown!” Alex looked as if she was about to plunge in after him, but the man took a firm hold of her arm.
“Yes. Because I want him to. He’s useless anyway, a firebrand and a constant source of unrest.”
“Take your hands off me,” Alex said.
The man just laughed.
Alex whipped round, slammed her body into him, grabbed at his arm and heaved him to land on his back, all air knocked out of him. She crouched, hands aloft and Don Benito gaped at this avenging angel.
“Get her,” one of the other men said.
“Please,” Don Benito said, “we’re leaving, dear sirs. Let me just…” He made a grab for Alex, but she leaned out of reach, eyes never leaving the slave-owner, who had regained his feet and was circling her.
“It’s the foreigner,” one of the men voiced, pointing at Don Benito who shrank away.
“Ah, yes,” the planter said, “and this must be the one of the female passengers.” He lunged, Alex sidestepped, he lunged again and her hand connected hard enough with his arm to make him exclaim. Don Benito gawked; never had he seen a woman fight like this, and neither, apparently, had the planter.
“No!” the planter barked when one of his men threw himself at Alex. “I’ll handle her myself.”
“You wish,” Alex spat.
The slave-owner laughed. “Oh, I most certainly will, and once I’m done with you…” Once again he flew like a sack of beans through the night, landing with a loud “ouff” on the ground. Don Benito was torn between admiration and irritation; this woman had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. He swallowed, eyes on the three other men now converging upon them.
Alex moved from side to side, but was clearly hampered by her skirts. Don Benito wasn’t sure quite what to do. He was a man of God, and for all that he carried a sword, he’d never handled one in his life. Three men; one woman. A blade glinted in the weak light, and Don Benito did the only thing he could, he threw himself forward. Dios mio! It burnt into his side, and he sank to his knees, curling himself around the pain.
*
The men retreated, one of them cursing under his breath. The planter rose to stand, spitting recriminations at Alex. She remained crouched, all of her muscles quivering after the last few minutes of unfamiliar activity. Some skills once learnt never leave you, she reflected, throwing a look at where Don Benito was writhing, strange breathless sounds leaking through his clamped lips.
“On your head be it,” the planter said viciously and melted away into the night.
She rushed to the edge in a futile attempt to find the poor slave in the dark scummy water, and then turned back to Don Benito, who was still prostrate on the ground, breath hissing in and out. Alex initial reaction was one of irritation.
“You stupid man,” she said, crossly, bending down to help him to his feet. “I could have handled them by myself.” He gasped when she touched his side and she pulled back her hand. It was sticky and warm, and even if she couldn’t see in the dark she knew her palm was red – with his blood.
“You’re hurt!” She tried to see his face, leaning in as close as she could. In his laboured exhalations she could make out the smoked fish they’d had for dinner. “Can you walk?”
Don Benito shook his head. “Don’t leave me,” he wheezed. “Don’t leave me to die alone.”
“You won’t die,” she reassured him, “but unless I get help, you will.” She used her shawl as a makeshift bandage, gave him a pat on the cheek, and ran like the wind up the dark street.
With combined efforts, Captain Miles and Mr Coulter got Don Benito back to the house. Once he was in bed, Mrs Gordon took over, cutting away both shirt and the hair shirt underneath. Captain Miles made huge eyes at this last garment, but Mrs Gordon snapped at him to stop gawking and make himself useful instead. There was water to boil and linen to tear, and while he was at it mayhap he could find some brandy as well.
“He’s going to die,” Alex whispered to Mrs Gordon. There was a strange sound coming from Don Benito’s chest, like the gurgling noise a snorkel makes if it’s slightly under water and you try to breathe through it.
“Aye.” Mrs Gordon tried to stop the air from leaking in and out through the open wound.
“My fault,” Alex said.
“That we can worry about later. Now we need to help him as well as we can.” Mrs Gordon had by now gotten a bandage in place, but the air still whistled through the hole with every breath he took.
*
“Alex?” Don Benito
’s head was full of pain and fear, and he fumbled for her hand. She fell to her knees on the floor and took his hand, pressing it against her chest.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Oh, God…Perdóname, Don Benito.”
It doesn’t matter, he wanted to say, but it did, and the pain that shot through him at every breath made it difficult to talk. He was going to die! No, no quiero morir, I am too young to die… Louise… He closed his eyes, concentrated on breathing.
“Will you deliver the gifts to Sir William?” His voice was a thread in the dark. To his relief, she didn’t attempt to smile and tell him not to be silly – both of them knew he was dying, a slow agonised drowning. Instead, she nodded and squeezed his hand.
“I want to be buried in my hair shirt,” he went on, waving weakly in the direction of the garment. He tried to raise his free hand to her face, but let it drop, heavy like lead beside him. Stupid, stupid woman, this was all her fault. And yet…he smiled at her, coughed. Ay Jesús! How that hurt.
“In my small coffer…” He breathed. “…yours. Use it to free your man.” He inhaled greedily, wanting desperately to live, not die like this. “Louise…” He licked his lips. “…write.”
“I will,” Alex assured him. “I’ll write to Louise, and to your brother.” Don Benito nodded in gratitude. She would send his letter as well.
“The coffer…” he said, air wheezing through his open chest. She brought it over and opened it, lifting out a heavy pouch in dark red velvet.
“I can’t take this!”
Don Benito smiled. It wasn’t really his to give, it belonged to the mission of spreading God’s writ among the natives of Virginia, but those poor heathen wouldn’t miss his presence.
“It’s mine,” he lied, “and I give it to you, hija. For Matthew…” His throat clogged and he swallowed in panic until a tendril of oxygen found its way down to his lungs. “…the man God gave you.” She was crying, tears streaking her face, and he wanted to hand her his handkerchief but he couldn’t even lift his arm.
He breathed again and again. His heart thundered in his chest, his vision was slipping, and he was so terribly cold. Not like this, he moaned, not now.
“No fue tu culpa,” he whispered to the bent head by his side. “You did what you thought was right.” She sobbed, clutching his hand hard. He fell back like a gutted fish, exhausted with the effort of saying all that. He coughed, eyes snapping open when his mouth filled with blood. He was bleeding! Dear Lord, he was wounded! He spat, he choked and swallowed, struggling to sit, mouth wide open as he sucked and sucked air into his lungs.
“Alex?” He couldn’t see, oh God, this was it, and why were there no angels, no rays of heavenly light to make his passing easier? I die in sin! I will never stand before Our Lord, not me, not a fornicating priest.
“Shh,” Alex’s hand smoothed his hair, she kissed his cheek, eased him back against the pillows. So warm, all of her was warm and soft. Louise… I love you, Louise.
“I’m scared.” He mumbled a prayer, but he couldn’t recall the words, not getting beyond a jumbled Please God, please, please God, I have tried to be good. No last rites, no absolution, he was destined for hell. Santa María, ayúdame. He thrashed, flailed, and there was Alex, her hands gripping his, her voice whispering that it was alright, it would be alright, and God would understand, of course he would. Don Benito wasn’t all that sure.
“No quiero…ay, no quiero. Perdóname Dios, Forgive me Lord.” He panicked; no air, so much pain. Alex pressed him back against the pillows.
“Estoy aquí,” she whispered. “I’m here.” She began to sing in Spanish, and he relaxed when he heard the sound of his mother tongue, imagining himself back in his Seville, la ciudad más hermosa del mundo. All through the night she sang, and Don Benito floated in and out of consciousness, his hand held in hers.
He was still alive when the sun rose, turning his blurring eyes towards the ray that struck through the small window to pattern the floor and throw a halo of light round Alex’s head. Un ángel…sí, un ángel. Don Benito squeezed her hand and died.
Chapter 16
On the day of his son’s second birthday, Matthew woke up weeping after a far too vivid dream of permanent loss. He lay for a long time staring at the crumbling clay of the damp wall only inches from his nose, trying to collect his thoughts.
He pulled the threadbare blanket tighter round his shoulders and closed his eyes. It was Sunday, and not even here were they expected to work on the day of rest – not now, in late January. During planting and harvesting it was different, but during these slow months of winter, Jones had no wish to leave his own bed on a Sunday. Strangely, these days were the most difficult to live through, far too many hours when his mind lay open to the whispered temptation of drowning in memories, only to find himself rudely recalled to a reality he wouldn’t wish on a dog.
Matthew sighed and got to his feet. Elijah was already up, probably hanging around the cook house in the hope of wheedling an extra helping of breakfast from the grim Mrs Humphries. Once so rotund, Elijah had shrunk to something resembling a pole with a head, long stringy arms ending in narrow fingers with constantly torn or bleeding nails.
Over the last few months, Elijah had become Jones’ favourite victim, his sniffling begging making the overseer smile cruelly when he ordered Elijah to one heavy task after the other. Always Matthew and Elijah, but where Matthew had learnt to hold his tongue, Elijah would sometimes weep, falling to his knees and pleading that he might be released from this.
Matthew had just finished his breakfast when Jones appeared in the door of the cook house, his ginger hair standing messily around his head.
“Elijah?”
Matthew looked around and hitched a shoulder.
Jones cursed loudly. No one had ever escaped from Suffolk Rose under his care, he growled, and he wasn’t about to have that snivelling wreck of a man be the first one.
“Get the dogs!” he snapped to his eternal shadow, Sykes.
“You think he has run?” The thought was so ludicrous that Matthew almost laughed. Deep inside stirred a sense of admiration at this reckless act. Why had he not tried to? Then he looked at himself, inadequately covered in rags, grimy shins protruding from his breeches and sighed. He didn’t stand a chance… No, he was doing the right thing, waiting for her to come and find him. Besides, there were the dogs, huge black and tan creatures that were set free at night to roam the estate. He could hear them baying now, a deep sound that vibrated through the air. Poor daft bastard, he wouldn’t get far.
Elijah was dragged back shrieking, clapped over the head until he collapsed, and locked into one of the storage sheds. Jones stalked over to the big house to confer with Fairfax, and just after noon he walked back. In his hand he held a coiled flogging whip.
“There, now!” he snarled at the men and indicated the main yard with its stout, weathered post. The silence around the whipping post was absolute. Grey shapes shuffled into line and stood in the cold wind waiting. Elijah was led out, his pale skin breaking out in goose pimples, and was tied into place, hands high above his head.
“This man is a thief,” Jones began. “He has attempted to steal himself away from Mr Fairfax, thereby depriving him of years of service for which Mr Fairfax has paid dearly.” He sauntered up and down the line, the whip displayed prominently. “Mr Fairfax has no tolerance with thieves, Mr Fairfax dislikes when his property…” Jones emphasised the word and glanced in the direction of Matthew, who dropped his eyes to the ground. “…I repeat, his property, absconds.” He scratched his nose and looked at the silent, assembled men for a long time. “A thief we hang – or maim – but Mr Fairfax has agreed to be lenient. He will be flogged; one hundred lashes.” A collective gasp went up from the men and Elijah’s legs buckled under him.
“Sweetest Lord,” Matthew whispered to Davy. “One hundred lashes – it would be kinder to kill him outright.”
“Aye” Davy groaned, “but this way he brings the
lesson home to all of us.”
Jones handed the whip to Sykes. He nodded that the sentence be carried out.
It took five lashes before Elijah began to cry out, ten more before he began to scream, and then he screamed and screamed for the coming thirty lashes or so. A further thirty, and he barely whimpered, hanging so heavily in his arms that the shoulders seemed on the point of permanently popping out of their sockets.
“For the love of God, please stop! You’ll kill him!” Matthew said, sickened to the point of vomiting by this spectacle.
Jones lifted his hand to stay the flogging. “One hundred lashes, are you willing to take the last twenty-five in his place?”
A shiver flew through Matthew. Twenty-five lashes for something he hadn’t done, and he knew exactly what it would feel like, how much it would hurt. Fear pooled in his gut and leaked downward, making his knees weaken. He looked at Elijah and the blood running down his back to drip to the dust below his feet. The back was laid open from shoulder blades to waist. Twenty-five more lashes would kill him. Matthew raised his chin and met Jones’ eyes.
“Aye,” he said, hearing a murmur behind him.
Jones nodded his agreement to the exchange. He bowed and waved his hand towards the post.
“At your convenience, sir.”
Matthew pulled off his shirt and used all his willpower to walk straight and tall the few yards that separated him from where Sykes was busy dragging Elijah out of the way. He gripped the ring with his hands, shaking his head when they came with rope, and waited. He waited a long time, and finally snuck a look over his shoulder.
Jones met his eyes and smiled. “I’ll be wielding the whip myself. Gentleman to gentleman, like.”
Matthew had been flogged before, in gaol. But never like this, never with each stroke delivered at maximum strength, with long unbearable pauses between them. After seven lashes he gasped. At the tenth lash he bit through his lip, leaned his forehead against the smooth wood, and tried to stop himself from crying out when the leaded tip tore into his tender skin fifteen more times.
Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 12