The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  ‘Trouble in one of the fields,’ an English voice responded. ‘It’s that bloody Scot again, Macpherson. You’re needed.’

  At the mention of the name, Kit stiffened.

  ‘You know this man?’ Thamsine whispered.

  ‘I knew someone of that name … at Worcester.’

  Outhwaite swore. ‘Macpherson? Have him taken to the Hole.’

  He turned back to the bedchamber.

  ‘What is the ‘ole?’ Kit enquired. Thamsine wondered how he managed to make the question sound so ingenuous.

  A twisted sneer crossed Outhwaite’s face. ‘Little invention of me own. The old man was too soft on these bastards. I had a hole dug in the middle of the slave quarters. Not long enough to lie in and not tall enough to stand, with nothing but a grate over the top. I find a floggin’ and a few days in there brings ‘em to heel pretty quick.’

  The bile rose in Thamsine’s throat and her hand tightened on Kit’s sleeve. He didn’t know that Daniel had been thrown into the Hole …

  ‘That sounds a little extreme,’ Kit remarked in a mild tone of voice, while beneath Thamsine’s hand the muscles of his arm had tensed.

  ‘Vermin, that’s what they are. Vermin, and deserve no better. I’d better see to the troublemaker. You can sleep here but don’t expect to be entertained. Clara, you’ve got work. Get to it.’

  He turned and stomped out of the room. The little maid turned one last despairing glance at Kit and Thamsine before scuttling after him.

  Kit shut the door behind them. Thamsine sat up and recounted what Clara had told her.

  Kit’s mouth tightened, and the fingers of his left hand clenched and unclenched.

  ‘If Pritchard’s an invalid, he’ll be in one of the other rooms. Let’s go and see if we can get any sense out of him.’

  ~ * ~

  They waited until the house had gone quiet. Through the slats that covered the window, Kit could hear Outhwaite yelling. He shuddered to think what fate he intended for poor Macpherson.

  He glanced at Thamsine and nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

  Four doors faced onto the landing. All were closed. They opened the first one, revealing a squalid rat’s nest of empty bottles and worse. Filthy sheets covered the bed. Thamsine recoiled with her hand to her nose.

  ‘Outhwaite’s room,’ she said.

  The second room contained nothing except a broken pallet bed and a three-legged stool. The door to the fourth room appeared to be locked, but the key had been left hanging on a nail beside the door frame. Kit turned the key and opened the door. Even he gagged. The stench of illness, and worse, pervaded the dark, airless room.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could see a skeletal figure reclining under a sheet on the bed. He crossed to the bed and looked down into the waxen face. The left side of the man’s unshaven face looked as if it had melted, the features dragged down and distorted. Only the eyes that scanned his face, showed the intelligence that still burned brightly within.

  ‘I’m Daniel Lovell’s brother,’ he said without preamble.

  The man’s eyes moistened and he raised his right hand, gesturing Kit closer. The skeletal fingers closed on his wrist and he opened his mouth, a dribble of spittle sliding from the corner.

  ‘’An’l?’

  ‘Aye. My name’s Kit Lovell. Daniel was my brother. I came to take him home.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Too late. Good boy, ‘an’l. Tried … ’ The man’s face twisted with the effort of speaking. ‘My Janey … ’ he shook his head. ‘Would’ve … wed.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Kit asked.

  For answer, the man looked away. He raised his hand and waved at a dark corner of the room. ‘’ible,’ he croaked.

  Thamsine followed the direction he indicated and produced a dusty box from a chest. She set it down on the end of the bed and opened it, lifting out a hefty Bible.

  Pritchard burbled unintelligibly, gesturing at the book.

  Thamsine turned the book upside down and shook it. A single sheet of paper wafted to the floor. She picked it up and handed it to Kit. From outside they could hear the sound of Outhwaite in heated conversation with another man. Their voices were coming closer.

  Kit folded the paper and stowed it in his jacket.

  ‘Put the box back, Tham,’ he said.

  He looked down at Pritchard. ‘Thank you. We will make this right.’

  They barely made it back to the guest bedchamber before the front door slammed and Outhwaite came stumping up the stairs.

  ‘I ‘spose you want feeding,’ he said. ‘The girl’ll have food on’t table in an hour.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ Kit said.

  He waited until he heard Outhwaite go back outside and unfolded the paper.

  ‘It’s Daniel’s handwriting,’ he said.

  Thamsine clutched his arm. ‘Read it.’

  It was dated Twelfth of February, 1654:

  This is the testament of Daniel Lovell of Eveleigh Priory, Cheshire. I am the grandson of the second Lord Midhurst and a prisoner of the Commonwealth for no more crime than loyalty to my King. I write this in the hope that the finder will bring justice, not just for me, because it is certain I will be dead before the week is out, but for the good man John Pritchard, who lies ill and untended on his bed, and the poor souls who labour in the fields under the lash of one Ebenezer Outhwaite. Since the death of his daughter Jane, John Pritchard has been taken with a palsy, and at his desire the management of the plantation has fallen to me, but Ebenezer Outhwaite covets the land, even as he coveted Pritchard’s daughter. His manifest cruelties are listed below. These I have seen with my own eyes.

  The death of the Scottish prisoner Brodie was dealt by Outhwaite’s own hand. Every day another prisoner is selected by Outhwaite as an example for flogging or consignment to the hole he has had dug in the compound of the slave quarters. Rations have been cut and there is much illness among the labourers.

  As for John Pritchard, no one attends him but the slave girl, Clara, who is inadequate to the care of such a sick man. I have resolved that tonight I will take flight and try to reach Holetown in the hope that I can bring my testimony of the dire deeds at the Pritchard Plantation to the attention of the Governor. I fear, however, that I will not make it. Outhwaite does not trust me and is waiting on an opportunity to move against me. I leave this testimony concealed in the hope that aid will come ere long.

  Signed, Daniel Lovell, in the year of our Lord 1654.

  A list followed detailing the barbarous treatment of the slaves and labourers on the Pritchard Plantation since Pritchard’s illness. Floggings, deaths and rape.

  Thamsine drew in a deep breath. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Kit stared at his brother’s testament, a red mist of rage obscuring the words.

  ‘We end this now,’ he said.

  ~ * ~

  Kit found Outhwaite drinking in what would have once been the parlour of the plantation house. Like the bedchamber, Outhwaite had turned it into a pigsty.

  ‘It’s you,’ the man said. ‘If you want a drink, help yourself.’

  Kit kicked aside an empty bottle and flicked the ruffles of his shirt sleeves. ‘Actually, monsieur, I am most interested in your methods. I am considering investing in a plantation myself, and it is my understanding that these slaves need the strictest controls.’

  Outhwaite drew his lips up in a sneer. ‘Vermin. Tha’s what they are, vermin.’

  ‘Can you perhaps, show me this ‘ole?’

  ‘Your lady still indisposed?’

  ‘She is,’ Kit demurred.

  Outhwaite set his bottle down and heaved himself to his feet. ‘Don’t see why not, seeing as you’re interested.’

  As they left the house, Outhwaite started on a monologue about the foolishness of treating slaves with too much leniency.

  ‘They’re not human like you and me,’ he said as they approached the gate to the compound. Kit took a deep breath. The stenc
h of human waste hung like a miasma in the air. The slaves and indentured labourers were making their way down the road towards them. They walked like men on their way to the gallows, feet dragging, heads bowed. Outhwaite stood aside to let them into the compound. Kit did a quick calculation. There were thirty prisoners and three overseers. All but five prisoners wore chains. The unchained men, he assumed, were trusted by the overseers.

  He scanned the faces but saw none he recognised among the Scottish prisoners. He just prayed that the man in the Hole, Macpherson, was the man he knew.

  ‘Line ‘em up,’ Outhwaite ordered. ‘Bring out Macpherson. I want him flogged and I want ye all to see what happens when you disobey an order.’

  Six feet in front of Kit a grate had been set into the ground, a heavy padlock securing it. Kit’s blood ran cold. The grating afforded no protection from sun or rain. Thamsine had told him that Outhwaite had confined Daniel in this instrument of torture, for there was no other word for it. For that reason alone, he would see Outhwaite hang.

  One of the overseers, a man as filthy and disreputable as Outhwaite, stepped forward and unlocked the padlock. The man beneath them roared a Gaelic curse as Outhwaite gestured for two of the unshackled prisoners to step forward. Obviously familiar with the routine, the two men leaned into the Hole and dragged the man from it.

  Kit’s heart skipped a beat as the shaggy head emerged from within. Thinner and diminished by imprisonment, but definitely Macpherson. He slid his hand into his jacket and withdrew the loaded pistol he had brought with him. With years of practice, he pressed the muzzle of the pistol against Outhwaite’s head, just behind his ear, before Outhwaite had time to react.

  The man let a squawk of surprise and the overseers moved forward. Two of them drew pistols from their belts.

  ‘Not an inch,’ Kit said. ‘The first man who moves, Outhwaite here dies.’

  The overseers exchanged glances and it occurred to Kit that they may not particularly care if Outhwaite lived or died.

  ‘And the second man who moves also dies,’ said Thamsine from behind him. ‘Lay your weapons down, gentlemen.’

  She raised the second pistol Kit had brought with him. Kit had taught her to load and fire the weapons and he had every confidence in her ability to bring a man down. The men glanced uneasily at each other and, to Kit’s relief, complied.

  ‘Capn’ Lovell, as I live and breathe,’ Macpherson grinned, shaking off the hands of his captors.

  ‘Lovell?’ Outhwaite gasped.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. I’m Daniel Lovell’s brother. Macpherson, collect those weapons and lock those men up.’ He indicated the overseers and the trusted prisoners.

  The ranks of prisoners stirred. The chained prisoners glanced at each other, seeing for the first time some little hope for the amelioration of their misery. As one they started to rattle their chains.

  ‘And you,’ he shoved the musket harder against Outhwaite’s head. ‘In the Hole.’

  ‘Please,’ the man said, and the sour stench of urine rose to Kit’s nostrils. Like most bullies, Outhwaite was a coward.

  With one shove he pushed the man into the Hole and dropped the grate with a clang, turning the key in the padlock.

  ‘What about us?’ One of the Scots among the ranks of the chained prisoners called out.

  If he turned them free he would have a riot on his hands and, he had no doubt, Outhwaite and his men would be dead before morning. He had no choice.

  ‘Macpherson, choose four men you trust. The rest have to be confined.’

  A roar of disapproval met that statement, but faced with the weapons ranged against them held by Kit, Thamsine and Macpherson, none were quite brave enough to chance their luck.

  Macpherson understood the situation, and with the help of four of his former comrades in arms, they had the angry labour force padlocked into their cabins.

  ‘Make sure they get double rations,’ Kit ordered.

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What now?’ Thamsine asked.

  Kit sat down on the edge of one of the large cauldrons used for boiling the sugarcane. ‘We send word to Willoughby.’

  ~ * ~

  As night descended on the plantation, Kit and Thamsine sat with Macpherson on the broad terrace that faced out to sea. A soft, warm breeze brought with it the scent of jungle and sea. Behind the house, angry men demanded to be set free. Kit had set Macpherson’s men to guard the compound. It was a risk giving them weapons but he had no choice.

  Thamsine had organised Clara and the other maids she had found cowering in the kitchens to clean John Pritchard’s room. The condition of the man shocked her. He had been lying in his own filth for days, if not weeks. It took a strong stomach to bathe him and treat the dreadful, suppurating sores.

  One of the younger Scots had been dispatched to Holetown bearing a letter from Kit along with a copy of Daniel’s testimony. Nothing more could be done until Willoughby arrived, and now he had just one question to be answered. Where was his brother?

  Macpherson drew on the pipe he had “borrowed” from Outhwaite and expelled a satisfied grunt.

  ‘I’ve missed the tobacco,’ he said. ‘Now, I suppose you want to know what became of your brother?’

  The stem of the clay pipe Kit held between his fingers snapped.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Macpherson removed the long stem of his pipe from his mouth and considered the question.

  ‘I dinna know,’ he said at last. ‘Daniel was in a bad position. He was still a prisoner, no better than I, so Outhwaite could do as he liked with him. While Pritchard was still in charge, Outhwaite couldn’t touch him, but when Pritchard was taken ill, it left Outhwaite in charge. For a while there he let Daniel alone. He needed the lad. I doubt Outhwaite can read or write, but when Daniel started to object to Outhwaite’s methods and the treatment of the labourers, Outhwaite mun become a wee bit nervous. There’d been a boy, Brodie. Outhwaite beat the boy to death. We all witnessed it, but Dan’l must have decided to go for help because Outhwaite moved on him. He had the lad flogged and locked in the Hole.’

  Kit cleared his throat. ‘How long?’ he asked.

  Macpherson shook his head. ‘Best you dinna know. It were long enough that they took the boy for dead when they pulled him out.’

  Thamsine grasped Kit’s hand.

  Kit swallowed. ‘What did they do with him?’

  ‘Normal practice was to bury the dead in a burying ground behind the cabin, but there’d been a few too many deaths of late, so Outhwaite ordered his men to take the body into the jungle and dump it.’

  Kit swore.

  ‘He said as it were a lesson that we were no better than animals and should be treated as such. Big on his lessons, Mr. Outhwaite.’

  ‘And was he dead?’ Thamsine asked the question that Kit could not find the words for.

  Macpherson sighed. ‘One of Outhwaite’s men took me out into the forest a few days later. Said we were going huntin’, but he wanted to see the lad covered decent and say a few words of prayer. He didn’t think it right leaving a Christian out there w’out even a prayer being said over him. When we got to the place, the body had gone.’

  ‘Did he go back to the right place?’

  Macpherson shrugged. ‘Aye. There were signs to tell me that someone had been there. Blood on’t grass, broken ferns.’

  Kit jumped to his feet. ‘Which man? I must speak to him.’

  Macpherson shook his head. ‘Died of the fever two month ago. Dinna get your hopes up, lady. Animals could’ve moved the body. Who knows? Even if he’d still been alive, he were sore hurt and his chance of surviving in the mountains … ’ Macpherson broke off. ‘The man told Outhwaite and he sent out search parties. Not a trace of the lad was found. So, to answer your question, Lovell, I canna say for certain whether your lad lives or no.’

  ~ * ~

  Kit and Thamsine stood together at the rail of the ship, watching as the b
rilliant green of the island of Barbados disappeared over the horizon. Above them the sails cracked in the stiff wind and the ropes creaked against the timbers. A fair wind to carry them back home to England.

  Willoughby had not wasted time answering Kit’s summons and the situation at the Pritchard Plantation had been resolved as best it could. At least John Pritchard would now see out his days in Holetown being cared for in a convent. The black labour force had been distributed among the other plantations, where they faced a life little better than the one they had endured under Outhwaite. However, Kit had managed to persuade Willoughby to release Macpherson and the remaining Scots and they were free now to work their passage back to England, if that’s what they wished to do.

  Faced with Daniel’s testimony and supported by the evidence of others who had witnessed or borne the brunt of Outhwaite’s cruelty, Willoughby had put the man on trial, and Kit had the grim satisfaction of knowing Outhwaite would die for the murder of Brodie, if not for the death of his brother.

  ‘I swore I would not believe in Daniel’s death until I stood at his graveside,’ Kit said at last.

  Thamsine put her hand over his. She had no words left to comfort this man. He had come to Barbados seeking closure and now he only had more questions.

  ‘What do I tell Margaret?’ he said, glancing at her.

  ‘The truth as you know it. You tell her that as far as you know he died in the cause of protecting those who could not protect themselves,’ Thamsine said.

  Kit’s fingers tightened on the rail. ‘Only a few more months, Tham, and he would have been free.’

  Thamsine tightened her grip on the crooked fingers of his right hand. He had paid a terrible price to win his brother’s liberty, and solecisms were easily spoken but no comfort to a man who had given his life to free his brother. Thamsine considered herself a good Christian. Kit had every reason to believe God had forsaken him, but she still had the power of prayer and now, that was all she could offer.

  If, by some miracle – and it would require a miracle – Daniel had survived the treatment meted out to him by Outhwaite, he had his own reasons for disappearing into the forest of Barbados. He would no longer be the youth who had followed on his brother’s heels, dreaming of honour and glory. He had been tempered in a fierce furnace, and perhaps one day their paths would cross, but it would be at a time of Daniel Lovell’s choosing.