He walked over to the boiling house. The moment he reached it, a blast hit him and he had to turn his head away. When he could open his eyes again, he peered through the door of the building. If anything, the boiling house was worse than the mill. Half a dozen black bodies, all naked, were filling copper kettles of various sizes with cane juice. Two more were stoking a furnace over which the kettles hung and three more were tending huge vats into which the liquid sugar was being poured. Row upon row of earthenware pots lined the walls and a huge heap of broken shards had been dumped in one corner. The whole operation was being overseen by a large man with a whip. With a start, Thomas realized it was John Gibbes, luckily with his back to the door. He stepped away hastily and trotted back to the trees.
When he was safely inside the tree line, he stopped and turned. God’s wounds, what suffering went into a cupful of sugar. If people knew, would they still buy it? Alas, he thought, they would.
He walked back up the path, past his hut and on to the house. The dog was asleep under the table and a fat rat scurried away at his approach. He went through the single room and into the kitchen. Like it or not, he would have to clean it up, especially if his own food was going to come from there. The Gibbes’s stomachs might be able to withstand the filth but his could not.
Outside the kitchen door was an area cleared of trees and scrub and used for storage and rubbish. Yet more barrels and pots stood on one side and on the other was a mound of broken bottles, bones, rotting food and discarded tools. A privy had been built beside the rubbish heap with an open channel running from it down a slope into the trees behind. It stank. Thomas held his hand to his face and retreated hastily back into the kitchen. The kitchen he could cope with, this he would do his best to avoid.
From the kitchen Thomas took a loaf of bread, two knives, a spoon and a cooking pot. One knife he would sharpen on a stone and use to trim his hair, beard and quills, the other, and the spoon, he would use for cooking and eating. He would cook his meals on an open fire outside the hut – the brutes could hardly object if it kept him out of their sight – and he would dig his own privy in the trees nearby.
Feeling a little better for having done something positive, he hurried back to the hut. Having soaked the loaf in water from the well, he was able to swallow it in small chunks. Then he lay on the bed and hoped that the biting insects of Barbados did not hunt their prey during the day and that the brutes would not return until sunset. He needed time to plan.
The Gibbes never did anything quietly and Thomas was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of them thundering up the path. He jumped off the bed and pretended to be working on the ledgers, just before John threw open the door of the hut and bellowed at him. ‘Get off your arse, Hill. We’re hungry and thirsty.’ Thomas left them tipping buckets of water over themselves and went down to the kitchen.
When they arrived at the house, dripping wet and smeared with dirt, he had put out a cold leg of mutton and two bottles of wine. It must have satisfied them because they sat down without complaint and set to. They tore the mutton off the bone with their hands and washed it down with gulps from the bottles. It was not long before they demanded more wine. This time he took out four bottles, hoping that would be enough even for these two.
‘Now get back to your hut, Hill,’ spat Samuel through a mouthful of meat, ‘and don’t show your prissy face until morning.’ Delighted to do as he was told, Thomas returned to his hut with a leg of pork under his shirt.
Having eaten a slice of pork, drunk and washed at the well and found a stone on which to whet his knife, Thomas realized that he had survived his first day at the hands of these animals and that he should do something to record the feat. With the knife he made a tiny notch in the table. Day one of his indenture was over and he would make a notch for each day survived, so when he got home he would be able to tell the girls exactly how many days he had been there.
Despite having drunk six bottles of wine, the brutes were up at dawn the next morning and shouting for Thomas. He struggled awake and staggered down to the house. ‘We’re going to town, Hill, and you’re coming with us,’ grunted Samuel, scratching at his beard. ‘Fetch the ponies.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Thomas innocently. With a pony, there might be a chance.
‘Where they always are,’ replied black brute. ‘In the field by the windmill.’
‘Windmill?’
The brothers looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Down the path. Look left. Bring two. You’ll walk.’ So much for a pony on which to gallop away. Unless they drank themselves insensible, the thought of being pursued by mounted Gibbes was not a happy one.
Thomas collected the ponies. They made him think of riding with his father over the fields and through the woods around Romsey. From somewhere the Gibbes had produced saddles and bridles and within two minutes they were off. With the rope again around his neck, Thomas followed behind.
They walked down the hill and then northwards with the shore on their left. Thomas could not help gazing at the sea. Close in it was almost transparent, moving through deeper shades of blue as far as the horizon. The Caribbean’s reputation was well deserved. Beautiful and deadly. He had to tear his eyes from it to examine his surroundings. The road was narrow and rough, barely more than a path scraped out of the forest, and the trees on their right loomed high over them. It would be easy for a man to disappear. And just as easy to stay disappeared. The forest was thick and frightening.
The village of Speightstown was about a mile from the bottom of the hill. It was not much, just two rows of timber- and stone-built shacks and cottages, through which ran the only street, a small jetty to which fishing boats had been tied, an inn and an open square opposite the jetty. The square was full of stalls and, having tethered their ponies outside the inn, that was where they went.
It was not so different from the Romsey market. Traders hawked their wares and clamoured for attention, planters and their women examined each item carefully before parting with their money and, despite the early hour, the inn was overflowing with drinkers. It was crowded and noisy. As at Oistins, though, the smells were different. In Romsey, the smells of the market were those of fresh food and cooking fat. Here they were more of sweat, drains and rotting vegetables. And the heat was fierce. Thomas felt his head burning and tried to stay in the shade. Everyone else wore a hat.
Still led by the rope, Thomas followed the Gibbes around the stalls, while they filled two sacks with meat, poultry and bread, but showed no interest in the fish, fruit or vegetables. None of the other planters spoke to the Gibbes, nor did they actually pay for anything. At each stall, having taken what they wanted, one of them muttered ‘end of the month’, and they moved on. There was no argument. As they made their way around the square, Thomas was aware of being inspected. Another wretch at the mercy of the Gibbes was what the traders would be thinking and, if so, they were right.
Having heaved the heavy sacks on to the backs of the ponies and secured them carefully, Thomas wondered what was coming next. He should have known. Leaving him tied to a stunted tree with orders to stay put and watch the ponies or feel the whip, the Gibbes marched into the inn.
Thomas sat on a low wall in the meagre shade of the tree, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and wondered if there was a well in the village. He was about to ask when a voice behind him said, ‘Good day, sir. I saw you with the Gibbes brothers and wondered if you would care for a drink?’ Thomas turned in surprise. A slim young man of no more than twenty was holding out a leather flask. ‘It’s coconut water. Good for the stomach.’ It was an unusual voice with a slight lilt to it – both educated and musical.
Thomas took the flask and swallowed a mouthful of coconut water. It was cool and sweet and he took a second gulp. ‘Thank you,’ he said, handing back the flask.
‘My name is Patrick,’ said the young man with a grin that showed off his gleaming teeth. ‘I’m employed by Mr Lyte and his sister Mary. Their estate borders on the
Gibbes’s, so we’re neighbours.’
Thomas stood and offered his hand. ‘I am Thomas Hill, indentured to the brutes, I mean the Gibbes.’
Patrick chuckled. ‘How long have you been with the brutes, Thomas?’
‘This is my second day.’
‘It didn’t take you long to discover what they’re like.’
‘Are your owners any better?’
Another huge smile. ‘I’m a lucky man. I was born here to a white father and a black mother. I have lived on the Lytes’ estate all my life. When they came here the Lytes bought the plantation with all its slaves. I was one of them. They are good people, as different from the Gibbes as you could imagine.’
‘So you’re a slave.’
‘I am because my skin is black or at least it is not white, but I’m treated as a trusted servant. I count myself fortunate. How long is your indenture?’
‘Seven years. It’s beyond imagining.’
‘Then don’t imagine, Thomas. Take each day as it comes. The time will pass. Why were you indentured?’
Patrick listened while Thomas told the story of his arrest and deportation and of being forced to leave his sister and nieces to fend for themselves. ‘And you really have no idea who arranged it?’ he asked when Thomas had finished.
‘I have tried and tried to work out who might have done this to me. It must have been someone who bears me a grudge, but who? I can think of no one.’
The Gibbes emerged from the inn, each with a bottle in his hand. John untied the rope from the tree and bellowed at Thomas to get moving. ‘There’s work to be done, Hill. Leave that blackamoor to his thieving and hurry up.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Goodbye, Patrick. Thank you for the coconut water.’
‘Goodbye, Thomas. Go well.’
The walk back up the hill was a good deal harder than the walk down and by the time they reached the house Thomas was in urgent need of water. First, however, he had to carry the sacks into the kitchen and unload them while the brutes unsaddled the ponies and kicked the saddles and bridles under their beds.
‘Take the ponies back to the field, Hill,’ ordered Samuel, ‘then cook dinner. Roast that piglet. We won’t be far away, so don’t try anything.’
Try what? Thomas asked himself, as he walked the ponies up the path. Even if I run, how do I escape from an island prison if I can neither swim nor fly? Daedalus’s wings? Noah’s Ark? Realizing that the heat and thirst were already sapping his spirit, he shook his head, breathed deeply and ordered himself not to despair. He would find a way.
After a sweltering afternoon in the kitchen turning the piglet on the spit over the fire, Thomas sat outside the house and waited for the Gibbes to return from the fields. When they did, he brought out the piglet and four more bottles and left them to it.
Back at his hut he drank from the well, washed, scraped his beard with the little knife, examined his face in the inkwell and lay on his bed. Before he fell asleep, he took the knife and cut another notch in the table. Two notches. Two days. How many more would there be?
CHAPTER 7
SINCE THE WAR had erupted again Tobias Rush seldom left London. Travelling was dangerous and it would be all too easy to get caught up in a skirmish or attacked by a gang of clubmen. It was not that he was afraid, just that such a thing would be a nuisance. He planned carefully and disliked his plans being disrupted. From the safety of his house in Cheapside he kept himself informed by regular reports from his agents, which were much more reliable than London tittle-tattle or the newsbooks.
For this task, however, he had no choice. He had to make this journey himself. Fortunately, his luck held and they encountered no difficulties on the road from London to Winchester and thence to Romsey. When they reached an inn on the outskirts of the town he instructed the coachman to stop and to arrange stabling for the horses and the best room available for himself. The coachman would sleep with the horses. It was always wise to have a means of escape prepared, just in case. Carrying his silver-topped cane and a slim leather case containing the papers, he walked the rest of the way.
He had no difficulty in finding Love Lane or the shop. As much out of habit as for fear of being observed he walked up and down the lane twice before stopping to peer through the shop window. He waited outside until a customer left clutching a book, let himself in and quietly locked the door behind him. The woman sitting at the desk at one side of the shop looked up. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she greeted him. ‘May I assist you?’ But for the strain etched into her face and the tiredness in her eyes she would have been good-looking. He could see the resemblance.
‘On the contrary. It is I who may assist you. Are you Margaret Taylor?’
She peered at him. ‘I am. Are you selling books?’
Rush scoffed. ‘Do I look like a seller of books? No, I have come about another matter.’
‘What matter would that be?’
‘Your brother.’
Margaret was immediately on her feet. ‘Thomas? What do you know of Thomas? Where is he? Is he alive?’
‘We will come to that. Where are your daughters?’ His tone was icy and suddenly Margaret was frightened.
‘With a friend. Why?’
‘I wish us to be undisturbed. Sit down and you will find out why I am here.’ Margaret sat. Rush picked up a book and turned it round to read the title. Then he glanced around the shop. This was a moment he had been looking forward to and he was going to savour it. He took his time until eventually he looked Margaret in the eye and smiled his thin smile. ‘My name is Tobias Rush.’
The blood drained from Margaret’s face. She knew the name at once. Tobias Rush was the traitor whom Thomas had exposed in Oxford. The murderer of Thomas’s old tutor who had very nearly murdered Thomas as well. A fiend from hell was how Thomas had described him, a fiend who took pleasure in inflicting pain. But it could not be Rush. He was dead. The king himself had seen his body. She remembered exactly how Thomas had described it. A traitor’s death, his body broken and his face a bloody mess. She stared at the man. Could the king have been mistaken? Or was this man, for some unthinkable reason, an impostor?
‘I assure you it is so. The king was easily deceived about my death and your brother accepted his word. Fools, both of them.’ It was as if Rush had read her thoughts. He held up the silver-topped cane and slowly withdrew the slim blade. ‘Did he tell you about this?’ Margaret put her hand to her mouth. Not only had Thomas told her about it, there was another just like it in his bedroom. He had brought it back from Oxford. Rush slid the blade back into place and rested the cane within easy reach against a bookcase.
‘You have come to murder us.’
‘In fact, I have not. Not yet, anyway. I have come to show you these.’ He opened the leather case and withdrew the documents inside. Two of them he handed to Margaret. ‘Do not bother to destroy them. I have copies.’ Margaret spread both on the desk and read the first. Then she read it again, before turning to the second, much shorter one. Rush’s eyes never left her face as she read.
‘They are forgeries,’ she said calmly, without looking up.
Rush had expected this. ‘I deny it. In any case, forgeries or not, there are three reasons why they will be enforced. First, it cannot be proved that the letter and his signature on the contract are not in Thomas Hill’s hand, as they are a perfect match for it. Second, any attempt to show otherwise will result in his suffering greatly; and third, you have two lovely daughters.’
‘You would threaten my daughters?’ Margaret almost shrieked the words. Rush merely raised an eyebrow and stroked the top of the cane. ‘If my brother is alive, where is he? Tell me where he is.’
‘He is alive and in good hands. You do not need to know his whereabouts.’
‘Can you prove that he is alive?’
‘Can you take the risk that he is not?’
Margaret put her head in her hands. If Thomas was alive but in the hands of this monster, he would be better dead. And so would she. Tobias Ru
sh. It was beyond imagining. Tobias Rush, the man Thomas had proved to be a murderer and traitor, and who had died in Oxford, was standing before her. So it was he who had arranged for Thomas to be arrested. And now he claimed to own the shop and the house. And he was right. The contract transferring the title to the property from Thomas Hill to Tobias Rush was properly sealed, witnessed and signed by both parties. Had she not known better, she would have taken Thomas’s signature to be his. It was a perfect forgery. As was the letter in his hand explaining to her that he had agreed the sale of the property to Tobias Rush because he was about to be deported to the colonies and trusted his old friend to take care of both the property and his family. If he did not return, their future at least would be secure. He instructed Margaret to do exactly as Tobias Rush told her. When she could speak, Margaret asked quietly, ‘What would you have me do?’
‘Fetch the deeds to the property and give them to me. And remember what I have said about your brother and your daughters.’ Despite her shock, Margaret knew she was trapped. Nothing would make her put Polly and Lucy at risk. She climbed the stairs to Thomas’s bedroom, reached under the bed and pulled out his strongbox. She used a key on her ring to open it, riffled through the documents inside, found the deeds and took them down to the shop. Without a word, she handed them to Rush. He checked that they were complete and tucked them into his case. ‘Excellent.’
‘My daughters will be home soon. Must they find you here?’
‘That will not be necessary. For now you will stay here and continue as before. Let it be known that your brother is dead. I have men in Romsey and you will be watched at all times. Any attempt to disobey my orders or to run away will be fatal. For all of you. Do you understand?’
Margaret nodded. ‘Will you tell Thomas we are well?’
Rush smirked. ‘I might.’
It had been as delicious as he had hoped. As he walked back to the inn, Tobias Rush swung his cane and replayed the encounter in his mind. Delicious.
The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) Page 5