CHAPTER 8
USING THE KNIFE taken from the kitchen, Thomas had scored a horizontal line through each group of nine notches on the table. When he scored through the fourth group, forty days had passed. Forty days in the kitchen, of making entries in the ledgers, of agonizing about Margaret and the girls, of solitude and anguish.
On his trips with the Gibbes to the market he had not met Patrick again and he knew little more about the island than he had when he first stepped ashore. His knowledge of its geography was limited to the road from Oistins to Speightstown. The Gibbes spoke to him only to give orders or make threats and neither the planters nor the traders ever addressed him.
Forty days of watching carts pulled by teams of slaves trundling backwards and forwards up the path towards the mill, empty on their way there, loaded with pots of sugar on their way back. Forty nights of nightmares, demons and biting insects.
Forty days and nights with not even Montaigne for company – his old friend had deserted him again just when he was needed most. Strangely, in the absence of Montaigne, the Franciscan friar Simon de Pointz had often come to mind. That unusual man, who had twice saved Thomas’s life in Oxford, had tempered his faith with what he called ‘pragmatism and humour’ – two most unfriarly qualities. Determined to survive whatever the brutes threw at him, Thomas found pragmatism straightforward; humour, however, well nigh impossible. Oh for Simon’s company in this distant, lonely prison.
Thomas had occupied himself with the ledgers and in cleaning out the kitchen and yard. He had dug a deep hole in the trees behind the hovel in which he had buried hundreds of empty bottles and mounds of rotting waste, and a second hole was already filling up. The yard was still home to legions of ants and cockroaches and used daily by the dogs, but he shovelled up the muck and kept it as clean as he could. He swept the kitchen floor whenever he was in there and protected the meat from the worst of the flies by covering it with linen cloths he had found stuffed in a barrel and had washed in rainwater. Bookkeeper to the brutes was bad enough; cook, cleaner and housekeeper, much worse.
In the forty days the weather had become hotter and wetter. Storm clouds now swept in from the Atlantic, bringing rain that turned hard earth into mud within minutes and filled the holes and ruts on the path with brown water; the winds that blew in the rain could fell a tree or lift a roof. Thomas struggled to plug the leaks in the roof of his hut, using whatever he could find to do the job. Palm fronds, branches, planks from old carts – all were pressed into service.
He had dug himself a privy behind the hut – at least the rain washed the muck away down the hill – and unless it was raining he cooked his meals on an open fire outside his door. He helped himself from the brutes’ kitchen and drank water from the well.
He had also experimented with the fruits that grew abundantly around the estate. Not knowing their local names, he had christened them himself. There were a greenish-yellow fruit in the shape of a hand – the finger fruit; a yellow-skinned fruit in the shape of a crescent moon, which hung in big clumps from the branches of its tree – the crescent fruit, and small green fruits which grew on bushes protected by spikes sharp enough to draw blood at the slightest touch, which he knew were limes. All of these, taken with a little sugar, were delicious. And there were cassava and sweet potatoes. If he made a hole in the shell of a coconut with his knife he could drink the water inside and then break the shell open with a stone to get at the white flesh. The first settlers on the island would have discovered all these things and many more twenty years earlier, but for Thomas each new discovery was a small triumph. He was not going to ask the brutes for advice and there was no one else. He dare not go down to the slaves’ huts – anyway, they would probably ignore him – and there had been no opportunity to talk to anyone in the market.
Having abandoned the idea of keeping a journal on the grounds that every entry would be the same, Thomas had instead carefully cut a page from one of the ledgers and on each tenth day had written on it a new adjective to describe the brutes. On his fortieth day, he had: brutish, coarse, filthy and carnivorous.
On the forty-first day, the Gibbes strode up to the hut and threw two sacks at him. ‘We’re needed in the windmill,’ bellowed Samuel. ‘Go to the market and buy a turkey and a shoat. And buy milk. Make sure it’s today’s. Tell them it’s for the Gibbes.’
‘And don’t think you can use our credit for anything else, Hill,’ added John, pointing his whip at Thomas’s eyes. ‘We’ll know if you do. Get straight back here when you’re done.’ After forty days, his chance might have come. Find a friendly trader to help or simply make his way to Oistins harbour and hide on a ship bound for England. ‘And if you so much as think of running you’ll be roasting your own balls for our dinner.’
Speightstown market was busy that morning. With the sacks over his shoulder, Thomas walked around the traders’ stalls, pretending to inspect the goods on offer while deciding what to do next. If he picked the wrong trader that might be the end of him and none of them had ever been friendly. They all knew Thomas was indentured to the Gibbes and the Gibbes owed them money. Why would they help him?
He felt a tap on his shoulder. ‘Good morning, Thomas. I’m glad to see you still alive. On your own today?’
‘Patrick, good morning. Yes, no brutes today. I think they want me to run so that they can hunt me down and do their worst. They sent me to buy a turkey, a shoat and milk.’
Patrick grinned. ‘A turkey and shoat dinner. And I know who’ll be coming to dine. Adam Lyte and our neighbour Charles Carrington. A good man and more than close to Mary Lyte, although I shall beat you to death if you repeat that.’
‘Adam Lyte’s sister. You mentioned her name.’
‘A beautiful lady, unfortunately for Mr Carrington engaged to a young man in England, Perkins by name. I have often heard her arguing with Mr Lyte about him.’
‘So they’re dining with the brutes. When is it?’
‘Tomorrow. Do you know about the turkey and the shoat?’
‘I know that I shall have to cook them. What else is there to know?’
‘Ah, allow me to instruct you. When the war broke out in England the island desperately wanted to keep out of it, although the majority of landowners are for the king. So the Assembly in Bridgetown passed a law forbidding the use of the words “Cavalier” and “Roundhead”. Anyone using the words is obliged to buy dinner – a turkey and a shoat – for everyone who heard him.’
‘So the brutes were heard saying Cavalier and Roundhead.’
‘Yes, but the law is often used as an excuse for a good dinner. They would have done it on purpose. Mr Lyte thinks they want to propose some business venture. The three estates are close to each other. He’s not looking forward to it and neither is Mr Carrington. They loathe the Gibbes, but in the interests of peace and prosperity they feel bound to go.’
‘You’re very well informed, Patrick.’
‘It comes from living with the Lytes and being treated as one of the family. Now make your purchases, Thomas, then come down to the beach by the jetty. I sometimes take a bath there. Then I’ll help you up the hill with your sacks.’
Thomas decided to take a risk. ‘Let’s go down to the beach first, Patrick. There is something I want to discuss with you.’
Patrick looked surprised. ‘Very well. Then we’ll find a turkey and a shoat worthy of your talents in the kitchen.’
On the beach, they stripped off their shirts and waded into the sea. Patrick handed Thomas a small earthenware pot. ‘There, try that. It’s aloe, very good for washing. It grows everywhere.’
The aloe was indeed good for washing and Thomas, for the first time since leaving England, felt clean. ‘Now what is it you want to discuss, Thomas?’ asked Patrick, when they were back on the beach. ‘Remember that I’m only a slave and may not have much to offer.’
Thomas saw the twinkle in his eye and smiled. ‘I doubt that.’ He paused. ‘Patrick, I’ve been here for forty days and I can
stand no more. I must escape.’
‘Escape from the brutes or from the island?’
‘Both. I must get home to my family before the brutes finish me off. I need a magistrate who will listen.’ Before Patrick could reply, there was an agonizing scream from the market. ‘Good God, what was that?’
‘That, Thomas, was the result of a magistrate listening to the complaint of an indentured man. The misguided wretch was sentenced to a public flogging for his trouble.’
‘For complaining?’
‘The magistrates are landowners themselves. They discourage complaints from indentured servants.’
‘But I have committed no crime and I am not a prisoner of war. It’s monstrous.’
Patrick sighed. ‘Thomas, you are hardly the only indentured man on the island who claims that he was wrongly arrested and deported and that he is badly treated. It would do you no good.’
‘Then I must find a ship and work my passage home. Will you help me?’
‘Alas, my friend, even if you found a ship you would almost certainly be locked in the hold, taken to another island and sold there as a slave. It happens often.’ There was another scream from the market. Thomas put his head in his hands and tried not to scream himself. How in the name of God was he to get off this island?
He felt Patrick’s hand on his arm. ‘Thomas, let me speak to the Lytes about you. Perhaps they can help.’
‘Would they? What could they do?’
‘Adam Lyte is a member of the Assembly. He’s a decent man and a strict upholder of the law. He might be willing to do something. At least do nothing rash until I’ve spoken to him.’
Thomas sighed. What choice did he have? ‘Very well, I’ll try to survive until then.’
‘Good. Now let’s go and find your dinner.’
Having chosen a turkey and a piglet, they loaded them with Patrick’s sacks on to his pony and set off. Much relieved at not having to carry the sacks, refreshed by his bath and allowing himself to hope that Adam Lyte would be willing to help him, Thomas took the opportunity to put to Patrick all the questions he had been wanting to ask.
By the time they reached the turning to the Gibbes’s estate he could recognize an aloe plant, he knew that limes rubbed on the skin kept mosquitoes away, that the fruit shaped like a hand was a carambola, that the yellow fruit growing in bunches was a plantain and that the creepers hanging off the tree under which he often sat when the Gibbes were in the fields were actually its roots and that it was called the bearded fig, from which had come the name of the island. And he knew that the creatures which made such loud whistling noises at night were tiny frogs.
He also knew that Bridgetown was the largest town in Barbados, the Assembly consisted of thirty elected members and the name of the governor was Sir Philip Bell. He felt foolish not knowing these things but, as he explained to Patrick, he had spent forty days in a state of ignorance and isolation.
‘The brutes do not much care for conversation,’ he said, ‘and neither of them can read, so we have neither books nor news sheets.’
‘That at least I can help with,’ replied Patrick, reaching into his sack. ‘I carry a book to read on the beach. You have it.’ He pulled out a slim book and handed it to Thomas.
‘Henry More’s Philosophical Poems. Thank you, Patrick. He’ll keep me company until you have spoken to Mr Lyte.’
So intent had he been upon extracting information about the island that he had asked Patrick nothing about himself. Angry with himself for his ill manners, Thomas apologized and promised to repair the omission next time they met.
Patrick laughed. ‘It’s of no account, Thomas. I’m pleased to have been able to help. We all know what the Gibbes are like. I hope the dinner goes well. Or at least the cooking. I will tell Mr Lyte to expect a banquet.’
‘Thank you, Patrick. I will try not to disappoint him or Mr Carrington.’
Could it possibly get any worse? Despite Patrick’s offer to speak to Adam Lyte, after three hours in the sweltering kitchen turning the spits on which the turkey and the piglet had been roasting since midday, Thomas was ready to lie down and wait for the end. Sweat poured off his forehead, his head and arms ached abominably and his mouth and throat were on fire.
When at last both creatures were cooked he wrapped his hands in wet cloths, heaved the first spit from its supports, slid off the turkey and lifted it on to one of two huge platters produced from under the brutes’ beds and polished that morning with sand and grease. The brutes kept everything of value under their beds. Thomas had seen saddles, plate and good leather boots dragged out when needed. For all he knew, there were caskets of gold coins under there.
The turkey was followed by the piglet. The fowl went quietly but the pig hissed and spat in protest, its skin bubbling and blistering in its own fat. A dollop of fat landed on his bare arm, making him yelp and drop the wretched thing on to the earth floor. He rescued it hastily, hoping the yelp had not been heard, and managed to wipe off at least some of the dirt. But in spite of his efforts at cleaning and sweeping, the floor would be hiding all manner of unpleasantness. The plantation dogs wandered in and out, millipedes and cockroaches lurked in dark corners, ants devoured scraps and crumbs and his masters were not above spitting on it. When he had the chance to eat he would give the pig a miss and content himself with a little turkey.
Ye gods, he thought, this place is hot enough without having to spend the afternoon beside an open fire, being attacked by boiling fat. With another oath he picked up the first platter and carried it through to the four diners.
‘Come on, Hill, put it here and be quick about it. Our bellies are empty and we need feeding,’ bellowed Samuel Gibbes at the head of the table, sweeping away empty bottles to clear a space for the food. He belched loudly. ‘And bring more wine. We’ll need it in this heat.’ The four diners had already drunk five bottles that afternoon although neither of the guests had taken much. Compared to the Gibbes, Charles Carrington and Adam Lyte were practically abstainers. Thomas wondered how they could bear to dine with the Gibbes, even for the common good. Adam Lyte, a little overweight, fair-haired and red-faced, was, as Patrick had said, a decent man and a proud member of the Assembly. The athletic-looking Carrington, clean-shaven, long black hair tied neatly back, dark-eyed and skin weathered by the Caribbean sun, was more of a free spirit.
‘Devilish fine law in my opinion,’ said Samuel, as he hacked at the turkey with a heavy knife. ‘We only have to say “Cavalier and Roundhead” and it’s turkey and pork for all.’ Laughing at this excellent joke, he shovelled chunks of leg and breast on to four wooden trenchers.
‘Indeed, Samuel,’ replied Lyte, ‘although we in the Assembly did not reckon on anyone using the words just as an excuse for a good dinner. We meant to promote peace and prosperity on the island by banning them, not the wholesale slaughter of turkeys and pigs. Still, I thank you for inviting me. The favour shall be returned within the month.’
‘I thank you too, Samuel,’ added Carrington. ‘This much meat will keep me alive for a week.’
‘Assembly, my liver,’ muttered John gruffly, scratching at his scarred face, ‘damned fools know nothing. We don’t need laws to tell us what we can and can’t say, any more than we need them to tell us how to grow sugar. We’re the ones who’ve made Barbados rich and we’ll do as we choose. Bell and Walrond, Drax and Middleton, they’re interfering old women. To hell with the lot of them and their meddling laws.’ If this was meant to rile Adam Lyte, it failed. He tactfully said nothing. ‘Where’s that damned shoat, Hill? Bring it here, for the devil’s sake.’
Only the name of Bell meant anything to Thomas, although if the brutes hated them all, they would have his support. As he came through with the pig, he managed to catch Carrington’s eye and shook his head just enough to signal a warning. Carrington raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘Now, gentlemen, some pork with your turkey?’ Holding his knife like a dagger, Samuel thrust it into the pig. Juices spurted
out on to his grubby fingers, which he licked with relish.
‘In truth, Samuel, pork has never really agreed with me. I think I’ll settle for this excellent turkey, thank you.’ Carrington had taken Thomas’s hint and with a gentle nudge had passed it on to his friend.
‘I fear I am much the same,’ said Lyte, ‘but if I may, I will take a drop more of your excellent wine with the fowl.’
‘Ah well, all the more for us, eh, John?’ Samuel, not a bit put out, shovelled a huge heap of pork on to his plate and another on to his brother’s.
With the diners provided with more meat and wine than five times their number could possibly consume, Thomas slipped outside with a small plate of turkey and sat on a wooden box he had placed under the bearded fig tree. He called it his listening tree. From there he could not see the diners but he could hear them. It was cooler under the tree and he sipped a cup of plantain juice.
Stretching his aching back, he looked again at the Gibbes’s house, shook his head sadly and thought yet again how utterly revolting it was. How anyone, even these brutes, could live in it was beyond understanding. Not a drop of paint had been employed on the rough timber, the roof leaked and armies of termites had been feasting on the corner posts. Revolting was the word for it. Ramshackle and revolting.
‘Hill, Hill, where are you, man?’ It was John this time, full of meat and claret, and rapidly reaching the point at which he might become dangerous. Thomas roused himself smartly and went back to the house. ‘Ah, there you are, queenie. You are a queenie, aren’t you? I hear all the king’s men are.’ Either he had forgotten that his guests were supporters of the king or he did not care. Probably the latter. He was always more vicious to Thomas in company. It was his way of showing off.
‘I don’t think so, sir. But is there anything else I can do for you?’ The ‘sir’ stuck in his throat, as it always did, and it was a risky reply. For a horrid moment both Gibbes stared at him and he thought there was going to be trouble until Charles Carrington came to the rescue.
The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) Page 6