The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2)

by Andrew Swanston

  Retracing his steps, he walked back towards the hut. He looked about as he went, as if hoping that the bowl would suddenly and miraculously appear. He simply could not remember what he had done with it. The dead dog was there, although the scavengers would be at work on it soon, and there in the grass beside it – though he had to look closely to be sure – was the upturned pudding bowl. He kicked it over and saw that not a spoonful of pudding remained. He stood and stared at the bowl and the dog. Then it hit him and he laughed. A dog which could take a bowl from the barrel, carry it away and eat its contents must have been a clever dog. Clever but dead.

  Well, now I know the poison works, he thought, at least on dogs. I may not be clever but I am alive. I am not a murderer and I have not done away with myself. Just as well. If I had poisoned them, I’d probably have run straight down to the magistrate and confessed.

  Now he would have justice and he would see his family again. He heard Montaigne laughing quietly. ‘There are some defeats, Thomas, more triumphant than victories.’ His old friend was back. He would survive.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE NUMBER OF rows of notches had grown to seventy-five when the Gibbes again announced that they would both be out all morning. At least one of them normally stayed at home to ensure a full day’s labour from the slaves. Either they had important business or they would return drunk and arguing, as usual.

  ‘Stay here and do the ledgers,’ ordered Samuel before they left. ‘Don’t waste time sweeping the kitchen, and don’t go to sleep. We’ll want to see them later.’

  As Thomas was sure neither could read or write, this was a surprise, unless it was merely a question of seeing whether or not the pages were covered in words and figures and whether the ink was dry. They had never done such a thing before.

  When the brutes had gone Thomas set to work. He could write down almost anything he liked in the ledgers and they would not know the difference, but partly from his sense of order and partly for the sake of knowledge he had always tried to be accurate.

  In one ledger he kept a record of all purchases on the left-hand page and of all sales on the right-hand page. As the sugar cane was continually sewn and harvested there were always entries on both sides of the ledger. At the end of the month he added up both columns and arrived at a balance. It was like keeping the bookshop accounts except that the figures were larger. Very much larger.

  Even allowing for their being only as accurate as the information he was given, which was probably not very accurate, the surpluses were growing each month. Labour as good as free, other costs minimal, prices rising, and demand for sugar insatiable. Most planters would be doing just as well and as long as they continued to have access to European markets through the Dutch merchants he could see no reason why things should change. Brutes or not, they knew about sugar.

  In the other ledger he wrote down all slave births, deaths and purchases. These were given to him, like the accounts, on grubby scraps of paper which he deciphered as best he could. The ages of purchased slaves were estimated, but other than that the ledger contained a complete record of each man, woman and child. As he never conversed with the slaves, to Thomas they were no more than names on a page. That was a blessing. It would have been much more painful if the names had had faces.

  If only the cane would grow as well in good Hampshire soil, he could take some home and spend the rest of his life happily counting his fortune and reading his books. Perhaps he’d try it, although he did have to get home first.

  The Gibbes returned mid-afternoon. He heard their horses and listened for a summons. When it came it was loud and urgent.

  ‘Hill, Hill, where are you, you idle piss-licker? Come here and bring the books.’

  The brutes were nothing if not cunning. ‘We’ve done some figuring,’ said John, ‘and we know exactly how much money we’ve got in gold and coin. Now you’re going to tell us how much the book says we should have. Then we’ll know if you’ve been doing your job right, won’t we?’

  Thomas wondered why they had never done this before; he guessed it was because they had to find someone else to count the stuff for them and they did not like moving it. He did not know where they kept it – much safer not to – but he doubted they would have entrusted it to anyone else. They must have taken it into town and stood by while a merchant or a magistrate counted it. He opened the ledger to check the last entry and read out the figure to them.

  ‘Close enough, Hill, and lucky for you it is. Our partner has arrived from England and he’ll be paying us a visit tomorrow. He won’t be happy if there’s so much as a shilling missing.’ The partner. So Thomas was about to find out what manner of man had taken the brutes as partners. That should be interesting.

  The Gibbes did not go out to the fields the next morning as they normally did but stayed in their hovel, awaiting the arrival of their partner. This partner must be important, thought Thomas, to keep them away from their cane and their slaves. No food had been ordered so the partner could not be staying long. Just a quick look at his investment, no doubt.

  He was at work on the slave records when he heard the carriage arrive. He slipped out of the hut and down the path towards the hovel. Thinking it wiser not to be seen, he hid in the trees and watched.

  The moment the partner stepped out of the carriage the blood drained from his brain and he went cold. It had never occurred to him. It was impossible. He looked again. Quite impossible. Died under examination, the king had said; he had inspected the body himself and ordered it burned. Over six years ago. But this was no ghost. Even in the heat of Barbados, black shirt, black hat, black cloak. And a silver-topped cane in his hand.

  God in heaven, how? How did he escape? How was he still alive? Where had he been hiding? How did Thomas not know?

  Impossible, yet there he was. Rush the murderer and traitor had somehow cheated death and survived. And it was he who had arranged it all. Not just Thomas’s arrest and deportation but his indenture to the Gibbes with instructions on what to do with him. They had given not a hint of it, even when drunk not the tiniest hint – Rush must have ordered them not to. Doubtless wanted the pleasure himself.

  When the Gibbes came out to greet their visitor Thomas waited until they were all seated at the table before returning unsteadily to the hut. He sat on his cot, head in hands. Now it was clear. Just as his arrest for writing an innocuous paper and his deportation without trial had the filthy hand of Tobias Rush all over them, so, of course, did the brutes. He’d probably got them out of some stinking gaol and sent them here to manage his estate, knowing that they would do his bidding and make him money by whatever means he wished. That would explain how the estate and equipment was purchased. And they were just the men to treat Thomas as Rush wanted him treated.

  He remembered wondering why the guard on the Dolphin had saved him from being strangled by the giant Irishman and he remembered the feeling of being watched. He was being watched. Rush had paid the guards to make sure he stayed alive. He wanted Thomas in the hands of the Gibbes and he wanted him to suffer. And he had succeeded. Just as he had somehow succeeded in returning from the grave.

  He heard them coming up the path and got to his feet. Steady now, Thomas, he thought, blind fury won’t help. Bide your time. He stood at the door and watched the three of them approaching. A murdering monster with a brute on either side. Both Gibbes carried whips. The murderer was taking no chances.

  ‘So, Thomas Hill, we meet again. Here I am, back from the dead.’ The same reedy voice and thin smile.

  Thomas said nothing. He looked in disgust at the long nose, the narrow black eyes, the sallow face, the thin body and thin arms.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’

  ‘My family. If they have been harmed you will burn in hell.’

  Rush scoffed. ‘I recall your saying that once before. For the moment, however, I am alive and well. As is dear Margaret. Rather than face eviction from a house and bookshop I now own, she lives happily with me, as do her
lovely daughters. A comely woman, most accommodating. And such pretty children. I look forward to sampling them before long.’

  It was too much. Thomas threw himself at Rush and knocked him to the ground. His hands were round the scrawny throat before either Gibbes could react. Rush’s eyes bulged as he struggled to throw Thomas off. But, light as he was, Thomas was not to be thrown off. He knew how to fight and even after two years with the Gibbes he was much stronger than he looked. Had Samuel not picked up a stone and cracked Thomas on the head, Rush would never have got up. Stunned, Thomas rolled off and lay on the ground. When he opened his eyes, his arms and legs were pinned down by the Gibbes, and the black eyes were squinting down at him.

  ‘That was a mistake, Hill. A mistake for which you will pay. Just as you have paid for your work in Oxford. Few people cross Tobias Rush without living to regret it. I have waited more than six years for the pleasure and now I have you, your house and your sister. And soon I shall have your nieces. Both of them. I can hardly wait.’ Thomas jerked as if to throw himself again at Rush but the Gibbes held him fast. ‘It wasn’t difficult to arrange matters. A stupid pamphlet, a word in the right ear, a little money in the right hands and the willing help of my partners, Samuel and John Gibbes. Loyal partners and experienced in such matters. An easy enough task for Tobias Rush. Just as bribing my bovine gaoler in Oxford and finding a suitable substitute to deceive our late king were easy. I knew the fool would see what he expected to see. Few men do otherwise. Had I not been so busy in London, and taking care of matters in Romsey of course, I would have visited you sooner. Never mind. Absence, they say, makes the heart grow fonder. Did you really think you’d seen the last of me?’

  ‘Margaret would kill you before you touched the girls, Rush. As the king’s executioner should have and as I shall if you have touched her.’ Thomas could barely speak. The words came out in a croak.

  ‘No you won’t, Hill. You can forget your family or you can think about how much I’m enjoying myself with them. It matters not to me. You should have accepted my generous offer and come to London. You’d be a wealthy man and living in style, as I am. Instead of which, here you are on this foul island without a hope of escape. Never mind, my partners will take good care of you, won’t you, gentlemen?’

  ‘We shall, Tobias, you may be sure of it. Shall we start now?’

  ‘Before you do, I have a small task for Hill. Bring him into the hut.’ The Gibbes picked him up and dragged him to the doorway. ‘Sit him on the chair.’ When Thomas was seated, both arms still gripped by the Gibbes, Rush continued, ‘Your sister requires proof that you are alive, Hill. If you do not provide it, she will die and so will you.’ Thomas said nothing. ‘Write a word on a sheet of paper and give it to me. One word only.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘She claimed you would know.’

  John Gibbes put an arm around Thomas’s throat, let go his right arm and pushed the inkpot and box of quills across the table. Thomas picked up a quill, dipped it in the inkpot and wrote a word on a page of one of the ledgers. Rush peered over his shoulder, saw the word and carefully tore the page out. Thomas smiled. His sister was a clever lady. Only her brother would know that the word she expected to see was ‘Montaigne’.

  ‘Shall we continue now?’ asked Samuel.

  ‘Why not? I have waited long enough.’

  Thomas was hauled to his feet, dragged to the old boiling house and tied by his hands to the ring on the wall. The first lash ripped his shirt and his skin. When the second bit into his shoulder, he screamed. Ten lashes later, he was barely conscious. They dragged him to the well and threw a bucket of water over him.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rush, ‘just about right. Make him suffer but keep him alive. Dead men don’t suffer. Now bring the money. I’ll take it and be off.’

  Despite the agony, Thomas hauled himself to his knees and lunged at Rush’s legs. Rush toppled backwards and Thomas was on top of him again. He screwed his thumbs into Rush’s eyes and would have blinded him as the monster had blinded others if the brutes had not grabbed his arms and pulled him off. Rush got unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Another mistake, Hill,’ he spat, ‘for which you will pay. Hold him tightly.’ The Gibbes strengthened their grips on his arms as Rush pulled the thin blade from his stick. ‘You know what this can do, Hill. Struggle and I may miss my target. That would be unfortunate.’ Thomas ignored him and strained to free himself.

  ‘Very well, have it your own way.’ The point of the blade traced a circle of blood around Thomas’s left eye, then travelled slowly down his cheek. For a moment the blade was still. Then Thomas felt it cut a shape into his skin.

  ‘I have left you your eyes in order to do your work,’ hissed Rush, ‘but if you ever lay your hands on me again you will lose them. Is that clear?’ Thomas held his gaze. ‘Is that clear, Hill?’ Thomas blinked.

  ‘I shall assume that means it is. For now, you are marked with the sign of your owner. Me.’

  Rush turned to the Gibbes. ‘And if he does it again, you two will pay as well. You’ll be back in a stinking gaol and next time I won’t be there to get you out. Back with your whore of a mother who’s probably still spreading her legs for that wall-eyed gaoler. Now get him out of my sight. I have work to do.’ They dragged Thomas to his hut and threw him inside. Unable even to wipe the blood from his face, he lay on the earth floor and passed out.

  It was dark when he came to and struggled on to the cot. He knew he had been foolish and that Rush might easily have killed him. His face was caked in blood and one eye had closed. His back was on fire and he craved water. He seethed with hatred and frustration. Tobias Rush. Executed, burned and still alive. Tentatively, he put a finger to his face and traced the line cut in his cheek. It was in the shape of the letter ‘R’. Rush had branded him with his initial. God in heaven.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE BRUTES, THE whip, and now Tobias Rush and a face scarred by the monster’s sword. Yet if Rush was telling the truth, Margaret and the girls were in more pain and more danger than he was. And he was helpless to do anything about it. He went through the motions of cooking and bookkeeping because he had to but his mind was in Romsey. He cursed Rush with every waking hour. The traitor who had murdered and tortured, had tried to kill him and had cheated death by bribing his executioner. The gloating monster who had bided his time and then exacted cruel revenge by having Thomas indentured to two brutes as evil as he and by forcing his sister and nieces to do his bidding. One day Rush would answer for what he had done. One day.

  He was in his hut when he heard a scream. It was like no other he had ever heard. It came from the direction of the boiling house and was followed by another and then another, each one exploding with agony. The screams of slaves with their fingers mangled by the rollers were not uncommon, but even at Newbury when he had watched two armies blasting and hacking each other to pieces Thomas had never heard screams like these. They were filled as much with fury and despair as with pain. He put down the bucket and listened. The screams went on and on, each as terrible as the last. He could not ignore them. He ran down the path and up the slope to the boiling house.

  Outside the house a handful of naked slaves stood around a man sitting on the ground. By the time Thomas reached them, the injured man’s screams had turned to whimpers. He pushed his way through the circle of onlookers. From shoulder to wrist, the man’s left arm was covered in scalding brown sugar which had stuck to his skin like glue. Not knowing what else to do, Thomas knelt beside the man and examined his arm. The sugar had burned through the skin of his upper arm and was sticking to raw flesh. Below his elbow, where the heat had been a little less intense, the skin was torn and blistered. His right hand was streaked with sugar and skin from his arm. The man’s eyes closed and he lay down. Not one of the other slaves made any attempt to help him. Thomas looked up to see both Gibbes lumbering up from the cane fields.

  ‘Get back to work, you black bastards, or I’ll take the skin from y
our heathen backs,’ yelled Samuel, waving his whip at them. They left the man on the ground and went silently back into the boiling house. Thomas stood up and waited for the brutes to reach him.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here, Hill?’ demanded John, panting from the climb.

  ‘I heard screams and came to help,’ replied Thomas more calmly than he felt.

  The Gibbes ignored him. Samuel nudged the injured slave with a boot. His eyes opened but there was no life in them. ‘Finished,’ he said. ‘Leave him there. He’ll be dead by tonight.’

  ‘That makes us one short for the boiling,’ said his brother. ‘I’ll fetch one from the cutting.’

  ‘I have a better idea. Hill came to help. Let him help. Strip off and take his place, Hill. And mind the sugar. Tobias won’t be pleased if we have to pay Sprot to take your arm off.’

  Thomas stared at him. They were going to put him in the boiling house, the most dangerous place on the whole estate. They were mad. If Rush wanted Thomas kept alive, this was no way to do it. An accident with one of the copper kettles which held the boiling mixture or a nudge into the furnace and he was dead or crippled, just like the poor wretch on the ground in front of them. What indeed would Rush have to say about that?

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ he asked Samuel.

  ‘To hell and back with wise, Hill. We’re harvesting the cane and we need the mill and the boiling house working. Strip off and get inside. You can stoke the furnace. Make sure it stays hot. Get on with it.’

  There was no alternative. Thomas took off his shirt and breeches and stepped gingerly into the boiling house. He was barely inside when he felt as if he had run into a stone wall. His hands went to his face and he staggered backwards. The stench was so thick he could almost touch it and the heat from the furnace and the coppers above it was so fierce that it penetrated his skin and his eyes. Had the Gibbes not been standing guard at the open door, Thomas would have turned and run. No punishment could be worse than this. Both of them held their whips ready to strike at bare flesh and both were grinning.