Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7)

by Anna Belfrage

  “… and who is to say there wasn’t a shark waiting to eat you?”

  “Well, you dived after me,” she said defensively.

  “You’re my wife! I can’t very well stand by and watch you being chewed to pulp by the nefarious creatures of the sea, can I?” He looked down at her and sighed, his fingers resting for an instant on the scabbed cuts just below her jawline. “Will you attempt to be more careful? Mayhap even listen to what I’m saying at times? Please?”

  “I can try.”

  “I’m not asking for more than that, only that you try.” He pulled her close, rested his cheek against the top of her head. “You carry my heart with your own, lass.”

  Alex rubbed her cheek against him, drew in his particular fragrance and held it in her lungs. “I love you,” she said simply.

  *

  Next day, Alex stood on the wharf and just stared. This wasn’t a seafaring boat, this was a…a…huge barrel?

  “It was all I could find,” Matthew said, “and it’s quite seaworthy – it floats.”

  Alex did not like the look of the ketch, and said so. Nor did she like the look of the sky and the heaving waves just outside the sandbars.

  “I might just as well tie myself to a rope and be dragged along behind,” she groaned, “because with these seas, I’ll be sick all the way.” He gave her a concerned look but she patted his hand. “People don’t die of seasickness, they just become weak and cranky and short-tempered.”

  “A right comfort,” he replied, but his mouth twitched as he gallantly helped her on board.

  “No cabin?” Alex wasn’t sure that was a good or a bad thing, given the size of the boat.

  “No. There’s a canvas over the foredeck to sleep below. Better in the heat.”

  “And even better in the rain,” Alex muttered. She followed Matthew over to greet the captain, and then bagged herself a seat by the railings. She watched with increasing surprise as more and more passengers came on board, and by the time they sailed, there were ten people to share the cramped space beneath the awning, all but her men. “I’m not sleeping crammed like a sardine under that,” she said, waving at the flapping canvas. “Haven’t you noticed they all stink?”

  The voyage was one miserable blur to Alex. She threw up constantly the first three days, she shivered in driving rain for two, and then she baked, slowly, the last four, sitting by the railing.

  Her clothes were stiff with salt, she hadn’t washed in well over a week, and her stomach was an echoing cave of hunger that she resolutely ignored – she wasn’t about to eat from the cauldron that, as far as she could see, had not been rinsed once since they got on board.

  All in all, it was a relief to arrive in Barbados, no matter that they berthed not where she had expected, in Bridgetown, but in a small town further to the north by the name of Holetown.

  “Apt,” she said to Matthew. “This really is a hole.”

  At midday, the little place was humming with trapped heat, and Alex looked about curiously, noting an ongoing reconstruction of a church, a collection of well-built houses, the small, but very busy harbour, and a food stall. No, several food stalls, and she made a beeline for the closest, attracted by the scents of frying fish and roasting vegetables. Matthew refused the piece of roasted yams Alex offered him, but tried the slice of pineapple she held out to him.

  “We won’t find much trace of him here,” he said, scratching at his cheeks. Ten days without shaving had left him with a beard.

  “No,” Alex said through her full mouth. “But we could find ourselves a secluded corner of the beach and lie in the sun for a day or two.” And swim…she looked yearningly at the blue waters that lapped at the sands she could see to the south of the town. Matthew shook his head in a firm no.

  “A bed, I think,” he said, “and tomorrow we must make our way to Bridgetown.”

  *

  They arrived in Bridgetown late in the afternoon, lulled to a doze by the creaking motion of the ox-drawn cart on which Matthew had secured them a ride. The cart was piled high with fruit, and for the last few hours an increasing amount of flies had converged on the load, buzzing happily as they landed on ripe split fruit the size of a man’s head that Alex said were called papaya.

  As the cart creaked its way into the town centre, Alex kept on remarking how much it had changed since she’d seen it last.

  “More than twenty years ago,” Matthew said, taking in this prosperous town. Narrow streets, an imposing church, and all along the careenage shops and warehouses stood jowl to jowl. Alex pointed out the harbourmaster’s office, and on the further side he could make out the outlines of some sort of fortification.

  “Less depraved than Port Royal,” he commented as the cart trundled its way towards the market square. Bridgetown reminded Matthew of a country town, sturdily rooted in commerce and diligence, and he studied the bustling harbour with interest. Well out to sea, a couple of vessels lay moored far apart from the others, but when the wind veered, the smell that floated towards them made him wrinkle his nose. Slavers.

  “Or not,” Alex said. “After all, there are different types of depravity.”

  “Aye.” For some moments, Matthew stood looking out at the floating hulks before placing his wife’s hand in the crook of his elbow, hefting their few belongings in his other hand, and going to find them lodgings.

  “Very nice,” Alex said when they were shown their room. One of the housemaids appeared with two pitchers of steaming water, a pot of soap, and towels, and the moment she left, Alex stripped, dropping bodice, stays, chemise, soiled petticoats and skirts to lie in a heap on the floor. Matthew followed this shedding with interest, smiling at the picture she presented in only her stockings. She undid the garters, rolled off the stockings, and sniffed at the feet.

  “Euuw!”

  “The landlady said how you can give her your clothes to be laundered,” Matthew said, adding breeches, shirt and stockings to the pile.

  Alex nodded, already sorting through the clothes. She shook out her skirts and his breeches, laid them on a nearby stool. “They’ll do – but with a change of linen.”

  Matthew filled the basin to the brim, dipped his face into it, and scratched at his dripping beard.

  “It itches,” he said, “and so does my head.”

  “It does?” Alex motioned for him to sit. “I told you not to sleep so close to them,” she sighed a few moments later. “You have lice.” She bent to inspect his crotch. “Everywhere.”

  Once he’d shaved his face, he handed her the razor.

  “I don’t know…” Alex sounded very doubtful.

  “It’s only hair. It grows back.”

  “Yeah, but still.”

  He met her eyes in the mirror and shrugged.

  “It makes you look very harsh, like those marble busts of Julius Caesar,” she said once she was done.

  “Oh aye? Is that good or bad?”

  “I’m not sure…” She cocked her head. “Probably good.” She waved his razor in the direction of his crotch. “And there?”

  Matthew looked down his flat belly to where his pubic curls sprouted wiry and dark.

  “Shave my privates?” He cupped them protectively: the razor was sharp, and he preferred for his balls to remain attached to his body.

  “Well, it beats pouring brandy on them and setting it all alight, doesn’t it?”

  He gave her a very long look, and sat down on the stool, spreading his thighs wide. “If you cut me…” he threatened and then chose to rest back against the wall, eyes firmly closed.

  It was strangely arousing, her hands on his member as she scraped off his hair, and he swelled in size as she went about her work, relishing her touch on the inside of his thighs, his balls, and the shaft of his cock. He kept his eyes closed, trying to visualise what she was doing, exhaling when her nail ran slowly up the length of him.

  “All done, not an itty bitty louse in sight.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked when i
t seemed she was about to stand.

  “To wash.”

  “Later, lass. Not now.” His hands rested on her shoulders, the tip of his cock grazing her chest. He bent forward to kiss her, a soft teasing touch of his lips against hers, a flicker of tongue, and she opened to him, and he tasted onions and fish and cider on her breath. He raised her to stand before him, touched her crotch and the soft hair. “And you? Are you sure you have no lice?”

  “Quite sure,” she answered breathlessly.

  “Best make sure.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bed.

  “But—”

  “Shush, wife. Do as I say, aye?” And he loved it that she did, lying down on her back. He motioned for her to spread her legs, kneeling between them with his razor in hand.

  “I don’t—” she began. Matthew placed a finger over her lips.

  He set the razor to her skin and carefully, oh, so carefully began his barbering. She said nothing more. At times, she quivered under his hand; at times, she raised her head to inspect his efforts. Her ribcage rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. Now and then, a guttural sound escaped her. He was done, caressing skin and folds of flesh that he had never seen quite as nude before, and his balls contracted with fiery heat. A finger wiggled into all that moist warmth, and Alex groaned. He did it again, and she made as if to sit, hands reaching out to touch and caress him.

  “Nay,” he said, and he was hoarse with lust. “Lie still, aye? Lie very, very still, and take what you have coming.”

  Chapter 27

  “The Monmouth rebels?” The harbourmaster scrunched up his face. “Ah, jaa. They came in early May or so. All men, and some young boys as well.”

  “Would there be lists?” Matthew asked.

  The harbourmaster yawned but nodded a yes. “The traders were allotted a number each, and most of them will keep records of the sale.” His pale blue eyes regarded them with interest, and in particular kept coming back to Matthew’s shaved head.

  “Lice,” Alex said, and Matthew threw her an irritated look.

  “Ah.” Klaas Hendrijks began to scratch himself. “Vinegar helps.”

  “And where can we find the traders?” Matthew said, bringing them back to the relevant subject.

  The harbourmaster waved across the bridge to the other side of the murky little river. “At the market.” He used a stout finger to point in the direction of the three large ships that they had seen already yesterday. “They came a few days ago. Fresh out of Africa, so the traders are busy at the moment.” He looked at them thoughtfully. “It may serve you to wait some days.”

  “Some days? We don’t have some days! The lad has been here three months. He may already be dead!”

  “In which case, he won’t be less dead in a week,” the harbourmaster said with some logic. He had a surprisingly full lower lip, and at this he now pulled, releasing it to flap back against his teeth with a dull plop. “In general, there will be little sympathy for his fate. The colonists here hold firmly to whoever sits on the throne – the growth of their own personal fortunes depend entirely on the goodwill of England.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to die a slave,” Matthew said. “No man deserves to die like that.”

  “Hm,” the harbourmaster said, “now that is a sentiment I wouldn’t repeat here on Barbados. After all, the majority of the population here are slaves, will live and die like slaves.” He stroked his exuberant moustache and shrugged.

  Any further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Mr Hendrijks’ daughter, a lass of about seventeen. Matthew gawked. The girl before him was no lilywhite copy of her father. No, this was a lass with skin the colour of a dusky rose, eyes of sloe, and hair so black it shone blue in the sunlight. An elbow dug into his side, and Matthew retook his eyes, turning an affronted face on his wife.

  “Marijke.” The lass curtsied, lowered her eyelashes, and peeked at Matthew.

  He bowed back and introduced his wife.

  “I suggest you join us for luncheon,” Mr Hendrijks said, “and afterwards I will point you in the direction of the markets. At present, you won’t find the traders there. They avoid the midday sun.”

  Klaas Hendrijks was most delighted to hear they knew Captain Jan, and over chicken and wine, he regaled them with one story after the other of the adventures he had shared with Jan’s father.

  “We came here as young men, and once here, none of us ever wanted to go back.” He smiled wistfully. “It was a heady life it was: buccaneering all across the Spanish Main.”

  “You’re a pirate?” Alex asked.

  Klaas grinned. “Among the best, and wise enough to stop before I got too old – or was caught.”

  “Not like Jan’s poor father, then,” Alex said.

  “No, Pieter left it too late.” Klaas sighed. “They say it took a long time for him to die. The tides aren’t high enough to drown you outright, but high enough to let all kinds of creatures come close.”

  “Not a death to aspire to.” Matthew’s toes curled at the thought of being fed on by fish and whatnot.

  “Very few types of death are,” Klaas said, “unless it is to die sated and happy in your own bed.”

  After dinner, Klaas suggested that mayhap it was best if Mrs Graham remained here, with his daughter, while he accompanied Matthew to the slave market.

  “It’s…” Klaas cleared his throat. “Well, it’s not a place for tender-hearted women like yourself.”

  “Are you sure? I’ll come if you want me to,” Alex said to Matthew, but he could see in her face that this was an experience she would rather do without.

  “Aye, I’ll be fine on my own. I don’t want you to see this.”

  He fervently wished he didn’t have to see it either, because this was worse than anything he’d ever seen before. Free men, albeit black, many of them bellowing like maddened bulls as they tried to wrest themselves free from the chains that held them. Men that shrieked in rage and pain when red-hot irons were held to their skin; men that were dragged along behind their laughing new owners, still protesting, still calling for… Matthew had no idea, but he recognised the timbre of despair in their voices, the stubborn refusal to accept this new station in life, and he wept inside for them.

  Worst of all were the women. As naked as the men, they were thronged by eager male buyers, their legs spread apart, their privates prodded while loud comments were made as to their potential fertility and virginity.

  “Animals.” Matthew wanted to smash his fist into someone’s face.

  Klaas put a restraining hand on his sleeve. “Come away. Let us commence this searching for your nephew instead.”

  Matthew followed him to the long row of stalls that housed the traders, and repeated his errand in one booth after the other. The harbourmaster had been right: in general, his inquiries were met by a cold and disinterested look, but Hendrijks was respected and well liked, and at his insistent wheedling, trader after trader reluctantly agreed to peruse their records to see if they recalled a Charles Graham.

  “Tall, you say?” the penultimate trader said.

  Matthew nodded, using his hat as a primitive fan. He had a notion that Charlie would be as tall as he and Luke at least. “And with red hair.”

  “No hair on them when they were brought here,” the trader laughed. “All of them shaved on account of the lice.” His eyes rested for an instant on Matthew’s shorn head. He shrugged and commanded his slave to fetch him his book, flipping through it with exaggerated slowness.

  “Hmm,” he said, “yes… Arrived May seven. Will be well broken in by now – or dead.”

  Matthew stiffened at the casual tone but let the remark pass.

  “I sold him to Brown,” the trader said to Hendrijks, who obviously knew who this Brown was. “He’ll be working cane, your nephew. Brown owns one of the bigger sugar plantations on the island.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Matthew asked Hendrijks as they made their way back across the bridge that gave the town its name.
<
br />   “Sugar is a heavy crop, but Sassafras Brown is a good enough man. Born here, recently inherited his plantation from his father. Very rich, and as yet unwed. He has been in contact with me regarding Marijke.”

  “Ah,” Matthew replied, “and is the lass willing?”

  “The lass will do as her father tells her, but yes, Marijke is not averse. It will be a pleasing twist of fate for someone of her background.”

  “Her background?”

  Hendrijks studied him suspiciously before commenting that surely Mr Graham had noticed that Marijke was not pure white?

  “Nay, I didn’t. Mostly, I noticed that she’s right pretty – but don’t tell my wife that.”

  Klaas burst out laughing. “I won’t,” he promised and went on to explain that Marijke’s mother had been born a slave, the daughter of a Spanish encomendado and a Carib woman. “She was aboard one of the ships we boarded, sold from her birthplace to a man on Hispaniola. I kept her as my share of the loot.”

  “Ah,” Matthew nodded, “and did you free her?”

  “Free her? I never owned her, did I? Canela, her name was, and her skin was indeed the colour of cinnamon. She died when Marijke was born.” A shadow drifted over his broad face.

  “I’m sorry,” Matthew said, disconcerted by the fact that Klaas’ eyes were overflowing with tears.

  Klaas produced a gigantic handkerchief and blew his nose thoroughly, wiped his eyes, his moustache and his mouth, and by the time he was done, he was back to his composed self, suggesting he give Matthew a guided tour of the town itself.

  After a long but entertaining afternoon with this new friend of his, Matthew politely declined Klaas’ offer to stay for supper, steering Alex through dark and empty streets back to their lodgings.

  “Sassafras?” Alex chuckled, sitting down on the bed. “A man?”

  “He can’t very well help what his parents named him,” Matthew said, chuckling as well. “According to Klaas, he’s not a bad man – cultured and well read. Spends most of his time on his plantation, coming down once or twice a month to Bridgetown to woo wee Marijke.” He was most relieved. Surely, an educated person such as this Brown would be a compassionate man, and so it was but a matter of days before this quest for his nephew was happily concluded – assuming, of course, that wee Charlie hadn’t sickened and died.