About fifty yards away to his left he saw another, larger circular building, which he took to be a new boiling house, and beside it a windmill, its sails turning smoothly in the breeze, and a third building whose purpose he did not know. The stone base of the mill was much larger than any mill he had seen in England. The three buildings stood on a rise in the ground where the mill would catch whatever wind there was, and were partially hidden by a stand of thick trees with creepers hanging from their branches. That was why he had not noticed them that morning. Four ragged ponies were grazing in a field beyond the mill. With another look around to be sure he had not been seen, he climbed the slope to the mill.
He made his way past a line of flat-bedded carts and around a mountain of barrels. The third building was empty but for hundreds of earthenware pots, from which a thick brown liquid was draining on to pans set below them. It must be where the sugar dried out until it was cured.
It was too hot to stay there for more than a minute or two, so he went over to the mill and peered through a hole in its stone wall. Inside he saw two naked black slaves, their backs gleaming with sweat, feeding cane through three rollers driven by the windmill, and three more stirring copper cisterns into which the cane juice was being squeezed. The work looked back-breaking and dangerous.
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.