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?