He placed ten apples on one of the cloths, folded the corners over and started mashing them up with a heavy stone, tentatively at first but soon more forcefully. It was not long before the apples were pulp and their juice was leaking through the cloth. Taking care, he squeezed the juice into a bowl and threw the pulp away. When he had repeated this process three times he had a bowl full of greenish manchineel juice, which he put to one side.
Then he prepared the sweet pudding, mixing up cream, sugar and almonds, and set it beside the bowl of juice. Reckoning that the potency of the juice would be greater if left to itself for as long as possible, he would mix them together just before serving. Having covered both bowls with the cloths, he dealt with the roasting meat and sat down again to wait for the return of his victims. His mind and conscience were clear and his determination unwavering. He would poison the brutes, find their money and buy a passage home. He might never discover who had arranged his arrest and indenture but Margaret and the girls were waiting for him, they would be overjoyed to see him and they would all go back to their peaceful life in Romsey.
When the brutes returned, they were in an evil mood. ‘Get off your arse and bring the dinner, Hill, and be quick about it. And bring wine. We’re parched.’
Thomas had been watching for their return and was ready. He brought the mutton and chickens out immediately and went back for bread and wine. By the time he had fetched these, the brutes were tearing at the meat with their hands and stuffing lumps into their mouths. He left the wine and bread on the table and returned to the kitchen. The moment was approaching.
After a few minutes, he took a quick look to check that the brutes were fully occupied. Happy that they were, he picked up the bowl of juice and poured it into the pudding. He mixed it in thoroughly with a long wooden spoon and stood back to await their summons. Light-headed at the prospect of being rid of the brutes and astonished that anticipation of an act for which he might hang should afford such pleasure, he barely resisted the temptation to take the pudding through straight away. But that might be fatal. So unpredictable were they that the brutes were quite capable of throwing it out of the door and demanding that he bring another one when they called for it but not before. So he waited quietly and hoped that the little green apples of the manchineel tree would live up to their reputation.
How long he waited he was not sure, but when he heard the first rumbling snore he shot out of the kitchen to where the brutes were eating. Or rather, where they had been eating. Samuel and John Gibbes, stuffed with meat and wine, their mouths open and their heads resting on the table, had passed out. There was nothing new in this but, at the instant of taking in the scene, Thomas went cold. Even if he woke them, they would only take out their fury on him and then go back to sleep.
His daring plan, his careful execution – both come to nothing. His hopes for escape dashed. He cursed himself for not bringing the pudding in sooner, he cursed the brutes for passing out and he cursed his cruel luck. He stopped short of cursing the Almighty but, after months in purgatory, only just short. For a minute or two he stood unthinking outside the hovel; then, seeking the meagre comfort of his hut, he left them to snore.
The hut was as hot and airless as ever. He lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling. He saw Margaret and the girls in a foul hovel, dressed in rags, pleading for him to come home. He saw the brutes lying dead in a field, their bloated corpses being eaten by dogs. And he saw himself, emaciated, starving, a beggar on the streets of Bridgetown. He had missed his chance and might never have another. He was a clod.
When at last coherent thought returned, he began to consider his options. Spooning the pudding into the brutes’ mouths and hoping they swallowed enough to kill them was tempting but unlikely to work. He would have to move their heads to get at their mouths and they might wake up. Keeping it for another day might be more sensible. He could hide it in his hut and produce it the next time they demanded sweet almond pudding. But they might find it, or the manchineel juice might have lost its poison by then. Perhaps he should acknowledge defeat and throw it away; another plan might occur. Or perhaps he should give up the struggle and eat the pudding himself. That would solve all his problems. He had never been quite sure whether men who took their own lives were brave or cowardly and now, alone and desperate, he did not care. He lay there and pondered.
The decision, when he made it, seemed obvious. He got up, left the hut and ran back to the house. A dead dog lying by the side of the path barely registered. Dead dogs were common enough. Thomas passed by without a glance. The brutes were still snoring. He walked briskly round them and into the kitchen.
On the upturned barrel where he had left it was the empty bowl which had contained the juice. But it was alone. There was no pudding bowl. Hadn’t he put it on the barrel after mixing in the juice? Or had he taken it through when he heard the snoring? Irritated at not remembering, he went and looked, but there was no sign of it. What had he done with it? Surely he hadn’t taken it outside?
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.