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?’