‘Now, boy,’ said the taller one, ‘we want what you owe.’
‘Hand it over,’ ordered the other, ‘and there won’t be no trouble.’
Thomas glanced at Michael. The boy was frightened.
‘I’ve none left. I’ve eaten it.’
The cousins exchanged a look. ‘What do we do to a boy who doesn’t pay his debts, cousin?’ asked the first one.
‘We teach him a lesson, cousin.’ The shorter one bent down, grabbed Michael’s throat and hauled him to his feet.
Thomas stood up. ‘What does he owe you for?’ he asked quietly.
‘None of your concern, little man.’
‘It is my concern. Michael is my friend.’
‘Your friend, eh? Then you’d better pay his debts for him, hadn’t you?’ The taller one lunged at Thomas, aiming at his eyes. Thomas had learned how to protect himself when a student at Oxford, where many a bigger man had regretted taking him for an easy opponent. He moved smoothly to avoid the attack, grasped the man’s wrist and twisted. There was an astonished yelp followed by a foul oath. ‘You little …’ Thomas twisted harder. The man was forced to the deck, his wrist held firmly in Thomas’s grip. Thomas planted a foot on his groin and pushed.
‘Let the boy go,’ he said to the one holding Michael. There was no response. He leaned a little harder on the groin.
‘Let him go, for the love of God,’ screamed the man. His cousin spat at Thomas and pushed the boy aside. Thomas kept hold of the wrist and spoke slowly.
‘This boy is under my care. If you so much as touch him, you’ll answer to me. Is that clear enough?’ There was no response. He twisted again. ‘I said, is that clear enough?’ This time, the stricken man managed a strangled croak.
‘Clear.’
Thomas turned to the other one.
‘Clear.’
He let go the wrist.
‘I shall be watching. Now bugger off.’
The man on the deck got up and rubbed his wrist. His cousin shook his head and they slouched off towards the stern.
Michael touched Thomas’s arm. ‘Why did you do that, Thomas?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Sometimes one does things without thinking. Were they threatening you?’
‘They said they would protect me if I gave them half my food every day.’
‘I thought so. Don’t give them any more, Michael. They are cowards. Keep away from them. I might not be nearby next time.’
Perhaps sensing that Thomas preferred to be alone, Michael did not trouble him again. And apart from looking as if they would happily tear them limb from limb, the cousins did not trouble either of them.
At midday on the fortieth day after they had left Cork, the Dolphin, now with a cargo of just twenty-seven prisoners, entered a wide bay on the south coast of Barbados. As soon as it was at anchor, the men were brought on deck, given a bar of lye soap and told to wash. They were a miserable lot – long-haired, unshaven, half-starved and filthy. Knowing that he looked no better, Thomas wondered if he might be rejected and sent straight home. It was a fleeting thought. Every wretch sent off to the colonies must arrive in much the same state. Unless he could escape or find someone in authority to whom to appeal, he would be treated just like all the others. But he was alive. Sixteen of those who had started the journey were not.
On deck he screwed up his eyes against a sun unlike any he had known. It was the intensity of its light as much as its heat that shocked him. Neither had been as harsh at sea – the clouds and the breeze had made them more bearable. Here, though, they were ferocious. He stripped off and scrubbed the grime out of his hair and off his body with the rough soap. A pile of shirts and breeches was dumped on the deck. He waited while the others rummaged in the pile, shoving each other out of the way and squabbling over who would have what. When the rumpus had died down, he found a thin shirt and breeches that almost fitted him and put them on. They were neither new nor clean but they were an improvement on the rags he had been wearing.
No time was lost in getting the men ashore. A relay of rowing boats ferried them to the quay, each boat supervised by armed guards, until they were all assembled. With his first step on land Thomas’s legs betrayed him and he fell on his face. He was kicked by a guard until he managed to stand upright and join the line of prisoners who were led, frightened and unsteady, to a low wooden building at one end of the harbour where a throng of impatient onlookers awaited them. From their rough clothing and broad hats, Thomas guessed them to be planters. There might have been thirty of them. A notice announced that this was the Oistins Auction House.
They were herded by the guards into an enclosure not unlike a sheep pen, where they were inspected by the planters. Thomas’s head throbbed in the heat and his face and back were dripping with sweat. A plump man in a huge straw hat stepped briskly forward, climbed on to a wooden crate and announced the start of the auction. He described the newly arrived men as healthy and well fed and informed his audience that he expected a good price for each. Thomas said nothing. His time would come soon.
The first man to be sold was the giant Irishman. He was prodded forward by a guard with a short pike and his name called out by the auctioneer. The bidding was brisk and he was quickly sold for twenty guineas. His hands were bound with rope and he was led away at the point of a pistol by his new owner. The giant fumed and cursed and Thomas wondered how long he would last.
One by one the men were auctioned and sold. The smallest and weakest went for a few guineas, the strongest for twenty or more. The boy Michael barely made five guineas and was led away weeping. Thomas waited impatiently for his turn. When he was called, he stepped forward as instructed and looked around for a uniform or some other mark of authority. There was none. Just planters, prisoners and merchants.
He filled his lungs and shouted as loudly as he could. ‘My name is Thomas Hill. I am innocent of any crime and I demand to be heard.’ Before he could say another word he was flat on his face, felled by a blow to the back of his head from the guard with the pike. He hauled himself upright and tried again. ‘This is a monstrous injustice. I will be heard.’
‘No you won’t,’ growled the auctioneer. ‘Shut your mouth or it’ll be the worse for you.’
‘I will be heard. I am the victim of –’ Another blow from the pikeman and Thomas was back on the ground, stunned and helpless. Again he struggled to his feet and tried to focus his eyes. He heard the auctioneer say something about this man having been paid for in advance, and after a certain amount of shouting a big, black-bearded man approached and gave his name as Samuel Gibbes. He tied Thomas’s hands with a short rope, put another around his neck and led him away.
Thomas smelt drink on Gibbes’s breath, and his stomach heaved. He was trapped. His appeal to be heard had brought only cracks on the head and this man, apparently his new master, looked brutish. There was no possibility of escape. He vomited, steadied himself with several deep breaths, squared his shoulders and followed Gibbes to a nearby inn – the Mermaid Inn, its sign proclaimed it to be – where two threadbare ponies were tethered. Again he took a deep breath and shouted, ‘I am Thomas Hill, an innocent man. I demand to see a magistrate at once.’
Not one of the Mermaid’s drinkers took the slightest notice, so he tried yet again. ‘My name is Thomas –’ Gibbes yanked the rope around Thomas’s neck. It dug into his throat and cut off his voice. Then he slapped Thomas on the face with the back of his hand and hissed at him. ‘Hold your tongue, shit-eater, or I’ll cut it out and shove it down your gullet. Now get on the pony.’