The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (16 page)

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.

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.

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?’

‘Margaret would kill you before you touched the girls, Rush. As the king’s executioner should have and as I shall if you have touched her.’ Thomas could barely speak. The words came out in a croak.

‘No you won’t, Hill. You can forget your family or you can think about how much I’m enjoying myself with them. It matters not to me. You should have accepted my generous offer and come to London. You’d be a wealthy man and living in style, as I am. Instead of which, here you are on this foul island without a hope of escape. Never mind, my partners will take good care of you, won’t you, gentlemen?’

‘We shall, Tobias, you may be sure of it. Shall we start now?’

‘Before you do, I have a small task for Hill. Bring him into the hut.’ The Gibbes picked him up and dragged him to the doorway. ‘Sit him on the chair.’ When Thomas was seated, both arms still gripped by the Gibbes, Rush continued, ‘Your sister requires proof that you are alive, Hill. If you do not provide it, she will die and so will you.’ Thomas said nothing. ‘Write a word on a sheet of paper and give it to me. One word only.’

‘What word?’

‘She claimed you would know.’

John Gibbes put an arm around Thomas’s throat, let go his right arm and pushed the inkpot and box of quills across the table. Thomas picked up a quill, dipped it in the inkpot and wrote a word on a page of one of the ledgers. Rush peered over his shoulder, saw the word and carefully tore the page out. Thomas smiled. His sister was a clever lady. Only her brother would know that the word she expected to see was ‘Montaigne’.

‘Shall we continue now?’ asked Samuel.

‘Why not? I have waited long enough.’

Thomas was hauled to his feet, dragged to the old boiling house and tied by his hands to the ring on the wall. The first lash ripped his shirt and his skin. When the second bit into his shoulder, he screamed. Ten lashes later, he was barely conscious. They dragged him to the well and threw a bucket of water over him.