‘Cromwell is in Ireland?’
‘He is. And still drinking Irish blood, by all accounts. God knows what else will befall that sad country.’
The memory of Newbury, where thousands had died for no purpose at all, came back to Thomas. Cannon, musket fire, the screams of the wounded, smoke, bodies, blood, death. The stuff of war. And six years later, still going on in Ireland. ‘What will happen next, do you think?’
‘I can only guess. When Cromwell returns from killing Irishmen, he’ll find someone else to fight. The Scots, perhaps. He’s only happy with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other.’
‘And England?’
‘Who knows? Anarchy, revolution, war? I thank God that Mary and I left when we did.’
‘As do I,’ agreed Mary. ‘Barbados is our home now. I for one do not wish to return.’
At this, Adam raised his eyebrows and Thomas sensed tension between brother and sister. He remembered Patrick mentioning a suitor in England. Best to change the subject.
‘And what now for Barbados, sir?’
‘Since Colonel Walrond became governor we are no longer neutral and we have been holding our breath. He is an uncompromising man, fiercely loyal to the crown. Already some landowners who have refused to swear an oath of loyalty to the king have been banished to England or to another island. That is causing serious problems.’
‘Have their estates been sequestered?’
‘They have and, worse, their slaves and indentured servants have taken the opportunity to escape into the hills. We fear they will start attacking plantations. Militias are being formed and they too are making trouble. Some do not care who they fight. And there’s the threat of reprisals. If James Drax and Reynold Alleyne are forced to go, you may be sure they will return and at the head of an army.’
‘So there it is, Thomas,’ said Mary. ‘Slave and master, king and Parliament, wild militiamen. The peace we have so carefully preserved may be about to shatter into bloody pieces.’
‘Which brings us back to you, Thomas,’ said Adam. ‘The question is – what is to be done with you? Naturally, my sister and I would like to help a man who has been so unjustly and harshly treated but we must also be aware of the law. The fact is that we are sheltering you illegally and in my position that is a serious matter.’
‘My brother is a member of the Assembly,’ said Mary proudly.
‘Indeed I am, and expecting to be appointed soon to the governor’s council. I’m sure you will understand the delicacy of the situation.’ Thomas understood. Adam Lyte’s position came first.
‘I can hardly offer to buy you again because it would mean telling the Gibbes that I know where you are. Nor can we return you to them and tell them that you have been our guest.’
‘The longer I am here,’ said Thomas, ‘the more difficult your position. I must go back to the Gibbes and concoct some story about being lost in the forest.’
‘You must do no such thing,’ said Mary. ‘You will stay here until you have fully recovered your strength and my brother has decided what to do for the best.’
‘I am grateful, madam.’
Adam cleared his throat. ‘I must be discreet, Thomas. Your presence here must remain a secret until arrangements can be made. It might take some time. And there is one condition, Thomas. I would like you to attend to our books of account. I have been too busy in the Assembly and they are in a sorry state. Patrick says that you are the very man for the job.’
‘I would be only too pleased to assist, sir.’
‘Excellent. Only when you feel up to it, of course. Until then, Patrick will take care of you.’
Before Thomas could respond, Patrick appeared from the kitchen, leading a line of boys bearing dinner. On the table they put a huge bowl of fish soup, a heap of freshly baked bread, a lamb pie, a roasted capon with pickled cucumbers and sweet potatoes and an assortment of other fruits and vegetables which Thomas did not recognize. Patrick stood back and let them admire his work.
‘Are we expecting an army?’ asked Mary sweetly.
‘I trust not, madam,’ replied Patrick, beaming, ‘although I did wonder if Mr Carrington might be joining you.’
‘He often does,’ said Adam. ‘He seems to know when there’s food on the table. I can’t imagine how.’ Thomas thought he detected a blush rising to Mary’s cheeks.
Two hours later, his stomach full and his mind somewhat befuddled by more wine than was good for him, Thomas was shown by Patrick to a bedroom. What do you make of that, Monsieur Montaigne? he whispered, before falling asleep. Within the space of three days, naked in a boiling house, whipped, lost in the forest, rescued by naked Ranters and entertained to a splendid dinner. The fates have recanted. If Adam Lyte can just put his scruples aside and find me a passage to England, the nightmare will be over and Tobias Rush will face justice.
Patrick insisted on showing Thomas the estate and describing its workings. One morning while they watched a party of men cutting cane with bills, Patrick told him that they were cutting the ratoon.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘Ratoon cane, Thomas. The second crop which sprouts after the first. Have you learned nothing about sugar?’
‘I have tried not to. That reminds me, do you know why the water in the wells is so pure?’
‘Yes. It’s filtered through the coral stone of which the island is made.’
‘The same coral stone of which houses are built and into which the rain cuts gullies to trap unsuspecting travellers, I suppose.’
‘The same. Most travellers take care to avoid them. Only the most foolish fall into one.’
Unlike the Gibbes’s mill, the Lytes’ was powered by cattle roped to a huge wheel which drove the rollers into which the cane was being fed. ‘It never stops during the cutting season,’ said Patrick. ‘Cut the cane, squeeze out the juice, boil it, cure it and sell it. Very little waste and an endless process bringing great wealth to the planters and merchants.’
The Lytes’ boiling house had been designed to be as safe as possible. It was also larger than the brutes’. Instead of one furnace, there were three with a row of copper kettles over each of them. It was hot, very hot, but openings on all four sides did allow whatever breeze there was to circulate.
The men working there were both black and white. They wore linen breeches, leather boots, and long leather gloves to protect their hands and arms from the hot sugar. Every few minutes a boy with a pail threw water over the workers to help them keep cool. Small things but a mighty improvement on what the brutes’ slaves suffered.
‘A simple plant, in demand everywhere just because it’s sweet. I wonder what other plants there are that can so easily be turned into gold,’ mused Thomas.
‘Many, probably, as long as the labour’s cheap enough. Or free,’ said Patrick. ‘Tobacco and cotton in Virginia, grapes in Spain.’
‘Yes. I suppose it’s really you and me making men rich, Patrick, not the cane. Indentured or slave, we’re much the same. A means to an end.’
‘Exactly. Although some of us have been treated better than others,’ said Patrick. ‘Now, did you look at the brutes’ curing house?’
‘If that is where earthenware pots drip brown liquid into pans, yes I did. Although I suspect that will not stop you showing me another one.’
Having kept the brutes’ ledgers for more than seven hundred days, Thomas knew very well what the curing house was and what happened to the sugar and the molasses after they had been cured. He just preferred not to think about it.
‘Really, Thomas, you should take more interest in the process. You can’t devote your time only to matters of philosophy.’