Tides of Fortune

by Julia Brannan

  “How do they cut the cane without injuring themselves?” she asked.

  “It takes time to learn, madame. The cane does cut them because the edges are sharp, but does not harm them enough to stop them working. Sometimes they cut their legs with the machete though. That is annoying, because we cannot afford to lose a worker for even a day at this time.”

  “You are English!” she said in that language, recognising the accent, although his French, like hers, was almost fluent.

  “I am,” he said, switching to English too. “Francis Armstrong at your service, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “I prefer Beth,” she replied. “But how do you know my name?”

  “Word spreads quickly on the island,” he replied, smiling. “Everyone knows you are a lady who was cruelly transported by the English and rescued by Monsieur Delisle!”

  Beth took a moment to process this version of events, and then smiled.

  “I’m sure you know why I am here, then. But what is an Englishman doing in a French colony? You were not on the Veteran!”

  “No. I am here by choice, my lady. I have contracted to serve Monsieur Pierre for seven years, and then I hope to buy land and settle here. I’m of the Roman faith, and studied in France. I feel more at home here than I would on a British island. But now I must get someone to escort you back to the house.”

  “Do you have a blacksmith here?” she asked, ignoring his last sentence.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Excellent!” she replied crisply. “Then I would very much like to see him. I have a commission for him. And as I am here, I am very interested in learning how sugar is produced. So if this someone you are about to get can give me a tour of the factory, I would be very grateful.”

  “My lady, we really cannot spare someone—” Francis began.

  “I know, I understand how busy you are. But it will take no longer to show me the factory than it would to escort me home. Having made my way here alone, I am quite capable of reversing the process. So, if you would be so kind?” she finished, every inch a noblewoman. If I’m going to be paraded as the plantation’s specimen aristocrat, I might as well take advantage of it, she thought.

  The overseer called over one of the slaves, a large, broad-shouldered African, naked from the waist up and sweating freely, and handed him the whip.

  “Joshua,” he said. “You will make sure the negroes keep at it. I will be back soon and if the work isn’t going as fast as it should be, your back will know about it.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” the man said. He took the whip and began to walk along the line. If Beth had wondered why none of the slaves had stopped work to look at her or observe her exchange with Mr Armstrong, she now had her answer.

  The overseer walked along the path with her, explaining as he went.

  “The cane, when it’s cut, is loaded onto the mules and then taken to the mill,” he said. “Everything has to be done quickly and one task follows on from the other, so we must all work at a good and steady speed, so that no one is left with nothing to do.”

  Inside the mill slaves were feeding the cane through constantly turning vertical rollers which crushed the stalks, resulting in a thick green juice.

  “Now I will show you the boiling house, or perhaps it would be better for me to tell you, because it really is very—”

  “Dangerous,” she finished for him. She turned to a man who was standing by the rollers, closely observing the workers. In his hand he held an axe. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  The man bowed deeply. “I watch,” he said in broken French. “If hand get caught, I chop, like so.” He raised and lowered the axe.

  Beth turned to Francis.

  “Is that true?” she asked. “He chops the person’s hand off?”

  “Yes,” Francis answered. “The rollers are powered by the wind and we have no way to stop them quickly. If someone gets their hand caught in the roller, then the only way to free them is to cut off the limb. Otherwise they will be dragged through the roller and killed. The rollers are very powerful, my lady, they have to be.”

  “Does that happen often?” Beth asked, horrified.

  “Not often, but yes, it happens, especially late in the evenings when the negroes are tired.”

  “Is there no way to put up a guard of some sort, to stop that happening?” she asked.

  “No. Other owners have tried, but it slows the work down too much, is not practical. Now, shall I take you to the blacksmith?”

  “No,” she said. “You said there is a boiling house? What happens there? Yes, I know,” she continued as he made to object, “it is dangerous. I have experienced a lot of danger in my life, Mr Armstrong. I am sure I can deal with whatever dangers the boiling house holds.”

  As soon as she got there however, she knew why Francis hadn’t wanted her to see it, why Pierre hadn’t wanted her to see it.

  It was a large room made of stone, with a shingle roof. On one side was a series of copper cauldrons, ranging from very large to relatively small, and each one was set over an oven. The cauldrons were full of boiling juice, and slaves, dressed only in ragged breeches, were skimming scum off the top of each one with what looked like large oars. Steam filled the room, making it difficult to see what was going on clearly.

  “Nathaniel there,” Francis said, pointing to a thin negro with pockmarked skin, who smiled at her, “is a very skilled worker. He adds quicklime, which helps the sugar to become granulated, but he has to add the exact amount, or it will not work and the sugar will be spoilt. The amount to add depends on many things; the time of planting, the way the cane has grown, the amount of sun and rain, the soil, if it has been attacked by any pests…really, he is a very important man. The juice starts off in the large pot, then it is skimmed, poured into the next one, and so on. Once it is in the smallest, Nathaniel has to determine the exact moment to strike the sugar, and then the fire is dampened and the sugar cools. Let us go outside.”

  Even standing in the doorway, Beth had felt the heat from the room searing her lungs as she struggled to breathe. After a few seconds her skin felt as though it was going to blister. Never in her life had she experienced anything like the intense heat of that room. It was unbearable. No one could even breathe in there for more than a minute or two, let alone work in it.

  Men, women, children were working in there, for sixteen hours a day, six days a week. It was hell, quite literally.

  She stood outside, sucking in lungsful of what seemed by comparison to be cool air, although the temperature in the fields was now very warm.

  “Are you well, my lady?” Francis asked. “This was why I said it was dangerous, because of the heat. If you are not accustomed…”

  “How does anyone become accustomed to that?” she said, aghast. “It’s not possible.”

  “Everything is possible if you have no choice, my lady,” he replied with cold practicality. “There is no alternative. The sugar must be processed and that is the only way to process it. The slaves must do it, or die. They know this.”

  “Do they not die anyway, working in that?” she asked. Her chest was burning, and her hair was plastered to her neck with sugary steam and sweat. She felt sick.

  “Some do,” he said. “If they get the boiling juice on their skin it sticks and burns through the flesh. Some die anyway, from the heat. But we all have to die. The islands are full of dangers; swamp fever, fluxes, snakebites, maroons…but there are great riches to be made too, for the right men.” He smiled.

  “But not for them,” Beth said, gesturing to the myriad black workers.

  “No, not for them. But they are still blessed, because they are all baptised into Mother Church when they land on the island,” Francis said, “and have the chance of eternal life in Paradise, which they would not have, had they stayed in ignorance in Africa. The British slaves are not so fortunate, for they are not baptised in any faith at all. So you see, the slaves here are very fortunate and have their own riches to come!”

&
nbsp; Back in her room later in the morning, after having seen the blacksmith and instructed him as to the exact type of knife she wanted him to make for her, and promising him cash that she would have to ask Pierre for as an advance on her salary, she thought about what she had seen that day. After a while there came a small cough from the other side of the room. Beth looked up from her musing to see Rosalie, who was standing in the doorway looking very concerned.

  “Are you well, Madame Beth?” she asked tentatively. “Can I get anything for you?”

  Yes. An extremely large whisky and passage on the next ship out, Beth thought.

  “No thank you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Come and sit down. I’m very pleased with how quickly you’re learning the work. I think you are a natural. Who taught you to massage a scalp like you did when you washed my hair yesterday?”

  Rosalie smiled, her eyes lighting up.

  “Adela, madame. She said it’s a very good way to relax, better than tafia or rum. She said that is the devil’s brew.”

  “It felt very good,” Beth said.

  “I used to sometimes massage the women when they came back from the fields, if they asked,” Rosalie offered. Although by nature shy and quiet, she was opening up to Beth, who was starting to like her very much.

  “I went to the fields today,” Beth said. “I was very quiet, because I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Oh madame, you should have woken me! It is not safe to go there alone!”

  “I was safe – Monsieur Armstrong showed me how the sugar is made.” She caught the unconscious twist of Rosalie’s lip as she mentioned the overseer’s name. Interesting. “I think working in the fields is very hard. I didn’t expect the women to be doing the same work as the men. Did you cut cane before you came into the house?”

  “No, madame, I wasn’t strong enough for that. Only the strongest negroes are in that gang. They plant the cane, and then they cut it. It’s when they plant the cane that they ask me to massage them the most, because it hurts the back, here.” She put her hands in the small of her back. “I used to help to dig the manure in and pull up the weeds. Monsieur Francis said that next year he would teach me to clay the sugar, but then when you arrived Papa asked Monsieur Delisle if I could come into the house.”

  “Papa?” Beth, who had been about to ask what claying the sugar was, said.

  “Yes, madame. Raymond. He is my papa.”

  “What’s a maroon?” Beth asked that evening as they all sat on the porch after supper. Pierre had elected to sit with his wife and her companion for an hour before returning to his work.

  “Runaway slaves,” Antoinette said, sipping at a glass of Madeira wine. Beth was not partial to it normally, but as it was the only wine that improved rather than spoilt in the tropical heat, she was learning to like it. “They live in hordes in the forest, and are all murderers and rapists. We live in constant fear that they will come down from the mountains and kill us all as we sleep.”

  “My dear, you must not frighten our guest so! They are a problem, it is true, but we are well protected here, and my slaves are loyal. Francis told me that you went to the factory today. I must state that I am not happy that you did so without asking me.”

  “I did ask you,” Beth pointed out. “But you said you were too busy. I wanted to ask the blacksmith to make some knives for me, and did not wish to disturb you, so I went alone. Monsieur Armstrong was kind enough to show me the factory, when I asked.”

  “Really, my dear, you did not need to visit the smith. I could have sent for him. And as I said, it is dangerous—”

  “I don’t see why it’s dangerous, if, as you say, the slaves are loyal. And it’s not as though I was actually cutting the cane, feeding it through the rollers or skimming the pots of juice. I was unlikely to cut my own leg off or have to have my hand chopped off to save my life,” Beth finished, more bluntly than she had intended.

  “Ah, you are upset. And in truth, this was what I wished to spare you,” Pierre said, his face a mask of concern. “It is always the way with newcomers. They find our ways distressing until they are more accustomed to them.”

  “Did one of them have a limb cut off, then?” Antoinette asked indifferently.

  “No,” Beth said. “Not while I was there, anyway.”

  “Ah. Good. We really cannot afford to lose anyone at this point in the harvest. They will use any excuse to stop working.”

  Beth, who had been occupied with trying to fish an unfortunate and now deceased small insect out of her wine glass, looked up.

  “Madame Beth, please allow me,” Raymond said, leaping forward from his place near the door, where he had been standing in case he was needed. He bent over her glass and took the opportunity to cast her an imploring glance, which she saw. She nodded imperceptibly. “I will change your glass for a clean one,” he said.

  Beth closed her eyes momentarily, remembered Sir Anthony’s training, discarded what she had been about to say, and opened them again.

  “Pierre, I am afraid I must ask for a small advance on my allowance, if you would be so kind,” she said.

  “Of course, my dear. May I ask what you wish to purchase?”

  “The smith is making two knives for me.”

  “Why do you need knives to be made?” Antoinette asked. “We have plenty of knives in the house you can use for cutting food.”

  “And he asked you for money?” Pierre said at the same time, aghast.

  “They are not for cutting food, and no, he did not ask me for money,” Beth replied. “They are throwing knives, and have to have a particular point of balance to them. If he does a good job, I would very much like to pay him something. It would make me happy,” she finished.

  “There is really no need to pay him, but of course if you wish to I will be delighted to advance you the money. In fact I will give you your first month’s consideration in the morning. It is not fitting that you should have to ask. I apologise,” Pierre said.

  “Thank you, Pierre. You are very kind.”

  “But why do you want such things made?” he asked.

  Raymond returned with her wine, and she thanked him.

  “My mother was from the Highlands of Scotland,” Beth said. “You may know of the Highlanders – they are thought by the British government to be savages, murderers and rapists. Nothing could be further from the truth of course, but it is always so when one people does not understand the ways of another. The redcoats, being civilised, murdered a good number of my mother’s clan when she was a child, and so she was taught to protect herself in case of further attack, and she taught me. I am very adept at throwing a knife. I thought it might be useful to have a throwing knife in case I see one of those poisonous vipers you told me about.”

  “How amazing!” Antoinette said, having missed the thinly veiled inference altogether. “But the snakes move very quickly, you know.”

  “I am very adept,” Beth said. “I will show you when I get the knives.”

  Pleading tiredness due to her early start that morning, Beth made her excuses not long after and headed to bed. As she reached the stairs she passed Raymond, who had been sent to fetch another bottle of Madeira.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice low so that the couple on the porch would not hear.

  He smiled, knowing what she was referring to.

  “You will become accustomed to the ways of plantation life, madame,” he whispered. “It takes time, that is all.”

  “I hope I never become accustomed to what I saw today,” she replied. “What is claying the sugar?”

  “It is a way of refining the sugar, madame, to make it whiter. You may have seen the clay trays that are used in the boiling room when you were there, before you had to leave.”

  So Francis had told Pierre about the whole of her visit, then.

  “In the boiling room?” Beth said.

  “Yes madame. I am sorry, you will excuse me?” he said, lifting the bottle.

  “Of course.” She s
tarted up the stairs, then paused. “Raymond?” she said, still low-voiced.

  He turned.

  “I swear to you, I will do everything in my power and more to ensure your daughter never has to work in that inferno,” she whispered fervently.

  He looked up at her, then smiled again, broadly.

  “Thank you, Madame Beth,” he said. “You are a blessing to us.”

  He stepped away to the porch, and she continued up the stairs to her room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  London, mid-June 1747

  It was late afternoon and the streets were bustling with the usual sorts of people to be found in a reasonably respectable part of the city; maids searching for delicacies to tempt their mistresses’ appetites, ladies of means making purchases, accompanied by footmen laden with the parcels they had already bought, young men searching for a trinket to please a young lady, young ladies searching for a ribbon or a perfume to attract a young man. And of course those who were always to be found where there was money to be had; prostitutes, pickpockets and the ever-present beggars, hands held out as they pleaded for a copper.

  In amongst this throng was a man, who was making his way down the street with some difficulty, hampered as he was by being possessed of only one leg but two crutches, which he employed inexpertly as he attempted to negotiate the street, with the result that more than one person uttered an exclamation of pain as their ankle or shin came in sharp contact with his wooden supports.

  He was tall and well-built, and wore old-fashioned clothes, including a very long full-skirted frockcoat which covered his knees and which was buttoned up in spite of the weather, probably because he was trying to hide his lack of a waistcoat. His dark hair, which was long and tangled, was tied back, and he wore a battered round hat with a wide brim which partially hid his face. Only partially, though. Anyone who got close enough to see under the hat recoiled immediately, which, along with the clumsy use of the crutches, soon ensured that he had a reasonably clear path through the crowd.