Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7)

by Anna Belfrage

  “You know my father?”

  “Not as such,” he answered honestly, “but I met him last month in Jamestown.” And that was all it took for him to step into her confidence.

  They walked slowly along the water on their way back, and all the time she held her knife. She turned to face him at something he said, and he saw just how blue her eyes were. She laughed, and her teeth were very white. She spoke, and her hands floated into the air to underline and emphasise – no matter that they were encumbered with shoes and knife – and Michael looked at the shape of her mouth and wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

  Discreetly, he leaned towards her, drawing in her scent. Surprisingly clean, she smelled of water and sundried hay and… He sniffed again, at a loss to find an adequate simile.

  They stopped at a point midway between the Jones’ house and the town proper, and Sarah sat down to put on stockings and shoes, turning her back on him as she raised her skirts to tie the garters into place.

  He was close enough to her that he could brush her back. With a rapid movement, he could have snatched the knife away from her, and then it would have been an easy matter to overpower her. And he wanted to, part of him most certainly did, seeing her on the ground below him, as naked as she’d been when she got out of the water. But he kept on remembering the way her parents walked together, the invisible ties that made them move in perfect synchronisation through the dusty streets of Jamestown, and the image woke a longing in him, a yearning for something he couldn’t put into words.

  He made his farewells just opposite the meetinghouse, doffing his hat in a deep bow. She curtsied just as deeply and, with a mumbled Godspeed, rushed off down the narrow alley that led to Minister Allerton’s house.

  Michael stood looking after her for a long time before clapping his hat back on his head and setting off in the direction of Mrs Malone’s. He needed a pint or two of the madam’s best beer and maybe one of the girls as well. Limes, he decided as he strolled towards the port. Sarah Graham smelled of sliced limes, of rushing water and summer grass.

  Chapter 22

  “Port Royal, the finest harbour in the whole Caribbean sea,” Captain Jan said before going back to calling out orders. The Althea was manoeuvred inside the protective sand spit, the Palisadoes, to gently float toward the bustling wharves. “I’m sure to find a buyer for the ketch here, and then, of course, I have the little angel to dispose of.” He grinned at Alex, who couldn’t help but grin back.

  Ángel Muñoz of the seventeenth century was proving to be as obnoxious a person as his future namesake, a diarrhoea of threats streaming from his mouth whenever he was ungagged, which as a consequence wasn’t often. After the incident with the breviary, Alex had given the man as wide a berth as possible on a small ship, but every time the Spaniard had seen her, he’d smirked, dark eyes boring into her.

  “How dispose of him?” she asked.

  “He’s an encomendado, a rich man by his own accounts, owner of a huge hacienda on Cuba. He will be kept secure until an adequate ransom is paid.” He grimaced at the Spaniard. “I have no fondness for the Spanish, and in particular, not for Spanish priests.”

  “He isn’t a priest.” She wasn’t sure what he was, but she very much doubted he was a plantation owner. More of a royal envoy, a spy perhaps… That little book of his, with all that blather about birds – no, Alex was convinced they were code for something, but think as she might, she hadn’t been able to figure out what.

  Captain Jan scowled. “No, and if he had been, I would have thrown him back into the sea.”

  “You would?” She was suddenly very glad that it hadn’t been Carlos she pulled from the sea.

  Captain Jan hawked and spat into the filmed waters of the harbour and nodded. “They burnt my mother.”

  “As a witch,” Matthew said to Alex once the captain had moved away. “His mother was a native wise woman from somewhere on the mainland. One night, a young woman came to her door and begged for help to rid herself of an unwanted child. The lass died, bled to death, and so… Apparently, it was a Spanish priest that headed the legal proceedings and made sure she was condemned as a heretic witch and not as a murderess. You hang for murder, but you burn for heresy.”

  “How do you know all this?” Alex asked.

  “The crew talks, the cook in particular.”

  “Oh.” She returned her attention to the town crammed onto the narrow tongue of land, taking in the massive forts, the rows of wharves and warehouses and the heavy stone buildings, incongruously English in style, down to half-timbered multi-storey buildings that tottered unsteadily as they reached for the sky. At one end, there were some older buildings, showing clear Spanish influence in whitewashed walls and tiled roofs, and a surprising number of churches dotted the town.

  “All faiths, I hear,” Alex said, “from Presbyterian to Catholic and anything in between. Very tolerant.”

  Matthew gave her an amused look. “I don’t think the people of Port Royal spend overmuch time in church. It’s Sunday, and they are not swarming in the direction of Mass or sermon.” Rather the reverse, actually, with most of the inhabitants seemingly gravitating on the port itself. “They don’t much look like churchgoers either,” he added, sounding disapproving as he took in the gaudily dressed women. Alex wasn’t all that interested, mind still stuck on the conundrum that was Ángel.

  “I don’t think he’s a plantation owner,” Alex said, nodding in the direction of their captive. She weighed the little notebook in her hand, studying the surrounding ships, the forts with their snout-nosed cannon peeking through the battlements.

  “Well, we’ll see. But for what it’s worth, the captain agrees with you, as do I. That wee Spaniard is up to no good.”

  “It’s in his blood,” Alex muttered, “predestined to be evil.”

  “I thought you didn’t hold with determinism,” Matthew said with a teasing smile.

  “Not in general, but in this particular case…” She hitched her shoulders.

  “The captain will turn him over to the authorities, and then it’s out of our hands.” He looked over to where the Spaniard had been untied, and pursed his mouth. “A soldier,” he said as he watched him move across the deck. “I reckon that’s what he is. He has the look of a man accustomed to violence.” He didn’t wait for her to comment on this apparent truth. “Come on then, we must make haste off the ship. I have inquiries to make.”

  It had taken a long, bitter discussion to convince Alex that entrusting David to Captain Jan was the lesser of two evils, far better than dragging him along to slave markets to see they knew not what state of human misery. Still, she wasn’t too thrilled about leaving their son aboard, and nor was David, who looked quite stunned when Matthew told him he wasn’t coming along.

  “I won’t be any trouble,” he said, “and I can sleep on the floor.”

  “Nay,” Matthew wasn’t about to give an inch. “I have accorded with the captain that you’ll remain with him and work your passage home.”

  “But Da,” David whined, “I…” Once again, he looked for support from Alex.

  “Hush, lad,” Matthew said, “you won’t achieve anything by nagging. And I’ll have you swear to me that you’ll obey the captain in everything, and once back in Providence return immediately to Julian.” Sullenly, David promised, his shoulders drooping.

  “I thought you wanted to see the world,” Alex teased mildly, almost laughing when David muttered something about not seeing very much with his nose a scant six inches from the deck boards. “You’re going to Curacao,” Alex said to cheer him up. “Captain Jan lives there, I think. And then it’s off to Barbados, he said.”

  David brightened – a bit. “And you?” he asked. “How will you get back?”

  “We’ll arrange passage once we’ve found your cousin,” Matthew said.

  “Do you think you will?” David asked.

  “I don’t know.” Matthew embraced his son. “Godspeed, lad, be bonny and brave, and we
’ll be seeing you back in Providence.”

  “Aye.” David nodded before hugging Alex hard.

  “Wash,” Alex said, “and don’t forget…”

  “…to clean my teeth and eat my greens,” David filled in with a faint smile.

  Alex kissed him and, for an instant, cupped his face. “I love you.”

  *

  “I’m not quite sure I like this town,” Alex said as she followed Matthew up the wide street that bordered the wharves. She was constantly jostled, her hand slipping out of Matthew’s far too often. There was too much exposed flesh, too many raucous men with equally loud women hanging off their arms. Sweaty bodies uncomfortably close, the stale breath of men and women that lived off alcohol rather than food, cloying perfumes, a sharp heel that trod her on the foot, the bleary, unfocused eyes of a scantily dressed woman that barged into her, was righted and towed away by the man by her side… All in all, Alex was not impressed.

  “Fleshpot,” Alex said once they’d escaped the worst of the throngs. “I never really understood the meaning of that word until now.”

  “Sodom,” Matthew said, “a veritable hotbed of sin.”

  “And wealth,” Alex added, nodding at the large paved thoroughfare a sign proclaimed to be High Street, where the buildings were fine and commodious.

  “Oh aye, more rich men here than in the rest of the New World combined. It’s on account of the privateering.”

  “Are you saying the upright citizens of Port Royal are mostly pirates?”

  “Aye, all, more or less, have interests in privateer ships. At least, that is what Captain Jan told me. And quite a few of the distinguished men here in Jamaica are former buccaneers themselves. Like Henry Morgan, pirate turned governor, even if now he’s retired, said to be ailing.” He indicated they should turn right into a small street, making for a narrow building with a dilapidated sign proclaiming rooms for hire.

  “Why this one?” Alex eyed the crumbling plaster of the half-timbered building with misgivings.

  “It’s run by the sister of the minister of the kirk.”

  Alex just looked at him. “I don’t understand how you do that. We’ve been here, what? Three hours? And already you’ve apparently located the minister and his sister.”

  “The minister was easy. I just walked up to the wee kirk while you were packing. The man was delighted to have a congregation of one.”

  He held the door for her, and they entered a dark panelled hall through which a further door was visible, giving on a small courtyard with a huge cistern and a cookhouse. The tile floor was laid in a pleasing herringbone pattern, the room smelled of mould, of damp that never properly dried, and once they were installed in the very small room, Alex ran a hand over sheets that were clean but distinctly moist. At least the bed frame was hung with mosquito netting, and a thorough inspection of corners and nooks assured Alex there were no spiders or giant cockroaches.

  After a quick wash, they were back outside, making for the Customs office, located close to the Chocolata Hole over which Fort Charles loomed, several cannon pointed out across the entry to the harbour. Something niggled at Alex’s mind, and she came to an abrupt stop, eyes sweeping the harbour, the protected bay. She counted the cannon, looked across to Fort James, counted the black snouts she could see, and turned to Matthew.

  “He’s been travelling the islands,” she said, holding the little book aloft. “He isn’t counting gulls, he’s counting guns, and all that hogwash about bays and rocks, it’s fortifications and harbours!”

  He gave her a sceptical look.

  “Trust me! How many times have I read this?” Alex paged through the breviary. “See?” She waved the open book at him. “Is this not a description of this port?”

  Yes, it was, he agreed, listening to her hesitant translation of a poetic description of a sea within the sea, a shimmering lake of turquoise waters banded by green and sand. There was even a detailed description of the shallow banks that protected the entrance to the harbour, disguised as a rather sickening ode to mermaids that played in the shallow seas. And to the south, the little book explained, well, there he saw twelve gulls sitting close together, while to the north, surprise, surprise, he saw but four. Matthew repeated the exercise she had just done.

  “Twelve cannon,” he said. “Twelve pointing this way, and the rest bristle from the other sides.”

  “Which he also describes, if somewhat contortedly,” Alex said, laughing at poetic lines describing gulls in mid-flight. She tapped at the geometric design that had been so carefully executed at the bottom of the page. “Like a series of miniature compass roses.”

  They hung over the book. Not compass roses, Matthew ventured after much flipping back and forth. No, this was a code of sorts: the miniature triangles and squares in subtly different combinations on each page. Alex tilted her head. He was probably right, and the embellished letters that dotted the pages contained some sort of key.

  “We can look at it further later,” he said, straightening up. “But right now, I need to see the harbourmaster.”

  She tucked the little book away and followed him to the brick Customs House, precariously balanced on stilts to create a storage space beneath.

  “Two,” the harbourmaster said, “came in a fortnight ago, on the last day of June. Unloaded close to three hundred men and twenty-three women. ”

  “Very exact,” Alex said.

  “The women are valuable.” The harbourmaster shrugged. “All of them snapped up on the day of their arrival.”

  “And the men?” Matthew asked. “Are there any name lists?”

  The harbourmaster just looked at him. “Of course. The men arrived as property of the Crown, so all documents pertaining to their sale will be archived at King’s House.”

  “Have they all been sold?” Alex asked.

  The harbourmaster shook his head. The crossing had taken well over a month longer than expected, and the landed men had been in no fit state to sell – at least not at first.

  “The last lot is due up tomorrow. The Crown wants to cover their expense of board and transport, so the lowest asking price is around twenty pounds.”

  “Is that a lot?” Alex asked naively.

  “A good slave sells for seventy up to a hundred or so,” the harbourmaster said, “but these wrecks have at most two or three years in them. They’re here to die.”

  Alex swallowed at his callous remark, saw Matthew doing the same.

  “Are you expecting more ships?” Matthew inquired as they stood to leave.

  “No,” the harbourmaster said, “the remaining rebels were destined for Barbados.”

  They left with instructions as to how to find the slave market, and a caustic comment along the lines that these men were traitors and deserved what they got.

  “He’s right,” Matthew said. “There won’t be much sympathy for their plight.”

  “Twenty pounds…” Alex shook her head. “That’s not even what you’ve paid for our bond servants.”

  “They don’t expect them to live long,” Matthew reminded her, “and if they get more than half a year out of them, it is more profit to their owner.”

  “So, now what do we do?” Alex asked.

  “I‘ll go to the market first, I think, and then it is best we pay a visit to the governor.”

  “We can give him Ángel Muñoz’s book.”

  “Aye, that we can do,” Matthew said. “It might buy us a better reception.” They were strolling down what obviously was Port Royal’s commercial high end, and he nodded over to a sturdy brick building situated in the intersection of the road they were on with another. “Food? I myself am starving.”

  Alex sniffed and nodded. “Fish, I think.”

  They were joined at their table by a Mr Lynch, who explained he had heard from the harbourmaster about their quest, and, although not sympathetic as such, he was willing to extend them what help he could.

  “Why?” Matthew asked, burping discreetly after his second h
elping of fish pie.

  “I work for the local government,” Mr Lynch explained. “My cousin, Thomas Lynch, was until recently governor.”

  “And?” Alex said, not at all seeing the connection.

  Mr Lynch smiled, took off his magnificent wig and hung it off the back of his chair.

  “I must admit to being somewhat curious. It’s rare that relatives of indentures cross the sea to search for them.”

  “Mostly because they can’t afford to, and because it takes a bloody long time,” Alex said.

  “But he must be a most impressive young man to drive you to such actions.”

  “I have no idea,” Alex said. “I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  If anything, that peaked Mr Lynch’s curiosity even further, and when he left, his blond wig tucked into the crook of his arm, they had agreed that he would accompany them first to the slave market and then take them to see the Lieutenant Governor.

  Chapter 23

  The day the sugar harvest was done, Mr Brown decided his slaves were to be allowed an extra ration of food and some cane liquor. He stood watching as the men came shuffling back from the fields, eyes cursorily passing over the few whites, all of them burnt a deep brown and with nothing but thin clouts. Undistinguishable, almost, from the rest of his property, and according to the overseer, good workers the lot of them. Still in chains, all four of them, and in chains they would remain until they died.

  His experienced eye roved over them, and in his head he calculated their potential lifespan. Two years? Maybe even three? Enough that they could leave a slave girl or two pregnant, and the babies would be valuable on account of their lighter skin. His fingers drummed against the veranda post, and in his customary low voice he sent the houseboy to find the overseer for him.

  *

  The alcohol went directly to Charlie’s head, a smooth burning down his gullet, a pool of heat in his belly, and an agreeable numbness in his brain. He was only vaguely aware of the people around him, his entire concentration fixed on the heaped plate in front of him and the miraculously refilled tumbler.