“And him?” She eyed his nephew with concern. How on earth was he to walk?
“I’ll manage,” Charlie said, and to her surprise he got to his feet unaided, setting first one foot, then the other forward in a shuffling, unsteady walk.
In the shifting greys of receding night, the narrow dirt road looked like a silver band through total blackness, and slowly they made their way south, Alex jumping at any sound that might indicate pursuit. They found the horse a half mile or so down the road, and the creature was delighted to see them, its coat shining with panicked sweat. Charlie half lay, half sat on the horse, and Matthew hurried them on, muttering that they had to leave this morass of trees and wildly growing things behind as soon as possible. He limped, at times his breath caught, but when Alex asked, he just waved her away.
“Nothing,” he said, “I but twisted my ankle.” He increased their pace, making Alex jog.
Alex had a stitch in her side, the taste of her blood in her mouth, and her heels were burning with blisters inside her shoes, and still Matthew wouldn’t let up on the pace, for all that it was almost dawn and they were out of the woods, hastening through a flat expanse of tobacco fields.
“I…” She gasped. “I need a break.” She stopped, bracing her hands against her knees. “A breather, please, Matthew.”
“Not here,” he said, trying to tug her back into motion. “Later, Alex, but not now.”
“My feet,” she moaned. Her hip, her knee, her right arm – but mostly her feet.
“Take your shoes off,” he said, and down he went on his knees, tugging off her shoes. Just then, the woods behind them erupted with the sounds of men and horses.
“Run!” Matthew yelled, dragging at Alex. He slapped the surprised horse hard over its rump, sending it careening out on the open fields towards a group of men already busy among the rows of tobacco. Charlie fell off halfway there, landing with a squelching sound. Alex ran. Mouth open, hair flying, she ran with her hand held hard in Matthew’s, not daring to look back, not daring to think of anything but of reaching the men who had now stopped their work to stare at them.
Their pursuers were almost upon them. Any moment, Alex expected to be trampled to the ground, to die from a shot in her back. With a whimper, she tried to increase her speed, and now it was her dragging Matthew along because he was limping badly, at times hopping on one leg. Something whined through the air; a burning sensation flew up her arm. A shot? A peek down the sleeve, and she was bleeding, a shallow graze no more. Matthew’s leg gave way below him, throwing them both to the ground. Oh God, oh God. Alex tightened her hold on Matthew’s hand, and squished her eyes shut. One heartbeat, two heartbeats. Nothing. Three heartbeats, four heartbeats. Oh, bloody hell! If you’re going to shoot me, do it now! Still nothing, so Alex drew a long breath, raising her head enough to see their assailants were nowhere close.
“Ugh!” Alex groaned, spitting gravel and dirt.
“Alright?” Matthew helped her to stand.
“They just left?” she asked, looking over to where Charlie had succeeded in getting back on his feet.
“Aye, they didn’t much care for having witnesses.” He nodded to where the field hands were approaching them at a jog, some with hoes held high, their white foremen with muskets.
“Lucky us,” Alex said.
“Very,” he said, looking exhausted. He found his hat and helped Alex adjust her dirty and torn clothes. “Come on then, lass, it’s a long way back.”
*
By the time they staggered into Bridgetown, it was well into the afternoon, and people stopped to gawk at the dishevelled threesome that made their way towards the water: Charlie in only a shirt, Alex barefoot, with a torn bodice and no hat, and Matthew in a shirt dark with blood as were his breeches. The horse was the only one looking reasonably normal, if somewhat tired, and it was on shaking knees that Alex at last came to a stop before the harbourmaster’s house. She smiled with relief at the sight of Klaas, bounding up from the wharves towards them.
“My dear!” Klaas’ eyes rushed up and down Alex. “You look most bedraggled.”
“Why, thank you, that was just what I needed to hear.” Alex lunged forward to grab at Charlie who had somehow grasped that they were at their destination and so proceeded to slide off the horse, landing in an unsteady heap on the ground.
“Go inside.” Klaas moved Alex aside. “I’ll take care of the lad. Go and see to yourselves.”
She nodded and made for the inviting coolness of the house, shadowed by Matthew.
Charlie was whisked away by Klaas and Marijke to be taken care of. Klaas was clearly shocked by the state of Charlie, muttering a loud stream of what Alex supposed to be colourful Dutch invectives, at least to judge from the impressed expression on Marijke’s face.
A bath was just what Alex needed, and she smiled her thanks when the maid poured in the last buckets of water into the hip bath. She shed her dirty, sweaty clothes, and stepped into the lukewarm water. She scrubbed and scrubbed. She split lemons into halves and squeezed the juice into a handful of sugar and used the resulting mixture to do a deep peeling of legs and arms, elbows and heels. She washed her hair, she rinsed it repeatedly, and when she finally got out, the water was scummy with dirt.
“Your turn,” she said to Matthew, but he seemed reluctant to undress. The bath was refilled, and with a commanding gesture she told him to get out of his clothes – now. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, ignoring the twinge in her hip and knee when she knelt down to inspect the bruised and bleeding wound to his thigh.
“I didn’t notice,” he replied with a shrug, “not at first.” A wooden spear of a sort, he said.
She prodded. There was something stuck beneath his skin, deeply embedded.
He inhaled.
Alex sat back on her heels with a sigh. “I hate having to do this. I absolutely abhor having to cut into you.”
“That makes two of us. I don’t much fancy it myself, to lie on my back while you dig into me only inches from my balls.”
She insisted on washing him first, scrubbing all of him a bright pink before motioning for him to lie down, calling for Klaas to come and help. Matthew was pale by the time she was done, the borrowed shirt clinging to his chest and arms. Klaas gave Alex an admiring look, helped Matthew to sit, and set a glass of whisky in his shaking hand.
“Thank you,” Matthew said, and downed it all in one gulp. He managed to smile at Alex, nodding when Klaas suggested he might want to lie down. With a grunt, Matthew got to his feet, leaning heavily on Klaas as he made for the stairs and the promised bed.
“I’ll be right up,” she promised. “I’ll just clean myself up a bit first.”
Matthew was naked under the fluttering mosquito netting, and in the dusk of the closed shutters, he looked very vulnerable. He slept heavily, so heavily that he didn’t wake when she rolled towards him to pillow her head on his chest. He just grunted and draped his arm along her back. He made a very dissatisfied sound when her thigh nudged his bandaged leg, a sliver of green showing beneath his eyelashes before he sank back into his dreams.
Alex shifted closer towards him, not caring that it was too hot to have his skin this close to hers. Dead tired and she couldn’t sleep. Restless and needy, she pressed herself even closer, a slight undulating movement to her hips. She stroked his chest, his stomach. She rose on her elbow to properly see him, and bent her head to kiss his nose, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wake; he didn’t even stir. Alex dipped her head to his neck and inhaled, absorbing his scent, of man, of soap, of burbling, ice-cold water.
With her tongue, she traced the outline of his mouth, and his lips twitched in response. She flexed her hips, somewhat more demanding, because she wanted him, God, how she wanted him, how else to fill this throbbing void inside of her? Her hand drifted lower to where his pubic hair was beginning to sprout and softly touched his sex. He slept on, but his legs widened under her touch. The skin on his scrotum shifted and tight
ened, his cock stiffened, and Matthew opened one eye to look at her, somewhere midway between arousal and irritation.
“I’m injured,” he remonstrated in a cracked voice. “Recently operated on.”
“I can’t sleep. I need you,” she said, dropping a light kiss on his mouth.
“Do you now?” His hand sank into her hair to hold her still as he kissed her back. A long kiss – a kiss that began as a whisper and ended in surging heat, his tongue, his lips, claiming hers, moulding her mouth to his. She broke away with a gasp.
“We could have died,” she said, and her arousal was tinged with fear, with relief that they were still here.
“But we didn’t.” He kissed her again. A hot kiss, a rough kiss, that left her lips somewhat bruised.
“No, we didn’t. We whipped their arses,” she said, making him laugh.
“Aye, that we did.” He gripped her backside and lifted her closer, urging her on top. Carefully, she settled herself on him so as not to jar his bandaged leg. His hands came up to cup her breasts, and she moved rhythmically up and down, impaling herself on him over and over again. His hands drifted down to her waist, and he was demanding and urgent in his hold. Alex followed his lead, riding him at an increased pace until he came, a guttural “nnngh” exploding from his lips.
“A very good bed,” he said drowsily as he settled himself afterwards, his long body lying like a protective shell around her. “It didn’t creak, not once.”
Chapter 32
Charlie woke after several consecutive days of dream-ridden sleep, and for an instant he was convinced he was dead, and that somehow the Lord had seen him for a good man and welcomed him to heaven instead of banishing him to hell.
He fingered the sheet with its broad band of Brussels lace and studied the heavy wood of the bedposts. Just beside the bed, there was a little table that held ewer and basin, and hanging on the opposite whitewashed wall was a small painting, a Dutch still life.
He sank back onto his pillow. It had all been a terrible dream, all of it, from the moment he boarded the ship at Antwerp to the confusing images he had of a fight in the darkness of a jungle night. This was Holland, and soon Cornelia would call up to him that breakfast was ready and that the young gentleman had visitors waiting for him in the parlour.
He rolled over to stretch and muffled a gasp when his weight pressed his lacerated back against the sheets. He perused his surroundings again. No, this wasn’t Holland. For a start, it was far too warm, and through the window he could see a pawpaw tree. He squinted down his body to where his feet stuck up, each ankle neatly wrapped in linen bandages. God’s truth! All of it had happened. Every single detail of what he hoped had been a nightmare had actually been done to him. Charlie wanted to die. His bladder wanted to pee, and with a groan he rolled out of bed, making for the chamber pot.
He pissed, shook himself, and took a deep breath before pulling off his shirt. He stared at his skin. He was covered in a patchwork of bruises, of gashes and half-healed wounds.
“There’s not very much we can do about those,” someone said from behind him, making Charlie whirl so fast he nearly fainted. He hadn’t heard her come in, immersed in his inspection of the two letters that decorated his chest. “The rest of you is healing well enough,” she continued.
He grabbed for his shirt, hastily covering himself, and regarded her warily. He thought he might have met her before, but who was this woman who had the temerity to enter unannounced into his room?
She set down the tray she was carrying and smiled. “I’m Alex Graham, your aunt by marriage.”
“Oh.” Charlie’s attention was distracted by the smell of hot food from the tray. Eggs… Milk toast with cinnamon, even some fried ham. His stomach gurgled with joy.
“Slowly,” Alex said when he threw himself at the food.
Charlie didn’t listen. He had to eat as much as he could. You never knew, did you, if there’d be food tomorrow.
*
“He’s still a condemned man,” Klaas said to Matthew. The two men had taken a morning walk around the harbour with Matthew attempting to find berths back home.
“Aye, and legally bound to live out his life like a slave.”
“And if we’re going to be precise, those years are to be lived out here, in Barbados.” Klaas did his lip thing again, pulling at it before releasing it. “Some would argue it’s my duty to stop you from taking him off the island – or at least inform the Governor.”
“Aye, although at present getting off the island seems a difficult venture.” Matthew regarded the anchored ships with irritation. None of them had destination Virginia or Maryland. This was the third day running he had limped down to make inquiries, all of him itching with the need to get back home – and place a safe distance between himself and Sassafras Brown.
“He’s too well respected,” Klaas had sighed when Matthew had voiced his intent to accuse the planter for attempted murder. “And how will you be able to prove anything against him? Your wife’s word carries no clout, and as to your nephew…well, best he not speak at all, I think.” And no matter how frustrated this made him, Matthew had to concede Klaas was right: his word would count for nothing here.
Alex came to meet them when they entered the house. “He’s awake and lucid. Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” Matthew said.
“It all came back to him, I think.” Alex bit her lip, brows pulled together in a worried frown. “He keeps on fingering the brands.”
“Ah.” Matthew looked away, stopping himself from scratching at the brand on his buttock. Alex rested a hand on his arm.
“Yours is healed and small. His are huge and infected, what with his constant picking at them.”
Matthew glanced down at her, met a concerned, bright blue look. “Aye,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “Mine is nothing but a faded memory.” Not true, not at all true, and from the way she raised her brows, his wife didn’t quite believe him. “I’ll go and talk to the lad.” With a swift kiss, he left her in the dark hallway.
Charlie was standing at the window when Matthew entered, large hands gripping the sill as support. All bones, Matthew sighed, thinking it would be a small matter to count each bone in Charlie’s tall frame. His nephew gave him a careful smile.
“Better, then?” Matthew said.
“Alive at least, and strong enough to travel.” A hungry look flashed over Charlie’s face. “When can we leave this accursed place?”
“Well…” Matthew explained the situation in a couple of sentences.
“I’m still a slave?” Charlie sat down on the bed, stupefied.
“An indenture, not a slave,” Matthew hastened to clarify, “but you could still hang should you return to England.”
Charlie’s hand went to his neck. “I saw my best friend hang, there in Taunton,” he said in a small voice. “The judge, Jeffreys his name was, well, he made sure the poor unfortunates saw all the implements before they were led up to the noose.” Charlie sucked in air. “They hanged him, cut him down alive, and…” Violent tremors rippled through him, his nostrils dilated. “They…” He wet his lips. “…he lived, they made sure he lived while they…” He covered his crotch with his hands. “They cut it off,” he whispered, “his member. And then…”
“Shush, lad. It does you no good to remember such, does it?” Matthew interrupted.
Charlie laughed, a raspy, coughing sound. “I can’t forget.”
“With time, it fades.” Matthew clasped the bony shoulder for a brief moment. “Stay away from England, at least for two or three years.”
*
“We were twelve that went to Mr Brown,” Charlie told Alex next morning, sitting very still while she washed the nasty wound on the inside of his foot.
“Twelve?” Alex looked up at him. “There were only four of you when we got there.”
Charlie jerked at the stinging sensation when she applied the garlic poultice. “The other eight died in the first month.” He
couldn’t even recall their names – had he even know their names? One had been young, younger than himself, and he thought he might have been named Jack, but the others were just anonymous blurs, weaklings he had stolen food from whenever he could. His gut tightened in shame – but what was he supposed to do?
“George…” He gave her a guarded look to see if she reacted to the name, but all he could see was the top of her head, her hands busy bandaging the blistered rings around his ankles. “George said that was always the case, how most died within a few weeks, and the few who remained on their feet after that could survive at least for some years.”
“That must have been comforting.” Alex used the bedpost to lever herself upright. For some moments, she rubbed at her hip, her lower back, muttering something about being too old for all this.
“Not really.” He took off his shirt and rolled over on his belly, gritting his teeth at the discomfort it was to lie naked under her eyes. She covered his arse with a towel, and he relaxed. Her hands busied themselves with his back, and the whole room smelled of lavender and lemon balm.
“So who was George? The overseer?”
“The overseer? I don’t know what his name was. No, George was one of the slaves.” Charlie closed his eyes, and he could see himself grovelling like a dog at the big man’s feet, the lowest of the low, a slave to a slave.
“Oh.” Alex drew the thin sheet up over his shoulders. “Stay like that for some time. Take a nap or something, okay?”
“Okay,” he mumbled, half asleep. It made him smile, that expression – it reminded him of Jacob.
The next time he saw Matthew, Charlie asked him what Jacob might be doing. Was he still in the colonies or had he moved back to London?
His uncle studied his hands. “Jacob’s dead.”
“He’s dead?” Charlie blinked. Not Jacob, not his tall, strong cousin.
“Aye. He was shot well over a year ago. He…well…we had a spot of trouble with a band of renegades, and Jacob took it badly when they abducted his sister and so…” Matthew hitched a shoulder and exhaled.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 27
