A fire in their hearts, p.19
A Fire in Their Hearts, page 19
I peer at him, puzzled. ‘Why Findlay? What would he want with Calum?’
‘Just watch out. While you’re here, you’ll encounter cruelty, desires and activities such as you wouldn’t believe possible from another human being. Hunter and Findlay are amongst the worst. They were forced indentured servants once, before my time.’
‘Servants!’
‘Convicts, sold like thousands of others. Every so often the British government decides that emptying the jails in England by transporting the inmates is a good way of solving a problem and making money. Those two proved themselves to be so sadistic that Drummond released them to work for him. They’re fanatically loyal. Even without orders, they’ll hurt people because it’s what they enjoy.’
‘Lord save us,’ whispers Calum.
‘Yes, well there’s a question. Drummond will preach at us on a Sunday about forgiveness from that bloody pulpit of his, then have a man whipped an hour later because the fancy takes him. Yet there are owners who would leave a worse taste than him.’
‘Are there no good plantation owners?’
‘There are some you might consider decent, even caring in their own way for those who work the land. It’s mainly chance where anyone ends up. The degree of misery of slaves and servants is largely determined by the character of the owner. I don’t understand what we’ve done in our lives to be punished so severely, yet here we are under Drummond. He’s as mad as a March hare, and it likely won’t take long before you’re hopping around in the same field.’
* * *
There are four men’s huts. Alan and the other three have been allocated the second hut, while Calum and I get the first. Inside we find half a dozen beds that have been built with rough bits of timber. There are a similar number of hammocks, all occupied. The rest of the space is taken up with thin straw mattresses. We can smell them from the doorway but after so long in the hold of the ship, all I care about is not sleeping on a hard surface. We find two together with no one in them.
‘It’ll be better when we understand the routine of the plantation,’ whispers Calum.
I’ve been feeling increasingly ill all evening and am trying hard not to cry. ‘I guess so.’
‘And tomorrow’s Saturday, so we just have to get through that and on Sunday we can rest and get ourselves sorted, maybe get cleaned up and be given new clothes.’
I try to speak but it comes out as a huge sob. Calum reaches across and takes my hand. It’s gloomy enough for nobody to see, and who’s bothered anyway?
‘It will get better. We haven’t suffered everything for our lives to end here. God hasn’t forgotten us.’
Perhaps, but right now, in this dirty hut at the end of the world, it does feel as though we’ve been misplaced. I sniff. ‘Let’s get to sleep.’
He squeezes my hand then lets go, and I try to find a position that offers some comfort. Men are still coming into the hut and a figure lies on the mattress on the other side of me. There are some murmured conversations but mostly people are too weary for anything other than rest.
I want it so much, but as the minutes pass, I find sleep evades me. My mind is like an overflowing river, too full for even the tiniest part to be still. Images of the day push each other out of the way, demanding my attention – the extraordinary scenes at the harbour, the unfettered violence on the plantation, the insanity of Drummond. I sense such a terrible danger from this man, and in the darkness I can’t shake off the notion that our lives will be bound together in some unnatural way.
And I wonder about Samuel, whether he’s alive. And if he is, how will I ever get back to him now?
There are a great many noises outside, with chirping, screeching and howling so strange to me that I can’t identify if they’re made by birds, beasts or demons. Something bites my leg and I kick out. I hear a rat scuttle away. That sound at least is familiar.
Next to me Calum snores quietly, something else I know well. Somewhere a man weeps. This must be a person who has been here for a while as we’re the only new people in this hut. There’s more than Thomas in this place who’s troubled beyond endurance. I shift, trying to get more comfortable. The mattress is alive with vermin. Eventually, I fall into a troubled sleep and dream of being eaten by cockroaches.
27
Violet
13 March 1680, Drummond Plantation, Barbados
S
OMEONE IS GENTLY SHAKING MY shoulder and I finally open my eyes to see the outline of the slave who had been next to me.
‘Eat,’ he says, before heading to the door.
Other figures are already moving about in the gloom. I realise that my dream reflects something of reality. The sweat and heat from my body has attracted the occupants of the mattress and my back is on fire with insect bites.
‘Calum. Calum, wake up.’
I have to shake him several times before he shows any sign of coming around. He was like that as a small boy, when he would stay overnight with us instead of going home with Samuel and his parents.
‘We have to get up.’
‘We’ve only just gone to sleep.’
‘Tomorrow we sleep. Now we eat.’
We follow the stooped figures heading silently towards a nearby ditch that’s used by everyone as a latrine. People find as private a spot as they can and no one takes any notice of me. Drummond’s strictness about men and women not fraternising wouldn’t be out of place being mentioned in a staunch Presbyterian sermon, yet at the same time we’re thrown together in the most intimate of situations that makes the idea of not speaking seem ridiculous.
As we trudge out to the fields, I can’t believe that I’ll get through the day. My entire body hurts more than I’ve ever known and I dread having to dig out more withes.
‘You don’t look well,’ says Calum quietly.
‘I’ll be all right. I’m not sure if the food helped or not.’
‘More loblolly to start the day.’
To our surprise, we leave the women to continue clearing the area they were working on yesterday and are taken with the other male slaves and servants to fields further away. The six of us stay together and also keep close to Rory, whom we look to for advice almost as if we’re frightened children seeking reassurance from an adult. He’s aware of this and in his gruff way is kind.
‘We plant sugar canes throughout most of the year,’ he explains, ‘so that we have a constant supply for the Ingenio.’
‘What’s that?’ asks Calum.
‘A monster. It’s part of the processing plant and you’ll not see its equal anywhere in Europe. The cane is usually ready to harvest at fifteen months but once cut it has to be processed within a couple of days otherwise the damn stuff starts to ferment and then it’s useless.’
‘So what are we doing?’ asks Alan.
‘You’re going to cut canes, and if you thought yesterday was tough, I can promise that you’ll wish you were back weeding within ten minutes.’
We pass field after field of sugar canes, gently moving seas of different colours and hues depending upon the maturity of the plants, some of which are less than a foot high. Others are taller than me and I can’t see beyond the nearest rows. Finally, we reach an area that is currently being harvested.
A few slaves have been carrying boxes and when they lay these down many men go to them and take out a small billhook, the curved blades of which appear to have been recently sharpened. They immediately set about cutting down canes and we watch with a mixture of fascination and dread.
Off to our right is a field that has been completely cleared of any remnants of vegetation. Here, other slaves and servants work side by side digging narrow trenches about six inches across and the same in depth. I assume this is for planting, but I don’t give this any further thought because my attention is suddenly taken by an animal noise close behind me. I turn to see five mules standing in a line.
‘Irish! Get them bloody working!’ shouts Hunter.
‘Pick up a billhook and follow me,’ says Rory, who has stayed silent as we’ve gazed in wonder.
We gather a little way from those already frantically busy. He puts a hand around the stem of a sugar cane as though he would like to strangle it.
‘You will learn to hate this plant. You will hate it waking up in the morning and going to bed at night. You will hate it while forcing down yet more loblolly and when you’re squatting over the stinking latrine. Every second of your life here you will have a hatred in your hearts that you wouldn’t have believed possible for something growing in the soil. It’s because of this plant that we’re here. Growing and harvesting these bastards kills people more quickly than any other crop in the colonies.
‘Listen carefully. Hold the cane like this and cut it about six inches from the ground, with one swipe of the billhook. Don’t damage the buds near the bottom or you’ll be punished. This is where next year’s shoots grow from.’
Rory demonstrates and seconds later the cane is free. ‘Looks easy, doesn’t it? Take off the top with one stroke then trim off all the blades growing out the sides.’ The billhook is almost a blur as the metal edge slices off each leaf precisely where it comes off the stem, while not once even nicking the latter. Moments later he’s holding a perfectly trimmed cane, about six foot in length and one inch thick.
My panic grows with every heartbeat. I’m so awkward with tools that require judging distances and I fear I’m about to lose some fingers.
‘You work without stopping until the bell at eleven.’
‘That’s five hours!’ says Alan.
‘You won’t last,’ says Rory. ‘I’ll tell you that now.’
‘Then what do we do?’ asks Calum.
‘Pray, if you still believe there’s a God.’
Slaves walk by carrying bundles of canes that they’ve cut and tied in the time we’ve been trying to understand what we’re meant to do. We watch as they lay them across wooden crooks that have been fitted to the packsaddles on the mules. I’m surprised at how calmly the animals stand. When the first mule has three faggots loaded on the crook, a man pats its rump and the beast moves off, heading back towards the compound by itself.
‘Hunter isn’t going to give us any more time,’ says Rory. ‘And he’s put me in the other field so I’m not going to be with you. Good luck.’
With this Rory returns his billhook to the box and walks away. We stand looking at each other in disbelief.
‘Let’s get started,’ says Alan.
We spread out, finding spaces amongst the slaves and servants. No one can help anyone else in this and as I take hold of my first sugar cane it’s not hate I feel but fear. This innate plant will sweeten the drink and food of people with no knowledge of the pain involved in bringing it to their table.
Remember Bothwell . . . Remember the cause . . . This is a plant.
I put a hand between the leaves and take firm hold of the stem, then I position my feet and body as I saw Rory do.
It’s just a plant.
I aim for a spot about six inches above the ground, making sure my other hand is clear in case I misjudge. I’ve never used a tool like this before, and the balance is odd. I move my hand further up the stem but this makes my stance awkward. Finally, I swing the billhook as hard as I can. It bites into the cane without cutting it.
‘Damn!’
I glance around, worried that Hunter will have noticed my failure. There’s no sign of him, so I wiggle the blade free and hack again. As soon as the stem is cut, the weight of the plant simply pulls it out of my left hand and it falls to the ground. As quickly as possible I remove the top, which contains a lot of foliage, and work my way along, cutting off the leaves. It must be more than five minutes later when I’m left with a cane that’s shorter than it should be and which has bits of leaf still poking from a stem that’s been damaged in several places.
I don’t know whether to try and make this one neater or start another one because I’ll be punished for not working fast enough. I can’t help it and start to cry. I feel so terribly alone. The tears won’t stop. I’m going to be beaten. I stand holding this stupid, overgrown stalk and can’t stop crying because I’m so frightened.
A slave walks nearby, carrying canes. He stops, glances around then quickly lays down his bundle and comes over. Without speaking he takes the stem from me and within seconds removes the remaining leaves. With astonishing speed he cuts and trims three canes and puts them by my feet, then he takes my damaged one and feeds it into the middle of his bundle. He picks up his load and continues to the waiting mules. It’s only as he walks away that I notice the fresh lines of blood coming through the back of his shirt.
* * *
There’s a shadow across my face.
‘You Covenanters should be drowned,’ spits Hunter.
He’s already kicked me once, but I don’t attempt to get up. I fainted, and when I woke I lay where I fell, unable to continue. My billhook is nowhere in sight. This work is so far beyond my ability that no threat will make me carry on. I think Hunter knows it and there’s less pleasure for him in beating someone who’s beyond the point of responding.
‘Get up!’
He kicks me again and I gasp at the pain in my ribs but don’t move. He’s frustrated yet seems to accept that all he can actually do is stand there kicking me, without obtaining the result he wants.
‘Drink some water then start carrying the bundles to the mules.’
With this order he storms off, muttering curses about Covenanters. In a strange way I feel that I’ve won a small victory.
Rory was right. Long before the bell rings at eleven, we six from the Sophia have had to stop cutting canes. We’ve been helped in this by the arrival of McKinnon, who rode by during his regular inspection of the plantation. The overseer is evil, but he’s driven by profit, and it was instantly apparent to him that it wasn’t productive to have the newly arrived servants cutting canes.
The sound of the handbell carries clearly across the fields and the two mules waiting to be loaded turn around and plod back to the compound. We follow and our small group is soon joined by Rory.
‘You didn’t last,’ he says.
‘No,’ says Calum.
‘Well, Hunter won’t be able to make you attempt that work again, not until McKinnon is certain you can handle it.’
‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asks Calum.
‘While you’re on the plantation you have to make the most of even the smallest improvement to your life. Such things can make a big difference.’
I sense that Calum realises he’s being ungracious to someone who is not only trying to help but probably represents our greatest hope of surviving.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
‘Save your thanks,’ says Rory. ‘There are terrors and torments on this plantation that are beyond anything you could imagine in your worst nightmare. You’re only just getting started.’
28
Violet
14 March 1680, Drummond Plantation, Barbados
I
T’S SUNDAY MORNING, THERE’S BEEN no bell and the pleasure of sleeping is unbelievable. I eat another meal of loblolly while sitting outside amongst servants and slaves. People are mainly quiet and reflective, although there is definitely a change compared to the last two days.
Hunter comes over. ‘Irish, collect clothes for them before going to the beach.’
‘The beach?’ asks Alan, once Hunter has left.
‘This plantation reaches the shore,’ says Rory. ‘Every Sunday morning we all go there to scrub ourselves and our clothes. You can stink like a corpse during the week, but Drummond expects everyone to be clean on a Sunday.’
Rory goes off and returns with a new pair of coarse linen drawers and a shirt plus shoes for the six of us. Shortly after this we set off with everyone else, some slaves carrying large wicker baskets fitted with lids. I can just make out near the front that children and adults with long sticks are herding dozens upon dozens of noisy turkeys, which set the speed for those walking behind.
We head in a different direction to the one we’ve previously taken, through parts of the compound we’ve not been in. The number of buildings, huts and structures is greater than you would find in many Ayrshire villages. The purpose of some is obvious, like the blacksmith’s forge, but the reason for many is a mystery; presumably they’re needed for processing the sugar cane. We pass enclosures containing mules and hogs, as well as pens for hens and a species of black duck I’ve never seen before.
Until now I’ve only been aware of sugar canes disappearing into the distance as far as I can see, but this morning we pass large areas set aside as pasture for horses and oxen, which munch away with no interest in people passing by. Thomas is close to us. We’ve yet to speak to him following our brief introduction by Rory, but Calum sees his chance now.
‘Thomas, why are there turkeys ahead?’
The young man studies us as we walk, until finally, he replies. ‘They’re being taken to the potatoes.’
‘To eat them?’
‘To eat caterpillars. The crop is infested and the most effective way to get rid of them is to let the turkeys roam free. They won’t stray and will easily be gathered up and driven back later today.’ Thomas looks at the ground to indicate that the conversation is over.
We continue in silence for a short while before I speak quietly to Calum. ‘Samuel once said that my eyebrows were like caterpillars.’
‘Did he?’
‘We were so young and innocent and in love back then.’
‘I miss him every minute,’ says Calum. ‘He was always there watching out for me.’
‘How did our youth and innocence leave us so totally, almost without us realising?’ I ask.
‘But there’s still love,’ he says. ‘And that has to be the most important.’
It’s not long before we reach long rows of mounded earth and watch as the turkeys head eagerly into the foliage to gorge themselves on the tiny enemy. They’ve clearly done this before and are left to it while everyone moves on at a faster pace.
