Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 8

*

  Jones lined up all the men the day they began the harvest. Field after field in which the tobacco plants were to be cut, long wooden sleds on which to load them, and then the heavy never-ending trudge dragging the sled behind until it was all unloaded in the yard. He smiled to himself. This was when quite a few of the new men would balk; no man was comfortable being harnessed like a mule to a sled. He needed strong men, and his eyes rested for a while on Matthew. Since the incident in the barn, there’d only been one time where he’d had to beat him properly, the day the stupid man protested that they were not being adequately fed, otherwise Graham had kept his head to the ground, avoiding any kind of conflict. But now and then, Jones caught a vivid green stare from those hidden eyes, and he nodded to himself: definitely on one of the sleds – Matthew Graham needed to be broken once and for all.

  To Jones’ mild disappointment, Matthew didn’t protest at being strapped into the leather harness, nor did he say anything when Jones indicated the sled. He just nodded and adjusted the straps to minimise the chafing. One of the other new men – Elijah? Jones couldn’t remember – did protest, but a vicious cut across his shoulders made him shut up. Out of the corner of his eye, Jones saw Graham tense at the treatment of his friend, but the wide shoulders slumped when Jones turned to look him in the face, the riding crop raised.

  *

  All that day Matthew pulled. His shoulders throbbed with pain, his legs were shaking with exertion after each load, and still Jones sent him back for more, flicking his crop in the air to indicate Matthew had to hurry, he was falling behind the harvesters.

  “Water,” Matthew panted at midday. “I must have some water.” He leaned forward, bracing himself against his knees. Jones signalled to one of the women busy sorting tobacco leaves and she came towards him with a ladle. “Thank you,” Matthew said hoarsely. The woman smiled, a very nice smile, and Matthew smiled back, noting the golden hair and deep brown eyes.

  “Kate,” she replied to his unspoken question. “I’m Kate.”

  “I’m Matthew – Matthew Graham.”

  “I know,” she said, “of course I know.” Her mouth softened into yet another little smile.

  Jones cut any further conversation short, and Matthew went back to his work. But every time Matthew came in with a load, Kate contrived to be there, ladle in her hand, and each time Matthew drank he met her eyes, smiling his thanks.

  *

  Five unbearable days, and on the afternoon of the sixth day he was so tired that he accidentally upended the sled, tipping the load of tobacco plants into the dirt. Jones flew at him.

  “Fool! Look at what you’ve done!”

  Matthew got to his feet, an effort involving far too many protesting muscles. His shoulders were permanently on fire, the harness had left broad, bleeding sores on his skin, and no matter how he tried to use his worn shirt as padding, the sores deepened and widened, a constant, flaming pain.

  “I’ll just load them back.” He bent to pick up an armful. His arms were clumsy with weariness, and it took far too long to reload the sled, with Jones an irate, vociferous spectator. Matthew leaned forward into the straps, bunching his thighs. Dear Lord! He couldn’t budge the load, the leather cutting even deeper into his lacerated skin. He tried again, and still the sled wouldn’t move. Matthew looked back across his shoulder to find Jones sitting on the sled.

  “Go on,” Jones sneered, “get a move on.”

  “You’re too heavy,” Matthew said, “you can walk.”

  Jones raised a brow. “Of course I can. But now I want you to pull.”

  Matthew felt his pulse begin to thud. Wafting curtains of red clouded his vision.

  “I’m a man, aye? I’ll work as you tell me to, but you can move of your own accord, fat though you may be. I won’t be your yoked beast, I’m a man.” There was absolute silence around him, his companions staring at him with a mixture of admiration and exasperation.

  Jones stood up and moved towards him. “That’s where you’re wrong, Graham. You’re no man, not here, not now. You’re a slave, a beast to be worked until you’re no use.” He looked at Matthew expectantly, his hand tightening on the handle of his crop.

  Matthew knew he should back down, grovel and mumble, but inside of him the fire grew, red hot rage at the man in front of him, at his traitorous brother, and the injustice of it all.

  “I told you. I’ve never done anything wrong. I’m a free man.”

  Jones laughed. “Free? Then why are you still here? Why aren’t you on a ship back home?”

  “You know why! I have no money.”

  “And we own you, until you can pay yourself free, we own you.”

  “Nay, no one owns me. I’m a free man.”

  “And I tell you you’re but a slave,” Jones hissed.

  Matthew punched him straight into the face, having the distinct pleasure of hearing the cartilage in Jones’ nose crack. That was really the last thing he observed clearly, then it was all hands and feet, and the stinging of the leather crop, and he heard Jones call men to him and Matthew had the shirt torn from his back, he was thrown face down onto the ground and then there was the snap of leather that came down time and time again on his bared skin. One of his arms was twisted up behind his back, and in his ear he heard Jones’ heavy breathing.

  “So, what are you?”

  “A free man,” Matthew gasped. The pressure on his arm was tearing at his tendons.

  “What are you?”

  Bend! Alex shrieked in his head, for God’s sake Matthew, bend. But he didn’t want to, he had to salvage some pride, and the pain in his shoulder increased to the point where he knew it would soon be dislocated.

  “What are you?” Jones hissed again, throwing his considerable weight against Matthew’s trapped arm. Matthew groaned. Please! Alex cried, please, Matthew, for me. Don’t let him maim you for life, my love, please! In his fuddled state Matthew wasn’t sure if she was here for real, or if it was a hallucination, but the despair in her voice rang through his head.

  “I’m a slave,” Matthew mumbled, closing his eyes so that he might still see Alex, not the red earth an inch from his nose.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I’m a slave,” Matthew mumbled again.

  “Say it out loud.” Jones heaved Matthew to his feet. “Look at all the men before you and say it.” To his everlasting shame, Matthew did as he was told.

  “I am a slave,” he said, repeating it time and time again until Jones released him to tumble to the ground.

  He lay where he had fallen, and around him he heard the sound of people moving off, leaving him to lie unaided. No one dared to touch him, lest Jones should vent his anger on them as well, and Matthew found himself staring at his hand, so close to his face. He didn’t want to move. He no longer wanted to live.

  “Please let me die. Sweetest Lord, just let me die.” He closed his eyes, and in his mind he saw Hillview, he saw a wee lad running up the lane to meet him, and there she was, laughing and crying at the same time, her skirts bunched high as she flew towards him, and he knew that of course he couldn’t die. He owed it to Alex to stay alive; he owed it to himself.

  Chapter 11

  Coleridge had it down pat, Alex thought, hanging over the railing. A hell of a lot of water, miles and miles of empty shimmering sea, and not a bloody drop to drink… She licked her lips, wincing as the cracks broke open again. She did another turn back and forth across the poop deck and fanned herself. It wasn’t funny actually; she could see in Captain Miles face that he was more than worried, and the crew was getting restless, the men scanning the sky with hopeful eyes that glazed at the sight of the perfect, unclouded blue. Yesterday a fight had broken out by the water barrel, and the captain and his mate had used cudgels to break it up, removing the barrel to stand under the beady eye of the cook.

  Four weeks of strange winds and long stretches of lying becalmed; Captain Miles had never experienced anything like it, he told Alex, all the while strain
ing his eyes in all directions for any sign that this weather would break. He looked exhausted, a greyish tinge to his skin that made Alex worry he might be developing a heart condition.

  “So, do you know where we are?” Alex said.

  “Aye, ma’am, I do. Much too far to the south.”

  Well, that didn’t impress her – she could have told him that, given the heat. He studied the sky to the north, shielded his eyes with his hand, and looked for a long time at something he saw on the horizon.

  “But we won’t stay becalmed for long, it’ll rain before the evening.”

  Alex gave him an incredulous look and made a great show of scanning the bright blue skies.

  Captain Miles smiled and bowed, muttering something about needing to talk to the cook.

  In the event Captain Miles was right, too right, and yet again the Regina Anne bucked in a transformed sea, sails trimmed as much as they could. Alex spent three miserable days in her berth and when she made it out on deck, it was to a speeding ship as the captain attempted to make up for lost time. Very many weeks of lost time as Alex pointed out, acerbically dropping a comment that tomorrow, the twenty-fourth of August, was her birthday, and she had hoped to spend the day reunited with her husband, not stuck in the middle of the sea.

  “Dios manda, querida,” Don Benito said, patting Alex’s hand. “At least now we won’t thirst to death.” No, but perhaps starve. Alex spent more time picking weevils out of the dry biscuits than actually eating anything. Not that she wanted to, shivering all over at the thought of swallowing one of those disgusting little bugs by mistake.

  “There are definite advantages to modern life at time,” Alex said. “Like now, a plane wouldn’t come amiss.” Don Benito listened with interest as Alex described a plane, insisting that she draw one for him as well.

  “Seven hours to cross the ocean?” Don Benito stared down at the birdlike shape she had drawn on the deck.

  “They’re pretty fast.” She studied the priest and laughed. “Should you really be believing everything I tell you?”

  Don Benito gave her a confused look. “Are you lying?”

  “No, but I would have thought the normal reaction to my story would be to make the sign against evil and tie me to a stake.” She glanced at him nervously. Maybe that’s what he intended to do once they made landfall; have her dragged off to stand in front of a tribunal as a witch.

  “Are you a witch?” Don Benito asked, his lips twitching.

  “Of course not!”

  “Well then,” Don Benito shrugged. He frowned down at the water. “Why shouldn’t I believe you? Do you think your tale is that extraordinary?”

  Alex made a derisive noise. “Why would I think that? I keep on falling over time travellers all the time.”

  “There are probably more than you think. And to a man that accepts the miracle of God’s creation, of Immaculate Conception and the birth of God’s son as a mere human, your story is just another example of God’s amazing…His amazing…”

  “…sense of humour?” Alex suggested.

  Don Benito laughed. “God most certainly has a sense of humour, but I was looking for another word…complexity! Yes, that’s it.”

  “Hmm,” Alex replied.

  *

  “I’ve decided to make for Barbados,” Captain Miles informed them over supper.

  “Barbados?” Alex said. “But that’s miles from Virginia!”

  “I have to get the ship repaired, and we lack victuals to make it all the way to Virginia.”

  “And how long will that take?” Two weeks? A month? Surely not more than that, right?

  “I make it that we will be in Barbados in four weeks at best, and then some months for repairs…I am sorry Mrs Graham, but you won’t make it to Virginia this year. The seas are restless in the final months of the year – only a fool would attempt a crossing.” He threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. “What am I to do? l have a damaged ship, a crew to pay, and a hold of starving lasses.”

  “And from Barbados to Virginia? How long does that take?” Alex tried to sound matter-of-fact, when all she really wanted to do was retreat to her cabin and cry. But she couldn’t, could she? After all, she’d made herself a promise.

  Captain Miles pursed his mouth. “Anything from three weeks to six.”

  Alex frowned while she calculated how much this would cost her. So far, she had plenty of money left in one form or another, she and Mrs Gordon carried important quantities sown into their waistbands. But a month, or even several months, in Barbados…

  “And will you be reimbursing me for the passage? I bought a passage to Virginia, not to Barbados.”

  Captain Miles dragged a hand over his face. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Once the ship is repaired I’ll sail you up to Jamestown myself. But it will not be this year. I’m sorry for that, but it is out of my hands.”

  Alex pressed her hands against her churning stomach and Captain Miles wilted under her eyes.

  “He’ll be alright, your man will be waiting for you.”

  “How do you know?” She stood up so abruptly the chair fell over backwards. “How the hell do you know?”

  Don Benito rose and placed a hand on her arm. “I think the captain means that it would take a very brave man to die away from you.”

  She shrugged him off and left the cabin at half run.

  *

  She woke when she hit the floor, and rolled over onto her hands and knees. What a terrible dream! Her whole back hurt, as if the flogging she’d been dreaming of had been for real. Something was missing; she stood on all fours and searched for his beat, the sound of his heart, but inside her it was silent – very silent. Oh God, she gulped, he’s dead! She sat down with a thud, and closed her eyes, listening inwardly with such concentration her head began to throb. Don’t you dare Matthew Graham, don’t you dare give up!

  “Move,” she whispered to the supine shape she saw in her head. “Move and go on living!” Fingers twitched, and inside of her the sonar echo of his heart began to thud. Slow and steady, deep and strong. She sank her face into her hands.

  *

  Next morning Don Benito came over to stand beside her. “What is the matter?”

  She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “I dreamt,” she said, eyes fixed on the swift dark shapes that escorted the ship underwater. “Do you think it’s possible? That I can somehow dream of things that are happening to him? Because I do, and last night I dreamt that he almost died, that he no longer wanted to live.” She wrinkled her brow in concentration. “But I told him; I told him that he had to live, and I saw him move.” Alex fisted her hand and studied her wedding ring. What had they done to her Matthew, to her beautiful man, to leave him lifeless on the ground?

  “I dream too,” Don Benito sighed. “Night after night I dream, and I see her as she must be, not as she was, so yes, I believe it is possible to dream of what happens to someone you love.” He turned to lean back against the railings, watching the mother who sat nursing her baby by the main mast. “I have a son.” He filled his lungs and looked at Alex. “I’ve never seen him and never will, but his mother walks my waking mind, she sits burning in my heart, and when I close my eyes to sleep, I see her, and in her arms she holds a child.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  Don Benito made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t think so, she’s no Helen, not even a Juliet. But to me she is beautiful, she has a smile that can melt a heart of stone, and when she laughs it sounds like rain falling in a pewter bucket. And I was wrong to ever touch her.” He scratched at his chest for some time. The heavy hair shirt must be a torment in this heat, but when Alex had suggested he might stop using it, he’d gone rigid, telling her that he was honour bound to wear it, a just penance for breaking his priestly vows.

  “She’s married since several months back, to a much older man. I hope he treats her kindly.” He looked away. “I never intended to, I have been a priest for over fifteen years, and I have never had
a problem with that particular vow. Until I met her, a woman I could laugh with.”

  “How did you meet?” Alex said, imagining all sorts of sordid scenes in the confessional booth.

  “She was a maid in waiting to the princess Henriette,” Don Benito said, “probably chosen for her somewhat plain face and her lovely voice. I was the chaplain, the up and coming man of God, delighted to find himself chosen by the queen mother to be a member of the exiled royal household.” He grimaced. “It was wrong; I was entrusted with her spiritual wellbeing, and she came to talk to me so often about what she perceived as her vocation to serve Christ, her eyes glittering with longing. And then one evening as she was leaving, she placed her hand on my sleeve and just…she just kissed me.” The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips, as if he were recapturing a sensation once experienced and since then lost.

  In a low voice he detailed months of clandestine meetings, long afternoons spent in secret designations that were put to a brutal end the day the queen mother came upon them.

  “She threatened me with public exposure, and berated poor Louise for having had the temerity to seduce a man of the Church. I tried to tell her that wasn’t how it was, but my lady queen ordered me to be quiet.”

  The next day he had been removed to a nearby Benedictine abbey, charged with doing heavy penance to expiate his sin. A month later a messenger came from the queen, and he was informed that he had to find a home for the expected child.

  “I turned to my brother, and he showed me great kindness by promising to raise the child as his own.” At a price, he added, looking towards the east. Raúl had made it very clear that Benito was no longer welcome in Seville, disgraced priest that he was. And so it was all decided; Louise was to have the child and give it up, and then she would be hurriedly wed – to a man chosen by the queen mother.

  “I was never allowed to see her again, not even to write to her. Instead I was sent to accompany his Majesty when he returned to his kingdom last year.”

  Alex raised her brows, thinking he couldn’t have loved this unknown Louise all that much, given how quickly he had given up. He frowned, shifting from foot to foot as he studied her face.