Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 9

  “You have not been much about the royals, have you? There is very little an ordinary man can do.”

  “Elope? Ride off into the night?”

  He made a disparaging sound. Louise was used to a high level of comfort, how was he to keep her in such style? Well, he had her there. Alex had no idea what a former priest could do for a living, suspecting that whatever options available would lead to penury.

  “Are you still a priest?” Alex asked.

  “Yes, I will remain always a priest. The ordination is a sacrament that cannot be reversed, but somehow I feel God has turned his face away from me. I have been charged with a mission, and that’s why I’m going to Virginia. Not as a representative of the Tabacalera.” He turned towards her. “I’m carrying certain things from the King to his Governor, that much is true, but my main task has been given me by his mother. I am to spread the word of God – among the heathen Indian tribes.” He looked at her bleakly. “Do you think they will be willing to listen? Or do you think they will put me to death?”

  “I don’t know.” She gnawed at her lip. “I don’t think you should do this, to me it smells of petty revenge, not of any genuine wish to bring the word of God to the Indians.”

  Don Benito blinked. “Not do as I’ve been ordered to?”

  “Who would ever know?” She scrunched up her brows, thinking hard. “You could go south; to Cartagena de las Indias, or Lima. They would never ask where you came from or what you were fleeing from. No one would ever know.”

  “I would,” he said severely. “And so would God.”

  “Was it worth it?” Alex asked after a few minutes.

  “No, it wasn’t. Had I fully understood the consequences, I think I would have held firmer to my vow, for her sake and mine.” He exhaled loudly. “But I will love her, I think, until the day I die. Her and my son, the boy I’ll never see.”

  Mrs Gordon was very impressed when Alex told her Don Benito was off to christen the heathen, voicing that even being a papist was better than living like an unknowing savage in the woods.

  “Not that he will last long, narrow like a lass over the shoulders, and not much flesh on him at all.”

  “Yes, you would know,” Alex murmured. “Seeing as you’ve been spying on him.”

  Mrs Gordon chuckled and adjusted her collar to lie closer to her skin.

  “He’s right good looking, yon wee priest, well, he would be, if he weren’t all red with rash.” She bent down to rummage through her capacious canvas bag. After a while, she gave a satisfied grunt and came up with a small stone jar, extending it to Alex. “You give it to him, it might help, no?”

  Alex shook her head. “He wants it to hurt, that’s why he’s wearing that thing.”

  *

  The last few weeks on the Regina Anne were miserable. Alex was torn in two with longing; she yearned for her son during the day and dreamed of her man at night, and the dreams were of a man that stared at her in supplication, hazel eyes dulled with months of toil. She woke to pillows that were soaked with her tears and a certainty that she had to hurry to his side, and she twisted in frustration because there was nothing she could do, no way she could hasten her voyage towards him. She avoided them all, sitting in solitude by the bow, her eyes locked on the west as she pleaded with him in her head to not give up.

  Sometimes she pretended she could fly and saw herself beat her way swiftly to the as yet unseen shore. And she found him, a small speck that grew recognisable as she dove towards the ground. Like a daring swift she swished by him, turning to dart by him time and time again, until he lifted his face from his work to follow the bird’s spectacular flight. She hoped he knew it was her, that the bird he saw was her longing, reaching across the world to softly graze his cheek.

  Chapter 12

  Alex was very relieved when they anchored in the deep bay just off Bridgetown. She’d been to Barbados once before, and she looked with surprise at the unexploited coastline. No calypso beats in the air, no enthusiastic American tourists in flower-print shirts, and very few black people. Instead, a lot of scruffy looking white people, fair skin either deeply tanned or an unbecoming flaking pink, who studied the limping Regina Anne.

  “Journeymen,” Captain Miles explained. “Carpenters, coopers, sail makers… And they can see I need their services.” Alex nodded, looking round. The main mast had been expertly repaired at sea, but the mizzen mast needed to be replaced – even she could see that – and there were holes in the planking on the port side. The captain squinted up at his sails.

  “I’ll need a new lanteen,” he muttered, which was more or less Greek to Alex. “But otherwise they just need to be mended.”

  “Couldn’t the women help you repair them?”

  Captain Miles gave her a condescending look. “A sail requires special skills, it’s not just a matter of pushing a wee needle through some fabric.”

  “Well, excuse me,” Alex muttered and went back to studying the harbour.

  “Are there no slaves?” she asked a bit later, gesturing in the direction of the assembled men.

  “Aye there are. Very many. But they are inland on the plantations. All sugar now, a harsh crop as I hear it.” He sighed and looked at Alex. “There are many kind of slaves, Mrs Graham. And here you find a number of white slaves. Irish, aye? And a number of our countrymen as well, barbadosed here by the Protector that was.”

  “Barbadosed?”

  “Another word for what happened to your husband, but in this case with the support of the powers that be.” He described the events briefly; thousands of Irish men lifted off the street and transported over to work in the heat, many with no limit to their term of service. “As for black slaves, aye, they are brought over in very large numbers.” He compressed his mouth, muttering something about not stomaching the way some of the planters treated their property.

  If the Regina Anne looked battered, so did her crew and passengers. Alex’s skirt slid down her hips with every step she took, and even if she had tightened the stays as hard as they went, they filled very little function, moulding more air than flesh. Her hands were a startling brown as were her feet, her hair had the general appearance of a crow’s nest – brittle and dry, it screamed for egg yolks – and all of her was coated with a salty glaze. At least all her teeth were there, thanks not only to regular cleaning, but to the dried apricots she had been munching throughout.

  Don Benito was equally thin, the crew members looked starved, Captain Miles had tightened his belt into a third new notch, and Mrs Gordon looked entirely unchanged. Still the same ample bosom, and Alex knew first hand that those stays still hugged tight around a round strong body. Probably the beer, Alex concluded, and gave Davies a narrow look. No doubt he’d been slipping Mrs Gordon more than her ration at times. Come to think of it, the cook wasn’t looking all that ravaged either.

  Alex was handed down into a longboat and held on tight for the short, but choppy, ride to the harbour proper. Mrs Gordon struck up a conversation with one of the rowers, and after only a couple of words discovered this to be a Scotsman, a carrot headed man with, in Alex’s opinion, awful teeth. Mrs Gordon frowned as he rowed back out for his next load.

  “Papist – one of them Highland folk.”

  “Oh,” Alex nodded, not really that interested.

  She regarded her surroundings with curiosity. What looked like a transplanted English seaside town rose round her; a picturesque cluster of buildings along the wharves that lined what Captain Miles called the careenage, tree lined streets – or maybe tree lined dirt roads was more correct – and a little church in the distance. There were some very English houses, somewhat incongruous in the heat, but adapted by additions of balconies and verandas to the needs of tropical living. A strong breeze tugged at her hat, and Alex clapped down one hand on her head to keep it in place.

  Not only were there very few black people versus what she remembered, but there were also very few women. To be quite correct, at present there were only two wo
men on the wharf, namely Mrs Gordon and herself. She was aware of hungry eyes travelling down her body, and moved closer to Mrs Gordon, who stared back at the men with a warning look in her dark eyes.

  “You knee them,” she said. “If they get too fresh you knee them. Hard.”

  “Thank you,” Alex murmured back. “I’ll be sure to remember.” She bit back a smile; let them come too close, and she’d do more than knee them – she’d send them flying, courtesy of the martial arts skills she still, at some level, retained. She rose up and down on her toes a couple of times, tensed the muscles of her right forearm, her hand. She might not be able to smash a board anymore, but she could definitely fight should she need to.

  “What about the women?” Alex asked the captain once he came ashore. He studied the surrounding men and shook his head.

  “It will be best to take them ashore this evening.”

  “Or…” Alex prompted.

  “Or I might find myself without any women to deliver to Virginia.”

  “Do you think they would mind? Staying here instead?”

  “Some no. But some have family already in Virginia, and they will want to reach Jamestown safely. Besides,” he added, “the rich planters here find their own wives, and the poor white settlers don’t have the money required to buy a wife.”

  “Ah,” Alex nodded, pursing her mouth. He flushed and looked away.

  *

  Alex looked at the bed with pleasure. No more nights sleeping like a curled eel, here she would be able to stretch out, even if sharing a bed with Mrs Gordon was somewhat daunting. The room was bright with sunlight, shutters thrown wide to the afternoon breeze, and Mrs Gordon fingered the thin gauze hung over the bed with a disdainful face.

  “Not much of a bed hanging, aye?”

  “It’s to keep you from being eaten alive by the midgets.” Alex returned her attention to the basin, already filled to the brim with delicious cool freshwater, a relief to her skin after all these months using only saltwater. “Tomorrow I’m going to wash every single piece of clothing I own.” Alex sniffed at her least dirty shift.

  “Aye, me too,” Mrs Gordon said.

  Across the landing, Alex could hear Don Benito installing himself in the room he was to share with Captain Miles. Clean and reputable as their lodgings were, the captain showed a strong streak of parsimony, arguing that none of them really needed more than half a bed anyway, and surely Don Benito wouldn’t mind sharing, would he? He would, very much, but as he couldn’t explain why without letting the whole company know he was living in a stinking hair shirt, he’d agreed.

  “Que hago?” he asked Alex with desperation. “What do I do?”

  “You could take it off,” Alex suggested, receiving an uncompromising look in return. “Well, in that case you’ll just have to sleep with it under your shirt – as you’ve been doing all the time.”

  Don Benito looked very depressed. “I scratch, all night I scratch.”

  “In which case the captain will conclude you have fleas and leave the room to you.” Alex narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you have fleas? Have you even washed properly since you started using that…thing?”

  “Of course I have,” Don Benito said with dignity. “And I do not think I have fleas. Perhaps lice, but not fleas.”

  “In my book, not a major improvement.” Alex stepped away from him.

  “Nor in mine.” Don Benito sighed, scratching himself over the chest. He offered her his arm and led them off in the direction of the dining room and the waiting food.

  Mr Coulter beamed at his guests, which if anything only accentuated his face’s general resemblance to a foot.

  “I am honoured,” he said, bowing in their direction, “two ladies, no less, to grace my table.” Alex had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing at his appearance. Heavy silvered locks hung to his shoulders, topped by a shiny bald dome that began at ear height.

  “It looks like an egg with a grass skirt,” she said to Mrs Gordon. “He should shave it all off.”

  “Aye well,” Mrs Gordon muttered back, “it’s very nice hair, no?” She smiled at their host, revealing bright white teeth, her dark eyes crinkling together so that they glittered in the sun that streamed in through the windows.

  Mr Coulter couldn’t stop staring at Mrs Gordon. Repeatedly, his eyes returned to travel over her dark bodice, the pristine white collar and cuffs. Alex was totally ignored, a cursory glance in her direction no more, before Mr Coulter went back to his fascinated inspection of Mrs Gordon. Alex almost felt insulted.

  “Have you lived here long?” Alex asked, sipping at the soup. Soup! Boiling hot as well, and she already damp with perspiration between her breasts, on the back of her thighs, and under her arms.

  “Ten years, I came here to help the reverend, and have stayed on.” Mr Coulter’s eyes moistened. “It’s my wife, you see, she died six years ago, and I can’t leave her, can I? Not to lie untended here.”

  “No, of course not,” Mrs Gordon said. “And you must show me tomorrow where she lies, aye?”

  Alex looked at her in surprise. She was flirting with him! From across the table, Captain Miles glared at nothing in particular, and Alex turned to look at Mrs Gordon again. Primly she sipped at her soup, her back straight, one hand folded in her lap. And when she put the spoon down she stretched even straighter, breathing deeply. Mr Coulter’s eyes were glued to her generous bosom, as were Captain Miles’, both men hypnotised by the rise and fall of that swell.

  “A cada uno lo suyo,” Don Benito said, catching Alex’s eye. Absolutely, and in this case both men apparently found Mrs Gordon to be their cup of tea. This was going to be a most interesting winter.

  *

  The first few days on land, Alex spent trying to find a ship going to Virginia, but what few vessels were presently moored in the Barbados harbour were all destined to cross the Atlantic towards Europe, their holds filling up with hogshead after hogshead of sugar.

  “I told you,” Captain Miles said.

  “And that doesn’t help one whit,” Alex snapped.

  The captain’s brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth drooped, giving him the overall look of a basset hound.

  “I know,” he sighed. “And I’m right sorry. But what was I to do, when all the elements conspired against me?”

  Alex had no idea. She pinched herself to stop the tears from welling, and walked off to kick stones into the water until she had herself under control. Behind her, she heard the captain shuffling, but she waited until he moved away before turning to hurry back to the boarding house.

  *

  “So, has he complained?” Alex asked a week or so later, jerking her head in the direction of the captain strolling a few yards before them. “About you scratching yourself.”

  “No,” Don Benito yawned. “But then how would he notice? He sleeps like the dead, on his back, and he snores. And farts.”

  “We all do. It might have to do with all the beans we’re getting.”

  Don Benito grinned. “I love beans, they remind me of my father. He was very fond of beans.”

  “Well I’m not,” Alex sulked, “at least not on a daily basis. How about some fish? Or a nice roasted chicken?” She curtsied to an elderly man who bowed to her, and continued their desultory walk along the crooked little streets of Bridgetown. A very industrious little town, it teemed with men who all gave her the eye, looking her over as if assessing her potential as a breeding wife – it made her itch.

  “I don’t think the cook knows how to, or maybe he just doesn’t want to.” Don Benito bowed to yet another man who eyed him with some misgiving, muttering something about garish foreigners. Alex suppressed a smile. Don Benito was very flamboyant in these new surroundings where men opted for dark broad brimmed hats, narrow breeches, shirts and open coats.

  “Cabrón.”

  “Pero Padre!” Alex pretended disapproval. “For a man of God to utter such invectives!”

  “Hmph!” Don Benito snorted and
went on to point out yet another detail the English colonists had stolen from the architecture of his homeland.

  Very discreetly, Alex raised the subject of the monotone diet at supper. Their host pulled a face and nodded.

  “He’s really my yard’s man, not at all a cook, but when the old one died he just took over.” Mr Coulter sighed and prodded at the overcooked meat. “I haven’t had the opportunity to buy a new one.”

  Alex was taken aback. “So the cook, is he a slave?”

  “What? John? Oh, no. He’s a paid servant now that he’s worked off his bond.”

  “Another unwilling émigré,” Alex muttered, using spoon and knife to separate the gristle from the meat.

  Mr Coulter shook his head. “I can assure you that he is not. John came here very much on purpose. We even travelled over on the same ship, although that is not something we were aware of at the time.” He sat back from the table, wiping his fingers free of fat. “But he is a most awful cook.”

  “I can cook,” Mrs Gordon suggested. “I can bake you pies, make you a roast of lamb or even a nice fish stew.” By the time she had finished listing all the things she could do, Mr Coulter had a dreamy expression on his face. She eyed their landlord speculatively. “Not for free, but mayhap we can agree on a lower rent.”

  *

  To Alex, the days rolled by in terrible slow motion. One long day after the other, interminable hours spent thinking about Mark and Matthew with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Every day, she made her way to the harbour to stand staring at Regina Anne, willing her to repair herself overnight. She worried about money; even with Mrs Gordon’s contribution in kind, the weekly accommodation was an unexpected drain on her resources, and she sometimes woke up sweating with fear after yet another realistic dream where she just couldn’t pay Matthew free, and had to watch him die before her eyes.

  “You’re being fanciful,” Mrs Gordon soothed. “There’s still plenty of money left, no? And you haven’t sold the pearl yet, have you?”