Having soaked the loaf in water from the well, he was able to swallow it in small chunks. Then he lay onthe bed and hoped that the biting insects of Barbados did not hunt their prey during the day and that the brutes would not return until sunset. He needed time to plan.
The Gibbes never did anything quietly and Thomas was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of them thundering up the path. He jumped off the bed and pretended to be working on the ledgers, just before John threw open the door of the hut and bellowed at him. ‘Get off your arse, Hill. We’re hungry and thirsty.’ Thomas left them tipping buckets of water over themselves and went down to the kitchen.
When they arrived at the house, dripping wet and smeared with dirt, he had put out a cold leg of mutton and two bottles of wine. It must have satisfied them because they sat down without complaint and set to. They tore the mutton off the bone with their hands and washed it down with gulps from the bottles. It was not long before they demanded more wine. This time he took out four bottles, hoping that would be enough even for these two.
‘Now get back to your hut, Hill,’ spat Samuel through a mouthful of meat, ‘and don’t show your prissy face until morning.’ Delighted to do as he was told, Thomas returned to his hut with a leg of pork under his shirt.
Having eaten a slice of pork, drunk and washed at the well and found a stone on which to whet his knife, Thomas realized that he had survived his first day at the hands of these animals and that he should do something to record the feat. With the knife he made a tiny notch in the table. Day one of his indenture was over and he would make a notch for each day survived, so when he got home he would be able to tell the girls exactly how many days he had been there.
Despite having drunk six bottles of wine, the brutes were up at dawn the next morning and shouting for Thomas. He struggled awake and staggered down to the house. ‘We’re going to town, Hill, and you’re coming with us,’ grunted Samuel, scratching at his beard. ‘Fetch the ponies.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Thomas innocently. With a pony, there might be a chance.
‘Where they always are,’ replied black brute. ‘In the field by the windmill.’
‘Windmill?’
The brothers looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Down the path. Look left. Bring two. You’ll walk.’ So much for a pony on which to gallop away. Unless they drank themselves insensible, the thought of being pursued by mounted Gibbes was not a happy one.
Thomas collected the ponies. They made him think of riding with his father over the fields and through the woods around Romsey. From somewhere the Gibbes had produced saddles and bridles and within two minutes they were off. With the rope again around his neck, Thomas followed behind.
They walked down the hill and then northwards with the shore on their left. Thomas could not help gazing at the sea. Close in it was almost transparent, moving through deeper shades of blue as far as the horizon. The Caribbean’s reputation was well deserved. Beautiful and deadly. He had to tear his eyes from it to examine his surroundings. The road was narrow and rough, barely more than a path scraped out of the forest, and the trees on their right loomed high over them. It would be easy for a man to disappear. And just as easy to stay disappeared. The forest was thick and frightening.
The village of Speightstown was about a mile from the bottom of the hill. It was not much, just two rows of timber- and stone-built shacks and cottages, through which ran the only street, a small jetty to which fishing boats had been tied, an inn and an open square opposite the jetty. The square was full of stalls and, having tethered their ponies outside the inn, that was where they went.
It was not so different from the Romsey market. Traders hawked their wares and clamoured for attention, planters and their women examined each item carefully
The Gibbes never did anything quietly and Thomas was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of them thundering up the path. He jumped off the bed and pretended to be working on the ledgers, just before John threw open the door of the hut and bellowed at him. ‘Get off your arse, Hill. We’re hungry and thirsty.’ Thomas left them tipping buckets of water over themselves and went down to the kitchen.
When they arrived at the house, dripping wet and smeared with dirt, he had put out a cold leg of mutton and two bottles of wine. It must have satisfied them because they sat down without complaint and set to. They tore the mutton off the bone with their hands and washed it down with gulps from the bottles. It was not long before they demanded more wine. This time he took out four bottles, hoping that would be enough even for these two.
‘Now get back to your hut, Hill,’ spat Samuel through a mouthful of meat, ‘and don’t show your prissy face until morning.’ Delighted to do as he was told, Thomas returned to his hut with a leg of pork under his shirt.
Having eaten a slice of pork, drunk and washed at the well and found a stone on which to whet his knife, Thomas realized that he had survived his first day at the hands of these animals and that he should do something to record the feat. With the knife he made a tiny notch in the table. Day one of his indenture was over and he would make a notch for each day survived, so when he got home he would be able to tell the girls exactly how many days he had been there.
Despite having drunk six bottles of wine, the brutes were up at dawn the next morning and shouting for Thomas. He struggled awake and staggered down to the house. ‘We’re going to town, Hill, and you’re coming with us,’ grunted Samuel, scratching at his beard. ‘Fetch the ponies.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Thomas innocently. With a pony, there might be a chance.
‘Where they always are,’ replied black brute. ‘In the field by the windmill.’
‘Windmill?’
The brothers looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Down the path. Look left. Bring two. You’ll walk.’ So much for a pony on which to gallop away. Unless they drank themselves insensible, the thought of being pursued by mounted Gibbes was not a happy one.
Thomas collected the ponies. They made him think of riding with his father over the fields and through the woods around Romsey. From somewhere the Gibbes had produced saddles and bridles and within two minutes they were off. With the rope again around his neck, Thomas followed behind.
They walked down the hill and then northwards with the shore on their left. Thomas could not help gazing at the sea. Close in it was almost transparent, moving through deeper shades of blue as far as the horizon. The Caribbean’s reputation was well deserved. Beautiful and deadly. He had to tear his eyes from it to examine his surroundings. The road was narrow and rough, barely more than a path scraped out of the forest, and the trees on their right loomed high over them. It would be easy for a man to disappear. And just as easy to stay disappeared. The forest was thick and frightening.
The village of Speightstown was about a mile from the bottom of the hill. It was not much, just two rows of timber- and stone-built shacks and cottages, through which ran the only street, a small jetty to which fishing boats had been tied, an inn and an open square opposite the jetty. The square was full of stalls and, having tethered their ponies outside the inn, that was where they went.
It was not so different from the Romsey market. Traders hawked their wares and clamoured for attention, planters and their women examined each item carefully
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