Black Wreath (20 page)

Sylvia walked back to the Cornmarket House. In her mind was the picture of Lord Dunmain’s leering thug. She had no chance of getting anything other than a hiding from him. She met Harry and told him about the encounter in the churchyard. He listened carefully.

‘It’s a common enough thing,’ he said. ‘There are many who sell themselves into servitude in the hope that a new life will open up for them. My own cousin did it. I was with him in the tavern when the agent persuaded him to try his luck overseas. I told him to be careful, but he’d have none of it. I
even went with him to the Tholsel to see him sign on …’ He stopped as he said this, his eyes widening.

‘Maybe …’ he said.

‘What?’ Sylvia said.

‘They have to sign a register in the Tholsel when they get their papers.’ He looked at Sylvia. ‘Can you read?’

‘Yes,’ Sylvia said.

‘Then let’s go. But don’t let on that we’re looking for him. I’ll say it’s for my cousin, that I need to get in touch with him.’

They walked the narrow lane by Newgate and down the length of High Street until they came to a big stone building squatting at the corner with two massive pillars holding up the ornamental portico. There was a flow of traffic in and out, and knots of merchants stood conversing on the steps that led to the entrance. Sylvia paused on the pavement. She had never been inside such an important place and the look of this building filled her with dread. It was the kind of place, that once you went in, it might not be so easy to leave again.

‘Come on,’ Harry whispered. ‘We’ll draw more attention to ourselves standing outside than marching in.’

Sylvia gathered her courage and walked in as if she had every right to be there. When she entered the hall, she looked around to find the most sympathetic man. She spied one a bit less forbidding than the others and approached him, and asked if she might see the register for indentured servants as this poor boy’s family needed to send an urgent letter to him.

‘Do you think we have nothing better to do than run
around in the service of every ragamuffin in the city?’ the man said, looking down his nose at Harry.

But Sylvia smiled her sweetest smile and he led them reluctantly to a room off the main hall where he pulled down a large bound ledger.

‘What name?’ the official demanded.

Sylvia looked quickly at Harry. She had to risk it.

‘Lever,’ she said. ‘Jonathan Lever.’

The official bent over the book, running his finger down a long list of names. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No Lever here. You must be mistaken.’

‘Please sir, might I look, just so I can say that I have done my duty by the boy.’

The official twitched with irritation, but again Sylvia flashed a charming smile, and he turned the register around on the table. She scanned quickly down the page. There it was, near the end, a barely legible scrawl that was certainly not James’s: James Lovett, indentured for seven years, in charge of Captain Thomas McCarthy of the vessel
George
, bound for Philadelphia.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s not there. He must have the wrong name. I’m very sorry to have bothered you.’

Twenty-Seven

Flight

T
he carriage pulled up outside the stable. James, who had been inside cleaning, came outside to look as Amelia greeted the visitor and led him in. The man spotted James and called him over. A kindly-seeming face peered at him. He was a man of about thirty years and his clothes, though simple, were of good quality. A gentleman farmer, James guessed.

‘I haven’t seen you before. What’s your name?’

‘James, sir. James Lovett.’

‘And nicely spoken too. You don’t have the brogue on you, which must be a relief to Mr Mackenzie. Well, I mustn’t keep you from your work.’

James felt the desire to blurt out the story that would explain his lack of a brogue, but bit his lip. The man turned and went into the house. From Amelia he learned that the visitor was an acquaintance of Mackenzie’s, and that he had a farm about
half a day’s ride from here.

‘But he is not like Mackenzie,’ she said. ‘He is not a man of anger, and no one runs away from his farm. And no one goes hungry there either.’

James went back to his work but he kept turning over Amelia’s words in his mind. Visitors came rarely to Mackenzie’s; it might be six months or more before another came. He thought of his letter to McAllister in its hiding place in his pallet. The man had a kind face – surely it was worth the risk. He knew that the longer he thought about it the less likely he’d be to do anything, so he quickly slipped away from the stable to the sleeping quarters and retrieved his letter and then went back to the stable. About two hours later the man emerged from the house. James was waiting with the door of the carriage open. The man nodded to him and was about to close the door when James reached for the letter and thrust it awkwardly into his hand. He was so anxious to get the letter to him that he hadn’t stopped to think how exactly he would manage the transfer.

‘Please sir, forgive me,’ he began. ‘I know it is a terrible impertinence, but I would be very grateful if you could send this letter on my behalf. It’s for an old friend who knows me, who knows I shouldn’t be here …’ James knew he’d said too much and cursed his stupidity.

The look on the man’s face told him he’d been foolish to give in to his impulse.

‘You see I’m not who I seem to be,’ James pressed on. He didn’t seem able to stop himself.

‘What’s this?’ the farmer said. ‘Do you think you can prevail on me to conspire against your master, whose hospitality I’ve just enjoyed? I thought you looked like a hard-working lad. Now I find you another Irish idle-bones who wants a free ride in the colonies.’

‘No, it’s not true,’ James said. ‘I was forced here against my will by a trick of my uncle. My father was–’

There was no chance to continue the story, for Mackenzie had appeared on the verandah and was calling down to his friend. ‘What’s going on, William?’ he asked as he strode from the verandah to the carriage.

‘I’m sorry,’ James said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ He reached to take the note, but just as the man handed it over Mackenzie came alongside the carriage and snatched the letter from his hand.

‘What’s this?’ His eyes were bright with a quickening anger.

‘It’s nothing,’ James said. ‘It’s just a private letter …’ James was at a loss to say anything more. Nothing he said now would make things any better.

Mackenzie broke the seal and scanned the page, his face growing redder with every line. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said. ‘The knave is plotting to run away.’

‘I was kidnapped,’ James began, but before he could say anything else he felt Mackenzie’s fist connect with his jaw and then the man, the carriage, the day itself vanished in a glare of blinding white light.

When he woke, his face was still numb from the blow. It was dark and when he touched his jaw he found his right
hand shackled with a heavy chain. The chain was attached to the wall, and as his eyes got used to the dark he saw that he was in a corner of the same stable he had been cleaning out today or yesterday or whenever it was before Mackenzie had knocked him out. He heard the horses in their stall and the stench of their urine filled his nostrils. He was hungry and thirsty and poked around in the straw in case there might be a crust or a bowl of water, but there was nothing. Maybe Mackenzie meant to starve him – he wouldn’t put it past him.

A sudden shaft of light almost blinded him. Someone had opened the stable door and slipped in. He braced himself for another attack, but none came. Instead, a familiar voice spoke softly to him. Amelia. Thank God for that, he sighed in relief. He drank the water and gulped the bread she had brought.

‘How long does he mean to keep me here?’ he asked her.

‘I don’t know. He was very angry. He wanted to tie you to the apple tree.’

James pictured Connolly’s back lacerated by the cowhide whip and groaned.

‘I told him you mightn’t survive it, and he’d be left with a dead servant on his hands, which would be a poor return on his investment.’

‘Not much of an investment,’ James said. ‘He got me at a knock-down price since I had no trade and no muscle.’

‘Any investment is a consideration for him,’ Amelia said. ‘And there would be the embarrassment. It’s not considered good
practice to kill the indentured servants. Slaves are another matter.’

Amelia looked anxiously at the door. ‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘He may come here any minute.’

She touched his forehead. ‘Don’t give up, James. This will pass soon enough.’

Amelia slipped out of the stable and he closed his eyes. How often had he heard words like these? That he mustn’t give up, must be brave, must be careful and do his utmost to survive? Why? Wouldn’t it be better just to accept that his life was hopeless and sink into it like a dumb animal? What was to be gained by endless striving when his situation was so hopeless? He looked into the future and all he could see was years of labouring in heat and cold with no respite. This stable was exactly the right place for him to be, he thought bitterly. He was a beast among beasts, nothing more.

But Amelia’s gentle touch came back to him. She had taken a big risk to come and see him. The thought made him feel a little ashamed of his despair. And then Sylvia’s image came into his mind. He had tried not to think of her because it was too painful and only made his imprisonment worse. But maybe that was wrong – maybe, instead of trying to forget, he needed to think of her; he needed to keep her alive in his heart to remind him of who he was and what might yet be possible. He let his mind drift back to Dublin and imagined he was walking with Sylvia from the Haymarket to Phoenix Street. He saw the traders, the beggars, smelled the meat and fish, heard the gulls screeching and the
din of carriages and the shouts on the streets. He began to name all the names of the streets he could remember: Dame Street, High Street, Thomas Street …

In his wanderings through the city he didn’t notice Mackenzie come in, but when he opened his eyes, he saw the farmer standing above him. He sat up and looked at Mackenzie.

‘If you ever try anything again, I’ll string you up on the apple tree and flay you alive. Do you understand that?’

James nodded.

‘Answer me, if you don’t want to feel my foot!’

‘I understand,’ James said. He made his voice as flat as possible, with no edge of resentment or rebellion that Mackenzie might pick up on.

‘Well, you can stew in your juices a while yet,’ Mackenzie said, and turned on his heel and left.

Three more days James spent chained in the stable. By the time Connolly was sent to release him he was weak from hunger and still badly bruised. He accompanied Connolly to the boundary of the land, where they worked on repairing fences. Connolly did most of the work, letting James sit and watch.

‘I’ll give you the nod if himself shows up,’ he said.

James was grateful. He hardly had the strength to lift his arm. He stared out at the land beyond Mackenzie’s, a broad, sloping expanse that gave way to thick woods at the brow. Somewhere beyond the woods was the river, and on its banks the town where Amelia went for household supplies. James
had never been there, but he knew it was a sizeable enough place, and that it was well connected with other towns across the land.

Connolly handed him a hammer and a couple of nails. ‘Better at least look like you’re doing something,’ he said.

As the days passed, slowly James’s body got itself back into the groove of labour and he set his mind to it with grim determination. He wouldn’t give Mackenzie any reason to find him wanting. He wanted to disappear from Mackenzie’s mind, to be an unnoticed and unremarkable labourer on the farm.

For he had made his mind up. There was only one way out of this miserable prison, and that was escape. But if he was to succeed, he first of all had to make himself invisible. He wanted to quiz Connolly on his escape, to find out as much as he could about the terrain, the neighbouring farms and towns, to find out the best direction in which to strike out and the obvious pitfalls to avoid. But the risk was too great. Connolly might say something, or might be forced to reveal whatever James told him. Nor could he afford to implicate Amelia in his plan; it could place her in danger and he didn’t want anyone to suffer on his behalf.

So James decided that he would have to plan and act alone. From now on, he wouldn’t work blindly, but would force himself to watch and listen to everything that happened on the farm. He would be the most alert creature there – not a thing that occurred would pass him by. Every broken twig, every skein of news or gossip would be gathered up, stored
and added to the map of the district he must make in his mind; only when he knew everything he could, when he was ready, would he make his move.

The new, quieter James didn’t go entirely unnoticed.

Amelia saw that something in him had changed. ‘What’s going on with you these days, James? You’re not thinking of anything foolish, are you?’

She was concerned, and she looked at him with such clear eyes it was hard not to blurt out everything in a rush.

‘No,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I’m not thinking of anything at all these days.’

Amelia gave him a hard look as if she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t say anything.

The trees had lost their leaves and the weather had turned cold. Runaways tended to favour the warmer months, so the cold suited James. It meant that fewer people would regard him suspiciously. Escape, he thought, was not a matter of how far you might run, but how you behaved, how you spoke, how you acted. He was determined that he would escape with his brain and not become one of those runaways who are caught within a few days and dragged back for a whipping and a life ten times more miserable than before.

As the days passed, he was careful to reveal no sign of preparation, and to show every outward sign of accepting his lot on the farm. He forced himself to smile a little more often than was his habit, and generally to give the impression that he had settled into his servitude in a spirit of submission and good cheer.

Mackenzie was not a very social man. He didn’t throw parties. He rarely received visitors, but he did, every so often, go to Philadelphia on business, and when he went he was often gone for several days. James learned from Amelia that he would be gone the following week and that the farm would be run by an overseer hired for the purpose. As soon as he heard this, James began making his plans. He began by putting aside what bread and corn he could do without, concealing it in the small box where he kept his scant supply of clothes. From the tool shed he managed to acquire a knife. Then he waited anxiously for the day of Mackenzie’s departure. When the morning came, he rose well before dawn and went to work in the woods, waking Connolly to tell him where he would be if he was wanted.

When Connolly joined him later that morning, he looked at James in some puzzlement. ‘What’s the idea, getting here so early? Who are you trying to impress?

‘No reason,’ James said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I had to be up and out in the air.’

Connolly didn’t look convinced, but didn’t say anything. The real reason for James’s early start was his desire to avoid the attention of the overseer. The less he saw of James, the less he would be disturbed by his absence. He managed to get through the rest of the day without encountering the man, who, as Amelia reported, was happy enough to spend most of the time in the house sitting by the fire and reading Mackenzie’s newspapers.