Of Noble Family (36 page)

They laboured to roll one of the massive barrels down a long, gradual ramp. At the foot of the ramp, a line of five low, open wagons waited to be loaded. Other men stood by the wagons, soothing the mules or oxen harnessed to them. At the foot of the ramp, a thickset man with freckles upon his deep brown skin directed the loading of barrels.

In the other direction, Frank knelt, consulting a woman of colour in her middle years. The woman's ragged calico dress had bloodstains at the waist, but Jane did not think the stains were hers.

She swallowed and smoothed the folds of her dress. “Jove? Can your outrider manage the horses without you?”

“Yes, madam.”

Pointing to the woman who staggered in circles, Jane said, “Help her into the carriage and then follow me.” Clenching her jaw, Jane strode towards the hill.

Doing so required her to pass close to Mr. Pridmore's group. He had turned to meet Vincent and seemed to be smiling at him. “Of course, but we have to save the stock first.”

“The rum does not have precedence here.” Vincent's hands were clenched behind him.

“Your liberality is to be honoured, but there are practical matters to running an estate. If Captain Caesar is to sail with the tide, we need to get the stock to his ship quickly. Let me do my job without interference.”

“You forget whose estate this is. My apologies, Captain Caesar, but we have wounded people.” The man he addressed was a black African with a long narrow nose that put Jane a little in mind of Ibrahim from the ship.

The part of her mind that was desperate to think of anything except the gruesome details of the scene wondered if the captain was Somalian and if his ship was bound for Africa or somewhere else.

Pridmore cut in before Captain Caesar could answer. “We'll send them back to their homes as soon as we're done here. Everybody will get the day off tomorrow, but we have to get the rum out before we lose it.”

Then Jane was past them, and the screaming drowned out Vincent's reply. Frank looked up as she approached. His cravat was missing, and blood flecked the cuffs of his shirt. For a moment he did not seem to recognise her, then his face cleared and he looked past her to Vincent. “Thank God.”

The person he knelt by was identifiable as a woman only by her dress. The skin on the right side of her body was raw and weeping and her ear was completely gone. Jane had to cover her mouth to keep from being sick on the spot. Swallowing heavily, she gestured to the carriage. “I thought you could put the worst of the wounded in the carriage and send them to the great house directly.”

“Good.” He turned to the woman beside him. “Ellen, help me get Kate into the carriage.”

Ellen moved to the woman's feet, which were bare and swollen with blisters. “It goin' hurt her more.”

He nodded grimly and slid his hands under Kate's shoulders, provoking fresh cries of anguish.

Jane took an involuntary step back; then she braced herself and stepped forward again. “What should I do?”

“Secure some wagons for us. While Mr. Hamilton has Pridmore occupied, you can cow the wagon driver into obeying.” He looked across to Ellen. “On three.”

Together they lifted the shrieking woman from the ground. Jane followed, feeling utterly useless, but she had to acknowledge that in her state, she could not carry anyone. The sound dragged the attention of one of the wagon drivers towards them, and he stared at Frank and Ellen as they carried the woman to the carriage. He did not see Jane until she cleared her throat.

The freckled man stared at her in some surprise and jerked his hat off his head, revealing a frizz of black hair around a bald brown pate. “Ma'am?”

“We need to transfer the wounded to the great house. Bring your wagon around to the hill.”

“I—um.” He glanced to the cluster of men. “I have orders from Mr. Pridmore.”

“And I am the master's wife, on an errand from him. I am afraid that his orders overturn Mr. Pridmore's.”

“I goin' need to ask him.”

If he asked, Pridmore would say “no” at best. Jane bit the inside of her cheek in vexation. “You must see the desperate need these people are in. Surely your compassion alone tells you what is right.”

“Compassion don't nothing to do with it. Ah have orders.”

Jane turned her face away so the frame of her bonnet would hide her distress. The view of the thickset man was replaced by the smoke-covered yard, and across it, the carriage. Frank and Ellen had help from Jove now to load the wounded, but the carriage could hold no more than four. Why had Frank thought she could sway this man when he could not?

Because she was white. Jane swallowed and lifted her chin. Then she would be white. She turned back to the man. “What is your name?”

“My—um. Silas.”

“Silas.” She thrust her stomach at him like the prow of a ship-of-the-line, using every weapon at her disposal. “You will release these wagons or I promise that I will let the master know who left me standing in the heat and argued with me.”

“I—”

“Now! Or I shall have you whipped.” The scars on the men rolling the giant hogshead of rum and the sudden tension in Silas's frame made it clear that whippings happened with some regularity. Just having to make the threat made Jane's skin crawl. If he still refused, Jane could not have it carried out.

Silas stared at the swell of her figure and swallowed. “Ben! Lady want the wagons.”

A tall mulatto with stooped shoulders and a scar along his nose turned and scowled. Ben held a whip, which he tapped against his thigh. “What?”

“De boss wife say dem wan' take the wounded to the manor.”

He spat on the ground. “Pridmore not goin' like it.”

“And my husband is his employer. I promise you, you do not want to face his displeasure.”

“Pridmore say he's soft.”

Jane took a step closer to him. “He is Lord Verbury's son. Do you truly doubt that he will hesitate to punish you if you continue to disobey me?”

Ben pursed his lips at that, studying her, then shrugged. “Rum or wounded. Make no difference to me.” He turned back to the three ragged black men rolling a barrel towards the ramp. He snapped the whip over their heads and bellowed, “Hold!”

They slowed the great barrel, bringing it to a halt on the broad flat area at the top of the ramp. One of the men behind the barrel bent down and drove two wooden wedges under the curved wood to keep it from rolling. The most heavily scarred of them leaned against the barrel and crossed his arms over his sweating chest. He glared past them towards the hill, jaw clenched tight.

Shaking, Jane clasped her hands under her stomach to hide their tremors, then lifted her chin still higher. “I shall also require those men to help load the wounded.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You lot! Move! You hear she.”

He cracked the whip towards them again, but they needed no encouragement for this task. As Silas urged his mules forward, the barrel rollers jumped off the ramp, racing towards the hill. Jane turned to Ben as they went. “The other wagons, too. I shall not brook delay.”

He grunted in reply and with shouted orders quickly got the line of wagons in motion after Silas.

Only the second had moved away from the rum house before Pridmore noticed. He turned from Vincent and shouted, “What the devil is happening?” Charging across the yard with Vincent close behind, he snatched the nearest mule's reins and brought it to a halt. “Ben!”

“Lady say the master wan' move the wounded.”

“Absolutely not. I cannot spare the labour for that.”

Looming over him, Vincent said, “You can, and you will. Your treatment of these people is inhumane.”

“God spare me from Londoners who come crying about humanity. You do not understand the least thing about managing slaves or a plantation.” He flung an arm out towards the hill of wounded. “If those were oxen, you would not hesitate to put them down. The cost to nurse them back to health would not be worth the while. This is—”

“You are fired.” Vincent's calm might have been mistaken for indifference.

Pridmore gaped at him. “You cannot.”

“It is absolutely clear that your incompetency and refusal to do adequate repairs caused this accident. Your treatment of the slaves—or, in terms you can understand, your neglect of my property—is indefensible. If you press me, I will see you brought up on charges.”

“On what grounds?”

“Even in Antiguan law, the deliberate death of a slave is murder. If any of those people die, it lies on your head alone.”

Pridmore turned to the white planters who had followed them over. “Explain to him, gentlemen, the realities of running a plantation.”

The oldest of the men, face weathered with sun to a rough red, spread his hands and shrugged. “I am not going to presume to tell Mr. Hamilton his business.”

Swallowing, Pridmore turned back to Vincent and opened his mouth to speak. His lips shaped words, but no sound came out. Grimacing, he finally said, “I will remind you that I was a favourite of your father.”

Jane clenched her fists. It was as clear a threat for retribution as he could make without saying that Lord Verbury was alive.

Vincent's voice went colder still. “I wonder that you claim to be the favourite of a man who committed treason against the Crown. It does nothing to recommend you. You are fired.”

Pridmore's face turned red and white by degrees. He stepped closer to Vincent, shaking his finger at him. “You have no idea what you have done.”

“I assure you, I know exactly what I am doing.” He leaned down. “You have until tomorrow to get off my land.”

“I—I—I'll take my quietus payment, then.”

“Your what?”

“Louisa. I was promised Louisa.”

Vincent laughed outright. “By whom?”

“Your father—”

“Have you papers? Have you witnesses? No? Unless you can raise him from his grave, then I suggest you stop trying to hide behind his name. It carries no weight here.” Vincent turned his shoulder to Pridmore, delivering the cut direct, and spoke with surprising gentleness to Silas, who stood frozen by the mules. “Please carry on to the hill. He has no power to stop you.”

While Silas was still gathering the reins on his mules, the heavily scarred black man stepped away from the group and ran to Frank. With a frown, Jane watched him lean down to whisper into Frank's ear. Eyes narrowing, Frank nodded and directed him to Ellen. Straightening his coat, Frank stood, and then strode quickly across the ground.

Pridmore fairly frothed, hands opening and closing in fists. “You will regret this!”

Vincent did not distinguish him with a response. He stepped away and gave a bow to the planters and Captain Caesar, entirely calm in outward appearance save for having his chin tucked into his collar. “My apologies, gentlemen. I thank you for your patience.” He beckoned to Jane. “Have you had the opportunity to meet my wife?”

The eldest of the men set the precedent. He joined Vincent and closed ranks so that Pridmore stood outside their circle. “Charmed, madam. I believe you know my wife, Mrs. Ransford?”

“Oh!” Jane had not expected to add this awkwardness to the day. “Yes, she created an absolutely beautiful curtain of snow for us.” It took all her powers to pretend to be unaffected. Jane used her bonnet to block out the horror around them.

Mr. Ransford smiled, glancing past her to where Pridmore stood, and shifted his position to draw her slightly further away from Pridmore. “She speaks very highly of your ice palace. I cannot wait to see it.”

Jane could not give him her full attention. A series of curses and footsteps indicated that Pridmore was storming away. Jane swallowed and attempted to remain properly British. “That is very kind. Please give her my regards.” The conversation was intolerable.

Beside Jane, Vincent had turned to meet Frank. She could not quite make out what Frank murmured to him, but whatever it was caused Vincent to spin and shout, “Pridmore!”

“What!”

Snapping his gaze to the captain, Vincent said, “Did you pay him for the cargo already?”

“Yes, sir.” The captain's face hardened with sudden understanding. “Yes, I did.”

This caused angry muttering among the planters. Jane wanted to scream at them. They would let Pridmore do what he wanted to human lives, but God forbid he should steal a purse.

Vincent strode across the yard to where Pridmore stood by his horse. “I require my funds.”

Pridmore laughed nervously and took a step back. “The money is in the distillery, in my office. It's unfortunate that the entrance fell in when the boiler blew.”

Frank cleared his throat. “The purse is in his pocket.”

“You're lying.”

Vincent stopped in front of him with a palm outstretched. “Sir.”

“I have a purse, but it is mine. Are you going to take that from me as well as my livelihood?”

“There is a witness who saw you pocket it.”

Pridmore glared past Vincent at Frank. “I cannot believe you are going to take the word of that nasty, lying, nig—”

Vincent punched him hard across the mouth.

Staggering back, Pridmore collided with his horse. A hand went to the blood trickling from his lip. With a snarl, he flung himself at Vincent, fists swinging. Vincent leaned to the side, dodging the first blow. The second glanced off his cheek.

With a speed that astonished Jane, Vincent cracked two blows against Pridmore's chin, then planted a third firmly in Pridmore's stomach. The man folded forward with a grunt until a fourth blow snapped him upright.

Pridmore hung for a moment, balanced on his toes, then fell to the ground, unconscious.

Vincent put a hand on the saddle of Pridmore's horse and swayed for a moment. Hand tightening, Vincent's spine straightened by careful degrees. Jane hurried forward and put a hand on his elbow, though she did not think she could stop him if he were to fall again. “Are you all right?”