Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

‘Thank you, Patrick. I will try not to disappoint him or Mr Carrington.’

Could it possibly get any worse? Despite Patrick’s offer to speak to Adam Lyte, after three hours in the sweltering kitchen turning the spits on which the turkey and the piglet had been roasting since midday, Thomas was ready to lie down and wait for the end. Sweat poured off his forehead, his head and arms ached abominably and his mouth and throat were on fire.

When at last both creatures were cooked he wrapped his hands in wet cloths, heaved the first spit from its supports, slid off the turkey and lifted it on to one of two huge platters produced from under the brutes’ beds and polished that morning with sand and grease. The brutes kept everything of value under their beds. Thomas had seen saddles, plate and good leather boots dragged out when needed. For all he knew, there were caskets of gold coins under there.

The turkey was followed by the piglet. The fowl went quietly but the pig hissed and spat in protest, its skin bubbling and blistering in its own fat. A dollop of fat landed on his bare arm, making him yelp and drop the wretched thing on to the earth floor. He rescued it hastily, hoping the yelp had not been heard, and managed to wipe off at least some of the dirt. But in spite of his efforts at cleaning and sweeping, the floor would be hiding all manner of unpleasantness. The plantation dogs wandered in and out, millipedes and cockroaches lurked in dark corners, ants devoured scraps and crumbs and his masters were not above spitting on it. When he had the chance to eat he would give the pig a miss and content himself with a little turkey.

Ye gods, he thought, this place is hot enough without having to spend the afternoon beside an open fire, being attacked by boiling fat. With another oath he picked up the first platter and carried it through to the four diners.

‘Come on, Hill, put it here and be quick about it. Our bellies are empty and we need feeding,’ bellowed Samuel Gibbes at the head of the table, sweeping away empty bottles to clear a space for the food. He belched loudly. ‘And bring more wine. We’ll need it in this heat.’ The four diners had already drunk five bottles that afternoon although neither of the guests had taken much. Compared to the Gibbes, Charles Carrington and Adam Lyte were practically abstainers. Thomas wondered how they could bear to dine with the Gibbes, even for the common good. Adam Lyte, a little overweight, fair-haired and red-faced, was, as Patrick had said, a decent man and a proud member of the Assembly. The athletic-looking Carrington, clean-shaven, long black hair tied neatly back, dark-eyed and skin weathered by the Caribbean sun, was more of a free spirit.

‘Devilish fine law in my opinion,’ said Samuel, as he hacked at the turkey with a heavy knife. ‘We only have to say “Cavalier and Roundhead” and it’s turkey and pork for all.’ Laughing at this excellent joke, he shovelled chunks of leg and breast on to four wooden trenchers.

‘Indeed, Samuel,’ replied Lyte, ‘although we in the Assembly did not reckon on anyone using the words just as an excuse for a good dinner. We meant to promote peace and prosperity on the island by banning them, not the wholesale slaughter of turkeys and pigs. Still, I thank you for inviting me. The favour shall be returned within the month.’

‘I thank you too, Samuel,’ added Carrington. ‘This much meat will keep me alive for a week.’

‘Assembly, my liver,’ muttered John gruffly, scratching at his scarred face, ‘damned fools know nothing. We don’t need laws to tell us what we can and can’t say, any more than we need them to tell us how to grow sugar. We’re the ones who’ve made Barbados rich and we’ll do as we choose. Bell and Walrond, Drax and Middleton, they’re interfering old women. To hell with the lot of them and their meddling laws.’ If this was meant to rile Adam Lyte, it failed. He tactfully said nothing. ‘Where’s that damned shoat, Hill? Bring it here, for the devil’s sake.’

Only the name of Bell meant anything to Thomas, although if the brutes hated them all, they would have his support. As he came through with the pig, he managed to catch Carrington’s eye and shook his head just enough to signal a warning. Carrington raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

‘Now, gentlemen, some pork with your turkey?’ Holding his knife like a dagger, Samuel thrust it into the pig. Juices spurted out on to his grubby fingers, which he licked with relish.

‘In truth, Samuel, pork has never really agreed with me. I think I’ll settle for this excellent turkey, thank you.’ Carrington had taken Thomas’s hint and with a gentle nudge had passed it on to his friend.

‘I fear I am much the same,’ said Lyte, ‘but if I may, I will take a drop more of your excellent wine with the fowl.’

‘Ah well, all the more for us, eh, John?’ Samuel, not a bit put out, shovelled a huge heap of pork on to his plate and another on to his brother’s.

With the diners provided with more meat and wine than five times their number could possibly consume, Thomas slipped outside with a small plate of turkey and sat on a wooden box he had placed under the bearded fig tree. He called it his listening tree. From there he could not see the diners but he could hear them. It was cooler under the tree and he sipped a cup of plantain juice.

Stretching his aching back, he looked again at the Gibbes’s house, shook his head sadly and thought yet again how utterly revolting it was. How anyone, even these brutes, could live in it was beyond understanding. Not a drop of paint had been employed on the rough timber, the roof leaked and armies of termites had been feasting on the corner posts. Revolting was the word for it. Ramshackle and revolting.

‘Hill, Hill, where are you, man?’ It was John this time, full of meat and claret, and rapidly reaching the point at which he might become dangerous. Thomas roused himself smartly and went back to the house. ‘Ah, there you are, queenie. You are a queenie, aren’t you? I hear all the king’s men are.’ Either he had forgotten that his guests were supporters of the king or he did not care. Probably the latter. He was always more vicious to Thomas in company. It was his way of showing off.

‘I don’t think so, sir. But is there anything else I can do for you?’ The ‘sir’ stuck in his throat, as it always did, and it was a risky reply. For a horrid moment both Gibbes stared at him and he thought there was going to be trouble until Charles Carrington came to the rescue.

‘Excellent turkey, Thomas,’ he said, adding with a grin, ‘and I daresay the piglet was good too. Eh, Samuel?’

‘What? Yes, yes. A decent pig. Better than your last effort, Hill. More flavour. Now bring us the milk pudding. And we’ll need more wine.’

He fetched the wine and then returned with a large pudding from the kitchen. He had made it with the milk bought at the market, the juice of ten limes and a good deal of stirring. ‘Will the pudding be good, Thomas?’ asked Carrington with a wink.

‘Oh yes, sir. Very good, I should think.’

‘Excellent. Better have some then, eh, Adam?’

While they were tucking into the pudding, Thomas sat outside and listened to the four of them talking about the sugar that had already made them rich, and about the soaring value of land which was making them richer still. When two or more planters were gathered together, even bedfellows as strange as these, he supposed that the conversation would invariably turn to the price of land and the production of sugar. Planters would speak of sugar as churchmen speak of faith — as if there were nothing else.

For all the squalor and debauchery, the Gibbes knew about making money from sugar and could hold their own on anything to do with the intricate processes of planting, harvesting, milling, boiling and curing. Oddly, they became rational and coherent when discussing business. Before dinner, they had taken their guests to inspect the windmill and had tried to persuade them to form a partnership to build another for their shared use. Lyte and Carrington had wisely asked for time to consider the matter, although Thomas had the impression that had the proposal been made by anyone else they would have jumped at it. Windmills must be expensive to build and would need to be kept busy. A shared one made sense.