Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

‘Don’t you go and come down with something, John Sedgwick,’ Lizzie said with a chuckle. ‘You’ll want me waiting on you every minute of the day.’

He laughed quietly. She could always do this, come up with the right words to make him forget everything else, to make him happy. He reached for her, but she rolled away with a teasing giggle. ‘That’s not the way to get warm and you know it.’

‘There’s a right way and a wrong way, is there?’

She sighed. He didn’t need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. ‘Men. Don’t you know anything?

‘If we did, you’d have nothing left to teach us.’

‘You cheeky bugger.’

But she gave in readily enough, and enjoyed it as much as he did. Later, as sleep was slowly overtaking him, she asked, ‘How’s Josh?’

‘Some people are looking after him. Gypsies,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘What?’ He felt her sit up. ‘I thought he was going to stay with Mr Nottingham.’

‘The Gypsies came. They’re old friends, apparently. Known him since he was a nipper or something. And he wanted to go with them.’

‘He could have come here,’ Lizzie insisted, ‘with folk who care about him.’

‘I know.’

‘Better off than with a bunch of Gypsies,’ she grumbled.

‘If it’s what Josh wants.’ He was surprised to hear himself defending the decision.

‘Maybe,’ she agreed cautiously. ‘But what are you going to do about those Hendersons? I remember them, they’re a nasty piece of work.’

‘We’ll do something. The boss promised.’

‘Good.’ She snuggled close. ‘I love you, John. Now let’s get you warm so you can work tomorrow.’

At the jail Nottingham built up the fire and stripped to his shirt and breeches. Charlotte was in a cell, shivering, the sodden dress hugging her close. He left her. Let her grow cold and scared, he decided. Maybe she’d talk then.

Once he was warm he settled at the desk with Wyatt’s manuscript. The third book, it would have been. The one wrapped in his skin.

Seven years in the Indies. That was the judge’s pronouncement. Judge Dobbs, telling me I should be grateful that he was not going to hang me, and all because I knew enough to recite a Bible verse. But if Graves had kept his word and Rushworth had not peached there would have been none of this. I only took what I had been promised, and a little more for my trouble.

The voyage was months of hell. We were chained below decks, like the slaves I would see later. It was no matter to the captain if we lived or died; he would be paid all the same. Before we left Liverpool they branded my cheek with a T. A thief for all to see and know. I smelt my flesh as it burned and decided then I would come back for those responsible.

The Indies were all the agonies that man has described, and more. The heat never faded. Even the nights brought no relief, only time to think and sweat. They worked us from dawn to dusk, often beyond. In the season we would be bent over, hacking at the sugarcane with sharp knives. One slip and the blood would flow and insects flock to its scent. Some died that way, others from the yellow fever. It would take them suddenly, pulling them into a delirium. Few came back from that.

The overseers were cruel men who knew how to work us hard. The whip fell every day. Twice it fell on me, and I still carry the scars.

But I knew I would survive it all. I used those hot, sleepless nights well and began to plan. I was different from those other convicts. They were stupid men, bred to labour like oxen. The fields were a good place for them, alongside the slaves from Africa. Truth to tell, other than colour and tongue there was little to mark them apart. I had education, reading, writing, arithmetic. Once the plantation owner learnt that, as I made sure he did, I was plucked away and put in an office.

I had better meals, better quarters. By the end of three years I made sure I was trusted, and after another twelve months I was indispensable. It was simple enough work to salt away small bits of money that the owner would never miss. For a coin or two a sailor would start a letter on its journey to Charlotte.

I could have any slave girl I desired, and a few times I succumbed. I was the owner’s right hand, dependable. I pointed out where he was being swindled and helped him increase his profits. I worked well, for myself as much as for him. My stack of coins increased. It was no fortune, but it was enough.

My plan grew slowly. From a faint outline it took shape. I thought and considered. Mere killing seemed inadequate. Anyone can murder, it takes no skill, there’s no statement in it. I wanted something that would lodge in the mind, something that would make you remember me.

It all fell into place when I talked to a French trader from the Antilles. He told me of the custom in his homeland. When a man was condemned to be executed, the notes of his trial were bound in his skin. At first it shocked me and I thought the French barbaric. But then I realized it was the perfect thing. I could leave the accounts of my vengeance in the skins of those who had wronged me.

A sugar plantation is a self-sufficient place. I had time and I had the position to persuade the tanner to teach me his art. One thing I learned remains with me still: each creature has just enough brain to tan his own hide. Curious, is it not? The brains are rubbed on the inside of the leather to cure it, and there is just enough to work the whole skin.

But that was too much, even for me. There were other methods and I learnt them well. The true technique is in the cutting and I practised on slaves who died. Their bodies were worthless anyway.

As my time ran out the master asked me to stay on as a free man. His offer was tempting, but the need to make men pay was deep in me. The salary he suggested would have made me a rich man in Europe, but I knew I had to do this. I had made my promise to Charlotte that I would return. She would be waiting. I had my sack of money, enough to keep us until my job was done.

But whoever reads this — perhaps you, John Sedgwick, although your knowledge of your letters is poor — will want to know how I took the Constable.

It ended there.

And no more to be written, Nottingham thought. In the morning they’d find him and that would be the end of it all. He put on the clothes that were still damp but warm against his flesh.

As he unlocked the cell Charlotte glanced up. Her face was pale, body shaking from the chill. Good. This was how he wanted her, weak, vulnerable.

‘I have all the evidence I need against you,’ he began.

She kept her dark eyes steady on his, saying nothing.

‘We’ll find him when it’s light.’

‘And kill him?’ she asked. Her voice quavered.

‘Yes,’ he told her bluntly. ‘No trace, no record.’

‘And me?’

‘You too.’ He waited, letting her digest the words. She was silent and he continued. ‘I’ll burn the books. None of this will ever have happened.’

‘But it did, didn’t it? You’ll remember, you’ll know.’

‘I live with a lot of things, Charlotte. Good and bad. But I still sleep at night.’

She ran her fingers through her wet hair like a comb. There was a bitter ugliness on her face.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.

‘To try and understand him.’

‘Why? Do you think he’s mad?’

‘Yes,’ Nottingham admitted. ‘I do.’

She shook her head wildly, sending droplets of waters spinning across the room. ‘He’s not. Not any more than you or me. He wanted things for us. A good life where we weren’t always hungry. A place where we could live decently. They stopped us having that.’

‘They?’

‘The people who cheated him, the ones who broke their promises.’ Her eyes flashed with life. ‘He could have been successful. He’s a clever man. But they wouldn’t let him. They only want their own kind to have money, not people who want to better themselves. We had ideas above our station.’