Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 22

  “I believe she’s right. The people of England won’t countenance a line of Catholic kings. It has cost them too much to rid themselves of popery.”

  “But as yet there is no boy,” Mr Molesworth said, “and as yet that nephew of yours is guilty of treason, and has been justly punished for it.” Still, he sent off one of the servants, and some minutes later, the man returned with a leather-bound ledger that was placed before them.

  Matthew gave a discreet groan. Pages up and down in crabby handwriting, detailing name, price and owner. Not in any kind of order – just a random listing that would have to be read from top to bottom.

  They found three Grahams, but one was given as being from Edinburgh, the other was a W Graham, and the third was just plain Graham.

  “Well, well,” Mr Molesworth said, “bought by Sir Henry, no less.” He straightened up and looked at them. “It’s a long ride, well over two hours, and it might not be him.”

  “I must go all the same,” Matthew said.

  Mr Molesworth chose to ride with them, and they set off at midday, despite the sun and July heat.

  “Better the heat than the dark,” the Lieutenant Governor explained. “Jamaica can be a dangerous place at times.” He indicated their armed escort.

  “What? Robbers?” Alex asked.

  “Maroons,” Mr Molesworth said.

  Matthew wasn’t overly worried. “Oh aye? We have such in Maryland as well.”

  “Not like ours. Ours live in the wilds since decades back, strong communities of escaped slaves and natives. They have no liking for white men in general, and English men in particular, no doubt reminiscing nostalgically about their former masters, the Spaniards. Strange race, the Spaniards. They copulate freely with their slaves and the natives, and the children born of such unions are often openly acknowledged and freed.”

  “Oh, and English men don’t? Copulate, I mean?” Alex asked with a bite to her voice. “Or is it the Spaniards’ acknowledging of their offspring that you find strange?”

  Matthew swallowed back a gust of laughter at Mr Molesworth’s flustered expression.

  “A child born to a slave is a slave, no matter its sire, that is the law. Anyway, the Maroons are a plague on us, and the roads are unsafe after dark. Men have been killed, women taken captive never to return. An experience, my dear Mrs Graham, I don’t think you’d much like.”

  They rode through endless fields of cane. Man-high and more, it stood like a sea of waving grasses as far as they could see.

  “Ready for harvest,” Mr Molesworth said, “it will all be cut down within the coming month.”

  “All?” Matthew stared out across the interminable fields.

  “Long hard hours of work,” the Lieutenant Governor said, “well into the dark. The harvest is cyclical from January to July, so the slaves move from one field to the other.”

  They crested a small incline and the fields disappeared behind a screen of trees: huge trees, garlanded with vines that flowered in deep pinks and blues. They rode further into what had become a green tunnel, and the shade was a relief after the previous hour in the sun.

  Matthew studied the brilliant greenery with interest, noting ferns as high as he himself was. “A fertile country,” he commented.

  “Oh, yes,” Mr Molesworth nodded. “Most fertile – and vicious with it.”

  Matthew was very disappointed by the famous buccaneer. He had expected a vibrant man, imposing of size and voice, and instead, Henry Morgan proved a sickly man, with one foot already in the grave. Not particularly tall, shrivelled due to years, and with a constant racking cough, the erstwhile pirate sat on his veranda, wrapped in a quilt and sipping at a hot beverage which, Matthew concluded after a few inhalations, seemed mostly to consist of rum.

  “What?” Morgan said. “Don’t I live up to the myth?” He wheezed with laughter, and his dark eyes flashed in a way that made Matthew realise just how charismatic a leader this man must have been. Not anymore, his face swollen by dropsy, his hair receding, and his hands constantly clenching and unclenching, probably to ease the tension of accumulating liquids.

  “It’s some years ago since you were a permanent scourge on the Spanish,” Matthew sidestepped.

  “Not that long ago.” Morgan coughed. “Not yet twenty years since.” He knuckled at his swollen eyes and blinked. “I dare say I’ll be remembered for it.”

  “An infamous buccaneer, that’s what you’ll go down as, Henry,” Molesworth said.

  Morgan set his jaw with an audible click of teeth. “I’m not a buccaneer nor yet a pirate. I am, have always been, and remain a servant to the cause of England.”

  Molesworth laughed out loud, and after a couple of minutes the old renegade joined in.

  “You did well out of it, my friend,” Molesworth told him. “Very well for a man with no beginnings.”

  “I did.” Morgan studied his home with evident pleasure.

  “Not Charlie,” Matthew said to Alex once he had seen the unknown Graham. He was shaken by the dismal condition of the man he’d just seen, and eyed Morgan with substantially less admiration than before. “You could consider feeding them.”

  “Oh, I do,” Morgan replied. “Enough to keep them alive.”

  “You feed your black slaves better!” Matthew exploded.

  “Of course, they’re far more valuable. Those white lads, they rarely make it beyond a year, and they whine and complain when they’re set to work.”

  “Then why buy them?” Alex asked.

  Morgan looked at her in silence for a few minutes. “It’s the King’s wish that they die in servitude, and I live to serve my king.” Stiffly, he stood and bowed, indicating the visit was over.

  Chapter 25

  “When can we leave?” Alex asked Matthew next morning, shoving at the eggs on her plate with a marked lack of appetite.

  “Well, you’re to help Mr Molesworth with the book first.” After a questioning look, Matthew switched plates with her.

  “I almost regret telling him,” she sighed.

  Molesworth had twitched all over when Matthew had told him their theory regarding Ángel Muñoz, going on to explain that despite the Treaty of Madrid, there were still occasions when they heard rumours the Spanish were planning to launch an attack on Jamaica from either Cuba or Hispaniola.

  “Too late,” Matthew said. “So while you sit and talk the officers through that book, I’ll find us passage to Barbados.”

  He came to find her just before dinner, bowing to the commanding officer of Fort Charles, who was leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.

  “Under our very noses,” Captain Ford said, “the damned Spanish spy has been collecting information about every fort and landing point on the island, and we haven’t stopped him!” He was perspiring heavily, mopping at a bright red brow with a sopping handkerchief. With irritation, he regarded the little notebook, now carefully annotated with English comments. “This should bring home to the King how important it is to see this island adequately garrisoned,” he said to Molesworth, who nodded in agreement.

  “Have you talked to the man?” Molesworth asked him.

  “A couple of times, but the man insists he speaks no English.” Speculatively, the captain eyed Alex. “You speak remarkable Spanish, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” Alex replied. It was obvious Captain Ford was waiting for some form of elucidation as to why, but she kept her eyes on her shoes.

  “As a good subject of the King, you’ll be willing to help us in our interrogations of the prisoner,” the officer continued.

  “I don’t want to see my wife embroiled in such,” Matthew cut in. “The man speaks English. Threaten him with the rack, and I dare say he’ll become quite vociferous. Besides, there are others on this island that speak Spanish. Half the boat crews I come across seem to know it well enough.”

  “But only your wife has read the contents of the book.” Captain Ford folded his arms over his chest, lifted himself up and down a couple of times on
his toes, all the while staring at Matthew. Officers might come in various guises but ultimately they are all the same, Matthew reflected, recognising the pugnacious set to the captain’s jaw.

  “She doesn’t do it without me,” Matthew said.

  The captain shrugged, informed them to present themselves at the fort around three, and left.

  *

  Alex didn’t want to do this. She never wanted to lay eyes again on the Spaniard who brought so many restless memories to life, and it didn’t help much when Ángel Muñoz was led into the little room.

  Dishevelled, in only breeches and shirt, and with a collection of interesting bruises on his face, he kept on repeating in Spanish that he was the victim of a pirate attack and should be allowed to return home.

  The captain waited until Ángel was seated before producing the notebook, waving it in the direction of a paling Ángel.

  “Spies hang,” the captain said.

  “¿Qué dice?” Ángel asked Alex, who just raised her brows.

  “No te hagas el tonto,” she said. Don’t play the fool.

  He spat at her, telling her in Spanish this was all her fault.

  “If—” he began, but she interrupted him.

  “If I hadn’t jumped into the water, you would already be dead!”

  “And now I’ll die anyway, witch!”

  She swallowed at the truth of that. If she’d said nothing about the book, he would at present not be staring a hangman’s noose in the eye. They sat and stared at each other in silence while both Matthew and the officer grew restless behind them.

  “This won’t work,” Alex said in English. “He isn’t about to talk to me, and I can’t say I blame him.” She stood up, and on the stool before her, Ángel fell into an epileptic fit.

  “No!” Matthew yelled, but Alex was already leaning over the convulsing man. Mere seconds later, she was gasping for breath, throttled by his hold on her neck. Something sharp was digging into the skin below her ear.

  “Leave go of her,” the officer barked.

  “I think not,” Ángel said in perfect English. “Not until I am safely out of here.”

  Alex gargled when he used his forearm to press her windpipe together.

  “If you harm her…” Matthew snarled, and Ángel laughed.

  “Then what, big man? You kill me?” He waved a piece of bloodied glass in the direction of Matthew, who made as if to rush forward.

  “Agh,” Alex said when Ángel swiped the glass down the side of her neck.

  “See?” Ángel laughed. “She bleeds already. Shall I cut some more?”

  “You’ll regret it,” Matthew growled, unsheathing his dirk.

  Alex couldn’t help it: she whimpered as she was cut again.

  Slowly, the initial shock was receding, and her brain was fast-forwarding through her options. The man was trapped on Jamaica, and cornered men do desperate things. Alex realised with a little knot of fear that he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her, even kill her. The officer was conferring with his men, and from the set of his shoulders, she could see that he was going to let Ángel go, with her his hostage, and God alone knew what he would do to her then. She met Matthew’s eyes, blinked once, and slumped in a pretence dead faint.

  Ángel staggered with her weight. He cursed, tried to heave her upright, but Alex made herself as heavy as possible, ignoring the stinging pain of the glass cutting into the side of her neck. Matthew’s dirk flew through the air, she felt Ángel jerk, his hold on her weakening further. She fell out of his arms and scrambled on all fours towards Matthew, seeing out of the corner of her eye how Ángel slid to the floor. Matthew was on his knees, hands flying over her.

  “Is he dead?” Captain Ford snapped.

  Matthew looked up from his inspection of Alex’s neck. “Nay, I didn’t want to rob you of the joy of hanging the wee bastard.”

  The officer walked over to where Ángel was slumped, and roughly pulled the knife out of his shoulder. In response, Ángel howled, gripped the razor-sharp shard of glass and slashed it viciously across the officer’s thigh.

  Blood sprayed the entire room. Matthew yanked Alex’s shawl off and whipped a tourniquet around Captain Ford’s leg. Ángel attempted to stand but Matthew kicked him back down.

  “You move and I kick your balls up your throat,” he threatened.

  The small room was full of people. Ángel was hauled to his feet, still clutching his weapon, the fort surgeon was trying to inspect the damage to Captain Ford’s leg, and Alex wondered how on earth it could all have gone so wrong.

  She raised a shaking hand to her jawline and stared down at her own blood, smeared across her fingers. The room echoed with shouts and curses. A soldier screamed when the sharp point of glass got him in the face, and then Ángel was far too close.

  “Someday, I’ll get my own back. In this life or the next, you hear?” he hissed, spittle flying. “Algún día te haré pagar.” His eyes were black with hatred, locked on Alex.

  “You already have,” she whispered, far too low for him to hear, and through her brain fluttered fragmented images of those long months when the future Ángel Muñoz devised one way after the other to scare the daylights out of her.

  *

  “An absolute mess,” Mr Molesworth said.

  “Aye.” Matthew’s eyes flew to Alex. All he wanted was to be alone with her, gather her onto his lap and hold her close, her heartbeat under his hand. She was sitting with an introverted expression on her face, blood had dried in garish streaks on her neck, and she seemed to be fascinated by her open hands, lying passively in her lap. “The captain?”

  Mr Molesworth hitched his shoulders. It was in God’s hands, even if the surgeon seemed confident he had managed to get a ligature in.

  “And the Spaniard?”

  “In irons, as he should have been to begin with.”

  Matthew was too tired to do more than nod. He was too old for this kind of excitement, and as to Alex… He went over to her and crouched down to take her hands in his. “Alright then?”

  She gave him a wobbly smile, and a fat tear slid down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb, wiped it away, and leaned forward to kiss her nose.

  “Bath?” he suggested, and her smile gained in sincerity.

  “Will you wash my hair?” she asked.

  “All of you,” he said, closing his hands round her wrists. His thumbs rested over her rapid pulse, and he closed his eyes when her beat surged into him, travelled through his veins and to his heart. Her blood, his blood, one and the same.

  *

  Much later, Alex lay naked on their bed, covered by a sheet. She was fast asleep, curled on her side with a hand flung before her and the heavy hair braided back. Matthew stood by the small window, the shutters thrown wide, and looked out on a night of sparkling stars and a timid crescent moon. He was as naked as she was, and the evening breeze cooled the sheen of sweat into an uncomfortable film of cold, making him shiver. Behind him, he heard Alex stirring from sleep, but he remained where he was.

  “Matthew?” Alex asked from the bed. “Why are you standing there?”

  He just shook his head. If he closed his eyes, he kept on seeing Ángel digging the glass deeper into her skin, and it was her blood that cascaded like a fountain across the room, not the captain’s. One inch further down, one determined slash, and all he could have done was hold her as she died away from him. Irrationally, he was swept with anger that she should put herself at risk like that, and he took a long, steadying breath. It was alright, she was still here, and the Spaniard would hang come the morning.

  “I was hot,” he said, taking the few paces needed to bring him back to the bed.

  “That’s why it’s called the tropics.” Alex yawned, and with a contented little noise she slipped her hand into his.

  Matthew lay on his back and listened to her breathing for a very long time.

  Chapter 26

  Alex had refused to witness Ángel’s death, but couldn’t very well do the sa
me when Mr Molesworth insisted she read the man’s letters home before they were dispatched, to ensure they contained no compromising information.

  “It makes me feel like a ghoul, to sit and read letters meant for someone else, and especially when they’ve been written by a man who was hanged because of me.”

  “Mmph,” Matthew said without much sympathy. He was extremely short-tempered at present, snappish and short in his conversation with her. Alex unfolded the letters: one to his father, the unknown Raúl senior, commending the care of his wife and young son to him, and a very long letter to his wife, Alma.

  “I hope he told her all of this while they were together,” she said once she was done. She regarded Matthew’s back for a while. “Do you know how much—?” She broke off with a rueful shake of her head and concentrated on refolding the letters. He hadn’t heard, or at least he pretended he hadn’t. “What’s the matter?” she asked instead of verbalising the fervent love declaration she had in her head.

  “Nothing.”

  “Right, and I’m a flying pig,” Alex said, making his lips curve for an instant. She came over to where he was standing by the window and stood beside him, looking out at the heavy tropical rain.

  “You could have died,” he said.

  “But I didn’t.”

  “If I were to find Charlie, but lose you in the finding, I’d never forgive myself.”

  “I could get run over by a bus,” she said, and at his confused expression, clarified. “What I mean is accidents can happen to you anywhere.”

  “That wasn’t an accident, Alex. That was you being foolhardy. You shouldn’t have gone to help him. I even told you ‘no’, did I not?”

  “I don’t remember. And how was I to know he was only pretending?”

  Matthew emitted a low exasperated sound. “You do foolhardy things all the time. You dive after two unknown men—”

  “I thought one of them was Carlos!”