Page 35 of A Fire in Their Hearts

T HE HOUSE IS THE LARGEST I’ve ever seen and is bedecked with so many extraordinary carvings and expensive decorative features that it can only have been built by someone with such immense wealth that they did not know what to do with their money.

It is a blatant, vulgar statement of prestige and power – and a hint of something even more unwholesome.

The house is framed like a painting by a semicircle of large trees that have obviously been planted to provide shade.

I’m still marvelling at the construction when the front door opens and after a pause a well-dressed man emerges on to the veranda.

By the way he so confidently stands studying us in no apparent hurry there is no mistaking him for anyone but the owner.

He’s certainly tall and powerfully built, although as he comes down the wide wooden steps and nearer it becomes clear that what might have once been a handsome face is blotched with too much alcohol and lined with too much cruelty.

Deliberately slowly, he climbs into a tall wooden platform, as ornately carved as his house but appearing a great deal older.

I’m so intent on him that it’s with a start I realise he is standing in a pulpit.

The man has actually had a pulpit from a Scottish kirk shipped all the way to Barbados.

We six from the Sophia still have our hands tied, and we’re lined up so that he can look directly down upon us.

A short distance away to our right are several dozen men, most of whom seem utterly wretched and defeated, staring at the ground in front of them.

They’re dressed identically, in coarse linen drawers and shirts and canvas shoes.

On the other side of us is a group of women and a few children, fewer than twenty in total. The women wear petticoats and shoes but nothing upon the upper half of their bodies. Although my true identity has never been discovered, my unease increases hugely when I don’t see any white women.

‘My name is William Drummond. You will call me “master”, for I own this plantation and, for the time you’re on this land, I own you . I own the shoes on your feet and the earth beneath their soles. Everything around us is mine – everybody here is mine.’

I cannot take in what I am hearing, that this stranger actually believes he owns all of these people, including us, as if we are beasts in the field.

It’s clear that in Drummond’s mind we’re not human, and I fear this may free his conscience to treat people in ways that I cannot even begin to imagine.

‘He’s mad,’ whispers Calum.

I do not respond, as Drummond continues.

‘Now you recently arrived men will see there are other white men present .

.?. and there are black men .?.?. and there are black women.

I make no distinction between heathens and Christians, only that males and females may not fraternise.

That means you will not form relationships.

You work together but nothing else. Anyone who ignores this rule will be punished.

‘If you do not instantly obey my commands, or those given by the overseer, Mister McKinnon, or Mister Hunter and Mister Findlay .?.?.’ He indicates three men who each carry a whip and have a wooden cudgel hanging from their belt .

.?. ‘all of whom you will also call “master” because they represent me, then you will be punished. That’s only right and proper.

‘If you do not carry out your duties as instructed, if you are in any way disrespectful to your masters, if you steal, damage items, cause disruption or try to run away, then you will be punished. The sooner you understand this and forget the people you used to be, the sooner your lives will improve and you can settle into your new home. This is your home and I’m a fair man. Isn’t that so, Mister McKinnon?’

‘A very fair man, Mister Drummond.’

Drummond pauses to stare at each of us in turn. I don’t think I’ve ever disbelieved a comment more than what he’s just said. All the people who were already here are looking at the ground by their feet; it’s only us newcomers who return his gaze. Suddenly, I realise how dangerous this is.

‘Calum,’ I whisper, ‘don’t look at him.’

‘What?’ he whispers back.

‘Look down. Don’t meet his eye.’

‘I do not want to damage my own property,’ continues Drummond.

‘What sane man would? But sometimes it is necessary. The punishment of an individual is good for everyone because they and others around them can learn from that one person’s mistake.

See here,’ he says, indicating a stout piece of timber rising about seven feet out of the ground with a cross beam that makes the structure appear like the cross of Christ. ‘This is the punishment post. Anyone deserving of punishment is brought here.

‘And over there .?.?.’ He points at a huge tree standing by itself, which is different to those shading the house. One sturdy branch has its end supported by a thick plank. A short distance away, two wooden stakes protrude from the ground. ‘That is the hanging tree.’

I feel terribly sick. My left leg starts trembling and I can’t stop it. Someone, Alan I think, groans.

‘Your arrival is timely because one misguided slave has refused to obey the rules, even though I have made them as easy to understand as possible. You can see the fate that awaits anyone who does not follow instructions. Mister McKinnon, please arrange the necessary.’

I hadn’t noticed that Hunter and Findlay have left and they reappear, dragging a young black man whose ankles are heavily chained.

He’s crying out in terror, begging for forgiveness.

When they tie his arms to the cross beam, the horrifying realisation dawns on me that we’ve been positioned to get the clearest view – to learn from one person’s mistake.

Drummond shakes his head, as if this display greatly pains him. ‘Oh, Joseph, why do you make me do this?’

‘Master! Master! I’m sorry. Please tell me what I’ve done wrong and I promise I’ll never do it again. I swear.’

This brief exchange makes me wonder whether the slave called Joseph has actually disobeyed any rules – or is this barbaric display really because of us? The thought fills me with emotions I don’t know how to put into words.

‘It’s just not that simple, Joseph. If only life was simple. Wouldn’t that be good, Mister McKinnon?’

‘It would be very good, Mister Drummond.’

‘Well, do your duty, Mister McKinnon. Do your Christian duty.’

Terrible raised scars criss-cross the young man’s back, marks of previous whippings. He’s sobbing uncontrollably as the overseer moves into position, flicking the whip out to its full length behind him. Knots have been tied into it every six inches or so to cause greater injury.

The first crack of leather on skin makes several people call out, as if it’s them being hit, and the swishing of the rope is accompanied by crying and wailing.

Drummond watches, a tiny smile on his face.

The brutality is staggering. Blood is soon flowing freely down the man’s back and when bits of flesh start to come away, the whip makes a wet, slapping noise as it hits. Alan bends over, retching.

Despite all the horrors I’ve seen, the fighting at Bothwell, the cruelty in Greyfriars, the hangings in Ayr, this is so much worse.

It feels .?.?. intimate, as if we’re all taking part, that we’re the ones holding this poor man’s arms against those posts.

Yet I can’t tear away my gaze, can’t even blink.

It is a sight of such inhumanity that I can only believe it’s happening by bearing witness.

It’s not long before Joseph makes no sound and hangs limply from the post.

‘Thank you, Mister McKinnon,’ says Drummond, clearly pleased by the demonstration and reaction to it. ‘He can be untied and the ropes removed from the new arrivals’ wrists.’

Hunter walks along our line and frees our hands. No one moves. No one speaks. There’s no doubting that Drummond’s barbarous demonstration has achieved its aim – we are completely and utterly terrified.

*?*?*

As Joseph is carried back to one of the huts, we’re taken away by Hunter and Findlay with almost everyone else.

I notice that it’s the children and the most elderly who remain behind and I assume this is because whatever work awaits us is too strenuous for them.

Goodness knows how we’ll manage. We’ve had no food or water since yesterday and I’m struggling just to walk.

About fifteen minutes later Hunter shouts out an order.

‘Irish, tell them what to do and be quick about it.’

Hunter and Findlay carry on walking with the male slaves and servants while the women amongst us go into the nearest field. A large man with curly brown hair remains with us. I can’t fathom his expression and he doesn’t speak until the others are too far away to hear.

‘My name’s Rory. If you think you’ve arrived in Hell, you’re right.

If you think that Drummond is a mad bastard, you’re right.

If you think your lives can’t possibly get any worse, you’re wrong.

Never, ever upset Drummond or his three henchmen.

There is no law on this plantation other than Drummond’s law.

Understand that and do it quickly because he meant everything he said earlier about punishment, and also about calling them “master”.

The word will stick in your gullet like a copy of Laud’s liturgy, but just do it.

‘For what’s left of today, you’ll help the women weed this field so that we can plant sugar canes in it. We’ve lost some servants and slaves and have got behind with the work that needs to be done.’

‘What do you mean, you lost them?’ asks Calum.