Page 38 of A Fire in Their Hearts

S OMEONE IS GENTLY SHAKING MY shoulder and I finally open my eyes to see the outline of the slave who had been next to me.

‘Eat,’ he says, before heading to the door.

Other figures are already moving about in the gloom. I realise that my dream reflects something of reality. The sweat and heat from my body has attracted the occupants of the mattress and my back is on fire with insect bites.

‘Calum. Calum, wake up.’

I have to shake him several times before he shows any sign of coming around. He was like that as a small boy, when he would stay overnight with us instead of going home with Samuel and his parents.

‘We have to get up.’

‘We’ve only just gone to sleep.’

‘Tomorrow we sleep. Now we eat.’

We follow the stooped figures heading silently towards a nearby ditch that’s used by everyone as a latrine.

People find as private a spot as they can and no one takes any notice of me.

Drummond’s strictness about men and women not fraternising wouldn’t be out of place being mentioned in a staunch Presbyterian sermon, yet at the same time we’re thrown together in the most intimate of situations that makes the idea of not speaking seem ridiculous.

As we trudge out to the fields, I can’t believe that I’ll get through the day. My entire body hurts more than I’ve ever known and I dread having to dig out more withes.

‘You don’t look well,’ says Calum quietly.

‘I’ll be all right. I’m not sure if the food helped or not.’

‘More loblolly to start the day.’

To our surprise, we leave the women to continue clearing the area they were working on yesterday and are taken with the other male slaves and servants to fields further away.

The six of us stay together and also keep close to Rory, whom we look to for advice almost as if we’re frightened children seeking reassurance from an adult.

He’s aware of this and in his gruff way is kind.

‘We plant sugar canes throughout most of the year,’ he explains, ‘so that we have a constant supply for the Ingenio.’

‘What’s that?’ asks Calum.

‘A monster. It’s part of the processing plant and you’ll not see its equal anywhere in Europe. The cane is usually ready to harvest at fifteen months but once cut it has to be processed within a couple of days otherwise the damn stuff starts to ferment and then it’s useless.’

‘So what are we doing?’ asks Alan.

‘You’re going to cut canes, and if you thought yesterday was tough, I can promise that you’ll wish you were back weeding within ten minutes.’

We pass field after field of sugar canes, gently moving seas of different colours and hues depending upon the maturity of the plants, some of which are less than a foot high.

Others are taller than me and I can’t see beyond the nearest rows.

Finally, we reach an area that is currently being harvested.

A few slaves have been carrying boxes and when they lay these down many men go to them and take out a small billhook, the curved blades of which appear to have been recently sharpened. They immediately set about cutting down canes and we watch with a mixture of fascination and dread.

Off to our right is a field that has been completely cleared of any remnants of vegetation.

Here, other slaves and servants work side by side digging narrow trenches about six inches across and the same in depth.

I assume this is for planting, but I don’t give this any further thought because my attention is suddenly taken by an animal noise close behind me.

I turn to see five mules standing in a line.

‘Irish! Get them bloody working!’ shouts Hunter.

‘Pick up a billhook and follow me,’ says Rory, who has stayed silent as we’ve gazed in wonder.

We gather a little way from those already frantically busy. He puts a hand around the stem of a sugar cane as though he would like to strangle it.

‘You will learn to hate this plant. You will hate it waking up in the morning and going to bed at night. You will hate it while forcing down yet more loblolly and when you’re squatting over the stinking latrine.

Every second of your life here you will have a hatred in your hearts that you wouldn’t have believed possible for something growing in the soil.

It’s because of this plant that we’re here.

Growing and harvesting these bastards kills people more quickly than any other crop in the colonies.

‘Listen carefully. Hold the cane like this and cut it about six inches from the ground, with one swipe of the billhook. Don’t damage the buds near the bottom or you’ll be punished. This is where next year’s shoots grow from.’

Rory demonstrates and seconds later the cane is free.

‘Looks easy, doesn’t it? Take off the top with one stroke then trim off all the blades growing out the sides.

’ The billhook is almost a blur as the metal edge slices off each leaf precisely where it comes off the stem, while not once even nicking the latter.

Moments later he’s holding a perfectly trimmed cane, about six foot in length and one inch thick.

My panic grows with every heartbeat. I’m so awkward with tools that require judging distances and I fear I’m about to lose some fingers.

‘You work without stopping until the bell at eleven.’

‘That’s five hours!’ says Alan.

‘You won’t last,’ says Rory. ‘I’ll tell you that now.’

‘Then what do we do?’ asks Calum.

‘Pray, if you still believe there’s a God.’

Slaves walk by carrying bundles of canes that they’ve cut and tied in the time we’ve been trying to understand what we’re meant to do.

We watch as they lay them across wooden crooks that have been fitted to the packsaddles on the mules.

I’m surprised at how calmly the animals stand.

When the first mule has three faggots loaded on the crook, a man pats its rump and the beast moves off, heading back towards the compound by itself.

‘Hunter isn’t going to give us any more time,’ says Rory. ‘And he’s put me in the other field so I’m not going to be with you. Good luck.’

With this Rory returns his billhook to the box and walks away. We stand looking at each other in disbelief.

‘Let’s get started,’ says Alan.

We spread out, finding spaces amongst the slaves and servants.

No one can help anyone else in this and as I take hold of my first sugar cane it’s not hate I feel but fear.

This innate plant will sweeten the drink and food of people with no knowledge of the pain involved in bringing it to their table.

Remember Bothwell .?.?. Remember the cause .?.?. This is a plant.

I put a hand between the leaves and take firm hold of the stem, then I position my feet and body as I saw Rory do.

It’s just a plant.

I aim for a spot about six inches above the ground, making sure my other hand is clear in case I misjudge.

I’ve never used a tool like this before, and the balance is odd.

I move my hand further up the stem but this makes my stance awkward.

Finally, I swing the billhook as hard as I can.

It bites into the cane without cutting it.

‘Damn!’

I glance around, worried that Hunter will have noticed my failure.

There’s no sign of him, so I wiggle the blade free and hack again.

As soon as the stem is cut, the weight of the plant simply pulls it out of my left hand and it falls to the ground.

As quickly as possible I remove the top, which contains a lot of foliage, and work my way along, cutting off the leaves.

It must be more than five minutes later when I’m left with a cane that’s shorter than it should be and which has bits of leaf still poking from a stem that’s been damaged in several places.

I don’t know whether to try and make this one neater or start another one because I’ll be punished for not working fast enough.

I can’t help it and start to cry. I feel so terribly alone.

The tears won’t stop. I’m going to be beaten.

I stand holding this stupid, overgrown stalk and can’t stop crying because I’m so frightened.

A slave walks nearby, carrying canes. He stops, glances around then quickly lays down his bundle and comes over.

Without speaking he takes the stem from me and within seconds removes the remaining leaves.

With astonishing speed he cuts and trims three canes and puts them by my feet, then he takes my damaged one and feeds it into the middle of his bundle.

He picks up his load and continues to the waiting mules.

It’s only as he walks away that I notice the fresh lines of blood coming through the back of his shirt.

*?*?*

There’s a shadow across my face.

‘You Covenanters should be drowned,’ spits Hunter.

He’s already kicked me once, but I don’t attempt to get up.

I fainted, and when I woke I lay where I fell, unable to continue.

My billhook is nowhere in sight. This work is so far beyond my ability that no threat will make me carry on.

I think Hunter knows it and there’s less pleasure for him in beating someone who’s beyond the point of responding.

‘Get up!’

He kicks me again and I gasp at the pain in my ribs but don’t move. He’s frustrated yet seems to accept that all he can actually do is stand there kicking me, without obtaining the result he wants.

‘Drink some water then start carrying the bundles to the mules.’

With this order he storms off, muttering curses about Covenanters. In a strange way I feel that I’ve won a small victory.

Rory was right. Long before the bell rings at eleven, we six from the Sophia have had to stop cutting canes.

We’ve been helped in this by the arrival of McKinnon, who rode by during his regular inspection of the plantation.

The overseer is evil, but he’s driven by profit, and it was instantly apparent to him that it wasn’t productive to have the newly arrived servants cutting canes.

The sound of the handbell carries clearly across the fields and the two mules waiting to be loaded turn around and plod back to the compound. We follow and our small group is soon joined by Rory.

‘You didn’t last,’ he says.

‘No,’ says Calum.

‘Well, Hunter won’t be able to make you attempt that work again, not until McKinnon is certain you can handle it.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ asks Calum.

‘While you’re on the plantation you have to make the most of even the smallest improvement to your life. Such things can make a big difference.’

I sense that Calum realises he’s being ungracious to someone who is not only trying to help but probably represents our greatest hope of surviving.

‘Thanks,’ he says.

‘Save your thanks,’ says Rory. ‘There are terrors and torments on this plantation that are beyond anything you could imagine in your worst nightmare. You’re only just getting started.’