Page 50 of A Fire in Their Hearts

I T’S SUNDAY MORNING AND WE’RE lined up as usual to hear a sermon about God and goodness from the most corrupt, vile, brutal hypocrite that ever walked this earth.

Duncan frets in my arms. He’s been particularly unsettled over the last few days.

I put him to my breast, but he doesn’t appear hungry and sucks so feebly that my stomach tightens in worry.

Drummond walks towards us from the big house, followed several yards behind by McKinnon, who is almost staggering.

I can’t believe he’s been drinking this early in the day.

The murmuring amongst us dies away to complete silence as Drummond climbs into his pulpit.

He gazes down upon us for a long while before speaking, but I take little notice and am much more concerned with trying to get Duncan to take some milk.

‘You are like my children. And I am like your father, who protects and feeds you, ensuring that you’re well and happy. For you should be happy to live in such beautiful surroundings. We are all one family here.’

There have been times when I’ve wondered if he is completely insane, either through the overconsumption of alcohol, the unnatural climate or some inner evil that has taken over his mind, but whenever I’ve subsequently analysed his words and actions, Drummond’s intentions are clear.

His aim is complete control of those around him, which is why he alternates between severe punishments and almost saying he loves us.

I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he did.

My attention is suddenly grabbed by the sound of moaning and when I seek out the source, I see a figure sink slowly to his knees.

‘Bartholomew! What’s the meaning of interrupting my sermon?’

‘Master, I feel so ill.’

Drummond is clearly angry yet appears to want to continue the false impression that he is concerned about our welfare. ‘When I have finished you may have a dose of Kill-Devil. That will sort you out. In the meantime, you must stand.’

But Bartholomew has slumped even further, propping himself up on one hand and obviously in no state to rise by himself.

‘Get him up!’ shouts Drummond to no one in particular.

I don’t know what possesses me – some fragment of my father’s teaching of medicine, a memory of the Reverend Colvil’s sermons, real sermons about caring for others.

I cover my breast and hand Duncan to Shoshana next to me.

She stares in horror, for to move out of line on a Sunday morning is a punishable offence.

My actions take everyone by such surprise that nobody speaks as I walk over and kneel by Bartholomew.

He’s hot and when I take hold of his head to look into his face his eyes roll upwards as if possessed.

‘Master, this man is terribly sick.’

‘He’ll be seen to later, and so will you, Violet, if you don’t get back in line!’

‘Master, alcohol won’t do this man any good.’

As I speak, Bartholomew slips unconscious on to the ground.

‘Jesus Christ!’

I look in surprise at the unexpected outburst and am even more taken aback at who’s made it.

‘Mister McKinnon!’ says Drummond. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘My head.’

As we stare at the overseer, who has both hands on his head as if trying to squeeze out the obvious pain, he vomits violently then takes a few unsteady steps towards the house before collapsing.

Now people are whispering nervously, with many stepping away from those affected as if fearful of being too near.

I can’t blame them and my mind races as I try to imagine what my father would do.

I walk towards Drummond, who appears stricken with indecision.

He leans over the side of the pulpit and I keep my voice low so as not to give anyone the impression that I’m telling him what to do, particularly him.

‘Master, we have sickness on the plantation and those affected must be kept away from the others.’

‘How do we do that?’

It’s the first time I’ve seen Drummond look scared and he’s certainly never asked for my advice before.

‘We should put the sick into one hut.’

‘Men and women?’

‘If they’re that ill, they won’t be bothered about who’s lying next to them. Everyone else should move out of that hut. Mister McKinnon needs to be somewhere.’

‘Not with the slaves or servants.’

‘In his own hut then. The other two will have to find an alternative unless they also become ill.’

‘Someone has to take care of the sick. You do it!’

I was expecting this. ‘All right,’ I reply, as if I’ve actually got an option, ‘but I have to be .?.?.’ I’m about to say free, but realise this would not be the word to use. ‘.?.?. able to move around unhindered.’

The decision is forced upon him when a woman cries out and has to be held by two others to prevent her from collapsing.

‘Mister Findlay. You and Mister Hunter will take Mister McKinnon to his quarters. You may then wish to find other accommodation for the near future. Violet will oversee the care of the sick and she has my permission to move around unhindered.’

Drummond lowers his voice again so that only I can hear. ‘I’ll keep to the house with Tamar. I don’t want anyone else inside. You may converse with me through a window so that I’m informed regularly as to what is happening.’

With that, Drummond gets down from his pulpit and walks back to the house, adding cowardice to his list of unenviable characteristics. Now I’m faced with dozens of people, all looking to me for instruction.

God guide me in this so that I may do the right thing.

I take a huge breath to steady my nerves. ‘Listen carefully! Master has put me in charge of taking care of the sick. Does anyone feel unwell?’

No one answers. It’s really what I expected because many believe that to admit to any symptoms will condemn them to actually getting the illness, if for no other reason than that they’re likely to be put amongst those who do have it.

‘Does anyone’s head hurt?’

To my surprise, Alan holds up his hand. Following his example, two of the slaves do the same. I point at the nearest building.

‘All right, everyone from this men’s hut who feels well must move to another hut.

I want those who are seriously ill carried inside and placed at the far end – men and women.

Those who are feeling unwell can go to the barn and remain there tonight if they don’t get any worse.

Do not hide your symptoms. Pretending you don’t have any will not keep you safe. ’

I watch as Bartholomew is carried into the hut, while others move around in various directions, some quickly retrieving their few possessions from their usual sleeping area.

The women have largely dispersed. Only Shoshana remains, standing a short distance away with Duncan.

I don’t know what I would do without her and go over to explain that she’ll have to keep him for a while longer.

I’ll see first if he’ll take some milk. It’s only as I get near that I realise how shocked she is by this unexpected outbreak.

Duncan’s face is partly covered by his shawl so I gently move a little of it to one side to enjoy a few precious moments with just the three of us.

I gaze down with such love in my heart and for the first time I truly understand what my father meant at Bothwell when he said he loved Hamish and me.

Duncan’s no longer fretting and looks so peaceful in Shoshana’s arms. Then I wonder how my world can keep ending and ending and ending.

My beautiful baby boy is dead.

*?*?*

I sit alone with Duncan in my arms. I tell him how much he’s loved and how sorry I am that I’ve not been a better mother, that I haven’t been able to keep him with me. Everyone has stayed away. In the end, it’s Rory who approaches and kneels beside us.

‘Violet, I’m so very sorry for the loss of Duncan, but we must bury him.

You’re needed desperately. The place is unravelling fast. Hunter has left to try and get help, although I suspect he’ll simply stay away as long as he can, while Findlay has disappeared with a jug of Kill-Devil.

People are lost and more are falling sick. ’

I gaze at Rory. His words seem to reach me from a great distance, yet a part of me realises that there is terribly urgent work to be carried out and I must say goodbye to my baby.

‘Will you help dig a grave?’

Tears roll down his cheeks. I’ve never seen Rory cry. ‘Violet .?.?. I’ve already done it.’

I nod.

The two of us walk to the area that’s used as a cemetery and I see in a far corner that a new grave has been created. It’s tiny. Just so tiny. Gently I lay my baby in the ground and as a last gesture I cover his head with the shawl.

‘You can’t have a dirty face when you meet God.’

We stand in silence for several moments. Someone takes my hand and I look with surprise at Shoshana, who has walked silently up behind us.

‘Violet,’ she says after many minutes. ‘Perhaps we should leave Rory with Duncan and go back to help those still living?’

‘I promise I’ll carry out this task with the greatest love, respect and care,’ says Rory.

‘I know you will,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

Shoshana and I return to the main compound to find people standing around unsure what to do.

‘They’re afraid,’ says Shoshana. ‘And so am I.’

Firstly we go to the barn, where two people are lying amongst the straw. Three others sit nearby. I bend down to examine the most serious, one of whom is Alan. His breathing is rapid and he’s hot to touch, even though I can see he’s shivering.

‘Explain how you feel.’

‘Terrible pains in my head .?.?. around my body .?.?. my back in particular. I’m so weak I can hardly stand. Oh God, Violet, help me sit up.’

I get my arms around him and pull him into a sitting position, from which he immediately begins to vomit violently.

‘Shoshana, I need men in here to help carry people to the hut.’

‘They’re too scared to come into the barn.’