Page 57 of A Fire in Their Hearts

I haven’t heard this news and assume a letter has arrived that I wasn’t aware of. Drummond looks ill. Unlike his guests, he hasn’t drunk much this evening, yet there’s an unsteadiness to him that’s the worst I’ve seen.

‘I would like to propose a toast to my nephew. I know you will make him welcome and help to instruct him in our particular ways.’

There is much scraping of chairs and noise as people stand, some of them struggling to do so.

One chair tips over and Isaac quietly moves forward and puts it upright.

Red wine spills on to the table, on to food, on to clothes.

Nobody bothers. Drummond holds out his hand and the others follow, resulting in wine overflowing in a slosh of liquid up and down the lines.

‘To Matthew Drum—’

Drummond’s glass slips from his hand and smashes against the edge of a porcelain dish. He clasps a hand to his chest. There’s a moment of utter stillness as everyone stares in silence. I’m already rushing forward when he utters one word:

‘Violet!’

Isaac and I lower him back into his chair. There is much confusion and cries of shock amongst the guests. One is so drunk he doesn’t realise what’s happening and shouts, ‘To Matthew Drummond,’ before draining his glass and sitting down. There’s no one to take charge, no one except me.

‘We need to get Master Drummond upstairs and Doctor Ross sent for,’ I say to Isaac.

‘Will you and Adam help the master to his bedroom. Ladies and gentlemen, please sit down and continue your meal. Master Drummond would not want his temporary ill health to stop your pleasure. Tamar, please see to drinks. Elijah, could you please clear away this broken glass and let the kitchen know that the dish of pears in cream needs replacing.’

Guests flop back into their chairs as Drummond is half-carried out of the door.

I go to the study and write a note for the doctor, along with a letter of authority for someone to take it.

Slaves and servants are not allowed off plantations without written authority, what’s known as their ‘ticket’, and even with this I won’t send a slave as it would be too dangerous for them at night.

When I reach Drummond’s bedroom, I stop in the open doorway.

For more than eight years I haven’t once stepped inside, yet the room is filled from the floor to the ceiling with such painful, vivid memories it’s as though I had been here only yesterday.

With an enormous effort, I force away the images and enter.

Drummond lies on his bed. Isaac is halfway through removing his jacket.

‘Thank you, Adam. Can you please go back to the dining room and help out in any way needed.’ I turn my attention to Drummond. ‘Where does it hurt?’

He struggles to speak. I’ve seen this before in older people and I assume his unhealthy living has brought it upon him earlier than might be expected.

‘Arrrm .?.?. head.’

‘Doctor Ross has been sent for. Isaac and I will get you into bed. Your guests are being taken care of.’

It’s only as we start removing his clothes that I fully appreciate how thin Drummond has become. Isaac is skilled at undressing him when he’s too drunk to do this himself and between us we soon get him covered up.

‘Thank you, Isaac. Will you please remain with him for now? I’ll go and see that everything is all right downstairs.’

‘Vio .?.?.’

‘I’ll be back soon. You’re not alone.’

Downstairs I discover that many guests have already gone while those remaining are gathering their possessions.

I speak briefly to Mister Greig before he leaves.

A man is slumped in his chair at the table.

I’m wondering what to do with him when one of the plantation owners comes back in with the two slaves that drive his carriage.

‘I’ll see he gets home,’ he says.

‘Thank you, sir.’

It doesn’t take long for them all to leave, so I go back upstairs.

Isaac seems relieved when I ask him to help in the dining room.

These days I’m too weary to be concerned about being on the bed, so I sit down, and in truth Drummond has kept his word.

No one has touched or threatened me in any way whatsoever since I took over handling the books.

He watches me intently. ‘The .?.?. end .?.?.’

‘The end of your life? I suspect it’s close,’ I tell him as if merely announcing dinner is ready. ‘Then you’ll find out that there is a God, although I expect you’ll be going to the other place.’

I can’t work out his expression. I do not care to work it out.

‘The doctor should be here later on. Mister Greig will come tomorrow and see to any legal matters. I’ll make sure he speaks to Mister McKinnon and gives him the authority needed to continue for now.’

Drummond gives a tiny nod. ‘Stay?’

‘If you want.’

With great effort he slowly slides his hand towards me. The implication is obvious, like the fear in his eyes.

*?*?*

I wake with my head bowed as though I’ve only been asleep for a few moments. But it’s morning, which means that Doctor Ross hasn’t visited, probably because Thomas hasn’t been able to track him down.

Drummond stares at me. I stare back. I’ve spent more of my adult life with this man than I have with Samuel.

I’ve had more conversations with him, eaten more meals with him, grown old with him .

.?. and I’ve known such despair. Surely there can only be so much raw emotion that a person can endure?

I’ve don’t think there’s anything left in me to feel much again.

I free my hand and close his eyes. If he ever had a soul, it’s no business of mine where it’s gone.

I’m stiff and need to relieve myself. Getting up from the bed takes a few moments and I have to stretch and rub my numbed hand. I pull the sheet over his head then go behind a screen where Drummond has a pot.

‘Well, you won’t need it any more,’ I say to the silent room. I just need to hear a voice.

I’m coming back around the screen when there are footsteps along the corridor, loud confident footsteps of someone in authority. I open the door as Doctor Ross reaches it.

‘Ah, Violet. How is the patient?’

‘Dead.’

‘William’s dead?’

‘During the night. I sat with him but fell asleep.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier .?.?. a very challenging situation on .?.?. well, that doesn’t matter. I’m sure your presence was a comfort to him in his final hours.’

‘I expect it was.’ I don’t care if it was or not. As always I’ve done what I’ve had to in order to survive. ‘Shall I arrange breakfast for you, doctor?’

‘Yes, thank you. Some duck eggs would be pleasant.’

‘I’ll join you,’ I say, experiencing an unexpected sense of freedom. ‘It’s been a long night.’

*?*?*

The following day, everyone from the plantation gathers in the area that’s set aside for burials.

Death can be a great leveller and usually someone who dies is buried in the next available plot, so slaves, servants, overseers and owners can be together.

Yet differences in life can sometimes follow the deceased.

A couple of years ago, Drummond ordered the creation of a huge marble grave marker which has lain within a secluded area surrounded by intricate wrought-iron railings that took the blacksmith weeks to make.

In recent months I’ve seen Drummond standing silently by the site and I wonder now if he knew death was close.

All of the nearby plantation owners are present, along with a large number of businessmen, traders, suppliers and dignitaries.

Once the wooden coffin is lowered into place it takes eight slaves to lift and position the grave marker, the cost of which would probably have been enough to free them all.

I’ll have to arrange for a stonemason to add the date of death.

The local Anglican minister says the words expected of him. We say the words expected of us. Then slaves and servants go back to work while guests are invited to the house for refreshments. There’s a strange void about the place. With no wife or family there is no one actually in charge.

Many people look to me and I give instructions for tasks to be carried out as I see the need.

They’re always done without question, but I have no authority to order someone to do anything.

Also, there’s now no one to tell me what to do.

When I’m satisfied that everyone is being properly looked after I make the opportunity to speak to the only person I want to converse with.

‘Mister Greig.’

‘Violet. Well, a new beginning .?.?.’

‘That’s what I wanted to speak to you about. Master Drummond promised that I would be freed upon his death if I hadn’t already completed my period of servitude. I expect the paperwork is with you, sir, and I would be grateful if this could be acted upon quickly.’

‘Freed? No, Violet, William never spoke to me of such a matter and if I don’t have the paperwork, you can be certain it doesn’t exist.’

‘But he promised.’

‘I’m sorry. You probably knew William as well as anyone.

He had some strange ways about him and honesty wasn’t, how shall I say .

.?. I don’t want to disrespect a man who’s just died .

.?. He had his own peculiar thoughts on what was truth and what wasn’t.

Perhaps he meant to do it but never got around to it. ’

I suddenly feel like a frightened small child and can’t prevent tears rolling down my cheeks, nor the tremor in my voice. ‘I’ve been in forced servitude for nine years. There must be an end. I’m not a slave!’

‘Oh, Violet,’ he says, laying a hand gently on my shoulder. ‘King Charles obsessively hated those Covenanters who defied him and their sentences were indeed fiercely harsh.’

I can’t believe Drummond lied .?.?. can’t believe I didn’t spot the lie. Samuel always used to say I had such intuition. Where has that gone?

‘I can see this is a great disappointment. I don’t know how long your sentence is for and if you were never told, I’m not sure how you find out, what with William gone. What happened to the other Covenanters who arrived here with you?’

The faces of those men who had been on the Crown of London and the Sophia are still so clear to me it’s as if we had eaten a meal together only yesterday.

‘There were six of us. Two died and two were transferred to other plantations, one as part payment in a lost wager and another in exchange for supplies. The fifth escaped.’

‘So there’s just you. I’m sorry, Violet, there’s little I can do. Please excuse me. I must sort out some urgent matters.’

The lawyer moves away. Even in this moment of desperation I’m suddenly struck by a thought that makes me rudely call out.

‘Wait! Sir, please one more moment of your time, I beg you. The person who escaped was called Calum Colvil. We grew up together and he was like a brother. We ran away with a slave, Joseph, who was later hanged because of it. That was in the year we arrived, sixteen-eighty. I never again heard of Calum.’ I don’t know what else to say, but then add, ‘He was an extremely handsome man.’

‘Ah yes, the good-looking blond Scotsman from Ayrshire.’

My heart is like a trapped bird, fluttering wildly against the bars of its cage. ‘Sir .?.?. was he killed?’

‘No, they captured him, although I gather he put up quite a fight. Calum was transported to another plantation.’

‘Which one, sir?’

‘Not on Barbados, Violet,’ he says, shaking his head sadly, as if knowing exactly what I’m thinking.

‘William ordered him to be put on board the first available ship. I know some of this because he asked me to handle the arrangements .?.?. having Calum held in a Bridgetown gaol until a suitable vessel could be found, handling the sale of his indenture, that sort of thing. But where he went, that I don’t remember. ’

Greig walks away and the next moment I’m running along the corridor, a couple of guests mumbling angrily as I pass them.

Plantations keep extremely detailed accounts of the transactions that take place – there must be a record, there must. In the study, I riffle through the ledger for sixteen-eighty.

In all of the time I’ve had complete access to this information I never once thought to look.

It’s there, in Drummond’s surprisingly neat handwriting. In the column of items and produce sold during that week, immediately below a reference to the sale of a spare mule for four pounds, is the fate of my darling Calum:

Sale of the indenture for the servant Calum Colvil for the sum of twenty-two pounds. Sailed on the Elizabeth , bound for Jamaica, 19 September 1680.