Page 61 of Dawnlands

“They don’t bother to take everyone’s name, and they’re not true names either,” a woman told him.

“I’m looking for a young lad, a servant, from the Americas,” Johnnie said. “Goes by the name of Rowan. He wasn’t in the rebellion, he was on his way to London and I think he got lost.”

Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying for days, but her laugh was hard and bitter. “You’ll find that none was in the rebellion,” she told him. “We was all on the way to London and got lost.”

“But have you seen him?” Johnnie asked in an undertone. A coin went from his hand to hers.

She took the coin for nothing. “No,” she said. “I haven’t even seen my husband and the father of my children.”

“If you see him, or hear of him, I am Mr. John Stoney at the New Inn,” he told her.

“Lawyer?” she asked, suddenly hopeful.

“No.”

She turned away and left him scanning the page. A clerk, dressed in a well-worn black suit, came up to him. “Were you asking after a prisoner?”

Johnnie turned. “No, a lost servant,” he said. “A young lad, dark-haired and slight, brown skin, from the Americas.”

“A savage?”

Johnnie grimaced. “He’s a Christian. But he’s an Indian by birth.”

The man shrugged. “If you need a lawyer, I can serve you. I am here buying prisoners.”

Johnnie frowned. “Buying them?”

“The king gifts the guilty prisoners to his friends, to courtiers, or to the queen or her household,” the man explained, his eyes taking in the expensive cloth of Johnnie’s suit and his good linen. “They are selling them on. I can broker that for you.”

“Is it profitable?” Johnnie could not stop himself asking.

“Like all slaving—it’s a fortune.”

“Unless they die on the way,” Johnnie interpolated.

“Yes.” The man smiled. “But if you get a sturdy traitor, you will make twenty percent. Think of that over a hundred prisoners.”

“They’re sold as slaves?”

“No! No!” the man corrected him. “A ten-year indenture. And then they can come home.” He paused. “If they’re still alive,” he said fairly. “Not many survive the sugar plantations.”

“I can buy a rebel?” Johnnie demanded.

“I can broker it, sir,” the man said eagerly. “How many would you want? Ten? Twenty? His Majesty owns them all, and he has already given many to Her Majesty, to her ladies, to her secretary, and to favorites. But there are hundreds and hundreds of men going spare. They can’t all be executed—still, many hundreds must be shipped.”

“Can I buy a named man?” Johnnie asked.

He shook his head. “No, this is not for the poor fools who hope to buy their brothers and fathers.” He made a contemptuous gesture at the crowd around the jail. “It’s not to free guilty men, nor ease their suffering. It’s so that the king’s court makes a profit from justice.”

“I’d like to buy perhaps ten,” Johnnie said, tempted by the profit. “Come to my inn, the New Inn, at six o’clock tonight. And also watch out for my servant.”

“Is he a slave?” the man asked. “If I see him, do I capture him?”

“No, no,” Johnnie said hastily. “He’s a free man, as free as you or I. But I fear he is lost. If you see him, tell him to come to me at the New Inn, and ask him where he is lodged so I can find him.”

The man shrugged, surprised at the effort Johnnie was investing in someone as unimportant as a brown-skinned servant while there were white-skinned prisoners to buy. “Six o’clock, your honor,” he agreed.

FOULMIRE, SUSSEX, AUTUMN 1685