Page 78 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)
They waited until the house had gone quiet. Through the slats that covered the window, Kit could hear Outhwaite yelling. He shuddered to think what fate he intended for poor McPherson.
He glanced at Thamsine and nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
Four doors faced onto the landing. All were closed. They opened the first one, revealing a squalid rat’s nest of empty bottles and worse. Filthy sheets covered the bed. Thamsine recoiled with her hand to her nose.
‘Outhwaite’s room,’ she said.
The second room contained nothing except a broken pallet bed and a three-legged stool.
The door to the fourth room appeared to be locked, but the key had been left hanging on a nail beside the door frame.
Kit turned the key and opened the door. Even he gagged.
The stench of illness, and worse, pervaded the dark, airless room.
As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could see a skeletal figure reclining under a sheet on the bed.
He crossed to the bed and looked down into the waxen face.
The left side of the man’s unshaven face looked as if it had melted, the features dragged down and distorted.
Only the eyes that scanned his face, showed the intelligence that still burned brightly within.
‘I’m Daniel Lovell’s brother,’ he said without preamble.
The man’s eyes moistened and he raised his right hand, gesturing Kit closer. The skeletal fingers closed on his wrist and he opened his mouth, a dribble of spittle sliding from the corner.
‘’An’l?’
‘Aye. My name’s Kit Lovell. Daniel was my brother. I came to take him home.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Too late. Good boy, ‘an’l. Tried … ’ The man’s face twisted with the effort of speaking. ‘My Janey … ’ he shook his head. ‘Would’ve … wed.’
‘What happened to him?’ Kit asked.
For answer, the man looked away. He raised his hand and waved at a dark corner of the room. ‘’ible,’ he croaked.
Thamsine followed the direction he indicated and produced a dusty box from a chest. She set it down on the end of the bed and opened it, lifting out a hefty Bible.
Pritchard burbled unintelligibly, gesturing at the book.
Thamsine turned the book upside down and shook it. A single sheet of paper wafted to the floor. She picked it up and handed it to Kit. From outside they could hear Outhwaite in a heated conversation with another man. Their voices were coming closer.
Kit folded the paper and stowed it in his jacket.
‘Put the box back, Tham,’ he said.
He looked down at Pritchard. ‘Thank you. We will make this right.’
They barely made it back to the guest bedchamber before the front door slammed and Outhwaite came stumping up the stairs.
‘I ‘spose you want feeding,’ he said. ‘The girl’ll have food on’t table in an hour.’
‘You are too kind,’ Kit said.
He waited until he heard Outhwaite go back outside and unfolded the paper.
‘It’s Daniel’s handwriting,’ he said.
Thamsine clutched his arm. ‘Read it.’
Kit took a breath and began,
This is the testament of Daniel Lovell of Eveleigh Priory, Cheshire.
I am the grandson of the second Lord Midhurst and a prisoner of the Commonwealth for no more crime than loyalty to my King.
I write this in the hope that the finder will bring justice, not just for me, because it is certain I will be dead before the week is out, but for the good man John Pritchard, who lies ill and untended on his bed, and the poor souls who labour in the fields under the lash of one Ebenezer Outhwaite.
Since the death of his daughter Jane, John Pritchard has been taken with a palsy, and at his desire the management of the plantation has fallen to me, but Ebenezer Outhwaite covets the land, even as he coveted Pritchard’s daughter.
His manifest cruelties are listed below. These I have seen with my own eyes.
The death of the Scottish prisoner Brodie was dealt by Outhwaite’s own hand.
Every day another prisoner is selected by Outhwaite as an example for flogging or consignment to the hole he has had dug in the compound of the slave quarters.
Rations have been cut and there is much illness among the labourers.
As for John Pritchard, no one attends him but the slave girl, Clara, who is inadequate to the care of such a sick man.
I have resolved that tonight I will take flight and try to reach Holetown in the hope that I can bring my testimony of the dire deeds at the Pritchard Plantation to the attention of the Governor.
I fear, however, that I will not make it.
Outhwaite does not trust me and is waiting on an opportunity to move against me.
I leave this testimony concealed in the hope that aid will come ere long.
Signed, Daniel Lovell, the twelfth day of February in the year of our Lord 1654.
A list had been attached detailing the barbarous treatment of the slaves and labourers on the Pritchard Plantation since Pritchard’s illness. Floggings, deaths and rape.
Thamsine drew in a deep breath. ‘What are we going to do?’
Kit stared at his brother’s testament, a red mist of rage obscuring the words.
‘We end this now,’ he said.
***
Kit found Outhwaite drinking in what would have once been the parlour of the plantation house. Like the bedchamber, Outhwaite had turned it into a pigsty.
‘It’s you,’ the man said. ‘If you want a drink, help yourself.’
Kit kicked aside an empty bottle and flicked the ruffles of his shirt sleeves. ‘Actually, monsieur , I am most interested in your methods. I am considering investing in a plantation myself, and it is my understanding that these slaves need the strictest controls.’
Outhwaite drew his lips up in a sneer. ‘Vermin. Tha’s what they are, vermin.’
‘Can you perhaps, show me this ‘ole?’
‘Your lady still indisposed?’
‘She is,’ Kit demurred.
Outhwaite set his bottle down and heaved himself to his feet. ‘Don’t see why not, seeing as you’re interested.’
As they left the house, Outhwaite started on a monologue about the foolishness of treating slaves with too much leniency.
‘They’re not human like you and me,’ he said as they approached the gate to the compound.
Kit took a deep breath. The stench of human waste hung like a miasma in the air.
The slaves and indentured labourers were making their way down the road towards them.
They walked like men on their way to the gallows, feet dragging, heads bowed.
Outhwaite stood aside to let them into the compound.
Kit did a quick calculation. There were thirty prisoners and three overseers.
All but five prisoners wore chains. The unchained men, he assumed, were trusted by the overseers.
He scanned the faces but saw none he recognised among the Scottish prisoners. He just prayed that the man in the Hole, McPherson, was the man he knew.
‘Line ‘em up,’ Outhwaite ordered. ‘Bring out McPherson. I want him flogged and I want ye all to see what happens when you disobey an order.’
Six feet in front of Kit a grate had been set into the ground, a heavy padlock securing it.
Kit’s blood ran cold. The grating afforded no protection from sun or rain.
Thamsine had told him that Outhwaite had confined Daniel in this instrument of torture, for there was no other word for it.
For that reason alone, he would see Outhwaite hang.
One of the overseers, a man as filthy and disreputable as Outhwaite, stepped forward and unlocked the padlock.
The man beneath them roared a Gaelic curse as Outhwaite gestured for two of the unshackled prisoners to step forward.
Obviously familiar with the routine, the two men leaned into the Hole and dragged the man from it.
Kit’s heart skipped a beat as the shaggy head emerged from within.
Thinner and diminished by imprisonment, but definitely the McPherson of his acquaintance.
He slid his hand into his jacket and withdrew the loaded pistol he had brought with him.
With years of practice, he pressed the muzzle of the pistol against Outhwaite’s head, just behind his ear.
‘Don’t move, Outhwaite,’ Kit said.
The man let a squawk of surprise and the overseers moved forward. Two of them drew pistols from their belts.
‘Not an inch,’ Kit said, all trace of a French accent gone. ‘The first man who moves, Outhwaite here dies.’
The overseers exchanged glances and it occurred to Kit that they may not particularly care if Outhwaite lived or died but it was also doubtful they would risk their own lives for him.
‘And the second man who moves also dies,’ said Thamsine from behind him. ‘Lay your weapons down, gentlemen.’
She raised the second pistol Kit had brought with him. On the ship, Kit had taught her to load and fire the weapons and he had every confidence in her ability to bring a man down. The men glanced uneasily at each other and, to Kit’s relief, complied.
‘Capn’ Lovell, as I live and breathe,’ McPherson grinned, shaking off the hands of his captors.
‘Lovell?’ Outhwaite gasped.
‘Aye, that’s right. I’m Daniel Lovell’s brother. McPherson, collect those weapons and lock those men up.’ He indicated the overseers and the trusted prisoners.
The ranks of the other prisoners stirred and they glanced at each other, seeing for the first time some little hope for the amelioration of their misery. As one they started to rattle their chains.
‘And you,’ he shoved the musket harder against Outhwaite’s head. ‘In the Hole.’
‘Please,’ the man said, and the sour stench of urine rose to Kit’s nostrils. Like most bullies, Outhwaite was a coward.
With one shove he pushed the man into the Hole and dropped the grate with a clang, turning the key in the padlock.
‘What about us?’ One of the Scots among the ranks of the chained prisoners called out.
If he turned them free he would have a riot on his hands and, he had no doubt, Outhwaite and his men would be dead before morning. He had no choice.
‘McPherson, choose four men you trust. The rest have to be confined.’
A roar of disapproval met that statement, but faced with the weapons ranged against them held by Kit, Thamsine and McPherson, none were quite brave enough to chance their luck.
McPherson understood the situation, and with the help of four of his former comrades in arms, they had the angry labour force padlocked into their cabins.
‘Make sure they get double rations,’ Kit ordered.
‘What about the others?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What now?’ Thamsine asked.
Kit sat down on the edge of one of the large cauldrons used for boiling the sugarcane. ‘We send word to Willoughby.’