Ablaze: Wavesongs, #3

One

N ick .

At first, Nick thinks the voice whispering his name is Christopher’s. He reaches his hand out, only halfway out of his dream as he strokes the hair of the man next to him.

Nick, I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.

He opens his eyes. Pulls back his hand as it dawns on him where he is. In Tom’s cabin on the Catherine, somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. And Christopher is very, very far away.

Tom grabs his fingers, closing his fist around them. Why would you pull back from me? He is fully awake, his voice harsh, with no trace of the whiny tone from before. What reason could you have for not wanting to touch me?

Nick stares into the dark, not daring to breathe. The bunk is so narrow that there’s barely any space between them. It’s hot and sticky, and he’d much rather curl up on the floor like a dog.

Do I repulse you? Tom laughs coldly. Well, of course I do. I repulse even myself at this point. Nick knows why—during the days Tom tries to smile and engage in small talk with the captain, but at nighttime he can’t stop complaining about the food, the stench, and his recurring bouts of seasickness. I’m sure your handsome pirate was never seen throwing up over the railing.

Don’t speak of him, Nick says. Please.

Tom is quiet for a moment. Because you don’t want to be reminded of how he mistreated you? He runs his thumb along Nick’s bottom lip. Or because you wish he was here instead of me?

Tom…

I’m sorry. Of course I know he means nothing to you. Tom puts a hand low on Nick’s belly, leaning in close to his ear. You’d never lie to me, after all, would you?

The Catherine comes into Kingston Harbor at midday two weeks later, on the first of November. Stuffy air stinking of fish rolls in over the deck. Nick stands by Tom’s side, watching as the town unfolds in front of them. The port’s narrow entrance is overlooked by two forts, where cannons poke out of many rows of tiny windows. Climbers and flowering vines creep over the stone walls. Unwilling to imagine how many soldiers those walls must hide, Nick tears his eyes away from them.

Tom holds on to the railing so hard that his knuckles whiten. Damn, he mutters as a well-dressed older man comes into view, waiting on the quayside with his eyes on the ship. I bet you a guinea that’s Father’s attorney.

Nick turns his face down, staring into the bright blue water. Should I hide?

No. Tom sounds unaffected, almost bored. Mr. Fulton won’t think twice about you being here. He’ll be too busy pestering me with questions. He groans. I still feel queasy. Curse whoever built this ship.

They have had a rough journey. Two months of heavy rain, doldrums, scarce supplies of food, and several storms. Half the crew are sick or injured, and four have died. Nick has been through bad times at sea before, but nothing has gone right on this trip.

Except one thing. Tom was in his bunk for most of the journey, seasick and weak from this or that infection. Intimacy was the last thing on his mind.

How long will it take them to anchor? Tom snorts irritably as a sailor bumps into him. In the stark daylight his skin looks ashen, and he keeps gnawing at his dry, flaky lips. At this rate, I might be sick again. Wouldn’t that be a sweet revenge on Father, to vomit all over Fulton the first thing I do.

Not long now, Nick says. He’s worried about meeting the attorney, no matter what Tom says. It’s been easy, hiding his true identity on board the ship—no one has even asked his name. But Fulton knows Arlington. The men on the plantation, too. If any one of them pens a letter to him, mentioning the boy Tom brought with him from England…

Once they’ve gone down the gangway and Tom has been greeted by Mr. Fulton, the fluttering in Nick’s stomach dies down. Fulton doesn’t even spare him a glance. He orders two dark-skinned servant boys to take the luggage, then leads the way past the fishmongers.

Such a misfortune that the ship should be delayed, he tells Tom. Autumn is not the favored season of the year among sailors. One can certainly see why.

Yes. Tom’s tone is dry. Walking behind him, Nick notices that his coat looks big on him—he has lost weight during the journey. No wonder that my father wanted me to travel here during that precise time.

Fulton laughs nervously. He is a small and brittle man who moves his delicate hands around when he speaks. Oh, my dear boy, what an absurd suggestion. You mustn’t speak in jest of such matters! I’ve always known Mr. Arlington to be most considerate of others.

Well. Tom coughs. You haven’t met him in a very long time.

Mr. Fulton has his office not far from the harbor, on a street with clean two-story houses and palm trees in between them. Tom goes inside with him, while Nick waits out on the street with the luggage. The two servant boys disappear down an alley. It made Nick sick to hear Fulton speak to them earlier—in short, loud commands, as though they were beasts rather than people.

It’s hot, even in the shade. He sits in the doorway with his head against the doorpost, listening to the chirping of some birds nearby, wondering how long Tom will take. If only he didn’t have the luggage to worry about—he might have been able to sneak away then. Not for good, because he needs to plan his escape first, but if he could just have a look around, perhaps go back to the harbor… He has no idea if there are any ships here heading for Corona. Given what Mr. Arlington said about the Crown taking control of the island, though, it seems likely.

He bites his lip hard at the thought. Corona, their one safe haven, isn’t theirs anymore.

Tom comes back out an hour later, heaving a deep sigh as their eyes meet. "Fulton sent word to the plantation some hours ago, when they first saw the Catherine approaching. The coach will be here for us in the morning. Come. He recommended an inn just down the street. He frowns. Where did those boys go?"

They ran off, sir.

Tom curses. Of course they did. Why didn’t you keep them here, if I may ask? His voice is sharp as glass. Never mind. I’m sure you can manage by yourself.

The carriage that is to take them to the plantation is a cart rather than a coach. Tom, who has barely slept at all because of the heat, nearly has a fit when he sees it.

How long? he asks the tall, dark driver, whom Mr. Fulton has introduced to them as Hannibal. How long do we have to travel in this thing?

Hannibal scratches his head. Should take all day, sir.

Tom draws a deep breath. So. Mr. O’Connell thinks it perfectly suitable to… He turns to Fulton. Does this not strike you as strange at all, Mr. Fulton? I’m the heir to this plantation. To everything that my father owns. Should I really be asked to sit in an open carriage under this murdering sun?

Mr. Fulton fidgets with his frilly cuffs. Well… this is Jamaica, Mr. Arlington. You are far from London now.

The trip from Kingston takes its time. The roads are poor, and the scraggy old horse trudges along at a leisurely speed. Nick keeps his eyes open for landmarks—he needs to know how to get back to the harbor. He would have liked to ask Hannibal about the houses and settlements they pass, but he can’t when Tom sits grave and quiet beside him. Tom mutters about the heat now and then, dabbing his forehead, and he doesn’t seem to notice the lush green hills or the glittering sea in the distance. In the afternoon, after a short break, he raises his voice just to ask Hannibal how far they have left.

It ain’t far now, sir, Hannibal says. His voice isn’t as deep as Nick would have expected from such a tall and burly man. He can’t be much older than Tom. See there to the right, there’s Alexandria. Mrs. Morton’s place.

Nothing but dark, distant rooftops are visible from the road.

That tells me absolutely nothing, Tom says. I’m sure we still have hours to go.

Hannibal doesn’t reply. A while later another plantation comes into view, and Tom leans forward, poking the driver in the back with his finger. Hannibal flinches from the touch as if he’s been hit.

Is that the place? Tom asks, drawing his hand back.

Hannibal still cowers like a child on the coachbox. No, sir. That’s the Dalton plantation—Rosewood, they call it.

Dalton… Yes, Father has mentioned them many times. Your closest neighbors here, are they not?

Yes, sir.

Tom turns to Nick. Well, isn’t that a relief. We’re getting close at last.

They reach the plantation less than an hour later. Hannibal takes a turn to the left, onto a narrow road leading up to a large, mansion-like house in the distance. Palm trees line up on both sides of the road, and a wooden sign states that the plantation is called Harrow Hall.

Nick frowns. Harrow Hall? he asks Tom. But Mrs. Arlington’s maid…

Tom snorts. Think the place was named after her? How preposterous! The Harrow name isn’t hers. It’s my mother’s maiden name, and the name of my grandfather, who was the first owner of the plantation. Miss Harrow is a slave—she has no surname of her own.

Nick feels ill as he recalls Mrs. Arlington referring to Miss Harrow as her friend. In reality, Miss Harrow is bound to stay with her regardless of her own wishes.

Can you imagine that I might have spent my entire life here? Tom cranes his neck, looking out over the grounds. The fields seem to go on forever. People are working out there, stealing glances at the approaching carriage. I would have been bored to death. It all seems so terribly ugly. He turns his eyes to the main building, frowning. Compared to Ravensleigh Park and the Arlingtons’ town house in London, it’s plain and neglected, with stone walls that are not white anymore, but gray. The wide porch and sash windows look smart but could use some fresh paint. Bushes and plants grow haphazardly around the house. It’s pretty with the dashes of red and purple flowers embedded in green, though Tom doesn’t seem to think so.

As they stop in front of the great house, a man comes out of the door. Two large dogs follow, their loud barking quickly silenced by his command. He looks thirty-five or forty, with dark stubble covering his chin and pale blue eyes. Everything about him seems sloppy, as if he’s just woken up despite it being early evening. When Tom gets down from the carriage the dogs start growling, and the man hisses at them to be quiet.

Mr. Arlington, he says, not bothering to step forward or reach his hand out. You found your way here at last.

Tom nods. Mr. O’Connell, I presume?

At your service. O’Connell’s face is impassive, blank, as though he doesn’t care in the slightest about Tom’s arrival. As Nick follows Tom toward the porch, the dogs growl again, and O’Connell aims a kick at one of them. It slinks away, letting out a whimper.

Well, Tom says, running his gaze over the garden and the acres of sugar cane growing beyond it. There’s certainly plenty of land here.

O’Connell turns his head and spits onto the dirt. No more than anywhere else.

Right, Tom says. I see things are busy. There must be a lot to do this time of year.

O’Connell creases his forehead. For the first time his face shows traces of emotion. Right now is when we have the least to do, Mr. Arlington. The harvest begins in March. You’ll see what it’s like out here then, if you’re still around.

A young slave girl comes out onto the porch and curtseys. She’s neatly dressed, but her feet are bare and she keeps her eyes cast down when she speaks. Lucy wants me to tell you that dinner is ready now, sir.

O’Connell keeps his eyes on Tom. Thank you, Flora. Just as she’s about to return inside he continues, Flora. Why don’t you greet Mr. Arlington properly? You know who he is and why he has come.

Flora exchanges a glance with Hannibal, who walks past her to take Tom’s luggage inside. She comes up to O’Connell, eyes flickering as she curtseys once more.

Welcome to Harrow Hall, Mr. Arlington.

O’Connell reaches out to caress her cropped black hair. And now you tell him that you will do everything according to his wishes.

Flora turns her head to the side, biting her lip. I… I will do everything according to your wishes, sir.

O’Connell laughs. Good! You have some ability to learn after all. Now, back inside with you.

As Flora hurries inside, Tom clears his throat. How many indoor servants do you have here?

It’s just the girl, and then Lucy, the cook. I don’t need much. O’Connell turns his eyes to Nick for the first time. See you brought a servant of your own.

Yes. Tom nods. I’ll manage just fine with Evans. He glances toward the fields again. Your assistants, are they not here?

My bookkeepers? Someone’s got to keep an eye on the slaves, Mr. Arlington. You don’t know what these people are like. Turn the other way for a moment and they’ll all stop working. But my boys know how to handle them.

I see. I want to meet them all as soon as possible, though. Tonight. I should like to address the slaves as well, perhaps tomorrow.

O’Connell is quiet for a moment. Dinner’s ready, he says at last, heading inside. The dogs follow in his tracks.

Tom gives Nick a look. Isn’t this going well, he murmurs. Come. You’re having dinner too, because I’d rather starve than be alone with him.

After Tom has had a quick change of clothes, slipping into a velvet coat he hasn’t worn since he left London, they sit down at the dinner table with O’Connell. The dining room is plain, with whitewashed walls and no cloth on the table. There’s nothing fancy about the interior of the house. As little furniture as possible, and no paintings or flowers.

No need to dress up for my sake, O’Connell comments as Tom takes a seat. He sits at the head of the table, ignoring the fact that Tom is his superior. Lucy! he bellows, causing the dogs lying at his feet to snarl. Mr. Arlington would like his dinner now.

A plump, older woman enters and places a pot on the table. Flora follows with a plate filled with white slices of chicken. Both women retreat to the doorway, seemingly awaiting further orders. Tom frowns as O’Connell pushes the steaming pot toward him.

I guess you might do things a bit different back home, O’Connell says before filling his tankard with beer. But me and my boys, we keep it simple. He takes a gulp. Flora will serve you, if you want, but she’s never done it before. Might spill on your coat.

Tom gives Nick a look. Well, he says, pressing his lips together, I’m sure Flora can manage. Girl, come here. Serve us the food.

O’Connell leans back in his chair, tankard in hand, as Flora grabs the pot. She spoons boiled yams onto Tom’s plate—Nick recognizes the vegetable from Corona—and Tom makes a face. The chicken seems more to his liking. Flora goes on to serve O’Connell, and Nick last. O’Connell leers as she moves around the table, not taking his eyes off her for a second.

Excuse me, sir. It’s Lucy, the cook—she stares at Tom from her place in the doorway. I—

You don’t speak without being spoken to, O’Connell says without turning around to look at her.

Tears form in Lucy’s eyes. Tom sighs, scowling at O’Connell.

Oh, let the woman say what is on her mind. Go on, he tells Lucy.

I wanted to ask— Lucy’s voice breaks. I wanted to ask, sir, if my little Sarah is still with your mother.

Nick’s heart stings. He hasn’t thought of it before—that Miss Harrow might have family here. Loved ones she was forced to leave.

Tom smiles. Why, yes. She is. He goes back to his food, prodding a piece of yam with his fork.

A tear runs down Lucy’s cheek. She’s still watching Tom, as if she’s silently begging for him to say more.

Nick can’t stand it. Your daughter is well, he says. She said to send her regards to you.

Lucy sniffles, before hurrying back into the kitchen. Flora goes after her.

O’Connell scratches his beard, chewing at a piece of chicken. Don’t know what good it will do her to hear that, he says, but he doesn’t seem to care much.

Tom cuts his food into neat pieces. The house isn’t as big as I thought. The servant women, where do they sleep?

Think I’d have them in here? O’Connell laughs. They’re in the huts just like the other slaves. There beyond the vegetable patches, see? He points to the view outside the window, where a long line of thatched roofs is visible a few hundred yards behind the house. Lucy’s got five children to care for, so I don’t know why she’s crying about the one who went away. Fine breeder, that woman, though she was never much to look at.

And the bookkeepers? Tom cuts in. Where do they stay?

Got their cottage near the slave quarters. It’s just me here in the great house. O’Connell pauses. And now there’s you as well.

It’s past ten in the evening before O’Connell calls his bookkeepers inside. There are five of them, young men with tanned faces and cruel eyes. They come straight from the fields, one of them carrying a whip.

Mr. Arlington asked to see you all, O’Connell tells them as they line up in front of him and Tom in the great hall—which is impressively large considering the size of the house, though it’s just as bare as the other rooms. But he was gracious enough to wait until you’d finished work.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen, Tom says. I’m Tom Arlington, the heir of—

We know who you are, one of the men says. He’s the one holding the whip.

How rude, Buckley, says O’Connell.

Well, Tom says, I… Like I said, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure you work very hard here.

O’Connell exchanges a look with Buckley. Shouldn’t you know how hard we work? I imagine you’ve seen the numbers. And from the look of you, you’ve spent all that sugar money on frills and velvet.

The bookkeepers sneer, eyeing Tom’s attire.

I spend my money in any way that I please, Mr. O’Connell, Tom says icily. Now, I think I shall go to bed. Goodnight, gentlemen. He spins on his heel and leaves. Nick goes after him. Just before he closes the door to the great hall, someone laughs, and Buckley raises his voice.

Who does he think he is?

Tom is sullen and quiet as he gets ready for bed. His chamber is at the corner of the house, three times as spacious as Nick’s room next door, and far away from O’Connell, whose quarters are next to the kitchen and dining hall. There’s fresh water by the washstand, clean bed linens, and a mirror on the wall—but Tom complains about the mosquitoes, the humidity, and the house’s size.

Just one floor, like a house for poor people… and nothing is beautiful here, nothing! How am I supposed to live like this? He lies down in bed, curling up before giving Nick a hard look. But you think it’s all fine, don’t you?

No. From what he’s seen so far, Harrow Hall is not a good place. That whip in Buckley’s hand… Why would I think that?

Tom turns over. Oh, I don’t know. I’m tired. Please, leave me alone now.

Nick goes into his own chamber. His body is sore, exhausted, but once he’s in bed he finds it hard to sleep. From the other part of the house comes the sound of voices, laughter. O’Connell and his men sampling their own rum, probably.

There is nothing to like about this place, but Nick won’t stay long. He’ll take the first opportunity to leave. To go find Christopher.

Two

Little happens during their first week at Harrow Hall. Tom is shown around the plantation, and Nick follows like a shadow. They stand in the middle of the sugar field while the slaves crouch in the dirt, plucking weeds, and they visit the sugar works, where the canes are crushed in the mill and the juice collected during harvest time. The mill is a tall limestone construction that towers over the boiling and curing houses. O’Connell takes them to the slave quarters, too, into a tiny hut where a toothless old woman hides two small children behind her. Tom doesn’t say anything about it afterward, but Nick can’t shake the feeling that the woman was scared of them. That she thought she’d be punished for something.

On Tuesday, nine days after their arrival, Nick comes into Tom’s chamber and finds him sleeping. It’s the first time Tom hasn’t been awake when he enters the room in the morning. Nick carries a tray that Lucy has prepared according to Tom’s instructions, and he puts it down to close the door and unfasten the shutters. It’s as though everything is just as it was at Ravensleigh. He is still Tom’s servant, busy with the same old chores. Frustration gnaws at him when he thinks of how much time has passed since he last saw Christopher. Almost two and a half months—and he has no idea how he’s supposed to get away from Jamaica.

As soon as he opens the shutters sunlight washes over him, and he takes a step back. From outside comes the sound of a child crying, then Buckley’s rough voice shouting something. The crying stops abruptly. Nick turns away from the window, as if that could erase the unsettling image forming in his head. When he looks over to the bed, he finds Tom watching him.

Have you been here long?

Just came, sir. Nick remembers the tray and brings it over. Here you are.

Tom makes a face. If only that woman knew how to cook proper food.

She tries her best. Nick hasn’t forgotten Lucy’s reaction to hearing about her long-lost daughter. He’s seen her struggling in the kitchen just to please Tom. Ain’t her fault things are as they are.

Tom grabs him by the wrist. Not hard, but the message is clear. Do you think I don’t know that? You’re supposed to be on my side. I’ve told you. Did you forget already? And one more thing. He draws Nick closer, stroking his cheek. I want to see smiles. No one gave you permission to be sullen in my presence.

Nick forces his lips into a tight, fake grin. Tom nods, slapping his arm.

See, you know how it’s done! Much better. He takes a sip of tea. I loathe it here. It’s your duty to make me feel better. So you’d better start doing that.

Hours later, once he’s dressed, Tom states that he’ll go out into the field to keep an eye on things.

It seems Mr. O’Connell isn’t up yet. Someone has got to make sure everything is handled properly out there.

O’Connell’s habit of sleeping until late doesn’t seem to bother anyone at the plantation. The overseer usually stumbles out into the yard past noon, with bloodshot eyes shying away from the sun. His bookkeepers rise at dawn, together with the slaves, but they take frequent breaks—while the slaves only get one short rest at noon. Nick hopes Tom won’t ask him to accompany him outside, but Tom gives him an expectant look that shows all too clearly that the decision has already been made. He won’t be able to avoid the horror in the fields today.

Out on the porch they meet Flora, busy with some sewing. She jumps to her feet, dropping her needlework as she curtseys. Good morning, sir.

Mr. O’Connell is still in bed, is he? Tom asks.

Yes, sir. Flora’s gaze flickers.

Good. Well, as you were. Tom heads for the sugar fields on the right side of the house. There are vast patches of land behind the slave huts as well, and beyond that a dense forest belonging to the plantation. A hundred and five slaves work here, from dawn until late at night. Nick has tried to block out some of the things O’Connell has told them during dinner, but it hasn’t gone well. There’s too much evidence everywhere of how much these people suffer.

Tom strides into the field, making his way between the sprouting sugar canes. A young woman looks up from her weed-picking, then quickly averts her eyes again. There is a small child with her, just a toddler. He’s pulling weeds too, but drops what he’s holding and hides behind her back when Tom and Nick approach. The mother says something, her voice tense, and the boy goes back to work. Nick’s insides twist at the sight.

The bookkeepers are spread out all over the field, easily spotted since they’re all on horseback. Buckley is closest. He rides up and down between the rows of sugar canes, turning his head slowly from side to side to watch how the slaves are doing. As Tom and Nick approach, Buckley says something to a young girl. She can’t be more than fifteen, and wears a dirty shift that hangs off her bony, frail body. The girl glares at Buckley, then goes back to tearing up weeds.

I hope he won’t make trouble for her, Tom murmurs. Mr. Buckley! he calls. I was just coming out here to see how things are going.

Buckley comes down from his horse. From his belt he takes the whip, weighing it in his hand. How lucky that you’ve come right now… sir. This little bitch don’t work like she should. He grabs the girl by the hair, pulling her to her feet. She cries out, trying to make eye contact with the other slaves around her.

I’m sure she’ll do better from now on, Tom says. Please let her go.

Buckley sneers. He’s still holding the girl by the hair, yanking so roughly that she winces. Then he releases her, dropping her to the ground. If that’s how you want it, he says. But you don’t know what they’re like. Whip’s the only way with them.

Another of the bookkeepers comes riding toward them—Jenkin, a man with long dark hair and bulging eyes. He shows his teeth in a grin when he spots Tom. Any trouble, sir?

Mr. Arlington didn’t want me to teach the little girl a lesson, Buckley says. So we’ll have to live with her bad behavior all day. But if he says it, we have to do it, right?

Jenkin lets out a wheezy laugh. ’Cause he owns the lot, after all.

Not yet. Buckley gives Tom a look. Not yet.

I advise you to be careful, gentlemen, Tom says curtly. He turns around and leaves. Nick sees Jenkin roll his eyes, and Buckley makes a stupid face.

Oh, look at me, aren’t I pretty? he says, mocking Tom’s voice and accent. His eyes narrow as they meet Nick’s. Off you go, then. Back to master.

Tom spends the rest of the day inside, speaking