I stayed at home and helped my parents for the next two weeks. We moved the bookshop from the log cabin into its new home at the front of the house; dealt with orders; put up shelves. A letter came from Nat Lacon telling us that Florian Marshall, the typesetter, was now on his way to the New World and might be expected in July. This news spurred my father on to get the printing workshop ready. He found a carpenter to build the press, and we busied ourselves arranging the layout of the workshop and unpacking the crates we’d brought with us from London.
All this took my mind off Antony and Patience and what might be happening to them. And Kate: although I thought of her often, I’d still had no reply to my letter. My mother believed our separation was perhaps for the best while her father was so angry with me.
“Let the dust settle,” she said. “Kate won’t forget thee.”
But the dust was unable to settle, for the next thing we heard was that Antony had escaped from his new master, Isaac Shore. It seemed he had been caught almost immediately, but that very night he had broken out again, and this time had not been found, despite a hue and cry and enquiries at the Outrams’ holding.
He’s lying low, I thought, as he did before. And I wondered if he’d have made for the same part of the forest.
The next day, when I went to Front Street, there was still no news of him. But when I called in at the post office, as I’d been doing for the past week, I was at last rewarded with a letter from Kate. My spirits soared. I stepped out, breaking the seal as I went, and unfolded it eagerly.
“Jos,” she wrote, “forgive my hasty note to thee when I left. I hope Mary gave it thee?” So our letters had crossed, as I’d expected. “I did not dare ask Isobel – she is so loyal to my father. Poor Mary was frightened to death that Dad or Isobel would catch her with the note! She begged me not to make her do it, but I insisted.
“Jos, I am so angry with my father, and also a little angry with our Friends the Richmonds for offering to take me away, though I know they meant kindly by it. I love Margaret Richmond well. She says I may stay as long as I wish – but she must know I don’t wish! She is so good to me. She gives me motherly advice and is very interested in hearing all about thee. Well, I think nothing I say could make her disapprove of thee, but she warns against too much haste, impulsiveness, airiness of spirits – thou know how elders go on! She does not understand how much I long to be with thee.
“Of course we hear nothing here in Herring Creek of Antony and Patience. Are they safely away? I told Margaret all about them, and that Patience is carrying Antony’s child, and she was shocked – though I am not sure whether that was because Antony and Patience have been separated or because they are young and not married. I think she would be shocked also that I speak of such things to thee. I hope thou don’t think me immodest? I believe in plain speaking.
“I also have no news of thee. Was thy father angry? Did he blame thee? Will thou work for him now? I wish Dad would have thee back. Oh, I wish all was as before!
“Write to me, please, Jos. I know it is not thought seemly for a girl to beg a young man to write to her, but I do.
Thy Friend,
Katherine Bainbrigg.”
I replied the same day:
“Kate, I care not if it is unseemly – but thou need not beg me to write. There is nothing I would rather do – except be with thee, of course. It is harsh that thou hast been sent away, and neither of us deserves it.”
I told her that Antony had gone on the run once more – and added, furiously, “I hate this whole business of slavery and would never consent to be involved in it again. And yet I was happy working for thy father. It seemed right for me – not only because of thee (though that was a big part of it) but because I felt capable and confident. Maybe I can find employment with another merchant, but I fear they may all be involved in the slave trade, some perhaps much more so. Oh, Kate, I wish we were not separated like this and could at least talk! Any news I send will be out of date by the time thou receive it. I love thee and long to see thee…”
The next morning, as usual, I joined my father and Betty in the print shop. But no sooner had we started work than my mother appeared with Judith Kite. Judith was dusty from the road and out of breath, and both women looked worried.
My father stopped work at once. “Judith! Is something wrong?”
“It’s the escaped slave – Antony,” said Judith. “He is with us at home; we took him in. Will, he is hurt. He has been brutally beaten.”
I started forward with a cry.
“I’m going back with Judith to care for him,” said my mother. She bit her lip, and the two women exchanged a glance. “Judith and I feel minded to say nothing to the authorities – at least, not yet.”
My father nodded, slowly. “For now, yes, I agree. It seems Antony is determined to escape, and if beating doesn’t deter him…” He frowned. “This new owner” – he turned to me – “is he a Friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he is, he may listen to Friends’ advice, otherwise the law may be the only recourse. Yes, go there, Su, and take Jos” – for he saw that I was anxious to go with them. “Antony will be glad to see a familiar face.”
As we walked to the forge, Judith said, “We found him near our house last night, exhausted and bleeding from his wounds.” She shuddered. “It reminded me of the old days in England, Su, when Friends were so cruelly treated and we tended to one another’s injuries.”
When we arrived we found Daniel at work, the fire glowing red-hot.
“I’m glad to see thee, Su,” he said. “And thee, Jos. He spoke of thee – the lad – he said thy name. Esther’s with him. But he seems afraid of me and Ben – maybe he can smell the fire on us; maybe some superstition his people have – who knows?”
We went upstairs, into the spacious house, then up the ladder to the loft.
“He’s well hidden here, for a while,” said Judith.
I was shocked when I saw Antony. He lay on his front, stripped to the waist, and his back was a mass of oozing wounds. This had been a vicious whipping. It had cut open his flesh so cruelly that it was impossible for Esther to tend the wounds without causing more pain. She was simply offering sips of water and murmuring sympathy. She looked enormously relieved when her mother appeared and took over, allowing her to escape downstairs.
“Those cuts have opened up half-healed wounds,” Judith told me. “He has been beaten more than once.”
I crouched beside him, touched his shoulder gently. “Tokpa…”
“Jos.”
When he turned to look at me I saw that he had also been punched in the face. His mouth was swollen and bloody, and blood had run from his nose and dried.
But he was determined to speak.
“I will not stay with that man,” he said. “I will die first. He is a demon. They are a house of demons.” His eyes burned with anger. “When I am free I shall come back and kill them all.”
I felt that I should say some word of restraint, or of forgiveness of one’s enemies, but I did not. The truth was, I rather relished the thought of Antony returning and killing whoever had done this to him. And I thanked God that George Bainbrigg had not sold the two of them, Antony and Patience, to Isaac Shore.
“He should be brought before the law,” I said – and I wondered how the law stood on this issue.
I sat with Antony while my mother and Judith cleaned his wounds and treated them with a salve that Judith applied with a feather so as not to hurt him too much. He bore this stoically. When they were finished they went downstairs, leaving us to talk.
Antony turned troubled eyes on me. “They won’t fetch men to take me away?”
“No.” I hoped I was right; the women had urged secrecy.
“The woman’s husband is a blacksmith. In my village the blacksmith is powerful. He makes spells. He talks to the spirits, to the ancestors.”
“Thou don’t need to be afraid of Daniel, or of Ben. They will protect you.”
“Good magic?”
“Yes,” I said. I was unwilling to argue about the choice of words, for I felt the meaning was the same, even though Friends denied magic.