Chapter Text
Portsmouth, England
Late 1705
James McGraw leaned a bare arm against the light blue wall and stared out the window to the bustling docks beyond. Weak morning sunlight filtered in through the room. He looked down again at the thing he flipped over in his hands, distracted.
“What are you doing? Come back to bed,” said a voice from behind him, full of sleep.
“Have you seen the view from up here?” James asked. “The docks are brilliant looking.”
The bed sheets shuffled softly behind him as Thomas rose and padded across the floor. A moment later James felt arms slide effortlessly over his sides and come to rest around his waist. Thomas's bare chest and stomach pressed up against his back and his chin rested on James's shoulder.
“It *is* quite grand,” said Thomas in his ear.
James let out a contented sigh and leaned against him, closing his eyes. His fingers however kept fidgeting with the small round thing, eyes finally opening and looking down at it. He felt Thomas watching him. He’d not shown the piece to him yet.
“What is that?” Thomas asked, still from behind.
James held the coin still and lifted it up, pinching it between an index finger and thumb. Thomas took it.
“A gold escudo,” Thomas said with surprise.
“Admiral Hennessy gave it to me before we departed for Portsmouth. He was unusually drunk and trying not to show it,” mused James. Thomas smirked.
“He said it is an exact replica of one of the first gold coins ever made, from the treasure of the Spanish conquistador Antonio de Mendoza.”
Thomas spun the coin around in the light coming through the window, studying the small Jerusalem cross on its back.
“Mendoza, wasn’t he a rival to none other than Cortez?” asked Thomas.
James nodded. “He was. They appointed him first viceroy of New Spain under Charles the First’s rule. Hennessy said that it was Mendoza who had a stash of Spanish gold hidden away, not Cortez, as everyone believes. He was so frightened of the coming Indian insurrection that he hoarded it all and hid it.”
“And did Mendoza survive this insurrection?”
“He did.”
“And the gold?”
James turned to face him. Thomas offered him the coin back. James took it and laid it on the window sill.
“You know as well as I no one really knows what happened to it.”
Thomas nodded. James leaned up against the wall, away from the window and back into the shadows of the inn room, taking hold of Thomas's bare thighs and pulling him close. Thomas licked his lips, a shadow not of the sun’s making playing across his face.
“Today is our last day together before you leave for Nassau,” he said. “I don’t want you to go.”
James laughed softly through his nose, hands still gripping his thighs. “Don’t be silly. Of course you do. We both want this.”
“I know. It’s childish,” Thomas admitted. “But I had a dream last night and now I’m worried.”
Thomas traced the contours of James's well muscled stomach with a finger, looking contritely up at him.
“Was was this dream about?” asked James.
“The memory of it is already fading, but I dreamt you were at sea, dressed in all your navy finery and devilishly handsome as always. Then you were attacked by pirates and they took you away.”
James gave him a lop-sided grin and gripped the back of his neck.
“That won’t happen.”
“But it will be dangerous. Dangerous because of the pirates.”
“It will. But Hennessy’s crews are among the best, and so are his ships. I’ve had to battle pirates before. I’ll be fine. And I’ll come back to you, I promise.”
James gave him a reassuring kiss.
“Very well then,” said Thomas. “I will believe you. Now come back to bed.”
Thomas pulled his hand and James left the wall and followed him to the bed, leaving the gold coin on the sill. Half of it lay in the sunlight, glinting brilliantly while the other half remained covered in shadow.
___________________
"A tortured soul have I become
It keeps me safe and leaves me numb
'Cause in this dream I'm wide awake
The one I love I did forsake
I wish that I was wrong, that you'll come home again
All this time I've lost, I'll never find again"*
---------------
Eastwood Plantation
Virginia, 1716
Lord Thaddeus Kinnmore curled his fingers over his lips, an index finger against his nose as he studied the man standing before him in his study.
He was of fair complexion and slightly tall, with equally fair hair and blue eyes. A pure Anglo-Saxton, perhaps. The asylum had been less kind on his clothing than his physical features, however, and he was dirty with a stubble beard. He stared over Lord Kinnmore’s head, waiting patiently for the lord to speak, which he finally did.
“The letter I received states that you are born of noble blood and that you are, in fact, the only son of the late Earl Alfred Hamilton. Is that correct?”
“Yes sir, it is.”
“Hmm.”
Lord Kinnmore shifted in his high leather-backed chair.
“It seems to me very uncommon that a lord whose family has such political connections would be thrown into the royal hospital on the whims of an angry father, yes?”
The yellow-haired man’s chest fell heavily.
“Yes sir,” he replied. “I suppose it is.”
Kinnmore watched as the man seemed to squirm uncomfortably yet never moved. Kinnmore took that as a sign.
“Do you know what my father taught me, Mr. Hamilton?”
“What is that, sir?”
“He taught me to always trust the movement of a person’s eyes. Yours darted around just now when I began to question your father and your story. That tells me that however unlikely it may be that you’re a lord, there may be some truth to the tale Lord Peter Ashe wrote about before his untimely death. I will take you under my employment, but you must earn your way into this house as a servant. I can’t have people believing that Lord Kinnmore will accept just anyone onto his property, all willy-nilly. So, you will train with the field hands first. Then we shall see if I can trust you further. Is that understood?”
Thomas Hamilton met Lord Kinnmore with a steady gaze.
“Yes sir, and thank you.”
Thomas was taken outside and onto Lord Kinnmore’s expansive property, most of which was flat and green and filled with both tobacco being planted and slaves to do the planting. He passed down a trim path between two smaller, rectangular buildings. His guide, Mr. Tommlin, explained that these were guest houses, or for “whatever it is that his lordship wishes to put in them.” The buildings were made of brick. Thomas figured that Kinnmore must have been one of the wealthier plantation owners since brick was the latest architectural fashion and the most expensive.
They continued down the path until it split into two directions, left and right, around the actual tobacco fields. Thomas was surprised to see how like a small town the place seemed to run. Tommlin pointed out the storehouses and smokehouses and their purposes and the blacksmith’s building and the millhouse and finally, set far into the back of the land were rows of slave houses where the slaves did little more than sleep. He also explained the daily schedule to Thomas. As soon as it was sunup the field hands were expected to be up and ready to work after breakfast. Work continued until three which was the hottest part of the day in the summer months. After an hour rest and lunch work then went on until sunset.
Tommlin told Thomas in no uncertain terms that he would be rooming with the slaves.
“Sorry chap, but until his lordship says until you’re a proper servant, you’ve got to be with the animals.”
“These slaves are not animals, they are men,” Thomas replied. Tommlin had given him a funny look, his upper lip curling. After that Tommlin was very curt with Thomas and brusquely walked him over to two slaves in particular. It was a man and a woman, bent over and covered in sweat as they planted a row of tobacco seeds.
“You two dogs, listen up,” Tommlin said, almost barking at them like a dog himself. Thomas winced. He did not like this man. He imagined, briefly, what would happen if he were to punch Tommlin-dog in the face. It would feel quite satisfying. Then the other overseers would rush over and probably punch him.
Thomas hardly cared one way or the other. It wasn’t as though he had anything to look forward to. His old life was in tatters and this new life wasn’t shaping up to be much better.
Instead of punching Tommlin-dog he turned his attention to the two slaves he was addressing. They had both stopped working and stood stiffly while Tommlin-dog introduced Thomas. He did not introduce the slaves. Thomas was almost certain he had no clue what their names were.
“Show him the routine,” Tommlin was saying, spitting a dark brown substance to the ground. Thomas smirked. The very same substance he would now be producing.
“And show him proper,” said Tommlin. “Or I’ll skin your hides. He sleeps in number three, where that old bugger Samuel slept. Now get to it!”
Tommlin sneered at Thomas and nodded for him to join the other two in the field. Wordlessly the black man reached into the large burlap pouch slung over his shoulder and pulled out a thick handful of seeds, motioning for Thomas to take them. Thomas cupped both his hands.
“No,” said the black man. “One hand for seeds, the other so you can cover them.”
He spoke in a heavy but very clear African accent. His voice was deep and somehow impressive to Thomas. His skin was as dark as the soil they stood in and his head was shaved, save for a strip of wiry hair that ran along the back of his scalp in a very peculiar pattern. He and the woman next to him wore clothes even plainer than Thomas's, and it was clear they had been wearing them for some time. Thomas accepted the gift of seeds into his hand.
“Watch,” said the man. He stepped to the row behind the one the woman planted in and bent down. He poked his fingers in the dirt where the ground had already been disturbed and dug a small hole. He put three seeds in and covered it. He then scooted sideways and repeated the motion, then again. Thomas saw he seemed to be spacing the seeds exactly the same distance apart. The woman did the same.
“Seems easy enough,” said Thomas. The man looked up at him and gave a toothy grin.
“It is not the difficulty you need to worry about. It is the labor. Eleven hours each day, six days a week. Your back will scream for weeks on end.”
Thomas tried not to frown at that. The man stood and offered Thomas his hand. Thomas took it.
“I am Lionel, and this is my wife Sarah.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Thomas. He nodded down to Sarah, who barely looked up from her planting. She threw Thomas a stern look and flicked her hand at him as though dismissing him.
“Pah. Another white one. And skin so smooth and silk-like. He will look as old and leathery as Samuel before da week is out.”
Lionel laughed heartily and slapped Thomas on the back.
“As I said, that is my wife Sarah. She will warm to you in time.”
Sarah threw her husband a disapproving glance and flicked her wrist at him.
“Pah. Get back to work before they see you, gabbing away like a baboon.”
Thomas relaxed a little. Sarah meant him no ill will; it was just her personality. He even exchanged a smirk with Lionel as they bent back over the dirt. Lionel pointed to the row behind him so Thomas could start planting. They fell silent as an overseer walked by them on one of the many paths that had been stamped out next to each section of planting soil. He eyed them all sharply, including Thomas, as he passed by, rifle thrown over his shoulder.
“Dat one we call Bill Bullocks,” whispered Lionel as soon as the overseer was out of earshot. “He wears the hat because he is already bald, even though he is not yet forty. He hates it when any of us talk to one another for any reason. Dat is why it is so quiet when he is on duty.”
“And why do you call him Bill Bullocks?” asked Thomas.
“Because his head is round and shiny with a dent through da middle,” said Sarah in front of them. “It looks like an ass.”
A slow smile spread across Thomas's face. Lionel struggled not to laugh out loud. Thomas glanced up to see the ghost of a smile on Sarah’s face.
Perhaps, he thought, this new life would at least be a tolerable one compared to the darkness he’d emerged from.
TBC