Page 171 of The King's Man
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 hisjacket 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.’
