Sins of Omission (4 page)

February 1686

Barbados

Max squinted at the brutal sun holding court in the cloudless blue sky, grateful that it was only about a half hour till the midday meal.  He was hungry and terribly thirsty; his lips chapped from dehydration.  Most days his mind was numb as he cut the cane, but today his thoughts were in a whirl, probably because of the punishment that was to be administered to one of the slaves at the end of the workday.  The overseer, Erik Johansson, prudently administered punishments in the evening, so as not to incapacitate a slave during working hours and diminish productivity.  He was a hard man, one who always erred on the side of cruelty.  Every transgression was punished, especially if the offender was black. 

Johansson was much harder on the Negro slaves than the indentures; partially because he was a racist, and partially because he could get away with it.  The plantation owner, Jessop Greene, rarely came this far afield and left all disciplinary action to his overseer.  Max had not seen him since the day he’d been taken to the plantation, and likely wouldn’t until his indenture contract was up; if he lived that long.  Very few people survived the seven years, and even fewer had the means to go home.  Max couldn’t even think that far; he had only one objective — survival.

Whatever discomfort Max had suffered aboard the vessel was nothing compared to the humiliation and injustice he had to deal with at the hands of Erik Johansson.  Max worked fourteen-hour days, never got enough to eat or drink, and hadn’t had anything resembling a bath in months.  There was a water barrel by the barracks, and each man was allowed ten seconds once a week before being forced to move on.  Max had become accustomed to his own stink, and the only thing he looked forward to during the course of the day were a few hours of oblivion between supper and breakfast.  Most men managed to forge friendships to sustain them in their hardship, but Max kept himself to himself, wary of getting too close with anyone. 

The only person he ever spoke to was John, one of the men who’d come over with him and was purchased by Greene on the same day.  John was an older man, gruff and taciturn, but he was the type of man who’d come to your aid when you needed it and share his last hunk of bread or cup of ale with a hungry friend.  Max had learned to rely on him and even shared something of his story, although he kept back some pertinent facts, such as the fact that he was born in the twentieth century and had traveled back in time, only to be arrested for a crime he didn’t commit in place of a man who was his ancestor and now arch enemy. 

John had been sent down for stealing, a story that reminded Max of
Les Miserable
.  Years of hard labor for a stolen loaf of bread, or, in this case, a deer that John had poached from his master’s land.  John had left behind a wife and four daughters, all under the age of fifteen, and there wasn’t a night that he didn’t pray for them before going to sleep.  Max had long since stopped praying.  He was godless, angry, and hard.  If there had ever been any vulnerability or humor in him, it was long gone, replaced by a feral need to survive. 

Night after night, he dreamed of the gentle rains of England and the comfortable life he’d left behind.  His inner voice of reason told him that he’d never see that life again, but Max refused to accept defeat.  He needed something to keep him going, and this was the only thing that meant anything at this juncture.  At thirty-eight, he had no family, no money, no friends, and no freedom.  Things were bleak, but not as bleak as they were for the poor boy who would get flogged tonight for going to the privy too many times during the course of the day.  The poor kid was obviously ill, but Johansson wanted to prevent him setting an example to others who might decide to claim illness to take a few minutes break from the backbreaking labor.

Max would rather avoid seeing the boy punished, but everyone was required to attend.  If they didn’t, they’d get a flogging as well, not something that anyone wanted to risk.  Max straightened as he heard the gong summoning them to their meal.  Greene was a stingy bastard, but he realized a simple truth; well-fed slaves had more energy and therefore did better work, so he fed them almost adequately, at least during the day.  Supper was never plentiful, and as Johansson was fond of reminding them, it was healthier not to sleep on a full stomach.  He roared with laughter every time he imparted this bit of wisdom.  Max was fairly sure that going to bed on a full stomach never did Johansson any harm.  The man was strong as an ox.

Max wiped his glistening forehead with a kerchief, splashed some warm water from a barrel on his face, and hastily washed his hands before being shoved out of the way by the next man.  Max took his seat on a long bench next to John and closed his eyes before opening them to Dido, the kitchen slave, who was doling out a thin stew, followed by a young, frightened girl who handed out chunks of day-old brown bread.  The men mutely held out their bowls and accepted the bread, tucking in as soon as they were served. 

Dido was about the only thing on the godforsaken plantation that made Max smile.  She was about twenty-five, with skin the color of molasses and light green eyes fringed by ridiculously long lashes.  Dido always wore a colorful turban on her head, but strands of dark hair escaped the tightly wound cloth, its texture not like the rest of the Negro slaves. 
She has to be a mulatto,
Max thought as he accepted his bowl of food.  Most likely she’d had a white father and a black mother, and had been taken away by her mother’s owner and sold on.  She was truly beautiful, inside and out, and Max wished that he could express to her the gratitude he felt for the occasional smile or kind word that she bestowed on him, but Max didn’t dare to even look at her for more than a second. 

Johansson had a fondness for the girl, and would punish Max for ogling her.  Max often wondered if Dido was Johansson’s mistress, but couldn’t be sure.  The overseer had a young, pretty wife, who looked almost as frightened as the slaves.  She was hardly older than eighteen and seemed to speak only Dutch.  Someone had said that Elsa had been sent to Barbados to marry Erik Johansson without ever meeting him, and Max thought that had a ring of truth to it.  He might have felt sorry for the girl had he any energy left to care.

Dido poured a cup of ale for Max and gave him one of her heart-stopping smiles.  “Thank you,” he breathed before she moved on to John, but he knew she’d heard him.  Strangely, there was something about Dido that reminded Max of Neve.  Of course, they were as physically different as two women could be, but there was a vulnerability and gentleness that brought Neve to mind. 
If only Neve had never found the passage
, he thought for the thousandth time; how different his life would be.  He would be back in his own time, preparing his campaign for an upcoming seat in Parliament, enjoying various pursuits, and playing lord of the manor.  Instead, he was here, in Barbados, a virtual slave with no avenue of escape, and it was all Neve’s fault.

Max tried to remain on the fringes of the crowd as the unfortunate boy was tied to a stake in the ground by his hands.  He was shaking with fear, his eyes huge and pleading as he tried to swivel around to get a look at Johansson.  “Please, sir,” he begged.  “I was ill.  I wasn’t trying to get out of working.  Please.  It won’t happen again.”

Johansson remained deaf to the boy’s pleas, slapping the whip against his thigh as he allowed tension to build among the gathered slaves.  The group was huddled together and completely silent, their fear palpable as they tensely waited for Johansson to begin.  Max stared straight ahead but forced his mind to roam free; removing himself from the horrible screams that pierced the air as the overseer began to mete out the punishment.  Max heard sharp intakes of breath, his nostrils burning with the acrid smell of the spectator’s terror.  A woman wept quietly at the back, but otherwise all was quiet. 

The whip whistled through the air and made contact with the boy’s back with a sickening crack, bits of flesh flying in all directions and rivulets of blood trickling down the boy’s back and into his waistband.  Max tried not to look, but he felt a gaze on his face that drew his eyes like a magnet.  Dido was on the other side of the clearing, her turban rising above the heads of the other women.  Her green eyes bore into him with an expression he couldn’t quite make out.  Her usual soft manner was gone, and there was an intensity in her gaze that sent shivers down his spine.  Her eyes were sending him a message, but he couldn’t decipher the code.  Dido’s shoulders were squared, and her mouth pressed into a thin line; she seemed to be challenging him to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. 

Max’s attention strayed from Dido when the boy lost consciousness and hung suspended by his wrists from the pole, his cheek scraping against the wood.  The crowd let out a collective gasp, which was quickly silenced by Johansson’s snort of disgust.  “Take him down,” he barked and strode off toward his quarters.  The boy’s mother began to wail.  Someone put their arms around her and steadied her as the boy was taken down and carried away.  Dido hadn’t moved, but her posture had relaxed somewhat, and she leaned into a big man who was standing just behind her.  He was at least two heads taller, but he had the same mocha skin and green eyes.  The man put his hands on Dido’s shoulders and leaned down to say something in her ear.  She stirred to life and hurried away toward the kitchens.  The man met Max’s gaze above the heads of the crowd.  His expression was hard to read.  There was no open challenge, as there had been in Dido’s eyes, more an appraisal. 

Max had noticed the man several times before although they never worked in the same area of the field or sat on the same side during meals.  The black and the white workers were separated at all times, so very little contact was made.  Max had, however, noticed that most Negro slaves seemed to show him deference, and he carried himself like a leader despite his slave status.  Perhaps he was one of their priests.  Max had heard rumors about what went on during the night.  The white indentures whispered among themselves of demonic rituals that took place at midnight, with the Negro slaves communing with the devil and casting evil spells. 

“If they can cast evil spells, why don’t they cast one on Johansson?” Max asked John as they lay side by side in their sweltering hut.  “Surely they can turn him into a toad or better yet have him eaten by a crocodile.”  Max was being sarcastic, but John took him at his word, seriously considering such an act. 

“Do you really think their black magic can accomplish such a feat?” he asked.  “Maybe they just haven’t thought of it yet.  I do know that Johansson seems to be indisposed every time they have one of their ritual gatherings, so he’s never caught them in the act.  Mayhap they put some curse on him.”  He scratched his beard, making a rasping noise as nails met skin.  “They summon the devil, I tell you.  They dance around the fire and make incantations until they are not human anymore.  They become his vessels of sin; that’s why they are so black.”

“Is that so?” Max asked, annoyed by the man’s ignorance.  If these people could summon the devil, surely they could do something to help themselves, rather than be enslaved by the thousands and brought over from Africa to be abused by their white masters. 

“But they go to Sunday service,” Max remarked, more to continue the conversation than because he was really interested.

“Oh, aye, they do.  They’ve been baptized into the Church of England, but it’s their own gods they worship,” John explained, his voice harsh with emotion.  “They worship Vodun and are guided by the Loa.”

“And how do you come to know all this?”

“I hear them talking,” John replied vaguely. 

“Do they not speak in their own language?” Max asked, surprised.  Most of the black slaves spoke some English, but they conversed between themselves in whatever dialect they’d spoken in their native land. 

“Believe me or not, but that’s the truth of it.  You can see for yourself if you like.  They’ll be at it come the full moon, and mark my words, Johansson will be ill that night.”

“But they are locked in for the night, how can they perform their rituals?” Max asked, still clinging to practical details and refusing to credit what John was telling him.  John just snorted in the darkness, letting Max know that he was an ignoramus who failed to acknowledge the powers of the devil and the dark magic that summoned him.

Max turned over on his side and pondered this information.  He had noticed that Johansson was ill from time to time, and left several of his deputies to oversee the slaves while he retreated to his house to recover.  Max just assumed that the man had some kind of recurring gastric trouble, since he tended to turn white and clammy and ran for the privy clutching his stomach, but he hadn’t noticed that his bouts of illness corresponded to the cycles of the moon.  Max snorted with disgust.  Why was he even thinking about this?  What difference did it make?  If Johansson managed to shit himself senseless, he would only rejoice, as would the rest of the population of the plantation. 

Max rolled back onto his back annoyed with himself for even entertaining such thoughts.  Perhaps he was just searching for something to focus on to take his mind off the unbearable and relentless drudgery his life had become.  He’d been at the plantation for less than two months, but already he felt his body wasting away as he toiled in the fields with insufficient food and rest, and not enough water.  His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and whatever little body fat he’d once had had melted away, leaving him thin as a whippet, his forearms bulging with ropey muscle. 
Perhaps people in the twenty-first century should go work on sugar plantations instead of going to fat farms or gyms to lose weight
, he thought grimly —
results guaranteed
.  Max gritted his teeth as he acknowledged to himself that which he could never say out loud.  The veneer of civilization had been stripped from him, slowly robbing him of his humanity, and he didn’t much like the person that was left behind.