Sins of Omission (17 page)

April 1686

Barbados, West Indies

The darkness was complete.  Max heard his own panicked breathing as he came awake; first partially, then completely as he suddenly remembered where he was and why.  Max brought up his hands, but his palms rested on the rough wood only inches from his face.  The heat inside the box was stifling, and grains of sand falling onto his face and making his skin and eyes itch.  Max tried to breathe, but his heart hammered inside his chest, making even breathing impossible.  He was dimly aware of the fact that he was on the verge of an anxiety attack, which would use up whatever air there was in the coffin very quickly.  He tried to calm himself by thinking comforting thoughts, but his mind wouldn’t cooperate.  He was in complete panic mode, and no amount of trying to rationalize the situation would calm him even remotely. 

Max’s back was on fire, the scars from the recent flogging fresh and seeping blood.  Salt from his sweat which ran into the open wounds made the pain unbearable.  The flogging itself had been bad enough with Johansson taking a short break between each stroke just to heighten the tension and prolong the agony, but the pain he’d been in since was even worse. 

Max could still hear the swishing of the whip just before it met with the unblemished skin of his back, the pain so intense that he actually felt the tearing of the flesh as the knotted ends bit into his skin.  It had been only thirty lashes for quitting work ten minutes before the end of day, but Max had felt every one of them.  By the time Johansson was done, Max felt as if his back had been branded over and over with a hot iron until his flesh was seared and puckered.  Squirming made the pain even worse, but Max couldn’t possibly turn over since the box was just big enough for his body.

He was buried alive, six feet beneath the ground, another casualty of a system that put very little value on human life.  By now, everyone would have gone, leaving the freshly dug mound with the crude cross sticking out of the ground.  Sometimes, relatives or friends carved the name of the deceased into the crossbar, but for the most part, the crosses were unmarked since no one cared enough to remember the person who died, or to visit their final resting place. 

Max’s would be just another grave with a nameless cross, a faceless victim whom no one cared to remember.  Did anyone besides his mother even remember him in his own life, or had everyone just moved on, assuming that he was dead?  Well, he’d be dead in a few hours, and no one would ever know what actually happened to him.  He would vanish from the face of the earth much as everyone thought Hugo Everly had, except there’d been an explanation for Hugo’s disappearance, just as there was one for Max’s, but no one would ever learn the truth.  Max would become a family mystery, a scary bedtime story, a spooky tale to tell on Halloween -– the man who vanished without a trace and was never heard from again.

Max’s body began to shake violently, his mouth gasping for breath like a landed fish, his eyes bulging with lack of available oxygen as the anxiety attack rolled over him like a steam engine.  Sweat poured down his face, and he could smell the acrid smell of fear overlaying the wood and earth that had swallowed him up.  Max tried to concentrate on a single thought, but his thoughts raced around like rats in a maze, colliding with each other, banging against walls, and succumbing to blind panic.  He tried pushing against the lid, but it was firmly in place, held down by several feet of packed earth and nailed shut.   

Xeno said that he would be hidden in the jungle by the time he awoke, but either Dido’s potion had worn off too soon, or Xeno had no intention of keeping his promise.  The shaking got worse and Max gulped in more air, which didn’t fill his lungs.  He began banging on the lid, but who would hear him?  They’d all have gone back to work, leaving him to die a slow, agonizing death.  Grains of sand fell into Max’s mouth, and he began to cough violently, banging his head on the wood every time his body spasmed.  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t stop the overwhelming anxiety that had taken over.  Hot urine ran down his leg as his bladder let go.  He thought he might soil himself, but it truly didn’t matter.  No one would ever see his shame.

Max began to see colored lights in front of his eyes as the lack of oxygen began to take its toll.  He was thrashing and screaming, clawing at the lid of the coffin until he ripped off his nails, and his fingers became slick with blood.  Something seemed to explode in Max’s head as he went completely limp, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and his body stilling at last.

I’m dying
, was the last thing Max thought before he lost consciousness.

It was pitch black.  Still.  Max came awake with a shudder, recalling once again where he was.  His heart pounded violently in his chest, and his throat was raw from inhaling sand and howling in terror.  Max drew a ragged breath, desperate for oxygen; more so because his mind knew he’d run out of air soon enough than because he couldn’t breathe.  He filled his lungs to capacity before suddenly realizing that the air wasn’t hot and stale, but cool and plentiful.  He lifted his hands before his face, praying that they wouldn’t come up against the wooden lid of the coffin when a gentle hand rested on his chest. 

“Shh, Lord Everly.  You’re safe now,” a man’s voice said quietly, his accent unmistakable.  Xeno.

“Where am I?” Max stammered. 

“You’re in the tunnel behind the barracks.  “Here, sit up and take a drink.”  Xeno held a cup of rum to his mouth, and Max drank greedily until he’d drained it. 

“Is there any more?” he croaked.  His heart was still racing, and he suddenly wondered if he might be having a hallucination.  “Are you really here?”

“Of course I’m here, and so are you.  Now, try to calm down.  We’ll be taking you to the ship in a few hours.  Are you hungry?” Xeno asked matter-of-factly, his hand still on Max’s chest, an insignificant weight which kept him anchored to reality and blinding hope.

Max considered the question.  His stomach was in knots, and bile rose in his irritated throat which burned from the rum.  His eyes felt raw, and his hands were in agony where he’d torn off his nails.  His back was on fire; the shirt glued to his flesh with sweat and blood.  The thought of food made him feel nauseous, so he shook his head in the dark.  “Maybe later.”

“All right, you just rest awhile, and I will be back soon.  I’ll send Dido to sit with you.”

Max nearly grabbed for Xeno in the darkness, but restrained himself.  The rum was taking effect, taking the edge off the pain and anxiety.  Am I really alive? Max wondered as he listened to his labored breathing.  Is this a dream and I’ll wake up in the coffin?  He laid his hands flat against the ground and inhaled deeply.  The air smelled of damp earth, rum, and his own sweat, but he didn’t mind; these were the smells of life, of hope.  Only a short while ago, he thought that his life was over.  He’d been terrified of death, and bitter about all the missed opportunities and unfinished business, but he’d been given a second chance, a chance at a future.  He’d cheated death twice in the past few months, he realized suddenly, smiling in the darkness.  Perhaps he wasn’t meant to die in the seventeenth-century, but in his own time when he was an old man.

His thoughts were interrupted by Dido, who glowed in the light from a candle she was carrying, her particular scent of womanliness and some kind of flower oil enveloping him.  She crouched next to him and offered him another cup of rum which he drank gratefully.  He was by no means drunk, but he was now pleasantly tipsy, which was a vast improvement on unbridled panic.

“You are a brave man, Lord Everly, and a foolish one,” she chided.  “You could have died down there if your heart gave out.  If Xeno says he’ll get you out -– he’ll get you out.  My brother is a man of his word.”

“I hardly know your brother, but no one is happier that he’s a man of his word than I.  I thought I would die in that coffin,” Max replied.

“And so you would have, if you hadn’t passed out.  You’d have worked yourself up into an apoplexy.  Now, calm yourself and try to rest.  It’s a long walk to the harbor -– many miles.”

Dido put a warm hand on his face and caressed his cheek.  It was a sensual gesture which wasn’t lost on Max.

“I’ve seen you watching me,” he remarked, hoping she would answer his unspoken question.  He was in no condition to do anything more than hold her hand, but his vanity was alive and well, and he supposed he needed more to feel as if he were back among the living than air and a cup of rum.  Funny how a person’s reality shifted in the blink of an eye, Max mused.  Only a few minutes ago he thought he was about to run out of oxygen and die, and now he was hoping that Dido would admit to her feelings for him.

“I was.  Xeno wanted me to get a sense for the kind of man you are, and if you’d be brave enough to take the risk.  He trusts my judgment,” she added proudly.

“Was that the only reason?” Max asked.  What did he have to lose? 

“No.  My mother lay down with a white man willingly.  I was angry with her, and never forgave her, not even after she died,” Dido confided.  “She said she loved him.  All I know of my father is that he had green eyes like Xeno and me.  I suppose that until I saw you, I never knew how it was possible to want a white man, but now I know.”

Dido leaned down and kissed Max.  Her lips barely brushed his, but he felt a white-hot surge of desire.  She smelled of spices, flower oil, and a tang of sweat, but he didn’t care; he wanted her desperately.  Blood rushed to his flaccid penis, suddenly reminding him what it was like to be sexually aroused.  He hadn’t felt anything other than despair and fatigue in months, so the feeling took him by surprise.  Max reached up to pull Dido closer, but she drew back, her eyes laughing at him in her brown face.

“No, my man; I will not be having no white man’s babies, or any babies,” she said.  “Not if I can’t offer them a home and a family.  You will be gone tonight, and I will remain here, so giving in to a mutual attraction is not wise.” 

Dido rose to her feet and retreated into the tunnel, leaving Max in the darkness once more.  He was throbbing with frustrated desire, but he acknowledged the wisdom of her decision.  He wanted her, but the thought of causing her any pain cooled his ardor.  There was no escape for her; no future to look forward to other than remaining on the plantation or taking her chances in the jungle.  She needed to exercise some control over her life, and he respected that.  There would be other women in time.

Max breathed a sigh of relief as he and Xeno finally emerged from the jungle after an arduous three-hour walk.  Xeno seemed oblivious to insects, snakes, and gnarled roots, but Max was drained after the difficult trek, his breathing labored and his muscles sore from the strain.  He’d felt ill before, but now he was ravenously hungry, his empty stomach rumbling in protest at the lack of food.  He hadn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours, and wished he had accepted something when it had been offered.  Max could just make out the outline of the vessel, black against the midnight-blue sky sprinkled with stars and lit up by the gibbous moon.  It shone as bright as a lightbulb in the heavens, casting a silvery pall on the sleeping town and painting a glittering path on the dark waters of the sea. 

A lone lantern glowed on the deck of the
La Belle,
swinging gently to and fro in a hypnotic fashion, and reminding Max of just how tired he was.  Xeno drew a candle stub out of his pocket, lit it, and made some kind of circular signal, which he repeated several times.  A few minutes later, a dinghy detached itself from the hull and made its way toward the beach, oars splashing in the still waters.  Max gasped as two shadowy figures suddenly appeared next to them; one a fully grown man, the other, a small boy.  The boy looked frightened, but the man said something to him in his own language and the child seemed to relax, his eyes drooping with fatigue as he watched the approaching dinghy.  The man gave the child a bear hug, wordlessly shook Xeno’s hand, then vanished into the shadows as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving the boy with them on the beach.

“Why is the child here?” Max asked as they waited for the boat. 

“You asked me what we smuggle out of Barbados, and here’s your answer.  We smuggle out our children before they are branded as slaves.”  Max balked at the idea, but looked more closely at the boy.  He was about five, with huge black eyes and full lips, which were now quivering with an urge to cry.

“What happens to them?” Max asked quietly, imagining all sorts of horrors in some French brothel.  He’d read enough about human trafficking to know what happened to children who vanished off the face of the earth and died of abuse and neglect.  Did these people really think that selling their children into sexual slavery was preferable to working on a sugar plantation where they were at least among their own people?

“The boys are placed with noble families as pages.  Negro pages are all the rage in France these days,” Xeno said bitterly.  “They are treated almost as well as pets, and lead much more comfortable lives than slaves.”

“And when they get older?”

“They either stay with the family as servants, or leave and forge their own lives.  At least they have a choice, and the family is usually generous to them after years of service.  Captain Benoit brings word of the children when he comes back.  Sometimes they even write letters to their parents.  Most slaves can’t read, but the white men can, so they read the letters for us.”

Xeno took the boy by the shoulders and crouched in front of him so that their faces were only inches apart.  The child wasn’t crying, but he looked terrified.  “Banjo, this is Lord Everly.  He will be making the journey to France with you.  You can trust him, and may keep him company if he wishes you to.  Mind Captain Benoit, and try to make yourself useful.  The Captain will see you settled in France.  I know you’re scared, but someday you will be glad you’d been given this opportunity.  I will tell your mother that you were very brave.”

The boy swallowed hard and nodded, trying to smile.  His smile was more of a grimace, but he seemed a little less frightened as he studied Max from beneath his thick lashes.  He hesitantly reached for Max’s hand as the boat reached the shore, and the men beckoned to them. 

“Godspeed,” Xeno said as he shook Max’s hand. 

“Are you not coming with us?” Max asked Xeno.

“I must get back before sunrise.  Take care of each other on the journey.  Captain Benoit is expecting you, and your voyage is paid for.  Look after Banjo,” he said, gave a small wave, and melted in the darkness. 

“Well, it’s you and me, kid,” Max said to the little boy, who was clinging to him for dear life as they waded into the water toward the waiting dinghy.  Max had few dealings with children in the past, but he felt a strange kinship with this frightened child who was being so brave in the face of separation from his family, and a voyage to an unknown land and an uncertain future.  He lifted Banjo into his arms and gave him a reassuring hug before passing him to the waiting sailor.  He wasn’t sure which one of them needed the hug more.