Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
The overseer’s boot caught him in the ribs before dawn, making him grunt.
“Up. You’ve had two days to recover. Time to earn your keep.”
It was more than he’d thought he’d get. Brodie opened his eyes to the early morning light, and the sharp scent of other men’s sweat in the cramped quarters.
His back screamed when he shifted. Every muscle had gone stiff during the night, the healing wounds pulling tight across his shoulders when he tried to sit up.
Three days since the whipping. Three days of Abena’s herbs and Thomas sneaking him extra food and lying awake counting the ways his body was failing him.
Not nearly enough time.
“I said up.” Williams—the overseer who’d ordered the whipping, who’d smiled while counting the lashes—stood in the doorway with a lamp that cast his shadow across the floor. “Or do you need another lesson in obedience?”
Brodie forced himself upright. The scabs on his back cracked and wept. He felt the wetness spreading across his shirt but kept his face neutral.
“No, sir. I’m up.”
“Good. Field seven needs cutting. You’ll work with Josiah’s crew.” Williams’s smile was cold. “Keep up or face the consequences. We don’t tolerate laziness here.”
Laziness. As if being whipped half to death was idleness requiring correction.
The overseer left. Around him, other men were rising—field workers who’d learned to move silently in the pre-dawn darkness. One of them, an older African man with grey threading his hair, paused beside Brodie’s pallet.
“Can you walk?”
“Have to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Brodie looked up. The man’s face was weathered, scarred, with eyes that had seen too much. But there was something else there too—concern. Genuine, despite the risks.
“I can walk. Working might be harder.”
“Working will be hell.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Josiah. You’ll be with my crew today. Try not to die. It reflects poorly on my leadership.”
There might have been humor in that, once. Now it was just truth spoken plainly.
Brodie took the offered hand and pulled himself upright. The room spun. The injuries felt as if they were tearing open with every breath. But he stayed standing.
“Let’s go then.”
Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten—that grey hour before sunrise when the world held its breath.
The air was already thick with humidity, promising another brutal day.
Josiah led him toward the cane fields where other workers were gathering, some carrying machetes, others with tools Brodie couldn’t name.
“You know how to cut cane?” Josiah asked quietly.
“Been doing it for ten days before the whipping.”
“Then you know it’s hard work for a whole man. For someone with your back...” He shook his head. “Williams put you with my crew because he thinks you’ll collapse and I’ll be blamed for not pushing you hard enough. Gives him an excuse for more punishment.”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because Thomas asked me to look after you. And because any man who takes twenty lashes for saving little Ama deserves better than dying in a cane field while that bastard watches.” Josiah stopped, turning to face him directly.
“You need to understand something. I can’t protect you from the work.
Can’t keep Williams from noticing if you fall behind. But I can teach you how to survive it.”
“I’m listening.”
“Pace yourself. Don’t try to match the others—you’ll burn out by midday. Cut steady, not fast. When Williams isn’t watching, the others will help cover your rows. When he is watching, you push through the pain and make it look like you’re keeping up even if you’re not.”
Brodie nodded, saving his breath.
“And drink water. More than you think you need. Men with injuries like yours die from the sun as much as the work.” Josiah gestured toward the gathering crew. “Come. I’ll introduce you to the others.”
The crew consisted of eight men, five enslaved Africans, Brodie and two other indentured servants—a young Irishman named Sean who looked barely sixteen, and an Englishman who looked like he’d been burnt so many times his skin had decided to stay red.
They stood in a loose cluster near the edge of field seven, where the cane grew so tall and thick it blocked the view of everything else.
“This is MacLeod,” Josiah announced. “Scottish. Took twenty lashes three days ago for pulling Ama out from under the supply wagon. He’ll be slow today. We adjust accordingly.”
The men studied him. Not with hostility, exactly. More like an assessment—measuring whether he was worth the risk of helping, whether he’d survive long enough for it to matter.
One of them, younger, with tribal scarring on his cheeks, spoke in heavily accented English. “You the one who spilled wine on the fancy man at the dinner?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Man’s a pig.” He grinned briefly. “I’m Kwame. You fall down, I pick you up. But only once. After that, you’re on your own.”
Another man, older and missing two fingers on his left hand, added: “The widow owns us all. But some of us still remember we’re men, not animals. You acted like a man when you saved the child. So we’ll help you today. Tomorrow might be different.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Don’t appreciate. Just do.” This came from the Irishman, Sean, whose accent was thick enough Brodie had to strain to understand him. “And if you can’t survive, die quietly. Williams likes making examples of weakness.”
Josiah clapped his hands once. “Enough talk. Williams is coming. Look busy.”
They spread out along the field edge, each man taking a row. Brodie positioned himself in the middle where he’d be less visible, and when the overseer shouted for them to begin, he raised his machete and started cutting.
The first hour was bearable. His muscles remembered the motion from his previous days in the fields—the swing, the cut, the way you had to angle the blade to catch the cane at the base. His back protested every movement, the scabs cracking and bleeding, but he pushed through it.
The second hour was worse. The sun climbed higher, pressing down with a physical weight. Sweat soaked his shirt, stinging the open wounds. His arms began to shake with fatigue.
By the third hour, he was moving on pure stubbornness.
“Drink.” Kwame appeared beside him during a moment when Williams had moved to the far side of the field. He thrust a waterskin at Brodie. “Now. Before you fall.”
The water was warm and tasted of leather, but it kept him upright.
“You’re cutting too deep,” Kwame said quietly. “Wasting energy. Shallow cuts, let the others finish your rows when the overseer’s not looking.”
“I can keep up—”
“You can’t. And that’s not shame, it’s how it is.” Kwame’s expression was serious. “Pride gets men killed here. Accept help when it’s offered.”
He disappeared back to his own row before Brodie could respond.
The pattern repeated throughout the morning.
When Williams watched, Brodie forced himself to match the others’ pace, ignoring the way his vision greyed at the edges and his back screamed with every swing.
When the overseer moved away, the crew adjusted—Kwame finishing the stalks Brodie left standing, Sean covering the gaps, Josiah positioning himself to block Williams’s view when Brodie had to stop and breathe.
They were protecting him. These men, who had no reason to care about some Scottish fool who’d gotten himself whipped for being soft-hearted.
At midday, Williams called for a break. The crew collapsed in the shade of the cane, passing around water and the small portions of bread they’d been given. Brodie sat carefully, trying not to let the wounds touch anything.
Josiah settled beside him. “You’re doing better than I expected.”
“Thought I was going to pass out a few times.”
“Yes. But you’re still upright. That’s something.” He tore his bread in half and offered part to Brodie. “Eat. You’ll need your strength for the afternoon.”
“You don’t have to share your food.”
“I know.” Josiah’s expression turned more serious. “There’s something you should know. About why we’re helping you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Thomas told you about the network. The people who help servants and slaves escape.”
Brodie nodded, carefully. This wasn’t a conversation to have where anyone might overhear.
“Jonah—the man who runs the safe houses—he’s been building routes for five years now.
Has connections with the Maroon communities in the mountains, with ships’ captains who’ll take runaways if the price is right, with plantation owners who look the other way for the right reasons.
” Josiah kept his voice low. “Thomas thinks you and the governess might need those routes soon.”
“Maddie is in danger.”
“Maddie, yes. The miracle girl who survived the shipwreck.” Josiah’s eyes were sharp. “We all know she’s not what she claims. Don’t know what she really is, but we know she’s running from something. Same as you’re running from whatever put you on that ship from Scotland.”
There was no point in denying it.
“If we run, if it comes to that, what options do we have?”
“Two main routes. The mountains or the sea.” Josiah glanced around, making sure they were still unobserved while the overseer had gone to relieve himself.
“Mountains mean heading inland, three or four days’ travel through brutal terrain to reach the Maroon settlements.
They’ll take you in if Jonah vouches for you, but it’s a hard life up there.
Constant threat of raids, living off the land, always looking over your shoulder. ”
“And the sea?”
“Harder to arrange but faster to execute. There are ships that dock in Port Royal—some captains will take passengers who don’t ask questions and don’t get asked questions in return.
Usually costs coin, but sometimes they’ll take sailors in exchange for passage.
The problem is, you’d have to get to the docks without being caught, and the widow watches the port like a hawk.
Avoid the pirates, or you’ll end up sold again. ”