When the fitful breeze waned, the heat was intense beneath the board roof. A single overseer watched them, and it would have been a simple act to escape. But John Ruark surmised there would be little effort wasted in search or pursuit, for it would only be a matter of time before any man would have to come out of the jungle. There was nowhere else to run.
His eyes took in his surroundings as he plucked idly at the loose knee of his canvas breeches. They waited for Squire Trahern; they had been informed it was his habit to inspect and lecture all new arrivals. Ruark was eager to get a look at the fabled “Lord” Trahern and squatted patiently with the others but kept carefully to the end of the line. He was still alive and in the one place in the world he cared to be, that being the place currently occupied by Shanna Trahern. Or would she more properly call herself Shanna Beauchamp? He chuckled to himself. She had gained his name while he, in the same course of events, had lost it; and that would be another matter to settle.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the open barouche that had borne Shanna away from the docks. The tall, thin man called Ralston was the first to dismount and struggling down next came the man Ruark had seen greeting Shanna earlier. He assumed this was the dreaded Squire Trahern.
Ruark watched with interest as the man drew near. The squire’s manner was that of authority. He was large and portly, and there was an aura of power about him. Contrasting oddly with the dark woolens of his lean companion, he was dressed in neat white hose and gold-buckled, black leather shoes. His breeches were spotless white linen, serviceable but light and cool. His long waistcoat was of the same cloth and white like the shirt; ruffles and fancy stitchery were noticeably absent. An immense, wide-brimmed, low-crowned, finely woven straw hat shaded his face; he carried in his hands a tall, well-worn blackthorn walking stick as if it were his badge of office.
The two men came toward the shed and after saluting them, the overseer ordered his charges to stand and form a line. The squire took a packet from Ralston and unfolded a paper from it, studying it for a moment before stepping to the man at the beginning of the line.
“Your name?” he asked bluntly.
The bondsman replied in a mumble, and his new master made a check mark on his tablet and proceeded to carefully inspect his purchase. He felt the man’s arm, gauging the muscle in it, and studied the hands for signs of toil.
“Open your mouth,” Trahern commanded. “Let’s see your teeth.”
The man obeyed, and the squire shook his head almost sadly and made several notes in his log. Proceeding to the next man, he repeated the ritual. After the third bondsman, he faced Ralston.
“Dammit, man!” Trahern swore. “ ’Tis a beggardly lot you’ve brought me. Were these the best you could find?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Ralston chafed beneath the other’s scowl. “These were all I could get for love or money. Perhaps the choice will be better in the spring if the winter is hard enough.”
“Bah!” Trahern snorted. “A dear price, indeed, and all from the debtor’s block.”
Ruark’s brows lifted slightly as he took note of the man’s reply. So, the squire wasn’t aware he had purchased a felon bound for the gallows. Ruark considered this a moment and what effect it might have on him. He glanced up to catch Ralston’s frown directed toward him. Aye, ’twas Mister Ralston’s doing, Ruark deduced, and if he had no wish to return to London to see his own hanging done, he’d best play the game.
After a close scrutiny of the eighth man, Trahern moved to Ruark, and there he came to an abrupt halt. His eyes narrowed keenly as he surveyed the last of his lot. The bondsman’s amber eyes revealed more than an average level of intelligence, and the smile that played about his lips was strangely disquieting. Noticeably different from the rest, this one was lean and muscular with wide shoulders and strong arms, a straight back, and the unbowed legs of a young man. There was no flab on him, and the flat, hard belly bore no hint of a paunch. It was rare that such a fine young buck would be found on the debtor’s auction block.
Trahern consulted his list, finding one name left.
“You would be John Ruark,” he stated rather than asked and was surprised at the rush of words he stirred from the fellow.
“Aye, sir.” Ruark affected a slight brogue to disguise his origin. Too many of the islanders were touchy about the mainland colonies. “And I can read, write, and cipher.”
Trahern cocked his head as if listening to every word.
“My back is strong and my teeth are sound.” Ruark drew back his lips, displaying the gleaming whiteness for a moment. “I can pull my weight, given a good meal of course, and I hope I shall prove worthy of all your family has invested in me.”
“My wife is dead. I have only a daughter,” Trahern murmured absently and then silently rebuked himself for chatting with the man. “But you are a colonial, from New York or Boston I would guess. How did you come to be on the sale block?”
Ruark drew a sharp breath and stroked his chin. “A slight misunderstanding with several redcoats. The magistrate was not in the least considerate and believed them over me.”
It was not completely untrue. He had not taken kindly to being rudely dragged from a sound sleep, and he had reacted instinctively, breaking the captain’s jaw as he found out later.
Trahern nodded slowly and seemed to accept the tale until he spoke. “You are a man of some wisdom, and I think there is much more to your story, but,” he shrugged, “that day will out. I care little for what you were, only for what you are.”
The bondslave, John Ruark, quietly considered his master, having already realized that he would have to tread lightly when dealing with him, for the man was as sharp-witted as it had been rumored. Still, the truth had a way of coming out, and since he could think of no words worthy of his effort, Ruark held his tongue.
Leaving him, Trahern went to stand before the line of men, bracing his legs wide and resting his hands on the knob of his walking stick. Slowly he studied them.
“This is Los Camellos,” he began. “Named by a Spaniard but deeded to me. I am lord mayor, sheriff, and justice here. You have been bonded to me for debts unpaid. You will be apprised of your debt and its progress upon request to my bookkeeper. You will be paid for Sundays and holidays, but sickness and otherwise are your own account. Your wage will be sixpence a day for each day that you work. On the first of each month you will receive for each day you have worked, tuppence for your needs; tuppence to go against your debt, and tuppence which will be repaid for your keep. If you work hard and advance yourselves, you will receive more and may adjust the payments as you see fit.” Pausing, he looked hard at Ruark. “I expect some of you will pay out your debts in as little as five or six years. You may then work for passage back to England or wherever you would go, or you may, if you wish, settle here. You have been given the wherewithal to keep yourselves clothed and clean. Tend your clothes carefully, for whatever else you get you will have to pay for. ’Twill be some time before you have any money and then precious little.”
Trahern ceased and held his silence until he had their complete and undivided attention.
“There are two ways to get into serious trouble here. The first is to abuse or steal anything of mine, and most everything here is mine. The second is to upset or annoy any of the people already here. Do you have any questions?”