A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [112]
“What work will we do?”
“Anything we’re told to, I suppose: farm work, cleaning, building …”
“We’ll be just like slaves.”
“But only for seven years.”
“Seven years,” she said dismally. “I’ll be grown-up!”
“And I’ll be almost thirty,” Mack said. It seemed middle-aged.
“Will they beat us?”
Mack knew that the answer was yes, but he lied. “Not if we work hard and keep our mouths shut.”
“Who gets the money when we’re bought?”
“Sir George Jamisson.” The fever had tired him, and he added impatiently: “I’m sure you’ve asked me half these damn questions before.”
Peg turned away, hurt. Cora said: “She’s worried, Mack—that’s why she keeps asking the same questions.”
I’m worried too, Mack thought wretchedly.
“I don’t want to reach Virginia,” Peg said. “I want the voyage to go on forever.”
Cora laughed bitterly. “You enjoy living this way?”
“It’s like having a mother and father,” Peg said.
Cora put her arm around the child and hugged her.
They weighed anchor the following morning, and Mack could feel the ship bowling along in front of a strong favorable wind. In the evening he learned they were almost at the mouth of the Rappahannock River. Then contrary winds kept them at anchor for two wasted days before they could head upriver.
Mack’s fever abated and he was strong enough to go up on deck for one of the intermittent exercise periods; and as the ship tacked upriver he got his first sight of America.
Thick woods and cultivated fields lined both banks. At intervals there would be a jetty, a cleared stretch of bank, and a lawn rising up to a grand house. Here and there around the jetties he saw the huge barrels known as hogsheads, used for transporting tobacco: he had watched them being unloaded in the port of London, and it now struck him as remarkable that every one had survived the hazardous and violent transatlantic voyage to get there from here. Most of the people in the fields were black, he noticed. The horses and dogs looked the same as any others, but the birds perching on the ship’s rail were unfamiliar. There were lots of other vessels on the river, a few merchantmen like the Rosebud and many smaller craft.
That brief survey was all he saw for the next four days, but he kept the picture in his mind like a treasured souvenir as he lay in the hold: the sunshine, the people walking around in the fresh air, the woods and the lawns and the houses. The longing he felt, to get off the Rosebud and walk around in the open air, was so strong it was like a pain.
When at last they anchored he learned they were at Fredericksburg, their destination. The voyage had taken eight weeks.
That night the convicts got cooked food: a broth of fresh pork with Indian corn and potatoes in it, a slab of new bread, and a quart of ale. The unaccustomed rich food and strong ale made Mack feel dizzy and sick all night.
Next morning they were brought up on deck in groups of ten, and they saw Fredericksburg.
They were anchored in a muddy river with midstream islands. There was a narrow sandy beach, a strip of wooded waterfront, then a short, sharp rise to the town itself, which was built around a bluff. It looked as though a couple of hundred people might live there: it was not much bigger than Heugh, the village where Mack had been born, but it seemed a cheerful, prosperous place, with houses of wood painted white and green. On the opposite bank, a little upstream, was another town, which Mack learned was called Falmouth.
The river was crowded, with two more ships as big as the Rosebud, several smaller coasters, some flat-boats, and a ferry crossing between the two towns. Men worked busily all along the waterfront unloading ships, rolling barrels and carrying chests in and out of warehouses.
The prisoners were given soap and made to wash, and a barber came on board to shave the men and cut their hair. Those whose clothes were so ragged as to be indecent were given replacement garments, but their gratitude was diminished when they recognized