Honour Redeemed by Donachie David

Author:Donachie, David [David Donachie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749015596
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2013-03-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter eighteen

Duchesne’s head snapped round to look at the Negro ‘You speak French?’

The formality with which Bellamy replied was well designed to show off his familiarity with the language. And where Lanester had an American accent, and Mar kham’s was larded with the slang of common usage, Bellamy was so perfect in his grammar and his fluency that he could have been declaiming a poem by Ronsard.

‘I have the good fortune,’ he concluded, ‘to have been taught French at an early age, when the facility of learning is at its most receptive.’

Duchesne was looking at his rough, grey flannel shirt, breeches and boots, clearly the attire of a ranker, wondering why such a creature should sound so like a very well bred officer.

‘Are you from a French sugar island?’

‘No, Captain, a British one.’

‘We educate our slaves well,’ said Lanester sarcastically.

‘I am, sir, no one’s slave.’ Bellamy responded, without much in the way of respect.

Lanester pushed himself up the wall; his bulk, which hunched up had made him look small, now produced the opposite effect.

‘I’d like to hear you say that in Virginia, boy. And that there look in your eye would be worth a hundred lashes all on its own.’

‘Happy to oblige, sir,’ said Sharland, with a small, slightly mocking bow. ‘An’ I’ll sew them soup plates the sod terms lips to one another, if you so desire. That’ll put a cap on his cheek.’

A ripple of laughter made its way through the rows of seated men, some of whom raised their tied wrists to encourage Sharland. Bellamy was almost shaking in his desire to reply.

‘History tells us that the dregs of England’s gaols were used to populate the Virginia Colony.’

‘Damn you,’ snapped Lanester, in a voice that left the dragoon officer, without any understanding of English, bemused. But it attracted the attention of Fouquert, who had been talking earnestly to some of Duchesne’s men. Lanester was on his feet now, his fat face bright red with anger. ‘If I had my crop, you’d feel it on your hide this second.’

‘Odd,’ Bellamy continued, his voice controlled, and full of hauteur, ‘that the bloodline of indentured thieves and vagabonds, who consorted carnally with their black chattels, feel the right to lord it over men of pure inheritance.’

‘I’ll lord it over your flaying, you black devil!’ shouted Lanester, stung to the quick. ‘Your blood will flow like a river. You’ll scream for mercy before I get through with you.’

Pavin had his face pressed close to that of Bellamy, his voice a harsh screech, as he pounded weakly on the Negro’s chest with his bound hands.

‘How dare you talk on the major so, you fuckin’ arse-lickin’ ape!’

‘What is this about?’ demanded Fouquert, of a Duchesne who could only shrug. He addressed the same question, in good English, to Bellamy.

‘I was trying to remind my white brothers that we are all equal in God’s eyes, though I find his tolerance of such endemic ignorance personally displeasing. Clearly, he has not read The Declaration of the Rights of Man.

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