Pirates! by Celia Rees

stalks. They worked like an army of ants, diligently and methodically, cutting, binding, pitching bundles into the waiting wagons.
    The cultivated land was not fenced or walled along the road. The entrance to the estate was marked by a pair of impressive stone pillars standing alone. An overarching curve of wrought-iron letters announced that we were entering Fountainhead. The letters were surmounted by twin gushing springs frozen in silvery metal. Before, I had always seen the sign as a weeping willow. It was only as I went underneath that I could see what it was really meant to be. There were no weeping willows in this country. The long straight drive was bordered either side by tall palm trees, their leaves flopping down, the fronds spread wide in leathery fingers, like cormorants’ wings drying in the sun. Thomas whipped the horses into a smart high-stepping trot and we drove on towards the house.
    It stood alone on a small promontory, shaded by tall pine trees, set apart from the other buildings. White smoke and steam billowed from the direction of the mill and boiling house, obscuring a collection of roughly-thatched hovels. Behind the plantation, the land ascended in giant steps to form the foothills of a high mountain range of individual peaks and serrated ridges, the tops of which were lost in torn cloud and trailing mist.
    The house was not grand in the style of some plantation houses, and was considered old-fashioned, being made of white painted wood with only two storeys, but it was artfully constructed and carefully situated to catch every breath of wind. I could sense my father’s preferences in the design of it; he was not a man to put fashion before comfort. At home, in England, he had hated a draught and had liked the old house because it was packed in with others, easy to keep warm. He had complained about the new house, saying that it was like living in a barn. Here, he would have wanted to keep cool. The windows were large, with bright painted shutters folded back and thin muslin curtains billowing with the constant breeze blowing through the rooms. A wide veranda threw shade on all sides, so no part was directly in sunlight. My eyes pricked at the thought of him. I could almost see him sitting out there as the heat of the day faded, comfortable in an old sagging armchair, sipping a rum punch and smoking his pipe.
    Wide double doors stood open at the top of a flight of stone steps. A man stood in front of them, obviously waiting for me. Mr Duke, the overseer, was a small man of stoutish build. He stood splay-legged with his chest puffed out and his head thrust forward, belligerent as a bantam cock. He was pale, as if he always kept his face shaded from the fierce sun, and smooth-skinned with a little mouth, his upper lip protruding over his teeth in a parrot pout. He held a whip under his right arm. A black plaited thing, rolled in a snakelike coil with a handle as thick as my wrist. As he waited, he allowed its iron tip to fall from his grip before flipping it back into his palm.
    Thomas helped me out of the carriage and, as I mounted the steps, Duke came forward to meet me. He removed his sweat-banded broad-brimmed tricorn hat to reveal a cap of shiny brown hair, greased by some rancid oil, straggling down to his shoulders. His dark eyes were flecked with grey and oddly opaque, like gun flints. He was near-sighted, I was to learn, and growing more so by the day.
    ‘Miss Kington!’ He held out his hand to me before I had reached the top of the steps. His palm was soft and moist. His shirt was marked with sweat, fresh patches ringing the yellowed armpits, soaking the stiffened fabric. ‘Welcome to Fountainhead! I hope your journey here was not too arduous, but you must be fatigued. You will need to rest and refresh yourself.’
    He took my elbow, propelling me towards the house. Two women had appeared, standing either side of the doorway, as still as caryatids. One was old, the other young, and both