Chapter Three
The days on Hutchinson Island blurred together in a haze of sweat, hunger, and dread. Under William Wise’s cane and leering gaze, Alice and Richard learned that survival meant silence and submission. But even the quietest endurance could not keep the darkness at bay.
Every day began before dawn with chores: milking goats, feeding cattle, gathering firewood, and scrubbing linens blackened with sweat. Every evening ended with aching limbs and barely enough food to sustain them. At night, Alice lay awake beside Richard in the lean-to, listening to the groans and coughs that echoed from the main house, dreading the creak of footsteps in the dirt.
Wise grew crueler as winter settled in. Drink emboldened him, and he summoned Alice inside more frequently. These “baths”—if they could be called that—were exercises in humiliation. His breath reeked of rum, and his hands hovered too long on her skin. Alice endured, because to resist would mean worse. She returned each time to Richard wordless and pale. And each time, Richard held her, fury trembling in his bones.
Patrick saw it too. One muggy afternoon, as the four laborers rested briefly near the cattle pen, Patrick muttered, “I seen where he hides the skiff key. Keeps it in a sugar tin under the hearthstone.”
Alice looked up sharply. “You’re sure?”
“Watched him put it there myself. Boatman rows the skiff back every time now, but sometimes Wise keeps the small canoe tied up behind the house.”
Richard leaned in, heart pounding. “Why tell us?”
Patrick’s sunburnt face darkened. “I’ve tried running. They caught me, chained me to a fencepost in the rain. I won’t try again. But I won’t stop you.”
That night, after Wise drank himself into a stupor, Alice crept inside. The hearth creaked as she lifted the stone, and her heart leapt at the sight of the small brass key inside the tin. She pocketed it and slipped outside.
She and Richard moved like shadows through the clearing. They reached the canoe, its rope barely secured. Richard unlocked the chain. Hope surged in Alice’s chest.
A gunshot split the night.
“Thought you’d steal from me?” Wise’s slurred voice bellowed. A lantern swung in his hand, casting wild shadows. Jacob stood behind him, uncertain, holding an axe.
“Step away!” Richard growled.
Wise fired again, the musket ball missing wide but close enough to send them fleeing. They ran—not toward the river now, but into the dense forest, panting, stumbling through palmettos and roots. They hid there for hours until Wise’s curses faded.
When they returned at dawn, the skiff and canoe were both gone. Wise sat on the porch, musket across his lap.
“Try again,” he rasped, “and I’ll flay the skin from your backs.”
That evening, as Alice cleaned Richard’s bruises, Jacob appeared in the lean-to doorway, silent as smoke.
He stepped inside, a wooden bowl in his hands. “Eat,” he said.
Alice blinked. The bowl held warm cornmeal mush—more than they’d eaten in days.
“Why?” she asked.
Jacob sat near the door, the firelight flickering across his face. He was perhaps thirty, with deep-set eyes and a stillness that made him seem older.
“I seen men like Wise,” he said. His accent was thick, but his English careful. “They think they gods. But they just men. Men die.”
He looked at Alice. “You burn bright. He want to see your fire go out.”
Richard leaned forward. “Why not help us stop him?”
Jacob’s gaze didn’t flinch. “If I help and fail, he hang all of us. I watch. I wait.”
“Wait for what?” Alice asked.
Jacob reached into his coat and handed her a small sliver of driftwood, carved into the shape of a flame.
“Until it time. You’ll know.”
He stood, paused in the doorway. “Kill him in rage, you carry it forever. Kill him in mercy, maybe your soul stay free.”
He vanished into the night.
In the days that followed, Wise grew even crueler. He lashed Patrick for a broken fencepost. He made Jacob stand in the sun for hours with arms raised. Alice endured another bath, this time with his hand grasping her wrist and muttering filth.
That night, Alice lay staring at the slatted ceiling of the lean-to.
“We can’t run,” she whispered. “He wants us to. So he can punish us again.”
Richard didn’t reply at first. Then: “Then we don’t run. Not yet.”
“What do we do?”
He turned to her. His voice was quiet, steady. “We wait. And when the time comes, we end it.”
She didn’t ask what “it” meant. They both knew.
From then on, every moment was a coiled wire. Wise grew sicker, more paranoid, keeping the musket near. But he also grew careless in his drunkenness. Jacob said little, but always watched. When Wise dropped his cane or muttered curses to himself, Jacob noted every weakness. And in those small silences, something ancient stirred among the four of them—resentment, fear, and the shape of justice beginning to form.
A storm was coming. One not of wind and rain, but reckoning.
They just had to survive long enough to meet it.
Alice spent the morning milking goats and mending one of Wise’s threadbare shirts on the porch. Her mind churned with anxiety. Wise’s mood was foul; he had awakened complaining of stomach pains and took it out on everyone. More than once she heard him cursing at Richard over some minor mishap, and once the crack of his cane against Richard’s back split the humid air. Each time, Alice’s hands trembled with suppressed anger.
Midday brought sweltering heat. Wise retreated indoors, sweating and weak from his illness. “Girl! Bring me porridge,” he bellowed from his chair. Alice obeyed, ladling out a bowl of the bland cornmeal mush she had cooked at dawn. She carried it to him inside, careful not to meet his eyes. He snatched the bowl and slurped a few spoonfuls, then grimaced.
“Too thick,” he snarled, and with no warning he flung the hot porridge aside. The wooden bowl struck Alice’s thigh and clattered to the floor, splattering mush across the planks. Alice yelped as the heat scalded her skin through her skirt.
“Clean that up, useless wench,” Wise spat. He leaned forward, his face twisted with rage. “Can’t even cook a simple meal. Perhaps a whipping will teach you.” He reached for the cane resting against his chair.
Alice stumbled back, fear pounding in her chest. “I–I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered, grabbing a rag to wipe the mess. Her hands were shaking.
Wise rose halfway from his seat, wielding the cane. “Maybe I should beat some sense into you. Turn around!” he barked.
Alice froze, clutching the rag. The thought of another beating – she still bore bruises from the last time he’d struck her – ignited something inside her. A spark of defiance flared, surprising her with its intensity. She straightened slowly, rag in hand. “Sir, I’ll make a fresh batch,” she said softly, trying to placate him while inching toward the doorway. If she could just get outside, Richard was not far. Perhaps he could intervene.
But Wise was upon her in two strides, surprisingly quick for a sick man. He seized her arm in a bruising grip. “Running, are you?” he hissed. Before she could reply, the cane whipped across her back with a whistle and a sharp crack. Pain exploded along Alice’s shoulders. She cried out and fell against the wall.
Outside, Richard heard her scream. He dropped the shovel he’d been using and dashed toward the house, heart in his throat. Bursting through the door, he saw Wise raise his cane again. Alice was crumpled at the base of the wall, her face contorted in pain.
“Get away from her!” Richard roared. In two strides he reached Wise and, without thinking, he lunged. He caught the cane mid-swing and tore it from Wise’s grasp.
The older man staggered back in astonishment. “How dare you—!” he wheezed, but before he could finish, Richard threw the cane aside and advanced on him. For an instant, Richard considered driving his fist into Wise’s jaw. Years of pent-up fury blazed in his eyes. Wise actually quailed, stumbling back toward his bed.
“Richard, no!” Alice cried, pulling herself up. If Richard struck their master, it would mean certain execution if they were caught. That stark knowledge cooled Richard’s blood just enough. He stopped himself, chest heaving.
Wise’s shock gave way to a crazed fury. His face purpled. “You’ll hang for this, White,” he snarled. “Both of you will hang as mutineers! Assaulting your master…” Spittle flew from his lips as he scrabbled at the table – reaching, Richard saw, for the pistol that lay there.
Alice saw it too. Acting on pure instinct, she snatched up the heavy iron porridge pot from the hearth and swung it with all her might. The cast-iron vessel crashed into the side of Wise’s head with a sickening thud.
Wise gaped, the pistol slipping from his fingers before he could even cock the hammer. He crumpled to his knees, dazed blood trickling from a gash at his temple where the pot had struck. The old man let out a low groan.
Richard stared, stunned at Alice’s action. Alice herself stood trembling, the pot still in her hands. A single thought rang in her mind: Now. If ever there was a moment to finish this nightmare, it was now.
Time seemed to slow. Wise was on all fours, shaking his head, trying to regain his senses. The pistol lay on the floor by his hand, but his movements were sluggish.
Richard met Alice’s eyes. In that silent exchange, they knew what they must do. The unspoken decision passed between them as surely as if they had said the words: there was no turning back now.
Richard sprang forward. He yanked Wise’s own neckerchief from where it hung loosely around the older man’s neck. With grim resolve, Richard looped the cloth around Wise’s throat from behind and pulled, twisting it tight.
Wise gurgled in surprise, his hands clawing weakly at the tightening garrote. Richard’s face was taut with effort and fury. “For everything you’ve done…” he grated out between clenched teeth, planting his knee into Wise’s back for leverage.
Alice, heart hammering wildly, moved on instinct. The water pail she had fetched for bathing stood nearby, still half-full from the morning’s wash. She rushed to it and dragged it beside Wise’s thrashing form. With one swift motion, she pushed down on the back of his head.
Wise’s face plunged into the cool water. He thrashed violently, but he was already weakened and half-strangled. Bubbles foamed up as he tried to scream or breathe. Alice pressed down harder on his neck. Her mind flooded with every instance of his cruelty – each insult, each violation, each stripe of pain he’d given her and Richard. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she bore down with all her weight.
Richard maintained the pressure of the knotted neckerchief. Wise’s struggles grew frantic for a few seconds – his fingers scraping uselessly at the floorboards – then weaker, and weaker still.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, William Wise’s body jerked once and went limp – he had been very weak, and the water had quickly dispatched him. Alice kept his face submerged a moment longer, until the final bubbles ceased and the water in the pail settled, tinged slightly red from blood running off his head wound. Richard slowly loosened the cloth around Wise’s neck. The old man collapsed sideways, half in and half out of the pail, unmoving. His eyes stared vacantly, his wet hair plastered across his brow.
Alice stumbled backward, chest heaving. It was over. They had done it. An eerie silence fell in the dim house, broken only by the distant drone of cicadas outside.
Richard knelt and felt for a pulse at Wise’s throat with trembling fingers. There was none. He looked up at Alice, his face pale. “He’s… dead.”
Alice let the pot slip from her nerveless hand. It hit the floor with a clang. Her gaze fixed on Wise’s lifeless form – the man who had terrorized them, now reduced to a sodden corpse slumped against a bucket. A sob of relief or despair – she wasn’t sure which – rose in her throat.
Richard stood and crossed to her. “Alice…” He gently took her into his arms, and she collapsed against him. For a long moment they simply held each other amid the wreckage: the spilled porridge, the blood-spattered water, the cane on the floor. Both were shaking, stunned by their own deeds.
“He deserved it,” Richard whispered fiercely, as if convincing himself as much as her. “There was no other way.” Alice nodded against his chest, unable to speak. In her heart, she knew he was right. Wise had left them no choice but this violent end – or so she told herself.
But the reality of what they had done crashed in a moment later. Alice pulled back, wiping her tears with a trembling hand. “We…we have to go. Now,” she gasped. They couldn’t stay here; Patrick or Jacob might return any minute. And when the boatman came back with the skiff, he would surely discover the murder.
Richard snapped to action, shock giving way to urgency. “Gather anything useful,” he said, voice low and urgent. He bent and retrieved the pistol from the floor. The priming pan was empty – Wise hadn’t gotten to load it – but a powder horn and shot bag hung on a peg by the door. Richard grabbed them and hastily began loading the firearm, hands still unsteady.
Alice moved as if in a dream. She went to Wise’s body, averting her eyes from his slack face, and fumbled through his pockets. Her fingers closed on a leather coin purse at his belt. She yanked it free – inside she could feel the clink of coins. That would be badly needed. She also spotted a tarnished silver pocket watch dangling from his waistcoat. It could fetch good money; she tugged until the chain snapped and stuffed the watch into her apron pocket – one of several personal effects they would steal before fleeing.
In the corner lay Wise’s satchel of personal effects – a few books, spare clothes, a small dagger in a sheath. Alice took the dagger and belted it around her own waist. Every weapon might count. She also grabbed a weathered brown cloak from a hook; it was old but it might disguise her in a crowd.
Richard had finished loading the pistol. He looked around quickly. “Food,” he muttered. Alice dashed to the cupboard and snatched a loaf of coarse bread and a chunk of cheese, wrapping them in a cloth. She also took a flask of fresh water.
They dared not delay much longer. Richard peered out the doorway. The clearing was still empty; Patrick and Jacob were still off in the woods, oblivious to what had transpired.
“We’ll take the rowboat downriver,” Richard said. His eyes were dark but determined. “We can follow the river south, maybe hide by the marshes until nightfall.” Without the main skiff, the only other boat was a small dugout canoe used for ferrying feed across a creek on the island. It would have to do.
Alice nodded, clutching the bundle of provisions to her chest. She cast one last look around the house. Her gaze landed on the corpse of William Wise. A strange mix of triumph and horror churned within her. She did not regret that he was gone – not for an instant – but the gravity of ending a human life weighed on her soul.
“Come,” Richard urged, taking her hand. They slipped out into the glaring midday sun and hurried across the yard. In the distance, the ring of Patrick’s axe still echoed. They skirted the edge of the clearing, using the house to block the view from the woods, and reached the path to the small north inlet where the canoe was tied.
Luck remained with them – no one was at the inlet. The crude canoe bobbed in the reeds. Richard helped Alice in, then untied the rope and pushed off. Using a rough wooden paddle, he began steering them downstream along the island’s edge.
As the canoe glided into the shadow of cypress trees, Alice let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Overhead, an osprey took flight, disappearing toward the vast tidal marshes ahead. They were free – for the moment.
Behind them, Hutchinson Island and the nightmare of William Wise receded. Alice gripped Richard’s arm. He glanced back at the clearing, then met her eyes. In his gaze was a flicker of something almost like hope.
They had done the unthinkable. Now they had to do the impossible: get away with it.