Master Jackson did give permission for me to write, yet now as I put pen to paper I am lost for what to say. I labour in the sugar plantations, as does Joseph. Hacking the sugar cane is punishing work in the heat that calls to my mind the fires of hell itself. Of my fellow labourers, all slaves, many were followers of Monmouth, a few transported for other misdeeds, and many are African, innocent of any wrongdoing but snatched from their homes by wicked men who trade for profit, not in goods but in lives. It grieves me sorely to see my fellow men in such servitude, as it must grieve God. I only wish it were within my power to end this evil trade. Pray for me, dearest father, that I may have the strength to endure. Your most loving son, Richard Lantrist Wesley and Heffernan, summoned from Earlsacre, sat down opposite the elderly man in the interview room. ‘I’ve been looking up your record on one of our newfangled computers, Syd,’ said Gerry Heffernan, as though he were discussing a job applicant’s CV.
