Katherine gazed past the pewter candlesticks and their flickering
tapers, down the long cedar table of Briggs' dining hall, now piled
high with stacks of greasy wooden plates spilling over with half-
finished food. The room was wide and deep, with dark oak beams across
the ceiling and fresh white plaster walls. Around the table were rows
of grim men in black hats and plump Puritan women in tight bodices and
starched collars. For all its surface festivity, there was something
almost ominous about the evening. Change was in the air, and not change
for the better.
At the head of the table were the most prominent members of the
Council, the owners of Barbados' largest plantations. She knew the
wealthiest ones personally: Edward Bayes, his jowls protruding beneath
his whisp of beard, owned the choicest coastal lands north around
Speightstown; Thomas Lancaster, now red-cheeked and glassy-eyed from
the liquor, had the largest plantation in the rolling plains of St.
George's parish, mid-island; Nicholas Whittington, dewlapped and
portly, was master of a vast acreage in Christ's Church parish, on the
southern coast.
Anthony Walrond had not been invited, nor any other of the new royalist
emigres--which she should have known was exactly what was going to
happen before she went to all the bother of having a new dress and
bodice made up. No, tonight the guests were the rich planters, the old
settlers who arrived on Barbados in the early years and claimed the
best land. They were the ones that Dalby Bedford, now seated beside
her, diplomatically sipping from his tankard, liked to call the
"plantocracy." They had gathered to celebrate the beginnings of the
sugar miracle. And the new order.
The room was alive with an air of expectancy, almost as palpable as the
smoke that drifted in through the open kitchen door. Benjamin Briggs'
banquet and ball, purportedly a celebration, was in truth something
more like a declaration: the Assembly, that elected body created by
Dalby Bedford from among the small freeholders, would soon count for
nothing in the face of the big planters' new wealth and power.
Henceforth, this flagship of the Americas would be controlled by the
men who owned the most land and the most slaves.
The worst part of all, she told herself, was that Briggs' celebration
would probably last till dawn. Though the banquet was over now, the
ball was about to commence. And after that, Briggs had dramatically
announced, there would be a special preview of his new sugarworks, the
first on the island.
In hopes of reinforcing her spirits, she took another sip of Canary
wine, then lifted her glass higher, to study the room through its wavy
refractions. Now Briggs seemed a distorted, comical pygmy as he ordered
the servants to pass more bottles of kill-devil down the table, where
the planters and their wives continued to slosh it into their pewter
tankards of lemon punch. After tonight, she found herself thinking, the
whole history of the Americas might well have to be rewritten. Barbados
would soon be England's richest colony, and unless the Assembly held
firm, these few greedy Puritans would seize control. All thanks to
sugar.
Right there in the middle of it all was Hugh Winston, looking a little
melancholy and pensive. He scarcely seemed to notice as several toasts
to his health went round the table--salutes to the man who'd made sugar
possible. He obviously didn't care a damn about sugar. He was too
worried about getting his money.
As well he should be, she smiled to herself. He'll never see it. Not a
farthing. Anybody could tell that Briggs and the Council hadn't the
slightest intention of settling his sight bills. He didn't impress them
for a minute with those pretty Spanish pistols in his belt. They'd
stood up to a lot better men than him. Besides, there probably weren't
two thousand pounds in silver on the whole island.
Like all the American settlements, Barbados' economy existed on barter
and paper; everything was valued in weights of tobacco or cotton. Metal
money was almost never seen; in fact, it was actually against the law
to export coin from England to the Americas. The whole Council together
couldn't come up with that much silver. He could forget about settling
his sight bills in specie.
"I tell you this is the very thing every man here'll need if he's to
sleep nights." Briggs voice cut through her thoughts. He was at the
head of the table, describing the security features of his new stone
house. "Mind you, it's not yet finished." He gestured toward the large
square staircase leading up toward the unpainted upper floors. "But
it's already secure as the Tower of London."
She remembered Briggs had laid the first stone of his grand new
plantation house in the weeks after his return from Brazil, in
anticipation of the fortune he expected to make from sugar, and he had
immediately christened it "Briggs Hall." The house and its surrounding
stone wall were actually a small fortress. The dining room where they
sat now was situated to one side of the wide entry foyer, across from
the parlor and next to the smoky kitchen, a long stone room set off to
the side. There were several small windows along the front and back of
the house, but these could all be sealed tight with heavy shutters--a
measure as much for health as safety, since the planters believed the
cool night breeze could induce dangerous chills and "hot paroxysms."
Maybe he thought he needed such a house. Maybe, she told herself, he
did. He already had twenty indentures, and he'd just bought thirty
Africans. The island now expected more slave cargos almost weekly.
As she listened, she found herself watching Hugh Winston, wondering
what the Council's favorite smuggler thought of it all. Well, at the
moment he looked unhappy. He seemed to find Briggs' lecture on the new
need for security either pathetic or amusing--his eyes were hard to
make out--but she could tell from his glances round the table he found
something ironic about the need for a stone fort in the middle of a
Caribbean island.
Briggs suddenly interrupted his monologue and turned to signal his
servants to begin placing trenchers of clay pipes and Virginia tobacco
down the table. A murmur of approval went up when the planters saw it
was imported, not the musty weed raised on Barbados.
The appearance of the tobacco signaled the official end of the food. As
the gray-shirted servants began packing and firing the long-stemmed
pipes, then kneeling to offer them to the tipsy planters, several of
the more robust wives present rose with a grateful sigh. Holding their
new gowns away from the ant-repellent tar smeared along the legs of the
table and chairs, they began retiring one by one to the changing room
next to the kitchen, where Briggs' Irish maidservants could help loosen
their tight bodices in preparation for the ball.
Katherine watched the women file past, then cringed as she caught the
first sound of tuning fiddles from the large room opposite the
entryway. What was the rest of the evening going to be like? Surely the
banquet alone was enough to prove Briggs was now the most powerful man
in Barbados, soon perhaps in all the Americas. He had truly outdone
himself. Even the servants were saying it was the grandest night the
island had ever seen--and predicting it was only the first of many to
come.
The indentures themselves had all dined earlier on their usual fare of
loblolly cornmeal mush, sweet potatoes, and hyacinth beans--though
tonight they were each given a small allowance of pickled turtle in
honor of the banquet. But for the Council and their wives, Briggs had
dressed an expensive imported beef as the centerpiece of the table. The
rump had been boiled, and the brisket, along with the cheeks, roasted.
The tongue and tripe had been minced and baked into pies, seasoned with
sweet herbs, spices, and currants. The beef had been followed by a dish
of Scots collops of pork; then a young kid goat dressed in its own
blood and thyme, with a pudding in its belly; and next a sweet suckling
pig in a sauce of brains, sage, and nutmeg mulled in Claret wine. After
that had come a shoulder of mutton and a side of goat, both covered
with a rasher of bacon, then finally baked rabbit and a loin of veal.
And as though that weren't enough to allow every planter there to gorge
himself to insensibility, there were also deep bowls of potato pudding
and dishes of baked plantains, prickly pear, and custard apples. At the
end came the traditional cold meats, beginning with roast duck well
larded, then Spanish bacon, pickled oysters, and fish roe. With it all
was the usual kill-devil, as well as Canary wine, Sherry, and red sack
from Madeira.
When the grease-stained table had been cleared and the pipes lighted,
Briggs announced the after-dinner cordial. A wide bowl of French brandy
appeared before him, and into it the servants cracked a dozen large hen
eggs. Then a generous measure of sugar was poured in and the mixture
vigorously stirred. Finally he called for a burning taper, took it
himself, and touched the flame to the brandy. The fumes hovering over
the dish billowed into a huge yellow blossom, and the table erupted
with a cheer. After the flame had died away, the servants began ladling
out the mixture and passing portions down the table.
Katherine sipped the sweet, harsh liquid and watched as two of the
planters sitting nearby, their clay pipes billowing, rose unsteadily
and hoisted their cups for a toast. The pair smelled strongly of sweat
and liquor. They weren't members of the Council, but both would also be
using the new sugar-works--for a percentage--after Briggs had finished
with his own cane, since their plantations were near Briggs' and
neither could afford the investment to build his own. One was Thomas
Lockwood, a short, brooding Cornwall bachelor who now held a hundred
acres immediately north of Briggs' land, and the other was William
Marlott, a thin, nervous Suffolk merchant who had repaired to Barbados
with his consumptive wife ten years before and had managed to
accumulate eighty acres upland, all now planted in cane.
"To the future of sugar on Barbados," Lockwood began, his voice slurred
from the kill-devil. Then Marlott joined in, "And a fine fortune to
every man at this table."
A buzz of approval circled the room, and with a scrape of chairs all
the other men pulled themselves to their feet and raised their cups.
Katherine was surprised to see Hugh Winston lean back in his chair, his
own cup sitting untouched on the boards. He'd been drinking all
evening, but now his eyes had acquired an absent gaze as he watched the
hearty congratulations going around.
After the planters had drunk, Briggs turned to him with a querulous
expression.
"Where's your thirst, Captain? Will you not drink to the beginnings of
English prosperity in the Caribbees? Sure, it's been a long time
coming."
"You'll be an even longer time paying the price." It was virtually the
first time Winston had spoken all evening, and his voice was subdued.
There was a pause, then he continued, his voice still quiet. "So far
all sugar's brought you is slavery. And prisons for homes, when it was
freedom that Englishmen came to the Americas for. Or so I've heard
claimed."
"Now sir, every man's got a right to his own mind on a thing, I always
say. But the Caribbees were settled for profit, first and foremost.
Let's not lose sight of that." Briggs smiled indulgently and settled
his cup onto the table. "For that matter, what's all this 'freedom'
worth if you've not a farthing in your pocket? We've tried everything
else, and it's got to be sugar. It's the real future of the Americas,
depend on it. Which means we've got to work a batch of Africans, plain
as that, and pay mind they don't get out of hand. We've tried it long
enough to know these white indentures can't, or won't, endure the labor
to make sugar. Try finding me a white man who'll cut cane all day in
the fields. That's why every spoon of that sweet powder an English
gentlewoman stirs into her china cup already comes from a black hand in
chains. It's always been, it'll always be. For sure it'll be the Papist
Spaniards and Portugals still holding the chains if not us."
Winston, beginning to look a bit the worse for drink, seemed not to
hear. "Which means you're both on the end of a chain, one way or
another."
"Well, sir, that's as it may be." Briggs settled back into his chair.
"But you've only to look at the matter to understand there's nothing to
compare with sugar. Ask any Papist. Now I've heard said it was first
discovered in Cathay, but we all know sugar's been the monopoly of the
Spaniards and Portugals for centuries. Till now. Mind you, the men in
this room are the first Englishmen who've ever learned even how to
plant the cane--not with seeds, but by burying sections of stalk."
Katherine braced herself for what would come next. She had heard it all
so many times before, she almost knew his text by heart.
"We all know that if the Dutchmen hadn't taken that piece of Brazil
from the Portugals, sugar'd be the secret of the Papists still. So this
very night we're going to witness the beginning of a new history of the
world. English sugar."
"Aye," Edward Bayes interrupted, pausing to wipe his beard against his
sleeve. "We've finally found something we can grow here in the
Caribbees that'll have a market worldwide. Show me the fine lord who
doesn't have his cook lade sugar into every dish on his table. Or the
cobbler, one foot in the almshouse, who doesn't use all the sugar he
can buy or steal." Bayes beamed, his red-tinged eyes aglow in the
candlelight. "And that's only today, sir. I tell you, only today. The
market for sugar's just beginning."
"Not a doubt," Briggs continued. "Consider the new fashion just
starting up in London for drinking coffee, and chocolate. There's a
whole new market for sugar, since they'll not be drunk without it." He
shoved aside his cup of punch and reached to pour a fresh splash of
kill-devil into his tankard. "In faith, sugar's about to change forever
the way Englishmen eat, and drink, and live."
"And I'll wager an acre of land here'll make a pound of sugar for every
pound of tobacco it'll grow." Lockwood rose again. "When sugar'll bring
who knows how many times the price. If we grow enough cane on Barbados,
and buy ourselves enough of these Africans to bring it in, we'll be
underselling the Papists in five years' time, maybe less."
"Aye." Briggs seconded Lockwood, eyeing him as he drank. It was common
knowledge that Briggs held eighteen-month sight drafts from the
planter, coming due in a fortnight. Katherine looked at the two of them
and wondered how long it would be before the better part of Lockwood's
acres were incorporated into the domain of Briggs Hall.
"Well, I kept my end of our bargain, for better or worse." Winston's
voice lifted over the din of the table. "Now it's time for yours. Two
thousand pounds were what we agreed on, in coin. Spanish pieces-of-
eight, English sovereigns--there's little difference to me."
It's come, Katherine thought. But he'll not raise a shilling.
Briggs was suddenly scrutinizing his tankard as an uneasy quiet settled
around the table. "It's a hard time for us all just now, sir." He
looked up. "Six months more and we'll have sugar to sell to the
Dutchmen. But as it is today . . ."
"That's something you should've thought about when you signed those
sight drafts."
"I'd be the first one to grant you that point, sir, the very first."
Briggs' face had assumed an air of contrition. "But what's done's
done." He placed his rough hands flat down on the table, as though to
symbolize they were empty. "We've talked it over, and the best we can
manage now's to roll them over, with interest, naturally. What would
you say to . . . five percent?"
"That wasn't the understanding." Winston's voice was quiet, but his
eyes narrowed.
"Well, sir. That's the terms we're prepared to offer." Briggs' tone
hardened noticeably. "In this world it's the wise man who takes what he
can get."
"The sight bills are for cash on demand." Winston's voice was still
faint, scarcely above a whisper. Katherine listened in dismay,
realizing she'd secretly been hoping he could stand up to the Council.
Just to prove somebody could. And now . . .
"Damn your sight bills, sir. We've made you our offer." Briggs
exchanged glances with the other members of the Council. "In truth,
it'd be in the interest of all of us here to just have them declared
worthless paper."
"You can't rightfully do that." Winston drank again. "They have full
legal standing."
"We have courts here, sir, that could be made to take the longer view.
To look to the interests of the island."
"There're still courts in England. If we have to take it that far."
"But you'll not be going back there, sir. We both know it'd take
years." Briggs grinned. "And I'll warrant you'd get more justice in
England than you bargained for, if you had the brass to try it."
"That remains to be seen." Winston appeared trying to keep his voice
firm. "But there'll be no need for that. I seem to recall the terms
give me recourse--the right to foreclose. Without notice."
"Foreclose?" Briggs seemed unsure he had caught the word.
"Since you co-signed all the notes yourself, I won't have to bother
with the rest of the Council," Winston continued. "I can just foreclose
on you personally. Remember you pledged this plantation as collateral."
"That was a formality. And it was two years past." Briggs laughed.
"Before I built this house. And the sugarworks. At the time there was
nothing on this property but a thatched-roof bungalow."
"Formality or not, the drafts pledge these acres and what's on them."
"Well, damn you, sir." Briggs slammed down his tankard. "You'll not get
. . ."
"Mind you, I don't have any use for the land," Winston interjected. "So
why don't we just make it the sugarworks? That ought to about cover
what's owed." He looked back. "If I present the notes in Bridgetown
tomorrow morning, we can probably just transfer ownership then and
there. What do you say to that arrangement?"
"You've carried this jest quite far enough, sir." Briggs' face had
turned the color of the red prickly-pear apples on the table. "We all
need that sugarworks. You'll not be getting your hands on it. I presume
I speak for all the Council when I say we'll protect our interests. If
you try foreclosing on that sugarworks, I'll call you out. I've a mind
to anyway, here and now. For your damned impudence." He abruptly pushed
back from the table, his doublet falling open to reveal the handle of a
pistol. Several Council members shoved back also. All had flintlock
pistols in their belts, the usual precaution in an island of unruly
indentures.
Winston appeared not to notice. "I see no reason for anyone to get
killed over a little business transaction."
Briggs laughed again. "No sir, I suppose you'd rather just try
intimidating us with threats of foreclosure. But by God, if you think
you can just barge in here and fleece the Council of Barbados, you've
miscalculated. It's time you learned a thing or two about this island,"
he continued, his voice rising. "Just because you like to strut about
with a pair of fancy flintlocks in your belt, don't think we'll all
heel to your bluff." He removed his dark hat and threw it on the table.
It matched the black velvet of his doublet. "You can take our offer, or
you can get off my property, here and now."
Katherine caught the determined looks in the faces of several members
of the Council as their hands dropped to their belts. She suddenly
wondered if it had all been planned. Was this what they'd been waiting
for? They must have known he'd not accept their offer, and figured
there was a cheaper way to manage the whole business anyway. A standoff
with pistols, Winston against them all.
"I still think it'd be better to settle this honorably." Winston looked
down and his voice trailed off, but there was a quick flash of anger in
his bloodshot eyes. Slowly he picked up his tankard and drained it. As
the room grew silent, he coughed at the harshness of the liquor, then
began to toy with the lid, flipping the thumb mechanism attached to the
hinged top and watching it flap open and shut. He heaved a sigh, then
abruptly leaned back and lobbed it in the general direction of the
staircase.
As the tankard began its trajectory, he was on his feet, kicking away
his chair. There was the sound of a pistol hammer being cocked and the
hiss of a powder pan. Then the room flashed with an explosion from his
left hand, where a pistol had appeared from out of his belt. At that
moment the lid of the tankard seemed to disconnect in midair, spinning
sideways as it ricocheted off the post of carved mastic wood at the top
of the stairs. The pistol clicked, rotating up the under-barrel, and
the second muzzle spoke. This time the tankard emitted a sharp ring and
tumbled end over end till it slammed against the railing. Finally it
bounced to rest against the cedar wainscot of the hallway, a small,
centered hole directly through the bottom. The shorn lid was still
rolling plaintively along the last step of the stairs.
The entire scene had taken scarcely more than a second. Katherine
looked back to see him still standing; he had dropped the flintlock
onto the table, both muzzles trailing wisps of gray smoke, while his
right hand gripped the stock of the other pistol, still in his belt.
"You can deduct that from what's owed." His eyes went down the table.
Briggs sat motionless in his chair staring at the tankard, while the
other planters all watched him in expectant silence. Finally he picked
up his hat and settled it back on his head without a word. Slowly, one
by one, the other men closed their doublets over their pistols and
nervously reached for their tankards.
After a moment Winston carefully reached for his chair and straightened
it up. He did not sit. "You'll be welcome to buy back the sugarworks
any time you like. Just collect the money and settle my sight bills."
The room was still caught in silence, till finally Briggs found his
voice.
"But the coin's not to be had, sir. Try and be reasonable. I tell you
we'd not find it on the whole of the island."
"Then maybe I'll just take something else." He reached out and seized
the motley gray shirt of Timothy Farrell, now tiptoeing around the
table carrying a fresh flask of kill-devil to Briggs. The terrified
Irishman dropped the bottle with a crash as Winston yanked him next to
the table. "Men. And provisions."
Briggs looked momentarily disoriented. "I don't follow you, sir. What
would you be doing with them?"
"That's my affair. Just give me two hundred indentures,
owned by the men on the Council who signed the sight drafts." He
paused. "That should cover about half the sum. I'll take the balance in
provisions. Then you can all have your sight bills to burn."
Now Briggs was studying the tankard in front of him, his eyes shining
in the candlelight. "Two hundred indentures and you'd be willing to
call it settled?"
"To the penny."
In the silence that followed, the rasp of a fiddle sounded through the
doorway, followed by the shrill whine of a recorder. Briggs yelled for
quiet, then turned back.
"There may be some merit in what you're proposing." He glanced up at
Farrell, watching the indenture flee the room as Winston released his
greasy shirt. "Yes sir, I'm thinking your proposal has some small
measure of merit. I don't know about the other men here, but I can
already name you a number of these layabouts I could spare." He turned
to the planters next to him, and several nodded agreement. "Aye, I'd
have us talk more on it." He pushed back his chair and rose unsteadily
from the table. The other planters took this as a signal, and as one
man they scraped back their chairs and began to nervously edge toward
the women, now clustered under the arches leading into the dancing
room. "When the time's more suitable."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Give us till tomorrow night, sir. After we've had some time to
parlay." Briggs nodded, then turned and led the crowd toward the sound
of the fiddles, relief in his eyes.
Katherine sat unmoving, dreading the prospect of having to dance with
any of the drunken planters. She watched through the dim candlelight as
Winston reached for an open flask of kill-devil, took a triumphant
swig, then slammed it down. She suddenly realized the table had been
entirely vacated save for the two of them.
The audacity! Of course it had all been a bluff. Anyone should have
been able to tell. He'd just wanted the indentures all along. But why?
"I suppose congratulations are in order, Captain."
"Pardon?" He looked up, not recognizing her through the smoke and
flickering shadows. "Forgive me, madam, I didn't catch what you said."
"Congratulations. That was a fine show you put on with your pistol."
He seemed momentarily startled, but then he laughed at his own surprise
and took another swig of kill-devil. "Thank you very much." He wiped
his mouth, set down the bottle, and glanced back. "Forgive me if I
disturbed your evening."
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"I used to do a bit of hunting."
"Have you ever actually shot a man?"
"Not that I choose to remember."
"I thought so. It really was a bluff." Her eyebrows lifted. "So may I
enquire what is it you propose doing now with your two hundred men and
provisions?"
"You're Miss Bedford, if I'm not mistaken." He rose, finally making her
out. "I don't seem to recall our being introduced." He bowed with a
flourish. "Hugh Winston, your most obedient servant." Then he reached
for the flask of kill-devil as he lowered back into his chair. "I'd
never presume to address a . . . lady unless we're properly
acquainted."
She found the hint of sarcasm in his tone deliberately provoking. She
watched as he took another drink directly from the bottle.
"I don't seem to recall ever seeing you speak with a lady, Captain."
"You've got a point." His eyes twinkled. "Perhaps it's because there're
so few out here in the Caribbees."
"Or could it be you're not aware of the difference?" His insolent
parody of politeness had goaded her into a tone not entirely to her own
liking.
"So I've sometimes been told." Again his voice betrayed his pleasure.
"But then I doubt there is much, really." He grinned. "At least, by the
time they get around to educating me on that topic."
As happened only rarely, she couldn't think of a sufficiently cutting
riposte. She was still searching for one when he continued, all the
while examining her in the same obvious way he'd done on the shore.
"Excuse me, but I believe you enquired about something. The men and
provisions, I believe it was. The plain answer is I plan to take them
and leave Barbados, as soon as I can manage."
"And where is it you expect you'll be going?" She found her footing
again, and this time she planned to keep it.
"Let's say, on a little adventure. To see a new part of the world." He
was staring at her through the candlelight. "I've had about enough of
this island of yours. Miss Bedford. As well as the new idea that
slavery's going to make everybody rich. I'm afraid it's not my style."
"But I gather you're the man responsible for our noble new order here,
Captain."
He looked down at the flask, his smile vanishing. "If that's true, I'm
not especially proud of the fact."
At last she had him. All his arrogance had dissolved. Just like Jeremy,
that time she asked him to tell her what exactly he'd done in the
battle at Marsten Moor. Yet for some reason she pulled back, still
studying him.
"It's hard to understand you, Captain. You help them steal sugarcane
from the Portugals, then you decide you don't like it."
"At the time it was a job. Miss Bedford. Let's say I've changed my mind
since then. Things didn't turn out exactly the way I'd figured they
would." He took another drink, then set down the bottle and laughed.
"That always seems to be the way."
"What do you mean?"
"It's something like the story of my life." His tone waxed
slightly philosophical as he stared at the flickering candle. "I always
end up being kicked about by events. So now I've decided to try turning
things around. Do a little kicking of my own."
"That's a curious ambition. I suppose these indentures are going to
help you do it?" She was beginning to find him more interesting than
she'd expected. "You said just now you learned to shoot by hunting. I
know a lot of men who hunt, but I've never seen anything like what you
did tonight. Where exactly did you learn that?"
He paused, wondering how much to say. The place, of course, was
Tortuga, and these days that meant the Cow-Killers, men who terrified
the settlers of the Caribbean. But this wasn't a woman he cared to
frighten. He was beginning to like her brass, the way she met his eye.
Maybe, he thought, he'd explain it all to her if he got a chance
someday. But not tonight. The story was too long, too painful, and
ended too badly.
His memories of Tortuga went back to the sultry autumn of 1631. Just a
year before, that little island had been taken over by a group of
English planters--men and women who'd earlier tried growing tobacco up
on St. Christopher, only to run afoul of its Carib Indians and their
poisoned arrows. After looking around for another island, they'd
decided on Tortuga, where nobody lived then except for a few hunters of
wild cattle, the Cow-Killers. Since the hunters themselves spent a
goodly bit of their time across the channel on the big Spanish island
of Hispaniola, Tortuga was all but empty.
But now these planters were living just off the northern coast of a
major Spanish domain, potentially much more dangerous than merely
having a few Indians about. So they petitioned the newly formed
Providence Company in London to swap a shipment of cannon for a tobacco
contract. The Company, recently set up by some Puritan would-be
privateers, happily agreed.
Enter Hugh Winston. He'd just been apprenticed for three months to the
Company by his royalist parents, intended as a temporary disciplining
for some unpleasant reflections he'd voiced on the character of King
Charles that summer after coming home from his first term at Oxford.
Lord Winston and his wife Lady Brett, knowing he despised the Puritans
for their hypocrisy, assumed this would be the ideal means to instill
some royalist sympathies. As it happened, two weeks later the
Providence Company posted this unwelcome son of two prominent
monarchists out to Tortuga on the frigate delivering their shipment of
guns.
No surprise, Governor Hilton of the island's Puritan settlement soon
had little use for him either. After he turned out to show no more
reverence for Puritans than for the monarchy, he was sent over to hunt
on Hispaniola with the Cow-Killers. That's where he had to learn to
shoot if he was to survive. As things turned out, being banished there
probably saved his life.
When the Spaniards got word of this new colony, with Englishmen pouring
in from London and Bristol, the Audiencia of Santo Domingo, the large
Spanish city on Hispaniola's southern side, decided to make an example.
So in January of 1635 they put together an assault force of some two
hundred fifty infantry, sailed into Tortuga's harbor, and staged a
surprise attack. As they boasted afterward, they straightaway put to
the sword all those they first captured, then hanged any others who
straggled in later. By the time they'd finished, they'd burned the
settlement to the ground and killed over six hundred men, women and
children. They also hanged a few of the Cow-Killers--a mistake that
soon changed history.
When Jacques le Basque, the bearded leader of Hispaniola's hunters,
found out what had happened to his men, he vowed he was going to
bankrupt and destroy Spain's New World empire in revenge. From what was
heard these days, he seemed well on his way to succeeding.
Hugh Winston had been there, a founding member of that band of men now
known as the most vicious marauders the world had ever seen. That was
the piece of his life he'd never gotten around to telling anyone. . . .
"I did some hunting when I was apprenticed to an English settlement
here in the Caribbean. Years ago."
"Well, I must say you shoot remarkably well for a tobacco planter,
Captain." She knew he was avoiding her question. Why?
"I thought I'd just explained. I also hunted some in those days." He
took another drink, then sought to shift the topic. "Perhaps now I can
be permitted to ask you a question, Miss Bedford. I'd be interested to
know what you think of the turn things are taking here? That is, in
your official capacity as First Lady of this grand settlement."
"What exactly do you mean?" God damn his supercilious tone.
"The changes ahead. Here on Barbados." He waved his hand. "Will
everybody grow rich, the way they're claiming?"
"Some of the landowners are apt to make a great deal of money, if sugar
prices hold." Why, she wondered, did he want to know? Was he planning
to try and settle down? Or get into the slave trade himself? In truth,
that seemed more in keeping with what he did for a living now.
"Some? And why only some?" He examined her, puzzling. "Every planter
must already own a piece of this suddenly valuable land."
"The Council members and the other big landowners are doubtless
thinking to try and force out the smaller freeholders, who'll not have
a sugarworks and therefore be at their mercy." She began to toy
deliberately with her glass, uncomfortable at the prospect she was
describing. "It's really quite simple, Captain. I'm sure you can grasp
the basic principles of commerce . . . given your line of work."
"No little fortunes? just a few big ones?" Oddly, he refused to be
baited.
"You've got it precisely. But what does that matter to you? You don't
seem to care all that much what happens to our small freeholders."
"If that's true, it's a sentiment I probably share with most of the
people who were at this table tonight." He raised the empty flask of
kill-devil and studied it thoughtfully against the candle. "So if
Briggs and the rest are looking to try and take it all, then I'd say
you're in for a spell of stormy weather here, Miss Bedford."
"Well, their plans are far from being realized, that I promise you. Our
Assembly will stand up to them all the way."
"Then I suppose I should wish you, and your father, and your Assembly
luck. You're going to need it." He flung the empty flask crashing into
the fireplace, rose, and moved down the table. The light seemed to
catch in his scar as he passed the candle. "And now perhaps you'll
favor me with the next dance."
She looked up, startled, as he reached for her hand.
"Captain, I think you ought to know that I'm planning to be married."
"To one of these rich planters, I presume."
"To a gentleman, if you know what that is. And a man who would not take
it kindly if he knew I was seen with you here tonight."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Anthony Walrond."
Winston erupted with laughter. "Well, good for him. He also has superb
taste in flintlock muskets. Please tell him that when next you see
him."
"You mean the ones you stole from his ship that went aground? I don't
expect he would find that comment very amusing."
"Wouldn't he now." Winston's eyes flashed. "Well, damned to him. And if
you want to hear something even less amusing than that, ask him
sometime to tell you why I took those muskets." He reached for her
hand. "At any rate, I'd like to dance with his lovely fiancee."
"I've already told you . . ."
"But it's so seldom a man like me is privileged to meet a true lady."
His smile suddenly turned gracious. "As you were thoughtful enough to
point out only a few moments ago. Why not humor me? I don't suppose
you're his property. You seem a trifle too independent for that."
Anthony would doubtless be infuriated, but she found herself smiling
back. Anyway, how would he ever find out? None of these Puritans even
spoke to him. Besides, what else was there to do? Sit and stare at the
greasy tankards on the table? . . . But what exactly had Hugh Winston
meant about Anthony's muskets?
"Very well. Just one."
"I'm flattered." He was sweeping her through the archway, into the next
room.
The fiddles were just starting a new tune, while the planters and their
wives lined up facing each other, beginning the country dance Flaunting
Two. As couples began to step forward one by one, then whirl down the
room in turns to the music, Katherine found herself joining the end of
the women's line. Moments later Winston bowed to her, heels together,
then spun her down the makeshift corridor between the lines. He turned
her away from him, then back, elegantly, in perfect time with the
fiddle bows.
The dance seemed to go on forever, as bodies smelling of sweat and
kill-devil jostled together in the confinement of the tiny room. Yet it
was invigorating, purging all her misgivings over the struggle that lay
ahead. When she moved her body to her will like this, she felt in
control of everything. As if she were riding, the wind hard against her
cheek. Then, as now, she could forget about Anthony, the Council, about
everything. Why couldn't all of life be managed the same way?
When the dance finally concluded, the fiddlers scarcely paused before
striking up another.
"Just one more?" He was bending over, saying something.
"What?" She looked up at him, not hearing his words above the music and
noise and bustle of the crowd. Whatever it was he'd said, it couldn't
be all that important. She reached for his hand and guided him into the
next dance.
A loud clanging resounded through the room, causing the fiddles to
abruptly halt and startling Katherine, who found herself alarmed less
by the sound than by the deadening return of reality. She looked around
to see Benjamin Briggs standing in the center of the floor, slamming a
large bell with a mallet.
"Attention gentlemen and ladies, if you please." He was shouting, even
though the room had gone silent. "All's ready. The sugarworks start-up
is now. "
There was general applause around the room. He waited till it died
away, then continued, in a more moderate tone.
"I presume the ladies will prefer to retire above stairs rather than
chance the night air. There's feather beds and hammocks ready, and the
servants'll bring the candles and chamber pots."
Winston listened in mock attentiveness, then leaned over toward
Katherine.
"Then I must bid you farewell, Miss Bedford. And lose you to more
worthy companions."
She looked at him dumbly, her blood still pumping from the dance. The
exhilaration and release were the very thing she'd been needing.
"I have no intention of missing the grand start-up." She
tried to catch her breath. "It's to be history in the making, don't you
recall?"
"That it truly will be." He shrugged. "But are you sure the sugar-works
is any place for a woman?"
"As much as a man." She glared back at him. "There's a woman there
already, Captain. Briggs' mulatto. I heard him say she's in the boiling
house tonight, showing one of the new Africans how to heat the sap. She
supposedly ran one once in Brazil."
"Maybe she just told him that to avoid the dance." He turned and
watched the planters begin filing out through the wide rear door.
"Shall we join them, then?"
As they walked out into the courtyard, the cool night air felt
delicious against her face and sweltering bodice. At the back of the
compound Briggs was opening a heavy wooden gate in the middle of the
ten-foot-high stone wall that circled his house.
"These Africans'll make all the difference, on my faith. It's already
plain as can be." He cast a withering glance at Katherine as she and
Winston passed, then he followed them through, ordering the servants to
secure the gate. The planters were assembled in a huddle now,
surrounded by several of Briggs' indentures holding candle-lanterns. He
took up his place at the front of the crowd and began leading them down
the muddy road toward the torch-lit sugarworks lying to the left of the
plantation house.
Along the road were the thatched cabins of the indentured servants, and
beyond these was a cluster of half-finished reed and clay huts,
scarcely head high, that the Africans had begun constructing for
themselves.
"They're sound workers, for all their peculiar ways." Briggs paused and
pointed to a large drum resting in front of one of the larger huts. It
was shaped like an hourglass, and separate goatskins had been stretched
over each mouth and laced together, end to end. "What do you make of
that contrivance? The first thing they did was start making this drum.
And all this morning, before sunup, they were pounding on it. Damnedest
racket this side of hell."
"Aye, mine did the very same," Lancaster volunteered. "I heard them
drumming all over the island."
Briggs walked on. "They gathered 'round that Yoruba called Atiba, who's
shaking some little seashells on a tray and chanting some of their
gabble. After a time he'd say something to one of them and then there'd
be more drumming." He shook his head in amazement. "Idolatry worse'n
the Papists."
"I've a mind to put a stop to it," Whittington interjected. "The
indentures are already complaining."
"It's a bother, I grant you. But I see no harm in their customs, long
as they put in a day's work. The place I drew the line was when they
started trying to bathe in my pond every night, when any Christian
knows baths are a threat to health. But for it all, one of them will
cut more cane than three Irishmen." He cast a contemptuous glance
backward at Timothy Farrell, who was following at a distance, holding
several bottles of kill-devil. "From sunup to sundown. Good workers, to
the man. So if they choose to beat on drums, I say let them. It's
nothing from my pocket."
Katherine watched Winston shake his head in dismay as he paused to pick
up the drum, turning it in his hands.
"You seem troubled about their drumming, Captain. Why's that?"
He looked up at her, almost as though he hadn't heard. "You've never
been to Brazil, have you, Miss Bedford?"
"I have not."
"Then you probably wouldn't believe me, even if I told you." He looked
back at the huts and seemed to be talking to himself. "God damn these
Englishmen. They're fools."
"It's surely some kind of their African music."
"Obviously." His voice had a sarcastic cut, which she didn't
particularly like. But before she could reply to him in kind, he had
set down the drum and moved on, seeming to have forgotten all about
whatever it was that had so distressed him the moment before. Then he
turned back to her. "May I enquire if you yourself play an instrument,
Miss Bedford?"
"I once played the spinet." She reached down and picked up a small land
crab wandering across their path. She examined it, then flung it aside,
its claws flailing. "But I don't bother anymore."
He watched the crab bemusedly, then turned back. "Then you do know
something about music?"
"We're not without some rudiments of education here on Barbados,
Captain."
"And languages? Have you ever listened to these Yoruba talk? Theirs is
a language of tones, you know. Same as their drums."
"Some of these new Africans have a curious-sounding speech, I grant
you."