circle, entoning a deep, eerie chant toward the stars. It was like a
song of triumph.
She sat watching till he finished, then listened to the medley of
frightened night birds from the dark down the hill. How could this
_preto _understand so well her own secret shame, see so clearly the
lies she told herself in order to live?
Abruptly he reached down and slipped his hands under her arms, lifting
her up to him. "The first thing I want to do tonight is give you back a
Yoruba name. A name that has meaning." He paused. "What was your mother
called?"
"Her name was Dara."
"Our word for 'beautiful.'" He studied her angular face gravely. "It
would suit you as well, for truly you are beautiful too. If you took
that name, it would always remind you that your mother was a woman of
our people."
She found herself wishing she had the strength to push his warm body
away, to shout out to him one final time that he was a _preto_, that
his father was a _preto _and her own a _branco_, that she had no desire
to so much as touch him. . . . But suddenly she was ashamed to say the
word "white," and that shame brought a wave of anger. At him, at
herself. All her life she had been proud to be _mulata_. What right did
this illiterate _preto _have to make her feel ashamed now? "And what
are you? You are a _preto _slave. Who brings me to a hilltop in the
dark of night and brags about freedom. Tomorrow you will be a slave
again, just like yesterday."
"What am I?" Angrily he gripped her arms and pulled her face next to
his. The fierceness of his eyes again recalled the old _babalawo _in
Brazil; he had had the same pride in himself, his people. "I am more
than the Ingles here are. Ask of them, and you will discover half once
were criminals, or men with no lands of their own, no lineage. In my
veins there is royal blood, a line hundreds of generations old. My own
father was nearest the throne of the ruling Oba in Ife. He was a
_babalawo_, as I am, but he was also a warrior. Before he was betrayed
in battle, he was the second most powerful man in Ife. That's who I am,
my father's son."
"What happened? Was he killed?" Impulsively she took his hand and was
surprised by its warmth.
"He disappeared one day. Many markets later I learned he was betrayed
by some of our own people. Because he was too powerful in Ife. He was
captured and taken down to the sea, sold to the Portugues. I was young
then. I had only known twelve rainy seasons. But I was not too young to
hunt down the traitors who made him slave. They all died by my sword."
He clenched his fist, then slowly it relaxed. "But enough. Tonight I
want just one thing. To teach you that you still can be free. That you
can be Yoruba again."
"Why do you want so much to change me?"
"Because, Dara"--his eyes were locked on hers--"I would have you be my
wife. Here. I will not buy you with a bride price; instead I will kill
the man who owns you."
She felt a surge of confusion, entwined with want. But again her
disdain of everything _preto _caught in her breast. Why, she wondered,
was she even bothering to listen?
"After you make me 'Yoruba,' I will still be a slave to the Ingles."
"Only for a few more days." His face hardened, a tenseness that spread
upward through his high cheeks and into his eyes. "Wait another moon
and you will see my warriors seize this island away from them."
"I'll not be one of your Yoruba wives." She drew back and clasped her
arms close to her breasts, listening to the night, alive now with the
sounds of whistling frogs and crickets.
"Rather than be wife to a Yoruba, you would be whore to an Ingles." He
spat out the words. "Which means to be nothing."
"But if you take this island, you can have as many wives as you like.
Just as you surely have now in Ife." She drew away, still not trusting
the pounding in her chest. "What does one more mean to you?"
"Both my wives in Ife are dead." His hand reached and stroked her hair.
"They were killed by the Fulani, years ago. I never chose more, though
many families offered me their young women."
"Now you want war again. And death. Here."
"I raised my sword against my enemies in Yorubaland. I will fight
against them here. No Yoruba will ever bow to others, black or white."
He gently touched her cheek and smoothed her pale skin with his warm
fingers. "You can stand with us when we rise up against the Ingles."
His touch tingled unexpectedly, like a bridge to some faraway time she
dreamed about and still belonged to. For an instant she almost gave in
to the impulse to circle her arms around him, pull him next to her.
He stroked her cheek again, lovingly, before continuing. "Perhaps if I
kill all the Ingles chiefs, then you will believe you are free. That
your name is Dara, and not what some Portugues once decided to call
you." He looked at her again and his eyes had softened now. "Will you
help me?"
She watched as the moonlight glistened against the ebony of his skin.
This _preto _slave was opening his life to her, something no other man
had ever done. The _branco _despised his blackness even more than they
did hers, but he bore their contempt with pride, with strength, more
strength than she had ever before sensed in a man.
And he needed her. Someone finally needed her. She saw it in his eyes,
a need he was still too proud to fully admit, a hunger for her to be
with him, to share the days ahead when . . .
_Yes
_. . . when she would stand with him to destroy the _branco_.
"Together." Softly she reached up and circled her arms around his broad
neck. Suddenly his blackness was exquisite and beautiful. "Tonight I
will be wife to you. Will you hold me now?"
The wind whipped her long black hair across his shoulder, and before
she could think she found herself raising her lips to his. He tasted of
the forest, of a lost world across the sea she had never known. His
scent was sharp, and male.
She felt his thumb brush across her cheek and sensed the wetness of her
own tears. What had brought this strange welling to her eyes, here on
this desolate hillside. Was it part of love? Was that what she felt
now, this equal giving and accepting of each other?
She shoved back his open shirt, to pass her hands across the hard
muscles of his chest. Scars were there, deep, the signs of the warrior
he once had been. Then she slipped the rough cotton over his back,
feeling the open cuts of the lashes, the marks of the slave he was now.
Suddenly she realized he wore them as proudly as sword cuts from
battle. They were the emblem of his manhood, his defiance of the
Ingles, just as his cheek marks were the insignia of his clan. They
were proof to all that his spirit still lived.
She felt his hands touch her shift, and she reached gently to stop him.
Over the years in Brazil so many men had used her. She had been given
to any white visitor at the plantation who wanted her: first it was
Portuguese traders, ship captains, even priests. Then conquering
Hollanders, officers of the Dutch forces who had taken Brazil. A
hundred men, all born in Europe, all unbathed and rank, all white. She
had sensed their _branco _contempt for her with anger and shame. To
this black Yoruba, this strong, proud man of Africa, she would give
herself freely and with love.
She met his gaze, then in a single motion pulled the shift over her
head and tossed it away, shaking out the dark hair that fell across her
shoulders. As she stood naked before him in the moonlight, the wind
against her body seemed like a foretaste of the freedom, the love, he
had promised.
He studied her for a moment, the shadows of her firm breasts casting
dark ellipses downward across her body. She was _dara_.
Slowly he grasped her waist and lifted her next to him. As she entwined
her legs about his waist, he buried his face against her and together
they laughed for joy.
Later she recalled the touch of his body, the soft grass, the sounds of
the night in her ears as she cried out in completeness. The first she
had ever known. And at last, a perfect quiet had seemed to enfold them
as she held him in her arms, his strength tame as a child's.
In the mists of dawn he brought her back, through the forest, serenaded
by its invisible choir of egrets and whistling frogs. He carried her
home across the rooftop, to her bed, to a world no longer real.
"Damn me, sir, I suppose you've heard the talk. I'll tell you I fear
for the worst." Johan Ruyters wiped his mouth with a calloused hand and
shoved his tankard across the table, motioning for a refill. The Great
Cabin of the _Defiance _was a mosaic of flickering shadows, lighted
only by the swaying candle-lantern over the large oak table. "It could
well be the end of Dutch trade in all the English settlements, from
here to Virginia."
"I suppose there's a chance. Who can say?" Winston reached for the
flask of sack and passed it over. He was exhausted, but his mind was
taut with anticipation. Almost ready, he told himself; you'll be gone
before the island explodes. There's only one last thing you need: a
seasoned pilot for Jamaica Bay. "One of the stories I hear is that if
Barbados doesn't swear allegiance to Parliament, there may be a
blockade."
"Aye, but that can't last long. And frankly speaking, it matters little
to me who governs this damned island, Parliament or its own Assembly."
He waved his hand, then his look darkened. "No, it's this word about
some kind of Navigation Act that troubles me."
"You mean the story that Parliament's thinking of passing an Act
restricting trade in all the American settlements to English bottoms?"
"Aye, and let's all pray it's not true. But we hear the damned London
merchants are pushing for it. We've sowed, and now they'd be the ones
to reap."
"What do you think you'll do?"
"Do, sir? I'd say there's little we _can _do. The Low Countries don't
want war with England. Though that's what it all may lead to if London
tries stopping free trade." He glanced around the timbered cabin: there
was a sternchaser cannon lashed to blocks just inside the large windows
aft and a locked rack of muskets and pistols secured forward. Why had
Winston invited him aboard tonight? They had despised each other from
the first. "The better part of our trade in the New World now's with
Virginia and Bermuda, along with Barbados and St. Christopher down here
in the Caribbees. It'll ruin every captain I know if we're barred from
ports in the English settlements."
"Well, the way things look now, you'd probably be wise just to weigh
anchor and make for open sea, before there's any trouble here. Assuming
your sight drafts are all in order. "
"Aye, they're signed. But now I'm wondering if I'll ever see them
settled." He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his
thinning gray hair. "I've finished scrubbing down the _Zeelander _and
started lading in some cotton. This was going to be my best run yet.
God damn Cromwell and his army. As long as the Civil War was going on,
nobody in London took much notice of the Americas."
"True enough. You Hollanders got rich, since there was scarcely any
English shipping. But in a way it'll be your own fault if Barbados has
to knuckle under now to England and English merchants."
"I don't follow you, sir." Ruyters regarded him questioningly.
"It'd be a lot easier for them to stand and fight if they didn't have
these new slaves you sold them."
"That's a most peculiar idea, sir." He frowned. "How do you see that?"
Winston rose and strolled aft to the stern windows, studying the leaded
glass for a moment before unlatching one frame and swinging it out. A
gust of cool air washed across his face. "You Hollanders have sold them
several thousand Africans who'd probably just as soon see the island
turned back to a forest. So they'll be facing the English navy
offshore, with a bunch of African warriors at their backs. I don't see
how they can man both fronts."
"That's a curious bit of speculation, sir. Which I'm not sure I'd be
ready to grant you. But it scarcely matters now." Ruyters stared down
at the table. "So what do you think's likely to happen?"
"My guess is the Assembly'll not surrender the island to Cromwell
without a fight. There's too much royalist sentiment there." He looked
back at Ruyters. "If there's a blockade, or if Cromwell tries to land
English forces, I'd wager they'll call up the militia and shoot back."
"But they've nothing to fight with. Scarcely any ordnance worth the
name."
"That's what I'm counting on." Winston's eyes sobered.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"It's the poor man that remembers best who once lent him a shilling. I
figure that anybody who helps them now will be remembered here in the
days to come, regardless of how this turns out."
"Why in the name of hell would you bother helping them? No man with his
wits about him wants to get caught in this, not if he's looking to his
own interests."
"I'll look to my interests as I see fit." Winston glanced back. "And
you can do the same."
"Aye, to be sure. I intend to. But what would you be doing getting
mixed up in this trouble? There'll be powder and shot spent before it's
over, sir, or I'm not a Christian."
"I figure there's today. And then there's tomorrow, when this island's
going to be a sugar factory. And they'll need shippers. They won't
forget who stood by them. If I pitch in a bit now--maybe help them
fortify the Point, for instance--I'll have first call. I'm thinking of
buying another bottom, just for sugar." He looked at Ruyters and
laughed. "Why should all the new sugar profits go to you damned
Butterboxes?"
"Well, sir, you're not under my command anymore. I can't stop you from
trying." The Dutchman cleared his throat noisily. "But they'd not
forget so soon who's stood by them through all the years. Ask any
planter here and he'll tell you we've kept this island, and all the
rest of the English settlements, from starving for the last twenty
years." He took a swallow from his tankard, then settled it down
thoughtfully. "Though mind you, we needed them too. England had the
spare people to settle the Americas, which the Low Countries never had,
but we've had the bottoms to ship them what they need. It's been a
perfect partnership." He looked back at Winston. "What exactly do you
think you can do, I mean this business about fortifying the Point?"
"Just a little arrangement I'm making with some members of the
Assembly."
"I'm asking you as one gentleman to another, sir. Plain as that."
Winston paused a few moments, then walked back from the window. The
lantern light played across his lined face. "As a gentleman, then.
Between us I'm thinking I'll off-load some of the ordnance on the
_Defiance _and move it up to the Point. I've got twice the cannon on
board that they've got in place there. I figure I might also spare them
a few budge-barrels of powder and some round shot if they need it."
"I suppose I see your thinking." Ruyters frowned and drank again. "But
it's a fool's errand, for all that. Even if they could manage to put up
a fight, how long can they last? They're isolated."
"Who can say? But I hear there's talk in the Assembly about trying to
form an alliance of all the American settlements. They figure Virginia
and Bermuda might join with them. Everybody would, except maybe the
Puritans up in New England, who doubtless can be counted on to side
with the hotheads in Parliament."
"And I say the devil take those New Englanders. They've started
shipping produce in their own bottoms, shutting us out. I've seen their
flags carrying lumber to the Canaries and Madeira; they're even sending
fish to Portugal and Spain now. When a few years past we were all but
keeping them alive. Ten years ago they even made Dutch coin legal
tender in Massachusetts, since we handled the better part of their
trade. But now I say the hell with them." His face turned hopeful. "But
if there was an alliance of the other English settlements, I'll wager
there'd be a chance they might manage to stand up to Cromwell for a
while. Or at least hold out for terms, like you say. They need our
shipping as much as we need them."
"I've heard talk Bermuda may be in favor of it. Nobody knows about
Virginia." Winston drank from his tankard. "But for now, the need's
right here. At least that's what I'm counting on. If I can help them
hold out, they'll remember who stood by them. Anyway, I've got nothing
to lose, except maybe a few culverin."
Ruyters eyed him in silence for a moment. The rhythmic creaking of the
boards sounded through the smoky gloom of the cabin. Finally he spoke.
"Let's be plain. What are they paying you?"
"I told you." Winston reached for the flask. "I've spoken to Bedford,
and I'm planning a deal for sugar contracts. I'll take it out in trade
later."
Ruyters slammed down his own tankard. "God's wounds, they could just as
well have talked to some of us! I'll warrant the Dutch bottoms here've
got enough ordnance to fortify both of the breastworks along the west
coast." He looked up. "There're a good dozen merchantmen anchored in
the bay right now. And we've all got some ordnance. I've even got a
fine set of brass nine-pounders they could borrow."
"I'd as soon keep this an English matter for now. There's no need for
you Dutchmen to get involved." Winston emptied the flask into his
tankard. "The way I see it, I can fortify the breastwork up on the
Point with what I've got on board. It'll help them hold off Cromwell's
fleet for a while, maybe soften the terms." He turned and tossed the
bottle out the open stern window. "Which is just enough to get me
signatures on some contracts. Then I take back the guns and Cromwell
can have the place."
"What the pox, it's a free trade matter, sir. We've all got a stake in
it." Ruyters' look darkened. He thought of the profits he had enjoyed
over the years trading with the English settlements. He'd sold
household wares, cloth, and liquor to colonists in Virginia and the
Caribbees, and he'd shipped back to Europe with furs and tobacco from
North America, cotton and dye woods from the Caribbean. Like all Dutch
fluyts, his ship was specially built to be lightly manned, enabling him
to consistently undercut English shippers. Then too, he and the other
Dutch traders made a science of stowage and took better care of their
cargos. They could always sell cheaper, give longer credits, and offer
lower freight rates than any English trader could. But now that they
had slaves to swap for sugar, there would finally be some real profits.
"I can't speak for the other men here, but it'd be no trouble for me to
lend them a few guns too. . . . And I'd be more than willing to take
payment in sugar contracts. Maybe you could mention it privately to
Bedford. It'd have to be unofficial, if they're going to be using Dutch
guns against the English navy."
"I'm not sure why I'd want to do that."
"As a gentleman, sir. We both have a stake in keeping free trade. Maybe
you could just drop a word to Bedford and ask him to bring it up with
the Assembly. Tell him we might mislay a few culverin, if he could
arrange to have some contracts drawn up."
"What's in it for me?"
"We'll strike an arrangement, sir. Word of honor." Ruyters look
brightened. "To be settled later. When I can return the favor."
"Maybe you can do something for me now . . . if I agree."
"You can name it, sir."
"I've been thinking I could use a good bosun's mate. How about letting
me have that crippled Spaniard on the _Zeelander _if you've still got
him? What's his name . . . the one who had a limp after that fall from
the yardarm when we were tacking in to Nevis?"
"You don't mean Vargas?"
"Armando Vargas, that's the one."
Ruyters squinted through the dim light. "He's one of the handiest lads
aloft I've got, bad leg or no. A first-rate yardman."
"Well, I think I'd like to take him on."
"I didn't know you were short-handed, sir."
"That's my bargain." Winston walked back to the window. "Let me have
him and I'll see what I can do about talking to Bedford."
"I suppose you remember he used to be a navigator of sorts for the
Spaniards. For that matter, I'll wager he knows as much as any man
you're likely to come across about their shipping in the Windward
Passage and their fortifications over there on the Main." Ruyters' eyes
narrowed. "Damn my soul, what the devil are you planning?"
"I can always use a good man." He laughed. "Those are my terms."
"You're a lying rogue, I'll stake my life." He shoved back his chair.
"But I still like the bargain, for it all. You've got a man. Have
Bedford raise our matter with the Assembly."
"I'll see what I can do. Only it's just between us for now, till we see
how many guns they need."
"It goes without saying." Ruyters rose and extended his hand. "So we'll
shake on it. A bargain sealed." He bowed. "Your servant, sir."
Winston pushed open the cabin door and followed him down the
companionway to the waist of the ship. Ruyters' shallop was moored
alongside, its lantern casting a shimmering light across the waves. The
oarsmen bustled to station when they saw him emerge. He bowed again,
then swung heavily down the rope ladder.
Winston stood pensively by the railing, inhaling the moist evening air
and watching as the shallop's lantern slowly faded into the midnight.
Finally he turned and strolled up the companionway to the quarterdeck.
Miss Katherine Bedford should be pleased, he told himself. In any case,
better they borrow Dutch guns than mine. Not that the extra ordnance
will make much difference if Cromwell posts a fleet of warships with
trained gunners. With these planters manning their cannon, the fleet
will make short work of the island.
He started back for the cabin, then paused to watch the moonlight
breaking over the crests and listen to the rhythmic pound of light surf
along the shore. He looked back at the island and asked himself if
Katherine's was a cause worth helping. Not if the Americas end up the
province of a few rich slaveholders--which on Barbados has got to be
sure as the sunrise. So just hold your own course, and let this island
get whatever it deserves.
He glanced over the ship and reflected again on his preparations, for
the hundredth time. It wouldn't be easy, but the plan was coming
together. The sight drafts were still safely locked away in the Great
Cabin, ready for delivery day after tomorrow, when the transfer of the
indentures became official. And the work of outfitting the ship for
transport of men was all but finished. The gun deck had been cleared,
with the spare budge barrels of powder and the auxiliary round shot
moved to the hold, permitting sleeping hammocks to be lashed up for the
new men. Stores of salt fish, cheese, and biscuit had been assembled in
a warehouse facing Carlisle Bay; and two hundred half pikes had been
forged, fitted with staffs, and secured in the fo'c'sle, together with
all of Anthony Walrond's new flintlock muskets.
Everything was ready. And now he finally had a pilot. Armando Vargas
had made Jamaica harbor a dozen times back when he sailed with the
Spaniards; he always liked to brag about it. Once he'd even described
in detail the lookout post on a hilltop somewhere west of Jamaica Bay.
If they could slip some men past those sentries on the hill, the
fortress and town would fall before the Spaniards' militia even
suspected they were around.
Then maybe he would take out time to answer the letter that'd just come
from England.
He turned and nodded to several of the men as he moved slowly back down
the companionway and into the comforting quiet of the cabin. He'd go up
to Joan's tavern after a while, share a last tankard, and listen to
that laugh of hers as he spun out the story of Ruyters and the guns.
But now he wanted solitude. He'd always believed he thought best,
worked best, alone.
He closed the large oak door of the Great Cabin, then walked to the
windows aft and studied the wide sea. The Caribbean was home now, the
only home left. If there was any question of that before, there wasn't
anymore, not after the letter.
He stood a moment longer, then felt for the small key he always kept in
his left breeches pocket. Beneath a board at the side of the cabin was
a movable panel, and behind it a heavy door, double secured. The key
slipped easily into the metal locks, and he listened for the two soft
clicks.
Inside were the sight bills, just visible in the flickering light of
the lantern, and next to them was a stack of shipping invoices. Finally
there was the letter, its outside smeared with grease and the red wax
of its seal cracked and half missing. He slipped it out and unfolded it
along the creases, feeling his anger well up as he settled to read it
one more time.
_Sir (I shall never again have the pleasure to address you as my
obedient son),
After many years of my thinking you perished, there has late come word
you are abroad in the Caribbees, a matter long known to certain others
but until this day Shielded from me, for reasons I now fully
Comprehend. The Reputation I find you have acquired brings me no little
pain, being that (so I am now advis'd) of a Smuggler and Brigand.
_
He paused to glance out the stern window once again, remembering how
the letter had arrived in the mail packet just delivered by the
Rotterdam. It was dated two months past, and it had been deposited at
Joan's tavern along with several others intended for seamen known to
make port in Barbados.
_Though I had these many long years thought you dead by the hands of
the Spaniard, yet I prayed unceasing to God it should not be so. Now,
upon hearing News of what you have become, I am constrained to question
God's will. In that you have brought Ignominy to my name, and to the
name of those other two sons of mine, both Dutiful, I can find no room
for solace, nor can they.
_He found his mind going back to memories of William and James, both
older. He'd never cared much for either of them, and they'd returned
his sentiment in full measure. William was the first--heavy set and
slow of wit, with a noticeable weakness for sherry. Since the eldest
son inherited everything, he had by now doubtless taken charge of the
two thousand acres that was Winston Manor, becoming a country squire
who lived off rents from his tenants. And what of James, that nervous
image of Lord Harold Winston and no less ambitious and unyielding?
Probably by now he was a rich barrister, the profession he'd announced
for himself sometime about age ten. Or maybe he'd stood for Parliament,
there to uphold the now-ended cause of King Charles.
_That a son of mine should become celebrated in the Americas for his
contempt of Law brings me distress beyond the telling of it. Though I
reared you with utmost care and patience, I oft had cause to ponder if
you should ever come to any good end, being always of dissolute and
unruly inclination. Now I find your Profession has been to defraud the
English crown, to which you should be on your knees in Reverence, and
to injure the cause of honest Merchants, who are the lifeblood of this
Christian nation. I am told your name has even reached the ears of His
Majesty, causing him no small Dismay, and adding to his distresses at a
time when the very throne of England is in peril from those who would,
as you, set personal gain above loyalty and obedience. . . .
_
He stopped, not wanting to read more, and crumpled the letter.
That was the end of England. Why would he want to go back? Ever? If
there'd once been a possibility, now it was gone. The time had come to
plant roots in the New World. So what better place than Jamaica? And
damned to England. He turned again to the stern windows, feeling the
end of all the unease that had come and gone over the years. This was
it.
But after Jamaica, what? He was all alone. A white cloud floated past
the moon, with a shape like the beakhead of a ship. For a moment it was
a gargoyle, and then it was the head of a white horse. . . .
He had turned back, still holding the paper, when he noticed the sound
of distant pops, fragile explosions, from the direction of the Point.
He walked, puzzling, back to the safe and was closing the door, the key
already in the lock, when he suddenly stopped.
The Assembly Room was somewhere near Lookout Point, just across the
bay. It was too much of a coincidence.
With a silent curse he reached in and felt until his hand closed around
the leather packet of sight bills, the ones he would exchange for the
indentures. Under them were the other papers he would need, and he took
those too. Then he quickly locked the cabinet and rose to make his way
out to the companionway. As he passed the table, he reached for his
pistols, checking the prime and shoving them into his belt as he moved
out into the evening air.
He moved aft to the quartergallery railing to listen again. Now there
could be no mistaking. Up the hill, behind Lookout Point, there were
flashes of light in the dark. Musket fire.
"What do you suppose it could be, Cap'n?" John Mewes appeared at the
head of the companionway.
"Just pray it's not what I think it is. Or we may need some powder and
shot ourselves." He glanced back toward the hill. "Sound general
muster. Every man on deck."
"Aye." Mewes turned and headed for the quarterdeck.
Even as the bell was still sounding, seamen began to appear through the
open hatch, some half dressed and groggy. Others were mumbling that
their dice game had been interrupted. Winston met them on the main
deck, and slowly they formed a ragged column facing him. Now there was
more gunfire from the hill, unmistakable.
"I'm going to issue muskets." He walked along the line, checking each
seaman personally. Every other man seemed to be tipsy. "To every man
here that's sober. We're going ashore, and you'll be under my command."
"Beggin' yor pardon, Cap'n, what's all that commotion up there apt to
be?" A grizzled seaman peered toward the sounds as he finished securing
the string supporting his breeches.
"It might just be the inauguration of a new Civil War, Hawkins."
Winston's voice sounded down the deck. "So look lively. We collect on
our sight bills. Tonight."