As the bell on the _Rainbowe _struck the beginning of the first watch,
Edmond Calvert stood on the quarterdeck studying the thin cup of
crescent moon that hung suspended in the west. In another hour it would
be gone and the dense tropical dark would descend. The time had arrived
to commence the operation.
He reflected grimly on how it had come to this. The ultimate
responsibility, he knew, must be laid at the door of a greedy
Parliament. Before the monarchy was abolished, the American settlements
had been the personal domain of the king, and they had suffered little
interference from Commons. Scarce wonder Parliament's execution of
Charles was received with so much trepidation and anger here--yesterday
he'd heard that in Virginia the Assembly had just voted to hang anyone
heard defending the recent "traitorous proceedings" in England. What
these Americans feared, naturally enough, was that Parliament would
move to try and take them over. They were right. And the richest prize
of all was not Virginia, not Massachusetts, but the sugar island of
Barbados. Why else had he been sent here first?
How could Oliver Cromwell have so misjudged these colonists? He thought
all they needed was intimidation, and expected the fleet to manage that
handily. What he'd failed to
understand was the strong streak of independence that had developed
here over the years, especially in Barbados. Instead of acting
sensibly, the islanders had met the fleet with a cannon barrage and a
Declaration stating that they would fight to the death for their
liberty. What was worse, they had steadfastly refused to budge.
Even so, he had tried every means possible to negotiate a surrender.
He'd started a propaganda campaign, sending ashore letters and posters
warning that resistance was foolhardy, that they needed the protection
of England. But Dalby Bedford's reply was to demand that the island be
allowed to continue governing itself by its own elected Assembly, when
everyone knew Parliament would never agree. Yet for a fortnight they
had continued their fruitless exchange of letters, cajolery, threats--
neither side willing to relent.
What else, he asked himself, was left to do now? Add to that, invasion
fever was becoming rife in the fleet. This morning he had hung out the
Flag of Council, summoning the captains of all the ships aboard the
_Rainbowe _for a final parlay, and over a luncheon table groaning with
meat and drink from the fourteen captured Dutch merchant fluyts, the
men had done little else save brag of victory. Finally, his last hope
of avoiding bloodshed gone, he had reluctantly issued orders. It had
come to this--England and her most populous American colony were going
to war.
He then spent the afternoon watch on the quarterdeck, alone, pensively
studying the flying fish that glided across the surface of the tranquil
blue Caribbean. Hardest to repress was his own anguish at the prospect
of sending English infantry against a settlement in the Americas. These
New World venturers were not rebel Papist Irishmen, against whom
Cromwell might well be justified in dispatching his army. They were
fellow Protestants.
As he turned and ordered the anchor weighed, he experienced yet another
disquieting reflection--unless there was
some weakness in the island he did not yet know, it could win.
"Are we ready to issue muskets now, and bandoliers of powder and shot?"
Vice Admiral James Powlett was coming up the companionway with a
purposeful stride.
He heard Powlett's question and decided to pass the decision on issuing
of arms to the invasion commander, Colonel Richard Morris, now waiting
beside him wearing breastplate and helmet.
Deep wrinkles from fifty years of life were set in Morris' brow, and
the descending dark did not entirely obscure the worry in his blue eyes
or the occasional nervous twitch in his Dutch-style goatee. A seasoned
army officer, he had chafed for days waiting to take his men ashore. On
board the ships, he and his infantry were under naval command. On land,
he would be in total charge. His impatience could not have been
greater.
During the forenoon watch he had personally visited each of the troop
ships and picked some two hundred of the fittest infantry for the
invasion. He had organized them into attack squadrons, appointed field
commanders, and held a briefing for the officers. Then the men had been
transferred in equal numbers to the Rainbowe, the Marston Moor, and the
Gloucester, where the captains had immediately ordered them down to the
already-crowded gun decks to await nightfall.
"We'll issue no arms till it's closer to time." Morris squinted at
Powlett through the waning moonlight. "I'll not have some recruit light
a matchcord in the dark down there between decks and maybe set off a
powder keg. Though I'd scarcely fault any man who did, considering the
conditions you've placed my infantry under."
"In truth, sir, I think we're all a trifle weary of hearing your
complaints about how the navy has been required to garrison your men."
Powlett scowled. "May I remind you that while you've seen fit to occupy
yourself grumbling, the navy has arranged to replenish our water and
provisions, courtesy of all the Butterboxes who were anchored in the
bay. In fact, I only just this afternoon finished inventorying the last
Dutch fluyt and securing her hatches."
Powlett paused to watch as the _Rainbowe _began to come about, her bow
turning north. She would lead the way along the coast, the other two
warships following astern and steering by a single lantern hanging from
her maintopmast. Their destination was the small bay off the settlement
at Jamestown, up the coast from Carlisle Bay.
"What this navy has done, sir," Morris' voice was rising, "is to seize
and pilfer the merchantmen of a nation England has not declared war
on."
"We don't need Letters of Marque to clear our American settlements of
these Dutchmen," Powlett continued. "They've grown so insolent and
presumptuous they're not to be suffered more. If we don't put a stop to
them, they'll soon make claim to all the Americas, so that no nation
can trade here but themselves. Besides, it's thanks to these
interloping Hollanders that we've now got fresh water and meat enough
to last for weeks."
"Aye, so I'm told, though my men have yet to see a sliver of this Dutch
meat we hear about."
"There's been time needed to inventory, sir. I've had the beef we took
cut into quarter pieces and pickled and put aboard the provision ships.
And the pork and mutton cut into half pieces and salted. We've got
enough in hand now to sit and watch this island starve, if it comes to
that."
Morris chewed on his lip and thought bitterly of the noonday Council of
War called aboard the _Rainbowe_. All the fleet captains had gorged
themselves on fresh pork and fat mutton, washing it down with fine
brandy and sack--all taken from the captain's larder of the
Kostverloren. "The treatment of my men on this voyage has been nothing
short of a crime." He continued angrily, "It cries to heaven, I swear
it."
The infantrymen had been confined to the hold for the entire trip, on
dungeonlike gun decks illuminated by only a few dim candles. Since
naval vessels required a far larger crew than merchant ships, owing to
the men needed for the gun crews, there was actually less space for
extra personnel than an ordinary merchantman would have afforded. A
frigate the size of the Rainbowe already had two watches of
approximately thirty men each, together with twenty-five or more
specialists--carpenters, cooks, gunnery mates. How, Morris wondered,
could they expect anything save sickness and misery on a ship when they
took aboard an additional hundred or two hundred landsmen sure to be
seasick for the whole of the voyage? Need anyone be surprised when his
soldiers were soon lying in their own vomit, surrounded by sloshing
buckets of excrement and too sick to make their way to the head up by
the bowsprit, where the seamen squatted to relieve themselves. Scarce
wonder more men died every day.
"What's your latest estimate of their strength here on this side of the
island?" Morris turned back to Powlett, trying to ignore the stench
that wafted up out of the scuttles. "Assuming the intelligence you've
been getting is worth anything."
"I can do without your tone, sir," the vice admiral snapped. "We have
it on authority that the rebels have managed to raise some six thousand
foot and four hundred horse. But their militia's strung out the length
of the coast. Any place we make a landing--unless it's bungled--we
should have the advantage of surprise and numbers. All you have to do
is storm the breastwork and spike their ordnance. It should be a
passing easy night's work."
"Nothing's easy. The trick'll be to land the men before they can alert
the entire island." Morris turned back to Calvert. "I'll need
flintlocks for the first wave, not matchlocks, if we're to have the
benefit of surprise. And I've got a feeling we'll need every advantage
we can muster."
"We can manage that easily enough. I'd guess we've got nearly two
hundred flintlocks. And about six hundred matchlocks. So I can issue
every man you have a musket and pike, and a bandolier with twelve
rounds of powder and shot. As well as six yards of matchcord for the
matchlocks."
"So what you're saying is, we've got mostly matchlocks?" Morris' voice
was grim.
"That's all their militia'll have, depend on it."
That was doubtless true, Morris told himself. It would be an oldstyle
war, but plenty deadly, for it all.
From the time some two centuries earlier when the musket came into
general use, the most common means for firing had been to ignite a
small amount of powder in an external container, the "powder pan,"
which then directed a flash through a tiny hole in the side of the
barrel, igniting the powder of the main charge. The powder pan of a
matchlock was set off using a burning "matchcord," a powder-impregnated
length of cotton twine kept lit in readiness for firing the gun. The
technique differed very little from the way a cannon was fired. A
smoldering end of the matchcord was attached to the hammer or "cock" of
the gun, which shoved it into the powder pan whenever the trigger was
pulled. An infantryman using a matchlock musket carried several yards
of matchcord, prudently burning at both ends. Matchlocks were cheap and
simple and the mainstay of regular infantry throughout Europe.
There was, however, an improved type of firing mechanism recently come
into use, called the flintlock, much preferred by sportsmen and anyone
wealthy enough to afford it. The flintlock musket ignited the powder in
the external pan by striking flint against steel when the trigger was
pulled, and it was a concealable weapon which could also be used in
rainy weather, since it did not require a burning cord. A flintlock
cost three or four times as much as a matchlock and required almost
constant maintenance by a skilled gunsmith. Morris suspected that
whereas a few of the rich royalist exiles on Barbados might own
flintlocks, most of the poorer planters probably had nothing more than
cheap matchlocks.
"We'd also be advised to off-load some provisions once
we get ashore, in case we get pinned down." Morris looked coldly at
Powlett. "I'm thinking a few quarters of that pickled beef you took
from the Dutchmen wouldn't be amiss."
"In time, sir. For now I can let you have twenty hogsheads of water,
and I'll set ashore some salt pork from our regular stores."
"What if I offered to trade all that for just a few kegs of brandy?"
Morris appealed to Calvert. "I warrant the men'd sooner have it."
Calvert glanced at Powlett, knowing the vice admiral had hinted at
their noonday Council he preferred keeping all the Dutch brandy for the
navy's men. "I'd say we can spare you a couple of kegs. It should be
enough for a day or two's supply. But I'll not send it ashore till the
breastwork is fully secured. . . ."
Now the _Rainbowe _was entering the outer perimeter of the small bay at
Jamestown, and the admiral excused himself to begin giving orders for
reefing the mainsail. Through the dark they could see the outline of
the torch-lit breastwork, a low brick fortress outlined against the
palms.
It's all but certain to be bristling with ordnance, Morris thought. And
what if their militia's waiting for us somewhere in those damned trees?
How many men will I lose before daylight?
He inhaled the humid night air, then turned to Powlett. "We should
start bringing the men up on deck. We've got to launch the longboats as
soon as we drop anchor. Before the militia in the breastwork has time
to summon reinforcements."
Powlett nodded and passed the order to the quartermaster. "Then I'll
unlock the fo'c'sle, so we can begin issuing muskets and bandoliers."
The infantrymen emerged from the hold in companies, each led by an
officer. The general mismatch of body armor, the "breast" and "back,"
bespoke what a ragtag army it was. Also, the helmets, or "pots," for
those fortunate enough to have one, were a mixture of all the age had
produced: some with flat brims, some that curled upward front and back.
Some were too large for their wearers, others too small. Doublets too
were a rainbow of colors, many with old-fashioned ruffs--taken from
dead or captured royalists during the Civil War--and the rest plain and
patched with rough country cloth.
The night perfume of the tropical shore and the sea was obliterated by
the stench of the emerging soldiers. Their faces were smeared with soot
from the beams of the gun decks where they had been quartered, and they
smelled strongly of sweat and the rankness of the hold. As they set
grimly to work readying their weapons, a row of longboats along
midships was unlashed and quietly lowered over the side. The two other
warships, which had anchored astern of the _Rainbowe_, also began
launching their invasion craft. Kegs of water, salt pork, and black
powder were assembled on deck and readied to be landed after the first
wave of the assault.
The guns of the warships were already primed and run out, set to
provide artillery support if necessary when the longboats neared the
beach. But with luck the breastwork could be overrun and its gun
emplacements seized before the militia had a chance to set and fire its
ordnance. Once the Jamestown fortress was disabled, there would be a
permanent breach in the island's defenses, a chink not easily repaired.
The longboats had all been lowered now, and they bobbed in a line along
the port side of the _Rainbowe_. Next, rope ladders were dropped and
the infantrymen ordered to form ranks at the gunwales. Those assigned
to lead the attack, all armed with flintlocks, were ordered over the
side first. They dropped down the dangling ladders one by one,
grumbling to mask their fear. The second wave, men with matchlocks,
were being issued lighted matchcord, which they now stood coiling about
their waists as they waited to disembark.
Edmond Calvert watched silently from the quarterdeck, heartsick. With
them went his last hope for negotiation. Now
it was a state of war, England against her own settlements in the New
World.
"Katy, all I'm trying to say is you'll jeopardize your chances for a
proper marriage if this goes on much more. I only hope you have some
idea of what you're about." Dalby Bedford leaned back in his chair and
studied the head of his cane, troubled by his conflicting emotions. The
night sounds from the compound outside, crickets and whistling frogs,
filtered in through the closed jalousies.
He loved his daughter more than life itself. What's more, he had vowed
long ago never to treat her as a child. And now . . . now that she no
longer was a child, what to do? It was too late to dictate to her; the
time for that was years ago. She was a woman now--she was no longer his
little girl. She was no longer his.
They'd always been best of friends. In the evenings they'd often meet
in the forecourt of the compound, where, after she was old enough to
understand such things, they would laugh over the latest gossip from
London: what pompous Lord had been cuckolded, whose mistress had caused
a scene at court. He had never thought to warn her that, as a woman,
she might someday have desires of her own.
But now, he was still her father, still worried over her, still wanted
the right thing for her . . . and she was throwing away her best chance
to secure a fine marriage--all for the company of a man whose rough
manner he could not help but despise, however much he might respect his
courage and talent.
Hugh Winston was the antithesis of everything Dalby Bedford stood for:
he was impulsive, contemptuous of law and order. How could Katy be
attracted to him, be so imprudent? Had she learned nothing in all their
years together?
Dalby Bedford found himself puzzled, disturbed, and--yes, he had to
admit it--a trifle jealous.
"Katy, you know I've never tried to interfere in what you choose to do,
but in truth I must tell you I'm troubled about this Winston. Your
carousing about with a smuggler is hardly demeanor fitting our position
here. I fear it's already been cause for talk."
She set down the leather bridle she was mending and lifted her eyes,
sensing his discomfort. "You'd suppose there were more important things
for the island to talk about, especially now."
"What happens to you is important to me; I should hope it's important
to you as well, young woman."
She straightened her skirt, and the edge of her crinoline petticoat
glistened in the candlelight. "Hugh's a 'smuggler' when I'm out with
him, but he's 'Captain Winston' when the militia needs a batch of raw
ten-acre freeholders drilled in how to form ranks and prime a musket. I
thought it was 'Captain Winston,' and not a 'smuggler' who's been
working night and day helping keep trained gunners manning all the
breastworks along the coast."
"There's no arguing with you, Katy. I gave that up long ago. I'm just
telling you to mind yourself." He swabbed his brow against the heat of
early evening and rose to open the jalousies. A light breeze whispered
through the room and fluttered the curtains. "I'll grant you he's been
a help to us, for all his want of breeding. But what do you know about
him? No man who lives the way he does can be thought a gentleman.
You've been out riding with him half a dozen times, once all the way
over to the breastwork at Oistins. In fact, you must have passed right
by the Walrond plantation. It's not gone unnoticed, you can be sure."
He settled back into his chair with a sigh and laid aside his cane.
These last few days he had realized more than ever how much he depended
on Katherine. "Anthony Walrond's a man of the world, but you can't push
him too far. I'm just telling you to try and be discreet. In faith, my
greater worry is that . . . that I'd sooner you were here with me more
now. Between us, I think the fleet's going to try and invade soon. If
not tonight, then tomorrow or the day after for certain. Talk has run
its course. And if we've got to fight the English army on our own
beaches, God help us."
He could sense the unity on the island dissolving. Many of the smaller
planters were growing fearful, and morale in the militia was visibly
deteriorating. Half the men would just as soon have done with the
constant alerts and dwindling supplies. There was scarcely any meat to
be had now, and flour was increasingly being hoarded and rationed.
Cassava bread was finding its way onto the tables of English planters
who a fortnight earlier would have deemed it fit only for indentures--
while the indentures themselves, God knows, were being fed even less
than usual. Without the steady delivery of provisions by the Dutch
shippers, there probably would be starvation on Barbados inside a
month. And with all the new Africans on the island, many militiamen
were reluctant to leave their own homes unprotected. Little wonder so
many of the smaller freeholders were openly talking about surrender.
"Katy, I hate to ask this, but I do wish you'd stay here in the
compound from now on. It's sure to be safer than riding about the
island, no matter who you're with."
"I thought I was of age. And therefore free to come and go as I wish."
"Aye, that you are. You're twenty-three and twice as stubborn as your
mother ever was. I just don't want to lose you too, the way I lost
her." He looked at her, his eyes warm with concern. "Sometimes you seem
so much like her. Only I think she truly loved Bermuda. Which I'll
warrant you never really did."
"It always seemed so tame." She knew how much he cherished those few
years of happiness, before his long stretch of widowerhood in Barbados.
"There's a wildness and a mystery about this island I never felt
there."
"Aye, you were of your own opinion, even then. But still
I've always been regretful I agreed to take this post." He paused and
his look darkened. "Especially considering what happened on the trip
down. If only I'd taken your mother below decks when the firing began,
she'd still be with us."
"But she wanted to see the canoes." She picked up the bridle again. "I
did too."
"Well, you've been a comfort to a dull old man--no, don't try and deny
it--more than any father has a right to expect, I suppose. You became a
woman that day your mother died, no question of it." The sparkle
returned to his eyes. "You'd never do anything I told you after that.
May God curse you with a daughter of your own someday, Katy Bedford.
Then you'll know what it's like."
At that moment she wanted nothing so much as to slip her arms around
his neck and tell him she would be his dutiful daughter forever. But
she was no longer sure it was true.
"Now admit it to me, Katy. This is no time for pretense. You're smitten
with this Winston, aren't you? I can see the change in you." He watched
as she busied herself with the bridle, trying not to look surprised. "I
realize you're a woman now. I suppose I can understand how a man like
him might appeal to you. And I guess there's nothing wrong with having
a bit of a dalliance. God knows it's fashionable in London these days.
But your Winston's a curious fellow, and there're doubtless a lot of
things about him neither of us knows." He looked at her. "I'm sure your
mother wouldn't have approved, any more than I do."
"What does she have to do with this?" She knew he always invoked her
mother's alleged old-fashioned views any time he couldn't think of a
better argument.
"Perhaps you're right. What you do now is on my head, not hers." He
paused, not wanting to meet her eyes. "I'll grant you I might have
sowed a few wild oats myself, when I was your age. And I can't say I've
entirely regretted it. The fact is, as I get older that's one of the
few things from my early years I remember at all. After a while, all
other memories fade." His voice drifted away. "And now, the way things
have come to pass, these days may be the last either of us has left to
. . ." He raised his hand suddenly, as though to silence himself. From
down the hill came the faint crack of a musket, then another and
another. Three shots.
They both waited, listening in the dim candlelight as the night sounds
of crickets and frogs resumed once more. Finally he spoke.
"Well, there it is."
She rose and walked over behind his chair. She hesitated for a moment,
then slipped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her cheek against
his. There were so many things shed wanted to say to him over the
years. Now suddenly it was almost too late, and still she couldn't find
the words. She wanted to hold him now, but something still stopped her.
Silently he touched her hand, then reached for his cane and stood.
"I've ordered the carriage horses kept harnessed, in case." He was
already halfway to the door. "I suppose I'd best go down to the Point
first, just to be sure."
"I want to go with you." She grabbed the bridle and ran after him. To
let him get away, with so much still unsaid. . . .
"No, you'll stay here, and for once that's an order." He took her hand
and squeezed it. "I didn't tell you that five members of the Assembly
have already called for surrender. Five out of twenty-two. I wonder how
many more'll be ready to join them after tonight. If the Assembly votes
to give in, Katy, you know it'll probably mean a trial in London for
me." He kissed her on the cheek. "You'll have to look out for yourself
then, and that'll be time aplenty to go chasing around the island in
the dark." He drew back. "In the meantime, you'd best decide what you
plan to do about this Winston fellow if that happens. Don't go losing
your heart to him. He's a rogue who'll not do the right thing by you.
Or any woman. Mark it. A father still can see a few things. He's
already got one woman, that ship of his, and a seaman like that never
has room for anyone else."
She had to concede that, in truth, there was something to what he said.
Up till now shed been managing to keep things in balance. But was she
starting to let desire overrule that better judgment? For the hundredth
time she warned herself to keep her head.
"In the first place I don't wish to marry Hugh Winston. So it's just as
well, isn't it, that he's got his ship. I see all too well what he is.
I'm going to marry Anthony, and try and make the best of things." Her
eyes hardened. "And secondly, we're not going to lose. You just have to
delay the Assembly from voting a surrender. Hugh thinks the militia can
drive them back."
"Aye, we may hold out for a time. We've got trained gunners for every
breastwork on the west and south coasts. But how long before some of
the militia starts defecting? Then what can we do? With guns at our
backs as well . . ." He exhaled pensively. "By the way, on the subject
of Winston, I've noticed something a trifle incongruous about that man.
He appears to know a lot more about cannon and fortifications than a
seaman reasonably ought, probably as much or more even than Anthony
Walrond. Has he ever said where he learned it?"
"He never talks much about his past." She had found herself
increasingly puzzled, and not a little infuriated, by Winston's
secretiveness. Probably the only woman he ever confided in was Joan
Fuller. "But sometimes I get the idea he may have learned a lot of what
he knows from a Frenchman. Now and then he slips and uses a French name
for something. I'd almost guess he helped a band of Frenchmen set up
defenses somewhere in the Caribbean once."
Dalby Bedford quietly sucked in his breath and tried to mask his
dismay. The only "band of Frenchmen" to fit that description would be
the little settlement of planters on the French side of St.
Christopher, or the Cow-Killers on Tortuga. And Hugh Winston hardly
looked like a planter.
"Well, maybe it's just as well we don't know, Katy." He reached for his
hat. "Now mind yourself, and make sure all the servants have muskets.
Don't open the door to anyone." He pecked her quickly on the cheek.
"Just be glad your friend Winston's frigate is aground. His 'other
woman' is beached for now; try and keep her that way."
Suddenly James, their stooping, white-haired Irish servant pushed
through the doorway from the paneled entry foyer. The night breeze set
the candles flickering. "Excellency!" He bowed nervously. "Pardon me,
Excellency. There's a . . . gentleman to see you. He just rode into the
compound all in a sweat. Claims he's come up from Mistress Fuller's
place."
The Assembly had voted to place Hugh Winston in command of the gunnery
crews for the cannon emplacements at the four major breastworks along
the coast: Lookout Point, Bridgetown, and Jamestown on the west; and
Oistins Bay, on the south. In line with that responsibility, he had
taken the front room of Joan's tavern and converted it into a meeting
place for his gunnery officers. Several of Joan's rickety pine tables
had been lashed together to form a desk; from that makeshift post he
assigned the daily watches for each of the breastworks and monitored
supplies. He also maintained close communication with the commanders of
the field militia, both infantry and cavalry, who were drawn from the
ranking planters and royalist officers in each parish. The militia
itself had individual field command posts in each of the parish
churches.
The tavern was a comfortable rendezvous place for the men assigned to
the guns, mostly seamen or former seamen who had gained their
experience with heavy ordnance on a gun deck. Joan's familiar clapboard
establishment enjoyed a commanding view of the harbor, and, unlike the
parish churches, offered the finest food and grog remaining on the
island. Joan presided over the accommodations, making sure necessary
amenities were always at hand. She also kept a close eye on the
loyalties of those who gathered.
Tonight, however, the tavern was all but empty save for Winston, his
quartermaster John Mewes and his master's mate Edwin Spurre, since all
gunnery mates were on alert and at their posts at the various
breastworks along the coast. The three of them were waiting for the
signal, horses saddled and ready.
The night was clear and humid, and a light breeze had just sprung up in
the south. Winston leaned against the doorjamb, half in and half out,
exhausted from a day-long ride reviewing gun emplacements along the
shore. John Mewes was stationed outside on the porch, tankard in hand,
keeping an eye on the sentry post atop Lookout Point. A system of
lantern signals had been arranged to alert the Bridgetown command post
to any change in the disposition of the fleet.
"I've got a feelin' about tonight, Cap'n. Word from up on the Point at
midday was they were holdin' a big meetin' aboard the _Rainbowe_. An'
then she got underway and made about a league out to sea, along with
the troop ships." Mewes took a nervous puff from the long stem of his
white clay pipe. "I'd say it's odds they're planning a little surprise
for us tonight. More'n likely somewhere along the west coast."
"I've got the same feeling, John." He strolled across the narrow porch
and stared up the hill, toward the sentry post stationed at the north
end of the Point. "What was the latest signal?"
"Same as usual. Five flashes on the quarter hour, meanin' no
sightings." Mewes reached to tap his pipe against the heavy beam at the
corner of the building. "I told tonight's watch to report anything that
moved. But they'll be hard pressed to see much beyond the bay here."
"Then you stay lively too. And try not to get too thirsty." Winston
lifted a flintlock musket he had brought ashore from the _Defiance_ and
tested the lock by the light of a candle lantern. Next he started
polishing the barrel with a cloth he had borrowed from Joan. "I've got
an idea they may try and land up at Jamestown, or maybe even farther
north."
"Then hadn't we best advise the militia commanders to double the
security on the breastwork up that way?"
"I spoke with Walrond, up at Jamestown, late this afternoon. We both
figure that's the most likely location. He's already ordered up
reinforcements for tonight." He drew a musket patch from his pocket and
began to clean the sooty powder pan of the musket.
"I didn't see any militia moving out from around here."
"Nobody was to move till dark. We don't want the fleet's Puritan spies
here to know we're ready. We'd lose our chance to catch their infantry
in a noose."
"Betwixt you an' me, I'd just as soon they never got around to landing
infantry." Mewes shifted up his trousers. "A man could well get his
balls shot off amidst all that musket fire."
Winston pulled back the hammer of the musket, checking its tension.
"Sometimes I wonder why the hell I keep you on, John. I'd wager most of
Joan's girls have more spirit for a fight."
"Aye, I'd sooner do my battlin' on a feather mattress, I'll own it. So
the better question is why I stay on under your command."
"Could be the fine caliber of men you're privileged to ship with."
"Aye, that crew of gallows-bait are a rare species of gentility, as I'm
a Christian." He started to laugh, then it died in his throat. "God's
wounds, was that a signal up at the point?"
"Looked to be." Winston flipped over the musket and examined the
barrel. Then he selected a "charge holder"--a tiny metal flask--from
among the twelve strung from the bandolier draped over his shoulder and
began pouring its black powder into the muzzle. "Three longs and a
short. That means a mast lantern putting in at Jamestown, right?" He
fitted a patch over the ramrod and began to tamp in the powder.
"Probably the _Rainbowe_. "
"Aye, that's the signal." Mewes shoved the pipe into his pocket. "Want
me to fetch the muskets?"
"Tell Joan to give you those two leaning in the corner, at the back. I
just got through priming them."
Mewes vaulted the steps leading to the open tavern door. Seconds later,
Joan appeared, holding the two flintlocks.
"What is it, darlin'?" Her eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. "Are we
finally due for some company?"
"Right on schedule. The surf's been down all day. I figured they'd try
it tonight." He finished tapping the ball down the muzzle of the
musket, then placed the gun carefully on the step. "I guess that means
I win our wager."
"God's blood, I never thought it'd come to this. I was sure they'd
never have the brass to try it." She passed him the muskets. "So we'll
be going to war after all. I'd wager you another shilling you'll not
hold them off, darlin', save there'd be no way to collect if I won."
"All wagers are off now. This one's too hard to call." He handed one of
the flintlocks to John Mewes, then cocked the other and aimed it into
the dark night air. "Ready, John?"
"Aye." Mewes cocked the musket and aimed it at the sliver of moon on
the western horizon. "Tell me again. The signal for Jamestown's one
shot, a count of five, another shot, a count of ten, and then the
third?"
"That's it."
"Fire when ready."
Winston squeezed the trigger and the powder pan flashed in the dark.
Five seconds later Mewes discharged the second musket, then after ten
seconds Winston fired the third, the one he had just loaded.
"All right, John. Get the horses."
"Aye." Mewes disappeared around the side of the tavern, headed for the
makeshift stable located at the rear.
Approximately a minute later the signal of three musket shots was
repeated by militiamen in the field command post at Black Rock, on the
road to Jamestown. Shortly after there again came a faint repetition of
the pattern of shots, farther north. The prearranged signal was moving
quickly up the coast.
Mewes emerged from the dark leading two speckled mares. He patted one
on the side of her face, muttered an endearment, then passed the reins
to Winston. "I'm ready to ride."
"All right, John, I'll see you at Jamestown. Put Spurre in charge here
and go up to the governor's compound to tell Bedford. If he's not
there, then try the Assembly Room. If they're meeting tonight, tell
them to adjourn and get every man up to Jamestown, on the double. We
may need them all."
Mewes bellowed instructions through the doorway. Then he seized the
saddle horn of the smaller horse and pulled himself up. "Aye. I'll be
up there myself soon as I can manage, depend on it."
Joan stood beside Winston, watching as he vanished into the dark. "Well
now, that's most curious." She cocked back her head and her eyes
snapped in the lantern light. "I'm surprised you'd not take the
opportunity to go up to His Excellency's compound yourself. Seein'
you're so well acquainted with the family these days."
"All in the line of duty."
"Duty my arse, you whoremaster. But you'll get what you deserve from
that one, on my honor. She thinks she's royalty itself." She held the
reins while he mounted. "Don't say I didn't give you a friendly
warning."
"I'm warned." He vaulted into the saddle as Edwin Spurre emerged
through the doorway to assume lookout duty. "Edwin, prime and ready the
muskets. In case they try to attack on two fronts. Do you know the
signals?"
"Aye, Cap'n." Joan handed up the reins. "Godspeed. You know if you let
those Puritan hypocrites take over the island, there'll be a lot of
wives thinkin' they can finally close me down. Just because they've got
nothing better to fret about."
"We'll win." He looked at Joan a moment and reached out to take her
hand. Tonight he felt almost like he was defending the only home he had
left. Now he had no ship, and Jamaica seemed farther away than ever.
He leaned over in the saddle and kissed her. She ran her arms around
his neck, then drew back and pinched his cheek. "Show those Roundhead
bastards a thing or two about how to shoot, love. I'm counting on you,
though damned if I know why."
"Just keep the grog under lock and key till I get back." He waved
lightly, then reined the mare toward the road north.
As the horse clattered across the loose boards of the bridge, he
glanced over his shoulder, up the hill toward the compound. What'll
happen to Bedford and Katy, he wondered to himself, if we can't hold
off the attack? It'll be the Tower and a trial for him, not a doubt.
Probably charged with leading a rebellion. And what about her . . .?
More riders were joining him now, militiamen who had been waiting for
the signal. The distance to Jamestown was several miles, and they were
all riding hard. None spoke, other than a simple greeting, each man
thinking of the stakes. No one wanted to contemplate what would happen
should they lose.
We'll win, he kept telling himself as he spurred his mare. By God, we
have to.