Dutch demi-culverin, hammering a wooden wedge out from under the breech
in order to elevate the muzzle. "Aye, looks like they've started coming
about, but I think we might still give the whoresons one more taste."
All the large cannon in the breastwork had been disabled by the
invading Roundheads; their infantry had overrun the guns long enough to
drive a large iron nail deep into each gun's touch hole, the small
opening in the breech through which the powder was ignited. The
facility would have been defenseless had not six of the Dutch demi-
culverin been hauled out of the fort and hidden in a palm grove up the
hill just prior to the attack.
As soon as the invasion was repelled and the breastwork cleared,
Winston had summoned teams of horses to bring the small Dutch cannon
back. His gunners had opened fire on the fleet at the first light of
dawn, catching the three English frigates which were still anchored
within range and preparing for a long, leisurely shelling of the
Jamestown settlement. An artillery duel commenced as the warships
immediately returned the fire, but when Winston's gunners honed their
targeting, they had prudently hoisted anchor and retired to the edge of
range. Now, while the militiamen worked with hammers and drills to
finish removing the spikes from the large culverin, the battle had
become mostly noise and smoke.
"Katy, God's life!" He finally noticed her as she emerged at the top of
the steps. His startled look quickly melted into a smile. "This is a
surprise."
"Hugh, I came to find out . . ."
"Everything's fine. We've got two of the spiked guns almost cleared,
and if we can keep fire cover with these Dutch demi's, we should have
all of them back in operation by nightfall." He walked over to where
she stood. "So move on back out of range. It'll not be much longer. I
think they've decided to give up on the shelling. Tom's already holed
the _Rainbowe _twice with these little nine-pounders. Probably didn't
do much harm, but at least the Roundheads know we're here."
He glanced up as a puff of smoke rose from the gun deck of the warship
nearest the shore, the _Marsten Moor_.
"_Round of fire!"_
Before he finished the warning, the men had already dropped their
hammers and were plunging behind a pile of sandbags. Winston's hard
grip sent her sprawling with him behind the mound of earth-brown sacks.
He rolled across her, then covered her face with his sweaty jerkin.
"This is how we brave fighting men stay alive . . ."
An eighteen-pound shot slammed against the base of the breastwork,
shaking the brick foundation beneath them. After a few anxious moments,
the men clambered nervously over the bags to resume work. She was still
brushing the dirt from her riding habit when Winston suddenly whirled
on her, his eyes fierce.
"Now you listen to me, Katy. You can't stay down here. It's still too
damned dangerous. If you want to get killed, there're lots of better
ways."
His back was toward the sea when the second burst of black smoke
erupted from the gun deck of the _Marsten Moor_. "Hugh!" Without
thinking she reached for him. Together they rolled twice across the
soft earth, into the safety of the shielding bags. As they lay next to
the militiamen and gunners, a round of cannon fire clipped the side of
a battlement next to where they had been standing and hurtled a deadly
spray of brick fragments into the sandbags. Several shards of brick
ripped into the cloth and showered them with white grains.
He seemed embarrassed now as he slipped his arm under her and quietly
hoisted her to her feet. Around them the militiamen were again
returning to work on the disabled cannon. "I don't know whether to
thank you, Katy, or order you clapped in the brig for coming here in
the first place. But either way, you can't stay. So kindly wait up the
hill till . . ."
The sound of a forceful hammer stroke followed by a clear ring produced
a cheer from the group of men who had been diligently hammering on one
of the spiked cannon.
"Got her cleared, Yor Worship," one of the militiamen yelled toward
Winston. "Fit as the day she was cast."
He abruptly turned and headed through the crowd to inspect the breech
of the gun. After scrutinizing the reopened touch hole, he motioned
toward a waiting gunner. "Ladle in about five pounds of powder and see
how she fires."
Tom Canninge called from the other end of the breastwork, "I've got the
altitude about set on this little nine-pounder, Cap'n. It's the best of
the lot."
"Then see if you can't put a round through her portside gun deck." His
voice was increasingly strained.
"Good as done." Canninge ordered the demi-culverin shifted a few
degrees to the left, then motioned for a linstock and lightly applied
the burning end to the touch hole.
The gun roared and kicked backward in a cloud of dense, oily smoke.
While the men squinted against the sun to watch, a large hole
splintered open along the portside bow of the _Marsten Moor_, just
above the waterline. Moments later a mate in the maintop began to
unfurl tops'ls, and after that the mainsail dropped in preparation to
make for open sea.
"Let's give her a sendoff, masters." Winston led the cheers, and
Katherine realized he was deliberately trying to boost morale. Next he
yelled down the sweating line of men. "Hear me, now. Our good master
Canninge has just earned us all a tot of kill-devil. By chance I think
a keg may have arrived this morning, on a cart that found its way up
from Bridgetown. We should take a look up by that large tree on the
left." He paused and waited for the hoorahs to subside. "Under my
command, the men always drink first, then officers." He waved a
dismissal. "As you will, masters."
As the gunners and militiamen threw down their tools and began to
bustle in the direction of the liquor, he turned to Katherine and his
voice dropped. "Now that we're both still
alive, maybe we can talk. Why don't we try and find some shade
ourselves?"
"You seem exhausted." As she looked at him, realizing that even his
brown eyes seemed pale, she found herself almost reluctant to raise the
matter of Jeremy. Maybe he had enough to worry about.
"Bone-tired is more the word. But we've got the fleet out of range for
a while. Now we just have to worry about what they'll think to try
next."
Hearing the open concern in his voice, she wrapped a consoling arm
about his waist as they walked down the stone steps of the abandoned
breastwork. "But the invasion failed. This round is won, isn't it?"
"If you can call that massacre last night 'winning,' then I suppose you
could say so." He heaved a weary sigh. "Planters make poor soldiers,
Katy. As best I can tell, we lost eighteen men killed outright. And a
lot more were wounded. Some of them will doubtless die too, given this
heat. So all we did was drive the Roundheads back to sea for a while,
but at a terrible cost." He looked down. "They took some prisoners. Two
longboats full. Probably about thirty men, though we don't really know
yet who's captured, or missing . . . or just gone off to hide."
"Well, that's not so many."
"True enough. We managed to take a few prisoners ourselves, maybe half
a dozen or so. . . . I guess maybe you didn't hear. Jeremy Walrond has
disappeared. We think he was taken prisoner."
"Thank God. Then he's not dead." She stopped still. "But . . .
captured? Poor Jeremy. He'd probably sooner have been killed. He was so
proud."
"Anthony's proud too, and he's taking it very hard. When we heard
Jeremy was missing, I offered to take the command here, to let him go
back to Bridgetown and see if he was with the wounded. Then somebody
suggested that Jeremy probably had surrendered, and Anthony threatened
to kill the man. It was plain he needed some rest."
She stood silent for a moment, then looked away sadly. "What do you
think will happen now?"
Winston followed her gaze, out toward the horizon. "Maybe everybody
will try to negotiate some more. It's getting complicated all of a
sudden, with prisoners now part of it. Unfortunately we didn't manage
to take any officers, just infantry--most of them so weak from scurvy
the fleet's probably just as glad to have them gone, before they died
anyway. "
"What'll happen to Jeremy? You don't suppose they'd hang him."
"I doubt that." He waved his hand. "So far it's a civilized war. But
they may ask a price to send him back if they find out he's Anthony's
brother. It's very bad."
"What do you suppose we can do?"
"Not much I can think of. Maybe they'll just try to wait us out a bit."
He reached down and lightly brushed some of the dirt and sand from her
hair. Then he wiped his brow, glanced at the sun, and urged her on,
toward the grove of trees. "I'd guess it's a matter now of who can hold
out longest." He slipped his arm about her waist and glanced down. "And
how're you holding up, Katy?"
"I suppose I'm fine." She leaned against him, trying to ignore the heat
and the stares of some of the men. Finally she gave a mirthless laugh.
"No, do you want the truth? I'm more worried than ever. Isn't it odd?
Just when we seem to be standing firm." She looked up at his smoke-
smeared cheeks. "Can we go hide? Away from here? I think your morale
could do with a boost too."
"You're looking at a somewhat disoriented breastwork commander. Make
that 'acting commander.' But Anthony's supposed to be back around now
to relieve me. Whenever he gets here, we can ride back over to
Bridgetown, if I can manage to locate a horse." He helped her down
beneath the shade of a spreading manchineel tree, kicking away several
of the poisonous apples that lay rotting around the trunk. Then he
flopped down beside her. "This is one of the hardest things I've ever
tried, Katy, holding defenses together when half the men truly don't
care a damn whether we win or lose. But it's the only thing I know to
do. Tell me if you can think of anything better."
"Is that all you've thought about lately, Hugh?" She ran a hand along
his thigh.
"It's all I care to think about for the time being."
She pulled back sharply. "Well, commander, please don't think I have
nothing else to occupy my mind with except you. But that doesn't mean
I've just forgotten you entirely."
"I haven't forgotten you either, Katy. God's life!" He picked up a twig
and tapped it against one of the poison apples. "Tell me, what does the
governor of Barbados think about his only daughter keeping company with
the likes of me?"
"I do what I choose." She pressed against him. "Anyway, it's not what
he says that troubles me. It's what I say to myself. I've always been
able to control my feelings. But, somehow, not with you. And I hate
myself for it. I truly do."
"I'm probably a poor choice for the object of your feelings."
She laughed and squeezed his hand. "God help me, as if I didn't already
know that. Who'd ever have thought I'd be going about half in love with
a man like you."
"I thought you once said you weren't interested in falling in love." He
kissed her lightly. "Probably a safe idea. I don't know how many of us
are going to live through this."
Before she could respond, he rose on one elbow and pointed toward a
pair of horses approaching from the south. "It looks like we may get
back to Bridgetown after all. I think that's Briggs, and he's brought
Anthony with him. It's odds they both distrust me only slightly more
than they hate each other, but it's enough to make them allies for a
while. Well, they're welcome to have back this command any time they
want it."
"Then we can ride in together?"
"I don't think Anthony's going to like that idea, but it's your affair.
God knows I know better than to try and give you advice."
She laughed. "Then you're starting to understand me better than I
thought."
"Let me just have a word with Anthony about the condition of the
ordnance. And make some gunnery assignments." He began to pull himself
up. "Then maybe we'll retire down to the _Defiance _for a while. I've
missed her." He stooped and kissed the top of her head as he rose to
his feet. "And I've missed you, too. Truly."
Anthony Walrond reined in his dun mare and stared dumbly toward the
shore as he and Briggs emerged from the trees. The night before it had
been a melee of muskets, commands, screams; now it was a smoky
landscape strewn with lost helmets and bandoliers, and stained with
dark splotches where men had fallen. In its peacefulness it made the
battle seem scarcely more than a violent dream, a lost episode that
existed only in man's flawed memory, not in time.
Battles, he reflected, were always a matter of chance. You plan
strategies for days, devise elaborate tactics, try to guess what you
would do if you were the foe. But in the end little of it really
matters. A man panics, or a horse stumbles, or your musket fails to
fire, and suddenly nothing happens the way you thought. It becomes a
contest of bravery, luck, happenstance. Whether you win or lose, it's
likely as not for reasons you never envisioned.
In a way, last night's episode was no different. Dick Morris and his
Roundheads lost more men than they should have. Since they only
expected militia at the breastwork, the parapet caught them by
surprise. Also, they seemed deceived at first by the feigned retreat,
the bird limping and flopping away from her nest to lure the fox.
Except this time the fox suddenly grew wise. The limping bird somehow
bungled its part, caused the fox to smell a trap. Which left no
recourse but to launch a bloody counterattack directly on the
breastwork.
Jeremy. They claimed he was surrounded and taken while reloading his
musket. Holding his position. But why? He knew the orders. He
disobeyed.
He disobeyed.
Anthony was still gripping the reins, his knuckles white, when Briggs
broke the silence. "As usual, it's a good thing I rode over to check.
Where're the men? Is that them drinking in the shade, whilst the
breastwork is left unattended?" He drew his horse alongside Anthony's
and squinted against the sun. "Winston has a peculiar idea of
discipline, by my life."
"These men are not a gang of your African cane cutters. He's got enough
sense to know he can't work them all day in the sun. I'll wager full
half of them would just as soon not be here at all."
"Now you're beginning to sound like him." Briggs spotted the tall
seaman walking up the shore and reined around. "And in truth, sir, I'm
starting to question whether either of you should be kept in charge of
this breastwork."
"Well, after last night, I propose you could just as well put a
scullery wench in command here at Jamestown, for all the difference it
would make." Walrond was studying the breastwork as they neared the
shore. "There's not likely to be another attempt at a landing along
here. It'd be too costly and Morris knows it. No commander in the
English army would be that foolhardy. Doubtless he thought he'd managed
to spike all our ordnance, and he just planned to sit back and shell
the settlement here all day today. It looks as if they took a few
rounds of shot this morning, but the shelling seems over. I'd guess
Winston's lads managed to hold their own."
"Aye, God be praised for the Dutchmen and their demi-
culverin." Briggs touched his black hat toward the approaching figure.
"Your servant, Captain. How goes it?"
"Our gunners put some shot into the _Rainbowe _and the _Marsten Moor_
before they weighed anchor and made way out to sea. I'd venture the
better part of the ordnance here should be serviceable again by
nightfall." He nodded to Walrond. "Any news of the prisoners?"
"This morning all the field commanders brought in reports." The
royalist's voice was matter-of-fact. "As best we can tell, twenty-nine
of our men were taken out to the _Rainbowe _last night."
"And Jeremy was among their number, the way somebody said? There was no
mistake about that?"
"It appears likely." He looked away, to cover his embarrassment, and
spotted Katherine walking toward them up the beach. He adjusted his
eyepatch in anger and glanced back sharply at Winston. Could it be the
rumors were all too true? If so, then damn him. Damn her. "I trust Miss
Bedford has already been informed?"
"A few minutes ago."
"Well, sir, I fancy her dismay did not go uncomforted." He swung down
from the saddle. "I can assume duties here now, and relieve you, sir.
She has to be taken home. This is scarcely the place for a woman."
"You're welcome to have it. I just need to make a few gunnery
assignments of my own men. But I'd advise you to let the lads cool off
a bit before starting them working again." He turned to hold the reins
of Briggs' horse as the planter began dismounting. "One other thing.
Before I go, I'd like a word with you. Master Briggs. Considering
what's happened, I'd like it if you'd convey a message from me to the
Council."
"Speak your mind, sir." Briggs eased himself out of the saddle and
dropped down. His heavy boots settled into the loose sand.
"I lost three seamen last night, good men, when we
charged the breastwork. They'll be buried tomorrow with all the others
killed."
"It was a hard night for us all, sir."
"Don't try my patience, Master Briggs. I'm not in the mood." He paused
to wait as Katherine joined the circle.
"Katherine, your servant." Anthony coldly doffed his hat in greeting.
"Here to review the militia?"
"I came to find out about Jeremy."
"I'm still hoping there must be some mistake." He abruptly turned away.
"Well, now that I know, I suppose I'll go back." She looked at him,
elegant and cool even now, and told herself she should be more
embarrassed than she felt, having him see her here with Hugh. What was
he really thinking?
"Katy, wait. I'm glad you're here." Winston motioned her forward,
ignoring Anthony's pained look. "Perhaps it'd be well for you to hear
this too. Maybe you can convey what I want to say to the Assembly, for
whatever good it may do." He turned back. "I want to tell you all that
I've concluded this militia is untrained, undisciplined, and, what's
worse, uninterested in getting shot all to hell defending Barbados. I
hear them asking each other why they're fighting at all."
"We're holding them off nicely, sir," Briggs interjected. "I'm proud of
. . ."
"Hear me. I tell you we were just lucky last night. Morris' men might
well have held the breastwork if they hadn't panicked. The next time
'round we may not be as fortunate." He fixed Briggs squarely. "What you
and the Council have to decide is whether you're willing to do what's
necessary to win."
"We're doing everything we can."
"It's not enough. Next time, Morris will doubtless try and land every
man he has. When he does, I wonder if this militia will even bother to
meet them."
"I don't agree with you there, sir." Briggs was frowning.
"But then I suppose you figure you've got some idea nobody else has
thought of yet."
"Do you want to hear it?"
"_I'd _like to hear it." Anthony Walrond had finished hobbling his mare
and stepped next to them.
"All right. First, I say prune out the small freeholders, send any of
them home who want to go." He turned to Walrond. "Then get rid of any
of the royalists who don't have battle experience. They want to give
orders, but they don't know what they're about. The rest of the men
don't like it." He paused carefully. "I don't like it either."
"You're presumptuous, sir, if I may say." Anthony glared.
"You may say what you please. But if you don't do something about
morale, this war's as good as over."
"It most certainly will be, if we dismiss most of the militia, which is
what it would mean if we did what you just said."
"I didn't say you don't need a militia. You just need men in it who're
ready to stand and fight."
Briggs examined him quizzically. "But if we dismissed all these half-
hearted freeholders, there'd be scarcely any free men left on the
island to take their place."
"That's right. You'd have to make some free men." He gestured toward
the hills inland. "Do you realize there're hundreds of first class
fighting men here now, men with battle experience who could massacre
Morris' forces if given a chance? And, more to the point, if you gave
them something to fight for."
"Who do you mean?"
"You know who. These new Africans. They've got battle experience, I can
tell just by looking at them. I don't know how many of them have ever
handled a musket, but I'd wager a lot of them can shoot. Make them part
of your militia, and Morris' infantrymen'll never know what hit them."
"I'm damned if we'll arm these savages and let them loose
on the island. Next thing, they'd try and take over. It'd be the end of
slavery. Which means the end of sugar."
"Doesn't have to be. Let them work for wage and start treating them
like men. Then, instead of worrying about having them at your back,
you'd have them holding your defenses."
"That's about the damnedest idea I've ever come across." Briggs spat
into the sand.
"Then you've got a choice. You can have slavery, or you can win
independence. Either you get them to help, or you end up a slave to the
Commonwealth yourself." He glanced at Katherine, then back at Briggs as
he continued. "And the same goes for your indentures. How in hell do
you expect this island to hold out against England when half the men
here would just as soon see you lose? But give the slaves, and the
indentures, a stake in this, and you'll have a good ten or fifteen
thousand fighting men here. Morris has maybe three, four hundred. He'll
never take Barbados. I want you to tell that to the Council."
"I'll be party to no such undertaking." Briggs squinted through the
sunshine.
"Then give my regards to the admiral when you sit down to sign the
surrender. I give you a week at most." He turned and touched
Katherine's arm. "Katy, if you'd like me to see you home, then wait
over there by that shade tree while I make gunnery assignments."
Atiba moved noiselessly along the wet sand of the shore, crouched low,
the wind in his face, just as he had once stalked a wounded leopard in
the forest three days north of Ife. This part of the harbor was almost
deserted now; only two frigates remained, and they were both lodged in
the sand, immobile. One was the great, stinking ship that had brought
him to this forlorn place. He hated it, had vowed never to be on it
again. Furthermore, tonight its decks were crowded with drinking,
singing _branco_. The other one would have to supply what he needed--
the one belonging to the tall Ingles _branco_ with the mark on his
cheek.
He secured the stolen machete in his waist-wrap and waded into the
water. When the first salty wave curved over him, he leaned into it
with his shoulder and began to swim--out away from the shore, circling
around to approach the ship from the side facing the sea.
As he swam, he thought again of what he must do. It was not a mission
of his choosing. He had finally agreed to come because there was no
other way to placate the elders. Until last night he had not realized
how much they feared the arms of the _branco_. . .
"We must be like the bulrush, not like brittle grass," Tahajo, the
oldest and hence presumed the wisest, had declared. "A bulrush mat will
bend. A grass mat breaks to pieces. Do not be brittle grass, Atiba, be
like the bulrush. Do what we ask of you."
"Tahajo's wisdom is known throughout Ife." Obewole, the strongest of
them all, had next conceded his own fear. "Remember it's said you
cannot go to war with only a stick in your hand; you must carry a
crossbow."
Atiba had intended the meeting in his hut to be their final council of
war. Last evening was carefully chosen, auspicious. It was the fourth
night of the new moon on the island of Barbados. In Ife it would have
been the fourth day of a new month, and also the last day of the week--
a cycle of four days dedicated to major gods of the Yoruba pantheon;
Shango, Obatala, Orunmila, and Ogun. The appearance of the new moon was
important and signified much. By telling the beginning of the month, it
scheduled which days would be market days, which were sacred, what god
was responsible for the birth of a child.