"Your servant, sir." Anthony Walrond stood in the shadow of the Oistins
breastwork, his hand resting lightly on his sword. Edmond Calvert was
walking slowly up the beach from the longboat, flanked by James Powlett
and Richard Morris. The hour was half past three in the afternoon,
exactly as agreed. There had to be enough light to get the men and
supplies ashore, and then the timely descent of darkness to shield
them. "Your punctuality, I trust, portends your constancy in weightier
concerns."
"And yours, sir, I pray may do the same." Calvert slipped off his dark
hat and lightly bowed a greeting. Then he turned and indicated the two
men behind him. "You've met Vice Admiral Powlett. And I understand
Colonel Morris is not entirely unknown to you."
"We've had some acquaintance in times past." Walrond nodded coldly in
the direction of Morris, but did not return the commander's perfunctory
smile. The old hatred, born of years of fighting in England, flowed
between them.
"Then shall we to affairs?" Calvert turned back and withdrew a packet
from his waistcoat. "The supplies we agreed on are ready. I've had my
Chief Purser draw up a list for your inspection."
Walrond took the papers, then glanced out toward the ships.
So it's finally come to this, he thought wistfully. But, God is my
witness, we truly did all any man could ask. There's no turning back
now.
As he thumbed open the wax seal of the packet, he noted absently that
it was dated today, Friday. Had all this really come to pass since only
sundown Monday, when he had first met Powlett, received the initial set
of terms from Edmond Calvert, and begun negotiations? He had tried his
best to counsel reason to the Assembly, he told himself, to arrange an
honorable treaty that would preserve the militia. But a handful of
hotheads had clamored for hopeless defiance, and prevailed. The only
way to save the island now was to force it to surrender as quickly and
painlessly as possible. Victory lay in living to fight another day.
He gazed back at the ships of the fleet, and thought of the road that
had brought them to this: the defection of his own regiment, once the
finest fighting men in England, the royalist Windwards.
Monday at sundown he had commandeered the back room of the Dolphin
Tavern, which stood hard by the shore of Oistins Bay, and met Powlett.
Through the night emissaries had shuttled terms back and forth between
the tavern and the Rainbowe, berthed offshore. By the time the flagship
hoisted anchor and made way for open sea at dawn, Anthony Walrond held
in his hand a document signed by Edmond Calvert; it provided for the
end of the blockade, the island's right to keep its arms and rule
itself in local matters, and a full amnesty for all. The price, as
price there must be, was an agreement to recognize the Commonwealth and
the appointment of a new governor and Council by Calvert.
Tuesday he had summoned a trusted coterie of his royalist officers to
the Dolphin and set forth the terms. They had reviewed them one by one,
debated each, then agreed by show of hands that none more favorable
could reasonably be obtained. Healths were drunk to the eventual
restoration of Charles II to the throne, and that night a longboat was
dispatched to the _Rainbowe_, carrying a signed copy of the agreement.
Wednesday, as agreed, Edmond Calvert had ordered a duplicate copy of
the terms forwarded to the Assembly, indicating it was his last offer.
No mention was made of the secret negotiations that had produced the
document. At that meeting of the Assembly Dalby Bedford had risen to
declare he would not allow his own interests to be the cause of a
single new death, that he would accept the terms and resign forthwith
if such was the pleasure of the Assembly--which was, he said, a
democratic body that must now make its own decision whether to continue
fighting or to negotiate. He next moved that the document be put to a
vote. It was narrowly approved by the Assembly; an honorable peace
seemed within reach.
But then the fabric so carefully sewed was ripped apart. A committee
was formed to draw up the statement of the Assembly's response. In an
atmosphere of hot spirits and general confusion, several of the more
militant members had managed to insert a new clause into the treaty:
that "the legal and rightful government of this island shall remain as
it is now established, by law and our own consent."
The response was then carried by voice vote and sent back to Calvert, a
gauntlet flung across the admiral's face. The defiant faction in the
Assembly exulted and drank toasts to the destruction of any who would
have peace on the original terms.
That night Calvert had delivered a new message to Anthony Walrond,
inviting him to join with the forces of the Commonwealth--a move, he
said, that would surely induce the Assembly to show reason. With this
invitation he had inserted an additional offer: he would endeavor to
persuade Oliver Cromwell to restore the sequestrated estates in England
of any royalist officer who consented to assist.
On Thursday, Anthony held another meeting of the officers of the
Windward Regiment, and they voted enthusiastically to defect to the
side of the fleet. After all, they reasoned, had not an honorable peace
already been refused by the extremists in the Assembly? That night he
so advised Edmond Calvert, demanding as conditions a supply of musket
shot and fifty kegs of musket powder.
This morning just before dawn a longboat from the _Rainbowe_ had
returned Calvert's reply--a signed acceptance of the terms. With
feelings mixed and rueful, he had ordered an English flag hoisted above
the breastwork at Oistins, the agreed-upon signal to Calvert. Then, to
ensure security, he ordered that no militiaman be allowed to leave
Oistins till the ships of the fleet had put in and landed their
infantry.
The _Rainbowe _led the eight warships that entered the bay at
midafternoon. Anthony had seen Edmond Calvert mount the quarterdeck to
watch as the guns in the breastwork were turned around and directed
inland, part of his conditions. Then the admiral had ordered a longboat
lowered and come ashore. . . .
"These supplies all have to be delivered now, before dark." Anthony was
still scrutinizing the list. "Or my men'll not be in the mood to so
much as lift a half-pike."
What matter, Calvert told himself. It's done. The Barbados landing is
achieved. The island is ours. "You'll have the first load of powder
onshore before sundown." He gestured toward the paper. "Your musket
shot, and the matchcord, are on the _Marsten Moor_, but I think we can
have the bulk off-loaded by then too."
"What of the rest of the powder, sir?" Walrond squinted at the list
with his good eye. "That was our main requirement. Some of these
regiments had little enough to start with, and I fear we'll be needing
yours if there's any fighting to be done."
Good Christ. Calvert cast a dismayed look toward Morris. Had I but
known how scarcely provisioned their forces were, I might well not have
. . .
"Well, sir. What of the powder?" Anthony's voice grew harder. "We can
choose to halt this operation right now if . . ."
"I've ordered ten kegs sent ashore. Surely that should be adequate for
the moment. You'll have the rest by morning, my word of honor." He
squinted toward the horizon. "How much time do you think we've got to
deploy the infantry?"
"Less than we'd hoped. We heard the signal for Oistins being sent up
the coast about half an hour past." Walrond turned and followed
Calvert's gaze. The sun was a fiery disc above the western horizon, an
emblem of the miserable Caribbees ever reminding him of the England he
had lost. "If their militia plans to meet us, they'll likely be
assembling at Bridgetown right now. It's possible they'll be able to
march some of the regiments tonight. Which means they could have men
and cavalry here on our perimeter well before dawn."
"Then we've got to decide now where the best place would be to make a
stand." Calvert turned and motioned Morris forward. The commander had
been watching apprehensively as his tattered troops disembarked from
the longboats and waded in through the surf. "What say you, sir? Would
you have us hold here at Oistins, or try to march along the coastal
road toward Bridgetown while there's still some light?"
Morris removed his helmet and slapped at the buzzing gnats now emerging
in the evening air, hoping to obscure his thoughts. Did the admiral
realize, he wondered, how exposed their men were at this very moment?
Why should anyone trust the loyalties of Anthony Walrond and his
royalists? It could all be a trap, intended to lure his men onshore. He
had managed to muster almost four hundred infantrymen from the ships,
but half of those were weak and vomiting from scurvy. Already, even
with just the militia he could see, his own forces were outnumbered. If
Walrond's regiments turned on them now, the entire Commonwealth force
would be in peril. Could they even manage to make their way back to the
ships?
Caution, that's what the moment called for now, and that meant never
letting the Windward Regiment, or any island militia, gain a position
that would seal off their escape route.
"We'll need a garrison for these men, room for their tents." He glanced
carefully at Walrond. "I'm thinking it would be best
for now if we kept our lads under separate command. Each of us knows
his own men best."
"As you will, sir." Anthony glanced back, smelling Morris' caution.
It's the first mark of a good commander, he told himself, but damn him
all the same. He knows as well as I we've got to merge these forces. "I
propose we march the men upland for tonight, to my plantation. You can
billet your officers in my tobacco sheds, and encamp the men in the
fields."
"Will it be ground we can defend?" Morris was carefully monitoring the
line of longboats bringing his men ashore. Helmets and breastplates
glistened in the waning sun.
"You'll not have the sea at your back, the way you do now, should we
find need for a tactical retreat."
"Aye, but we'll have little else, either." Morris looked back at
Calvert. "I'd have us off-load some of the ship ordnance as soon as
possible. We're apt to need it to hold our position here, especially
since I'll wager they'll have at least twice the cavalry mustered that
these Windwards have got."
"You'll not hold this island from the shores of Oistins Bay, sir, much
as you might wish." Anthony felt his frustration rising. "We've got to
move upland as soon as we can."
"I'd have us camp here, for tonight." Morris tried to signal his
disquiet to Calvert. "Those will be my orders."
"Very well, sir," Walrond continued, squinting toward the Windward
Regiment's cavalry, their horses prancing as they stood at attention.
"And don't forget the other consideration in our agreement. The
Assembly is to be given one more opportunity to accept the terms. You
are obliged to draft one final communication for Bedford, beseeching
him to show himself an Englishman and persuade the Assembly to let us
reach an accord."
"As you will, sir." Calvert turned away, biting his tongue before he
said more.
Keep an even keel, he told himself. There'll be time and plenty to
reduce this island, Sir Anthony Walrond with it. The work's already
half done. Now to the rest. After we've brought
them to heel, we'll have time enough to show them how the Commonwealth
means to rule the Americas.
Time and plenty, may God help them all.
* * * * *
"Shango, can you hear me?" She knelt beside her mat, her voice
pleading. How, she wondered, did you pray to a Yoruba god? Really pray?
Was it the same as the Christian God?
But Shango was more.
He was more than just a god. He was also part of her, she knew that
now. But must he always wait to be called, evoked? Must he first seize
your body for his own, before he could declare his presence, work his
will?
Then the hard staccato sounds came again, the drums, their Yoruba words
drifting up over the rooftop from somewhere in the distance and
flooding her with dread, wrenching her heart.
Tonight, they proclaimed, the island will be set to the torch. And the
_branco _will be consumed in the fires.
The men of the Yoruba, on plantations the length of the island, were
ready. This was the day consecrated to Ogun, the day the fields of cane
would be turned to flame. Even now Atiba was dictating final orders,
words that would be repeated again and again by the drums.
After the fires began, while the _branco _were still disorganized and
frightened, they would attack and burn the plantation houses. No man
who owned a _preto_ slave would be left alive. With all the powerful
_branco_ slaveholders dead, the drums proclaimed, the white indentures
would rise up and join with the Yoruba. Together they would seize the
island.
Oh Shango, please. She gripped the sides of the thin mattress. Make him
understand. No white will aid them. To the _branco_ the proud Yoruba
warriors are merely more _preto_, black and despised. Make him
understand it will be the end of his dream. To rise up now will mean
the slaughter of his people. And ensure slavery forever.