Above the wide hilltop the mid-morning rain had lightened momentarily
to fine mist, a golden awning shading the horizon. A lone figure,
hatless and wearing a muddy leather jerkin, moved slowly up the rutted
path toward the brick compound reserved for the governor of Barbados.
Behind him lay the green-mantled rolling hills of the island; beyond,
shrouded in drizzle and fog, churned the once-placid Caribbean.
The roadway was strewn with palm fronds blown into haphazard patterns
by the night's storm, and as he walked, a new gust of wind sang through
the trees, trumpeting a mournful lament. Then a stripe of white cut
across the new thunderheads in the west, and the sky started to darken
once again. More rain would be coming soon, he told himself, yet more
storm that would stretch into the night and mantle the island and sea.
He studied the sky, wistfully thinking over what had passed. Would that
the squalls could wash all of it clean, the way a downpour purged the
foul straw and offal from a cobblestone London street. But there was no
making it right anymore. Now the only thing left was to try and start
anew. In a place far away.
Would she understand that?
The gate of the compound was secured and locked, as though to shut out
the world beyond. He pulled the clapper on the heavy brass bell and in
its ring heard a foreboding finality.
"Sir?" The voice from inside the gate was nervous, fearful. He knew it
was James, the Irish servant who had been with Katherine and the
governor for a decade.
"Miss Bedford."
"By the saints, Captain Winston, is that you, sir? The mistress said
you'd gone back over to Oistins."
"I just came from there."
"How's the fighting?" The voice revealed itself as belonging to a
short, thin-haired man with watery eyes. "We've not heard from His
Excellency since he sent that messenger down last night. Then after
that Mistress . . ."
"Just take me to Miss Bedford." He quickly cut off what he realized
could grow into an accounting of the entire household for the past
fortnight.
How do I go about telling her, he asked himself. That it's the end of
everything she had, everything she hoped for. That there's no future
left here.
"Is she expecting you, Captain?" James' eyes narrowed as he pushed wide
the heavy wooden door leading into the hallway. "I pray nothing's
happened to . . ."
"She's not expecting me. Just tell her I've come."
"Aye, Your Worship, as you please." He indicated a chair in the
reception room, then turned to head off in the direction of the
staircase.
Katherine was already advancing down the wide mahogany steps. She was
dressed in a calico bodice and full skirt, her hair bunched into moist
ringlets of its own making. Her bloodshot eyes told Winston she had not
slept.
"Hugh, what is it? Why have you come back?" She searched his face in
puzzlement. Then her eyes grew wild. "Oh God, what's happened?" She
stumbled down the rest of the steps. "Tell me."
"Katy, there was some shooting . . ."
And he told her, first that Dalby Bedford was dead, then how it
happened. Next he explained that, since the island no longer had a
seated governor, the Assembly had elected to accept in full the terms
set forth by the admiral of the fleet. He told it as rapidly as he
could, hoping somehow to lessen the pain. She listened calmly, her face
betraying no emotion. Finally she dropped into a tall, bulky chair, and
gazed around for a moment, as though bidding farewell to the room.
"Maybe it's better this way after all." She looked down. "Without the
humiliation of the Tower and a public trial by Cromwell."
Winston watched her, marveling. There still was no hint of a tear.
Nothing save her sad eyes bespoke her pain as she continued, "It's
ironic, isn't it. Both of them. My mother, years ago, and now . . .
Killed by a gun, when all they ever wanted for the world was peace."
She tried to smile. "These are dangerous times to be about in the
Americas, Captain. You're right to always keep those flintlocks in your
belt." She turned away, and he knew she was crying. The servants had
gathered, James and the two women, huddled by the staircase, unable to
speak.
"Katy, I came as soon as I could to tell you. God only knows what's to
happen now, but you can't stay here. They'll figure out in no time
you've had a big hand in this. You'll likely be arrested."
"I'm not afraid of them, or Cromwell himself." She was still gazing at
the wooden planks of the floor.
"Well, you ought to be." He walked over and knelt down next to her
chair. "It's over. These planters we were fighting for gave the island
away, so I say damned to them. There's more to the Americas than
Barbados." He paused, and finally she turned to gaze at him. There were
wet streaks down her cheeks. "Maybe now you'll come with me. We'll make
a place somewhere else."
She looked into his eyes and silently bit her lip. It was almost as
though he had never truly seen her till this moment. His heart went out
to her as he continued, "I want you with me. There's another island,
Katy, if you're willing to try and help me take it."
"I don't . . ." She seemed unsure what she wanted to say. She looked at
him a moment longer, then around at the room, the servants. Finally she
gazed down again, still silent.
"Katy, I can't make you come. Nor can I promise it'll be easy. But
you've got to decide now. There's no time to wait for . . . anything.
We've both got to get out of here. I'm going to collect as many of my
indentures as possible, then try and run the blockade tonight--rain,
storm, no matter. Who knows if I'll make it, but it's my only hope." He
rose to his feet. His muddy boots had left dark traces on the rug.
"It's yours too, if you want it. Surely you know that."
Her voice came like a whisper as she looked up. "We tried, didn't we?
Truly we did."
"You can't give liberty to the Americas if these Puritans only want it
for themselves. It's got to be for everybody. . . . Remember what I
said? They could have freed the Africans, in return for help, and they
might have won. If I ever doubted that, God knows I don't anymore, not
after what I saw last night. But they wanted slaves, and there's no
mobilizing an island that's only half free. So they got what they
deserve." He walked to the sideboard. A flask of brandy was there, with
glasses; he lifted the bottle and wearily poured himself a shot. Then
he turned and hoisted the glass. "We gave it our best, but we couldn't
do it alone. Not here." He drank off the liquor and poured in more.
"Give me some of that." She motioned toward the bottle. He quickly
filled another glass and placed it in her hands. The servants watched,
astonished, as she downed it in one gulp, then turned back to Winston.
"How can I go just yet? There're his papers here, everything. What he
did mustn't just be forgotten. He created a democratic nation, an
Assembly, all of it, here in the Americas. Someday . . ."
"Nobody gives a damn about that anymore." He strode over with the flask
and refilled her glass. "You've got to get out of here. This is the
first place they're apt to look for you. You can stay at Joan's place
till we're ready to go."
"Joan?" She stared at him, disbelieving. "You mean Joan Fuller?"
"She's the only person left here I trust."
"She despises me. She always has."
"No more than you've despised her. So make an end on it."
"I . . ."
"Katy, there's no time to argue now. The damned Roundheads are going to
be in Bridgetown by dark. I've got to go down to the ship, before the
rain starts in again, and sort things out. We've got to finish lading
and get ready to weigh anchor before it's too late."
He watched as she drank silently from the glass, her eyes faraway.
Finally he continued, "If you want, I'll send Joan to help you pack
up." He emptied the second glass of brandy, then set it back on the
sideboard. When he turned back to her, he was half smiling. "I suppose
I've been assuming you're going with me, just because I want you to so
badly. Well?"
She looked again at the servants, then around the room. At last she
turned to Winston. "Hold me."
He walked slowly to the chair and lifted her into his arms. He ran his
hands through her wet hair, then brought up her lips. At last he spoke.
"Does that mean yes?"
She nodded silently.
"Then I've got to go. Just pack what you think you'll want, but not too
many silk skirts and bodices. You won't be needing them where we're
going. Try and bring some of those riding breeches of yours."
She hugged him tighter. "I was just thinking of our 'little island.'
When was that?"
"Yesterday. Just yesterday. But there're lots of islands in the
Caribbean."
"Yesterday." She drew back and looked at him. "And tomorrow?"
"This time tomorrow we'll be at sea, or we'll be at the bottom of the
bay out there." He kissed her one last time. "I'll send Joan quick as I
can. So please hurry."
Before she could say more, he stalked out into the rain and was gone.
The sand along the shore of the bay was firm, beaten solid by the
squall. The heavy thunderheads that threatened earlier had now blanked
the sun, bringing new rain that swept along the darkened shore in hard
strokes. Ahead through the gloom he could make out the outlines of his
seamen, kegs of water balanced precariously on their shoulders, in an
extended line from the thatched-roof warehouse by the careenage at the
river mouth down to a longboat bobbing in the surf. After the raid on
the Oistins breastwork, he had ordered them directly back to Bridgetown
to finish lading. A streak of white cut across the sky, and in its
shimmering light he could just make out the_ Defiance_, safely anchored
in the shallows, canvas furled, nodding with the swell.
Joan. She had said nothing when he asked her to go up and help
Katherine. She'd merely glared her disapproval, while ordering the
girls to bring her cloak. Joan was saving her thoughts for later, he
knew. There'd be more on the subject of Katherine.
The only sounds now were the pounding of rain along the shore and the
occasional distant rumble of thunder. He was so busy watching the men
he failed to notice the figure in white emerge from the darkness and
move toward his path.
When the form reached out for him, he whirled and dropped his hand to a
pistol.
"Senhor, desculpe. "
The rain-mantled shadow curtsied, Portuguese style.
He realized it was a woman. Briggs' mulata. The one Joan seemed so fond
of. Before he could reply, she seized his arm.
"_Faga o favor_, senhor, will you help us? I beg you." There was an icy
urgency in her touch.
"What are you doing here?" He studied her, still startled. Her long
black hair was coiled across her face in tangled strands, and there
were dark new splotches down the front of her white shift.
"I'm afraid he'll die, senhor. And if he's captured . . ."
"Who?" Winston tried unsuccessfully to extract his arm from her grasp.
"I know he wanted to take the guns you have, but they were for us to
fight for our freedom. He wished you no harm."
Good God, so she had been part of it too! He almost laughed aloud,
thinking how Benjamin Briggs had been cozened by all his slaves, even
his half-African mistress. "You mean that Yoruba, Atiba? Tell him he
can go straight to hell. Do you have any idea what he had his men do
last night?"
She looked up, puzzled, her eyes still pleading through the rain.
"No, I don't suppose you could." He shrugged. "It scarcely matters now.
But his parting words were an offer to kill me, no more than a few
hours ago. So I say damned to him."
"He is a man. No more than you, but no less. He was bom free; yet now
he is a slave. His people are slaves." She paused, and when she did, a
distant roll of thunder melted into the rain. "He did what he had to
do. For his people, for me."
"All he and his 'people' managed was to help the Commonwealth bring
this island to its knees."
"How? Because he led the Yoruba in a revolt against slavery?" She
gripped his arm even tighter. "If he helped defeat the planters, then I
am glad. Perhaps it will be the end of slavery after all."
Winston smiled sadly. "It's only the beginning of that accursed trade.
He might have stopped it--who knows?--if he'd won. But he lost. So
that's the end of it. For him, for Barbados."
"But you can save him." She tugged Winston back as he tried to brush
past her. "I know you are leaving. Take him with you."
"He belongs to Briggs." He glanced back. "Same as you do. There's
nothing I can do about it. Right now, I doubt good master Briggs is of
a mind to do anything but hang him."
"Then if his life has no value to anyone here, take him as a free man."
A web of white laced across the thunderhead. In its light he could just
make out the tall masts of the _Defiance_, waving against the dark sky
like emblems of freedom.
God damn you, Benjamin Briggs. God damn your island of slaveholders.
"Where is he?"
"Derin has hidden him, not too far from here. When Atiba fainted from
the loss of blood, he brought him up there." She turned and pointed
toward the dark bulk of the island. "In a grove of trees where the
_branco _could not find him. Then he came to me for help."
"Who's this Derin?"
"One of the Yoruba men who was with him."
"Where're the others? There must've been a dozen or so over at Oistins
this morning."
"Some were killed near there. The others were captured. Derin told me
they were attacked by the militia. Atiba only escaped because he
fainted and Derin carried him to safety. The others stayed to fight, to
save him, and they were taken."
Her voice cracked. "I heard Master Briggs say the ones who were
captured, Obewole and the others, would be burned alive tomorrow."
"Burned alive!"
"All the planters have agreed that is what they must do. It is to be
made the punishment on Barbados for any slave who revolts, so the rest
of the Africans will always fear the _branco_. "
"Such a thing would never be allowed on English soil."
"This is not your England, senhor. This is Barbados. Where slavery has
become the lifeblood of all wealth. They will do it."
"Bedford would never allow . . ." He stopped, and felt his heart
wrench. "Good Christ. Now there's no one to stop them. Damn these
bloodthirsty Puritans." He turned to her. "Can you get him down here?
Without being seen?"
"We will try."
"If you can do it, I'll take him."
"And Derin too?"
"In for a penny, in for a pound." His smile was bitter. "Pox on it.
I'll take them both."
"Senhor." She dropped to her knees. "Tell me how I can thank you."
"Just be gone. Before my boys get wind of this." He pulled her to her
feet and glanced toward the rain-swept line of seamen carrying water
kegs. "They'll not fancy it, you can be sure. I've got worries enough
as is, God knows."
"_Muito, muito obrigada_, senhor." She stood unmoving, tears streaming
down her cheeks.
"Just go." He stepped around her and moved on down the shore, toward
the moored longboat where the men were working. Now John Mewes was
standing alongside, minimally supervising the seamen as they stacked
kegs. Mingled with his own men were several of the Irish indentures.
"Damn this squall, Cap'n. We'll not be able to get under way till she
lets up. It's no weather for a Christian to be at sea, that I promise
you."
"I think it's apt to ease up around nightfall." He checked the clouds
again. "What're we needing?"
"Once we get this laded, there'll be water aboard and to spare." He
wiped the rain from his eyes and glanced at the sky. "God knows the
whole of the island's seen enough water to float to sea.'Tis salt pork
we're wanting now, and biscuit."
"Can we get any cassava flour?"
"There's scarcely any to be had. The island's half starved, Cap'n."
"Did you check all the warehouses along here?"
"Aye, we invited ourselves in and rifled what we could find. But
there's pitiful little left, save batches of moldy tobacco waitin' to
be shipped."
"Damn. Then we'll just have to sail with what we've got." Winston
turned and stared down the shore. There had not been any provisions
off-loaded from Europe since the fleet arrived. There were no ships in
the harbor now, save the _Defiance _and the _Zeelander_.
The _Zeelander_.
"When's the last time you saw Ruyters?"
"This very mornin', as't happens. He came nosing by to enquire how it
was we're afloat, and I told him it must've been the tide lifted her
off." Mewes turned and peered through the rain toward the Dutch
frigate. "What're you thinking?"
"I'm thinking he still owes me a man, a Spaniard by the name of Vargas,
which I've yet to collect."
"That damned Butterbox'll be in no mood to accommodate you, I swear
it."
"All the same, we made a bargain. I want you and some of the boys to go
over and settle it." He thumbed at the _Zeelander_, lodged in the sand
not two hundred yards down the beach. "In the meantime, I have to go
back up to Joan's and collect . . . a few things. Why don't you try and
find Ruyters? Get that Spaniard, however you have to do it, and maybe
see if he'll part with any of their biscuit."
"Aye, I'll tend to it." He turned to go.
"And John . . ." Winston waved him back.
"Aye."
"We may be having some company before we weigh anchor. Remember that
Yoruba we caught on board a few nights back?"
"Aye, I recollect the heathen well enough. I've not seen him since,
thank God, though some of the lads claim there was one up at Oistins
this mornin' who sounded a lot like him."
"Same man. I've a mind to take him with us, and maybe another one. But
don't say anything to the boys. Just let him on board if he shows up."
"You're the captain. But I'd sooner have a viper between decks as that
godless savage. They're sayin' he and a bunch of his kind gutted a good
dozen Englishmen this mornin' like they was no better'n so many
Spaniards."
"Well, that's done and past. Just see he gets on board and the boys
keep quiet about it."
"They'll not be likin' it, by my life."
"That's an order."
"Aye." Mewes turned with a shrug, whistled for some of the seamen, then
headed through the rain, down the shore toward the beached hulk of the
_Zeelander.
_
"She's here darlin'." Joan met him at the door. "In back, with the
girls."
"How is she?" Winston threw off his wet cape and reached for the
tankard of sack she was handing him.
"I think she's starting to understand he's dead now. I guess it just
took a while. Now I think it's time you told me a few things yourself.
Why're you taking her? Is't because you're worried the Roundheads might
send her back home to be hanged?"
"Is that the reason you want to hear?"
"Damn your eyes, Hugh Winston. You're not in love with her, are you?"
He smiled and took a sip from the tankard.
"You'd best beware of her, love." She sighed. "That one's not for you.
She's too independent, and I doubt she even knows what she's doin' half
the time."
"And how about me? Think I know what I'm doing?" He pulled back a chair
and straddled it.
"Doubtless not, given what you're plannin' next." She plopped into a
chair. "But I've packed your things, you whoremaster. The girls're
already sorry to see the lot of you leavin'. I think they've taken a
fancy to a couple of your lads." She laughed. "But they'd have
preferred you most of all. God knows, I've had to keep an eye on the
jades day and night."
He turned and stared out in the direction of the rain. "Maybe you'll
decide to come over someday and open shop on Jamaica. This place has
bad times coming."
She leaned back and poured a tankard of sack for herself. "That's a
fool's dream. But you're right about one thing. There're dark days in
store here, not a doubt. Who knows how it'll settle out?"
The wind seemed to play against the doors of the tavern. Then they
swung open and a sudden gust coursed through the room, spraying fine
mist across the tables.
"Winston, damn me if I didn't figure I'd find you here." Benjamin
Briggs pushed into the room, shook the rain from his wide hat, and
reached for a chair. "I'm told you were the last to see that Yoruba of
mine. That he tried to kill you this moming, much as he aimed to murder
me."
"He was at Oistins, true enough." Winston glanced up.
"That's what I heard. They're claiming he and those savages of his
brutally murdered some of Cromwell's infantry." He shook his hat one
last time and tossed it onto the table. "We've got to locate him. Maybe
you have some idea where he is now?"
"He didn't trouble advising me of his intended whereabouts."
"Well, he's a true savage, by my soul. A peril to every Christian on
this island." He sighed and looked at Winston. "I don't know whether
you've heard, but the Roundheads have already started disarming our
militia. We'll soon have no way to defend ourselves. I think I winged
him last night, but that heathen is apt to come and kill us both if we
don't hunt him down and finish the job while we've still got the
chance." He lowered his voice. "I heard about those flintlocks of
yours. I was hoping maybe you'd take some of your boys and we could go
after him whilst things are still in a tangle over at Oistins."
Winston sat unmoving. "Remember what I told you the other day, about
freeing these Africans? Well, now I say damned to you. You can manage
your slaves any way you like, but it'll be without my flintlocks."
"That's scarcely an attitude that'll profit the either of us at the
moment." Briggs signaled to Joan for a tankard of kill-devil. "Peculiar
company you keep these days, Mistress Fuller. 'Twould seem the Captain
here cares not tuppence for his own life. Well, so be it. I'll locate
that savage without him if I needs must." He took a deep breath and
gazed around the empty room. "But lest my ride down here be for naught,
I'd as soon take the time right now and settle that bargain we made."
Joan poured the tankard and shoved it across the table to him. "You
mean that woman you own?"
"Aye, the mulatto wench. I'm thinking I might go ahead and take your
offer of a hundred pounds, and damned to her."
"What I said was eighty." Joan stared at him coldly.
"Aye, eighty, a hundred, who can recall a shilling here or there." He
took a swig. "What say we make it ninety then, and have an end to the
business?"
Joan eyed him. "I said eighty, though I might consider eighty-five. But
not a farthing more."
"You're a hard woman to trade with, on my honor." He took another
draught from the tankard. "Then eighty-five it is, but only on
condition we settle it here and now. In sterling. I'll not waste
another day's feed on her."
Winston glanced at Joan, then back at Briggs. "Do you know where she
is?"
The planter's eyes narrowed. "Up at my compound. Where else in God's
name would she be?"
Winston took a drink and looked out the doorway, into the rain. "I
heard talk she was seen down around here this morning. Maybe she's run
off." He turned to Joan. "I'd encourage you to pay on delivery."
"Damn you, sir, our bargain's been struck." Briggs settled his tankard
with a ring. "I never proposed delivering her with a coach and four
horses."
Joan sat silently, listening. Finally she spoke. "You'd best not be
thinkin' to try and swindle me. I'll advance you five pounds now, on
account, but you'll not see a penny of the rest till she's in my care."
"As you will then." He turned and spat toward the corner. "She'll be
here, word of honor."
Joan glanced again at Winston, then rose and disappeared through the
shuttered doors leading into the back room.
After Briggs watched her depart, he turned toward Winston. "You, sir,
have studied to plague me from the day you dropped anchor."
"I usually cut the deck before I play a hand of cards."
"Well, sir, I'll warrant Cromwell's got the deck now, for this
hand at least. We'll see what you do about him."
"Cromwell can be damned. I'll manage my own affairs."
"As will we all, make no mistake." He took another drink. "Aye,
we'll come out of this. We'll be selling sugar to the
Dutchmen again in a year's time, I swear it. They can't keep that fleet
tied up here forever." He looked at Winston. "And when it's gone, you'd
best be on your way too, sir. Mark it."
"I'll make note."
Joan moved back through the room. "Five pounds." She handed Briggs a
small cloth bag. "Count it if you like. That makes her mine. You'll see
the balance when she's safe in this room."
"You've got a trade." He took the bag and inventoried its contents with
his thick fingers. "I'll let this tankard serve as a handshake." He
drained the last of the liquor as he rose. As he clapped his soaking
hat back onto his head, he moved next to where Winston sat. "And you,
sir, would be advised to rethink helping me whilst there's time. That
savage is apt to slit your throat for you soon enough if he's not
tracked down."
"And then burned alive, like you're planning for the rest of them?"
Briggs stopped and glared. "That's none of your affair, sir. We're
going to start doing what we must. How else are we to keep these
Africans docile in future? Something's got to be done about these
revolts."
He whirled abruptly and headed for the door. At that moment, the
battered louvres swung inward and a harried figure appeared in the
doorway, eyes frantic, disoriented. A few seconds passed before anyone
recognized Jeremy Walrond. His silk doublet was wet and bedraggled, his
cavalier's hat waterlogged and drooping over his face. Before he could
move, Briggs' pistol was out and leveled at his breast.
"Not another step, you whoreson bastard, or I'll blow you to hell." His
voice boomed above the sound of the storm. "Damn me if I shouldn't kill
you on sight, except I wouldn't squander the powder and shot." He
squinted through the open doorway. "Where's Anthony? I'd have him come
forward and meet me like a man, the royalist miscreant."
Jeremy's face flooded with fear. "He's . . .he's been taken on board
the _Rainbowe_. I swear it." His voice seemed to crack. "By Powlett."
"By who?"
"A man named Powlett, the vice admiral. I think he's to be the new
governor."
"Well, damned to them both." Briggs lowered the pistol guardedly, then
shoved it back into his belt. "They're doubtless conspiring this very
minute how best to squeeze every farthing of profit from our sugar
trade."
"I . . . I don't know what's happening. They've made the Windwards as
much as prisoners. Powlett's already disarmed the Regiment, and Colonel
Morris is leading his infantry on the march to Bridgetown right now."
He stepped gingerly in through the doorway. "I came down to try and
find Miss Bedford. At the compound they said she might be . . ."
"I doubt Katherine has much time for you." Winston looked up from his
chair. "So you'd best get on back to Oistins before I decide to start
this little war all over again."
"Oh, for God's sake let the lad be. He's not even wearin' a sword,"
Joan interjected, then beckoned him forward. "Don't let this blusterin'
lot frighten you, darlin'. Come on in and dry yourself off."
"I've got to warn Katherine." He edged nervously toward Joan, as though
for protection. His voice was still quavering. "We didn't expect this.
They'd agreed to terms. They said . . ."
"They lied." Winston drew out one of his pistols and laid it on the
table before him. "And your gullible, ambitious royalist of a brother
believed them. Haply, some others of us took our own precautions.
Katherine's safe, so you can go on back to your Roundheads and tell
them they'll never find her."
"But I meant her no harm. It was to be for the best, I swear it. I want
her to know that." He settled at a table and lowered his face into his
hands. "I never dreamed it would come to this." He looked up. "Who
could have?"
"'Tis no matter now." Joan moved to him, her voice kindly. "You're not
to blame. 'Twas Sir Anthony that led the defection. It's always the old
fools who cause the trouble. He's the one who should have known . . ."
"But you don't understand what really happened. I was the one who urged
him to it, talked him into it. Because Admiral Calvert assured me none
of this would happen."
"You planned this with Calvert!" Briggs roared. "With that damned
Roundhead! You let him use you to cozen Walrond and the Windwards into
defecting?"
Jeremy stifled a sob, then turned toward Joan, his blue eyes pleading.
"Would you tell Katherine I just wanted to stop the killing. None of us
ever dreamed . . ."
"Jeremy." Katherine was standing in the open doorway leading to the
back. "Is it really true, what you just said?"
He stared at her in disbelief, and his voice failed for a second. Then
suddenly the words poured out. "Katherine, you've got to get away." He
started to rush to her, but something in her eyes stopped him. "Please
listen. I think Powlett means to arrest you. I heard him talking about
it. There's nothing we can do."
"You and Anthony've got the Windwards." She examined him with hard
scorn. "I fancy you can do whatever you choose. Doubtless he'll have
himself appointed governor now, just as he's probably been wanting all
along."
"No! He never . . ." Jeremy's voice seemed to crack. Finally he
continued, "A man named Powlett, the vice admiral, is going to be the
new governor. Morris is marching here from Oistins right now. I only
slipped away to warn you."
"I've been warned." She was turning back toward the doorway. "Goodbye,
Jeremy. You always wanted to be somebody important here. Well, maybe
you've managed it now. You've made your mark on our times. You gave the
Americas back to England. Congratulations. Maybe Cromwell will declare
himself king next and then grant you a knighthood."
"Katherine, I don't want it." He continued miserably. "I'm so ashamed.
I only came to ask you to forgive me. And to warn you that you've got
to get away."
"I've heard that part already." She glanced back. "Now just leave."
"But what'll you do?" Again he started to move toward her, then drew
back.
"It's none of your affair." She glared at him. "The better question is
what you and Anthony'll do now? After you've betrayed us all. I thought
you had more honor. I thought Anthony had more honor."
He stood for a moment, as though not comprehending what she had said.
Then he moved forward and confronted her. "How can you talk of honor,
in the same breath with Anthony! After what you did. Made a fool of
him."
"Jeremy, you have known me long enough to know I do what I please. It
was time Anthony learned that too."
"Well, he should have broken off the engagement weeks ago, that much
I'll tell you. And he would have, save he thought you'd come to your
senses. And start behaving honorably." He glanced at Winston. "I see he
was wrong."
"I did come to my senses, Jeremy. Just in time. I'll take Hugh's honor
over Anthony's any day." She turned and disappeared through the
doorway.
Jeremy stared after her, then faced Winston. "Damn you. You think I
don't know anything. You're the . . ."
"I think you'd best be gone." Winston rose slowly from his chair. "Give
my regards to Sir Anthony. Tell him I expect to see him in hell. He
pulled a musket ball from his pocket and tossed it to Jeremy. "And give
him that, as thanks from me for turning this island and my ship over to
the Roundheads. The next one he gets won't be handed to him. . . ."
The doors of the tavern bulged open, and standing in the rain was an
officer of the Commonwealth army. Behind him were three helmeted
infantrymen holding flintlock muskets.
"Your servant, gentlemen." The man glanced around the room and noticed
Joan. "And ladies. You've doubtless heard
your militia has agreed to lay down its arms, and that includes even
those who'd cravenly hide in a brothel rather than serve. For your own
safety we're here to collect all weapons, till order can be restored.
They'll be marked and returned to you in due time." He motioned the
three infantrymen behind him to close ranks at the door. "We'll
commence by taking down your names."
In the silence that followed nothing could be heard but the howl of
wind and rain against the shutters. Dark had begun to settle outside
now, and the room itself was lighted only by a single flickering
candle, in a holder on the back wall. The officer walked to where Joan
was seated and doffed his hat. "My name is Colonel Morris, madam. And
you, I presume, are the . . ."
"You betrayed us!" Jeremy was almost shouting. "You said we could keep
our muskets. That we could . . ."
"Master Walrond, is that you?" Morris turned and peered through
the gloom. "Good Christ, lad. What are you doing here? You're not
supposed to leave Oistins." He paused and inspected Jeremy. "I see
you've not got a weapon, so I'll I forget I came across you. But you've
got to get on back over to Oistins and stay with the Windwards, or I'll
not be responsible." He turned to Briggs. "And who might you be, sir?"
"My name, sir, is Benjamin Briggs. I am head of the Council of
Barbados, and I promise you I will protest formally to Parliament over
this incident. You've no right to barge in here and . . ."
"Just pass me that pistol and there'll be no trouble. It's hotheads
like you that make this necessary." Morris reached into Briggs' belt
and deftly extracted the long flintlock, its gilded stock glistening in
the candlelight. He shook the powder out of the priming pan and handed
it to one of the infantrymen. "The name with this one is to be . . ."
He glanced back. "Briggs, sir, I believe you said?"
"Damn you. This treatment will not be countenanced. I need that
pistol." Briggs started to move forward, then glanced warily at the
infantrymen holding flintlock muskets.
"We all regret it's necessary, just as much as you." Morris signaled to
the three infantrymen standing behind him, their helmets reflecting the
dull orange of the candles. "While I finish here, search the back room.
And take care. There's apt to be a musket hiding behind a calico
petticoat in a place like this."
Winston settled back onto his chair. "I wouldn't trouble with that if I
were you. There're no other guns here. Except for mine."
Morris glanced at him, startled. Then he saw Winston's flintlock lying
on the table. "You're not giving the orders here, whoever you are. And
I'll kindly take that pistol."
"I'd prefer to keep it. So it'd be well if you'd just leave now, before
there's trouble."
"That insubordinate remark, sir, has just gotten you put under arrest."
Morris moved toward the table.
Winston was on his feet. The chair he had been sitting on tumbled
across the floor. "I said you'd best be gone."
Before Morris could respond, a woman appeared at the rear doorway.
"I'll save you all a search. I'm not afraid of Cromwell, and I'm surely
not frightened of you."
"Katherine, no!" Jeremy's voice was pleading.
"And who might you be, madam?" Morris stared in surprise.
"My name is Katherine Bedford, sir. Which means, I suppose, that you'll
want to arrest me too."
"Are you the daughter of Dalby Bedford?"
"He was my father. And the last lawfully selected governor this island
is likely to know."
"Then I regret to say I do have orders to detain you. There are certain
charges, madam, of aiding him in the instigation of this rebellion,
that may need to be answered in London."
"Katherine!" Jeremy looked despairingly at her. "I warned you . . ."
"Is that why you're here, Master Walrond? To forewarn an accused
criminal?" Morris turned to him. "Then I fear there may be charges
against you too." He glanced at Briggs. "You can go, sir. But I'm
afraid we'll have to hold your pistol for now, and take these others
into custody."
"You're not taking Miss Bedford, or anybody, into custody." Winston
pulled back his water-soaked jerkin to expose the pistol in his belt.