A cricket sang from somewhere within the dark crevices of the stone
wall surrounding the two men, a sharp, shrill cadence in the night. To
the older it was a welcome sign all was well; the younger gave it no
heed, as again he bent over and hit his steel against the flint,
sending sparks flying into the wind. Finally he cursed in Spanish and
paused to pull his goatskin jerkin closer.
Hipolito de Valera had not expected this roofless hilltop outpost would
catch the full force of the breeze that rolled in off the bay. He
paused for another gust to die away, then struck the flint once more. A
shower of sparks scattered across the small pile of dry grass and twigs
by the wall, and then slowly, tentatively the tinder began to glow.
When at last it was blazing, he tossed on a large handful of twigs and
leaned back to watch.
In the uneven glow of the fire his face was soft, with an aquiline nose
and dark Castilian eyes. He was from the sparsely settled north, where
his father don Alfonso de Valera had planted forty-five acres of grape
arbor in the mountains. Winemaking was forbidden in the Spanish
Americas, but taxes on Spanish wines were high and Spain was far away.
"_!Tenga cuidado!_ The flame must be kept low. It has to be heated
slowly." Juan Jose Pereira was, as he had already
observed several times previously this night, more knowing of the
world. His lined cheeks were leather-dark from a lifetime of riding in
the harsh Jamaican sun for the cattle-rancher who owned the largest
_hato_ on the Liguanea Plain. Perhaps the youngest son of a vineyard
owner might understand the best day to pick grapes for the claret, but
such a raw youth would know nothing of the correct preparation of
chocolate.
Juan Jose monitored the blaze for a time, and then--his hands moving
with the deft assurance of the ancient _conquistadores_--carefully
retrieved a worn leather bag from his pocket and dropped a brown lump
into the brass kettle now hanging above the fire. He next added two
green tabasco peppers, followed by a portion of goat's milk from his
canteen. Finally he stirred in a careful quantity of _muscavado_ sugar-
-procured for him informally by his sister's son Carlos, who operated
the boiling house of a sugar plantation in the Guanaboa Vale, one of
only seven on the island with a horse-drawn mill for crushing the cane.
As he watched the thick mixture begin to simmer, he motioned for the
younger man to climb back up the stone stairway to the top of their
outpost, the _vigia_ overlooking the harbor of Jamaica Bay. Dawn was
four hours away, but their vigil for mast lights must be kept, even
when there was nothing but the half moon to watch.
In truth Juan Jose did not mind his occasional night of duty for the
militia, especially here on the mountain. He liked the stars, the cool
air so unlike his sweltering thatched hut on the plain, and the
implicit confirmation his eyes were still as keen as they had been the
morning he was baptized, over fifty years ago.
The aroma of the chocolate swirled up into the watchtower above, and in
the moonlight its dusky perfume sent Hipolito's thoughts soaring.
Elvita. Wouldn't it be paradise if she were here tonight, instead of a
crusty old _vaquero_ like Juan Jose? He thought again of her almond
eyes, which he sometimes caught glancing at him during the Mass . . .
though always averted with a pretense of modesty when his own look
returned their desire.
He sat musing over what his father would say when he informed him he
was hopelessly in love with Elvita de Loaisa. Undoubtedly don Alfonso
would immediately point out that her father Garcia de Loaisa had only
twenty acres of lowland cotton in cultivation: what dowry would such a
lazy family bring?
What to do? Just to think about her, while the moon . . .
"Your chocolate." Juan Jose was standing beside him holding out a
pewter bowl, from which a tiny wisp of steam trailed upward to be
captured in the breeze. The old man watched him take it, then, holding
his own portion, settled back against the stone bench.
"You were gazing at the moon, my son." He crossed himself, then began
to sip noisily. "The spot to watch is over there, at the tip of the
Cayo de Carena." Now he was pointing south. "Any _protestante_ fleet
that would attack us must first sail around the Point."
The old man consumed the rest of his chocolate quickly, then licked the
rim of the bowl and laid it aside. Its spicy sweetness was good, true
enough, one of the joys of the Spanish Americas, but now he wanted
something stronger. Unobtrusively he rummaged through the pocket of his
coat till he located his flask of pimento brandy. He extracted the cork
with his teeth, then pensively drew twice on the bottle before rising
to stare out over the stone balustrade.
Below them on the right lay Jamaica Bay, placid and empty, with the
sandy cay called Cayo de Carena defining its farthest perimeter. The
cay, he had always thought, was where the Passage Fort really should
be. But their governor, don Francisco de Castilla, claimed there was no
money to build a second one. All the same, spreading below him was the
finest harbor in the New World--when Jamaica had no more than three
thousand souls, maybe four, on the whole island. Did not even the giant
_galeones_, on their way north from Cartegena, find it easy to put in
here to trade? Their arrival was, in fact, always the event of the
year, the time when Jamaica's hides and pig lard were readied for
Havana, in exchange for fresh supplies of wine, olive oil, wheat flour,
even cloth from home. Don Fernando, owner of the _hato_, always made
certain his hides were cured and bundled for the _galeones_ by late
spring.
But don Fernando's leather business was of scant concern to Juan Jose.
What use had he for white lace from Seville? He pulled again at the
flask, its brandy sharp and pungent, and let his eyes wander to the
green plain on his left, now washed in moonlight. That was the Jamaica
he cared about, where everything he required could be grown right in
the earth. Cotton for the women to spin, beef and cassava to eat, wine
and cacao and cane-brandy for drinking, tobacco to soothe his soul. . .
.
He suddenly remembered he had left his pipe in the leather knapsack,
down below. But now he would wait a bit. Thinking of a pleasure made it
even sweeter . . . Just as he knew young Hipolito was dreaming still of
some country senorita. When a young man could not attend to what he was
told for longer than a minute, it could only be first love.
As he stood musing, his glance fell on Caguaya, the Passage Fort, half
a mile to the left, along the Rio Cobre river that flowed down from
Villa de la Vega. The fort boasted ten great guns, and it was manned by
militia day and night. If any strange ship entered the bay, Caguaya
would be signaled from here at the _vigia_, using two large bells
donated by the Church, and the fort's cannon would be readied as a
precaution. He studied it for a time, pleased it was there. Its guns
would kill any heretic _luterano_ who came to steal.
The pipe. He glanced over at Hipolito, now making a show of watching
the Point at Cayo de Carena, and briefly entertained sending him down
for it. Then he decided the climb would be good for his legs, would
help him keep his breath--which he needed for his Saturday night trysts
with Margarita, don Fernando's head cook. Though, Mother of God, she
had lungs enough for them both. He chuckled to himself and took a last
pull on the fiery brandy before collecting the pewter bowls to start
down the stairs. "My _pipa_. Don't fall asleep gazing at the moon while
I'm below."
The young man blushed in the dark and busily studied the horizon. Juan
Jose stood watching him for a moment, wondering if he had been that
transparent thirty-some years past, then turned and began descending
the steps, his boots ringing hard against the stone.
The knapsack was at the side wall, near the door, and as he bent over
to begin searching for the clay stem of his pipe he caught the movement
of a shadow along the stone lintel. Suddenly it stopped.
"_Que pasa?" _ He froze and waited for an answer.
Silence. Now the shadow was motionless.
His musket, and Hipolito's, were both leaning against the far wall,
near the stairs. Then he remembered . . .
Slowly, with infinite care, he slipped open the buckle on the knapsack
and felt for his knife, the one with the long blade he used for
skinning. His fingers closed about its bone handle, and he carefully
drew it from its sheath. He raised up quietly and smoothly, as though
stalking a skittish calf, and edged against the wall. The shadow moved
again, tentatively, and then a massive black form was outlined against
the doorway.
_Un negro_!
Whose could it be? There were no more than forty or fifty slaves on the
whole of Jamaica, brought years ago to work on the plantations. But the
cane fields were far away, west of Rio Minho and inland. The only
_negro_ you ever saw this far east was an occasional domestic.
Perhaps he was a runaway? There was a band of Maroons, free _negros_,
now living in the mountains. But they kept to themselves. They did not
come down onto the plain to steal.
The black man stood staring at him. He did not move, merely watched as
though completely unafraid.
Then Juan Jose saw the glint of a wide blade, a cutlass, in the
moonlight. This was no thief. Who was he? What could he want?
"Senor, stop." He raised his knife. "You are not permitted . . ."
The _negro_ moved through the doorway, as though not understanding. His
blade was rising, slowly.
Juan Jose took a deep breath and lunged.
He was floating, enfolded in Margarita's soft bosom, while the world
turned gradually sideways. Then he felt a pain in his knee as it struck
against the stone--oddly, that was his first sensation, and he wondered
fleetingly if it would still be stiff when he mounted his mare in the
morning. Next he noticed a dull ache in the side of his neck, not sharp
but warm from the blood. He felt the knife slip away, clattering onto
the stone paving beyond his reach, and then he saw the moon, clear and
crisp, suspended above him in the open sky. Next to it hovered
Hipolito, his frightened eyes gazing down from the head of the stair.
The eyes held dark brown for a second, then turned red, then black.
"_Meu Deus_, you have killed him!" A woman's voice pierced the dark.
She was speaking in Portuguese as she moved through the door behind the
tall _negro_.
Hipolito watched in terrified silence, too afraid even to breathe.
Behind the _negro_ and the woman were four other men, whispering in
Ingles, muskets poised. He realized both the guns were still down
below, and besides, how could . . .
"The whoreson tried to murder me with his damnable knife." The man drew
up the cutlass and wiped its blood against the leather coat of Juan
Jose, sprawled at his feet.
"We were not to kill unless necessary. Those were your orders."
The _negro_ motioned for quiet and casually stepped over the body,
headed for the stairs.
Mother of God, no! Hipolito drew back, wanting to cry out, to flee. But
then he realized he was cornered, like an animal.
Now the _negro_ was mounting the stairs, still holding the sword, the
woman directly behind him.
Why, he wondered, had a woman come with them. These could not be
ordinary thieves; they must be _corsario luterano_, heretic Protestant
_flibustero_ of the sea. Why hadn't he seen their ship? They must have
put in at Esquebel, the little bay down the western shore, then come up
by the trail. It was five miles, a quick climb if you knew the way.
But how could they have known the road leading up to the _vigia_? And
if these were here, how many more were now readying to attack the fort
at Caguaya, just to the north? The bells . . .!
He backed slowly toward the small tower and felt blindly for the rope.
But now the huge figure blotted out the moon as it moved toward him.
Fearfully he watched the shadow glide across the paving, inching
nearer, a stone at a time. Then he noticed the wind blowing through his
hair, tousling it across his face, and he would have pushed it back
save he was unable to move. He could taste his own fear now, like a
small copper tlaco in his mouth.
The man was raising his sword. Where was the rope! Mother of God!
"_Nao_." The woman had seized the _negro's_ arm, was pulling him back.
Hipolito could almost decipher her Portuguese as she continued,
"_Suficiente_. No more killing."