One night I was riding alone towards Horton Pen. A large moon hung
itself up above me like an enormous white plate. Finally the sloping
roof of the Ferry Inn, with one dishevelled palm tree drooping over it,
rose into the disk. The window lights were reflected like shaken torches
in the river. A mass of objects, picked out with white globes, loomed
in the high shadow of the inn, standing motionless. They resolved
themselves into a barouche, with four horses steaming a great deal, and
an army of negresses with bandboxes on their heads. A great lady was
on the road; her querulous voice was calling to someone within the open
door that let down a soft yellow light from the top of the precipitous
steps. A nondescript object, with apparently two horns and a wheel,
rested inert at the foot of the sign-post; two negroes were wiping their
foreheads beside it. That resolved itself into a man slumbering in a
wheelbarrow, his white face turned up to the moon. A sort of buzz of
voices came from above; then a man in European clothes was silhouetted
against the light in the doorway. He held a full glass very carefully
and started to descend. Suddenly he stopped emotionally. Then he turned
half-right and called back, “Sir Charles! Sir Charles! Here’s the very
man! I protest, the very man!” There was an interrogative roar from
within. It was like being outside a lion’s cage.
People appeared and disappeared in front of the lighted door; windows
stood open, with heads craning out all along the inn face. I was
hurrying off the back of my horse when the admiral came out on to the
steps. Someone lit a torch, and the admiral became a dark, solid figure,
with the flash of the gold lace on his coat. He stood very high in the
leg; had small white whiskers, and a large nose that threw a vast shadow
on to his forehead in the upward light; his high collar was open, and a
mass of white appeared under his chin; his head was uncovered. A third
male face, very white, bobbed up and down beside his shining left
shoulder. He kept on saying:
“What? what? what? Hey, what?... That man?” He appeared to be halfway
between supreme content and violent anger. At last he delivered himself.
“Let’s duck him... hey?... Let’s duck him!” He spoke with a sort of
benevolent chuckle, then raised his voice and called, “Tinsley! Tinsley!
Where the deuce is Tinsley?”
A high nasal sound came from the carriage window. “Sir Charles! Sir
Charles! Let there be no scene in my presence, I beg.”
I suddenly saw, halfway up, laboriously ascending the steps, a black
figure, indistinguishable at first on account of deformities. It was
David Macdonald. Since his last, really terrible comments on the failure
of the boat-attack, he had been lying hidden somewhere. It came upon me
in a flash that he was making his way from one hiding place to another.
In making his escape from Spanish Town, either to Kingston or the
Vale, he had run against the admiral and his party returning from the
Topnambos’ ball. It was hardly a coincidence: everyone on the road met
at the Ferry Inn. But that hardly made the thing more pleasant.
Sir Charles continued to clamour for Tinsley, his flag lieutenant, who,
as a matter of fact, was the man drunk in the wheelbarrow. When this was
explained by the shouts of the negroes, he grunted, “Umph!” turned on
the man at his side, and said, “Here, Oldham; you lend a hand to duck
the little toad.” It was the sort of thing that the thirsty climate
of Jamaica rendered frequent enough. Oldham dropped his glass and
protested. Macdonald continued silently and enigmatically to climb
the steps; now he was in for it he showed plenty of pluck. No doubt
he recognized that, if the admiral made a fool of himself, he would be
afraid to issue warrants in soberness. I could not stand by and see
them bully the wretched little creature. At the same time I didn’t, most
decidedly, want to identify myself with him.
I called out impulsively, “Sir Charles, surely you would not use
violence to a cripple.”
Then, very suddenly, they all got to action, David Macdonald reaching
the top of the steps. Shrieks came from the interior of the carriage,
and from the waiting négresses. I saw three men were falling upon a
little thing like a damaged cat. I couldn’t stand that, come what might
of it.
I ran hastily up the steps, hoping to be able to make them recover their
senses, a force of purely conventional emotion impelling me. It was
no business of mine; I didn’t want to interfere, and I felt like a
man hastening to separate half a dozen fighting dogs too large to be
pleasant.
When I reached the top, there was a sort of undignified scuffle, and
in the end I found myself standing above a ghastly white gentleman who,
from a sitting posture, was gasping out, “I’ll commit you!... I swear
I’ll commit you!...” I helped him to his feet rather apologetically,
while the admiral behind me was asking insistently who the deuce I was.
The man I had picked up retreated a little, and then turned back to look
at me. The light was shining on my face, and he began to call out, “I
know him. I know him perfectly well. He’s John Kemp. I’ll commit him at
once. The papers are in the barouche.” After that he seemed to take it
into his head that I was going to assault him again. He bolted out
of sight, and I was left facing the admiral. He stared at me
contemptuously. I was streaming with perspiration and upbraiding him for
assaulting a cripple.
The admiral said, “Oh, that’s what you think? I will settle with
you presently. This is rank mutiny.” I looked at Oldham, who was the
admiral’s secretary. He was extremely dishevelled about his neck, much
as if a monkey had been clawing him thereabouts. Half of his roll collar
flapped on his heaving chest; his stock hung down behind like a cue.
I had seen him kneeling on the ground with his head pinned down by the
hunchback. I said loftily:
“What did you set him on a little beggar like that for? You were three
to one. What did you expect?”
The admiral swore. Oldham began to mop with a lace handkerchief at a
damaged upper lip from which a stream of blood was running; he even
seemed to be weeping a little. Finally, he vanished in at the door, very
much bent together. The undaunted David hopped in after him coolly.
The admiral said, “I know your kind. You’re a treasonous dog, sir. This
is mutiny. You shall be made an example of.”
All the same he must have been ashamed of himself, for presently he and
the two others went down the steps without even looking at me, and their
carriage rolled away.
Inside the inn I found a couple of merchant captains, one asleep with
his head on the table and little rings shining in his great red ears;
the other very spick and span--of what they called the new school then.
His name was Williams--Captain Williams of the _Lion_, which he part
owned; a man of some note for the dinners he gave on board his ship. His
eyes sparkled blue and very round in a round rosy face, and he clawed
effusively at my arm.
“Well done!” he bubbled over. “You gave it them; strike me, you did! It
did me good to see and hear. I wasn’t going to poke my nose in, not I.
But I admire you, my boy.”
He was a quite guileless man with a strong dislike for the admiral’s
blundering--a dislike that all the seamen shared--and for people of the
Topnambo kidney who affected to be above his dinners. He assured me that
I had burst upon those gentry roaring... “like the Bull of Bashan. You
should have seen!” and he drank my health in a glass of punch.
David Macdonald joined us, looming through wreaths of tobacco smoke. He
was always very nice in his dress, and had washed himself into a state
of enviable coolness.
“They won’t touch me now,” he said. “I wanted that assault and
battery....” He suddenly turned vivid, sarcastic black eyes upon me.
“But you,” he said--“my dear Kemp! You’re in a devil of a scrape!
They’ll have a warrant out against you under the Black Act. I know the
gentry.”
“Oh, he won’t mind,” Williams struck in, “I know him; he’s a trump.
Afraid of nothing.”
David Macdonald made a movement of his head that did duty for an ominous
shake:
“It’s a devil of a mess,” he said. “But I’ll touch them up. Why did you
hit Topnambo? He’s the spitefullest beast in the island. They’ll make it
out high treason. They are capable of sending you home on this charge.”
“Oh, never say die.” Williams turned to me, “Come and dine with me on
board at Kingston to-morrow night. If there’s any fuss I’ll see what I
can do. Or you can take a trip with me to Havana till it blows over. My
old woman’s on board.” His face fell. “But there, you’ll get round her.
I’ll see you through.”
They drank some sangaree and became noisy. I wasn’t very happy;
there was much truth in what David Macdonald had said. Topnambo would
certainly do his best to have me in jail--to make an example of me as
a Separationist to please the admiral and the Duke of Manchester. Under
the spell of his liquor Williams became more and more pressing with his
offers of help.
“It’s the devil that my missus should be on board, just this trip. But
hang it! come and dine with me. I’ll get some of the Kingston men--the
regular hot men--to stand up for you. They will when they hear the
tale.”
There was a certain amount of sense in what he said. If warrants were
out against me, he or some of the Kingston merchants whom he knew, and
who had no cause to love the admiral, might help me a good deal.
Accordingly, I did go down to Kingston. It happened to be the day when
the seven pirates were hanged at Port Royal Point. I had never seen a
hanging, and a man who hadn’t was rare in those days. I wanted to keep
out of the way, but it was impossible to get a boatman to row me off to
the _Lion_. They were all dying to see the show, and, half curious, half
reluctant, I let myself drift with the crowd.
The gallows themselves stood high enough to be seen--a long very stout
beam supported by posts at each end. There was a blazing sun, and the
crowd pushed and shouted and craned its thousands of heads every time
one heard the cry of “Here they come,” for an hour or so. There was a
very limpid sky, a very limpid sea, a scattering of shipping gliding up
and down, and the very silent hills a long way away. There was a large
flavour of Spaniards among the crowd. I got into the middle of a knot of
them, jammed against the wheels of one of the carriages, standing, hands
down, on tiptoe, staring at the long scaffold. There were a great many
false alarms, sudden outcries, hushing again rather slowly. In between
I could hear someone behind me talk Spanish to the occupants of the
carriage. I thought the voice was Ramon’s, but I could not turn, and the
people in the carriage answered in French, I thought. A man was shouting
“Cool Drinks” on the other side of them.
Finally, there was a roar, an irresistible swaying, a rattle of musket
ramrods, a rhythm of marching feet, and the grating of heavy iron-bound
wheels. Seven men appeared in sight above the heads, clinging to each
other for support, and being drawn slowly along. The little worsted
balls on the infantry shakos bobbed all round their feet. They were
a sorry-looking group, those pirates; very wild-eyed, very ragged,
dust-stained, weather-beaten, begrimed till they had the colour of
unpolished mahogany. Clinging still to each other as they stood beneath
the dangling ropes of the long beam, they had the appearance of a
group of statuary to forlorn misery. Festoons of chains completed the
“composition.”
One was a very old man with long yellow-white hair, one a negro
whose skin had no lustre at all. The rest were very dark-skinned,
peak-bearded, and had long hair falling round their necks. A soldier
with a hammer and a small anvil climbed into the cart, and bent down out
of sight. There was a ring of iron on iron, and the man next the very
old man raised his arms and began to speak very slowly, very distinctly,
and very mournfully. It was quite easy to understand him; he declared
his perfect innocence. No one listened to him; his name was Pedro Nones.
He ceased speaking, and someone on a horse, the High Sheriff, I think,
galloped impatiently past the cart and shouted. Two men got into the
cart, one pulled the rope, the other caught the pirate by the elbows.
He jerked himself loose, and began to cry out; he seemed to be lost in
amazement, and shrieked:
“_Adonde está el padre?... Adonde está el padre?_” No one answered;
there wasn’t a priest of any denomination; I don’t know whether the
omission was purposed. The man’s face grew convulsed with agony, his
eyeballs stared out very white and vivid, as he struggled with the two
men. He began to curse us epileptically for compassing his damnation. A
hoarse patter of Spanish imprecations came from the crowd immediately
round me. The man with the voice like Ramon’s groaned in a lamentable
way; someone else said, “What infamy ... what infamy!”
An aged voice said tremulously in the carriage, “This shall be a matter
of official remonstrance.” Another said, “Ah, these English heretics!”
There was a forward rush of the crowd, which carried me away. Someone
in front began to shout orders, and the crowd swayed back again. The
infantry muskets rattled. The commotion lasted some time. When it
ceased, I saw that the man about to die had been kissing the very old
man; tears were streaming down the gray, parchment-coloured cheeks.
Pedro Nones had the rope round his neck; it curved upwards loosely
towards the beam, growing taut as the cart jolted away. He shouted:
“_Adiôs, viejo, para siempre adi------_”
My whole body seemed to go dead all over. I happened to look downwards
at my hands; they were extraordinarily white, with the veins standing
out all over them. They felt as if they had been sodden in water, and
it was quite a long time before they recovered their natural colour.
The rest of the men were hung after that, the cart jolting a little way
backwards and forwards and growing less crowded after every journey.
One man, who was very large framed and stout, had to go through it twice
because the rope broke. He made a good deal of fuss. My head ached, and
after the involuntary straining and craning to miss no details was over,
I felt sick and dazed. The people talked a great deal as they streamed
back, loosening over the broader stretch of pebbles; they seemed to wish
to remind each other of details. I have an idea that one or two, in
the sheer largeness of heart that seizes one after occasions of popular
emotions, asked me in exulting voices if I had seen the nigger’s tongue
sticking out.
Others thought that there wasn’t very much to be exultant over. We
had not really captured the pirates; they had been handed over to
the admiral by the Havana authorities--as an international courtesy I
suppose, or else because they were pirates of no account and short in
funds, or because the admiral had been making a fuss in front of the
Morro. It was even asserted by the anti-admiral faction that the seven
weren’t pirates at all, but merely Cuban _mauvais sujets_, hawkers of
derogatory _coplas_, and known freethinkers. In any case, excited people
cheered the High Sheriff and the returning infantry, because it was
pleasant to hang any kind of Spaniard. I got nearly knocked down by the
kettle-drummers, who came through the scattering crowd at a swinging
quick-step. As I cannoned off the drums, a hand caught at my arm, and
someone else began to speak to me. It was old Ramon, who was telling
me that he had a special kind of Manchester goods at his store. He
explained that they had arrived very lately, and that he had come from
Spanish Town solely on their account. One made the eighth of a penny a
yard more on them than on any other kind. If I would deign to have some
of it offered to my inspection, he had his little curricle just off the
road. He was drawing me gently towards it all the time, and I had not
any idea of resisting. He had been behind in the crowd, he said, beside
the carriage of the commissioner and the judge of the Marine Court sent
by the Havana authorities to deliver the pirates.
It was after that, that in Ramon’s dusky store, I had my first sight
of Seraphina and of her father, and then came my meeting with Carlos. I
could hardly believe my eyes when I saw him come out with extended hand.
It was an extraordinary sensation, that of talking to Carlos again. He
seemed to have worn badly. His face had lost its moist bloom, its hardly
distinguishable subcutaneous flush. It had grown very, very pale. Dark
blue circles took away from the blackness and sparkle of his eyes. And
he coughed, and coughed.
He put his arm affectionately round my shoulders and said, “How splendid
to see you again, my Juan.” His eyes had affection in them, there was no
doubt about that, but I felt vaguely suspicious of him. I remembered how
we had parted on board the _Thames_. “We can talk here,” he added; “it
is very pleasant. You shall see my uncle, that great man, the star of
Cuban law, and my cousin Seraphina, your kinsfolk. They love you; I have
spoken well of you.” He smiled gayly, and went on, “This is not a place
befitting his greatness, nor my cousin’s, nor, indeed, my own.” He
smiled again. “But I shall be very soon dead, and to me it matters
little.” He frowned a little, and then laughed. “But you should have
seen the faces of your officers when my uncle refused to go to their
governor’s palace; there was to have been a _fiesta_, a ‘reception’; is
it not the word? It will cause a great scandal.”
He smiled with a good deal of fine malice, and looked as if he expected
me to be pleased. I said that I did not quite understand what had
offended his uncle.
“Oh, it was because there was no priest,” Carlos answered, “when those
poor devils were hung. They were _canaille_. Yes; but one gives that
much even to such. And my uncle was there in his official capacity as a
a plenipotentiary. He was very much distressed: we were all. You heard,
my uncle himself had advised their being surrendered to your English.
And when there was no priest he repented very bitterly. Why, after all,
it was an infamy.”
He paused again, and leant back against the counter. When his eyes
were upon the ground and his face not animated by talking, there became
lamentably insistent his pallor, the deep shadows under his eyes, and
infinite sadness in the droop of his features, as if he were preoccupied
by an all-pervading and hopeless grief. When he looked at me, he smiled,
however.
“Well, at worst it is over, and my uncle is here in this dirty place
instead of at your palace. We sail back to Cuba this very evening.” He
looked round him at Ramon’s calicos and sugar tubs in the dim light, as
if he accepted almost incredulously the fact that they could be in
such a place, and the manner of his voice indicated that he thought
our governor’s palace would have been hardly less barbarous. “But I
am sorry,” he said suddenly, “because I wanted you--you and all your
countrymen--to make a good impression on him. You must do it yourself
alone. And you will. You are not like these others. You are our kinsman,
and I have praised you very much. You saved my life.”
I began to say that I had done nothing at all, but he waved his hand
with a little smile.
“You are very brave,” he said, as if to silence me. “I am not
ungrateful.”
He began again to ask for news from home--from my home. I told him that
Veronica had a baby, and he sighed.
“She married the excellent Rooksby?” he asked. “Ah, what a waste.” He
relapsed into silence again. “There was no woman in your land like her.
She might have------- And to marry that--that excellent personage, my
good cousin. It is a tragedy.”
“It was a very good match,” I answered.
He sighed again. “My uncle is asleep in there, now,” he said, after a
pause, pointing at the inner door. “We must not wake him; he is a very
old man. You do not mind talking to me? You will wait to see them? Dona
Seraphina is here, too.”
“You have not married your cousin?” I asked.
I wanted very much to see the young girl who had looked at me for a
moment, and I certainly should have been distressed if Carlos had said
she was married.
He answered, “What would you have?” and shrugged his shoulders gently. A
smile came into his face. “She is very willful. I did not please her, I
do not know why. Perhaps she has seen too many men like me.”
He told me that, when he reached Cuba, after parting with me on the
_Thames_, his uncle, “in spite of certain influences,” had received
him quite naturally as his heir, and the future head of the family. But
Seraphina, whom by the laws of convenience he ought to have married, had
quite calmly refused him.
“I did not impress her; she is romantic. She wanted a very bold man, a
Cid, something that it is not easy to have.”
He paused again, and looked at me with some sort of challenge in his
eyes.
“She could have met no one better than you,” I said.
He waved his hand a little. “Oh, for that-------” he said deprecatingly.
“Besides, I am dying. I have never been well since I went into your cold
sea, over there, after we left your sister. You remember how I coughed
on board that miserable ship.”