Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  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."