Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Dalby Bedford was standing in the doorway of the make­shift tent, peering into the dark. He spotted Winston, trailed by a crowd of shirtless seamen walking up the road between the rows of rain-whipped palms.

  "God's life. Is that who it looks to be?"

  "What the plague! The knave had the brass to come back?" Colonel George Heathcott pushed his way through the mill­ing crowd of militia officers and moved alongside Bedford to stare. "As though we hadn't enough confusion already."

  The governor's plumed hat and doublet were soaked. While the storm had swept the island, he had taken command of the militia, keeping together a remnant of men and officers. But now, only two hours before dawn, the squall still showed no signs of abating. Even with the men who had returned, the ranks of the militia had been diminished to a fraction of its former strength—since many planters were still hunting down runaways, or had barricaded themselves and their families in their homes for safety. Several plantation houses along the west coast had been burned, and through the rain random gunfire could still be heard as slaves were being pursued. Though the rebellion had been routed, a few pockets of Afri­cans, armed with machetes, remained at large.

  The recapture of the slaves was now merely a matter of time. But that very time, Bedford realized, might represent the difference between victory and defeat.

  "Those men with him are all carrying something." Heathcott squinted through the rain at the line of men trailing after Winston. "By God, I'd venture those could be muskets. Maybe he's managed to locate a few more matchlocks for us." He heaved a deep breath. "Though they'll be damned useless in this rain."

  "Your servant, Captain." Bedford bowed lightly as Win­ston ducked under the raised flap at the entrance of the lean-to shelter. "Here to join us?"

  "I thought we might come back over for a while." He glanced around at the scattering of officers in the tent. "Who wants to help me go down to the breastwork and see if we can spike whatever guns they've got? If we did that, maybe you could muster enough men to try storming the place when it gets light."

  "You're apt to be met by five hundred men with pikes, sir, and Anthony Walrond at their head." Heathcott's voice was filled with dismay. "Three or four for every one we've got. We don't have the men to take and hold that breastwork now, not till some more of the militia get back."

  "If those guns aren't spiked by dawn, you'd as well just go ahead and surrender and have done with it." He looked around the tent. "Mind if I let the boys come in out of the rain to prime their muskets?"

  "Muskets?" Heathcott examined him. "You'll not be us­ing matchlocks, not in this weather. I doubt a man could keep his matchcord lit long enough to take aim."

  "I sure as hell don't plan to try taking the breastwork with nothing but pikes." Winston turned and gestured for the men to enter the tent. Dick Hawkins led the way, unshaven, shirt­less, and carrying two oilcloth bundles. After him came Ed­win Spurre, cursing the rain as he set down two bundles of his own. Over a dozen other seamen followed.

  "This tent is for the command, sir." Heathcott advanced on Winston. "I don't know what authority you think you have to start bringing in your men."

  "We can't prime muskets in the rain."

  "Sir, you're no longer in charge here, and we've all had quite . . ." His glance fell on the bundle Spurre was un­wrapping. The candle lantern cast a golden glow over a shiny new flintlock. The barrel was damascened in gold, and the stock was fine Italian walnut inlaid with mother of pearl. Both the serpentine cock and the heel plate on the stock were engraved and gilt. "Good God, where did that piece come from?"

  "From my personal arsenal." Winston watched as Spurre slipped out the ramrod and began loading and priming the flintlock. Then he continued, "These muskets don't belong to your militia. They're just for my own men, here tonight."

  "If you can keep them dry," Heathcott's voice quickened, "maybe you could . . ."

  "They should be good for at least one round, before the lock gets damp." Winston turned to Heathcott. "They won't be expecting us now. So if your men can help us hold the breastwork while we spike those cannon, we might just man­age it."

  "And these guns?" Heathcott was still admiring the mus­kets.

  "We won't use them any more than we have to." Winston walked down the line of officers. "There's apt to be some hand-to-hand fighting if their infantry gets wind of what's afoot and tries to rush the emplacement while we're still up there. How many of your militiamen have the stomach for that kind of assignment?"

  The tent fell silent save for the drumbeat of rain. The of­ficers all knew that to move on the breastwork now would be the ultimate test of their will to win. The question on every man's mind was whether their militia still possessed that will. But the alternative was most likely a brief and ignominious defeat on the field, followed by unconditional surrender.

  They gathered in a huddle at the rear of the tent, a cluster of black hats, while Winston's men continued priming the guns. "Damn'd well-made piece, this one." Edwin Spurre was admiring the gilded trigger of his musket. "I hope she shoots as fine as she feels." He looked up at Winston. "I think we can keep the powder pan dry enough if we take care. They've all got a cover that's been specially fitted."

  Winston laughed. "Only the best for Sir Anthony. Let's make sure he finds out how much we appreciate the gun-smithing he paid for."

  "It's a risk, sir. Damned if it's not." Heathcott broke from the huddle and approached Winston. "But with these flint­locks we might have an advantage. They'll not be expecting us now. Maybe we can find some men to back you up."

  "We could use the help. But I only want volunteers." Winston surveyed the tent. "And they can't be a lot of un­tested farmers who'll panic and run if the Roundheads try and make a charge."

  "Well and good." Bedford nodded, then turned to Heathcott. "I'll be the first volunteer. We're running out of time.”

  Winston reached for a musket. "Then let's get on with it."