Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  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.