Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  "She's here darlin'." Joan met him at the door. "In back, with the girls."

  "How is she?" Winston threw off his wet cape and reached for the tankard of sack she was handing him.

  "I think she's starting to understand he's dead now. I guess it just took a while. Now I think it's time you told me a few things yourself. Why're you taking her? Is't because you're worried the Roundheads might send her back home to be hanged?"

  "Is that the reason you want to hear?"

  "Damn your eyes, Hugh Winston. You're not in love with her, are you?"

  He smiled and took a sip from the tankard.

  "You'd best beware of her, love." She sighed. "That one's not for you. She's too independent, and I doubt she even knows what she's doin' half the time."

  "And how about me? Think I know what I'm doing?" He pulled back a chair and straddled it.

  "Doubtless not, given what you're plannin' next." She plopped into a chair. "But I've packed your things, you whoremaster. The girls're already sorry to see the lot of you leavin'. I think they've taken a fancy to a couple of your lads." She laughed. "But they'd have preferred you most of all. God knows, I've had to keep an eye on the jades day and night."

  He turned and stared out in the direction of the rain. "Maybe you'll decide to come over someday and open shop on Jamaica. This place has bad times coming."

  She leaned back and poured a tankard of sack for herself. "That's a fool's dream. But you're right about one thing. There're dark days in store here, not a doubt. Who knows how it'll settle out?"

  The wind seemed to play against the doors of the tavern. Then they swung open and a sudden gust coursed through the room, spraying fine mist across the tables.

  "Winston, damn me if I didn't figure I'd find you here." Benjamin Briggs pushed into the room, shook the rain from his wide hat, and reached for a chair. "I'm told you were the last to see that Yoruba of mine. That he tried to kill you this moming, much as he aimed to murder me."

  "He was at Oistins, true enough." Winston glanced up.

  "That's what I heard. They're claiming he and those sav­ages of his brutally murdered some of Cromwell's infantry." He shook his hat one last time and tossed it onto the table. "We've got to locate him. Maybe you have some idea where he is now?"

  "He didn't trouble advising me of his intended wherea­bouts."

  "Well, he's a true savage, by my soul. A peril to every Christian on this island." He sighed and looked at Winston. "I don't know whether you've heard, but the Roundheads have already started disarming our militia. We'll soon have no way to defend ourselves. I think I winged him last night, but that heathen is apt to come and kill us both if we don't hunt him down and finish the job while we've still got the chance." He lowered his voice. "I heard about those flint­locks of yours. I was hoping maybe you'd take some of your boys and we could go after him whilst things are still in a tangle over at Oistins."

  Winston sat unmoving. "Remember what I told you the other day, about freeing these Africans? Well, now I say damned to you. You can manage your slaves any way you like, but it'll be without my flintlocks."

  "That's scarcely an attitude that'll profit the either of us at the moment." Briggs signaled to Joan for a tankard of kill-devil. "Peculiar company you keep these days, Mistress Fuller. 'Twould seem the Captain here cares not tuppence for his own life. Well, so be it. I'll locate that savage without him if I needs must." He took a deep breath and gazed around the empty room. "But lest my ride down here be for naught, I'd as soon take the time right now and settle that bargain we made."

  Joan poured the tankard and shoved it across the table to him. "You mean that woman you own?"

  "Aye, the mulatto wench. I'm thinking I might go ahead and take your offer of a hundred pounds, and damned to her."

  "What I said was eighty." Joan stared at him coldly.

  "Aye, eighty, a hundred, who can recall a shilling here or there." He took a swig. "What say we make it ninety then, and have an end to the business?"

  Joan eyed him. "I said eighty, though I might consider eighty-five. But not a farthing more."

  "You're a hard woman to trade with, on my honor." He took another draught from the tankard. "Then eighty-five it is, but only on condition we settle it here and now. In ster­ling. I'll not waste another day's feed on her."

  Winston glanced at Joan, then back at Briggs. "Do you know where she is?"

  The planter's eyes narrowed. "Up at my compound. Where else in God's name would she be?"

  Winston took a drink and looked out the doorway, into the rain. "I heard talk she was seen down around here this morn­ing. Maybe she's run off." He turned to Joan. "I'd encourage you to pay on delivery."

  "Damn you, sir, our bargain's been struck." Briggs settled his tankard with a ring. "I never proposed delivering her with a coach and four horses."

  Joan sat silently, listening. Finally she spoke. "You'd best not be thinkin' to try and swindle me. I'll advance you five pounds now, on account, but you'll not see a penny of the rest till she's in my care."

  "As you will then." He turned and spat toward the corner. "She'll be here, word of honor."

  Joan glanced again at Winston, then rose and disappeared through the shuttered doors leading into the back room.

  After Briggs watched her depart, he turned toward Win­ston. "You, sir, have studied to plague me from the day you dropped anchor."

  "I usually cut the deck before I play a hand of cards.

  "Well, sir, I'll warrant Cromwell's got the deck now, for this hand at least. We'll see what you do about him."

  "Cromwell can be damned. I'll manage my own affairs."

  "As will we all, make no mistake." He took another drink. "Aye, we'll come out of this. We'll be selling sugar to the Dutchmen again in a year's time, I swear it. They can't keep that fleet tied up here forever." He looked at Winston. "And when it's gone, you'd best be on your way too, sir. Mark it."

  "I'll make note."

  Joan moved back through the room. "Five pounds." She handed Briggs a small cloth bag. "Count it if you like. That makes her mine. You'll see the balance when she's safe in this room."

  "You've got a trade." He took the bag and inventoried its contents with his thick fingers. "I'll let this tankard serve as a handshake." He drained the last of the liquor as he rose. As he clapped his soaking hat back onto his head, he moved next to where Winston sat. "And you, sir, would be advised to rethink helping me whilst there's time. That savage is apt to slit your throat for you soon enough if he's not tracked down."

  "And then burned alive, like you're planning for the rest of them?"

  Briggs stopped and glared. "That's none of your affair, sir. We're going to start doing what we must. How else are we to keep these Africans docile in future? Something's got to be done about these revolts."

  He whirled abruptly and headed for the door. At that mo­ment, the battered louvres swung inward and a harried figure appeared in the doorway, eyes frantic, disoriented. A few seconds passed before anyone recognized Jeremy Walrond. His silk doublet was wet and bedraggled, his cavalier's hat waterlogged and drooping over his face. Before he could move, Briggs' pistol was out and leveled at his breast.

  "Not another step, you whoreson bastard, or I'll blow you to hell." His voice boomed above the sound of the storm. "Damn me if I shouldn't kill you on sight, except I wouldn't squander the powder and shot." He squinted through the open doorway. "Where's Anthony? I'd have him come forward and meet me like a man, the royalist miscreant."

  Jeremy's face flooded with fear. "He's . . .he's been taken on board the Rainbowe. I swear it." His voice seemed to crack. "By Powlett."

  "By who?"

  "A man named Powlett, the vice admiral. I think he's to be the new governor."

  "Well, damned to them both." Briggs lowered the pistol guardedly, then shoved it back into his belt. "They're doubt­less conspiring this very minute how best to squeeze every farthing of profit from our sugar trade."

/>   "I . . . I don't know what's happening. They've made the Windwards as much as prisoners. Powlett's already disarmed the Regiment, and Colonel Morris is leading his infantry on the march to Bridgetown right now." He stepped gingerly in through the doorway. "I came down to try and find Miss Bedford. At the compound they said she might be . . ."

  "I doubt Katherine has much time for you." Winston looked up from his chair. "So you'd best get on back to Oistins before I decide to start this little war all over again."

  "Oh, for God's sake let the lad be. He's not even wearin’ a sword," Joan interjected, then beckoned him forward. "Don't let this blusterin' lot frighten you, darlin'. Come on in and dry yourself off."

  "I've got to warn Katherine." He edged nervously toward Joan, as though for protection. His voice was still quaver­ing. "We didn’t expect this. They'd agreed to terms. They said . . ."

  "They lied." Winston drew out one of his pistols and laid it on the table before him. "And your gullible, ambitious royalist of a brother believed them. Haply, some others of us took our own precautions. Katherine's safe, so you can go on back to your Roundheads and tell them they'll never find her."

  "But I meant her no harm. It was to be for the best, I swear it. I want her to know that." He settled at a table and lowered his face into his hands. "I never dreamed it would come to this." He looked up. "Who could have?"

  "'Tis no matter now." Joan moved to him, her voice kindly. "You're not to blame. 'Twas Sir Anthony that led the defection. It's always the old fools who cause the trouble. He's the one who should have known . . ."

  "But you don't understand what really happened. I was the one who urged him to it, talked him into it. Because Admiral Calvert assured me none of this would happen."

  "You planned this with Calvert!" Briggs roared. "With that damned Roundhead! You let him use you to cozen Wal­rond and the Windwards into defecting?"

  Jeremy stifled a sob, then turned toward Joan, his blue eyes pleading. "Would you tell Katherine I just wanted to stop the killing. None of us ever dreamed . . ."

  "Jeremy." Katherine was standing in the open doorway leading to the back. "Is it really true, what you just said?"

  He stared at her in disbelief, and his voice failed for a second. Then suddenly the words poured out. "Katherine, you've got to get away." He started to rush to her, but some­thing in her eyes stopped him. "Please listen. I think Powlett means to arrest you. I heard him talking about it. There's nothing we can do."

  "You and Anthony've got the Windwards." She examined him with hard scorn. "I fancy you can do whatever you choose. Doubtless he'll have himself appointed governor now, just as he's probably been wanting all along."

  "No! He never . . ." Jeremy's voice seemed to crack. Fi­nally he continued, "A man named Powlett, the vice admi­ral, is going to be the new governor. Morris is marching here from Oistins right now. I only slipped away to warn you."

  "I've been warned." She was turning back toward the doorway. "Goodbye, Jeremy. You always wanted to be some­body important here. Well, maybe you've managed it now. You've made your mark on our times. You gave the Americas back to England. Congratulations. Maybe Cromwell will de­clare himself king next and then grant you a knighthood."

  "Katherine, I don't want it." He continued miserably. "I'm so ashamed. I only came to ask you to forgive me. And to warn you that you've got to get away."

  "I've heard that part already." She glanced back. "Now just leave."

  "But what'll you do?" Again he started to move toward her, then drew back.

  "It's none of your affair." She glared at him. "The better question is what you and Anthony'll do now? After you've betrayed us all. I thought you had more honor. I thought Anthony had more honor."

  He stood for a moment, as though not comprehending what she had said. Then he moved forward and confronted her. "How can you talk of honor, in the same breath with Antho­ny! After what you did. Made a fool of him."

  "Jeremy, you have known me long enough to know I do what I please. It was time Anthony learned that too."

  "Well, he should have broken off the engagement weeks ago, that much I'll tell you. And he would have, save he thought you'd come to your senses. And start behaving hon­orably." He glanced at Winston. "I see he was wrong."

  "I did come to my senses, Jeremy. Just in time. I'll take Hugh's honor over Anthony's any day." She turned and dis­appeared through the doorway.

  Jeremy stared after her, then faced Winston. "Damn you. You think I don't know anything. You're the . . ."

  "I think you'd best be gone." Winston rose slowly from his chair. "Give my regards to Sir Anthony. Tell him I expect to see him in hell. He pulled a musket ball from his pocket and tossed it to Jeremy. "And give him that, as thanks from me for turning this island and my ship over to the Round­heads. The next one he gets won't be handed to him. . . ."

  The doors of the tavern bulged open, and standing in the rain was an officer of the Commonwealth army. Behind him were three helmeted infantrymen holding flintlock muskets.

  "Your servant, gentlemen." The man glanced around the room and noticed Joan. "And ladies. You've doubtless heard your militia has agreed to lay down its arms, and that in­cludes even those who’d cravenly hide in a brothel rather than serve. For your own safety we're here to collect all weapons, till order can be restored. They'll be marked and returned to you in due time." He motioned the three infantrymen behind him to close ranks at the door. "We'll commence by taking down your names."

  In the silence that followed nothing could be heard but the howl of wind and rain against the shutters. Dark had begun to settle outside now, and the room itself was lighted only by a single flickering candle, in a holder on the back wall. The officer walked to where Joan was seated and doffed his hat. "My name is Colonel Morris, madam. And you, I presume, are the . . ."

  "You betrayed us!" Jeremy was almost shouting. "You said we could keep our muskets. That we could . . ."

  "Master Walrond, is that you?" Morris turned and peered through the gloom. "Good Christ, lad. What are you doing here? You're not supposed to leave Oistins." He paused and inspected Jeremy. "I see you've not got a weapon, so I'll I forget I came across you. But you've got to get on back over to Oistins and stay with the Windwards, or I'll not be responsible." He turned to Briggs. "And who might you be, sir?"

  "My name, sir, is Benjamin Briggs. I am head of the Council of Barbados, and I promise you I will protest for­mally to Parliament over this incident. You've no right to barge in here and . . ."

  "Just pass me that pistol and there'll be no trouble. It's hotheads like you that make this necessary." Morris reached into Briggs' belt and deftly extracted the long flintlock, its gilded stock glistening in the candlelight. He shook the pow­der out of the priming pan and handed it to one of the infan­trymen. "The name with this one is to be . . ." He glanced back. "Briggs, sir, I believe you said?"

  "Damn you. This treatment will not be countenanced. I need that pistol." Briggs started to move forward, then glanced warily at the infantrymen holding flintlock muskets.

  "We all regret it's necessary, just as much as you." Morris signaled to the three infantrymen standing behind him, their helmets reflecting the dull orange of the candles. "While I finish here, search the back room. And take care. There's apt to be a musket hiding behind a calico petticoat in a place like this."

  Winston settled back onto his chair. "I wouldn't trouble with that if I were you. There're no other guns here. Except for mine."

  Morris glanced at him, startled. Then he saw Winston's flintlock lying on the table. "You're not giving the orders here, whoever you are. And I'll kindly take that pistol."

  "I'd prefer to keep it. So it'd be well if you'd just leave now, before there's trouble."

  "That insubordinate remark, sir, has just gotten you put under arrest." Morris moved toward the table.

  Winston was on his feet. The chair he had been sitting on tumbled across the floor. "I said you'd best be gone."

&nbs
p; Before Morris could respond, a woman appeared at the rear doorway. "I'll save you all a search. I'm not afraid of Cromwell, and I'm surely not frightened of you."

  "Katherine, no!" Jeremy's voice was pleading.

  "And who might you be, madam?" Morris stared in sur­prise.

  "My name is Katherine Bedford, sir. Which means, I sup­pose, that you'll want to arrest me too."

  "Are you the daughter of Dalby Bedford?"

  "He was my father. And the last lawfully selected gover­nor this island is likely to know."

  "Then I regret to say I do have orders to detain you. There are certain charges, madam, of aiding him in the instigation of this rebellion, that may need to be answered in London."

  "Katherine!" Jeremy looked despairingly at her. "I warned you . . ."

  "Is that why you're here, Master Walrond? To forewarn an accused criminal?" Morris turned to him. "Then I fear there may be charges against you too." He glanced at Briggs. "You can go, sir. But I'm afraid we'll have to hold your pistol for now, and take these others into custody."

  "You're not taking Miss Bedford, or anybody, into cus­tody." Winston pulled back his water-soaked jerkin to expose the pistol in his belt.

  Morris stared at him. "And who, sir, are you?"

  "Check your list of criminals for the name Winston." He stood unmoving. "I'm likely there too."

  "Is that Hugh Winston, sir?" Morris' eyes narrowed, and he glanced nervously at the three men behind him holding muskets. Then he looked back. "We most certainly have or­ders for your arrest. You've been identified as the gunnery commander for the rebels here, to say nothing of charges lodged against you in England. My first priority is Miss Bed­ford, but I'll be pleased to do double duty and arrest you as well."

  "Fine. Now, see that pistol?" Winston thumbed toward the table. "Look it over carefully. There're two barrels, both primed. It's part of a pair. The other one is in my belt. That's four pistol balls. The man who moves to arrest Miss Bedford gets the first. But if you make me start shooting, I'm apt to forget myself and not stop till I've killed you all. So why don't you leave now, Colonel Morris, and forget everything you saw here." He glanced back at Katherine. "I'm sure Miss Bedford is willing to forget she saw you. She's had a trying day."

  "Damn your impudence, sir." Morris turned and gestured at the men behind him. "Go ahead and arrest her."

  One of the helmeted infantrymen raised his flintlock and waved Katherine forward.

  "No!" Jeremy shouted and lunged toward the soldier. "You can't! I never meant . . ."

  The shot sounded like a crack of thunder in the close room.

  Black smoke poured from the barrel of the musket, and Jer­emy froze where he stood, a quizzical expression on his face. He turned to look back at Katherine, his eyes penitent, then wilted toward the floor, a patch of red spreading across his chest.

  Almost simultaneous with the musket's discharge, the pis­tol in Winston's belt was already drawn and cocked. It spoke once, and the infantryman who had fired dropped, a trickle of red down his forehead. As the soldier behind him started to raise his own musket, the pistol gave a small click, rotating the barrel, and flared again. The second man staggered back against the wall, while his flintlock clattered unused to the floor.

  Now the rickety table in front of Winston was sailing to­ward the door, and the pistol that had been lying on it was in his hand. The table caught the third infantryman in the groin as he attempted to raise his weapon and sent him sprawling backward. His musket rattled against the shutters, then dropped.

  Morris looked back to see the muzzle of Winston's second flintlock leveled at his temple.

  "Katy, let's go." Winston motioned her forward. "We'll probably have more company any minute now."

  "You're no better than a murderer, sir." Morris finally recovered his voice.

  "I didn't fire the first shot. But by God I'll be the one who fires the last, that I promise you." He glanced back. "Katy, I said let's go. Take whatever you want, but hurry."

  "Hugh, they've killed Jeremy!" She stood unmoving, shock in her face.

  "He wouldn't let me handle this my way." Winston kept his eyes on Morris. "But it's too late now."

  "He tried to stop them. He did it for me." She was shak­ing. "Oh, Jeremy, why in God's name?"

  "Katy, come on." Winston looked back. "Joan, get her things. We've got to move out of here, now."

  Joan turned and pushed her way through the cluster of Irish girls standing fearfully in the rear doorway.

  "You'll hang for this, sir." Morris eyed the pistol. The remaining infantryman still sat against the wall, his unfired musket on the floor beside him.

  "The way you'd planned to hang Miss Bedford, no doubt." He motioned toward Briggs. "Care to collect those muskets for me?"

  "I'll have no hand in this, sir." The planter did not move. "You've earned a noose for sure."

  "I'll do it." Katherine stepped across Jeremy's body and assembled the three muskets of the infantrymen. She carried them back, then confronted Morris.

  "You, sir, have helped steal the freedom of this island, of the Americas. It's impossible to tell you how much I despise you and all you stand for. I'd kill you myself if God had given me the courage. Maybe Hugh will do it for me."

  "I'll see the both of you hanged, madam, or I'm not a Christian."

  "I hope you try."

  Joan emerged through the crowd, toting a large bundle. She laid it on a table by the door, then turned to Winston. "Here's what we got up at the compound this afternoon." She surveyed the three bodies sadly. "Master Jeremy was a fine lad. Maybe he's finally managed to make his brother proud of him; I'll wager it's all he ever really wanted." She straightened. "Good Christ, I hope they don't try and shut me down because of this."

  "It wasn't your doing." Winston lifted the bundle with his free hand. "Katy, can you manage those muskets?"

  "I'd carry them through hell."

  "Then let's be gone." He waved the pistol at the infantry­man sitting against the wall. "Get up. You and the colonel here are going to keep us company."

  "Where do you think you can go?" Briggs still had not moved. "They'll comb the island for you."

  "They'll look a long time before they find us on Barba­dos." He shoved the pistol against Morris' ribs. "Let's be off. Colonel."

  "There'll be my men all about." Morris glared. "You'll not get far."

  "We'll get far enough." He shifted the bundle under his arm.

  "Darlin', Godspeed. I swear I'll miss you." Joan kissed him on the cheek, then turned to Katherine. "And mind you watch over him in that place he's headed for."

  "Jamaica?"

  "No. He knows where I mean." She looked again at Win­ston. "There's no worse spot in the Caribbean."

  "Don't worry. You'll hear from me." Winston kissed her back, then urged Morris forward.

  "See that you stay alive." She followed them to the door. "And don't try anything too foolish."

  "I always take care." He turned and bussed her on the cheek one last time. Then they were gone.