While I cooked and worried myself with things domestic, John took to the fields, shirt off, pouring sweat, hacking with his hoe, churning up the red-brown earth and laying in donkey manure to make it all the richer. I would join him when my chores were done and we would, kneeling side by side in the earth, dig holes and lay cuttings for yams. ’Round the field we planted peas, which attract snails and other blight and distract them from doing injury to the main crop; as soon as the pea vines sprouted up from the soil, John and I set up poles in the earth for the new growth to run up on.
When the night came, for our supper, I would prepare Stamp and Go, which is codfish flavor’d with onion and garlic and black pepper and other spices, rolled in a golden batter and fried. On other nights, I would ready pepperpot soup, which is a stew made of callalloo, hale, pepper, and other ingredients, and is very hot. Or perhaps I would make ackee and codfish or oxtail and beans, depending on my mood and John’s taste. Near the hut and house we had begun a grove of pimento trees, the product of which is called allspice in these regions. After our evening meal, John and I would sit among the trees of the grove taking our rest in hammocks slung between the trunks, the aroma of the trees in the air all around us. He liked me to dress as a man, and to talk as a man, and so, since that was consonant with my nature, I would wear his breeches and canvas shirts, and together we would talk in the rough cadences of men, even as we shared sweet intimacies. We would lie there as we sipped pawpaw juice squeezed into calabash containers; on occasion, John would light his pipe and I would burrow into the crook of his arm, and we would look up into the night sky, which was full of stars and very clear. Sometimes I would think of the Will, her proud masts disrobed and desecrated, and a gray gloom would tinge my meditations. At other times I would think back on the face of the man I stabbed through the chest on the Spanish galleon and I would wonder again if he had any children, and the memory would take hold of me like a mantis that bites off the head of its mate and then it would pass just as suddenly and I would be filled with relief that I had left that life of death behind.
The troubles came with the summer rain.
chapter 27.
The past is always present. Throughout my life I have seen my history spread out before me, like some well-trodden road in some dark wood beckoning me to take its course. When I dreamt at night, during those days in my well-appointed house in Jamaica, I dreamt of things gone by. I felt the cradle-rock of the waves, I heard the rude, thrilling cries of the men, and I felt, once again, the breath of the Chocolate Gale. My dreams were not visions, I saw nothing but a darkness visible— no, even beyond Milton’s poetics, I saw a darkness invisible, which is to say a nothingness beyond the absence of light. There were other sensations in my slumber— I could feel that sweet zephyr ruffling the small hairs on my arm and on the back of my neck like fingers made of air. Children’s voices danced around me, fluttering like autumn leaves. The wind grows stronger now, running its small hands around the hair on my head, tousling it, tugging it, tickling my ears, whispering things I only half-hear and quarter-understand. Remember: the salt taste of sea wind, the sweet stink of man sweat. Remember: the burn of a rigging rope running through your hands, the sound of a whistle marking the end of the watch. Now behold: the afternoon sun above a white sand beach, the flat sea stretching from horizon to horizon, the topgallant sail blowing full of wind, looking up at a blue sky full of white clouds from my perch on the masthead with no man in the world between me and the Divine Providence.
John will not tell me his dreams. And yet he is haunted by some revenant of whom he will not speak, or perhaps cannot name. He calls out in his sleep in many tongues: Portuguese, Spanish, French, and languages that I cannot identify and which I did not know he spoke. His voice, at the times of these utterings, is hoarse with fear and tension as if he were undergoing some trial, the outcome of which is either life or death. On some nights, he whispers a name that I recognize— Woodes Rogers— and says it as softly as a priest ever read a psalm. On occasion, his forehead pouring sweat, his limbs writhing, his brow furrow’d mightily, John mutters some phrase in English, spit out like a curse, but taking the form of some command.
“Way aloft, topmen!” he would call out. “Take one reef in topsails!”
Or another time: “Stand by the booms! Trice up! Lay out and take one reef!”
Or another: “Light out to windward! Light out to leeward! Toggle away!”
On one occasion, midway between midnight and morning, I woke alone in our brass bed in our big house. We had imported the bed all the way from England, and yet John had never slept soundly in it a single night. Now I found him disappear’d and surmised that his nightmare had been of sufficient power to drive him entirely from his sleeping place. With much alarm, I gathered my nightclothes about myself and went in search of him.
The night was full of rain. There had been showers before, enough to fill the Traveler’s Tree— named so because its hollow leaves store cool rainwater to slake the thirst of passersby— and enough to keep our small farm flowering and fruitful, but the rain had never come like this. This storm had been ceaseless— it had been going on more days than we cared to count and it threatened to continue longer than we could predict. The effluence came down at first like spears of water, then like mighty columns, and finally like walls of unending wet. It seem’d as if the sky and sea had switched places, and the latter was falling back to its rightful location.
The rain turned the sky gray in the daytime and hid the world behind a blurry veil; at night, the stars were washed away and the whole of heaven was submerged in the deluge. The spray had fists: it punched at you like a thousand pugilists, and it tugged at your clothes and pulled at your shoes. The downpour had a voice: it howled incessantly, like a pack of wild dogs baying at a full moon. At times, it seemed the rain had a spirit as well and, in the whip and whirl of the cascade, one could almost imagine a figure, vast and spectral, many armed and full of fury, performing a kind of violent, magic dance in the inundation.
I stood at the doorway to our home and I called out to John and received no reply, not from him, nor from any other soul; our estate, once staffed with people, had been emptied because there was no work. The fields, once filled with hands, were empty because the rain of St. Swithin made planting and harvest impossible; so too, the main house, once surrounded by builders, had been left half-finished because the rain prevented further construction. And yet we remained living in it, and the rains came down.
I turned from the doorway and searched our home: the great bedrooms that had never seen a guest, the kitchen that was now empty of food and cooks, and the dining room with its table for twenty and places set for two. Finally I returned to the doorway and looked out into the gray rain, whose voice now seem’d to roar obscenely in the ear, mocking and profane, louder with each passing moment.
Into the rain I went, instantly soaked to my skin but pressing ever forward, calling John’s name out into the falling river, hearing naught by way of reply save the million-throated voice of the rain. And still the rain came down. I called out over the ruined fields, into the surrounding pimento trees, out into the ruined shacks where our workers once resided. I walked on and called out to where John and I had cleared ground for the construction of a sugar mill, I yelled down into the depth of a newly dug well, I yelled into the branches of a tall cedar tree. I heard nothing and I received no reply. And so the rain fell, gray and wet and interminable.
It was in the grove of mango trees that I finally saw them. At first I thought it was the rain, performing its mocking rigadoon. Then I thought it was some wild beast, a boar perhaps, off-course on its way from the tangled slopes of the Blue Mountains and now wandering here, lost and uncertain. Then, even through the rain, I thought I heard a man’s voice— not words, but mutterings— and, with the instinct of my profession, I reached for my cutlass and then cursed myself silently that I was foolishly unarmed and now, here I was, confronted by rank strangers. My heart wa
s beating again in the old way, and I both dreaded the sensation and wished it would never stop. Tho’ I had drowned myself in pleasure in this place, tho’ I had tasted every taste, heard the sweet songs of birds and felt the soft caress of a true lover, my eyes and skin and ears never came alive like this in that place, as they were in that moment. There are some that grow attached to opium and, after partaking of a puff, while away their days, ever afterward in the service of that sweet narcotic. I have never smoked the stuff myself, and yet I felt I knew its ways, for no anodyne could be as transporting as action. Ahh, for a cutlass at this time! I broke a branch off from the cedar tree, peeled back its tip to make it sharp, and then turned once again to the figure behind the curtain of gray rain.
“Speak, stranger!” I said. “Say your name!”
I heard nothing in reply.
Now I saw two figures, and they were crouched over a third. Was that my John on the ground, subdued? With a battle cry I ran forward, brandishing my cedar branch and offering, in my heart, my whole estate for a sword.
Then, as I approached, one of the two figures looked up at me. Ha! I dropped my makeshift weapon and hugged him tight. It was Read, come again after a long absence from my eyes.
chapter 28.
Read and Poop had journeyed from St. Jago de la Vega, three days journey over land, to find us. They had been lost in the rain when they had come across John lying face down and motionless in the muddy patch of earth beside the mango grove. They did not know why he had fallen, whether because of some unknown ailment or at the hand of some unseen assailant. They had stooped to the ground to offer him some assistance when I made my arrival.
Carrying John on our shoulders, we return’d to the main house, and, after drying off, and being given a mug of hot coffee spiked with rum, John recovered his senses. His bearings came back gradually, and, for a time, he seem’d to be immersed in another world. His eyes look’d past me, beyond his guests, and focused on some far-off vista. He open’d his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. He reached out as if to take hold of some prize, but grasped at air. Finally he stumbled to his feet and fell into his favorite chair and would suffer no inquiries about his condition.
“Why have you come?” John said at last to Read and Poop.
“Are you not glad to see us?” said Read.
“You are well met,” said John. “But I sense an ill omen.”
“I do not sense it,” said Read. “Perhaps it is the rain you hear.”
“Indeed, it has fallen in such a constant manner as to make a man mad,” I said. “But, come, tell us why you have come.”
“My dear Bonn,” said Read. “Surely there is happiness in your heart upon our arrival.”
“There is joy there. But there is also an inquiry.”
Read laughed and clapped my shoulder.
“We’ve come for gold,” said Read.
“You’ll find none here,” said John. “I’ve not buried my wealth in the ground, or in some hidden cay like the privateer legends of song. My treasure is bank’d, and therefore well protected.”
“All you’ll discover here,” I said, “are wet fields, rotten mangoes, and unending rain. The coffee we all drink ranks among the last of our supplies.”
“We’ve not come for your gold— we’ve come for more gold than you possess, or than we all possess or than can be imagined.”
John’s eyes narrowed as he heard this news, and my heart beat faster. Read lift’d his mug to his lips, paused like any showman on stage, and continued his dramatic monologue.
“The gold we seek is not here— it is in Dry Harbor Bay, near Port Negril. And it is waiting for us to seize it.”
Now Read spoke his peace. He had been frequenting drinking establishments located on the north coast of the island, in such places as Porto Maria Bay and the like, when he had been so fortunate as to come across some information of a certain value. He had been playing Back-Gammon in a bar, and his opponent lacked the funds to support his wagers. Read had drawn his cutlass, ready to run the scoundrel through, when the man in question offered up a tale to pay his way.
“Why should I trust the word of a man who has lied at wagering?” Read told the man. “Come, a sword point’s too romantic for your end. Accompany me outside, so I can finish you with a musketball.”
“Listen!” cried the man. “There is a ship that sits in Dry Harbor Bay. . . .”
And the man told this tale. Typically, as all mariners know, a hull is cleaned by burning off the barnacles (which slow a vessel and make it difficult to steer), caulking the rotten planks, and swabbing the hull with a mix of tallow, oil, and brimstone, ingredients that resist the spread and return of the vermin of the deep. One vessel, in particular, that had been brought in to careen at Dry Harbor Bay was much more than it seemed.
“This vessel is outfitted like any common fishing craft,” said the man. “But within its hold sits treasure bound for Portugal. The gold in its hold far exceeds the wealth to be found in possession of a dozen Spanish galleons.”
I interrupted Read’s narration and spoke thus: “By what means, dear Read, have you ascertained this tale’s veracity?”
“Because at the conclusion of this story, the man produced a letter that told of the plan, marked with the seal of the good Governor Rogers himself. He may be at war with privateers, but, regardless, and on account of sea-dogs like those gathered here, merchant ships still sail in trepidation, and have been advised to travel in disguise to better hide those things worth hiding. I have spread the word— I want to gather the old crew together and take this prize, if it can be taken!”
“We have gold enough,” I said. “Indeed, more than we can spend.”
“You can never have too much wealth, just as one can never have too much air, or too many kisses. It is a thing without limits, like the sea or sky or the appetite of fire.”
From his seat in the corner, John let out a sigh. He was not one for sighing, and the utterance had the effect of a shout. We all turn’d toward him to hear what he had to say.
“I feel I must tell you both this, so, in making your decision on this matter, you have the whole truth. Firstly, Governor Rogers, and his agent Governor Lawes, will not rest until he sees me, and whomever are my companions at that time, hanging from a noose at Gallows Point. Mark you those words, for they are true and factual.”
“Why do you say this?” I asked.
“I know because I have heard him, from his lips, swear to carry this out.”
“Why?” I asked. “What drives him? These seas are full of scoundrels.”
“To understand the Governor, one must first acquaint oneself with his daughter.”
So then John told his story.
Governor Woodes Rogers’s daughter, he said, was full of spirit and in possession of a comely figure, a white breast, and full blushing cheeks. At the time of this incident she made her residence in London, leaving to her father the affairs and politics of the new world. She was innocent of all men and had, in consultation with her mother and her priest, made the decision to enter a convent and thus betroth herself to the Divine Providence and forsake the things of this earthly sphere, and, accordingly, was bound on a voyage to a port in France.
John, in his first expedition as the captain of a privateer vessel, took her craft at sea and gave all aboard the sea-dog’s choice: to join his crew or be put to sea in a longboat, and, thus equipped, to face the storms of Poseidon. Most aboard, being men and women of station, accepted the latter— the rich often reason with optimism, figuring that, since’s life breaks have broken for them favorably thus far, there is no reason to believe luck will not continue to support them in all things. The Governor’s daughter, however, accepted his invitation to remain, tho’ the choice of joining the crew was, in fact, only offered to the men. This was a woman who had a spirit of adventure, and yet had never known challenge; she found herself drawn to the sea-life with the same intensity she was formerly drawn to chastity and prayer.
One day, as John went ashore to obtain supplies, a full complement of the crew, perhaps a score, came to John’s cabin to enjoy his new charge and the pleasures of her flesh in the same way he did, but with more roughness, and some blade work. John, upon his return, slew all the men responsible, each one in their turn, but his love’s spirit was lost. She was like some pluck’d flower, wilting and never to regain her former freshness and blossom. He return’d her to London and later, through contacts, he heard that she had died in her father’s house, in her mother’s arms, after confessing to a loose-tongued priest the complete tale of her misadventures and of John’s part in them.
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