Caribee

by Christopher Nicole

  But no one knew. Of this he was sure. He took himself into the forest, from time to time. But he had been given the character of a solitary man, disappointed in his family, in his colonists, in his very island. No one knew how his heart sang with joy whenever he saw her, waiting for him, shrouded in her midnight hair, a bundle of lascivious evil, for she was undoubtedly that, intent on possessing his body with the ferocity of some demon, reawakening in him all the long forgotten manhood he had delighted in sharing with Sarah. And no one knew, either, the black despair with which he returned from these trysts, his energy and his desire spent, the fascinating laughter of Yarico following him through the trees, flooding his ears to remind him that he, the Governor and the lawgiver, was the biggest criminal on the island.

  Edward stood by the porch. ' 'Tis the ship, Father,' he said 'Will you not come?'

  Tom raised his head. Excitement, at last, in the boy's tone. He must forget that word. In the man's tone. A fine figure of a man. No, a splendid figure of a man. A dominating figure of a man. He had created this colony, for Edward and Philip, to give them property and empire they could never possess in England. 'You'd best see if your mother wishes to rise.'

  He walked down the beach, joined his colonists and their women and children, to stare at the vessel which came round the north of the island, drifting rather than sailing, for there was little wind.

  But this ship would hardly have sailed very fast in any event. Her foremast was gone, and her mainsail was a tattered rag. Only her mizzen seemed intact, as she ghosted towards the beach.

  'She's been in a storm,' someone muttered.

  'A hurricane,' said someone else.

  ‘In the spring?' asked a third voice, with contempt.

  Oh, they were knowledgeable, his colonists. But not knowledgeable enough. 'She's been in battle,' he said quietly, and their heads turned. The fact that life was a conflict, between nations, fought with guns and swords, had passed them by, here on Merwar's Hope. They fought amongst themselves, and were whipped for it, but they had seen no death here. Perhaps they doubted such a thing was possible. Sometimes he doubted it himself, could he but forget the memory of the Dominican savage being torn to pieces at the stake.

  'By God,' Ashton said. 'You're right, Tom. Look there.'

  For now they could see the shattered bulwarks, the gaping hole in her hull, just on the waterline.

  'But she flies no flag,' Berwicke said.

  'Aye. We'd best approach this with caution. She carries a deal of metal,' Tom said. 'Ralph, you'll assemble the women and prepare them to take to the forest. Where do you think she'll come ashore, Hal?'

  Ashton studied her through the glass. ‘I cannot make out the name,' he muttered. 'But there are men aboard, and able to move. She is under control, and I see them making ready to anchor. She should come in by the Neck.'

  'Then we'd best down there to see what can be done. Edward, you'll issue arms to every man. Not the Irish. Ralph, you'll remain here with four men to see that no mischief is done to the plantation. Creevey, you've my permission to leave the village. Make your way across the island to Mr Hilton, and request his presence, fully armed, if you please. Be off with you, now. The rest of you men will accompany me.'

  They gazed at him with some surprise. They had not known such decision, such certainty, since the day the girl had been flogged. Suddenly they remembered that he was, before all else, a soldier. And that their natural instincts were in that direction, too. They fell in behind him, hefting their firepieces, with cartridges and powder horns slung from their shoulders, and cutlasses hung from their belts. They might not amount to much in a fight, Tom considered, but they looked the part, every man save himself and Ashton stripped to the waist and browned by the sun, every man eager to relieve his boredom.

  They marched along the beach, a full dozen of them, staying close to the trees, in case the stranger should take it into his head to open fire, but easily keeping pace with her. And at the Neck they found Tegramond, wearing his sword, with a score of his braves, also armed.

  'Ship, fight,' Tegramond said.

  'Not with us, I hope, old friend,' Tom said. 'But she has certainly been in a battle. I have a notion they will want our help, not our enmity.'

  Tegramond touched the sword Tom wore. 'Tom, fight,' he said.

  'Only if I have to. Let us see what he has in mind, first.'

  The stranger approached slowly. The men on the shore watched, and sweated, and talked amongst themselves. They had long broken their ranks and sat on the sand, drinking coconut milk and gossiping.

  Edward remained standing, by himself, leaning against a tree, watching the vessel. He had no friends here. His contempt for them, and theirs for him, was too openly expressed. His mind was over on the north side of the island, but Hilton had made it plain he was not welcome, and he would not go against Hilton. Because he was afraid? He doubted that. Not of the man, at any rate.

  Or did he seek to convince himself? The colonists regarded him as a nothing. They had watched him humiliated by his own father, reduced to the stature of his younger brother, into helpless obedience. Nor did he deny them that right. He waited. Life was a matter of waiting, for something. For Mother to get well again, perhaps. For Yarico to come back to him. He had gone into the forest, to their usual meeting place, and she had not been there. He had climbed Brimstone Hill, and she had not been there. She had not forgiven him, either. Yet she had not come to the village to taunt him. Perhaps he had, after all, had a civilizing effect on her.

  So he had waited. On none of those things. He had waited on John Jefferson, determined to leave this island and seek his fortune elsewhere, if he had to stow away. Only by doing that could he hide his shame, at the least from himself, and seek a new start to life. Merwar's Hope was no El Dorado. Like that man of gold it was a dream, and dreams could not survive the light of day. To reach out, for a dream, and attempt to close the hand upon it, was to awaken. And having done that, all life became a nightmare.

  A sound beside him. Wapisiane stood amidst the trees, pointing at the approaching ship. 'Ed-ward, fight?' he asked.

  ‘I hope not,' Edward said. 'My father hopes not.'

  Wapisiane gazed at Tom Warner for several seconds, and smiled. 'War-nah.' He placed his finger on Edward's chest. 'Yarico.'

  'Not any more,' Edward said. 'She's all yours, Wapisiane. And I envy you her possession.'

  'Wapisiane, no,' the Indian said. War-nah.'

  Edward's head turned. The Carib continued to smile. "You speak. . ..' he hesitated. Wapisiane would hardly know the word for lie. He made a quick movement of his hand, from right to left.

  Still Wapisiane smiled. 'Ed-ward, War-nah,' he touched the sword thrust through Edward's belt.

  'You're demented,' Edward snapped. 'Look, the ship is anchoring.'

  The rattle of the chain spread across the bay, rumbled through the trees and up the slope of the hill. And now one of the crew unfurled a flag from the remains of the jackstaff.

  'A fleur-de-lis,' Jarring called. 'She's a Frenchie.'

  'What to do, Tom?' Ashton asked.

  Tom chewed his hp. 'When last I heard, our countries were at peace. Is not Prince Charles betrothed to a French princess?' When last he heard. Over a year gone.

  Tegramond took his bow from his shoulder and drew it, without attaching an arrow. 'Psssst,' he said.

  'No,' Tom said. 'Not without reason. And not until they are ashore, in any event. See those cannon, Tegramond?' He pointed at the row of a dozen pieces staring at them from the open parts. 'Blam,' he said. 'Big noise, fire, death,'

  Tegramond grinned.

  They are lowering a boat,' Jarring said.

  'Aye. We'll remain here until they beach,' Tom decided.

  Edward studied him. Father? It seemed incredible. Not incredible, impossible. Why, Father was near fifty. And Yarico? Father, on his knees like a dog? Father, on his back like a prisoner, condemned to the most beautiful of fates? That had to be impossible. It wa
s impossible to visualize, at any rate.

  The pinnace approached the shore, manned by a dozen seamen, stripped to the waist but armed, and with kerchiefs in a variety of brilliant colours tied round their heads. But the man in the stern was a different sort. He was slightly built, and wore no doublet; his shirt was purest white, and laced at throat and wrist. There were no patches on his breeches, and now that the boat came into the shallows they could see, to their amazement, that he wore no boots, but rather stockings in white as pure as his shirt, and for all they could tell also made of finest linen, tied beneath each knee with a crimson silk garter, and highly polished shoes, with golden buckles and high heels. To add to his strangeness, the chin beneath the broad brimmed hat was clean shaven, although he wore a thin moustache. It was a handsome face, lean and yet purposeful, with small tight lips and a matching nose, and now that he took off his hat, a high forehead made to look more so because, like his men, he had shaved his scalp and wore no wig. The eyes, deep set and dark, seemed to take in every man on the beach, and the trees and the mountain and almost every grain of sand, without appearing to move.

  And, most amazing of all, he was unarmed save for a cane, which he carried in his right hand.

  Now he replaced his hat. 'Captain Warner?’ he asked, in perfect English. 'Have I your permission to land, sir?’

  The English stared at him. Fine manners had been quite forgotten over the past few months. But Tom recollected himself and stepped forward. ‘It is my pleasure, sir.'

  The Frenchman nodded, and jumped lightly ashore. His men remained in the boat, holding it steady in the gentle surf. The visitor now removed his hat again, and made an elaborate leg. ‘I am Pierre Belain, Sieur d'Esnambuc, at your service, Captain Warner. I had heard of your colony, and sir, I am happy indeed that it thrives, and is prepared to welcome a distressed mariner.'

  Tom frowned. 'You've been at war,' he said bluntly.

  'But, no,' Belain protested. 'The Dons, you'll understand, Captain Warner. We sighted this Spaniard, cruising alone, and knowing this to be contrary to their invariable custom, we bore down upon him, seeking perhaps to offer assistance.' He shrugged. 'You will not believe this, sir, but he was a man of war disguised as a merchantman. He lay silent as we approached, for all our signals and halloos, and, when we were within pistol shot, opened up with all his iron. By God, sir, it is only surprising that we were not sent to the bottom.'

  'You returned fire?'

  'But of course. We are men. We made it as hot for him as he for us. But there was no advantage to be gained, and so we pulled off. You see a damaged ship there, Captain, in no condition to undertake a voyage of any duration. But then I reminded myself of this English colony on St Christopher....'

  This is widely known?' Tom interrupted.

  'But of course. It is all the talk of Europe, how you live in friendship with the dreaded Caribs.' He allowed himself a glance at Tegramond, but there was no fear in his eyes. 'And as our nations are now united, so to speak, in the person of your dear queen....'

  'Queen, you say?’

  Belain raised a finger. ‘I had forgot, you are not acquainted with affairs at home. Alas, Captain Warner, your noble King James has died, and now your King is called Charles, the First of that name, and long may he rule in splendour, and in amity with our court of France, as his wife is our very own princess Henrietta Maria.'

  'By God,' Tom said. 'How the world changes. You are welcome, monsieur, to beach your ship and make your repairs, and while that is doing, to share in our humble life here, if you will but be honest with me. You are a privateer, sir, who sought an isolated Spaniard, and found her to carry more metal than you had supposed.'

  Belain frowned, and then smiled. 'But of course. How else may a gentleman earn himself a fortune?'

  The contempt for the colonists was there, well disguised, but none the less evident. Yet now was not the time for quarrelling. Tom held out his hand. 'Then welcome, monsieur, to Merwar's Hope. May your sojourn here be a profitable one.'

  Her name was Madeleine, and she was the finest ship any of them had ever seen. Every white man on the island was needed to beach her, to pin her on her starboard side, warps secured to trees and anchors bedded deep in the sand, to expose the gaping hole by her port bow. To accomplish this her guns must be run to the starboard side as well, and hawsers carried out from the stumps of masts. It took them several days of unceasing labour, while the Caribs stood around in amazement at men so willing to work themselves into the ground. But when it was done, Pierre Belain invited the colonists to a celebration.

  There was wine on board the Madeleine, and fine cheeses, and sweetmeats such as they had not tasted in over a year. They sat around a gigantic fire lit on the beach, and drank, and laughed, and sang, and forgot that Frenchman and Englishman had ever raised a sword against each other, or that either had ever feared a Carib. The scene reminded Edward of that never to be forgotten feast on the banks of the Oyapoc River, saving many essential differences. Here was Mama, raised from her hammock at last and consenting to put on her best gown, her one remaining good gown, to take her place between Father and Monsieur Belain. Here too, for this special occasion, was Susan. She would have to be called Susan Hilton now, but she was none the less Susan, in a home-made gown, to be sure, lacking either the revealing neckline or the frills and furbelows of Mama's, and yet dominating the scene with her beauty and her flaming red hair. And without any effort on her part, for she spoke little and smiled not at all, even at the gallantry of the French officer seated beside her, nor did she eat or drink in any quantity.

  But the rest were enjoying themselves, French sailors, English colonists, Irish labourers, and Carib savages; even the mastiffs fought over the morsels tossed their way with apparent good humour. The white women were also having a splendid time, shared out as they were one to some five men, while the Carib women gathered in a group farther down the beach.

  And even Father was happy, this night. Because Mama was smiling, after so long, and because he had spent the afternoon showing Belain his plantation, and watching the Frenchman's initial contempt disappear as his shrewd brain had totted up the wealth of the endless brown leaves.

  He was returned to the subject now. 'Captain Warner,' he said, sipping his wine. 'You are to be envied. A beautiful wife, a beautiful family, a beautiful island, a priceless crop ... and I had supposed you hardly better than shipwrecked mariners. Sir, I most humbly beg your pardon.'

  'And your apology is accepted, monsieur,' Tom said, magnanimously. Perhaps he had drunk more wine than a governor should, but it was none the less pleasant to see the flush in his cheeks, and hear him conversing with an equal, no, a nobleman, to be sure, and holding his own. Father? And Yarico? That was impossible. That was nothing more than an attempt by Wapisiane to drive a wedge into the white man's world. Wapisiane was a sly one. He had none of his uncle's affection for the Warners.

  'Yet I cannot but wonder, sir,' Belain was saying, ‘If your comfort, your apparent security, here, has not lulled you into a false sense. You know, sir, that these islands are shown on the map as belonging to Spain?'

  Tom chuckled. "There is no gold to be dug out of this soil, monsieur, unless, as in our case, it is first of all planted there by human hand. The Spaniards have forgot these islands exist, save as refuges for Caribs and the buccaneers. As for the rest, I hold a grant from King James himself.'

  Belain nodded, thoughtfully. 'And yet, who knows, who can understand the mind of a Don? It but requires a man of action to occupy the seat of power in Santo Domingo, and ... sir, I tell you straight, were I governor here I would mount a brace of cannon on yonder hill.'

  'Spoken like a man, sir,' Tom cried. ‘I can see you have campaigned.'

  ‘Indeed, sir, although it grieves me now to speak of it, I was before La Rochelle.'

  'We share no cause of antagonism on that score, monsieur,' Tom assured him. 'There was an ill-fated venture, best forgotten by true men. But I will admit it, sir, when f
irst I saw this island, my thoughts centred on that mound. Hence its name!' Brimstone Hill. I have never seen anything like it, as a natural fortress.'

  ‘I have,' Belain said. 'Off the southern extremity of Spain, a huge rock sticking up out of the sea and connected to the mainland by a neck of land, rather like the situation on your south coast. But where your Christ child protrudes into the empty ocean, this rock controls the very entrance to the Mediterranean. Brimstone Hill is hardly less advantageously positioned. Brimstone Hill. I like the sound of that. The general who commands that hill, sir, commands this island, and its approaches.'

  ‘It is a thought which has been in my mind, monsieur,' Tom agreed. 'Should the occasion ever arise.'

  'Please believe me when I say that I speak as your greatest admirer, Captain Warner,' Belain insisted. 'But when the occasion arises, should you ever be that unfortunate, there will be no time to fortify that hill. It should be done now. Is not an ounce of protection worth several pounds of cure?"

  'You are right, monsieur,' Tom declared. 'Cannon. I must spend some of our profit on cannon. When Jefferson arrives, if he ever does....'

  ‘If, indeed,' Belain said, and filled their glasses, spending the time to do the same for Edward, on his left, with a smile. 'There are cannon on board the Madeleine. I have a saker, sir, which will throw a ball upwards of two miles, and with some accuracy.'

  'By God,' Tom said.

  'And cannon, like love, like life itself, are negotiable.' 'You are too generous, sir. I have naught save tobacco to offer you.'

  'You, sir, are worth a million if you are worth a sou,'

  Belain declared. 'And I do not speak now of tobacco. But here again, I doubt you have realized your potential. Why cling you to this narrow tract? I would estimate this whole south coast is ideal for your tobacco.'

  'Oh, indeed it would be, monsieur. But we have cultivated all that we may, of the land Tegramond gave us.'