'With Re-becca,' Yarico said, and disappeared into the house.
'By Christ.' Jefferson wiped his brow. 'Do you think she was there all the time?’
'Undoubtedly,' Mailing said. 'Now she ... I'd not offend the Governor.'
'Aye,' Tom said. There is a total heathen. She merely laughs when I try to speak to her on such matters.'
‘I'd not have thought laughter was a part of her character,' Jefferson observed.
‘It's there,' Tom said. 'But what laughter. She laughs at death itself.'
'By Christ,' Jefferson said. 'You're all afraid of her, Tom.' Tom glanced at him. 'So might you be, if you knew her as I do.'
O'Reilly played the flute and Connor danced. The pair were friends, and they were accomplished. The notes filled the night, gentle and haunting, and Connor, although he was a big man, revealed a remarkable lightness of foot as he pirouetted and leapt, crossed his legs and stretched them wide —without ever a stumble, although he had drunk as much as anyone.
The others lay around the sand, clapping their hands, drinking and singing, laughing and telling interminable stories. Theirs was a closed world. No labourer was allowed inside Jarring's General Store, unless he carried a note from his master. And celebrations of this sort were seldom allowed. Nor would it go unpunished, should any man be too drunk to work, come sunrise. Yet with their national carelessness of the morrow they were able to enjoy themselves, even lacking female companionship.
And with the enormous good nature which controlled even their hatred, they welcomed into their midst the Governor's son. Not that he shared their merriment. The more he drank the more silent and morose he became, staring into the flames which guttered in the night breeze, holding the bottle by the neck and scorning the cup, careless of slaps on the back or scattering sand across his legs. Like them he wore only breeches. Like them his body was a mass of hardened muscle. Only, unlike them, it was not scarred. No whip had ever fallen across his back, and there was not another man present who had avoided a session in the stocks or at the whipping post.
'Yell share the bottle, Ted, lad.' O'Reilly sat beside him, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ' Tis thirsty work, ablowing on that flute. Christ, man, ye's the saddest sight I ever did see.'
'Leave the boy be,' Yeats said. "Tis upset, he is.'
'Aye,' O'Reilly said. ‘I've a mind ye once said ye'd not stay here a moment after the ships came, Edward, even if ye had to stow away.'
'You'd not understand, Paddy. I've changed my mind.'
'Well, 'tis to be hoped for sure ye know what ye're at,' O'Reilly said. 'Tell us, Jimmy, boy.'
Creevey scratched his head. He was reputed to be a trifle daft, and scarcely worth his while in the field. Thus he worked for Mr. Mailing, and swept out the church. ' Twas examining the book, he was, your honour, and grumbling.'
'Who?' Edward asked.
'Why, the Reverend, may God heap curses on his soul.'
'Now, there's an un-Christian thought,' O'Reilly pointed out. 'Ye may be sure that the rascal is going to the fiery place in any event, as he is as protesting a dog as ever knelt before an altar.'
‘I wish I could understand,' Edward said, 'why you hate Mr Mailing so much, for being a Protestant, and yet welcome me into your company.'
'Ah, but ye see, Ted, lad, ye're not a Protestant,' Connor said. 'Ye're a heathen, so ye've still hopes of salvation.'
' 'Tis this we're speaking about,' O'Reilly said. ‘If ye'd let us get a word in. Go on, Jim.'
'Grumbling, he was,' Creevey said. 'About non-attendance. Oh, 'tis a serious crime, non-attendance. I'll have to speak with the Governor, he was saying, even if it is his son.'
'Aye, non-attendance, 'tis a matter for the stocks,' Connor said.
'He'll not put me in the stocks,' Edward said. ‘I care not a fig for his laws. He made them, and he breaks them, as he chooses. Well, one day, the laws will be mine, to make or break as I choose. You'd not realized that, Paddy O'Reilly.'
'On the contrary, Ted, lad, I've had it much in me mind these last four years, or I doubt I'd have survived them. I doubt I'd wish to. But I'd thought to see ye in power before now. Creevey has a point. 'Tis your non-attendance made the Governor put that dry stick Ashton in your proper place.'
' Tis drinking with the likes of you, you mean,' Edward growled.
'Man, we're all the comfort ye know. Here, let me get ye another bottle.'
'No,' Edward said. ‘I’ll drink no more this night, or I'll have it all back.' He rose to his knees, uncertainly, the stars and the entire firmament whirling about his head. But he'd not drop before the Irishmen. With a tremendous effort he reached his feet, and staggered out of the circle of light, there to stand with legs spread, sucking great gulps of air into his lungs.
A voice drifted to him, faintly on the breeze. 'Now, that was right careless, Paddy boy,' someone said. 'The lad is still a Warner, whatever his present discomforts. He's not to suppose we have a notion, save as he plants them there.'
Paddy's protests were lost as the wind died, but Edward did not wish to hear any more. He forced his feet to move, and staggered up the sand towards the houses of the town, darkened now, as even the colonists had retired to their beds. Father would have retired as well. No longer a hammock for Father. A great big tent, wide enough to sleep four, but containing only two. What had Father taught her, about the art of lovemaking? What was he teaching her at this very moment? The Carib way was not really practical on a feather mattress.
He knelt, staring up at the mass of Brimstone Hill. Mama looked down on the colony, and smiled. Or frowned. She had much to frown about, because being dead, her gaze would not be restricted by roof or wall, much less by coverlet.
What rubbish. The dead were dead, and could only be remembered. Else was Mama too encumbered by those who would surround her, to gaze down at Sandy Point with bitter hatred in their hearts. More than a hundred of them, an oath of eternal friendship on their lips. But then, Mama had died with an oath of eternal faith and honour on her lips. If there was the price of success, of empire and fame and wealth, it was surely a great deal too dear. He wondered he felt no
resentment, no hatred this night The announcement had been made from the steps of the church, to the assembled populace, and more than a hundred heads had turned, to stare at the Governor's heir, excluded from his rightful post And yet, this night, he felt only regret, and sadness. The hatred would come later, with his hangover.
Another voice, wailing through the night. A dream voice, come from the heights of Brimstone Hill. Edward found himself on his knees, staring at the darkness in horror. It could not be. The dead were dead. And this spirit was not even speaking English, all the tune.
'Help,' it shouted. 'Assistance. Mon Dieu, but they sleep like the dead. Help.'
Edward stood up. "What Is it, monsieur? You trespass."
The Frenchman stopped, to pant and stare at him. Gone were the elegant buccaneers who had first stepped ashore from the Madeleine; those who had elected to remain and farm the infant colony when Belain had sailed for home had very rapidly become beachcombers, with tattered breeches their only garments. Trespass? Mon Dieu. We all trespass, monsieur. And the owner has returned.'
'Eh? What do you mean?' Edward tried to focus his eyes through the haze of alcohol which surrounded his brain.
'Ships, monsieur. Caribs. Score upon score of canoes.'
'Where?'
'We sighted them at dusk, monsieur. We could not believe our eyes, at first. But they were well out' 'Coming from the south?'
'From the south, monsieur. They appeared from behind Nevis, heading north, So we said, they are passing St Christopher by, and making for one of the other islands. But then they started to close the shore. It was dark by then, and difficult to be sure, monsieur. But they were hard by the windward beach when last we saw them.'
'Oh, Christ.' Edward seized the man's shoulders and shook them to and fro. 'Now tell me straight, how many were there? Speak the trut
h, man.'
The Frenchman goggled at him. 'Not less than forty canoes, monsieur. This I swear.'
'Forty canoes,' Edward muttered. Twenty men to a canoe... by Christ but you lie. There cannot be that many Indians in the entire archipelago.'
'Well, monsieur, perhaps not so many, but monsieur....'
Edward threw him to one side and ran up the street towards the church. He bounded up the steps, and into the always open doorway, seized the bell rope and dragged on it A moment later the first peal echoed through the town.
'Edward? What has happened?' Mr Mailing, his nightshirt trailing the ground.
'Caribs,' Edward said. 'Keep the bell going, Reverend.'
He ran down the steps, and up the street to the Governor's House, every footstep punctuated by a vision of Susan Hilton tied to a stake, or held on her face by some Carib brave; he could not decide which fantasy was worse.
'Edward?" Tom Warner stood in the doorway to his bedchamber, naked but carrying a sword. 'What is the reason for this tumult?'
'A Frenchman has seen a Carib fleet making for the windward coast, sir,' Edward shouted. ' Tis only the Hiltons over there.'
'By Christ,' Tom said. 'But we shall not reach them before dawn.'
Then you'd best hurry.' Edward snatched up his sword belt, buckled it round Iris waist, found his pistols and thrust them into the belt, slung his cartridge pouch over his shoulder, and ran for the back.
'You'll come back here,' Tom bellowed. "There is naught you can do by yourself, and you'll be needed to guide the foot'
'Yarico can do that,' Edward said over his shoulder. 'She knows these woods even better than I.' He dashed across the fields behind the town, climbing now, towards the forest. Susan, Susan, Susan. The thought drove him on, while the alcohol poured from his blood in endless sweat
Yet it was fight before even he found Ins way down the pass on the far side of Mount Misery, towards the windward shore. Now he faced the eastern ring of islands, fringing the Atlantic itself, and the breeze had already freshened, driving into his face, and driving, too, the constant big rollers which pounded on the beach below him. By now, too, exhaustion haunted his steps. Yet he was still sufficient of the Indian to have paced himself; he had loped through the forest, neither walking nor running, but travelling as fast as he could without dropping. He sweated, but this was clean sweat; the alcohol haze had quite gone from his head, and only a dull ache remained. But with it, the ache of despair, creeping up out of his belly. From this vantage point he looked down on an empty beach, but not an empty sea. The horizon, to which clung the island of Antigua, a glowing cloud in the path of the rising sun, was dotted with canoes. Not forty. Not even twenty. Six of them, already several miles from the beach, rising and disappearing again into the swell, hurrying southwards. With what on board? And with what accomplished?
The smoke drove him on. Hilton had cleared a deal of land, considering the size of his work force. Now it was a layer of black ash. And beside it, only the main timbers of the house still stood, and these surely not for long, as they still glowed, and sent wisps of smoke upwards into the clear air. Edward panted down the last slope and reached the sand, staggered and dropped to his knees, to stare at the destruction in front of him. Now he could even feel the heat, driven towards him by the wind. A successful raid. How successful? Tony's dog lay on the sand, dried blood stretching away from its open mouth like a hideously elongated tongue.
He stood up, tiptoed forward, slowly. He stood as close to the ruins as he dared, gazed at the smoke and the ash and the flame, inhaled, and tried to imagine whether burning white flesh would smell different from the holocaust which had marked the end of Tegramond's people. But surely, if the Caribs had taken the place before setting it alight, the bodies would also be scattered about the beach, the remains of a human butcher's shop.
'Edward?’
He refused to turn. It had to be a dream, a delusion, like the voice from Brimstone Hill, not only because she could not be alive, but because if she was alive she would not have spoken his name. Not after four years of silence.
'Edward?' It was so close it could touch him. And then it did, a handful of fingers on his arm. Warm fingers.
He turned, slowly filling his lungs, preparing himself for something horrible. Red hair, drifting back from her face in the wind. The strong, purposeful face, revealing at this moment only pleasure. She wore a cotton nightdress, torn in several places and soiled from a night in the forest. But she was unharmed.
'Susan?" he whispered. "Where is Tony?"
‘I don't know,' she said. 'We could not defend the house, so we went into the forest. All of us. They left me and returned to see what could be done. I think I fell asleep. But when I woke up it was fight, and I could see the smoke. I came down here."
In the forest a musket exploded, and another. They're looking for you now,' he said. She gazed at him.
'Oh, Christ,' he said. His hand left his side without any impulse from his brain, touched the line of her jaw, stroked down her cheek and neck. She put both hers up, clasped them round his wrist, and turned towards the trees.
'Tony will be out of his mind with worry,' Edward said. 'And there are men coming from Sandy Point.'
'They can rebuild our house for us." She released his wrist to walk into the forest. 'Do you know the windward coast?'
'No.' Now they were hidden from the beach. That quickly.
‘It is more steep-to than the west. You can see that. When there is a storm the waves come right up the beach and pound on the rocks. So there are caves. There is one here.' She went through the bushes with the utmost assurance. A white Indian, with flaming hair. But then, was he not also a white Indian? That was the opinion generally held of him.
'Four years,' he said.
She parted the bushes in front of them, showed him a cleft in the rocks. 'And then we were interrupted.' 'You mean you remember that?'
'No one knows of this place.' She had disappeared, into the darkness. He sat on the lip, allowed himself to slide down the slope behind her, feet scrabbling on the suddenly dry earth. But it was not far, hardly six feet. 1 can't see you,' he said.
'Wait,' she whispered, from beside him. 'Just wait.'
Slowly the light came, seeping out of another hole in front of them, and at a distance, allowing him to understand the vault of the cavern, rising a score of feet above his head, and then dwindling away at the far end, where the glow came from.
'What is it?' he whispered.
‘I don't know. I have never been farther in than there.'
He glanced at her, crouching beside him.
‘I have a lot of time to myself,' she explained. ‘I go for walks. But there is so much to be afraid of, in the forest.'
'They think you are mad,' he said. 'They think the lash drove you from your mind.'
She crawled away from him, over the strangely smooth rock. 'No doubt they are right,' she said. 'Will you come? I have always wanted to explore in there, to see where the light comes from. But I waited, for you.'
'For me?'
She was at the foot of the next rise, where the floor almost met the roof; where the light seeped through. ‘I thought you would come back, one day. When you stopped being afraid of Tony. When you stopped being afraid.'
'You were in Sandy Point, when Belain came.'
Three years ago. And you were still afraid. I could see it, then.'
'And what makes you think I am not afraid, now?’ 'You are here.'
‘I thought of you, being torn to pieces by savages. I was afraid of that.'
'Well, then,' she said. ‘Is not all life a layer of fear, winch is uncovered by discovering something you fear more than anything you already know?"
She crawled again, upwards, and he followed her. His sword scraped on the rocks, and he took off his belt, left his pistols behind as well. He caught her as she reached the lip of the rock, and lay on his belly beside her to look down on a pool of still water, so clear and so bright the
y could see the white sand at the bottom. All around the pool the rocks glistened, with a tremendous bright light which welled up towards them, and spilled into the outer cavern.
'The very rocks are burning,' she said.
'Not burning,' he said. 'Just glowing.'
'So, now I am not even afraid of that, any more,' she said. ‘It will be somewhere to come.'
He waited, slowly threading his fingers through her hair, while his body swelled. But he could wait, now. She would not have brought him here without meaning more than to show him the burning rocks.
‘I am not mad,' she said. ‘I wished to go mad, when the leather was biting into my flesh. I would like you to look at the marks.'
Her voice was even, her chin rested on her hands as she gazed at the water. But she had slightly raised her body from the rock, to permit him to ease the skirt of her nightdress high, past thigh and buttock, to leave it resting on her shoulders. There were stains on the flesh, discolorations but no marks. It was as firm and as strong as he remembered; stronger. And below... his hands caught the curve of her buttocks.
'Caribee,' she whispered. 'But I did not go mad, even then. And afterwards, I think I was ill, for months. I caught a fever, and cared not whether I lived or died. I owe my life to Mr Hilton.'
'Do you love him?' He caressed the flesh, parting it and allowing it back together. But he could wait, still. There was no risk of him losing her, this time.
‘I do not know what love is,' she said.
Very gently he rolled her on her back, and she sat up to allow him to draw the nightdress over her head. 'Do you sleep with him?'
The air was cool on the cavern, and her nipples were enormous, and splendid to touch. But then, so were his, as she now satisfied herself. 'He is my husband.'
'And is he passionate?"
"He is very passionate,' she said, and kissed him on the mouth, and while holding him with her lips and her tongue, attended to his breeches. She held him close, her hands between them, accomplishing all that should have been accomplished four years before, and finally drawing him into her body, without ever releasing his mouth. He felt conquered, just as much as he had ever been conquered by Yarico, but in a totally different fashion. Yarico's had been bubbling enjoyment, as she might have dived into the cooling waters of the pool, as she had sucked the dying penis. Susan's was all detached. She sought passion, and she found it. She did not have to guide his hands, and she swelled beneath his touch. But the morning was controlled by her brain, hovering above them. She would remember.
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