by Hunter, Seth
Nathan pulled the map to him and studied it carefully. A cutting out would be very tricky. The boats would have to sail in right under the guns of Fort Felipe—or whatever it was called under its new ownership—and then out again with the brig and the cutter. He supposed they could burn them at their moorings but the boats would still have to come out again.
Alternatively the Unicorn could sail into the Serpent’s mouth and do the job herself. But she would sustain fire from the fort and the brig. And she might have trouble manoeuvring in such a confined space. He wondered if Mr. Godfrey had any idea of the depth of water in the tiny bay.
Brother Ignatius was at least partly satisfied with his mojito.
“Perhaps you took my advice on the sugar a little too much to heart,” he informed Gabriel. “It is a little tart. But not bad for a beginner, not bad at all.”
“You say they are expecting help from the French,” Nathan cut in abruptly, quite oblivious to Gabriel’s presence. “Did you mean the Virginie?”
“I am not sure if Imlay was specific about the precise means of their deliverance but certainly if they anticipate help from the French they would expect it to come by sea.”
“Thank you,” said Nathan. “And thank you, Gabriel”—to his steward of the flapping ears—”That will be all.”
But he knew now how it could be done. And with any luck it would not involve the necessity of a battle with the Army of Lucumi.
CHAPTER 19
The Serpent’s Mouth
THE FRIGATE STOOD half a mile or so offshore with Mr. Lloyd’s virgin at her bow and the tricolour hanging limply from her stern in the torpid tropic air. Nathan looked back at her from the stern of the gig as it pulled for the distant headland, trying to see her as the men in the fort would or, more critically, the men in the brig who had once served in her. There was nothing glaringly obvious to him—no small detail he had overlooked. The greatest danger was if there was a distinguishing feature of the Unicorn he remained unaware of, but it had been a good eight months since the mutineers had last seen her and she had been through a lot since then. Nathan had taken the precaution of dressing the marines in seamen’s slops and none of his officers wore their coats. He even had them wearing the tricolour in their hats, in case they could be seen with a telescope.
He turned back to gaze over the heads of the rowers towards the Serpent’s Mouth, aware that they would be watching him, too, in his civilian cape and his tall beaver hat. And Tully beside him at the tiller in the uniform of a lieutenant in the French Navy, specially knocked up for him by one of the crew, who had been a tailor in his former life. The rowers were all men who had joined the ship in Port Royal—with Tierney, the Channel Islander, in the bows. It would have been too much of a risk to take any of the original crew of the Unicorn for fear the mutineers would recognise them but Nathan could have wished for better oarsmen. Although he had waited for slack tide, they were making heavy weather of it and they were closer to the eastern headland than he would have wished. Tully snapped at them, uncharacteristically anxious—and in English. Nathan warned him to keep his voice down, fearful that it would carry to the men in the brig. He could see her clearly now and the little cutter beside her. Moored fore and aft on spring cables just inside the bay. Several crew members staring towards him from high up forward. He looked away towards the fort on the opposite headland. Men there, too, gazing down from the battlements. And the guns. Eight of them—12-pounders most likely—covering the approaches to the bay. Any vessel that tried to force a passage into the Serpent’s Mouth would face a withering crossfire from the fort and the brig—and even the cutter with her 32-pounder carronade at the bow, Nathan’s missing carronade.
They were directly in the entrance now, clawing their way towards the jetty on the western headland, directly beneath the fort. A great many men standing in groups along the shore. A few uniforms, not many, no particular order or discipline, and not many guns. An encampment further back into the bay, all along the shoreline and climbing up into the cliffs. Forty, fifty tents. A lingering smoke from the cooking fires. Washing hung up to dry. Again, no military order. But the fort—the fort was a different matter and that was where the bulk of the army was accommodated, at least according to Brother Ignatius’s mysterious informant in San Sebastian. How did she know? By intuition, by magic? Or did she have a more conventional means of communicating with them? And the greater question: could she be trusted?
Too late now. Tully directed the little gig towards the jetty. A steep flight of stone steps led up to the fort—or more correctly to the gatehouse, a squat, square barbican with two small cannon flanking the entrance. Beyond, a little higher up the cliff, there was a steep chasm with a wide wooden bridge—a drawbridge—leading to the fort proper. The doors were open but the portcullis was lowered.
They were under the guns now. They could never depress so low. A small boat—or a flotilla of small boats—creeping close in by the western headland, would evade their fire. But they would be in direct line of fire from the brig and the cutter across the bay.
A sudden sound from the fort—very like the sound of an anchor chain running out—and he looked up to see the portcullis being raised. A file of soldiers came marching out, perhaps two dozen of them in good order, dressed in white uniforms and boots with bandoliers at the chest and muskets at the shoulder and led by an officer or sergeant calling the step. A guard of honour or an escort for the prisoners? The soldiers marched across the drawbridge and into the barbican and then out again, forming up in two lines at the top of the steps.
A muttered word from Tully and the boat crew raised oars as they approached the jetty. Tierney leaped ashore with the painter. None of the men on the shore ran up to help or greet them in any way. Nathan waited until Tierney had secured them fore and aft and then stepped ashore with Tully at his heels. They walked on alone, past the silent army on the shore and up the steps to the fort.
The officer shouted a command. The guard presented arms—a good sign? They walked between the two disciplined lines of men. Nathan smiled, bobbed his head at the officer. No response. The officer stared into space, his face blank, his sword at the present. No-one greeted them, no-one stopped them. Nathan paused. The officer turned on his heel and marched ahead of them into the barbican. They followed. Through a dark passage and out again into a small courtyard and a glare of sunlight. More soldiers drawn up in ranks. But not with guns. A band. A military band. Fife and drum and what looked like a tuba. And as Nathan and Tully stepped through into the light, the band began to play: “La Marseillaise.”
Nathan stood at attention. He half wondered if he should sing.
Allons enfants de la patrie …
They played the first verse and the chorus: a crude rendition with a few false notes but Nathan had heard far worse on the streets of Paris. He sang to himself.
Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Marchons, marchons…
Qu’un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!
A nervous silence. Nathan began to clap—enthusiastically. Tully, too. But now what? They could not go on clapping forever, with their fixed smiles. But at a word of command the band marched off to the side to reveal another guard of honour—and two figures standing a little in the shade. A man and a woman. The man in a white uniform, the woman in a long red dress.
Nathan stared for a moment and then advanced towards them, though every instinct urged him to run in the opposite direction, dragging Tully with him. It might surprise them. They might even get away with it. But still he walked forward.
And came to a halt a few paces from where they awaited him.
He took off his hat and bowed.
“My name is Imlay …” It came out as a croak. His mouth was dry. He began again. “My name is Citizen Imlay and I am sent by the National Convention in Paris …”
To bring you freedom? Liberty, equality, fraternity? Possibly this is what Imlay would have
said, and a great deal more. He was a good actor, good at making speeches. Nathan had once heard him speak to the Convention in Paris, though not with success on that occasion.
“I come …” But the words stuck in his throat. Not because he did not believe them. But because he knew they would not. They knew he was not Imlay. They knew he was not French. They knew he had not come to bring them their freedom. And they would tear his tongue out by the roots with hot pincers—when he had told them all they wanted to know.
There was a silence.
Then the man spoke.
“Welcome to Free Cuba,” he said. His voice was deep, his accent heavy. “My name is Olumiji. But I do not speak well the French. This woman speak for me. Her name is Adedike.”
But Nathan knew who she was. By whatever name she called herself. She was the woman that had followed him to the waterfront in the Havana, the courtesan whom Imlay had called La Princesa Negra—the Black Princess.
CHAPTER 20
La Princesa Negra
THEY WERE ESCORTED TO A ROOM deep within the fort. A plain room with bare stone walls and a wooden floor, the only furniture a table and chairs. There were no bars on the windows but it was as good as a cell, or as bad. The only view was of an enclosed courtyard some thirty feet below and the steep walls all around.
“What was that about?” asked Tully.
Nathan shook his head.
“That woman,” Tully said, frowning. “I think I have seen her before.”
“She was the woman who followed us down to the waterfront,” Nathan told him, “when we left the consul’s house in the Havana.”
Tully had lost some of his normal composure. “Can you be sure?”
“She stayed in my mind somewhat,” answered Nathan dryly. He had not told him what Imlay had said about her and her desire for him.
“They seemed to be arguing,” said Tully. “She and the general.”
“There appeared to be some disagreement, certainly. But I could not understand what was said.”
“Do you think she recognised us?”
“I think she probably did.”
“So she knows we are English.”
“Well, she knows we were staying at the English consul’s house. Though we came from an American ship. But I think she knows that I am not Imlay and that you are not French.”
“So what now?”
Nathan shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. At least they have not taken our swords.”
Footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by a knock upon the door. Two women entered with trays of food and drink. They set them down at the table and left. No words were spoken. Nathan glimpsed a pair of armed guards in the corridor outside.
He inspected what the women had brought. A ham, fried plantains, bread, olives, tomatoes, some unknown fruit or vegetable, wine and water.
“Well, we might as well eat,” he said, sitting down and pouring the wine. He caught Tully’s eye. “It is better than staring out of the window.”
They were left for some considerable time. The light faded from the sky. It had been late in the afternoon when they had landed.
“I wonder what has happened to the boat crew.” Tully broke a lengthy silence.
Nathan could offer no suggestions.
“Do you think Pym will do anything?”
“I hope not.”
Nathan stood up and crossed to the window. Deep shadows in the courtyard. Soon it would be night.
“This is not good,” he said.
Footsteps in the corridor outside and another knock on the door. This time it was the officer who had brought them here—with two guards. He spoke to Nathan in Spanish and when Nathan looked blank made a gesture towards the door.
Nathan stepped into the corridor but when Tully attempted to follow he was stopped by the guards. He began to protest.
“Leave it,” Nathan told him. “I think it will be all right.”
He had no grounds for this belief but it would have been pointless to argue. He was led down several corridors and up a spiral staircase, glimpsing the sea through one of the slit windows—and the distant Unicorn in the light of the setting sun. A door at the top of the stair. The officer knocked, listened a moment and then pushed it open and with another abrupt jerk of the head, invited Nathan to enter.
The room was not dark but it was a tricky, hazy light: the dying light of the sun lancing from several windows through a thin, pungent smoke.
And then Nathan saw the woman.
She was sitting by one of the windows, framed against the blood-red sky. The door closed behind him.
“May I offer you a glass of wine?” She spoke French in a voice that was almost as deep as a man’s—and brisk.
“Thank you,” Nathan said. He stood just inside the door. The smoke, he saw, was coming from several candles—and an incense burner that hung on a long chain from the rafters. The roof above was pointed. They must be at the top of one of the castle towers.
She moved from the window. She was wearing a long robe, not red this time, but white, and quite chaste. But then she moved to a small table at the far side of the room and as she crossed the light from the window he saw that the robe was almost transparent and that she was wearing nothing under it. He watched as she poured wine into two glasses. She had not invited him to sit though there were chairs at the table; also a couch along one of the walls. The incense was not unpleasant but heady, almost overpowering.
For some reason he had a sharp memory of the old woman sitting in the courtyard in the Havana stroking the cat in the red ruff. Incense he remembered was often used to hide the smell of decay.
But why should he think of that?
He was aware that she was looking at him—as if inspecting him for flaws. He felt awkward standing there, and tense. Something else, too, that was more disturbing. He could not remember when he had last been in a room alone with a woman, other than his mother, but of course it must have been when he was last with Sara and he was shocked because he had to think about it.
“So, who are you?” Her voice was softer but not more gentle—if anything there was a hint of menace in it. She came towards him, leaving the wine glasses on the table, and stood, disconcertingly close. It came to him to say “My name is Imlay,” and to repeat it stubbornly, as to an interrogator, every time he was asked. But something warned him that this would not be wise so instead he said, “My name is Peake. Nathan Peake.”
“And you are English?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” she said and her lips stayed parted in what was almost but not quite a smile. Her features were as perfect as he had thought them when he had seen her on the waterfront in the Havana: sculptured, a black Venus, but a glow about her skin, a bloom like violets.
“If you had lied to me, if you had said you were Imlay, I would have had your tongue torn out by the roots,” she said.
So he had not been wrong about that, then.
“So what shall I do with you instead?”
When he thought about it afterwards, he thought he had probably leant, or swayed, towards her, and the next moment they were kissing. It was more of a fight than an embrace. Broadside for broadside, as he might have put it, hammer and tongs. He had been right about the robe. She was naked beneath it. His own clothes were more of a problem and there was some tearing, though not of his tongue. Some disturbance, also, to the furniture. They crashed into the table and knocked over the wine glasses. A candle ignited some powder and a small fire started which Nathan put out with the wine that was left in the bottle: a brief moment of clear-headedness.
He was not aware of the light fading from the windows but it was dark when next he noticed them, the room lit by the flickering light of the candles, making great shadows on the walls. They lay on the floor, apart but within easy reach, not touching. The rough matting prickled his back. He turned his head to look at her. She might have been sleeping. He raised himself quietly and stood by one of the windows. A distant li
ght that was the Unicorn. Her top yards stark and skeletal against the evening sky.
He felt a touch, a fingernail drawn down the sweat of his spine, like a knife. He shivered. He had not heard her move.
He turned and cupped the angle of her jaw in his hand. He looked into her eyes but saw nothing there that he knew. He kissed her gently and she bit him. Not gently. He flinched away and swore, tasting the warm blood on his lip, trickling down his chin. He wiped it with his hand and looked at it in the light of the one remaining candle, the blood on his palm. He thought quite deliberately about this, not angrily at all, thinking what would be the best response. Then he spun her round by the shoulders and slapped her once, but hard, on her naked buttocks.
She was round in a flash, her eyes blazing, and he thought for a moment that he had a real fight on his hands. She seized him by the hair. It had long come undone and hung to his shoulders and she had plenty to pull. But she only pulled him to her and kissed him, violently, but without using her teeth this time, and then her legs were around his waist and he fell back against the narrow window ledge, holding her with his hands around her solid buttocks. Where and how they went from there he did not know. Somehow they managed to avoid the broken glass. They ended up on the couch. It was darker now and the last fat candle flickered, making huge shadows on the distant rafters of the roof.
“Where do you come from?” he asked her, twining his finger in the tight curls of her hair.
“Hell,” she said.
He nodded as if this confirmed his suspicion. “And what brought you to Cuba?”