A Journal of The Experiment at Jamaica (The Neville Burton 'Worlds Apart' Series Book 2)

by Georges Carrack

  He began to wonder if his situation had changed again. Where was he now? What sort of place could this be if it were not a ship? How long could he have been there, and why? He had the feeling it had been some time. His leg hurt something awful, though.

  A sudden pang of anxiety crossed his chest. Could he have been moved again – to a different time? He was able to turn his head to look about. There was nothing familiar, either from 1797 or 1690.

  He remembered being reassigned from Swan to fourth lieutenant of Antelope. He remembered the landing on St. Christopher, followed by a march to a fort. He remembered swaying the guns up, and that they fired until the guns were hot. But then?

  Am I still in 1690 or have I been moved again? I must remember to choose a service date that will set me well. I was lucky there was no contest aboard Antelope. That was a strange thought, I must concede to myself, his nattering brain continued.

  He lifted his head slightly off a pillow to look further about. A pillow? What place could this possibly be now? he wondered. It is not a ship’s sickbay, and it is certainly not on the gun platform. Could it be heaven? Would I go to heaven?

  With his head elevated, he could see that his leg was bandaged. I must be in a hospital – a most wondrous hospital. That would explain the pillow. Was I injured on the Antelope somehow, then?

  “Oh, miras aqui, Maria. El no dormiende ahorra,” a female voice behind his vision said. His neck was already stiff from the little motion he had just made, so he could not turn that far to look; there was motion at some distance. The motion was another person; a different female in a flowing white dress beyond his feet and at the other end of a path; a brown pebble path lined on each side by green plants of some type not known to him. He did recognize them as tropical plants, though. Probably still the Caribbean, then, he considered, though he had rarely known such a delicious temperature in his time there. I am under a tree, lying still in some sort of garden in the center court-yard of a surrounding building, not standing on a scalding deck in direct sun or packed in sick-bay or a little cabin below-decks.

  A large terra-cotta pot holding a large-leafed plant with blazing red flowers stood to the side. The woman neared, for a minute becoming a dazzling white as she passed along the path through the bright sunshine. It hurt his eyes to look until she reached the shade of the palms. She seemed more to float toward him than to walk, and she had a familiar air. Medium-length dark brown hair. Could it be his sweetheart, Mary? The thought caused another pang to shoot through him, and when he raised his head another inch, could see a bandage on his leg. A slight red spot appeared on it. He dropped his head back, forcing himself to be calm and waiting; waiting to see if the approaching female could possibly be Mary, however improbable that seemed. How could she have some to the Caribbean? The floating apparition arrived at his feet, and he looked up into her eyes, having the immediate reaction of recognition. “Mary?” he croaked, surprised at the weakness of his voice. His heart thumped and the red spot on his leg grew.

  No, it was not Mary. She was a year or so older, but a bit shorter, and it was almost Mary’s face, though a slight bit fuller. Her hair, though of similar length to Mary’s when he had seen her last, was darker - almost black - but not quite. There were the eyes, though, looking at him as if she knew him; but they were brown, with long black lashes. Mary’s eyes were blue. This girl’s lips were a bit fuller, too.

  “No,” she said. “Maria. How could you guess that?”

  “I… you … remind me of someone,” he answered, with a tear forming in his eye. “I’m very sorry that you miss her so,” she said. “That’s not the usual first question. You have been here two days already. Do you know where you are?”

  She turned aside for a second before he could answer, saying to someone, “Oi, Juanita, está sangrando. Por favor, haz otro vendaje.”

  “I’m sorry, my brave officer. You are bleeding again. Does it hurt?”

  “A little, I think, but I have a queer question, if you will permit me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What is the date today, and the year?”

  “Yes, you have been here some time. It is fourteenth July, 1690. You came here on father’s ship from the battle on St. Christopher, so you must have been asleep or fevered for several days. Your leg is badly wounded, and we despaired of your losing it yesterday, but now with you awake, I think you will see yourself to walk on it again.” The voice was soft, melodic, and much like Mary’s, but if possible, even kinder.

  This last information, that he had not changed centuries yet again, was a sword of two edges for him. On the one hand, it would be astounding to discover himself ‘home’ in 1797, and on the other, it was a great relief to him not to be facing reconciliation with his temporal situation. Even though he had seen the blood begin to seep through his bandage, he drifted back into sleep again. When he awoke it was dark, and he was aware that he was now indoors and he was hungry. That’s probably a good sign, he mused. I see it is morning, too. The light on the wall has grown in just this last minute. That’s good, there may be breakfast. He turned his head to study this new place. First, the leg…. It was bandaged, yes; below the knee. There was also a sort of cotton ‘leg corset’ with bamboo sticks sewn into it for splinting, so it must have been broken. There was no red showing now.

  A figure appeared at the open door. “Buenos dias, senor,” called a cheerful voice. It sounded much like the one he heard yesterday; the one Maria had called Juanita and who might be a nurse. “Teines hambre?” she asked as she walked into his view. She was a middle aged woman of medium size, but short, and light brown of complexion and very black hair, wearing a very colorful long skirt and an embroidered shirt that appeared to be of a similar pattern. He had seen similarly clad women in the towns on the various islands. Most had spoken French, however, but this was not French. In response to his confused look, she broke into a warm smile and motioned to her mouth as she asked the question.

  That he understood. “Yes, please. Oui, sil vouz plait,” was his eager response. He used both his languages in an effort to insure being fed. She gave him a noticeably odd look after his words; then began turning a crank handle that somehow began raising the head of his bed. Once he was lifted enough that she thought eating would be possible, she disappeared from the room for several minutes while the room grew lighter. The room was not large, having in it this one bed, a commode stand, and a small empty table with a simple unpadded wooden chair at the far wall. His uniform, or at least some clothing of the same color, was folded on the chair. Noticing that, he came to the uncomfortable realization that he had been changed into some sort of bed clothes. The building itself was substantial, made of large bricks and having a palm-thatched ceiling. On the wall with a door, a large window, wide open and with its covering pulled to the sides, looked out upon the interior courtyard where he awoke yesterday. The door itself was a work of art. Beautiful light-colored natural wood, probably of some local tree, fitted precisely to its casement.

  A wide covered terrace shaded all the interior walls, and there was that palm. As the day began, he could see as well as smell the end of a fine morning rain. Eggs, as well, he could smell now, plus ham and coffee, and that only served to increase his hunger by the time she reappeared with a bed tray laden with plates of food and a steaming cup. After placing it carefully over him, she left again, saying, “Buen provecho!”

  It took him only a few minutes to wolf down the food and half the coffee, and he looked up as Maria entered. She was dry, thanks to the covered terrace, but it looked as though the rain had stopped anyway. The woman in the long skirt must have had instructions to notify this one whenever Neville awoke.

  “Good morning, kind sir!” came her soft words. “How are you today?”

  The beauty of this black-haired girl in the morning light, together with the last mouthful of coffee he’d swallowed, caused Neville to stare dumbly for a moment. His chin wagged a bit, but no sound came out of him.

>   “Have you nothing to say? What about your name? We still don’t know who you are. Nobody at the battle knew. Nor did they know from whence you came; a ship, we assume, since you are wearing the uniform of a navy officer. No one knew which one, though, which is why you’ve ended up here. You have a nice uniform, too; quite fine material, what’s left of it. It has cuts and burns. I should very much like to know where I might buy the material. Is it English or French? Oh, it must be English – what am I saying? Did you enjoy the breakfast? Would you like more?”

  Neville was indeed fairly clear of thought this morning, but at this torrent of words from the girl he assumed to be his hostess, he only managed a hesitant, “Lieutenant Burton of the Antelope, miss, if you please.”

  “Oh, the Antelope!” she said, somewhat aback. “There was another one came with you, then. I’m afraid he’s died of his wounds. James Margill. Did you know him?”

  Neville’s face clouded, and he said “I did, I’m afraid. I’ve only been aboard a few weeks but he befriended me. He was one of the few who knew my name.”

  They were both quiet for a minute, and they began nervously together:

  “Only a few-” she started.

  “The breakfast was-” he began.

  They each laughed, and Neville’s mood eased greatly, but the jiggling caused a stab of pain in his leg. “Oooh! I shouldn’t laugh!”

  “I’m sorry, but we haven’t much for the pain other than the laudanum father gave you, but he hasn’t much of that and he says he is very afeared that it will be needed for others. He has asked the Spanish ambassador to send off to the mountains of their New Kingdom of Granada for more cocoa leaves, but that will take some time, I am sure. When your wound’s a bit better we have camphor to rub on that will do a little to help the swelling and the itching that will come. I could stay and talk a bit – maybe keep your mind off it?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued her question while his face lost its contortion: “Only aboard the Antelope a few weeks? Where from before that? Surely, you haven’t been living in the islands. You don’t look it. You’re too white, and your uniform is not ragged. You must have just come in from England.”

  “Yes, from England,” he managed. “In May, with Commodore Wright’s squadron, as I suppose you have guessed. I left Plymouth aboard the Swan, but we captured a French merchantman before Funchal and I had the luck to be made prize commander. Liberté, she was. Then I went over to Antelope at Barbados, because Swan was bringing the new governor here and the fleet wasn’t coming. I suppose they took Liberté back to England. That was only maybe a month ago?”

  “So here you are in Jamaica anyway,” she chuckled. “I’ve met him – the new governor - The Earl of Inch-ee-quin or something like that. He seems a fair man. Much nicer than that awful Molesworth or the even more horrible Duke of Albemarle,” she added, spitting out the last name. “But no matter. I have a handsome Captain here now!”

  The pain subsided, and he let out a long slow breath, but could feel himself turning red at her last remark and so answered earlier questions: “I think I’m all right – when the leg doesn’t hurt; and breakfast was absolute heaven! I’ve not had such food in months, and I never get to eat with such a lovely creature as you.” He immediately regretted the last remark, though it was honest enough. Knowing he was turning even redder, he added, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude or forward or any such thing, but it’s true enough that I’ve only et with the ship’s company for months, and the best of them are nothing to you.”

  Now it was her turn to blush, and the pink showed easily above the beautiful light brown skin, making her positively glow.

  “Wait!” he blurted, as she began to turn. “Before you go, can you please tell me how the battle went and how I came here; and I’m sorry again for my rudeness.” Now he was truly concerned that he had offended.

  “Not rude,” she began, turning back to him, “but a bit impertinent.” Her face did not show anger, but rather the slightest hint of smile. She began: “What I hear is that Commodore Wright’s fleet has carried the day. St. Christopher is English again! We shot cannon into their fort from some big hill, and they surrendered! We haven’t had proper English ships to protect us in years, I think, not counting that Albemarle. Many were killed on each side; hundreds, maybe, I hear. Only a few came here when father volunteered to act as hospital for the worst of the unknown! They brought ten of you in father’s sloop. Four didn’t make it to Jamaica; it takes almost a week, you know.”

  “I have some small memories of being at sea, but I’ve been at sea so long it’s hard to tell whether the memories are recent. I must thank your father!” he concluded, feeling his strength ebbing again.

  She left the room quietly, and he fell asleep with an easy contentment he had not felt in months.

  By mid-afternoon he was awake again and hungry. It was noticeably warmer now, despite the astonishing construction of this house, if it were indeed a house, which provided not only luxurious shade but allowed the breeze to blow softly through it. His leg was quiet now, and there was nobody about, so he took this time to look ‘round. There was not much of his leg visible beneath the bamboo-splint ‘leg corset’. He realized that he had it far better than he would have had aboard ship. There the bandages would probably be someone’s old shirt or old sailcloth, and the splints some leftover pieces from the cooper or ‘Chips’. The bandaging covered his leg from above the knee to the top of his foot. The blood stain he had seen before was in mid-calf. Probably a bad break there. He though himself a fool not to have asked about the injury, although Maria did say he would walk again. He still didn’t remember the accident, if that’s what it was, and he doubted Maria would have an accurate report of it.

  The older Spanish-speaking woman walked past on the terrace, herself fully in shade, and looked in as she went by. She must have thought she saw his eyes open, and stopped to look in more carefully. “Hola!” she said cheerfully. “Buenos tardes. Regresso pronto!” She continued on her way, and he could soon hear her talking to one or two others not far away. Still, it was ten or fifteen more minutes before he heard footsteps approaching.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” came a man’s voice that startled him out of his daydream. The man was quite tall – over a fathom, and of a certain heft, but not at all fat. His swarthy face was clean-shaven and well-tanned by the sun, as a seaman’s. He carried himself in a tall and rigid manner, as an officer or one who spends time at physical labor rather than behind a desk, though his attire hinted of ‘country gentleman’, and his voice gave away instantly that he was used to command.

  “Maria tells me you are awake and eating. Your fevers must be from the injury and not from the flux or the pox or any of the other scourges of these islands. That is good news, indeed. And your color is good,” he added, extending his hand. “I am her father, Mr. Thomas Fuller. Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Burton. I thank you for your sacrifice in defense of these islands!”

  Maria had entered with him and stood slightly behind, and so he worried that he was blushing again at the mere sight of her.

  Thankfully, the handshake was not rough.

  “The gratitude is all from me, sir,” Neville responded. “This is uncommon treatment for which I cannot repay you. It is I who must thank you for removing me from the battlefield, however that was done. How did your mercy fall upon me, sir? How did I come here?”

  “You are right, Maria. He speaks very well. Some of the King’s officers may be gentlemen, after all.

  “I sent my personal sloop with thirty men from this island to assist Colonel Codrington when he called for volunteers two months ago for the attack on Marie-Galante and St. Christopher. He’s the governor in Antigua and our most active antagonist to the French. Anyway, if I might return to the tale of your arrival: “Our Jamaican men took three weeks to beat up into the spring winds and then had to wait some time at Nevis before the Colonel and the fleet all arrived there, but they finally did. Before the battle bega
n at St. Christopher they used my little ship to ferry the field cannon ashore, and then the men helped the sailors haul the great guns up Brimstone Hill. Were you there?”

  “Yes, Sir, that was my duty sir, to get the great guns up.”

  “They spoke of you with great praise for that. Some mention was made of a great gun exploding, so if that’s where you were, you should count yourself lucky to be alive. It was all but over then. My men were thinking of home then, so they gathered you and some others for whom no officer spoke and cracked on to Jamaica, thinking their work done there and being most joyous except that we lost twelve of ours and half of your ten. We have made a great crack at the French, by God, though it’s not over yet! It’s been good to meet you, but I’ve a bit of business to attend now. We’ll talk more when you’re better, sir.”

  “Thank you, sir, with all my heart!”

  “Meanwhilst, don’t be bashful. This is my house, and as they say here in the ‘Spanish Lake’, “Mi casa es su casa.” Call Juanita if you need anything. She’ll make it right!” he concluded, and strode purposefully out.

  Maria also turned to go, but he called after her.

  “Yes?”

  “I …. I am embarrassed to ask, but I am hungry still - probably from not eating for several days. Could there be anything of a supper?”

  “We’ll do supper in another two hours, but for now would you like some fruit?”

  “Fresh fruit?” he exclaimed. “Yes, of course! How incredible that would be! You are indeed an angel.”

  Again, she blushed, but said nothing more. She drifted soundlessly out the door, returning in another fifteen minutes with a large bowl of fruit.

  “What is all this? I had imagined an apple or pear, or perhaps some grapes. Are these all good?”

  “Of course they’re all good! Do you expect me to poison you for your impudence?”