Chapter 9
I wiped my face and blinked more sweat from my eyes, then waved my hand to disperse the cloud of flies for a moment. The sun was fierce and far hotter than anything I’d experienced before.
I shielded my eyes with the flat of my hand and peered at Port Royal, Jamaica.
It was Bristol in the making. Huge warehouses, filled with God only knew what treasures; brick-built mansions, three or four, some five stories high above the sand; and I even spotted the spire of what could only be a cathedral rising above it all. The wharf was piled high with goods: huge casks, filled with sugar I presumed; piles of animal skins tied with twine and stinking in the sun, even at this distance; enormous tree trunks which I guessed was the logwood that provided the deep red, purplish color so enamored by the ladies of England. And everywhere was hustle and bustle. Small boats filled so high with goods that their gunwales only barely cleared the water were being rowed out to the ships. Empty versions of the same proved the profitability of their trade. So this was “the richest and wickedest city in the world”.
Over to the left, a large, empty space was filled with lengths of rope and I realized the Jamaicans had established their own ropewalk. Huge wheels spun and twisted the tremendous lines of hemp, and I was amazed that so much had been achieved and established in little more than twenty years.
Our trunks were lowered into one of the small rowing boats and I glanced at Jonesy. “Are you coming, mate?” I asked with a concerned smile. He stood stock still, staring at the town built on white sand and turquoise water. He looked terrified; a state of being I had not witnessed in him before.
“What’s wrong?”
He shook himself out of his reverie and turned to me. “It’s just so . . . different.”
I laughed. “What did you expect? This is the New World, I hope to God it’s different to the old one!”
Jonesy managed a smile. “I know, I just didn’t expect it to be this different.” He swatted a hand at the reformed swarm of flies hovering about our heads and hitched his shirt away from his skin. I grimaced and did the same with mine. There had been no opportunity to wash our clothing in fresh water for almost a month and everything was stiff with salt. It was bad enough when first donning a seawater-washed shirt, but half an hour in the oven of the holds playing dice and it was sodden, itchy and extremely uncomfortable. Ten minutes in the baking heat above deck was enough to sweat, dry and sweat it through again; our attire was hardly recognizable as sartorial.
“Come on, stop worrying. This may be Jamaica, but it’s still English, man, they’re waiting for us in the boat.”
Little, on his best behavior when, as now, he was in view of his captain and first mate, tugged his forelock after casting our little boat off from the mothership, and I gave him a friendly wave that in actuality was the complete opposite.
I didn’t personally know the sailors at the oars, and relaxed as we moved away from Pride of the Orient, Little and his shifty mates.
*
I clambered up onto the wharf, closely followed by Jonesy, and looked about me.
“There.” I pointed to an inn with a depiction of horses displayed on its frontage. “We need to hire horses and get directions to Windhaven.”
Jonesy nodded and we dragged our trunks to the waiting establishment. After a couple of very welcome jugs of ale in the relatively cool interior, and with my pockets considerably lightened, a cart containing our trunks stood at the ready with the ostler’s young son at the reins. Two horses, saddled and bridled, shifted their hooves behind it. We crossed to them, unhitched them and mounted.
“Lead the way, lad,” I called, and our little caravan moved off into the island’s interior and the unknown.
I prayed for a friendly welcome; it had been many years since I’d set eyes on my mother’s brother. I’d been a child when he’d last made one of his rare visits home. I’d been fascinated by his stories; he had been part of Cromwell’s expedition, the first official sailing to the New World, and Mother had often warned Uncle Richard as his tales of cannibals, boucaniers and fierce savages grew too lurid for my young ears.
Admittedly, deep down I was grateful to her. I remember I had always suffered nightmares after a day spent in the company of my uncle, but had always hankered after this faraway place of which he had been so enamored.
I glanced into the lush green forest on either side of the track. Strange noises emanated all around, and I jumped at a particularly loud cawing and a flash of bright color, then sighed in relief; not a savage, but a tropical bird.
I caught Jonesy’s eye and he chuckled. I frowned. How has he recovered his equanimity so quickly? Our surrounds are now far stranger than at the docks.
*
“Windhaven,” our guide called and guided the cart between two great stone pillars. I glanced at the name etched onto the stone and felt a shiver of excitement; how often I’d dreamed of this moment.
I looked ahead, eager for a glance at the house, but could see naught but tall plants swaying in the gentle breeze: sugarcane. I itched to stop and taste some, but, with a glare at the cart pulling ahead, I decided to wait.
“You there! Out of my way. Goddamn you!”
Startled, I broke into a trot to catch up to the cart and was shocked to see the young lad still berating men on the track; men who were many years his senior.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Nothin’ to fret about, sir,” the young lad replied. “Just a bunch of lazy negras in the road.”
“Since when do you speak to or about your elders with such disrespect?” I demanded, and the boy jumped in surprise.
“Elders? They’re slaves. Animals. Don’t waste your respect on them, they’re nothing.”
I stared at him, then turned in my saddle to look back at the men we had now passed.
Thin and wiry, with skin glistening in the sunlight, the man in front met my eyes and I shuddered at the dull despair I saw there.
“Welcome to the New World,” Jonesy muttered beside me, and I glanced at him, my excitement at finally reaching Windhaven having dissipated.
We passed through a bend in the track and at last I had my first glimpse of the house. I was disappointed; I had expected something grander. Uncle Richard had boasted it was fit to rival Rowleston Hall. He must have had a different property in mind, I mused, staring at the squat, single-story wooden building. It had an air of neglect about it: greenery growing wild, paint peeling, even a shutter hanging off at a window.
A man came out of the front door and stood on the veranda, hands on hips, watching us approach.
“Richard Tarpington,” I called. “Where is he?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Lord Henry Rowleston-Sharpe,” I said, combining my two personas. “His nephew.” I was annoyed, Does no one on this island possess any manners?
The man visibly started, then approached, his frown smoothing out into a welcome smile.
“Harry Stanton,” he said, “at your service, My Lord. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. Mr. Tarpington is not here and isn’t expected for some time.”
“Why? Where is he?”
“Wherever the wind has blown him.” I frowned at the man and he added, “Aboard the Edelweiss. He puts into Port Royal regularly. If the ship’s there he’ll be somewhere about.”
Chapter 10
“You knew, didn’t you? You and your father.”
The boy shrugged. “Not for us to say.”
“You didn’t want to talk yourself out of the hire, more like,” Jonesy added.
“We just hire the horses to them that asks, and drive the carts to where we’s told.”
“Leave it, Jonesy,” I interrupted. “I would still have come out here to see for myself.”
He glowered at me and I shrugged. I couldn’t see the point of getting irate over something that couldn’t be changed.
Jonesy huffed and said not another word until we were back with the ostler, w
ho raised an eyebrow yet failed to look surprised.
I glanced at Jonesy to stay his grumbling, and dismounted.
“No luck, I’m afraid. Do you know if Richard Tarpington’s ship, the Edelweiss, is here?”
“The Edelweiss, is it?” The man perked up and glanced at his son, then jerked his head seaward. “Aye, she’s the one at anchor over yonder, that one off to the left with the three masts.”
Jonesy humpfed and the man glanced at him warily.
“For all I knew, your man was at Windhaven. His ship’s in, isn’t it?”
“Of course, don’t mind my friend here. Can you kindly direct us to the best boarding house on the seafront?”
“That would be Mrs. Sue’s, hundred yards down that way.”
“Where you goin’, boy?” Jonesy demanded. “Them trunks won’t take themselves.”
The ostler glanced at Jonesy, then myself, and nodded at his son, who sat himself back down with a grimace of protest.
“My thanks.” I shook his hand, remounted my horse and followed the boy to Mrs. Sue’s.
*
“Tarpington? Never heard of him,” Mrs. Sue responded when I inquired of my uncle. I nodded and looked around the room Jonesy and I had taken. Two cots, a washstand, and our trunks took up most of the space. Basic to say the least, although it felt like luxury after six weeks on Pride of the Orient, even though it was as hot as an oven. I threw the window wide and drew in a lungful of fresh air; if dockside air could ever be called fresh.
“You’d best take care with the window, especially at night,” Mrs. Sue remarked. I turned an inquiring eyebrow to her. “Flies,” she said. “Little fighting ones—makes sleeping a bugger. You’ll be right when you’ve got used to the heat. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it, got bread in t’ oven.”
She bustled out of the room and Jonesy and I looked at each other.
“You know the best thing for this heat?”
“Ale,” I replied, and we laughed.
“Shall we inspect the local taverns?”
“Aye, let’s do that.”
We chuckled again, I shut the window and we made our way outside.
*
“Sharpe. Jonesy.”
I peered through the clouds of tobacco smoke from myriad clay pipes to see who had called our names.
“Little,” Jonesy said. “Why’s he being so friendly?”
“Let’s find out,” I replied, and led the way through the crowd of carousing sailors. Even a man like Little could pass for a friend in a room full of strangers.
He stood in a crowd watching half a dozen men at the dice “table”—another upturned barrel. Everyone held their breath as the next man rolled, then roared their approval at the double six and his shout of, “Nick.”
“Fancy joining them, Sharpe?” Little asked.
“Not if you or your mates are in any way involved,” I retorted.
The men around me, including Little, laughed, and a few amused glances were sent my way from the men seated at the game.
“Well, you’ve some sense in your head, at least, boy,” said the older man, his voice sounding as grizzled as his face looked. He threw, and the audience groaned.
Little shrugged. “’Twasn’t me who done the cheating.”
I’d had enough. I was not going to let my name be maligned any further.
I pulled my dagger and held the tip to his throat. Silence fell on the men and game around us, and people backed away to give us space.
“Lord Rowleston-Sharpe,” I said slowly, dragging my name out for effect, “does not cheat. Nor do his friends. I thank you to keep that in mind and would be grateful if you would educate your mouth to that effect. You have maligned my own character as well as that of my friend. You tried to steal from us. One further misplaced step and my blade will not stop at your throat. Do you understand me?”
He started to nod, thought better of it, and said, “Aye. Beg your pardon, Lord Rowleston.”
I grunted acceptance of his apology and withdrew my knife. Little backed away, and the game restarted.
“Lord Rowleston-Sharpe?” the grizzled player asked.
“Yes,” I said warily. No one could know the name, not an amalgamation of my true moniker and my pseudonym.
“Henry?”
Comprehension dawned. “Uncle Richard?”
“Well I never. Look at you all grown up. Landlord, more ale, make it your best and keep it coming! My prodigal nephew has arrived!”
The crowd cheered, whether for us or the ale I wasn’t sure.
“Less of the Uncle Richard, boy. Tarr or Captain is the only way I want these men to think of me, understand?” he instructed quietly under the noise.
I nodded dumbly, shocked by the menace in his voice as he whispered this aside. I glanced up at him and, although the eyes were a color and shape I remembered from boyhood, their expression was cold and hard, and could not have been more different from my childhood recollections. What had happened to Uncle Richard to turn him into Captain Tarr?
Chapter 11
I blinked my eyes open with a groan, then a yell as I swayed violently on my attempt to sit up. The Brazilian bed, or hammock as the sailors aboard Pride of the Orient had called it, tipped me unceremoniously on the floor; no, deck, I realized.
“Hellfire and damnation.”
“Good morning to you, Henry.”
“Wha—?”
“Welcome aboard the Edelweiss.”
“The what?” Images from the night before flickered through my mind. “Uncle Richard?”
Richard Tarpington strode into view. Face weatherworn from years under the tropical sun, untidy whiskers, brown eyes the color of good, fertile English soil and the same brown of my mother’s eyes, the only thing I remembered of her. His dress was tatty: breeches, shirt and hat. He was barefoot.
Jonesy would be impressed, I thought, then said aloud, “My mate, Jonesy, where is he?”
A sound akin to the grunt of a hungry pig sounded behind me. I turned in time to see a hand flopping back into another Brazilian bed.
I realized I was still sprawled in a heap on the floor—deck—and made to get up, only to bang my head on the wood, which had lurched beneath me. At least, I think it had lurched; or was I still addled?
Uncle Richard laughed and offered me a hand. “It’s a bit choppy today, but you’ll soon get your sea legs.”
Sea legs? Choppy? Understanding dawned. “Are we sailing?”
My uncle guffawed so loudly, Jonesy’s head popped up out of the folds of canvas to see what was going on.
“Do you not remember putting out to sea, lad?”
I shook my head, then quickly stopped the movement and put a hand to my pounding temple. “No,” I said, as substitute for the gesture.
My uncle laughed again.
“Do you by chance have water, Uncle Richard?”
“Aye, and plenty of it.” He passed me a beaker and I drank greedily, immediately feeling slightly better. “So, Lord Henry Rowleston-Sharpe. That’s quite a mouthful.”
I made as if to nod, remembered my affliction in time and spoke instead. “Aye.” I winced, I was really going to have to take more care over my speech or I’d end up talking like Jonesy and the sailors.
“I take it from the ‘Lord’ that your father has passed?”
“Yes, three months ago now. I did write . . .”
Uncle Richard shook his head. “Never reached me. It’s a bit difficult to collect letters when at sea most of the time. My commiserations to you, lad, he was a good man.” This time I did nod; blast the pain in my skull. “So, where did the Sharpe come from?”
I told him the story about Jonesy and the games of dice in Bristol.
He nodded and remarked, “Sounds like you’ve got a good mate there, one with an intelligent head on his shoulders.” Another porcine grunt emitted from the occupied Brazilian bed.
“Where are we headed, Uncle Richard?” The repercussions of the fact we were sailing had ju
st hit me.
“Wherever the wind takes us, lad.” He laughed at the horrified expression I’d been unable to keep from my face. “Sayba, lad, the island of Sayba, with the blessing of a wind fair and fresh. And I told you last night, boy, I want none of that Uncle Richard malarkey. It’ll win you no favors with the crew to keep reminding them you’re family. You’ll call me Tarr or Captain when aboard the Edelweiss.”
“Why Tarr?”
“Tarpington’s a bit of a mouthful, like Rowleston. And it reminds the crew I’m a cut above them. Tarr makes me one of the men, they have more respect for me as Tarr than Tarpington.” He chuckled at my amazement. “The majority may be Englishmen, but this ain’t England, lad, her fine and fertile lands are far away. In the Caribbees it’s every man for himself. It’s deeds that earn respect out here, not names. I’d advise you to drop the Rowleston, too, stick to Sharpe, Henry.”
“Aye,” Jonesy grunted from his canvas pit.
The implication of this struck me. “So we’re staying aboard, then?”
Uncle Richard—Tarr—chuckled again and shook his head. “You’ve no head for rum have you, lad? You and your mate there,” he nodded toward Jonesy, “signed me articles last night. Both of ye’s part of a privateer crew now. Mrs. Sue were none too happy though, to lose her lodgers so soon.”
“Privateer? Mrs. Sue?”
“Aye.” He pointed to the side of the room; no, cabin. I kept forgetting we were at sea and the rolling of the floor—deck—was real and not down to my addled state. I squinted and made out the shape of our trunks. I crossed to the only unoccupied chair in the cabin and sat down, my mind a blank, unable to process the events of the morning so far.
“What’s a privateer?” I asked eventually. “Is that like a pirate?”
“No, it blasted well isn’t!” Tarr roared. “Pirates are scum of the seas, robbing and killing with no impunity. Privateers are licensed and perform a vital service to our merry monarch, King Charles.”
Jonesy mumbled something and Tarr narrowed his eyes. Thank the Lord he hadn’t heard what was mumbled: By robbing and killing with impunity.
The Valkyrie Series: The First Fleet - (Books 1-3) Look Sharpe!, Ill Wind & Dead Reckoning: Caribbean Pirate Adventure Page 3