The Guineaman

  But Puella did not ‘come round’. Charlie had been for her something wonderful, something unique, joining her to the remarkable white man she had come close to idolising, as Dorothea had idolised Mulgrave. Bereft of children herself, Dorothea had told her the importance the white man vested in breeding a son, and that one son was better than many, for he would be a rich and powerful man, inheriting all his father’s wealth. Moreover, despite the fact that the white men were indiscriminate as to where they rutted, their first wives were considered superior to all others and, even when they never shared their beds, they remained secure. The position of a first wife was assured, even when they were black. This assertion Dorothea based upon a lifetime’s familiarity with the society of the Antilles and the promises made by Mulgrave. She had heard it was not the case in England, but there was no sun in England and it was a very different place to the islands.

  Kite tolerated Puella’s raging for a week then, one morning, he found her keening in a corner of the withdrawing room. She seemed quiescent, more as she had been on their first encounter, frightened, hurt and lonely. He knelt as he had once done aboard the slaver, and put out his hand. She bit it.

  Kite recoiled with a cry of pain and astonishment. A moment later she was upon him, clawing and biting so that he had to strike her across her cheek with the flat of his hand. She reeled back and, wiping the back of one hand beneath her nose, displayed the stream of blood running down over her lips.

  Kite was overwhelmed by shame and shook his head, stepping forward, his arms outstretched, uttering words of endearment. But Puella was gone, to hide behind a locked door. There she remained for two days, only taking food from Dorothea whose expression of reproach haunted Kite like a spectre. When on the third day she refused to emerge or to speak to Kite, he resolved to return to sea without delay.

  Word had come in that three ships from Falmouth and one from St John’s had been taken by French corsairs. The news that several prominent St John’s owners were abandoning trade, obtaining letters-of-marque from the governor and converting their vessels to privateers, appealed to Kite’s mood. Consulting Wentworth, he put the matter in train with Garvey, the attorney. Then that same afternoon a message came overland from English Harbour. A Lieutenant Corrie of the hired-cutter Hawk had arrived there from Guadeloupe. A British force consisting of six thousand soldiers under Major-General Thomas Hopson had some time since arrived from England. The naval squadron escorting them had combined with that of Commodore Moore at Barbados and the expedition had attacked Martinique. The attack had failed and Moore and Hopson had withdrawn to transfer their attentions to Guadeloupe. The ships’ guns and the mortars of the bomb-vessels had bombarded Fort Royal on Basse Terre, silencing its guns, driving the garrison inland and setting fire to the adjacent town, where the year’s harvest of sugar and rum burned furiously. Moore’s ships had also bombarded and set afire Pointe-à-Pitre, the port on Grande-Terre used principally by the enemy’s corsairs, but by now fever and heat-stroke were seriously reducing the numbers of the unacclimatised troops. It had already killed the elderly and already ailing Hopson. The general’s successor, Colonel Barrington, was now asking the colonists in Antigua to rally to the colours.

  To Kite the opportunity seemed heaven sent. Privately, his evasion of French privateers by simply outrunning them might have enhanced his reputation and that of his speedy ship among the traders who had no wish to lose their valuable cargoes to the enemy, but not having exchanged so much as a distant shot with the French, of not testing his mettle in battle, had secretly irked him. But now his son was dead and his love was repudiated. With, as he put it, the cold grasp of providence about his heart, he was indifferent to anything. He recalled Makepeace’s defiant philosophy and heard it as a war cry; he was among the first to volunteer his services.

  But Lieutenant Corrie brought other news and with it the whiff of disaster, for having appealed to the patriotism of the islanders, he now required preparations for the reception of six hundred sick soldiers. These, it was quickly rumoured, were but the worst afflicted; the real number approached two thousand, almost a third of the troops involved. The sick arrived in Antigua the following day, borne in two transports. Kite had spent the night aboard Spitfire, passing word among his crew that he wished them to muster that morning. Da Silva’s ship was in port and he rejoined his old commander, ‘while we settle this bloody business,’ he said, shaking Kite’s hand and offering Kite his condolences upon the death of Charlie.

  That evening, several score of gentlemen-volunteers had mustered at Wentworth’s premises where Mr Garvey appeared, offering to act as executor should any of them fall during the expedition. Though this might advance the glory of their country, several of the young bucks withdrew, declining to draw up their wills under Garvey’s supervision.

  ‘They prefer,’ remarked the son of a wealthy planter named Henry Ranald, ‘to stick the sword of lust into their own property, than the sword of steel into King Louis’.’ The remaining men, laughing at this crude bravado, agreed to ship aboard Spitfire and the following morning they were at sea, stretching down towards the distant twin peaks of Guadeloupe.

  The French West Indian possession of Guadeloupe consisted of two large islands so closely situated that the narrow strait between them was called merely ‘the Salt River’. To the north-east lay Grande-Terre, with Port-à-Pitre at the southern end of the debouchement of the Salt River into the great bay enclosed by the mountainous arms of the two islands. To the south-west lay the second island, divided into two areas by a mountainous spine running from north to south. On the eastern side of the mountains and opposite Point-à-Pitre, lay Cabes-Terre; on the western was Basse-Terre, with the island’s principal town of that name at its southern extremity. Offshore, a few miles to the east of Basseterre town, lay a cluster of small islands making up Les Isles des Saintes, beyond which, further to the east, rose Marie Galante. Off the north-east coast of Grande-Terre, was the smaller island of La Desirade, while off its narrow eastern point, the Pointe des Châteaux, between it and Marie Galante, lay the small island of Petite Terre.

  The islands of Guadeloupe came in sight two mornings later, rising from the sea in the first light of the day like a firmly delineated cloud, taking on more substance as Spitfire approached and the sun burned the clinging mist out of the river valleys. The gentlemen-volunteers pressed forward, eager to see the goal that would soon they felt certain, pass into the hands of the British and expose itself for exploitation by themselves, the legitimate heirs, they conceived, to the wealth of the Leeward Islands. Guadeloupe they knew as far wealthier a territory than Martinique, an island from which it was said that sugar and rum worth more than the equivalent of one million pounds sterling were sent annually to France. There were, moreover, one hundred and fifty thousand slaves working on the plantations, a measure of Guadeloupe’s wealth more readily comprehended by these young and eager men, for whom the figure of one million was beyond imagination.

  Capture would divert some of this wealth their way, while the extirpation of the nests of corsairs at Port-à-Pitre and Marie Galante would release trade from the bondage of convoy. Even while they took passage in his ship and enjoyed his hospitality, many sniggered that such a change in their fortunes would ‘cut the canter of Captain Kite’, whose legendary luck while not sailing under convoy, tended to create high freight rates for cargoes shifted by the Spitfire. Not that they greatly resented Kite personally, but there was an orthodox clique that suggested his taking a blackmooor women to wife, while it might be condoned by fusty old Mulgrave, did not reflect well upon the sensibilities of younger gentlemen.

  Gossiping in this wise, as the mountainous terrain of Guadeloupe grew in detail, pleasantly mantled from the sea by the brilliant green of lush tropical vegetation, they doubled Pointe des Châteaux and stood to the westward, along the southern coast of Grande-Terre before a fair wind. Ahead of them rose the range of mountains bisecting Basse-Terre and Cabes-Terre, and tucked under the
guns of Fort Louis, the toehold Barrington’s reduced force had on the island, lay what appeared to be a squadron of British naval ships of war.

  ‘So you gentlemen are from Antigua,’ Colonel Barrington, temporarily a Brigadier in the field, resplendent in his scarlet coat, the gorget of his commissioned rank gleaming at his throat, sat at a table in Fort Louis with one leg propped up on a stool. It was swollen with gout, and twitched curiously, each nervous tremor sending a shadow of pain across Barrington’s perspiring features. He wiped his mouth and regarded Kite and Ranald, who had been deputed to wait upon the army commander.

  ‘Have any of you any knowledge of the interior?’

  ‘I have sir. before the war I was frequently here.’

  ‘But have you a knowledge of the interior, Mr Ranald? I am not interested in whether you drank tea with a French planter in Basseterre or here, or anywhere else for that matter.’ Barrington exchanged glances with the young captain of foot who had attended Kite and Ranald on their visit.

  ‘The coastal plains where they are under cultivation, are clear, though the sugar canes can easily conceal a man. Otherwise it is rugged, sir, the higher ground split by ravines and watercourses, and covered with dense vegetation. You could hold up a column and harry troops trying to make progress through such a wilderness.’

  Barrington nodded, ‘so we discovered a few weeks ago,’ he remarked dryly.

  ‘You would have great difficulty moving artillery’, Ranald added, to which Barrington agreed readily.

  ‘That we discovered in Martinique, did we not, Goodley?’ Captain Goodley agreed politely. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Barrington went on, ‘I thank you. I am sure we shall be able to find something useful for you to do, for I am desperately short of men and, apart from the Highlanders and marines in this place and a garrison of the 63rd Foot holding the fort at Basse Terre, the enemy is at large in the island. We can scarcely claim to have subdued him by perching on the rim of these islands. Would you wish to serve together, or as guides to my corps’ commanders?’

  ‘I doubt whether we can all acquit ourselves as competent guides,’ Kite put in hurriedly, appalled at Ranald’s presumption.

  ‘But we wish to assume the character of officers,’ Ranald said.

  Barrington sighed and flicked an ironic glance at Goodley. ‘Yes, I thought you might,’ he observed. ‘However, I should point out gentlemen that I have a thousand matters demanding my attention…’

  ‘I have an armed schooner at your immediate disposal, General Barrington. You have only to command me,’ Kite put in hurriedly, wishing to dissociate himself from the clumsy, intemperate amateurishness of Ranald.

  Barrington looked from Ranald to Kite, then smiled. ‘Well perhaps before leaping so eagerly into the unknown, you should know the worst. We have had word of a French squadron off Barbados and Commodore Moore has withdrawn all the ships-of-the-line and the frigates towards Prince Rupert’s Bay in the island of Dominica to cover us. Unfortunately sickness in the fleet necessitated the transfer of three hundred troops to assist the working of the ships. Apart from the transports and your own schooner, Captain… Forgive me, I have forgotten your name…’

  ‘Kite, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, we are effectively cut off, Captain Kite, for as we speak the French have crept out of the forest and are breaking ground beyond the walls of this fort.’ Barrington grasped a crutch and gingerly set his gouty foot down on the floor with a wince. Goodley stepped forward to help, but Barrington shook his head. His face was contorted with pain as he rose to his feet, his face glistening with sweat. He caught his breath sufficiently to resume. ‘Well, we cannot sit and await an outcome dictated by the enemy; we shall have to take matters into our own hands. Do you gentlemen prepare to land with your equipment… Have you your own victuals?’

  ‘We have brought small arms, powder and shot,’ said Ranald, ‘but were hoping that you would…’

  ‘I am able to victual the party, sir,’ put in Kite hurriedly, earning a relieved glance of interest from Barrington who turned to the papers before him. ‘You shall take up scouting duties… in a body, gentlemen, skirmish ahead of our advance. I trust that will suit your character as, er, officers.’

  ‘Splendidly sir,’ Kite said, putting up a hand onto Ranald’s shoulder. ‘Come Harry, the general has a great deal to attend to.’

  ‘How long d’you give, em, Goodley?’ Barrington asked as the adjutant returned from seeing the two men back to their boat.

  ‘Oh, just long enough to draw the French fire, sir,’ Goodley laughed, adding, ‘though I must say the merchant master seemed devoid of the bluster of his friend.’

  ‘Captain Kite,’ mused Barrington. ‘Yes. Now pass word for Brigadier Clavering and Colonel Crump, we must break out of this place and make the confounded French dance to our tune.’

  Ranald’s eagerness to be in action was disappointed. Barrington spent a fortnight strengthening the defences of Fort Louis, working his garrison of highlanders and marines hard. While Ranald and his fellow gentry lounged about the decks of the Spitfire or took one of her two boats and went wild-fowling among the islands closing off the port to the southward, Kite and Da Silva better prepared the Spitfire for action.

  They were ordered to be ready to move, but on the due day, towards the end of March 1759, Kite received a note from Goodley instructing him to send Ranald and the majority of his volunteers aboard the transports. Spitfire was to remain at anchor, but ready to proceed. The order however, did not come, and to the chagrin of those left aboard the schooner, they remained behind when two of the transports weighed anchor and, in company, tacked offshore and stood to the east.

  Word soon passed round that they had sailed to land raiding parties at St Annes and St Francois, two towns along the coast of Grande-Terre to the eastwards. But shortly before sunset two days later, Barrington himself came off in a boat. He had been preceded by Goodley, who arrived with a file of kilted highlanders of the 42nd Foot and asked Kite if he had some method of ‘embarking the General’. Kite roused out the canvas chair they had used to land the ladies on their northward progress the previous year and Barrington was brought on deck, to announce the Spitfire to be ‘his flagship’. Asking for a chair to be placed on deck, he sat down, rested his gouty foot and ordered the schooner under weigh.

  ‘Where are we bound, sir?’ Kite asked.

  Goodley stepped forward with a map and pointed. ‘Here, Captain, to Le Gosier, just beyond Grand Bay. There,’ Godley indicated the two adjacent transports, ‘you will see the Elizabeth Bury and the Orford Castle getting under weigh. They have three hundred men embarked. We are going to attack Le Gosier…’

  ‘I should like to serve with you, Captain Goodley,’ Kite said, abruptly breaking in.

  ‘But your schooner…?’

  ‘Mr Da Silva, my sailing master and gunner will tend to her.’

  Goodley shrugged. ‘As you wish, Captain Kite, as you wish. Now, sir, we shall stand offshore and lie-to until daylight. We will land at Le Gosier at dawn.’

  Kite dined Barrington and Goodley in the cabin which had been expanded into one large stateroom after the American cruise of the previous summer. Then he went on deck, and in a state of extreme tension remained there for the rest of the night, dozing in Barrington’s abandoned chair while the general occupied his own bunk. It was a moonless night, but the stars were bright enough to throw faint shadows across the deck as Spitfire lay hove to in the light trade wind. Astern of them they could see the pale sails the transports rode easily in the low swell. To the north the mass of the Mornes Sainte Anne, dominating the island of Grande-Terre was dark against the star-spangled sky. Kite fancied that in the dark mass of the island, he could discern Puella asleep beside him. He swore under his breath and took a turn up and down the deck, impatient for the first flush of dawn.

  He must have fallen into a doze leaning against the taffrail, for the helmsman’s cough woke him with a start. ‘Beg pardon, Cap’n Kite, but yon transp
ort’s hauled her mainyard.’

  Kite shook the fog and the megrims from his brain. He could see the nearer transport, the Orford Castle he thought, had trimmed her sails and a pallid feather of water rose round her apple-bow. Beyond her, the second transport was in the act of following suit.

  Kite nodded. ‘Very well; let fly heads’l sheets and up helm!’

  The helmsman acknowledged his order and the watch on deck stirred themselves into action. The schooner gave up holding the natural forces in balance, swung and began to make way again. A few moments later Spitfire was heeling to the breeze, standing after her consorts and rapidly gaining on them.

  The eastern extremity of Grand Bay was separated by the inlet leading to Le Gosier by a headland called Pointe de Verdure. Further to the east, the inlet was bounded on its other side by a mass of rocks and islets which broke the surf pounding the beach. Into the gully between, the transports’ boats, laden with soldiers and covered by the anchored schooner, made their way. Having dropped their anchor, a rope was hurriedly led up the Spitfire’s starboard side and seized to the anchor cable. With the spring secured, a little more cable was veered. The effect on the wind-rode Spitfire was to swing her broadside round, so that Da Silva had her guns directed on the sleeping village, the houses of which were showing in the dawn’s early light. Sitting in his chair, Barrington stared through a glass, but the boats, grey shapes bristling with the dull sheen of bayonets and creeping like beetles over the dull purple-coloured sea, were almost within reach of the beach before the first puff of smoke told where a disturbed sentinel had discharged his musket in alarm. More puffs from widely differing spots followed before the sound of the first discharge reached the watchers offshore. Then the beetles merged with the shore. More cracks of musketry rolled towards them.