Caribbee Part 25

"I'm not part of your little war."

"That you're decidedly not, sir. So we'll not be requiring your services here tonight."

"What's the difficulty?" Winston was still walking directly toward them.

"It's a matter of the safety of Barbados. I've said it doesn't concern you."

"Those indentures concern me. I don't want them shot."

"Tell that to the a.s.sembly, sir. We came here tonight offering to take Dalby Bedford under our care, peacefully. To protect him from elements on the island who're set to disown Parliament. But some of the hotheads in there mistook our peaceful purpose and opened fire on us."

"Maybe they think they can 'protect' him better than you can." Another round of fire sounded from the doorway of the a.s.sembly Room and thudded into the log barricade. When two of the planters cursed and fired back, the door was abruptly slammed shut.

"It's the a.s.sembly that's usurped rightful rule here, sir, as tonight should amply show. When they no longer represent the true interests of Barbados." Briggs glared at him. "We're restoring proper authority to this island, long overdue."

"You and the Council can restore whatever you like. I'm just here to take care of my indentures, before you manage to have some of them killed."

"They're not yours yet, sir. The situation's changed. We're not letting them go whilst the island's unsettled."

"The only unsettling thing I see here are all those muskets." He reached into the pocket of his jerkin and lifted out the leather packet containing the sight drafts. "So we're going to make that transfer, right now."

"Well, I'm d.a.m.ned if you'll have a single man. This is not the time agreed." Briggs looked around at the other members of the Council.

Behind them the crowd of indentures had stopped work to listen.

"The sight bills are payable on demand. We've settled the terms, and I'm officially calling them in." Winston pa.s.sed over the packet.

"You've got plenty of witnesses. Here're the sight bills. As of now, the indentures are mine." He pulled a sheaf of papers from the other pocket of his jerkin. ' 'You're welcome to look over the drafts while I start checking off the men."

Briggs seized the leather packet and flung it to the ground. Then he lifted his musket. "These indentures are still under our authority.

Until we say, no man's going to take them. Not even. . ."

A series of musket shots erupted from the window of the a.s.sembly Room, causing Briggs and the other planters to duck down behind the log barricade. Winston remained standing as he called out the first name on the sheet.

"Timothy Farrell."

The red-faced Irishman climbed around Briggs and moved

forward, his face puzzled. He remained behind the pile of logs as he hunkered down, still holding his half-pike.

"That's my name, Yor Wors.h.i.+p. But Master Briggs . . ."

"Farrell, here's the indenture contract we drew up for your transfer."

Winston held out the first paper from the sheaf. "I've marked it paid and had it stamped. Come and get it and you're free to go."

"What's this, Yor Wors.h.i.+p?" He gingerly reached up for the paper and stared at it in the torchlight, uncomprehending. "I heard you was like to be buying out my contract. By my reckoning there's two more year left on it."

"I did just buy it. It's there in your hand. You're a free man."

Farrell sat staring at the paper, examining the stamped wax seal and attempting to decipher the writing. A sudden silence enveloped the crowd, punctuated by another round of musket fire from the a.s.sembly Room. After it died away, Winston continued, "Now Farrell, if you'd care to be part of an expedition of mine that'll be leaving Barbados in a few days' time, that's your privilege. Starting tonight, your pay'll be five s.h.i.+llings a week."

"Beggin' Yor Wors.h.i.+p's pardon, I reckon I'm not understandin' what you've said. You've bought this contract? An' you've already marked it paid?"

"With those sight bills." He pointed to the packet on the ground beside Briggs.

Farrell glanced at the leather bundle skeptically. Then he looked back at Winston. "An' now you're sayin' I'm free?"

"It's stamped on that contract. Have somebody read it if you care to."

"An' I can serve Yor Wors.h.i.+p for wage if I like?" His voice began to rise.

"Five s.h.i.+llings a week for now. Maybe more later, if you . . ."

"Holy Mother Mary an' all the Saints! _I'm free_!" He crumpled the paper into his pocket, then leaped up as he flung his straw hat into the air. "Free! I ne'er thought I'd stay breathin' long enough to hear the word." He glanced quickly at the a.s.sembly Room, then dismissed the danger as he began to dance beside the logs.

"_At the dirty end o' Dirty Lane_,

_Liv'd a dirty cobbler, d.i.c.k Maclane ..."

_"That man still belongs to me." Briggs half c.o.c.ked his musket as he rose.

Farrell whirled and brandished his half-pike at the planter. "You can fry in h.e.l.l, you pox-rotted b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I've lived on your corn mush an'

water for three years, till I'm scarce able to stand. An' sweated sunup to sundown in your blazin' fields, hoein' your d.a.m.n'd tobacco, and now your G.o.d-cursed cane. With not a farthing o' me own to show for it, or a change o' breeches. But His Wors.h.i.+p says he's paid me out. An' his paper says I'm free. That means free as you are, by G.o.d. I'll be puttin' this pike in your belly--by G.o.d I will--or any man here, who says another word against His Wors.h.i.+p. I'll serve him as long as I'm standin', or pray G.o.d to strike me dead." He gave another whoop. "Good Jesus, who's got a thirst! I'm free!"

"Jim Carroll." Winston's voice continued mechanically, sounding above the din that swept through the indentures.

"Present an' most humbly at Yor Wors.h.i.+p's service." A second man elbowed his way forward through the cl.u.s.ter of Briggs' indentures, shoving several others out of his path.

"Here's your contract, Carroll. It's been stamped paid and you're free to go. Or you can serve under me if you choose. You've heard the terms."

"I'd serve you for a ha'penny a year, Yor Wors.h.i.+p." He seized the paper and gave a Gaelic cheer, a tear lining down one cheek. "I've naught to show for four years in the fields but aches an' an empty belly. I'll die right here under your command before I'd serve another minute under that wh.o.r.eson."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you, Winston." Briggs full-c.o.c.ked his musket with an ominous click. "If you think I'll . . ."

Carroll whirled and thrust his pike into Briggs' face. "It's free I am, by G.o.d. An' it's me you'll be killin' before you harm a hair o' His Wors.h.i.+p, if I don't gut you first."

Briggs backed away from the pike, still clutching his musket. The other members of the Council had formed a circle and c.o.c.ked their guns.

"You don't own these d.a.m.ned indentures yet," Nicholas Whittington shouted. "We've not agreed to a transfer now."

"You've got your sight drafts. Those were the terms. If you want these men to stay, tell it to them." He checked the sheaf of papers and yelled out the next name: "Tom Darcy." As a haggard man in a shabby straw hat pushed forward, Winston turned back to the huddle that was the Council. "You're welcome to offer them a wage and see if they'd want to stay on. Since their contracts are all stamped paid, I don't have any say in it anymore."

"Well, I have a say in it, sir." Whittington lifted his musket. "I plan to have an end to this knavery right now, before it gets out of hand.

One more word from you, and it'll be your . . ."

Winston looked up and yelled to the crowd of indentures. "I gather you've heard who's on the list. If those men'll come up, you can have your papers. Your contracts are paid, and you're free to go. Any man who chooses to serve under me can join me here now."