Caribbee Part 63

"You betrayed us, senhor." He looked up at Winston. "You will pay for it with your life."

"Not tonight I won't." Winston was still holding the pistol, praying it was not too wet to fire.

"Not tonight. But soon." He shoved the machete unsteadily into his waistwrap. Winston noticed that he had difficulty rising, but he managed to pull himself up weakly. Then his strength appeared to revive. "Our war is not over." Amid the gunfire and confusion, he turned and slipped down the landward side of the breastwork. Winston watched as he disappeared into the rain.

"How many more left to spike, masters?" He yelled back toward the men with the hammers. As he spoke, more musket fire sounded from the plain below.

"We've got all but two, Cap'n." Hawkins shouted back through the rain.

"These d.a.m.ned little demi-culverin. Our spikes are too big."

"Then the h.e.l.l with them. We've done what we came to do." He motioned toward Heathcott. "Let's call it a night and make a run for it. Now."

"Fine job, I must say." Heathcott was smiling broadly as he motioned the cringing planters away from the wall. "We'll hold them yet."

While the seamen opened sporadic covering fire with their flintlocks, the militia began scrambling down the wet steps. When the column of Walrond's Windward Regiment now marching up from the seaside realized they were armed, it immediately broke ranks and scattered for cover. In moments Winston and Heathcott were leading their own men safely up the road toward the camp. They met the remainder of the Barbados militia midway, a bedraggled cl.u.s.ter in the downpour.

"You can turn back now, sirs." Heathcott saluted the lead

officer, who was kneeling over a form fallen in the sand. "You gave us good cover when we needed you, but now it's done. The ordnance is spiked. At sunup we'll drive the Roundheads back into the sea."

"Good Christ." The officer's voice was trembling as he looked up, rain streaming down his face. "We'd as well just sue for peace and have done with it."

"What?" Heathcott examined him. "What do you mean?"

"He was leading us. Dalby Bedford. The Windwards caught him in the chest when they opened fire." He seemed to choke on his dismay. "The island's no longer got a governor."

Chapter Eighteen

Above the wide hilltop the mid-morning rain had lightened momentarily to fine mist, a golden awning shading the horizon. A lone figure, hatless and wearing a muddy leather jerkin, moved slowly up the rutted path toward the brick compound reserved for the governor of Barbados.

Behind him lay the green-mantled rolling hills of the island; beyond, shrouded in drizzle and fog, churned the once-placid Caribbean.

The roadway was strewn with palm fronds blown into haphazard patterns by the night's storm, and as he walked, a new gust of wind sang through the trees, trumpeting a mournful lament. Then a stripe of white cut across the new thunderheads in the west, and the sky started to darken once again. More rain would be coming soon, he told himself, yet more storm that would stretch into the night and mantle the island and sea.

He studied the sky, wistfully thinking over what had pa.s.sed. Would that the squalls could wash all of it clean, the way a downpour purged the foul straw and offal from a cobblestone London street. But there was no making it right anymore. Now the only thing left was to try and start anew. In a place far away.

Would she understand that?

The gate of the compound was secured and locked, as though to shut out the world beyond. He pulled the clapper on the heavy bra.s.s bell and in its ring heard a foreboding finality.

"Sir?" The voice from inside the gate was nervous, fearful. He knew it was James, the Irish servant who had been with Katherine and the governor for a decade.

"Miss Bedford."

"By the saints, Captain Winston, is that you, sir? The mistress said you'd gone back over to Oistins."

"I just came from there."

"How's the fighting?" The voice revealed itself as belonging to a short, thin-haired man with watery eyes. "We've not heard from His Excellency since he sent that messenger down last night. Then after that Mistress . . ."

"Just take me to Miss Bedford." He quickly cut off what he realized could grow into an accounting of the entire household for the past fortnight.

How do I go about telling her, he asked himself. That it's the end of everything she had, everything she hoped for. That there's no future left here.

"Is she expecting you, Captain?" James' eyes narrowed as he pushed wide the heavy wooden door leading into the hallway. "I pray nothing's happened to . . ."

"She's not expecting me. Just tell her I've come."

"Aye, Your Wors.h.i.+p, as you please." He indicated a chair in the reception room, then turned to head off in the direction of the staircase.

Katherine was already advancing down the wide mahogany steps. She was dressed in a calico bodice and full skirt, her hair bunched into moist ringlets of its own making. Her bloodshot eyes told Winston she had not slept.

"Hugh, what is it? Why have you come back?" She searched his face in puzzlement. Then her eyes grew wild. "Oh G.o.d, what's happened?" She stumbled down the rest of the steps. "Tell me."

"Katy, there was some shooting . . ."

And he told her, first that Dalby Bedford was dead, then how it happened. Next he explained that, since the island no longer had a seated governor, the a.s.sembly had elected to accept in full the terms set forth by the admiral of the fleet. He told it as rapidly as he could, hoping somehow to lessen the pain. She listened calmly, her face betraying no emotion. Finally she dropped into a tall, bulky chair, and gazed around for a moment, as though bidding farewell to the room.

"Maybe it's better this way after all." She looked down. "Without the humiliation of the Tower and a public trial by Cromwell."

Winston watched her, marveling. There still was no hint of a tear.

Nothing save her sad eyes bespoke her pain as she continued, "It's ironic, isn't it. Both of them. My mother, years ago, and now . . .

Killed by a gun, when all they ever wanted for the world was peace."

She tried to smile. "These are dangerous times to be about in the Americas, Captain. You're right to always keep those flintlocks in your belt." She turned away, and he knew she was crying. The servants had gathered, James and the two women, huddled by the staircase, unable to speak.

"Katy, I came as soon as I could to tell you. G.o.d only knows what's to happen now, but you can't stay here. They'll figure out in no time you've had a big hand in this. You'll likely be arrested."

"I'm not afraid of them, or Cromwell himself." She was still gazing at the wooden planks of the floor.

"Well, you ought to be." He walked over and knelt down next to her chair. "It's over. These planters we were fighting for gave the island away, so I say d.a.m.ned to them. There's more to the Americas than Barbados." He paused, and finally she turned to gaze at him. There were wet streaks down her cheeks. "Maybe now you'll come with me. We'll make a place somewhere else."

She looked into his eyes and silently bit her lip. It was almost as though he had never truly seen her till this moment. His heart went out to her as he continued, "I want you with me. There's another island, Katy, if you're willing to try and help me take it."

"I don't . . ." She seemed unsure what she wanted to say. She looked at him a moment longer, then around at the room, the servants. Finally she gazed down again, still silent.

"Katy, I can't make you come. Nor can I promise it'll be easy. But you've got to decide now. There's no time to wait for . . . anything.

We've both got to get out of here. I'm going to collect as many of my indentures as possible, then try and run the blockade tonight--rain, storm, no matter. Who knows if I'll make it, but it's my only hope." He rose to his feet. His muddy boots had left dark traces on the rug.

"It's yours too, if you want it. Surely you know that."

Her voice came like a whisper as she looked up. "We tried, didn't we?

Truly we did."

"You can't give liberty to the Americas if these Puritans only want it for themselves. It's got to be for everybody. . . . Remember what I said? They could have freed the Africans, in return for help, and they might have won. If I ever doubted that, G.o.d knows I don't anymore, not after what I saw last night. But they wanted slaves, and there's no mobilizing an island that's only half free. So they got what they deserve." He walked to the sideboard. A flask of brandy was there, with gla.s.ses; he lifted the bottle and wearily poured himself a shot. Then he turned and hoisted the gla.s.s. "We gave it our best, but we couldn't do it alone. Not here." He drank off the liquor and poured in more.

"Give me some of that." She motioned toward the bottle. He quickly filled another gla.s.s and placed it in her hands. The servants watched, astonished, as she downed it in one gulp, then turned back to Winston.