Caribbee Part 64

"How can I go just yet? There're his papers here, everything. What he did mustn't just be forgotten. He created a democratic nation, an a.s.sembly, all of it, here in the Americas. Someday . . ."

"n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n about that anymore." He strode over with the flask and refilled her gla.s.s. "You've got to get out of here. This is the first place they're apt to look for you. You can stay at Joan's place till we're ready to go."

"Joan?" She stared at him, disbelieving. "You mean Joan Fuller?"

"She's the only person left here I trust."

"She despises me. She always has."

"No more than you've despised her. So make an end on it."

"I . . ."

"Katy, there's no time to argue now. The d.a.m.ned Roundheads are going to be in Bridgetown by dark. I've got to go down to the s.h.i.+p, before the rain starts in again, and sort things out. We've got to finish lading and get ready to weigh anchor before it's too late."

He watched as she drank silently from the gla.s.s, her eyes faraway.

Finally he continued, "If you want, I'll send Joan to help you pack up." He emptied the second gla.s.s of brandy, then set it back on the sideboard. When he turned back to her, he was half smiling. "I suppose I've been a.s.suming you're going with me, just because I want you to so badly. Well?"

She looked again at the servants, then around the room. At last she turned to Winston. "Hold me."

He walked slowly to the chair and lifted her into his arms. He ran his hands through her wet hair, then brought up her lips. At last he spoke.

"Does that mean yes?"

She nodded silently.

"Then I've got to go. Just pack what you think you'll want, but not too many silk skirts and bodices. You won't be needing them where we're going. Try and bring some of those riding breeches of yours."

She hugged him tighter. "I was just thinking of our 'little island.'

When was that?"

"Yesterday. Just yesterday. But there're lots of islands in the Caribbean."

"Yesterday." She drew back and looked at him. "And tomorrow?"

"This time tomorrow we'll be at sea, or we'll be at the bottom of the bay out there." He kissed her one last time. "I'll send Joan quick as I can. So please hurry."

Before she could say more, he stalked out into the rain and was gone.

The sand along the sh.o.r.e of the bay was firm, beaten solid by the squall. The heavy thunderheads that threatened earlier had now blanked the sun, bringing new rain that swept along the darkened sh.o.r.e in hard strokes. Ahead through the gloom he could make out the outlines of his seamen, kegs of water balanced precariously on their shoulders, in an extended line from the thatched-roof warehouse by the careenage at the river mouth down to a longboat bobbing in the surf. After the raid on the Oistins breastwork, he had ordered them directly back to Bridgetown to finish lading. A streak of white cut across the sky, and in its s.h.i.+mmering light he could just make out the_ Defiance_, safely anch.o.r.ed in the shallows, canvas furled, nodding with the swell.

Joan. She had said nothing when he asked her to go up and help Katherine. She'd merely glared her disapproval, while ordering the girls to bring her cloak. Joan was saving her thoughts for later, he knew. There'd be more on the subject of Katherine.

The only sounds now were the pounding of rain along the sh.o.r.e and the occasional distant rumble of thunder. He was so busy watching the men he failed to notice the figure in white emerge from the darkness and move toward his path.

When the form reached out for him, he whirled and dropped his hand to a pistol.

"Senhor, desculpe. "

The rain-mantled shadow curtsied, Portuguese style.

He realized it was a woman. Briggs' mulata. The one Joan seemed so fond of. Before he could reply, she seized his arm.

"_f.a.ga o favor_, senhor, will you help us? I beg you." There was an icy urgency in her touch.

"What are you doing here?" He studied her, still startled. Her long black hair was coiled across her face in tangled strands, and there were dark new splotches down the front of her white s.h.i.+ft.

"I'm afraid he'll die, senhor. And if he's captured . . ."

"Who?" Winston tried unsuccessfully to extract his arm from her grasp.

"I know he wanted to take the guns you have, but they were for us to fight for our freedom. He wished you no harm."

Good G.o.d, so she had been part of it too! He almost laughed aloud, thinking how Benjamin Briggs had been cozened by all his slaves, even his half-African mistress. "You mean that Yoruba, Atiba? Tell him he can go straight to h.e.l.l. Do you have any idea what he had his men do last night?"

She looked up, puzzled, her eyes still pleading through the rain.

"No, I don't suppose you could." He shrugged. "It scarcely matters now.

But his parting words were an offer to kill me, no more than a few hours ago. So I say d.a.m.ned to him."

"He is a man. No more than you, but no less. He was bom free; yet now he is a slave. His people are slaves." She paused, and when she did, a distant roll of thunder melted into the rain. "He did what he had to do. For his people, for me."

"All he and his 'people' managed was to help the Commonwealth bring this island to its knees."

"How? Because he led the Yoruba in a revolt against slavery?" She gripped his arm even tighter. "If he helped defeat the planters, then I am glad. Perhaps it will be the end of slavery after all."

Winston smiled sadly. "It's only the beginning of that accursed trade.

He might have stopped it--who knows?--if he'd won. But he lost. So that's the end of it. For him, for Barbados."

"But you can save him." She tugged Winston back as he tried to brush past her. "I know you are leaving. Take him with you."

"He belongs to Briggs." He glanced back. "Same as you do. There's nothing I can do about it. Right now, I doubt good master Briggs is of a mind to do anything but hang him."

"Then if his life has no value to anyone here, take him as a free man."

A web of white laced across the thunderhead. In its light he could just make out the tall masts of the _Defiance_, waving against the dark sky like emblems of freedom.

G.o.d d.a.m.n you, Benjamin Briggs. G.o.d d.a.m.n your island of slaveholders.

"Where is he?"

"Derin has hidden him, not too far from here. When Atiba fainted from the loss of blood, he brought him up there." She turned and pointed toward the dark bulk of the island. "In a grove of trees where the _branco _could not find him. Then he came to me for help."

"Who's this Derin?"

"One of the Yoruba men who was with him."