Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  "Damn me, sir, I suppose you've heard the talk. I'll tell you I fear for the worst." Johan Ruyters wiped his mouth with a calloused hand and shoved his tankard across the ta­ble, motioning for a refill. The Great Cabin of the Defiance was a mosaic of flickering shadows, lighted only by the sway­ing candle-lantern over the large oak table. "It could well be the end of Dutch trade in all the English settlements, from here to Virginia."

  "I suppose there's a chance. Who can say?" Winston reached for the flask of sack and passed it over. He was exhausted, but his mind was taut with anticipation. Almost ready, he told himself; you'll be gone before the island ex­plodes. There's only one last thing you need: a seasoned pilot for Jamaica Bay. "One of the stories I hear is that if Barbados doesn't swear allegiance to Parliament, there may be a block­ade."

  "Aye, but that can't last long. And frankly speaking, it matters little to me who governs this damned island, Parlia­ment or its own Assembly." He waved his hand, then his look darkened. "No, it's this word about some kind of Nav­igation Act that troubles me."

  "You mean the story that Parliament's thinking of passing an Act restricting trade in all the American settlements to English bottoms?"

  "Aye, and let's all pray it's not true. But we hear the damned London merchants are pushing for it. We've sowed, and now they'd be the ones to reap."

  "What do you think you'll do?"

  "Do, sir? I'd say there's little we can do. The Low Coun­tries don't want war with England. Though that's what it all may lead to if London tries stopping free trade." He glanced around the timbered cabin: there was a sternchaser cannon lashed to blocks just inside the large windows aft and a locked rack of muskets and pistols secured forward. Why had Win­ston invited him aboard tonight? They had despised each other from the first. "The better part of our trade in the New World now's with Virginia and Bermuda, along with Barbados and St. Christopher down here in the Caribbees. It'll ruin every captain I know if we're barred from ports in the English settlements."

  "Well, the way things look now, you'd probably be wise just to weigh anchor and make for open sea, before there's any trouble here. Assuming your sight drafts are all in or­der. ''

  "Aye, they're signed. But now I'm wondering if I'll ever see them settled." He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. "I've finished scrub­bing down the Zeelander and started lading in some cotton. This was going to be my best run yet. God damn Cromwell and his army. As long as the Civil War was going on, nobody in London took much notice of the Americas."

  "True enough. You Hollanders got rich, since there was scarcely any English shipping. But in a way it'll be your own fault if Barbados has to knuckle under now to England and English merchants."

  "I don't follow you, sir." Ruyters regarded him questioningly.

  "It'd be a lot easier for them to stand and fight if they didn't have these new slaves you sold them."

  "That's a most peculiar idea, sir." He frowned. "How do you see that?"

  Winston rose and strolled aft to the stern windows, study­ing the leaded glass for a moment before unlatching one frame and swinging it out. A gust of cool air washed across his face. "You Hollanders have sold them several thousand Afri­cans who'd probably just as soon see the island turned back to a forest. So they'll be facing the English navy offshore, with a bunch of African warriors at their backs. I don't see how they can man both fronts."

  "That's a curious bit of speculation, sir. Which I'm not sure I'd be ready to grant you. But it scarcely matters now." Ruyters stared down at the table. "So what do you think's likely to happen?"

  "My guess is the Assembly'll not surrender the island to Cromwell without a fight. There's too much royalist senti­ment there." He looked back at Ruyters. "If there's a block­ade, or if Cromwell tries to land English forces, I'd wager they'll call up the militia and shoot back."

  "But they've nothing to fight with. Scarcely any ordnance worth the name."

  "That's what I'm counting on." Winston's eyes sobered.

  "What do you mean, sir?"

  "It's the poor man that remembers best who once lent him a shilling. I figure that anybody who helps them now will be remembered here in the days to come, regardless of how this turns out."

  "Why in the name of hell would you bother helping them? No man with his wits about him wants to get caught in this, not if he's looking to his own interests."

  "I'll look to my interests as I see fit." Winston glanced back. "And you can do the same."

  "Aye, to be sure. I intend to. But what would you be doing getting mixed up in this trouble? There'll be powder and shot spent before it's over, sir, or I'm not a Christian."

  "I figure there's today. And then there's tomorrow, when this island's going to be a sugar factory. And they'll need shippers. They won't forget who stood by them. If I pitch in a bit now—maybe help them fortify the Point, for instance—I'll have first call. I'm thinking of buying another bottom, just for sugar." He looked at Ruyters and laughed. "Why should all the new sugar profits go to you damned Butterboxes? ''

  "Well, sir, you're not under my command anymore. I can't stop you from trying." The Dutchman cleared his throat noisily. "But they'd not forget so soon who's stood by them through all the years. Ask any planter here and he'll tell you we've kept this island, and all the rest of the English settle­ments, from starving for the last twenty years." He took a swallow from his tankard, then settled it down thoughtfully. "Though mind you, we needed them too. England had the spare people to settle the Americas, which the Low Countries never had, but we've had the bottoms to ship them what they need. It's been a perfect partnership." He looked back at Winston. "What exactly do you think you can do, I mean this business about fortifying the Point?"

  "Just a little arrangement I'm making with some members of the Assembly."

  "I'm asking you as one gentleman to another, sir. Plain as that."

  Winston paused a few moments, then walked back from the window. The lantern light played across his lined face. "As a gentleman, then. Between us I'm thinking I'll off-load some of the ordnance on the Defiance and move it up to the Point. I've got twice the cannon on board that they've got in place there. I figure I might also spare them a few budge-barrels of powder and some round shot if they need it."

  "I suppose I see your thinking." Ruyters frowned and drank again. "But it's a fool's errand, for all that. Even if they could manage to put up a fight, how long can they last? They're isolated."

  "Who can say? But I hear there's talk in the Assembly about trying to form an alliance of all the American settle­ments. They figure Virginia and Bermuda might join with them. Everybody would, except maybe the Puritans up in New England, who doubtless can be counted on to side with the hotheads in Parliament."

  "And I say the devil take those New Englanders. They've started shipping produce in their own bottoms, shutting us out. I've seen their flags carrying lumber to the Canaries and Madeira; they're even sending fish to Portugal and Spain now. When a few years past we were all but keeping them alive. Ten years ago they even made Dutch coin legal tender in Massachusetts, since we handled the better part of their trade. But now I say the hell with them." His face turned hopeful. "But if there was an alliance of the other English settlements, I'll wager there'd be a chance they might manage to stand up to Cromwell for a while. Or at least hold out for terms, like you say. They need our shipping as much as we need them."

  "I've heard talk Bermuda may be in favor of it. Nobody knows about Virginia." Winston drank from his tankard. "But for now, the need's right here. At least that's what I'm counting on. If I can help them hold out, they'll remember who stood by them. Anyway, I've got nothing to lose, except maybe a few culverin."

  Ruyters eyed him in silence for a moment. The rhythmic creaking of the boards sounded through the smoky gloom of the cabin. Finally he spoke. "Let's be plain. What are they paying you?"

  "I told you." Winston reached for the flask. "I've
spoken to Bedford, and I'm planning a deal for sugar contracts. I'll take it out in trade later."

  Ruyters slammed down his own tankard. "God's wounds, they could just as well have talked to some of us! I'll warrant the Dutch bottoms here've got enough ordnance to fortify both of the breastworks along the west coast." He looked up. "There're a good dozen merchantmen anchored in the bay right now. And we've all got some ordnance. I've even got a fine set of brass nine-pounders they could borrow."

  "I'd as soon keep this an English matter for now. There's no need for you Dutchmen to get involved." Winston emp­tied the flask into his tankard. "The way I see it, I can fortify the breastwork up on the Point with what I've got on board. It'll help them hold off Cromwell's fleet for a while, maybe soften the terms." He turned and tossed the bottle out the open stern window. "Which is just enough to get me signa­tures on some contracts. Then I take back the guns and Cromwell can have the place."

  "What the pox, it's a free trade matter, sir. We've all got a stake in it." Ruyters' look darkened. He thought of the profits he had enjoyed over the years trading with the English settlements. He'd sold household wares, cloth, and liquor to colonists in Virginia and the Caribbees, and he'd shipped back to Europe with furs and tobacco from North America, cotton and dye woods from the Caribbean. Like all Dutch fluyts, his ship was specially built to be lightly manned, en­abling him to consistently undercut English shippers. Then too, he and the other Dutch traders made a science of stow­age and took better care of their cargos. They could always sell cheaper, give longer credits, and offer lower freight rates than any English trader could. But now that they had slaves to swap for sugar, there would finally be some real profits. "I can't speak for the other men here, but it'd be no trouble for me to lend them a few guns too. . . . And I'd be more than willing to take payment in sugar contracts. Maybe you could mention it privately to Bedford. It'd have to be unoffi­cial, if they're going to be using Dutch guns against the Eng­lish navy."

  "I'm not sure why I'd want to do that."

  "As a gentleman, sir. We both have a stake in keeping free trade. Maybe you could just drop a word to Bedford and ask him to bring it up with the Assembly. Tell him we might mislay a few culverin, if he could arrange to have some con­tracts drawn up."

  "What's in it for me?"

  "We'll strike an arrangement, sir. Word of honor." Ruy­ters look brightened. "To be settled later. When I can return the favor."

  "Maybe you can do something for me now . . . if I agree."

  "You can name it, sir."

  "I've been thinking I could use a good bosun's mate. How about letting me have that crippled Spaniard on the Zeelander if you've still got him? What's his name . . . the one who had a limp after that fall from the yardarm when we were tacking in to Nevis?"

  "You don't mean Vargas?"

  "Armando Vargas, that's the one."

  Ruyters squinted through the dim light. "He's one of the handiest lads aloft I've got, bad leg or no. A first-rate yard­man."

  "Well, I think I'd like to take him on."

  "I didn't know you were short-handed, sir."

  "That's my bargain." Winston walked back to the win­dow. "Let me have him and I'll see what I can do about talking to Bedford."

  "I suppose you remember he used to be a navigator of sorts for the Spaniards. For that matter, I'll wager he knows as much as any man you're likely to come across about their shipping in the Windward Passage and their fortifications over there on the Main." Ruyters' eyes narrowed. "Damn my soul, what the devil are you planning?"

  "I can always use a good man." He laughed. "Those are my terms."

  "You're a lying rogue, I'll stake my life." He shoved back his chair. "But I still like the bargain, for it all. You’ve got a man. Have Bedford raise our matter with the Assembly."

  "I'll see what I can do. Only it's just between us for now, till we see how many guns they need."

  "It goes without saying." Ruyters rose and extended his hand. "So we'll shake on it. A bargain sealed." He bowed. "Your servant, sir."

  Winston pushed open the cabin door and followed him down the companionway to the waist of the ship. Ruyters' shallop was moored alongside, its lantern casting a shim­mering light across the waves. The oarsmen bustled to station when they saw him emerge. He bowed again, then swung heavily down the rope ladder.

  Winston stood pensively by the railing, inhaling the moist evening air and watching as the shallop's lantern slowly faded into the midnight. Finally he turned and strolled up the com­panionway to the quarterdeck.

  Miss Katherine Bedford should be pleased, he told him­self. In any case, better they borrow Dutch guns than mine. Not that the extra ordnance will make much difference if Cromwell posts a fleet of warships with trained gunners. With these planters manning their cannon, the fleet will make short work of the island.

  He started back for the cabin, then paused to watch the moonlight breaking over the crests and listen to the rhythmic pound of light surf along the shore. He looked back at the island and asked himself if Katherine's was a cause worth helping. Not if the Americas end up the province of a few rich slaveholders—which on Barbados has got to be sure as the sunrise. So just hold your own course, and let this island get whatever it deserves.

  He glanced over the ship and reflected again on his prep­arations, for the hundredth time. It wouldn't be easy, but the plan was coming together. The sight drafts were still safely locked away in the Great Cabin, ready for delivery day after tomorrow, when the transfer of the indentures became offi­cial. And the work of outfitting the ship for transport of men was all but finished. The gun deck had been cleared, with the spare budge barrels of powder and the auxiliary round shot moved to the hold, permitting sleeping hammocks to be lashed up for the new men. Stores of salt fish, cheese, and biscuit had been assembled in a warehouse facing Carlisle Bay; and two hundred half pikes had been forged, fitted with staffs, and secured in the fo'c'sle, together with all of Antho­ny Walrond's new flintlock muskets.

  Everything was ready. And now he finally had a pilot. Armando Vargas had made Jamaica harbor a dozen times back when he sailed with the Spaniards; he always liked to brag about it. Once he’d even described in detail the lookout post on a hilltop somewhere west of Jamaica Bay. If they could slip some men past those sentries on the hill, the for­tress and town would fall before the Spaniards' militia even suspected they were around.

  Then maybe he would take out time to answer the letter that'd just come from England.

  He turned and nodded to several of the men as he moved slowly back down the companionway and into the comforting quiet of the cabin. He'd go up to Joan's tavern after a while, share a last tankard, and listen to that laugh of hers as he spun out the story of Ruyters and the guns. But now he wanted solitude. He'd always believed he thought best, worked best, alone.

  He closed the large oak door of the Great Cabin, then walked to the windows aft and studied the wide sea. The Caribbean was home now, the only home left. If there was any question of that before, there wasn't anymore, not after the letter.

  He stood a moment longer, then felt for the small key he always kept in his left breeches pocket. Beneath a board at the side of the cabin was a movable panel, and behind it a heavy door, double secured. The key slipped easily into the metal locks, and he listened for the two soft clicks.

  Inside were the sight bills, just visible in the flickering light of the lantern, and next to them was a stack of shipping invoices. Finally there was the letter, its outside smeared with grease and the red wax of its seal cracked and half missing. He slipped it out and unfolded it along the creases, feeling his anger well up as he settled to read it one more time.

  Sir (I shall never again have the pleasure to address you as my obedient son),

  After many years of my thinking you perished, there has late come word you are abroad in the Caribbees, a matter long known to certain others but until this day Shielded from me, for reasons I now fully Comprehend. The Rep
utation I find you have ac­quired brings me no little pain, being that (so I am now advis’d) of a Smuggler and Brigand.

  He paused to glance out the stern window once again, remembering how the letter had arrived in the mail packet just delivered by the Rotterdam. It was dated two months past, and it had been deposited at Joan's tavern along with several others intended for seamen known to make port in Barbados.

  Though I had these many long years thought you dead by the hands of the Spaniard, yet I prayed unceasing to God it should not be so. Now, upon hearing News of what you have become, I am constrained to question God's will. In that you have brought Ignominy to my name, and to the name of those other two sons of mine, both Dutiful, I can find no room for solace, nor can they.

  He found his mind going back to memories of William and James, both older. He'd never cared much for either of them, and they'd returned his sentiment in full measure. William was the first—heavy set and slow of wit, with a noticeable weakness for sherry. Since the eldest son inherited every­thing, he had by now doubtless taken charge of the two thou­sand acres that was Winston Manor, becoming a country squire who lived off rents from his tenants. And what of James, that nervous image of Lord Harold Winston and no less ambitious and unyielding? Probably by now he was a rich barrister, the profession he’d announced for himself sometime about age ten. Or maybe he’d stood for Parliament, there to uphold the now-ended cause of King Charles.

  That a son of mine should become celebrated in the Americas for his contempt of Law brings me distress beyond the telling of it. Though I reared you with ut­most care and patience, I oft had cause to ponder if you should ever come to any good end, being always of dissolute and unruly inclination. Now I find your Profession has been to defraud the English crown, to which you should be on your knees in Reverence, and to injure the cause of honest Merchants, who are the lifeblood of this Christian nation. I am told your name has even reached the ears of His Majesty, causing him no small Dismay, and adding to his distresses at a time when the very throne of England is in peril from those who would, as you, set personal gain above loyalty and obedience. . . .

  He stopped, not wanting to read more, and crumpled the letter.

  That was the end of England. Why would he want to go back? Ever? If there’d once been a possibility, now it was gone. The time had come to plant roots in the New World. So what better place than Jamaica? And damned to England. He turned again to the stern windows, feeling the end of all the unease that had come and gone over the years. This was it.

  But after Jamaica, what? He was all alone. A white cloud floated past the moon, with a shape like the beakhead of a ship. For a moment it was a gargoyle, and then it was the head of a white horse. . . .

  He had turned back, still holding the paper, when he no­ticed the sound of distant pops, fragile explosions, from the direction of the Point. He walked, puzzling, back to the safe and was closing the door, the key already in the lock, when he suddenly stopped.

  The Assembly Room was somewhere near Lookout Point, just across the bay. It was too much of a coincidence.

  With a silent curse he reached in and felt until his hand closed around the leather packet of sight bills, the ones he would exchange for the indentures. Under them were the other papers he would need, and he took those too. Then he quickly locked the cabinet and rose to make his way out to the companionway. As he passed the table, he reached for his pistols, checking the prime and shoving them into his belt as he moved out into the evening air.

  He moved aft to the quartergallery railing to listen again. Now there could be no mistaking. Up the hill, behind Look­out Point, there were flashes of light in the dark. Musket fire.

  "What do you suppose it could be, Cap'n?" John Mewes appeared at the head of the companionway.

  "Just pray it's not what I think it is. Or we may need some powder and shot ourselves." He glanced back toward the hill. "Sound general muster. Every man on deck."

  "Aye." Mewes turned and headed for the quarterdeck.

  Even as the bell was still sounding, seamen began to ap­pear through the open hatch, some half dressed and groggy. Others were mumbling that their dice game had been inter­rupted. Winston met them on the main deck, and slowly they formed a ragged column facing him. Now there was more gunfire from the hill, unmistakable.

  "I'm going to issue muskets." He walked along the line, checking each seaman personally. Every other man seemed to be tipsy. "To every man here that's sober. We're going ashore, and you'll be under my command."

  "Beggin' yor pardon, Cap'n, what's all that commotion up there apt to be?" A grizzled seaman peered toward the sounds as he finished securing the string supporting his breeches.

  "It might just be the inauguration of a new Civil War, Hawkins." Winston's voice sounded down the deck. "So look lively. We collect on our sight bills. Tonight."