Part of the Barbados militia had already swarmed over the abandoned breastwork, while others were riding along the shore, muskets blazing, hurrying to seal off the escape route to the longboats. They intercepted the retreating infantry midway down the beach, and the gunfire gave way to the sound of steel against steel, as empty muskets were discarded in favor of pikes and swords.
Jeremy felt the warm surf splash his legs, and he looked up to see the outline of the waiting boats. He and the rest of the prisoners were on the far south side of the breastwork, away from the fighting, forgotten now. He was a prisoner of war.
Directly ahead, two longboats were being towed in through the surf—wide, hulking forms in the dim light, with sails furled and rows of oarsmen midships. As he watched them approach, he suddenly remembered his lost flintlock, a gift from Anthony, and the thought of its loss completed his mortification.
"Get in or be damned to you." Several infantrymen were splashing through the surf behind him now, half-pikes raised, urging on malingerers with the blades. Jeremy felt the hard gunwale of the longboat slam against his shoulder, then hands reaching down for him and grabbing his arms. He was yanked up, wet and shivering in the freshening wind, then shoved sprawling onto the boards.
"One move, any of you, and there'll be a pike in your guts." An infantryman began tying the prisoners' hands.
As Jeremy felt the rough cords against his wrists, he looked up and glanced over the side. The retreating infantry had drawn itself into a protective circle, knee-deep in the surf, yelling for its longboats to be brought in closer. At the perimeter of the circle two scrawny soldiers struggled to keep their footing in the pounding surf. They both seemed weak, almost staggering, and when a large wave slammed against their backs, they toppled headlong into the spray. The Barbados militiamen were there, pulling them up and dragging them back through the surf to the beach.
So, there'll be prisoners on both sides, he realized with relief. Now there'll be hostages onshore too.
The battle seemed to be thinning now. No one wanted to fight waist deep in the dark churning sea. The Barbados militiamen were slowing in their chase, turning back to congratulate themselves that the invasion had been repelled. Finally, as the longboats rowed closer and the infantrymen began pulling themselves aboard, the militia halted, content to end the rout by hurling curses above the roar of the surf.
"At least we spiked most of the cannon, and damn the rebels." Two officers were talking in the bow of the boat. Jeremy realized that both sides were planning to claim victory. Were there any wars ever "lost," he wondered.
"Though we've bloody little else to show for a night's work," an oarsman in a dark woolen cap mumbled under his breath, "save this fine new collection of bellies to fill." The man suddenly reached and ripped off a piece of Jeremy's lace collar. "This coxcomb'll learn soon enough what 'tis like to live on salt pork and slimy water, same as the rest of us." He flung the lace back in Jeremy's direction. "No fancy meat pies and brandied puddings for you, lad. A seaman's fare will soon take the fat out of those cheeks. I'll warrant it'll do you good, young rebel."
Ahead, the proud bow of the Rainbowe loomed above them in the dark, lanterns dangling from its masts. Seamen in the longboat tossed a grapple over the bulwark of the mother ship and then a rope ladder was dropped. Jeremy felt his hands being untied. Next he was urged up the ladder, shoved onto the deck, and immediately surrounded by jeering seamen, shirtless and wearing black stocking caps.
"This is the one, sir." Powlett was standing over him pointing. Next to him stood Admiral Edmond Calvert.
"I certainly can see he's a man of breeding, just as you said." Calvert studied Jeremy's ornate doublet in the flickering lantern light.
"Aye." Powlett's voice suddenly rose. " 'Twould seem he's the brother of Sir Anthony Walrond. I say we strip him and put him to work carrying slops out of the gun deck, as an example to all royalists."
"Not for a minute, sir. Not so long as I'm in command of this fleet." Calvert seemed to bellow at Powlett, almost too loudly.
A seaman was roughly yanking Jeremy to his feet, and Calvert turned on him. "You, there. Release that young gentleman, unless you'd like a timely taste of the cat on your back." He then approached and bowed ceremoniously. "Admiral Edmond Calvert, sir, your most obedient servant."
Jeremy stared in confusion and disbelief as the admiral continued, "Walrond, is it not?"
"Jeremy Walrond, and . . ."
"I'm honored." He turned and signaled to his quartermaster. "Have brandy sent to my cabin. Perhaps Master Jeremy Walrond would care to share a cup with us."
The seamen parted, doffing their caps to the admiral as he escorted Jeremy up the companionway toward the Great Cabin. "I can scarcely tell you, Master Walrond, how grateful I am to have the privilege of speaking face to face with a man of breeding from this island." He reached to steady Jeremy as he lost his footing in a roll of the ship. Then he smiled and gestured him ahead, down the lantern-lit walkway toward the stern. "First thing, we'll try and locate some dry breeches for you and a brandy to drive off the chill." He was still smiling as he shoved open a heavy wooden door. The Great Cabin was empty save for Colonel Richard Morris, now seated at the center table and rubbing the dirt off Jeremy's flintlock musket. Morris laid it carefully across the table in front of him when he saw them enter. Calvert smiled toward him, then continued, "I understand, Master Walrond, you've already made the acquaintance of our infantry commander."
Morris rose and nodded as Calvert gestured Jeremy toward an ornately carved oak chair. "After we've all made ourselves comfortable, Master Walrond, I hope you and I and Captain Morris here can become better acquainted. We've got much to talk over tonight." He flashed a quick look at Morris as he smiled. "Mind you, strictly as gentlemen."
Caribbee Page 21
