Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER TWELVE

  Katherine was relieved when she finally spotted him stand­ing among the gunners, his face and leather jerkin covered in a dark veneer of grime. If anyone would know the truth behind the rumor spreading over the island, that Jeremy Wal­rond had been killed, surely Hugh would. She watched for a time, collecting her composure after the ride up from Bridge­town, then tied her mare to the trunk of a bullet-scarred palm and began working her way down the sandy slope toward the breastwork.

  The mid-afternoon sun seared the Jamestown emplacement with the full heat of the day, and most of the gunners and militiamen were now shirtless and complaining about the need for rest. As she neared the stone steps leading up to the guns, the air rang with the sounds of hammering, iron against iron, and she realized Winston and the men were still work­ing to extract the spikes from the touch-holes of the large English culverin.

  He looked out to study the three English warships offshore, barely visible through the smoke that mantled the bay, then turned to Thomas Canninge, his master gunner. "I think we've still got range, Tom. Try another round as soon as you're set and see if you can't hole them one last time."

  Canninge and his gunners were struggling to set one of the Dutch demi-culverin, hammering a wooden wedge out from under the breech in order to elevate the muzzle. "Aye, looks like they've started coming about, but I think we might still give the whoresons one more taste."

  All the large cannon in the breastwork had been disabled by the invading Roundheads; their infantry had overrun the guns long enough to drive a large iron nail deep into each gun's touch hole, the small opening in the breech through which the powder was ignited. The facility would have been defenseless had not six of the Dutch demi-culverin been hauled out of the fort and hidden in a palm grove up the hill just prior to the attack.

  As soon as the invasion was repelled and the breastwork cleared, Winston had summoned teams of horses to bring the small Dutch cannon back. His gunners had opened fire on the fleet at the first light of dawn, catching the three English frigates which were still anchored within range and preparing for a long, leisurely shelling of the Jamestown settlement. An artillery duel commenced as the warships immediately re­turned the fire, but when Winston's gunners honed their tar­geting, they had prudently hoisted anchor and retired to the edge of range. Now, while the militiamen worked with ham­mers and drills to finish removing the spikes from the large culverin, the battle had become mostly noise and smoke.

  "Katy, God's life!" He finally noticed her as she emerged at the top of the steps. His startled look quickly melted into a smile. "This is a surprise."

  "Hugh, I came to find out . . ."

  "Everything's fine. We've got two of the spiked guns al­most cleared, and if we can keep fire cover with these Dutch demi's, we should have all of them back in operation by nightfall." He walked over to where she stood. "So move on back out of range. It'll not be much longer. I think they've decided to give up on the shelling. Tom's already holed the Rainbowe twice with these little nine-pounders. Probably didn't do much harm, but at least the Roundheads know we're here."

  He glanced up as a puff of smoke rose from the gun deck of the warship nearest the shore, the Marsten Moor.

  "Round of fire!"

  Before he finished the warning, the men had already dropped their hammers and were plunging behind a pile of sandbags. Winston's hard grip sent her sprawling with him behind the mound of earth-brown sacks. He rolled across her, then covered her face with his sweaty jerkin.

  "This is how we brave fighting men stay alive . . ."

  An eighteen-pound shot slammed against the base of the breastwork, shaking the brick foundation beneath them. After a few anxious moments, the men clambered nervously over the bags to resume work. She was still brushing the dirt from her riding habit when Winston suddenly whirled on her, his eyes fierce.

  "Now you listen to me, Katy. You can't stay down here. It's still too damned dangerous. If you want to get killed, there're lots of better ways."

  His back was toward the sea when the second burst of black smoke erupted from the gun deck of the Marsten Moor. "Hugh!" Without thinking she reached for him. Together they rolled twice across the soft earth, into the safety of the shielding bags. As they lay next to the militiamen and gun­ners, a round of cannon fire clipped the side of a battlement next to where they had been standing and hurtled a deadly spray of brick fragments into the sandbags. Several shards of brick ripped into the cloth and showered them with white grains.

  He seemed embarrassed now as he slipped his arm under her and quietly hoisted her to her feet. Around them the mi­litiamen were again returning to work on the disabled can­non. "I don't know whether to thank you, Katy, or order you clapped in the brig for coming here in the first place. But either way, you can't stay. So kindly wait up the hill till . . ."

  The sound of a forceful hammer stroke followed by a clear ring produced a cheer from the group of men who had been diligently hammering on one of the spiked cannon.

  "Got her cleared, Yor Worship," one of the militiamen yelled toward Winston. "Fit as the day she was cast."

  He abruptly turned and headed through the crowd to in­spect the breech of the gun. After scrutinizing the reopened touch hole, he motioned toward a waiting gunner. "Ladle in about five pounds of powder and see how she fires."

  Tom Canninge called from the other end of the breastwork, "I've got the altitude about set on this little nine-pounder, Cap'n. It's the best of the lot."

  "Then see if you can't put a round through her portside gun deck." His voice was increasingly strained.

  "Good as done." Canninge ordered the demi-culverin shifted a few degrees to the left, then motioned for a linstock and lightly applied the burning end to the touch hole.

  The gun roared and kicked backward in a cloud of dense, oily smoke. While the men squinted against the sun to watch, a large hole splintered open along the portside bow of the Marsten Moor, just above the waterline. Moments later a mate in the maintop began to unfurl tops'ls, and after that the mainsail dropped in preparation to make for open sea.

  "Let's give her a sendoff, masters." Winston led the cheers, and Katherine realized he was deliberately trying to boost morale. Next he yelled down the sweating line of men. "Hear me, now. Our good master Canninge has just earned us all a tot of kill-devil. By chance I think a keg may have arrived this morning, on a cart that found its way up from Bridgetown. We should take a look up by that large tree on the left." He paused and waited for the hoorahs to subside. "Under my command, the men always drink first, then offi­cers." He waved a dismissal. "As you will, masters."

  As the gunners and militiamen threw down their tools and began to bustle in the direction of the liquor, he turned to Katherine and his voice dropped. "Now that we're both still alive, maybe we can talk. Why don't we try and find some shade ourselves?"

  "You seem exhausted." As she looked at him, realizing that even his brown eyes seemed pale, she found herself al­most reluctant to raise the matter of Jeremy. Maybe he had enough to worry about.

  "Bone-tired is more the word. But we've got the fleet out of range for a while. Now we just have to worry about what they'll think to try next."

  Hearing the open concern in his voice, she wrapped a con­soling arm about his waist as they walked down the stone steps of the abandoned breastwork. "But the invasion failed. This round is won, isn't it?"

  "If you can call that massacre last night 'winning,' then I suppose you could say so." He heaved a weary sigh. "Plant­ers make poor soldiers, Katy. As best I can tell, we lost eighteen men killed outright. And a lot more were wounded. Some of them will doubtless die too, given this heat. So all we did was drive the Roundheads back to sea for a while, but at a terrible cost." He looked down. "They took some pris­oners. Two longboats full. Probably about thirty men, though we don't really know yet who's captured, or missing . . . or just gone off to hide."

  "Well, that's not so many."

  "True enough. We managed
to take a few prisoners ourselves, maybe half a dozen or so. . . . I guess maybe you didn't hear. Jeremy Walrond has disappeared. We think he was taken prisoner."

  "Thank God. Then he's not dead." She stopped still. "But . . . captured? Poor Jeremy. He'd probably sooner have been killed. He was so proud."

  "Anthony's proud too, and he's taking it very hard. When we heard Jeremy was missing, I offered to take the command here, to let him go back to Bridgetown and see if he was with the wounded. Then somebody suggested that Jeremy probably had surrendered, and Anthony threatened to kill the man. It was plain he needed some rest."

  She stood silent for a moment, then looked away sadly. "What do you think will happen now?"

  Winston followed her gaze, out toward the horizon. "Maybe everybody will try to negotiate some more. It's get­ting complicated all of a sudden, with prisoners now part of it. Unfortunately we didn't manage to take any officers, just infantry—most of them so weak from scurvy the fleet's prob­ably just as glad to have them gone, before they died any­way. ''

  "What'll happen to Jeremy? You don't suppose they'd hang him."

  "I doubt that." He waved his hand. "So far it's a civilized war. But they may ask a price to send him back if they find out he's Anthony's brother. It's very bad."

  "What do you suppose we can do?"

  "Not much I can think of. Maybe they'll just try to wait us out a bit." He reached down and lightly brushed some of the dirt and sand from her hair. Then he wiped his brow, glanced at the sun, and urged her on, toward the grove of trees. "I'd guess it's a matter now of who can hold out long­est." He slipped his arm about her waist and glanced down. "And how're you holding up, Katy?"

  "I suppose I'm fine." She leaned against him, trying to ignore the heat and the stares of some of the men. Finally she gave a mirthless laugh. "No, do you want the truth? I'm more worried than ever. Isn't it odd? Just when we seem to be standing firm." She looked up at his smoke-smeared cheeks. "Can we go hide? Away from here? I think your morale could do with a boost too."

  "You're looking at a somewhat disoriented breastwork commander. Make that 'acting commander.' But Anthony's supposed to be back around now to relieve me. Whenever he gets here, we can ride back over to Bridgetown, if I can manage to locate a horse." He helped her down beneath the shade of a spreading manchineel tree, kicking away several of the poisonous apples that lay rotting around the trunk. Then he flopped down beside her. "This is one of the hardest things I've ever tried, Katy, holding defenses together when half the men truly don't care a damn whether we win or lose. But it's the only thing I know to do. Tell me if you can think of anything better."

  "Is that all you've thought about lately, Hugh?" She ran a hand along his thigh.

  "It's all I care to think about for the time being."

  She pulled back sharply. "Well, commander, please don't think I have nothing else to occupy my mind with except you. But that doesn't mean I've just forgotten you entirely."

  "I haven't forgotten you either, Katy. God's life!" He picked up a twig and tapped it against one of the poison apples. "Tell me, what does the governor of Barbados think about his only daughter keeping company with the likes of me?"

  "I do what I choose." She pressed against him. "Anyway, it's not what he says that troubles me. It's what I say to my­self. I've always been able to control my feelings. But, some­how, not with you. And I hate myself for it. I truly do."

  "I'm probably a poor choice for the object of your feel­ings."

  She laughed and squeezed his hand. "God help me, as if I didn't already know that. Who'd ever have thought I'd be going about half in love with a man like you."

  "I thought you once said you weren't interested in falling in love." He kissed her lightly. "Probably a safe idea. I don't know how many of us are going to live through this."

  Before she could respond, he rose on one elbow and pointed toward a pair of horses approaching from the south. "It looks like we may get back to Bridgetown after all. I think that's Briggs, and he's brought Anthony with him. It's odds they both distrust me only slightly more than they hate each other, but it's enough to make them allies for a while. Well, they're welcome to have back this command any time they want it."

  "Then we can ride in together?"

  "I don't think Anthony's going to like that idea, but it's your affair. God knows I know better than to try and give you advice."

  She laughed. "Then you're starting to understand me bet­ter than I thought."

  "Let me just have a word with Anthony about the condi­tion of the ordnance. And make some gunnery assign­ments." He began to pull himself up. "Then maybe we'll retire down to the Defiance for a while. I've missed her." He stooped and kissed the top of her head as he rose to his feet. "And I've missed you, too. Truly."