Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Your servant, sir." Anthony Walrond stood in the shadow of the Oistins breastwork, his hand resting lightly on his sword. Edmond Calvert was walking slowly up the beach from the longboat, flanked by James Powlett and Richard Morris. The hour was half past three in the afternoon, exactly as agreed. There had to be enough light to get the men and supplies ashore, and then the timely descent of darkness to shield them. "Your punctuality, I trust, portends your constancy in weightier con­cerns."

  "And yours, sir, I pray may do the same." Calvert slipped off his dark hat and lightly bowed a greeting. Then he turned and indicated the two men behind him. "You've met Vice Ad­miral Powlett. And I understand Colonel Morris is not entirely unknown to you."

  "We've had some acquaintance in times past." Walrond nodded coldly in the direction of Morris, but did not return the commander's perfunctory smile. The old hatred, born of years of fighting in England, flowed between them.

  "Then shall we to affairs?" Calvert turned back and with­drew a packet from his waistcoat. "The supplies we agreed on are ready. I've had my Chief Purser draw up a list for your inspection."

  Walrond took the papers, then glanced out toward the ships.

  So it's finally come to this, he thought wistfully. But, God is my witness, we truly did all any man could ask. There's no turning back now.

  As he thumbed open the wax seal of the packet, he noted absently that it was dated today, Friday. Had all this really come to pass since only sundown Monday, when he had first met Powlett, received the initial set of terms from Edmond Calvert, and begun negotiations? He had tried his best to counsel reason to the Assembly, he told himself, to arrange an honorable treaty that would preserve the militia. But a handful of hotheads had clamored for hopeless Defiance, and prevailed. The only way to save the island now was to force it to surrender as quickly and painlessly as possible. Victory lay in living to fight another day.

  He gazed back at the ships of the fleet, and thought of the road that had brought them to this: the defection of his own regiment, once the finest fighting men in England, the royalist Windwards.

  Monday at sundown he had commandeered the back room of the Dolphin Tavern, which stood hard by the shore of Oistins Bay, and met Powlett. Through the night emissaries had shut­tled terms back and forth between the tavern and the Rainbowe, berthed offshore. By the time the flagship hoisted anchor and made way for open sea at dawn, Anthony Walrond held in his hand a document signed by Edmond Calvert; it provided for the end of the blockade, the island's right to keep its arms and rule itself in local matters, and a full amnesty for all. The price, as price there must be, was an agreement to recognize the Com­monwealth and the appointment of a new governor and Council by Calvert.

  Tuesday he had summoned a trusted coterie of his royalist officers to the Dolphin and set forth the terms. They had re­viewed them one by one, debated each, then agreed by show of hands that none more favorable could reasonably be obtained. Healths were drunk to the eventual restoration of Charles II to the throne, and that night a longboat was dispatched to the Rain­bowe, carrying a signed copy of the agreement.

  Wednesday, as agreed, Edmond Calvert had ordered a duplicate copy of the terms forwarded to the Assembly, indicating it was his last offer. No mention was made of the secret negotia­tions that had produced the document. At that meeting of the Assembly Dalby Bedford had risen to declare he would not allow his own interests to be the cause of a single new death, that he would accept the terms and resign forthwith if such was the pleasure of the Assembly—which was, he said, a democratic body that must now make its own decision whether to continue fighting or to negotiate. He next moved that the document be put to a vote. It was narrowly approved by the Assembly; an honorable peace seemed within reach.

  But then the fabric so carefully sewed was ripped apart. A committee was formed to draw up the statement of the Assembly's response. In an atmosphere of hot spirits and general con­fusion, several of the more militant members had managed to insert a new clause into the treaty: that "the legal and rightful government of this island shall remain as it is now established, by law and our own consent."

  The response was then carried by voice vote and sent back to Calvert, a gauntlet flung across the admiral's face. The defiant faction in the Assembly exulted and drank toasts to the destruction of any who would have peace on the original terms.

  That night Calvert had delivered a new message to Anthony Walrond, inviting him to join with the forces of the Commonwealth—a move, he said, that would surely induce the Assembly to show reason. With this invitation he had inserted an addi­tional offer: he would endeavor to persuade Oliver Cromwell to restore the sequestrated estates in England of any royalist officer who consented to assist.

  On Thursday, Anthony held another meeting of the officers of the Windward Regiment, and they voted enthusiastically to defect to the side of the fleet. After all, they reasoned, had not an honorable peace already been refused by the extremists in the Assembly? That night he so advised Edmond Calvert, demanding as conditions a supply of musket shot and fifty kegs of musket powder.

  This morning just before dawn a longboat from the Rainbowe had returned Calvert's reply—a signed acceptance of the terms. With feelings mixed and rueful, he had ordered an English flag hoisted above the breastwork at Oistins, the agreed-upon signal to Calvert. Then, to ensure security, he ordered that no militia­man be allowed to leave Oistins till the ships of the fleet had put in and landed their infantry.

  The Rainbowe led the eight warships that entered the bay at midafternoon. Anthony had seen Edmond Calvert mount the quarterdeck to watch as the guns in the breastwork were turned around and directed inland, part of his conditions. Then the admiral had ordered a longboat lowered and come ashore. . ..

  "These supplies all have to be delivered now, before dark." Anthony was still scrutinizing the list. "Or my men'll not be in the mood to so much as lift a half-pike."

  What matter, Calvert told himself. It's done. The Barbados landing is achieved. The island is ours. "You'll have the first load of powder onshore before sundown." He gestured toward the paper. "Your musket shot, and the matchcord, are on the Marsten Moor, but I think we can have the bulk off-loaded by then too."

  "What of the rest of the powder, sir?" Walrond squinted at the list with his good eye. "That was our main requirement. Some of these regiments had little enough to start with, and I fear we'll be needing yours if there's any fighting to be done."

  Good Christ. Calvert cast a dismayed look toward Morris. Had I but known how scarcely provisioned their forces were, I might well not have . . .

  "Well, sir. What of the powder?" Anthony's voice grew harder. "We can choose to halt this operation right now if . . ."

  "I've ordered ten kegs sent ashore. Surely that should be adequate for the moment. You'll have the rest by morning, my word of honor." He squinted toward the horizon. "How much time do you think we've got to deploy the infantry?"

  "Less than we'd hoped. We heard the signal for Oistins being sent up the coast about half an hour past." Walrond turned and followed Calvert's gaze. The sun was a fiery disc above the western horizon, an emblem of the miserable Caribbees ever reminding him of the England he had lost. "If their militia plans to meet us, they'll likely be assembling at Bridgetown right now. It's possible they'll be able to march some of the regiments tonight. Which means they could have men and cavalry here on our perimeter well before dawn."

  "Then we've got to decide now where the best place would be to make a stand." Calvert turned and motioned Morris for­ward. The commander had been watching apprehensively as his tattered troops disembarked from the longboats and waded in through the surf. "What say you, sir? Would you have us hold here at Oistins, or try to march along the coastal road toward Bridgetown while there's still some light?"

  Morris removed his helmet and slapped at the buzzing gnats now emerging in the evening air, hoping to obscure his thoughts. Did the admiral realize, he wondered, how
exposed their men were at this very moment? Why should anyone trust the loyalties of Anthony Walrond and his royalists? It could all be a trap, intended to lure his men onshore. He had managed to muster almost four hundred infantrymen from the ships, but half of those were weak and vomiting from scurvy. Already, even with just the militia he could see, his own forces were outnumbered. If Walrond's regiments turned on them now, the entire Commonwealth force would be in peril. Could they even manage to make their way back to the ships?

  Caution, that's what the moment called for now, and that meant never letting the Windward Regiment, or any island mi­litia, gain a position that would seal off their escape route.

  "We'll need a garrison for these men, room for their tents." He glanced carefully at Walrond. "I'm thinking it would be best for now if we kept our lads under separate command. Each of us knows his own men best."

  "As you will, sir." Anthony glanced back, smelling Morris' caution. It's the first mark of a good commander, he told him­self, but damn him all the same. He knows as well as I we've got to merge these forces. "I propose we march the men upland for tonight, to my plantation. You can billet your officers in my tobacco sheds, and encamp the men in the fields."

  "Will it be ground we can defend?" Morris was carefully monitoring the line of longboats bringing his men ashore. Hel­mets and breastplates glistened in the waning sun.

  "You'll not have the sea at your back, the way you do now, should we find need for a tactical retreat."

  "Aye, but we'll have little else, either." Morris looked back at Calvert. "I'd have us off-load some of the ship ordnance as soon as possible. We're apt to need it to hold our position here, especially since I'll wager they'll have at least twice the cavalry mustered that these Windwards have got."

  "You'll not hold this island from the shores of Oistins Bay, sir, much as you might wish." Anthony felt his frustration ris­ing. "We've got to move upland as soon as we can."

  "I'd have us camp here, for tonight." Morris tried to signal his disquiet to Calvert. "Those will be my orders."

  "Very well, sir," Walrond continued, squinting toward the Windward Regiment's cavalry, their horses prancing as they stood at attention. "And don't forget the other consideration in our agreement. The Assembly is to be given one more oppor­tunity to accept the terms. You are obliged to draft one final communication for Bedford, beseeching him to show himself an Englishman and persuade the Assembly to let us reach an accord."

  "As you will, sir." Calvert turned away, biting his tongue before he said more.

  Keep an even keel, he told himself. There'll be time and plenty to reduce this island, Sir Anthony Walrond with it. The work's already half done. Now to the rest. After we’ve brought them to heel, we'll have time enough to show them how the Commonwealth means to rule the Americas.

  Time and plenty, may God help them all.