by Jan Needle
For the first few days after the escape, Deb assumed that the Suttons and the Siddlehams would do anything to track them down; but it was by no means certain according to Rebekah and Mrs M. Black men liked to pick off lone whites if they should meet them on the road, or if they strayed into the woods. There were militias – each white man had a duty, it appeared, to do so many days and weeks of patrolling and of training – but they were difficult to raise and organise, because it cost the planters time and cash. Then there were the “wild Maroons,” who were armed, and dangerous, and very prone to fighting the wrong fight.
Deb looked at Mrs M quizzically, but the old black woman chose to smile rather than answer. Deb questioned Kinji and got but little out of her, and Goanitta, from her own plantation, filled in. She used fast Kreyole, but Deborah got the gist quite easily, and answered in the same. This pleased the women, and she got a sudden kiss from Mildred, who was normally standoffish and straitlaced.
“Them white man make a treaty,” said Goanitta. “Them Maroon work for them white man and them black man do get pay. Track down and cut off runaway head, take it back and get plenty wine and silver. Some time black man forget him rule, go chop up white man. Bad black man, see? Maroon him bad, break treaty. Very bad.”
The grins of all the women told the story very well, and Deborah also thought it sounded rather fine. She nodded slowly, and they watched her smile.
“Bad nigger, see?” said Mrs M. “Fight wrong fight. It keep Mr Planterman away, though, these country parts not safe, they wild. So maybe they not come for you and other gal and men done run away that night. Or if they come, they come in many strong, and that be many bad. We got spies though, ain’t we? White man like big bloody elephant, you know?” She made a trunk and flapped an ear – Deb laughed acknowledgement: she had seen pictures. “We see an’ ’ear ’em comin’ and we go. We vanishes. We spirit us away.”
In later days, she learned about the country and work. It was so hard and heavy few of their menfolk lived for long, except the ones who went over to the masters as overseers or slave-drivers. Even outside the harvest times the work was never-ending, as exhausted land needed clearance and expansion, the digging of new cane rows, and turning, and manuring, and digging in. When they were not killing themselves cutting cane or in the boiling house, they were killed constructing palaces for their lords. Slaves were expensive. It was a constant cry among the masters, Deborah knew. But they killed their men in seven years or so.
The women’s work was not so harsh, although as constant, and the white men had high hopes of them as breeders of new labour. But on this island at least, it did not work like that. Slave women produced few children, and those that were born rarely lived for more than minutes. They would not tell her why or how, but they did not conceive, or killed their babies in the womb, or smothered them. That was the fact of it.
Mabel had a child, though, and he was almost white. Alone one afternoon, wreathed in aromatic fire smoke, Deb dared to ask her why, and Mabel looked at Deborah, then looked away, then back again. Her eyes then filled with tears, which overflowed and poured down either cheek. She turned away without a single word, and left.
Deb’s whiteness became a problem soon, as did her beauty. Among the women it was nothing; she worked with them, slept with them, ate with them, communed with them. But as her hair grew back to cover the worst of scarring on her scalp, and as her facial scars faded almost to nothing, news of her presence and her beauty was clearly spreading far outside the “woman’s town”. Men started visiting, and their studied casualness was soon replaced by growing impudence. Some were not mere runaways but were Maroons, who saw themselves as warriors, and wore their ragged shirts and trousers in a different fashion: one with a buckled leather belt, another a bright bandanna. The real difference, though, was in the eyes. They were not slaves, their hauteur said, they were fighting men, and free. Windwarders, the women told her, from the Blue Mountains where sugar was too hard to grow and white men, consequently, had no interests. They were interested themselves, however, in Deborah. She was white, and she had run away. Potentially, she was a Black Man’s Prize. Or Whore.
Deb Tomelty, who to herself was only Deb, had been made aware that she was beautiful to men from an early age, but still did not know what it really meant. Her eyes were clear and brown, her face was oval, her hair was dark, her teeth were white, her body neat and lithe and firm. But inside her head she was just a hatter-girl, who had caused misery to her mother, and run away, and seen her best friend killed. She had used men’s perception of her beauty to make a living, to stay alive, but she took no pleasure in their attentions, and never had done. Until Will Bentley she had never dreamed that fucking could bring pleasure, and had never had the faintest inkling of love. She had loved him, and did love him, and so much the worse for that; if they ever met again he would not remember her, why should he? To Deborah Tomelty, beauty was a jest. These black visitors, half preening, half meek and humble in the presence of her glowing skin, were an irritation, and a growing fear. She wanted no man any more, unless it be William. She was no longer even sure of that.
Then one day, late into the evening. Deb had a visitor whom she recognised immediately could somehow do her harm. He was tall, extremely handsome, and he was bursting with the energy of youth. He was lean, his features finely made, and his ragged trousers and open, flaxen shirt gave him a rakish charm that was piratical. Flanked by three stone-faced older men who were clearly his subordinates, he was confident, also; his eyes met hers and sparkled with frank pleasure.
Deb, suddenly, was frightened. He struck her as a young and charming animal. Very young, and very beautiful, and as carefree as she herself had been. But across his shoulder was a long, old-fashioned musket, and at his waist a military cutlass that had been broken halfway up the blade then ground into a wicked point, honed razor-sharp at top and bottom. It was a tool for killing, nothing more, for killing and intimidation.
He stood and stared at her, and there was pleasure on his smiling lips, boyish pleasure, and Deb blushed, unable to prevent herself.
“Hah,” he said, at last. “White girl, greeting. I am Captain Jacob. You can be my woman. I am Jacob Tsingi. Captain.”
Deb Tomelty stood in silence, and she wondered what to do, or what to say. In a clearing in a wood, in a foreign land, in dripping heat, in the midst of friends or savages or both, she surely did not know. The man in front of her, the lovely boy, was staring at her, his eyes deep and black and shining. His expression did not change, but the faces of his acolytes were wreathed in smiles now, anticipating pleasure. Mrs M had made a sharp sucking noise, between her teeth and lips, though Marge and Missy were round-eyed, which Deborah took as signs. The silence lengthened, until the boy was disconcerted. His ease was turned to tension by degrees. If he spoke again without her having answered, he would lose face. The thing was critical.
At last Deb spoke, and her tone was soft and gentle. She hoped Will would forgive her if she took his name in vain.
“I have a man already, sir,” she said. “We are betrothed. I’m sorry.”
She hoped she would forgive herself for this. She hoped more, that it might turn the trick.
But Tsingi’s tone was harsh.
“Where is he then? I see no man.”
The noise from Mrs M grew louder, and Mildred was suddenly upon the scene as well. She stepped up to the men and talked hard and angrily, in a tongue of Africa. The acolytes spoke back, were silenced angrily by Jacob, who then went at it violently with Mildred, who as violently came back. The other women of the camp appeared, and formed a ring around the argument, and sometimes emitted little cries, responding, Deb imagined, to some point.
Then abruptly it was over. Mildred and Tsingi had gone face to face, both shouting, then she had turned away and made a gesture. The four men had stood defiant, but some agreement had been reached, it seemed. They formed a phalanx and strutted out, shoulders back, heads high. Deborah found that she was s
haking.
There was silence for a good long while. Then Mrs M began to suck her teeth, but with a different cadence. Mildred nodded at the English girl, but her eyes were cold.
“He eastern man,” she said. “Him father Colonel Treatyman. Him no right be here, see, gal? But I think him do come back.”
“Think him?” said Mrs M, scornfully. “We know him come, gal-Deb. Captain Jacob got the sniff for you.”
Chapter Six
Their stolen brig was called the Jacqueline, and the wind that met them outside the secret bay was half a violent gale. It took them dead astern and pushed them east, and the untrimmed ship rolled and wallowed like a sow in farrow. She had one headsail up, and a sagging main course that badly needed sweating up and bowsing home. Gunning was at the tiller and he was struggling. Jacqueline, one-masted, ill-served, was playing “woman games” as he grimly called it. Will Bentley needed hands, and quickly.
He went himself to rouse the Frenchmen, and he had a knife and pistol in his hands. They were awake and their eyes were showing fear or anger, either striking Will as quite appropriate. He cut their leg-bonds first, and dragged the cloths from out their mouths, upon which one of them vomited noisily over Bentley’s shoes. No matter for that, though – there was water coming overside enough to wash off anything in no time at all. He poked his pistol into first one neck and then the other with calculated brutality, and said: “Je suis capitaine. Vous devez obéir moi, understand? Ou je vais vous tuer. Understand? Entendu?”
One said oui, the other said Yes, sir. Then all three of them were swept by a curling sea, which drenched Will’s pistol. The English-speaker’s wrists were already cut free, but he did not try to take any advantage of the useless firearm. The danger now was natural, and all three understood it. They must work the ship, or maybe founder. Will sliced through the second Frenchman’s bonds and said tersely: “Aidez avec les voiles.” It occurred to him that they would both have knives. It occurred to him that both might need them.
Ashdown was at his side.
“The jollyboat, sir,” he said. “Just up ahead. We need to pick her up.”
“We can’t,” said Will. The anchored boat was almost at the line of surf. The Jacqueline was bearing down on it at ever greater speed. “We’ll make do with the Frenchmen’s cutter and the skiff. We cannot try and stop her now, Jack.”
“I’ll ease the cutter off, then! Range her astern with the skiff or we’ll lose her too.”
Both of them jumped across the deck, but probably too late. The cutter was half-full already, and solid water was breaking across her bow. The painter was like an iron bar, but as Will’s knife moved to it, Ashdown touched his arm.
“Sir! She might not sink! She’ll maybe go ashore! The Frogs could get her!”
Gunning’s voice burst in like a foghorn.
“I need sails trimming! I’m losing steerage! Lieutenant, bugger you!”
Will saw one opportunity. And maybe two.
“Ram her!” he hollered back at him. “Mr Gunning, sink the jollyboat! Sink our jollyboat!”
London Jack, fortunately, seized the thought instantly, and had control sufficient to swing towards the anchored boat. It was swinging wildly on its cable in the squall, and presented its full side-length at just about the best moment. Jacqueline smashed into it forward of amidships and stove in its larboard side with a tremendous crunch. The jollyboat was trodden under on the roll, but better still, the cutter lashed alongside hit the wreck hard enough to burst its own stempost and open the bow strakes like a broken mouth. As the planks sprang outward and the sea poured in, Ashdown deftly cut the painter with his knife.
“Let no man tell you God is dead,” said Bentley, both relieved and blasphemous. “Jack, He must be on our side!”
“Bollocks,” Ashdown replied. “That was the Devil’s luck.”
Clear of the land both assessments proved unlikely, for the wind was freshening by the moment, and it was blowing more from the north than due westerly, which had been its set under the shelter of the island shore. Their first task, with the Worm and the two Frenchmen, was to set up the main course properly, run up a second headsail, then set the topsail, possibly reefed, above the main. Worm, after the work on deck was done, slipped aft to veer out more line for the dandy skiff, which was snubbing too short and taking water, but was generally riding very well. In this sea, this short-handed, it would be a job indeed to get her back inboard and stowed if they should be forced into an attempt.
Once all the canvas they thought feasible was set and drawing, Will joined Gunning at the tiller to talk of cases. The more they got off of the land the harder it seemed to blow, and the more nor-westerly it became. Not good for getting west along the coast, not good at all for getting west then north to reach the Biter men, not even good for getting back to Port Royal. With one mast down and no hands to speak of they could hardly claw to windward, and while the French sailors were docile enough, they could hardly be trusted. Below decks would be guns and swords and God knows what, and they could not be watched like hawks forever. And they had their seamen’s knives.
“First off we’ll wear her round,” said London Jack. “With your permission, sir. Then we’ll harden up to see how much of westing we can steal. There’s a stay already rigged between the foremast stump-top and the main pole head, and I’d like a sail on it if it be man enough. Get Ashdown to check it over, sir, then use the Frenchies to help him up aloft and bend one on. Without more canvas fore-and-aft we’ll be nowhere, fast. We’ll end up in bloody Nicaragua. Long haul back to Dickie that would be, even if the weather ever changed. Where’s that long black streak of turd the Worm?”
This was said with affection, which increased when Will told him he had sent the man below to rustle food, and even coffee if available. Jack Gunning’s eyes grew dreamy – given his constant battle to stop the unbalanced ship broaching to – and he expressed a desire for hot coffee that transcended even alcohol. Will could believe it, for this once. He too would have gladly killed a priest to taste the bitter bean.
“We’ll wear her first, without him,” Gunning said. “What betting that she’ll go slam hard around just as he’s coming up the ladder with a steaming pot, and he’ll drop the bloody lot? Men!” he shouted. “Stand to your stations, I’m coming round. Mr Bentley will tend the jib sheets as he is the lightest – I pray you, tend ’em, sir – and Mr Worm will do the most useful work, for he is making coffee down below! Now – prepare to wear ship!”
Short-handed it was a wondrous job, and the two Frenchmen were a sterling asset. They knew where each line ran, they knew each belay point, and they conveyed the information as if all the seamen shared a common language. As they came round on to the wind they could feel its weight the better, and it made them work as brothers, as the alternative was God knew what. The skiff swung round astern of them and headed the rolling seas without desiring to drown itself, and the driving spray was almost warm and comfortable. Then there was coffee, and cold pork and sweet potatoes.
It did not do them much good though, and Will and Gunning were well aware of it. Their heading was way too far to southward, and in that they had no choice. They had a staysail set, they reefed the main, they got an outer jib up, and the Frenchmen were great experts on the tiller, while the English were more used to a wheel on such a vessel. But they were blowing south into the open Caribbean, leaving Dick Kaye, Sam Holt and all their fellows ever farther to the north.
Then there were the French to deal with. Fine seamen, and fine souls. Chain them below? Toss them overboard? Or trust them?
They were the enemy. They were honourable men, whatever London politicians peddled to the people. They would want to get the ship back. Their ship.
And suddenly, the Caribbean night was coming down.
Chapter Seven
Dick Kaye’s determination to find a road to Kingston, and to run his deserters down, had faced much competition in the night from thoughts of lifting treasure out of Biter, an
d in the morning this new obsession grew apace. By the time Cox’n Sankey roused the captain and his pet from their tarpaulin slung between two trees, Holt had already been out above the wreck in the yawl with Bosun Taylor, and the report he brought was fuel on the fire.
“You can see her clearly, can you?” asked Kaye, excitedly. “And there’s less water than we thought? Good God, Sam, we’ll lift the treasure yet! Good God alive, man, this is marvellous!”
Holt shook his head in irritation. The captain’s boyishness, misplaced as so often, was unusually irksome in the circumstances. He could see the wreck, true, but she was perched on a coral outcrop and seemed still beyond the diving range of man. There were cases and barrels caught up in the sails and rigging, and it might indeed be possible that some would surface. But gold and silver did not float, however buoyant their containers might have been.
“No, sir,” he said, as patiently as he could bring his voice to. “Not lift the treasure, we’re still talking twelve or fifteen fathoms, maybe more. No one could get that far, then they’d need to get inside the wreck and find the stuff and bring it up.”
A growl of impatience came from Richard Kaye. He was sitting on a fallen tree-bole and his face was already dewed with sweat, although the sun was scarcely high.
“Oh, there are ways,” he said. “Christ, Sam, sometimes I find you downright womanly! If we can see the Biter we can get there, men can swim and we have ropes. Get in there, lash stuff on, and give a jerk. Hola! Up the treasure comes!”
He was like a little child, thought Sam. Everything was easy. He had lost the ship, a dozen crew or so had run, Bentley and two more had sailed off into the night on nothing but a hope and prayer, and at any time they might be attacked by slave escapers whose keenest joy would be to get revenge. They were white, they were virtually unarmed, they had little food, less water, and no shoes or boots to march in. And Slack Dickie fancied hunting treasure…
