by Jan Needle
Deborah felt the earth was opening.
“But you said… you said he would be killed. What – would the white men kill him? The planters?”
“Maybe planters, maybe hotheads, maybe women in this town. We much good at poison, maybe that go make you sick and die.”
“Me? But –”
“You, him, what matter which, or both? White men like kill him, then have you afterward. Black girl like kill you, then have Tsingi. Maybe no one die. Maybe Maroon town strong enough, white men cannot find the way. Maybe Nanny put science on to Tsingi, so Tsingi cannot die. Nanny can do this. Yes, Tsingi will not die.”
The picture was emerging, in Deb’s mind. If she went with Captain Jacob she would surely die. White woman and black man was the great taboo, for Africans and English just the same. But Mildred was saying, or seemed to be, that Deborah had to go with him, whatever. She breathed in deeply, and felt already dead.
“If Jacob asks me… if Jacob tells me I must go and I refuse him, what can he do? Will I be… carried off? Will he set his men on me?”
Mildred said calmly, “He go want revenge. He tell bloodhounds that you run from your plantation with Mabel and the others, and you hiding here with us. He tell them where you living, how to come here, and they will burn our crops and rape and maybe kill us. Mabel and her little boy. Missy and Goanitta. Marge and Kinji, Rebekah and Mrs M, old Dangle and the other greymen. They will not take me. I will go to the westward, to the Cock Pits or beyond. There a feller there who have no truck with white man or Maroon; I go and be his woman, I join with them and fight. Him name is Marlowe.”
They were sitting in a clearing and the light was going down, and Deb had a strange conviction that much of what Mildred was telling her could not be true. She thought of Jacob’s laughing eyes, his open face, and she did not think he would be capable of such betrayal. Her, maybe, but not the Africans, his countrywomen, allies, friends. Mildred had a course mapped out somewhere, beneath the surface of the seen events, that she would not tell and Deb could never know. But in the end of all, it left Deb with the decision, on her own.
To go with Captain Jacob into… what?
Or to sit here with the women and her bees, and to think of Will Bentley as a prisoner thinks of freedom, when the sentence is not even started yet.
“I have told you truth,” said Mildred, as if she read her mind. “We will be betrayed.”
*
Although Lieutenant Savary was the first to die, he was not the last one of the people by a sad long way. In Kingston and Port Royal it came as no surprise, in especially as the Biter men had been sleeping in western woods and on the shore, where at dusk the flying things could be swept from the fetid air in handfuls.
Back in harbour they had thought to have escaped scot-free, but that was not what old Jamaica hands had known. Savary’s odd symptoms were not odd to them, nor was his sudden and pain-racked death. By the afternoon that he was buried – quickly as the tropics gave no quarter on the dissolution – several more of the people were showing signs, and those that were not were panicking. It seemed to hit the strongest first, after its taster on the pale thin frame of Sweetface, and both Toms Hugg and Tilley were soon down on the main deck of the Jacqueline, that had been stripped and smoked and scrubbed with vinegar. After them fell Simms, a man of iron will and indomitable soul, silly Sammy Megson, thought immune from everything for his lack of brain, and John Manton and Seth Jolley. These were the ones that Will knew very well, but there were others also, an increasing throng.
The two lieutenants, who had been moved indeed by the death of Arthur Savary, found themselves taking charge and almost overwhelmed. At sea in such an epidemic there was nothing to do but sit it out and hope, but in harbour they expected it to be a little better, at least for medicines and help. In fact the Navy establishment – Captain Shearing, Lieutenant Jackson and a half a dozen subordinates – were less than useless, and Jackson made it clear that they were acting by set policy, not any sort of slackness. As he explained it, such outbreaks could spread through an establishment and bring a whole operation down. They could have black men to nurse in plenty, black women to clear up shit and corpses, and the retired Navy surgeon who lived just out of town might come and give advice, for payment. Jackson smiled his thin smile at Bentley.
“Naturally he’ll be drunk,” he said. “It is the Navy’s curse. What do you say to that?”
His bleary eyes were bloodshot and he was unsteady on his feet, but his question appeared to be a challenge, another gauntlet thrown down by this most argumentative of men. Will played mild-mannered.
“It is unfortunate,” he said. “My men need a medico. But I can see it is no fault of yours, sir. I thank you for your exposition.”
Not good enough for Jackson.
“But you have a surgeon of your own, sir, do you not? His name is Grundy. A frequenter of the gutters, I believe?”
Will did not take the bait. He raised his eyebrows in interrogation, politeness personified. It riled Lieutenant Jackson.
“Aye, sir! Are you unaware? He staggers from shebeen to bunghole, and makes an arsehole of himself. There, sir! If your men need doctoring, why do you not call him back?”
Because, Will thought, we’re better off without him. But there was no chance of moving men ashore, for it suited the Assembly better to keep infection at a distance. The propped-up hull of Jacqueline was being refitted on the hardway outside Port Royal, where lived only blacks and whores and wrecks of people in the normal way, and where the chance of illness spreading to the town itself was thought of little moment. Jackson said bitterly at one point that “the pity was” that she was beached. Otherwise, they “could have took her out to sea and saved us from all suffering.”
But he did send slaves to do “coarse caring” and the “clearing up,” plus a regular stream of undertaker’s carts to take away the most unlucky ones. For some days no one died, although nineteen were sick, then Tom Tilley went, which struck both Will and Holt as very hard indeed, followed by Megson, Seth Jolley and last Rob Simms. Which meant the marines were now two men, without an officer. Watching the immense frame of Tilley being winched ashore, manhandled, almost dropped, brought frank tears to Bentley’s eyes, and his companion’s. They watched him buried that very afternoon, bareheaded in respect.
Slack Dickie was not at the burial, although he had put in an appearance for Savary’s, and London Jack turned up just as the box was going in the hole, and nearly fell in after it. Not from an overwhelming grief, despite he had appreciated Tilley as a seaman, nor yet from drunkenness, because he was now over that and swore, with unshakeable unawareness, that he would never take a drop again. But he was clearly very ill, and almost lost his footing at the sandy edge of the enormous hole that Tilley needed. Sam and William were terrified in case he had malaria, but it later revealed itself as the effects of his four-day drinking spree as usual, for which reprieve Sam threatened to stand him a breaker of fresh rum.
Slack Dickie, afterwards, was the subject of their conversation and here the big man had some fascinating news. The captain was, he said, in love. They laughed so loudly that he winced, and the island Reverend, hovering in the background of the cemetery for a tip, threw them a dirty look. But Sam and Will were fair to getting uncontrollable, so moved out into the road to town and followed the gaggle of Tilley’s shipmates who were heading, doubtless, to praise his memory at the shoreside taps. It was a lovely day for walking (or for burial), and the air was clean, and fresh, and warm.
“Nay, but ’tis true,” Gunning insisted, when they badgered him to say it was a jest. “I know he likes boys’ arses but we’ve seen him with rude women many times an’ all. Have we not?”
“Bow to your greater knowledge,” Sam joked, while Will acknowledged it was so, why make an argument?
“But love? What, real, aching, weeping love?” pressed Sam. He glanced at Will as if to say some more, then thought better of it.
“Look, some men
are incapable,” he went on. “Some men love any woman, every woman – not just you, John, neither! – and some men have one love only, and that’s unusual, and some others have one love only and that’s themself! And Dickie, surely, is the leader of that camp? He is the king, the godhead, he is the Great I Am! Does she love him, this woman? Is she a Bedlam case, a whore? She can’t love him! No woman can! He is a fat boy, overgrown!”
Unseemly laughter from a funeral group, but they could not help themselves. Dick, it seemed, had met this woman in the way of business – “not that business, sirs! No, not that style of business!” – while “ferreting about to do his father’s will.” By which he meant that Kaye had been mingling with Jamaica’s highest, in the hope of “learning how to buy a plantation to sink his family’s money in and lose it!”
This gave them pause for thought, although it did not surprise them much. Their private mission, agreed as secret between them and the captain, was clearly not that secret any more. They could only hope Kaye’s indiscretion had not gone too far, or been taken very seriously.
“But how would Dickie find Jamaica’s highest?” asked Sam, skating over it. “What would he do? He is staying with that Andrew Mather, isn’t he? Surely too sensible to be taken in. He is a sourpuss.”
Will said, “He is the Governor. Leastways, for the moment he is standing in. He must know people, mustn’t he?”
“Aye, so,” said Gunning. “And Dick’s had letters from his Pa. There’s letters, incidentally, at the Navy offices; surprised that Jackson hasn’t brought them down to you. I got two dozen.” He rubbed his eyes, as if to clear a pain. “I’m not a bit surprised he didn’t bring ’em,” he corrected, “the man’s a poison toad. I told him mine was all from different wives to shut him up. Not so funny had he known it was the simple truth. Oh boys, I am in trouble if I ever get to London town again.”
They pieced it out as thus: Slack Dick had gone from house to house with Mr Mather, from family to family, making himself known. At first it was presented as courtesy, showing the Jamaica planters that the Navy cared for them, but they had cottoned on quite quickly that he had another motive – a bit more lively company. From there he graduated to “the Sex” and quelle surprise, said London Jack, a bolder element of companions emerged with heartening speed. These young men, said Gunning, were the “usual country thing, smelling of horseshit and mud up to their elbows,” but a few of them had sisters, and they were really “rather gay.”
Both Will and Sam found this a peculiar assessment from their drunken London friend, because his tastes ran for a different caste entirely. When pressed he did admit he found them “milk and water, with too much of the church about their arses,” then stopped, and grinned, and then continued.
“But I have to say, sirs, some of them are very, very bold, considering their positions in society. A couple of them fairly set their caps, and I’ll say this for Dickie too, the one he chose was the richest, and if he married her quite like to bring a lot of land. I don’t know how the law goes on this island, but her father is a racing bet to die.”
Her father, when they teased it out of him, was none other than old Siddleham, who was lying crippled in his bedroom like a king. His estate was half as big as London, his older sons were playboys and quite giddy, and his eldest daughter Marianne was tall and stately and the brightest of the bunch.
“But in truth she is an idiot,” Gunning said. “She went in tête à tête with Dickie, she played her spinet for him, they went long walks with mother as a chaperone around their gardens that were laid out by a man from Kew, and God blind me for a liar if I tell you not the honest truth, now they are in love. I ha’ seen them at it, sirs, even the negers in the sugar canes can catch them kissing and stroking hands, while Mama, so she pretends, cannot. It is revolting. I fear it drove me to break my lifetime rule and have a little drink!”
This was strange for Sam and Will to contemplate – Slack Dick in love – and they found it easier to tell themselves he might be doing it for a motive, ingratiating himself with the island’s powerful to further his father’s clandestine plan. But there was stranger still when they got to the Navy rooms to pick up letters, for among the pack for William there was one from Uncle Daniel Swift, and its contents were a bombshell. They were sitting in an airy outer office drinking lemonade, Sam puzzling over the one short note that had been his total store, and Will did not even try to keep it secret. He could see no purpose, and no chance.
“Well this is monstrous, Sam!” he said. “My uncle is at his mad old tricks again! Listen – and this is naught to do with me my friend, I promise you – the rogue states baldly that Kaye’s Pa has offered me his daughter’s hand in marriage, and he has been so bold – so bold, the impudent old swine, so bloody bold! – as to accept on my behalf! ‘The twenty thousand is confirmed,’ he writes. Oh, is it!? Is it indeed, Uncle!? Good God, Sam – whatever shall I do!? He says I am betrothed! To your Felicity! Whatever shall I do?!”
“She’s very ugly, Will,” said Sam, and his voice was strained, despite himself. “You told me so yourself. But twenty thou… Good God it is a fortune. It is a ransom for a prince. I would be tempted, truly, if it were me.”
“Oh fiddlesticks!” said Will. “This is no time for your stupid jesting, Sam! He’s on his way, and he already plans to spend the dowry as far as I can see! I’ve to join with Kaye and find an estate and lay the groundwork down for when he comes, and he says the money’s piling up extremely high! They’re serious, Sam. These madmen are all serious! Swift’s on his way to here, and he’s going to set us up as planters! We’ll have black slaves!”
“Hysteria,” said Sam, “hysteria. Perhaps you’d better take a stronger drink than lemon. My letter’s much more sensible. Your new wife will be very smart, Will. I envy you.”
“Enough! Shut up, you idiot!”
“It’s very short, as well.” Sam read: “Mr Holt, I am overlooked constantly. Spied upon in sooth. I will do nothing. Nothing. I need a knight on a great white shining charger. Do you know of one?” He sighed. “It’s not even signed,” he said. “It’s a thing of beauty, Will, is it not? It’s poetry.”
It’s mad, thought William.
Neither of them, in truth, knew if to laugh or cry.
Chapter Sixteen
The contrast between their lives on the Jacqueline and their new lives as island socialites could not have been more stark. Shortly after their return from Tilley’s burial, they received a message from their captain to attend him that evening and “to be in finest fig.”
“Finest fig!” said Bentley in disgust. “Good God, Sam, how does he think we’re living currently? Our very clothes must smell of death and vomit.”
That was true, as the grounded vessel had a constant reek. There were dozens ill by now, and the detritus of their sickness, when cleared up from the decks, was merely chucked over the side to rot on the mud. The good news was, she was due to be refloated in a day or so.
“I’ve known it worse at sea,” said Sam, philosophically. “My clothes might stink, but they’re dry at least, and I’ve got the salt stains off of most of ’em. In any way the young bloods smell of dung themselves, and don’t all island people sweat a lot?”
That was true indeed, as they’d remarked on after their awful dinner time with Ephraim Dodds and friends. It was a mixture of stale perspiration with pomade and unguents, constantly slathered and renewed. Sam hoped frankly, though, that Dick’s new associates were of a different order. Despite the difficulties, they both scrubbed up quite creditably, and were rowed across the harbour looking rather fine.
They met Kaye at the Assembly, and took the usual hired mules to their engagement. It was not far, but Slack Dickie was nervous, and insisted interminably that they be “on their best behaviour.” The estate that they were visiting was that of Sir Nat Siddleham, he said, and it was most important that, et cetera, et cetera. Will and Sam shared a smirk across the jogging saddles, but were consumed with curiosity to
see their captain’s “love.”
The house was at the top of a long rise, and was magnificent. They were met by grooms and servants in full livery, with the young male members of the family at the top of a broad flight of steps built from imported granite. Behind them, like a second rank, were three daughters, ranged in height and age from right to left. Captain Kaye strode up the stairs almost proprietorially, and slapped the eldest of the Siddleham sons across the shoulder before shaking hands with the other two. Bows to the ladies, then the presentation of his “friends and fellow officers,” who were suitably impressed. Marianne, the oldest maiden, watched everything with a smile, while the younger girls, Lucy and Elizabeth, had a tendency to blush and giggle. They were fifteen and fourteen.
Lady Siddleham attended the small party in an enormous withdrawing room, and fussed around her “boys and gels” to put the guests at ease. More black men in ostentatious livery provided drinks and sherbets, and she made small talk as efficiently as any landed dame at home. Sir Nathaniel, she said, was indisposed so could not greet them for the moment – which considering they knew he was paralysed and crippled seemed to understate it, rather. Understatement about the “small, informal dinner” followed quickly on: it consisted of many courses of exotic meats and fish and sweet things. Strangely, towards the end of it, a white man in overseer’s garb appeared at the doorway, then approached the oldest Siddleham, whose name was Jeremy, and whispered in his ear. Jeremy spoke softly to his mother, and signalled his brothers to follow him. Lady Siddleham was unconcerned.
“You must excuse my sons,” she said. “There is disturbance on a neighbouring estate. They will be absent for some little while, I fear.”
