by Jan Needle
The old man smiled.
“You think they do not know already? You think Marlowe blind? I do not think it take me very long, I ready now. You bring the boat around.”
In half an hour he was gone, having refused even a pistol so that he could signal his return. A pistol, he pointed out, would earn him death, and anyway what need? Back on board they chewed it over endlessly throughout that first night and the torture of the next long day, with the feeling growing in Will that it had all gone wrong, that Worm would fail, that the rebel band were doomed to slaughter anyway. The blackness of the second night, cloud-blind and airless with all breezes died to nothing and the silence total, oppressed him further till he was almost crushed. Deborah was bound to die. He had failed her.
He was asleep at sunrise, though, lying beneath a light covering on deck because of the appalling heat below, and no one woke him until Sam and a boat’s crew led by Tommy Hugg was almost alongside the Jacqueline once more, with the Worm himself seated in the sternsheets. Will sprang to wakefulness and to his feet, and was hanging over the rail when the old man looked at him and smiled.
“I’ve seen your Miss,” he said. “I’ve seen her and the black man and friend Mildred.”
Will went almost giddy. The toothless smile beneath him became enormous.
“They will come,” said Worm. “All three of ’em. They be here by night or in the morning. I must go back shore and wait there on my own. That is the orders. That Mr Marlowe don’t trust nobody. No one.”
“But –” said Will. “Is she well? Is she –”
Sam interrupted, as if angrily.
“Oh stow it, Mr Bentley, stow it won’t you? This man has done a wonder for us all. This man must have some breakfast.”
Geoff Raper – not a man to stand round idle, one leg or two – already had the bacon in the pan.
*
Marlowe’s confidence that he could sustain a long campaign against the white avengers had been based on experience and hope, but now apparently had drained away. White men, he knew, came in numbers, in uniforms, pulled heavy trains of victuals and equipment, and seemed to have little awareness of the dangers of terrain, and little understanding they would get bogged down in it, would be supremely visible and their adversaries would not. Further, he assumed that his town and its outlying camps were unknown, even as to their general area. The invaders would come pouring through the mountain passes, across the badlands and the bogs, with no specific goal; they would be entering a swamp without a centre.
At the start of the “invasion,” this view had proved accurate. Deb, although she did not want or ask to be, was taken as part of Marlowe’s immediate party to watch the first incursions and their consequences. She had no idea how many men he had in his command, because she saw few of them and very fitfully, but the ground they covered was extraordinarily difficult. Despite her leanness and muscularity from her extended existence as a runaway, she was soon exhausted as her party walked and picked its way round mountain paths on the edge of precipices, across ice-cold torrents, and through dripping forests of a glaring green where biting insects could be scooped out of the air in handfuls. She saw small bands of black fighters ambush platoons of black militia, she saw two young planters pulled down off their mules and hacked to death. That night she cried, begging to be spared the sight of more such savagery, but he told her that if they did not kill they would be killed, and that in any case the thing was in the balance.
Marlowe and his lieutenants had good intelligence in general, but they had no way of knowing how complete it was. They knew a ship had sailed round the island, first spotted crossing Bloody Cove, and they later heard she had dropped anchor in Montego Bay and many whites had come ashore to strike inland along the course of the Great River. Another force, and their slavemen warriors, had been observed for several days heading west to meet to this army, and another force, mainly white, had been reported moving north from somewhere south of Orange Hill. None of the observers was capable of counting by numbers in the English way, but as the time wore on, they became more tense and dubious. Deb was asked repeatedly to comment on things she could not know – numbers of militia men in the Kingston area, numbers of crewmen on a Navy ship – and the skirmishes became bloodier and more violent, more savage in their toll of men on either side. By the third or fourth day she and Mildred, and Marlowe, were moving back west once more, and she saw some fighters in retreat, not in attack. She understood from briefings overheard, and translations by Mildred, that the three prongs of the “white man forces” were becoming a torrent, a flood, a rising tide they could not hope to stem.
By the time the Worm was brought to Marlowe’s presence there was an air of termination about it all, in Deb’s opinion. He was brought with dignity, however, not brutalised, and Marlowe recognised him immediately. The Worm, though old, was a negotiator born, a man who did not play politics with facts. He told them that they were being bottled up, and how; he named Swift and Kaye as the force commanders from the sea and Mather and Sutton – both names that Marlowe knew – as the militia-thrust from the island’s windward zone. He gave rough numbers – some hundreds in each party – and reported, in answer to Mildred’s specific query, that there was a strong force in reserve near Kingston Town, of white men and officers who would come if need be. He smiled his gummy smile.
“Them not leave white womans unguarded this time, Miss. Even planters learn some lesson, heh?”
Marlowe pondered for some moments.
“Why you here for? What Mr Bentley got to offer?” He saw Deb tense, and raised a palm to her, and smiled. “This man say your man Bentley and him friend lie offshore and not come to join in black man killing. That must be to save you, not me.” The smile thinned. “Nor Mildred, mebbe.”
“No,” said Worm. “He will take all. Not all your fighters, not half Jamaica rebel men, but all of you. He will take you on the ship. Big ship. The Jacqueline.”
Deb shared a look with Mildred, full of hope. Her guts were torn with longing.
“Lieutenant Bentley,” said Marlowe. He said it almost kindly, a matter of vague regret. “Lieutenant Bentley, Lieutenant Holt. They cannot stop them hanging me. Good thought, but him captain not agree, him governor in Kingston, him good King Georgie.” He paused. “Say him sorry, but we cannot come except for talking. We come in day or two as soon as battle going right. You be at rock by beach, my men go show you where. You be alone. We talk in boats like last time. We find you, then we find Mr Bentley. Tell him, he must not look for us. Now go.”
*
The three thrusts of the avenging forces had suffered many casualties, but not in great enough numbers to worry them unduly, Marlowe knew. The troop down from Montego Bay was the most numerous, but until Swift’s men had moved quite far inland towards the rendezvous, it had been the least attacked. They had met up with the Kingston force as planned, then with the contingent from the south that Kaye commanded. The total losses among all three were less than thirty, mainly bloodhounds, and the presence of Swift and Mather had forced even Kaye to sobriety once more. He had channelled his suffering for Marianne, or for Bob, into a raw determination for revenge.
Mather had proved himself a good commander, and his militiamen were useful on the ground, in that they mainly sent their conscript blacks before them when the terrain became most difficult. When the rebels ambushed them, or fell upon them from the heights, the black men suffered and died in place of whites, who being much more visible should have been the natural targets. But the whites had muskets, and could shoot down the marauders from afar – or sometimes their own footsoldiers, which was, in fact, an effective tactic. The more black bodies strewn around, indeed, the more disconcerted the rebel bands became.
There was one set “battle” only, a bloody skirmish in a large clearing between two woods, which suited the militia and the musket-wielding sailors because it gave them a great sense of superiority in arms and tactics. They settled down in banks to fire-reload-fire
into the trees and bushes opposite, while some of the bolder mounted men made dashes across the break on horse or mule, whirling sabres and whooping as they dodged the hail of lead from the renegades, in truth more imaginary than real. Alf Sutton, on his great black beast, made one sortie deep into the thicket, and hove back into sight with a thrown dagger buried in his shoulder, although luckily for him it was the thick serge material that took and held the weapon, not his flesh. Another of the mounted planters, even more impressively, struck into the woodland and returned with a black and bloody forearm in his hand. He it was who convinced the doughty warriors that their prey, in fact, had flown. A fair amount of lead in the last few minutes had been wasted on thin air.
It was as the forces spread out thinner and pushed further west that the Lamonts came into their own. They had come ashore from the Pourquoi Pas in the first boat with Swift, and had begun their scouting from the moment feet hit solid ground. On board the ship maps had been studied and understood, and the more vicious elements among the sailors had been recruited to travel with them as a kind of escort, cruelly armed. Once the main body of Swift’s men were disembarked, the Lamonts and this cut-throat crew moved always ahead to smell out the land, take blacks they found as prisoners to be milked of information, and to let it be known ahead that nemesis was coming. By the time the three troops came together between the heights of Birches Hill and Orange, the Lamonts were ready to bear down into Marlowe’s strongholds on their own to find and kill the quarry that was the greatest prize. They had fulfilled their promised duty by leading Swift and Kaye and Mather to the area where Marlowe must have his “town,” and indeed some outer hide-outs had been set upon and burned. It was time, the Lamonts agreed, to go off on their own, follow their noses, and to capture Marlowe and the Tomelty. The one, they knew, was a sure reward and possibly a pardon for their many sins, while the other – and her wee black friend – could either be a perfect pleasure to them, or a money prize as well. Ideally both.
Marlowe himself, by a similar reading of the runes, had also concluded it was time to call an end. In his unusual way, he discussed this with Mildred and Deb, as if anything that they might say would sway him in deciding. Looking at his frank and chiselled face, Deb did indeed believe it might. He laid out the achievement of his men, and their options, with clarity and calmness, and said his main intention was that the women should not be harmed. Seeing Deb’s confusion, he smiled.
“You came to me for help,” he said. “Now I cannot help you anymore. Planters come, their soldiers come, your Navy come. I have lost some men, my women and my children run into the woods and higher land to hide away. We can do this. Many places here where white man cannot follow. If I take you with us, bakra-lady, they try to chase and so we lose more life, they try long time. That old nigger man say we can go on ship, will be protected. It may be true for you, but not for me. Your man William is on the ship. He go protect you. And Mildred is your friend.”
“But he will protect you too!” Deb cried. “The old man said so! You have saved me! The men will kill you if you do not come. Oh, Mr Marlowe, what have you lost, for me?”
Marlowe said: “A few men dead, but not so many as the planter men. A few houses burned, maybe some beast. New town to build, new secret place to find. If we fight them too hard they come back and back and back again, like them Maroon wars in the other time. If I go on ship they say they give me fair trial, and then they hang me. Your man is Navy officer, him not the King. King Georgie say that I must dangle. That the true.”
Throughout these last few hours, they had been picking through the forests towards the island’s western tip, although the direction was unnoticed or unknown to Deb. There were three men with the three of them as far she could tell, but more were always in the background, hidden. Two of the guard, who had guns and cane knives, slashed out a path ahead.
“But I have been your hostage,” she said, almost plaintively. “I can be your safe passage now, your –”
“How?” said Mildred. “When you are safe, we are just targets once again, can you not see?”
“But –” said Deb, and at that moment, to her surprise, found herself out in a clearing, in blazing sunlight. Blinded, she made out a black shape ahead of her, beside a gigantic boulder. As the shape began to run towards them it began to yell.
“Get back! Get back in the trees, they here! An ambush! They have caught us up!”
It was the Worm, and as she realised this a shot came, and another black man took a bullet in the face and Deb heard a scream beside her, which was Mildred. Worm stopped in his tracks, and spun on his heels, still roaring.
“The boat! Mr Marlowe! We must get to the boat!”
The old man, as well as aborting the ambush, had ferreted out the hidden canoe, it seemed, and he hared off down the path immediately. Marlowe, gripping Deb’s arm. jerked her after him, and she in turn pulled Mildred. The remaining forward guard ran back bravely past them to cover their retreat, and they heard another shot, and a short scream from inside the wood. As they went past the rock to follow Worm, Deb saw two white men burst out and rush towards her. They were tall and thin, and she thought they looked like death.
It was Rabbie and Wee Dod Lamont.
Chapter Thirty-Three
They must not search for him themselves, the Worm had told Will Bentley and Sam Holt, they must not go on shore, there would be spies to find them out. They had dropped him through the surf, with Tom Hugg and three more strong sailors at the oars, and had watched him disappear into the trees. Then, through the surf once more, they had held their tongues until they should be back on board the Jacqueline, aware the massive boatswain’s mate was watching them as he wielded the stroke oar. An hour later, they had called him to the cabin.
“Hugg,” said Sam. “Tommy, man… We want to get the ship inshore a piece, and Mr Gunning here ain’t vetoed it. I want you in the chains with your best leadsman, or you yourself if you should deem that better. We want to jill her to the nearest spot to breakers we can get, then put the cable on a slip, and buoyed, in case we have to let it go and run. We’ll need some canvas triced up loose so we can set sail at a moment, and we’ll need sweeps ready to get her on a tack if the breeze blows foul. We are under way in twenty minutes.”
A grin broke across Hugg’s broad and ugly face. Apart from taking the Worm ashore, he had been inactive for too many hours. He touched his forehead with a meaty hand.
“Aye, sir,” he said. “That Frankie Amber is your man. He can feel the ground along the line like magic, he’s as nervous as a cat. French bastard.”
They did not feel like laughing so they let that pass, but Will and Sam shared Hugg’s relief at action. Within an hour they had the Jacqueline less than a cable’s length offshore, close enough that she occasionally lifted sharply and heart-wrenchingly and seemed to hover at the point where a wave would break, accelerate, and shoot them in towards the boiling, foamy carpet. Will, at one stage, took himself right up above the main t’gallant yard, clinging to the pole, to gain a view across the trees into the hidden land. It was hidden still – bright green and overgrown – but he was amazed to realise he still found the whole thing beautiful, the breaking seas, the iridescent foam, the sand below the keel that looked close enough to touch or rise up and smash their bottom out. It was giddying, delirious; and somewhere almost within his sight, his love, quite possibly, was being killed. Had he forgotten?
He had not, completely, and back on deck once more took comfort from the thought that they were as close to shore as ship could be to meet a small boat putting off. While he had been aloft indeed, Sam and Tom Hugg had readied up the lightest gig and moored her at the waist, watched over by the Frenchman, François Imbert. When Will proposed that he should stay on deck himself to wait a signal from the Worm, he was laughed to scorn. It could be days rather than hours before the call might come.
When it did though, it came on a sudden, in the warmest part of the day, and shockingly was presaged by a
gunshot. Will had been dozing on the quarterdeck, but the muffled sound had him jumping like a man possessed. Sam ran back from the foredeck, and most other men awake were also galvanised. The lookout sang out almost as the report was heard.
“Where away?” yelled Sam, and “Man the gig,” roared William. Imbert was pulling in the line already, and Hugg, sweating in a pair of sagging drawers, was urging on his chosen oarsmen to the rail.
“Astern of us!” cried the lookout from the top. “Yon headland, sir! Starboard quarter, sir!”
As soon as the canoe’s prow cleared the rocks, it seemed that there was something very wrong. Before the bellowing on the Jacqueline died down, shouts boomed across the water, then piercing screams. When half of Marlowe’s craft was visible, they saw it rocking violently, and heard a terrific splash, as of someone falling overboard. Will tumbled into the gig with all the others, seized the yokelines, and told Hugg tersely “Lay into it and get her flying. Come on my boys, oh fly!”
They went leaping forward like a porpoise as a burst of shots rang round the headland rocks, but Will saw that the canoe had scarcely moved. There was still shouting though, and a further splash, and more shots. Then, on a sudden, the canoe emerged into the open bay, struggling across a breaking wave. She had a sail up and had caught a puff, and heeled steep away from them, showing her bilge, until the breeze dropped light again, and she lay rolling after twenty yards or so. One oar was shipped, but Will saw it slide out of the rowlock and slip into the water, unheeded. The dun sail flapped, the boat fell off the wind, a paddle appeared for a moment above the gunwale, then her stern was to them and Will could see no more. He gripped the yokelines till his fingers hurt and gritted, “Pull, you bastards, pull!”
