by Jan Needle
“I do not know her whereabouts, sirs, and I am truly sorry for it.” The smile returned, altered, it lit up his face. “But look you here, sirs. We have someone on board who maybe does. Now that is something, ain’t it?”
London Jack smirked, holding out a palm to pre-empt them.
“She’s in the cabin. Slack Dick’s, of course, but I confide he would not say me nay.”
“She?” said Will. Jack Gunning laughed.
“Aye. She ain’t to Dickie’s taste entirely, being female, but she is black, which is half the battle, I suppose. She won’t share my bed, though maybe she will his, strange things do happen.”
“Oh quit your jesting, man!” cried Will. “Take us there! Who is it? What is going on?”
“It’s the woman Mildred,” put in Worm. “I met her in the woods with them, sir, remember? She ran away with Mistress Deb from Kingston way. She fears they want to kill her too.”
Gunning wished to conduct the interview apparently; and it was apparent he had tried his well-known tricks on her before. But the serious-faced young woman held him in contempt, and made no shift to hide it. She asked directly which one was William, and told him directly that the other two must leave. Bentley, although as nervous as a kitten, smiled.
“Mistress,” he said. “I have heard much about you from Deb’s friend Bridie, and I value your courage and your honesty. I might ask Mr Gunning here to go, but Lieutenant Holt I really need to stay. He is as anxious as I am, I promise you, to aid Deb in her plight.”
The danger was that London Jack would make a scene, but he confounded them all, including Mildred. He made a bow and turned for the door.
“I am too overbearing sometimes.” He directed this mainly at Mildred. “I don’t often mean much harm, but never mind, I’ll go about my sailor things and leave the headwork to these fellows here. But remember, Miss, I took you in. I could have tossed you overboard.”
With Gunning gone it was less tense, but Mildred was hardly easy. She was dressed in simple cotton, but there were rends in it, and cuts upon her hands and arms and face. She had been helped out to the ship, she told them, when “the captain” (Gunning) had hauled it further off for re-anchoring and she had thought that it was leaving land for good. How helped? Black men, she said, but of the Scotchmen’s party, who had switched sides and joined up with some of Marlowe’s. They had hid her before the final fighting on the beach and after she’d been separated from Deb.
“But did they not want to follow Marlowe?” Sam asked. “Did not you?”
She looked at him with steady eyes.
“They thought that he was finished. They said the Scotchmen would kill everyone, they in league with evil spirits. They said they would hide in forest and that I could too. I thought I must tell Deb’s William. I did not know that you had come to shore. Some Marlowe men knew of his boat, hid on the strand. They row me out in dark and let me hold on rope on side of this ship, then they row away. I not to shout until they gone. Then Captain come and let me up. That captain. Dirty man.”
Sam smiled.
“Lots worse,” he murmured. “We know lots worse.”
Will licked his lips. He ached to ask the question. He did not wish to overween, like London Jack.
“But do you know?” he said. “Marlowe is still alive, I am glad to tell you that. But Deborah has been taken by the Scotch, they see her as some sort of safety, still. Do you know… did any of their fellows give indication… look, Mistress – we must find her. These men are very bad.”
A half-smile lit up Mildred’s severe face.
“I think I know, maybe,” she said. “There is gold I think they go for. But Marlowe? Is he safe? He is alive, but is he free?”
“No. Not free. I can’t dissemble with you, Mistress, he is going back to Kingston under guard. The Navy and the colonel of militia have arrested him.” Brief pause. “He will be fairly tried.”
The smile was gone, but Mildred made no comment. Will said, “Forgive me, but it is urgent. Will you tell me where Deb might be? Please.”
The hot air in the cabin stirred. Sam fanned himself.
“There is fort,” she said. “Shipwreck along the shore from here, I do not know how far. There is gold and treasure. A great store.”
Will’s heart was sinking. That could only be one place. And that could not be right.
“But there is nothing,” he said hopelessly. “We burned it down. There was no treasure there, there were no people. The ship is sunk beneath the waves. I thank you, Mistress, but… Oh dear.”
But Mildred’s eyes were steady on him.
“Is treasure. May be buried in the woods. May be the diving men go down. They said the fort was burnt and then they laugh. Scotch men have buried treasure there.”
Sam said, laconically: “If there is treasure, why did your men change sides? Do not black men like treasure also?”
Her lips curved.
“Not much use for treasure anymore,” she said. “We slaves.”
“Or runaways,” said Sam.
“Runaways are slaves,” said Mildred. “Only when we die we are not slaves. Believe me, sir, the Scotchmen will be there. And poor Debbeerah, if she has not been killed. But if you go they kill you as well, if so they can. They bad spirit, sir. They the devil.”
Whether he was convinced or not, Will had no choice, no free will, no rationality. He said to Holt, “This is a hanging matter, Sam. You must arrest me, I suppose, or turn blind eyes. I am going to take a boat and some few volunteers. I shall not meet Captain Swift tonight. Make my apologies.”
Holt scratched his nose.
“Difficult,” he said. “I guess Swift would hang you, even though he is your loving uncle. But can he hang the both of us? And London Jack? Well, knowing Swift, I guess he could, an’ all. But I’m prepared to risk it, that’s for sure.”
“London Jack?” said Will. “What’s it to do with him?”
“Well, he’ll sail the ship for us. And if we get slaughtered, as Mildred thinks we must, he’ll be in sole command, won’t he, and so responsible? Don’t look so stupid, Will. Of course we need to take the ship. And the bloody people. Those Lamonts are fearsome and they’ll not be alone, you mark my words. If we’re to lick ’em we’ll need a mob. Mildred, we must call him in. Big dirty captain. If he looks at you the wrong way, bite his leg!”
Will was moved, but not surprised, that Sam would risk his neck for him, but he was moved beyond belief by Gunning’s reaction, and that of all the rest.
“Fuck Swift,” said the Londoner, sublimely crude. “In any way, young William, Miss Mildred says there’s treasure in it, so can you imagine your Uncle Daniel arguing with that? He’d bloody hang us if we missed the chance! I’ll go and call all hands. We’ll have that killick up in less than half an hour. We’re under way.”
*
The Scots were not alone on Biter Beach, but they had not had time or men enough to get the salvage under way again. Indeed the devastation wrought before the ships had set off hunting Marlowe had left them, on return, at a loss for shelter and cooked food, which became their first considerations. But it also struck them that if the Navy should return, temporary shelters well hidden from the sea would be their best defence. Observers from a ship would assume the beach was still abandoned.
The failure of this strategy was brought about by Will’s own subtlety. The Jacquelines had a ship, and men, and armaments, but when they hove into the offing, he knew, the men on shore would merely fade away. What better way to deal with such a threat than not be there?
The Worm, as ever, knew ways onto the beach, but he could hardly stand, let alone lead them over rock and sand and headlands. He could talk, though, which he did, exhaustively. Before too long Will had settled where to land in yawl or cutter, how many men to take, and which would be the best point to mount the last attack. They should be in position, he decided, even before the Jacqueline could be spotted from the land, and with this in mind he chose his people early,
stocked the cutter with supplies, and sailed ashore in darkness while the brig stood off into the open sea. To say there was no hurry was ridiculous; he feared for Deb in every moment. But the danger of going off half-cock was worse. The Lamonts, given half a moment’s warning, would cut her throat, or anyone’s: they had not forgot Black Bob. The fact they had no notion of his whereabouts brought home to Will the greatness of their task. Or hopelessness might be a fairer view.
They went ashore at night, they hoped to strike at dawn, and they had worked their way quite close up to the camp. There were six of them – Will, Sam, big Tommy Hugg, Johns Nuttall and Bamford and the useful Frenchman Imbert – and a good strong moon got them across the worst of the terrain with no injuries. It had sunk again before they got near to the fire, but they still chose to stay some way away in case of distant guards. There was some revelling, but not a lot, and mercifully little drink in question. An oversight, Will thought, unless somehow they had failed to find any on their march, but he thanked his lucky stars. Please God his luck would hold in the question of Deb. He longed to see her, to know she lived, but he knew that if he saw her abused or brutalised he would attack in heat, and that might well prove fatal.
If the men had raped Deb, though – and it was supposed even by Will they must have done – there was no such vile activity during the hours of their wait. They took in turns to doze and François Imbert, more impatient or foolhardy than the rest, sloped off alone at some point, in despite he was forbidden to. Bentley, in the seaman’s way, awoke before the Frenchman’s hand actually touched his arm, and he was so excited he slipped back to his native tongue.
“Monsieur! Monsieur!” he whispered. “Je l’ai trouvée. Votr’mselle! Là bas! Your leedle doxy!”
Imbert’s English, by now, was very good (if spoiled with vile words) and Will did not try his French at all. He sat upright with a gasp, waking Sam in the process. They questioned Imbert in urgent whispers, both reaching for their guns and swords.
“Là bas!” he said again. “A cable-length. Espèce de voile, awning. She is tied up. She is weeth a leedle black boy. She is asleep.”
Why wait? The thought was with them all immediately. Within half a minute all six were bright of eye and keen, though Hugg insisted he must have an instant shit before they moved, and cited sense of smell among the sleeping enemy as a sufficient reason for the little wait. John Bamford suggested the thunderclaps that were the big man’s farts were more likely to do the waking than their odour, but the others took the delay to rinse and wash their mouths out, and freshen up their eyes with water from their bottles. With weapons cocked and blades eased in their sheaths and mountings, the party then all followed Imbert down the path he had picked out. The darkness was still intense inside the woods, although the sky above was showing signs of coming light, and they were almost on the shelter before it was visible.
Whispering was dangerous, but Will deployed his men in a defensive shield before he and the Frenchman went in through the entrance. The sight of Deb lying there, curled like a baby, breath almost inaudible, filled him with a sudden rush of love and sorrow. Even in the dark he could discern bruises, ragged cuts, and filthy, muddied clothing. He knew he would have to cover her mouth with his hand when waking her, and his stomach hollowed in imagined knowledge that such awakenings would be only too familiar. She was tethered by one ankle, but the line was thin and tight, designed to bite deep into her flesh if she should struggle. The other end was attached to a wooden stake driven in the ground. Mixed up with her lashing, rendering it impossible to undo except by knife, was the end of Black Bob’s line, that led into his corner. The boy was but a sighing bundle, a darker patch against the dark.
The shelter was too low for either man to stand, but it was important that both prisoners were woken simultaneously. Will indicated that Imbert should take the boy, while he crouched over Deb. The Frenchman cut both restraining lines close to the stake, and they checked there were no other fastenings. Will breathed deeply for a moment or two more, then gave the signal. He went down on one knee, put his weight on one hand, and clapped the other firmly around Deb’s mouth. She woke instantly, her eyes flashed open, and her back arched in a convulsion.
“Deb,” he breathed, braced against her struggling. “Deb, it’s me. Hush. I am Will Bentley.”
In his corner, Black Bob, tied by the neck, was struggling more violently. Will was aware of a thrashing, squirming whirlwind of furious revulsion, with muffled groans bursting out from beneath the Frenchman’s hand. Then Deb’s struggles took all his attention and he pushed his face to hers, willing her to recognise him.
“Deb! Deb! I am Will, I am here to rescue you! Deb, silence, please, please! You will wake the Scotchmen up!”
Suddenly, the fight was gone. She collapsed beneath him, her body loose and pliant. Tears sprang in her eyes, and as he eased his hand from off her mouth she breathed in with a juddering gasp. Her chest rose up to push against him and Will had her in his arms. Her first words were a groan, a deep, low, groan.
“Oh Will. Oh Will. God save you.”
But Bob was broken free, and screaming. Imbert tried to grab his mouth, got bitten. He tried to seize his neck, but the skinny boy was twisting like a conger eel. He bounced sideways in the dark, banged into Deb and Will, rolled further into the doorway and then out of it, and still he screamed and shouted.
“Bob!” cried Deb. “Bob! It is our friends! No noise! No noise, for Jesus’ sake!”
As roars burst forth in the rebels’ camp, Tom Hugg loomed huge to block the small boy’s way. Bob went past him like a hare, but Hugg stamped on the trailing line and snapped it taut. The black child’s piercing scream was cut off in a dreadful croak, and his legs flew out from under him as his neck was held. By accident or fantastic realisation Hugg lifted his foot, which may have saved Bob’s life, as he then rolled over and over like a kicked ball, control of his arms and legs quite gone. But if his life was saved from choking, he was lost to his rescuers, which cost him very dear. Hugg lunged for the rope’s end, but the boy got clear, got to his feet, got down the path to safety or perdition. Perdition, certainly. For as he ran he came face-to-face with Chattel and Mick Carver, who had several other men behind them in the dark. Carver had a pistol and he fired it and missed, and from behind his back another gun flashed off, also to no effect. But Carver stopped his forward rush, and Hugg gave up on saying Bob, who ran off to one side, followed by Chattel and two other hunters. Deb had seen it all.
“Oh Bob,” she screamed once more, “For Jesus’ sake. Oh Bob.”
From Carver’s band there now came many shots, and Will and Sam between them hustled the maid away in safe direction. Bamford and Nuttall stood ground and fired carefully, with good result as two man fell, one black one white, believed to be Seth Pond, no loss to any nation. François Imbert, who had disappeared again, burst out not fifteen feet away from Carver’s lot, and set off two small pistols at a range that had them running backwards in confusion. Hugg, his mighty arm and mighty cutlass raised, burst ahead of his band down the way that they had come, in hope that they could reach their boat in time, or push far enough into the thick to hide or separate. As the sun rose and the light grew stronger, the hope seemed more and more forlorn.
They had not seen the Scotsmen either, and that for Holt and Bentley was the worst. It was like a poison cloud hung over them, the knowledge that those three monstrous men were there. And then they heard a thin and piercing scream that could only be Black Bob, and it ended in a heart-rending, choking gurgle, and a burst of gleeful shouting.
At the same instant they heard another sound, so unexpected that it stopped men in their tracks. It was the flat boom of a cannon, and as it echoed strangely round the trees and outcrops of the bay, there was another one, and then a third. Will heard the whine and buzz of an iron ball, heard the clipping and flat hisses as it carved through leaf and branch.
It was the Jacqueline, offshore. She had opened fire.
; Chapter Thirty-Six
When his two lieutenants failed to show up for their rendezvous, Captain Daniel Swift took it with unusual equanimity. Truth was, as he made quite plain to Ashdown and Jem Taylor, he was bored with woodland life. The rebels – their leader gone, their women and children off into the Cockpit lands – had abandoned this little outpost as was their normal way; they were outlaws, and held permanence in sheer contempt. The whites had “taken” one small village, and right welcome to it they should be. When they found the next one, that would be abandoned ditto.
At the end of the long and hopeful day, Swift’s “pickings” were five milking cattle and pair of ageing goats, which later chewed through their neck ropes as bored goats will, and wandered off quite unaware that they were prisoners. Swift’s men, to show they had been working hard and that their commander had been right, reported many sightings of rebel men and women, and wondered aloud at their uncanny facility in the art of disappearing. Truth was, that if they had in fact seen any, they had not come close enough to identify them as rebels, or the man in the moon. Their day did not bore them, though. Much as they liked fighting, they liked not fighting more, and there were the ill effects of too much pillaged rum to sleep off in the quiet glades.
The upshot was, that far from going mad with rage when Bentley and Holt did not show up, Captain Swift decided he must head back to the Pourquoi Pas, and then for Kingston and Port Royal, as soon as ever possible. Having failed to hang Marlowe on the spot, he was taken with the fear that Mather and Co would do it without him back in town, despite the kudos ought to fall to him. For this reason, and because it would serve his people right to taste a little suffering, he had all hands – the Pourquoi Pas crew, Kaye’s leftovers from the Jacqueline, the few militiamen and hangers-on – mustered in the pitchy dark and made to strike camp and prepare to take the long, unpleasant way back to Montego Bay in conditions of forced march. As ever with this iron little man, he took the front and set the pace, and had those few who dared fall by the wayside whipped. Some few did not appear for muster when they reached the northern shore, which Swift supposed was due to nocturnal depredations by the rebels on the way. In fact the losses were men who’d run; they swelled the ranks of rebel bands with English, Scots and Irish sailor-blood. Some negroes in succeeding years were noted for red hair and temper.
