The Black Ring

by William Westbrook

  Fallon sat uncomfortably, unable to answer beyond noting that Renegade had lost her fore-topgallant mast and Doncella’s own foremast seemed to be teetering and about to go over. Davies sat quietly, as well, thinking of Sir Charles Charles on Renegade’s deck under heavy fire. He was a captain due to influence, not ability, but influence did not stop a cannonball or keep fear at bay. He was about to ask another question when his steward knocked on the cabin door with the news that Renegade was just entering the anchorage. And her ensign was lowered to make room for the invisible Flag of Death.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  FALLON, DAVIES, and Kinis rushed on deck to get a glimpse of Renegade as she dropped her anchor. She was badly battered on her starboard side, and her sails were pockmarked with daylight. Even without a telescope Fallon could see her bowsprit was jury-rigged and her fore-topgallant mast had not been replaced. Her ensign indeed flew one flag’s height below the gaff, leaving room for what old tars called the invisible Flag of Death. It meant an officer was missing or dead.

  Davies ordered the signal Captain repair on board to be hoisted, and a ship’s boat was slowly lowered from Renegade’s deck. It took several minutes for the crew to board and push off from the side. Davies raised his telescope and saw that Lieutenant Samuel Jones II was in the stern sheets. As the boat drew closer, Davies could see that Jones’s shoulder and arm were in a sling and his head was bandaged, and he asked Kinis to order a bosun’s chair to be made ready.

  At last, Renegade’s boat clapped on, and the bosun’s chair went over the side and brought back up the pale and seriously wounded first lieutenant, who immediately fell into Kinis’s arms while attempting to stand. Quickly, the flagship’s surgeon was sent for, and Jones was carried below without having said a word.

  “Sir, I might be of use aboard Renegade just now,” said Fallon. “If you’d like me—”

  “Of course, Captain. Thank you,” interrupted Davies. “I would ask you to accompany Lieutenant Brooks and, if he is required to stay aboard, bring back a report on the situation. And any word of Sir Charles.”

  Fallon left in Avenger’s gig with First Lieutenant Brooks and, of course, the ever-present Aja, and soon was alongside Renegade’s starboard quarter, which was holed in several places. Climbing through the channel, they were met with a grim scene of destruction. Guns were overturned, half the spokes were shot off the wheel, the mainmast was damaged, and the deck was turned up in furrows like a freshly plowed field. Blood painted every surface black where it had dried, and the men they saw were either bandaged, or stupid with exhaustion, or both. It appeared that whatever repairs had been made were just enough to get the ship sailing.

  At last, Brooks and Fallon were met by Second Lieutenant Ashby, who looked in rather poor shape himself with a bloody bandage around his arm. After the briefest of introductions, Brooks asked after the wounded and learned the surgeon was badly taxed, possibly drunk, and definitely overwhelmed. The pumps were at work, and what men were able were manning them every three hours.

  “And the captain, Ashby?” asked Brooks. “What of Sir Charles?”

  “I’m afraid he died, sir,” answered Ashby, his eyes lowered. “He was standing in the waist with his sword out and was shot in the throat.”

  Fallon wondered where Sir Charles had seen that romantic image before: a captain with his sword out challenging the enemy. No doubt it made a good painting, thought Fallon. But it was no good to think ill of the dead, and Fallon turned instead to what it would take to set the ship to rights. In his opinion, it would need the dockyard, and the hospital, and a month at the least.

  Fallon watched Brooks’s face as it seemed to reflect his disappointment in the ship’s condition, then turn to empathy for Ashby’s predicament at the loss of his captain and severe wounding of his first lieutenant, not to mention his own injury.

  “Ashby, we must get the ship to the dockyard that you passed as you came into the harbor,” said Brooks. “Once you get close I will have you warped in the rest of the way. There is a naval hospital there with an excellent doctor, and your men will receive the best of care, on my word.”

  “Thank you, sir, yes sir,” was all Ashby could mumble, though he was visibly relieved to relinquish command. Brooks began shouting orders and asked Fallon to row to the dockyard to request boats to warp Renegade into the wharf and tie off behind Rascal. There the wounded could be off-loaded before the dockyard received the ship for repairs.

  FROM AVENGER’S DECK, Davies watched Fallon being rowed to the dockyard and Renegade simultaneously weighing anchor, and he could guess the story. It must be hell on that ship, he thought, as he went below decks satisfied that Brooks had taken charge. There would be questions aplenty for Jones, assuming he recovered, and for Sir Charles, assuming he wasn’t dead. But, for now, there was the note from Paloma to read, and it waited on his desk.

  In his cabin at last, he closed the door and sat heavily in his chair, the weight of the world on his shoulders, but the weight of that note seemed heavier still. He tore it open and began to read:

  Harry,

  By the time you read this I will either be in prison or disappeared, for I intend to act on my desire to rebel against Spain. Enough talk! What I intend to do is unimportant to you, for you have your own war to fight. But here it may make a small difference, and that is enough.

  Please remember me as we were that last night on the beach. I think of that night often, and it will comfort me in the days and weeks ahead.

  Paloma

  “Good God!” Davies exclaimed as he jumped up from his desk. What was Paloma going to do that could get her killed or imprisoned? Where was she now? Questions flew through his mind and, like a dagger, his own powerlessness stabbed him in the heart. She was clearly in danger, or would be, and he could do nothing. Nothing.

  He thought of that last night on the beach in Matanzas before Avenger weighed the next morning. He’d hosted a party for everyone in the village who’d worked so hard to repair his ship. Later, he’d asked Paloma to go for a walk, and he’d finally found the courage to kiss her and she’d kissed him back. What a kiss! His hand trembled a moment as he thought of it, the letter falling to his desk. That night she’d asked him to come back. Was she asking him again?

  No, he decided. She wouldn’t do that. But what in God’s name was he to do?

  TWENTY-SIX

  YOUNG DAVID never intended to kill anyone; well, not after killing Boss, anyway. He was not a murderous man, nor an ignorant one, though he had no formal education. But he knew enough to know that without sugarcane there would be no economic reason for slaves in Cuba. So, he intended to burn every sugarcane crop to the ground.

  He got off to a good start outside Matanzas and gradually worked his way east. To his surprise, several white Cubans joined him in support or helped him with food and shelter, and as he burned fields and freed slaves his band of rebels grew to more than one hundred. Unknown to Young David, it was the white Cubans helping him that spurred the governor to action. That wouldn’t do; in fact, it was a dangerous idea that might spread among the general population. If many more whites joined the rebellion it might be very hard to stop. So, the governor called upon the Spanish army to find Young David, either capture or kill him, and put a stop to that nonsense.

  His orders: Kill any slave with a black ring around his breast.

  By the end of his first week of freedom, Young David had reached the cane fields near Santa Clara, staying along the northern coast of Cuba, and as he freed more and more slaves he began to lose control over them, such that white planters were sometimes murdered, usually burned alive in their own homes. The rebellion moved quickly, staying ahead of its own news, and most planters were unaware of the danger until they awoke to the smell of smoke.

  Young David finally broke off from the band when it reached two hundred runaways. It was too large to feed and manage, and new voices arose to challenge his leadership. He left with twenty former slaves and a white Cuban—the wo
man he’d seen with Ajani when he’d been whipped by Boss. Young David’s band went their own way, making faster time and not killing anyone.

  Meanwhile, the fields burned night and day.

  Paloma Campos came to accept Young David’s strategy as a sound one; well, it was basically the only strategy that unarmed rebels could employ that produced tangible results in the form of burned fields and freed slaves. For her, though, it had the added benefit of action against Spain. It might not create a rebellion that could overturn Spanish control; in fact, it likely would not succeed. But it was something a Cuban patriot could do.

  One night the rebel group camped by a copse of trees in a ravine—a good hiding place away from roads and, hopefully, anyone after them by now. Young David sat off to himself, as he usually did, and Paloma approached him timidly. Her role in the rebellion was as a guide to plantations owned by Europeans, for she would not condone burning Cuban fields.

  “Young David,” she said as she knelt down beside him, “perhaps we should not burn for a while. It tells anyone hunting us where we are and where we are headed. Perhaps we should take another direction and hide and make a new plan.”

  Young David looked at her with expressionless eyes. At once, Paloma felt very aware she was not a slave and had never suffered for her color or race. She wanted to pull her words back into her mouth and swallow them lest Young David question her intentions in joining his rebellion.

  “This is all I can do,” he said softly. “It is all I know how to do.”

  Paloma studied his face intently and saw that he was only telling the truth. He was not the rebel leader who would lead slaves, and Cuba, to freedom. He was no Louverture, the black leader she had heard of on Saint-Domingue. He would not draw people to his side or make himself head of an army.

  She slipped away quietly. Young David would fight his private war his way, burning one field at a time and, in the end, he would die for it. They all would.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JUST BEFORE DAWN, on the fourth day after surgery, Beauty’s lips trembled. Fallon didn’t see it, though he was at her bedside, because his face was buried in his hands. But Doctor Garón saw it, and he leaned closer to hear if she was trying to speak.

  She stirred. Her eyes fluttered and then squinted open.

  “Am I … lopsided?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Fallon raised up with a start and tears leapt from his eyes. Beauty! Oh, my God!

  “No, you’re all there,” he said, wiping his eyes and laughing for, apparently, she’d been more aware of her situation than anyone knew. “You’re missing enough parts as it is!”

  “I agree,” said Beauty weakly, and drifted back to sleep.

  Doctor Garón motioned for Fallon to leave the room while he examined Beauty. The swelling in her chest had gone down somewhat and the stitches looked healthy enough. He felt her face and took her pulse and, satisfied, joined Fallon outside the doorway.

  “She’ll be in and out of consciousness for a while,” he said, visibly relieved. “But I believe she will come through this. It’s a miracle.”

  “Yes, Doctor Garón,” said a very relieved Fallon. “But, if not for you, there would be no miracle. I thank God, but I also thank you, sir. Thank you.” And he shook Garón’s hand vigorously.

  As Fallon left the hospital he started to jump for joy but, fearing it would look undignified, he half walked, half ran to where Rascal was tied against the wharf and immediately called all hands. Barclay and Aja gathered the men together, and Fallon told them the good news about Beauty. To a man they cheered.

  “Louder, men! She can’t hear you,” yelled Fallon.

  And, indeed, they cheered very loudly, and then louder still, for every man jack respected Beauty’s courage and leadership and, not least, her seamanship. She could make Rascal do things that Fallon couldn’t, and he was a very good seaman, indeed.

  Inside the hospital, Doctor Garón had just finished changing Beauty’s dressing when he heard the cheers through the open window. He stopped momentarily and looked at her face. Her lips trembled as if she were trying to speak again, or smile.

  FALLON DASHED off a quick note to Davies with the good news about Beauty and asked Aja to take the gig, now rebuilt, to Avenger to deliver it. Just as Aja was about to depart, however, Davies’ own gig hailed Rascal and the admiral stepped aboard. Fallon met him at the side and saw the distress written on his face. Anticipating that his concern was about Beauty, Fallon quickly told him she had spoken, and Garón believed she was through the worst of it. Davies was obviously delighted, and he pumped Fallon’s hand in congratulations.

  But the distress didn’t leave his face. He asked if he and Fallon could talk privately, and Fallon led him below to his cabin. Shutting the door, Fallon turned to see the admiral standing at the stern windows staring out to the harbor.

  “I need to share something with you,” Davies said to the glass. “As a friend, for you are certainly not my subordinate in the Royal Navy. But I find I have no one to talk to about this and, to be honest, no real friend in this world save you.”

  Fallon was surprised and touched, but fearful about what he was about to hear. Maybe he was also a trifle embarrassed for Davies. What he was about to do would admit weakness of some sort, which was very unusual for an admiral.

  “You know the story of Avenger’s time in Matanzas, how we limped into the harbor years ago for repairs after the hurricane and battle with the Spanish fleet. What I left out was Paloma Campos. I was smitten from the first time I saw her, and doubly smitten by the time we sailed. I have lived with her memory since then; wondering how she felt, of course, and despairing that this interminable war would prevent me ever going back to Cuba. Her note brought news that she felt the same as I, but that she was going into danger to stand against Spain, somehow. She expected that the authorities or the army would kill her or perhaps imprison her for what she was about to do. The note was to tell me good-bye. She may very well be dead now, Nicholas, and I will never know.”

  Davies turned around from the glass, and Fallon could see his eyes were full of emotion. The fact that Davies could reveal the depth of his feelings made Fallon respect and admire him all the more, for it made him less an admiral and more a man. But, clearly, a man in pain.

  “There is no action I can take,” continued Davies, “for I am bound to the Royal Navy and stationed here. But when you return to Matanzas to pick up Wharton could you … that is, if you could inquire discreetly about Paloma I would appreciate it. I couldn’t ask you to do that without telling you everything.”

  “Of course, sir,” answered Fallon without a thought. “If there is anything to find out I will find it out, believe me.” He was thinking of Paloma’s sister at the café, the café where everything was known.

  “Thank you, Nicholas,” Davies said. “I am deeply appreciative of your kindness. I can’t think of another soul on earth I could have talked to about this.”

  “You don’t need anyone else … Harry,” said Fallon, calling him by his first name for the first time, at least to his face. “You have a good friend right here.”

  As the two men shook hands, Aja knocked on the cabin door to report that Mr. Kibbleman was standing on the wharf next to the ship with a message. Both Fallon and Davies hurried up the companionway steps to hear what he had to say. Kibbleman was indeed on the wharf, and at the sight of Fallon and Davies together his throat seemed to constrict, or at least his voice came out as a squeak.

  “Sirs, I have news about both officers!” said Kibbleman. “Doctor Garón sends his respects and says that the woman is awake and has eaten some thin soup and is resting comfortably. And, Admiral Davies, Mr. Jones will recover, though he has a broken arm and clavicle and possibly a fractured skull.”

  “Thank you, Kibbleman,” said Fallon, “that is indeed good news all around.”

  Whereupon both officers climbed down to the wharf to visit the hospital. Davies to visit Jones to ascertain w
hen the first lieutenant would be well enough for a full interview, and Fallon to check on Beauty while still absorbing everything his friend had said, and everything he’d asked him to do.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE SUN rose glowing before them each morning, and the sky glowed with fire behind them each night. As Young David and his followers pushed into the interior of the country, the cane fields stretched as far as could be seen. They scrounged for food during the day and set their fires at night, freeing every slave they found. Sometimes they were discovered and had to run off; several times they were shot at or dogs were set upon them. The dogs they killed with cane knives—it had to be done.

  Paloma Campos trudged along with Young David’s small band of rebels, who were joined by several other runaways who came and went. Most of the slaves they freed scattered into the countryside to fend for themselves, drunk with the feeling of freedom and frightened of the consequences of being caught.

  Neither Young David nor Paloma knew of the Spanish troops sent from Havana, marching relentlessly at the governor’s orders to capture Young David and the rebels or kill them outright. The soldiers thought they had them once, but it turned out to be a group of slaves that had been freed the day before.

  A rebel’s life is equal parts fear and exhaustion, and it happened that Young David’s rebels stayed in one place too long. They were all tired of moving so quickly and spent one entire day sleeping in an abandoned barn. When they awoke the next day they were not alone.

  A group of Spanish soldiers surrounded the barn.

  Young David had been a free man almost three weeks when he was captured and put in chains along with the other rebels, Paloma included. The soldiers and their prisoners began the long march back to Matanzas and Castillo de San Severino, which, like all such forts, housed a stone prison.