The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  But it was her face he searched. And without disappointment here either. Like all Carib faces it was long, and the features were prominent, high cheekbones, straight, thrusting nose, firm chin, wide mouth. And glowing black eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in all the world, to drop to his knees next to the hammock, to feel her fingers rippling up his arm and across his shoulder and into his hair.

  'Susan's grandson,' she said, softly. 'Did she tell you of me?'

  'Endlessly, princess,' Kit said. 'Of how you loved and laughed together, and how you fought together, too.'

  'A long time,' Yarico said. 'A long time. Now all are dead, from those days.' Her voice changed. 'Save Philip.'

  'He waits with his fleet.'

  'I know that, Kit. My son has told me. Philip was my son, too. Not of my belly. He was Rebecca's child. But when she died, I felt guilty. Because his father had neglected her, for me. I was beautiful then, Kit. There was no man could look upon me and not wish to share my hammock.'

  'You are beautiful now,' Kit whispered.

  Yarico smiled. Her teeth were the whitest he had ever seen. 'Now,' she said. 'Now I am a goddess. I am unique, Kit. My people do not grow old. It is the custom amongst the Caribs for any man or woman feeling the onset of infirmity to take themselves alone into the forest, there to die of starvation. But my people would not let such a fate overtake me. Because I have known the great white man, Sir Thomas Warner, and his even greater son, Edward.' Once again the change of tone. 'Would that the white people had felt it also.'

  'It is my purpose,' Kit said. 'To bring an end to that strife.'

  Her eyes searched his face, in the gloom. 'Aye. You have the breadth of spirit of your grandfather. I would speak of him again. And of you. But now my son's chieftains await you.'

  Kit realized that Tom Warner had left his side, and that almost the entire Carib nation, it seemed, had gathered beyond the hut to wait for the white man. He stooped, and returned to the sunlight, gazed at the assembled warriors. Here were men. He wondered if Philip Warner understood the force by which he might be opposed, should these talks come to nothing. But then, did he understand what would be his fate, should these talks come to nothing.

  'Speak to them, Kit,' Tom Warner said. 'I will relate your words, as faithfully as I can.'

  Kit hesitated, once again staring at the stern red-brown faces, the muscular arms, each one holding a spear or a bow, the heaving chests, the powerful limbs. But was he not just such a man, to them? To all men? As white men were ranked, he was more of a warrior than any man present, even Indian Warner himself. He inhaled. 'Tell them that I know of the past, Mr Warner. That I know how Tegramond and his people welcomed the Warners and their people to St Kitts, and how the English and the French repaid that kindness and that trust with blood. Tell them that I know how the Caribs were expelled from all the Leewards by Edward Warner. Tell them that I know how the Caribs under Wapisiane sought to avenge themselves, and how they kidnapped Edward Warner's wife after destroying his colony in Antigua. Tell them that I know how the Warners, aided by the Hiltons and their people, came to Dominica and won a great victory, and killed and murdered and raped and plundered, also in the name of revenge. And say also, that I understand why the Caribs came to Antigua last month, once again in revenge, and why they murdered and plundered and raped. Tell them that my own wife suffered, and that I know why she did. Because her name was Warner.'

  Tom Warner gazed at him for a moment, and then slowly translated. The language was guttural, and brief. No flowery phrases for the Caribs.

  'You may continue,' he said.

  'Then tell them that, knowing all this, I have accompanied the fleet of Colonel Philip Warner to these shores. They know it is there. Then let them know this also, that there are two hundred and fifty men on board those ships, more men, every one of them armed and determined to fight, than all the people in this tribe, from the newest babe to your mother. I come here in no consciousness of weakness, from no fear of the Caribs. But knowing too that the fight, when it comes, will be long and terrible, and that many brave men on both sides will die. No Carib fears to die. Every Carib may wish to do so in battle. But there is more. The white man is coming, in ever-increasing numbers, finding his way across the sea to live in these magnificent islands, to make himself rich from the sale of his sugar-cane. Every Carib warrior who dies is gone for ever. Every white man who dies will be replaced a hundred, a thousandfold. This struggle is one the Carib nation cannot hope to win. And why did it begin? Because of an act of the Warners. Why does it continue? Because of the hatred of Warner for Warner. Now there arc so many wrongs on both sides, there is no hope of surrender. There is only hope of a mutual forgiveness. It is to see if this can be done that I have come to your village. Here is your noble and valiant chieftain, your Governor, Thomas Warner, and down there on the ship is our noble and valiant leader and Governor, Philip Warner. They are brothers. Now is the time for them to shake hands, as is the white man's way, to look together at the great Sun, as is the Carib way, and to break their swords together.'

  He paused, and Tom Warner frowned. 'My brother will do this?'

  'He has promised. There will be some argument, I am sure.

  But he wishes to talk with you, and your chiefs. No harm can come out of that. You have my word, and his, that your lives will be safeguarded.'

  Tom Warner nodded. 'I will tell my people. Then we will feast.'

  The Carib women were already preparing the slaughtered birds and the fried fish, and pouring the cups of piwarri, the fermented juice of the cassava plant. Now they waited to serve their men as the braves sat in a vast circle, and ate, and drank, with much solemnity, and muttered at each other, and watched the white man sitting next to their cacique, while the heat left the sun as it dipped towards the mountains. And Kit stared back at them, and beyond, at the ghastly things that had been men hanging from their stakes, and listened, to the whimperings of the white women confined to the huts behind him. As the afternoon wore on, and the piwarri mounted its attack on his senses, he ceased to believe that he was here at all, eating and drinking with the fiercest people on earth. And by the time the feast ended the day had become a long dream. He found himself in a hammock, and there was a soft body next to his. Carib custom, or Tom Warner's way of making some atonement for the crime he had committed on Marguerite? Or perhaps it was Yarico herself, moving her ancient limbs silently against his, bringing him to enticing orgasm time and again. Or was that also a dream, for certainly the ground no longer existed, but he floated on air, and the night no longer existed, as bright lights hovered around his brain, and the darkness dissolved into eternity, which ended with the rising of the sun, with a nudge in the thigh, and with a sudden return to reality.

  He was in a hammock, and alone, and the day was already hot.

  'My chieftains say they will come, to hear what my brother has to say,' Tom Warner said.

  Kit sat up, and scratched his head. 'When will we leave?'

  'Immediately. But my mother wishes to speak with you again, before you go.'

  Kit followed him across the still mist-steaming clearing, into the sheltered hut. Here Yarico swung in her hammock. Yarico? It could not be.

  She smiled at him. 'My son tells me you have brought a proposal of peace, between your people and mine.'

  'It is my hope. And if they will come and talk, then it is a possibility.'

  'Aye,' she said. 'It will allow me to die happy. And you also. For these are your people no less than mine. Do you look often in a glass, Kit?'

  He frowned. 'No more than any other man.'

  She nodded. 'But you have been taught enough about your family's history, I have no doubt. Susan has told you much about her past.'

  'She valued her experiences.'

  'And so she should,' Yarico said. 'We were in the forest of St Kitts together, Susan and I. And Edward Warner. We shared everything, the three of us, and Aline. But Susan was ever his favourite. Do not doubt that, Kit. Aline
's son was murdered by Wapisiane. Her daughter hated the islands, hated the memory of what my people did to her family, of the anger of her own father, and so she returned to England. She lives and prospers in that far off land. My son still lives and prospers, outside. And Susan's son also lived and prospered, and died. And yet lives on, in his son. But they are all Warners.'

  Kit's frown deepened. 'I do not understand you, Yarico. Is there yet another Warner, tucked away amongst these islands?'

  She smiled. He would never forget the flash of her teeth. 'Aye,' she said. 'Yet another. Perhaps the best of them all. Now kiss me before you go, Kit. I doubt we shall meet again.'

  He lowered his head to hers, and she seized his face between her hands and brought his lips to hers. 'Now go,' she whispered. 'Go, and prosper.'

  She held his hand for a moment longer, and then released him. He stepped outside, found Tom Warner waiting for him, with seven other chieftains, wearing bright feathers in their hair. Behind them were the women captives, roped together, and guarded by a dozen braves, and then a good score of Negroes. He could not resist inspecting them, before asking Tom Warner, 'What has happened to George Frederick?'

  ‘You would demand him as well?'

  ‘I would know where he is.'

  'He sailed with DuCasse, for which I thank our mutual good fortune, Kit.'

  'Aye,' Kit agreed. He stepped past the Indians, smiled at the women. 'Have no fear, ladies. You shall soon be returned to your husbands and families.'

  They gaped at him. Several of them he had met, although none was a planter's wife; they were the families of overseers and book-keepers, and one or two came from Falmouth. All were clearly still suffering from the shock of their ordeal. And no doubt they also had spent a busy night, as every night since they had been captured would have been similarly busy.

  Tom touched him on the shoulder. 'If we are to reach the beach by noon, it would be best to hurry.'

  They descended from the village into the Valley of Desolation, made their way across, and then climbed into the mountains before beginning their descent to the beach. They made a vast array, the chieftains leading the way, Kit in their midst, the captives following, and behind them the warriors of the tribe, fully armed and ready for war. But having come this far, it would not reach the ultimate. Of that Kit was sure, now. Even Philip Warner must respond to this willingness on the part of the Caribs.

  'You are doing right,' he said to Tom Warner.

  The half-caste thought for a while before replying. 'I am doing the best for my people, Kit, because I too am well aware of the growing strength of the white men. As to what is right, no man can tell that, because no man knows what is right. There is a risk that with the determination to live at peace with our invaders, my braves might degenerate into a nation of women, like the Arawaks.'

  'That is not necessarily so,' Kit said. 'Do not the white men desire to live at peace with their neighbours? And are they not still capable of waging war?'

  Tom looked at him, and burst out laughing. 'Do you honestly believe what you are saying? There is no more warlike creature on the face of this earth than the white man. He merely endeavours to disguise it under a variety of specious pleas for peace. We are at least honest about our pleasures. But come, we have arrived.'

  The beach opened in front of them, and the ships waited, patiently at anchor, guns still run out. The Indians halted at the fringe of the trees, and Kit went on alone down the beach, past the war canoes, and waved his arms.

  A cheer broke out from the ships, and a moment later the longboat pulled away from the side of the flagship. 'Welcome back, Captain Hilton,' said the coxswain. 'We were all but giving you up for lost.'

  'Not so, friend,' Kit said. 'I have brought the chieftains with me.' He turned to the forest, and Tom and his seven caciques came down the sand.

  'Your men are armed,' Tom observed. 'I had expected to meet my brother on the beach.'

  'Will you not take his word? He gave it to me personally,' Kit said.

  Tom hesitated, glanced at his companions, and then climbed into the boat. The other Indians followed his example. The white sailors looked towards the trees, and the women they could see there.

  'They will come, when the talking is finished,' Kit said.

  The boat pulled across the calm sea, into the looming side of the ship. How enormous she looked from down here, and how powerful, with the ugly muzzles of the cannon protruding from the row of ports. But there at the gangway were Bale and Philip Warner, waiting to receive their guests.

  Kit was first up the ladder, to grasp hands with his father-in-law.

  'Well done, lad,' Philip said. 'Well done. Welcome aboard, Tom.'

  The brothers gazed at each other. Then Tom took the proffered hand. 'My chieftains,' he said.

  Slowly the seven Indians came up the ladder, looked around them at the sailors and the great cannon, and up at the towering masts and the furled sails.

  Tom made a remark in the Carib tongue, and then smiled at Kit and his brother. 'They are amazed, at the size and strength of the white man's ship. They do not understand why you should seek for peace when possessed of such strength.'

  'We seek for peace because we, too, respect the Carib strength,' Kit said.

  'Aye,' Philip Warner agreed, glancing at the people on the beach. 'You'll bring your people below, brother.'

  Tom hesitated yet again, and he also looked from the armed seamen to the distant shore. Then he nodded, and ducked his head to follow Kit into the great cabin.

  'You'll stay on my right hand, Kit,' Philip Warner said. 'And you, Bale, on my left.'

  The captain grinned, and nodded. He appeared to be in a high good humour this morning. Kit found himself on the opposite side of the table to the Indians.

  'I feel that we outnumber you unfairly, Philip,' Tom said with a smile. 'Eight to three.'

  Philip also smiled. 'But you are on my ship, brother, and therefore in my power,' he said. 'And perhaps it were best to put an end to this farce immediately.' He clapped his hands, and the door opened once again, to admit six seamen, four carrying pistols and the other two carrying lengths of chain.

  Tom frowned. 'What's this?'

  'As you have seen fit to surrender yourselves,' Philip said. 'I intend to clap you in irons before taking you back to St John's, where you will be hanged.'

  Kit's jaw dropped in consternation. Tom's reaction was more violent. With a roar of rage he leapt across the table, his fingers searching for his brother's throat. But Philip was already shouting, 'Now,' and at the same time throwing both arms around Kit's shoulders and stretching him full length on the deck.

  The doors to the cabins behind the white men swung open, and the entire morning exploded into a crash of musketry.

  9

  The Traitor

  The deafening crash of the explosions, the cloud of nostril-clogging black smoke, the cries of the assailed men, the entire suddenness of the event, for a moment removed Kit's senses. He was aware of sprawling on the deck of the cabin, Philip Warner on top of him, and then of feet stamping on him as men swarmed over him, their passage being marked by the rasp of their swords. The confined space was filled with curses and groans, and the shrieks of the dying. But now he was understanding what was happening, and with an effort forced himself to gaze up at the companion-way to the main deck, and watch a Carib chieftain running up, to pause at the top, and then come tumbling back down the narrow steps, a pike protruding from his breast.

  The thump as he cannoned into the door was the end of the brief conflict. Now there were only the gasps of exertion issuing from the lungs of the victors. Perhaps the entire task had taken them ten seconds, and yet they panted as if they had been fighting for several hours. This was the measure of the guilty effort they had put forth.

  Slowly Kit climbed to his feet. Someone threw open the stern windows, and the smoke began to clear. Men stared at the bloody swords in their hands, and began to pick up their discarded muskets, and from
the hatchways and skylights other men peered in, gaping at the scene of destruction below them.

  Someone laughed. 'Twas easy, after all, Colonel Warner.'

  Kit stood at the end of the table, looking down at the dead bodies, looking down at Indian Tom Warner. Perhaps he had fallen in the first volley; there were two gaping bullet wounds in his chest, but no cut marks. His eyes were open, and he stared, at Kit and beyond. The expression in his eyes was the most terrible Kit had ever seen.

  Revulsion filled his belly, bubbled to his chest, took control of his brain and the muscles of his body. He uttered a yell which outdid that of any of the Caribs, and as Tom Warner had done, threw himself clear across the table to wrap his fingers around the Deputy Governor's throat.

  'Stop him,' Philip bawled, as he fell back on to a chair. Kit's knees ground into his belly, and he landed, and swung his lists. But already men were clawing at him, throwing him to one side, stamping on his arms and legs, regaining their own weapons as they sought to put an end to his anger.

  'Do not harm him,' Philip commanded. He sat up, straightened his cravat. 'He has cause for distress. It was his word we pledged.'

  They dragged Kit to his feet. 'My word,' he said. 'You cur. You crawling thing. You ...'

  Philip Warner slashed the back of his hand across Kit's mouth. 'My decision,' he said. 'As commander of this expedition, as Deputy Governor of Antigua. You'll convince no one that I was wrong, Kit. And if you'd keep my friendship, you'll maintain a civil tongue in your head.'

  'Your friendship?' Kit demanded. 'I'd as soon take the hand of a snake. That creature at the least pretends to nothing more than its own belly-crawling treachery.'

  Philip's brows drew angrily together, but he was interrupted by a cry from Bale, who had gone on deck.