HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  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.

  'Colonel Warner, sir. They mus
t suspect something is afoot. They are launching their canoes.'

  'By Christ.' Philip ran for the steps. 'Raise your anchor, Mr Bale. Make sail, man. Make sail. And signal the fleet to do likewise.'

  The rest of the men ran behind him, and Kit was left alone, with the dead. But he too had reason to be on deck. He climbed the ladder, emerged into the afternoon heat, gazed at the six great canoes being dragged down the sand and launched into the water, at the spears being waved, the arrows being fitted to the bows.

  'Would you compound crime upon crime?' he yelled. 'The women are still there. Our women.'

  Philip Warner looked down on him from the poop deck. 'Not our women Kit. They belong to the Indians, now.'

  'You'd desert them?' He could not believe his own words.

  'Would any white man want them back?' Bale demanded. 'After they'd shared a cannibal's hammock?'

  Kit continued to stare at Philip, who had the grace to flush. 'Aye, my brother took his wife back,' he said. 'But Edward was always an unusual fellow. Like you, Kit. You'd do well to ponder that.'

  Kit turned away to look at the beach, at the green mountains which towered upwards towards the sky, at the myriad figures running up and down the sand, at the men already digging their paddles into the water as they urged their canoes towards the ships. Too much had happened, too quickly and too relentlessly, this past fortnight. Too much for his mind to assimilate. His brain rejected utterly the conception placed there, firstly by Yarico and now by Philip himself. He was the victim of a gigantic conspiracy. For if this deed had been planned before the fleet left St John's, then the decision to abandon the women had also been taken, before the fleet left St John's. And every word that had been agreed there had been a lie.

  But the women. Almost he thought he could see them, waving their arms and calling, nay begging, for deliverance from the impossible fate to which they had been deserted.

  Impossible was the word. He left the stern of the ship and ran forward. Men were heaving on the capstan to raise the anchor; others were already aloft unfurling the sails, and still others were gathered by the forehatch from which the boatswain was passing up cutlasses and muskets, for the canoes were fast approaching.

  'Listen to me,' he shouted. 'There are white women back there. Eleven white women. Women from Antigua. We cannot just sail away and leave them to the mercy of the Indians. Would you abandon your wife or your daughter? You cannot do that.'

  They turned to look at him, at a man demented.

  'You have arms in your hands, and the cannon will cover us,' he shouted. 'God knows I wanted no bloodshed, but as it is come upon us, at least let us get ashore and rescue them.

  Will no man follow me?' He seized a sword and ran to the side of the longboat. 'I, Kit Hilton, call for volunteers. I will lead you, my bravos. I marched with Morgan on Panama. You'll find no better leader in these islands. Who'll follow me?'

  They stared at him. Perhaps, had he been Morgan, they might have come. Perhaps, had he been Jean DuCasse, they might have come. But then, perhaps not. He offered them no gold and no glory. He could not even offer them beautiful women. He could offer them only death, for the sake of eleven women they already counted as dead.

  Bale stood before him, a pistol in his hand. ' 'Tis mutiny you're after, Captain Hilton,' he said. 'To suborn men from their duty in the face of the enemy is downright treason. I've orders to place you under arrest in your cabin.'

  Kit looked down at the weapon he held. How he wanted to thrust it forward, to kill Bale, as could easily be done, and to confront the lot of them. And then make his way aft and settle with Philip Warner. His father-in-law? His own uncle? But was that not part of the hate and anger he felt? That he should be a part of this unhappy family.

  But would it avail anyone for him to die now, when there was so much for him to do, by living?

  He dropped his sword to the deck. 'I've a long memory, Bale.'

  The pirate flushed, and jerked his head towards the after companion-way.

  'Be sure he is secured, Mr Bale,' Philip Warner called down from the poop. 'We can stand no more eruptions of this nature. 'Tis certain we shall have to fire into these men.'

  'Aye, aye, Colonel Warner.' Bale pushed Kit inside the cabin, hesitated. 'Remain in here, I beg of you, Kit. And remember if you will that this was not my doing.'

  'Not your doing?' Kit turned on him. 'By God, you prating coward.'

  'Hear me,' Bale begged. 'I knew naught of this plan until I was given my instructions, after you had left the ship, yesterday afternoon. This I swear. And who was I, Kit, to gainsay the Deputy Governor? I am no planter, protected by wealth and precedent. You yourself were quick enough to accuse me of piracy. He'd have had me under arrest and on my way to,Execution Dock before I'd have known what was happening.'

  'On your own ship, and surrounded by your own men?' Kit asked, bitterly.

  Bale flushed. 'There are sufficient of his volunteers on board as well. There is the truth of the matter, Kit. You'll believe it or not as you choose. My conscience is clear.'

  Kit seized his shoulder as the captain turned for the door. 'Then you'll so testify, Bale, when the time comes. Or be sure that you will indeed find yourself on that ship for London.'

  Bale hesitated, and then nodded. 'When the time comes, Kit. But it'll not come at all if I do not con this ship to open water.'

  Kit let him go. He could hear the cries of the savages as they came alongside, and now the cannon began to speak, causing the vessel to shudder and roll. Kit sat on the narrow bunk, and listened. He had never been below deck in a fight before, found it difficult to decide exactly what was happening. But soon enough the ship began to heel to the wind, and he could hear the sluicing of water past the hull as she gathered speed. Now the cannon were silent, and the shouts of the Caribs faded.

  Soon he heard the tramp of feet in the great cabin beyond the door, followed by the splashes from astern as the dead bodies were thrown to the sharks. After that there was nothing to do but wait, as the little fleet beat north. To wait and to think, to remember and to vow vengeance. His door opened but once, to admit two sailors, one with his breakfast.

  'We'll be home soon enough, Captain Hilton,' one of them said with a grin. 'Antigua is rising fair on the port bow.'

  Mocking him? Or revealing their sympathy. As if he cared for their sympathy. As if he cared for anything beyond his own sense of outrage, his own determination to have justice done to Tom Warner.

  Now the cannon were firing again, but this time expelling empty air from their blank charges, and even as he heard the anchor rattling through the hawse-pipe, he could also hear the distant cheering from the Antigua waterfront. They were celebrating a victory.

  The door opened. Philip Warner stood there, backed by six of the Antiguan volunteers, all armed. 'Good morning to you, Kit,' he said. 'I have some hope that by now you will have come to your senses. Sir William approaches in his barge, and I have no doubt that he will wish to congratulate you as much as me. We were sent to destroy the possibility of the Caribs ever mounting such a raid again, and we have accomplished our purpose, without the loss of a single man. They will not grow eight such caciques again in a hundred years. Leaderless, they will fall to squabbling amongst themselves, and perhaps into a pattern of mutual destruction, and our islands, our plantations, and our families, will be safe. I'd have you stand at my side to receive the plaudits due to the victors.'

  Kit did not reply. He picked up his hat and went outside, to blink in the sunlight, to look at the trim rooftops and the sharp church steeples, now all echoing joyous sound as the other ships in the fleet also brought up to anchor.

  The Governor's barge was already alongside, and Stapleton clambered up the ladder. 'Philip,' he cried. 'By God, sir, but it is right glad I am to see you. Kit. By God, sir, and you fly the pennants of victory. But it was so rapidly accomplished. Tell us straight, man, you suffered heavily?'

  'We lost not a man, Sir William,' Philip Warner said. 'And we
seized the eight most prominent Carib chieftains.'

  'By God.' Stapleton looked around him as if expecting to see the Indians on deck. 'They're confined?'

  'No, sir. They resisted arrest, and we were forced to execute them.'

  Stapleton's smile slowly faded, and he frowned at the Deputy Governor. 'Executed, you say? Your own brother?'

  'My father's bastard son, Sir William,' Philip said, speaking very evenly. 'I knew him only as the man who had my daughter raped by her own slave.'

  'By God,' Stapleton said. He turned to Kit. 'Your plans came to naught, then?'

  'My plans were successful, Sir William.' Kit also spoke with great deliberation. 'I visited the Carib village, alone and unarmed, and I spoke with their caciques, and I persuaded them to attend a conference on board Colonel Warner's ship, in order to discuss a just treaty of peace between the Caribs and the English. They came, willingly and unarmed. And no sooner were they seated in that cabin than they were set upon and most foully murdered.'