studied every book on tobacco farming that North had possessed.
While the women had been clearing and ploughing, the white men had been gathering the seed, for tobacco grew wild in many parts of the island. Tom had himself prepared the seed beds, which remained close behind the houses, ready for the germination of the next crop. According to North's books, one ounce of seed might produce forty thousand plants.
The beds had been carefully sited; the village had been built facing the south, with the huge bulk of the mountain acting as a natural windbreak; here they got the maximum sun and warmth, and here they could be easily watered—in the course of clearing the forest the colonists had come across a deep pool formed by a spring of water as sweet as any of them had ever tasted.
For eight weeks they had tended the seeds, while building their houses and continuing their work on the fields. Next had come the transplanting, a splendid occasion on which the whole Carib nation, over a hundred men, women and children, had gathered to enjoy, had made their own encampment down by the water, had celebrated while they watched the white men work.
Then it had been done, and for two months now they had been required to do no more than weed, and occasionally water, although there was sufficient rainfall to care for this, and in recent days, to 'top' the plants, to cut off the flowering crests as Tom had been taught by North, so as to allow the leaves beneath to grow larger and more luxuriant. And now....
"Look at it,' he cried. Xook at it.' Between them and the forest, looming some four hundred yards · away, there were endless rows of graceful plants, huge leaves drooping, each leaf worth ... he had no idea. 'Within a week, now,' he shouted, 'well be reaping. There's a fortune in that soil. And it's ours. Think on it, Tony. There's sufficient wealth to make each of us a rich man, and that's but one crop. There'll be another by the end of this year, and then another, and an-.Hl other... and not a tithe, not a penny of ship money, to be paid to anyone.'
'Aye,' Henry Ashton said. 'But who's to buy it, Tom? The Caribs?'
Ton stared at him, chewing his lip. Painton should have returned over a month ago. But they had only his word that he was coming back at all. And even if lie was a man to be trusted, he had gone off pirating. His ship might be at the bottom of the sea by now, and he and his men eidier dead or imprisoned by the Spaniards; the Dons did not regard Englishmen caught in the Americas as being worthy of lawful treatment
'Painton will be here,' he asserted confidently. 'He gave me his word, and he'll be here. I give you my word on that. Why . . .' he looked up the beach, watched the girl running towards them. No, not towards them, past them, and on this occasion there was no studied movement, no planned coquetry. She ran excitedly, her cloud of black hair rising behind her, wisps of sand flying from her heels.
'By Clirist, what a picture,' Hilton said. 'And when her breasts begin to jounce. . ..'
'Avast there,' Ashton growled. 'She's seen something.'
'A ship,' Tom said. ‘It'll have to be a ship. Edward, lad, get up that mountain. Your eyes are as good as here. See what she saw.'
'Yes, Father.' Edward got up, slowly, as he had to adjust so that none of the men could see. By Christ, as Tony would say, what she did to him. What she knew she did to him. Only he knew why she walked past the village, every day. She tortured him with all the angry memory of a white woman.
He ran, across the sand as she had done, his bare feet digging into the hot white, no longer concerned with large shell or stray coral outcrop; his flesh was as hard as leadier. He wore only breeches, and these were sadly tattered. Indeed, hut for Father's insistence that they preserve their identity as Europeans, he would as soon have tied up his privies in a cloth like the Caribs and left it at that.
'Hold on there. Not so fast.' Tony panted at his shoulder. 'Think your father can be right?’
'She must have seen something,' Edward gasped. They climbed the rocky slopes of the hill. Father called it Brimstone Hill, and dreamed of planting his fortress here, one day, to command with its cannon the roadstead and the village, no, the town, perhaps the city below. One day, perhaps. But it had to begin with the ship.
He staggered up the slopes, now some four hundred feet from the beach, with Father and Ashton and Berwicke no more than specks beneath him, and the houses like toy huts. There were still another four hundred feet to the summit. He paused for breath, gazing down at the empty ocean. Not entirely empty. From here he could see the peak of the island of Nevis, no more than a few miles distant. Farther off there were other peaks, rising above the horizon, other islands, other Carib tribes, perhaps even other European setdements. But they might as well have been on the moon, or on one of the stars which at night seemed so close he thought he could pluck them out of the sky.
'Nothing,' Hilton said, having got his wind back. ‘It was another of her tricks. Oh, she's a cunning one, that Yarico. But Christ, Ned, I'd not confess this to your father, but I'll not wait any longer. I'm going to climb aboard if I die for it.'
'Yarico?' Edward asked, and wondered why he suddenly hated his friend.
Hilton winked. ‘I'm not that stupid, Ned. A chief's daughter? Why, by God, she's all of a princess, by her own reckoning, I'd say. Anyway, I'd like to get my fingers on to more than what she has, right this minute. I'll settle for one of those dark-haired beauties that helped us with the planting.'
Wrong. And dangerous. But how could he say anything to Tony, save the obvious, that it would anger Father. What would happen then? Would Father and Tony fight? Experience and ability backed by age against youth and determination? The question would be, how much age; when did age cease to be an asset and become a weakness? And how could he stand by and watch his friend fighting his Father, and not take sides? Oh, God damn John Painton.
But there had to be something out there. When he looked down at the beach he saw a large crowd of Caribs, gathered on the shore where the neck of land joined the main island to the offshoot mountain; the current, such as it was in these parts, maintained a set into the bay, and he watched one of the large canoes used by the Indians for offshore fishing being carried down the beach from the village. 'They've seen something,' he said.
'Well, they must have better eyesight than us,' Tony grumbled, shading his eyes as he stared at the shimmering blue water. 'Hold on, though. What's that?"
Edward followed his pointing finger, frowning as he thought he saw a dark speck bobbing on the waves, perhaps half a mile from the shore. A log of wood. No, it was a canoe. A small one, to be sure, but drifting.
'Another Indian,' Tony said in disgust. 'So much for our hopes of rescue from this place.'
‘I wonder why they are so excited,' Edward said.
'Maybe they recognize the boat,' Tony said. 'Anyway, there's nothing to be gained from staying here, if that's all that alarmed the girl.'
They climbed down. Tom and the others were waiting for them.
'Just a canoe. Fishing, I'd say, and lost his paddles,' Tony said. 'All that climb for nothing.'
'But the Caribs seem greatly agitated, Father,' Edward said.
Tom frowned. 'He may have brought news of some event. I'll go along the beach and see if I can learn anything.' 'May I come too?" Edward asked.
'Of course.' Tom looked at the other men, but tiiey shook their heads.
' Tis too hot, Tom,' Berwicke said. ‘If there is news, I'll be glad to learn it. But walking on this sand gives me the palpitations.'
'Aye,' Tom said.' 'Tis a fact that the only thing any of us is likely to die of in this enchanted place, saving old age, is heat stroke. Well, come on, Edward, lad.'
He strode along the beach, pausing every now and then to wipe his brow. His shirt clung to his back, and he insisted on still wearing shoes, although his were sadly scuffed, and his stockings were full of holes. His beard was untrimmed and his hair was longer than he had worn it in England, still thick and dark. He was a fine figure of a man, Edward thought, keeping up without difficulty, for he was now several inches taller
than his father. How would he fare against Tony? And supposing he lost, what then? But that was too terrible a possibility to contemplate.
They rounded the outcrop of sand and coral, and looked along the beach towards the Carib village. By now the large canoe had reached the derelict, and gone alongside. Men swarmed across into the drifting vessel, and it seemed they had found someone alive, for they gave a great shout, which even reached the beach, and carried him on board their own vessel. The smaller canoe was left to drift.
'What spenddirifts they are,' Tom complained. 'But at least tiiey have a care for human life.'
The Indians on the beach were crowding into the water to greet the retm-ning canoe, while Tegramond came towards the white men.
'Greetings, Tegramond,' Tom said. 'Where do you suppose that fellow came from?’ He pointed at the canoe, and then at Nevis.
Tegramond shook his head, and stooped to draw on the sand. Quickly he sketched the unmistakable oudine of St Christopher, and next to him drew the outline of a man. He pointed to himself, and drew in weapons, all somewhat small. Then he drew another, large, loaf-shaped island, to the south of St Cluistopher, and separated by a number of smaller islets. Once again, next to the large Island, he drew a man, but this man was twice the size of himself, and the weapons he added were also large.
'A race of giants?’ Tom frowned. "That man did not look so different to me. At least from a distance.'
‘I think he means they are a much fiercer people, Father,' Edward said. He made a grimace, and shook his fist at the approaching canoe.
Tegramond smiled, and nodded. He pointed at Tom, and said, 'Dominica.'
'Now that makes sense,' Tom agreed. ‘I had heard that the savages in the island so named by Columbus were an uncommonly fierce lot. But you seem pleased to see this fellow.' He pointed at the canoe again, now well into the sliallows, and smiled, and held out his hand.
Which seemed to amuse Tegramond. The chief burst into laughter, and then drew the back of his hand across his mouth, before hurrying down the beach to greet his returning seamen.
'Now, what did he mean by that?' Tom asked, looking at his son.
But Edward was too busy watching the Indians; he had no doubt that Yarico was somewhere in the crowd, could he but discover her. And why should he want to do that? He had resisted her advances, and there was nothing more to be gained in that direction.
The Indians parted, to allow four men to bring the rescued man up the beach. Bring? Or rather drag, for the Dominican did not seem pleased to be ashore. Yet clearly he had suffered much from thirst. And indeed a woman now came forward with a gourd of water. The man shrank from it, while his eyes rolled and became white, and his muscles strained, quite unavailingly, as he was securely held by four men every bit as strong as himself. Now two more women came forward, one to hold his head and the other to dig her fingers into the base of his jaw and force his teeth apart, whereupon the woman with the gourd emptied the water down his throat, to the accompaniment of much laughter from her fellows.
'Rough medicine,' Tom muttered. 'Perhaps we should be away, Edward. I doubt that we are welcomed here.'
But Tegramond had returned, and had taken him by the hand, to lead him into the village. Here, in the centre of the houses, a large stake had been driven into the ground, a stake which had obviously been carefully selected, and used often in the past; it had little bark left upon it, while it possessed two forks, one at the top and the other about half way up its length, both of which were well scored as if a rope had been passed to and fro around them on several occasions. To this stake the rescued man was taken, and now he was fighting with the utmost desperation, and making a peculiar calling sound, hideous to hear, which Edward had to suppose was an appeal for help or mercy. The whole scene reminded him horribly of that dreadful day at Tyburn, mingled with so many other occasions when his belly had become light and his genitals had reared into life.
'By Christ,' Tom said. 'By Christ. You'll leave, Edward. Quickly.'
But he could not, hemmed in as he was by the exultant Caribs, who had gathered in a huge circle around the stake, men, women and children, setting up now some kind of a chant, and moving their bodies, although not their feet, so that the entire afternoon seemed to be swaying. In the centre the rescued man was secured by a rawhide thong passed round his wrists, binding them securely, following which they were tied to the lower of the two forks. Then another rope was passed around his neck, and made fast to the upper fork, so that try as he might he could not bend or fall, although he continued to struggle and stamp his feet, to roll his eyes and utter his high pitched cry. But now his captors stepped away, and joined their companions, and for some seconds they gazed at the twisting, howling man, who knew the worst that was to befall him, obviously, from his terror.
Edward's throat was dry. He was to watch another man die. Now. Because suddenly everyone around him possessed a knife, or at the very least a sharp-edged shell, and the chanting had stopped.
Tegramond stepped forward, slowly walking up to the man. He said something, which the prisoner answered with a tirmultuous shake which all but displaced the stake. Then Tegramond grasped one quivering buttock, and with a sweep of his knife sliced through the flesh.
'By Christ,' Tom Warner shouted. 'Alive? By Christ.' He fell to his knees and vomited in the sand.
But he was ignored by the Caribs, who swarmed forward, shouting and screaming, all eager to seize a piece of flesh and tear or cut it free, while the women stretched their hands through the forest of legs and arms, holding gourds to catch the spurting blood, licking fingers and smacking hps where the liquid splashed or overflowed. Edward stared at them in horror, at his father in amazement. He wondered why he was not vomiting himself, why he felt so detached; this scene was far more nauseating than the execution of Mr Walkden. Or was it? It was more bestial, more sexual. There was naked emotion in front of him, where before there had been enjoyment but not participation. But here ... he saw Yarico. She had secured the penis, and sucked it with the enjoyment of a child with a sweet. Blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth and down to her chin, hanging there as the water had done that day at the pool. It trickled down her neck and between her breasts, made patterns against the sweat of her belly.
'Oh, Christ,' Tom Warner muttered, wiping his mouth and
retching. 'Oh, Christ '
But the Dominican Carib was dead; the onslaught had been too vigorous. Indeed, he could have known only a few seconds of pain. And now he no longer existed. Bare bones drooped against the stake where his feet and legs had been; bare ribs gleamed white amidst the red brown rags which hung from his shoulders. Only his head and face were untouched, by knives or hands. But the contorted features were almost the most horrible event of the whole terrible afternoon.
And now the Caribs danced.
Taken from a Don, by God.' John Painton poured wine, and smiled at the ragged colonists. He wore a huge brocaded coat, in red velvet, quite unfitted for the climate, although as splendid as anytiiing ever seen at court; underneath there was no doublet but an open-necked shirt. Yet the shirt itself was of cambric, and his shoes sported golden buckles. Behind him his men were similarly clad, and armed, too, with a variety of new weapons, gleaming rapiers, shiny-hilted pistols, and endless botdes of wine, which they were pouring for Tegramond and his eager people.
'You've done well,' Tom said. 'Would you'd come a week sooner.'
'And was that your first Carib feast?" Painton demanded.
'Tom, you've led a sheltered life. To these people, to eat a savage from Dominica, why, 'tis like taking the sacrament'
'You blaspheme, sir,' Berwicke growled.
‘I deny that,' Painton said. This is their religion. That of animal spirits, physical courage, and physical harm. This man was a famous warrior, no doubt. By partaking in his living flesh all this tribe benefits, and grows stronger and bolder. Oh, it Is a brutal, un-Christian point of view, to be sure, but none the less valid for that. You'd
do well not to brood on it, Mr Berwicke. Nor you, Tom. Nor any of you. You're to be congratulated. I spied your houses, and your tobacco, through my glass when we were standing in. You've a handsome crop, there, Tom. Worth as much as my Spaniard, I’ll be bound. And I've the men to help you reap. For a ten per cent share, it's that and its transport home.'
Done,' Tom said. 'Well start tomorrow, and then we'll turn our backs on this cursed place.'
'Man, you are difficult to please, and that's a fact. Can you not see the future? With that crop, that profit, you'll have men flocking to join you. Tis something to think of, Tom. With a colony of three or four hundred men and women setded here, and the tobacco to attend to your needs, you'd not have to fear the Indians.'
'Fear them?'
"Oh, man, be honest with me as I have ever been with you. You are suffering less at this moment from watching a man torn to pieces than from the supposition that one day it might be you and yours.'
'And think you I could bring any other white people to so savage a place, and expose them to such a fate?"
'There'd be nothing at risk in it, Tom, had you only sufficient numbers. Man, half a dozen crops like this one and youll be able to snap your fingers at the King himself. It's money that buys strength, Tom. And you've the money, now. Not that I truly feel you have a thing to worry about. Tegramond gave you his word, and he is a man of his word. Why, look at the fellow. Could you imagine a more harmless tippler?'
Tegramond sat with his back against a tree, his legs spread wide, while he drank wine from the botde; as ever, Tom's sword was strapped to his waist. At least a score of his men were similarly inebriated, and their women were gathered in a cluster close by, as eagerly snatching what remnants of the precious liquid as rolled their way in the discarded botdes as they had snatched the dying man's blood a few days earlier; indeed, the red liquid spurting down their cheeks seemed littie different.
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