Caribee

by Christopher Nicole

  Someone laughed. Philip also stopped work.

  Edward walked across the sand.

  'Ed-ward,' Yarico said. She would warn him, perhaps, that these were wild Irish, who did not fight in any way he had been taught. But then, neither had the Caribs.

  He stood above Yeats. "You'll get up, Yeats,' he said. 'And you'll work, until I tell you to stop. We'll maintain our discipline, by God, until my father returns.'

  'Discipline?' Yeats inquired. 'Faith, we'll have none of that from ye, Ted, lad. And ye'd do best to forget your father. He'll not return. And if he does, it'll be to naught of value. Even the Frenchies don't understand that. That sail we saw three days ago, that was a Spaniard, Ted, lad. Ye recognized her yourself. Attracted, she was, by Cahusac's fleet. There won't be a house standing on this island in another month. So where's the point in building more for the Dons to burn? If I was ye, Ted, lad, I'd go bargain with the monsieur for a bottle.'

  Edward seized the axe. 'Up, or I’ll split your skull.'

  The sucking in of Yeats' breath was accompanied by similar noises from all around. The Irishmen seemed to be gathering themselves.

  'Ed-ward,' Yarico warned again.

  But he could not look over his shoulder. He could not take his eyes from the man he must dominate.

  From the hilltop there came shouts. The guards had seen the coming trouble.

  Yeats sat up, slowly. 'Leave him be, lads,' he said. ‘I'll not need ye.'

  Up,' Edward said, praying that there would be surrender.

  And knowing differently the next moment. Yeats hurled himself to one side, at the same time kicking his feet with vicious accuracy; each toe in turn took Edward at the knees and threw him full length on the sand. Before he could turn a foot descended on his wrist, pinning it and the axe to the ground, and Yeats stood above him.

  'Aye, Ted, boy,' he said. 'We'll have discipline here. I'll see to that.'

  His foot swung back, and the toes crashed forward. Edward released the axe and brought up his knees, but not in time; the blow smashed into the pit of his belly, and sent rivers of pain streaking away from his groin. And the foot was swinging again.

  But it no longer mattered. He knew only the redness which rose out of the sand and the trees and the man in front of him. It was a blood mist which blocked his eyes, because it arose from inside his own brain, clouding all his instincts with the desire to hurt, to maim, to destroy and to kill, as it had that day in the hold of the Great St George. He moved, his whole body at once, caring nothing for the seething pain of the second kick, for the numbing weight across his arm. His other arm, his feet, his knees and his thighs, wrapped themselves around the foot as it ground into his belly, and Yeats fell, with a grunt of astonishment. The weight left Edward's wrist and he turned, fists closed and flailing, landing twice on Yeats' face with spurts of blood, leaving a red mask where they had torn the flesh.

  Still on his knees he reached forward, to seize the Irishman by the hair and drag him close for another blow. And was surprised in turn. Yeats twisted and brought his face against Edward's arm, and a thrust of real agony coursed across the muscle and up into his shoulder. He jerked backwards with a cry of horror, watched the blood welling from the terrible gash torn out of his forearm by the razor sharp teeth.

  'Get him, Terry,' howled the Irish. 'We have him now.’

  Yeats reached his feet, in the same moment as Edward did also. Dismayed by the quick recovery, the Irishman hesitated, and Edward closed again. Blood flew right and left, his own blood, from his arm, and blood from Yeats' face as the tremendous blows smashed into the unprotected flesh. Yeats' knees buckled, and Edward caught him by the hair while he hit him again and again and again. The Irishmen fell silent. Yeats was on his knees, still held up by the hair, while Edward hit him time and again, his own hand now starting to swell into a mushy ruin.

  'Enough.' Pierre Belain gave a signal, and two French soldiers moved forward. 'Enough, Edward. Will you kill the man?'

  Fingers closed on his arm and dragged him back. He stood still, and yet trembled, muscles, fingers, even knees. Sweat rolled out of his hair and down his shoulders, mingled with the blood draining down his arm and dripping from his fingers. And with the sweat and the blood went the hate. He gazed at Yeats, lying a crumpled, unconscious, bloody mess on the stained sand in front of him. By God, he thought, I did mean to kill him. With my bare hands.

  But now he was also aware of people. Almost the entire population of Sandy Point had turned out to watch the fight, aroused by the sound of alarm given by the sentries. The music had stopped, and the women were there, too. He looked at them through pain-filled eyes, caught her face for an instant. This afternoon she was not laughing; indeed for a moment he almost caught a look of admiration, certainly of concern. And it was she who looked away.

  ‘I understand that such an event may be necessary, from time to time, for discipline,' Belain said. 'And I would not interfere with your methods, Edward. But I can afford no deaths in my labour force. We are shorthanded as it is. I have made arrangements, but until new recruits arrive, why, you must take care of your men, and yourself. Now, will you have my surgeon see to your arm?'

  ‘I care it,' Yarico said.

  Belain glanced at her, and nodded. 'Then do so, princess. And the other man.'

  Yarico tossed her head. 'His friend care him. You come, Ed-ward. You fight like Carib. Tom proud.'

  'Aye,' Philip said. ‘I'd never have guessed you had that much spirit, Edward.'

  ‘You'll tend Yeats,' Edward told the stricken Irishmen. 'And then get back to work.'

  'And you come,' Yarico said. ‘I have leaf for wound.'

  He nodded, and looked over his shoulder at where the French ladies and gentlemen were slowly strolling back to the town, their entertainment completed. A burst of magnificent laughter drifted to him on the wind.

  From the forest behind Blood River it was possible to watch Basseterre taking shape. In only a month the streets had been laid out. These were marked by no more than stakes driven into the earth, but there were sufficient of them. And there could be no doubt that they would eventually be filled with houses. Pierre Belain possessed all the energy of Tom Warner at his best, and twice the vision. Already he had his men digging drains, over which his city would rise like the new Paris of which he dreamed.

  Edward sighed, and turned away. He had no business to be here, as the prisoners were strictly confined to the tobacco and cornfields and the small area of beach beyond. But when he chose to disappear into the forest, no man could stop him, or could tell where he was going. That was his prerogative. Caribee.

  Yet he must return, in good time, to his people. It was already dusk. An important dusk, this, the Sieur de Cahusac's birthday, and for the occasion Belain had even sent down some flagons of wine to the prison camp. There would be a good deal of revelry tonight, and no doubt a fight or two, which would need ending. How confidently he considered the prospect, while the frightful scar on his forearm throbbed with botii memory and anticipation. No man quarrelled with him now. And even Philip looked at him with admiration. While Yarico snuggled close to him every night, and grew morose when he would not touch her. As if he did not wish to do so. As if his constantly encouraged manhood over the past few years was now not making itself felt too vigorously. But Yarico, Father's woman, the murderess of her own people, the mother of his half brother. .. .

  He crept through the tobacco field, stood in the shelter of the porch of the Governor's House, watching and listening. It was a hot night and the shutters were raised on the courthouse; even from here he could see the glitter within, the acres of bare shoulders and breasts, the swaying, carefully curled hair, the swinging skirts on the magnificent gowns, the brilliant doublets of the men, and flashing jewels and the even more flashing smiles. He could not smell them. There was a shame. But he could imagine the scents rising in that room, the strangely satisfying mingle of perfume and perspiration, overladen with wine-filled breaths. And he cou
ld imagine, too, the conversations, the flirtations and suggestions, as he could hear the laughter.

  And the laughter made him dream. Of all the French people on the island he hated only her. Of this he was sure. But it was a hate composed of so many things. She was the epitome of everything a woman should be, and thus everything any woman ever possessed by Edward Warner could never be. She was the unattainable, as Mama had been the unattainable. And she laughed, at him. But she also found him interesting. He remembered the expression he had caught, for just an instant, the afternoon of the fight with Yeats. She would not have liked to see him harmed, perhaps. But there was a dream, truly unattainable. Yet a dream he was unable to resist.

  His responsibility to his own people was forgotten. He crouched in the shadows by his father's house, hour after hour after hour. He watched the moon rise, and begin once again its decline, behind a broad band of silver stretching forever across the Caribbean Sea. He listened to the noise of revelry also dim, as minds became fogged with drink, and then occasionally burst out again in tremendous sound. He listened to the endless scrapings of the fiddles. He enjoyed strange fantasies. With fifty men at his back, armed and determined, he could this night regain the colony for England, and Tom Warner.

  In time he dozed, on his knees, slumped against the farthest upright of the porch, and awoke stiff and shaking with the chill that crept over the island in the few hours before dawn. At last the fiddles were silent, and the town, too. Silent, and dark, in most places. Yet not asleep. The noise was now stealthy, but none the less obvious to his Indian-trained ears. For there was much to be done, between ending the dancing and the drinking and retiring. Much that could only be done when the brain was befuddled with drink, and the body brought alive with endless contact.

  The prison camp had also sunk into silence. Yet now he must return there. Perhaps he had been lucky this far to have escaped detection. And detection would certainly bring a flogging. Belain had made it perfectly clear that the town was out of bounds for any of the prisoners. Cautiously he stretched, and then shrank back into the shadows as he heard footsteps.

  A couple came out of the forest, on the far side by the porch, but they did not pass the Governor's House by. Instead they walked under the porch itself. His heart swelled, and he stood against the pillar, straining his eyes in the darkness, and making out nothing more than the sheen of the woman's gown. Yet, coming here, it could only be one of two. And what had she been doing, whichever she was, this past hour? They whispered constantly, as they approached, but in French, and if she laughed, she did so silently, so that he could not hear her.

  Now they had reached the door, and stood there, bodies close as they faced each other. And now there could be no doubt. She was too tall for Madame Belain. Edward sucked air into his lungs, a disturbingly loud sound in the pre-dawn stillness. For a moment indeed he all but took to his heels, for he was sure they checked. But the man was kissing the woman's hands, and leaning forward, as if he would do more.

  She made him stop. He hesitated, and then he kissed her hands once more and released them. He stepped away, half bowed, and made his way down the street.

  Aline Galante stood in the doorway gazing after him, not moving, until he was clearly out of earshot. Once he turned, to raise his hand, and she fluttered her kerchief in response. Then he was swallowed by the darkness.

  Aline stepped out of the doorway, slowly closing the door behind her, so that the porch was utterly dark. 'Who is there?' she asked.

  How his heart pounded. How his whole body glowed, with desire. He had never known anything like this before. Even with Susan, patient possession had been all he wanted.

  'Speak,' she said. 'You are no Frenchman, that is obvious, Master Warner.' As she had known all along, else why address the unknown in English? Why address the unknown at all, in the deserted darkness? But she found him... interesting?

  He stepped aside, inhaled her scent.

  'Ah,' she said. ‘It is not the act of a gentleman, to lurk in the darkness, and watch another man courting.'

  'Was that what he was doing?' Edward asked. 'Courting?'

  She came closer. 'And of course it is unwise for a prisoner of war, like you, to lurk close to the house of the Governor-General. There are two reasons to have you whipped.'

  Now he could see her face, with opened mouth, smiling, and perhaps even preparing to laugh. Certainly she felt no fear of him. Yet she had watched him very nearly destroy a man. But not a gentleman. Only an Irish labourer, a prisoner like himself. And it had been done with his fists, not a rapier. She knew nothing of him, save his name and his present status.

  'You are silent,' she said. ‘Perhaps you are dumb with fear. My father says you are a coward. And yet, I saw you fight.

  Or were you fighting from fear, Master Warner? It is said that this can drive a man to desperation.'

  She asked the question with genuine interest. She was investigating an emotion she had only heard her father speak of. Because there was nothing on earth that the daughter of a man like Joachim Galante, the niece of a man like Pierre Belain, should fear.

  'Your silence does you no credit, monsieur,' she said. ‘I was disposed to forgive your insolence because I found it flattering, that you should stand there and watch me, but now I find it annoying. Be sure that I shall have you whipped.'

  Then be afraid, he thought, and hit her on the chin.

  He knew now the power in his fist, when supported by arm and shoulder. Her head snapped backwards, and her knees buckled all in the same instant. He caught her before she struck the ground, already unconscious, and threw her across his shoulder. He even had the presence of mind to stoop and recover her fan and the kerchief which had fallen from her hand. For a moment he was enveloped in lace and satin, in beckoning softnesses and strange hardnesses as his fingers sought to hold her; when he was upright again, he shivered. For now at least he had thrown away life itself.

  But before they could seize him, and hang him, or worse, there remained a few hours. Perhaps longer. No one knew the island so well as he, save Yarico. And she would not lead them after him. Not this time, he was sure.

  He hurried through the fields and into the forest, his shoulder aching where he held the girl. The trees clouded around him, and the branches plucked at his arms and face, and at her legs, held fast against his chest. Yet he made his way with purpose, towards the looming height of Mount Misery, with the promise of the windward shore beyond. Hilton's house, not yet completed, but still a house, with its single cannon staring at the other islands of the Leewards, awaiting the return of the Caribs. And Susan's cave, where a man, and a woman, might lie hidden forever, if they chose.

  Her body stirred, and he was exhausted. He took her from his shoulder and laid her on the ground. Already the darkness was ringed with grey, and now he was above the tree line he could look at her with more to see. Her skirt billowed against him, and she breathed, slowly and evenly. There was no reason for clothes, now. He intended rape, at the very least. Yet he would not touch her. The wild anger was already past, and he was distressed to discover that her shoes had fallen off.

  She sat up, touched her chin, stared at him with a frown. 'Mon Dieu,' she muttered, and winced. She pulled off the star shaped black patch on her cheek.

  'We've a distance to go,' he said. 'You'd best get up.'

  She looked down at herself. 'They will hang you.'

  'This is a big island, mademoiselle. My island.'

  'But . . . why did you do it?' Her head came up as she gazed at him. 'You have the Indian woman.'

  'And you are not half so intelligent as I had supposed. But you still smell sweet, and look clean, and wear pretty clothes. On your feet.'

  She started to move, instinctively, and checked herself. 'And if I refuse?' ‘I ... I'll hit you.'

  'Ah. Of course, Monsieur Warner, you are a famous fighting man. With women as well. But not, I think, a famous lover.' She threw back her head, and a peal of laughter disappeared into t
he trees. And then died. 'Ouch,' she said. 'That was very painful. Oh, do not hit me again, monsieur. I am coming with you.'

  She climbed to her feet, while he gazed at her, big hands opening and shutting in angry impotence. Yarico had been his teacher in every sense. Susan had dominated his every thought. And when she had beckoned, he had gone without thinking, and walked into the deepest of bogs. And now this girl laughed at him. At her own kidnapper. At the man who would soon. . ..

  'Well, monsieur?' she asked. 'Which way?' Again the glittering laughter. 'Or have you forgotten? I can show you the way back to Sandy Point, if you wish.'

  He lunged forward, and she realized that she had after all made a mistake. Her laughter ceased and she attempted to sidestep, but he caught the skirt of her gown with his left land as he lost his balance. She seized the skirt with both lands and attempted to pull it free, found she could not, and tried to stamp on his arm with her feet. But he was on his knees again, both arms thrown round her legs as she kicked, o bring her full length to the ground. The fall seemed to mock the breath from her body, and for a few seconds she lay and gasped. He thrust his fingers into the bodice of her gown, pulling with all his strength. White flesh seemed to leap it him as it was released from its prison, exploding into huge, distended nipples surrounded by the largest aureolas he had ever seen, glowing pink in the first light.

  She reached for breath, staring at him and trying to speak, but he would not look at her face. His tearing fingers encountered stiff material and boned corsets, too strongly made for him to rip. His hands slid over them and resumed tearing below. He panted, and grunted like a wild animal. And now she had recovered her breath, and sat up to hit him, closing her hands together and swinging them left and right against his head, and having no effect at all except to increase his madness. His last tug was so violent he fell away with it, and lay on his back with the dress billowed on top of him.