Sunset

by Christopher Nicole

  He came on deck now, having completed his chart work. 'Come away a point,' he told the coxswain, then came aft to stand beside her, bracing himself on the stay next to her. 'Homesick?'

  'It is only the second time in my life I have left Jamaica,' she said, leaning against him, allowing her hair to blow across his face. 'And this time I don't care at all. I am looking forward to seeing Cuba.'

  'Aye, well, it'll be dark in an hour, so you won't see it tonight. My idea is to close Carbo Cruz, that's the south western tip, during the dark.' He squeezed her. 'There are guardacostas.'

  'Where do you land your guns?'

  'Once we round Cabo Cruz, we are in the Gulf of Guacanayabo, which we cross, and on the far side there is a shoal of little islands, called the Jardines de la Reina.'

  'The Gardens of the Queen,' she murmured. 'How beautiful'

  'Cuba is even more beautiful than Jamaica,' he said. 'Well, these islands are an absolute wilderness, and the mainland shore opposite them is hardly better than swamp. Even if the coastguard do manage to see us, I would hope to give them the slip amongst the shoals and reefs, and we shall land the guns tomorrow morning on the coast. And be away at once.'

  'And you have done this before?’

  'I have been doing it for two years.’

  "Therefore you are an expert,' she said. 'Where do you pick up the guns ?'

  He shook his head. 'I'd better keep that to myself.'

  She made a moue. 'Don't you trust me?'

  'I trust you with my life, my darling. But I do not wish you to be in any way involved. It is sufficiently risky for you to be here at all.'

  'But you don't get them from Jamaica. At least tell me that.'

  He smiled, and kissed her on the nose. 'I don't get them from Jamaica.'

  'And you will tell me once we are married.' 'Married?’

  'Because then I shall accompany you on all of your voyages.'

  'You? Marry me? Give up Hilltop to sail with me?'

  'You have but to persuade me,' she said. 'That is why I am here, to be persuaded. Will you not take me below, and begin?'

  Meg was on deck at dawn. The breeze had dropped, now that they were in the shelter of the land, and the schooner ghosted along, sails just filling, bows just disturbing the green water. Which merged almost imperceptibly into the green of the land on the northern horizon, a forest of mangrove swamps, or dotted the sea ahead of them in a cluster of little islands. Waters which would require expert navigation; even in conditions this calm she could see little flurries of white where the gentle swell broke on coral heads or bubbled across sandbanks.

  Alan was himself on the helm; two of the crew were forward, with the lead line, two more stood by the main halyard, ready to let the biggest sail go with a rush if it was necessary to anchor in a hurry; two more stood by the anchor itself; and the seventh was aft with her, constantly sweeping the horizon to the south, and the headland of Cabo Cruz behind them, and the depths of the Gulf to the north east, with a telescope, searching for any signs of the Spanish navy or coastguard.

  But the sea was empty, and so was the land, so far as Meg could see. And it was a splendid land. Beyond the swamps she could make out the serrated backbone of mountains, which would stretch, carrying the island with them, some two hundred miles in a gentle curve to the north west, until it was almost in sight of the Florida cays.

  She stood beside the helm. 'It is beautiful.'

  He glanced at her and smiled. 'And like most beautiful things, it can be deadly. Lower your mainsail.'

  The halyards rasped through the blocks, and the great sail came clouding down on the boom, to be rolled and furled by the crewmen. Margarita's speed was reduced by half, and she inched forward, close to the first island now, under foresail and mizen alone.

  Meg decided that Alan needed to concentrate, and moved back to the rail, to look down into the sea which was so clear she could see the sand and the occasional patch of weed on the bottom.

  'Leigh-ho,' Alan called, and the foresail was sheeted in on the starboard tack as the helm went to port and the schooner came slowly round, passing now exactly equidistant between two of the islands.

  The sailor on watch gave a grunt, and Meg went to his side. 'What do you see?'

  'Look there, mistress.' He gave her the glass, and she focused on the headland. Just beyond it was a puff of black smoke.

  Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God.

  The sailor grinned at her; he could see the sudden flush of alarm. 'They can' see us, mistress. Not yet. We ain't got no smoke to fill the sky. And we going be gone in two minutes.'

  Meg remained watching the headland. Now she could see the prow, and a moment later the whole shape of the steam cutter, and it was altering course, towards them. Oh, my God, she thought; but immediately it was again lost to view as the trees on the island they had just passed interposed. She lowered her glass, looked around her. They might have been in a lagoon, save for the numerous rock-filled passages which led out to sea the.

  She gave the glass back to the Negro, hurried to the helm. 'There's a small steamship rounding the cape.'

  'A guardacostas,' Alan said, never taking his eyes from the narrow passage ahead, between a third island and a sandbank to starboard.

  'It is coming this way.'

  'It is on patrol. She won't come in here. She dare not. There is nothing to be afraid of.' She bit her lip, moved back to the rail. Of course there was nothing to be afraid of. She was Meg Hilton. But she wished she hadn't seen it.

  The morning grew warm as the sun rose between the mountains. The Margarita continued to wend her way slowly between the islands, gradually approaching the shore, while the leadsman called the equally gradually shoaling depths. Now there was another puff of smoke from ahead of them, grey woodsmoke this. It could have been charcoal burners. But Alan altered course again.

  'Down mizen.'

  The seamen hurried aft to secure the mizen boom and lower the after sail. Meg remained by the rail, out of their way. Alan had guided them right through the maze of islands and sandbanks, and they were now in clear, if very shallow water, with the beach which fringed the swamps only a hundred yards away.

  'Let go your anchor,' he called. 'Drop the foresail.'

  The chain rattled through the hawsepipe and the bower anchor splashed into the water. The Margarita rode over it and then commenced to turn as the foresail was stowed and she lost way. The chain continued to rattle, sounding disturbingly loud, and indeed a flock of birds rose from the distant swamp and flapped their way to quieter surroundings.

  Alan left the wheel and went forward. 'Enough,' he said, and the chocks were pushed into place. The noise died, and the morning was absolutely still.

  'There we are.' He came aft again.

  'It's just magnificent,' she said. 'But you are magnificent, the way you conned us through those rocks.'

  'I happen to know the waters,' he said. "The first couple of times I had to be piloted by one of the local fishermen. Simple as that.'

  Meg looked over the side. 'I'd love a bathe.'

  'Um. You wait until we have gone ashore. I'll leave you in charge of the ship.'

  'Me? I don't know anything about ships.'

  'You don't have to. But I don't want you ashore. You never can tell when a patrol will pass by. They can't harm you out here. We won't be long. Only an hour or two.' He smiled at her. 'Long enough for you to have that swim in private.' He was again away giving orders for the boat to be broken out, sending his men down the hatch to the cabin, to move the table and start bringing up the guns and the ammunition. Nor were they hidden only under the table. From the hold amidships, large numbers of bunches of bananas were brought up and stowed on deck; from beneath where they had lain more cases were heaved up. 'We'll need about three trips to get them all ashore,' Alan said. 'But it won't take long.'

  'How many have you brought?' she asked in wonderment.

  'A thousand rifles, and two hundred thousand rounds of ammunition.
' 'It must have cost a fortune.'

  'The revolutionary movement has some wealthy backers. I'll tell you this; we'll make a lot faster time on the way back. Which is when we might need it.'

  He climbed down the ladder into the heavily laden boat, with four of his men. Meg watched them pull for the shore, and now she could see people on the shore itself, hard to distinguish beneath their broad-brimmed straw hats. But they wore white cottons and looked poor. All revolutionaries looked poor. Until, she supposed, they came to power. Supposing this lot ever did. The mainland Spanish colonies had achieved their independence while Spain was engaged in a European war, and even so it had taken them years of heartbreak. She did not see much prospect of success here.

  The crates were unloaded, the boat returned for its second load. But Alan remained ashore. He was doing what he wanted, and that was important. He thought he was doing good. As if providing the means to kill could ever be good. Or could it ? When people had been enslaved for too long, to rise in bloody murder was perhaps their only hope. Certainly Richard Hilton the general, must have believed that when he had fought for the Negro Emperor of Haiti, Henri Christophe.

  What a philosopher she was becoming. She remained by the rail while the second and then the last load of crates was sent ashore. By now donkey carts had appeared on the beach, and the crates were loaded. Alan looked out at her and gave a wave, and the entire party set off through the seagrape bushes which clouded the beach. The last axle creaked into trees, and silence once again descended upon the bay. And she was alone, on Alan's ship. She found the thought very exciting, and as she enjoyed doing when she was excited, she took off her clothes, paraded the steadily warming deck naked, feeling the heat of the sun scorching her flesh, feeling the gentle breeze caressing her skin. And stopping, with an exclamation of annoyance, when she discovered that a piece of melting tar from the deck seams had stuck to her toe.

  She pulled it off, but the black stain remained, and on her fingers. She explored, looking down the still-open main hatch, at the bananas which had been returned there to convince any customs officer that the Margarita was an ordinary trading schooner, then tried the forehatch, but hastily withdrew her head without attempting to descend. Seven men lived there, in an intimate heat. It was no place for her.

  She returned to the gangway, studied the shore again. It was empty. There was nothing to stop her going for a swim. Because the sea was equally empty. And the water looked so cool while the day was so hot; sweat was gathering between her shoulder blades and between her breasts, coating her neck, dampening her armpits. She considered pulling her hair on top of her head, then decided to leave it and let it also have a wetting, stepped onto the ladder, turning to face the boat to descend into the water, and heard the sound of a shot.

  For a moment she clung to the ladder, quite paralysed with a mixture of shock and fear. Then she twisted her head; the sound had come from the shore. But the beach was empty. And then she heard more shots, a perfect fusillade, followed by others, fired singly.

  'Oh, my God,' she gasped, and scrambled back up the ladder, instinctively reaching for her discarded gown. One could not face a battle naked.

  A battle? She stood at the gunwhale, peered at the shore. The firing was now fairly continuous, but she could see no smoke and she could see no people. It was quite uncanny. And what should she do ? What could she do ?

  She panted, and took a turn up and down the deck. Alan was over there, being shot at, perhaps killed. With his crew and his friends. She had no doubt about that. They had been surprised by Spanish soldiers. And she was here, alone. Why, they might never return. Margarita might be left here to rot. And, with the ship, her namesake.

  She felt tears beginning to start and angrily fought them back. She was Margaret Hilton. That was all she need remember, at any time. Margaret Hilton need fear no one, and nothing.

  A man's voice made her raise her head, once again peering at the shore, and then slowly rising to her feet. She wanted to scream for joy. The sailors ran down the sand, carrying rifles, to be sure, but not at this moment firing. And with the sailors ... but he was not there, and they were launching the boat, running into the shallow water with it as they pushed it over the sand.

  'No,' she wanted to scream. 'Go back. You cannot desert your captain.' Well, she'd soon put a stop to that when they gained the ship. She'd ... she stared at them. Having launched the dinghy, and dipped their oars, the five men had suddenly abandoned the boat and leapt over the side, swimming for the shore, leaving the derelict boat drifting slowly down wind.

  Meg scratched her head. They'd lose it. It would drift into the reefs and be lost, and how then would Alan get on board? Perhaps she should dive in and swim after it. She had no doubt she could. On the other hand she wasn't at all sure she'd be able to scull that heavy boat back here.

  She turned, her mind a frenzy of uncertainty, and stared over the seaward side of the vessel, at the launch which came slowly out of the cluster of islets. It was a steam launch, uttering little belches of vapour from its single small funnel. It was full of men in blue uniforms, and in the bow was mounted a strange-looking weapon. She had never seen a Maxim gun, but she had seen enough pictures to recognize it immediately.

  She dropped to her knees. The men on the pinnace had certainly seen the dinghy, just as the men in the dinghy had seen the pinnace. Perhaps they would pass the ship by. She crouched on the deck, holding her head in her arms, holding her breath.

  Now she could hear the putt-putt-putt of the engine, coming very close. Oh, my God, she thought, they are going to board. Well, then, stand up and declare yourself. Margaret Hilton, mistress of Hilltop in Jamaica. Even Spanish soldiers must have heard of Hilltop. If not, there was a British consul in Havana. She would demand to be taken there. She braced herself to stand up, and her brain was paralysed by a new sound, a swift rat-a-tat which seemed the deadliest thing she had ever heard, as it was accompanied by the crunch of bullets biting into wood, and below her.

  The schooner shook, even the masts seemed to tremble. And Meg heard laughter. She left the rail and crawled across the deck. She wanted only shelter. And now a burst came over the gunwhale, seeming to pass immediately above her head, tearing into the masts and sending flying splinters of wood in every direction. They were aiming at the quarterdeck; she would never make the cabin hatch. She rolled against the open hatchway to the hold, got her legs over, hung for a moment, and dropped into the darkness.

  And was immediately surrounded by sound. The chatter of the machine gun seemed much louder down here, and the crunch of the bullets into the hull was like blows from a giant hammer. She gasped, and watched water spurting inches from her face. They were aiming at the water line, enjoying themselves, shooting and shooting and shooting, until someone came on deck or the ship began to sink. It would sink. She could tell that immediately. The timbers were old, and the machine-gun was being fired at almost point-blank range. She crouched behind the pile of bananas and watched the deadly spurts of water. Perhaps it would be better to stay here and drown. Her instincts warned her that men who could so wantonly destroy an anchored, helpless vessel, who could laugh while doing so, were not the sort of men to whom she ought to surrender.

  Something ran across her foot. She drew it up, and stood up in the same instant. The sound of the chattering gun was almost lost in the squeakings which arose from the Margarita's bilges. Oh, my God, she thought, instinctively reaching for the hatch. The rats had no thought of attacking her. Their one idea was to escape the sinking ship. Yet they were terrifying, in their size, in their very meaning, and above all in their desperation.

  Meg dug her fingers into the hatch combing, swung herself up, tumbled onto the deck. There was a shout from the pinnace. Someone had seen her head for a moment before it had again dropped behind the bulwark. But they would not come after her. The deck was already sloping, and the gun had not ceased its deadly sound.

  She rolled on her back, sliding away from the hatch, still he
aring the squeals of the terrified, drowning rats, gazed at the masts, suddenly at a crazy angle, and, as she watched, parting the shrouds with their weight. The mainmast hung for a terrible second, then there came a crack which cut across the morning. Meg was against the gunwhale by now, and threw up her hands, as if she could possibly have staved off the bone-crushing weight of the timber. But it fell aft of her, with a crash which again shook the morning, and pulled the schooner even farther over. Meg discovered her legs in the water, and flung herself clear of the ship. For a disgusting moment she was surrounded by squealing rats, and one crawled onto her head. She shook it away, dived into the water. But she was hampered by the gown which wrapped itself round her legs, and was forced to surface immediately, to find herself alongside the pinnace.

  The gun was silent. Willing hands reached down to pull her out, the men laughing and chattering amongst themselves in Spanish. Fingers dug into her legs, her ribs, her breasts, her hair. One even held her toes. They were all anxious to secure a piece of their so strange, so magnificent prize.

  Then the hands were gone, and she was dumped on the deck of the pinnace with a force which left her breathless. And stared up at an officer, peering at her, thin lips twisted, cap pushed back on his head. He asked her a question, and she gazed at him in bewilderment. He asked again, his face hardening, and accompanied his question by a kick on the thigh.

  She drew up her legs, aware that her gown was clinging to her body like a second skin. lNon ... non comprendo,' she said, hoping it was the right thing.

  The officer leaned forward, thrust his fingers into her wet hair, turned her head this way and that violently, asked again, and while she tried to catch her breath, slapped her so hard she thought for a moment she had lost consciousness.

  'Stop,' she screamed as the morning seemed to rotate about her. 'I am Margaret Hilton. Margaret Hilton, Mistress of Hilltop. You cannot harm me. Margaret Hilton.' But her words were almost a sob. The officer could no more understand her than she could understand him. He straightened, and shrugged, said something to his men.