No, he thought, watching the governor’s hand twitch and hover indecisively over the fruit bowl. He’s got something to hide. And so does Dawes. Is it the same thing, though? And has it got anything to do with the present trouble?
The governor could easily be hiding some peculation or corruption of his own – and likely was, Grey thought dispassionately, taking in the lavish display of silver on the sideboard. Such corruption was – within limits – considered more or less a perquisite of office. But if that was the case, it was not Grey’s concern – unless it was in some way connected to the maroons and their rebellion.
Entertaining as it was to watch Fettes and Cherry at their work, he cut them off with a brief nod, and turned the conversation firmly back to the rebellion.
‘What communications have you had from the rebels, sir?’ he asked the governor. ‘For I think in these cases, rebellion arises usually from some distinct source of grievance. What is it?’
Warren looked at him, jaw agape. He closed his mouth, slowly, and thought for a moment before replying. Grey rather thought he was considering how much Grey might discover from other avenues of inquiry.
Everything I bloody can, Grey thought, assuming an expression of neutral interest.
‘Why, as to that, sir . . . the incident that began the . . . um . . . the difficulties . . . was the arrest of two young maroons, accused of stealing from a warehouse in King’s Town.’ The two had been whipped in the town square, and committed to prison, after which—
‘Following a trial?’ Grey interrupted. The governor’s gaze rested on him, red-rimmed but cool.
‘No, colonel. They had no right to a trial.’
‘You had them whipped and imprisoned on the word of . . . who? The affronted merchant?’
Warren drew himself up a little and lifted his chin. Grey saw that he had been shaved, but a patch of black whisker had been overlooked; it showed in the hollow of his cheek like a blemish, a hairy mole.
‘I did not, no, sir,’ he said, coldly. ‘The sentence was imposed by the magistrate in King’s Town.’
‘Who is?’
Dawes had closed his eyes with a small grimace.
‘Judge Samuel Peters.’
Grey nodded thanks.
‘Captain Cherry will visit Mr Judge Peters tomorrow,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And the prisoners, as well. I take it they are still in custody?’
‘No, they aren’t,’ Mr Dawes put in, suddenly emerging from his impersonation of a dormouse. ‘They escaped, within a week of their capture.’
The governor shot a brief, irritated glance at his secretary, but nodded reluctantly. With further prodding, it was admitted that the maroons had sent a protest at the treatment of the prisoners, via Captain Cresswell. The prisoners having escaped before the protest was received, though, it had not seemed necessary to do anything about it.
Grey wondered briefly whose patronage had got Warren his position, but dismissed the thought in favour of further explorations. The first violence had come without warning, he was told, with the burning of cane fields on a remote plantation. Word of it had reached Spanish Town several days later, by which time, another plantation had suffered similar depredation.
‘Captain Cresswell rode at once to investigate the matter, of course,’ Warren said, lips tight.
‘And?’
‘He didn’t return. The maroons have not demanded ransom for him, nor have they sent word that he is dead. He may be with them; he may not. We simply don’t know.’
Grey could not help looking at Dawes, who looked unhappy, but gave the ghost of a shrug. It wasn’t his place to tell more than the governor wanted told, was it?
‘Let me understand you, sir,’ Grey said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. ‘You have had no communication with the rebels since their initial protest? And you have taken no action to achieve any?’
Warren seemed to swell slightly, but replied in an even tone.
‘In fact, colonel, I have. I sent for you.’ He smiled, very slightly, and reached for the decanter.
The evening air hung damp and viscid, trembling with distant thunder. Unable to bear the stifling confines of his uniform any longer, Grey flung it off, not waiting for Tom’s ministrations, and stood naked in the middle of the room, eyes closed, enjoying the touch of air from the terrace on his bare skin.
There was something remarkable about the air. Warm as it was, and even indoors, it had a silken touch that spoke of the sea and clear blue water. He couldn’t see the water from his room; even had it been visible from Spanish Town, his room faced a hillside covered with jungle. He could feel it, though, and had a sudden longing to wade out through surf and immerse himself in the clean coolness of the ocean. The sun had nearly set now, and the cries of parrots and other birds were growing intermittent.
He peered underneath the bed, but didn’t see the snake. Perhaps it was far back in the shadows; perhaps it had gone off in search of more ham. He straightened, stretched luxuriously, then shook himself and stood blinking, feeling stupid from too much wine and food, and lack of sleep – he had slept barely three hours out of the preceding four-and-twenty, what with the arrival, disembarkation, and the journey to King’s House.
His mind appeared to have taken French leave for the moment; no matter; it would be back shortly. Meanwhile, though, its abdication had left his body in charge; not at all a responsible course of action.
He felt exhausted, but restless, and scratched idly at his chest. The wounds there were solidly healed, slightly raised pink weals under his fingers, criss-crossing through the blond hair. One had passed within an inch of his left nipple; he’d been lucky not to lose it.
An immense pile of gauze cloth lay upon his bed. This must be the mosquito netting described to him by Mr Dawes at dinner – a draped contraption meant to enclose the entire bed, thus protecting its occupant from the depredations of bloodthirsty insects.
He’d spent some time with Fettes and Cherry after dinner, laying plans for the morrow. Cherry would call upon Judge Peters and obtain details of the maroons who had been captured. Fettes would send men into King’s Town in a search for the location of the retired Mr Ludgate, erstwhile superintendent; if he could be found, Grey would like to know this gentleman’s opinion of his successor. As for that successor – if Dawes did not manage to unearth Captain Cresswell by the end of tomorrow . . . Grey yawned involuntarily, then shook his head, blinking. Enough.
The troops would all be billeted by now, some granted their first liberty in months. He spared a glance at the small sheaf of maps and reports he had extracted from Mr Dawes earlier, but those could wait till morning, and better light. He’d think better after a good night’s sleep.
He leaned against the frame of the open door, after a quick glance down the terrace showed him that the rooms nearby seemed unoccupied. Clouds were beginning to drift in from the sea, and he remembered what Rodrigo had said about the rain at night. He thought perhaps he could feel a slight coolness in the air, whether from rain or oncoming night, and the hair on his body prickled and rose.
From here, he could see nothing but the deep green of a jungle-clad hill, glowing like a sombre emerald in the twilight. From the other side of the house, though, as he left dinner, he’d seen the sprawl of Spanish Town below, a puzzle of narrow, aromatic streets. The taverns and the brothels would be doing a remarkable business tonight, he thought.
The thought brought with it a rare feeling of something that wasn’t quite resentment. Any one of the soldiers he’d brought, from lowliest private soldier to Fettes himself, could walk into any brothel in Spanish Town – and there were a good many, Cherry had told him – and relieve the stresses caused by a long voyage without the slightest comment, or even the slightest attention. Not him.
His hand had dropped lower as he watched the light fade, idly kneading his flesh. There were accommodations for men such as himself in London, but it had been many years since he’d had recourse to such a place.
He had lost one lover to death, another to betrayal. The third . . . his lips tightened. Could you call a man your lover, who would never touch you – would recoil from the very thought of touching you? No. But at the same time, what would you call a man whose mind touched yours, whose prickly friendship was a gift, whose character, whose very existence, helped to define your own?
Not for the first time – and surely not for the last – he wished briefly that Jamie Fraser was dead. It was an automatic wish, though, at once dismissed from mind. The colour of the jungle had died to ash, and insects were beginning to whine past his ears.
He went in, and began to worry the folds of the gauze on his bed, until Tom came in to take it away from him, hang the mosquito-netting, and ready him for the night.
He couldn’t sleep. Whether it was the heavy meal, the unaccustomed place, or simply the worry of his new and so-far-unknown command, his mind refused to settle, and so did his body. He didn’t waste time in useless thrashing, though; he’d brought several books. Reading a bit of The Story of Tom Jones, A Foundling would distract his mind, and let sleep steal in upon him.
The French doors were covered with sheer muslin curtains, but the moon was nearly full, and there was enough light by which to find his tinder-box, striker, and candlestick. The candle was good beeswax, and the flame rose pure and bright – and instantly attracted a small cloud of inquisitive gnats, mosquitoes, and tiny moths. He picked it up, intending to take it to bed with him, but then thought better.
Was it preferable to be gnawed by mosquitoes, or incinerated? Grey debated the point for all of three seconds, then set the lit candlestick back on the desk. The gauze netting would go up in a flash, if the candle fell over in bed.
Still, he needn’t face death by bloodletting or be covered in itching bumps, simply because his valet didn’t like the smell of bear-grease. He wouldn’t get it on his clothes, in any case.
He flung off his nightshirt and knelt to rummage in his trunk, with a guilty look over his shoulder. Tom, though, was safely tucked up somewhere amid the attics or outbuildings of King’s House, and almost certainly sound asleep. Tom suffered badly with sea-sickness, and the voyage had been hard on him.
The heat of the Indies hadn’t done the battered tin of bear-grease any good, either; the rancid fat nearly overpowered the scent of the peppermint and other herbs mixed into it. Still, he reasoned, if it repelled him, how much more a mosquito? and rubbed it into as much of his flesh as he could reach. Despite the stink, he found it not unpleasant. There was enough of the original smell left as to remind of his usage of the stuff in Canada. Enough to remind him of Manoke, who had given it to him. Anointed him with it, in a cool blue evening on a deserted sandy isle in the St Lawrence River.
Finished, he put down the tin and touched his rising prick. He didn’t suppose he’d ever see Manoke again. But he did remember. Vividly.
A little later, he lay gasping on the bed under his netting, heart thumping slowly in counterpoint to the echoes of his flesh. He opened his eyes, feeling pleasantly relaxed, his head finally clear. The room was close; the servants had shut the windows, of course, to keep out the dangerous night air, and sweat misted his body. He felt too slack to get up and open the French doors onto the terrace, though; in a moment would do.
He closed his eyes again – then opened them abruptly and leapt out of bed, reaching for the dagger he’d laid on the table. The servant called Rodrigo stood pressed against the door, the whites of his eyes showing in his black face.
‘What do you want?’ Grey put the dagger down, but kept his hand on it, his heart still racing.
‘I have a message for you, sah,’ the young man said. He swallowed audibly.
‘Yes? Come into the light, where I can see you.’ Grey reached for his banyan and slid into it, still keeping an eye on the man.
Rodrigo peeled himself off the door with evident reluctance, but he’d come to say something, and say it he would. He advanced into the dim circle of candlelight, hands at his sides, nervously clutching air.
‘Do you know, sah, what an Obeah-man is?’
‘No.’
That disconcerted Rodrigo visibly. He blinked, and twisted his lips, obviously at a loss as how to describe this entity. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly and gave up.
‘He says to you, beware.’
‘Does he?’ Grey says dryly. ‘Of anything specific?’
That seemed to help; Rodrigo nodded vigorously.
‘You don’t be close to the governor. Stay right away, as far as you can. He’s going to – I mean . . . something bad might happen. Soon. He—’ The servant broke off suddenly, apparently realising that he could be dismissed – if not worse – for talking about the governor in this loose fashion. Grey was more than curious, though, and sat down, motioning to Rodrigo to take the stool, which he did with obvious reluctance.
Whatever an Obeah-man was, Grey thought, he clearly had considerable power, to force Rodrigo to do something he so plainly didn’t want to do. The young man’s face shone with sweat and his hands clenched mindlessly on the fabric of his coat.
‘Tell me what the Obeah-man said,’ Grey said, leaning forward, intent. ‘I promise you, I will tell no one.’
Rodrigo gulped, but nodded. He bent his head, looking at the table as though he might find the right words written in the grain of the wood.
‘Zombie,’ he muttered, almost inaudibly. ‘The zombie come for him. For the governor.’
Grey had no notion what a zombie might be, but the word was spoken in such a tone as to make a chill flicker over his skin, sudden as distant lightning.
‘Zombie,’ he said carefully. Mindful of the governor’s reaction earlier, he asked, ‘Is a zombie perhaps a snake of some kind?’
Rodrigo gasped, but then seemed to relax a little.
‘No, sah,’ he said seriously. ‘Zombie are dead people.’ He stood up then, bowed abruptly and left, his message delivered.
Not surprisingly, Grey did not fall asleep immediately in the wake of this visit.
Having encountered German night-hags, Indian ghosts, and having spent a year or two in the Scottish Highlands, he had more acquaintance than most with picturesque superstition. While he wasn’t inclined to give instant credence to local custom and belief, neither was he inclined to discount such belief out of hand. Belief made people do things that they otherwise wouldn’t – and whether the belief had substance or not, the consequent actions certainly did.
Obeah-men and zombies notwithstanding, plainly there was some threat to Governor Warren – and he rather thought the governor knew what it was.
How exigent was the threat, though? He pinched out the candle-flame and sat in darkness for a moment, letting his eyes adjust themselves, then rose and went soft-footed to the French doors through which Rodrigo had vanished.
The guest bedchambers of King’s House were merely a string of boxes, all facing onto the long terrace, and each opening directly on to it through a pair of French doors. These had been curtained for the night, long pale drapes of muslin drawn across them. He paused for a moment, hand on the drape; if anyone was watching his room, they would see the curtain being drawn aside.
Instead, he turned and went to the inner door of the room. This opened onto a narrow service corridor, completely dark at the moment – and completely empty, if his senses could be trusted. He closed the door quietly. It was interesting, he thought, that Rodrigo had come to the front door, so to speak, when he could have approached Grey unseen.
But he’d said the Obeah-man had sent him. Plainly he wanted it to be seen that he had obeyed his order. Which in turn meant that someone was likely watching to see that he had.
The logical conclusion would be that the same someone – or someones – was watching to see what Grey might do next.
His body had reached its own conclusions already, and was reaching for breeches and shirt before he had quite decided that if something was about to happen to Warren, it was
clearly his duty to stop it, zombies or not. He stepped out of the French doors onto the terrace, moving quite openly.
There was an infantryman posted at either end of the terrace, as he’d expected; Robert Cherry was nothing if not meticulous. On the other hand, the bloody sentries had plainly not seen Rodrigo entering his room, and he wasn’t at all pleased about that. Recriminations could wait, though; the nearer sentry saw him and challenged him with a sharp, ‘Who goes there?’
‘It’s me,’ Grey said briefly, and without ceremony, dispatched the sentry with orders to alert the other soldiers posted around the house, then send two men into the house, where they should wait in the hall until summoned.
Grey himself then went back into his room, through the inner door, and down the dark service corridor. He found a dozing black servant behind a door at the end of it, minding the fire under the row of huge coppers that supplied hot water to the household.
The man blinked and stared when shaken awake, but eventually nodded in response to Grey’s demand to be taken to the governor’s bedchamber, and led him into the main part of the house and up a darkened stair lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tall casements. Everything was quiet on the upper floor, save for slow, regular snoring coming from what the slave said was the governor’s room.
The man was swaying with weariness; Grey dismissed him, with orders to let in the soldiers who should now be at the door, and send them up. The man yawned hugely, and Grey watched him stumble down the stairs into the murk of the hall below, hoping he would not fall and break his neck. The house was very quiet. He was beginning to feel somewhat foolish. And yet . . .
The house seemed to breathe around him, almost as though it were a sentient thing, and aware of him. He found the fancy unsettling.
Ought he to wake Warren? he wondered. Warn him? Question him? No, he decided. There was no point in disturbing the man’s rest. Questions could wait for the morning.
A Trail of Fire Page 16
