I added, “And you will stay here. This will always be your home.”
“Besides,” Grant said with a smile, “I don’t know the first thing about farming.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “We need your help. Teach us to farm; teach us how to make Rosewing better than the rest.”
…Part Two…
Grenada, Ten Years Later
Chapter 24
Trouble in the Tavern
From the farm on the mountainside, we could see the lively town of St. George’s, and behind it, the never-ending Caribbean Sea. The sky and ocean mirrored each other; the burning sun teased its trembling reflection with splashes of orange, pink, and yellow. Far off, the edges of blue touched to create the horizon’s seam. As the western ocean swallowed the daylight, we finished our labor and spoke of evening plans.
Grant told me he was going to Cod Fish Tavern after working the fields. Cod Fish had become his favorite establishment. It was the largest of all the pubs in St. George’s, owned and operated by an old fisherman from the north. For a mere half piece of eight, a patron could rent a room for the night. When Grant asked if I wanted to join him, I declined.
“Why not?” he asked, following me into the barn.
“I just don’t feel like the company of drunkards tonight.” I began hanging the tools while Grant unrolled the tethers and reins for tomorrow’s trip to the market. The black horse, named Teach, and the white one, Morgan, neighed and snorted in their stalls.
“Come now, Jacob. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you enjoy yourself. You aren’t happy.”
My anger had grown with each passing year. Many things reminded me of my early life: the farms, the market, and the jostling crowds. The customs of the Grenadine people were very much like my trading village in Cuba. Whenever a mother and child passed me, I would feel an old pain flutter within me. Hearing the slur of drunken beggars or the cackling laugh of ill-mannered seamen made me recall the sounds of L’Ollon’s men reveling on the deck.
“It’s the dreams, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re dreaming of your father again.”
I nodded. The long and restless nights were awful for me, and my fatigue and anger made my imaginings darken. My hands never forgot the feeling of stabbing Jean L’Ollon. In my remembrance of that day, my mind replaced L’Ollon with my father. Yes, I imagined killing my father. I imagined this more and more, and when I did, I felt satisfied; only then could I sleep. “I don’t mean to burden you.”
“No worries. You’ve got to fight it. The best way to overcome the darkest of nights is to have the brightest of days. You have to do things that make you happy and when you lay your head to rest, you’ll do so smiling and then, my friend, you’ll sleep peacefully.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.” He smiled playfully. “Come to the Cod Fish. I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll see if there are any lonely barmaids interested in the company of two seafaring nobles.”
The sailors enjoyed talking with him in the pubs, and the ladies gathered around to hear his tales of thieving as a youth.
“Still living in a fantasy, I see.”
“Just having the brightest of days.”
In a decade’s time, we had grown to become strong men. My arms were solid with lean muscle, and my hands had become tough and leathery from farming. My skin was bronzed and my short brown hair bleached with swirls of gold from the merciless Grenadine sun. My face wore constant brown stubble; I was not very good at shaving. Having agreed to accompany Grant to the tavern, I changed into a clean white shirt that laced below the collar with long sleeves. With this I wore a black belt, loose brown pants, and pigskin shoes.
Grant was a few inches taller than me. He had let his red hair grow to become a fiery, curly mane which he seldom tied back. He loved to stand out in a crowd, and I was not surprised when he chose to wear his favorite scarlet blouse. It had gold embroidery along the blooming cuffs and wavy hem. His brown belt tapered the red garment around his waist, and his tight black pants tucked into his floppy brown boots. The sunlight gleamed off an oversized, brass belt buckle, and he carried a short sword on his hip. He looked like the grandest of pirates.
After changing into clean clothes, we saddled our horses and rode to town. Only a sliver of the sun remained above the horizon. One by one, the stars ignited and glimmered softly over the island. St. George’s refused to rest. Lanterns burned and the orange light dispelled the thickening shadows. Candles lit in windows and the bright glow from household hearths made every home look warm and inviting.
Grenada was peaceful. The French were kind and intelligent. Many spoke fragments of English, enough for use in commerce. Each year, more and more English settlers inhabited the island. People came from all corners of the world to make Grenada their home, and with them came stories of far away lands. In the pubs I met folks from Portugal, Spain, Great Britain, Africa, South America, and even the Colonies.
A light burned outside Cod Fish Tavern, a beacon to the wayward or weary. We secured Teach and Morgan and stepped inside. Not much had changed in the establishment over the years.
Grant led me to the bar where two stools waited for us. He motioned for the barkeep. “Rum please, my good man!”
“Aye!” roared the barkeeper. “Anything for the Lords of Rosewing…as long as you’ve brought some of your wealth to spend.”
With Martin and Anna’s help, Rosewing was renowned for producing the finest produce and spices on the entire island. Our prices were fair, our goods fresh, and we paid our workers well. At the markets, the people hurried to our stand.
Though we had become skilled farmers and successful businessmen, Grant never stopped fancying life at sea, and this passion won us many contracts with local seamen. Grant offered discounts to seafarers if they signed with Rosewing as their sole supplier. His knowledge of sailing and his cunning personality made him a talented businessman along the wharf.
~~~~~~
The barkeep set a carafe and two mugs in front of us. Grant poured my drink. I lifted the mug and took a few gulps of the harsh rum.
“This is awful,” I said. “I think I’ll ask for some wine.”
“Wine?” asked Grant disapprovingly. “You don’t go to a pub to sip wine.” He swallowed down the drink. “Rum is the only thing that’ll put wind in your sails.”
After two more drinks, he wobbled on his stool. “See, the ship’s swaying already.” He lifted his empty tankard.
“That’s enough for tonight, friend,” said the bartender. “Time to pay up.”
Grant wore a pouch of coins next to the short sword on his belt. He removed the pouch and dumped the contents. Silver reales and eights gleamed and every patron seemed to hear the chiming coins fall. The barkeep gathered up what was due and I gathered the rest.
“Put these away, you fool,” I snapped. “You know better than to flash around money like this.”
“No worries, it’s my money to flash. Bartender, give Jacob some wine, he’s a man of refined tastes.”
“Forget the wine. I think I should get this lout home.” I took Grant by the underarms and helped him off the stool. His legs were shaky and he leaned his weight on me for stability.
The sailors at the table to our left jeered. Grant heard their taunts and staggered to their table. He stood over the leader of the group. “You got something to say, rabble-rouser?”
“Get out o’ me face. I’ll send your floggin’ ass about the gravel in two shakes, rat!” yelled the seaman.
When I heard the man speak, I knew what he was. It became clear just how serious the situation could get.
“Two shakes? It’s going to take more than that to best me,” Grant slurred.
The men laughed. The leader stood up, a large man. I made my way to Grant’s side. The pirates saw my approach and glared at me. I stepped in front of Grant and faced the leader.
“Come to save the rat, have you?” asked the leader.
“Lik
e many in this place, he’s had too much to drink. Pardon his remarks and we shall pardon yours,” I said calmly. The entire room gathered around. The leader stepped closer to me, his dirty, sunburned face a mere inch from mine.
“Best do what he says,” Grant said. “’Cause Jacob’s killed far worse than you.”
“Grant,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “Silence.”
“That so?” hissed the pirate. “No one is worse than me.”
He shoved me hard. I stumbled backward and knocked into Grant. He fell, collapsing a table. Broken boards were strewn about the room. I staggered but remained on my feet. I turned to my attacker. His fist struck my face hard. A brilliant flash exploded behind my eyes as I fell.
Blood trickled over my lips, and when I tasted it, my anger inflamed. Though I was in the tavern, the scene changed in my mind. The crowded barroom melted, revealing a back alley and rocky dirt road. The man standing over me became Jean L’Ollon. I stood up, and he swung at me. I ducked and slammed my fist into his stomach. The barroom returned. The dirt road darkened to become the wooden planks of the tavern floor.
The leader recovered quickly from my punch. He rushed for me. The crowd was enjoying the brawl. I had nowhere to run and little space to move. Men gathered in a tight circle to watch the fight. A table was behind me, atop of which were some empty bottles. I grabbed one and gripped the neck tightly. He lunged forward; I sidestepped and smashed the bottle over his head. Glass shattered and filled the air. A shard tore the top of his head open and blood poured. He was dazed. I punched his face as hard as I could. Thick globs of blood sprayed into the crowd. My enemy fell, clutching his wounded head. There was a tremendous cheer from the crowd, but among their hollers of admiration, I heard Grant groaning as he struggled to get up. I lifted him out of the rubble.
“Sorry about all this,” he said wearily. Suddenly, he paled, his eyes fixed on something behind me. A strange silence filled the room.
I could smell the powder and felt the hard barrel jab into my back. The pirate spoke slow and clear. “The red-haired rat has a lot o’ money in that pouch o’ his. Give it to me and I might save me shot.”
I looked down at Grant’s belt. The pouch dangled next to his short sword. The sword!
“You try me patience. Give me the pouch.”
I took hold of the pouch.
“Hey! That’s mine,” Grant slurred drunkenly, about to pass out. His knees buckled.
As Grant collapsed, my hand shifted from the pouch to the hilt of his sword. I drew the blade from the scabbard and swung it fiercely behind me. The sword flashed yellow from the lantern light and a metallic chime rang out as the perfect edge sliced the air in a deadly whirl. The blade cut deeply into the pirate’s shoulder. He screamed in agony. The pistol fell and exploded. The shot blasted a hole in the wall behind us.
The feeling of the sword in my hand was empowering. An old remembrance swept over me. It had been many years since I had used a sword, but there was no awkwardness in me. The sword was my guide, a friend forged for protection.
My bloody enemy stood alone, defeated, his friends gone. Such is the way of pirates.
I moved forward, the sword driving me on. The pirate saw my advance and staggered backward, his face a crimson mask. He fell to his knees and cringed in terror as I held the sword aloft. What was I doing? An overwhelming fear seized my heart. I froze. I stood over my adversary as he clutched his awful wound. Blood pooled around us.
Noticing my apprehension, the others seized their mate and pulled him out of the tavern. I dropped the sword and walked away.
Chapter 25
The Old Man
I helped Grant mount my white horse, Morgan. I secured Teach’s reins to my saddle. The ride home was slow. The hour was late. Rain clouds had come and swept over the moon and stars, making the road dark. I held tightly to Grant and pulled Teach close behind. My drunken friend was beginning to fall asleep and it became difficult to ride and hold his weight in the saddle.
Once back at Rosewing, I let the horses roam and hoisted Grant over my shoulder. As I carried him to the front door, I heard a crackle in the surrounding forest. I stopped and peered into the dark. I heard the sound again. Someone, or something, was lurking in the forests of Rosewing. Our farm was a favorite target for all kinds of creatures, and over the years it was a constant battle to keep our crop safe. The noise was likely an animal.
I locked the doors and half-carried Grant to his bedroom. He collapsed on the bed muttering, “The cooper’s nail is never dull, ahoy.” I retired to my suite.
For an hour or so, I stared at my collection of paintings and let my thoughts trail. Living among the rich culture of Grenada, I had developed a profound interest in art. I often scoured the marketplace for new paintings, primarily interested in renderings of sea life. I had exquisite likenesses of sea turtles floating within rippling blue worlds and silver-gray dolphins cresting from serrated waves. I adored the paintings of tropical fish schooling around castles of coral. Yet my collection was not complete. I had canvases of nearly every creature dwelling in the sea, except for my Mermaiden.
I blamed myself for this evening’s events. How could I have let something like this happen? Our success as suppliers was contingent on our reputation. Grant and I must maintain our professionalism and keep the respect of the island. No seafarer or trading company would do business with ruffians or criminals. Grant’s careless drinking and constant reveling needed to cease. Had I not accompanied him, he might have been killed for a mere pouch of eights.
My comfortable bed eased my body. My eyelids grew heavy as the gentle pull of sleep began.
~~~~~~
The next morning, I found Grant standing on the front porch with a mug. The sun climbed over the fields and the dewy green land sparkled. The radiant ocean far below sent its salty aroma on the wind. Anna came out to greet us, carrying a tray. “Good morning, Jacob. I’ve brought you some hot tea.”
I thanked her as she poured me a cup. “How is Martin feeling today?”
“Oh, he is well enough. He always gets a cough this time of year. ‘Something in the air,’ he says, stubborn old goat.”
“He needs to rest,” I said firmly. “Make sure he relaxes today. I don’t want to see him in the fields. The help will arrive in an hour. There is no need for a man his age to be laboring the way he does.”
“You’re very kind, Jacob. But you know Martin. The work makes him happy. It’s just who he is.” She gathered the tea. “Let me worry about him. Breakfast will be ready soon.” Anna gave us a bright smile and went back inside.
I turned my attention to Grant. “And how are you feeling?”
“I feel like I got trampled by a horse. Other than that…”
“You must be careful, Grant. No one can know the truth, that we knew Jean L’Ollon. Don’t you understand what might happen to us if Grenada found out? We’d be cast away. We’d lose everything.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because you almost spoke of it last night.”
He offered no response, looking away in shame.
“Promise you’ll go easy with the rum.”
“I promise.”
“What’s in that mug?” I asked.
He looked into it and quickly emptied it over the side of the porch. “Nothing.”
We laughed and went in for breakfast.
~~~~~~
The Grenadine sun was hot over the farm. Grant set out to harvest the herb gardens. Around midday, I heard him call with urgency in his voice.
“Look there.” He pointed to footprints that trailed into the forest. “Did you walk this way last night?”
“No.” I bent down to study the tracks. “These were made by bare feet. I wore shoes.” I remembered the crackle from the shadows.
We decided to finish our work and forget about the mysterious footprints. Grant said it could have been a harmless thief picking our fields. He admitted to robbing farmers in his youth and claimed i
t was a common practice.
We loaded our market wagon and harnessed Teach and Morgan. It was off to St. George’s square, where the Lords of Rosewing were expected to bring the finest spices and produce.
Grant looked flamboyant in his scarlet garb; I remained comfortable in my plain white shirt. As we guided the horse-drawn wagon down the winding mountain road, we talked about business. Grant spoke of a prospective deal with a new company that had just arrived.
“They sailed into the harbor three days ago. Their company is called A.B.C. Trade Co.”
“That’s a rather unusual name.”
“It stands for Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao.”
Hearing the name of the small island of Curacao made my heart skip. I pushed back the memories of Shanley’s estate, the battle aboard the Obsidian, and the death of a father and son. “Curacao is an appalling place. I don’t want to do business with that island. We’ve had enough association with it.”
“I feel the same. However, they intend to sign with a Grenadine supplier before they set sail in four days. The contract is for one stop every three months. The pay is well worth our consideration. We can easily accommodate them. After they restock in Grenada, their trade route brings them west to Puerto Cabello, then of course, to Bonaire, Curacao, and lastly Aruba. The A.B.C. Trade Co diplomat said we could label our crates and barrels with the name J.G. Rosewing of Grenada, putting our name all over the Caribbean. This could mean big business for us, Jacob. At least consider it.”
He was right. It would be a successful deal and it warranted further consideration. “How long did you say they are in town?”
“Four days,” he replied. “The other farmers are fighting for the deal, but it is Rosewing that has the company intrigued.”
~~~~~~
At the base of the mountain trail, where the main road to town intersects, rested a worn and dirty man. Sitting on a stone, he clutched a knotted walking stick and lifted his head as our wagon approached. He had a rough face with deep brown eyes, eyes that were alert and calculating. He looked right at me. Though he looked to be in his late fifties, his forearms were solid and defined. His nose was twisted and bent, indicating that it had been broken several times. Our wagon was full of food and I thought of stopping to share some with him, but I hesitated, unsure of his intent.
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