My anger boiled up. ‘Billy, if you hadn’t forced me to be a slave owner, none of this would’ve happened!’
‘So it’s my fault, is it?’ A familiar steely glint returned to Billy’s expression.
‘Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know, Billy. But I don’t think he would’ve gone if he hadn’t been furious with me. He believes I betrayed our friendship and running off to Toussaint was a way of getting back at me. But that’s not all: he really supports the cause even if he knows he can’t be much use to an army.’
‘Lord save us from idealists,’ Billy said with a hint of bitterness. ‘The boy’s a fool and you’re a fool for carin’.’
‘But can you help me find him?’
Billy toyed with his glass for a moment. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Cat – but no promises.
Having wrung this much out of Billy, I congratulated myself on a good evening’s work. With his contacts through the captain, he might be able to discover which ship Pedro had taken and thus give me a hint of his destination port. I was hoping that I could get a message to Pedro – or even go myself – to beg him not to throw his life away. I had no doubt that the slave revolt would soon be forcibly crushed and Pedro simply had to be safe before that happened – I would accept no other outcome.
It took me a while to shake off my worries but nothing focuses the mind quite like the prospect of going on stage. As I shed my street clothes in the dressing room backstage, I felt as if I was putting down my burdens for a short space and putting on only the concerns bound up with the play and performance.
Curtain up for The Recruiting Officer and already my mood was much lighter. My character, Sylvia, was a sharp-tongued girl who ignored all obstacles in her way: just the kind of driving spirit that I needed in my plan to bring Pedro back. You couldn’t stay gloomy for long in Sylvia’s company.
I was well into the swing of the third act when I sensed a disturbance down in the Pit. A party of gentlemen had shouldered their way in – late, of course – and were drawing attention away from the stage with their noise. I risked a sideways look but could see nothing clearly over the glare of the footlights. But the next time I opened my mouth for a speech, someone hissed. Shocked, not clear what I had done to attract an unfavourable reception, I carried on, determined not to let this unsettle me. It got worse: the hissing became booing, and then by my last speech in that scene I was struck between the shoulder blades by a missile. From the crunch underfoot and the wetness dripping down my neck, I realized I’d been hit by an egg.
A rotten egg.
A wave of shame and anger swept through me. I’d played Sylvia several times to great applause so why had part of the audience turned against me this time? From their expressions I could tell that the other actors were as perplexed as I by the reaction, though none wanted to risk getting too close to me as the missiles continued to fly. Every new speech became a torture, each new scene a nightmare. I wanted to run and hide but my gut told me to stay and brazen it out like a professional. And though I stayed, my dreams of theatrical success collapsed around me like a badly built set.
I broke ranks to avoid the curtain call, hiding in the back row near the wings. I remained for one company bow only, then ran for the dressing room.
‘Everyting all right, missis?’ Jenny asked calmly as I entered. She had been backstage all evening and missed the rumpus out front.
‘No, it isn’t. I was hissed, Jenny. Me, hissed!’ I ripped a seam as I hauled my arms out of the dress.
‘Easy now.’ Jenny undid the laces to loosen the bodice. ‘Do not worry: dere is always tomorrow.’
‘But I didn’t do anything wrong! It was the same as usual until some gentlemen came in late, then the trouble started.’
‘Maybe dey not like you.’ Jenny shrugged, not understanding how public appreciation was the very lifeblood of an actress. Not to be liked was fatal to a career.
Georgie burst in and gathered me into a hug. ‘You poor darling! What was that all about?’
‘I don’t know. Did I make a mistake? Insult someone somehow?’ I sent my hairpins flying all over the floor as I shook out my braids. My face looked parchment white in the mirror.
Mrs Peabody bustled into the dressing room. I groaned. That was all I needed.
‘Mr Garrick would never have put up with a display like that! Most unmannerly behaviour from the gentlemen of Kingston,’ she snapped to the room at large before bearing down on me. ‘Who have you upset, Miss Royal?’
‘No one, as far as I know.’ There had been no inkling that my visit to the Obeah man had leaked out, so what other cause could there be for displeasure? I’d done little but rehearse and act since coming ashore.
‘Delivery for Missy Royal,’ called the porter over the buzz of speculation in the dressing room.
Perhaps the evening was looking up? I could do with the consolation of another gift. Wrapping my robe around me, I went to the door to receive my parcel. It was a beautiful box tied with a bow.
‘That’s more like it!’ said Georgie, appearing at my shoulder. ‘See, not everyone was against you this evening. Go on, open it.’
With a smile, I plucked on the long end of the bow and let the ribbon fall to the floor. Levering off the lid, I peered inside – and promptly dropped the box.
‘Disgusting!’ Georgie expressed my thoughts exactly. My beautiful box contained fresh horse manure. She swept the box up and shoved it into the arms of the porter. ‘Take this away at once.’
I’d felt humiliated on stage, but now I was just plain furious. I snatched up the card that had fallen to the floor with the bow.
With fond memories from our time in London. Kingston Hawkins.
I might’ve guessed. For the first time since Pedro had run away, I was glad my friend was far from me. I hadn’t done anything wrong tonight: the fault lay over a year ago when I had forced Hawkins to free Pedro. Now the slave master was out for revenge.
* But I’ll tell you, Reader: it happened one evening in Bermuda when I had a little more to drink than was good for me. I’ve learned my lesson (see Cat O’Nine Tails).
SCENE 2 – OLD MASTER
Georgie was all for complaining to the city authorities about Hawkins’ behaviour but I soon disabused her of the notion.
‘A practical joke, that’s all,’ I said dismissively. ‘They’ll laugh at you for reading any more into it than that.’
Hetty sponged the back of my costume, trying to remove the egg stain. ‘I think it’s disgraceful. He should be run out of town.’ She too had rallied to my side, not least because the attack had chiefly fallen on her domain of the wardrobe.
‘I rather think that’s his plan for me.’
‘Well, I for one hope that’s the last we’ll hear of it,’ Mrs Peabody said primly. ‘I can’t have my ensemble embroiled in disputes with the local gentry.’
‘Hardly a dispute, Mama,’ Hetty countered. ‘Cat did not provoke him; he attacked her.’
News of the insulting present had filtered through to the men’s dressing room. When Georgie and I emerged, we were besieged with offers to escort us home to our door. We accepted Jim’s arm and quickly left the building, Jenny walking with us. Two of my fellow actors and three of the stage crew fell in behind, self-appointed bodyguards. It was as well that they did because I could see Hawkins was waiting for me at the end of the alley, accompanied by a little gathering of his acquaintances.
‘What should we do?’ asked Jim, glancing at our back-up to weigh our chances.
‘Ignore him if we can,’ I replied. I was still wound up tight with fury. There was nothing to be ashamed of in my dealings with Hawkins: I’d beat him fair and square. He was just a sore loser. I would sail past him with my head held high.
‘Don’t worry, Jim, we’re with you,’ murmured Bert, the burly stage manager.
‘Georgie, perhaps you’d better stay back with Jenny,’ I suggested. I’d survived many a street fight but I doubted that she would know what to do if it came to
that.
She clasped her reticule firmly, knuckles white. ‘No, Cat, we’ll stay with you. I wanted adventure, remember?’
Jenny kept her head down but showed no sign of wishing to retreat either.
Trying to lead by example, I marched towards my reception committee, striking up an airy conversation about fashion with Georgie, for all the world as if there weren’t ten bruisers waiting for us.
‘When I was in Paris, they were wearing sleeves long,’ I trilled, quite unlike my normal self. ‘With lace. Lots of it.’
‘Oh, how fascinating,’ Georgie gushed nervously. ‘And did they favour plain or pattern silk?’
I was not given a chance to answer that all-important question for Mr Hawkins stepped forward to intercept us. He was an imposing man of forty or so, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and finely dressed, his cravat a testimony to the skills of his valet. Under one arm, he clasped a cane – not the same sword stick that had been tossed into the Thames on our last encounter, but I would not have been surprised to discover it too concealed a weapon. He was like that: a respectable exterior hiding a cruel centre. I gave him the cut direct, eyes sweeping over him as if he wasn’t there. But before I could pass, his hand snagged my arm.
‘Miss Royal, ain’t it? Welcome to Jamaica.’ Hawkins didn’t remove his hat as would have been polite on addressing a lady, and neither did he remove his hand.
‘Mr Hawkins,’ I said curtly, ‘please let go of me.’
He didn’t. ‘Got my boy with you?’ No beating about the bush with him.
‘What boy would that be, Mr Hawkins?’ I wrinkled my nose as if he bore the stink of the horse manure he had so kindly thought to send me. ‘I don’t believe I am acquainted with anyone you own.’
His grip tightened. ‘Pedro. He’s here, ain’t he? Never far from you so they tell me.’
Jim gave me a look asking if he should intervene. I shook my head slightly.
‘My friend Mr Pedro Amakye is otherwise engaged, sir, and happily beyond your reach. Now please, if you don’t mind, I wish to go home.’
‘Not yet. I have a few things to say to you, missy.’
‘But there is nothing I wish to hear from you. Goodnight.’
‘The lady’s made herself very clear,’ added Jim. ‘Good evening, sir.’
A tall man in a maroon waistcoat moved to stand beside Hawkins.
‘And my friend’s said he’s got something he wants to say, so I suggest you stand still, Yankee.’
In a swift move, Bert lunged and grabbed Hawkins’ wrist to twist it off my arm. ‘And you heard us say “get lost”. Miss Cat don’t have to listen to no one.’
My whole body was tense, ready for flight. I could see the signs: this confrontation had all the hallmarks of a conversation about to descend into fisticuffs. The men were spoiling for it: you could tell from the clenched fists and challenging glares – Hawkins’ nine to my escort of six. And if the local militia was called in to break it up, I could imagine whose side they would take: locals against travelling players – no contest.
I decided to try and redirect Hawkins’ ire towards me and away from my protectors. Far better to leave this as an exchange of insults than blows.
I stepped between Hawkins and Jim. ‘As you are so fond of messages, Mr Hawkins, maybe you could write me a note?’ I said sweetly, giving him my most cloying smile. ‘You might find it helpful to put things down on paper, particularly when it appears you have much to get off your chest.’
My supporters chuckled. ‘Good idea,’ grinned Bert, letting go of Hawkins and giving him a little shove out of my path. ‘That’s settled that then.’
‘No, it damn well ain’t settled!’ growled Hawkins, brandishing his cane at Bert. ‘You’ll pay dearly for touching me, you scum!’ His men jostled behind him, each trying to gain a good position for the approaching brawl. So much for redirection: I’d only managed to inflame them. Georgie shrank against Jim, Jenny practically clinging to her skirts.
Just as I thought the touchpaper to this particular explosion was about to be lit, a newcomer strolled into the alley, whistling a tune from the play. He touched his hat lazily to Hawkins.
‘Evening, Hawkins.’ Billy then turned to me with a fiendish smile. ‘Miss Royal.’ He bowed.
‘Mr Shepherd.’ I bobbed a curtsey. Did he realize how close this was to an all-out fight? Of course he did: that was why he looked so amused.
‘I see you’ve been renewing old acquaintances,’ he remarked, gesturing towards Hawkins.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘Shepherd, I suggest you tell your little hoyden to get the hell out of Jamaica,’ Hawkins said through clenched teeth.
Billy laughed. ‘If you are under the impression that Miss Royal will do anything I say then I suggest you think again. She has spent the last ten years defying me and become very skilled at it.’
‘If you don’t make her leave, then I will.’ Hawkins tapped his cane on the palm of his hand.
Billy turned towards him, occupying the ground in between the two parties. ‘I think, Hawkins, we discussed this before. I told you then no one harms her without my say-so.’
Hawkins swung his cane between finger and thumb in a gesture reminiscent of a cat flicking an angry tail. ‘That was then. We were on your territory, if memory serves; now you’re on mine and I will not let that slave-loving bit of dirt contaminate my town.’
‘Contaminate!’ I burst out. ‘I’m not the one sending boxes of horse dung around town, you snivelling excuse for a gentleman!’
Billy scratched his chin. ‘Like that, is it? I don’t suppose, Hawkins, that it’s a good time to remind you of a mortgage held over certain properties?’
Hawkins glanced nervously at his companions. ‘That has nothing to do with it.’
‘But I only like doing business with men I can trust. And I’d be seriously displeased if something happened to my little ray of sunshine here. I grant you she’s wrong-headed about most things but I find her amusing. I wouldn’t want to have my pleasures cut short. Do you understand?’
A pulse ticked at the corner of Hawkins’ eye, betraying his fury. ‘I understand. But I can’t be answerable for everything that happens to her while she’s here. She has a talent for making enemies.’
‘Oh, don’t I know it.’ Billy took the cane from Hawkins’ rigid fingers and slipped out the knife concealed in the handle. ‘Good bit of work that.’ He tossed it in the air and caught it deftly. ‘If something does happen, if she breaks so much as a fingernail, and the trail leads to your door, you’d better hope you’re not home when I come calling. Goodnight.’ He thrust the cane back into Hawkins’ arms and strode off, tipping his hat to Georgie and me.
With Billy’s departure, all the fight seemed to have gone out of the remaining men. With a murderous look in my direction, Hawkins stalked away, barking at his party to follow.
Jim patted my hand. ‘Good to see you’ve got powerful friends, Cat.’
I grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t call him that exactly. He’s more like the lion driving the vultures from his kill. He’s very territorial about me – we grew up together,’ I added, by way of explanation.
The next few days of the run were nerve-racking. I feared a repeat of the humiliation at the hands of a hostile crowd, adding ten-fold to my stage fright before the curtain rose. Bert had promised to warn me if he spotted Hawkins in the audience again, but to my great relief the slave master did not return. I couldn’t wait for the end of our engagements in Jamaica and the transfer to a new island.
Friday morning’s rehearsal was interrupted by the arrival of a note carried by one of Captain Bonaventure’s crew, a rascal who rejoiced under the nickname of Hog for obvious reasons when you saw his flat nose. It looked like someone had sat on his face, and perhaps they had: it was a rough life on the Medici.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said in French, ‘I’m to wait for an answer.’
I stepped aside from the hurly-burly on stage to break the seal.
The writing was a scrawl but just about legible.
My dear Moggy,
I have no doubt that you will be amazed to hear that I’ve been working hard on your behalf. Thanks to my great talent for greasing the right palms, I found out that your friend shipped out on a fishing boat run by Jamaican smugglers. They’re running guns and men to the rebels on San Domingo, so it looks like your guess was correct and your friend intended to add his ha’penny worth to the fight. Bad news is that the boat is captained by a rogue called Tivern. He is as like to chuck Blackie overboard as deliver him safely. If your friend entrusted him with a message for you, don’t hold your breath: you’ll never get it.
Let me know by return what you want to do now.
Ever your old friend,
Billy
P.S. Don’t say I never do anything for you. I’ll come by to collect my reward.
Reward? I didn’t like the sound of that, but I had no time to worry about it now. The news about Pedro was worse than I had imagined: in his desperation to do something, Pedro had fallen in with a band of piratical smugglers. But what could I do to save him now? He was long gone – either over the side or well on his way to San Domingo. No, he wasn’t dead – I refused to consider that possibility, not till I knew for certain.
I read the message through again, trying to make up my mind. Was it my responsibility to rescue Pedro from himself? This wasn’t like the occasion in London when he had been seized by his old master, Hawkins: then he had been blameless. He had needed rescuing. This time he’d headed off on his grand quest without so much as a goodbye. He’d not even honoured his promise to me! If he lived to regret his choice, then so be it: he’d made his bed and now had to lie in it. He couldn’t expect me to abandon my chance to succeed as an actress by going on some hopeless errand in pursuit. I’d made friends and enjoyed my first success so I had no desire to leave the camaraderie of the troupe behind.
Black Heart of Jamaica Page 11
