Thomas Hoover - Caribbee

The young man blushed in the dark and busily studied the horizon. Juan Jose stood watching him for a moment, wondering if he had been that transparent thirty-some years past, then turned and began descending the steps, his boots ringing hard against the stone.

The knapsack was at the side wall, near the door, and as he bent over to begin searching for the clay stem of his pipe he caught the movement of a shadow along the stone lintel. Suddenly it stopped.

''Que pasa?" He froze and waited for an answer.

Silence. Now the shadow was motionless.

His musket, and Hipolito's, were both leaning against the far wall, near the stairs. Then he remembered…

Slowly, with infinite care, he slipped open the buckle on the knapsack and felt for his knife, the one with the long blade he used for skinning. His fingers closed about its bone handle, and he carefully drew it from its sheath. He raised up quietly and smoothly, as though stalking a skittish calf, and edged against the wall. The shadow moved again, tentatively, and then a massive black form was outlined against the doorway.

Un negro!

Whose could it be? There were no more than forty or fifty slaves on the whole of Jamaica, brought years ago to work on the plantations. But the cane fields were far away, west of Rio Minho and inland. The only negro you ever saw this far east was an occasional domestic.

Perhaps he was a runaway? There was a band of Maroons, free negros, now living in the mountains. But they kept to themselves. They did not come down onto the plain to steal.

The black man stood staring at him. He did not move, merely watched as though completely unafraid.

Then Juan Jose saw the glint of a wide blade, a cutlass, in the moonlight. This was no thief. Who was he? What could he want?

"Senor, stop." He raised his knife. "You are not permitted…"

The negro moved through the doorway, as though not understanding. His blade was rising, slowly.

Juan Jose took a deep breath and lunged.

He was floating, enfolded in Margarita's soft bosom, while the world turned gradually sideways. Then he felt a pain in his knee as it struck against the stone-oddly, that was his first sensation, and he wondered fleetingly if it would still be stiff when he mounted his mare in the morning. Next he noticed a dull ache in the side of his neck, not sharp but warm from the blood. He felt the knife slip away, clattering onto the stone paving beyond his reach, and then he saw the moon, clear and crisp, suspended above him in the open sky. Next to it hovered Hipolito, his frightened eyes gazing down from the head of the stair. The eyes held dark brown for a second, then turned red, then black.

"Meu Deus, you have killed him!" A woman's voice pierced the dark. She was speaking in Portuguese as she moved through the door behind the tall negro.

Hipolito watched in terrified silence, too afraid even to breathe. Behind the negro and the woman were four other men, whispering in Ingles, muskets poised. He realized both the guns were still down below, and besides, how could…

"The whoreson tried to murder me with his damnable knife." The man drew up the cutlass and wiped its blood against the leather coat of Juan Jose, sprawled at his feet.

"We were not to kill unless necessary. Those were your orders."

The negro motioned for quiet and casually stepped over the body, headed for the stairs.

Mother of God, no! Hipolito drew back, wanting to cry out, to flee. But then he realized he was cornered, like an animal.

Now the negro was mounting the stairs, still holding the sword, the woman directly behind him.

Why, he wondered, had a woman come with them. These could not be ordinary thieves; they must be corsario luterano, heretic Protestant flibustero of the sea. Why hadn't he seen their ship? They must have put in at Esquebel, the little bay down the western shore, then come up by the trail. It was five miles, a quick climb if you knew the way.

But how could they have known the road leading up to the vigia? And if these were here, how many more were now readying to attack the fort at Caguaya, just to the north? The bells…!

He backed slowly toward the small tower and felt blindly for the rope. But now the huge figure blotted out the moon as it moved toward him. Fearfully he watched the shadow glide across the paving, inching nearer, a stone at a time. Then he noticed the wind blowing through his hair, tousling it across his face, and he would have pushed it back save he was unable to move. He could taste his own fear now, like a small copper tlaco in his mouth.

The man was raising his sword. Where was the rope! Mother of God!

"Nao." The woman had seized the negro's arm, was pulling him back. Hipolito could almost decipher her Portuguese as she continued, "Suficiente. No more killing."

Hipolito stepped away from the bell tower. "Senor, por favor…"

The man had paused, trying to shake aside the woman. Then he said something, like a hard curse.

Hipolito felt his knees turn to warm butter and he dropped forward, across the stones. He was crying now, his body shivering from the hard, cold paving against his face.

"Just tie him." The woman's voice came again. "He is only a boy."

The man's voice responded, in the strange language, and Hipolito thought he could feel the sword against his neck. He had always imagined he would someday die proudly, would honor Elvita by his courage, and now here he was, cringing on his belly. They would find him like this. The men in the vineyards would joke he had groveled before the Protestant ladrones like a dog.

"I will stay and watch him, and this place. Leave me two muskets." The woman spoke once more, then called out in Ingles. There were more footsteps on the stairs as the other men clambered up.

"Why damn me, 'tis naught but a lad," a voice said in Ingles, "sent to do a man's work."

"He's all they'd need to spy us, have no fear. I'll wager 'twould be no great matter to warn the fort. Which is what he'll be doin' if we…

"Senor, how do you signal the fort?" The woman was speaking now, in Spanish, as she seized Hipolito's face and pulled him up. "Speak quickly, or I will let them kill you."

Hipolito gestured vaguely toward the two bells hanging in the tower behind.

"Take out the clappers, then tie him." The woman's voice came again, now in Ingles. "The rest of you ready the lanterns."

The dugout canoes had already been launched, bobbing alongside the two frigates anchored on the sea side of the Cayo de Carena. Directly ahead of them lay the Point, overlooking the entry to Jamaica Bay.

Katherine felt the gold inlay of the musket's barrel, cold and hard against her fingertips, and tried to still her pulse as she peered through the dim moonlight. Up the companionway, on the quarterdeck, Winston was deep in a final parlay with Guy Bartholomew of the Swiftsure. Like all the seamen, they kept casting anxious glances toward a spot on the shore across the bay, just below the vigia, where the advance party would signal the all-clear with lanterns.

The last month had not been an easy time. After the death of Jacques le Basque, Tortuga was plunged into turmoil for a fortnight, with the English and French boucaniers at Basse Terre quarreling violently over the island's future. There had nearly been war. Finally Bartholomew and almost a hundred and fifty seamen had elected to join Winston in his attempt to seize a new English privateering base at Jamaica. But they also demanded the right to hold Villa de la Vega for ransom, as Jackson had done so many years before. It was the dream of riches that appealed to them most, every man suddenly fancying himself a second Croesus. Finally Winston and Bartholomew had drawn up Articles specifying the division of spoils, in the tradition of the boucaniers.