Thomas Hoover: Caribbee

"Jacques, I told you no." The dull click of a misfire sounded across the morning mist.

By now le Basque's own pistol was in his hand, primed and cocked, a part of him. Its flare opened a path through the dark between them.

But the young Englishman was already moving, driven by purest rage. He dropped to his side with a twist, an arm stretching for the fire. Then his fingers touched what he sought, and closed about the glassy neck of the shattered flask. It seared his hand, but in his fury he paid no heed. The ragged edges sparkled against the flames as he found his footing, rising as the wide arc of his swing pulled him forward.

Le Basque stumbled backward to avoid the glass, growling a French oath as he sprawled across a stack of green brush. An instant later the pile of burning logs suddenly crackled and sputtered, throwing a shower of sparks. Then again.

God help them, the young man thought, they're firing from the longboat. They must assume…

He turned to shout a warning seaward, but his voice was drowned in the eruption of gunfire from the camouflage along the shore. The three seamen in the boat jerked backward, all still gripping their smoking muskets, then splashed into the bay. Empty, the craft veered sideways and in moments was drifting languorously back out to sea.

Many times in later years he tried to recall precisely what had happened next, but the events always merged, a blur of gunfire. As he dashed for the surf, trailed by le Basque's curses, the dugouts began moving out, muskets spitting random flashes. He looked up to see the stout woman at the rail of the frigate brush at her face, then slump sideways into her startled husband's arms.

He remembered too that he was already swimming, stroking toward the empty boat, when the first round of cannon fire from the ship sounded over the bay, its roar muffled by the water against his face. Then he saw a second cannon flare… and watched the lead canoe dissolve into spray and splinters.

The others were already turning back, abandoning the attack, when he grasped the slippery gunwale of the longboat, his only hope to reach the ship. As he strained against the swell, he became dimly aware the firing had stopped.

Memories of the last part were the most confused. Still seething with anger, he had slowly pulled himself over the side, then rolled onto the bloodstained planking. Beside him lay an English wool cap, its maker's name still lettered on the side. One oar rattled against its lock. The other was gone.

He remembered glancing up to see seamen in the ship's rigging begin to swivel the yards, a sign she was coming about. Then the mainsail snapped down and bellied against a sudden gust.

Damn them. Wait for me.

Only a hundred yards separated them now, as the longboat continued to drift seaward. It seemed a hundred yards, though for years afterward he wondered if perhaps it might have been even less. What he did remember clearly was wrenching the oar from the lock and turning to begin paddling toward the ship.

That was when the plume of spray erupted in front of him. As he tumbled backward he heard the unmistakable report of the ship's sternchaser cannon.

He could never recollect if he had actually called out to them. He did remember crouching against the gunwale, listening to the volleys of musket fire from seamen along the ship's taffrail.

Several rounds of heavy lead shot had torn through the side of the longboat, sending splinters against his face. When he looked out again, the frigate was hoisting her lateen sail, ready to run for open sea.

The line of musketmen was still poised along the rail, waiting. Beside them was the family: the man was hovering above the stout woman, now laid along the deck, and with him was the girl.

Only then did he notice the heat against his cheek, the warm blood from the bullet cut. He glanced back at the fire, even more regretful he hadn't killed Jacques le Basque. Someday, he told himself, he would settle the score. His anger was matched only by his disgust with the English.

Only one person on the ship seemed to question what had happened. The girl looked down at the woman for a long, sad moment, then glanced back, her tresses splayed in the morning wind. His last memory, before he lapsed into unconsciousness, was her upraised hand, as though in farewell.

No sooner had their carriage creaked to a halt at the edge of the crowd than a tumult of cheers sounded through the humid morning air. With a wry glance toward the man seated opposite, Katherine Bedford drew back the faded curtains at the window and craned to see over the cluster of planters at the water's edge, garbed in their usual ragged jerkins, gray cotton breeches, and wide, sweat-stained hats. Across the bay, edging into view just beyond the rocky cliff of Lookout Point, were the tattered, patched sails of the Zeelander, a Dutch trader well known to Barbados.

"It's just rounding the Point now." Her voice was hard, with more than a trace of contempt. "From here you'd scarcely know what their cargo was. It looks the same as always."

As she squinted into the light, a shaft of Caribbean sun candled her deep-blue eyes. Her long ringlet curls were drawn back and secured with a tiara of Spanish pearls, a halfhearted attempt at demureness spoiled by the nonchalant strands dangling across her forehead. The dark tan on her face betrayed her devotion to the sea and the sun; although twenty-three years of life had ripened her body, her high cheeks had none of the plump, anemic pallor so prized in English women.

"Aye, but this time she's very different, Katy, make no mistake. Nothing in the Americas will ever be the same again. Not after today." Governor Dalby Bedford was across from her in the close, airless carriage, angrily gripping the silver knob of his cane. Finally he bent forward to look too, and for a moment their faces were framed side by side. The likeness could scarcely have been greater: not only did they share the same intense eyes, there was a similar high forehead and determined chin. "Damned to them. It's a shameful morning for us all."

"Just the same, you've got to go down and be there." Though she despised the thought as much as he did, she realized he had no choice. The planters all knew Dalby Bedford had opposed the plan from the beginning, had argued with the Council for weeks before arrangements were finally made with the Dutch shippers. But the vote had gone against him, and now he had to honor it accordingly.

While he sat watching the Zeelander make a starboard tack, coming about to enter the bay, Katherine leaned across the seat and pulled aside the opposite curtain. The hot wind that suddenly stirred past was a sultry harbinger of the coastal breeze now sweeping up the hillside, where field after identical field was lined with rows of tall, leafy stalks, green and iridescent in the sun.

The new Barbados is already here, she thought gloomily. The best thing now is to face it.

Without a word she straightened her tight, sweaty bodice, gathered her wrinkled skirt, and opened the carriage door. She waved aside the straw parasol that James, their Irish servant and footman, tried to urge on her and stepped into the harsh midday sun. Dalby Bedford nodded at the crowd, then climbed down after.

He was tall and, unlike his careless daughter, always groomed to perfection. Today he wore a tan waistcoat trimmed with wide brown lace and a white cravat that matched the heron-feather plume in his wide-brimmed hat. Over the years, the name of Dalby Bedford had become a byword for freedom in the Americas: under his hand Barbados had been made a democracy, and virtually independent of England. First he had convinced the king's proprietor to reduce rents on the island, then he had created an elected Assembly of small freeholders to counter the high-handed rule of the powerful Council. He had won every battle, until this one.