Part 48 (1/2)
He paused at the first step and tried to think how he would begin. For no reason at all he found himself staring up at the stars. The heavens in the Caribbees always reminded him of one dusk, many years ago, when he had first seen London from afar--a jewel box of tiny sparklers hinting of riches, intrigues, delicious secrets. What waited there amidst those London lights, he had pondered, those thousands of flickering candles and cab lanterns? Was it as joyful as it seemed? Or was misery there too, as deep and irreducible as his own?
That answer never came. But now this canopy of stars above the Caribbees mantled a place of strife and despair wrenching as man could devise.
He gently pushed open the split-log door and slipped through. The back hallway was narrow and unlighted, but its walls were shadowed from the blaze of distant candles. He remembered that Anthony always lit extra tapers when he was morose, as though the burning wicks might somehow rekindle his own spirit.
As he moved through the rough-hewn archway leading into the main room, he saw the seated figure draw back with a start and reach for the pistol lying on the table.
”By G.o.d, what . . .”
Suddenly the chair was kicked away, and the man was rus.h.i.+ng forward with open arms. ”Jeremy! G.o.d's life, it's you! Where in heaven's name have you been?” Anthony wrapped him in his arms. ”We heard you'd been taken by Morris and the Roundheads.” He drew back and gazed in disbelief and joy. ”Are you well, lad? Were you wounded?”
”I've been with Admiral Calvert on the _Rainbowe_.” He heard his own voice, and its sound almost made him start.
”You've been . . .?” Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly. ”Then you managed to escape! Did you commandeer a longboat? For the love of G.o.d, lad, what happened?”
What happened?
He almost laughed at the question. Would that any man ever knew, he found himself thinking. What ever ”happens” . . . save that life flows on, of its own will, and drags you with it w.i.l.l.y-nilly?
Without a word he carefully settled his flintlock in the corner, next to the rack that held Anthony's own guns--three matchlocks and two flintlocks--and slumped into a vacant chair by the table. ”I've a thirst.” He glanced distractedly about the room, barely remembering it.
For the past two days--now it seemed like an entire age--life had been a s.h.i.+p. ”Is there brandy?”
”Aye, there's a flask in the sideboard, as always.” Anthony examined him curiously. Jeremy rarely drank anything stronger than Madeira wine.
”What is it, lad? For G.o.d's sake let's have it. All of it.”
With a tankard in his hand, Jeremy discovered that the first part of the story fairly tumbled forth--the Roundhead captain he had killed, the anger, the dismay, the loose discipline of the men in the trench.
He even managed to confess straight out the circ.u.mstances of his capture, that he had ignored the call to retreat, only to have his musket misfire. Finally he reached the part where he first met Admiral Calvert. Then the tale seemed to die within him.
”Well, lad, what happened next? You say Morris knew who you were?”
”Aye, and he spoke of you.” Jeremy looked at his brother. ”With considerable respect, to tell it truthfully.”
”A Roundhead schemer, that's d.i.c.k Morris, who'd not speak the truth even if he knew how.” Anthony leaned forward and examined his tankard.
”But I'm beginning to grow fearful he may have the last say in this matter, truth or no.” He looked up. ”What did you see of their forces, lad? Can they mount another landing?”
”They can. They will. They've got the Dutch provisions,
and Calvert claims they could hold out for weeks. But he says he'll not wait. He plans to invade.”
”Aye, I'd feared as much. If he does, I say G.o.d help us. This d.a.m.ned militia is plagued with more desertions every day. These freeholders seem to think they've done all they need, after Jamestown. They're saying let somebody else fight the next time, when there isn't anybody else. We're having trouble keeping enough men called up just to man the breastworks.” He scratched at his eye-patch distractedly. ”I suppose we can still meet them if they try another a.s.sault, but it'll be a pitched battle, as G.o.d is my witness.”
Jeremy drank off the tankard, rose, and walked shakily to the sideboard. The onion-flask of brandy was still over half full. He wished he could down it all, then and there. ”I heard their plans from Admiral Calvert.” He finished pouring and set down the bottle. After a deep drink he moved back to his chair, without meeting Anthony's gaze.
”I would all the a.s.sembly and Council could have heard what he said.”
”What did that Roundhead criminal do? Threaten you, and then send you home in hopes you'd somehow cozen me?” Anthony looked up. ”Jeremy, that man's a base traitor to his king. His father was in Charles' court, and Edmond Calvert was knighted for no more cause than being George Calvert's son. Then when Prince Rupert and the navy declared their support for the king, he took his s.h.i.+p and defected to Parliament. . .
”It wasn't a threat.”
Suddenly the words came again. Out poured Calvert's story of Cromwell's plans for the island if it defied him. The a.s.sembly and Council would be dismissed and Powlett set up as governor. A garrison would be installed. Moreover, Powlett might well see fit to reward loyal Puritan islanders with the estates of recalcitrant royalists. Anthony Walrond stood to lose all his acres, again.