Caribbee Part 41

He lay panting, at once dazed and exhilarated, astonished at the sensations of his own mind and body. The most curious thing of all was his marvelous new awareness of being alive; he was adrift in a new realm of the spirit, untroubled by the cacophony of musket discharges from all sides.

"We're turnin' the wh.o.r.esons back." There were more shouts now, even some cheers. Finally the din of battle cut through his reverie.

"Prepare to reload." He was shouting again, almost more to himself than to the others, trying to be heard above the crack of musket fire that sounded down the length of the sh.o.r.eline. Everywhere there were flashes, yells, screams. The air in the trench was rancid and opaque with black smoke.

As he began reloading his musket he suddenly felt a new closeness, almost a mystical union, with the ragged planters around him. They were a fraternity of men, standing together, defending their land. Why had Anthony never told him that war could be like this? Could teach you brotherhood as well as hate?

He was priming his powder pan again, trying to control the shake of his hands as he tilted the powder flask, when he looked up to see that more red tips were emerging from the darkness of the sea. Another wave of Roundhead infantry had landed in longboats.

There was no longer any purpose in calling out a loading sequence. Some men were priming now, some ramming in powder and shot, some threading their matchcord into the hammer, some firing again. All the discipline he had been taught so carefully by Anthony was irrelevant.

Most frightening of all, while the first wave of infantry had dropped back to reload, a fresh line of musketmen was advancing toward the parapet, guns primed and ready.

"Fire and fall back. In orderly fas.h.i.+on."

It was the voice of Anthony. The call to abandon the trench

meant that all the Roundhead infantry had landed. Now they were to be drawn inland with a feigned retreat.

The plan worked out was to resist strongly until all the infantry were ash.o.r.e, to damage them as much as possible using the protection of the parapet, and then to fall back into the trees, luring them away from their longboats. When their lines were thinned, Hugh Winston would lead a cavalry charge that would drive a wedge along the sh.o.r.e, between the infantry and the sea, cutting off their escape. Next the longboats would be driven off, and the invading infantry slowly surrounded. They would be hara.s.sed by irregular fire and, with luck, soon lose heart.

Cut off from their escape route, the demoralized invaders would have no choice but to surrender. Then, so the strategy went, Commander Morris and the admiral of the fleet would seek to negotiate.

Jeremy fired blindly into the dark, then reached down for his pike. As he touched it, his eyes met those of the dying freeholder lying beside him. Blood now streamed from a gash in the man's tattered jerkin, while a red rivulet flowed in pulses from the corner of his mouth. The sight flooded him with anger.

"No!" He heard himself yelling as he groped down his bandolier for another charge-holder. "No retreat." He turned to the startled men around him. "Reload. I say no retreat!"

"But that's the orders, Yor Wors.h.i.+p." A bearded militiaman had already begun to scramble up the back side of the trench.

"Devil take the orders. Look." He seized the militiaman's jerkin and yanked him back, then pointed to the dying freeholder at their feet.

"Aye, that's Roland Jenkins, may G.o.d rest his soul. I'm like to be the one tellin' his wife." The freeholder gave a quick glance. "But there's nothin' to be done, Yor Wors.h.i.+p. Orders are to retreat."

"And I say d.a.m.n the orders." He was yelling to all the men now. "There are men here, wounded and dying. I'm staying with them. What kind of soldiers are we, to leave these men to die? It's wrong. There're higher orders to be obeyed. I say no."

"An' we'll all end up like this poor sod, Yor Wors.h.i.+p. There's no helpin' a man who's gone to meet his G.o.d." The man threw his musket onto the fresh dirt at the bottom of the trench and turned to begin clambering to safety. "For my own part, I can do just as well not greetin' the Almighty for a few years more."

Jeremy seized his pike and marched down the trench. "I'll gut any man who tries to run. I'm in command here and I say we stand and fight. Now reload."

The men stared at him in disbelief.

"Do it, I say." He brandished the pike once more for emphasis, then flung it down and seized a charge-holder on his bandolier. Without so much as a glance at the other men, he began pouring the grainy black powder into the barrel of his musket.

The world was suddenly a white, deafening roar.

Later he remembered mainly the flash, how as the smoke seared his eyes he recalled his own negligence, that he had forgotten to scour the barrel. It was a fool's mistake, a child's mistake. He was still wiping his eyes, seared and powder-burned, when he felt the musket being ripped from his hands. As he groped to seize it back, rough hands shoved him sprawling against the soft dirt of the trench. His face plowed into the earth, which still smelled fresh, musky and ripe, full of budding life.

"We've got another one, sor." A brash voice sounded near his ear. "A right c.o.xcomb, this rebel."

"d.a.m.n you." Jeremy struck out, only half aware of the cl.u.s.ter of infantrymen surrounding him.

"Just hold yourself, lad." There were shouts as several of the wounded militiamen were disarmed. He tried to struggle, but more hands brusquely wrestled him down. "This one's not taken any shot. He's lively as a colt. Let's have some of that rope."

He felt his arms being pulled behind him and a rough cord lashed around his wrists. There were sounds of a brief conference, then a voice came, kindly, almost at his ear.

"This is a first-cla.s.s fowling piece you're carrying. I'll wager you've brought down many a plump woodc.o.c.k with it, haven't you lad?" A pause, then again the gentle voice. "What's your name, son?"

"d.a.m.ned to you. What's your name?" There was a sickening hollowness in his gut again. The fear, and now hatred--for them, and for himself.

"It's better, for the time, if I ask the questions and you answer them." The voice emanated from a man wearing a silver helmet and sporting a short goatee. "Why didn't you run, like the rest of the rebels?" He laughed lightly as he moved closer. Jeremy felt a palm cup beneath his chin and felt his head being twisted upward. "By my word, I think your musket misfired. Your face is black as a Moor's. I'll warrant you'd have run too, if you could have seen the way. Could it be you're naught but a coward too, lad, like all the rest?"

The speaker turned to a young, blue-eyed man standing nearby. "Well, sir, who'd have reckoned it'd be this easy? You can tell Admiral Calvert this island's as good as his for the taking. This militia of theirs is nothing but a batch of scared planters, who scatter like rabbits the minute they hear a gunshot. And a few young gallants like this one, who scarcely know how to prime a musket. There's no reason to fall back and hold this position. We'd as well just go on after them, chase them back to Bridgetown, and have done with it."

Jeremy felt a flush of victory. They had fallen into the trap. They thought Barbados wouldn't fight! In minutes they'd be surrounded by the militia and begging to surrender. As soon as the counterattack began, he would . . .

"I think we'd best take this one back to the s.h.i.+p, to find out who he is and if he knows anything." It was the man standing next to the goateed commander. "It's a d.a.m.ned bother to have prisoners to feed, but I'll warrant this engagement's got three days at most to go before they all throw down their arms and sue for peace."

"d.a.m.n your smug eyes." Jeremy reached down and seized his pike, which had been lying unnoticed against the side of the trench. He turned and faced the commander. "You'll never even get back to your s.h.i.+p. Men died here tonight and they didn't die in vain, by all that's holy."

"What say, lad? Pray, who's to stop us?" The commander glanced at the pike, seeming to ignore it. He waved back several infantrymen who had quickly leveled their muskets at Jeremy. "Your bold militia here has taken to its heels, one and all. A b.l.o.o.d.y lot of royalist cowards."

"There're braver men on Barbados than you know. You'll not take me, or any prisoners, back to the s.h.i.+p. You'll see Bridgetown soon enough, all right, at the point of a gun."

"Perhaps that's so, lad, but not at the point of a pike. Now put it away. This little engagement's over." The man with the goatee was studying him with admiration. "You're a brave one, lad. Too brave, by my life, or too foolish. . . ."

"You don't suppose there's something behind this lad's bl.u.s.ter." The other man turned to the commander. "Could it be their militia might've run on purpose? To thin out our lines for a counterattack?"

The shouting had died down now, as strings of captured militiamen were being a.s.sembled and placed under guard. Some were joking with their captors, clearly relieved to be out of the battle. Jeremy suspected several had deliberately surrendered--small freeholders who didn't care a d.a.m.n whether Cromwell's fleet took the island or not. As he watched them with contempt, he felt ashamed to be one of them. Suddenly the horror of it all swept over him and he flung down the pike in disgust.

"Now that's a good lad." The commander nodded, then turned to the other man. "Vice Admiral Powlett, for once you may be right. In truth, I was beginning to wonder the same thing. This could all have been too easy by half."

"With your permission, sor, I'll put the young gallant here in with the rest of the rebels." One of the infantrymen had seized Jeremy's arms.

"No, leave him here a minute." The commander was pointing toward Jeremy. "The lad's no planter. He doubtless knows more of what's going on than these others do. Something he said just now troubles me."

"Should I bring up the men and start to move in, sir?" A captain of the infantry appeared out of the smoky haze that now enveloped the sh.o.r.eline.

"Hold a while and keep your lines together. It's too quiet."

Jeremy looked up and saw the goatee next to his face. "Now tell me, lad. There's been enough killing here for one night, as I'm a Christian. Is there going to have to be more? If you don't tell me, it'll be on your head, I swear it."

"This night is on your head, sir, and the Roundhead rebels who've stolen the Crown of England. And now would try to steal Barbados too."

The man waved the words aside. "Lad, I'm too old for that. Let your royalist rhetoric lie dead, where it deserves to be. My name is Morris, and if you know anything, you'll know I've seen my time fighting your royalists in the d.a.m.ned Civil War. But that's over, thank G.o.d, and I have no wish to start it up again. Now give me your name."

"My name is for men I respect."

"A sprightly answer, lad, on my honor. There's spark about you."