Chapter 34: HARLEQUIN'S LAST GAMBIT

Their first few days alone together back on Nevis reminded Tory of the first carefree months she and Jack had spent in the Leewards, traveling the back roads of St. Kitts, with only the clothes on their backs and little more to worry about than earning their next meal. It was like that now in Charlestown, as Nevis began to shake off the doldrums of the gale season. Anxious to be gone from the military base at Antigua, they had come to Charlestown early —no wagon, no children, no pantomime, no purpose. They would resume their formal playing with the others soon enough, when the season began at the Bath Hotel, but for now, they were simply enjoying themselves, juggling and tumbling on street corners in happy anonymity, playing wherever the spirit took them.

But Tory remembered the folly of happiness on the morning she and Jack came laughing round the corner of a side street and found themselves face to face with Alphonse, walking with a mulatto man with fierce dark eyes in the neat livery of a well-kept house slave. Tory's cry of relief curdled in her throat at Alphonse's taut expression; for a tense instant, it looked as if he might not acknowledge them at all.

Jack and Alphonse locked eyes. No one spoke, but the current of tension between the three of them alerted Alphonse’s companion. Youth was fading from his proud, face, and his gaze slid over Tory like a chill, but his expression turned to ice when he looked at Jack. The mulatto slowed, and his hand rose to the hem of his waistcoat, but Alphonse’s small, dark hand came out to stay his arm.

"It is all right, Paris," Alphonse murmured. Then he turned to give Jack and Tory a brief, civil nod. Jack nodded back, but his hand closed on Tory’s elbow, propelling her on to the end of the street without breaking stride. They did not look behind them again, but Tory could feel the cold eyes of Alphonse’s companion boring into their backs.

"What was that all about?" she breathed, when they had turned the next corner.

"I don’t know. I don’t!" Jack insisted, to her accusing look. "I saw Alphonse speaking to someone in the wood on the morning before he left St. John’s, but it wasn’t this fellow."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Alphonse speaks to strangers all the time, most of 'em slaves. If he had taken me into his confidence about some dangerous business, do you think I would try to hide it from you?" When Tory sighed and shook her head, Jack hurried on. "Well, he’s seen us now. If he wants us to know what he’s up to, he’ll tell us."

But Alphonse was not much more forthcoming when he materialized out of the shadows outside their lodgings that evening.

"You are early for our appointment," he greeted them.

"And we’re so pleased to see you, as well," Tory snapped back, jittery with unease.

"Of course, it is good to find you both well," Alphonse sighed. "I am grateful for your discretion this morning."

"We wouldn’t dream of interfering with a man enjoying his holiday," said Jack.

"I am here at the request of an acquaintance for whom I am doing a small favor. It is not worth speaking of." Alphonse shrugged the matter away. "But why are you not on Antigua?"

"The ships are leaving English Harbour. There’s more trade here," Jack offered. He did not mention Mr. Nash.

"You are performing already?"

"Well, we’ve been larking about the marketplace," said Jack. "The others will be along directly. There'll be nothing to hold the Bruces there, once the officers leave the station, and Marcus will be in a great hurry to rejoin us."

"So it appears our season here has begun." Alphonse sighed again. Tory thought she saw a glint of distress in his carefully composed expression.

"We can look after ourselves if you've business to conclude," said Jack.

"But if we are all in Charlestown, we are expected to perform together," Alphonse reasoned. "It looks odd if we do not."

"To whom?" Jack frowned.

"If we are not to be taken up for vagrants before the season opens at the hotel, we must find some employment."

"We could begin the pantomime when the wagon arrives," Tory suggested.

"No." Alphonse said quickly. "We must leave poor Harlequin in his box for now. But I will join you at the market until the others arrive. We shall need to practice in any event."

He waved a hand toward the tavern where they had their room, beginning to hum now with its usual evening custom. "But first," he went on, with a show of heartiness. "I shall buy us a bottle of wine, and you may tell me your plans for the Bath Hotel."



When the others arrived, Jack decided to set up their stage at their old campsite off the road to the hotel. He had worked up some lively verbal duets from Richard III and A Midsummer Night’s Dream to add to their scenes from Hamlet, Macbeth and Twelfth Night, and composed a few couplets to introduce each one. Learning her parts kept Tory too busy to fret. Alphonse materialized again to help Jack, Captain Billy and Cully wrestle the planks down from the wagon; it took them only an hour or two to get the contraption set up and functional. After the wagons were sorted out, and the horses seen to, and the pallets put out to air, and the kindling collected for the cook-fire, and after Marcus showed Jack and Alphonse all the new tricks he had perfected, they all sat down to a meal together to drink a toast to a fortunate season at the Bath Hotel.



"They’re holding some sort of fandango Saturday night at the Court House in Charlestown," Jack announced to Tory a few days later, returning from an errand in town. "Some rich merchant is the host, and planters from all round the island are invited."

"And me without a stitch to wear," Tory observed.

"I don’t mean we ought to go, but we should give our first performance that evening, here on our own stage."

"Why, if everyone’s off to the ball?"

"The planters and their ladies and families will be off to the ball," Jack elaborated. "It’s the first of the season, so everyone will attend. Which leaves a great many coachmen, slaves and servants milling about the neighborhood for many idle hours, not to speak of the common folk sure to be out in force to catch a glimpse of the ton in their glory."

"So we’re to give one of our low performances?" Tory teased.

"Well, we might as well have fun and get in some practice before the hotel guests arrive. After that, we’ll be obliged to rattle off verse and socialize for the rest of the season. It would be a shame to miss this chance to make a little something extra on our own account. Cybele can set up a stall with her cards. It’ll be festive, like a fair."

"But how are we to lure them here if everyone’s down the road, outside the ball?"

"We must get their attention," Jack declared. "We must have bills." He pulled a crumpled scrap of paper out of his shirt, unfolded it and handed it to her. On it, he had scribbled the text of a playbill,


Public Performance. Juggling, Comedy and Recitations. Sentimental Songs and Lively Dancing. Featuring the extraordinary antics of Mr. Punch. In the Park Land, north of the Thermal Springs, Main Street, Charlestown. Saturday evening, dusk. Public Invited.


Tory glanced up from the paper. "Is it wise to mention Punch?" They had not dared to play the Harlequinade in the streets of Charlestown last year, after their altercation on St. Kitts, saving the pantomime for Christmas at the hotel.

"But Alphonse has been performing as Punch on this island for years," Jack replied. "He has quite a following. He’s our biggest draw. And I doubt if we’ve anything left to fear from our chief constable back on Basseterre. For all he knows, he’s sold you to smugglers and I’ve died of grief."

Tory handed back the paper. "Then I suppose this will do."

"Good," Jack beamed. "I called in at the printer’s on the way back from town. I would have consulted with you and Alphonse first, but with so few days until Saturday, I chanced I would have your approval. And who knows when we’ll see Alphonse again?"



Indeed, Saturday morning found Jack hot and fuming inside Billy Bruce’s grey tailcoat. He had thought to look respectable when calling at the printer’s for the new bills announcing tonight’s performance, so the printer might give a good account of him, if pressed. But now it seemed a lot of bother for nothing. Alphonse had failed to meet them in the square this morning to promote the event, as planned, and had sent no word. If he failed to turn up tonight there would not be much of a performance, bills or no bills.

Tory and Marcus had danced off anyway, to post the bills as if nothing were amiss. Jack had lingered behind, in case Alphonse appeared, promising to meet them later at the wagon. But now Jack was furious. If Alphonse had wearied of their partnership, he ought to say so, not play these foolish disappearing pranks. That it was so unlike him to miss an appointment only proved to Jack how preoccupied Alphonse had become with his private affairs.

On top of everything else, it was most damnably hot; the trades had been slacking off since sunup. Jack tugged at the brim of Captain Billy’s topper, and cast about in mid-stride for more suitable shade. The blinding white wall of the Court House loomed up just ahead, and turning away from it, Jack spied a cool, covered breezeway down a side street. He struck off in that direction for an arched doorway, through which wafted the muted clattering of pottery and glass, and the low murmuring of a public house, and he ducked gratefully inside.

It was not the sort of groggery he was accustomed to; the furnishings were mahogany, the chairs padded, the ceiling high and the upper walls perforated with windows, to catch every breeze. The custom were white, well-dressed gentlemen in pursuit of their midmorning fortification. Jack thought it might be a private club, but he had come this far, and no one seemed disposed to accost him, not the way he was dressed.

He settled into a shadowy corner, and ordered rum and lime from the potboy, hoping to burn off the heat of his anger. He tossed off a long draught, and stared into his drink, willing himself to calm down. No little part of his anger was due to Alphonse’s failure to confide in him, after all they had been through. Jack had dragged Tory back from the brink of her freedom on the sea to fulfill what he considered his obligation to Alphonse and his work, and now Alphonse treated him in this cavalier manner, as if Jack were some intrusive buckra who could not be trusted. If he failed to appear tonight...

"Tonight!" a low voice snorted, so nearby that Jack jumped; he was more wound up than he thought. "Damned waste of time to wait until tonight, when we know there holed up there somewhere at this very moment, plotting against us!" the voice blustered on.

"By law, we must catch them in the act," came a hushed, reasonable reply. "You can’t hang 'em on suspicion any more."

Jack had them picked out now, three gentlemen planters or their agents with the burned, ruddy complexions of those who had spent all their lives in the West Indian sun. They huddled together round their Madeira at the next table but one, and Jack wondered if he ought to move off. He had troubles enough of his own without soaking up theirs.

"Time was when a man had the right to discipline his own niggers," harrumphed the first speaker. "The law had nothing to say about it."

"Aye, but that was before the abolitionists and the missionaries began spreading their rubbish, giving the darkies ideas," replied the reasonable voice. "But there’ll be discipline enough tonight, once we catch their leaders, depend upon it."

"But why wait? Must all of Gingerland burn to the ground before the law allows..."

"There will be no burning," the reasonable voice insisted. "These fellows are too cowardly to act in the daylight, and in any case, the militia is already standing by. We have only to pack the ladies off to the Court House this evening, out of harm’s way, then we’ll double back and surprise 'em before they can get up to any mischief. We’ll have their ringleaders right where we want them in the middle of things. Nothing will go awry."

"If our information is correct."

"Venus is a good girl, she would never fabricate such a tale," came a third voice, more melancholy than the other two. "I only wish there were some other way."

"Devil the man!" barked the blusterer. "We’ve been through all this before!"

"And yet, I can scarcely credit it," the melancholy voice sighed on. "My most trusted mulatto, raised in the house since he was a boy. Why, Paris is like my own son."

Jack’s blood turned to ice. Alphonse’s small black hand on a tense brown arm. It is all right, Paris.

"Oh, aye, they’re all good sons, until they get a notion to torch your house and fields, rape your women, and murder you in your bed," scoffed the blusterer. "Blood will tell, that’s what I say, and a savage is a savage for all his fine livery."

"We don’t know it’s a rising," the reasonable voice pointed out. "The wench only said there’d been meetings."

"As if that weren’t damning enough. Whatever we find 'em up to tonight, it’ll be enough to identify the troublemakers and send 'em to the gallows. Then we may all rest more easily."

"Have a care how you speak of my property, gentlemen," sighed the melancholy voice. "Slaves are expensive."

"Not to worry," chuckled the blusterer. "We’ll be sure to leave you a buck and a doe for your experiments."

"It is only your slaves that we know about," chimed in the other. "We must wait until tonight to see who else we turn up."

"I know who I’d like to find with his hand in the jam pot," declared the blusterer. "That confounded little darky."

"Which one?"

"Oh, you know, that buskering fellow with the jumped-up Frenchy name. That black dwarf who comes round every year to agitate the niggers. We can’t take the wench’s word alone, but if we were to discover him in amongst the plotters, what a prize he’d make for the hangman."

Jack sat very still, his face without expression, and signaled for another drink. He sat back, nodded to the boy, and took one slow, careless sip, and then another, like any other preoccupied gentleman of business, while the blood thundered in his ears and his stomach dropped away to somewhere deep within the core of the earth. It was no good now cursing Alphonse’s dangerous games, or wondering how they had come to this pass. He must think fast and flawlessly. There could be no miscalculation in his plan; he would get no second chance. He’d be damned fortunate to get a first.

After downing a final toast to their successful enterprise, the gentleman planters departed. Jack took his time settling his bill, and ambled out into the fierce, mocking sunlight a few minutes later. He strolled into the Main Street and up the rise out of town before dodging into the protection of the tree-lined brush and breaking into a run.



Knee-deep in costumes and last-minute plans, Tory nearly jumped out of her skin when Jack thundered up the step into the wagon, and slammed the door behind him.

"God Almighty, Jack, you look as if the hounds of hell—"

"Rusty, listen, there’s not much time," he panted, tossing Captain Billy’s topper on the bed and shrugging out of the tailcoat. His damp shirt clung to him like sagging flesh, as he tore at his stock. "There’s a slave rebellion planned at some outlying plantation tonight, when everyone’s here at the ball. But it’s a trap, the planters know all about it, I overheard them in a tavern. They’re planning an ambush."

"But what—?"

"Alphonse is involved." Jack seized his old plantation linens off a shelf, and pulled them on. "Don't ask me why or how. That fellow Paris is one of the leaders."

"Alphonse would never take part in a rising!"

"It may not be a rising, but the planters think it is. The militia is standing by." He finished dressing, and rooted out his battered straw hat.

"But it doesn’t make any sense! Why would Alphonse—?"

"I don't know why," Jack grimaced. "It doesn’t matter why. Anyone they take tonight will be hanged."

Tory swallowed her next protest. "What are we going to do?"

"You are going to stay here," said Jack. "I’m going to warn them."

"What!"

Jack turned away toward the water jug.

"How do you know where they are?" Tory demanded.

"Gingerland," Jack muttered, pouring water into the basin.

"That's an entire district! You’ll never find—"

"I described the planter to Marcus. He’ll turn up some carter or stable hand who knows which estate is his. I’ll find them."

"And then what?" Tory could scarcely think through her own hot, rising panic, but she remembered all too vividly the cold hatred in Paris’ eyes. "You’re a white Englishman, and a stranger. If they are plotting a rising...they’ll kill you, Jack."

"Not if Alphonse is with them."

"But what if he’s not?"

"But what if he is?" Jack straightened up from the basin; his eyes were desperate. "I can’t let him walk into a trap if I can stop it." He seized a towel, and rubbed it over his face.

"But...you promised me," Tory pleaded.

"Hellfire, Rusty, what else can I do?"

"Let me go," she urged him. "They’ll take me for mulatta."

"Oh aye, I’m to sit idly by while you’re off getting yourself raped and murdered on some lonely mountain road—"

"That’s what you expect me to do!" Tory cried.

"I expect you to stay here and put on a performance."

She stared at him as if she had never before heard the word.

"No one is supposed to know anything about this rising, or the ambush," Jack pressed on, flinging the towel away. "It would look odd if we canceled our performance with all the bills posted, especially for Alphonse. They suspect he’s involved, but they must catch him with the conspirators to make their accusations stick."

"But...he won’t be here," Tory protested. "You won’t be here."

"We might. It’s some hours yet to nightfall. Rusty, please," he went on quickly. "Who else can I trust?"

Tory bit back her foolish whining. "What do you want me to do?"

"You must stage-manage some sort of show, tonight. You have the Bruces and Marcus. Cybele and her stall. You must all work around us somehow until we get back." He plucked up his straw hat, and stuck his knife in his waistband. "The point is, whatever you set up must look like the performance we planned from the start. It mustn’t look as if anything at all is amiss."

Tory nodded slowly, as they stood where they were, eyes locked across the room, separated by the vast expanse of words there was no time to say. Then the door swung open and Marcus tumbled in.

"You be in luck, Jack, evahbody know that fellow!" And in pleased, breathless bursts, the boy described the landmarks that would lead Jack to the estate, and whatever fate awaited him there.

"Well done," Jack beamed at him. "I knew I could depend on you."

"What you got to go there for?" Marcus asked.

"There’s someone there to whom I owe a great debt of honor. It must be paid today."

"But what about tonight?" Marcus’ face clouded a little.

"A man must pay his debts," Jack shrugged, feigning lightness. "You may have to fill in a little onstage until I get back. If you’re up to it."

Marcus broke into a grin. "Me do anyting you want. You see!"

"Good. Do whatever Tory asks. We’ll see what you’ve learned."

The boy scampered off and Jack pulled the door to behind him, and faced Tory again.

"I’m taking Shadow, he knows these back roads." The strain of maintaining his nonchalance for Marcus’ sake now showed plainly in Jack’s eyes as they searched her face. "I don’t have to tell you that this conversation never took place."

Tory nodded, afraid to open her mouth for all the fear that would come pouring out.

"Stand by tonight, in case we have to leave suddenly. Don’t answer any questions. If there’s no word by morning—"

"Jack—"

"Stay with the Bruces. Return to English Harbour, it will be safer there. Don’t," he whispered, when she opened her mouth again. "There’s no time."

And he was gone.

Tory stood as if bolted to the floor, staring at the doorway where Jack had been. She had not kissed him, had not even touched him. She hadn’t said goodbye. Then mobility returned and she sprang to the door and flung it all the way outward, just in time to see Jack righting himself on Shadow’s broad back, tugging his bridle toward the road. They trotted through the palms, opened into a full gallop and disappeared up the slope toward the Bath Hotel and the high road behind it, leaving only an echo of percussive hoofbeats behind. Tory’s heart pounded in response, as if it would burst her ribs apart. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She clutched at the door frame for support, and stared into the empty road. The one thought pounding in her head escaped her lips in a fierce whisper.

"Come back to me, Jack."


(Top: Harlequin On Horseback, German school, 19th C, as seen on www.elite-view.com/)

Chapter 17: HARLEQUIN IN HELL

The cookfire had burned down to embers, as low as Jack’s spirit. Something hot still glowed at the very core, but it was crusted over with thick layers of cold black dread and helpless desolation. It was late, and the others were long abed. Cybele and the rest of the children were in the wagon, where they slept every night now; the Bruces in their caravan. Alphonse had retired to his nest behind the wagon, under the trees. Only Jack still sat up, propped up against their little platform stage, staring into the dying fire.

It had been over a fortnight now, since he'd slept. Over a fortnight since he'd been able to eat or drink with any kind of appetite, or do any useful work. Over a fortnight since Tory and Marcus had disappeared.

Jack twisted around where he sat and raked his hand back through his hair. He had gone over it a thousand times, and it still made no sense. They had simply vanished. Alphonse had made discreet inquiries through all his networks of associates all around the town, but had been able to learn nothing. The last anyone had seen of Tory, she had been heading up the road out of town with Marcus after the Sunday market, heading for their campsite.

Had she been raped? Assaulted? Murdered? Had they been set upon by thieves? Jack and Alphonse and Captain Billy and Cully had searched every inch of the roadway from here to town, and all the outlying scrub and rock and forests, and come up with nothing. They had found Tory’s straw hat, whose saucy ribbons and peach-colored rosebuds mocked Jack now, and the two canvas satchels with the props spilling out of them in the brush within the palm grove. No signs of violence, no bodies mouldering in the overgrown gullies nearby, but there were hidden ravines and dense, bramble-encrusted bush, and desolate, out-of-the-way places all over the Indies where a body might never be found. And there was always the sea.

No, she could not be dead. He would know it, somehow, feel it. His own heart would surely stop beating. Imprisoned then, for some infraction? But nobody answering Tory’s description had been taken up in Charlestown gaol, nor brought before the magistrates; Captain Billy had visited the place, himself. Had she been recognized for a pirate and made off with by some enemy of the Providence? But why should Tory be recognized and not Jack? As to personal enemies, of course that rabid constable in Basseterre sprang to mind, but how could Jack be sure? There were many possibilities, and not one shred of solid information. Jack needed to be up and doing something, plotting a strategy, following a trail, fighting an enemy, but he didn’t know where to start, which direction to rush off in. And he dared not stray too far from camp, in case word came in from somewhere. He could only wait and hope and try to understand.

He shivered, drew up his knees, crossed his arms over them and buried his head in his arms. Some tiny, rational part of his brain knew he needed sleep. If he could only stop thinking, going over the same information over and over again, until it was picked as clean as a carcass left by crows with nothing left to yield up; if he could only sleep, maybe his wit would be sharper when he woke again. Maybe then he could make some sense out of it. But there was no sleep for him, not any more.

A dry twig popped in the heart of the fire and Jack’s head snapped up. He tensed, waited, but there was no footfall in the dark. Only a twig in the fire. He lowered his head, again, went back to the place where his exhausted thoughts were still waiting, were always waiting, back to the one he feared more than any other. What if Tory had run away? Run off to the sea she longed for more than anything else, or run off with someone who could give her what she wanted? Or simply run away from Jack, despite all her assurances. They had made up their differences that night she threw the Spanish ring out the window—for as long as Tory thought he would take her back to the sea.

But suppose she had heard otherwise. Suppose she had somehow got wind of the tentative bargain Jack had struck with that chipper young factotum from the Bath Hotel. He'd sought Jack out to offer them a lucrative booking at the hotel for the next year, Friday evenings of song, dance and recitations in the hotel ballroom for the duration of the season, November to March. And at a regular salary, not dependent on the gleanings from the hat. How could Jack refuse? An indoor venue, a ready audience, a steady wage—they were none of them in any position to turn down such an offer. The children needed to be clothed and fed, and their own independence maintained, all very dear. None of their goals could be accomplished without money. Jack had dared not refuse, nor even postpone his answer to consult first with his partners, lest the offer be withdrawn.

So he had accepted on their behalf, then spent three or four days in agony trying to find a way to break the news to Tory. And then Tory vanished. But even if she had learned of the booking, somehow, had to face the prospect of one more long, dreary year ashore, would this be her response? To run away without a word? That was hardly like her, to deny herself the pleasure of venting her anger. Had she been angry enough to want to punish him, hurt him this badly? But even if that were true, why would she take Marcus with her? Had the boy caught her in her escape and followed her? Joined her? It made no sense.

In the meantime, there was still a living to be made. He and Alphonse and the Bruces worked the markets now for pennies. He had worked up some recitations for their evening stage shows, Hamlet and Richard III, male voices whose speeches did not require a female presence, just to keep their steady customers from the hotel amused, to provide some sort of respite for the Bruces between their musical renditions. But the Bruces could not remain with them much longer, at this rate. Their performances were not much good without the diversity Tory and Marcus provided. Jack was not much good without his compañera, the other half of himself.

He blamed himself every minute of the day for not going into town with them on the day they disappeared. Alphonse blamed himself for staying behind to talk, and not escorting them back. There was no shortage of blame to go round, and nothing at all to be done, but wait, sick with worry and regret. And for what? For the trail to grow colder? For his own life to end?

Jack lowered his head into his hands and rubbed hard, all over, as if he could pummel his wits into better order. When he looked up again, the waning moon was on the rise, a maimed ghost of itself casting eerie shadows, like a mockery of the sun. Something snapped nearby, another pop in the fire, he supposed. But then he saw a quivering in the banana leaves at the edge of the clearing. True whickered questioningly from the other side of the wagon, and Jack was on his feet, the hair standing up on his forearms.

There was a whisper of dry underbrush and a little figure stumbled out from behind the banana leaves. No bigger than Alphonse. Too small for Tory, Jack thought, his heart sinking. The shadowy little thing crept two steps into the clearing, then froze when it saw Jack standing silent as stone on the other side of the dying fire. There was just enough light for Jack to make out torn, scraps of clothing clinging to thin, dark limbs, to look into the face of a child, frightened and exhausted.

"Marcus?" Jack could scarcely croak out the name. "Hellfire, lad, is that you?"

He was crossing the clearing on the run before the boy could reply, and scooped him up into his arms. He was a cold, grimy, sweaty, foul-smelling armload, covered in dirt and scratches, his clothing in tatters and shaking as hard as a leaf in a gale. But Jack pressed the boy to his chest and felt the small, trembling arms wrap around his neck. In the next instant, the child was sobbing against him. Jack stood where he was, rocking the boy in his arms, rubbing his quaking back.

"It’s all right, lad, all right," Jack murmured, pressing his cheek into Marcus’ grimy hair. "I’ve got you now. You’re back, you’re safe. Everything's going to be all right."

"No," sobbed the boy, shaking his head against Jack’s chest. "No, no!" He was fighting so hard to check his tears, he was starting to hiccup.

"Shh-h-h, get your breath, lad, don't talk. Thank God you're not hurt."

But Marcus twisted his head up, his tear-streaked face imploring. "Tory!" he wailed.

Jack’s heart lunged, and he swept his eyes all round the dark underbrush surrounding the camp. "Is she with you?"

"Her ‘posed to come wit’ me! Her fight all the men so me get away, but they catchy her!"

"What men?"

"On the ship where they take us. Tory, her pitch me onto the dock, tell me run away! Run home to Jack, her say. And me run away so deep in the dark, they nevah catchy me."

Where? Jack’s mind screamed, when? A ship, they might be anywhere. But he would not let himself interrogate this child, who had clearly been through too much already.

"You did well," he said, cradling the boy against him. How small he was, and how young. What sort of ordeal had he been through? Who would do this to a child? What were they doing to Tory? "You must be starving," he hurried on. "We’ll go to Cybele and find you something to eat. You’re sure you’re all right?"

Marcus nodded vigorously, but he did not loose his arms from around Jack’s neck.

"You did exactly what you were supposed to," Jack assured him. "You got home to us."

"But me leave her all alone," Marcus wailed again.

"She was still…alive when you saw her?" Jack prompted, and the boy nodded again. There was still hope. "We can talk later," he hushed the child, over the racketing of his heart.

He turned to carry the boy to the wagon and saw Cybele standing beside the step, watching them. She had thrown a dressing gown over her chemise, and she gazed into Jack’s eyes for a long moment before turning her attention to the boy.

"Where was the last place you see Tory, che?" she asked, and Marcus spun around in Jack’s arms at the sound of her voice.

"In Basseterre," he whispered. "We be on a ship in the road. Her tell me run fo’ the Louis in the Neck. And me run, but they be hard to find in the dark. Then there be heavy seas in the Narrows and we no can make a crossing for days, and then me get lost on Nevis, her bigger than me tink, and—"

"Never mind," Jack interrupted, hugging Marcus to himself again. "You’ve come a long way and now you deserve a rest." He carried the boy over to Cybele and handed him into her arms.

"Me be so sorry, Jack," said Marcus, forlornly, from the safety of Cybele’s embrace.

"It wasn’t your fault, lad. You've done very well to get back to us."

"Me no want to leave her all alone."

"She won’t be alone for long," said Jack.

Calypso and Cully were peeping out the wagon door. When Jack finished helping Cybele up the step, he turned to find Alphonse standing in the shadows, waiting for him.

"She may not even be in Basseterre any more," said Alphonse, without preamble. "You have no idea where she has gone."

"I know a fine place to start," Jack replied, hurrying back toward the cookfire to roll up his bedding.

"You cannot do this. You cannot go to Basseterre."

"If that constable were going to take me up on legal grounds, he’d have done it by now," Jack muttered. "What’s he going to do, charge me with the crime of falling down under his stick?" He stood up and faced Alphonse. "Tory is in danger. What else can I do? What would you do?"

Alphonse sighed heavily, but held his gaze. "Then you must not go alone. I will come with you. It will be too dangerous for you if you are recognized."

"I'll be more anonymous in the company of a black dwarf?"

"What better companion for the shadows?" Alphonse shrugged. "And I know them all. I also know many people who may have information. People you will never be able to approach, alone."

"Your informants haven't helped much here in Charlestown."

"I am not as well connected here. But I have spent a great deal of time in Basseterre. I will save you a great deal of time."

Time was their enemy, Jack knew it, but how could he endanger Alphonse, on top of everything else?

"She is my friend, too," Alphonse added quietly.




In an hour, they were both standing inside the darkened wagon, speaking very softly to Cybele.

"In the morning, tell Captain Bruce we’ve been called away, but don’t tell him where or why," said Jack. "My guess is he’ll be prudent enough not to ask."

Cybele nodded.

"If the Bruces decide to return to their friends at English Harbor, you might want to join them there," Alphonse suggested. "It might be safer for the children."

"Keep the wagon," Jack added. "Cully can manage the horses."

"I stay here until the end of the season," Cybele replied. "If we no hear from you by then, I take the wagon to English Harbor. Send to me there by the Bruces, if you need me."

Jack shouldered his small pack—his bedroll, his hat, some salt fish for the journey. His knife. His little purse of coins was strapped securely under his shirt, in the pirate manner. At the last minute, he'd also packed his dark Harlequin mask. For the shadows.

As Alphonse was fastening on his own wayfarer’s pack, Jack felt a small hand on his arm. he looked down to see Marcus standing sorrowfully beside him.

"It be me own fault for leaving her alone that you have to go," he whispered.

Jack crouched down to look into the boy’s face. "Nothing that's happened is your fault, Marcus. Don’t even think it. Do you understand?"

The child gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"Without you, I would never even know what happened. You've played your part very well. I'm so proud of you." From some deep reserve, Jack produced a fleeting smile. "Now Alphonse and I must go."

"When you coming back?" Marcus pleaded.

"When I find her," Jack replied. "Not before."


(Top: Arlechino (year 1858), by Maurice Sand, as seen on www.delpiano.com)

Chapter 14: FOOLS' REVELS

Jack had tried so hard not to think about the Spanish ring these past weeks, it was never very far out of his mind. He had no other evidence that Tory cared any less for him; indeed, the evidence of his heart and his own senses told him otherwise. But his heart had been wrong before, and the senses were so easily fooled. And just when he'd convinced himself he was behaving like a half-wit schoolboy, this happened. Had he become so burdensome to her she was scouting for her next opportunity to leave him? Perhaps he should have sampled Cora Harvey when he'd had the chance.



Purple evening shadows were lengthening across the clearing by the time Tory came trudging up the road from town. She'd been gone half the day; she hoped Jack hadn't worried. Her plans had come to naught, in any case. The Bruces’ caravan was shut up, they must have an engagement in town, and Alphonse must be off on one of his calls. She hopped up into the wagon to find Jack waiting for her, standing very still beside the bed.

"Where have you been, Rusty? It’s very late."

"I know, hombre, I’m sorry." She was still a little breathless from her walk. "I had...business."

"In the tavern?"

Tory darted a sharp glance at him as she unpinned her hat. "As a matter of fact, yes. I went back with Cybele after the market."

Jack frowned. Would she lie to him so boldly? "Did you not...meet a man?"

"Aye, there was a man there. Hellfire, there were dozens of men, it’s a market day. What’s the matter with you, Jack?"

"Nothing at all," he replied, with icy calm. "Only I’ve been sitting here for two hours thinking of nothing but that madman constable on the loose and hell-bent for revenge, wondering where in hell you were, and then Ada Bruce waltzes in to tell me she’s seen you in a tavern having a drink with a strange man."

"And you thought I was having an assignation?" Tory laughed, as she made a mental note to strangle Ada Bruce. "You know me better than that."

"I thought I did."

The chill in his voice sobered her. "He was a merchant captain, Jack. He had a ship..."

"Are you so anxious to leave?"

"Leave?" Tory cried, astonished. She felt like a rope-dancer; one misstep and she would plunge to her doom. "Hellfire, you’re the one who’s aways trying to run away from me, I’m always fighting to keep you! I was thinking of us!" But Jack was already folding into himself, fading away from her like a dream; another moment and he would be out of her reach. "Why else would I need a ship?" she reasoned.

"To find Matty?" Jack suggested coldly.

"What?"

"I found his ring."

"His ring?" It was as if Jack were suddenly speaking Chinese.

"The one he had off that Creole boy," Jack went on, with elaborate patience. "I found it in your things. He murdered for that ring. It must have meant a great deal to him to give it to you."

Tory stared at him for a full minute, shocked beyond speech. Then she spun around to the shelves, shoving aside gourds and odd scraps of clothing and an old newspaper as she dug out her basket. She fished the pouch out and broke the knotted cord with one angry tug; yanking out the gold ring, she advanced on Jack, waving it in his face.

"Oh aye, it’s a fine, sentimental token of Matty’s great affection for me, this ring! He threw it at my feet and called me a whore for daring to suggest there might have been something unmanly in the way he obtained it. I’ll certainly cherish that moment forever!"

She lunged across the bed to the window and threw open the shutter.

"I’ll show you how much this ring means to me. And Matty fucking Forrester, as well!"

And she hurled the ring as far into the shadowy night, she couldn't even hear a plop in the dirt. Slamming the shutter closed, she came about to face him.

"But...you never told me," Jack faltered.

"I had forgotten all about it!" Tory exclaimed. "It wasn’t worth remembering."

Jack was backing away, shaking his head. "But what was I to think when I found it hidden away like some treasure?"

"Did you not think to ask me about it?"

"I thought about it," he muttered, looking anywhere but into her eyes. "But I was afraid to hear what you'd tell me."

"I would have told you the truth," Tory declared. "That Matty isn’t even the ghost of a memory to me. Why can't you believe me?"

"Because I'm a fool." Jack glanced up, his dark eyes too full of shame to even register relief. "You’ve every right to pitch me out, Rusty, I wouldn’t blame you if..."

"Oh, stop it!" Tory lurched away from the bed and threw her arms around him. "Idiot," she murmured. His arms came around her in a grip of iron and she held him as tight as she could, sore ribs be damned.

"Oh, mi vida, I am so sorry," he whispered. "I’m such an ass."

"Aye, you’ll get no argument from me. When did you stumble across that damned ring?"

"The day of our first Macbeth," he confessed.

"But that was weeks ago!" Tory cried. "And you’ve been torturing yourself with this fantasy ever since?"

"It was the only way it seemed to make sense."

Tory lifted her head to look into his face. "I love you, Jack. Don’t you know that by now? Sense hasn’t anything to do with it."

"Evidently not." And he drew her close enough to crack her own ribs. "I was just…so afraid I was finally going to lose you."

She shook her head in exasperation. "Hellfire, I didn’t even know what we were fighting about."

"Civilization," Jack muttered. "It’s coming too damned close."

"Then let’s leave this place!" Tory urged him. "Let’s return to the sea, where we belong! Two less buskers in these islands will never be missed."

"But...I...Rusty, you know why we can’t," Jack faltered. "Merchantmen are miserable berths, smugglers are worse, and besides, you’re a woman..."

"There are all sorts of ships, Jack, with all sorts of crews. This fellow today is heading straight back to the States, but there must be others! Can we not try? There’s nothing but strife and trouble and danger for us ashore. What would we be leaving behind?"

Jack did not answer. Until this moment, he’d had no idea how much she still yearned for the sea, when all this time he'd been foolishly trying to build them a life ashore. But Tory would always be half-wild; it was what he loved most about her. He might as well try to domesticate a mermaid. How could he tell her how much their playing meant to him? Harlequin, Macbeth, even Aguecheek, as fragmented as they were, gave him more joy than he could ever have imagined. But it seemed like such a selfish, frivolous pleasure, now, weighed against Tory’s freedom.

"We’ll find a way, companera." He drew her closer so he couldn’t see the eager light in her eyes. "If that’s what you want."




Christmas at the Bath Hotel was a series of lavish affairs. In December, the wealthiest planter families of Nevis hosted splendid dinners and dancing parties for members of the Bath Hotel elite. On Christmas Eve, the military band from St. Kitts was engaged to play English carols for the hotel guests. And on Christmas Day, after morning services at the parish church of St. Paul’s in Charlestown, a fancy-dress ball was held at the hotel, where guests could mingle with all the fashion of the island.

Jack and Tory’s little company of players were engaged to perform the pantomime at the Bath Hotel on Christmas evening, before the dancing. Jack said every English Christmas celebration had a pantomime and Alphonse added there were not likely to be many mercenaries abroad during the Christmas revels; they were all needed in the island militias to keep watch over the slaves. Calypso sewed new patches over the rips in Harlequin’s shirt and they devised some new comic business with less ribaldry to offend the ladies and no hired drum to beat them in. Alphonse said all the drummers on the island were engaged tonight in their own revels.

The courtyard behind the Bath Hotel had been magically transformed. Glass-globed lanterns lined up along benches and hung in the trees defined and illuminated a performing space in the center of the yard. Chairs that had been set up along the back veranda and in the balconies above were filling up with spectators. Jack said it looked like the gallery and boxes of a proper theatre, to which Ada Bruce was heard to add a nostalgic sigh.

The crowd was in a holiday mood boosted by plenty of rum punch and sangaree; even the most decorous matron was not likely to confine herself entirely to sugared lime juice on such a festive day. They applauded Marcus’ brash tricks and Punch’s flaming torches. A fiddler from the military band accompanied Captain Billy’s ballads and Mrs. Bruce’s Highland fling and tarantella. Then the pantomime began. Harlequin engaged in less knockabout tumbling and more nimble dancing than before, but the others played all the more brightly, and they were received with vigorous approval. For an encore, Jack took off his mask and threw a cloak over his motley to give two famous speeches from Hamlet. The performance concluded with the players standing in a line singing the stirring patriotic song Captain Billy had told them was all the rage in London the previous spring, drawing most of the audience to its feet.

The spectators drifted indoors as lights blazed on inside the hotel, gilding all the doors and windows in red and gold until the building resembled a huge, glowing ember in the night. A youthful English factotum from the hotel came out to invite the players to stay for the dancing, and Captain and Mrs. Bruce were delighted to accept. But the others were eager to make their way back down the road again, where the pounding of a hundred Christmas drums rose up to embrace them from the town. Let Ada Bruce execute the fussy figures of the cotillion with the English, Tory thought; this was more to her own taste. It was the music of abandon.

Their riotous patches and ruffles were perfectly suited to this topsy-turvy night. They passed a troupe of mummers crying, "Make way fo’ Ole Mas, King of all the buckras!" and Tory saw a Jonkanoo figure in a whiteface mask and a long, curled wig with a Napoleonic hat full of feathers. Another small party Tory took to be girls, at first, in rather slipshod finery. But as they drew nearer, she saw they were young males dressed in ruffled petticoats and ladies’ jackets festooned with all manner of ribbons and bows. Whenever they passed any prosperous-looking person, one masked boy fell to his knee, clasping his hands and pointing to his stomach while his attendants circled round him, crying "Koo-koo! Koo-koo!"

"Him be Actor-Boy," Marcus told her. "Him beg fo’ food. ‘Koo-koo’ the noise him ‘tomach make when him be hungry."

A party of white spectators was passing by and the Actor-Boy and his entourage raced over to them, crying,

"We play fo’ you, massa. We make very fine play fo’ you!"

The boys withdrew long wooden sticks from within their skirts and brandished them, menacing each other in quick little jig steps as an older boy pounded on a long drum held between his knees. The boys shrieked and flailed away at each other until only the chief boy was left, dragging his wooden sword along the ground, past the inert bodies of his fallen comrades, crying for a horse.

"B’God, it’s Richard The Third, or I’m damned," Jack exclaimed. "A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch’d," he noted, as the Actor-Boy keeled over into his flounces.

"We ought to have brought out our Macbeth," Tory laughed. "How did we overlook this venue, Alphonse?"

"The people do their own playing, tonight," said Alphonse.

"That drummer ought to keep still during the performance," Jack observed, as the Actor Boy’s little troupe scampered off. "I recall very few opportunities for dancing in Richard The Third."

"Not every drum good fo’ dancing," said Cully, standing nearby. "Some only good fo’ talk."

"Talk?" echoed Jack, glancing at the lad. "What do they say?"

"Me only know drum talky, sometimes," Cully shrugged. "The Africans say so."

Jack turned to Alphonse, but he was already hurrying off to greet Cybele and Calypso, who was holding the squirming Edward by both hands to prevent him roaring off and getting lost. But once Marcus and Cully took charge of the boy, Alphonse gallantly offered Calypso his arm. And off they all strolled under the mocking moon on this night of fools' revels, when the slaves played at being masters of their own fate.




It was not difficult for Alphonse to disengage from the party. The difficulty was in making himself stay as long as he did, for the sake of civility, parading around like any other fatuous black fool with Calypso on his arm. As if it could ever be anything more than a crude burlesque, one night’s foolish fancy.

He made his way up the Main Road out of town, nodding to the strays and drunkards who reeled past, wishing him the compliments of the season. In fact, the season had always depressed him, with its false merriment and false freedom, while militias all over the Indies went on alert against the slightest infraction. The planters only played at indulgence; it was all part of the greater farce.

He found their wagon secure in the clearing, True undisturbed under the trees. The caravan had not yet returned, the Bruces must still be making merry at the Bath Hotel. It was his turn to sleep in the wagon, but inside, pulling off his Punch costume, he realized he was too agitated to sleep—even if the drums would permit it. Victoria and Jack might have use for the bed if they came back late, flushed with rum punch and revelry and each other. He would leave it for them, then. It would be his Christmas gift.

Outside, he took his bedroll into the treeline behind the wagon, hidden from the road but near enough to hear any disturbance. True was idling nearby and Alphonse went over to identify himself; they would be on watch together tonight. He held up one hand and the old horse lifted his head. Then the huge head veered sideways at him, the grey, steaming muzzle plunged down into Alphonse’s palm, nearly devouring it, and Alphonse took a hasty step backward.

"Compliments of the season to you, too, old fellow," he muttered, wiping his wet hand on his shirt. What a perfect beast of burden the old horse was, no voice to protest, no dreams of a better life, and wholly unaware of his dormant power.

Alphonse sat down on his pallet and closed his eyes against the melancholy that separated him from the revelers below.




The murmur of voices is urgent, defiant, as the swarm of men and women and some children moves down the road, away from the slave quarters toward the mill. Blacks and mulattos together in plantation linens, three or four dozen of them, shouting and chanting and beating together their sticks like mummers in a Christmas parade.

Some carry torches of bundled kindling to light their way, scorching the black night. But the crackle of the flames and the rumble of voices give way to the drumbeat of hooves pounding along the hard-packed dirt road ahead, the hoofbeats of devils thundering toward them out of the dark. The slaves stop, confused. The militia riders, drunk on righteous outrage, rein up their jittery mounts a few yards away, under the direction of the Army colonel in command; some pace their huffing horses back and forth across the road in a menacing manner. Behind the riders, the first ranks of a regiment of foot are maneuvering into position, muskets and rifles at the ready.

A few slaves brandish their sticks and pikes. One or two have cutlasses for cutting the cane. A leader steps forward, a mulatto houseman in elegant livery, despite his lack of stockings or shoes. An emblem is sewn onto his jacket, a maroon W on a gold chevron. W for Whitehall. He steps into the road, unarmed, to speak to the colonel on horseback. The militia riders edge forward, taunting. The slaves stand their ground. The foot soldiers nervously cradle their guns.

At a sudden, sharp squeal from a frightened hog penned up nearby, a tiny figure is startled out of the shadows of a hay wain at the side of the road. Disoriented, the child bolts into the road, past the little crowd of slaves toward the horsemen. The slight figure of a young black woman breaks ranks and runs into the road after him. The colonel’s horse shies backwards. Another horse behind him rears up, the child stops, terrified, and the woman snatches him out of the way of the flailing hooves. As other slaves rush forward to help her, an explosive pop of flame from one of the torches prompts an answering shot from the soldiers. The spooked horse dances crazily, another shot is fired, and another, and the young woman jerks in place and sinks to the dirt as the shrieking child wriggles out of her arms. The horsemen charge into the crowd of panicked slaves, swinging swords and cartwhips, followed by the soldiers still firing their guns. The hay wain bursts into flames from a fallen torch and the figures are frozen in a hellish tableau of roaring fire and human screaming and shots and more shots...


Alphonse lunged up with a stark cry. He could still hear the shrieks and the horses’ pounding hooves, smell the smoke. Then there was another sportive shot, some young blood saluting the midnight hour on this festive night. More chanting drifted up from the town, more powerful drumming, more shouting and harsh laughter. It was Christmas night. The slaves were having their holiday. He had only dreamed the rest.

Alphonse sat back upon his pallet as True whickered curiously in the dark nearby. Shaking, Alphonse lowered his face into his hands. Allmighty God, it had seemed so real. He thought it was all happening again.


(Top: Koo-Koo, or Actor Boy, Jonkanoo Costume, Jamaica, 1838 Image Reference: Belisario03 as shown on www.slaveryimages.org, sponsored by the Virginia Foundation for the Humanities and the University of Virginia Library)