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 30: HARLEQUIN FAREWELL

The summer rains came sooner to Antigua than expected. There was little custom on wet days at the Sunday markets in St. John’s. It was a sign, Jack supposed, that he must buckle down and work up some diversions for the Bath Hotel. It would be so important to succeed. And not only financially, so they could continue their more important work; if they were seen to be under the patronage of influential people, they might have less to fear from constables in the future as they plied their dangerous trade. Their safety might depend on how fervently the ton might clasp them to its bosom. But it would require a great deal of cozying up to the rich and frivolous, at which sport Jack was woefully out of practice.

He much preferred the company of Marcus. They were taking advantage of a dry afternoon after a drizzly morning to rehearse. Rain spent itself out quickly over Antigua, with no high, forested mountains to catch and hold the clouds, but showers came frequently and without much warning. Every moment one could steal out of doors was precious.

Jack was completing the second of three somersaults across the dampened ground outside the wagon when Marcus came careening into his right side, knocking them both askew. Marcus wasn’t heavy enough to do much damage, but Jack’s ribs took most of the impact; he had to stifle a sudden gasp as he sprawled over on his left side. Marcus, who had been turning cartwheels, easily disentangled himself as Jack scrambled up to his knees, fighting off the urge to seize his sore right side. It was the damp weather that made his ribs throb, Jack knew. How much longer he would be able to lark about like a boy?

"Sorry, Jack, but you say go on two," Marcus told him.

"I said three," Jack protested.

Marcus shook his head emphatically and held up two fingers, as if that proved all.

"Well, I meant three."

"You no teach me to hear what you mean, only what you say."

The spry boy was already up on his feet again. He offered Jack his small hand, and Jack felt like a feeble old man. Kneeling upright, he was just about eye-to-eye with the lad.

"Are you all right?" he asked, solicitously. "How’s your knee?"
Marcus had sprained his knee in the French islands, which had kept him out of their performances for a minute or two.

"Like it nevah happen," the boy crowed. He shook one supple young leg and hopped from foot to foot. "Cybele, her fix me up, for true. We try it again?"

Hellfire, the boy had joints of elastic, Jack thought, with an inward groan. So had he, when he was nine. Centuries ago.

"In a minute," he said, hauling himself up to his feet. "I thought Alphonse was going to join us."

Marcus made a face. "Him be off in the wood wit’ Calypso. Picking wildflowers."

Jack regarded him. "Alphonse is picking wildflowers?"

"No, him carry her basket for her. Ready?" Marcus was already in position to cartwheel again. Jack had an idea for a trick in which Harlequin and the little Pierrot Marcus played would come tumbling in from opposite sides and just miss each other. It was the near-miss they had not quite worked out, yet.

"Straighten your spine," Jack called, hoping to buy an extra minute to quiet his ribs. "Extend those arms. Like the spokes of a wheel." He crouched down for his somersaults. "Now, on three..."

"Halloa, Jack!"

Billy Bruce was descending from the door of his caravan across the clearing, then he turned to hand down his wife. Both were dressed in their most tasteful finery.

"Good evening, Captain," Jack sallied back, jumping quickly to his feet as they advanced upon him. "Mrs. Bruce. How splen..."

But he was interrupted by Marcus careening hell-bent in their direction, a whirlwind of flying feet.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there!" Jack lunged forward to block the boy’s progress, dodging his feet to grab him by the waist, and roll him more or less upright. Out of breath and laughing, Marcus fell back against him.

"You say tree!" he gasped, giggling.

"I’ll deal with you in a moment, sirrah," Jack pretended to scold, holding the boy in a death grip against his own stomach, before he could get up to any more mischief.

"What a dervish the boy is," murmured Ada Bruce, with the practiced politeness of someone who has been obliged to admire too many other people’s children. She surreptitiously dusted her silken skirt with the fringe of her shawl.

"Mrs. Bruce, you are a vision," Jack beamed at her. "What is the occasion?"

"We’re off to dine at Dr. Fletcher’s," chimed in Captain Billy. "Capital old fellow, a dear friend of the Commissioner, you know."

"All the fashion will be there," Mrs. Bruce added, eyes alight.

"And I’m sure you’ll outshine them all," Jack told her.

"Oh, really, Jack..." she giggled, the color rising in her cheeks, and Jack could feel Marcus squirming in his grip.

"I’m told he’s hired a fiddler from the regimental band for the evening’s entertainment," Captain Billy continued.

"Is there often entertainment at these affairs?" asked Jack.

"Yes, at the very best dinners," sniffed Ada. "Otherwise, the men would play at that horrid hazard all night, and there would be no conversation."

"But are you not driving your caravan? It will be a dusty walk," Jack suggested.

"Oh, no, Dr. Fletcher is sending a carriage. Ah! And here it is!"

Jack and Marcus watched as a Negro driver in livery handed the Bruces up into a small barouche with a monogram on its side. Jack thought about how far the Bruces had risen in island society through their friend, the Commissioner. It was no wonder they chose to stay on here, season after season. In England, no player of their modest status could ever expect an invitation to dine with a well-placed gentleman. But things were different in the Indies. Captain Billy had just enough of a nautical background to win him friends on the naval station, and Ada was that most rare commodity in the islands, a well-spoken and attractive white woman. Jack could see what a coup it would be to have her at one’s dinner table in this bleak season, especially when the warships came in, with their weary officers pining for England and wondering how to pass the time. What else was there to do but attend dinners? Dinners with entertainments.

"Him must be mighty fancy buckra to keep such a carriage," Marcus observed.

"Fancy enough," Jack mused.



Alphonse Belair was not a man given to much easy sentiment. He felt things as deeply as any man, indeed he had cause for much deeper feelings than most. But he had learned early in life that the expression of fine feelings and noble sentiments would forever be denied him. He knew he was a ridiculous little man, and had learned to accept his fate, even revel in it, as it provided him with his living. And a good living it was, unaffected by blight, recession or any other random act of God, unlike most other West India incomes. He had no cause to curse his fate when so many others suffered far worse every day. And as a rule he had little patience for the occasional traitorous emotion that wormed its way into his heart.

But this was different. Calypso was a raw wound gnawing at his vitals. He could not look at her now without seeing Betsy's face, and recalling Betsy's fate. He could scarcely offer her the protection of a suitor; he knew his deficiencies in that respect. There was no point allowing himself to even acknowledge such useless, self-indulgent, distracting feelings that might endanger his purpose. And not only his purpose: Jack and Victoria put themselves at risk every market Sunday as well. Still, there was something he might yet do for Calypso, for all of them, four young people of color who had the rare opportunity to live free, thanks to Cybele.

Jack had given him the idea, with his provision for that fellow, Hannibal. For years Alphonse had kept a share of his personal profits in a fund established by Mr. Jepson. When the amount grew large enough, he invested it in one of Jepson's commercial voyages. Jepson’s markets in England were secure, and his captains prudent; he rarely lost a cargo or failed to turn a profit. Alphonse's usual habit was to siphon off a modest share of the profit to live on, and reinvest the rest in Jepson's business on an annual basis. But how much more useful the fund might be if he transferred it into Cybele's name.

Cybele was a prudent woman; she would not squander her profit. Better still, the investment could provide her with an income that would allow her to settle in one place for the two years necessary to establish her children as legally free. Calypso and the boys: four more lives to weigh against those lost at Whitehall. It was not enough, it could never be enough, but it would be something. He was equipped to provide a signature now, and a date, and current address to legalize the deed; all he had to risk was one more visit to Mr. Jepson's agent in St. John's.



When Tory climbed into the wagon, she found Jack sitting cross-legged on the bed, his Harlequin mask on the window sill above the bunk, and his volume of Shakespeare open beside him.

"All settled in, are they?" he asked, when she came in.

"Oh, aye. Edward upset a barrel of corn meal and the place was invaded by chickens. But once we rousted them out, Cybele brewed Mrs. Meade a restorative for her nerves, and all was set to rights."

"I miss all the fun," Jack grinned.

Cybele had accepted an invitation to remove herself and the children to rooms above a dry goods shop off the parade in St. John’s. The proprietor, a free woman of color who styled herself a widow, offered to board them in exchange for Cybele attracting custom to the shop with her herbal remedies and cards at this damp and unhealthy season. Tory and Alphonse had ridden down with them in the cart to help them settle in, but Alphonse said he had some business in town, so Tory had come back up the hill to report to Jack. She knew he felt guilty not coming along to help, but they were still leery about a former pirate exposing his face in a town with such a military character.

"How is it that Cybele always manages to insinuate herself into the life of the town, wherever we go?" Jack said now. "Even with those calamitous boys to herd about."

"She has skills to trade that everyone needs. As long as people are ill or injured or lovelorn, Cybele will always be in demand." Tory leaned over to kiss him, then perched on the edge of the bunk, glancing down at the open book. "Hamlet?" she asked.

"We can't play the Harlequinade for much longer at the market," Jack sighed. "People buy necessities in bad weather, from whatever dwindling supply the island has to offer, but they don’t linger to watch a performance. Besides," and his voice dropped low even though the clearing was deserted and the wagon door firmly shut, "it’s madness to encourage runaways in the hurricane season, with no shipping off the island. And yet, we shall have to keep ourselves until the season begins at the Bath Hotel."

"Doing what?" When Jack went to such lengths to explain a thing, Tory knew it was something she was not going to like.

"There is a market for entertainment that we've overlooked, here in St. John's. In island society, at the private dinner parties they hold for each other, and the officers from English Harbour when the fleet comes in for the season."

Tory looked at him doubtfully. "Dinner parties? Awfully close quarters for the pantomime."

He shook his head and glanced at the window sill. "I must leave my mask behind."

"Jack, you can't!"

"I’ll have the element of surprise on my side. No one will be expecting a pirate when they engage a player, and a player is all they'll see," he assured her. "We'll do recitations, comic speeches. A word to the Bruces, and I expect the Commissioner would have us in to a few dinner parties, to recite after the porter and cigars. And those guests might have us in to their dinner parties. There’s precious little else to do during the storm season, we might find ourselves in high demand."

"Higher than we bargained for if you end up swinging from a noose!" Tory exclaimed.

Jack took her hand as if to prevent her pitching any more abuse at him. "We must be seen in society, and accepted, if we are to continue the Harlequinade. Everything depends on the approval of the gentry, everything Alphonse has worked so hard for. And it's not just for the Harlequinade," he went on, more gently. "I need to do this for us, Rusty. This is no way to build a life, running away, hiding in shadows. Do you know, when I went to call on Mr. Greaves in Basseterre, I couldn’t even send in a name. His people would not admit me. It was only through the kindness of that dear man that I was able to gain an audience. I need to be more than Harlequin, if we are to make a life together. I need to know who I am."

Tory swallowed the rest of her protests; they burned like bile, but she knit her fingers through Jack's, marveling again at his gift for making insanity sound so reasonable. She supposed he was right, in an abstract way. At least she could not complain he was not ready to commit himself to their future.

"It's not you knowing who you are that worries me," she sighed.


(Top: Sunday Market, Antigua, 1806, by W.E. nach Beastall, as seen on http://www.kunst-fuer-alle.de)

Chapter 29: GONE A-MAYING

It ought not to have taken long, the overland journey from Falmouth on the southern coast of Antigua across the interior to St. John’s. But Jack kept their pace slow. It wasn’t only concern for the horses, who were accustomed to pulling their loads in the tropical heat; Jack wanted to savor the spectacle of their procession in the landscape. The Bruces’ caravan had a fresh coat of red and white paint, and the pantomime wagon had been festooned with honey-scented white and yellow jasmine vines and pink oleander just this morning. It was their triumphant return to the English islands after a long interlude, and they wanted to make a show.

Which indeed they did. Jack and Cully walked at the horses’ heads, keeping their pace stately. Jack wore a colorful patchwork waistcoat pieced together from scraps, while Cully played a wobbly but cheerful tune on a cane pipe. Alphonse sat on the box, driving the pair, with a sprig of red flamboyant stuck in the band of his straw hat. Cybele and Calypso strolled behind with Tory, dressed in Columbine’s motley skirt and juggling painted pins. Marcus and Edward racketed around in the road between all the others, and the Bruces in their brilliant caravan brought up the rear. There was not much traffic on the road this morning: one or two astonished Negroes driving ox carts, occasional white gentlemen on horseback riding off on plantation business, washerwomen with their bundles of laundry, hucksters sniffing the back roads for items to trade. But Jack tipped his hat to one and all. He would never have thought he’d be so happy to be back among the English.

They had spent a happy and profitable spring in the French islands. Cybele had purchased a license and set up a stall in the Pointe-a-Pitre marketplace on Guadeloupe. After exploring the countryside, they began to perform their Harlequinade at the Sunday slave markets. The colony was made up of two large islands, and an aggregate of smaller ones, inhabited by sugar planters or fisher-folk, so there was no shortage of market towns to play at of a Sunday.

Tory had thrown herself into the work with her whole heart when told of their true purpose, inspiring Jack to devise ever more exuberant and hilarious business. Alphonse, of course, roundly proclaimed they must never endanger themselves on his account again. But they paid him very little mind, and when it became clear they would play the Harlequinade with or without him, he grumbled that he must resume his Punch role if only to maintain the quality of their performances.

They had all reunited with the Bruces yesterday in Falmouth, here on Antigua. It would be the rainy season, soon, yet they might get another month of playing out of the Sunday market in St. John’s before they retired to the protection of English Harbour for the hurricane season, to plan for the Bath Hotel.

But Jack could not worry about the future on such a fine, dry morning. It surprised him how much this trek through the interior lowland of Antigua reminded him of England. This arid island was not so lush and hilly, but the rolling flatlands planted in green and gold cane might have been any farmland in rural England. The few creeks and riverbeds they saw were dry at this time of year, but they passed a freshwater pond where mill cattle were driven to drink by straw-hatted boys. Of course, the boys were black, and the tall palm trees and clusters of spiky aloe, with their willowy shoots erupting in sunbursts of flame red, would have looked strangely exotic in Devon or Gloucestershire. But Jack had once seen English May Day revelers in Jamaica dancing around a towering aloe as if it were a Maypole.

May Day had come and gone while they were in the French islands, and with it another year of his life. It must be midsummer by now. But as he looked back to see the boys gamboling and giggling in the road, and Tory sauntering along, smiling up slightly at her work, he realized that every day felt like May Day to him, now that he knew how much Tory loved him. A fragment of an old Maying song from the West Country began to play in his head, an exuberant air he could no more suppress than he could have stopped the beating of his heart.

"Robin Hood and Little John
Are both gone to the Fair-O.
And we will go to the merry greenwood
To see what they do there-O!"

"Bravo!" came Billy Bruce’s hearty cry from the box of his caravan on the road behind the wagon. Jack laughed, and finished up what he could remember.

"For we were up as soon as any day-O.
And for to fetch the summer home,
The summer and the May-O!"

Jack had spent his childhood traveling through green country villages in company every bit as motley as this. For so long, he had forbidden himself to remember his boyhood at the English fairs; it hurt too much, with the reminder of all he had lost. But his boyhood memories were flooding back now, from every hidden corner of his heart, and he welcomed them, cherished them. Then his eye fell on Tory again, and he knew he was no longer a boy.



I heard Jack singing today, after a fashion, Tory wrote in her logbook, that evening. I would not have missed that for all the seas in all world!

She found herself smiling at the memory, and the memory of these last few busy and prosperous months ashore in the French islands. I don’t believe any man can truly understand how important it is for a woman to have something useful to do. Calypso has her needle. Cybele has her herbs and the raising of her children. And her cards, for which she is duly famed in Pointe-a-Pitre, where she is called la diseuse de bonne aventure, teller of fortune. To think that Alphonse tried to deny me the one contribution I have learned to make on dry land, my Columbine, because of the risk. There is risk in every moment of life, but we can't stop living because of it.

Tory lifted her pen and thought back to the day she and Jack had returned to the others. Her homecoming. Alphonse was so relieved, he almost smiled. Then he insisted they give up the Harlequinade.

"Has anyone actually run away because of our playing?" she countered.

"One or two of those Alphonse spoke to as slaves have become his informants in the free communities," Jack offered.

"Hellfire, we’ve actually done some good?" she crowed. "And you expect us to give it up? Besides, all your people depend upon you, Alphonse."

"What people?" he frowned.

"Those you employ in the hills. To aid runaways." To his astonished look, she added, "Do you not know a fellow called Quashie?"

"I know dozens. It is an African name for a son born on the first day of the week. Planters often use it as a name of derision, Quashie or Cuffee, or a salutation to a Negro they do not know."

Tory told him of the naked young Quashie, glistening with goose grease, who had helped her get off the mountain. She told him of the safe houses she had visited in her journey, some overgrown shacks but others neatly tended.

"But—I employ no one," said Alphonse.

"Perhaps he was on his own account," Tory suggested. "It must mean something to them, maintaining those places. Keeping the dream alive."

"You’re sure this fellow called himself Quashie?" Alphonse asked.

Tory nodded.

"In African tales, Quashie is sometimes the name of a hero who helps the people trick their masters. But he is...a myth."

"This fellow was real flesh and blood," Tory laughed. "But here’s another odd thing. I could swear once or twice, he called himself Jonkanoo. Like the parades."

"It is often spoken as a name, two words," Alphonse mused. "John Canoe. A personage."

"The Lord of Misrule," Jack smiled. "Like you, Alphonse. You show them a looking-glass world where slaves outwit their masters and invite them to act out the dream. Like the Lord of Misrule."

Since then there has been no more talk of giving up the Harlequinade, Tory wrote. And now that the performer in him has been unleashed again, Jack can scarcely be contained. I often find him in grog shops of a market afternoon, spinning tales to whatever sea dogs he can find who understand even a smattering of English or Spanish, embroidering some fanciful yarn about something he calls the Devil’s Ring. It may be that he's plotting a new scenario and wishes to try its effects before he puts it on the stage. It sounds a great load of rubbish to me, but perhaps it's one of those stories that comes off better in the playing.



A mild morning had given way to the dull, brassy heat of noon as Alphonse trudged up the hill from town toward their campsite. But he scarcely minded the heat when the morning’s business was so successfully concluded.

He had met with Mr. Jepson’s agent at his branch office in St. John’s to dispose of Jack’s business. Jack insisted on setting aside a generous share of his profits from the French islands for that fellow Hannibal in Basseterre, the informant who told Jepson where Tory had gone. It was enough for a manumission, and Alphonse was promised that Jepson would see to the matter without delay.

Alphonse was feeling almost chipper for another reason. At no time in their interview had Jepson’s agent spoken a word about the situation on Nevis. Their remove to the French islands had kept Alphonse far out of the way of Nevis and her troubles. He could not be accused of failing to honor his pledge if he were never contacted. Now that they were back in the English islands at Crop-over, with traffic between the islands at its busiest, however, he might be held accountable for his pledge at any time. But the situation might have changed on Nevis, he tried to convince himself. Perhaps the business would come to nothing, after all.

But Jack’s business had come to something and Alphonse was eager to tell him so. He found the clearing deserted, their wagon and the Bruces’ caravan standing quiet with the horses tethered nearby, and so decided to try the wagon. He jumped up onto the step, swung open the door and popped in over the threshold. His reception was a sudden, fearful gasp from Calypso, perched on the stool in the corner. She dropped her sewing in her lap as her dark eyes rounded in terror, then snatched it up again in two small, trembling hands.

"Mist’ Alphonse, you 'bout scare me to death!" she exclaimed. There was a deep, wine-dark flush on her cheek. "Jack say bolt the door, but I forgot."

"What does he mean, leaving you all alone like this?" Alphonse's voice came out too sharp, to cover his embarrassment. A sensible man would have knocked first. "Where are the others?"

"Cybele and Tory picking herbs, but I stay behind to finish this mending. Then Cully and Marcus come say they lose Edward playing chase in the wood, so Jack go off wit’ them to find him."

"Perhaps I ought to go help them."

But Calypso merely shrugged. "Edward get lost all the time. He like the attention."

The unfamiliar twinge of a smile tugged at Alphonse’s mouth.

"It is very dangerous to stray too far from the wagons. I wish you..." He had been about to say "you children," but that word did not seem to fit the small, neat young woman sitting before him, her fingers working with such industry. "I wish the boys would believe me," he amended.

"Cully getting too big to trifle wit’, Marcus be too fast and Edward too little for anyone to notice."

"Marcus was not fast enough in Charlestown."

"We can no be hiding all the time," Calypso reasoned.

"I suppose not," Alphonse agreed, gazing at her. How much more poised she seemed, these last months, than the timorous girl they had first met, wanting only to hide behind Cybeles skirts. When did the change happen? How could he have been so foolish not to notice? Alphonse did not know the precise nature of whatever had made Calypso so afraid, but he had lived long enough as a slave to imagine several plausible scenarios, each more horrible than the last and none of them at all out of the ordinary in the normal course of plantation life. Then he realized her dark eyes were dancing at him.

"Mist’ Alphonse, you boring a hole clean t’rough me."

Mortified, Alphonse stammered an apology and fled to the water jug on the sideboard. Glad of the chance to collect himself, he poured water into the gourd cup, which he managed with no little dexterity as he climbed the two-step ladder to perch on the edge of the bunk. From up here, Alphonse was almost at eye-level with any adult who came in the door, and slightly higher than Calypso, whose short black curls bounced above her shoulders as she bent her head over her sewing.

"I wish you would not call me 'Mister'," he spoke up, after a sip of water. "It makes me feel a hundred years old."

"Cybele say we must speak to you wit’ respect because you all be so kind to us."

"Oh? I notice no one ever says Mister Jack."

"It no suit him."

Did he himself seem that exalted, Alphonse wondered, that aloof from his companions? "It will suit me if you simply call me Alphonse."

The girl nodded and went back to her work.

"Mending for those boys must keep you awfully busy," he observed, to be saying something.

"But I don't mind. I expect to 'prentice out to a seamstress in a shop, one day. Or else I hire out for a place wit' some fine lady of the town."

"As a servant?"

"One day. I must live free two years in one place to get my certificate. Then I hire out."

Alphonse’s mouth compressed into a taut line. Even if they were able to settle down tomorrow in one place, this girl would be nearly twenty years old before she could be declared legally free. Free to enter into another kind of bondage, in many ways as dreary and humiliating as the one she had escaped.

"You no tink much of my plan," Calypso observed, watching him now with a more guarded expression.

"In my experience, there is little difference between servants and slaves."

"Servants earn a wage," snapped Calypso. "It be no shame to work."

Alphonse stared at her, amazed not because her sudden anger was so unexpected but because it was so familiar. It was exactly the tone he took himself whenever some well-meaning idiot was determined to offer him pity or sympathy. He knew what it was to be laughed at, jeered at, pursued, even assaulted; there were sure ways to deal with those things. But he would not be patronized like a child. In those moments, he could not bear his own fury and that was what he saw in Calypso’s eyes now.

"We must all work for our living, of course. I had no right to speak to you like that." There was nothing humble in his apology. He merely stated the fact and Calypso nodded, satisfied.

He set the cup behind him on the window sill and sat watching her work. It occurred to him he never saw her idle.

"If you had the choice," he began again, "to do or be anything you wanted, what would you choose?"

Her eyes were smiling when she met his gaze. She did not need to rebuke him with a reminder that she had very few choices and she was still child enough to be intrigued by the fancy of it. "Why, I tink I like to have a child of my own."

Alphonse kept his face composed, only wincing inside. How easily she would reach that goal, he thought, no doubt with the help of the husband of the fine lady she would serve. "And a home of your own?" he prompted.

"Or a shop!" she grinned. "So the fine ladies come to me!"

"And a fine, strapping husband, I suppose..."

Calypso’s sparkling eyes clouded immediately. "Yes...I s'pose... only..." she faltered, then gave him a plaintive look. "It no be easy for me to...talk to men, you see."

"You are talking to me."

It was out before he could stop himself and Alphonse wanted to bite off his tongue. Now he had invited her to compare him to other men. But Calypso did not laugh or dismiss him. If anything, her expression cleared a bit.

"Yes that’s so," was all she said.

Alphonse wished he had some sewing in his lap to distract him from that calm, steady gaze. But there was nothing for it but to bear her scrutiny until she spoke again in a more playful voice.

"And what about you...Alphonse? If you could do anyting at all in the world, what it be?"

"I’d see an end to slavery."

This time she did laugh. "Oh, that be a very fine ting, but it nevah happen. I mean for you’self. What you want for you’self?"

Alphonse had never been asked what he wanted personally out of life, nor had he ever asked himself. What did he want? What any normal man wanted, he supposed, although it would be fatuous of him to say so. He was hardly a normal man. Work he had aplenty. And companionship? That was new to him, but not unpleasant. Before Jack and Victoria, he'd had ony acquaintances. Love? But he had bolted the door of his mind to that subject long ago.

"You want more than a shop and a child, I tink."

No, less, he thought. If she only knew how much less he would settle for, if only it were possible.

"I have...much to do," he said, at last. "My...wife...I am afraid, would have to be a saint."

"Then you have a long wait," said Calypso, returning to her work.


(Top: View to St. Johns Harbour, Antigua, by J. Johnson, 1827. As seen on www.brunias.com)