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 3: ENTER PUNCH

At first, no one realized it was a competition. Jack was too busy watching Tory, relieved that she was being so attentive this morning at the busy Sunday market, the day the slaves ventured down from the hillside estates to sell their own produce, livestock and wares on their own account. The marketplace was thriving with custom, but Jack noticed their audience thinning. Glancing off to see why, he spied a Negro boy just down the way, juggling. No, it was a small man in a white paste Punch mask, powerful arms and a muscular torso above short legs, juggling gaily painted wooden pins.

Damn the little fellow, could he not find some other corner in all the town? They could not claim the whole market for themselves, of course, but they had a right to defend their pitch. Jack concluded his trick with Tory, who spun around to catch the last ball and sank into a curtsy. Coins clinked into his hat as he handed Tory to her feet, showing her off.

When they were finished, the other fellow began a new trick, somersaulting four pins in the air at a time, two up, two down, as effortlessly as blowing kisses. Tory noticed him now, too, waiting until he finshed before she began again. Jack wished their gourds were brightly painted, but contented himself with tossing them in more elaborate patterns to Tory than any performer could alone.

By now, the two groups of casual spectators had stretched into a ragged half-circle facing all three performers, shouting out cries of encouragement or challenge. When their gourd trick concluded, and their rival produced rings, Tory signalled to Jack that he should continue without her, having already reached the limit of her skill. Jack delved into his memory for the most senstional tricks he had ever seen, or performed or could improvise on the spot, including throwing his knife with two of their balls, which drew a chorus of ghoulish delight from the crowd. But the other fellow responded with equal dexterity and invention. Jack‘s hand was on his razor to double the danger when he suddenly realized how winded he was; he was not a lad of fifteen any more. Tricks not done gracefully, with the appearance of ease, were not worth doing. His foster father had taught him that.

"Never beg your audience, lad," Old John’s soft Cornish voice advised him. "Do all 'ee can and quit when 'ee must, or you’ll lose their respect. And once that’s gone, there be no getting it back."

And Jack turned and made a sweeping bow of submission to his rival, who bowed graciously back. Jack knew he ought to be disappointed, but between the high pumping of his blood and the sudden, sweet memory of Old John, all he felt was exhilaration.

"If we are defeated," murmured Tory, passing nearby to pick up his straw hat, "why do you look so damned happy?"

Jack grinned, but could make no rational reply.

His grin dissolved when Tory returned with the straw hat and a perplexed look. Their take was small, for all his heroic efforts, just when he'd been feeling so pleased with himself. Then he turned to see the little black fellow standing before them. Hardly a boy, but neither was his an old face, despite sun-creased pockets under the eyes and furrowed lines on either side of his sober downturned mouth.

"Do you know Pugh’s Tavern, off the Bay Road?" the little fellow asked.

Jack nodded.

"Allow me to buy you dinner there in half an hour." Turning to Tory, the stranger added, "Please do not refuse, it will be my pleasure. We have much to discuss."


It was not a place frequented by the first class of white men, Tory observed, but it was too neatly kept to attract the commonest wharf rats. Most of the custom were freemen and women of color, merchants or shopkeepers. Some of them spoke to the little juggler in English or French, as he led Jack and Tory to a small table in a back corner, to which he responded with equal facility in both tongues, overlaid with a harmonious trace of island lilt.

"Alphonse Belair," he introduced himself, when they were settled. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Your servant, Monsieur Belair," Jack smiled. "And may I present Miss Lightfoot?"

Belair took Tory's fingertips in his small, warm hand, and made a courtly little bow where he sat, across the table. "Enchante," he murmured.

Tory tried not to giggle over his solemn formality. "And this is my partner, Jack," she responded.

"Only Jack?" Belair frowned. "But that is a slave name." When Jack only shrugged, Belair sighed. "Since we are being informal, you must call me Alphonse."

"And please call me Victoria," Tory chimed in. Something about him encouraged her to produce her most civil, best-remembered manners. Such as they were.

"Did we not see you here in Basseterre last Christmas?" Jack sallied, as the boy brought the wine. "You were dressed as Punch."

Alphonse nodded. "But I did not see you."

"We weren’t performing, only watching. And a damn fine job you made of it, too," Jack smiled. "I’ve rarely seen the like, not in fifteen years at the fairs. You have a gift."

"Ah, but you have her," Alphonse nodded at Tory, who could only gape in surprise at the compliment. "But I fear we are working at cross purposes here in Basseterre," Belair went on. "Crop-over is a busy time. Most people have only a few moments to be diverted before they must be off about their business, and we offer them only confusion."

"Some customers who could not choose between us today kept their purses closed," Tory agreed.

"Or spent their coin wagering with each other on the outcome," Alphonse nodded. "If anyone is to profit by our skill, I believe it ought to be us."

"Aye, but what’s the remedy?" Jack said, on guard. "Surely you’ll not suggest that one of us forfeit?"

"Not at all," Alphonse replied. "I propose we join forces. Occupy the same corner, pass only one hat and divide the results."

"A partnership," said Jack.

"Exactly. A fellowship of colleagues. But one which may be dissolved at any time if it does not succeed, so long as we agree."

"I only wonder what you want with us," Tory ventured, "when you have cleary done very well for yourself on your own."

"Aye, that is puzzling," Jack agreed. "You scarcely know us."

"But you are too modest. It does me no discredit to work with such skilled performers."

Jack took no notice of this flattery. Tory watch as he and Belair regarded each other for a silent moment.

"I have many calls to make in Basseterre," said Alphonse. "If I am seen in the company of a white man, it will be...advantageous."

"I’ll not pass myself off as a slaveowner," Jack frowned.

"Nor I as a slave," said Alphonse. Leaning slightly forward, he added, "Only seem to employ me, as you do Victoria..."

"But I don’t employ..."

"People see what they like," Belair interrupted, with a wave of his hand. "And she is seen to be under your protection."

Jack’s mouth twitched. "You wish me to protect you?"

"I wish to travel unimpeded."

Jack had to swallow a laugh. "I’m afraid I have little influence with the law in these parts. Despite my obvious wealth and rank."

"But you have powerful friends," Belair observed, gazing into his wine. "Mr. Greaves sits in the island Assembly."

Jack was watching him keenly. "Mr. Greaves is Tory’s conquest."

"Conquest, rubbish," Tory injected. "The poor man is desperate for a sensible woman to speak to about his daughter."

She could see Jack wondering what Belair was up to. There was nothing but his color to suggest he had ever been a slave; indeed, his manner, speech and well-tailored clothing all denied it. He did not behave as if he had anything to hide, far bolder about his business than she and Jack dared to be. But it was the Indies. Color was a factor. It could be unfortunate for a runaway to ally himself with a couple of outlaws.

"You are not without papers, I suppose," Jack finally asked.

Alphonse reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a small leather tube. From it, he extracted a scroll of parchment, which he rolled out on the table before them. It was a certificate of freedom, the ornate script a bit blurred in the printing. On the line for the bearer’s name, Alphonse Belair had been inked in. Beneath it was a crude 'X' and the notation, his mark. Various official-looking seals, stamps, and signatures in one corner identified courts and officers from the island of St. Vincent. The document was dated 1818.

"I am a free man," Belair told them calmly. "I am manumitted these seven years."

"I did have a reason to ask," Jack apologized.

"But I do not object to showing you this document. I am always happy to show it. I worked very hard for it."

"You manumitted yourself?"

"Fortunately for me, Victoria, I was very cheap to buy. As you see, I am only a poor cripple of no use in the fields. It was not worth keeping me for the slave tax I cost my master. But there was a price, and court costs, and then the fees to recognize the document."

"It must have taken you forever," Jack marveled.

"Ten years, beginning when I was a boy of six clowning at the Sunday market. But worth the trouble, no?"

He rolled the paper into its leather tube and slipped it back inside his waistcoat.

"Do you mind if I ask how you came by this trade?" ventured Jack. "Not the usual sort of thing to learn on a plantation, is it?"

Alphonse sipped at his wine. "There was a Negro watchman on the place when I was a boy, a man of middle years. As a youth, he had been sold to a troupe of players touring the islands. They took him back to England, where he became a clown at a famous London circus..."

"Not Astley’s?" Jack interjected.

"The very place. But he grew lame in the trade and had to leave it. He was a free man by then, but he had no more money to show for it than when he started out."

"Aye, that’s a player’s life, all right," Jack laughed.

"He came home to the Indies, to his sister, a cook on our estate who cared for him. He was a kind old fellow, full of stories. He taught me handstands, at first, to strengthen my arms, when I understood how little use my legs would be to me. And then the rest, when I knew I would need a living. A steady living, it has proved out." Alphonse reached again for his wine. "Which I look forward to sharing with you both."

"To partnership," Jack agreed, and he and Tory raised their glasses.




"Drink, Constable?" asked the Deputy Provost Marshal, rising to cross to the sideboard of his small office in the Court House.

"I am on duty," replied Stephen Raleigh, sitting straight in his chair on the far side of the Deputy Marshal’s cluttered desk. "Sir."

"Commendable, I’m sure," muttered the Deputy Marshal, pouring himself a generous tot of island rum. He came back to his desk, lowered himself into his own chair with an immoderate sigh and poked wearily through the rat’s nest of papers before him. Not yet forty, his thinning hair was already going grey, tufting up around his balding dome from the pressure of his recently removed cap. With his beaky nose and rapidly blinking eyes, the Deputy Provost Marshal looked like the bald, downy offspring of some grotesque bird. And his visitor wondered how a man in his position could allow himself to look so ridiculous.

Constable Stephen Raleigh glanced down at his own impeccable uniform jacket, his clean, crisp cap sitting on his knees. No one could have any cause to complain of his appearance.

"Ah, I have it now," said the Deputy, liberating a file of official documents from the jumble on his desk. "You are recommended for a promotion, I see, Constable Raleigh."

"Yes, sir."

"Mmm. The committee has reviewed your performance..." the Deputy mused, glancing through the papers. "Most zealous in the pursuit of runaways, I see. And in clearing the streets of illegal hucksters."

"More often than not they are one and the same."

"I daresay..." The Deputy’s tired eyes blinked laboriously across the pages. "But upon occasion, I see you have apprehended colored hucksters in possession of a valid license."

"These people have their place," replied Raleigh. "They must keep to it."

"Mmm, the market, yes..." The eyes blinked up at him. "But as chief constable, you shall be responsible for protecting the rights and welfare of all citizens. Including the coloreds. They can vote now, you know, Constable, and there’s talk of some of 'em being granted permission to stand for the Assembly."

Raleigh nodded, not trusting himself to reply. Bide your time, that was his motto, watch and wait. But, it galled him to think that damned mongrel race had wrested away legal privileges so far above their station, when there were white citizens even now who were denied the right to vote in spite of their pure complexions. And why? Because of their ignorant Papism. The damned, ignorant Irish, no better than slaves.

"We’re obliged to treat 'em fairly. Whether we like it or not," the Deputy coached him. "It’s the law."

"I am sworn to uphold the law, sir."

The Deputy nodded. "Your service record appears to be in good order," he continued. "Employed for some time as a member of the watch in Sandy Point Town and never once absent from your shift. Most dedicated."

"We were privately funded."

"Ah. And turned out several times with the island militia. I wonder, Constable, with Brimstone Hill so near, that you never considered a military career."

"I...have no interest, sir," Raleigh admitted. "I am an orphan." And he certainly did not intend to spend the rest of his life among the rank and file.

"I see. Island-born?"

"Yes, sir. I was raised at the charity school." Best not to seem ashamed of humble beginnings. A direct manner engaged sympathy and convinced one’s hearers one had nothing to hide.

"And...your parents?"

"I was...very young." But not so young he could ever forget the smell of sour ale and sweat and oily soap steam from the laundry they boiled themselves because they were too poor to hire a Negro laundress. Or the drone of Irish Jimmy Reilly in his cups, prattling on about the dream they would never live, the new life in the New World. The Irish had come to St. Kitts like the Africans to serve as slaves to the English, but James Stephen Reilly had never risen above it. At the end of his seven hard years of indenture, he was surprised to learn that no one would do business with a damned Papist who was a transported convict into the bargain. Disillusioned, without income, he gambled and drank away the last of his payment in sugar, with nothing to show for it but resentment and the brat he got off the complacent Irish Town slattern who took him in.

"Family?" the Deputy persisted.

"Dead, sir."

"Of your own, I mean, Constable."

"Oh. No, sir." He sat up to focus his attention. It was dangerous to let it wander. "I wish to establish myself, first."

"Very commendable. And...er, no other dependents?"

Stephen Raleigh’s posture stiffened. Colored bastards, the Deputy meant. As if he would pollute his own bloodline, the only asset he possessed, with some colored wench. Faith could be denied, names changed, but his white complexion at least was irrevocable.

"No, sir."

"Dedicated to your profession, eh?"

Raleigh remained still. Was he being made sport of?

"Yes, well, everything appears to be in order...oh, see here, Constable Raleigh, have a drink with me, there's a good lad. And top mine off while you’re about it, eh?"

Raleigh set aside his cap and rose, took the Deputy’s proffered glass and went to the sideboard. He stared at the decanter with a fixed expression, but he poured a reasonable portion into the Deputy’s glass and a much, much smaller splash into a glass for himself. The Irish drank. It might be a kind of test.

"Not a Papist, are you, Constable?"

He straightened, nearly dropping both glasses, or crushing them, his back still toward the Deputy.

"Sir?"

"Oh, just my little joke, Mr. Raleigh, too good to be true and all that. We shall have an opportunty to get better acquainted should your promotion come through. And I shall give it serious consideration, I promise you."

A small framed looking glass hung on the wall above the sideboard, and Stephen Raleigh found himself staring into it. The Deputy Provost Marshal was still seated behind him, fussing with his papers. It must have been a joke, after all. And then his gaze shifted to his own reflection. Neat brown hair, not too long. Plain, reliable face, not much given to color or emotion. Nearly thirty, nothing callow about him. A man of substance. A man of worth. There was nothing left of his father in his face or his speech or his manner or his heart. Not since the day he buried the old man’s cheap gilt crucifix, his only inheritance, and presented himself to the charity school with a more English-sounding name. There was nothing at all left of Irish Jimmy Reilly in his son but for those startling pale green eyes.

(Top image, Mr. Punch, by Lisa Jensen © 2010.)