Chapter 32: PIRATES AND ENGLISHMEN

September began with a fortnight of drenching rain during which all of Antigua was shut up tighter than a ship’s hatch in a gale. To celebrate the return of dry weather, Mrs. Cora Harvey held a private dinner for a dozen or two of her most intimate friends at her fine townhouse in St. John’s. There were three full captains in attendance, a brace of commanders, and a handsome young flag officer, a local surgeon and his wife and daughter, and some other professional gentlemen and their families. For an after-supper diversion, she sent round her dignified Negro houseman to engage Captain and Mrs. Billy Bruce for musical entertainment, and Mr. Dance and Miss Lightfoot, whose fame had spread all the way to Falmouth, for dramatic recitations.

Directly after the performance, the houseman escorted the entertainers out to the detached cook-house, where they were invited to refresh themselves with two bottles of French champagne, covered in cotton muslin and kept cool in a bucket of saltpetre and water. The Bruces carried one bottle outside, where Captain Billy made a great show of popping the cork, to the terrified delight of the kitchen women. Inside, Jack sat Tory at the large work table, found a dry towel to throw over the neck of the second bottle, and began to gently twist the bottle loose from the cork.

"It was a Papist monk who invented champagne," he told her as he worked, "which is certainly the only good the mother church has ever been to anybody. And this," he grinned, "is the only useful thing I ever learned in my brief adventure in London society." The cork disengaged with an abrupt little sigh, and the bubbles inside foamed up to the top of the bottle neck, but not out of the lip. Jack poured a little of the wine, as pale and delicate as moonlight, into two of the crystal goblets set out beside the bucket, and handed one to Tory.

"The monk said his creation tasted like stars," Jack went on, lifting his glass to hers. "See what you think."

Tory took a cautious taste, but she wasn’t prepared for the explosion inside her mouth. She swallowed too fast, then coughed, then laughed.

"Well, you are supposed to sip it," said Jack, and he demonstrated with his own glass. Before Tory could think of a suitable retort, he rose out of his chair, lifted her face with his free hand, and kissed her; she tasted the memory of the wine, yeasty and sweet on his tongue.

"Now I see how it’s done," she beamed at him. She washed down his kiss with another sip, enjoying the fine, clean taste, and the sparkle inside her mouth. "But ought we not to toast something?"

"Aye, who knows when we’ll ever come across another bottle of champagne," Jack agreed. "We’ll drink to our new venture, then. And pray Fortune stays merry with us."

He stood to pour another splash into each goblet, angling each glass carefully so the fizz never overflowed its rim.

"Bravo, my Harlequin!" cried the vibrant voice of Cora Harvey from the entryway. "I might have known you wouldn't spill a drop. I’m afraid our dear Captain Billy has spent most of his bottle watering my hydrangeas." She sailed into the room, launching a brilliant smile toward Jack’s startled face. "Oh, come, my dear! I’d be a sorry excuse for a woman and an exceedingly poor gossip if I failed to recognize the most attractive man in St. John’s, even without his mask. I always told you I meant to have you to my home. I never imagined I would have to pay for the privilege."

Jack tried out a guarded smile. "You’ve been very generous, Mrs. Harvey." He nodded toward the champagne. "Thank you."

"Ah, you have no idea how generous I might have been. Still, it is I who must thank you for a wonderful performance. Now I see what has had them all abuzz at English Harbour; we have rarely had anything like professional players in residence on this island. My guests are clamoring to make your acquaintance." By now she was close enough to place a discreet hand, very lightly, on Jack’s elbow as she passed. "It’s good to see you again, Jack."

"And you, Cora." Jack’s expression relaxed. "You’re looking impossibly well."

"I ought to, the fortune I spend on upkeep!" she laughed. The Widow Harvey had given up her mourning clothes and was now attired in the merest cloud of soft, gold-colored silk, low on the bosom and dramatically boned at the waist. Her dark hair was arranged on top of her head with several ruthlessly curled tendrils dancing in loose clusters over each ear to set off the wide tilt of her cat-like amber eyes. She did not look youthful, exactly, but her charms had been most carefully preserved.

"But I certainly haven’t come out here to discuss beauty secrets," she went on as she swept past Jack, and seated herself with a crisp whispering of silk in the chair he had just vacated. "I’m here to have a look at my rival."

And then those golden eyes fastened on Tory, who had been watching the scene in a kind of anonymous fascination as she sipped her wine. She had never seen the notorious widow up close, and she was wonderfully curious, despite her usual dismay in the presence of beautiful, confident, fashionable women. It did not occur to her to feel apprehensive, possibly because the cold, tingling champagne was beginning to warm her insides.

"I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my dear. I’m Cora Harvey." She extended a white gloved hand, whose wrist was armored with a battery of thick bracelets of chased gold, and Tory could not help but think of the manacles she had worn in the Basseterre gaol.

"Victoria Lightfoot," she smiled, touching the extended fingers. "I'm so pleased to meet you, at last." Holding up her goblet, she added, "This was very kind of you."

"Well, perhaps I thought to get my Harlequin drunk," Mrs. Harvey sighed wistfully. "Although now I see I’d be wasting my time," she added, as her keen eyes appraised Tory. "You've more than youth on your side, that's plain enough, and I daresay you’re quite an improvement over the bloodless English belles we’re accustomed to out here. Poor little Miss Fletcher hasn’t a word to say for herself, not that her papa the doctor would allow it. But then, you’re not English, judging from your speech. And I doubt very much you are a native of these islands."

"I was born in America," Tory told her.

"Ah, America," Mrs. Harvey cried, with a wave of her hand. "My second husband had dealings in America. He traveled often to Boston."

"I know Boston." Tory took another sip of her wine and Cora Harvey let out a raucous laugh at the tone of her voice.

"Hah! A little England, was it? So I heard, that’s why I never cared to go there myself. And may I say, my dear, what a pleasure it is to find a woman who appreciates fine spirits. May the saints preserve me from genteel ladies who drink nothing but that hideous beveridge of sugared lime." She took an empty glass from the table as she said this, reached for the open champagne bottle, and poured herself a liberal tot with a skill equal to Jack’s.

"So you had the excellent good sense to leave that place," Mrs. Harvey went on, saluting Tory with her glass. "Fancy you turning up here. I wonder how you account for it?"

Tory felt herself disposed to like the widow's good-natured frankness, but she was not yet drunk enough to be imprudent.

"Fortune, Mrs. Harvey," she smiled.

"Ah, Fortune, that arrant whore!" Mrs. Harvey crowed. She cocked her head slightly, eyes alert, trying to gauge if she could pry out any more information. Abruptly, her eyes swung round to Jack, who was perched on the table’s edge, following their conversation with no little interest. "Oh, do stop lounging there in that rakish pose, Jack, my pulse is racing fast enough with the wine and the heat. You’re enough to make a poor old lady swoon quite away."

"I doubt that," Jack said dryly.

"Be an angel, won’t you? Run out and tell the Bruces my guests are waiting to meet you all."

"Of course, Madam. At your service." Jack rose obediently, casting Tory a wry grin over the head of their hostess as he turned to go. When they were alone, Cora Harvey inched a little closer to Tory.

"He cares a great deal for you," Mrs. Harvey observed. "I am accustomed to inspiring my men to romantic frenzy, or reducing them to stammering idiocy. I am not often treated with such bald indifference."

Tory remembered that long-ago morning on their last visit to St. John’s, when Jack had ravished her in the wagon, and she thought that "indifference" was not quite the correct word. "Your charms did not go unnoticed," Tory smiled again. "But we have been friends for a long time."

"I daresay." Mrs. Harvey reached out and caught hold of Tory’s hand. There was something more earnest in her expression. "Only take care, my dear. I've a thousand years of experience in these things, and you may find the rules that govern such matters far more strict in England. Which is why I choose to live abroad."

Taken aback, Tory felt a little flustered. "Why...then I suppose it’s fortunate we have no plans to go there."

"No immediate plans perhaps. But listen to me," Mrs. Harvey urged. "I have lived a long time and I’ve seen a great many players. Most of ‘em are vagabonds and tramps, but," she nodded in the direction Jack had just gone, "that one has a gift. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to realize it, or there’d be no living with him. But it is clear to me that these poor islands shall not contain him for much longer."

Tory did not know how to respond to this; she couldn’t tell if it was idle flattery, or a curse for the woman Cora Harvey considered her rival. Or a merely a friendly warning. In any case, Tory felt the gentle squeeze of the older woman’s hand, and nodded mutely into those amber eyes. Then Jack reappeared at the door with Ada and Billy Bruce, and Mrs. Harvey swept up to her feet.

"Ah! Here we all are. My guests are in a stupor of awe, and pining to meet you all." She paused to offer an arm to Tory, who rose and took it. "You must especially meet my new friend, Mr. Nash, the importer. Newly arrived and such a teller of tales! Do come along!"



They had performed in the parlor, a large, formal room adjacent to the dining room, in Mrs. Harvey’s very English house. But now their hostess led them to a more comfortable sitting room, fitted out with an impressive array of mahogany furniture covered in flowered chintz. One entire wall was given over to the late Captain Harvey’s library, and after an interlude of civil mingling and polite chat with the widow’s guests, Tory noticed Jack drift over to inspect the books. Miss Fletcher and another young lady were left giggling in his wake, until Dr. Fletcher silenced them with an affronted glare. Ada Bruce was entertaining the entire complement of naval officers, and Captain Billy was getting on like a house afire with Mr. Nash, who was small, muscular, fit and tanned, with fluffy brown hair and an open, ruddy face. His looks confirmed that he had been a seafarer; he and Captain Billy were trading salty stories and saluting each other with Madeira. Tory politely disengaged herself from a pair of cheerfully gossiping matrons to go join Jack.

"Gibbon and Scott," Jack grinned at her, nodding toward the bookshelves. "It’s plain they have a great deal of time on their hands in St. John’s."

Tory’s eyes began to rake across the leather spines with their delicate gilded titles. There was something irresistibly intimate about looking at someone else’s books. What a luxury it must be to own books in quantity to read whenever one wished.

"Seeing you among the books there, Mr. Dance, puts me in mind of a mercantile voyage I once undertook." It was Mr. Nash strolling toward them, beaming, his wine glass upraised, Billy Bruce at his elbow. "One of my last commercial voyages, only a year or two ago. Off the leeward coast of Cuba, it was, when we were taken by pirates. Brutish lot of Spaniards they were, herding all of us into the fo'c'sle whilst they stripped the vessel for bullion or whatever frivolous trinkets these low fellows crave. All but one, whom I spied in the cabin, stealing the captain’s books." Mr. Nash smiled a little, shaking his head with amusement. "And with such very great care, inspecting each one, as if he could actually read. The most extraordinary thing!" Mr. Nash took another meditative sip of wine, smiling at Jack over the rim. "Tall fellow he was, something rather nimble. Looked a bit like you."

Tory’s heart dropped out of her body, but Jack straightened and flashed Mr. Nash his most killing smile.

"A lot of fellows look like me, Mr. Nash. Especially in the Spanish islands, or so I’m told."

"Aye, that’s so," Nash agreed, pleasantly. "It’s seeing you poring through the books there, that called the scene to mind. To this day I can’t think what the brute was about."

Other curious eyes had turned toward them by now, including those of the inquisitive Mrs. Harvey.

"I am astonished they let you live to tell the tale, Mr. Nash, from what I’ve heard of those cut-throat bands," exclaimed their hostess.

"Why, they never harmed a one of us," Nash replied smugly. "They had nerve enough only for thievery, not murder."

"You sound disappointed, sir." It was out before Tory could check herself, although she managed to keep her tone mild.

"Why, what an extraordinary thing to say! What I mean, my dear Miss Lightfoot, was that our lives were spared due to their cowardice, nothing more. There was certainly no issue of conscience involved. After all," and he beamed again at Jack, "it’s not as if pirates were comparable to men."

"Certainly not Englishmen," Jack replied, his smile bland and fixed. The asperity Tory detected in his voice might have curdled cream. But the English never expected to hear anything less than the confirmation of their own opinions, and so were charmed by his patriotism.

"Indeed not!" laughed Mr. Nash, clapping him on the back.

"Hang the lot of ‘em, I say!" chimed in Billy Bruce, raising his wine glass. "Thieving scoundrels! And good riddance!"

All the gentlemen drank to this. Jack paused for an instant, staring into his glass as if something vile were floating in it, then touched it to his lips; only Tory knew what the gesture cost him. And not long afterwards, they found an excuse to beg the pardon of their hostess and take their leave.




Tory awoke when Jack’s elbow thumped into the wall under the window of the wagon. She half-turned to find him gasping for breath in his sleep, batting away the sheet.

"Jack?" She sat up on one elbow. The wagon shook with his restlessness. His legs were moving under the sheet, kicking or climbing. She thought he was dreaming of the slaver.

"Jack..." She put her hand on his arm, and he cried out, rolling onto his side so fast, the back of his shoulder slammed into the wall and his eyes flew open. He stayed pinned there for a moment, panting, staring eyes seeing nothing. Then he blinked and seemed to recognize her, and his terror melted into utter confusion. His mouth could not seem to form words.

"It’s all right, Jack. You were dreaming." Tory tried to keep her own voice calm, but it was difficult when he looked this wild.

"Rusty?" His voice was dry. "...oh, my God, Rusty..."

"Ssshh, hombre, I’m right here..." And she put her arms around him, gathered him close. He was shaking against her, his skin cold and pebbled with gooseflesh.

"I know, I know, hombre," she murmured. "It was the slaver again."

"Aye, but...it wasn’t slaves. It was you...and Alphonse and Calypso... and Cybele, all of you chained together and drowning...oh, Christ..." He closed his eyes but they snapped open again. "All of you drowning, Rusty, sinking below the waves, struggling...and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save you..."

"My sweet, sweet heart," Tory whispered, holding him tight. "It was only a dream. Listen to me, Jack. It wasn’t real. We’re safe now, all of us. Everything is all right."

She pressed her cheek into his damp hair, felt him struggling to command himself. "Everything is all right," she chanted softly. "We'll be on Nevis soon, away from here. Alphonse will be there. Nothing is going to happen to us."

If only she could make herself believe it.



(Top: Taking A Bow, by James Aschbacher © 2010.)

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 7: The Barracuda

St. John’s, the principal port town on the northern coast of Antigua, was not so bustling a place as Basseterre. But the very dullness of the place made the sudden appearance of the patchwork Harlequinade all the more of a sensation. Particularly among the homesick idlers with leave to visit the town, while their ships weathered the season at English Harbour, on the southern coast.

They had brought the wagon over on the barge from St. Kitts, camping in it at the edge of the open pasture overlooking the town where the public market was held. The island’s three main roads converged nearby, so they could keep watch on the traffic between the naval station and the town. Still, Jack kept to the refuge of the wagon. And since Cybele had stayed snug in Sandy Point Town with the rest of her children, Jack also kept watch over Marcus. Alphonse had warned of unscrupulous flesh traders who could profit from a healthy Negro boy on any estate in the Indies, so Jack kept the boy in his sight at practice, or when he was off scavenging about the marketplace after the stalls were taken off for whatever boyish treasures he might turn up.

Jack enjoyed their practice on quiet mornings like this, with Tory busy at her logbook and Alphonse off in town. But today was muggy and overcast with no trades to chase off the sticky heat. Jack’s shirt was soaked through in minutes and even Marcus was growing fretful. A gourd slicked out of the boy’s grasp and caromed down the hill into a stand of acacia trees. Jack scrambled down after it and when he drew aside one of the long, leafy branches that drooped almost to the ground, he nearly bolted out of his skin to find Alphonse sitting frozen beneath the hanging branches. He gazed up at Jack in solemn silence.

"Alphonse! Hellfire, are you unwell?" Jack gasped, struggling to recover his normal heartbeat.

"Unwell? No," Alphonse echoed. "It is nothing mortal."

His head turned away again toward the prospect of the town. The twin towers of St. John’s Church rose at one end, above a flat basin of orderly streets, municipal buildings and whitewashed townhouses. The bay lay beyond, a hazy blue-grey in the indifferent sunlight, dotted with small, steep islands and promontories. Three industrious Negro washerwomen were pummeling their master’s linen on the bank of a freshwater pond at the edge of the town. Alphonse saw none of it.

Jack crawled in under the shelter of the branches. "I thought you’d gone to town."

Alphonse only nodded. Jack noticed that he had a paper rolled open on his knees. Alphonse looked down at it, too.

"I was on my way," Alphonse's voice was without expression. "I am pledged to deliver this."

He handed the paper to Jack. It was a petition, two columns of neatly inscribed names and addresses. There was also an inscription at the top. Jack sat back and tilted the paper toward the light.

"We, the undersigned..." he muttered, his eyes quickly scanning through the script, "...free Persons of Colour of the Leeward Islands...loyal subjects of his most Royal Highness, King George Fourth of England…desiring to share in the Legal Rights enjoyed by all subjects of His Majesty, etcetera, etcetera…do pledge our regard for His Majesty’s sovereign Laws...and our opposition to the Abolition of Slavery..."

Jack stopped and looked up at Alphonse.

"Tell me I have misread it," said Alphonse, in that same empty voice. "I am not yet very skilled."

"Skilled enough. What are you doing with this?"

"I am pledged to carry it from the free people of St. Kitts to their fellows in Antigua, for conveyance to London. The first ships bound for England will leave from English Harbour when the storm season ends and I often carry such papers. Much is done through the writing of letters and the sending of petitions to agents in London, who lobby the members of the English Parliament on behalf of the freemen of color. But...never before have I been able to read what I carried. The ribbon on the paper came loose and I thought, who would be harmed if I stop a moment to improve my skills?"

"You mean to say that your associates, whoever gave you this..."

"I was told this was a petition in support of abolition," Alphonse explained in the same quiet voice. "I am betrayed."

Jack handed the petition back, marveling at Alphonse’s apparent composure. Ever one to mask his own feelings, Jack still supposed he’d rage like a lunatic if he ever found himself so deceived in a matter so close to his heart, as impotent as he knew his rage would be. There was something eerie about Alphonse’s calm, something infinitely more frightening than the heat of rage. For an instant, Jack remembered the silent purpose with which Alphonse had choked a man nearly to death in the hills above Old Road Town.

"But what purpose do they believe this will serve?" Jack asked.

"Their own," Alphonse replied. "For what other reason do men ever take action? The freemen no doubt believe that if they pledge to support the business of slavery, the English will be less afraid to grant them their own civil rights. Only cowards would stoop to it," he added, darkly. "Unscrupulous men and their credulous dupes."

"You can’t blame yourself, Alphonse. You couldn’t know..."

"But for my own common sense, which I chose to ignore. The freemen have no interest in ending slavery; they own slaves themselves. They might as well burn their own cane-pieces and plunder their own stores. I knew they did not share my goal, but I failed to see how determined they are to oppose it, now that they have throttled some few little rights of their own out of the English king. Such petty victories, Jack, you would laugh to hear them. The right to vote for the white Englishman to speak for them in the island Assembly. For some select few, the right to stand for the Assembly themselves, if they are white enough in their thinking to earn a grant from the governor. No one speaks of the right of the slave to be free. No one but the little fool they dupe to do their bidding."

"They can’t dupe you any more," said Jack.

"No," Alphonse agreed. "And I am very much afraid there has been an unfortunate mishap in the crossing." He gouged a little hole in the soft, damp earth with his heel and began slowly tearing the petition into bits. "It is always such a jumble at sea," he went on, his small, strong fingers working with precision until there was only a tiny pile of white parchment powder in the hole in the earth. He nudged the loose dirt over it and methodically tamped it down.

Jack felt his spine chilling at the utter composure of Alphonse’s fury, rivulets of sweat turning to ice against his back.

"What will you do now?" he ventured. "Sooner or later they must learn that their petition is not delivered."

"I suppose so," Alphonse nodded. "Although it will be no great matter to draft another one."

"Let ‘em do their own dirty work from now on, you’re well out of it," Jack agreed. "You can spend more time on the Harlequinade."

"The Harlequinade?" Alphonse sounded as if he'd never heard the word.

"Aye, we’ve still got a living to make. Tory, Marcus, we all need you. Your career as a messenger may be over, but there’s still plenty of useful work you can do."

Alphonse’s black eyes began to grow more thoughtful.

"Yes, that is so," he agreed. "My work is just beginning."



Even amid the slave vendors in their gaudy finest, heads turned when a trio of patchwork clowns and one small boy came tumbling into the Sunday market, behind a Negro youth slapping a drum strapped over his shoulder. Alphonse had engaged the drummer for the morning and curious vendors and customers blinked up from their business to hear it, following them with their eyes. It was a busy market; with no shipping out from Europe, the slaves’ provisions kept the town fed. Tory could feel an intensity of interest all during their performance, one of their typical comic stories about Harlequin and Columbine tripping up Mr. Punch in some folly, a riotous chase and the lovers’ escape.

"Must we have that confounded drumming all the time?" Jack grumbled later, when their drummer was off amusing himself. "I feel like I’m being marched to the gallows."

"It draws custom," replied Alphonse.

That afternoon, Tory was outside writing in her logbook while Jack, Alphonse and Marcus were poking about the wagon. The horse Calypso had christened "True," for his dependability, was cropping at the scrubby grass nearby when Tory looked up and saw the stranger.

"A good day to you, Miss, and a grand day it is!" the gentleman sallied, doffing his battered topper as Tory scrambled to her feet.
"Might I presume to introduce myself? William Bruce, at your service, Miss, although I am known to one and all as Captain Billy."

The man scarcely looked like a naval officer in his bottle-green coat and checkered trousers. Of middle years, his pink complexion did not look weathered and his cravat was tied with too giddy a flourish for a sober mlitary man. But Tory glanced off to see that Jack was still hidden behind the wagon.

"Captain," she nodded to his little bow. "I am Miss Lightfoot."

"Ah! The fair Columbine, if I am not mistaken? I wonder if you might conduct me to the proprietor?"

"Perhaps you can discuss the matter with me."

"The fact is, it’s a matter of some delicacy." Captain Bruce’s voice dropped so low, Tory braced herself for blackmail. What else could this brash fellow want with them, if he were not some mariner paid out of his ship in search of a quick profit?

"Perhaps I can help you," said Jack, materializing at Tory’s side. He was wiping wagon grease off his fingers with a rag, but his dark eyes were very keen. He was not wearing his Harlequin mask.

"Captain Bruce," Tory said, and Jack nodded at her inflection.

"Your servant, Captain. Please call me Jack."

"My pleasure, sir," beamed Captain Bruce. "The juggling Harlequin, capital stunt! The fact is, I’ve a little proposition of business to put in your way. You see, I myself am in the theatrical trade—Captain Billy Bruce, nautical songs and sentimental ballads. And my wife, sir, the famed Mrs. Bruce, is a follower of Terpsichore. You’ll never see her like in the matter of country dances, pas seul and the sailor’s hornpipe! We are but newly arrived on Antigua, that is, I was posted to the Station as a lad in the wars against old Boney, but this is my first visit back as a civilian, the winters being so damnably cold in England and the theatrical profession being what it is, as you well know. Mrs. Bruce and I are stopping at English Harbour with an old messmate of mine. Commissioner of the Dockyard now, and a grand good fellow, with the most pleasant little wife."

"A proposition of business?" Jack prompted, gently.

"In plain fact, Mrs. Bruce and I are looking for an engagement. We would consider ourselves most honored, no indeed sir, indebted to you should you consider the offer of our services."

Tory saw a grin tug at the corner of Jack’s mouth.

"Sir, we are only poor strollers who pass the hat," he replied.

"But you put on a capital pantomime; I saw you today in the market. What a sensation you would be in English Harbour! Mrs. Bruce and I are granted leave to perform there, not on the Dockyard itself, for women, Lord bless ‘em, ain’t allowed on the place, but a snug little situation in the village. We would be most honored to share it with your pantomime, to show you what we have to offer."

"Of course we must go," counseled Alphonse after Captain Bruce had gone. "We are invited by a personal friend of the Commissioner of the Dockyard. No one will trifle with us."



Harlequin’s mask was a wondrous device, Tory decided. She perched inside the wagon before the shelf that held the little glass, watching Jack dress behind her. It was dark brown paste, and it covered the top half of Jack’s face, leaving only his mouth and chin visible, the features that had been concealed when he’d worn a pirate’s beard. Yet the single painted expression could seem comic when Harlequin was engaged in knockabout tumbling battles with the little whiteface Punch, or poignant when he was pining for his Columbine.

And it kept Jack safe here in English Harbour, this wet, gloomy, festering place. The high, flat hills overlooking the deep twin pools of the harbor protected the ships anchored there from the brunt of any gales off the Atlantic, but also prevented any offshore breeze reaching the harbor, trapping all heat and moisture in the basin. Worse, the Bruces’ "snug little situation" was, in fact, the yard at Fort Shirley, the naval settlement of officers’ quarters, battery, hospital and canteen. But bored military men and their servants made an appreciative audience for the pantomime, as the English called their Harlequinade.

Tory tugged her neckline lower and fluffed out her full skirt with its riotous patches. She did love playing Columbine.

"I feel like we’re going to be rollicking today," she declared, winding up her hair into a knot on top of her head as Jack came up behind her. "I only wish we were playing back at St. John’s. Have you noticed how the market folk are always so excited over us?"

"Oh, they like us well enough, here, but the English are far less demonstrative than slaves and freemen," said Jack. "Unless Ada Bruce is flipping up her skirts."

Mrs. Ada Bruce was a small, shapely woman with vivid red curls who wore her bodices tightly boned and painted her eyebrows and rouged her lips, even during the day. Upon being presented to Jack for the first time, she dropped into a low curtsy and beamed up at him with so much ferocious blinking, Tory thought there must be something troubling her eyes. Onstage, she danced like a Fury, hiking up her skirts to tremendous response, while Captain Billy played his fife or sang one of his salty shanties.

"Aye, the English are entertained by our little shows," Tory agreed, "but it seems to mean more to the slaves, somehow."

Jack was leaning in over her shoulder, adjusting his mask in the glass. At that instant, they both found themselves gazing into Harlequin’s brown face.

"B’God, Rusty, you’re right," Jack murmured. "In English pantomime, Harlequin is always in a dark mask and Punch puppets are always white. But of course, an audience of slaves or any people of color would see things differently."

How must it look, Tory thought, a blackface man and a woman of color besting whiteface Mr. Punch at every turn. "Do you suppose Alphonse had this in mind when he suggested our pantomime?"

"It would not surprise me," said Jack. "He certainly enjoys taking Punch’s falls. And of course, he could depend upon the complacent English never noticing. Hellfire, I never noticed, and I’m part of the play."

After their pantomime, Alphonse collected their coins and took Tory aside to smooth out an awkward moment in one of their falls. Marcus was poking about the field where the audience had been, seeing what he could turn up. Captain Billy and Ada Bruce were regaling a handsome young post-captain and a handful of boyish midshipmen. Jack had his head down, as usual, intent on getting back to the wagon, when he felt a hand on his arm. He glanced up, startled, into the cat-like amber eyes of an elegant-looking woman. Her dark hair was swept up under a tasteful black straw bonnet, its veil rolled up to reveal a humorous red mouth and milk-white skin with a trace of crepeiness around the throat to mark her as a woman of maturity. But the swell of her bosom was no less alluring, even under its decorous covering of ruched black silk.

"Forgive my boldness, my dear Harlequin. I spoke, but you did not appear to hear me." The lady glanced apologetically at her hand, but she did not remove it from his arm.

"It is I who must beg your pardon, Madam," said Jack, trying to muster some gallantry to cover his surprise. She was a tall woman who did not have to look up very far to meet his eyes.

"I know it’s very naughty of me to approach you without an introduction," she smiled, "but you see, I do have a chaperone." She made a vague gesture behind her, where Jack saw a plump Negro girl tarrying at the edge of the clearing, some way off. "I was depending upon that rogue, Captain Bruce, for an introduction, but as you see, he is otherwise engaged at the moment, and when I saw you hurrying away..."

"Not at all," Jack smiled patiently. The lady’s hand slid very slowly off his arm, although her fingertips lingered a moment longer.

"But then, I feel like I’ve quite known you forever, my dear Harlequin," she smiled back, a reckless glint in her feline eyes.

"Then you have the advantage of me, Miss...?"

"Mrs. Captain Harvey. Widowed." She lowered her eyes for the merest instant.

"Please accept my condolences, Ma’am."

"You are far too kind, Mr. ..."

"Ah, but you know me already, dear lady," Jack fenced, not at all eager to reveal any part of himself to the wife of a British naval captain, deceased or otherwise.

Mrs. Harvey’s cats’ eyes brightened with intrigue. "My intimate friends call me Cora," she said.

"And how may poor Harlequin be of service to you, Madam?"

Her eyes lingered on him in shameless appraisal. "Do me the honor of coming to tea this afternoon. The girl will tell you the way. There will be sweets beyond imagining, for I know what a glutton my Harlequin is."

But it was Mrs. Harvey’s eyes that were doing the devouring; Jack wondered his paste mask didn’t melt. He hadn’t been so boldly propositioned since he was a lad, certainly not by a lady of quality, and he could not recall the last time anyone had asked him to tea. He supposed he ought to be flattered by her attentions, but he felt instead as if he had wandered into a rather mediocre play.

"I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer, Mrs. Harvey. We have, ah, an engagement this afternoon."

Mrs. Harvey looked mildly surprised, but nothing daunted.

"What a pity," she sighed, voluptuously. "But your next free afternoon, you must take tea with me. I won’t hear of a refusal."

"Madam, we would be most honored," Jack replied with a bland smile. Tory and Alphonse were collecting Marcus and heading for the wagon. "And now please do excuse me, I’m rather late."



"Not the Widow Harvey!" Billy Bruce chuckled later that night, over a bottle of porter the Bruces had brought them. "Keep a sharp lookout, my boy, she’s quite the barracuda!"

"You know her?"

"Ye gods, the whole station knows the Widow Harvey! The woman’s notorious! She’s buried three husbands, divorced one and, if memory serves, had one annulled. And there’s no telling how many, er, liaisons in between, eh?"

"Mr. Bruce!" cried his wife, looking thoroughly scandalized.

"But it’s true, my dear. The woman's quite a man-eater."

Jack wondered how the heat from those cats’ eye would have affected him if he were still an impressionable lad of nineteen. "But if she’s such a terror to all the poor little middies at the station, why do they not simply pack her off home?"

"Why, that’s the thing of it. The late Captain Harvey was a well-respected old fellow and a man of some means. Bought his wife a fine country house over in Falmouth, on the far side of the harbor, and now there’s no dislodging her, not with her taste for men in uniform."

"Then what the devil does she want with me?" Jack muttered.


(Top: St. John's, Antigua. J Johnson, published 1827. As seen on www.brunias.com/)