"Not so fast! There is more. You interfered with the operation of this brig the night of the gale. A man was being punished. You tried to stop it."
"That's not quite accurate. Captain. I "
"Interrupt me at your peril, damn you! You interfered!
"Insolence, Bartlett. I won't tolerate it. This is my ship. I'm the law here. Do it again and I'll clap you into irons. Until you're landed at Port Royal you're under my jurisdiction. And don't you forget it. Good day. And be damned to you!"
Chapter Six
A MERCILESS tropical sun glared brightly overhead, and the placid blue waters of Port Royal Harbor shimmered in the heat. Straight ahead lay the green-clad peaks of the Blue Mountains, and lazy clouds drifted aimlessly over them. Between mountains and sea stood the sprawling Liguanea Plain, a grassy rising plateau that was being converted into profitable plantations bearing sugar cane, indigo, and cotton as fast as ambitious landowners could import new shiploads of slaves from Africa. Port Royal itself nestled in the flat-lands at the bulbous end of a long, narrow peninsula joined to the mainland of the island by a strip of sandy soil which the Spaniards, previous owners of Jamaica, had called the Palisadoes.
Tufts of wild crab grass studded the causeway, and a seemingly endless row of coconut palms snaked around the enclosed bay at the far end of the peninsula. The palms were considered an oddity, and neither the native Arawak Indians nor the imported Africans would touch the fruit, so the trees remained inviolate.
From the berth where the Bonnie Maid rode at anchor, the town itself appeared cramped and drab and colorless, surprising for a community renowned the world over for its wickedness and glitter. Though it was true that Port Royal was the only port in the Caribbean open to freebooters of any nationality and that her gaming, wenching, and drinking establishments had attained a luster in the eyes of men everywhere, thanks to the lurid tales told about them by sailors of every nation, the actual buildings of the town looked like no more than the squat, ugly structures of limestone and mud, native wood and clay that they were. Only three were in any sense imposing: near the waterfront was a church with a gilded spire; on the far side of town, where the aristocracy, government officials, and wealthy planters made their homes, a three-story building made of imported brick was King's House, the official residence of Sir Arthur Bartlett, Governor General of Jamaica, Their Majesties' Viceroy in the Indies, and Vice-Admiral of the Fleet for Western Waters. Most of all was the Citadel, a grim fortress erected on a man-made promontory overlooking the harbor. Her cannon, placed at intervals in a thick stone wall, literally hung out over the water, and sentinels in scarlet uniforms and high fur shakos marched stiff-legged on the catwalks, demonstrating to the riffraff that William and Mary were supreme even in this remote outpost of Whitehall.
Jeremy Stone, seated in the stem of the Bonnie Maid's gig as it sped shoreward, was almost blind to the sights that lay ahead, and instead stared blankly at the oars of the four seamen who propelled the little craft. Dirk Friendly, sitting beside him on the low wooden plank, alternately muttered complaints about the heat and speculated excitedly about the rum and women who awaited a young man of vigor in the town. But Jeremy heard not a word and thought only that if he failed to carry off his impersonation of Terence Bartlett he would soon be dead.
"Jerry!" Dirk's harsh whisper cut through his thoughts. "Smilin' Jehos'phat! They're a-wavin' t' ye from the dock there! Wake up, will ye?"
There was a long roll of drums somewhere ahead, and Jeremy glanced up sharply. Standing at the end of a long stone pier were two figures, a man and a woman, both of middle years. The gentleman was dressed in a white uniform with an ivory plume in his hat, and across his breast was the watered silk ribbon of the Order of the Garter. Despite the heat, he wore a powdered wig, as did the lady, who was attired in a gorgeous if old-fashioned gown with many petticoats and a large bustle. Behind them, at the far end of the dock, was a line of scarlet-coated grenadiers, bayoneted muskets touching the ground at precisely the same angle.
In the rear was a large crowd, and as the gig drew nearer Jeremy saw that at least half were Negroes in tattered clothing. There were men of all ages in every variety of seamen's attire, and it took little imagination to guess that these were boucaniers, the blustering freebooters who had so long made the Caribbean dangerous for fat merchantmen. With them were a considerable number of handsome, highly painted women, most of them young, and ranging in color from white to a deep brown. These were certainly some of the Jezebels who gave Port Royal the name of the most sinful city on earth.
But it was the couple at the head of the pier who attracted Jeremy's full attention. Unless he was much mistaken, he was 63
looking at Sir Arthur Bartlett and his lady, for surely no other man in this remote corner of the earth was entitled to wear the distinguished ribbon of the Garter. Tall and spare, with a ruddy complexion, cllpped white mustaches, and firm lips, he had the bearing of the able, loyal, and fearless servant of the Crown that his reputation proclaimed him to be. White, bushy brows framed a pair of deep blue eyes that were watching Jeremy keenly as the gig drew near the dock. Lady Bartlett was short, fragile in appearance, with delicate features and a pale skin that appeared incongruous in a place where all other whites were deeply tanned.
The gig pulled alongside the quay, the Bonnie Maid's seamen held the boat steady, and Jeremy leaped ashore, with Dirk clambering onto the dock after him; he drew his sword and saluted with a flourish. "Sir Arthur?" he asked, his pulse suddenly racing as his impersonation became distasteful.
"Yes. I am Arthur Bartlett." The governor general's voice was deep and smooth.
"I am the official representative of Caroline Stuart, Her Grace of Glasgow. I—I also have the honor to be your nephew Terence, sir."
Lady Bartlett snapped her tiny parasol shut with a fluttering but decisive gesture, uttered a happy, birdlike cry, and, brushing aside all ceremony, hurried forward and threw her arms around Jeremy's neck. A moment later Sir Arthur held his hand in a solid grip, and the warmth, the depth and sincerity of their welcome made Jeremy feel ashamed and sordid. It was small consolation to think that he better represented the Bartlett name than the sot who was slowly drinking himself to death in Van der Voort's Ordinary two thousand miles away.
"Terence!" Lady Bartlett said fondly. "Terence! Let me look at you! Gracious, you're handsome! Yes, you look like the Bartletts. I'd have known you anywhere."
"Thank you, Aunt," Jeremy murmured, suddenly horror-stricken at the thought that he did not know her Christian name.
"We've thought about you, lad," the viceroy of William and Mary boomed. "We've thought much about you, and we've hoped we might have the joy of seeing you, but we never expected you'd come to Jamaica with a royal duchess. Well!" He paused, seemed lost in thought for a moment, then plunged on: "We should have written to you at the time of the tragedy, but I was on a special mission for King Charles to the Turks, and it was many months before the news reached us. We've spent almost no time at all in England these past twenty years, you know. But we were sorry to hear of the loss of Daphne and—what was her name?—Clothilde "
Lady Bartlett took hold of her husband's sleeve and shook his arm gently. "Not Clothilde, Arthur. Mathilde."
Jeremy almost sighed aloud in relief. He had no idea of the identity of the two women being discussed, but had caught enough of the drift of the conversation to keep his face set in sober lines.