Her voice had a peculiarly insinuating quality; she seemed to be prodding Jeremy into action, and he turned to stare at her sharply. However, her face and eyes showed nothing but an overwhelming pity for the Arawak. Suddenly Jeremy could hold back no longer. His jaw setting grimly, he drew his sword, stepped forward, and with a single deft stroke cut the bull whip in two just as the heavy man was about to bring it down once more on the Indian's torn back.
A growl of rage escaped the man's lips, and his face blackened apoplectically as he whirled on the intruder who had dared to frustrate his design. "What in hell do you think you're doin'?" he shouted. "By God, I'll give you a taste of "
At this moment Dirk Friendly intervened. Lifting Jeremy bodily and setting him to one side as though he were some small inanimate object, Dirk strolled toward the overseer, a pleasant smile on his face. "Ye ain't a-goin' t' do nothin' more t' nobuddy, 'n' ye've did all ye'll do for t'night, I reckon."
A huge fist lashed out suddenly and crashed into the overseer's face. Another blow caught him in the pit of the stomach, and he doubled over. Dirk struck again and this time caught him on the point of the chin. As the man buckled. Dirk caught him expertly, lifted him into the air, and sauntered unconcernedly toward the entrance. He was still smiling, and his pale eyes were mild as he pitched the inert form of the overseer into the road outside. So rapidly had he acted that the crowd, stunned, could not quite believe that the fight was over.
Ambling back into the taproom, Dirk wiped his palms on his breeches. "It's a-gettin' so a body can't sit down for a sociable drink any more 'thout some loud-mouth a-tryin' f disrept him." He caught sight of Jeremy, still standing with sword in hand, and moved toward him. "I reckon ye c'n sit down 'n' finish yer rum peaceful-like, Master Bartlett," he remarked offhandedly. "I don't rightly believe that there one will be a-comin' back in t' pester us none." He glanced around, and a light of triumph appeared in his eyes.
The Arawak had disappeared.
Men and their doxies began to scatter to their respective tables, but before Jeremy could speak a word in private to Dirk, the minister was at his side, pumping his hand. "Master Bartlett, permit me to introduce myself. I am Reverend Pennywell. And I would be much obliged to you if you and your man here would join me in a cup to celebrate your triumph over the forces of evil. Pray do not hesitate to sup with your servant, sir. Remember, 'Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love.' Romans, 12. Come, gentlemen, come."
A moment later the two young men were before the minister's table, at which the girl who had spurred Jeremy to action was now seated alone, her dog lying at her feet. Her manner was demure, and her eyes were without guile; it was as though she had just entered the taproom and knew nothing of the violent scene that had just taken place.
"Gentlemen, my niece, Esther Mary. May I present Master Bartlett and—uh—I fear I don't know your name, sir."
"Friendly. And there ain't nobuddy has ever lived up t' his name more'n me. I reckon I'm just about the friendliest critter there is."
Esther Mary held out a hand to each, and when Jeremy's fingers closed over hers he was again surprised. Though her hand was dainty and the flesh soft, her grip was as firm as a man's. "I like you," she said. "I like you both. Please sit down."
Jeremy spoke for the first time. "You're very kind," he said, bowing, "but we'll be taking the places of your—your friends."
Reverend Pennywell read his thoughts, and a sad smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "You, sir—you who lash out at a bully—are like all the others? Is it so strange that I preach in places of this sort? Is it so strange that Jonas Pennywell should break bread with publicans and sinners? Did not our Lord Himself do likewise? Luke, 15."
Grinning openly, Esther Mary waved the men to their seats. "Uncle Jonas will deliver a sermon if you give him just half a chance," she confided to Jeremy and Dirk. "I warn you, never mention such words as 'self-righteous' to him. And by all means never mention the Parish Church of St. Peter's '*
"That mock shrine of worship!" her uncle interrupted, stroking his beard agitatedly. "That unhallowed hall where the self-satisfied and sleek congregate. In Port Royal, as nowhere else, there is a need for spiritual counsel, for aid to the poor unfortunates who have slipped down life's path and who know it not. But they may not worship at the Parish Church of St. Peter's. Oh no! The grand ladies and gentlemen who sit in their prim little pews might soil their fine silks should they touch a boucanier or a harlot. 'The foolishness of man perverteth his way.' Proverbs, 19. I tell you "
The girl half stood, kissed the clergyman's brow, and chuckled. "You see what I mean. As you come to know Uncle Jonas better, you won't mind in the least." Suddenly her eyes became serious. "Are you intending to remain in Jamaica long?"
Jeremy considered for an instant before replying. "That will depend on the Duchess," he said carefully.
Reverend Pennywell, who had been continuing his diatribe in an undertone, broke off sharply and peered myopically at the young gunsmith. "This Caroline of Glasgow interests me," he stated flatly. "I thought I knew much about the Stuarts when taking my divinity degree at Cambridge, but apparently I was less diligent than I thought. What is the relation of this beauteous Caroline to Their Majesties?"
"Her Grace is a first cousin to Queen Mary."
The cleric's face lit up. "Ah, then her father "
"Not now. Uncle Jonas!" Esther Mary was impatient, and she turned to Jeremy apologetically. "He has an overweening passion for genealogy of royal households, and I have something of importance to say to you, so his probing of the Duchess's ancestry will have to wait. Master Bartlett, Master Friendly, you've both earned the gratitude of the Maroons for your intervention in the beating of that poor Arawak tonight."
Chapter Seven
A FAINT sea breeze made the late morning sun bearable, and the distant Liguanea Plain shimmered in the heat, while above the Blue Mountains small white clouds drifted indecisively back and forth, as though unsure whether to move out over the Caribbean or whether to evaporate. Port Royal, unlike most tropical communities, which ordinarily began their day at sunrise, was just waking up. Waiters and cooks were slowly making their way to their work at taverns and inns, the residents of brothels were opening their shutters and doors, and the shopkeepers were unlocking the wrought-iron grilles that protected their store fronts.
Nevertheless, there was more traffic than usual on the High Street, for two boucanier vessels had docked within the hour, and the crewmen were beginning to pour ashore, eager to spend their recently won gold on the delights of the town. A handful of the less attractive trollops were already searching for men, but the experienced seamen were passing up the charms of these anxious harlots for the younger and prettier members of the sorority, who would wait until the new arrivals had consumed considerable quantities of rum before appearing and displaying their charms.
The important business of the day was being conducted on the tiny square known as the Vegetable Market, but Jeremy Stone, sauntering back to the Golden Bucket from King's House, saw nothing but a handful of sagging two-story wooden houses, tightly shuttered. A few Negroes lounged in the shade of a banyan tree, and a family of goats, led by a scraggly male with a gray-and-black goatee, pranced sedately in single file down the dusty road. Jeremy had heard only this morning from the brigade major of the garrison that the receivers of stolen and pirated goods made their headquarters in the drab buildings of Vegetable Market Square and that the masters of the two boucanier vessels would undoubtedly spend the better part of the day with these gentlemen, disposing of their haul.