There had been high hopes when the rainstorm had started that the governor general and his staff would abandon the expedition and order an immediate return to Port Royal, but no such directive had been issued, and the men were resigned to the inevitablity of still another push into the dark recesses of the tropical forest. Strangely, morale was still fairly high, though none of the troops felt that the Maroons would be routed. It was difficult to work up a rage against a foe who was never seen, never heard, and even the most belligerent yearned not for blood but for a return to their doxies and the rum shops of Port Royal.
No one was out in the open but a few miserable sentries as Jeremy Stone, accompanied by Dirk Friendly and the two Maroons, Gabriel and Michael, approached the encampment on horseback. Michael had managed in some mysterious manner to find mounts for the party after they had crossed the Bay of Jamaica to the island mainland, and they had ridden up the plain at a fast clip in spite of the rain. All were sleepy after their long journey, but a sense of tension and excitement kept them alert, and Jeremy was grinning to himself as he waved a limp handkerchief from the tip of his Toledo sword.
He felt sure of success and had confided some of his thoughts to Dirk during the ride, but the big man had not shared his optimism and had been convinced, in fact, that Jeremy was signing both of their death warrants. His glistening face accurately mirrored his thoughts as he slowed his horse to a walk; his lips were compressed, his broad brow was furrowed, and his usually happy eyes showed nothing but a grim determination liberally larded with utter despair.
Two sentries lifted their muskets when the riders approached. Jeremy asked to be conducted to Sir Arthur Bartlett, and a corporal of the guard was immediately summoned. That worthy beamed in the friendliest possible manner despite the presence in the party of two Negroes, whom he assumed to be servants rather than Maroons, and led the way across the encampment. In the center of a circle of large tents stood a peculiarly built affair that boasted three layers of sailcloth over a lining of heavy silk. The corporal showed some hesitation, obviously not wanting to approach too close, so Jeremy dismounted, threw his reins to Dirk, and after thanking the guard started toward the flap, which was partly open.
After removing some quantities of mud from his clothes, face, and boots, he stood at the entrance and peered inside. It was dry there, probably the only spot in the entire encampment that was not dripping. Inside sat Sir Arthur Bartlett, reading a long sheet of parchment and puffing reflectively on a long-stemmed clay pipe. He was in full uniform, and on his shoulders were the golden, crown-encrusted epaulets of a lieutenant general of the realm. In front of him on a small wooden table were his sword and plumed helmet, and lying on a small field trunk were a brace of pistols.
Jeremy's heart beat violently, but his voice was calm as he called, "May I see you, sir?" The rain drumming on the canvas was so loud that he was forced to repeat the question.
"Yes? What is it?" Sir Arthur did not look up from the parchment.
Wishing he had been able to make himself more presentable, Jeremy advanced into the tent. "I imagine you're surprised to see me. Sir Arthur," he began tentatively.
The governor general looked up casually, then leaped to his feet, breaking the clay pipe. "You! Why—why, damn your impertinence!" His voice rose to a shout. "Guards! Arrest this man!"
No one approached, and Jeremy wasted no time. "Sir Arthur," he said urgently, "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I have come here of my own volition, knowing full well that you could have me executed."
"What do you want here?" It was evident that the guards had not heard Sir Arthur's shout, and his expression showed that he was sure the impostor's intent was to murder him. He looked around hastily for a weapon, and his glance fell on the long sword resting on the table. He ripped it hastily from its scabbard and glared at the intruder.
Jeremy had more or less anticipated such a reaction. However, he had not counted on finding the governor general alone, and he pressed his advantage. Despite the uncomfortable presence of Sir Arthur's naked sword only a few inches from his face, he neither retreated nor reached for his own blade. "I am in possession of information that is vital to the safety of this colony, Your Excellency. I have come to you with this information, for I feel it is my duty as a loyal subject of the Crown."
Cynical incredulity showed in Sir Arthur's eyes, and he did not lower his weapon. "You—a loyal subject? I warn you, young man, I shall not treat you as a gentleman. If you make the slightest attempt to draw your sword, I shall run you through. Ho, there! Guards!"
It took a supreme effort to maintain an outer semblance of calm. "I have no intention of harming you, Sir Arthur. If that had been my purpose in coming here, I could have accomplished it very easily by now, for friends of mine are waiting for me right outside this tent, and between us we would have no trouble in subduing you, I am sure. However, that is beside the point. As to my loyalty, I cannot blame you for doubting me. I can only assure you that my masquerade as your nephew was a folly prompted by overambition and born of a desperation caused by the life I was leading. But this is of no consequence at the present moment, either. I want to report "
The sword blade flickered ominously. "You seriously expect me to believe that patriotism is the sole motive that brings you here, young man?"
"No, sir." Jeremy smiled, debated with himself the virtues of frankness, and decided to be completely honest. "I hope that you'll reward me with a pardon."
"I see," the governor general replied heavily. "And now you'll tell me that you've come to me as an emissary of the Maroons. You'll offer me information as to their present troop dispositions and battle plans. And should I be fool enough to believe your rot, my brigade will be annihilated. Thank you, Master Charlatan, but I will not "
"I'm sorry to contradict you. Your Excellency," Jeremy cut in loudly, "but I am not an ambassador from the Maroons." He spoke hurriedly, knowing that it would be only a matter of time before the absent guards returned. "It is true that I found sanctuary with them and that they nursed me back to health. But I am most emphatically not their representative. They have no idea that I am here. In fact, they probably think I am in Port Royal. I was in the town—as recently as yesterday—and I have come to you with full speed. There is a vast conspiracy afoot in your capital, sir. A group of ruthless and wealthy people have bribed the crews of the boucanier ships to join them in seizing the government. I myself was offered a high position in their cause."
Sir Arthur, in spite of himself, was impressed. "Who are the leaders of this conspiracy?" he asked.
Jeremy took a deep breath. "The Duchess Caroline of Glasgow and her gentlemen."
The governor general's face lost its color, and after a moment of shock his eyes showed a deep anger. "You damned renegade!" he bellowed. "Do you dare to suggest that Caroline Stuart—a cousin of Her Majesty—is trying to overthrow the rule of William and Mary in this colony?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. Not only here, but in North America as well. It is their intent to set up a new kingdom of the West, with Her Grace of Glasgow as Queen."
"I've never heard such rubbish in my life! I don't know what your game is, young man, but you'll not get away with it, by God! I'll have you "
"I don't expect you to accept my story without verification, Sir Arthur." Jeremy spoke quietly now, but with considerable force. He unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table. "I surrender this to you as a token. I hope you will return it to me when you discover that there are boucanier riots erupting all over Port Royal and that Caroline has by now caused Their Majesties' flag to be struck at King's House and has raised her own in its place."