"Preposterous!" Sir Arthur spluttered. "Lady Bartlett is at King's House."
"In that event. Your Excellency, she is no doubt a hostage, just as I am yours." Without pausing he lifted his voice. "Dirk! Come in here and bring the others with you!"
Dirk Friendly and the two Maroons entered the tent, wet and bedraggled and showing no sign of awe for the governor general. At Jeremy's bidding each in turn told his version of the conversation at the Golden Bucket, and Sir Arthur, his anger cooling, was increasingly interested. Finally, after the reluctant Gabriel had haltingly and with obvious sincerity struggled through his account of the meeting. Sir Arthur rubbed his knuckles across his chin reflectively.
"It is possible," he conceded, "that you are telling the truth, all of you. Now that I think of it. Her Grace of Glasgow is in large part responsible for this campaign against the Maroons."
Gabriel and Michael both stiffened, their eyes flashing, but subsided at a warning look from Jeremy. "In what way is she responsible, sir?"
"She talked me into it," the governor general declared ruefully. "And because of you. She persuaded me that the Maroons were flouting my authority by harboring you in their midst, and she offered substantial proof that you were with them in the hills. If what you now tell me is actually so, then she merely used a neat and perfidious device to remove me and my troops from town." He sighed reflectively. "That woman has unique persuasive powers, there's no doubt of it."
"Indeed there isn't, sir," the young gunsmith agreed, daring to hope that Sir Arthur's milder manner indicated that he believed what he had been told.
"Well, we shall see, we shall see. I'll dispatch a messenger into Port Royal at once, and we'll know by tonight—tomorrow morning at the latest—whether your story is true. In the meantime, you will be my guests, all of you. You will not be ill-treated, but I warn you, make no attempt to leave this encampment. I will not pass judgment on you until I am sure where I stand, and to be frank, I do not know at this moment whether you are trying to fool me again or whether Their Majesties stand forever in your debt."
It was a rare day when the sun failed to shine over Jamaica, and by dawn the rain had set a new and dismal record, having fallen for more than twenty-four consecutive hours without a break. Now, shortly after breakfast, the downpour gave way to a steady drizzle, but the sky over the Blue Mountains remained forbidding and a particularly heavy concentration of clouds was gathering over Spanish Town to the southwest. As a sea breeze was blowing from that direction, it was probable that the Liguanea Plain would receive another heavy drenching.
Troop morale was finally beginning to crumble under the influence of the weather, and even a few of the veteran sergeant majors expressed the loud wish, in the hearing of commissioned officers, that the battalions would return to Port Royal and comfortable barracks. The grumbling was loudest, of course, in the ranks of the two companies that had only recently arrived from England.
However, the Maroons remained quiet in their hidden hill positions, and although the brigade was badly exposed and vulnerable to an attack, none was forthcoming. Through deliberate inaction the enemy was emphasizing the principle that he merely wanted to be allowed to live in peace in his wilderness, that he would not fight unless attacked, and that he was harmless when unmolested.
The rain pelted lightly but steadily on a small tent located behind the sentry compound, the temporary quarters of Jeremy Stone and Dirk Friendly. A hole in the canvas on one side of the little pyramid forced the two gunsmiths to huddle in the farthest corner, and the sound of the drops on the soaked cloth made a dismal background as they tried to make themselves comfortable on two low, upturned crates, the only furniture the place afforded other than a pair of soggy mattresses. But Jeremy was in high spirits, and every few minutes he rose, walked to the tent flap, and peered out toward the sentry lines, beyond the leaky canvas structure where Gabriel and Michael were housed, for Sir Arthur's returning messenger would probably come past this point on his return from Port Royal.
Dirk did not share his friend's optimism, however, and as time wore on he became increasingly morose. "If'n I was t' have the chance again," he said, enlarging on a theme he had pursued relentlessly ever since he had awakened, "I wouldn't follow ye down the street, Jerry. I wouldn't follow ye t' some-buddy's house across the road or t' the jakes or nothin'. Some folks, they got theirselves a real talent for makin' money or sailin' ships or attractin' wenches. But Jerry Stone, mind ye, has a talent for a-gettin' hisself into the worst kind o' trouble a man c'n dream up. For the past half year I been in danger o' gettin' my head cut off'n my body, 'n' I don't rightly like it. I'm a peaceable man 'n' I ain't a-aimin' t' be on the bad side o' nobuddy. O' course I'm just a-talkin' right through the hat that ain't even on m' head, b'cause I'm in a real heap o' trouble, 'n' this is one time I ain't a-goin' t' get out'n it."
Jeremy tried hard not to laugh at the other's gloomy predictions of what was ahead. "It isn't so bad. Dirk," he said, concealing his cheerfulness. "Until Sir Arthur's messenger arrives we aren't too uncomfortable, in spite of the rain. They gave us a fine breakfast at the officers' mess, and I haven't heard anyone order us before a squad of marksmen."
"There's only one reason why they ain't, Jerry, m' lad, 'n' that's b'cause this here weather is so wet all their powder is damp. If we'd have gone t' Esther Mary like we should have did, she'd have talked us out o' comin' up here. I tell ye, that there girl has more pure smartness in her little finger than ye 'n' me have in both our heads put t'gether!"
Before Jeremy could reply, the flap opened and a young ensign wearing the triple shoulder loop of an aide-de-camp stuck his head inside and saluted smartly. Rivers of water ran down the youthful officer's helmet and neck into his soaked collar, but he nevertheless managed to look fairly smart. "Master Stone," he said crisply, "His Excellency's compliments, and could you gentlemen join him at the pavilion?"
"Certainly, mister. At once!" Jeremy jumped to his feet. "Has the messenger returned from Port Royal "
"I really can't answer any questions, sir. It isn't my place," the ensign replied primly, then grinned.
"Thanks very much," the young gunsmith said heartily, his eyes twinkling. "Naturally I appreciate the delicacy of your position. . . . What about the two Negroes who rode up here with us?"
"I have no orders concerning them, Master Stone. But I've brought horses with me for your comfort, gentlemen, so you'll suffer inconvenience from the weather for only a few minutes."
Following him out into the rain, Jeremy nudged Dirk and whispered, "What about those predictions of yours now? When a general's aide-de-camp apologizes for the weather, there's nothing to worry about, Dirk, not a thing in the world."
"I ain't a-goin t' b'lieve ye until I hear Sir Arthur apologizin' —personal-like," the big man replied stubbornly, in no wise mollified.
Four sentries stood on duty before Sir Arthur Bartlett's quarters, stolidly ignoring the heavy drizzle as they stared straight ahead, their muskets held stiff-armed before them. Jeremy pushed aside the thick, corded flap and entered, with Dirk behind him. The governor general was seated behind his small table, and lounging around the pavilion were several high-ranking officers, all immaculately dressed. The young gunsmith was acutely conscious of his torn, stained clothing, but Sir Arthur smiled a broad welcome.