Adam nodded, strode up to the man at the head of the line and shouted above the flames. The man immediately moved over to the second warehouse and the line followed him. He threw the water over the walls, heaving it up as high as he could. Soon water was dripping down as if there had been a sudden rainstorm and when a tongue of flame did leap across from the fire, it spluttered and died without doing any damage.
The line kept up its work until the fire had burned itself out. The timber had been so dry and the fire so fierce that it did not take long. A black heap of charred wood and ashes was all that remained of the warehouse; everything in it had been destroyed and at least one man had died. Among those who had thrown themselves into the water there might have been more deaths and gruesome evidence of others might yet be found in the ashes.
Adam and Thomas sat on the harbour wall and gazed at the scene. ‘Are you injured, Thomas?’ asked Adam.
Thomas held his hands out for inspection. In places they were red and raw but nothing worse. ‘Nothing one of Patrick’s salves won’t cure.’
‘It was brave of you to try to save the man.’
‘Brave? Not really. More instinct than courage. Thank God more men were not killed and we saved the second warehouse. Who will bear the cost of the other one?’
‘The Dutchman who owns the warehouses will have to rebuild at his own expense and replace the lost sugar. He will be insured, I expect. Fortunately, I had no more than a few hogsheads in the one that burned.’
‘I wonder if the Dutchman will rebuild in stone.’
‘He will have to after this. His customers will not want to risk another fire, especially with bands of runaways on the loose. No fools, the Dutch. While we strive and strain to plant and grow, pausing only to fight each other, they provide finance, buy our sugar cheaply, warehouse it, ship it, sell it to eager buyers in Europe and pocket the profits. While England has been tearing itself to pieces, Holland has grown fat and prosperous.’
‘What shall we do with the sugar, Adam?’ asked Thomas.
‘I think we’ll take it home and thank God we did not come yesterday.’
They rose and walked towards the waiting carts. As they did so, the black-clad figure of Sprot appeared from the Drake, satchel over his shoulder and making for the group of men who had jumped into the water. Sprot, at least, would be happy. A burned finger or two to remove, perhaps an arm or a leg and he would have had a good day’s work.
The journey back to the estate was sad and silent. Only Thomas had suffered any injury but all were affected. The cost in life and money was great. Indentured man or slave, they were better off with peace and trade than death and destruction, and they knew it.
Mary saw the loaded carts returning and came out to discover what had happened. Adam asked her first to fetch Patrick to tend to Thomas’s hands, ordered the placing of the muscovado back in their own store and then sat down with her to tell the story.
When it was done and Thomas’s hands had been anointed with a thick salve and bandaged with clean cloths, Mary said only, ‘I thank God you are all safe. But we are in danger. If runaways will do this, who knows what else they are capable of?’
‘Where is Charles?’ asked Adam.
Mary blushed. ‘He is asleep. The heat, I fancy, was too much for him.’
Chapter 20
THE ATTACK CAME just before dawn. A sentry in the woods to the north was found with his head dangling by shreds of skin. His terrified replacement took one look, then turned and ran, yelling loudly enough to wake the household and rouse the men.
While sleep was being rubbed from bleary eyes and shaken from fuddled minds, Adam forced some sense out of the man and began calling out instructions. Despite the urgency in his voice the men moved slowly, perhaps suspecting another false alarm. His orders for all weapons to be checked and ready were largely ignored until he and Charles booted the slowest backsides and cuffed the dullest heads into action. By the time the other sentries had returned, red and green platoons were more or less armed and in position and Charles had marshalled black platoon around him in the parlour, where they crouched behind a heap of upturned tables and chairs. Each man with a sword looked eager to put its edge to the test. Charles cautioned them to keep quiet and stay out of sight. Adam took the place of the dead sentry behind a red platoon redoubt. Mary sat inside with the women and children, huddled together away from the door, while Patrick and Thomas kept watch out of the windows. Thomas’s hands were not up to reloading muskets.
‘Observation and casualties, for us, Patrick,’ said Thomas. ‘Let’s hope the only casualties we observe are the enemy’s.’
The first shots were fired the moment it was light enough to see. Patrick had predicted this. He said it was the Africans’ way. They came from within the tree line on the north and east sides of the house. Calculating that the attackers were trying to gauge their strength before showing themselves, Adam shouted at the men to hold their fire and keep their heads down. Musket shot whistled all about, but behind the redoubts and the pile of furniture they were safe from anything other than an unlucky ricochet.
After several unproductive volleys, a dozen men, frustrated at having failed to tempt the defenders into a response, emerged cautiously from the woods to the north. Peeking through the window, Thomas saw that they were armed with muskets, axes and bill-hooks, and that unless there was an African people with white skin and red hair, they were not escaped slaves. These were convicts – Irish and Welsh probably.
As he watched, half of the attackers split off and circled around to the west. Assuming they planned to advance from all quarters, he looked to his right. There too a dozen men were creeping forward, bent double in the manner of hunters nearing their prey, but these were black men. They also split up, six of them edging around to their left in order to attack from the south. Twenty-four men with muskets and machetes and coming from all directions. Not too alarming unless there were many more in the trees, but time to act. He shouted his report to Adam.
Adam called for the first volley, stood and fired at a head. It was a red one and he might have hit it, but Thomas could not be sure. From behind each redoubt, two men rose, aimed and fired. When they ducked down to reload, two others stood and repeated the process. Three bodies lay on the ground, one squirming about holding his stomach, the other two motionless.
But the attackers had had time to find cover and were returning fire. A musket shot whipped past Adam’s left ear and he dropped hastily. Cupping his hands, he took a breath and shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Casualties? Red?’
‘One minor.’
‘Green?
‘One in the head.’
‘None here. Enemy down?’
‘Two.’
‘Uncertain. One perhaps.’
‘Two or three for us. Get the wounded into the house.’
At this order Thomas and Patrick darted out to the two wounded men. The first, from red platoon, walked unaided, holding one bloody hand in the other, but the second had to be carried. His eyes were closed and he was sobbing quietly. There was blood on his throat and face and Thomas feared he would be their second fatality. They took him into the house where Thomas left him to Patrick’s care and returned quickly to his post at the window.
From his hiding place in the parlour Charles had been watching impatiently. It would not do to unleash his swordsmen too soon, desperate as they were to get into the fray. He held his finger to his lips for silence and signalled for calm. They stayed under cover while the two wounded men were brought back into the house.
The second volley came immediately. Again the shots were fired from behind the tree line and again Adam shouted at his men to keep low and hold their fire. The enemy would have to cross thirty yards of open ground to reach the house and he fleetingly hoped they would think better of trying again. But the incoming musket fire this time was heavier and better directed. The barricades and the parlour where Charles and his swordsmen still hid were peppered with shots. Two screams of pain signalled two casualties, probably from ricochets or flying splinters.