A matter of honor, p.41
A Matter of Honor, page 41
Days and weeks swept on like the endless swells rolling in from far across the Atlantic and breaking soothingly on the pink-white sands of Barbados.
“You’re not cruel to them, are you?” Katherine asked one day, in reference to the slaves. She had accompanied Richard and John as she had on many previous days, fascinated by the processes involved with sugar production though unsettled by the sight of so many black men hacking and slashing and loading the carts from dawn to dusk, in such backbreaking and sweltering conditions.
“We make every effort not to be,” John replied, drawing a kerchief from his coat pocket and mopping his brow. He offered them a seat, to rest a while, on a bench outside the great house in the shade of palm trees and beside a ten-foot-high century plant, its yellow blossoms in full bloom and throwing off a distinct and pleasing aroma. “Sometimes we have no choice, but that’s the exception. Local authorities are rarely summoned up here. As I have told Richard, I do not believe in whipping slaves unless it becomes absolutely necessary. To the contrary, I believe, and I know Robin believes, that by keeping slaves content, and allowing them certain privileges here and there that most other plantations do not, we keep their spirits up as well as their production levels. You’ve seen their homes. They’re not so very bad, are they?”
“Much better than I feared,” Katherine admitted.
“Well, it’s the least we can do for them. After all, it’s their labor that makes sugar so profitable. Mind you, it’s not entirely free labor, despite what many people seem to think. We don’t pay them of course, but we do provide decent food and shelter. That cost is no small matter. Study the books. You’ll see that last year we had expenses totaling almost nineteen hundred pounds, against revenues of thirty-six hundred pounds. The vast portion of those expenses went to maintaining our people. Not just the slaves; we employ some poorer whites—‘Redlegs’ as they’re called locally—and one or two freed Negroes to work the mills and such.”
“That still leaves seventeen hundred pounds in profit,” Richard calculated. “A tidy sum for one year’s output, wouldn’t you say?”
“It may appear so,” John allowed. “But bear in mind the taxes we must pay Each year the government demands more and more from us. And the scrutiny they give us! It seems to me sometimes that the king’s agent in Barbados lives up here with my bookkeeper. Taxes are suffocating us, and exposing us to considerable risk, should we get hit by a hurricane for instance. And the ‘profit’ you mention does not take into account any distributions to Cutler family members. Nor does it consider what improvements and repairs we must make, nor what absolutely must be put aside each year in reserves. Without these reserves, we could be wiped out overnight by a hurricane. Consider that these days it costs fifty-six hundred pounds to establish a small, one-hundred-acre plantation. Imagine what it would cost to establish one this size from scratch.” He spread out his arms expansively.
“Is there no insurance to protect against losses?” Katherine asked.
“Unfortunately, no. Insurance comes available only when goods are loaded onto ships bound for England. Lloyd’s won’t touch hurricane insurance, nor will local companies like Lascelles or Maxwell. And because of the war, the rates they charge once goods are aboard ship are outrageous.” He said this with some agitation.
Richard asked, “On our first day here, John, when we took that walk, I recall you saying that you don’t believe the process here goes far enough. I’m curious. What did you mean by that?”
“You have a good memory” John said, calming down. “And I’m pleased to see you’re paying such close attention. The issue you raise is a very important one. And yes, I’d be delighted to share my thoughts with you. But first, let me see if I can scour up some refreshment for us. Some light rum, with lime perhaps, and a few sandwiches, as I understand they are now called in England. After our first lord of the Admiralty correct? A rather good idea, I must say At least he accomplished something while in office.”
As John hurried off to get things going in the kitchen, Katherine rested her head against Richard’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
“Sleepy, are we?” he murmured, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. He put an arm around her shoulder to draw her in, make her more comfortable.
“Mm, yes. It’s the sun. And sea air.” Her voice was fast fading. “And the fact that my husband, whom I love dearly could not keep his hands off me last night.”
“Me, was it? Aren’t you the jolly one.” He soothed back strands of chestnut hair blown free by the trades and kissed her forehead. “Not exactly how I remember things…”
It had been a rapturous night of lovemaking, more typical of the early days of their marriage, from that very first night when he had thought to withdraw from her, for he was hurting her and there was blood. “No!” she whispered, clutching him to her, one hand gripping the flesh of his back, the other guiding his essence back toward her own, urging him, commanding him, in, ever deeper. There had been no embarrassment and little awkwardness since their first time together, their passion steeped, in the beginning, in a savage intensity, an almost animal-like need to have, to hold, to utterly possess. With the passage of time their movements had become more artful, when, secure at last in the certainty of their union, they experienced the uniquely human desire to protect, to caress, to discover and tease his pleasure points, to more intensely trigger her release by deferring his own, to love comfortably, confidently, unconditionally.
Last night, lying naked together in the tender afterglow of sweet outpourings, she had snuggled up against him in the soft light of flickering candles, satisfied, but not yet entirely fulfilled. She kissed his neck and shoulder as her hand kneaded the hard muscles of his abdomen, trying her best to arouse him, to bring him back from the abyss of slumber into which she knew he deserved to go, but loath to have the night end just yet.
“Richard, wake up,” she whispered. “Please wake up, darling. I have something to ask you.”
He flopped an arm over his eyes. “Lord, woman,” he groaned. “You are insatiable. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Why sleep when I have you to play with? Seriously, Richard, I have a question for you. Are you awake?”
When his response was a low pitiful moan, she ran her hand high up his inner thigh, gathered him in, and squeezed gently. “Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
“Good.” She let go. “Richard, there’s something I want to ask you, something I’ve been meaning to ask for some time.”
“Well, ask it.”
“It’s of a rather… personal nature and I don’t wish to embarrass you.”
He turned on his side and propped himself up on an elbow. “What?” he asked warily.
She kissed his lips, then lightly pecked at the lobe of his ear. “How did you get the nickname ‘Dubber’?” she whispered.
“What?” He slapped her bottom.
“I’m serious,” she squealed. “I want to know. How did you get that nickname?”
He lay on his back, his hands under his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“From my little sister, Lavinia. That’s what she called me when she first started talking.”
“How did she end up with ‘Dubber’ from ‘Richard’?”
“I haven’t a clue.” He looked at her. “How did I end up with such an inquisitive wife? And an high-bred English prude, to boot?”
She nestled up over him, her long chestnut hair curling down upon his chest as she looked into his eyes and ran her tongue over her lower lip. “Oh, so now I’m a prude, am I? Is that what you think? Well, my lord,” she purred, her lips moving slowly, in exquisitely soft, moist steps, down from his face to his neck, chest, stomach, and beyond. “I must try my hardest to dispel that notion, mustn’t I.”
Richard closed his eyes, the moans emanating from the core of his being no longer ones of protest but of encouragement…
☆ ☆ ☆
“OH DEAR, oh dear,” John fussed, returning from the great house with a newspaper folded under his arm. “I see Katherine has fallen asleep. I really must apologize. It’s my fault. I should not be keeping you two up so late, however much I enjoy your company. Please do forgive me.”
“Of course I forgive you, John,” Richard said. “But I daren’t speak for my wife. She tends to hold a grudge for some time.”
“What? Oh dear. You’re not serious. I had thought… Oh, ha, I see. Ever the cracker, aren’t you.” He sat down, relieved, on an adjacent stone bench. After mopping his brow with a kerchief despite a pleasant and unexpectedly cool breeze on the shaded patio, he said, keeping his voice low, “Well, I say let the poor girl sleep. It will do her good. And I do promise to be more considerate henceforth. Though sadly, I don’t know for how much longer that should be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here. Have a look. A post rider delivered it this morning.”
It was the current issue of the Bridgetown Gazette. Richard took the newspaper from John with his free hand and unfolded the front page on his lap. There were several headlines featured in bold black on that page. The first one to catch his eye was a herald of bad news.
CHARLESTON SURRENDERS! Charleston, South Carolina, 18 May 1780. Generals Clinton and Cornwallis are victorious! The City of Charleston has fallen! Following a long siege the southern citadel finally has surrendered. In what has been described as the worst defeat for rebel forces since the start of the war, the rebel general Benjamin Lincoln and 5,000 Continentals have laid down their arms. This force, according to British military sources, comprised almost the entire Southern Command of rebel general George Washington. In addition, the British military seized three rebel warships in Charleston harbor: two frigates, Boston and Providence, and a sloop of war, Ranger. These ships will soon see service in the Royal Navy. As a result of capturing these three ships, what Whitehall has never considered a significant naval presence has all but ceased to exist. Lord Cornwallis and the British Army are now firmly entrenched in the American South. With his victory, coupled with what are now confirmed reports of a recent mutiny of two regiments in Washington’s army in the colony of New Jersey, the War of Rebellion is expected to reach a satisfactory conclusion in the near future.
“Ranger. My first ship. And General Lincoln… A mutiny… Oh dear God…”
“What?” John got up and came over to where Richard was sitting. “Oh no, dear chap,” he said, peering over his shoulder. “This is the notice I was referring to.”
He pointed at a short notice printed entirely in bold black, with a thick black border.
YELLOW FEVER REPORTED. Bridgetown, Barbados, 24 May 1780. Several cases of Yellow Fever, also known locally as the Black Vomit, have been reported in Bridgetown and outlying areas. Citizens are urged not to panic and to follow normal procedures to limit the spread of the disease. Government House will issue frequent communiqués to alert citizens to developments as they occur.
☆ ☆ ☆
“WHAT ARE ‘normal procedures?” Richard asked absently, his mind absorbed in the terrible news contained in the first article he had read.
“For us up here on the plantations, it simply means staying put. Not going down to Bridgetown or other low-lying areas unless it’s quite necessary. The disease rarely affects us up here. It happens, but it’s rare. Which is why, by the way, I happen to believe the disease is carried by mosquitoes. Breezes up here tend to keep them at bay.”
“And you believe Katherine and I should leave Barbados? Because of this?”
“Not just because of this. You are planning in any event to spend time in Tobago. Now might be just the time to get cracking. As a precautionary measure, you understand. For reasons I cannot explain, Tobago is not as susceptible to the fever. Also, we are fast approaching the hurricane season, and hurricanes tend not to trouble that island. Please understand that I do not want you and Katherine to leave, Richard. But maybe it’s something you should consider.”
“We will, John, thank you. I’ll talk with Katherine about it as soon as she wakes up. And John, for the moment, I’d appreciate your not mentioning anything to her about what’s written here about Charleston and the war.”
“Mum’s the word, dear cousin.”
☆ ☆ ☆
“WILL HUGH be all right?” was Katherine’s first question when Richard informed her later that afternoon of the outbreak of fever and John’s recommendation that they start making preparations to sail to Tobago.
“I’m sure he will be. Government House and the fort are built high up, no doubt for this very reason. And who knows. Perhaps they’ll cancel his shore duty and put him back aboard ship until the danger has passed.”
Which is precisely what the Royal Navy did, as they were to discover the next day. A message came from Hugh Hardcastle requesting their company for dinner in the snug little bungalow that served as his living quarters ashore while attending to the administrative needs of Adm. Hyde Parker, an obscenely overweight and pretentious windbag as Katherine had earlier described him to Richard after the first time she had met the admiral in the company of her brother. Parker was apparently a seaman who preferred the comforts of Government House to the confines of a ship, no matter its size, though he appeared quite keen to put to sea once reports of sickness began to circulate. He had desired his staff to join him, and they would be departing Carlisle Bay in two days, in the company of five other ships of the line and two frigates.
“Where are you sailing?” Richard asked him, after finishing off the remains of a surprisingly tasty beef pie. He took a sip of a fruity red wine and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“On patrol, to nowhere in particular,” Hugh replied. “See here, would either of you care for another round of pie? I’m afraid it’s not what you’re accustomed to on the plantation. It’s more like wardroom fare.”
Richard shook his head no. Katherine asked, “If you’re not going anywhere in particular, Hugh, why go? Is it just to escape the fever? You told me you felt quite immune to it up here. And what if one of your crew has already been infected? While on shore leave? Would he not endanger everyone else aboard ship?”
Hugh smiled affectionately at his sister.
“He would, if that were to happen. But it won’t. Everyone sailing tomorrow, except for the admiral, myself, and two other officers, have been aboard ship for two days. If a sailor was infected, we’d know about it. As to leaving Bridgetown, it’s partly to escape the sickness, I suppose, though the fever seems not to be spreading much.
“But there is a reason for us to be putting to sea,” he went on, “and I must confess to looking forward to being on a quarterdeck again. No doubt I will be back on shore duty in another month or two. I’ve already been informed that I shan’t be returning to England with the squadron during hurricane season. I have been ordered to remain here, in Bridgetown.”
“What’s the reason then for putting to sea?”
Hugh gave his brother-in-law a thoughtful look.
“As you no doubt have learned while living in Barbados, Richard, today the theater of war is more here than in America. There’s a good reason for that. At stake are the sugar islands, any one of which means a great deal to a European nation. We go back and forth with France, capturing one small island here, giving up another one there. Sometimes bigger islands are involved, as when France captured Dominica in ’78, or we captured St. Lucia in ’79.1 was in that battle, by the bye, as fourth lieutenant aboard Alarm under Rear Admiral Barrington. We took St. Lucia right from under the noses of the French naval base on Martinique. They tried to take it back,” he added defiantly, caught up in the memory “D’Estaing landed five thousand soldiers on the other side of the island and attacked our fifteen hundred redcoats holding position on a rise. That battle was rather like your Breed’s Hill, though this time around the gods of war were apparently with us.”
He gave Richard a smug grin before continuing, “Up to now there has been a balance of power in the Caribbean. We have a number of first and second rates at our base here in Bridgetown, as well as English Harbor and Kingston. The French have had more or less an equivalent number at Fort Royal and other locations. But the French apparently are intending to increase the number of their ships in these waters. By quite a large number, if our intelligence is correct, and it normally is. We know, for instance, that D’Estaing recently arrived in Martinique with twenty ships of the line. And with twice the number of soldiers crammed into transports than we have in service throughout the Indies. Spies also tell us the Dons have finally decided to make their move. They’re on their way here with a sizable fleet, with designs on Jamaica, so the rumor goes. Jamaica? Ha! My opinion? They’re coming here to snatch up the crumbs of war and to protect Cuba, their main base in the Indies.”
“I thought Admiral Rodney defeated the Dons at Cape St. Vincent. I read in the Gazette that the entire Spanish fleet besieging Gibraltar had been either captured or destroyed. Certainly Rodney’s arrival here in March created quite a victory spectacle.”
“Rodney did defeat the Dons. Quite handily as the article described. But the Dons and Frogs have been building up their fleets in recent years. Combined, they have a good many more ships than we do, and theirs are new and fast, whereas ours… well, let’s just say ours have seen their share of sea duty over the years. Ships without copper bottoms rarely last more than seven years in these waters.”
“You’re scaring me, Hugh,” Katherine said. “Where are you going with this?”
Hugh covered her hand with his. “You needn’t be concerned,” he assured her. “France and Spain may have more ships, but we have far superior admirals and sailors and battle tactics. I don’t have time now, but remind me at a later date to explain to you Admiral Rodney’s new theory of concentrated firepower. It’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. My grandest wish? To be serving in his fleet when next he engages the enemy. Talk about a victory spectacle, Richard…
