Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(67)
“Yes. More destruction. They burnt a sugar press last month, though still in the remoter parts of the island. Now, though…” He paused, licking dry lips as he poured more wine. He made a cursory motion toward Grey’s glass, but Grey shook his head.
“They’ve begun to move toward Kingston,” Warren said. “It’s deliberate; you can see it. One plantation after another, in a line coming straight down the mountain.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t say straight. Nothing in this bloody place is straight, starting with the landscape.”
That was true enough; Grey had admired the vivid green peaks that soared up from the centre of the island, a rough backdrop for the amazingly blue lagoon and the white-sand shore.
“People are terrified,” Warren went on, seeming to get a grip on himself, though his face was once again slimy with sweat, and his hand shook on the decanter. It occurred to Grey, with a slight shock, that the governor was terrified. “I have merchants—and their wives—in my office every day, begging, demanding protection from the blacks.”
“Well, you may assure them that protection will be provided them,” Grey said, sounding as reassuring as possible. He had half a battalion with him—three hundred infantry troops and a company of artillery, equipped with small cannon. Enough to defend Kingston, if necessary. But his brief from Lord North was not merely to reassure the merchants and defend the shipping of Kingston and Spanish Town—nor even to provide protection to the larger sugar plantations. He was charged with putting down the slave rebellion entirely. Rounding up the ringleaders and stopping the violence altogether.
The snake on the table moved suddenly, uncoiling itself in a languid manner. It startled Grey, who had begun to think it was a decorative sculpture. It was exquisite: only seven or eight inches long and a beautiful pale yellow marked with brown, a faint iridescence in its scales like the glow of good Rhenish wine.
“It’s gone further now, though,” Warren was going on. “It’s not just burning and property destruction. Now it’s come to murder.”
That brought Grey back with a jerk.
“Who has been murdered?” he demanded.
“A planter named Abernathy. Murdered in his own house, last week. His throat cut.”
“Was the house burnt?”
“No, it wasn’t. The maroons ransacked it but were driven off by Abernathy’s own slaves before they could set fire to the place. His wife survived by submerging herself in a spring behind the house, concealed by a patch of reeds.”
“I see.” He could imagine the scene all too well. “Where is the plantation?”
“About ten miles out of Kingston. Rose Hall, it’s called. Why?” A bloodshot eye swivelled in Grey’s direction, and he realised that the glass of wine the governor had invited him to share had not been his first of the day. Nor, likely, his fifth.
Was the man a natural sot? he wondered. Or was it only the pressure of the current situation that had caused him to take to the bottle in such a blatant manner? He surveyed the governor covertly; the man was perhaps in his late thirties and, while plainly drunk at the moment, showed none of the signs of habitual indulgence. He was well built and attractive; no bloat, no soft belly straining at his silk waistcoat, no broken veins in cheeks or nose…
“Have you a map of the district?” Surely it hadn’t escaped Warren that if indeed the maroons were burning their way straight toward Kingston, it should be possible to predict where their next target lay and to await them with several companies of armed infantry?
Warren drained the glass and sat panting gently for a moment, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, then pulled himself together.
“Map,” he repeated. “Yes, of course. Dawes—my secretary—he’ll…he’ll find you one.”
Motion caught Grey’s eye. Rather to his surprise, the tiny snake, after casting to and fro, tongue tasting the air, had started across the table in what appeared a purposeful, if undulant, manner, headed straight for him. By reflex, he put up a hand to catch the little thing, lest it plunge to the floor.
The governor saw it, uttered a loud shriek, and flung himself back from the table. Grey looked at him in astonishment, the tiny snake curling over his fingers.
“It’s not venomous,” he said, as mildly as he could. At least, he didn’t think so. His friend Oliver Gwynne was a natural philosopher and mad for snakes; Gwynne had shown him all the prizes of his collection during the course of one hair-raising afternoon, and Grey seemed to recall Gwynne telling him that there were no venomous reptiles at all on the island of Jamaica. Besides, the nasty ones all had triangular heads, while the harmless kinds were blunt-headed, like this fellow.
Warren was indisposed to listen to a lecture on the physiognomy of snakes. Shaking with terror, he backed against the wall.
“Where?” he gasped. “Where did it come from?”
“It’s been sitting on the table since I came in. I…um…thought it was…” Well, plainly it wasn’t a pet, let alone an intended part of the table décor. He coughed and got up, meaning to put the snake outside through the French doors that led onto the terrace.
Warren mistook his intent, though, and, seeing Grey come closer, snake writhing through his fingers, he burst through the French doors, crossed the terrace in a mad leap, and pelted down the flagstoned walk, coattails flying as though the devil himself were in pursuit.