Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(72)
“What communications have you had from the rebels, sir?” he asked the governor. “For I believe that, in these cases, rebellion arises usually from some distinct source of grievance. What is it?”
Warren looked at him, jaw agape. He closed his mouth, slowly, and hesitated for a moment before replying. Grey surmised he was considering how much Grey might discover from other avenues of inquiry.
Everything I bloody can, Grey thought, assuming an expression of neutral interest.
“Why, as to that, sir…the incident that began the…um…the difficulties…was the arrest of two young maroons, accused of stealing from a warehouse in Kingston.” The two had been whipped in the town square and committed to prison, after which—
“Following a trial?” Grey interrupted.
The governor’s gaze rested on him, red-rimmed but cool. “No, Colonel. They had no right to a trial.”
“You had them whipped and imprisoned on the word of…whom? The affronted merchant?”
Warren drew himself up a little and lifted his chin. Grey saw that he had been shaved, but a patch of black whisker had been overlooked; it showed in the hollow of his cheek like a blemish, a hairy mole.
“I did not, no, sir,” he said coldly. “The sentence was imposed by the magistrate in Kingston.”
“Who is?”
Dawes had closed his eyes with a small grimace.
“Judge Samuel Peters.”
Grey nodded thanks.
“Captain Cherry will visit Mr. Judge Peters tomorrow,” he said pleasantly. “And the prisoners, as well. I take it they are still in custody?”
“No, they aren’t,” Mr. Dawes put in, suddenly emerging from his impersonation of a dormouse. “They escaped, within a week of their capture.”
The governor shot a brief, irritated glance at his secretary but nodded reluctantly. With further prodding, it was admitted that the maroons had sent a protest at the treatment of the prisoners, via Captain Cresswell. The prisoners having escaped before the protest was received, though, it had not seemed necessary to do anything about it.
Grey wondered briefly whose patronage had got Warren his position but dismissed the thought in favour of further explorations. The first violence had come without warning, he was told, with the burning of cane fields on a remote plantation. Word of it had reached Spanish Town several days later, by which time another plantation had suffered similar depredation.
“Captain Cresswell rode at once to investigate the matter, of course,” Warren said, lips tight.
“And?”
“He didn’t return. The maroons have not demanded ransom for him, nor have they sent word that he is dead. He may be with them; he may not. We simply don’t know.”
Grey could not help looking at Dawes, who appeared unhappy but gave the ghost of a shrug. It wasn’t his place to tell more than the governor wanted told, was it?
“Let me understand you, sir,” Grey said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. “You have had no communication with the rebels since their initial protest? And you have taken no action to achieve any?”
Warren seemed to swell slightly but replied in an even tone.
“In fact, Colonel, I have. I sent for you.” He smiled, very slightly, and reached for the decanter.
THE EVENING AIR hung damp and viscid, trembling with distant thunder. Unable to bear the stifling confines of his uniform any longer, Grey flung it off, not waiting for Tom’s ministrations, and stood naked in the middle of the room, eyes closed, enjoying the touch of air from the terrace on his bare skin.
There was something remarkable about the air. Warm as it was, it had a silken touch that spoke of the sea and clear blue water, even indoors. He couldn’t see the water from his room; even had it been visible from Spanish Town, his room faced a hillside covered with jungle. He could feel it, though, and had a sudden longing to wade out through surf and immerse himself in the clean coolness of the ocean. The sun had nearly set now, and the cries of parrots and other birds were growing intermittent.
He peered underneath the bed but didn’t see the snake. Perhaps it was far back in the shadows; perhaps it had gone off in search of more ham. He straightened, stretched luxuriously, then shook himself and stood blinking, feeling stupid from too much wine and food and lack of sleep—he had slept barely three hours out of the preceding four-and-twenty, what with the arrival, disembarkation, and the journey to King’s House.
His mind appeared to have taken French leave for the moment; no matter; it would be back shortly. Meanwhile, though, its abdication had left his body in charge—not at all a responsible course of action.
He felt exhausted, but restless, and scratched idly at his chest. The wounds there were solidly healed, slightly raised pink weals under his fingers, crisscrossing through the blond hair. One had passed within an inch of his left nipple; he’d been lucky not to lose it.
An immense pile of gauze cloth lay upon his bed. This must be the mosquito netting described to him by Mr. Dawes at dinner—a draped contraption meant to enclose the entire bed, thus protecting its occupant from the depredations of bloodthirsty insects.
He’d spent some time with Fettes and Cherry after dinner, laying plans for the morrow. Cherry would call upon Judge Peters and obtain details of the maroons who had been captured. Fettes would send men into Kingston in a search for the location of the retired Mr. Ludgate, erstwhile superintendent; if Ludgate could be found, Grey would like to know this gentleman’s opinion of his successor. As for that successor—if Dawes did not manage to unearth Captain Cresswell by the end of tomorrow…Grey yawned involuntarily, then shook his head, blinking. Enough.