A Trail of Fire (Lord John Grey #3.5)(25)
Author: Diana Gabaldon

‘I expect Major Fettes wishes to know whether they were replaced in their offices because of some peculation or corrupt practice,’ Bob Cherry put in chummily. ‘And if that be the case, were they allowed to leave the island rather than face prosecution? And if so—’

‘Why?’ Fettes put in neatly. Grey repressed a smile. Should peace break out on a wide scale and an army career fail them, Fettes and Cherry could easily make a living as a music-hall knockabout cross-talk act. As interrogators, they could reduce almost any suspect to incoherence, confusion, and confession in nothing flat.

Governor Warren, though, appeared to be made of tougher stuff than the usual regimental miscreant. Either that, or he had nothing to hide, Grey thought, watching him explain with tired patience that Ludgate had retired because of ill health, and that Perriman had inherited money and gone back to England.

No, he thought, watching the governor’s hand twitch and hover indecisively over the fruit bowl. He’s got something to hide. And so does Dawes. Is it the same thing, though? And has it got anything to do with the present trouble?

The governor could easily be hiding some peculation or corruption of his own – and likely was, Grey thought dispassionately, taking in the lavish display of silver on the sideboard. Such corruption was – within limits – considered more or less a perquisite of office. But if that was the case, it was not Grey’s concern – unless it was in some way connected to the maroons and their rebellion.

Entertaining as it was to watch Fettes and Cherry at their work, he cut them off with a brief nod, and turned the conversation firmly back to the rebellion.

‘What communications have you had from the rebels, sir?’ he asked the governor. ‘For I think 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 thought for a moment before replying. Grey rather thought 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 King’s Town.’ 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 . . . who? 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 King’s Town.’

‘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 looked 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 nak*d 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, and even indoors, it had a silken touch that spoke of the sea and clear blue water. 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, criss-crossing 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 King’s Town in a search for the location of the retired Mr Ludgate, erstwhile superintendent; if he 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.

The troops would all be billeted by now, some granted their first liberty in months. He spared a glance at the small sheaf of maps and reports he had extracted from Mr Dawes earlier, but those could wait till morning, and better light. He’d think better after a good night’s sleep.

He leaned against the frame of the open door, after a quick glance down the terrace showed him that the rooms nearby seemed unoccupied. Clouds were beginning to drift in from the sea, and he remembered what Rodrigo had said about the rain at night. He thought perhaps he could feel a slight coolness in the air, whether from rain or oncoming night, and the hair on his body prickled and rose.

From here, he could see nothing but the deep green of a jungle-clad hill, glowing like a sombre emerald in the twilight. From the other side of the house, though, as he left dinner, he’d seen the sprawl of Spanish Town below, a puzzle of narrow, aromatic streets. The taverns and the brothels would be doing a remarkable business tonight, he thought.

The thought brought with it a rare feeling of something that wasn’t quite resentment. Any one of the soldiers he’d brought, from lowliest private soldier to Fettes himself, could walk into any brothel in Spanish Town – and there were a good many, Cherry had told him – and relieve the stresses caused by a long voyage without the slightest comment, or even the slightest attention. Not him.

His hand had dropped lower as he watched the light fade, idly kneading his flesh. There were accommodations for men such as himself in London, but it had been many years since he’d had recourse to such a place.

He had lost one lover to death, another to betrayal. The third . . . his lips tightened. Could you call a man your lover, who would never touch you – would recoil from the very thought of touching you? No. But at the same time, what would you call a man whose mind touched yours, whose prickly friendship was a gift, whose character, whose very existence, helped to define your own?

Not for the first time – and surely not for the last – he wished briefly that Jamie Fraser was dead. It was an automatic wish, though, at once dismissed from mind. The colour of the jungle had died to ash, and insects were beginning to whine past his ears.

He went in, and began to worry the folds of the gauze on his bed, until Tom came in to take it away from him, hang the mosquito-netting, and ready him for the night.

He couldn’t sleep. Whether it was the heavy meal, the unaccustomed place, or simply the worry of his new and so-far-unknown command, his mind refused to settle, and so did his body. He didn’t waste time in useless thrashing, though; he’d brought several books. Reading a bit of The Story of Tom Jones, A Foundling would distract his mind, and let sleep steal in upon him.

The French doors were covered with sheer muslin curtains, but the moon was nearly full, and there was enough light by which to find his tinder-box, striker, and candlestick. The candle was good beeswax, and the flame rose pure and bright – and instantly attracted a small cloud of inquisitive gnats, mosquitoes, and tiny moths. He picked it up, intending to take it to bed with him, but then thought better.

Was it preferable to be gnawed by mosquitoes, or incinerated? Grey debated the point for all of three seconds, then set the lit candlestick back on the desk. The gauze netting would go up in a flash, if the candle fell over in bed.

Still, he needn’t face death by bloodletting or be covered in itching bumps, simply because his valet didn’t like the smell of bear-grease. He wouldn’t get it on his clothes, in any case.

He flung off his nightshirt and knelt to rummage in his trunk, with a guilty look over his shoulder. Tom, though, was safely tucked up somewhere amid the attics or outbuildings of King’s House, and almost certainly sound asleep. Tom suffered badly with sea-sickness, and the voyage had been hard on him.

The heat of the Indies hadn’t done the battered tin of bear-grease any good, either; the rancid fat nearly overpowered the scent of the peppermint and other herbs mixed into it. Still, he reasoned, if it repelled him, how much more a mosquito? and rubbed it into as much of his flesh as he could reach. Despite the stink, he found it not unpleasant. There was enough of the original smell left as to remind of his usage of the stuff in Canada. Enough to remind him of Manoke, who had given it to him. Anointed him with it, in a cool blue evening on a deserted sandy isle in the St Lawrence River.