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"You are so beautiful."
She lowered her lashes. "I'm not dressed, even."
He slipped his arms around her.
"You're too much dressed. I feel a lot of hooks back here."
He watched her flush a little. "They're just the fastening of the petticoat at my waist."
Barney grinned. "That's cheering news. But what's this strap?" He pulled it off her shoulder.
Douglass tried to pull it back up. He caught her hand. "All I want to do is kiss this little hollow in your shoulder and the strap covers it up. And there was a robe in the closet."
In between his kisses he heard her answer.
"I didn't want to wear it, Barney."
He raised his head again and looked at her.
"I was afraid," she whispered, "that you might remember—someone else who wore it. Barney—" She stopped.
"No one else has worn it, darling," he said easily. It was not much of a lie-—he couldn't even remember the last time he had been here, it was so long ago.
"Even so," she said, low.
He looked at her steadily. "No compromise, sweetheart?"
She knew what he meant. "Only for you," she answered. Vaguely she realized that he did not understand. She thrust the thought aside. It was impossible to think. She loved him. "Are you hungry, darling? Dinner is probably ready. Are you hungry?"
He nodded. He held her close but his eyes were closed and he pulled her up a little to put his head on her breast. "Sleepy," he said. "I was up at dawn."
She put her hands on his dark head and ran her fingers through the thick hair. In less than a minute she was sure he was asleep.
His head was heavy. The dark lashes lay against his tanned cheek; she traced one finger along the black brows. His big hand still lay on her arm. She didn't move, for fear of wakening him.
In the distance was the crying of the sea birds. The surf pounded. Occasionally she could smell a whiff of cooking. Every sense was alive and alert. The sight of the sea, the feel of the tropic sea air and heat on her bare arms and shoulders; the weight of his head and arm, the sound of Barney's rhythmic breathing; the look of his face in sleep. She closed her eyes, too.
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He startled her when he spoke. He hadn't moved. He asked, "Am I too heavy?"
Her eyes had flown open.
"I am too heavy," he went on, lazily, and moved his head over onto the pillows beside hers. He stretched out. From the pillows he regarded her. "I'm used to taking quick naps, darling," he said, as if in explanation. "Douglass, I sail tonight at one."
She repeated, "Tonight, Barney? Tonight?"
"At the stroke of midnight, I shall be gone from here, darling. That's the trouble with getting mixed up with sailors. I think you should—" He broke off, frowning a little.
She waited what seemed to her a long time. "What should I do, tell me!"
"Don't hurry me." He took her hand, "This is a difficult problem, where to stow you."
"Sir," said Douglass, "I can stow myself."
He chuckled. "On the contrary. I had already despatched a note to Lucie by de Bouille, telling her to attend you here tomorrow, and pack your things."
Douglass frowned, slightly. "You did?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said positively. "I did. Don't you want me to take care of you?"
Under his dark eyes, she answered, "Yes, Barney."
He intended to return to Stasia soon, in a week or less. But of course he couldn't tell her that. In the meantime—she was looking at him with her grey eyes, her red mouth was too near. He turned over and began to kiss her, and his passion for her mounted swiftly now. As he felt at her waist to unfasten the hooks, he remembered what he had been saying. "Darling," he whispered against her mouth, "wait for me here. Wait for me here."
Chapter 27
THE PALEST SIGNS OF DAWN WERE IN THE SKY. THE LANTERNS AT the mastheads of each ship had been extinguished for twenty minutes.
On the deck of the ninety-four gun flagship "H.M.S. Sandwich,"
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Admiral Rodney stood motionless behind the helmsman, noting absently that the date on the open log was February third. The breeze was cool this morning, and he felt the rheumatic twinges in his left leg shoot their darting pains up into his thigh. He set his lips.
To his side his officers were silent and watchful. The van of the fleet, under Admiral Samuel Hood, was dead ahead, the cool morning wind bellying the white sails.
All ships were cleared for action. The war on the Caribbean would blaze forth today, February third, 1781. It was singularly fitting, Rodney thought, that British guns would open it, and this fleet strike first and fast, seizing the offensive and thus keeping it within his capable and careful hands.
He had memorized the map of the harbor of St. Eustatious. In ten minutes the dawn would reveal it to his eyes. And it might not be necessary to fire a single shot to complete this morning's action. Already the van had passed under the guns of the sleeping fort; within the harbor the merchant ships could hardly resist, and the few ships of war and privateers—they would be helpless before already runout guns of the fleet. Yesterday at St. Lucia, he had embarked a company of marines.
Mist was rising now. But the skies were lighter. Mist floated over the grey water, curled around the dim shapes of the ships at anchor, curled around the distant upright Quill, as it thrust upward like a standing sentinel. Like sultry smoke, the mist gathered and blew.
He drew from his blue coat a sealed envelope and handed it to the officer who waited. There were two other officers with him, and since one of them was Rodney's son, Rodney smiled briefly at all of them. Rodney watched as they stepped into their waiting boat.
Then he walked to the rail. The boats pulled away fast. The roadway of Stasia was completely blocked off. The town was under the British guns. If there was powder stored in those warehouses, terrible destruction could be wrought, and the whole island could be shaken to its foundations. The Quill, which Rodney could see plainly now— even that might shiver and shake.
The twinge of rheumatic pain knifed up his leg again. Nevertheless he began to take his morning walk, up and down, across the weather side of the quarterdeck.
Governor de Graaf struggled into his dressing gown, put his feet in his slippers. He opened his door.
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Red-coated British marines formed a barrier. He stalked past them, smoothing his hair. In his study he found three British officers, in their blue uniforms. One of them handed him an envelope. De Graaf tore it open.
He already knew what it must contain. Therefore he had difficulty in reading it. He forced himself to assimilate the words.
"We, the general officers commanding in chief his Britannic Majesty's fleet and army in the West Indies, do, in his royal name, demand an instant surrender of the island of Saint Eustatious, and its dependencies, with everything in and belonging thereto, for the use of his said Majesty.
"We give you one hour from the delivery of this message to decide. If any resistance is made, you must abide by the consequences."
And the heavy signatures. G. B. Rodney. J. Vaughn.
Governor de Graaf raised his eyes from the single page. Anger and shame blotted out thought. His great shoulders hunched; he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor.
Then he set his heel on it. "I trust you have a copy?" he sneered.
Young Rodney took a step forward. "How—-" he began angrily.
De Graaf cut him short. "I expect to be addressed as Your Excellency!"
John Rodney was speechless with anger. He looked at the British seal, crushed under de Graaf's shoe. "Do you accept our terms?" he ground out.
De Graaf smiled. His voice was silky. He drew his watch from his pocket. "Using the words of Admiral Rodney himself," he said mockingly, "I have one hour, sirs." He kicked the note with his foot. "I suggest you read it." He started for the door, and at the doorway he turned. "Now get out!"