“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 King’s Town. Rose Hall, it’s called. Why?” A bloodshot eye swiveled in Grey’s direction, and he realized 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 King’s Town, it should be possible to predict where their next target lay and 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 seemed to pull 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 seemed 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 he 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, like this little 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 him come closer, snake writhing through his fingers, burst through the French doors himself, crossed the terrace in a mad leap, and pelted down the flagstoned walk, coattails flying as though the devil himself were in pursuit.
Grey was still staring after him in disbelief when a discreet cough from the inner door made him turn.
“Gideon Dawes, sir.” The governor’s secretary was a short, tubby man with a round, pink face that probably was rather jolly by nature. At the moment, it bore a look of profound wariness. “You are Lieutenant Colonel Grey?”
Grey thought it unlikely that there was a plethora of men wearing the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant colonel on the premises of King’s House at that very moment, but nonetheless bowed, murmuring, “Your servant, Mr. Dawes. I’m afraid Mr. Warren has been taken . . . er . . .” He nodded toward the open French doors. “Perhaps someone should go after him?”
Mr. Dawes closed his eyes with a look of pain, then sighed and opened them again, shaking his head.
“He’ll be all right,” he said, though his tone lacked any real conviction. “I’ve just been discussing commissary and billeting requirements with your Major Fettes; he wishes you to know that all the arrangements are quite in hand.”
“Oh. Thank you, Mr. Dawes.” In spite of the unnerving nature of the governor’s departure, he felt a sense of pleasure. He’d been a major himself for years; it was astonishing how pleasant it was to know that someone else was now burdened with the physical management of troops. All he had to do was give orders.
That being so, he gave one, though it was phrased as a courteous request, and Mr. Dawes promptly led him through the corridors of the rambling house to a small clerk’s hole near the governor’s office, where maps were made available to him.
He could see at once that Warren had been right regarding both the devious nature of the terrain and the trail of attacks. One of the maps was marked with the names of plantations, and small notes indicated where maroon raids had taken place. It was far from being a straight line, but nonetheless, a distinct sense of direction was obvious.
The room was warm, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back. Still, a cold finger touched the base of his neck lightly when he saw the name Twelvetrees on the map.
“Who owns this plantation?” he asked, keeping his voice level as he pointed at the paper.
“What?” Dawes had fallen into a sort of dreamy trance, looking out the window into the green of the jungle, but blinked and pushed his spectacles up, bending to peer at the map. “Oh, Twelvetrees. It’s owned by Philip Twelvetrees—a young man, inherited the place from a cousin only recently. Killed in a duel, they say—the cousin, I mean,” he amplified helpfully.
“Ah. Too bad.” Grey’s chest tightened unpleasantly. He could have done without that complication. If—“The cousin—was he named Edward Twelvetrees, by chance?”
Dawes looked mildly surprised.
“I do believe that was the name. I didn’t know him, though—no one here did. He was an absentee owner; ran the place through an overseer.”
“I see.” He wanted to ask whether Philip Twelvetrees had come from London to take possession of his inheritance, but didn’t. He didn’t want to draw any attention by seeming to single out the Twelvetrees family. Time enough for that.
He asked a few more questions regarding the timing of the raids, which Mr. Dawes answered promptly, but when it came to an explanation of the inciting causes of the rebellion, the secretary proved suddenly unhelpful—which Grey thought interesting.
“Really, sir, I know almost nothing of such matters,” Mr. Dawes protested, when pressed on the subject. “You would be best advised to speak with Captain Cresswell. He’s the superintendent in charge of the maroons.”
Grey was surprised at this.
“Escaped slaves? They have a superintendent?”
“Oh. No, sir.” Dawes seemed relieved to have a more straightforward question with which to deal. “The maroons are not escaped slaves. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “they are technically escaped slaves, but it is a pointless distinction. These maroons are the descendants of slaves who escaped during the last century and took to the mountain uplands. They have settlements up there. But as there is no way of identifying any current owner . . .” And as the government lacked any means of finding them and dragging them back, the Crown had wisely settled for installing a white superintendent, as was usual for dealing with native populations. The superintendent’s business was to be in contact with the maroons, and deal with any matter that might arise pertaining to them.