Caribbee Part 9

"The sight bills are for cash on demand." Winston's voice was still faint, scarcely above a whisper. Katherine listened in dismay, realizing she'd secretly been hoping he could stand up to the Council.

Just to prove somebody could. And now . . .

"d.a.m.n your sight bills, sir. We've made you our offer." Briggs exchanged glances with the other members of the Council. "In truth, it'd be in the interest of all of us here to just have them declared worthless paper."

"You can't rightfully do that." Winston drank again. "They have full legal standing."

"We have courts here, sir, that could be made to take the longer view.

To look to the interests of the island."

"There're still courts in England. If we have to take it that far."

"But you'll not be going back there, sir. We both know it'd take years." Briggs grinned. "And I'll warrant you'd get more justice in England than you bargained for, if you had the bra.s.s to try it."

"That remains to be seen." Winston appeared trying to keep his voice firm. "But there'll be no need for that. I seem to recall the terms give me recourse--the right to foreclose. Without notice."

"Foreclose?" Briggs seemed unsure he had caught the word.

"Since you co-signed all the notes yourself, I won't have to bother with the rest of the Council," Winston continued. "I can just foreclose on you personally. Remember you pledged this plantation as collateral."

"That was a formality. And it was two years past." Briggs laughed.

"Before I built this house. And the sugarworks. At the time there was nothing on this property but a thatched-roof bungalow."

"Formality or not, the drafts pledge these acres and what's on them."

"Well, d.a.m.n you, sir." Briggs slammed down his tankard. "You'll not get . . ."

"Mind you, I don't have any use for the land," Winston interjected. "So why don't we just make it the sugarworks? That ought to about cover what's owed." He looked back. "If I present the notes in Bridgetown tomorrow morning, we can probably just transfer ownership then and there. What do you say to that arrangement?"

"You've carried this jest quite far enough, sir." Briggs' face had turned the color of the red p.r.i.c.kly-pear apples on the table. "We all need that sugarworks. You'll not be getting your hands on it. I presume I speak for all the Council when I say we'll protect our interests. If you try foreclosing on that sugarworks, I'll call you out. I've a mind to anyway, here and now. For your d.a.m.ned impudence." He abruptly pushed back from the table, his doublet falling open to reveal the handle of a pistol. Several Council members shoved back also. All had flintlock pistols in their belts, the usual precaution in an island of unruly indentures.

Winston appeared not to notice. "I see no reason for anyone to get killed over a little business transaction."

Briggs laughed again. "No sir, I suppose you'd rather just try intimidating us with threats of foreclosure. But by G.o.d, if you think you can just barge in here and fleece the Council of Barbados, you've miscalculated. It's time you learned a thing or two about this island,"

he continued, his voice rising. "Just because you like to strut about with a pair of fancy flintlocks in your belt, don't think we'll all heel to your bluff." He removed his dark hat and threw it on the table.

It matched the black velvet of his doublet. "You can take our offer, or you can get off my property, here and now."

Katherine caught the determined looks in the faces of several members of the Council as their hands dropped to their belts. She suddenly wondered if it had all been planned. Was this what they'd been waiting for? They must have known he'd not accept their offer, and figured there was a cheaper way to manage the whole business anyway. A standoff with pistols, Winston against them all.

"I still think it'd be better to settle this honorably." Winston looked down and his voice trailed off, but there was a quick flash of anger in his bloodshot eyes. Slowly he picked up his tankard and drained it. As the room grew silent, he coughed at the harshness of the liquor, then began to toy with the lid, flipping the thumb mechanism attached to the hinged top and watching it flap open and shut. He heaved a sigh, then abruptly leaned back and lobbed it in the general direction of the staircase.

As the tankard began its trajectory, he was on his feet, kicking away his chair. There was the sound of a pistol hammer being c.o.c.ked and the hiss of a powder pan. Then the room flashed with an explosion from his left hand, where a pistol had appeared from out of his belt. At that moment the lid of the tankard seemed to disconnect in midair, spinning sideways as it ricocheted off the post of carved mastic wood at the top of the stairs. The pistol clicked, rotating up the under-barrel, and the second muzzle spoke. This time the tankard emitted a sharp ring and tumbled end over end till it slammed against the railing. Finally it bounced to rest against the cedar wainscot of the hallway, a small, centered hole directly through the bottom. The shorn lid was still rolling plaintively along the last step of the stairs.

The entire scene had taken scarcely more than a second. Katherine looked back to see him still standing; he had dropped the flintlock onto the table, both muzzles trailing wisps of gray smoke, while his right hand gripped the stock of the other pistol, still in his belt.

"You can deduct that from what's owed." His eyes went down the table.

Briggs sat motionless in his chair staring at the tankard, while the other planters all watched him in expectant silence. Finally he picked up his hat and settled it back on his head without a word. Slowly, one by one, the other men closed their doublets over their pistols and nervously reached for their tankards.

After a moment Winston carefully reached for his chair and straightened it up. He did not sit. "You'll be welcome to buy back the sugarworks any time you like. Just collect the money and settle my sight bills."

The room was still caught in silence, till finally Briggs found his voice.

"But the coin's not to be had, sir. Try and be reasonable. I tell you we'd not find it on the whole of the island."

"Then maybe I'll just take something else." He reached out and seized the motley gray shirt of Timothy Farrell, now tiptoeing around the table carrying a fresh flask of kill-devil to Briggs. The terrified Irishman dropped the bottle with a crash as Winston yanked him next to the table. "Men. And provisions."

Briggs looked momentarily disoriented. "I don't follow you, sir. What would you be doing with them?"

"That's my affair. Just give me two hundred indentures,

owned by the men on the Council who signed the sight drafts." He paused. "That should cover about half the sum. I'll take the balance in provisions. Then you can all have your sight bills to burn."

Now Briggs was studying the tankard in front of him, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "Two hundred indentures and you'd be willing to call it settled?"

"To the penny."

In the silence that followed, the rasp of a fiddle sounded through the doorway, followed by the shrill whine of a recorder. Briggs yelled for quiet, then turned back.

"There may be some merit in what you're proposing." He glanced up at Farrell, watching the indenture flee the room as Winston released his greasy shirt. "Yes sir, I'm thinking your proposal has some small measure of merit. I don't know about the other men here, but I can already name you a number of these layabouts I could spare." He turned to the planters next to him, and several nodded agreement. "Aye, I'd have us talk more on it." He pushed back his chair and rose unsteadily from the table. The other planters took this as a signal, and as one man they sc.r.a.ped back their chairs and began to nervously edge toward the women, now cl.u.s.tered under the arches leading into the dancing room. "When the time's more suitable."

"Tomorrow, then."

"Give us till tomorrow night, sir. After we've had some time to parlay." Briggs nodded, then turned and led the crowd toward the sound of the fiddles, relief in his eyes.

Katherine sat unmoving, dreading the prospect of having to dance with any of the drunken planters. She watched through the dim candlelight as Winston reached for an open flask of kill-devil, took a triumphant swig, then slammed it down. She suddenly realized the table had been entirely vacated save for the two of them.

The audacity! Of course it had all been a bluff. Anyone should have been able to tell. He'd just wanted the indentures all along. But why?

"I suppose congratulations are in order, Captain."

"Pardon?" He looked up, not recognizing her through the smoke and flickering shadows. "Forgive me, madam, I didn't catch what you said."

"Congratulations. That was a fine show you put on with your pistol."

He seemed momentarily startled, but then he laughed at his own surprise and took another swig of kill-devil. "Thank you very much." He wiped his mouth, set down the bottle, and glanced back. "Forgive me if I disturbed your evening."

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

"I used to do a bit of hunting."

"Have you ever actually shot a man?"

"Not that I choose to remember."

"I thought so. It really was a bluff." Her eyebrows lifted. "So may I enquire what is it you propose doing now with your two hundred men and provisions?"

"You're Miss Bedford, if I'm not mistaken." He rose, finally making her out. "I don't seem to recall our being introduced." He bowed with a flourish. "Hugh Winston, your most obedient servant." Then he reached for the flask of kill-devil as he lowered back into his chair. "I'd never presume to address a . . . lady unless we're properly acquainted."