A Trail of Fire (30 page)

Rodrigo’s eyes were huge. Fettes was heard to observe under his breath that he would be damned, but both Fettes and Cherry were good men, and did not argue with Grey’s conclusions, any more than they had taken issue with his order to hide Warren’s body – they could plainly perceive the desirability of suppressing rumour of a plague of zombies.

‘The point, gentlemen, is that after several months of incident, there has been nothing for the last month. Perhaps Mr Warren’s death is meant to be incitement – but if it was not the work of the maroons, then the question is – what are the maroons waiting for?’

Tom lifted his head, eyes wide.

‘Why, me lord, I’d say – they’re waiting for
you
. What else?’

What else, indeed. Why had he not seen that at once? Of course Tom was right. The maroons’ protest had gone unanswered, their complaint unremedied. So they had set out to attract attention in the most noticeable – if not the best – way open to them. Time had passed, nothing was done in response, and then they had heard that soldiers were coming. Lieutenant-Colonel Grey had now appeared. Naturally, they were waiting to see what he would do.

What had he done so far? Sent troops to guard the plantations that were the most likely targets of a fresh attack. That was not likely to encourage the maroons to abandon their present plan of action, though it might cause them to direct their efforts elsewhere.

He walked to and fro in the wilderness of the King’s House garden, thinking, but there were few alternatives.

He summoned Fettes, and informed him that he, Fettes, was, until further notice, acting governor of the island of Jamaica.

Fettes looked more like a block of wood than usual.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘If I might ask, sir . . . where are you going?’

‘I’m going to talk to Captain Accompong.’

‘Alone, sir?’ Fettes was appalled. ‘Surely you cannot mean to go up there
alone
!’

‘I won’t be,’ Grey assured him. ‘I’m taking my valet, and the servant boy. I’ll need someone who can translate for me, if necessary.’

Seeing the mulish cast settling upon Fettes’s brow, he sighed.

‘To go there in force, major, is to invite battle, and that is not what I want.’

‘No, sir,’ Fettes said dubiously, ‘but surely a proper escort . . . !’

‘No, major.’ Grey was courteous, but firm. ‘I wish to make it clear that I am coming to
speak
with Captain Accompong, and nothing more. I go alone.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fettes was beginning to look like a block of wood that someone had set about with a hammer and chisel.

‘As you wish, sir.’

Grey nodded, and turned to go into the house, but then paused and turned back.

‘Oh, there is one thing that you might do for me, major.’

Fettes brightened slightly.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Find me a particularly excellent hat, would you? With gold lace, if possible.’

They rode for nearly two days before they heard the first of the horns. A high, melancholy sound in the twilight, it seemed far away, and only a sort of metallic note made Grey sure that it was not in fact the cry of some large, exotic bird.

‘Maroons,’ Rodrigo said under his breath, and crouched a little, as though trying to avoid notice, even in the saddle. ‘That’s how they talk to each other. Every group has a horn; they all sound different.’

Another long, mournful falling note. Was it the same horn? Grey wondered. Or a second, answering the first?

‘Talk to each other, you say. Can you tell what they’re saying?’

Rodrigo had straightened up a little in his saddle, putting a hand automatically behind him to steady the leather box that held the most ostentatious hat available in Spanish Town.

‘Yes, sah. They’re telling each other we’re here.’

Tom muttered something under his own breath, that sounded like, ‘Could have told you that meself for free,’ but declined to repeat or expand upon his sentiment when invited to do so.

They camped for the night under the shelter of a tree, so tired that they merely sat in silence as they ate, watching the nightly rainstorm come in over the sea, then crawled into the canvas tent Grey had brought. The young men fell asleep instantly to the pattering of rain above them.

Grey lay awake for a little, fighting tiredness, his mind reaching upward. He had worn uniform, though not full-dress, so that his identity would be apparent. And his gambit so far had been accepted; they had not been challenged, let alone attacked. Apparently Captain Accompong would receive him.

Then what? He wasn’t sure. He did hope that he might recover his men – the two sentries who had disappeared on the night of Governor Warren’s murder. Their bodies had not been discovered, nor had any of their uniform or equipment turned up – and Captain Cherry had had the whole of Spanish Town
and
King’s Town turned over in the search. If they had been taken alive, though, that reinforced his impression of Accompong – and gave him some hope that this rebellion might be resolved in some manner not involving a prolonged military campaign fought through jungles and rocks, and ending in chains and executions. But if . . . Sleep overcame him, and he lapsed into incongruous dreams of bright birds, whose feathers brushed his cheeks as they flew silently past.

Grey woke in the morning to the feel of sun on his face. He blinked for a moment, confused, and then sat up. He was alone. Truly alone.

He scrambled to his feet, heart thumping, reaching for his dagger. It was there in his belt, but that was the only thing still where it should be. His horse – all the horses – were gone. So was his tent. So was the pack-mule and its panniers. And so were Tom and Rodrigo.

He saw this at once – the blankets in which they’d lain the night before were still there, tumbled into the bushes – but he called for them anyway, again and again, until his throat was raw with shouting.

From somewhere high above him, he heard one of the horns, a long-drawn-out hoot that sounded mocking to his ears.

He understood the present message instantly.
You took two of ours; we have taken two of yours
.

‘And you don’t think I’ll come and get them?’ he shouted upward into the dizzying sea of swaying green. ‘Tell Captain Accompong I’m coming! I’ll have my young men back, and back
safe
– or I’ll have his head!’

Blood rose in his face, and he thought he might burst, but had better sense than to punch something, which was his very strong urge. He was alone; he couldn’t afford to damage himself. He had to arrive among the maroons with everything that still remained to him, if he meant to rescue Tom and resolve the rebellion – and he did mean to rescue Tom, no matter what. It didn’t matter that this might be a trap; he was going.

He calmed himself with an effort of will, stamping round in a circle in his stockinged feet until he had worked off most of his anger. That’s when he saw them, sitting neatly side-by-side under a thorny bush.

They’d left him his boots. They did expect him to come.

He walked for three days. He didn’t bother trying to follow a trail; he wasn’t a particularly skilled tracker, and finding any trace among the rocks and dense growth was a vain hope in any case. He simply climbed, and listened for the horns.

The maroons hadn’t left him any supplies, but that didn’t matter. There were numerous small streams and pools, and while he was hungry, he didn’t starve. Here and there he found trees of the sort he had seen at Twelvetrees, festooned with small yellowish fruits. If the parrots ate them, he reasoned, the fruits must be at least minimally comestible. They were mouth-puckeringly sour, but they didn’t poison him.

The horns had increased in frequency since dawn. There were now three or four of them, signalling back and forth. Clearly, he was getting close. To what, he didn’t know, but close.

He paused, looking upward. The ground had begun to level out here; there were open spots in the jungle, and in one of these small clearings, he saw what were plainly crops: mounds of curling vines that might be yams, bean-poles, the big yellow flowers of squash or gourds. At the far edge of the field, a tiny curl of smoke rose against the green. Close.

He took off the crude hat he had woven from palm leaves against the strong sun, and wiped his face on the tail of his shirt. That was as much preparation as it was possible to make. The gaudy, gold-laced hat he’d brought was presumably still in its box – wherever that was. He put his palm-leaf hat back on and limped toward the curl of smoke.

As he walked, he became aware of people, fading slowly into view. Dark-skinned people, dressed in ragged clothing, coming out of the jungle to watch him with big, curious eyes. He’d found the maroons.

A small group of men took him further upward. It was just before sunset, and the sunlight slanted gold and lavender through the trees, when they led him into a large clearing, where there was a compound consisting of a number of huts. One of the men accompanying Grey shouted, and from the largest hut emerged a man who announced himself with no particular ceremony as Captain Accompong.

Captain Accompong was a surprise. He was very short, very fat, and hunchbacked, his body so distorted that he did not so much walk as proceed by a sort of sideways lurching. He was attired in the remnants of a splendid coat, now buttonless, and with its gold lace half missing, the cuffs filthy with wear.