“A hound is as fair as a gun, and hounds shall be used here in Jamaica. The governor can’t refuse their landing now. The people would kill him if he did. It was I proposed it all.”
“Look, sir—who’s that?” asked Michael, as they saw a figure riding under the palms not far away.
It was very early morning, and the light was dim yet, but there was sufficient to make even far sight easy. Dyck shaded his forehead with his hand.
“It’s not one of our people, Michael. It’s a stranger.”
As the rider came on he was stopped by two of the drivers of the estate. Dyck and Michael saw him hold up a letter, and a moment later he was on his way to Dyck, galloping hard. Arrived, he dropped to the ground, and saluted Dyck.
“A letter from Salem, sir,” he said, and handed it over to Dyck.
Dyck nodded, broke the seal of the letter and read it quickly. Then he nodded again and bade the man eat a hearty breakfast and return with him on one of the Enniskillen horses, as his own would be exhausted. “We’ll help protect Salem, my man,” said Dyck.
The man grinned. “That’s good,” he answered. “They knew naught of the rising when I left. But the governor was there yesterday, and he’d protect us.”
“Nonsense, fellow, the governor would go straight to Spanish Town where he belongs, when there is trouble.”
When the man had gone, Dyck turned to his servant. “Michael,” he said, “the news in the letter came from Darius Boland. He says the governor told him he had orders from England to confine me here at Enniskillen, and he meant to do it. We’ll see how he does it. If he sends his marshals, we’ll make Gadarene swine of them.”