"I'd have us camp here, for tonight." Morris tried to signal his disquiet to Calvert. "Those will be my orders."
"Very well, sir," Walrond continued, squinting toward the Windward Regiment's cavalry, their horses prancing as they stood at attention. "And don't forget the other consideration in our agreement. The Assembly is to be given one more opportunity to accept the terms. You are obliged to draft one final communication for Bedford, beseeching him to show himself an Englishman and persuade the Assembly to let us reach an accord."
"As you will, sir." Calvert turned away, biting his tongue before he said more.
Keep an even keel, he told himself. There'll be time and plenty to reduce this island, Sir Anthony Walrond with it. The work's already half done. Now to the rest. After we’ve brought
them to heel, we'll have time enough to show them how the Commonwealth means to rule the Americas.
Time and plenty, may God help them all.
*
"Shango, can you hear me?" She knelt beside her mat, her voice pleading. How, she wondered, did you pray to a Yoruba god? Really pray? Was it the same as the Christian God?
But Shango was more.
He was more than just a god. He was also part of her, she knew that now. But must he always wait to be called, evoked? Must he first seize your body for his own, before he could declare his presence, work his will?