Shango, stop them. Ogun has made them drunk for the taste of blood. But the blood on their lips will soon be their own.
Slowly, sadly, she rose. She pulled her white shift about her, then reached under the mat to retrieve the small wand she had stolen from Atiba's hut. She untied the scarf she had wrapped around it and gazed again at the freshly carved wood, the double axe. Then she held it to her breast and headed, tiptoeing, down the creaking back stair. She had no choice but to go. To the one place she knew she could find Shango.
"I say damn their letter." Benjamin Briggs watched as the mounted messenger from Oistins disappeared into the dark, down the road between the palms, still holding the white flag above his head. "I suppose they'd now have us fall back and negotiate? When we've got the men and horse ready to drive them into the sea."
"It's addressed to me, presumably a formality. Doubtless it's meant for the entire Assembly." Bedford turned the packet in his hand and moved closer to the candles on the table. "It's from Admiral Calvert."
The front room of Nicholas Whittington's plantation house was crowded with officers of the militia. There were few helmets; most of the men wore the same black hats seen in the fields. Muskets and bandoliers of powder and shot were stacked in the comer. Intermittent gusts of the night breeze washed the stifling room through the open shutters.
The afternoon's mobilization had brought together less than three thousand men, half the militia's former strength. They had marched west from Bridgetown at sunset, and now they were encamped on the Whittington plantation grounds, in fields where tobacco once had grown. The plantation was a thousand acre tract lying three miles to the southwest of Anthony Walrond's lands, near the southern coast.
"Well, we've got a quorum of the Assembly here." Colonel George Heathcott stepped forward, rubbing at his short beard. He was still stunned by Anthony Walrond's defection to the Roundheads. "We can formally entertain any last minute proposals they'd care to make."
"I trust this time the Assembly will discern treachery when they see it," Briggs interjected. "I warned you this was likely to happen. When you lose your rights, 'tis small matter whether you hand them over or give them up at the point of a musket barrel. They're gone and that's the end of it, either way."
"Aye, I'll wager there's apt to be a Walrond hand in this too, regardless who authored it. Just another of his attempts to cozen the honest men of this island." Tom Lancaster spat toward the empty fireplace. He thought ruefully of the cane he had in harvest—five hundred acres, almost half his lands, had been planted—and realized that now the fate of his future profits lay with an untrustworthy militia and the Assembly, half the voting members of which were men with fewer than a dozen acres. "He's sold the future, and liberty, of this island for forty pieces of silver."
"Or for the governorship," Heathcott interjected. "Mark it."