"He was leading us. Dalby Bedford. The Windwards caught him in the chest when they opened fire." He seemed to choke on his dismay. "The island's no longer got a governor."
[Chapter Eighteen]
Above the wide hilltop the mid-morning rain had lightened momentarily to fine mist, a golden awning shading the horizon. A lone figure, hatless and wearing a muddy leather jerkin, moved slowly up the rutted path toward the brick compound reserved for the governor of Barbados. Behind him lay the green-mantled rolling hills of the island; beyond, shrouded in drizzle and fog, churned the once-placid Caribbean.
The roadway was strewn with palm fronds blown into haphazard patterns by the night's storm, and as he walked, a new gust of wind sang through the trees, trumpeting a mournful lament. Then a stripe of white cut across the new thunderheads in the west, and the sky started to darken once again. More rain would be coming soon, he told himself, yet more storm that would stretch into the night and mantle the island and sea.
He studied the sky, wistfully thinking over what had passed. Would that the squalls could wash all of it clean, the way a downpour purged the foul straw and offal from a cobblestone London street. But there was no making it right anymore. Now the only thing left was to try and start anew. In a place far away.
Would she understand that?
The gate of the compound was secured and locked, as though to shut out the world beyond. He pulled the clapper on the heavy brass bell and in its ring heard a foreboding finality.
"Sir?" The voice from inside the gate was nervous, fearful. He knew it was James, the Irish servant who had been with Katherine and the governor for a decade.
"Miss Bedford."
"By the saints, Captain Winston, is that you, sir? The mistress said you’d gone back over to Oistins."