He nodded to Tom, who approached respectfully, Rodrigo behind him.
‘Tell them what you discovered, Tom.’
Tom cleared his throat and folded his hands at his waist.
‘Well, we … er … disrobed the governor’—Fettes flinched, and Tom cleared his throat again before going on—‘and had a close look. And the long and the short of it, sir, and sir,’ he added, with a nod to Cherry, ‘is that Governor Warren was stabbed in the back.’
Both officers looked blank.
‘But … the place is covered with blood and filth and nastiness,’ Cherry protested. ‘It smells like that place where they put the bloaters they drag out of the Thames!’
‘Footprints,’ Fettes said, giving Tom a faintly accusing look. ‘There were footprints. Big, bloody, bare footprints.’
‘I do not deny that something objectionable was present in that room,’ Grey said dryly. ‘But whoever—or whatever—gnawed the governor probably did not kill him. He was almost certainly dead when the … er … subsequent damage occurred.’
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 … hat 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 one another. 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 one another, you say. Can you tell what they’re saying?’
Rodrigo had straightened up a bit 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 one another we’re here.’
Tom muttered something under his own breath, which 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 upwards. 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 Kingston 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 upwards 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 up. 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, beanpoles, 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 towards 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 upwards. 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.
He peered from under the drooping brim of a ragged felt hat, eyes bright in its shadow. His face was round and much creased, lacking a good many teeth—but giving the impression of great shrewdness and perhaps good humour. Grey hoped so.
‘Who are you?’ Accompong asked, peering up at Grey like a toad under a rock.
Everyone in the clearing very plainly knew his identity; they shifted from foot to foot and nudged one another, grinning. He paid no attention to them, though, and bowed very correctly to Accompong.
‘I am the man responsible for the two young men who were taken on the mountain. I have come to get them back—along with my soldiers.’