Kate Heaphy

CHAPTER ONE

Logan, 24 April 1697

I froze mid-kiss as the earth shuddered. Casi, naked and beautiful, gazed up at me, eyes wide, her breath coming in small, wanton pants. Another explosion shook the walls of the Queen’s Rook Inn. Cursing vividly, me in English and Casi in her native Carib tongue, we tumbled out of bed. I dragged on my breeches, hopping frantically about the small room as my foot caught, and cinched my weapons belt tight, while Casi shoved her arms through her tangled nightgown. I flung open the door, still yanking on my left boot.

“Stay here!”

“I should think not!” Even through the darkness I felt her withering glare. She fumbled for the pistol and knife from the nightstand drawer and chased me down the hall and onto the street. We charged into Port Settler’s town square, halting opposite the gallows and courthouse. Men sprinted towards the docks, some still in nightgowns, while women shepherded wailing children towards the dark forest.

“Pirates?” Casi asked.

“Maybe.” Or maybe privateers from Spain, or Portugal, or France. Or elsewhere. I was no longer in the 21st century, and in 1697, our little English colony had plenty of enemies. Another volley of cannon fire illuminated the clouds above Conquista’s capital like a modern day New Year’s firework display, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of muskets. How many ships? How many canons? My entire body buzzed with adrenaline. I had endured countless drills overseen by General Rupert, training for exactly this moment when our island would be invaded. I pulled Casi close and shouted in her ear. “We need to get to the northern garrison! Stay behind me!”

Even dressed in a plain cotton shift my wife-to-be was fearsome, her black hair forming a frizzy halo about her head. Her eyes burned with the same wild fire that bewitched me the first time I met her as a slave answering the door of the governor’s homestead. How could anyone have believed she was a demure maid? She nodded and ushered me forward. Suddenly, she grabbed my arm and pointed. A carriage careened around a corner, wooden wheels bouncing along the cobblestones. It skidded to a halt in front of the courthouse, the horse prancing and tossing its head against the tight bit. The mayor tumbled from the carriage, short greying hair comically awry without his customary curled wig. Hand in hand, we ran towards him.

“Oliver!” I shouted.

He glanced up, the flashes of light revealing his grim expression. “It’s the bloody Portuguese! They have four ships: two ship-of-the-lines and two barques with shallow drafts. The night watch signalled their attack all but ten minutes ago. They’ve already taken both watch towers on Raid Island. Rupert’s in command of the northern garrison, but the south is close to falling. Take a horse from the stables and help them. Go. Go!”

My stomach flipped—why not wait for the Portuguese to kill us rather than clatter through the uneven streets in the darkness on a feral animal? Clutching Casi’s hand, we wove through the chaos to the stables behind the courthouse. Splinters from a house exploded above us. Casi screamed, fear mixing with fury. Ears ringing louder than church bells inside my head, I pressed her against a stone facade until the debris stopped falling. Then Casi was pulling me towards the stables, dodging frenzied townspeople, barking dogs, and shrapnel. Inside, the inky blackness muffled the sound of canons and the horses whinnying and kicking at their doors. I hesitated.

“Fetch a bridle!” Casi yelled. “Opposite the main entrance.” I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me and stumbled back towards the gear stall in the centre of the long building. Casi was murmuring in her own language, working her magic. “Good girl, Bettie,” she whispered as she grabbed the bridle. Of course Casi knew the beast’s blasted name. “North or south?” Casi offered her arm as I scrabbled up behind her. “Hurry!”

If the south was lost… But Casi… “South!”

Moments later we were cantering through the streets, Casi nestled between my legs as I clung to Bettie’s coarse mane. I screamed for people to move as we rode, my eyes straining in the poor light. It was a pathetically thin new moon, perfect for an attack. The sky glowed orange above the docks, illuminating the town like the flood lamps that will one day be installed around the modern-day port. My eyes stung, the combination of smoke, ash, and heat wrenching tears from my eyes. From here, naked flames were visible around the harbour, already consuming half a dozen warehouses along the docks and spreading quickly. It was a typical April night in the Caribbean; warm, humid, and no chance of rain. I prayed no-one had any illegal gunpowder stashes in the remaining buildings.

I slid off the horse before we’d fully stopped. One of my knees buckled, but I managed to draw my pistol as I rolled into a crouch ready to fight, relieved to have both feet on firm ground. Casi slipped off, keeping a tight hold of the reins all the while murmuring to Bettie. My teeth rattled as another cannonball ricocheted off the stone barricade of the southern fort beside us, sending a shower of rubble into the ocean below. Clenching my jaw, I tried to focus through the buzzing in my eardrums.

The southern fort, like its sister protecting the northern harbour entrance, was completely impenetrable from the seaward side. It comprised three circular towers, each home to four 18-pound cannons, and their sheer rock walls dropped directly into the harbour. However, two of the towers were already wrecked and the shattered stone made a convenient, if unstable, ramp up to the town. As impenetrable as the Titanic was unsinkable, I realised with chagrin. We may as well have lain out the red carpet and welcomed the Portuguese with a ten-trumpet fanfare. My eyes strained for signs of our sea-based counter-attack, but all I could make out was our broken ships littering the harbour. As much as Governor Manning had wanted to see the duke’s privateer hang, we were now helpless without Captain Griffin and his crew of the Solstice. No-one had seen Griffin since my sister broke him out of the governor’s prison and returned home to our own time, while the duke returned to England. In those five months, the governor still hadn’t created a naval task force of his own. I cursed.

“Help!” The voice was faint, but unmistakable. “Please, someone…” I followed the cries, digging through the fallen masonry until my hands touched a torso half-buried in the stone. The torn, bloodied uniform was the same as mine, one of the governor’s soldiers.

“What’s your name, guardsman?” I gently explored his broken body with my hands. His face and chest were slick with blood. He howled when I freed his crushed legs. “Talk to me! Tell me your name!”

“Bryant.” He coughed, chest heaving. “Thomas Bryant. My wife… My children…”

“We’ll make sure they’re safe. Rest now.” Casi knelt beside me, pushing me aside. “I’ll stay with him. Get to your unit. Go!”

I looked at her, face torn. Bettie gave a nervous whinny and pulled at the rope tying her to a post. Suddenly, the night exploded and we were thrown back. I didn’t hear the scream torn from my own parched throat as my ears burst. Fireworks of red, orange, and white blinded me. I blindly reached for Casi, drawing us over Thomas’s body. Tears streamed down my cheeks at the suffocating pain in my ears, head, throat, and chest. Gradually I became aware of Casi’s lifeless body beneath me.

“Casi!” I shook her. “Casiguaya!” Her eyelids fluttered open. I sobbed in relief and helped her sit. I gestured towards the docks then mimicked a gunpowder explosion. She nodded weakly. Through my star-studded vision, it seemed that more fires had sprouted across town. I imaged the Portuguese cheering from their stinking boat. They must be able to sense the imminent victory. If they were going to land, now was the perfect opportunity. But why attack in the first place? There were no Portuguese territories close to ours. With Puerto Rico to the east and Jamaica to the north, the closest islands were ruled by the English or Spanish. I shook my head to clear the incessant buzzing, but it only made the dizziness worse. This wasn’t in the history books. How could this be happening?

Thomas’ eyes were open, his mouth slack. I pressed my fingers to his neck. Nothing. Casi squeezed my arm and wordlessly we stood. Bettie was yanking violently against the lead rope, and despite Casi’s soothing touch, her eyes remained rimmed with white.

“You have to warn your people!” I shouted. Unsure if she was equally deaf, I pointed at her and mimed riding a horse, then pointed towards Mt Spiel where her tribe lived. I placed a chaste kiss on her lips, tasting salty dampness, then lifted her onto Bettie. She was still shaking her head as I passed her the reins. She knew as well as I did Port Settler was flailing. She was trembling as she leaned down for a final, salty kiss. I felt, rather than heard, her painful “I love you” whispered against my chapped lips.

“Your people need you! Be the fierce warrior I know you are!” My throat was hoarse as I slapped Bettie hard on the rump and they disappeared along with a sliver torn from my heart. Not allowing myself even a moment of terror, for her or myself, I ran towards the remaining tower, ducking and weaving as musket shots whizzed past. Pausing behind a rampart, I counted five longboats heading towards shore before racing up the stairs. Two dozen soldiers were huddled inside, pistols drawn.

“Yo, need any help in here?”

“Logan! Thank God.” Walter grasped my forearm in a wholehearted greeting. Philip was here, and Francis too. Robert, ever the optimistic simpleton, beamed at me, white teeth glinting in the eerie lantern light. He might not have figured it out yet, but we were as good as defeated. Through a combination of shouting and gestures, I signalled the arrival of five approaching longboats.

“Where’s Atherton?” I asked about the sixth man in our squad.

“He went north.”

Walter signalled for four of the men to keep watch while the rest of us huddled beneath gaps in the stonework, waiting in tense silence. Walter, Philip, and Robert were also staying in rented rooms above the Queen’s Rook Inn instead of the barracks; after the duke had returned to England when Captain Griffin was convicted, the governor had dissolved the cabin system in favour of more specialised task forces. The six of us had been assigned to help Oliver with his mayoral duties, principally maintaining peace. I was surprised but relieved they’d made the same decision to abandon our protocol and aid the southern fort instead. However, furthest from the barracks, and with the burning town in between, more reinforcements were unlikely. We were on our own.

Philip pressed a musket and spare shot into my hands. I thanked him with a curt nod and licked my cracked lips, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the saltiness of sweat. Why was I so worried we would lose? History guaranteed that Conquista would remain an English colony for at least the next 300 years. Not for the first time, I wished that I’d had paid more attention in school and to Dad’s dinnertime ramblings. Even if the Portuguese did win, surely there would have been a public holiday commemorating the English re-conquering Conquista in the future, and I certainly didn’t remember any such holidays. But it wasn’t enough to drown the worm of fear wriggling in my belly. What if I had done something irreversibly terrible? Something that had altered the course of history?

A sentry waved his arms frantically. The Portuguese were landing. Time to focus. Walter held up a hand, counting down silently on his fingers. Three. Two. One. When he dropped his arm, I charged. Philip and Francis lay down covering fire while Robert and I raced north, leaping from jumbled mountains of brick along the boundary between the beachfront and the town, until we reached our mark halfway to the first jetty. Perfectly synchronised, we turned and raised our muskets to our shoulders, Rupert’s ruthless training taking over. Breath, aim, and release. Together we picked off the invading soldiers as though they were the game birds on which we’d practised. After an age, Walter and Francis dived beside us, their chests heaving as Robert and I continued to shoot. Then it was our time to run again. Moments of terror alternated with moments of relieved horror as our bullets found their targets, shot from the relative safety of any meagre cover we could find. Leap-frogging in pairs, the four of us finally reached the first warehouse. A sixth longboat had appeared out of the murky darkness and more Portuguese soldiers swarmed over the side and onto the closest jetty. From the corner of my eye, I saw Philip pull a pin from a grenade and toss it in the longboat’s direction. Moments later the thin wood evaporated in an explosion of splinters.

I ducked, then slung my musket over my shoulder and drew my pistol. Pausing for a heartbeat, I shot two invaders before drawing my sword. English and Portuguese steel clashed, reverberating painfully up my arm. I parried and thrust, lunged and retreated. My opponent staggered, then was blown backwards. I glanced back and Philip gave me a thumbs up, before turning his musket to his next victim. Both Walter and Robert were engaged in close-quarters combat with three attackers. It was like an erotic salsa dance; everyone pirouetting and swapping lethal partners as if every movement was choreographed. To shoot would risk hitting one of my comrades. Leaping over a fallen ship mast, I charged towards Robert, sword in hand. Robert slashed back and forth, then suddenly followed through with a thin knife wielded in his left hand. The effect was instant. I lunged to parry the cutlass descending towards Robert’s head. The blade deflected and I staggered under the blow, my shoulder screaming as it was almost wrenched from its socket. Robert turned and slashed sideways and the Portuguese soldier fell clutching his belly.

Leaving Robert to deal with the third soldier, I turned to aid Walter, who was being circled by two men. Where was Philip? I couldn’t remember noticing when his covering fire had ceased. Shoving the thought aside, I pirouetted, placing myself back-to-back with Walter. One of the raiders retreated two paces and drew his pistol. I lunged again, fending off a blade that snaked towards me from the left. My outreached blade brushed my target’s arm. His pistol clattered to the ground. I unsheathed the knife at my hip and followed through. The dagger slid easily through his throat, like cutting a slice of boysenberry cheesecake. I pivoted as he sunk to his knees, only to see Walter dropping to the ground.

“No!” My scream seared my throat like the red-hot iron used to brand slaves.

The Portuguese soldier didn’t smile as he shot Walter from half a metre’s distance. My fist tightened around my hilt, but Robert had already cut him down. Now it was two against one, and we finished him together.

Robert dropped beside his friend with a cry of anguish. Blood was leaking from a large hole in his chest. For the second time that night, I checked for a pulse. Nothing. I brushed Walter’s eyes closed then dragged Robert to his feet.

“Where’s Philip?”

“Blasted by a cannon ball.”

“Oh.” The wave of nausea surged up through my body with tsunami-like force. I released Robert’s arm and doubled over, my stomach aching. I tried to focus on the image of Casi’s face, but the smoke that filled my lungs also befuddled my brain.

“Francis? The others?” I coughed.

Robert shrugged, his expression hard. Together we crept back towards the garrison. The clouds had started to clear, revealing a pitiful amount of starlight. Several Portuguese boats lay discarded on the beach. They were ominously empty.

I stepped onto the loose rocks below the fort, my unease growing. Suddenly, another Portuguese soldier leapt from the shadows. Robert cut him down with grim determination. Wordlessly we crept up to the entrance behind the fort, or rather, its remains. Half of the main tower lay shattered on the jagged rocks and the other half must have fallen below the waves. There was no sign of people, friend or foe. Sticking close together, we searched the ruins.

“Psst! Over here!”

I froze and glanced around. I signalled to Robert with a double click of my fingers and we followed the whispers to a group of three soldiers who were huddling behind a precarious fragment of a brick wall.

“We thought it was just us three that were still… here,” said one, passing me a flask of water.

He didn’t need to explain that by “here”, he really meant “alive”. Gratefully, I took a swig, swirling it around my mouth to cleanse the taste of blood, smoke, and sweat. I passed it onto Robert just before my legs gave way.

“How many raiders got through?” I asked. The silence that followed was heavy. “How many?”

The man that passed me the flask answered first. “’bout half of those who tried so far, so five or six boat loads with twenty men each, me thinks.” It was too many. Swearing seemed like a waste of breath. Robert sagged beside me, as if he himself had been mortally wounded.