Beyond the Savage Sea Page 33

  “Ay, ’tis cane, Mr. Steel.”

  “What does it mean, uprooted cane way out here?”

  “‘Means they’ve had themselves a bad time in Barbados. Likely a hurricane. Happens sometimes. Flattens and uproots all the cane fields on the island.”

  “A storm could carry the cane way out to sea? Against the trade winds?”

  “Ay. If it’s a bad storm, a powerful hurricane.”

  “Good God.” His chest tightened. Was Edwinna all right? Not only Edwinna, but the others he cared for: Matthew Plum, David Alleyne, Kena, Tutu, Simon Tarcher. “Perhaps the storm hit the cane fields of Brazil, not Barbados. Maybe this is Brazilian cane.”

  The captain sucked on his pipe and said with grim humor, “If it’s Brazilian cane carried this far out, we won’t even bother to look for Barbados. If the storm was that bad, Barbados is sunk, gone to the bottom of the sea, like the lost continent Atlantis.”

  Drake worried all day, into the night. He was out at the rail by dawn the next morning, keeping watch. The seaman in the crow’s nest shouted land-ho about nine in the morning, and ten minutes later Drake saw the outline of Barbados appear on the horizon. He watched, his nerves strung tight. Impatiently he waited for the ship to get closer.

  The Atlantic coast looked the same, hurricane or not, for it was uninhabited and rugged and always looked storm-ravaged, but when the captain brought his ship around the southern end of the island, entering the calmer Caribbean sea, heading along the coast for Carlisle Bay and Bridgetown, Drake winced at the destruction, the devastation, he saw. Terraced cane fields lay flattened. Stone windmills had collapsed into heaps of rubble. Millworks lay in shambles. He saw the house of a planter he knew, its roof gone, its upper story shredded to sticks. God in heaven. The island looked as if some demon had taken an ax to it.

  He grew panicky. Crawford Plantation would have been hit even harder, for it was on the spine of the island, the plateau, a thousand feet above sea level, in the direct path of the wind.

  A seasoned sailor, the captain did not try to enter Bridgetown harbor, but scouted it first, staying outside the reef, tacking into the wind, making several passes at Carlisle Bay. Drake stood with him at the rail, looking at the horrors as they presented themselves. The harbor looked like a bucket of toy ships dumped out by a willful child. Ocean-going vessels floated keel up. Other ships that had managed to stay upright had lost masts, rigging. Two ships had been picked up by the wind and cast onto the beach. Bridgetown itself lay decimated, every tenth building in shambles. He could see people scrambling in the wreckage, salvaging things. Drake scanned the waterfront for Edwinna’s sugar warehouse. It was gone.

  Unable to put in at Bridgetown harbor because of the floating wreckage, they sailed on to Speightstown. Drake gripped the rail tensely. The Caribbean coast lay devastated. They sailed past mile after mile of ruined cane fields, collapsed windmills. Whole trees bobbing in the water bumped against the hull of the ship: banana trees, papaya trees, mahogany trees, queen palms. Approaching Speightstown, Drake borrowed the captain’s spyglass and searched three miles inland, hoping to see Edwinna’s stone windmill high on the plateau. He couldn’t find it. His gut twisted.

  Speightstown had sustained less damage than Bridgetown. The sturdy storehouses still stood, though minus roofs. The more flimsy buildings were gone, blown away. He drew a relieved breath when he spotted Simon Tarcher’s limestone coral cottage. It was intact, only a few roof tiles missing.

  The captain anchored in the cove and sent the passengers ashore in rowing boats, a hazardous enough undertaking with trees and wreckage bobbing in the surf. Filled with worry about Edwinna, Drake cradled Katherine on his lap. When they landed, Simon Tarcher came running to meet him, his white, feathery hair blowing in the trade winds. He’d spotted them through his spyglass. Amazed to see Drake, Tarcher nevertheless was sensible enough to speak at once of the important things.

  “The storm hit thirty-six hours ago, Mr. Steel.”

  “What of Edwinna?”

  “I haven’t been able to send anyone up. Nor has she sent anyone down. The ravines are flooded with rushing water. A man could get swept away and drowned.”

  “Can you get me a rope, a knapsack, a bottle of drinking water, and a bill-cane knife?”

  Tarcher nodded approvingly. “That I can, Mr. Steel.”

  Drake quickly presented his children and their tutor. It was agreed that they would stay with Tarcher while Drake made his way up to Crawford Plantation. While Tarcher hurried to get his supplies, Drake squatted to talk to his children.

  “Katherine, sweetheart, I have to go to...to find Priscilla. To make sure Priscilla is all right. I want you to be a big girl for Papa and stay here with William and your tutor. Tonight you will sleep in Mr. Tarcher’s nice house, and Papa will come back for you in the morning. Will you be a good girl and do that for me, sweetheart?”

  She nodded staunchly, her little face brown from her stint at sea and her fair hair, Anne’s hair, sun-bleached and more silvery than ever. “Will you bring Priscilla back here so I can play with her?”

  “Well...Priscilla likes to stay at Mama Edwinna’s house. But I’ll take you to Mama Edwinna’s house as soon as I can.”

  “Papa, I’m going with you,” William declared. “I can find Priscilla—I can.”

  Drake tousled his son’s hair. “I know you can, but you’re needed here, William. I need you to be a man and take care of Katherine for me until I come back in the morning.”

  William sulked a moment, then changed his mind and said importantly, “Katherine, I’m going to take care of you. You have to mind me and do every single thing I say.”

  “I do not!”

  “You do, too!”

  Drake nodded at the young tutor, who adroitly took over. The young man had an excellent way with children, neither lenient nor harsh, but always managing to make William cooperate. At the tutor’s suggestion, the three of them ran off to search the beach for “treasures” the storm might have washed in.

  * * * *

  Lord, the destruction! Heading up into cane country, Drake grew more worried with every half-mile he walked. He slogged his way through mud, slashed through vines that hung like green snakes, and occasionally sank into mire up to his knees. The storm had uprooted everything, from towering mahogany trees to terraced cane fields.

  The affingoes’ trail was gone, washed away. He couldn’t even find it. The cane had begun to rot in the blazing sun, and the dense, musky stink permeated everything. The ravines were the worst. He had to cross two of them. Long before he came to them, he heard the thundering sound of rushing storm water. Routed out of their holes in the ravines, brown snakes slithered everywhere and rats ran as blatantly in the sunlight as if it were night. Descending into the first ravine, he lost his footing, slid in mud, and rolled fifty feet, flinging out his arms to break his fall. He grabbed at a brown vine to catch himself. It was a snake. The damned thing bit him. It was a glancing bite, but it hurt like hell. He sucked the wound, thanking his lucky stars that Barbados had no poisonous vipers.

  He had to swim the ravine in roaring water that thundered in his ears, shutting out every other sound. The force of the rushing water swept him two hundred feet along the ravine, bashing him with uprooted trees that stabbed him with their hairy roots. When he finally found his footing and climbed out, exhausted, panting, he’d lost his rope, but he still had the knapsack with the leather water bottle and bill-cane knife in it. He drank thirstily.

  He climbed to the top of the ravine, stood panting for a moment, and slogged on. When he came to the second ravine, he shuddered and descended into it with its snakes and rats and roaring water. This time, he found a mahogany tree that the storm had plucked up somewhere on the island and had cast into the ravine. It had come down in such a way as to make a precarious bridge over the rushing water. He inched across it on his knees, and then, reaching the other side, climbed to the top of the ravine, his breath roaring in his lungs as loudly
as the gully water.

  High in cane country again, he looked about and tried to get his bearings. All of the familiar landmarks were gone. He had to navigate by keeping an eye on the terraced hills and the sea behind him, on the Speightstown coast, and on the shape of the cove. He plodded on in water-soaked boots.

  In one of the flattened cane fields, he found a body, a black, and it brought tears to his eyes. Not for this particular black, whom he didn’t know, but for all on the island who might have died in the horrendous storm. He dragged the body out of the mud, but he had nowhere to shelter it. He cursed in frustration, knowing wild pigs would come for it, feed on it.

  When he came to another flattened cane field, he found red roof tiles scattered like grapeshot. He shucked his knapsack and ran slogging through the mud. Lord. Crawford Hall’s roof was red tile.

  He tore across a flattened cane field, jumping stubble and roots and whole plants. At last he saw the familiar lane with its mahogany trees, most of them down, flung every which way, as if a giant fist had bashed them. Red tiles littered the field. He spotted something grotesque sticking up in the field—one of the wrought-iron front gates curled, twisted like rope. God in heaven! Crawford Hall reared into view, its walls still standing, but the roof gone, bare beams shining in the sun. He sprinted through the garden, past the demolished coral water drip. The front door swung in the wind, hanging by one latch. He ran inside, heart pounding. “Edwinna?” he bellowed. “David, Kena?” No one answered. The house stank of rainwater and mud. He ran down the debris-strewn path, leaping tree limbs, dodging masses of roots. He ran to where the mill works had stood. They were demolished. His chest tightened. He’d never told Edwinna he loved her. And he did! If she’d died without knowing he loved her, he would never forgive himself. God damn it, it wasn’t fondness, it was love. Love! You proud jackass. His own words thundered in his ears. I’m fond of you, Edwinna. Jackass. She had wanted to hear I love you, not I’m fond of you. God damn you, if you get another chance—if you’re that lucky—tell her. Tell her, God damn you. It’s not Anne you love, it’s her—her!

  * * * *

  There had been three deaths and twenty-five injuries.

  Edwinna had been working without sleep for many hours. So had David and Kena and Matthew Plum and the others. She was exhausted, numb.

  When she stepped out of the makeshift hospital and heard a ferocious shout—”Edwinna!”—she nearly burst into tears of frustration, for it seemed so cruel that she should imagine Drake’s magnificent voice ringing out in all this devastation and suffering. Yet, a crueler thing could happen, for she heard it again.

  “Edwinna!” his voice bellowed.

  She whirled and rubbed her tired eyes. She swiped a muddy sleeve across her face. “Edwinna!” The bellow was persistent. Kena poked her head out of the hospital tent to look, then David peered out, and Matthew Plum. Someone was running down the tree-strewn hill, his clothes wet and muddy, his shoulders broad, his black hair glistening in the bright sunshine. Edwinna stood stock still, stunned.

  “Oh, dear God, oh, dear God,” she murmured.

  Matthew Plum smiled broadly and gave her a shove.

  “Go, girl! If he’s what you want, show him.”

  “Oh, dear God!” She drew a ragged breath, threw out her arms, and ran like a madwoman straight into warm, strong arms that caught her and crushed her close, hugged her so hard she was lifted right off her feet. She clutched him fiercely, buried her face in his hot neck, and closed her eyes.

  “Oh, dear God.”

  For a moment she couldn’t open her eyes, scared it was a dream born of fatigue, scared it wasn’t he. A moment after that, she didn’t want to open her eyes. She only wanted to be held and to listen forever.

  For in his hoarse, magnificent voice he was saying, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, Edwinna...

  * * * *

  One year later, to the exact date and minute, Drake was still saying those words—saying them as he looked down at her, his handsome face tense, beaded with sweat.

  “I love you, I love you...”

  She couldn’t answer. She could only pant, caught in the vise of pain so excruciating she wondered if she could bear it. Each contraction tore through her like the blow of a bill-cane knife through cane. Her bottom burned as the flesh began to tear there. She wanted to scream, but had no breath to do it. Pain gripped her lungs. She panted.

  “David!”

  “She’s doing fine, Drake.”

  “Give her something for the pain!”

  “I cannot. It might harm the babies.”

  Drake swung his head sharply. “Babies?”

  David leaned down over her, his fair hair spilling forward. He smiled and braced an arm on either side of her pillow.

  “Edwinna? There will be two. Twin babes. Do not be afraid. You’re doing fine.”

  She tried to smile, but couldn’t. The pain came bearing down so excruciatingly that a cry of agony tore out of her. She lost her breathing rhythm, the panting she seemed to need so as not to panic. She struggled, thrashed about to get air, found it, went on panting.

  “It’s time, Edwinna,” David directed calmly. “When I tell you to push, you can push. Not before, not after. Drake, get on your knees behind her on the bed. Support her shoulders and give her your hand to grip.”

  Edwinna panted, panicking as a new pain began to build, greater than any she’d felt before. “Drake—” Drake knelt behind, his head above her. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  The pain came bearing down. “Push,” David ordered.

  She screamed and pushed. Nothing happened. She lay back, panting. Drake mopped the sweat from her brow, then gave her his hand to hold again. She gripped it. The pains came faster now, fierce, savage, throwing her toward the bottom of the bed.

  “Push.”

  “Push.”

  “Push.”

  She screamed in agony as her bottom tore open. Something wet slid between her legs. She lay back, panting. A newborn’s soft, crow-like cawing filled the room. David smiled. Kena smiled. Above her, Drake smiled. Edwinna panted.

  The pain came again, an ax blow. “Only two more pushes, Edwinna,” David directed calmly. “I’m going to help this little fellow’s brother along a bit, by reaching in. It will be a bit painful. Here we go.” She screamed in agony. The pains came bearing down in fast, wild succession. “Push. Push.”

  She bore down and something else wet and slippery slid out between her legs, followed by afterbirth in a strong, primitive surge. Now, two newborns cawed loudly. Exhausted as she was, she had to smile. “They sound like magpies.” She fell back against Drake, light-headed, black spots swimming before her eyes. The moment passed. When she could see again, it was to look up into Drake’s fierce, happy face.

  “I love you...God in heaven, how I love you!”

  “Is it—are they healthy?”

  “They are magnificent.”

  “Is it really—two of them?”

  He smiled broadly and kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

  The room smelled of birth and blood and sweat, but she’d never smelled anything so wonderful in her life. David flopped her loud, complaining sons onto her belly to work on them, and Drake lifted her shoulders so she could watch.

  “Don’t hurt them, David!” she commanded.

  David smiled at her and then shared a smile with Drake. “Very well.” Kena stood smiling, too, ready with cloths and sweet oil.

  Holding her up, letting her lean against him, Drake put his cheek against hers and watched, too, whispering into her ear words she never tired of hearing. “I love you...I love you...”

  Later, after she’d drifted to sleep, she awoke to a shimmering coral sunset and to a scene she would never forget. Absorbed in his sons, having a private talk with them, Drake was holding the swaddled, sleeping babies, one in each of his strong arms, and kissing them. She
could hear him whispering, telling them over and over, “I love you, my little sons, I love you.”

  Her heart filled to bursting. She lay quietly watching, listening, adoring him as the Caribbean sunset painted the room with light. She loved him so much, this handsome London wine merchant who had come into her life so unexpectedly, who had taken away her fears and made her a woman, a wife, a mother.

  When he noticed she’d wakened, he ambled to the bed, smiling.

  “Well, Mrs. Steel. Which of your sons would you like to hold first?”

  “Both of them.”

  “Greedy.”

  She smiled at him, so in love with him she glowed. She knew she glowed because she saw the reflection in his eyes.

  She eased up in the bed and held out her arms. “What shall we name them? We didn’t expect two.”

  “It’s already been done. William and Katherine and I have already named them, while you slept. Even Priscilla put in her suggestion, or so Katherine insists.”

  Edwinna’s smile faltered a little. She was disappointed. She had two special names she’d wanted to suggest.

  “Make a cradle of your arms, Mrs. Steel, and I’ll introduce you. This little fellow’s name is—” He gently put the baby into her arms and she looked into the tiny face and melted. Oh, dear God, she was a mother! “—Harry Crawford Steel.” Her head jerked up and she looked at Drake intensely. He smiled into her eyes. “And this little fellow—” He gently deposited the second baby into her arms. “—is Thomas Crawford Steel.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Oh, Drake.”

  He carefully sat on the bed, cupped her face in his hands, and put a soft kiss on her lips, a lingering kiss. She closed her eyes to savor it, to savor him, to savor the feeling of babies in her arms, her babies, Drake’s babies.

  It was joy that sent a tear trickling down her cheek. Drake knew it, for he kissed the teardrop and the next and the next, then sat on the bed with her as they watched the brilliant coral sunset paint its glory all over Crawford Plantation— the plantation that would one day belong to the two young men for whom it was meant—Thomas and Harry.