Something was happening. . . .

"No! Please, no!" She forced her long fingernails into her palm, and the pain seemed to restore some of the awareness she had felt slipping from her. Desperately she tore herself away from the dance and seized the center post of the mill, gasping for air and digging her nails into the wood until she felt one snap. Then she pulled away the African kerchief and threw back her head, swirling her hair about her face till it caught in her mouth. All at once she was thirsty, hungry, yearning for a dark presence that hovered over her body like a lover.

Again the blossoms of Pernambuco drifted down, tiny points of fire as they settled against her face, and she began to hum a simple Portuguese song she had known as a child. It was spring in Brazil, and as she looked up she saw the face of the old Yoruba _babalawo_.

"Dara, come." He was reaching toward her, beckoning

her away from the Portuguese master, saying something about Shango she did not understand, and the sight of his sad eyes and high black cheeks filled her with love. But now there was a youthfulness in his face, as though he were here and powerful and young. Her old _babalawo _had come back: there was the same glistening black skin, the same three face- marks cut down his cheek, the powerful eyes she had somehow forgotten over the years.

She gasped as he pulled her back into the circle of dancers.

He was Atiba. His clan-marks were Atiba's. And so was his voice . . .

Lightning illuminated the doorway and its whiteness washed over her, bleaching away the mill, the moving bodies, the face of Atiba. As she stumbled back among the dancers, her mind seemed to be thinning, turning to pale mist, merging with the rain.

' _'Boguo yguoro ache semilenu Shango_ . . ." The men were moving beside her now, intoning their singsong chant. She suddenly recalled the long-forgotten Yoruba verses and wanted to join in, but the words floated away. She was no longer part of the men in the room; she was distant, observing from some other world. Instead of the sweating bodies, there was the fragrance of frangipani and the faces of _preto_ slaves on the Pernambuco plantation as they gathered around at the moment of her birth to praise her light skin. Dara's warm, nourishing breast was against her lips, and the world was bright and new.

She gasped for breath, but the air was wet, oppressive. Its heaviness was descending over her, then her left leg seemed to catch in a vise, as though it belonged to the deep earth. She wrenched her body to look down, and felt a crack of thunder pound against her back. The world was drifting up through her, drowning her in white. . . .

. . . She is floating, borne by the drums, while a weight has settled against her back, a stifling weariness that insists the dance must stop. Yet some power propels her on, swirls about her, forces her forward. She senses the touch of wet skin as she falls against one of the dancers, but no hands reach out to help. Only the drums keep her alive. But they too are fading, leaving her, as the world starts to move in slow motion. A white void has replaced her mind. Her breath comes in short bursts, her heart pounds, her hands and feet are like ice. She is ready now to leave, to surrender, to be taken. Then a voice comes, a voice only she can hear, whose Yoruba words say her mind can rest. That her body is no longer to struggle. She holds her eyes open, but she no longer sees. A powerful whiteness has settled against her forehead. . . .

' _'Okunrin t 'o lagbara_!" A hard voice cut through the room, silencing the drums. "_Shango_!"

The Yoruba men fell forward to touch the feet of the tall mulata who towered over them, demanding worship. Her eyes glowed white, illuminating the darkness of the room; her arm stretched out toward Atiba as she called for her scepter.

He hesitated a moment, as though stunned that she was no longer Dara, then rose to hand her a large stone that had been chipped into the form of a double-headed axe. He had fashioned it himself, in antic.i.p.ation of just this moment. As he offered the sacred implement, her left hand shot out and seized his throat. She grabbed the axe head with her right hand and examined it critically. Then she roughly cast him aside, against the mill. While the men watched, she raised the stone axe above her head and began to speak.

"_Opolopo ise I'o wa ti enikan ko le da se afi bi o ba ir oluranlowo.

_. . ."

The voice of Shango was telling them that the Yoruba must join with the other men of Africa if they would not all die as slaves. Otherwise they and their children and their children's children for twenty generations would be as cattle to the _branco_. Even so, he would not yet countenance the spilling of innocent blood. Not until Yoruba blood had been spilled. They must not kill those among the _branco _who had done them no hurt. Only those who would deny their manhood.

Suddenly she turned and glared directly at Atiba. The voice grew even harsher.

"Atiba, son of Balogun, _bi owo eni ko te eku ida a ki ibere iku ti o pa baba eni!"

_It was the ancient call to arms of Ife: "No man who has not grasped his sword can avenge the death of his father." But Atiba sensed there was a deeper, more personal message. The voice had now become that of Balogun himself, clearly, unmistakably. He felt his heart surge with shame.

Her last words were still ringing when a sphere of lightning slid down the centerpole of the roof and exploded against the iron mill. Rings of fire danced across the rollers and dense dark smoke billowed in the room. Atiba had already sprung to catch her as she slumped forward, sending her stone axe clattering across the packed floor.

' _'Olorun ayuba bai ye baye tonu . . ._" Through the smoke he quickly began to intone a solemn acknowledgement to the Yoruba high G.o.d. Then he lifted her into his arms and pressed his cheek against hers as he led the men out.

She was only dimly aware of a whisper against her ear. "You are truly a woman of the Yoruba, and tonight you have brought us Shango's power.

With him to help us, we will one day soon plant our yams where the branco's compounds stand."

As they started down the pathway, single file, the lightning had gone.

Now there was only the gentle spatter of Caribbean rain against their sweating faces as they merged with the night.

Chapter Ten

As the bell on the _Rainbowe _struck the beginning of the first watch, Edmond Calvert stood on the quarterdeck studying the thin cup of crescent moon that hung suspended in the west. In another hour it would be gone and the dense tropical dark would descend. The time had arrived to commence the operation.

He reflected grimly on how it had come to this. The ultimate responsibility, he knew, must be laid at the door of a greedy Parliament. Before the monarchy was abolished, the American settlements had been the personal domain of the king, and they had suffered little interference from Commons. Scarce wonder Parliament's execution of Charles was received with so much trepidation and anger here--yesterday he'd heard that in Virginia the a.s.sembly had just voted to hang anyone heard defending the recent "traitorous proceedings" in England. What these Americans feared, naturally enough, was that Parliament would move to try and take them over. They were right. And the richest prize of all was not Virginia, not Ma.s.sachusetts, but the sugar island of Barbados. Why else had he been sent here first?

How could Oliver Cromwell have so misjudged these colonists? He thought all they needed was intimidation, and expected the fleet to manage that handily. What he'd failed to

understand was the strong streak of independence that had developed here over the years, especially in Barbados. Instead of acting sensibly, the islanders had met the fleet with a cannon barrage and a Declaration stating that they would fight to the death for their liberty. What was worse, they had steadfastly refused to budge.

Even so, he had tried every means possible to negotiate a surrender.

He'd started a propaganda campaign, sending ash.o.r.e letters and posters warning that resistance was foolhardy, that they needed the protection of England. But Dalby Bedford's reply was to demand that the island be allowed to continue governing itself by its own elected a.s.sembly, when everyone knew Parliament would never agree. Yet for a fortnight they had continued their fruitless exchange of letters, cajolery, threats-- neither side willing to relent.

What else, he asked himself, was left to do now? Add to that, invasion fever was becoming rife in the fleet. This morning he had hung out the Flag of Council, summoning the captains of all the ships aboard the _Rainbowe _for a final parlay, and over a luncheon table groaning with meat and drink from the fourteen captured Dutch merchant fluyts, the men had done little else save brag of victory. Finally, his last hope of avoiding bloodshed gone, he had reluctantly issued orders. It had come to this--England and her most populous American colony were going to war.

He then spent the afternoon watch on the quarterdeck, alone, pensively studying the flying fish that glided across the surface of the tranquil blue Caribbean. Hardest to repress was his own anguish at the prospect of sending English infantry against a settlement in the Americas. These New World venturers were not rebel Papist Irishmen, against whom Cromwell might well be justified in dispatching his army. They were fellow Protestants.

As he turned and ordered the anchor weighed, he experienced yet another disquieting reflection--unless there was

some weakness in the island he did not yet know, it could win.

"Are we ready to issue muskets now, and bandoliers of powder and shot?"

Vice Admiral James Powlett was coming up the companionway with a purposeful stride.

He heard Powlett's question and decided to pa.s.s the decision on issuing of arms to the invasion commander, Colonel Richard Morris, now waiting beside him wearing breastplate and helmet.

Deep wrinkles from fifty years of life were set in Morris' brow, and the descending dark did not entirely obscure the worry in his blue eyes or the occasional nervous twitch in his Dutch-style goatee. A seasoned army officer, he had chafed for days waiting to take his men ash.o.r.e. On board the ships, he and his infantry were under naval command. On land, he would be in total charge. His impatience could not have been greater.

During the forenoon watch he had personally visited each of the troop ships and picked some two hundred of the fittest infantry for the invasion. He had organized them into attack squadrons, appointed field commanders, and held a briefing for the officers. Then the men had been transferred in equal numbers to the Rainbowe, the Marston Moor, and the Gloucester, where the captains had immediately ordered them down to the already-crowded gun decks to await nightfall.

"We'll issue no arms till it's closer to time." Morris squinted at Powlett through the waning moonlight. "I'll not have some recruit light a matchcord in the dark down there between decks and maybe set off a powder keg. Though I'd scarcely fault any man who did, considering the conditions you've placed my infantry under."

"In truth, sir, I think we're all a trifle weary of hearing your complaints about how the navy has been required to garrison your men."

Powlett scowled. "May I remind you that while you've seen fit to occupy yourself grumbling, the navy has arranged to replenish our water and provisions, courtesy of all the b.u.t.terboxes who were anch.o.r.ed in the bay. In fact, I only just this afternoon finished inventorying the last Dutch fluyt and securing her hatches."

Powlett paused to watch as the _Rainbowe _began to come about, her bow turning north. She would lead the way along the coast, the other two warships following astern and steering by a single lantern hanging from her maintopmast. Their destination was the small bay off the settlement at Jamestown, up the coast from Carlisle Bay.

"What this navy has done, sir," Morris' voice was rising, "is to seize and pilfer the merchantmen of a nation England has not declared war on."

"We don't need Letters of Marque to clear our American settlements of these Dutchmen," Powlett continued. "They've grown so insolent and presumptuous they're not to be suffered more. If we don't put a stop to them, they'll soon make claim to all the Americas, so that no nation can trade here but themselves. Besides, it's thanks to these interloping Hollanders that we've now got fresh water and meat enough to last for weeks."

"Aye, so I'm told, though my men have yet to see a sliver of this Dutch meat we hear about."

"There's been time needed to inventory, sir. I've had the beef we took cut into quarter pieces and pickled and put aboard the provision ships.

And the pork and mutton cut into half pieces and salted. We've got enough in hand now to sit and watch this island starve, if it comes to that."

Morris chewed on his lip and thought bitterly of the noonday Council of War called aboard the _Rainbowe_. All the fleet captains had gorged themselves on fresh pork and fat mutton, washing it down with fine brandy and sack--all taken from the captain's larder of the Kostverloren. "The treatment of my men on this voyage has been nothing short of a crime." He continued angrily, "It cries to heaven, I swear it."