His mind appeared to have taken French leave for the moment; no matter; it would be back shortly. Meanwhile, though, its abdication had left his body in charge--not at all a responsible course of action.
He felt exhausted, but restless, and scratched idly at his chest. The wounds there were solidly healed, slightly raised pink weals under his fingers, crisscrossing through the blond hair. One had passed within an inch of his left nipple; he'd been lucky not to lose it.
An immense pile of gauze cloth lay upon his bed. This must be the mosquito netting described to him by Mr Dawes at dinner--a draped contraption meant to enclose the entire bed, thus protecting its occupant from the depredations of bloodthirsty insects.
He'd spent some time with Fettes and Cherry after dinner, laying plans for the morrow. Cherry would call upon Judge Peters and obtain details of the maroons who had been captured. Fettes would send men into Kingston in a search for the location of the retired Mr Ludgate, erstwhile superintendent; if Ludgate could be found, Grey would like to know this gentleman's opinion of his successor. As for that successor--if Dawes did not manage to unearth Captain Cresswell by the end of tomorrow ... Grey yawned involuntarily, then shook his head, blinking. Enough.
The troops would all be billeted by now, some granted their first liberty in months. He spared a glance at the small sheaf of maps and reports he had extracted from Mr Dawes earlier, but those could wait till morning, and better light. He'd think more clearly after a good night's sleep.
He leaned against the frame of the open door, after a quick glance down the terrace showed him that the rooms nearby seemed unoccupied. Clouds were beginning to drift in from the sea, and he remembered what Rodrigo had said about the rain at night. He thought perhaps he could feel a slight coolness in the air, whether from rain or oncoming night, and the hair on his body prickled and rose.
From here he could see nothing but the deep green of a jungle-clad hill, glowing like a sombre emerald in the twilight. From the other side of the house, though, as he left dinner, he'd seen the sprawl of Spanish Town below, a puzzle of narrow, aromatic streets. The taverns and the brothels would be doing a remarkable business tonight, he imagined.
The thought brought with it a rare feeling of something that wasn't quite resentment. Any one of the soldiers he'd brought, from the lowliest private soldier to Fettes himself, could walk into any brothel in Spanish Town--and there were a good many, Cherry had told him--and relieve the stresses caused by a long voyage without the slightest comment or even the slightest attention. Not him.
His hand had dropped lower as he watched the light fade, idly kneading his flesh. There were accommodations for men such as himself in London, but it had been many years since he'd had recourse to such a place.
He had lost one lover to death, another to betrayal. The third ... His lips tightened. Could you call a man who would never touch you--would recoil from the very thought of touching you--your lover? No. But at the same time, what would you call a man whose mind touched yours, whose prickly friendship was a gift, whose character, whose very existence, helped to define your own?
Not for the first time--and surely not for the last--he wished briefly that Jamie Fraser were dead. It was an automatic wish, though, at once dismissed from mind. The colour of the jungle had died to ash, and insects were beginning to whine past his ears.
He went in and began to worry the folds of the gauze on his bed, until Tom came in to take it away from him, hang the mosquito netting, and ready him for the night.
*
He couldn't sleep. Whether it was the heavy meal, the unaccustomed place, or simply the worry of his new and so-far-unknown command, his mind refused to settle, and so did his body. He didn't waste time in useless thrashing, though; he'd brought several books. Reading a bit of The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling would distract his mind and let sleep steal in upon him.
The French doors were covered with sheer muslin curtains, but the moon was nearly full, and there was enough light by which to find his tinderbox, striker, and candlestick. The candle was good beeswax, and the flame rose pure and bright--and instantly attracted a small cloud of inquisitive gnats, mosquitoes, and tiny moths. He picked it up, intending to take it to bed with him, but then thought better.
Was it preferable to be gnawed by mosquitoes or to be incinerated? Grey debated the point for all of three seconds, then set the lit candlestick back on the desk. The gauze netting would go up in a flash if the candle fell over in bed.
Still, he needn't face death by bloodletting or be covered in itching bumps simply because his valet didn't like the smell of bear grease. He wouldn't get it on his clothes, in any case.
He flung off his nightshirt and knelt to rummage in his trunk, with a guilty look over his shoulder. Tom, though, was safely tucked up somewhere amid the attics or outbuildings of King's House and almost certainly sound asleep. Tom suffered badly with seasickness, and the voyage had been hard on him.
The heat of the Indies hadn't done the battered tin of bear grease any good, either; the rancid fat nearly overpowered the scent of the peppermint and other herbs mixed into it. Still, he reasoned, if it repelled him, how much more a mosquito, and he rubbed it into as much of his flesh as he could reach. Despite the stink, he found it not unpleasant. There was enough of the original smell left as to remind him of his usage of the stuff in Canada. Enough to remind him of Manoke, who had given it to him. Anointed him with it, in a cool blue evening on a deserted sandy isle in the St Lawrence River.
Finished, he put down the tin and touched his rising prick. He didn't suppose he'd ever see Manoke again. But he did remember. Vividly.
A little later, he lay gasping on the bed under his netting, heart thumping slowly in counterpoint to the echoes of his flesh. He opened his eyes, feeling pleasantly relaxed, his head finally clear. The room was close; the servants had shut the windows, of course, to keep out the dangerous night air, and sweat misted his body. He felt too slack to get up and open the French doors onto the terrace, though; in a moment would do.
He closed his eyes again--then opened them abruptly and leapt out of bed, reaching for the dagger he'd laid on the table. The servant called Rodrigo stood pressed against the door, the whites of his eyes showing in his black face.
'What do you want?' Grey put the dagger down but kept his hand on it, his heart still racing.
'I have a message for you, sah,' the young man said. He swallowed audibly.
'Yes? Come into the light, where I can see you.' Grey reached for his banyan and slid into it, still keeping an eye on the man.
Rodrigo peeled himself off the door with evident reluctance, but he'd come to say something, and say it he would. He advanced into the dim circle of candlelight, hands at his sides, nervously clutching air.
'Do you know, sah, what an Obeah man is?'
'No.'
That disconcerted Rodrigo visibly. He blinked and twisted his lips, obviously at a loss as how to describe this entity. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly and gave up.
'He says to you, beware.'
'Does he?' Grey said dryly. 'Of anything specific?'
That seemed to help; Rodrigo nodded vigorously.
'You don't be close to the governor. Stay right away, as far as you can. He's going to--I mean ... something bad might happen. Soon. He--' The servant broke off, apparently realising that he could be dismissed--if not worse--for talking about the governor in this loose fashion. Grey was more than curious, though, and sat down, motioning to Rodrigo to take the stool, which he did with obvious reluctance.
Whatever an Obeah man was, Grey thought, he clearly had considerable power, to force Rodrigo to do something he so plainly didn't want to do. The young man's face shone with sweat, and his hands clenched mindlessly on the fabric of his coat.
'Tell me what the Obeah man said,' Grey said, leaning forward, intent. 'I promise you, I will tell no one.'
Rodrigo gulped but nodded. He bent his head, looking at the table as
though he might find the right words written in the grain of the wood.
'Zombie,' he muttered, almost inaudibly. 'The zombie come for him. For the governor.'
Grey had no notion what a zombie might be, but the word was spoken in such a tone as to make a chill flicker over his skin, sudden as distant lightning.
'Zombie,' he said carefully. Mindful of the governor's reaction earlier, he asked, 'Is a zombie perhaps a snake of some kind?'
Rodrigo gasped but then seemed to relax a little.
'No, sah,' he said seriously. 'Zombie are dead people.' He stood up then, bowed abruptly, and left, his message delivered.
*
Not surprisingly, Grey did not fall asleep immediately in the wake of this visit.
Having encountered German night-hags, Indian ghosts, and having spent a year or two in the Scottish Highlands, he had more acquaintance than most with picaresque superstition. While he wasn't inclined to give instant credence to local custom and belief, neither was he inclined to discount such belief out of hand. Belief made people do things that they otherwise wouldn't--and whether the belief had substance or not, the consequent actions certainly did.
Obeah men and zombies notwithstanding, plainly there was some threat to Governor Warren--and Grey rather thought the governor knew what it was.
How exigent was the threat, though? He pinched out the candle flame and sat in darkness for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, then rose and went soft-footed to the French doors, through which Rodrigo had vanished.
The guest bedchambers of King's House were merely a string of boxes, all facing the long terrace and each opening directly onto it through a pair of French doors. Grey paused for a moment, hand on the muslin drape; if anyone was watching his room, they would see the curtain being drawn aside.
Instead, he turned and went to the inner door of the room. This opened onto a narrow service corridor, completely dark at the moment--and completely empty, if his senses could be trusted. He closed the door quietly, glancing over his shoulder at the French doors. It was interesting, he thought, that Rodrigo had come to the front door, so to speak, when he could have approached Grey unseen.
But Rodrigo had said the Obeah man sent him. Plainly he wanted it to be seen that he had obeyed his order. Which in turn meant that someone was likely watching to see that he had.
The logical conclusion would be that the same someone--or someones--was watching to see what Grey might do next.
His body had reached its own conclusions already and was reaching for breeches and shirt before he had quite decided that if something were about to happen to Warren, it was clearly his duty to stop it, zombies or not. He stepped out of the French doors onto the terrace, moving quite openly.
There was an infantryman posted at either end of the terrace, as he'd expected; Robert Cherry was nothing if not meticulous. On the other hand, the bloody sentries had plainly not seen Rodrigo entering his room, and he wasn't at all pleased about that. Recriminations could wait, though; the nearer sentry saw him and challenged him with a sharp 'Who goes there?'
'It's me,' Grey said briefly, and, without ceremony, dispatched the sentry with orders to alert the other soldiers posted around the house, then send two men into the house, where they should wait in the hall until summoned.
Grey then went back into his room, through the inner door, and down the dark service corridor. He found a dozing black servant behind a door at the end of it, minding the fire under the row of huge coppers that supplied hot water to the household.
The man blinked and stared when shaken awake but eventually nodded in response to Grey's demand to be taken to the governor's bedchamber. He led Grey into the main part of the house and up a darkened stair lit only by the moonlight streaming through the tall casements. Everything was quiet on the upper floor save for slow, regular snoring coming from what the slave said was the governor's room.
The man was swaying with weariness; Grey dismissed him, with orders to let in and send up the soldiers who should now be at the door. The man yawned hugely, and Grey watched him stumble down the stairs into the murk of the hall below, hoping he would not fall and break his neck. The house was very quiet. He was beginning to feel somewhat foolish. And yet ...
The house seemed to breathe around him, almost as though it were a sentient thing and aware of him. He found the fancy unsettling.
Ought he to wake Warren? he wondered. Warn him? Question him? No, he decided. There was no point in disturbing the man's rest. Questions could wait for the morning.
The sound of feet coming up the stair dispelled his sense of uneasiness, and he gave his orders quietly. The sentries were to keep guard on this door until relieved in the morning; at any sound of disturbance within, they were to enter at once. Otherwise ...
'Stay alert. If you see or hear anything, I wish to know about it.'
He paused, but Warren continued to snore, so he shrugged and made his way downstairs, out into the silken night, and back to his own room.
He smelled it first. For an instant he thought he had left the tin of bear-grease ointment uncovered--and then the reek of sweet decay took him by the throat, followed instantly by a pair of hands that came out of the dark and fastened on said throat.
He fought back in blind panic, striking and kicking wildly, but the grip on his windpipe didn't loosen, and bright lights began to flicker at the corners of what would have been his vision if he'd had any. With a tremendous effort of will, he made himself go limp. The sudden weight surprised his assailant and jerked Grey free of the throttling grasp as he fell. He hit the floor and rolled.
Bloody hell, where was the man? If it was a man. For even as his mind reasserted its claim to reason, his more-visceral faculties were recalling Rodrigo's parting statement: "Zombie are dead people." And whatever was here in the dark with him seemed to have been dead for several days, judging from its smell.
He could hear the rustling of something moving quietly towards him. Was it breathing? He couldn't tell for the rasp of his own breath, harsh in his throat, and the blood-thick hammering of his heart in his ears.
He was lying at the foot of a wall, his legs half under the dressing table's bench. There was light in the room, now that his eyes were accustomed; the French doors were pale rectangles in the dark, and he could make out the shape of the thing that was hunting him. It was man-shaped but oddly hunched and swung its head and shoulders from side to side, almost as though it meant to smell him out. Which wouldn't take it more than two more seconds, at most.
He sat up abruptly, seized the small padded bench, and threw it as hard as he could at the thing's legs. It made a startled oof! noise that was undeniably human, then it staggered, waving its arms for balance. The noise reassured Grey, and he rolled up onto one knee and launched himself at the creature, bellowing incoherent abuse.
He butted it around chest height, felt it fall backwards, then lunged for the pool of shadow where he thought the table was. It was there and, feeling frantically over the surface, he found his dagger, still where he'd left it. He snatched it up and turned just in time to face the thing, which closed on him at once, reeking and making a disagreeable gobbling noise. He slashed at it and felt his knife skitter down the creature's forearm, bouncing off bone. It screamed, releasing a blast of foul breath directly into his face, then turned and rushed for the French doors, bursting through them in a shower of glass and flying muslin.
Grey charged after it, onto the terrace, shouting for the sentries. But the sentries, as he recalled belatedly, were in the main house, keeping watch over the governor, lest that worthy's rest be disturbed by ... whatever sort of thing this was. Zombie?
Whatever it was, it was gone.
He sat down abruptly on the stones of the terrace, shaking with reaction. No one had come out in response to the noise. Surely no one could have slept through that; perhaps no one else was housed on this side of the mansion.
He felt ill and breathless and rested his head for a moment on his knee
s, before jerking it up to look round, lest something else be stealing up on him. But the night was still and balmy. The only noise was an agitated rustling of leaves in a nearby tree, which for a shocked second he thought might be the creature, climbing from branch to branch in search of refuge. Then he heard soft chitterings and hissing squeaks. Bats, said the calmly rational part of his mind--what was left of it.
He gulped and breathed, trying to get clean air into his lungs to replace the disgusting stench of the creature. He'd been a soldier most of his life; he'd seen the dead on battlefields, and smelled them, too. Had buried fallen comrades in trenches and burned the bodies of his enemies. He knew what graves and rotting flesh smelled like. And the thing that had had its hands round his throat had almost certainly come from a recent grave.
He was shivering violently, despite the warmth of the night. He rubbed a hand over his left arm, which ached from the struggle; he had been badly wounded three years before, at Crefeld, and had nearly lost the arm. It worked but was still a good deal weaker than he'd like. Glancing at it, though, he was startled. Dark smears befouled the pale sleeve of his banyan, and, turning over his right hand, he found it wet and sticky.
'Jesus,' he murmured, and brought it gingerly to his nose. No mistaking that smell, even overlaid as it was by grave reek and the incongruous scent of night-blooming jasmine from the vines that grew in tubs by the terrace. Rain was beginning to fall, pungent and sweet--but even that could not obliterate the smell.
Blood. Fresh blood. Not his, either.
He rubbed the rest of the blood from his hand with the hem of his banyan, and the cold horror of the last few minutes faded into a glowing coal of anger, hot in the pit of his stomach.
He'd been a soldier most of his life; he'd killed. He'd seen the dead on battlefields. And one thing he knew for a fact. Dead men don't bleed.
*
Fettes and Cherry had to know, of course. So did Tom, as the wreckage of his room couldn't be explained as the result of a nightmare. The four of them gathered in Grey's room, conferring by candlelight as Tom went about tidying the damage, white to the lips.
'You've never heard of zombie--or zombies? I have no idea whether the term is plural or not.' Heads were shaken all round. A large square bottle of excellent Scotch whisky had survived the rigours of the voyage in the bottom of his trunk, and he poured generous tots of this, including Tom in the distribution.