Chapter 140: A Free Land’s Answer
The man never got to finish what he was saying.
The crowd swallowed the rest of it before the words could get clear of his mouth. Jeers came at him from every side, all at once, until there wasn’t room left for whatever grand ending he’d been expecting.
"Beg pardon, yer lordship! Did the sun blind ye on the walk over?"
"Somebody fetch the gentleman a chair! He’ll foul his fine breeches standin’ there much longer!"
Greasy Pete never did care much for refinement. "Go on, then! Have a cry, ye soft-arsed pudding! Tears might carry ye farther than that tongue!"
The fellow tried again.
His lips barely parted open before the crowd buried him a second time. Laughter swept across the crossroads until his face went from pink to the sort of red you usually only saw on ham boiled past all mercy.
James let them have their fun another moment before raising a hand.
The noise ebbed by degrees. It never quite vanished, but it fell away enough for a man to hear himself think.
While everybody’s attention stayed on the Englishman making a fool of himself, almost nobody noticed Bert and Edmund dragging the criminal body toward the forest.
Wesley marched the two condemned murderers toward the shore, while the thief shuffled off toward the storehouse to begin paying back what he’d stolen.
James glanced at Whitlock.
"What in God’s name is he even claimin’?"
Whitlock tapped the papers in his hands.
"I need his name for my record book."
The Englishman drew himself up, as though somebody had finally shown a little sense.
"Cornelius Pruitt, of Pruitt Hall, Dorset. I’d thank you to remember it."
"Noted."
Whitlock wrote the name without ceremony.
Pruitt’s shoulders sank a fraction, as one flat word plainly wasn’t the reception he’d expected.
James left him to stew.
"And the claim?"
"This island flies an English flag on paper, Captain. It has done so for years."
Whitlock folded one page over another. "London’s never thought the matter worth enough soldiers or cannon to make it real, which is why we’re building a town on this beach instead of swinging from a gibbet in Nassau."
Cudjoe grunted.
"Bullshit claims, if ye ask me."
Whitlock turned another page. "Our friend most likely discovered you were born in Edinburgh. Seems he figures that makes the two of you countrymen, and countrymen ought to look after one another before strangers."
James rolled that around for a moment.
"Aye. Right."
He sounded pleasant enough, though there wasn’t the least bit of agreement in the words. "So some king figured Scotland and England should share a bed, and now we’re kin, are we? Which means ye deserve the best land, Pruitt, while everybody else fights over the scraps."
A laugh broke out somewhere among the Rose’s crew. It spread quickly, and before James had finished speaking, the sailors in the crossroads were grinning.
"Well then, since we’re family and all, I’ve got a bit o’ advice."
His smile had gone scornful.
"Sit down before ye fall down."
Pruitt’s face darkened another hue, looking less like ham now and more like a plum left to bake in the sun. He drew breath to protest.
James never let him.
"Enough."
The word cracked across the crossroads, and every trace of laughter died with it. "Concordia answers to no king, Pruitt. Not yours, me, or any man sittin’ comfortable an ocean away decidin’ who owns land he’s never once walked upon."
He jumped down from the stone until they stood face to face. "You’re not wanted here. Neither are the sort that think as ye do, so you’ve got until dawn tomorrow to leave this island. Stay after that, and we’ll remove ye ourselves. I promise ye it won’t be done gentle."
Pruitt let his mouth open again.
He never got another word out.
The crowd buried him beneath another wave of jeering before a single syllable escaped.
He searched the faces around him, looking for companions willing to stand beside him.
He found nobody.
So he turned and walked away.
A fair number of the English drifted after him, near a third of their own people. They kept their heads down and their eyes off everyone else as they made for the docks.
The rest stayed where they were, watching their countrymen leave without following.
Once the interruption had finally run its course, James faced the crowd again.
Nobody interrupted this time.
"Right then."
His gaze swept over the crossroads. "Whitlock’s read you the rules, and they’re written plain enough. The rules won’t change because some fine English gentleman’s offended, and they won’t change because some Spaniard, French or whatever don’t like ’em either."
He nodded toward dry blood on the ground, "Stay, and live by ’em. Leave before dawn tomorrow if you can’t. And if anybody’s thinkin’ about signin’ today only to break faith next week..."
He let the silence finish the warning.
"That patch of dirt tells the rest well enough."
Cudjoe stepped beside the stone with a drawn blade already in hand.
Whitlock had his quill and record book ready.
Briggs took his place a short distance away, while sailors from the Rose and Fortune spread themselves around the crossroads, close enough to watch without crowding anybody.
One by one, the queue began to move.
An old Spanish woman stepped forward first. Her hand never wavered despite the years on it, and she carved her mark deep into the stone.
Whitlock read her name back twice before he was satisfied he’d spelled it right.
Next came a young fellow who claimed he’d arrived in chains less than two weeks earlier. His hand shook so badly Cudjoe had to steady it before the mark came out clean.
When it was finished, the young man stood staring at the stone as though he half expected it to take the name back.
"There’s yer name."
Cudjoe’s voice stayed rough, but there was kindness underneath it.
"Nobody’s takin’ it from ye now."
The queue kept moving.
Spaniards, freed men, and the English who’d chosen to stay all came one after another. The blade and quill worked together just as they had the day the stone first stood in the crossroads.
A good many discharged sailors and privateers peeled away toward the docks instead, deciding they’d rather keep taking than start building. A scattering of Frenchmen went with them.
More lingered around the crowd, as if they hadn’t made up their minds yet. These people watched the queue grow longer without joining it.
James let them watch and nobody troubled them for an answer.
He remained beside the stone through it all, watching one name follow another into the record.
The morning still had plenty of business left before it was done.