The shouting had died down now, as strings of captured militiamen were being assembled and placed under guard. Some were joking with their captors, clearly relieved to be out of the battle. Jeremy suspected several had deliberately surrendered--small freeholders who didn't care a damn whether Cromwell's fleet took the island or not. As he watched them with contempt, he felt ashamed to be one of them. Suddenly the horror of it all swept over him and he flung down the pike in disgust.
"Now that's a good lad." The commander nodded, then turned to the other man. "Vice Admiral Powlett, for once you may be right. In truth, I was beginning to wonder the same thing. This could all have been too easy by half."
"With your permission, sor, I'll put the young gallant here in with the rest of the rebels." One of the infantrymen had seized Jeremy's arms.
"No, leave him here a minute." The commander was pointing toward Jeremy. "The lad's no planter. He doubtless knows more of what's going on than these others do. Something he said just now troubles me."
"Should I bring up the men and start to move in, sir?" A captain of the infantry appeared out of the smoky haze that now enveloped the shoreline.
"Hold a while and keep your lines together. It's too quiet."
Jeremy looked up and saw the goatee next to his face. "Now tell me, lad. There's been enough killing here for one night, as I'm a Christian. Is there going to have to be more? If you don't tell me, it'll be on your head, I swear it."
"This night is on your head, sir, and the Roundhead rebels who've stolen the Crown of England. And now would try to steal Barbados too."
The man waved the words aside. "Lad, I'm too old for that. Let your royalist rhetoric lie dead, where it deserves to be. My name is Morris, and if you know anything, you'll know I've seen my time fighting your royalists in the damned Civil War. But that's over, thank God, and I have no wish to start it up again. Now give me your name."
"A sprightly answer, lad, on my honor. There's spark about you."
"The name on this musket looks to be Walrond, sor, if I make it out right." One of the infantrymen was handing the flintlock to Morris.
"Walrond?" Morris reached for the gun and examined it closely, running his hand along the stock and studying the name etched on the lock. "A fine royalist name. By chance any kin to Sir Anthony Walrond?"