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Behind the closed doors of Devon House in North Trelawny, master and pupil were at work in swordplay. The master being the Duke of Queensberry, and the pupil being his adopted Jamaican son, Julius Soubise. He parried the Duke's thrusts with balletic ease, dancing to the music of steel against steel. Each interception was like a brush stroke on an artists' canvas, painting a polished picture of craftsmanship. His feet moved in harmony with his hand speed, cutting through the air with wild abandon.

'Your technique's improved, Soubise', the Duke said. 'I can see that you're gaining far more balance since our last lesson in England.'

'Well now that I no longer have any female distractions', Soubise replied, 'I can devote one hundred percent of my concentration to my swordsmanship.'

The duel became heated as both partners were determined to win. They poured their hearts into the match, creating a beautiful fencing ballet with locked swords.

Soubise eventually gained the upper hand, dispossessing the Duke of his sword and placing his blade on the Duke's chest all in one continuous movement without losing his posture.

'Touche', Soubise declared.

The Duke paused for a moment to modify his breathing patterns as he stared at the blade.

'So you've finally replaced your emotions with discipline, Soubise', he replied. 'Pity you're a Jamaican. You would have made a good soldier in the king's army. Perhaps even an officer.'

Soubise lowered his sword as a smile played upon his lips.

'I think the king has enough Jamaican soldiers in his army already', he replied.

'Yes, but they're commoners, Soubise', the Duke said, reaching for a towel to dry the sweat from his face. 'What His Majesty's Army is looking for are men of breeding. Men like yourself who were born into the community but excelled above their station through education and patronage. A Jamaican that the nobility can relate directly to.'

'Perhaps His Majesty should adopt Jamaican children and groom them in the social niceties that he requires.'

'I wouldn't be too hard on the old king, Soubise. After all, it was by his approval that I could send you to Cambridge for an education.'

'Did he also sanction me going to Bengal and teach horse riding to the Light Dragoons out in Calcutta?'

'You were becoming a bit of a dandy with the ladies of polite society in London, as well as tallying up a number of debts at my expense I might add. We thought that it might be better that you use your energy and many talents far more productively on the field for His Majesty's benefit.'

'Providing that I didn't fall off my horse and break my neck.'

'Yes, that was unfortunate. The Duchess, God rest her soul, thought it was better that you return back here for your recovery under her personal supervision.'

'I'll always be grateful to the Duchess for saving my life.'

'Yes, quite. I could never understand why you didn't settle down and get married.'

'You forget, my Duke. I'm married to my horse.'

'Yes, but they can't exactly produce offspring for you, can they?'

'No. But then horses are far more obedient than women. You give them clear instructions and they will do almost anything for you. But more importantly, horses don't throw wine glasses at you when they're angry.'

He flashed a smile at the Duke, and then exited.

The moonlight swirled around Soubise as he reined in his stallion in the courtyard. The sound of insects and birds played a sweet melody that danced on his ears. He mounted the horse, balanced himself in the saddle and then pointed its head in the direction that he wanted it to go. He gave instructions with his hips, guiding the horse into a medium trot and then progressing to an extended canter. He felt a delicious peace flow through his being, feeling at one with the universe.

He brought the horse up to a halt, dismounted, and then tethered it to a tree.

He paused for a moment, faintly disturbed by something but unable to identify the cause of his disquiet. His eyes searched the darkness, trying to penetrate the silent impression that played upon his senses. The sound of movement intruded upon his consciousness, and then he noticed a deep shadow that coalesced among the leaves, suddenly detaching itself and stepping out into the light, revealing a muscular looking native from the South Trelawny tribe of Maroons.

'That wasn't very sporting of you, Leonard, not using the front door', Soubise greeted him informally.

Leonard flashed him a half smile with his intelligent, probing eyes, and then walked up to him.

'What brings you this far north?' Soubise asked.

'The redcoats have goaded the slaves to flog the Maroons in the city square', Leonard replied. 'Colonel Craskell is imprisoning the Maroons to ship them off the island by the hundreds. Those who refuse to leave the island are tortured in the most despicable way. Not even children are spared the wrath. We have to take our destiny into our own hands. The Maroons are calling for an independent Jamaica. They look to you as their liberator because you represent freedom to them. You're the Jamaican that they want to become.'

'With all due respect, Leonard, your men are no match for the 83rd Regiment of Foot, even with the aid of the slaves.'

'They have insulted the Maroon and every Jamaican on this island.'

'They insulted two Maroons. You said so yourself.'

'One Maroon is but a symbol of this island. Jamaica is mother to us all, even if we are adopted into the home of the invader. Insult one Maroon and you insult all Jamaicans.'

There was a moment's pause as Soubise digested this.

'This business with the Maroons has nothing to do with me', he continued. 'If I get involved it could jeopardise my position here at Devon House. Craskell's army are professional soldiers trained in the military arts. The Maroons would fight them bravely, but they would die quickly.'

'The Maroons resisted the redcoats when they first invaded our island', Leonard replied. 'The history of our people are written with the weapons that we used to fight. When the redcoats knew that they couldn't crush us, they sued for peace.'

'That was because you had a good leader in Cudjoe who won the favour of a sympathetic oppressor.'

'And that is why we are calling upon you to be our leader. Cudjoe has secured his place in our history because of his leadership. Your contribution to our cause will also take its pride of place. You will be remembered for your bravery and honoured as a man that took his stand for his people. The spirit of the Maroon dwells richly within your veins, Soubise. And in that sword that you carry rests the spirit of Jamaica. As long as you use it for the freedom of Jamaicans our people will have a future.'

Soubise paused for a while to collect his thoughts as he crossed the courtyard. He then turned round to face Leonard.

'I can help you only insofar as I can speak to Colonel Craskell to broker some kind of deal between the Maroons and the redcoats', he said.

'All we ask is that you represent us before Craskell.'

'You have my word.'

Leonard bowed his head towards Soubise, and then spirited off into the night.

The sound of a battle horn blared into the Trelawny sky over Schaw Castle that aroused the attention of Captain Finch and his patrolling guards of the 83rd Regiment of Foot.

'I bring a message for the colonel from the Duke of Queensberry', Soubise declared to him. 'I am unarmed, as you can see.'

'I know you train horses, Soubise', Captain Finch replied. 'But I didn't think you'd end up becoming a court jester. You don't fool me with this cloak and dagger message from the Duke. What's afoot?'

'Like I said, I have a message for the colonel.'

'But not from the Duke.'

'Does that prevent me from seeing the colonel?'

'Not at all. My instincts tell me that you're about to make one mistake too many so that I can dispose of you.'

'I'm forever in your debt, captain.'

'You shall repay, Soubise.' Soubise dismounted from his horse, and followed Captain Finch across the drawbridge into the castle. He looked around searchingly, mentally mapping out where everything was. He calculated the distance between the windows and the moat, trying to work out the various escape routes.

When he arrived at Colonel Craskell's office, recognition ensued.

'Ah, the swordsman of Trelawny in person', Craskell greeted him.

'At your service', Soubise replied, bringing his heels together in a mock salute.

'What brings you to these gay surroundings?'

'I bring you greetings from the Duke of Queensberry.'

'Really, Soubise. You don't expect me to believe that you came all this way just to pay the respects of the Duke?'

There was a moment's pause as they exchanged looks and traded smiles.

'I thought that would amuse', Craskell said. 'Now let me guess. You've come to plea on behalf of the Trelawny Maroons.'

'I have. And I hope I haven't come in vain.'

'I'm a merciful man, Soubise. If my mercies are appealed to. The fact is, the Maroons don't understand what it means to be a gentleman.'

'You and I do, of course.'

'That, you have to thank the Duke and Duchess for.'

Soubise flashed a glance out of the partly opened window where his horse stood by the shrubbery.

'Name your price and I'll see if I can raise it', he continued.

'You can't pay it, Soubise. The Trelawny Maroons are the enemy of the king and will be relocated at his Majesty's pleasure in Nova Scotia and the free colony of Sierra Leone.'

'And if they refuse to cooperate?'

'They will be hunted down and systematically annihilated.'

'Like dogs?'

'On the contrary, Soubise. We shall be using dogs to do the hunting for us. I've just had one hundred Cuban hounds transported over here to carry out our operations. Captain Finch', he called out.

Captain Finch entered the office.

'Have the Cuban hounds assembled in front of the castle with their chasseurs as soon as possible', Craskell instructed him.

'Yes, sir', Captain Finch replied, and then exited.

'I don't see why we can't carry out our operations tonight', Craskell said with gentle menace.

The sting of the words hung in the air for a moment as fury began to mount on Soubise's face. He locked eyes with Craskell in a silent duel, wanting to get the better of the man. But now was not the right time.

As Craskell turned his attention elsewhere, Soubise plucked a knife from his waist and threw it at him. The blade sailed through the air and transfixed Craskell's sleeve to the wall.

'One day I'll meet your challenge with a sword, Craskell', he proclaimed, and then leapt for the window. He jumped astride his horse in the courtyard, and spurred it on across the drawbridge, heading towards South Trelawny.

He covered the distance between Schaw Castle and the Cockpit Country at a full gallop. When he spotted Leonard at his hideout he brought his horse up to a halt.

'The writing's now on the wall, Leonard', he said, as he dismounted the horse. 'Craskell is drifting towards war with the Maroons and now I'm seen as the enemy of the king. He's got an army of one hundred Cuban hounds under his command even as we speak. I'm afraid there's no turning back now. The only way forward is to prepare for war. Tonight.'

Leonard's expression registered an awareness of unavoidable death.

'Our desire to keep peace with the redcoats has dwindled away', he replied. 'The Maroons have been at peace with them since the Treaty of 1738. The warriors of those years have died out and replaced with men who neither know war nor ready to fight one.' He exchanged looks with Soubise. 'We cannot win this war, Soubise.'

'There's no shame in death, Leonard. Whether or not you're ready to fight a war, Craskell and his men are preparing to hunt you and the rest of the Trelawny Maroons before dusk in order to transport you to Nova Scotia. You must bring this war to them. You have one advantage. They're not accustomed to our terrain, nor are they accustomed to surprise attack. As long as we can keep them from an offensive march, we have a chance. But we must move now.'

'There are many ways of dying, Soubise. The life that the invader offers us in Nova Scotia neither has air to breathe nor light to see. It would be even greater than death if we were to submit to it. My men and I will do as you say.'

Soubise placed his hand on Leonard's shoulder in an act of reassurance.

Under the moonlight of the Trelawny night sky, Soubise and Leonard hid in the forest of Petty River Bottom, surveying the opposition outside Schaw Castle. They noticed one hundred Cuban hounds being supervised by forty chasseurs in the company of five hundred soldiers from the 83rd Regiment of Foot, carefully orchestrated by Captain Finch. The dogs sensed the promise of action, and therefore salivated in their excitement.

'The redcoats will try to confuse you', Soubise began, 'by breaking up your formation with their infantry. Once they have succeeded, they will unleash their final attack to bring the revolt to an end. The way we combat that is by staying in tight formations and holding our shape. Our strength will be in drawing out an attack from them, which will be our first objective. If we can dispose of those hounds one-by-one then that's half the battle won. But remember, this war's a mental one, not a physical one. We need to hold our nerve and apply strategy. Don't react to the redcoats until I give the order.'

He turned his attention to an archer who was strategically placed in a tree just above him, and gave him the signal to begin his offensive. The archer notched an arrow that was tipped with fish bones in his bow and then plucked it like a harp. It propelled smoothly through the air, accelerating at an incredible pace as it climbed into the sky. Losing height, it decelerated downwards and lodged itself in the exposed throat of Captain Finch, shutting off his death cry.

Within a blink of an eye, the first of Maroons began charging towards the Redcoats.

'Kill the Maroons', Craskell shouted out.

The dogs pricked up their ears and started to bark. They then began to spend themselves in motion, charging towards the Maroons with purposeful intent. The rhythm of their gallop brooked no delay, moving in unison like a rising tide in formation. Their forward momentum increased in speed with the swell of their ferocity, finding their mark by tearing into flesh and bone like a killing machine. They disposed of one, then another, and another Maroon, eating away at the first wave of warriors.

Soubise remained composed as he observed the action, trying to remain as calm as he could. Leonard turned to face him, looking for some indication to launch the next attack.

'Our men are in formation in the trees', Leonard said.

Soubise watched the last of the first wave of warriors start to crumble, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

'Sound the battle horn', he replied.

Leonard placed the horn from around his neck to his lips, and blew into it a battle hymn. A second wave of Maroon fighters began to form defensive circles, hiding behind their wooden shields. The hounds started advancing on them, but could not gain purchase beyond their defence. A storm of arrows dropped out of the trees from strategically placed archers, picking off the hounds one by one.

When they were all disposed of, the warriors made the transition into combat formation, ready to face the 83rd Regiment of Foot.

'We fight for Jamaica, Soubise', Leonard said, turning to face him.

Soubise unsheathed his sword and held it in front of him. The blade caught the light from the moon rays, causing the reflection to wink at him.

'Jamaica will fight for us, Leonard', he replied. 'When we're all dead this island will resist the invader and win the war.'

The two men traded looks and shook hands like brothers in arms.

'We'll meet again in paradise, my friend', Leonard said.

With that, they parted company and peeled off in opposite directions.

When they were a fair distance apart, Soubise turned to watch the unfolding of heroic suffering.

The 83rd Regiment of Foot advanced in a rhythmical stride pattern holding their bayonets forward like an army of grim reapers. They progressively dismantled the Maroon defence by emptying their shells into them, and then turned their attention to Leonard.

There was a look of strength about Leonard as he crouched in combat formation, reading their intentions as they fanned out around him, moving in for the kill. He held his wooden shield in his left hand, protecting himself whilst he absorbed the positioning of each soldier. He waited until they were within ten feet of him, and then released an axe into the air with his right hand, sending it into the middle of the forehead of a soldier, causing crimson rivulets to flow down his cheeks while the handle protruded from his face.

Leonard then kicked up some dirt in the eyes of the nearest soldier, forcing him to drop his musket and wipe his eyes. He stole to this waist with his free hand to draw a cutlass from its sheath, and then knocked the soldier off his feet with his shield. Another soldier lunged at him with his bayonet, but Leonard shifted sideways in careful, measured movements, parrying the thrust with his shield and then bringing the cutlass down on the soldier's neck.

As the rest of the soldiers advanced on him, Leonard unleashed an explosion of power from the upper part of his body, picking them off as they charged towards him. He sliced through armour, flesh and bones, constantly adapting himself for the next attack. He relied on the sound of movement around him as a guide for where the next offensive was coming from, drawing them into his own style of fighting. All of his experience as a Maroon warrior was culminated in this one inspired moment as he meted out death with energetic beauty.

He caught a glimpse of a soldier charging towards him from an angle, and sent his cutlass through the air to meet, embedding it in his chest as his knees gave way to the ground.

He smashed aside a soldier with centrifugal force using his shield, and then dispossessed another soldier of his musket, bringing the shield down on his skull which snapped the vertebrae from the top of his neck to the small of his back, breaking the shield in half.

He took in a deep breath, feeling the reserve of energy in his lungs to continue, but now completely defenceless. He held firm where he stood, waiting for certain death.

The 83rd Regiment of Foot closed in upon him, advancing silently, rapidly, ready to claim his being.

'Farewell, brave one', Soubise said softly, observing from a distance. He knew that Leonard's fate was sealed, and decided to make his way over to Craskell who stood waiting some forty feet away from him.

Cruelty began to etch Craskell's mouth as he drew his sword.

'This'll be your last fencing lesson, Soubise', he said with delicate hostility.

Soubise flexed his wrists, and then invited Craskell to assess his prowess.

They caressed swords, trying to feel each other out with a combination of repartee and parrying.

'You once asked me what the price was for Maroon freedom', Craskell began with gentle menace. 'You are the price, Soubise, and I am the debt collector in full.'

Craskell brought his sabre down to split Soubise in half, but he mistimed his thrust, allowing Soubise to get the upper hand.

'I see the Duke has taught you well, Soubise', Craskell continued, retreating back across the drawbridge.

Soubise applied brute force to the exchange, timing his movements with speed and agility, searching for an opening to gain an advantage. He was quick and feline, uniting his sword with his mind. It disturbed Craskell's rhythm, gnawing away at his morale.

'Your allegiance to the Maroons is commendable, Soubise', Craskell said. 'I didn't think I could admire an enemy of the king.'

'On the contrary, colonel', Soubise replied. 'My allegiance is to King George. My heart is with the Maroons. But my sword is for Jamaica, and even that is stronger than my heart.'

Soubise evenly distributed his weight in a well-choreographed dance, coordinating all of his skills of swordsmanship.

Craskell began to lose momentum, and decided to rush back into the castle. Soubise caught up with him and renewed the duel with a flourish.

Their blades clashed at incredible speed so that nothing was wasted. The timing of Soubise's movements slowly gained control over Craskell as their shadows danced on the walls. He was luring him into a position of self-doubt and taking him into psychological areas that he had not been before.

Craskell's stamina began to weaken, and he decided to create distance between him and Soubise so that he could launch a new attack. He made his way back to his office and hid behind the door. Soubise followed him inside and then turned round when he heard the door slam behind him.

'The game's over now, Soubise', Craskell said, with his back against the door. 'Time for you to meet your maker.'

Craskell shot forward with his blade and sliced Soubise across his bicep, drawing blood that swelled in his white shirt.

Soubise paused for a while to look at his wound and placed his two fingers in the blood to taste it. Rage immediately ripped through his face as he spat the blood out and renewed the duel with even greater conviction. He began to gain an advantage, wearing Craskell down by disabling his defence. He switched his sword from the right hand to the left hand, forcing Craskell's sword into the air. There was nothing left in his arsenal as all he could do was watch his sword drop to the floor.

Soubise pinned the point of his blade to Craskell's throat, watching the fear in his eyes as Craskell waited for the final thrust to come.

There was a rap on the door as the soldiers behind it tried to force it open.

'Listen, Soubise', Craskell said. 'Death is closing in around you.'

Julius looked searchingly around the room, knowing that his time had come. He wanted to deny Craskell the pleasure of seizing him and committing him to the prison like he had done with the Maroons.

He withdrew the sword from Craskell's throat and leapt up to the windowsill, turning round to face him.

'You may have won the battle, colonel', Soubise began, 'but you haven't the war. One day there were be a free Jamaica where both Maroon and slaves will live as free men.'

A smile lingered on his lips, as though he could see it all unfolding in the future. It afforded him his last moment of happiness, and then he abandoned himself to his destiny.

As the first soldier broke through the door, Soubise sent his blade through the air and embedded it in the solar plexus of the man.

The second soldier fired at him as he turned around to begin his descent into the moat below. The shot went right through his midriff, forcing a forward momentum that made him spiral from the great height and plunge into the eternal sleep of death.

Copyright © Jason Young

Contact details:

Email: jasonyoung72@yahoo.com

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