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to ask the question aloud. Ned had taken pity on Rowlands and brought him over, saving him yet another trip in the narrow, unstable canoe, and the lieutenant led the way into the general’s office.
    The general stood up as they came in, and so did two naval officers who had been sitting opposite him at the table. Heffer’s face looked as if the skin had shrunk in the past hour, his eyes seemed glazed as though he was suffering from acute shock or acute fear. With a vagueness which was not intended he introduced the four men and, without sitting down again, gestured towards the naval officers and said: “These gentlemen have brought me news and orders, and a letter which I believe is for you, Mr – er, Kent. They expected to deliver it in Barbados, but you were not there, and they learned that the owner of the Griffin , a certain Mr Yorke , had left that island with most of the people from his plantation. They happened to mention it to me – would I be wrong in thinking that I had mistaken the counties, mishearing your name as Kent instead of Yorke?”
    Ned smiled at Heffer’s tactfulness: the name Kent had seemed suitable as a buccaneer while Cromwell was alive… “Yes, I am Edward Yorke.”
    The senior of the two naval officers then took a packet from a canvas pouch and gave it to Ned, who glanced at the superscription, did not recognize the writing, and pushed it inside the front of his jerkin.
    The general went on, his voice dropping as though he was overawed by what he had to say: “The news these gentlemen bring is almost unbelievable. General Monck, seeing the people in England were becoming restive with the situation after the Lord Protector’s death, invited the Prince to return to the throne. He has brought him back to London from Holland. Today England is once again a monarchy; we owe allegiance to His Majesty King Charles the Second.”
    “God Save the King!” Thomas bellowed, making everyone jump as he leapt to his feet. “I have always owed my allegiance to him and not my damnable uncle!” He saw the naval officers’ puzzled expressions. “I too should introduce myself properly, I suppose: Thomas Whetstone, Baronet, nephew of the late and, by me, unlamented Lord Protector.”
    “Bless my soul,” Heffer exclaimed and subsided in his chair. “God bless my soul.” Then, the soldier emerging once again, he asked: “You’re not going to take those great guns back, are you?”
    “Most certainly not!” Ned said. “They’re for our own defence as much as anyone else’s. I’m glad we’re now helping the King’s cause, of course – as no doubt you are.”
    “Oh, yes, my goodness me, of course. Indeed, we shall name the first battery ‘Fort Charles’. That would be most appropriate, don’t you think?” Heffer added cautiously, finding that thinking as a Royalist did not come naturally.
    “There could be no better name,” Thomas boomed. Then, a sudden fear striking him, he swung on the two naval officers. “You have no news of peace with Spain, have you?” he demanded.
    “No, Sir Thomas, only that the King is restored and has proclaimed a general political amnesty in England. General Monck has thrown aside his Commonwealth allegiance and is in charge of the government. The army supports him in the restoration of the monarchy. The navy too, of course.”
    “And you?” Ned asked Heffer. “What happens to the army in Jamaica?”
    “As you gentlemen have been acting as joint naval commanders in the defence of the island,” the general said, unable to resist a dig at the Convertine ’s captain, to emphasize the absence of the Royal Navy, I have no hesitation in telling you. I have direct orders –” and his voice took on a deeper, more reverent tone – “from General Monck himself, to remain in command of Jamaica, with the title of Acting Governor, to ensure its defences are strong and take any steps I need to protect both the island and my forces.”
    “Did he give you the