This is the fourth novel in Christopher Nicole's history of the West Indies, from the founding of the first colony to Emancipation in 1834. It includes CARIBEE, THE DEVIL'S OWN and MISTRESS OF DARKNESS.
Christopher Nicole
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BLACK DAWN
A CORGI BOOK 0 552 10918 5
Originally published in Great Britain by Cassell & Co. Ltd.
PRINTING HISTORY
Casselt edition published 1977 Corgi edition published 1978
Copyright Christopher Nicole 1977.
Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd., Century House, 61-63 Uxbridge Road, Ealing, London, W5 5SA
Contents
I
Prelude to Disaster
9
2
The Opportunity
15
3
The Coward
42
4
The Inheritance
68
5
The Planter
93
6
The Betrothed
119
7
The Fugitive
145
8
The Brother
164
9
The Castaway
193
10
The Mamaloi
216
11
The Soldier
245
12
The Emperor
264
13
The Crisis
284
14
The Claimant
303
15
The Witness
328
16
The Trial
347
17
The Incendiary
370
18
The Day of Retribution
404
Prelude to Disaster
A roll of drums reverberated across the still of the afternoon. It rumbled up the hillside behind Charleston, climbing the single great mountain that dominates the island of Nevis; it seeped across the calm Caribbean Sea, perhaps heard in neighbouring St Kitts; it shrouded the weatherbeaten houses of Charleston itself, sending a rotting wooden shutter banging, seeming to accentuate the peeling paint, the crumbling shingles of the sloping roofs. If the Americans' successful war for their independence had left all of the West Indies in straitened circumstances, nowhere was poverty quite so evident as in the smaller islands, and nowhere in the smaller islands so much as in tiny Nevis.
And the drum roll stirred the crowd. It was a recent crowd, gathered by the waterfront. Its members had come here, panting, swinging bottles of rum, in haste from inside the courthouse, if privileged; from the street outside, if black and therefore unprivileged. They had been hot, and sweaty, and excited. In the past hour their enthusiasm had somewhat cooled along with their skins. But now it was awakened again, by the rolling of the drums.
It was a decrepit crowd, in keeping with its decrepit surroundings. The white people, men and women, who formed the first ranks, were sallow and emaciated; their linen was soiled, their hair lank. They shaded their heads beneath wide and tattered straw hats, indulged in no frills such as stockings or cravats; the setting sun silhouetted the legs of their women through the thin muslin gowns and chemises which were all
any of them wore.
The black people formed a much vaster gathering, behind and to either side of the whites, and revealed a proportionate poverty; not one possessed more than a single garment, a pair of drawers for the men, a shift for the women, and none wore shoes. Their bodies were half-starved, bones seeming more prominent than muscles, faces hardly more than skulls. And like the whites they gazed, in almost silent wonder, at the gallows standing immediately before the worm-eaten wooden dock which thrust its ancient timbers into the pale green of the sea. They could not believe they were witnessing this scene. They knew, indeed, that they would not be witnessing this scene, but for the line of red-coated marines which stood between the crowd and the dock, but for the frigate which rode to anchor beyond, her guns trained on the town. And but, too, for the sloop which also lay at anchor, close to the frigate.
'Hiltons,' muttered one of the white men.
'Nigger lovers,' said a woman.
'Scum,' said another.
'Traitors,' shouted another.
Heads turned to look along the street at the balcony of Government House, only slightly less decrepit than the buildings which surrounded it, above which the Union Jack floated lazily in the gentle breeze. But the crowd's enmity was directed against the three men who had appeared on the balcony. It was composed of jealousy, certainly; each of the three was well dressed, if scarcely more elegantly than anyone else, with open coats, and an absence of vests or cravats—but there was no emaciation in their faces. And it was composed of fear, equally certainly; Hugh Elliott was Governor of all the Leewards, and he had declared a state of emergency this day, which gave him power of life and death over everyone present. But even the Governor had no such power, no such ability to reach out and seize what he wanted, and tear it down or build it up, as the two men who stood, one on each side of him. Obviously they were related; they possessed the high forehead, the thrusting chin, the grey eyes and the surprisingly small, exquisitely shaped nose which dominated the big features surrounding it. Only in size were they clearly differentiated: Robert Hilton was of average height and heavily built in shoulder and thigh— he was some years the elder. His cousin Matthew was tall and slim. But their appearances counted for nothing. It was the name which mattered, the history which illuminated the Hilton family like a beacon, the wealth which surrounded it like a suit of armour. And the power created by that wealth, a power which could bring about a scene such as this.
For the drum roll was again increasing its tempo, and from the courthouse there now marched another squad of marines, muskets at the slope, confident in the protection afforded them by their fellows. In their midst walked two men. The priest read from his Bible, finger tracing the lines; his voice was low, intended to be heard only by his companion. But James Hodge was not listening. He turned his head from side to side, seeking his compatriots, seeking his enemies, looking up at the balcony as he passed beneath. Perhaps he too would have shaken his fist had his hands been free.
A sigh rose from the watching whites, while the very last sound ceased from the Negroes. One or two of the older men and women amongst them had actually seen a white man hang; but he had been a pirate. James Hodge was a planter, and his crime was neither piracy nor treason.
The procession reached the foot of the scaffold, and halted. The drum roll faded, and the afternoon was for a moment utterly quiet. Hodge's shoes could be heard on the wooden steps as he climbed them, assisted by the priest. And now the hangman and the bailiff also appeared on the platform; hitherto they had sheltered behind the soldiers.
The boards creaked as Hodge turned to face the crowd. Slowly he filled his lungs with air. 'Scum,' he bawled, his face red. 'You stand there, while I hang. But when I drop, you all drop with me. You . . . '
'No speechifying, Mr Hodge,' said the bailiff, and held his arm.
'Scum,' Hodge bawled again. 'Filthy wretches. Lousy . . . ‘
The words gagged in his throat as the hangman dropped the noose over his head and tightened the knot. The bailiff nodded, and stepped back, beside the priest, who had forgotten to pray in horror at what he was watching. The drum roll started again, and the trapdoor was released. Hodge's body shot through the gap, and jerked there at the end of its rope, legs flailing for a moment to suggest that the knot had not been accurately placed.
A great moan arose from the slaves; but it was of amazement rather than pity, and it was immediately overtaken by the shriek of anger from the whites as they surged forward, were met by the bayonets of the marines, and turned to vent their rage on Government House.
But the balcony was empty. The watchers had returned inside.
‘It's done, then.' Hugh Elliott poured three glasses of wine. 'You must be a proud man, Matt.'
'Aye.' Matt Hilton looked into his glass for some seconds before he drank. 'If I knew what I had done.'
'Doubts?'
'And well he should have doubts,' Robert Hilton remarked. 'Do you think any of those niggers will forget what they have just seen? Do you think the West Indies will ever forget it? If a white man can be hanged for killing a slave, then there is not a man of us who does not deserve to change places with that blackguard. You know that, Hugh, as well as Matt does.'
'Yet was Hodge a bigger scoundrel in his sleep than you ever were when awake, Robert,' Elliott insisted. 'He was not hanged for murder, and you know that. He was hanged for the systematic ill-treatment of his people. If his death encourages but the slightest spark of humanity in the plantocracy, then it was well done.'
'And the woman?' Robert asked.
'She is pregnant, and cannot be executed, at least not for a long time. Thus I have not even charged her. I do not think those people would have stood for it, anyway.'
'She is more of a rascal than was her husband,' Matt said, softly.
‘Oh, indeed,' Elliott agreed. 'But we'll hear no more of her. The plantation is up for sale. She'll go back to England, I have no doubt. Would you see her?'
'Not I,' Matt said. 'I saw Hodge, and that was enough.'
'I would like to see her,' Robert said.
His cousin and the Governor looked at him in surprise.
'She'll get naught for the plantation,' Robert said.
'And you feel that her well-being is your concern?' Elliott demanded.
Robert Hilton flushed, a sufficiently rare sight. ‘I wish to be sure we performed justice here today, and not merely satisfied a personal vendetta.'
Elliott hesitated, glanced at Matt, and then shrugged. 'You'd best come along then.' He led them down the stairs and through a covered passageway towards the courthouse. Here the noise of the still shouting crowd was muted, and even the heat of the afternoon was dwindling amidst the cool, damp stone.
The gaoler threw open the doors, and they walked between the cells, stared at by the white man imprisoned for assaulting his wife, by the two free blacks awaiting trial for smuggling, and reached the end, to gaze at the woman, short and thin and sallow-skinned, hair straggling in rat-tails on her shoulders, bare feet soiled with dust, white gown a mass of rents and dirty stains. She sat on her cot bed, only glanced up as the men arrived, and then scrambled to her feet and backed against the wall as she recognized them.
'I am with child,' she gasped. 'I have not been condemned.'
'Nor will you be,' the Governor said. 'Mr Hilton would speak with you.'
Robert looked through the bars. ' 'Tis done, Janet.'
She met his gaze; her tongue slowly came out and circled her lips. 'I heard the shouts. And you are avenged, Mr Hilton.'
Robert sighed. 'It was an act of justice, not vengeance.'
Janet Hodge crossed the floor, to stand close to him. 'You are a hypocrite, Robert Hilton. You and your Bible-thumping cousin. You wanted that little nigger girl, and when you couldn't have her, you went for Jamie. You're no better than any of us, Robert Hilton, for all your money. For all your fine clothes.'
'You'll believe what you will, Janet.' Robert hesitated, then reached into his pocket. 'You'll need money. I'll give you an order on my agent.'
Janet Hodge frowned, for just a moment. 'Money? From you? I'd not use it to wipe my arse.'
'Janet
'Hiltons! The wealthiest people in the world, they say, and the most powerful, who can have a man hanged at their whim. But also the stupidest, Master Robert. You think you have hanged my Jamie? You have hanged us all, every white man in the West Indies, aye, and their women, and their children. The Hiltons too.' She flung out her arm, finger pointed at Matt. 'He lives with your sister. There's morality. He has two little boys, too, eh? Lucky little bastards, because they'll be called Hilton. But they'll all go down, the same way Jamie did.' Her face broke into a ghastly smile, and she rubbed her belly. 'And by God, there will be a Hodge there to see it.'
2
The Opportunity
'Seventy-five thousand, eight hundred and seventeen pounds, twelve shillings, and eleven pence.' Richard Hilton underlined the figures with great care, using a pen dipped into red ink. 'At last,' Maurice Beden said.
Richard slipped off his stool, rubbed the somewhat shiny seat of his trousers, ran his fingers into his straight fair hair. 'Seventeen minutes past five. Not as bad as I thought.' He was a tall young man, just twenty-five years old. A West Indian would have recognized his face immediately; the long, rather large features, the grey eyes, the delicious little nose, were all too clearly those of the family which had dominated the plantocracy for a hundred years. But a West Indian would have puzzled over the absence of a brogue, just as he would have frowned at the threadbare cuffs, on both shirt and coat, at the well-worn pants and boots, at the absence of the slightest suggestion of a tan from the pale flesh. In the high vaulted office of Bridle's Bank in Lombard Street, Richard Hilton was no more than another of the score of clerks who spent their entire days shut away from the sun, however famous his forbears.
'You be off then,' Beden agreed. 'I'll lock up.'
'Will you, Maurice? Oh, splendid fellow.' Richard punched his friend on the arm, seized his tall hat from the peg, and ran for the door.
'In a hurry, Mr Hilton?' said Perkins, peering over his pince-nez from behind the big desk in the accountants' room. Richard paused, and panted. 'No, Mr Perkins.'
'But the ledger is balanced?'
'Oh, yes, Mr Perkins. And Mr Beden will lock up, whenever you are ready.'
'How good of him,' Perkins remarked drily. 'I attended your father's meeting, last night.'
Richard sighed. 'Yes, Mr Perkins?'
'The man is a fool. No offence, Mr Hilton, but slavery was ordained by God Himself. No man can go against God. And for a West Indian, why, it smacks of madness.'
'Yes, sir, Mr Perkins. Father knows he is not the most popular of men.'
'Save with the mob, Mr Hilton. Save with the mob. You tell him from me, he and his friends are trouble makers. He's not the worst. I blame Wilberforce.'
'Yes, sir, Mr Perkins. I'll tell Father. Good night, Mr Perkins. Good night.'
He closed the door behind him, stood on the stone steps, inhaled the crisp spring air. To enter the bank in the early morning was to be sealed in a vast cavern, a place of studied quiet and neatly inked figures, a place, indeed, of ink itself, and a place populated by Perkins, and all the other, more senior Perkinses, reaching up to Jonas Bridle. Young men like himself, or Maurice Beden, were merely in transit, neither free nor forever lost, in the process of being converted into suitable Perkinses. He supposed that another couple of years would do the trick, where he was concerned.
He ran down the steps, hurried along the pavement. It was late, although on a May afternoon there were still another two hours of daylight. But Ellen would not wait forever. And it was quiet; most of the traffic had already left the city, and he could hear his own heels drumming on the cobbles. And wondered why he hurried. He approached Ellen Taggart in the guise of a beggar, seeking a smile, a touch of her hand. Not Ellen's fault. She would give him much more. She offered more, continually. But a gentleman, retired from Company service in Bombay— with all that that suggested—and with the rank of colonel, would never consider permitting his only daughter to marry a bank clerk, even if the fellow's father was an MP. The wrong sort of MP was worse than not being one at all.
He rounded a corner, nearly stumbled into two re
d-coated officers, hastily apologized and hurried on. But paused at the next corner to look back. How splendid they were. How confident, no, how arrogant. With reason, no doubt. He studied the military, their manners, their morals, and their uniforms, could identify these two as members of the 16th Foot, the Bedfordshire regiment, from their badges as well as from the yellow facings to their tunics and the silver lace. The 16th were under orders to sail for Lisbon, there to join General Wellesley. No wonder they were arrogant; they were now part of the only English army ever to face the French with success.
He hurried on, his belly rumbling with excitement. Whenever he saw a uniform, his instincts screamed at him to find the nearest colour-sergeant, and surrender his liberty even more definitely; he had neither the money nor the backing to purchase a commission. But he would rise, he had no doubt at all. The Hiltons had always been men of ability, and men of action, too. His earliest remembered ancestor had been an associate of Tom Warner and his son, Edward, who had defended St Kitts against the Indians and the Spaniards, and founded the British West Indian Empire; one of his great-grandfathers had marched with Morgan on Panama; why, Father himself had fought with Rodney at the Saintes. But there was the problem. Father had found himself in the Navy by accident, as a pressed man, and his experiences, both there and elsewhere, had raised within him a seething distaste for all things military, for any possible event where blood could be shed. It was treason, in this spring of 1810, even to hint that Great Britain should not pursue the war against Napoleon, but Father suggested peace whenever it was his turn to speak in the House.
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