'You'll want to spend the night, gentlemen. Mistress Easy's is the place for you. Good food. Hot water. No bugs. You come with me.'
'Man, you ain't want to listen to he. You got for . . .' 'Hold on,' Tony bellowed, waving them back for their breaths were as acrid as their bodies. 'We seek Mr Robert
Hilton. Of Hilltop.' His words acted like a pistol shot.
'Hilton?' asked one of the white men. 'Of Hilltop?'
'We are his nephews,' Tony said, importantly. 'And would acquaint him of our arrival.'
'Hilton?' cried a fresh voice, and the crowd parted to admit a sallow young man, dressed in a caricature of a London clerk, although sweat had sadly soiled his cravat, and his trousers were thick with dust. 'Not Mr Richard Hilton?'
'I am Richard Hilton,' Dick said.
'Ah, thank God, sir. Thank God. I have met every arrival this past month, hoping to find you, sir. You'll come with me, Mr Hilton. Oh, bring your friend. You, there . . .' He snapped his fingers at one of the Negroes. 'Fetch that bag. Quickly now.'
'Are you my uncle's man?' Dick fell into place beside the young man, already hurrying up the street.
'Oh, no,' he replied. 'I am Reynolds' clerk. Reynolds the lawyer, you know. Oh, no, no. We act for Mr Robert Hilton. Or I should say, we did.'
'Eh?' Tony demanded.
'Why, sir, didn't you know? How silly of me. How could you know, being at sea these last weeks. Why, sir, Mr Hilton, Mr Hilton died, but ten days ago.'
4
The Inheritance
Dick stopped as if he had walked into a brick wall. 'Dead? Oh, my God.'
'There's a problem,' Tony said. 'We are stony broke.' The clerk smiled. 'Ah, you have nothing to worry about on that score, sir, if you are travelling with Mr Hilton.'
'Travelling with him?' Tony demanded. 'I am Mr Hilton.' 'Eh?'
'Mr Anthony Hilton,' Dick explained. 'My older brother.'
'Good heavens,' remarked the clerk. 'What a to-do. Oh, indeed, what a to-do. This is Reynolds and Son, gentlemen.'
The house appeared no different from any of the others lining the street; verandahs on both floors, sun-peeled warm paint, swing doors to some sort of an emporium at ground level. But the clerk was leading them up a flight of wooden steps at the side of the building.
'Oh, indeed,' he muttered. 'There will be a to-do. What Mr Reynolds will say . . .' He opened a jalousied door at the top. 'Mr Reynolds, sir. Mr Hilton, and why, Mr Hilton.'
The lawyer was not very much older than themselves, Dick decided, a tall, thin fellow with sandy hair and sandy moustaches to go with his complexion; he wore an enormous gold watchchain, and a worried frown. 'Mr Hilton.' He came round his desk, glancing from one to the other, hand outstretched. 'And Mr Hilton?'
'I am Richard Hilton,' Dick explained. 'This is my brother, Anthony.'
'Good heavens. Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. You have heard the sad news?'
'Your man just broke it to us,' Tony said. 'Uncle Robert dead? Why, it seems impossible.'
'Believe me, sir, all Jamaica is still holding its breath. But sit down, gentlemen, please. Charles, chairs. Look smart, man.'
The clerk hastily provided straight chairs for the two brothers, and Mr Reynolds resumed his seat behind his desk. 'You'll take a glass?'
'At five in the afternoon?' Dick asked.
'It might be an idea,' Tony said.
'Best madeira, I do assure you.' Reynolds nodded to Charles, and then placed his fingertips together, elbows on his desk, and gazed at the two men in front of him. 'Well, well, well. It was my father, you know, in this very office, who negotiated the sale of land to your mother and father, on which they built their church. The one Mr Robert Hilton burned down.'
'How did he die?' Dick asked.
'A fit. Oh, very sudden it was.' Reynolds filled three glasses, raised his own. 'I'm assured he felt no pain. Just collapsed and died. He was old. Old.' He peered into the liquid, then raised the glass again. 'We may drink to his soul. A fine man, Mr Hilton, a fine man. We could do with more of him.'
'Oh, indeed.' Tony sipped, glanced at his brother. 'He had invited us, that is, my brother, to join him on Hilltop.'
'Of course, of course. You were to learn the planting business, Mr Hilton. Ah, well, now is not the time to worry about that. Laidlaw is a good man. He'll show you the ropes.'
'Laidlaw?'
'Your late uncle's manager. You'll want to continue with the same staff, I imagine.'
'Continue with the same staff?' Dick asked. 'I don't understand.'
Reynolds frowned at him. 'You'll not sell the place?' 'You mean we could, if we wished?' Tony asked. 'Well. . . your brother could. Did your uncle not make it plain that you were his heir, Mr Hilton?'
'Why, no, not in so many words,' Dick said. 'His heir? Good Lord.'
'It is all here, in the will, Charles. Charles.'
'Here it is, Mr Reynolds.' Charles placed the folder in front of his employer.
'Ah.' Reynolds turned back the cardboard. 'Yes, indeed, a most straightforward document. But then, Mr Robert was like that. He knew what he wanted, and he never wasted time on words. Everything he owned, Hilltop, Green Grove, and every article on them, is bequeathed to Mr Richard Hilton.'
'Eh?' Tony cried.
Dick stared at the lawyer in consternation.
'That is all?' Tony demanded. 'He had other relatives.'
'Oh, indeed, sir,' Reynolds agreed. 'And some, ah . . . very good friends. But not one of them has been left a thing. Mr Robert had strong views on keeping wealth all in one hand. And then, no doubt he felt that Mr Richard Hilton would wish to make his own arrangements.'
Dick continued to stare at the lawyer. His brain seemed frozen. The owning of the plantations, the position of being the Hilton, had been a magnificent dream, something to linger over, a promise of the future. To have it happen, without any warning, was more than he had been prepared for.
'But that is outrageous,' Tony shouted. 'The will must be contested. Obviously Uncle Robert was not in his right mind.'
Reynolds' face became cold. 'I do assure you, sir, Mr Hilton was in full possession of all his faculties, up to the moment of his death.'
'Yet is it an act of insanity,' Tony insisted. 'Oh, we shall contest it.'
'You may do as you choose, sir,' Reynolds said. 'It will make no difference. This is Jamaica, sir, not England. A man can do what he likes with his possessions, sir, here. And no one could argue that both Hilltop and Green Grove were Mr Robert Hilton's possessions.'
'Why . . .' Tony's face was suffused with blood.
Dick had at last gathered his wits. Here was something he could cope with. 'Easy, Tony,' he said. 'We knew already that Uncle Robert was an odd fellow. But it can make no difference now that he is dead. We shall split the inheritance down the middle.'
'Well. . .' Tony seemed to recover some of his composure. 'I had really not supposed I would ever have to accept your charity, Dick. But of course it is the most equitable arrangement.'
'No doubt you can draw up a suitable document, Mr Reynolds,' Dick said.
'Ah, well, sir,' Reynolds said, looking distinctly disapproving. 'I'm afraid that will not be possible. I have told you that Mr Robert Hilton was against any tendency to split the estates. And indeed it is specifically stated in the will that the Hilton estates are not to be divided . . .'
'But we are brothers,' Dick protested. 'The property will remain Hilton.'
'Even between brothers, sir. It goes back a long time, but was the decision of Captain Christopher Hilton, who founded the Hilton wealth, you may remember, sir. Captain Hilton married twice, and had a son by each marriage, but yet left the plantations entirely to his son by his first wife, Marguerite, although with instructions that that son, whose name, as I recall, was also Anthony, was to employ and take care of his half-brother. That tradition has existed to this day, and you may recall, Mr Hilton, that your father, Mr Matthew Hilton, was employed as a manager by Mr Robert before their quarrel, but
, belonging as he did to the junior branch of the family, he had no share in the plantations themselves.'
'Are you trying to say that while the plantations are mine, they are not mine to dispose of, should I wish?'
'Let me see the will,' Tony said.
Reynolds handed over the document, and smiled at Dick. 'They are yours, sir. And you may dispose of them. But by the provisions of Mr Robert Hilton's will, should you decide to sell them, you must discover a purchaser who will take the entire estate; i.e. both plantations together. Similarly, you may bequeath them to whomsoever you choose, on your death, but they must be passed on in their entirety, as well.'
'That is what it says,' Tony agreed. 'Well, I seem to be destitute.' His voice was quiet enough, but there could be no doubting his anger.
'Oh, fiddlesticks,' Dick declared. 'So legally I cannot make you my equal partner. Be sure that you will be my equal partner. You cannot prevent that, Mr Reynolds.'
'Indeed not, sir. You and your brother can come to whatever private arrangement you choose, providing you remember that any business transactions made with regard to the plantations must be conducted in your name and yours alone.'
'Which is mere legal fiddle-faddle, eh Tony?'
Tony gazed at his brother for some seconds. 'So, it comes down to charity, after all.'
'Oh, really . . .'
'But beggars cannot be choosers. I shall be your assistant, then.' He gave a short laugh. 'Why, Mama will be delighted.'
'Well, then,' Dick said. 'There is everything solved. Now, all we wish to do is get out to Hilltop.'
'This evening?' Reynolds inquired. 'Why, sir, Mr Hilton, it is already gone six. And Hilltop is some distance.'
'That decides it then,' Tony said. 'We'll find a bed in town. If you can assist us with some money, Mr Reynolds.'
'Of course, sir. If Mr Richard Hilton will sign a note . . .'
'Ye gods,' Tony said.
Dick sighed. 'Of course I will sign a note for you. But I really would like to get out there tonight, Mr Reynolds. If you could assist me, with a horse, and perhaps a guide?'
'I shall attend to it immediately.'
'Thank you very much. Will you not accompany me, Tony?'
His brother shook his head. 'I'm for an early bed, here in Kingston.' He got up, grinned at the expression on Dick's face, slapped him on the shoulder. 'I will be out in the morning.
You have my promise. Anyway, I'd not interfere with your pleasure at seeing your plantation for the first time.'
Having climbed the hill, the horse stopped of its own accord. But Dick was glad of the opportunity to relax his knees, pull out his kerchief and wipe sweat from his brow. It was several hours past dusk, and the sun had disappeared, huge and round and glowing into the Caribbean Sea. Now the mountains which loomed on either side were nothing more than vast shadows. Yet it remained still and almost stifling; he had discarded his coat, and carried it across the saddle in front of him. Apart from the climate, he was not very used to lengthy rides; the occasional Sunday outing to Hammersmith with Mama, on hired nags, was the limit of his previous experience.
But this was a well-chosen, quiet mount. He twisted in the saddle to look back at the steep incline; at the top of the last rise he had looked down on the twinkling lights of the houses in Kingston, the ships riding to their anchors in Port Royal Bay. Now there was nothing but the darkness, black where the trees gathered in the dips between the hills. It was a strange blackness, fragrant as he had never suspected the night could be, the scent of oleander, of jasmine, of the very grass, rising sweetly to his nostrils; and it was a noisy darkness as well, for from every bush there came the disturbing grunt of the bull-frogs, the slither of the crickets, the buzz of mosquitoes, while amidst it all there flitted the glowing fireflies.
He wondered he was not afraid at this world he had only previously read of, or experienced in his mother's stories. He wondered he was not afraid of his companion, who waited, patiently, on the mule immediately in front of him. His name was Joshua Merriman, Reynolds had said, and he was one of the lawyer's slaves. A huge black man, with a ready smile and a soft voice, to be sure, but none the less, the operative thought in connection with his presence was the word black, combined with the word slave. And here he was, some fifteen miles from civilization, alone with one of the hated white people. That was how Mama would have put it, anyway. And from his belt there hung one of those very long, very sharp, and very dangerous-looking knives known as machetes, while Dick did not even possess a pistol.
'We best be getting on,' Merriman said. 'There's another three hours to Hilltop.'
Dick kicked his horse, got the animal moving again. 'You have been there before?'
'A couple of times, Mr Hilton. I did carry documents for Mr Robert Hilton to sign.'
'With Mr Reynolds?'
The black man allowed his mule to pick its way down the next incline: it was too dark to see where the animals were placing their hooves.
'By myself, Mr Hilton. I is Mr Reynolds' best boy. I can read, man, and write.' He glanced at his companion. 'Maybe you ain't believing me, sir.'
'Oh, I believe you,' Dick said, hastily. 'I was merely surprised, that a . . . well, that a Negro should . . . well. . .'
'That I should be trusted, Mr Hilton? I ain't no Negro.'
'Eh? But. . .'
'They's Congo people. Is the name what the masters give us all, no matter what. I's Ibo.'
'That is your real name, you mean?'
'No, sir, Mr Hilton. I am of the Ibo people. It is a nation, sir, like the Negroes. To call me a Negro is like if I was to call all white men English, whether they is French or Spanish or Dutch, or what.'
Dick removed his hat to scratch his head. 'Oh,' he said. 'Then I apologize. I never knew that before.'
But what a remarkable thing, for a white man to be apologizing to a Negro. Oh, dear, he thought: A black man. On the other hand, Merriman also seemed surprised, as he lapsed into silence.
They proceeded up and down, along tracks cut into the side of cliffs, with empty darkness to their left, through wooded copses, loud with rustling sound. Dick could not help but begin to wonder, eventually, if he was not being led astray, to his murder.
He urged his horse forward, beside the mule. 'But even Ibos do not all read and write,' he said conversationally. 'No, sir, Mr Hilton. But I's even more Jamaican than Ibo.'
'Would you explain that?'
'Is me great grandpappy what made the middle passage, Mr Hilton. That is back a hundred year.'
'Ah. Are there many slaves in Jamaica who were born here?'
'The most. All, from now, with the slave trade finish.'
'And are they all as well educated as yourself?'
'They ain't got no well educated field slave, Mr Hilton. It is all depending on what you train for. I did be a field slave, one time. Man, I did be a driver. But then they see how's I got brains like them, and they sell me too good. Now, I am a clerk, so I got for be educated.'
'I see. And are you happy, to be educated?'
At last the big man's head turned. 'Slave can be happy, Mr Hilton?'
'Ah. No, I suppose it is difficult. Yet there is not much trouble in Jamaica, I have been told.' 'Trouble, sir?'
'Well, when you think of what has happened in St Domingue
'Them boys had more cause, maybe,' Merriman said thoughtfully. 'And there weren't no government, that time, what with the revolution in France. Jamaica got plenty government. And anyway, where would they go? The Cockpit Country ain't no good now.'
'The Cockpit Country?'
'Well, sir, Mr Hilton, is a bad place in the north, all hill and ravine and bog and river. And is where all the runaway slaves did go, oh, since the Spaniards held Jamaica. So they become a nation, like, and the white folk call them Maroons. And they fighting, fighting, with the white folk all them years, but they getting push back, and back. And you know what, when they know what is happening in St Domingue, they start fighting again. That
is only fifteen years gone. But they get beat again, and they sign treaty with the Governor. He ain't going trouble them no more, providing there ain't no murder up there, and they ain't going trouble the white folk no more. And they going send back any runaways what join them. That is the thing.' He urged his mule a little faster, came to the top of a rise, and pointed. 'Hilltop, Mr Hilton.'
And as if he had given a magic signal, the moon, enormous and round and yellow, and so low it might have been a lantern held by a giant, topped the mountains to send cold yellow light across the valley beneath them. Less a valley, Dick thought, than a large amphitheatre, almost oval in shape, mainly an endless series of canefields, but cleared in the centre, perhaps three miles away; there the moonlight showed up the sloping roofs and white walls of a little town, dominated by its chapel, silent in the darkness; farther off he could make out the bulk of the boiling house, also suggestive of a church because of its enormous chimney pointing skywards — and was it not a church, he thought, the religion of an entire economy—and then the equally orderly rows of logies in the slave village. He swung his gaze round, Mama's descriptions returning to him, and found the stables and the kitchens and the slight, man-made rise on which stood the Great House, four-square and two-storied, the white-painted verandahs shimmering in the half light, the rest of the house in darkness save for a slight glow from one of the downstairs rooms. Hilltop! The name, given to a protected valley, somehow epitomized all the Hilton philosophy. Or was it the Hilton arrogance?
'I can ask, sir?' Merriman suggested.
'Anything you like.'
'Is what it is feeling like, Mr Hilton, sir, to own all this?'
Dick glanced at the man. 'Feel like. It is terrifying, if you really want to know, Joshua. Come on.'
He kicked his horse, sent it galloping down the slope, dust flying from its heels. Up the beaten earth road he raced, the tall cane stalks waving gently beside him, hooves setting up an echo. Past the white village, where a dog commenced to bark, and was soon joined by another, and up the slope to the house, head spinning now, breath panting to match that of his horse, aware only of a consuming excitement, which made him feel almost sick, bubbling up from his belly.
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