They peered into the mist, and saw the black man approaching. He wore nothing but drawers, and they were wet and filthy. He staggered and trembled. The dogs snarled and bared their teeth.
'Man but it is that boy Henry Twelve,' Absolom declared.
'Hold those beasts,' Tony commanded.
Henry Twelve stopped, and stared at them. He shook, like a leaf in a breeze. 'Man,' he said. 'You hear that thunder? Oh, man, you hear that thunder?'
'Where is Merriman?' Tony asked. 'And John Nineteen?'
Henry Twelve turned to stare on his master. 'Merriman gone,' he said. 'He ain't stopping, even in the rain. He gone. He gone.'
Even in the rain. 'And John Nineteen?'
'He done dead, master. He done drown. He lying there, and he head in a puddle. He done drown.'
There was a moment's silence. The mist began to rise in the valley, the first warmth seemed to enter the air. Henry Twelve continued to tremble.
'We got this one, Mr Hilton, sir,' Absolom said. 'We ain't going to get Merriman now. Not if he go through the rain. And maybe he done drown, too. We got this one.'
Tony nodded. 'Aye. We'll get on back. Absolom is right, Ellen. There is no point in flogging ourselves to death over a man who may be already dead. We'll eat later, Absolom. Tie this man to the back of your mule, and let's move out.'
'No,' Ellen said. Her eyes gloomed at the shivering slave. 'He must be punished.'
'He will be punished,' Tony said. 'When we get back to Hilltop.'
'No,' she said. 'Here. Bring my mule, Absolom.' Absolom looked at his master, then went and fetched the mules.
'Send them away, Tony,' she said. 'Send them down the trail. We can catch them up. Afterwards.' 'After what?'
She gripped his arm; her face was only inches from his ear. 'I want to whip him. I have wanted to whip someone, anyone, since I came to Hilltop. I could not say so to you, before last night. I could not do it, on Hilltop, with everyone there, with Hardy there. With Mother there.'
She panted, and colour flared in her cheeks. Her hair was just beginning to dry, and flutter in the morning breeze. She was a stranger, and she knew she was a stranger, to herself. She would not know herself, when she regained civilization. But perhaps the rain, and the fear, had stripped away her last covering of humanity, left only the animal.
And perhaps his fingers had helped, as well. He felt as if he had been dreaming, all of his life, the most wonderful dream a man could have, and had suddenly awakened, to find his dream was continuing, and would continue forever.
'Let me whip him, Tony,' she said. 'Now. And I will do anything you wish. Anything.'
'You'll have to sound the gong, Boscawen,' Tony Hilton said. 'We'll not be heard, otherwise.'
The butler nodded, and hurried down the room, threading his way in and out of the red-jacketed footmen, the white-gowned maids, who thronged each side of the huge dining room; there was one attendant to each cover, and there were sixty covers.
Tony leaned back in his chair, his glass in his hand, sipped his wine. He wanted to belch. Instead he smiled, at Mrs Taggart, on his right, a perspiring mass of pink flesh and pale blue taffeta, and at Mrs Kendrick on his left., a slim, dark woman, who had eaten little and drunk less, had watched her fellow guests like a predatory bird, storing their idiosyncrasies, their appearances, their mistakes in her mind. But even she returned Tony Hilton's smile.
And if Mrs Kendrick had eaten little, she was the only one. The huge dining table looked like a battlefield, after the conflict. Plates of scattered nuts and sweatmeats lay every which way; priceless crystal glasses rested on their sides, swept over by a careless gesture, a flailing cuff; knives and forks and spoons soaked in the spilt gravy, some guests still gnawed at their ribs of best beef, others worried their ices and slurped their wine; breasts heaved and shoulders shuddered; moustaches drooped; coats were unbuttoned and stays were clearly straining. The air was heavy with wine and perfume and the stench of beef, and brilliant with the conversation which flitted about the chairs and the chandeliers like a flight of sparrows. Here was gossip, malicious and friendly, stories, droll and dirty, flirtations, light and serious, bubbling away. Here was Sunday lunch on Hilltop.
'It warms the heart, Mr Hilton, indeed it does,' Phyllis Kendrick said. 'Your uncle used to give entertainments of this nature. But that was a long time ago. I remember them, when I was a girl. But truly, of recent years, and of course, when your brother and that detestable Gale person were living here, one could suppose Hilltop to be dead. Now it lives again.' She leaned her elbow on the table, rested her chin on one finger. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with so many people.'
'I am not, dear lady,' Tony said. ‘I merely had a fist made out, and despatched it.'
Phyllis Kendrick continued to regard him as if he were a rare specimen—but then, he thought, I am a rare specimen. 'But at such short notice? Supposing no one had come? All of this food?'
'It could have fed the pigs, Mrs Kendrick.' Her eyebrows arched, and she receded, her hand flopping on the table.
'But then,' Tony smiled, 'they all did come. Even you came, Phyllis.'
The sound of the gong, booming across the conversation, drowned her reply. Had she been going to make one. Tony rather doubted that she had. He wondered how old she was. Thirty? Thirty-five? Married to a typical planter, unimaginative and entirely physical. So, was she unimaginative and purely physical? A thought for the future. He was concerned with the present. He looked down the long sweep of littered, stained linen tablecloth, past the upturned bottles, the smiling, reddened faces, the fluttering fingers, the scattered napkins. Ellen was hardly visible, seated at the far end of the table. But she was, entirely visible. She wore pale green, and looked cool. Her chestnut hair was gathered loosely, in a ribbon. She talked animatedly, to the men on either side of her, and yet, she seemed to sense that he was looking at her, and turned her head, to send her smile up the table like a message.
What did they share, so far? Not their bodies, as yet. That would come later. On the day, she had been exhausted, her passion spent. And there had been a dead man. And Tony Hilton? Why Tony Hilton had been afraid. Of her. That could be admitted, to himself. And perhaps even to the woman.
And since then, they had both been content to wait, to know, what was on the way, to anticipate, confident in the enormous intimacy they already shared. The memory, of a woman on a mule, wet hair tumbling about her shoulders, wet blouse clinging to those shoulders, wet skirt wrapping itself around wet legs, galloping to and fro within the confines of a narrow valley, flailing her whip while a black man had to run before her. The memory of her tumbling breath and gasping cries of pleasure, of her teeming laughter. The memory of her pulling her mount to a standstill, when the black man had finally fallen, and dismounting, to flog again. The memory of the black man realizing that his tormentor was no longer protected, rising to his knees, of himself hurrying forward to save her, and stopping, as he realized she did not require saving. The memory of that booted foot thudding into the black man's face, of the woman standing above him, and using the whip again, with an expertise born of a long dream—because surely she could have no experience—to reduce a man to nothing.
And the memory of the ride back, slowly, in the boiling sun. Her clothes had dried by then, and her hair. Their mules had rode close together, and occasionally his knee had brushed hers.
He had said, 'I must have you.' It had been plain surrender. And Ellen Taggart had merely smiled.
'When you can, Mr Hilton,' she had replied. 'When you can.'
So, now. He rose, and the faces turned to look at him. 'Ladies,' he said, 'and gentlemen. How good of you to come. How good of you to grace Hilltop once again with your presence. How good of you to make this old house live again.
I am informed, ladies and gentlemen, that it did live, thirty years ago. I make you my solemn promise, it will live, from this moment on.'
He paused, to smile, and they applauded, and called for more wi
ne. And Ellen returned his smile.
'We have eaten well,' Tony said. 'And we have drunk well. This afternoon we shall talk. The ladies about, well, whatever ladies talk about.' That raised a shout of laughter. 'We men shall talk politics. Because I have not invited you here today, gentlemen, neighbours, fellow planters, merely to sample my cuisine. I have invited you here today, gentlemen, to inform you that Hilltop is now back in the hands of a Hilton, not a decrepit old man, not a dreaming boy. But a Hilton, gentlemen. I am aware of what is going on, gentlemen. I read the newspapers. I know how the British Government seeks to coerce us, gentlemen. Financial aid, trading advantages, such as are being offered the new Crown Colonies of Guiana and Trinidad, on condition we accept their "advice" on the treatment of our slaves. No aid at all, should we prefer to go our own way. That, gentlemen, to my way of thinking, is not government, but blackmail.'
He paused, to smile at the nods of agreement, the murmurs which went round the table.
'So you may expect to see me in the Hilton seat, gentlemen, as from the next Session. And you may expect me to give my voice and my vote to opposing all British interference in our affairs. Times may be hard, gentlemen, but they have been harder. We in Jamaica, my family more than most, gentlemen, have prospered these hundred years and more with no British help. By God, we shall do so for another hundred years, or my name is not Anthony Hilton.'
This time the murmurs became shouts of applause, and hands were clapped.
Tony waved for quiet. 'But that is for the next Session, as I say. Before then, ladies and gentlemen, a far more important, and a far more felicitous event is to take place. It is my great honour to tell you that Miss Ellen Taggart has consented to become my wife.'
This time the room rang to the cheers. Ellen smiled at them all.
'Think of it, gentlemen,' Tony said. 'It is near fifty years since Hilltop had a mistress. Since Hilltop was a home, gentlemen, instead of just a plantation. Ladies and gentlemen, that void is now filled. I ask you to rise with me and drink the health of the mistress of Hilltop. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ellen Taggart.'
They rose together, glasses held high. 'Ellen Taggart.' And then dissolved in a mass, to accumulate around the end of the table to congratulate the bride to be, to look for her smile and her kiss.
Tony used his napkin to wipe his lips and brow, gave Mrs Taggart a kiss on the cheek, and then followed Boscawen's gaze into the hall.
'Is Mr Reynolds, Mr Hilton, sir,' the butler said. 'He just come.'
'You'll excuse me, Mrs Taggart.' Tony left the table, seized the lawyer's hands. 'Reynolds. How good to see you. 'Tis a warm day for a long ride.'
'Mr Hilton.' The lawyer looked distinctly hot and bothered. 'Terrible news, sir. Terrible news.'
'Not here.' Tony ushered him along the hall, past the stairs and into the study. 'Bonaparte? I had heard. But he will make no progress this time.'
'Not Bonaparte, sir.' Reynolds sat down, mopped his brow. 'The Green Knight anchored two days ago, sir. You'll remember she cleared here but three days after the Cormorant. I had specifically asked Captain Morrison to obtain what information he could. I'd have come sooner, Mr Hilton, but the news of Bonaparte's return to France has had all Kingston in a tizzy, and I could not get away.'
'And Morrison has more news yet?'
'Of the very worst, sir.' Reynolds glanced out of the open door at the hall; the sounds of revelry could clearly be heard. 'The Cormorant never made Bristol. But Morrison put in at
Cap Haitien, on his way back here. The Negroes say wreckage came ashore. You'll remember there was that gale, two days after she left.'
'So we must presume the worst,' Tony said.
Reynolds sighed. 'Sad. Sad. You'll want to send those people home.'
Tony frowned at him. 'Why? They are celebrating my engagement, amongst other things.'
'But with Mr Richard very probably dead . . .' Reynolds' turn to frown. 'Your engagement, Mr Hilton?'
'To Miss Taggart.'
'To . . . Good God.'
'As I endeavoured to tell you just now, I have heard the news. All the news. I have maintained an agent in town these last few weeks, to bring me the first available word from England on the whereabouts of the Cormorant. I knew the night before last. Awakened I was, from a deep sleep, at two o'clock in the morning. But it was worth it. As you know, I have long supposed my brother to be dead. But of course I could not invite his fiancee to marry me until I was sure.'
Reynolds gazed at him for some seconds. Then he stood up. 'Your brother is not dead, Mr Hilton. Legally. He cannot be dead until his body is identified, or until seven years have elapsed.'
Tony smiled at him. 'Legally. Yet you will not deny it was his wish that I manage Hilltop in his absence.' Reynolds chewed his lip.
'And you can hardly suppose it would have been his wish that Miss Taggart linger for seven years, which is a lifetime in the consideration of a young woman, waiting to be sure, when we are both, in our hearts, sure.'
Reynolds sighed. 'I suspect you are very much of a scoundrel, Mr Hilton.'
'And I suspect that the next time you use such words to me, Mr Reynolds, I will have my drivers throw you off this plantation.'
'Your drivers? Aye, no doubt they are your drivers. 'Twas your brother's wish, may God rest his soul. No doubt he was too good a man. I cannot interfere with your present prerogatives, Mr Hilton. But I am still the executor of your brother's estate. You'll do well to remember that. The plantation is Mr Richard Hilton's.'
'For seven years.' Tony got up. 'I am a patient man, Mr Reynolds. I have formed a philosophy, which I believe has been expressed before. Everything comes to he who waits. I'll bid you good day, sir. My guests, and my fiancee, are waiting.'
9
The Castaway
Judith's body moved against his, her arms tight round his neck. She squirmed, and seemed able to bounce, even under his weight. And she moved from side to side as well. Lying on her was like being on a ship at sea.
Dick Hilton rolled on to his back, stared at the deck beams immediately above his head, sweat breaking out on his face and shoulders as he realized that he was on a ship at sea.
He attempted to sit up, and banged his head. As if it had been a signal, waves of thudding pain were loosed, to go reverberating through his mind, to crash against his ears, to seep down his neck into his stomach and bring green sickness back into his throat. His chin seemed one enormous bruise.
He discovered himself on his hands and knees, clutching the bunk on which he had lain, bracing himself against the roll of the vessel. And being suddenly bathed in a draught of cool air, seeping around his head.
'Praying, are you?'
He attempted to turn, lost his balance, and fell over. He looked at shoes, and somewhat dirty cotton stockings. The clothes above were hardly cleaner but the face, if unshaven and pockmarked, was not unpleasant.
'John Gibson, at your service.'
Dick licked his lips, slowly, closed his eyes to attempt to shut out the pain. 'What ship?' His voice seemed to come from very far away.
'The Cormorant, bound for Bristol, Mr Hilton.'
'Bristol?' Dick seized the bunk once again, pulled himself
to his feet. ‘I can't go to Bristol.'
'What you need is something to eat, Mr Hilton,' Gibson decided. 'You'll feel better after something to eat. Boy,' he shouted, sending fresh reverberations crashing into Dick's mind.
He sat on the bunk. 'How came I here?'
'Why, sir, you came out with my boatswain, last night. Insisted, you did. Said you had to get away. Food, boy. Food for the passenger.'
'Had to . . .' Dick scratched his head. Another painful operation. 'I was drunk. Christ, I was drunk.'
'You were that, Mr Hilton,' Gibson agreed. 'Mind you, sir, for a man that drunk, you were wonderfully possessed, you were. Wrote a steady hand and all.' He jerked his head. 'You'd best eat.'
'Eat?' Dick seized the captain's sleeve. 'Listen. You must put back.
I was drunk.'
'You booked passage to England,' Gibson pointed out. 'Signed a note, you did.'
'You can keep it,' Dick said. 'I'll sign another. But put me back.'
The captain gazed at him for some seconds, then went into the main cabin and sat down. 'You'll want to think about that.' 'When you've worn ship.'
'Now, sir, that's not going to be easy. You won't believe this sir, but we've a stern wind. Due west, in the Caribbean, in November. There'a chance. Why, sir, do you know, I reckon we've done a hundred miles in the past twelve hours. There's speed for you. But she's a clean hull, Cormorant.''
Dick staggered across the cabin, up the companionway, and into the waist of the ship. And was immediately thankful for the cooling breeze which swept over him, cleared some of the cobwebs from his mind. He stood at the starboard gunwale, looked at the mountains on the southern horizon.
'Hispaniola,' Capt ain Gibson said. 'What the niggers who infest it call Haiti. Like I said, damn near a hundred miles in twelve hours.'
Dick climbed the ladder, crossed the poop, grasped the taffrail to steady himself. But astern the sea was empty, save for the occasional whitecap. It was in fact a peculiar afternoon; the sky was almost yellow, rather than blue, and the wind was hot. And his brain continued to tumble. Memory. But he did not want memory. There were too many unthinkable thoughts banging on the edges of his consciousness. He only knew he must get home. And quickly.
'As a matter of fact,' Captain Gibson remarked, having followed him, 'the sooner we're through the Windward Passage the happier I'll be. There's wind about.'
'Then seek shelter,' Dick said. 'Set me ashore in Haiti.'
Gibson frowned at him. 'Now, I'll not be doing that, Mr Hilton. Why, you'd go to your death. We'd all go to our deaths. Those niggers don't take to strangers. They'd rather slaughter us than slaughter each other, and by all accounts they spend most of their time doing that.'
Black Dawn Page 19
