'Toussaint.'
They had passed through the canefields now, and were entering the cool of the trees.
'Aye,' Christophe said. 'Toussaint. He beat the French, and he beat the English who would help them as well. I was proud to be one of his men. But then the English and the French signed a peace treaty, thirteen years ago, and Bonaparte was able to send an army against us. An army which had conquered Europe, Matt. They could not conquer us. In the field. But they tricked Toussaint into attending a parley, and sent him captive to France, to die in a prison cell. They thought that without our leader we would surrender. But we found ourselves another leader, in Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and we beat the French again. So what was left of them sailed away, evacuated by your British fleet, Matt. And we were a nation. On paper. For the mulattoes, who had fought with us, now sought power of their own. They murdered the emperor, and Petion declared his independence. I was chosen to take Jean-Jacques's place. I have ruled this country for eight years, and throughout that time I have fought Petion, and I have fought the dissident elements in my own nation, and I have tried to make my people work, and I have tried to make a nation. So sometimes I am very tired. It is difficult to see the end.' 'Yes,' Dick said.
Another glance. The trees had grown thicker, and their path was climbing.
'You do not approve of my methods? They must be driven, Matt. When people have been slaves, and then are suddenly given their freedom, all they wish to do is enjoy that freedom. They do not understand that freedom carries with it the responsibility to work harder than a slave, to protect it.'
'I was thinking that they are poorer now, than when they were slaves.'
'Haiti is a poor country.'
Dick spoke without thinking. 'Perhaps they wonder how much Sans Souci cost to build, costs to maintain.' 'Are there no palaces in England?' 'Yes, but . . .'
'You would bow to your king did he live in a cottage in Suffolk?'
'A cottage in Suffolk is closer to Buckingham Palace, than are these people's huts to Sans Souci.'
'The huts of the Saxons were not closer to William the Conqueror's Tower of London,' Christophe pointed out. 'A ruler must not merely rule, or he is a tyrant. And a transient tyrant, at best. A ruler must be surrounded not only by the evidence of his power, but by the evidence of the permanence of his power. Sans Souci will stand forever. And my people know that, therefore my authority will stand forever. And more. Sans Souci is an achievement for them to seek, for them to dream of. It cost a fortune, money the nation could ill afford. But had I handed that money to these people, they would have squandered it in seconds. Now it is standing for all to see. For ambassadors to see, to admire, to understand that here is no casual, savage community of outlaws, but a nation of men, determined to last. They need to know that, Matt. We are surrounded by dangers. Not only from Petion. He is nothing. But from Europe. From Bonaparte, now that he has returned. The first thing he will do, once he has again defeated the allied powers, is despatch an expeditionary force to Haiti.' Another sidelong glance. 'You do not agree with me?'
'I would say Bonaparte abandoned his ambitions in the Western Hemisphere when he sold Louisiana to the Americans.'
'I do not think so. And if not Bonaparte, then some other European ruler. Perhaps your own English, Matt. The Europeans cannot tolerate the existence of Haiti. We are a scar across their ordered, white, slave-supported world. Oh, they will come. In greater force than ever before, because they know how difficult we are to conquer. But when they come, Matt, they will find us impossible to conquer.' He rode out of the trees and into the brightness of the afternoon sunlight, pointed up the hills that stretched in front of them, reaching all the way to the mountains. 'La Ferriere.'
Dick followed the direction of the pointing finger, up and up, through valleys and above escarpments, rising ever higher into the tree-shrouded mountains, to discover what at first sight appeared to be the prow of a battleship, peering out from a rocky crag five hundred feet farther up. And even at this distance he could tell that the stone buttress rose some hundred feet above the rock at its base.
'Come,' Christophe said. 'It is still distant.'
And indeed it was. They camped for that night in a valley, and listened to the wind soughing in the trees. And sat around the camp fire, while Dick listened to the Emperor.
'We shall fight the invader every inch of the way, of course,' Christophe said. 'Ours is a difficult country to traverse, especially for a white man's army. Your English, as well as the French, discovered that during the war. Yet I will never make the mistake of Toussaint, and underestimate the white man's genius, any more than I would ever trust his word. It is possible, with their ability at warfare, their experience and their skill and their superior weapons, that they may defeat us, and capture our cities, and force us back. But this time, Matt, we shall not merely retreat to the forest, and dissipate our numbers along trackless paths. This time we shall retreat to La Ferriere. There is no force in the world can follow us up here, and assault that bastion. It is not just a fortress, Matt. It is the heart of a nation. It is a military city, within the jungle. It is at all times armed and provisioned to enable a thousand men to withstand a siege of a hundred days, and that, Matt, is far longer than any army could maintain a siege, with the guns of the citadel playing upon them, day and night, with my jungle fighters preying on their skirmishers, with my jungle itself bringing fever into their tents. La Ferriere is a dream I have long held. It surely is a dream that every military commander, every emperor, must always have held, the unassailable fortress, the ultimate retreat. But only I have managed to achieve the dream, here in the mountains of Haiti.' His eyes glowed in the firelight. 'You know of another?'
'I was wondering,' Dick said, 'how much that cost. Forgive me, sire, and remember that I spent seven years of my life in a bank.'
'You think too much in terms of money,' Christophe remarked. 'La Ferriere cost more than Sans Souci, to be sure. But if I consider Sans Souci, which is only for show, important, try to calculate how much more important I consider La Ferriere.'
'And suppose the European invaders never come?'
'They will come, eventually,' Christophe said. 'They came before. They will come again. It does not matter when. La Ferriere will stand forever. And who knows, as a last retreat for an emperor, it may not need to wait for invaders of my country.'
Saying which he wrapped himself in his blanket and went to sleep, for when on the march he lived like the soldier he had been for so long, slept on the ground, disdained the use of a tent. It was a wholly admirable characteristic, Dick thought, in a wholly admirable man. Well, down to two days ago, he would have said wholly admirable. And indeed, where did he discover the right to criticize? Christophe knew only extremes; that most of his people should starve that the other few might impress, would not seem out of the ordinary to him. And he knew only the dominant, aggressive will of the white man. That he should retain an everlasting fear of them, an everlasting determination never to be conquered again, was entirely natural.
Only the last, unguarded remark, that the Citadel of La Ferriere might possibly have been built as a last refuge, not of an heroic defender rallying the remnants of his people around him, but for a tyrant to retreat from the rightful wrath of his subjects, was less than wholly admirable.
Besides, whatever the motive, the mere fact of the creation of such a fortress in so impregnable a natural bastion, was wholly admirable. Except perhaps for the lives it must have cost.
Dick appreciated this more the following day, when they completed the climb. Christophc told him that every block of masonry, not to mention every cannon, every ball, every sack of corn, had been carried up these slopes on the back of a man; and often enough they had to dismount, in order to be sure of not being thrown by their mounts as the horses slipped and tripped on the bare rock.
And always the enormous buttress loomed above them, coming steadily closer, growing in size as it did so, while soon they could make out
the mouths of the cannon protruding through the embrasures, and the heads of the men looking down. Certainly it was indisputable that had those men decided to refuse them entry, they could not have proceeded.
But even the buttress soon lost its importance, as they at last gained the plateau, and entered the huge wooden gateway, crossing the drawbridge over a rushing mountain stream. From the outside Dick had gaped at the walls, twelve feet thick at their bases, rising fifty and more feet above the rock into which they had been embedded, every embrasure boasting a cannon. Inside he could only gape again, at the sweep of the parade ground, at the stretch of barracks, at the presidential quarters, a small palace in itself, at the hoists for the munitions, the sheltered wells sunk deep in to the rock. Here was engineering on a scale Europe had never even sought to approach. It made him think of what he had read of the Pyramids.
But there was yet more gaping to be done. Without being told by his host, he dismounted, and ran for the steps leading to the great bastion, hurried to the embrasures, and looked out, at Haiti. The mountains rose in the east behind him, the highest peaks in the entire Caribbean, stretching upwards even beyond the tree-line, to become empty, jagged rock; it was possible to suppose they occasionally knew the kiss of snow. Immediately beneath him commenced the forest through winch they had climbed, stretching far, far to the south and west, green, thick, a defensive bastion in itself. To the north he could make out Cap Haitien, and even, he supposed the magnificent scar on the green that was Sans Souci. And beyond even them, the beach, and the endless Atlantic rollers, blue topped with white, which pounded ceaselessly on the sand.
And then the ocean itself. In that direction there was nothing between Haiti and Europe. From here Christophe would gaze upon the sails of the invading fleet, long before his country was more than a heavy cloud on the horizon to them. Supposing the fleet ever came.
'You are impressed,' the Emperor said, at his shoulder. 'That pleases me.'
'I have been impressed, sire,' Dick protested, 'by everything I have seen on Haiti.'
'Even the poverty in which too many of my people live?' Perhaps there was humour in that deep voice, a twinkle in those black eyes. Dick could not be sure.
'Even that, sire. But this surpasses them all. Our historians claim that in all history there have been only seven true wonders created by man. They would have to add this as their eighth.'
'Well said,' Christophe agreed. 'It is my monument. As I said, it will stand forever. And with it, my name, my memory. But I have another wonder to show you yet, Matt. Or, I think, for this occasion, I shall call you Dick. Come.'
The guards stood to attention. Christophe led Dick down the stone steps to the courtyard, and across the yard to the Emperor's house. Here again guards presented arms and remained at attention, and white-gowned girls hastened forward with cups of sangaree, and to relieve them of their weapons. Christophe waved them aside. 'I would speak with the mamaloi?
A girl bowed, and hurried before them, to a curtained doorway leading away from the main withdrawing room. A moment later she returned.
'The mamaloi will receive you, sire.'
Christophe nodded, raised the curtain, led Dick into a darkened corridor, at the end of which was another heavy drape. This too was removed, and they found themselves in a small room, dark save for the glow of a charcoal fire, and heavy with scent, of the burning wood, to be sure, but with other odours as well, some delicious, and others strangely repellent. The room appeared to be empty of furniture, save for a single high-backed chair against the far wall. And in the chair there sat a woman. In the gloom Dick could only blink, unable to make out more than long dark hair and equally dark gown, with the face no more than a pale glimmer between. A pale glimmer.
'The true source of my strength, Richard Hilton,' Christophe said. 'I would have you meet the mamaloi of La Ferriere. In English, she was called Gislane Nicholson.'
Dick became aware that Christophe was no longer beside him. He was alone, with the priestess. And she was content to wait for some seconds. Her face remained a blur. But perhaps she could see in the dark.
'Richard Hilton,' she said, at last. 'Light this.' Her English was perfect. Dick moved forward, held out his hand, took the candle; her fingers were cool to his touch.
He knelt in front of the fire, lit the wick.
'Tell me of your father,' she said.
He straightened. 'I have not seen him for five years.'
'But you have heard more recently than that.'
'He is ageing, and therefore weak.'
'And your mother? Is she as beautiful as ever?'
'As ever.' He held the candle above his head, moved closer.
'But she is also ageing. As am I.'
Her face came into the light. And here was beauty, he realized. The high forehead, the wideset green eyes, the perfect nose, the wide mouth, the pointed chin. Could she really be more than fifty?
'She also ages.'
She gazed at him for some seconds, then held out her hand. 'Give me the candle. And kneel, here beside me.' He obeyed, and she placed the candle in a holder beside her chair, then thrust her fingers into his hair, tilted his head back. 'You have suffered a terrible injury.'
He flushed. 'I had forgot.'
'And I have reminded you. It is my duty, to remind men, of themselves. Do you know me?' 'Yes.' 'All?'
'I think so.'
'Told by your mother, or your father?' 'My father does not speak of you.'
Again her gaze shrouded him. 'Does your mother still hate me?'
'I do not think so.'
'Perhaps age has brought her understanding,' the mamaloi said. 'Do you understand, Richard Hilton?'
'That you were taken from your home, and sold as a slave? I think so.'
'Do you? Do you know what it is like for a girl—I was no more—educated as an English lady, to be taken from her home, and made the plaything of every man who wished her? Can you understand that, Richard Hilton? Because of a minute drop of Negro blood in her veins? Can you understand such a world?'
'No,' Dick said. Presumably it was the answer she wanted.
Gislane Nicholson smiled. 'You will understand it. As I have done. When I was a slave, at first, I wished for my heart to cease beating, very often. But then I found myself, and I found my gods, and I wished only to live. So I live, and I am powerful. Your father, who loved me, and sought to right the wrong that had been done me, is as you say, ageing and frustrated, I have all that I could desire. Henry gives me all that I could desire, has always given me all that I desire. Do you admire him?'
Dick realized that only honesty would pay here. 'In many ways.'
'But not all?'
‘I do not think all his values are true.'
'You could say that of any man. But he will fight for his values and, if need be, die for them. He wears a silver bullet around his neck, with which he will destroy himself should he ever be defeated. He has told me of you, Richard. You are running. Away from being a Hilton?'
'He understands that?'
She smiled. 'I do not think so. I understand that. But I do not admire it. No man can run away from what he is.'
'I find myself a planter,' he said. 'And yet I respect the intentions of my father. The two are irreconcilable.'
'Nothing is irreconcilable, to a man of courage.'
'Ah, but you see . . .'
'You are a coward? This has been proved?' 'Well, let us say I lack determination. My brother has determination. He is the true Hilton.'
'But you can say that. You must think about it, a great deal.' 'Yes.'
Gislane Nicholson stood up. Her blood-red gown rustled, as she moved round him. He wanted to turn, but dared not move his head. She stood immediately behind him. 'Do you know why you are here? Why Henry wishes you at his side?'
'I have thought about that, too. I wondered perhaps . . .'
'If he loved your mother?' Gislane knelt beside him. Her shoulder touched his. He inhaled her scent. 'No. But he
admired her, as he admired your father. As he even admired Robert Hilton. He sought such courage, such determination, such arrogance, if you like, amongst his own people. Without success. His life is a hard one. Perhaps you have not realized that. Perhaps you have seen only Sans Souci. But he must rule, and he must lead, and he must fight. With only his own prowess to support him. His father was not a king, not even a wealthy planter. His father was a slave, and so were the fathers of all his generals, all his soldiers, all his people. Their right to power is as good as his, were they able to prove themselves men as good as he. And there are always some, who have no hope of proving themselves thus capable, who will seek to strike down their leader, to make room for lesser men.'
'I understand that,' Dick said, and at last turned his head. Her face was only inches away from him. He felt quite drunk with the nearness of her.
'It is on his mind, constantly, like a headache. It prevents him doing much that he would wish to do. I am his only source of strength. But I am naught but a woman. He seeks a man. And Fate brought him one.'
'Me? There is a joke.'
'A white man, dependent only upon Christophe himself. There is someone to trust. And when that white man is also a Hilton, he is the person Christophe seeks. Do you not think
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