Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  'But you love her,' Judith said. 'After all this time, you love her, and you fear her.'

  'How perceptive you are,' Tony remarked. 'She regards me with contempt. She regards you with contempt also.' 'She is entitled to do that.'

  He drank, facing the wall. 'To hurt her,' he said. 'To make her beg . . . what the devil is that?' Feet, clattering on the steps. Fingers, rattling on the door. 'Mis' Judith. Mis' Judith.'

  'I shall certainly beat her.'' Tony reached for his pants.

  'It must be important.' Judith got up, pulled on her undressing robe, turned the key. 'What is it, Melinda? You know I'm not to be disturbed when Mr Hilton is here.'

  'Is Mr Hilton he does want, Mis' Judith.'

  ‘He?!

  'Who wants me?' Tony went to the door, fastening his belt.

  'Is a man from the lawyer, sir. He saying it is very urgent.'

  Tony pushed Judith to one side, went down the stairs. He glared at the clerk. 'Hanson? What the devil do you want?'

  'There's a ship in, Mr Hilton,' Hanson panted, and had lost his hat. 'The passengers came ashore an hour gone. And two of them went straight to Lawyer Reynolds.'

  'Eh? What has that got to do with me?'

  Hanson licked his lips, ran his fingers through his hair. ' 'Tis the name he claims, Mr Hilton. He says he is Richard Hilton, sir. Come home.'

  14

  The Claimant

  'Way for the general. Way for the general.' The dragoons rode their horses wide, on either side of the dusty street, scattering passers-by. 'Way for the general.'

  Dick came next, sword slapping his thigh, pistols clinging to his horse's neck. Behind him was another file of dragoons. The general, returning from his tour of inspection.

  To his city. There was a remarkable thought. Cap Haitien had scarcely changed in appearance in the ten years since Christophe had taken his own life; the country was poor, and money was endlessly needed for the war against those black men who continued to resist the unification of the nation, deep in the mountains of the interior. But the people had changed. No doubt they were even more poor than under their legendary emperor. But they were also more happy. President Boyer might lack the personality of his predecessor, but he was a sensible man who understood the strengths as well as the weaknesses of his people. The strengths he had used to conquer the island, to create a nation. The weaknesses he had indulged to the extent of letting them starve in their own way, if they chose. Which left the armed forces the more attractive to any young man with a belly to fill.

  The gates of the barracks swung open, the blue-coated guards presented arms. There were no smarter soldiers in the entire army, and they were General Warner's. Another stroke of Boyer's genius for common sense. He had amnestied all of Christophe's generals, providing they brought their men with them. And in Matt Warner's dragoons he had found an elite.

  They had been the van of the 1822 campaign which had finally conquered the old Spanish half of the island.

  He returned the salute, and his groom held his bridle. He dismounted, strode up the steps to the commandant's quarters, and again the guards presented arms.

  La Chat waited in the doorway. 'There are cases, sir.' For Cap Haitien, as indeed all of Haiti, remained under martial law.

  Dick nodded. ‘I will be with you in a moment, La Chat.' The door was being opened by one of the housemaids, and he went inside, and was surrounded by shouting children. Richard was eight, Anne was six, Thomas was four. Perfectly spaced. All healthy, bubbling Hiltons, except where they possessed the softer contours of their mother. He stooped to hug them each, looking all the while to the inner door, where Cartarette waited.

  He sometimes supposed he lived his life in a long dream, firstly that the Dick Hilton he had been, and remembered, and still was deep in his heart, should have turned into this big, gaunt, ruthless soldier of fortune, and secondly that he should continue to share his bed with so gorgeous a creature. She had been seventeen years old that terrible day in 1817 when her father had been flogged to death. Now she was thirty, and four times a mother; her first daughter had died within two months of her birth. Yet was she hardly changed. She greeted him with a smile, put up her face to be kissed. She stood by his shoulder now, as she had stood by his shoulder for most of those thirteen years. Gislane's magic had made her his, physically. It had not been able to do more, to his knowledge. She stayed by his side because she had no choice. Her mother had died when she was a girl, her father had died beneath Christophe's whip. Her cousins had returned to France since the Restoration, but she was a poor relation, and she would rather be a general's woman than a case for charity.

  Besides, he thought, she would not know how to live without him now—he had offered her freedom more than once. So they worked together, and talked together, and on occasion even laughed together.

  But was she happy? He thought of her as he remembered thinking of his mother, years ago. She was his woman—they had never even been legally married—and so she was his support. She slept with her head on his shoulder, when he was in Cap Haitien. And did she weep herself to sleep when he was gone? He had stopped asking. It was a stupid, immature question. She was his. She could belong to no one else, now. Their lives were inextricably bound.

  But she had never said that she loved him.

  She held him close for a moment. 'Every time you leave,' she whispered, 'I suppose you will not come back.'

  He kissed her forehead. 'There is no guerilla left within fifty miles of Cap Haitien.'

  At last she released him. 'You have killed them all.'

  'Aye.' He rubbed Richard's head; the boy still clung to his left arm. 'And what have you been up to?'

  'I have built a fort, Papa. Well, Anne helped me. You must see it.'

  'I shall, in a moment. La Chat has some villains for me to judge.'

  'And hang?' Cartarette asked.

  He sighed. 'If they require hanging, my sweet. I'll not be long. And then, this afternoon, I shall holiday. And look at your fort, Richie.'

  He walked along the corridor, boots dull on the wood. Guards presented arms, and he was in his office. General Matthew Warner, military governor of Cap Haitien, taking court. It was the aspect of his life he liked least. But then, he was growing increasingly restless, year by year. There were no more fields to conquer, here in Haiti, and he was forty-five years old. Would he spend the rest of his life being nothing more than a policeman? 'Yes?'

  The adjutant stood to attention; Colonel La Chat took his seat on the far side of the room. As provost marshal it was his duty to carry out the sentences.

  'Antoine Dugalle, charged with the murder of his wife.'

  Dick frowned at the big, sweating black man. 'Are you guilty?'

  'Me, General? Man, General, we did fight, and I hit she on the head with she bottle. No more than that, General.' 'Witnesses?' 'Pierre Clousot.'

  The other man came forward. 'Is true that she strike he first, General.' 'Whose bottle?'

  'Well, she did be the last to drink, General. Is a fact.' 'Acquitted. Next.'

  'Johann Misere, charged with stealing one boat.' This was a small man, paler in complexion than the others. But also sweating. 'Are you guilty?'

  'Is me crabs, General, sir. Me own boat get holed in that storm last month. Man, General, if I ain't taking in me pots we going starve.'

  'So you took someone else's boat.'

  'Well, man, General, sir, he ain't going to lend it to me.'

  'Twenty lashes. Colonel La Chat, advance this man two pieces of gold to have his own boat repaired. Next case.'

  'I thanking you, General, man, sir,' Misere said. 'I thanking you.'

  'Aye,' Dick said. 'Next time I'll hang you. Next.'

  'James Morrison, charged with smuggling.'

  Dick raised his head. 'Guilty?' And frowned.

  The white man badly needed a shave, and his face had collapsed in jowls, while his hair was almost entirely white.

  'I didn't know I was smuggling, General. 'Tis
the truth,' he gabbled. And he also sweated. 'This fellow asked me to bring the wine in, General, last time I was here.'

  'When was that?'

  'Last year, General. I didn't know there was a duty. And he collected it on board, sir. I didn't bring it ashore.'

  Dick leaned back, stared at the man. How memory flooded back. Of everything he had considered, everything he had attempted, everything he had once been. And would be again?

  That was impossible. Dick Hilton was dead. Dead, dead, dead. He had never even been able to bring himself to write his mother, in fifteen years. Better that for her, too, he was dead. What, a son who fought for the murderers of her sister? And who had, in any event, changed into a monster.

  But Morrison, God, what a memory. And what sudden temptation. Or had the temptation been there, all the time, and Morrison no more than a catalyst?

  'Do you come here every year, Captain?'

  'Well, sir, General, most years.'

  Dick stood up. 'Court is finished for today. I would speak with this man, privately, La Chat.' 'General?'

  'He may have news of my home, my people. You understand me, La Chat?'

  'Of course, General.' La Chat came to attention, and the guards did likewise. Morrison gaped at them.

  'Through that door, Captain Morrison,' Dick said.

  The captain glanced around himself fearfully, then walked along the corridor. The children had returned to their fort in the yard. Cartarette stood by the front door, looking pensively at the courtyard, at Misere being placed between the uprights. She turned in surprise.

  'Begging your pardon, mistress.' Morrison twisted his hat between his hands.

  Cartarette looked at Dick, her eyebrows arched.

  'An English sea captain,' Dick said. 'You'll take a glass of wine, Morrison.'

  'Eh? Oh, aye, I'd take that very kindly, General Warner, sir.' He continued to stare at Cartarette in total bemusement.

  'Accused of smuggling,' Dick said, and filled three glasses. 'Sit down, Captain.'

  Morrison licked his lips, sank sideways into a straight chair. 'All I do is trade, General Warner. I'm no smuggler.'

  Dick sat opposite him, Cartarette remained standing, but she moved closer to Dick. 'You have heard of me?'

  'Everyone has heard of General Warner.' 'Then drink to General Warner. And tell me what they say of me.'

  Morrison sipped cautiously. He could not stop his eyes drifting towards the woman. But Cartarette's face was expressionless.

  'They say you are a great soldier.' 'I would like the truth, not flattery.'

  Morrison shook his head violently. 'That is the truth, General. They say there is no cavalry commander like you. They say you served Christophe, faithfully and well. Now they say you command Cap Haitien.'

  'Where do they say these things?'

  'Everywhere, sir.'

  'In England?'

  'Oh, yes sir.'

  'In Jamaica?'

  'Oh yes, sir.'

  'You trade with Jamaica?'

  'I am on my way there now, sir.'

  'Indeed? And what are things like, in Jamaica, at this moment?'

  'Ah, sir,' Morrison said. 'Bad.' 'Bad? What do you mean?'

  'Well, sir, there is friction, friction, sir, with the British Government. Over slavery, you'll understand, sir. What happened was, you see, the British gained some colonies from the French, as a result of the war. And these colonies, sir, were organized as possessions of the Crown, rather than as proprietary affairs, as were the old West Indies. Thus in the new colonies, the word of Whitehall is what counts, and Whitehall is for ameliorating the lot of the slaves. Some say they lean towards abolition of slavery, but that I cannot myself believe, sir. Well, as I say, what the British Government decrees is law in Guiana and Trinidad. But in Jamaica and the Leewards, why, sir, the Houses of Assembly there have long had total internal autonomy, and they resent any interference in their affairs from outside. So there is friction, sir, increased because, as you may know, sugar is in decline, sir, and the planters need all the help they can get in the way of tariff relief and open markets. 'Tis not only the state of the world, sir, 'tis also the growth of the beet industry in Europe. Bonaparte's doing.' 'The devil,' Dick said.

  'Well, sir, the British Government has offered the colonies, the old colonies that is, all the assistance they require, providing they will adopt the new slave laws. And the colonies, sir, refuse, claiming blackmail.'

  'And leading the colonies, as ever, will be Jamaica,' Dick said.

  'Oh, indeed. There is talk of secession, sir. Of asking to become a state of the Union.'

  'Planter's talk?' Dick asked. 'Who is involved?'

  'Well, sir, the leader of the planters, in Jamaica, and indeed in all the West Indies, as he has property in Antigua, is Hilton of Hilltop.'

  'Hilton,' Cartarette said. 'Of Hilltop.'

  'Oh, a terrible man, mistress. He was a passenger on my ship, once. A long time ago. But even then he was a terrible man. Picked a duel, he did. Oh, a terrible man. A man who, it is said, treats his slaves like animals, and is totally opposed to any amelioration. That name, sir, you have heard it?'

  Dick gazed at him, frowning, unimaginable ideas whipping through his mind.

  As Cartarette understood. 'You said you would never again deal with a black man, other than as an equal,' she said.

  'Nor will I,' he said. 'But those people on Hilltop, they are my responsibility.'

  ' Your responsibility? After sixteen years?'

  He finished his wine. 'I wonder why I stay here. I accomplish nothing now.'

  'You are bored, because there is no war left to fight.'

  'Have you no wish, ever, to return to a white society?'

  She flushed. 'I doubt I would know how to set about it. Besides . . .' She hesitated.

  'It will be difficult? Oh, indeed. But interesting. And if there is conflict. . .'

  'Ah,' she said. 'Now it comes out.'

  'Begging your pardon, sir,' Morrison said.

  Dick glanced at him. 'This man who fought the duel on your ship, his name was Anthony Hilton.'

  'The very man of whom I speak, sir. The Hilton.'

  'But he had a brother, did he not? The real cause of the duel? The real Hilton, in point of fact.'

  'Well, yes, sir. There was a brother. But he was lost at sea. Back in 1815.'

  'So it is said,' Dick agreed. 'Have you ever met me before, Morrison?'

  Morrison frowned at him, glanced at the woman. 'Met you, sir? Why . . .' He flushed.

  'You would remember so hideous a countenance? But you will observe that my face is disfigured, so once it must have looked different. What of my voice? Do you remember nothing of my voice?'

  Morrison's frown deepened. He finished his wine. 'Truly, sir . . .'

  'Because that too has changed,' Dick said. 'Well, then, what of my memory. That duel on your ship. Was it not fought over a lady, called Joan Lanken?'

  'You never mentioned her before,' Cartarette remarked.

  'It was a botched affair. But I have no doubt the captain remembers it.'

  'My God.' Morrison peered even closer. 'My God. It cannot be.'

  'You'll remain in Cap Haitien, Morrison, while I write a letter to General Boyer. Then you'll give me passage to Jamaica,' Dick said. 'And on the way I shall refresh your memory.'

  'Ratchet,' Morrison said. 'Ah, Harry Ratchet. A good man, Ratchet. You remember Ratchet, Mr Hilton?'

  'I remember Ratchet.' Dick leaned back against the bulkhead, watching the wine swaying to and fro in his glass. What memories the movement of the ship brought back. And over the same water, too. But the weather was fine, the wind was where it should be, north east. It was impossible to suppose that brilliantly blue sky ever turning black, this gentle zephyr ever howling, this calm blue water ever rearing above the ship like a snake.

  'Who was Ratchet?' Cartarette asked. The children had already been put to bed, and she sat beside him; their shoulders touched. Did she suppose th
is to be just a holiday, as he had told the President? Or did Boyer also know the truth of his intention. But did he know his intention? Haiti was perhaps the only place he had known happiness. His dragoons were the first men he had ever loved, could ever love. And he had turned his back on them. Because his name was Hilton.

  'Mate of this ship, when last I sailed on her,' he said.

  'A good man, Ratchet.' Morrison poured more wine. 'He got his own ship, soon after that voyage, Mr Hilton. Did well at it too. But was lost, sir. On the Atlantic crossing, and with all hands. There is sadness.' He smiled at them. 'But not the conversation for a return from the dead, I'll be bound. There'll be some surprised faces when we make Kingston. That Lanken, eh, Mr Hilton? I'll wager you have many a chuckle over that. Only a lad, then, Mistress Hilton. Only a lad. With no knowledge of weapons. I wonder what Lanken would say were he opposed to you now?'

  'And this duel was over a woman, you say?' Cartarette inquired.

  ' 'Tis all in the past, Mistress Hilton. All in the past. We'll be in Port Royal harbour tomorrow morning.' He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table. 'Oh, there'll be a to-do when you reappear, Mr Hilton. Oh, yes. They'll not believe it.'

  'You believe it.'

  'Well, you remember things only Richard Hilton could, and there's a fact. Seeing you now . . .' He shook his head. 'There'll be a to-do.'

  'Aye.' Dick got up, braced himself against the bulkhead with his hand. 'I am for bed. Cartarette?'

  She rose without a word, went into the cabin. Morrison's own cabin, as being the largest and the best. Only the best, for Richard Hilton. How long was it since he had thought that?

  Cartarette avoided the swinging lantern, sat on the narrow bunk.

  'Thirteen years,' he said. ‘I would like to marry you, as Richard Hilton. Will you?'