Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  This time he stayed, looking through the aperture. Noise eddied about his head, accompanied by the endless smoke. He watched men collapse, men fall to their knees, men jump from the verandah and stagger down the hill. There were still hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, gathered at a safe distance from the house. And now was the dangerous moment, when all muskets were emptied, save for the few Cartarette and Suzanne had managed to reload. But the slaves were retreating. They had lost perhaps forty men in those two deadly volleys. But far more than mere numbers, they knew that the next time they charged, the leading forty would die again.

  He straightened, slowly. His men were withdrawing their muskets through the loopholes, staring at each other in delight. They had used the white man's weapons, and they had killed.

  'Well done,' he said. 'Well done. Mr Boscawen, a ration of rum for every man.' He crossed the room, stood beside Cartarette, watched her work, ramming home ball after ball, priming musket after musket, face and hair and dress blackened with smoke, sweat dribbling down her temples, mouth flat with concentration.

  She saw his boots, raised her head. 'Will they come again?'

  'Not for a while. They'll have to regain their courage.'

  He walked into the hall, unbolted the front door, threw it open. Some of the smoke found its way out, the atmosphere became lighter. He wondered if he would ever get his ceilings clean again.

  He stepped outside, looked at the dead men. Soon they would smell, whenever the sun rose. Josh had told him that, on his first night here. How many eternities ago.

  Someone moved. A hand came up, holding a cutlass. Dick levelled his pistol, squeezed the trigger. The man gave a little leap, and lay still again.

  The noise brought Cartarette running through the hall, to check in the doorway in total horror. 'My God,' she said. 'My God.'

  He put his arm round her shoulders, the pistol into his belt, took her back inside. Boscawen waited with a tray of rum. Dick took it from him, and the old man closed the door.

  'Them boys done, Mr Richard,' he said.

  'Aye.' Dick held a glass to Cartarette's lips, and she drank, and coughed, and drank some more.

  Suzanne stood in the inner doorway. 'Are all battles like that?'

  'All victories.'

  'Listen.' Harris had been upstairs to oversee the blacks. 'They're leaving. Listen.'

  They could hear the drumming of hooves. Boscawen was hastily withdrawing bolts again. Dick stepped outside, his arm still round Cartarette. Blood dribbled across the floor to wet their boots. 'Oh, God,' she said. 'I am going to vomit.'

  He squeezed her against him, went down the steps. The black men were streaming into the fields, running as hard as they could. And galloping up the road was a company of horse, accompanied by a score of white men.

  'Barraclough?' he said. 'Hardy? I've almost a mind to forgive your sins.'

  'When I forgive yours, Hilton,' Hardy said.

  The colonel dismounted, peered at the corpses. 'My God. What happened here?'

  The soldiers stared at the Negroes, who now came out of the house, muskets in their hands.

  'Present,' Hardy screamed. 'Present.'

  'Put them down,' Dick snapped. 'They fought for me.'

  'You armed slaves?'

  'I used what I had. And they fought well.'

  'By God,' Hardy said. 'There's a confession, Colonel. A confession. Serve your warrant, man. Serve your warrant.'

  'What madness is he spouting?' Dick demanded.

  Barraclough shifted from foot to foot, gazed at Cartarette, then at Suzanne, standing on the verandah in the midst of the black men, then back at Dick again.

  'Hardy's doing,' he muttered. 'He met me on the road. Brought me back here. But not to rescue you, Mr Hilton.' He unbuttoned his jacket, felt inside, pulled out the rolled parchment. 'There is a warrant for your arrest.'

  18

  The Day of Retribution

  Dick could only gape at the officer, for the moment too taken back to speak.

  'For his arrest?' Cartarette cried. 'You must be out of your mind.'

  'Count yourself grateful you are not included,' Hardy said.

  'Why, you . . .' Dick reached for his pistol, and was halted by the sight of a score of musket barrels levelled at his chest.

  'They won't take you, Dick,' Suzanne called from the verandah. 'We have thirty men in here, Colonel. All armed, and all experienced; they have just repulsed the rebels. Look at the verandah.'

  Barraclough licked his lips. He had already looked at the verandah.

  'Mr Hilton, I beg of you,' he said. 'Humour me, for the moment. Things are not going well, sir. You may have saved Hilltop, but at least a dozen plantations are in the hands of the insurgents. White people have been killed. More have been insulted. Kingston is in a ferment, and the whole island has been placed under martial law. The militia has been called out. If we exchange shots here, I would not like to say what will happen.'

  'Show me the warrant,' Dick said.

  Barraclough gave him the parchment, and he looked at the signature.

  'John Tresling?'

  'Countersigned by the Governor, Mr Hilton. It is legal.' Dick glanced at the charge. It described him as an incendiary who had roused the blacks to revolt.

  'You must know this is utter nonsense, Barraclough.'

  'I know it, Mr Hilton, and so does the Governor.'

  'Then why did he attest his signature?'

  Barraclough sighed. 'Perhaps I would wish he could have shown more spirit, sir. The earl . . . well, his prime concern is the preservation of peace. All soldiers are needed on the plantations, Mr Hilton. Therefore Kingston must be defended by the militia. And the militia refused to mobilize unless all incendiaries are confined. Your name heads the list.'

  Dick hesitated, still gazing at the paper.

  'And who will guard my husband in the Kingston gaol?' Cartarette asked. 'This same militia?'

  'He will be safe, Mrs Hilton. The Governor gives his word. But surrender, sir, and show that you have confidence at once in your own innocence and in our triumph. Those are the earl's own words, sir.'

  Cartarette's fingers bit into his arm. 'Defy them, Dick. They'll not take you. They'll not move, if you say the word.'

  'Aye,' he agreed. 'And then I would indeed be a revolutionary.'

  'Dick, the mob will lynch you.' Her voice was urgent.

  He smiled at her. 'I've survived worse than Kingston mobs,' he said. 'Belmore may not be the strongest of characters, but he is an honest man. And there are more lives than just mine at stake. But I leave the children, and indeed my defence, if it comes to that, in your care.'

  Her tear-filled eyes were only inches from his face. 'I'll get you back, Dick,' she promised. 'I have grown to love this new man.'

  He kissed her forehead. 'Then make it soon.' He released her. 'I'll ride with you, captain. But provide me with a horse.'

  'You'll hand over your weapons,' Hardy demanded.

  'It would be best, sir,' Barraclough agreed.

  Dick nodded, gave the colonel his pistols.

  'And you'll command your people to throw down their muskets,' Hardy said.

  'And leave my plantation undefended?' Dick inquired.

  ‘I will leave ten of my men here, sir, to see to your plantation,' Barraclough promised. 'I beg of you, sir. I cannot leave any black people with weapons in their hands.'

  Dick hesitated, for the last time; but he knew the blacks would not return, and ten soldiers should be sufficient to protect his blacks from white revenge. 'So be it, Cartarette, tell Absolom to surrender those muskets.' He swung into the saddle. 'Thank them for me. Tell them that when I return from Kingston, it will be as I promised them.'

  He could not look at the house any longer, but turned his horse and led the cavalcade down the drive. He could hear Barraclough giving the necessary orders, the banging of the shutters as they were opened. Sunlight would flood the Great House, and the dead would be buried.

  And
the plantation? The road led by the white town, and the factory, and the slave village. Piles of smouldering ash, from which the smoke rose to tickle his nostrils. The factory had done best, the great machinery, used to overwhelming heat, merely protruded through the collapsed roof. But he had retained his slaves. They came out of the fields, men, and women, and children, to stare at the destruction, at the soldiers, at their master. And not even all of the cane had burned. There were sufficient green fields to salvage part of a crop, supposing he was there to do it.

  But of course he would be there to do it. He was Richard Hilton. He had survived too much in the past to be depressed by mere legal formalities now.

  Except that he was tired. Suddenly. And it was not merely exhaustion from a sleepless night.

  Hardy rode alongside him. 'You'll hang, Hilton. Oh, aye. Not even the Governor's support will save you now.'

  Dick glanced at him, looked ahead again. They were beyond the smoke now, and the morning air was cool.

  'You'd best get back to Orange Lodge, Mr Hardy,' Barraclough said. 'Those devils may come again.'

  'Oh, aye,' Hardy agreed. 'I'll do that. Mr Hilton will be pleased to learn that the incendiary has been brought to book.'

  He spurred his horse and made off, his volunteers behind him.

  ' 'Tis a serious business,' Barraclough said, perhaps to himself. 'Oh, aye, a serious business. These people are frightened. There's naught so frightening as frightened people, when they also hold power.'

  Dick ignored him as well. Had he made a mistake? But what else could he do? To have gained a brief victory over the soldiers at Hilltop would have made him an outlaw for ever. He could only hope to stay alive until sanity returned, until the Governor regained his nerve, until the Whigs found out what was happening here.

  It was near noon when they entered Kingston, and then his nerve nearly failed. The streets were packed, but mostly with white people, who could ignore the martial law. The men carried arms, the women were outraged already, at least in their minds. They clustered round the cavalcade, shouting obscene threats and promises of revenge. Barraclough had to form his men in a moving wall around his prisoner, to protect him as far as the gates of the city gaol.

  It was almost a relief to be inside the heated compound. When he gazed at the black faces of the inmates—there were no other white prisoners—he could almost feel himself back in the safety of Cap Haitien. And these did not jeer or threaten.

  'You've a cell to yourself,' grunted Owens, the gaoler. 'Comfortable, you'll be, Mr Hilton. And no lynching in this gaol.'

  He was walking a fence, a government official, but a white man.

  'Send for Reynolds,' Dick said.

  Owens nodded. 'I've done that, Mr Hilton. He'll be here directly.'

  Dick stepped inside, listened to the door clang behind him. The cell was on the top floor. There was a single barred window, high in the wall, but by standing on tiptoe he could reach it. He could not look down sufficiently to see the beach, but he could see the pale green water, and then the ships at anchor. This had been his first glimpse of Jamaica. Why, he could make out the Green Knight, riding to her mooring.

  He sighed, and inspected the rest of the small room, tried the trestle bed, hastily returned the lid to the slop bucket. The best cell in the prison. He had been in pleasanter stables.

  Feet, on the corridor. Owens unlocked the door. And Reynolds stepped inside.

  'Mr Hilton. A grim business. Oh, a grim business.'

  'Aye. And not one I'll stomach for long, Reynolds. You'll file a writ of habeas corpus and have me out of here.'

  Reynolds frowned at him. 'Your own lawyers . . .'

  'Arc coloured and will not have so speedy a service. You asked for reinstatement. Hilltop's business is enough for all.'

  Reynolds sat down on the bed. 'It will not be easy. Kingston, Jamaica, has been placed under martial law. Habeas corpus has been suspended.'

  'Then get me an interview with Belmore.'

  'Ah, well, that will not be an easy matter.'

  'You seem once again unsure whose side you are on,' Dick remarked, mildly.

  'Ah, well, 'tis not that, Mr Hilton. Oh, indeed not. But it is a serious matter.'

  'A trumped-up charge of incendiarism, which no court would admit for a moment?'

  Reynolds shook his head. 'The matter is more grave than that, sir. Think of it. This island is being threatened by a slave revolt. Rumour has it there are twenty thousand blacks under arms. Troops have been sent for from the Leewards, and the Navy has also been summoned from English Harbour. Now, sir, is that not a clear parallel with events in Haiti, but forty years ago? And have you not recently returned from Haiti, having served one of the leaders of that original revolt faithfully and well for sixteen years?'

  'Of all the rubbish . . .'

  'None the less, sir, they are saying you came to Jamaica to do nothing less than incite a similar revolution here, with a view to making yourself dictator. Then there is the fact of your secret meeting with the Reverend Strong. Strong has already been arrested and brought to justice, I understand.' 'He was murdered, you mean.'

  'Aye, well, justice is the word they use in Kingston. But the important fact from your point of view is that there is possible evidence of conspiracy. And then, the revolt happened on the day you regained your plantation, and thus obtained a position of authority. Was that not a signal?'

  'By God, Reynolds . . .'

  'Not my opinion, sir. I am but quoting. And then, finally, you successfully defended your plantation. Every other plantation attacked by the blacks has fallen or been evacuated.'

  'I defended it, Reynolds. More than forty were killed.'

  'Oh, indeed, sir. I have no doubt of that. But there it is. Why . . .' He sighed. 'The situation is grave, sir. Grave. They are saying it is a hanging matter.'

  Feet, along the corridor. Dick raised his head. Women's feet. He leapt up, hastily tugged his shirt straight, ran his fingers into his hair.

  And frowned through the bars. 'Judith? How on earth . . .'

  Judith Gale waited while the key turned in the lock.

  'Half an hour,' Owens said, and left.

  Judith remained standing by the door. 'You do not look pleased to see me.'

  'I am pleased to see anyone,' Dick confessed. 'But I had hoped for Cartarette.'

  'She has been refused permission to visit you.'

  'My own wife? But you . . .'

  'I bribed Owens. He is a lecherous man.'

  Dick sat down again. 'My God.'

  'You would not have your wife stoop so low, I trust.' She sat beside him on the bed. 'She knows you are here?'

  'Of course. When I left Orange Lodge, I visited Hilltop, to see if I could be of assistance.'

  'When you left Orange Lodge? Forgive me, but my brain seems to spin.'

  Judith flushed. 'I would have given evidence for you, Dick. I would have helped you. But to oppose Tony, perhaps it takes more courage than I possess. Than I possessed, then. But when I heard what had happened, I ran away. To Hilltop, and thence to town.'

  'He'll not forgive you.'

  'No. Thus I will need your protection, after all.'

  'My protection?' His laugh was bitter. 'Locked away in here, day after day, week after week. Do you know I have been here a month? Seeing no one. I have asked for Reynolds, and he has not come. I have asked for Harris, and he has not come.'

  'Harris and Barker are under arrest. They are in this very building.'

  'Under arrest?'

  'For carrying arms. It is forbidden for any person of colour. They were lucky they were not hanged on the spot. Over four hundred of the blacks have been hanged.'

  Dick nodded. 'I have heard the drumroll. The revolt is over then? I saw the ships arriving, with fresh troops.'

  'Oh, that revolt is over, certainly. Not that people will forgive, for a long time.'

  'But it is over,' Dick insisted. 'Thus must I be freed or brought to trial. Belmore. I have asked to
see Belmore, and he has not come.'

  'Very simply because he is no longer here. He resigned his post and left, oh, a fortnight back.'

  'Resigned? My God. But who commands the island?'

  'The general, Sir Willoughby Cotton. He came from Antigua. The entire colony remains under martial law, pending the arrival of a new Governor. That at least accounts for your survival. Cotton will not permit the planters to try you, and they will not force matters to a head until they discover the political complexion of the new Governor.'

  'Cotton,' Dick said. 'Well, then, I must see Cotton.'

  'I doubt he will accommodate you.'

  'Why not? You say he holds the entire island under military discipline? Surely he cannot be afraid of the planters?'

  Judith sighed. 'Perhaps not afraid. Yet does he also tread a tightrope, Dick. He still lacks the men properly to police the entire island. So he relies upon the volunteers for assistance, and they are either planters, or in their pay. Thus he must shut his eyes to their depredations.'

  'Depredations? Your tale grows more and more unhappy. What depredations?'

  'Well, you see, they claim the entire revolt was inspired by the Baptists and the other missionaries, and was, quite apart from being directed against white people and against slavery, also directed against the overthrow of the Colonial Church. This is how they have succeeded in securing so much support from the more moderate elements in the island, and how, indeed, they hope to obtain eventual support from England. Yet are they impatient for the day of retribution, as they call it. There is a band of them, calling themselves the Colonial Church Union, which rides abroad after dark, their faces masked, burning Baptist or Nonconformist chapels, lynching any man of colour who would oppose them, or who they find at large. It is a fact no decent person will venture out after dark.'

  'Cotton condones this?'

  She shrugged. 'There is nothing he can do about it. He does not himself know whether or not the Union will eventually find favour in London.'