And as she had truthfully told Bertrand D'Ogeron, even since then she had fought the Spaniards on four occasions. She had watched her husband die, remarkably in his bed, and she had watched the battle-torn bodies of her two sons brought ashore, to be buried in the little cemetery behind the house, alongside their wives. Life on Tortuga was a short, violent business. Except for Susan Hilton, who had survived them all, and was now acknowledged by them all; first lady of the lowest society in the world.
Out of it she had rescued but two things; this house, which she would never abandon, and Kit, who she would never let away from her side. Never? There was a big word for an old woman when confronted by a young man brought up on legend and with the sea in his blood.
'It is finished, Grandmama.' He wore only breeches, and still carried a hammer; his chest gleamed with sweat.
'Ye've not forgotten the cellar window?' she asked. 'It could be our last refuge.'
'Two boards, Grandmama. And there are three muskets by
each loophole, with powder and shot. They'll need a cannon to smash in here.'
'And they'll scarce drag a cannon up this hill.'
'Then why are they landing at all?' Albert DuCasse frowned down the slope.
'A gesture,' Susan said contemptuously. 'Helene, I think we should prepare an early supper for our garrison, as they may not have time to eat later on.'
She led the way inside, but the three men remained on the verandah, watching the Spaniards disembark.
Jean glanced at Kit. 'Are you afraid?'
Kit thrust out his chin, sucked air into his lungs, and suddenly smiled. 'Are you?'
'Yes. But it is what we have always wanted to do. Are you afraid, Papa?'
A little,' DuCasse confessed. 'I had thought to be finished with fighting when I came here. I am too old to find pleasure in killing people, when I know that too soon I shall myself be dead. One never knows who one will meet in Heaven. Or the other place.' He laughed, and slapped his son on the shoulder. 'Even Spaniards go to Heaven, you know, Jean. Some of them.'
Kit stood at the corner of the verandah, where the railing joined the wall of the house itself. The only time he ever felt jealous was when he heard Jean and Monsieur DuCasse talking together. There was so much friendship between them, so much unspoken understanding. He could not remember his own father. The face became confused with too many other faces. He recalled that it was a young face, scarce bearded. Like his own, perhaps. But surely older, as he had had a son. And he recalled the day the ship had returned, flying the black flag. Because young as he had been, Edward Hilton had commanded his own ship.
Father had been named after Edward Warner, the famous Warner, the man who had defended St Kitts, colonized Antigua, and led the no less famous expedition to Dominica to regain his wife from the Caribs, obtaining for himself a reputation which would live as long as there were white people in the West Indies. A reputation to which Philip Warner perhaps aspired.
And a name his grandmother had loved so well she had used it on her eldest son. There was a strange business. But human relationships were a mystery, to him. He possessed only two: his friendship with Jean, and his love for Susan. She was more a mother than a grandmother to him. She ruled him and she dominated his life. And occasionally she laughed with him and played games with him. Less often nowadays, as they both grew older. But she had taught him to read and write, and told him something of the world. Although always her talk came back to the Leeward Islands and the Warners. Perhaps she should have married Edward Warner. Had she done so, how different would life have been. Philip Warner would have been his uncle, and that girl would have been his cousin, and perhaps he would have worn fine clothes and possessed a similar contempt for those less fortunate than himself.
That girl. He could still feel her, on his shoulder, still feel her thighs, pressing against his chest, her fists drumming on his back. His hands could still feel her too, where they had wrapped themselves around her legs, where they had brushed across the front of her gown. Christ, he had wanted. Had he not thrown her into the water butt he would have thrown her on the ground and raped her in front of everyone. And still the thought of her could bring him up hard and anxious. He was no stranger to women. There were no morals on Tortuga. And often when he and Jean had grown tired of hanging about the tavern listening to the endless lies of the seamen, they had crept round to Madame Hortense, and watched the men lying on the girls, and when business was slack, had been allowed to try their own fortune. 'Make Bettine laugh,' Hortense would say. 'And I will give you a silver coin.' For Bettine had thought herself a cut above the rest; she had not been shipped from Nantes, but had been picked off a sinking ship, south-west of Hispaniola. He remembered the sensation she had caused when she had demanded a passage home. Passages must be earned, and for a woman, in Tortuga, there was only one source of income.
Unless she be Susan Hilton.
But Bettine had inspired no such feelings as had Marguerite Warner. Bcttine had made him feel good, as when he had drunk too much wine. She had not made him want to possess her; certainly not her mind, which was mean and vicious. Perhaps Marguerite Warner's mind was also mean and vicious. But Christ, to look at a woman like that, and know she was all his, bound to his bed as and when he chose, bound to deliver his children, bound to sit opposite to him at dinner—because people like the Warners would sit down to dine every night, he was sure of that. No doubt Grandpapa had thought just that when first he had looked on Grandmama. And what had Grandmama thought?
'Mon Dieu.' Albert DuCasse was peering through the telescope. 'Susan,' he called. 'Jean, call Madame Hilton, if you please. Quickly.'
Kit hurried along the verandah. 'What is the matter, monsieur?'
'What did your grandmother say? That this house will withstand any assault, save that of a cannon?' He handed over the glass.
Kit focussed, watched the Spaniards forming into two lines outside the town. Two columns, of men wearing morions and breastplates, one half armed with pikes and the other with muskets. Their jackets were red and their breeches black. They looked splendid, so many men, all dressed uniformly, all obeying a single command. What must it be like, he wondered, to have command over so many men? And a single woman? It occurred to him that that was all he really sought from life, command, authority. Power.
But behind the two columns a dozen sailors were putting harnesses over their shoulders and round their waists, for being swung ashore from a large pinnace there was a cannon.
'Let me see, Kit.' Susan stood at his shoulder, and he gave her the glass. She watched without changing expression for several seconds, while the wind plucked at her hair. Then she closed the glass, and there was a tightness at her mouth he had not seen before. 'It seems that Bertrand was right.'
'What shall we do. Grandmama?'
Susan looked at the sun, dropping over the mountains of Hispaniola as it sank towards the western horizon. 'We will have to negotiate, I think. But so long as we conceal our strength, that should not be so very difficult. Now inside, everyone, and eat your meal. They will not reach here for at least an hour.' She smiled at them. 'Perhaps they will postpone their attack until tomorrow.'
'In which case we can slip away after dark,' Albert DuCasse suggested.
'And go where, do you think?'
'It is no more than two miles to Hispaniola,' Jean said. 'I am sure we could swim it, under cover of darkness.'
'You could swim it, Jean. And Kit, I have no doubt. And perhaps even your mother and father. My bones are too waterlogged for such a venture. Nor did I elect to remain here merely to sneak away at the first risk of danger. Besides, it will not be necessary. They will be pleased to accept our surrender, set a Spanish flag over us, and depart again. It has all happened before. Now let us eat.'
Not that she wished to. While the others forced themselves to digest she remained by the door, Rufus rubbing himself against her skirt, looking out at the column slowly toiling up the hill, dragging their gun. How slowly
they moved, and how wearily. But how slowly the sun sank. And how tired she suddenly was. She had supposed she was too tired to run away again, and return, to pick up the pieces after the Dons had gone. But that had been pride. And earlier this afternoon she had doubted they could do anything to her that had not been done before. But then she had not been tired. So, perhaps tomorrow she would be less tired.
But they meant to assault tonight. The head of the column, disappeared for a while in the dip below the hilltop, now re-emerged. The distance was scarce two hundred yards. And soon the cannon would also be in place. Hastily she closed the door, seized the musket which stood by it, levelled the heavy piece, and squeezed the trigger. The flint ignited, for a miracle, and the force of the explosion made her stagger. She did not know where the bullet went. But the helmets stopped moving.
Plates clattered and chairs scraped behind her as the men got up.
'A general fire, Grandmama?' Kit asked. 'No,' she said. 'We have shown them that we are here and prepared to defend ourselves. Now is the moment to parley.
Helene, the tablecloth. Tie it to the end of this gun, and I will go out and speak with them.'
'You, Susan?' Albert DuCasse shook his head. 'I have no doubt you will prove a capable leader if we have to fight, but I think this is man's work. I will speak with them.'
She gazed at him for some seconds. 'Be sure ye give an impression of strength, Albert.'
'Be sure that I shall.'
'God go with you. Albert.' Helene kissed him on both cheeks.
'He has, ever in the past, my sweet. Stand to your weapons, boys. I may well come back in haste. Now unbolt the door.'
Kit pulled the bolts, and DuCasse stepped outside. By now the Spaniards were deploying along the top of the ridge, just out of musket range, but well within earshot; the people in the house could hear every word of command, and the principal one was a repeated exhortation to make haste with the cannon. But at the sight of the man with the white flag the chatter ceased. Kit wrapped his fingers around the gun barrel, and found them wet with sweat. He glanced at his grandmother. She stood by the door, frowning with concentration as she looked through the loophole.
Albert DuCasse walked down the path, the musket held in front of him, the breeze extending the tablecloth. An officer, glittering in red and silver, left the ranks of the musketeers and moved forward. He carried a drawn sword. 'You will surrender?' he demanded in French.
'On terms, monsieur,' DuCasse replied. 'There is a fort, more than a house, strongly defended. This is French soil on which you stand. We will surrender to superior force, in accordance with the accepted usages of war.'
'French soil,' the officer said contemptuously. 'Usages of war? You are nothing more than a pirate, and will be treated as such.'
'Oh, God,' Susan whispered.
'I warn you, monsieur,' DuCasse said, his voice steady—if he was afraid he did not show it—'In that house there are many determined men who will not easily be overcome. What value can there be in spilling the blood of your people to gain a victory when an honourable settlement can so easily be achieved?'
'I speak, of no honour with cut-throats,' the officer said. 'Nor do I deal with them, or accept their flags of truce. I spit upon your flag, monsieur. And upon you.'
DuCasse stepped backwards, the musket still held in both his hands. But the Spaniard was already swinging his sword, and the Frenchman wore no armour. The blade flashed in the setting sun and blood spurted.
'Albert,' Helene DuCasse screamed.
Jean said nothing, but they could hear him breathe.
Kit levelled his musket and squeezed the trigger. But the Spaniards were still beyond range. And now the pikemen moved forward, to drive their halberds into the writhing body on the ground, while the white flag fluttered for a last time before falling limp in the dust.
'Albert,' Helene DuCasse whispered.
Susan turned back from the door. 'The fault is mine. As Bertrand warned, the Dons regard us as less than human. Jean, Kit, ye'll take madame and escape out the back. It will be dark in half an hour, and ye will be able to make the beach and that swim. But ye must hurry.'
'Leave you, Grandmama?' Kit demanded.
'For God's sake, boy, will ye help me by dying? What can those men do to me that has not been done before? I have lived in these islands nearly all my life. I know the worst they can offer me. And I will be here when ye come back. Now go. Hclene, ye must hurry.'
Helene DuCasse's face was hard. 'No. I will stay with you, Susan.'
'Mama ..." Jean begged.
'I have said what I will do, Jean. Now take Kit and get down to the beach. It is the men they wish to kill. What profit can there be in destroying women?'
'But they will ...' Jean bit his lip.
'Oh, come now,' Susan protested. 'Ye'd think we were two blushing maids. Be off with ye. I'll have no argument in the matter. But be sure ye come back, when the Dons have gone.'
The boys exchanged glances, but she knew they would go. They were not yet men, and to die was still too large an adventure. A moment later the women heard the back door close.
"Will they get away?' Helene asked. 'It is an empty hillside.'
'So we must provide a suitable distraction.' Susan unbolted the door. 'Are ye ready, Helene?'
The Frenchwoman stared at her. 'Ye mean to go to them?'
'I think it would be better than having them come to us. And besides, if they are looking at us, they cannot possibly be looking at anyone else.'
She threw the door wide and went on to the verandah, Rufus panting at her side. The Spaniards had not advanced, as they were still waiting for the cannon, which at this moment made its appearance over the hilltop. But when they saw the women the line surged forward without orders, and the officer who had killed Albert DuCasse had to run to keep at their front.
They paused, panting, at the foot of the steps, staring from the teeth of the dog to the breasts of the women. 'How many men are inside?' demanded the officer.
'None,' Susan said. 'We had hoped to bluff ye, senor, but as it did not work ...' she shrugged. 'My name is Susan Hilton, and this is ..."
'Hil-ton,' the officer said, pronouncing each syllable with great emphasis. 'You are related to the pirate, Anthony Hilton?'
'I have the honour to be his widow.'
'And this woman is also married to a pirate, no doubt.'
'She is the widow of the man you have just murdered, senor. I should be more polite, were I you.'
'Polite,' the officer said. 'Polite.' He turned to his men. 'You may take them.'
There was a whoop of excited anticipation, and the red and steel wave flowed up the steps, weapons being dropped in their haste to be at their victims. A deep-throated growl from Rufus checked the leaders, but before Susan could silence the dog a pistol barked, and the mastiff gave a yelp and rolled down the steps. Helene shrank against the wall of the house, but Susan stood her ground, was seized by anxious fingers which fastened on her arms and tore away the bodice of her gown, while others dug into her thighs as she was swept from the floor, to be returned there a moment later, all the breath gushing from her body, in a mixture of shock and physical force and fear. But this had happened before. When she had been young. Now her breasts hurt from the unaccustomed violence, and there seemed a great void at her groin.
A voice was shouting, and the fingers were sliding away, reluctantly and with final sly pinches and digs. She gasped for breath and rose on her elbow, gazed at Helene, still pinned against the wall, her dress also torn and her hair dishevelled, but otherwise unharmed. Then she looked at the soldiery, gathered into groups, muttering amongst themselves, faces flushed and hands hastily straightening doublets and breeches, and past them, at the grey-haired senior officer, aquiline face lined and distinguished, and at the black-clad figure who strode at his side as they made their way through the throng.
'Have you no shame?' the priest shouted. 'Are you men, or beasts? Is there no crime of which you are not
capable?'
'These women are surely not whores like those in the village,' the Commandant said.
'They are worse, sir,' the lieutenant declared. 'Admitted wives to pirates themselves. Why, the red-haired one is proud to acknowledge the scoundrel Hilton as her husband.'
'None the less, my son,' the priest said. 'That she is the wife of a pirate, however guilty that may make her before man's law, does not establish her as beyond God's mercy.' He stooped beside Susan. 'Do you understand Spanish, woman?'
'Indeed I do. Father. And I thank God for that, and for you.'
The priest pushed his crucifix towards her face. 'Will you take the cross?'
Susan sat up. 'Gladly, Father. I will not swear I have been a good Catholic. There has not always been time. But I have never lost faith.'
'Then kiss it, and beg God's forgiveness, and not a lustful hand shall be laid on your body.'
'May God bless ye, Father,' Susan said, and did as she was commanded.
'And now you, woman,' the priest said, turning to Helene.
Susan got to her feet. 'And they would spread tales of the blind fanaticism of the Spanish priesthood in these islands. Be sure that I shall ever sing your praises, Father. And be sure too that from this moment forth I shall be the most devout of churchgoers.'
The priest smiled at her, but his eyes were cold. 'I am sure you will be afforded every opportunity, to be devout, senora.' He turned to the Commandant. 'I have done my duty. But mark me well, Don Rodrigo, the man who practises lewdness upon either of these women will suffer eternal damnation.'
The Devil's Own Page 3
