HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  'Whoa,' he bellowed. 'Come to, you devilish beasts. Christ curse you for a couple of hellhounds.'

  The horses panted to a halt, and Robert sucked air into his lungs and allowed it to explode in a gush of relief.

  'By God,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'I thought we were for the ditch.'

  He whipped off his bicorne and fanned himself, inserting his finger into the high velvet collar of his brown tailcoat to remove a layer of sweat, and then slowly subsided back into his seat. He was a big man, with heavy shoulders and long powerful legs which were well displayed by his close-fitting leather boots. He wore no wig, and revealed only a wisp or two of grey threads in the rich brown of his hair. Between the untidy thatch and the heavy body the small face surprised; the features were neat, with fine nose and narrow mouth, and pointed chin - at forty there was only a trace of jowl - and the whole was conditioned by the heavy suntan which rendered his complexion almost mahogany. Only the eyes disappointed; pale blue, they were cold and angry, daring the world to challenge or even to argue. Now he flicked the whip, and the stallions reluctantly began to move.

  'Whatever can have caused that noise?' Georgiana's voice was high. 'It sounded like a riot.' She was his stepsister, and looked it, but on her the Hilton features amounted very nearly to beauty, and her eyes, a deeper shade of blue, sparkled with amusement, immediately at the thought of her stepbrother driving his equipage into a mob, but generally at the sheer prospect of being alive in a summer's afternoon in the year of Our Lord 1780. She wore a deep blue redingote over a pink summer gown, topped the whole with a high green felt hat bestrewn with ribbons, and exuded perfume. Her light brown hair was undressed, and lay straight on her shoulders. The critical observer would only ever be able to find fault with the dusting of freckles which covered the pale skin of her face, indicating that she also came from a tropical climate.

  'Aye,' Robert agreed, forcing the horses into a trot. 'And no doubt Master Matthew is involved. I never doubted that boy would cause more trouble than he's worth.'

  Georgiana Hilton merely smiled, and craned her neck as the phaeton rounded the corner and came in sight of the village green, beyond which the bright pink walls of the Admiral Vernon public house stood up like a beacon. The steps of the inn were crowded, as were the windows, and these spectators merely overlooked the dense ring of people, housewives and farmers, shepherds and clerks, which surrounded the field itself. Nor were only the peasantry represented; on the far side were two crested coaches and a cluster of men dressed in the height of fashion.

  And all were staring at the spectacle before them with rapt attention, at least until interrupted by the rattling arrival of the phaeton.

  'Whatever can they be doing?' Georgiana wondered.

  For the men on the green appeared to be indulging in some slow and rhythmic ritual. There were fifteen of them altogether, coatless, mostly wearing white breeches and stockings, although their shirts were of several different colours, and sporting the new-fashioned tall beaver hats. They stood around the field, some crouching, some lounging, and one in particular, a tall young man, posing before two sticks set in the ground and surmounted by a cross piece; he carried a large, curved length of wood, which he held in front of him like a club.

  'By God,' Robert shouted. 'It’s Matt.'

  His shout, coupled with the noisy arrival of his coach and team, momentarily distracted the crowd. And annoyed it. A chorus of boos and hisses rose from the inn, and a peremptory 'Be quiet, sir,' from the knot of gentlemen.

  'By God,' Robert said, having never been addressed like that in his adult life. 'By God.'

  But he was so amazed he did speak quietly, and the ritual was proceeding. Another man, standing perhaps twenty-five yards from the boy with the club, at the end of a length of grass which had been carefully smoothed, took a couple of quick steps forward, and swung his arm downward from the shoulder to release a small hard ball which shot along the ground towards his opponent, bumping and jumping.

  The young man watched it approach, and as it came up to him, swung his club. Down came the thick, curved end, picked up the ball, and sent it flying into the trees. Once again an explosion of noise enveloped the village and distressed the rooks. The young man took to flight, bounding over the pitch towards the man who had bowled at him, passing on the way another young man, also carrying a club; he grounded his weapon beneath the two sticks at the bowler's end, and then turned and ran back again, while the crowd bayed its delight, shouting 'tich and turn', 'tich and turn' as one of the lounging men raced behind the ball, his tall hat falling off in the effort.

  Up and down ran the men with clubs, crossing each other several times, until the ball was at last returned and they stood up at each end of the smoothed ground, panting for breath, while the cheers of the crowd slowly subsided and the short man prepared to deliver another ball. Robert meanwhile had guided the phaeton, the horses now at a walk, around the back of the concourse, until he had reached the carriages. 'But what form of devilry is this?' he demanded at large.

  'Devilry, sir?' The man who replied was the vicar. 'You'll find none of that in Dorking. Have you no knowledge of cricket?' He observed Georgiana. and raised his hat.

  'Cricket?' Robert demanded. 'Cricket?'

  'God damn, sir.' said one of the gentlemen, turning away from the game. 'You are a confoundedly loud fellow. If you have no interest in the match, take yourself off.' He also noticed Georgiana, and raised his hat. 'Your servant, madam.'

  'By God,' Robert said again, stepping down, and away from the horses. He moved stiffly, with a limp in his left leg, but there could be no gainsaying the strength of his shoulders. 'You'll repeat those words, sir.'

  'Your Grace,' the vicar hissed, and then repeated himself, this time as a question. 'Your Grace?'

  For the nobleman was frowning with bewilderment rather than offence. 'Your name will not be Hilton?'

  'It is that,' Robert agreed, his mouth relaxing. 'Robert Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica.'

  'Gad, sir,' said the Duke. 'Billy Beckford has told me enough about you. And you're cousin to our young hero. Why, sir, here is my hand, and proud am I to take yours.'

  Robert shook hands. 'You have the advantage of me, your Grace.'

  'Sackville, of Dorset.' The Duke gave a wry smile.

  'Why,' Robert said, 'the very man I have crossed the ocean to see, amongst others.'

  'I think you mean my cousin George,' the Duke said. 'But he has spoken of you also. You nabobs carry too much weight in the Commons, to be sure. Fear not, Mr. Hilton, the war will end, and successfully. There was never a time old England could not lick the French and the Spanish and a parcel of rebellious colonists, altogether. But you'll agree business must wait on cricket. Why, sir, 'tis all the pleasure a man may find in this muddled age. And we need but seven to win.'

  'And there it goes,' the vicar shouted, his voice lost in the howl of joy from the crowd. For the ball had been hoisted high over their heads and into the trees, and the two young men were running to and fro as fast as they could.

  'Five,' Dorset shouted.

  'Six,' the vicar bawled.

  'Seven,' roared the crowd.1 Tis a win. 'Tis a win.'

  'By but a single wicket.' The Duke removed his tricorne, and then his wig, and mopped his shaved scalp with a silk handkerchief. 'If you had asked me, sir, whether I'd hedge my bets but half an hour ago, I'd have been happy to do so. God damn, sir, I'd rather lick Dick Nyren than Washington himself.'

  'You'll have to explain it to me,' Robert decided. The green was now entirely filled with shouting, cheering villagers, and the young man who had struck the final blow was being lifted on to their shoulders.

  'Why, sir, those men out there are of the Hambledon club,' Dorset said.

  'The premier cricket club in all the world, sir,' the vicar explained. 'Why, sir, they have beaten the rest of England added together.'

  'But not the men of Dorking village, eh,' Dorset said. 'Thanks to Matt. Boy, you have
saved me four hundred pound and earned me double that. Name your reward.’

  'A mug of ale, your Grace, will save my life.' The winning batsman was deposited in front of the nobleman, still panting for breath, his expression slowly changing to amazement as he discovered the presence of Robert Hilton. 'Robert? Can it be you? But you are in Jamaica.'

  'By God, boy, but your brain is fuddled,' Robert said. ‘I am here. And right glad to see you.' He took the boy's hands, 'Even if it is to watch you making a fool of yourself.'

  'A fool?' Matt smiled. He did so readily, and this was the principal difference between the two men, apart from age; Matt was only twenty. As tall as Robert, he was well shouldered but more slender in the thigh, and he moved with an athletic freedom which contrasted with the older man's hesitation. His features were undeniably Hilton, but his chin was bigger and his mouth wider, and his grey-green eyes lively and confident. 'Cricket is the life-blood of old England.'

  'Never was a truer word spoken.' The Duke of Dorset himself presented Matt with a jug of foaming ale. 'And here's a little something for your trouble, eh, lad?' The bag jingled.

  'Then 'tis a lucrative profession?' Robert demanded.

  But Matt, having drunk, had looked at the phaeton. 'Georgiana!' He ran towards the coach, seized her gloved hands to kiss them.

  ‘I thought I was but a speck of dust on the woodwork,' she complained. 'Oh, but Matt, it is so good to see you. And you are well? We have been so worried, all these tales of riot and bloodshed...'

  'In the City,' he said reassuringly. 'At Oxford, and here in Dorking, my lord of Gordon is but a name, and as for the London mob, it has long been known for its erratic violence. But you, if only I had known you were coming.'

  'We wrote.'

  'And I never received the letter.'

  'Privateers,' the vicar said sombrely. 'The French are making a slaughter off the west coast. And all the fault of...' he glanced at the Duke. 'No politics, your Grace. No politics.'

  'We'll not waste the afternoon.' Dorset agreed. 'You'll call, Mr. Hilton. Beckford claims you're the most forward-thinking planter in the West Indies, as well as the wealthiest. We could use your brains, and your money. You'll call. Matt, my thanks again.'

  He climbed into his carriage.

  'By God,' Hilton said. 'Is this how he spends his time, with a war on?'

  'A man must have leisure, Mr. Hilton,' the vicar said. 'Now, you'll dine with me, of course.'

  ‘I am returning to town this instant, sir. I but sought my cousin. And having found him, I will take him back with me.'

  'But...' Matt glanced at the parson, and received a quick shake of the head. 'You will give me time to fetch my things? I have been spending the holidays here.'

  'If you make haste,' Robert said, limping towards the phaeton. ‘I doubt there is room for three. He will have to ride on the back.'

  'Oh, fie on you, Robert,' Georgiana said. 'After six years? We shall squeeze in, I have no doubt at all.'

  'Cricket/ Robert Hilton cracked the whip, and the phaeton gathered speed. 'By God, I could believe neither my eyes nor my ears. Is this what they taught you at Eton? It was different in my day.'

  'I'll construe you a Greek sentence, if you wish.' Matt was pressed against the outside of the coach as it rumbled towards London, his right arm round Georgiana's waist; she huddled against him, her hat askew, her head resting on his shoulder. 'But it is so good to see you all again. Six years. Georgiana, why you were ...'

  'Skinny as a rake,' she said happily. 'I've filled out, wouldn't you say. Matt?’

  'Well...'

  'She's a right hussy,' Robert grumbled. 'We'll talk of it later.'

  'But what has brought you all the way to England, with the French privateers so active? And with the Yankees, I've heard, no less busy amongst the islands.'

  'That for one thing,' Robert said. 'They are costing me money. Why, do you realize, boy, that better than nine hundred of my blacks starved to death over this last year? Taking both Hilltop and Green Grove, you understand.'

  'Starved to death?' Matt was incredulous. 'But ... how did you survive?'

  'Oh, we survived well enough,' Robert said. 'The food can be got, at a price. Ships do get through. But the price is not economical for feeding blacks. Of course I went for the old ones, but had to let some of the piccaninnies go too. There's part of our future, your future, Matt, just frittered away by this tiresome government of ours.'

  Matt discovered that his hand was embracing something soft, as Georgiana had shifted her position. Hastily he removed his fingers to her arm, 'But... you mean you let them starve to death? Near a thousand people?'

  'For God's sake boy, would you have me sacrifice my profit? I didn't like it. By God, with the privateers active fresh blood is damned difficult to get. So I'm joining the West India lobby for a season. Billy Beckford's idea. If the government really means to roll up the colonies from Georgia north, it will take them ten years, and that will bankrupt the lot of us.'

  Matt looked down at Georgiana to see if the thought of deliberately allowing more than nine hundred men, women and children to die of starvation distressed her in any way, and she smiled and pouted at him,' allowing her tongue to appear between her teeth for a moment before withdrawing it. Georgiana had been thirteen when last they had met, and they had played together in the dust outside the Great House in the shadow of the Blue Mountains. 'And how is Suzanne?'

  'Contented, I am sure,' Robert grunted, pulling on the reins as the phaeton entered another village and sent sparks flashing from the cobbles. 'She has a husband, a comfortable home, and the Dutch are neutral. What more could a girl want.'

  'She doesn't love him,' Georgiana muttered.

  'God's teeth,' Robert declared. 'What has that got to do With it, you stupid whore. Dirk Huys is my oldest friend. By God, I'd call him my only friend. He's a good man, and Sue will make him a good wife. I wish to Christ you had as much sense.'

  Georgiana shrugged, moving her entire body up and down Matt's vest.

  'Whore,' Robert growled. 'That's what she is, Matt. A damnable whore.'

  'I'm sure ...' Matt began, somewhat uncertainly, as Georgiana did not seem unduly disturbed by the stream of invective.

  'She's to be whipped every day for a year,' Robert said, trying out his arm on the horses' backs. 'If I'm not here, you must do it.'

  'Eh?'

  'Oh, you must,' Georgiana said. ‘I am a very naughty girl.'

  'By God,' Robert shouted. 'She thinks it is a game. She's had a ramrod up there, Matt. By God she has, and not a husband in sight. That were bad enough. But it was a nigger. By Christ. I all but puked my guts when I learned of it.'

  'Good Lord.' Watt looked down at his cousin. Georgiana winked. 'You're joking.'

  'Joking? Joking? God's teeth, I wish I were.' 'But ...' Matt scratched his head, 'Georgiana? What of the man?'

  'Boy,' she said sulkily. 'Robert hanged him.'

  'But I taught him a lesson,' Robert snorted. 'Gelded him myself, I did. And then took him to a tree. By God, he was lucky at that.'

  Matt found a handkerchief and wiped his brow. 'You have a strong stomach.'

  ' 'Tis a thick skin I need the more. Do you know I've been pilloried in the Jamaica press?'

  'Well,' Matt said. 'I suppose the boy needed punishment, and should have been whipped ...'

  'Whipped? By Christ, boy, but I despair. Truly I do. When I am dead and gone I see this sad world dissolving into ruin. Whipped, for raping a white woman?'

  'It was not rape,' Georgiana said. 'If anyone should have been hanged it should have been me.'

  'You mean you wanted to?' Matt asked in amazement.

  'You should have seen his tool,' Georgiana said. ‘It was a dream.'

  'Hussy!' Robert shouted, dragging on the reins. 'I'll have at her now, by Christ. I'll take the skin from her arse. I'll...'

  'I'm sure she is joking,' Matt said. 'And the hour is late. We'd best be getting on. There are footpads on these heat
hs close to town.'

  'Ah, bah,' Robert declared. But he flicked the whip again. 'I've pistols. And so have you, no doubt.' 'I'm afraid I do not,' Matt said.

  'Eh?' It was Robert's turn to be amazed. 'You've no weapons?'

  'I've my fists. They serve for most purposes. I train with Mr. Broughton.'

  'Mr. Broughton? Mr. Broughton? God Almighty, what is to become of us? The government intent on ruining us, a sister who is a whore, and an heir who is scarce better than a macaroni? Father will be rolling in his grave.'