She could hear it now, as she reached the limits of the canefields themselves. But now it was time to be herself, for a night. She knew where she was, exactly, standing by the last of the trees. She stopped, and waited for her breathing to settle. She had walked through the trees with her skirt held high to avoid the snagging branches. Now she lifted the gown over her head, carefully folded it, and placed it on the ground. She wore no shift, and for some moments stood there in the darkness and the gathering damp, naked, arms spread wide, mouth open and nostrils dilating as she breathed, hair tickling her back in the breeze, feeling the moisture gathering on her skin, raising nipple and pore, accumulating desire in her mind.
After some minutes she knelt by the tree and located the box, hidden beneath the great roots. No doubt many people knew it was there, but no one would tamper with the wardrobe of a mamaloi, and especially such a mamaloi. She opened the box, took out the blood-red robe, the blood-red turban for her head. The clothes smelt of damp and of earth, and of blood, too. It was an odour winch, inhaled in the refinement of her drawing-room in the chateau, would have made her retch. But it was an odour which belonged here in the darkness and the damp, which seemed to seep down her nostrils and into the very pit of her lungs, which alerted her every sense.
And now the drum was approaching, but a single beat, this, an almost military cadence, thrilling across the night. Gislane settled the robe on her shoulders, gathered her hair in a series of thick black coils on top of her head, concealed it with the turban. In the box she placed her gown, and then restored the box itself beneath the tree. Then she stepped away from the shade, and took her place in the centre of the path.
For the drum was close, and with it the people. They came up to her, and they bowed, and then reared upright again, and clapped their hands, once, twice as they passed her, and then went on their way, behind the drummer. All save one, who walked erect in their midst, lungs swelling as he breathed, height enhanced by the posturing about him, head turning neither to left nor right, drawn onwards by the throb of the drum, by the embracing power of the drug he had been fed.
There were no other animals, this night.
But now the column was all but past her, saving only those who walked behind. Here were two men, much of a size, tall and strong, so similar in build and in demeanour they might have been brothers. Gislane frowned at them, and stepped between them, joining in the chant as she did so, arching her back to bring her body forward, then rearing back and throwing her arms high into the air above her, joining their movements exactly.
'Do they come?' she whispered, even as she chanted.
'They say the time is not yet,' Boukman replied.
'Then who is this one?'
'His name is Henry. He comes from Toussaint. He bids us be patient.'
'Henri?' Gislane said.
'Henry,' said the tall young man. 'The name was given to me by my first master, in St. Kitts.'
Gislane looked at him more closely. Here was power, only thinly disguised beneath his so obvious youth; she doubted he was any older than she. And he was also English?
'Our people will not wait,' she said. 'You have heard?'
'Of your master's sport,' Henry said. 'We have heard. But the time is not yet. The prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.'
'Prophecy?' she asked.
'It was given on this very plantation,' Henry said.
'By Celeste,' Gislane said. 'But Celeste is dead. How may a mamaloi truly die? Where is the value of this prophecy?'
'Yet will our friends wait upon it,' Henry insisted.
'And our people?' Gislane demanded. They will not wait forever, while they are slaughtered to suit the whim of a madman. Nor will they listen to an Englishman.'
'Then call me Christophe,' Henry said. 'It is the name given to me by my new master. Yet must it be your responsibility to have them wait. If they do not, they will have us all slaughtered, and by the soldiers.'
The drummer had reached the appointed place, a clearing in the canefield, and here he halted, without ceasing his rhythmical beat. The devotees, every man and every woman a person of note in the Negro community, walked round the clearing, to form a wall of humanity, much as the Negroes in Nevis had formed a wall around the clearing on the first occasion she had attended a voodoo ceremony, and thought that she had discovered the secret of all secrets, without understanding that the slaves of Nevis, in their poverty of mind no less than imagination, had no more than aped a memory. But that was an eternity ago, and now she must persuade these people that they obeyed the dictates of their god, by patiently waiting for the day of blood. She knew how she would do this, as she had arranged this evening, the moment she had learned of Corbeau's determination to visit Cap Francois. She knew, but she was not sure she believed.
And the moment was at hand. The drugged Negro had taken his place in the centre of the clearing, sitting cross-legged immediately in the centre of a shaft of moonlight, shoulders square and head erect, body a gleaming testimony to the magnificence that can be man. On either side of him waited a young woman, each holding a palm leaf, bodies rigid with tense expectation. And the drum-beat had altered, perhaps insensibly, reaching ever deeper into the senses, summoning all the powers of belief it possessed.
So then, did she believe? Would she be able to fulfil her sacred mission, as taught her by Boukman?
She walked away from the men, and into the centre of the circle, stood next to the young man. Her head spun with the rhythm of the drum; she knew the frenzied tearing at her self-control which was coming ever closer to the surface. And the drum was getting louder.
She threw her arms to heaven, and shouted. 'Hear me, O mighty one. Hear me, O Serpent, Damballah Oueddo. Hear my prayer, and promise me deliverance for my people.' She paused, and breathed, and listened to the moaning chant which arose from around her. She filled her lungs with air. 'How long, great Agone, Master of all the Oceans of the World, must we wait? Hear me, O mighty lord. Speak to me, great Loco, Lord of the Trees. Grant me and my people thy sign of deliverance. Come to me, Gentle Ezilee, sweet maitresse, and take from my mind, from my body, the very last weakness.' Once again she paused, and now the chant had grown louder. And now sweat ran down her arms and body and legs as if it were raining. And once again her lungs were full. 'Come to me, O mighty Ogone Badagris. Come to my people, O Dreadful One. Lead us to war, as is thy purpose. Grant us an end to all white people. Grant us the mood of hate and cruelty, that their destruction may be known throughout the world, and forever. Grant us revenge, O Dreadful One, for the wrongs that are daily committed upon us. Grant us now a sign, my lords, that our prayers are heeded.'
She gasped, and fell to her knees, exhausted. She felt rather than saw Boukman leave the circle of devotees, knew rather than observed the machete he carried, blade honed to a razor-sharp perfection. She wanted to get up again. She wanted to scream, no, no, no, I did not mean a word of it, I do not understand what power I set in motion here, I do not know ... and now I am afraid, O Mighty Serpent. But she moved nothing, save her head, which slowly came upright, to watch Boukman before the young man, neither man even blinking his eyes, as the hougan threw back his head and screamed to his gods in an unknown tongue, and then whirled the cutlass around his own head, and with a single unbelievable sweep of the razor-sharp sword swept through the neck of the victim.
The head fell forward, and the machete had been dropped. Boukman caught the head, his great hands immediately smeared with blood, while the two girls hastily fanned the still upright, blood-spouting neck with vigorous anxiety; should but a speck of dirt, a single insect, settle on the tortured flesh, the sacrifice would be a failure.
She forced herself to watch. Because I am not seeing, she told herself. I am dreaming, as I surely dreamed that first night on Hodges, as I have surely dreamed ever since. But the blood spurting from the severed arteries held her spellbound.
And now Boukman was advancing again, having held the dripping head high to present it to t
he worshippers. Slowly he advanced, and slowly he replaced the head, carefully, exactly, while in that moment another young woman threw a large piece of red cloth over the dead man.
The dead man? Within seconds his feet began to move, and then his arms, and the throbbing of the drum had resumed command over all their senses. The young man's mask was taken away, and he was unchanged, but shuffling and posturing immediately in front of her, calling her to her feet, calling her to discard her gown, calling her to take his sex as he would take hers. And the drum was reaching a crescendo, even as she was impaled. By a dead man? She clung to his shoulders, nails tight in his flesh, as he whirled her round and round, her feet also lost from the ground, and thrust himself against her, time and again. But she scarce felt him, now, so persistent, so irresistible, was the beat of the drum. And of course it was no more than an illusion, a gigantic trick, perpetrated by the rhythm of the drum, by the mood of the worshippers. A trick in which she had been a willing assistant, their mamaloi. For certainly it could not be real. This thought swung through her mind time and again, as the dancing grew more frenzied, as she lost her young man and found herself with others, and in time as the drummers themselves grew exhausted and she lay beneath the trees, cradled in Boukman's arms, weeping like a babe from overstretched desire and overstretched fear. A trick, an illusion, necessary to bring these people to the pitch where they would kill, and die, and suffer, for their freedom.
Her head was on Boukman's chest, and his chest was wet. She raised a hand, and stroked her chin, and held the finger in front of her eyes, in the moonlight, and looked at the blood. And shuddered.
His hands were on her shoulders. 'It is said how you are the white woman's friend,' he whispered. ‘Nay, her inseparable companion. It is said that you share her bed, and her body.'
'It is the wish of Corbeau,' Gislane whispered. 'And you do not love her?'
Gislane looked at her finger. 'When the time comes,' she whispered, 'I have changed my mind. You may give Corbeau to his people. Give me the woman. Oh, Boukman, grant me that, and they will hear her scream in Africa.'
Boukman's lips brushed hers. 'It shall be. You shall have them both, my woman.'
Movement, and she rolled on her back, her head still resting on her lover's chest. Christophe stood above them.
‘It is good,' he said. 'Ogone Badagris has sent his sign, that he is there, and will listen. Toussaint will be pleased.'
'But still we must wait,' Boukman said.
'It is the prophecy.' Christophe knelt beside them, and slowly reached out. He had not touched her during the dance, and she had wished for it. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen, saving only Boukman himself. But now he touched her, taking first her hair, and then lifting her hand, to look at the white skin, to hold it for a moment against his own. Then he released her, and stood up again. 'Toussaint will be pleased,' he said again, and vanished into the night.
chapter fifteen
THE PROSECUTOR
Bang, bang, bang, went the shutters, each crash accompanied by the rasp of the steel bolts being dropped into place to hold the greenheart timbers against the strongest gusts. And with each bang the house grew darker. Matt could hear the men on the roof, hastily placing boards across the skylights, thudding their nails into the shingles to protect the glass. Christ, how inadequate he felt, when there was so much to be done.
'Papa. There is to be a storm.' Tony raced into the room, as he raced everywhere. 'Maurice says the sky is black.'
Behind him crawled his brother Richard, hardly more than a year old, determinedly following his guide and mentor wherever he could. Both boys were clearly Hiltons, as much in their fair hair as in their features. But then, how could they be anything else?
'Aye.' Matt sank back on the cushions. 'But we will be safe in here. Hilltop has stood up to enough hurricanes in the past.'
Tony crawled on to the couch, leaving poor Dick to scrabble at the legs. 'Were you in them, Papa? Were you? Tell us.'
'I remember one, when I was scarce older than you,' Matt said. 'But that was on Green Grove.' He scratched his son's head, and wondered what the little fellow thought of a father who could hardly move, whom the effort of crawling down a flight of stairs left utterly exhausted. And it was more than twelve months since Mounter had cut the bullet from his chest; the pain remained. He looked at his hands, so thin and wasted. Those hands had once upon a time been able to fell a man like a blow from an axe. Would they ever do so again?
Richard started to cry, a high-pitched wail, as he realized he was not going to be able to reach his brother.
‘You'd best help him,' Matt suggested. He could not even lift his own babe, in safety.
But the wail brought Sue hurrying up the stairs. Her hair was wrapped in a bandanna, and her gown was untidy and stained; she had been working as hard as anyone to prepare the house for the shock of the wind. 'He's not hurt?'
'Just impatient,' Matt said. 'I can hardly blame him for that.'
She scooped the boy from the floor, set him on the couch, stooped to kiss her lover; the divorce was still pending, although there could be no doubt of it now. On the other hand, could he really permit her to marry a cripple?
'You are hot,' she said. "You've not been fretting again?'
'And should I not?' he demanded. 'To lie here, every breath a painful memory, with no news ...'
'Well calm yourself,' she recommended. 'Because today there is news. We have a visitor.'
'Tom.' He sat up, looking past her at the always plump figure in the doorway.
'Matt. You're looking well.'
'Don't lie to me, old friend.'
'But you are. I swear it. Much improved on the last time.'
‘I wish you'd be convinced of that, Matt,' Sue said, and sat beside him. 'It is a miracle you are not dead. How can you expect to snap your fingers and be again the man you were? These things take time.'
'Time. The world does not stand still. Does the chapel prosper, Tom?'
'In its small way. I have a congregation, of sorts. And Manton is a tower of strength.'
'And no assaults?'
'Oh, they have forgotten my existence, with you absent. Although I doubt things will remain that way for long.'
'News?' Matt sat up, and Sue threw her arm around his shoulders.
'These sudden movements are not good for you, sweetheart.' She rang the little brass bell on the table. 'Maurice. We will have some punch.'
'News.' Coke sat on the far end of the couch, removed Richard from around his ankles, and opened his satchel. 'Have you ever heard of a fellow called Clarkson?'
Matt shook his head.
'He cannot be much older than yourself,' Coke said. 'From Cambridge. I thought perhaps you'd have met.' ‘I attended Oxford.'
'All. Well, he has written a pamphlet concerning the ills of slavery. Essay on the Slavery and Commerce of the Human Species, he has called it.'
'And that is news? Some undergraduate has thoughts on slavery?'
'Ah, but he is no longer an undergraduate. And his pamphlet has caused a stir. Questions are being asked in the House of Commons not the Assembly. There is talk of a Parliamentary inquiry into the conditions in the West Indies. Of a society to promote the Abolition of the Trade, at the very least. And not just churchmen, this time.'
Matt took his glass from the tray held by the butler. 'They will talk, and talk, and talk. But they will not do.'
'Now that I cannot say. But I have here a letter from Nevis, for you.'
'Nevis?' Matt snatched at the envelope.
'Dearest,' Sue begged. 'You must control yourself.'
Matt slit the envelope, glanced at the contents. His friends watched the animation drain from his face.
'Well?' Coke demanded.
'It is from Captain Nelson.'
'And is that not good news?'
'Not entirely. He invites us to his wedding, Sue. Should it ever take place.'
'They have not quarrelled?'
'Not they. But he has managed to antagonize every planter in Nevis, and not merely by taking my side in the slavery matter. There is also a small matter of his seizing four American vessels out of Charleston Harbour, for contravening the Navigation Acts. Well, 'tis certain they were breaking the law. But I do not recall even Rodney being so bold in time of peace.'
'And the other business?' Sue asked. 'The indictment of Hodge?'
'Nothing. Loman had of course to refer the matter to his Governor, in Antigua, and Shirley sits, and waits. Nelson says, "the rumour is that he waits for you to be strong enough to take the stand." Then will he wait forever, no doubt. But he says more. "To be frank with you, Matt, I cannot pretend to be sorry that your cause, and more especially Fanny's testimony, has come to rest in a pigeon-hole. It will certainly cause some tumult here. And Nevis is at last promised prosperity. A hot spring has been discovered, bubbling out of the mountain, with the most marvellous health-giving qualities, it is said. People are already speaking of Fanny's little island as the Bath of the West Indies." There speaks a friend.'
HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness Page 46
