HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  The door burst open, and there were people. How many people. The room was suddenly crowded with humanity, with sweat, with noise, and with blood. They looked around them in questing surprise, at the still women, the staring children. Then one gave a whoop, and rolled what seemed to be a ball across the floor. But it was no ball; it was Seraphine Romain's head.

  'Wait.' The mamaloi came in, her red robe darker where she had knelt in blood, her white hands stained the colour of rust. The men, and women, stared at her, and obeyed. But her face was the most terrible thing Sue had ever seen.

  'Gislane,' Georgiana screamed, throwing herself from the bed. 'Gislane.' She fell to the floor, her nightgown flurrying around her. 'Gislane.'

  Time stood still as Gislane gazed at her, as her tongue came out and circled her lips in a gesture perhaps copied from her victim, as a variety of emotions crossed that normally impassive face, as Georgiana understood that she was about to die, painfully, and threw back her head to utter a wail which seemed to echo through the house even above the tumult.

  'She is yours,' Gislane said. 'You know what to do.'

  The men descended upon Georgiana like a pack of wolves, as indeed they were, Sue thought, amazed at her own detachment. They worried her while they growled, and she screamed, and again, each wave of tortured sound a peal of hate and fear which bounced off the ceiling. But she was gone, carried along the corridor, no more than a pale leg feebly kicking. Mademoiselle Tantan had also disappeared in the mob. Sue hugged the boys tighter, and watched the babe thrown in the air as the bed collapsed, to drop upon an upturned sword with a bewildered wail. It will be quick, she thought. It will be quick.

  She saw faces, and felt hands. She shut her eyes and heard Tony yelling, felt his nails scour her flesh as he was torn away from her grasp. She was seized, by her hair and her neck, by her arms and her gown, by her thighs and her legs, and struck the floor. And was suddenly released, and found herself on her back, already naked from the waist down, staring at the faces, staring at Gislane.

  'Oh, God,' she said. By now she should have been dead.

  The mustee stared at her. 'Matt's woman,' she said.

  'Oh, God,' Sue whispered. She wants me to beg her, she thought. She wants me to beg. Desperately she turned her head, to and fro, saw Dick and Tony, still alive, but held in angry black hands.

  'Matt's woman,' Gislane said. 'I dreamed of taking the skin from your body, slowly, myself, when this day came.'

  'Oh, God,' Sue muttered.

  Gislane's shoulders drooped. 'Matt's woman,' she said. 'Then die, like a woman.' She turned away, but the hands did not return. In their place Sue stared at Henry Christophe.

  chapter seventeen

  THE MAMALOI

  'The fact is,' Coke wrote, 'probably the most sacred tenet held by any English gentleman is the right of property. Oh, they are perfectly willing to accept that the day of owning human property in England is well past, but what is happening in France is making the majority wonder whether it should not be restored. And of course the West Indian lobby has lost no time in pointing out that to free the slaves in the Caribbean would mean immediate disaster, as they would not work, and would certainly revolt and destroy all the real property they could lay hands on. The news of Hodge's condemnation and execution has been received here with mixed feelings, and there is a goodly body of opinion which considers he was hardly done by. What is needed is someone of forceful character who can reveal the actual state of affairs. I am put up often enough as a speaker, but I am afraid I lack conviction, and too often the charge is made that as I am a Methodist I am necessarily prejudiced. If it were possible to persuade you, Matt, to return here and continue the fight from perhaps the Commons, I would be the happiest man alive.'

  'Well?' Robert had also been sifting through his mail.

  'It is from Tom Coke,' Matt said. 'Our cause goes badly. Public opinion is being swayed against us by the excesses of the French.'

  'Our cause?' Robert inquired. 'Your cause, you mean.' 'But...'

  'I intervened to send a scoundrel to the gallows. Nothing more. Your projects are ruinous. Worse, they are dangerous.' Matt sighed. 'It is that misconception we are labouring to alter. Tom feels we need a knowledgeable voice in the Commons. Perhaps mine.'

  'You, in the Commons? Bah. I'll not support you. Why is there no letter from Sue?'

  'I cannot say,' Matt said, and got up.

  'Isn't it a month? By God, Georgy should have been delivered again by now.'

  Then Sue will soon be back with us,' Matt said. 'She stated her intention only of remaining on Rio Blanco until Georgy was again safe.' But he walked to the window, gazed at the canefields. It was August, and the hurricane season would soon be upon them. Sue should have returned by now, or it might be safer for her to remain until November.

  'But you worry,' Robert said.

  'Should I not?'

  'Oh, aye. Especially when she is living with that fellow Corbeau.'

  'Really, Robert, I find your expression singularly ill-chosen,' Matt remarked. 'Just as I find your attitude towards Louis extremely equivocal. He is my friend, and Sue's as well. He is your brother-in-law, and I seem to recall that you were so happy to obtain him in that role you made him your heir ...'

  'Not him,' Robert growled. 'His son.'

  'Which will amount to the same thing. And yet you talk of him constantly as if you loathed the fellow.'

  'I do not trust him,' Robert said. 'I have never trusted him.' He got up, stalked around the table, joined his cousin at the window. 'I did not enjoy making him my heir. But what was I to do? Leave all this, Green Grove, all we have accumulated over so many years, to a madman like yourself? Were you to show but an iota of common sense, of loyalty to the family, even ...'

  'And have me display myself as a hypocrite to the world,' Matt said. 'But I would like to pay him a visit, if I may. If you will allow me the use of your sloop.'

  'Aha,' Robert said. 'You are also wondering how Sue has managed to amuse herself, these last six months.'

  'I find your mind quite diseased,' Matt said. 'It so happens that I have never visited Rio Blanco, that if Sue is going to return with my sons while there is the possibility of a storm I should like to be personally responsible, and that if we are going to weather the French revolutionary setback it will be necessary to know more about the situation in France, and I imagine Louis is as knowledgeable on that subject as anyone I am likely to discover in the Caribbean.'

  'Aha,' Robert said again. 'Specious talk. Oh, take the sloop. Maybe discovering something about the disadvantages of promoting a revolution will knock some sense into your head. There is a sorry looking sight.'

  Matt looked down the drive, at a horseman who walked his mount slowly towards the house. The animal was clearly blown, and scarcely able to put one foot in front of the other. And the rider, untidy and dusty, seemed hardly able to lift his head.

  'Caiman, by heaven,' Matt said.

  Robert frowned short-sightedly. 'Destroying one of my animals? By God, the scoundrel. I'll have him ...'

  'From Cap Francois, I'll wager,' Matt said, running from the room. 'Georgy may have miscarried. Or worse.' He took the steps three at a time, shouldered Maurice out of the way, ran on to the verandah to gaze at the sea captain. 'Caiman,' he shouted. 'What has happened, man? What?'

  The horse came to a stop, and Caiman rather fell than dismounted. Fortunately two of the yardboys stood ready to catch him.

  'Punch,' Robert bellowed. 'Punch, Maurice, you black devil. Caiman. Are you ill?'

  Caiman stood at the foot of the steps. 'Cap Francois,' he said. 'St. Domingue...'

  'Eh?' Robert shouted. 'St. Domingue? What has happened to St. Domingue?'

  Maurice appeared on the verandah with a mug of punch.

  ‘You'd best have a drink, man,' Matt said. 'It will settle your nerves. What has happened there? Yellow fever? A storm? We've seen no cloud.'

  Caiman shook his head, seized the goblet, drained it,
and gasped. 'A revolt.'

  That mulatto business, you mean?' Robert demanded.

  'Why we heard of that. And were told it was suppressed easily enough.'

  'That one, Mr. Robert. That one. Now the Negroes are in arms.'

  'Eh? What did you say?'

  'The slaves?' Matt's heart gave a sudden lurch.

  'Aye, Mr. Matthew. The ...' Caiman glanced at Maurice, who waited, face impassive.

  'You'd best come inside,' Robert decided, and seized the captain's arm to hurry him up the stairs. 'Away with you, Maurice,' he shouted, pushing Caiman into the withdrawing-room. 'Now sit you down, man, and talk sense.'

  Caiman sat down, glanced from one to the other of the two men standing above him. 'There has been a revolt amongst the Negroes,' he said, speaking more calmly. 'On the north side of the colony, but it is supposed to be spreading.'

  'Supposed?' Robert demanded. 'Supposed? Who leads this revolt?'

  'Who knows?' Caiman said. 'The name most used is Boukman. A voodoo priest, they say. But the revolt is real enough, Mr. Robert. It seems to have begun on Morains Plantation, and spread from there to Rio Blanco ...'

  'Rio Blanco?' Matt snapped. 'What news of there?'

  'Why, sir, none.'

  'What?' Robert demanded. 'What? Has not the military been used?'

  'Oh, aye, Mr. Robert. They were called out the moment we saw the smoke in the sky...'

  'The smoke?' Matt muttered. 'Oh, Christ Almighty.'

  'Go on, man, go on,' Robert insisted.

  'Well, sir, the cavalry were mounted and sent away, and were stopped by musketry, sir, and then approached by a large body of blacks, all armed and shouting threats. They deemed it best to retreat, sir.'

  'To retreat?' Matt shouted. 'Leaving the plantations in the hands of the insurgents?'

  Caiman sighed. 'That is what they did, sir. And since then, why Cap Francois has been virtually in a state of siege. Patrols have been sent out, and fired upon within a mile of the walls. An assault is daily expected.'

  'By blacks?' Robert inquired in wonder. 'On a fortified city?'

  'But the plantations, man,' Matt begged. 'What of Rio Blanco?'

  'Well, sir, Mr. Matthew, as I say ...' 'No news?' Robert shouted. 'No news? You mean they do not know?'

  'The chateau could still be under siege,' Matt said.

  'Well, sir,' Caiman said, looking utterly distressed, "tis thought that is unlikely. Some refugees reached Cap Francois from Le Chambre, and that is much closer to town than Rio Blanco or Morains, and Le Chambre definitely fell.'

  'And what happened there?' Matt seized the captain's collar. 'What happened?'

  'There was a massacre, Mr. Matthew. It is too horrible a tale to tell.'

  'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.'

  'But you do not know,' Matt insisted. 'No one knows. Caiman, you'll navigate me back there?'

  'Oh, aye, Mr. Matthew. I've caught my breath.'

  'You'll allow me the use of the sloop, Robert,' Matt said.

  'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. Allow you the use of the sloop, Matt? I shall master her myself.'

  'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He peered through his telescope at the smoke pall which hung above Cap Frangois.

  'At least the city still stands,' Matt said, identifying the flags.

  'Or it is some ruse on the part of the insurgents,' Caiman muttered.

  'Come, come, sir, you grant these black fellows far too much ability and cunning,' Robert declared. 'Stand in, man, stand in. The sooner we are ashore the better.'

  Sail was shortened, and the Desiree altered course to enter the harbour. This was all but deserted; clearly every ship with a cargo had been evacuated - those that remained were equally clearly empty, and being retained by the authorities for the removal of the white women and children, should the worst befall. And that this could happen was equally clear. As the sloop approached the docks those on board could hear the rattle of musketry and the deeper boom of cannon.

  'A battle, by God,' Robert shouted, his face purple with excitement. 'I have never been in a battle. By God, what fun it will be.'

  Matt wiped the sweat from his forehead. This would be nothing like the Saintes, where two Christian adversaries had done their best to destroy each other for nearly a week, and then, the issue decided, had settled down once again to live like civilized opponents. This issue would be decided either on the gallows and the wheel, or in the charnel house that would be Cap Francois, should the city fall.

  'You'll arm your men, Caiman,' Robert decided, as the anchor was let go and the jolly-boat swung out. 'And put back again for a second load. Volunteers only.'

  'But...' Caiman gazed at Matt. The crew of the Desiree was composed of slaves.

  'They are English, by God,' Robert declared. 'Those people out there are French. There can be no liaison between them. Now let us make haste.'

  The boat pulled for the shore. Now it was possible to see that parts of the city were burning, and although it was not yet midday, the pall of smoke which hung across the sky, drifting slowly on the gentle breeze, quite disguised the sun.

  'Your business, messieurs?' shouted a soldier from the dockside. 'No blacks may land here.'

  'By God,' Robert said, and jumped ashore. 'You'll not refuse me, by God. We are come to assist you.'

  'How goes the battle?' Matt asked.

  The corporal shrugged. 'We are holding them, monsieur. That is the fourth assault. You must grant them courage. Men and women, monsieur. Even some children. They come at us like people possessed. Indeed, they are possessed, as it is said they are inspired entirely by witchcraft.'

  'What news of the coast?'

  'There is no news of the coast, monsieur. But it is in black hands. That is all I know. Perhaps the colonel...'

  'Where is this fellow?' Robert demanded.

  The corporal looked shocked. 'On the wall, monsieur. Where else?'

  'We'll see him. Come, man, our own people are involved.'

  The corporal hesitated, then called one of his guard. 'The white men,' he said. 'Not the blacks.'

  'But surely you have blacks inside the city?' Matt asked.

  'Oh, indeed, monseiur. Some we have hanged, the rest are imprisoned.'

  'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. There is a pretty situation, if you like.' But he hurried behind the soldier, followed by Matt, while Caiman took the jolly-boat back to the ship. They made their way through empty streets and between shuttered houses, although occasionally a window was opened and a face looked out. Always a female face, frightened and distraught. The only men to be seen were street-corner patrols, making sure of internal discipline. At each the little party was stopped, and the soldier had to explain the names and intentions of the two Englishmen. And now, as noon arrived, the rain began, sucked down from the mountain-tops by the heat and the cataclysm on the plain, to rattle on the paving-stones with a consistency which even drowned the sounds of the muskets.

  But it was hot rain, and caused the equally hot stones to steam, and it was a hot day, as the breeze entirely died; they sweated from within while their clothes were soaked from without.

  'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. But this climate is worse than Jamaica.'

  'The very heavens wish to take part in our struggle, monsieur,' said the soldier.

  They reached the foot of the walls, and found themselves in the midst of dozens of bodies, soldiers and armed civilians, some dead, others wounded, lying in what shade they could procure, groaning and cursing, calling out for water. The surgeons and female volunteers moved around them, relieving where they could.

  ‘I seek Colonel Morhan,' the soldier said. 'I seek Colonel Morhan.'

  'On the wall,' he was told. 'On the wall.'

  He led them up the steps, and was checked by a bayonet. 'Only combatants on the wall. You know that, soldier.'

  'I have two Englishmen,' the soldier explained, and shrugged, as if to indicate to his comrade he was not responsible.

  'Volunteers,'
Matt said. 'We have arms.'

  'By God,' Robert said. 'Oh, aye, we'll volunteer.'

  'We wish to see Colonel Morhan.'

  The sentry hesitated, and then shouldered his musket, and they emerged on to the comparative coolness of the wall itself, immediately finding themselves opposite an embrasure, through which they could not resist an inspection of the field. For the battle had died away, as the pouring rain had soaked the insurgents' powder.