HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  Kit went up the steps and handed his hat to the waiting girl. The house was quiet, and cool, and sweet smelling. The house was the Green Grove he loved. The house and its inmate. But to come back here and claim that inmate, he must ride the fields, and the people in them.

  'Where is the mistress?' he asked.

  'She taking she bath, Captin,' the girl said, and simpered.

  Kit nodded, climbed the stairs to the bedchamber used for her tub; it contained nothing else save a gigantic mirror and a low table. From behind the closed door there came the sounds of splashing and the chatter of the girls. But Martha Louise waited outside the door. For him. Because as he approached she knocked, and the sounds within immediately died.

  'The master is here,' she said.

  Hands clapped, and the door opened. Five girls came running out, their hands still wet, and their dresses also soaked. They giggled and bowed, and scattered towards the servants' staircase.

  'You is to go in, Captin,' Martha Louise said, and drew the back of her hand across her nose; she seemed to have caught a cold.

  Kit nodded, hesitated for a last moment, and then stepped through the door, which promptly closed behind him.

  'I am the victor,' Marguerite said. She sat in the huge tin tub, which was some four feet in diameter, and round, and filled with bubbling suds. Her hair was bound up on the top of her head to expose that splendid, strong face, but for the rest she was almost lost to sight beneath the bubbles. 'Pour some sangaree, my darling.'

  Kit obeyed; the jug and the glasses waited on the low table.

  'Now give me a sip.'

  He knelt beside the tub, held the glass to her lips. She drank, and smiled at him. 'Did I ever tell you how happy I am, Kit?' she asked. 'Just to look at you, and know you are there. Just to know that this body belongs to you, and will always do so.'

  Her eyes held his. She was fighting a battle, with all the intensity of her body, of her mind, with all the power that she could command. But it was a battle for which she had prepared, for at least a month. Whereas he had stumbled into an ambush, unawares.

  Nor would she admit less than a total victory. 'And as I won our race,' she said, 'I claim a forfeit. A duty of you, my sweet. I have sent my girls away. I would have you bathe me. Would you not do that, as a forfeit?'

  He placed the glass on the floor, empty. As he had drunk he had tasted her perfume, or so it seemed. Now he took off his coat and pushed up his sleeves. Because how much did he want to touch that body? How much had everything he had seen and heard and smelt this morning made him want to renew his possession of that body.

  And besides, she was the victor.

  'What's this?' Kit stepped out of the front door, flicking his boots with his riding whip; it was remarkable how easily one picked up the habits of the planters and the overseers. 'A carriage?'

  'Did you not know that we possessed a carriage?' Marguerite smiled. 'It is housed in that shed yonder.'

  'Then you do not mean to go aback today?' But now he looked at her more closely he could see that indeed she did not, for she had abandoned her divided skirt and her boots and her tricorne in favour of a dark blue taffeta gown decorated with cream silk cuffs and matching bows, and wore lace on her head, while her hair was dressed, although loose. And she carried a fan and a cane.

  'A surprise,' she said. 'Do you not realize, my sweet, that for six whole months I have not been to St John's? The only occasions on which I have left my plantation have been to visit Goodwood. But now ... now that I am a bride of a fortnight and more, I thought we might venture forth and show ourselves to the idle populace.'

  'St John's?' His heart bounded at the thought. Now why? Had he then been a prisoner? Oh, indeed, in the most splendid prison imaginable. But now he was more master of his surroundings; practice had even taught him to sit a horse at more than a walk. The flogging of a recalcitrant slave no longer had him trembling, as the sight of the blacks' nudity and desires no longer aroused his own manhood. He had realized that he could reconcile his present position with his innermost ambitions. For the slaves on Green Grove were undoubtedly healthy, and cared for, and in so far as a slave could ever be happy, they were happy. Certainly their lot seemed infinitely preferable to those of any other plantation, nor did it seem to interrupt their concept of themselves to be treated as animals. Because at the very least they were treated as valuable animals, and in that sense protected from the worst evils of climate and human frailty. Whereas on most other plantations in Antigua their lot fluctuated between total neglect and a constant apprehension of the worst of human vices, which reached out to encompass all ages and both sexes, and varied from lust to sadistic brutality.

  And for looking after her slaves as she cared for her horses and indeed for her cane itself, Marguerite was feared and disliked by her fellows. Well, then, he was proud to stand at her side, now and always.

  'As the idea pleases you, my sweet,' she said, 'I suggest you sit beside me. I shall be attending the auction, Dutton, as I am going that way. You will join me with the wagon in an hour.'

  'Yes, Mistress Hilton,' the overseer said, and touched his hat. A man to watch, Dutton, with his constant smile, and his determination to take orders from none but his mistress.

  As Marguerite had noticed. She settled herself comfortably as the carriage moved off behind George Frederick and the liveried coachman. 'A drive, with my husband, on a cool morning. Is that not a delight?'

  'Indeed it is. I wonder that you spare the time.'

  'The cane is nearly ripe,' she said. 'There is little harm can come to it, now. Next month we shall grind. Then, then you shall see us labour. And you shall labour yourself; I would like you to supervise the boiling.'

  'Willingly,' he agreed. 'If I could be at all sure how to go about it.'

  'I will have Passmore instruct you. But you must be sure that you understand what you are about. Boiling is a time of great effort, and not all are willing to give that effort. You must drive them to it, Kit. I would estimate that you have now completed what we might call your probationary period as master of Green Grove. Now I would have you be master. You understand my meaning?'

  'As well as I can.'

  'I doubt you do,' she said. 'The blacks will not go against you. They dare not, as they know I ride at your side. I would have you be more assertive with the whites. Perhaps they find it hard to consider you as their superior, as when you came here you appeared no more than their equal.'

  'I was no more than their equal.'

  'You underestimate yourself. Life had perhaps treated you unkindly, but you should never forget that your background is infinitely superior to that of any poor white. Your grandfather was Governor of Tortuga.'

  Kit burst out laughing. 'Really, dear one, you must have forgotten that heap of rubble, that colony of cutthroats. And it had improved since my grandfather's day.'

  'None the less,' she insisted, with unusual heat. 'Anthony Hilton was a colonial governor, and will remain forever in the history books as a colonial governor. I would have you bear that always in mind, Kit. As for the other, it would be a good thing were you to give one of these fools a proper taste of your character. They know you only by reputation, and your one aggressive act since coming to Antigua earned you a beating from my father's blacks. Believe me, I see no reproach for you in that. You were attacked from behind and by numbers too considerable even for you to manage, but still I would have you remind these louts of what danger they play with when they mock you. I do not think it would be sound policy for me openly to encourage you to brawl in front of them, so I make my request now, and trust that you will act upon it in due course.'

  'But Marguerite, darling,' he said. 'Why should I? I assure you that their remarks or sly grins bother me not in the least. And I would really like to turn my back on violence.'

  'No man can do that, and be a man, Kit,' she said. 'And if their pinpricks do not bother you, be sure they bother me. Would you have your wife insulted, even at second hand?
You are master of Green Grove, Kit. No law can touch you were you to kill a man in the main street of St John's. I give you my word on that. You have but to act the part.'

  She turned away from him, almost violently, to signify the conversation was at an end. So now she would have me kill a man, he thought, no doubt just to prove to herself that I am capable of that. Sometimes he almost hated her, a quick eruption of temper, which he knew was mainly the result of her inexpressible arrogance. But did she not only wish that he would show a similar awareness of his own power and superiority? Was that unreasonable in a woman, and such a woman, born to such power and such dominance? And would he not be a fool to risk her disrespect, when her love was all that sustained him?

  And besides, how much was he wrapped up in the words, her love. Already, twenty-one unforgettable nights, when only exhausted sleep had separated their mouths, their bodies, their very hearts. He had but to think of her, of her legs and her belly, of her ever-damp love forest, of her swelling breasts, of her always-hard nipples, of her ever-welcoming lips, and his love was renewed, again and again and again.

  He leaned across the seat and picked up her hand. Her head started to turn and then checked.

  'Be sure, my darling, darling Marguerite,' he promised. 'No one shall ever again offer you the slightest insult, whether direct, or implied, or through your husband. At least in my hearing or to my knowledge.'

  Now her head did turn, and she smiled at him. 'You are the best and truest of men, dear Kit. I knew I had but to mention the matter to have you understand.' She blew him a kiss. 'Now let us purchase ourselves some lusty blacks.'

  For they had arrived in St John's, and were already rumbling down the main street, bringing people out of shop doorways and to their windows, for there were not that many carriages in Antigua. And once the couple were identified, the spectators grew. Captain Hilton and his bride. Or would it be more correct to say, Mistress Hilton and her husband, Kit wondered? But then, she had just taught him the way to alter their positions. It was a way he knew well, even if he had not thought to pursue it in these delightful surroundings. But was any aspect of life any different to any other?

  George Frederick pulled on the reins, and Henry Bruce came round to release the steps and hold the door for his mistress. They were outside the only building in town which approximated the Ice House in size, and already a crowd was gathered at the steps, gossiping and exchanging views, and prospects for the sale as well, for if the planters came to buy in batches from ten to fifty, there were invariably some slaves who would be cast aside for a minor defect, and these would be sold cheaply; it remained always the ambition of the poor whites to own at least one black, if only to establish a superiority over their fellows.

  But they separated into two sides of a lane quickly enough, nodding and touching their hats to Mistress Hilton, and winking and grinning at Kit, whom they had known in less prosperous days. He prayed that there would be no ribald comment, lest Marguerite should feel that she was being insulted, but this day the remarks were confined to congratulations.

  The door closed behind them, and they were in a vast warehouse, well enough lit by great skylights in the roof, and large enough to permit the air to circulate from the jalousied shutters over the lower windows, but yet containing to an incredibly distressing degree the scent of humanity, anxious, lustful, and more than anything else, afraid. Already there were more than a dozen planters here, and already the slaves were grouped at the far end, an entire shipload of them, perhaps two hundred and fifty from an original cargo of four hundred, Kit realized with a turning belly. They gazed about themselves in fear and amazement, happy enough at the moment to be off the dread ship, where they would have been confined for several weeks like living corpses already in their coffins, and fortified as well by the swallow of rum which would have been given to each of them before entering the auction hall.

  'Marguerite, how good to see you at an auction.' Edward Chester, as bustlingly exuberant as ever. 'Can this mean that you are once more going to be seen socially? My word, Kit, old fellow, but should you have accomplished that miracle, you will be the most popular fellow in Antigua.'

  'Am I not already?' Kit asked, quietly.

  Chester, bending over Marguerite's hand, straightened and frowned. Marguerite also frowned, for just a moment, and then gave a quick and delighted smile.

  'Indeed, you shall see me socially, Edward,' she said. 'If only for a short while.' She stepped round him and made her way towards the blacks.

  Chester removed his tricorne to scratch the back of his close-cropped head. 'Now what the devil did she mean by that?'

  'I should ask her, old fellow,' Kit said. 'Whenever she can spare you a moment.'

  'The devil,' Chester said. 'A month's bedding that gorgeous creature has changed your stride, by God.'

  'By God, it has,' Kit agreed. 'And you'd do well to keep a civil tongue in your head, dear Edward, or be sure I shall twist it out for you.'

  He followed his wife. By Christ, had that been Christopher Hilton speaking? By Christ, how Jean would laugh. If he still lived. Naught had been heard of that carefree buccaneer in a year. But Daniel Parke would also laugh, with sheer delight. And Agrippa? Or Lilian Christianssen? He checked, frowning. And then squared his shoulders, and walked on. Was he then to undertake his every action in fear or desire of approbation or criticism? There was only one person in the entire world that Kit Hilton needed to please, and that was no hardship.

  'Stand back. Stand back.' The auctioneer was snapping at the men who had quickly gathered about the only lady in the room. 'Give Mrs Templeton space.'

  Marguerite all but froze him with a stare. 'Mrs Hilton, Darring. And by God if you forget again you'll have no more of my business.'

  'My apologies, Mrs Hilton. My apologies. I am such a

  thoughtless fellow. And the Captain is here as well. Good morning, Captain Hilton. Good morning to you.'

  'And to you, Darring.' Kit leaned on his cane and watched Marguerite step up to the blacks.

  'This fellow,' she said, regarding a large young man, who rolled his eyes as he gazed at what must have been the most splendid apparition he had ever seen. And then jerked as Marguerite poked him in the belly with her cane. But his breathing remained even. 'Your mouth, man, open your mouth,' she said, slapping him lightly on the cheek with the cane. His jaw dropped open, and he pulled back his lips to reveal a splendid set of teeth.

  'He's a right buck, Mrs Hilton,' Darring said anxiously. 'You'll find no defects in him.'

  'No doubt,' Marguerite agreed. But she intended to be sure for herself. The top of the cane lightly touched the man's penis, to jerk away at the first reaction. 'Aye. He seems fit enough. Now what of that woman?' She moved along the line, to repeat the careless yet knowledgeable examination, and Kit felt his belly roll some more. Suddenly the heat and the stench were oppressive. And he was no more than a spectator, here. Marguerite needed none of his assistance in choosing her slaves.

  He walked to the back of the room, and thence on to the steps outside.

  'Why, Kit,' Philip Warner said. The Deputy Governor had just arrived. 'Can you find nothing suitable?'

  'I am afraid as yet I lack the experience to make a decision either way, sir,' Kit said. 'But Marguerite seems to find them much to her requirements.'

  'Marguerite, here,' Philip cried. 'By God, that is good news. You'll excuse me.' He hurried through the door.

  'Too much for your stomach, eh, Captain Hilton?' Dutton asked, dismounting from his horse and giving the reins to the slave who had ridden in with him. 'Aye, a slave auction is not the prettiest of occasions.'

  The crowd outside the auction house had not diminished, and many were grinning. In sympathy or with contempt? But it would not have mattered which. Because how angry Kit was, on a sudden. With Dutton? Hardly. With Marguerite, for being able to treat other human beings, however inferior, as lumps of flesh? Or with himself, for loving her at all? For knowing that his love, allied t
o his ambition, would keep him at her side, always?

  But Dutton was here, and Dutton had a considerable history of sly contempt as regards his new master, and Dutton was the man Marguerite had spoken of, in the carriage.

  Kit swept his hand, up from the thigh, and backwards, slashing across the overseer's face, cutting his lip and bringing blood smarting to his chin, sending him reeling across the step and to the earth three feet below, with a jar which all but knocked the breath from his body.

  His gasp was scarcely louder than that of the assembly. They gazed from the fallen man to Kit, and back again in utter consternation.

  'You'd do best to keep a civil tongue in your head, Dutton, when addressing me in the future,' Kit said, and turned away. He walked up the street, in the direction of the harbour, and the ships, and the breeze, and the life for which he had been intended, and heard a sudden shout.

  He stopped, and turned. Dutton had scrambled to his feet and pulled from its scabbard the double-barrelled blunderbuss which always rested by his saddle. Now he uttered a bellow of rage, and came down the dusty road, shouldering people apart, and none would make a move to stop him. This was overseer against master, but also planter, of however inferior a species, against buccaneer. And now the shouts and the noise had brought even more people on to the street, and filled the windows, and the doorway of the auction house itself. But for Kit there was only Dutton, slowing now, trying to control his breathing, the firearm thrust forward, the muzzle moving from side to side. There could be no mistaking his intention; his face was deep red, and his eyes stared.