HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘I wondered whose strange voice it was,' Marguerite said. 'I could not believe my ears for a moment.'

  Kit stared at the door. The was no illness here. Although ... there was a quality of sadness, perhaps even of despair, that he had not previously heard. 'Why do you keep the door locked?'

  'And should I not?' she asked. 'Especially with you in the house, sweetheart? The last time you were here you all but broke my arm.'

  'And you would not say I had cause?'

  'I would only point out that it is unpleasant to be manhandled. Nor can I believe you would intend less, on this occasion.'

  Kit hesitated, glancing at Miss Johnson. 'Leave us alone, if you will.' He turned back to the door. 'I'll give you my word, Meg. I only wish to speak with you.'

  'In that case,' she said. 'A closed door between us is of no importance whatsoever.'

  'Meg ...'

  'I was about to go to sleep, Kit,' she said. 'I would be obliged if you would say what it is you wish.'

  'To sleep?' he demanded. 'With that racket downstairs?' Although the noise had largely stopped; no doubt they were listening. 'And your slaves under no discipline?'

  'They are happy enough, and docile enough,' she said. 'Do you object to people being happy, Kit?'

  His big hands curled into fists. He felt as if he were caught in a bog, or in the forest before Panama, assailed by endless annoyances and uncertainties, dominated by the biggest uncertainty of all, any knowledge of where he was and where he was going and how he was going to get there.

  He sighed. 'Very well,' he said. 'There are such rumours about you, perhaps I am reading more into what I see than is really there.'

  'Have I not always attracted rumour?' she asked. 'There was a time you were proud of that.'

  'There was a time I was proud of a great number of things. But I have a purpose in coming to see you, Marguerite. I would beg a favour of you.'

  'Your Danish whore challenged me, Kit,' she said. 'Not I her.'

  'Yet surely it can do you no injury to withdraw,' Kit urged. 'No one can doubt the outcome of such an unequal contest.' He knew better than to appeal to her sense of propriety.

  'Well, then, she is singularly rash," Marguerite said.

  'It would be murder.'

  'Perhaps not. Perhaps I shall not kill her, Kit. Perhaps I shall just put a bullet through her body, and leave her scarred.'

  Still he stared at the closed door. 'But you mean to do that.'

  'Oh, indeed. If she wishes blood, she shall have it.'

  Kit kept his anger under control with difficulty. 'And suppose things should not go as you intend? What of your eyes?'

  'What of my eyes, pray, Kit?'

  'Is it not true that the reason you go veiled is because of some affliction which affects your sight? What if you find it difficult, or perhaps impossible, to sight your weapon?'

  'Rumours,' she snapped, for the first time sounding angry. 'I care naught for rumours. There is nothing the matter with my eyesight, Kit. I promise you that. There is nothing the matter with me at all. Nothing, do you hear? Nothing. If it is accommodation you wish, let your woman stay away tomorrow. Surely she is sunk so low she can fall no further, in her own esteem or in that of the world. Now begone. Get from my house. You left here of your own accord. Do not seek to come back.'

  He hesitated, his shoulders hunched.

  And once again, she seemed able to read his mind. 'And should you launch an assault upon my door, be sure I will have my overseers at your throat.'

  As if he cared for her overseers. But to start a riot, now, when Daniel was already antagonizing all and sundry ... would that assist Lilian?

  He turned, his hands hanging uselessly at his side, gazed at Miss Johnson.

  'Elizabeth.' The word cut across the night. 'You'll speak with him no more, Elizabeth.'

  Elizabeth Johnson gazed at Kit for a second, but as he moved towards her, she shut and locked the bedroom door.

  'She is a remarkable woman,' Daniel Parke remarked. 'But then, so is Lilian. It seems to be your fortune, Kit, to attract females of character. Me, I prefer my bedwarmers to have no character at all, to have no greater ambitions in life than to feel my hand between their legs.'

  Like Mary Chester, Kit thought. But he refrained from saying it. Nothing he could do or say, apparently, would dissuade Daniel from this unseemly path on which he was set, although he of all people must be aware that it was common gossip in St John's, so much so that Edward Chester never even attended the Ice House any more, for shame. What went on in private between the Chesters did not bear consideration.

  'You are not attending the duel?' he asked.

  Parke drew his brocaded undressing-robe tighter around his shoulders, and sipped coffee. 'It would not be right, I fancy, for the Governor to attend an event of this nature. Besides, I will hear of its outcome soon enough.' He stood up. 'Lilian.'

  Despite her request to Kit, she had spent the night at the Government House; the news of the accepted challenge had been too much for her father. But she had slept alone, and now she entered the room as quietly and gracefully as ever. And despite Kit's suggestion that she wear black, she had elected to put on a grey gown and her wide hat. Her face was paler than usual, but as composed as ever. 'Good morning, Your Excellency.'

  'You'll take a cup of coffee?'

  She shook her head. 'I doubt my stomach could retain it. I would like to leave now, Kit.'

  Hastily he finished his own coffee, and got up.

  'I'll wish you all the fortune in the world, Lilian.' Parke kissed her hands. 'You'll be back within the hour.'

  'Of course I shall.' She waited for Kit to arrange her cloak around her shoulders, went to the stairs. Jonathan was below with the trap.

  'You keep safe, Miss Lilian,' he said. 'But man, they got people down by the beach.' 'Already?' Kit enquired.

  'People? Oh ...' Lilian squared her shoulders. 'But I expected that.'

  She sat beside him and the trap rolled out of the archway and on to the street. It was just dawn, and the first tiny fingers of daylight were starting to throw shadows from the houses. It occurred to Kit that the town must have looked just like this □n that terrible morning Lilian had lain on this very street, and waited to be discovered, for the humiliation to begin. Not for the first time he had to wonder if this was a way of committing suicide, if she actually hoped for death, knowing that she could never live down the shame.

  And yet, she had already lived down the shame. For as Jonathan had said, there were already people about, moving towards the beach, men and women, and children, hoping for a spectacle none of them had suspected possible. And most of these shouted encouragement at the trap.

  'You'll give her best, Miss Lilian.'

  'Be sure you aim true, girl.'

  'She deserves a bullet through the head, Miss Lilian.' 'You'll puncture her pride, girl.'

  Lilian almost smiled. 'What a bloodthirsty lot they are, to be sure.' She glanced to her right as they passed the Christianssen's house. Abigail stood on die doorstep, with little Agrippa in her arms.

  'Godspeed, Miss Lilian,' she shouted.

  Had she hoped to see her parents there as well, Kit wondered? Or did she know that by adding this deed of blood to the other deed of shame she had finally ended all hope of a reconciliation between herself and her father? And yet, there was a movement at the curtains shrouding the upper window, and there was no breeze.

  'Their thoughts go with you, have no doubt of that,' he said.

  'I'm sure they do.' She would not meet his eyes. Because he was the only possible weakening of her resolution. She rode like a woman going to her execution. Well, was she not? And why did he not assert himself, whip the trap into a gallop, forbid this hideous masquerade? Because to do that would be to lose her just as much as if she was killed? He kept coming back to that inescapable fact.

  Well, then, why had he not broken down Marguerite's door and fought his way through her overseers, if necessary, to force
her to withdraw? Because that would not alter the situation cither? Because this was something, not beyond his understanding—he understood their rival feelings only too well— but beyond his power to control.

  But then, had he not too often found all life beyond his control? As if any man, or any woman, for that matter, could control life. Life was a sea, often turbulent, whipped by winds of tremendous force and capricious direction, and one kept afloat as best one could, or one sank without trace.

  He wondered if Marguerite would subscribe to that point of view. She at the least had never had any doubt about her ability to control such aspects of life as surrounded her. So no doubt she would control this morning's event as well.

  And Lilian was hoping for mercy.

  The beach was crowded, the people massed against the sea-grape bushes which lined the sand. And here waited Dr Haines and several other gentlemen, amongst them John Harding.

  He nodded stiffly to Kit as he helped Lilian down. 'I am to marshal this event Captain Hilton,' he said. 'At the request of the challenged party.'

  'Who I observe is not present,' Kit said, his heart commencing to pound with hope.

  'It is not yet time,' Harding pointed out. 'I assume you are acting for Miss Christianssen?'

  'I am.'

  'And is your client content with the arrangements?'

  Kit shrugged. What was there to criticize? The beach sloped gently down to the even more gentle sea. The sand was even, and the backgrounds at either end were trees. And Harding he knew for an honest man, even if often enough a misguided one. 'She is content.'

  'Then here are the weapons.' He opened the case. The four pistols lay on the velvet. 'They are loaded and primed. I did so myself.'

  Kit frowned. 'Four?'

  'Your client used the words a "final settlement between us" in her challenge, Captain Hilton. By the code I understand, this means the exchange continues until one party cries, "Enough."'

  'By God,' Kit said. 'You will have blood, then.'

  'It would seem to be what the ladies wish, Captain.'

  Kit walked across the sand to where Lilian waited. 'Did you know that Marguerite wishes to exchange shots until one party is hit or withdraws?'

  'It is her prerogative.'

  'Oh, indeed. But it is madness. Lilian ...'

  'Please, Kit. I will have no more of it. Besides, it is too late.' She pointed, at the carriage which came rumbling up the road, displacing a cloud of dust.

  It halted on the edge of the sand, and the Negro driver jumped down to open the door. A man got out first, and waited to assist Marguerite down, but she waved him away. She had indeed prepared herself well, and was all in black, black gown beneath black cloak, black boots, black kid gloves, wide-brimmed black hat, and a black veil over her face, so that she was, in fact, totally invisible. At the sight of her the crowd started to boo, and her head half turned in that unforgettable gesture, before she came down the sand.

  'Show your face,' they yelled. 'Show your face.'

  ' 'Tis a substitution,' they bawled. 'Have her unveil.'

  Marguerite came up to Kit and Lilian. 'Good morning to you,' she said.

  'It is customary to show your face, Mrs Hilton,' Dr Haines suggested with some caution. 'Do you doubt it is I, Kit?' 'No,' he said. 'No, I do not doubt that, Meg.'

  "Well, then. Good morning to you, Mr Harding. Hodge here will act as my second.'

  The overseer nodded to the gentlemen.

  'Very well, ladies,' Harding said. 'We had best be about this business. I must first of all appeal to you to cease this grim intent, and embrace each other as friends.'

  'If Mrs Hilton wishes,' Lilian said in a low voice.

  Marguerite stared at her. Almost they could see the glint of her eyes through the veil. 'I do not wish,' she said. 'This woman has seen fit to start this business. Let us carry it to a proper conclusion.'

  Kit opened his mouth and then closed it again. Nothing he could say could do other than make matters worse.

  Harding held out his box. 'Will you select your weapons?'

  Marguerite took one of the pistols, and Lilian, after a moment's hesitation, did likewise.

  'Now, will you stand back to back, please,' Harding said. 'And when I give the signal, will you walk away from each other for ten paces, and then turn, and fire at will. I will count the paces, ladies, and I must impress upon you that should either of you turn and fire before the count of ten, then she will be guilty of a felony, which shall be murder should her ball strike home, and will be treated accordingly. Do you understand me?'

  Marguerite continued to stare at Lilian, whose face had suddenly flushed, red spots clinging to her cheeks, while her mouth settled into an even firmer line. She was summoning all her courage.

  'Remember, I beg of you,' Kit said. 'Do not be hurried.'

  'It matters naught.'

  He bit his lip, let his hands fall to his sides, watched her walk away from him to where Harding waited. She was very nearly a head taller than Marguerite. And now even the rustle of the crowd fell silent, and the only sound was the faint murmur of the surf, as the sun broke out of the Atlantic behind them to bathe an orange light across the scene.

  'Now,' Harding said. 'One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ... seven ... eight ... nine ... ten.'

  Lilian stopped and turned, the pistol hanging by her side. Marguerite had also turned, and once again stared at her enemy. Then slowly, her right hand came up. How slowly it rose. Kit wanted to cry out in sheer anguish. But Lilian never moved, and her face never changed expression. Up and up came the pistol, extended at the end of that black-sleeved, black-gloved hand like an extra finger, absolutely straight. No other part of Marguerite's body moved.

  The morning seemed to stop, even the sun seemed no longer to edge its way into the sky. The sound of the explosion, when it came, was a surprise. Black smoke eddied into the air, and Kit realized that he had shut his eyes. He opened them again, and looked at Lilian. She stood absolutely straight, and unharmed. He wanted to shout for joy, and then he looked at Marguerite, who still extended her arm and gazed along the pistol as if in utter disbelief. The second explosion sounded almost before he had realized what was happening. But Lilian had merely pointed her pistol at the sky and fired. And now the crowd relaxed, and a babble of chatter rose into the air.

  Neither woman had moved, and Harding was walking forward with the open box. The noise dwindled; the onlookers had not realized there was to be more than one exchange.

  Harding went to Marguerite first, the box extended. She gazed at him for some seconds, looked into the box, and then suddenly, in a gesture of remarkable frustration, struck it with the empty pistol she still held in her hand. Taken by surprise Harding dropped it, and the pistols fell to the sand. Marguerite threw her own weapon on top of the others, turned, and walked towards the beach. No one spoke; they merely watched in amazement. The door of the carriage still stood open, and the coachman waited beside it.

  'Take me home,' she said, her voice clear and distinct.

  The door closed, the coachman climbed on to his box. The crowd woke up to what was happening and started whistling and booing. Hodge scratched his chin.

  'Your client has defaulted, sir,' Kit said. 'Mine is vindicated.'

  'By God,' Hodge said. He hurried towards the town to find a horse.

  'The most remarkable thing I ever did see,' Harding commented. 'And from Marguerite? It is unbelievable.'

  Yet had it happened. Kit was already running across the sand to reach Lilian and catch her as her knees gave way and she fell in a dead faint.

  So then, even buccaneers and planters can be happy, from time to time. Jean DuCasse had found happiness, like Kit once, in planting. He had retired from the sea he had dominated so splendidly, and grew sugar-cane in the new French colony of Santo Domingo, which had grown out of that same Hispaniola they had haunted as matelots so long ago. He wrote letters begging Kit to visit him, whenever this tiresome war would end. But f
or Kit Hilton happiness was to stand on the poop deck of a stout little ship, and feel the wind rippling his hair while he listened to the creaking of the sheets and the swish of water away from the hull. Her name was Calliope, and she was everything he could have wanted: fast, seaworthy, trim, stiff enough to make life aboard comfortable, and armed with four cannon in each broadside and a saker forward. She was a pursuer; a ferret, not a hare.

  But there was nothing for her to pursue. The sea was empty of ships save for the three-master bearing down on St John's. But she proudly flew the mingled cross of the new union, and was from England. He had already fired a blank charge in salute, and dipped his ensign. Kit Hilton, exciseman. But the planters would take no risks at this juncture. They had no wish to invite reprisals from Mr Parke, and they well knew he only waited the excuse. Even the House had not met in a month. Daniel must be left to fume and fuss, and wait, as they.