HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  And Richard Hilton? Sheltering behind the ability of his manager, the prowess of his brother, the aura of his name? Contradicting every social or moral tenet, living with his uncle's mistress, who was also old enough to be his own mother, and loving every moment of it? He must be mad. There would be time to take stock, when the grinding was over, and the replanting was completed, as Hardy had said. Oh, indeed, then there would be time to take stock. He galloped his horse up the drive, Harriet already clearly in sight, seated on the verandah in her crimson robe. He threw himself from the saddle, doubts disappeared in the knowledge that in a few moments she would be in his arms.

  'Twenty-five thousand,' he shouted. 'We have topped twenty-five thousand tons, with another couple of thousand to go, for sure.'

  She smiled at him. Her face was unusually serious this morning. 'Then you are to be congratulated, Dick. Your bath is ready. But first, there is a letter.'

  She held out the envelope, and he seized it, and checked, heart pounding. 'From Mama?'

  'Open it and see.'

  How joy could drain away in the threat of responsibility. Mama must have heard ... he slit the envelope with his thumb, turned over the sheet of paper, looked at the signature. Ellen. He had not seen her writing before. Then why did not his heart jump for joy? He scanned the lines. Commonplaces, about England. Declarations of love, and passion. Inquiries as to what the death of his uncle would mean, whether it would shorten or lengthen the time between their reunion. Please to let it shorten the time, no matter what.

  'Your betrothed?' Harriet asked.

  He flushed. 'Aye.'

  'And now you are master of Hilltop, with a successful crop on its way, there is naught to stand in the way of your marriage.'

  He looked down at her, and she met his gaze. Her fingers played with the sash of her robe, and he knew she would be wearing nothing underneath. 'I'm for my bath,' he said. 'Will you not scrub my back?'

  'The fact is, I tread a difficult path.' Dick formed the letters slowly and carefully. 'As I have explained before, as I am sure you understand. Believe me, dearest, when I landed, or at least, when I had recovered from the shock, not only of Uncle Robert's death, but of my own inheritance, I was resolved to send for you on the instant. Fortunately, other counsel, wiser and more experienced than my own, prevailed. This is still a wild and dangerous country, where we live in daily fear of a Negro revolt winch will bring fire and sword, and bloodshed, the length and breadth of the colony. Now, how could I expose you to such a peril, and for a woman you may suspect it is far worse.'

  He leaned back in his chair, sucked the stem of his pen. He'd be writing novels, next. There could be no more accomplished literary liar in the world. But a lie, to be palatable, and to be convincing, must be spiced with more than a segment of truth. He dipped his nib once again into the ink.

  'In such conditions, in such surroundings, as I stated above, my path is difficult. I will, in so far as I am able, follow my father's precepts and attempt to deal with the blacks as if they were Christians, which indeed they are not, in the main. But this has naturally diminished my popularity with my fellow planters, who consider me at best a weakling, and at worst a positive incendiary. So to the dangers of our position, is added a total social ostracism by the white folk. I am indeed fortunate in having Tony with me, and in having procured the services of a most remarkable man, by name James Hardy, whose entire life seems to be bound up in the business of growing and grinding sugar. Thanks entirely to him, both my crops so far have been exceptional, and we may hope, as this dreadful war draws to a close, to see our prices also regain their former level, and thus embark upon a new period of prosperity which will serve to grace the beauty and the company of the future Mistress of Hilltop. And in this regard I tell you frankly, my dearest Ellen, that I am inclined to wait for affairs in Europe to settle down, as there can be no doubt that French privateers do abound, and truly I shudder to think of the dangers to which I might be exposing you during the long weeks of an Atlantic crossing. But now that Bonaparte seems to have failed in his Russian design, why surely even he will seek peace, or France will seek peace without him.'

  He leaned back again, and laid down his pen. Truly, a novelist. And yet, a labour of love, as well. He could envisage her, sitting opposite him. This was not the least difficult, as her portrait smiled at him from the wall over his desk. And it was certainly Ellen. The artist indeed had captured less of her true likeness than her essential expression. It was an utterly entrancing thought, that one day, one day soon, in fact, that look of conscious superiority, that promising body, which could only have grown in the last few years, that so firm mouth and those so steady eyes, would have to surrender to him. To all that he now knew, of woman, and of love.

  Just as it was a nightmare occasionally, that she might not surrender, or might do so only once. But these were his earliest fears, looming out of the recesses of his mind only to be dismissed again. How could she not surrender, here on Hilltop, alone with him and his belongings. He was master here. And the Ellen he remembered had not been backward in offering to surrender. As if she had known, as if she could possibly have known, what indeed she was offering to give into his keeping. Certainly he had not suspected.

  He inhaled musk, and waited. What would happen when Ellen discovered about Harriet? But then, why should she ever discover about Harriet? Oh, in Jamaica she certainly would. There would be tears, perhaps. But the marriage would already have been consummated, and she would learn that he was no different from any other planter, by repute at least. It was the character of Harriet herself which offended the Jamaican society. Well, then . . . but it would also offend Ellen. And yet, to give up Harriet, to order her from the plantation ... he really did not see himself doing that. The very thought of her, even after two years in her bed, brought him up hard and anxious. She seemed to have accumulated all the experience possible within her one eager body, and still retained the ability to project it forth as a wondrous introduction. Nor did she appear to possess any other interest. Save perhaps drink. Indeed, she drank with a determined enjoyment he had not supposed possible, and often remained sitting up in bed, intent on finishing her bottle, long after he was asleep. And yet, she kept herself so clean and sweet-smelling, it was impossible to take offence, especially as the drunker she became the happier she became. But for the rest, she neither read nor sewed, and her supervision of the house was of the briefest description. Even as regards her daughter she seemed perfectly uninterested. Judith's education, or lack of it, was a source of considerable worry to him, as the girl appeared visibly to grow, day by day. But his instincts warned him not to interfere, and indeed, not even to make a friend of the child, who seemed contented enough in pursuing solitary habits, turning the pages of the books in the library, occasionally romping with Boscawen's children, or sitting on the verandah staring into space with an expression of deep concentration in her eyes.

  He felt fingers on his shoulders, leaned back to rest his head against her breast, look down on the hand, long and strong. It was her fingers, the thought of her fingers, in connection with Uncle Robert, that had first created the desire for her within him. And now he knew Uncle Robert had died happy. And guilty? Not Uncle Robert, by all accounts. Then why Richard? He was the Hilton. He repeated this to himself, constantly, to remind himself of his position. Hiltons took. Then, guilty about Ellen? That was stupid. Ellen had herself indicated that she would perfer a man to a boy. When he was ready for her, she would have a man.

  'They have returned,' Harriet said.

  'Ah.' His belly filled with lead. His first runaways, after two years. The fingers left his shoulders, and he stood up. 'Will you come out?'

  She shook her head. ‘I will watch from the house. But Dick . . .' the fingers were back, closing on his arm. 'They must be punished. You know that.'

  'Aye.' He sighed. 'I had supposed we had put that behind us, on Hilltop. If only I knew why.'

  She glanced at him, frowning. 'There i
s talk, in the servants..’

  'Talk? About what?'

  Her frown faded into that marvellous smile. 'It is no matter.

  Certainly not beside the fact of their absconding. You'd best go out.'

  He went down the hallway, past the staircase. Talk, amongst the servants? He must find out about that.

  He stood on the verandah, watched the procession coming slowly up the hill. Hardy came first, followed by Absolom and two other drivers. These were mounted and Absolom held the leashes of the two giant mastiffs. They had been Hardy's first purchases, and were called Robinson and Crusoe. Dick did not like them; he suspected they were Hardy's pets, not his. But apparently a plantation had to have dogs, and this day at the least they had proved their worth. The runaways walked behind, or occasionally fell, and were dragged; they were secured by their wrists to the saddles of two of the horses, but the ropes were sufficiently long to allow them to lag by some ten feet.

  And perhaps they had been punished enough, he thought. Their flesh was torn and bleeding, and they were clearly in the last stages of exhaustion, while presumably they had had little enough food or drink during the past two days.

  He glanced to the left, at the drive leading past the town, and frowned again. Here came another horseman, swaying in the saddle, hatless, although he had certainly worn one last night when he had set out. Here was the lie to his letters to Mama, which repeated constantly what a tower of strength Tony was, how well he was behaving. The fact was, Tony enjoyed planting, there was no doubt about that. It was in the Hilton blood no less than in the Hardy. But this apart, his promises had been as worthless as any other promise he had ever made. He drank, and he gambled, losing a fortune on every occasion, and he continued to see Joan Lanken. Their affair, indeed, was the scandal of Kingston, only overshadowed by the far greater scandal of his brother and Harriet Gale. So how could he criticize? Well, he did not criticize.

  'What do you think, Josh?'

  Merriman sighed. 'Well, sir, Mr Richard, they got for be flogged. I ain't seeing no other way.'

  The procession stopped at the foot of the steps, and Hardy dismounted. 'Making for the Cockpit Country, Mr Richard. They're not the most intelligent of niggers.'

  Dick walked down the steps, heart pounding. Both the runaways were naked, both were young, both were well-formed, the girl especially so. He found them remarkably attractive people, as a whole, in the grace of their movements, the humour which seemed their principal characteristic, even the dishonesty which marred their attitudes to life. And he had often wondered what sort of a lover one would make, and then rejected the thought immediately, and been the more grateful to Harriet for making such rejection a possibility.

  'Do you know why they ran away, James?'

  Hardy shifted from foot to foot. 'Well, sir, Mr Richard . . .'

  'It ain't mattering, Mr Richard,' Merriman said. 'They just got to be punished.'

  Dick glanced at him with a surprise almost equal to Hardy's. Josh had never advocated flogging before. If Dick had so far given in to Hardy's demands as to allow him, and the drivers, to carry whips in the field, and use them wherever necessary, Josh had been his most staunch support that the plantation would work and prosper without descending to a formal flogging, but rather in punishments such as confinement on slave holidays, or curtailment of the rum ration.

  'Why, Merriman is right, Mr Richard,' Hardy said. 'An example must be made. It is possible that the slaves have been waiting to take advantage of you. Your generosity of spirit is well known.'

  Dick frowned at him; Hardy was given to sarcasm.

  'So it were best to nip their tendencies in the bud by an example. A severe example.'

  'Such as?'

  'Well, sir, on most plantations the penalty for running away would be two hundred lashes.'

  'Two hundred . . . they'd not survive.'

  'Well, sir, Mr Richard, down to a few years ago they'd have been hanged without argument. And a few years before that they'd have been burned alive.'

  'This is 1813, Mr Hardy. Not 1713.1 am happy to say.' Dick walked closer to the two prisoners. The man saw his boots, and attempted to rise, but could only reach his knees. 'What have you to say for yourself?'

  The Negro's tongue came out and slowly circled his lips. 'Water, massa. Water.'

  'You'd best. . .'

  'After they've been flogged, Mr Richard,' Hardy said.

  'It would be best, sir,' Merriman agreed.

  Once again Dick glanced at them. Never before had he known them in such total agreement; indeed Merriman usually and obviously disliked Hardy as much as the white man objected to having a black colleague.

  'Hullo, hullo, hullo.' Tony fell from his saddle, kept his feet by hanging on to his horse's bridle. 'Court day?'

  'Where on earth have you been?' Dick demanded.

  'Aye, well, it was a long game. There are notes . . .'

  'Give them to me later. 'Tis a crisis.'

  'Runaways?' Tony blinked at the prisoners, and the girl raised her head to stare at him. 'Good God.'

  'Aye,' Dick said. ' 'Tis bad. They will have to be flogged. Twenty lashes apiece.'

  'Twenty lashes?' Hardy cried. ' 'Tis no punishment at all. Their skin is like leather.'

  'Twenty lashes,' Dick insisted. 'I'll not murder them. And they have been punished already.'

  'Mercy,' screamed the girl. 'Mercy, massa. Massa Tony . . .'

  Dick's head swung, and Tony flushed.

  'Aye, well, I'm for a bath. Christ, it's hot work.'

  Dick caught his sleeve. 'What is hot work?'

  Tony looked down at the hand. 'Why, riding from town. And let go my coat, little brother, or I'll break your head.'

  Dick let go before he really intended to. But when Tony spoke in that very low and even tone he generally meant what he said, and they could not afford to fight in front of the slaves. But my God, what had Harriet said? There is talk, amongst the servants. So perhaps he did not waste his time in visiting Joan Lanken, having known her for two years. Or perhaps a white skin alone was not enough for him.

  He looked at Merriman, who kept his expression blank, and then at Hardy.

  ' 'Tis not a crime, Mr Richard. Not compared with running away.'

  'And suppose it was the cause of the runaway? This girl and this boy, maybe they love each other. Was she forced? I must get to the bottom of this.'

  'Oh, come now, sir,' Hardy remonstrated. 'How can a nigger girl be forced? And indeed, sir, how can she know love? They are animals, sir, and copulate as the urge takes them. Let us compromise, sir, on twenty-five lashes apiece. I will see to it personally. But they must be punished, sir, and in your name. You must rule, sir, and you must be seen to rule. You are the Hilton, Mr Richard. You are the master here.'

  The master here. How the phrase haunted him, where once it had rolled around his head like a euphoric cloud. He walked his horse between the rows of cane, and received the nods of the bookkeepers, the obeisances of the weeding gangs. His cane, tall and proud and filled with sugar, approaching his fourth grmding, and every one a record. His drivers. His slaves. His bookkeepers every one recruited by Hardy, by the promise of the revival of Hilltop into the bubbling work cauldron of fifty years before, and the salaries commensurate with such success.

  But did they obey him, or James Hardy? And yet, he could not manage this plantation without Hardy. Planting might be in his blood, but it was only a microcosm. He did not react to it instinctively, did not know at a glance where needed the most work, could not look at a field of cane and tell whether it was healthy or whether it desperately needed water. Hardy could.

  On the other hand, he could manage the accounting side of the business. Hilltop was probably more financially sound than ever before in its history. So was Green Grove. He had taken ship there, and sat down and discussed affairs with Tickwell, and impressed him with his knowledge of money and markets, and convinced him that the best thing for the two plantations was to amalgamate the bookkeepi
ng side of it, with Green Grove sending all its returns and accounts to Hilltop, where he could enter them up in the great ledger, and have them under his hand.

  But why had he had to convince Tickwell, instead of just telling him, I have decided? I am the Hilton. So then, he was, after all, nothing more than a bookkeeper. A bank clerk. And for the time being, Hardy went along with his economies, supported his decisions, however much Tony might criticize.

  But there was the crux of the matter. For the time being. Hilltop, and Green Grove, prospered as long as James Hardy so elected. By God, he thought, you are becoming jealous of your own employee.

  He took off his hat to wipe sweat from his brow, hastily restored it again; the sun seemed to hang immediately above his head, intent on scorching his brain. It was clearly time to return to the house, and Harriet. It was the only part of the day he enjoyed. He disliked the early morning assembly of the drivers, because although everyone looked to him for the final decision, he knew they expected it to come from Hardy. He loathed and feared the punishment sessions. But what was he to do? Hardy had convinced him it was the only way to maintain discipline, after all. But the sound of the cartwhip, the sight of that steel tip biting into the brown flesh and then snatching slivers of it away, to leave red flecks on the dark skins, made him wish to vomit, just as the sight of the bodies, male or female, twisting in agony, made him feel ashamed of himself. He found the obligatory rides through the canefields embarrassing, because he was sure they smiled behind his back, no matter how they bowed to his face. He dreaded the arrival of messengers from town, with news, with mail. He did not want to know what went on in Kingston; he had almost forgotten what the town looked like, and he knew he would never be able to face any other planter, much less any government official, much less the Governor himself. There had been one invitation, to dinner at Government House, and he had declined, through pressure of work. That had been two years ago.