He turned, inside the black man's arms, drumming his fists against the black belly. But this was hard, ridged with muscle, and he seemed to make no effect. And fingers were closing on his own body, hurting where they bit into his own flesh. And the man was again smiling. But realizing that he was not going to destroy this castaway so easily on his own. The mouth was opening. He was going to call for his friends to come back.
Their bodies were tight against each other, the black man hugging, Dick's arms trapped against the black man's chest. Their faces were only inches apart, and the mouth was opening. That had to be stopped. That was priority number one. Dick made a tremendous effort, forced his arms upwards, closed his fingers on the black throat. The mouth snapped shut, and the smile was gone. Dick squeezed.
The arms left his back, pummelled his shoulders. The eyes so close to his rolled, and showed their whites. The fingers scraped flesh from his back, having already destroyed the remnants of his coat and shirt. The black toes hacked at his ankles, twined themselves round his legs. They fell together, on their sides, and for just a moment Dick's fingers relaxed. Then he squeezed again. To let go was to die.
He was forced on his back. Black fingers searched his breeches, found his genitals, twisted and squeezed. Rivers of pain flowed up each groin into his belly, left him faint. Stars spun before his eyes. But he still squeezed with all his strength.
He found his eyes open, staring at the sky. The sun was already high, although it was still early in the morning. He could not see it, but beyond the fringe of leaves and branches he could see the clear blue of the sky, the occasional fleecy white clouds. Up there was escape from the pain, from the misery of being on this earth. If he could keep his mind up there, he might survive.
Dimly he became aware that the pain was receding from his belly, that the constant motion against him had ceased. Still he squeezed, suspecting it might be a trap. Now he forced himself once again to look at the black face so close to his own, the staring eyes, the opened mouth. There was horror.
There was cramp in his fingers. He doubted he'd be able to maintain the pressure much longer. He felt his muscles already relaxing.
So then, lying here placed him at a disadvantage. He freed his fingers, having to tear them away from the black throat, so deeply were they embedded, rolled away from his opponent in the one movement, rose to his knees and turned, saw the machete lying on the sand and picked it up, turned once more to face the man on the ground.
But the man was still on the ground, lying as Dick had left him. He listened to his own breathing, could feel his own chest heave as it sought air, and wondered why the black man did not also seek air. He dropped to his hands and knees, the knife forgotten, peered at the body. I have killed a man, he thought. Oh, my God, I have killed a man. He turned his hands over, stared at them. They had not changed. They were lean hands, strong, slightly calloused. They were destroyers.
He rose to his feet, still staring at his victim. It had been kill or be killed. But he had not intended to kill. He had Wanted to silence, and then perhaps to defeat. Not to kill. As if the two could be separated, in this animal world.
He turned away from the dead man, blundered across the pit in which they had fought, scrabbled up the other side, and realized that he had forgotten the machete. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, saw the man, and the knife. From tins distance he looked asleep in the morning sunlight. But he was dead. There was enough cause for horror. And he had friends, who would soon come back to look for him.
Dick plunged into the bush. Branches tore at his flesh, his hair, even his eyes. Fallen tree trunks clawed at his feet. He fell, and got up again, and fell again, and got up again. He staggered onwards.
He found a stream, bubbling downwards, and only then saw that he had been climbing. The sun was overhead now, and very hot. And he had never been so thirsty in his life. He lay on his face and lapped the water like a dog. And lapped and lapped and lapped. And then lay on his back, and panted, while water ran out of his mouth.
And awoke again, to find the heat receding, although it was still light. How long had he lain there? He did not know. But the men who would be following him would know. It was a stupid thing, to lie still when he should be running, and running.
He regained his feet, splashed across the stream, climbed. The earth ceased to claw at his feet and instead became a series of boulders and loose stones, over which he stumbled, often falling, bruising his knees. Hunger began to bite at his belly, and he tore some berries from a tree and crammed them into his mouth, chewed as he continued to climb. Soon it would be dark, and then perhaps he could stop, and rest. If he could rest, he felt he could think, and decide what must be done. If anything could be done. But it was silly to attempt to think until he had rested.
He stepped into space. Desperately he twisted his head, flailed his arms. He had climbed, and the path he had been following had suddenly ended. For the longest moment of his life he seemed to be floating, and the strange thought crossed his mind that he had died, from exertion, and was flying up to heaven. Or perhaps the black man had killed him after all, and it had not been the other way round.
Pain. He had felt pain before, but nothing like this. Where the other pains had begun with his feet or his belly, this began in his face and head. Nothing but pain. Flying through the air? He must have hit a bird. He wanted to laugh. There was absurdity.
It was dark. He must have slept again. Or perhaps fainted. He could feel nothing but pain. His head crashed, but sharper thrusts seemed to enter his cheeks and mouth and chin, making the duller pains of his body hardly interesting. He could not still be flying. Yet he could feel nothing underneath him. No doubt he was dreaming. He put his hand down to push, and gave a scream of pure agony. Or he would have screamed, he realized. Nothing seemed to come out. Nothing which could compare with the drumming in his ears. But that was because he couldn't move his jaw. There was a silly confession.
He fell over, on to his side, gazed at the stars, filling the empty darkness of the sky. And it was cool. But he must get his jaw moving. Why, he might wish to speak to someone.
He tried his other arm, and to his delight it came up. Slowly. If he could straighten his jaw ... his fingers touched bone. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, Christ. I am going to die, lying here in the darkness.
But that was absurd. He had fought the sea, for a whole night, to live. He had killed a man, with his bare hands, to live. To lie here and die would be a crime, after having done so much to keep alive.
His left hand was the one which had moved. He put it down beside him, waited for the thrill of agony which still coursed up and down his right hand. And felt only stone, hard and brittle, under his fingers. He pushed, cautiously, and then with increasing confidence, found himself sitting up, while the night, the ravine into which he had fallen, spun around him. His mouth filled with ghastly liquid, but to his horror he found he could not move his tongue, either to taste it or to spit it out. He could only hang his head and let it flow through his lips, and realized that it was his own blood.
Come daylight, there would be insects, seeking that blood. What a horrible thought, to lie here, and slowly be eaten alive by insects. Or would they wait until he was dead? He did not know.
And he was not going to die. He had already decided that. He was going to move. If he had to crawl, then he would crawl. Away from here. So the insects would be able to follow the trail of blood. But they would know he was alive, if he moved.
He dug the fingers of his left hand into the stones, used his legs, felt more pain, and had to separate one from the other. So, then, he had one arm and one leg, ready for use. Why, he was still half a man.
He crawled and prodded, and moved, and fell on his face, and crawled, and prodded, and moved, and fell on his face. Sometimes it was dark, then suddenly it was light. Then he thought it was dark again, but he could not be sure. He was sure only of the pain, which seemed to grow and grow until it shrouded his entire body, his m
ind, his very being. He moved, in a miasma of pain, amazed that he could move at all, determined to keep on moving, to keep ahead of the insects.
But he was losing the race. When it was light, the insects were there, settling on his face and shoulders, buzzing in his ears. Drinking his blood. He was, after all, going to be eaten alive by insects.
Then he might as well surrender. He lay, on his face, and then rolled on his back. He had been afraid to doze, before, in case his mouth filled with blood again and he lacked the strength to turn over. But this time his throat remained dry, so dry he thought he would give all of Hilltop for a cup of water.
All of Hilltop. The thought brought tears to his eyes. But tears were liquid. Perhaps he could drink them. He discovered his eyes were shut, forced them open, and stared once again at men. Black men.
10
The Mamaloi
The breeze was cool. He had felt it before. It carried with it a delicious perfume, the scent of the sea filtered by the bloom of a million flowers.
He had smelt it before, as well. It occurred to him that he had been inhaling that magnificent scent for a very long time, without being aware of it.
He moved his shoulders, nestled them in the softness of the bed. Another sensation he remembered, without being sure of how long ago it had commenced. Perhaps he had lain here, forever. His eyes were open, gazing above him at the snowy tent of the bed. Hilltop's linen had never been that clean. But he had never supposed he was on Hilltop. Hilltop was a nightmare, and now he was awake.
To movement. A rustling from around him, a faint whisper. He turned his head, or made the necessary decision to turn his head. And remained staring at the tent. Yet he felt no fear, no sense of panic. He could not turn his head. But as he had lain here, inhaling that breeze, feeling the softness of this mattress, enjoying the cleanliness of these sheets, for so very long, it could be no serious matter.
A face replaced the tent. A black face, serious and concerned, bareheaded but ending in a high military collar, in blue and gold, as his jacket was blue, smothered in gold braid. He said something, but it was in French, and Dick could not immediately translate. Then the man was gone, to be replaced by the gentle rustle he had heard earlier. Once again he attempted to turn his head, and this time discovered that he
could. He looked to his right, at two young women, both black, both dressed in white gowns, their heads shrouded in white bandannas, who were busily preparing a bowl of warm water, with which they now proceeded to shave him. Their fingers were light as feathers, their touch delightful; they exuded the entrancing fragrance of the breeze. And yet their touch filled him with a sense of foreboding. He could feel the razor, scraping gently over his chin, and yet it did not seem to be his chin. He wanted to cry out, in sudden terror, but he could form no words, and they were so quick, they were finished before he could even form a thought. Then they busied themselves with his body, rolling back the sheet, and, now joined by another half-dozen young women who presumably had been present all the while, raising him from the mattress to insert towels beneath him, before bathing him, as gently and as carefully as they might have handled a babe. And this time he could feel more; there was no sense of catastrophe as they touched his body. Touched his body. He attempted to move, and was gently restrained. Their faces remained serious," their brows furrowed with concentration. And now one was drying him, patting leg and arm, stroking chest. The sheet was returned, and they disappeared, although clearly remaining in the room, from the whisper, and leaving him utterly refreshed.
And aware of a consuming thirst. 'Water,' he whispered. And discovered again the sense of terror. That had not been Richard Hilton's voice.
He was surrounded by faces, watching him anxiously, willing him to make them understand.
'L'eau,' he whispered. Or someone whispered, inside his brain.
They smiled, together, a combination of pleasure and relief. Soft arms went round his head, to raise it from the pillow; his cheek lay against a gently pounding heart. A cup was held to his lips, and the liquid trickled down his throat. It was the most magnificent thing he had ever tasted, clear, cool water.
Then the cup was taken away, suddenly. It was the first abrupt movement he had experienced. His cheek left the comfort of the breast, his head was replaced on its pillow. The girls disappeared, and this time they did not whisper. And a new smell entered the room, a scent of leather, of man. And a new atmosphere. He could feel the sudden power with which he was surrounded, and turned his head again, with an enormous effort, to gaze at the cluster of officers, each dressed in a magnificent uniform, red jackets, blue jackets, pale green jackets, every one a mass of gold braid with a high military collar, worn over tight breeches of white buckskin, every one with a jewel-hilted sword hanging at his side, every one with high black boots and jingling spurs.
And every one with a black face. Then was he dreaming all over again?
'Richard Hilton,' said a voice, amazingly in English. 'You are Richard Hilton?'
He turned his head once again, and discovered that one of the officers had reached the side of his bed. One of the officers? That could not be. This man carried no sword. But then, he did not need a sword. He was several inches taller than six feet, and bareheaded; again unlike the others, he did not carry his hat beneath his arm. His forehead was high, his eyes widespaced; they were sombre eyes, hard, and even arrogant, and yet also containing a remarkably wistful expression. His nose was big, his chin thrusting. His mouth was wide, and as interesting as the eyes. When closed, it suggested no more than a brutal gash; when smiling, as now, it revealed a delightful humour, an almost childish delight in the business of being alive.
'Has he spoken?' he asked, in French.
'He asked for water, Your Majesty,' said one of the girls.
Your Majesty, Dick thought. My God.
The man sat beside him on the bed. 'You may say what you wish, to me, in English,' he said, speaking English. 'My people understand little of it. Do you know who you are?'
Dick concentrated, made an immense effort. 'I am Richard Hilton,' he whispered. 'Of Plantation Hilltop, in Jamaica.'
He was bathed in the tremendous smile. 'I hoped you would say that. Do you know how you came here?'
Dick attempted to shake his head, and found he could not. 'There was a storm. My ship was sunk. And when I reached shore, I was attacked.'
'My country is beset by outlaws,' the man said. 'It is too large, we are too few. But they will be destroyed. I give you my word. And you escaped from them, sorely wounded. Do you know how badly wounded?'
'I fell,' Dick said. 'From a hillside. That is the last I remember.'
'Ah,' said the man. 'We wondered how you came by such terrible injuries. Your leg was broken and your arm. Your ribs were broken. But you would not die. You crawled, in that condition, for a very long way. My surgeons tell me you must have been in that condition for three days, still crawling. And at last you crawled into an encampment of my soldiers. They perhaps would have left you to die, but it so happened that I visited them, on a tour of inspection, that very day, and saw you, and was told how you had crawled. I thought then, here is a man of remarkable courage, remarkable stamina, remarkable determination. Such a man should not die. That was before you spoke.'
Dick frowned at him. ‘I spoke?'
'You were delirious. And . . .' For the first time the black man lost some of his confidence. 'You had other injuries, which made it difficult for you to articulate. Yet sometimes you whispered, and sometimes you screamed. You screamed your name. Do you know me?'
He waited, saw the uncertainty in Dick's eyes, and smiled. 'I am Christophe. The Emperor, Henri the First, of all Haiti. But to you, Christophe.'
'To me?'
'I knew your parents. Your mother was a woman of rare beauty, rare courage, rare determination. A fitting mother for such a son. And your father sought to help the black man. Does he still do so?'
'Yes.'
'Ah. Fate is a strange bus
iness, Richard Hilton. That I should be able to save their son.'
'Why?' Dick asked. 'I am a planter, not an Abolitionist. And you destroyed my aunt.'
The smile faded, the face became hard, for just a moment. But even a moment was long enough for Dick to know that this man would be the most implacable, the most ruthless enemy he would ever have, were he ever to become an enemy. Then the smile returned. 'I would have you regain your strength, and get well. You and I have much to discuss. Much to remember, perhaps.' The smile went again, but this time the face was sad. 'I do not hide the truth. Your injuries were terrible, Richard Hilton. You were near to death for weeks. And you have lain in a fever, unable to move, for weeks more. My people have fed you and cared for you, and you will be well again, and as strong as ever before in your life, should you choose to be. But even a broken arm, a broken leg, three broken ribs, were not the full extent of your injuries.' He snapped his fingers, and one of the girls hurried forward carrying a looking-glass in a gilt frame, handed it to the Emperor.
'Now, Richard Hilton,' Christophe said. 'As you are the son of Suzanne Hilton and Matthew Hilton, and, as you are a man of courage and determination, as you have proved, look on yourself.'
HF - 04 - Black Dawn Page 23
