The glass was held immediately above him, and he stared into the reflection. Because it was a reflection. Christophe had said so, and indeed, he could see the cambric pillow case spreading away from him on either side, and also the fair hair, which had grown to an inordinate length, and scattered to either side as well. But the face between. His heart seemed to slow, and a wild desire to scream filled his brain.
But perhaps it was merely the glass, which was distorted, and thus made him distorted. Because those were his eyes. When he blinked, they blinked. He could stare at himself, in his eyes. So, then, no doubt he was wearing a mask, with slits through which his eyes could peer. And the mask was carelessly made, and perhaps trodden upon by that careless maker. The forehead was high. He had always had a high forehead. But never one split by a deep, jagged groove, ridged with scar tissue. The chin thrust. He had always had a thrusting chin. But it had thrust forward, not to one side in a lopsided lurch, which carried his mouth with it, elongating the lips, making the mouth seem twice as wide as it really was. And he had once possessed a nose. The Hilton nose, the feature above all others which made Mama beautiful and her sons handsome, small and exquisitely shaped. This face lacked a nose. Rather it possessed two nostrils in the centre of an unspeakable gash, which gave the other grotesque features an appearance of anxious horror.
Christophe snapped his fingers again, and the glass was removed.
'A man should count, first of all, his blessings,' the Emperor said. 'When you fell, from your hillside, you landed on your face. On your nose, I suspect. So you are disfigured. But your brain, I think, is undamaged. And you have lost only a few of your teeth. And you are alive.'
'I am a monster,' Dick whispered.
Christophe smiled, and stood up. 'You are a man, Richard Hilton. Get well, and strong. I have known handsome men, whose beauty disguised hearts of hell, and I have known lovely women, whose beauty sheltered the most vicious of desires. A man is what he is, Richard Hilton. Not what he appears to be. Get well, and we will talk.'
He left the room, his entourage at his heels, and Dick was surrounded by the girls. Now he gazed at them with horror, waiting for the disgust which must animate their faces. But they remained seriously composed, adjusted his covers, raised his head again to offer him another drink. And this time it was rum suitably diluted with lemon juice, but strong enough to send his weakened brain whirling through shadowed corridors. Christophe would take no risks with his sanity.
His sanity. Well, then, what was sanity? He doubted he would ever be sane again. Sanity was, first and foremost, an understanding of oneself and one's surroundings. But his surroundings were unimaginable. Black people, in his experience had been slaves, or, if free, paupers, wearing nothing more than a pair of drawers or a chemise, barefooted, uneducated, amoral. They had lived in one-room logies, and been allowed to die as they became useless, to give birth as they had become pregnant. They had been humble, and they had been afraid. Without, indeed, the fabric of fear which was inextricably woven into the very heart of West Indian society, slavery could not exist.
So then, there was no sanity, in Sans Souci. Because that was the name of the palace in which he now found himself. And it was a palace. Ellen Taggart had called Hilltop a palace. But compared with this endless edifice it was a hut. No doubt Christophe, with his background of slavery, intended it so. Quite unashamedly he had borrowed the design, no less than the name, from Frederick of Prussia. Of all the white men he admired, indeed, and there was a surprising number, Frederick the Great ranked highest. Dick had never been to Prussia. Nor could he see the need, now. In Prussia it was occasionally cold, often damp; the sun did not always shine. At Christophe's Sans Souci there was no natural impediment to endless splendour, endless pleasure, endless delight. Sometimes the trade wind, booming in from the Atlantic, had skirts fluttering, chandeliers swinging, but this same trade wind dissipated the heat, kept the palace cool, kept its inmates smiling.
These were numberless, men and women, treading parquet floors or soft carpets, high heels or spurred boots clicking, silks rustling, swords clinking; and their faces were black. Nor were they overawed by their surroundings. Dick was. When first he left his bed, some weeks after his initial reawakening, he was escorted along endless corridors, decorated in royal colours of brilliant blue, gleaming red, gentle green, imperial purple, hung with paintings of the magnificent country into which he had so strangely strayed. The corridors had ended in galleries, which looked over even more splendid parquet floors, sentried by red-coated guardsmen, armed with musket and bayonet and even bearskin, with ceilings decorated in the classical Italian style, and rising thirty feet above the floor beneath them. To reach the floor he must descend a slowly curving staircase, marble-stepped, gilt-balustraded, down which an endless sweep of superbly dressed, superbly poised, men and women paraded. And they were black.
And beyond the hallways, the reception rooms, with grand piano and upholstered chaise longue, monogrammed silk drapes, twenty-foot-high glass doors leading to the gardens. In here often enough music tinkled and the Haitian nobility indulged in the newest Viennese waltz, a panorama of bare breasts and shoulders, of gleaming uniforms, of witty conversation and whispered flirtation. But the gleaming shoulders and shining faces were black.
And beyond the glass doors, the miles of garden, the shell-strewn walks between the packed flowerbeds, where white-stockinged ministers strolled, gloved hands behind their backs, listening to the pronunciamentos of the Emperor. Where the sea breeze reached its fullest strength, and murmured in the pine trees with which the gardens were surrounded. Where plumed guardsmen, dismounted for their sentry duty, stood to attention with drawn sabres resting on their cuirassed shoulders. And the guardsmen, and the ministers, were black.
Much about them, about the palace, was no doubt ridiculous. At least to European eyes. Most ridiculous of all was the conscious aping of Europeanism, and within that, of Napoleonism. Christophe was the Emperor, and ruled with all the trappings of Paris or Vienna, reviewing his magnificently uniformed guard every morning, conferring far into the night with his ministers, issuing directives, sentencing offenders, making plans, while in the evening he invariably attended the ball which took place in the great hall, accompanied by his queen, middle-aged and soft-voiced, but imperial of presence, with diamonds sparkling in her hair and round her neck, with the train of her white lace gown sweeping the floor. Perhaps it was ridiculous for powdered black people to dance the waltz. Certainly it was ridiculous for the nobility Christophe had created around him to sport names like the Duke of Marmalade, the Count of Sunshine. But there was nothing ridiculous about the gravity, the conscious determination, with which each minister, each belle, each servant and each guardsman went about his duties. Dick took a great deal of persuading to leave his bedchamber, even when he was strong enough once more to walk; he feared that his ghastly face would be an object of ridicule. But no doubt they had been prepared, and indeed, no sooner had he left his room than he encountered the Empress, obviously waiting to insist upon lending him her own arm to descend the stairs, and receive the bows of her people, and never a smile at the disfigured white man.
So then, perhaps it was ridiculous to sit for dinner at a table twice the size of that at Hilltop, with other tables leading off, so that some hundred and fifty people sat down for the meal, to sip French wine and eat breast of chicken fried in butter, to finish with iced sorbet delicately flavoured with soursop, the most sensual of fruits.
But why, he found himself wondering, was it ridiculous? For people consciously to raise their status, from the lowest to the highest, in a single generation? There was achievement, not absurdity. No doubt, to his eyes, incongruous was the more accurate word. And what was incongruous, but a synonym for surprise, for the unusual.
And then, he was forced to reflect, as he strolled the gardens, attended always by his bevy of white-gowned girls, and now supported by two armed guardsmen always at his call, and listened to the bustle o
f empire just beyond the walls, nothing could even be incongruous, where so much had been achieved. In Jamaica, they had supposed Haiti to be a savage jungle peopled by wild Africans no doubt given to cannibalism, and surviving in the depths of poverty and degradation, at the mercy of the wild superstition they called Voodoo. If the palace of Sans Souci was representative of the culture Henry Christophe had created, then was Jamaica the uncivilized poorhouse.
But was it truly representative? He could not help but remember the empty beach, the sullen forest, the bestial trio who had sought to murder him, when first he had landed. How far then, did Christophe's magnificence stretch? Dick found himself remarkably anxious to find out.
But leaving Sans Souci demanded the same essential as remaining within its magnificent cloisters; the will of the Emperor Henry Christophe. He had said, on the morning Dick first awoke, that he wished to talk. And this was true. As Dick regained his strength, the Emperor set aside an hour a day, first of all to visit his guest in his bedchamber, and then, when Dick began to be able to move around the palace, to entertain him in one of the private rooms, or to walk with him in the gardens. But less to talk, than to listen. He asked questions, concerning Jamaica, concerning Europe, concerning the present state of the Hilton family. As he regularly received embassies, or at least envoys, from various European nations, and as he certainly received overseas news from his own agents, judging by the constant stream of couriers which visited the palace, he was certainly not ill-informed of events outside his own country. Of which he never spoke. Any questions Dick might offer in reply were politely turned aside. It became increasingly difficult for Dick to decide, as he regained his full health and strength, and his brain became correspondingly more alert, exactly what motive Christophe had, in lavishing such care, such attention, on him. He even began to wonder if the repeated questions concerning Suzanne—even if these were equally mingled with questions concerning Matt and the prospects of Abolition in the British colonies—might not be the main reason. Mama had never discussed her months of imprisonment by the Negro army. In circumstances so horrible no one had been disposed to argue about that. But had the circumstances been so horrible?
The thought was itself horrible. But was the thought itself horrible? Or was it just the instinctive reaction of generations of prejudice? What had Mama herself said? The fact of slavery is all the white man has, if he is wealthy, to justify his crime, if he is poor, to justify his pretence at superiority. And every black man in the entire continent of America was a slave, a freed slave, or the son of a slave. And was thus to be doomed to perpetual inferiority? Why, he had recognized the falseness of that in Jamaica, and long before he had known Christophe. Knowing Christophe, seeing what he had achieved, made it even more of a nonsense.
Nor could the idea of love, between white and black, be dismissed out of hand as obscene. He had known the attraction of a black woman, in Jamaica, and rejected it instinctively. Tony had not. And had not Tony, as ever, been right? There came the night, not very long after he was able to take his first steps in the garden, when the door to his bedchamber was opened, and a girl entered. She carried a candle, and wore a deep green negligee, and nothing else. He gazed at her in alarm and she smiled at him.
'I am come to make you happy,' she said, in English.
'I am happy,' he answered, again instinctively. 'You must not stay.'
The girl crossed the room, placed the candle in the holder. She was tall, and slender. She glided rather than moved, and even through the negligee her black flesh seemed to gleam. 'I must stay,' she said. 'It is the will of the Emperor.'
'The Emperor? He has not spoken of it to me.'
'The Emperor knows his own mind,' she removed her negligee. 'My name is Aimee.'
No doubt she had been created especially to be loved. Her slimness was the result of training and exercise, not immaturity. Her breasts filled his hand, and lacked the slightest sag. Her belly was ridged with the muscles of a man. And most remarkable of all to his eyes, her pubes had been shaved, to make her womanhood the more imperious, the more demanding, the more anxious. And now he discovered the reason for the gleam which had surrounded her. She was oiled, from her neck to her toes, with a pleasantly scented unguent, which made her slide over him like a cool breeze. He was inside her before he had properly touched her, his fingers slipping down the powerful arch of her back. And he was spent, it seemed but a single spasm later. No doubt he had wanted a woman, very badly, without even being aware of it.
Aimee kissed him on the nose. 'The Emperor will be pleased. It is a sign of health.'
She made to roll away from him, and he caught her wrist. 'And having done your duty, you will now leave me?'
Her face was expressionless. 'If I remain, Mr Hilton, you will wish to enter me again. And perhaps again.'
'And having done your duty, you no longer wish me inside you.'
'My feelings are of no concern,' she said. 'I am concerned with your strength. It is not yet full.'
'The Emperor's command?'
'The Emperor knows all things.'
'And so he commanded you to love a monster.'
She had been pulling at her wrist, gently. Now her movements relaxed, and she frowned. 'Are you a monster?'
'Have you no eyes in your head, Aimee?'
'You are a man, monsieur.' Almost she smiled. 'A woman should judge a man, not by his appearances, but by his touch. Your fingers are gentle. They seek to give, rather than to take. Your lips are gentle. Your passion is a gentle passion. You are a man to love, because you are a man who seeks to give love.'
No doubt her father had been a slave, and perhaps had torn the flesh from Aunt Georgiana's body while she had screamed and he had laughed. 'Did the Emperor command you to say that?'
'No, monsieur. The Emperor would be displeased with me did he know I was still here. He would have me whipped.' 'But you will come again?' 'Tomorrow night.'
'Then stay this night, Aimee, or do not come tomorrow. I would have you stay, and return, because of me, not because of duty. And if it is because of me, I must be worth at least a whipping.'
She hesitated, and was then in his arms again, and consuming him again, within seconds. And herself? He could swear beads of sweat had appeared on her shoulders, even beneath the oil. And she had sighed.
'And you will not be whipped,' he said. 'I give you my word.'
She smiled. 'I will not be whipped in any event, Mr Hilton. The Emperor left tins night, and will not return for at least a month.'
'Left?' He sat up in dismay.
'He campaigns, monsieur. Against Petion.'
The name was familiar enough. 'I had supposed they shared the same dream. Did not Petion fight with Christophe, under Toussaint, against the French?'
'Indeed, monsieur. But he is not black like us. His father was a white man. He is what we call a mulatto. And if he wished to be free of the French, he did not wish to be ruled by a black man. He has declared the south independent, and would make himself master of all Haiti. So the Emperor must defeat him, and this is difficult, where there are so many forests, so many mountains.'
'But the Emperor will defeat him?'
'Of course,' Aimee said.
It was as simple as that, to the residents of Sans Souci.
'You are well, Richard Hilton.' The Emperor stood before his desk, hands clasped behind his back. He wore uniform, and looked tired. As well he might, Dick supposed. He had campaigned for some two months, and had apparently only returned to his palace the previous day. And immediately summoned his guest. Or was it his prisoner?
'I am as well as ever in my life, sire. Or perhaps, better than ever before in my life. No man could have been cared for as I have been these last nine months.' Could it really be nine months? It was July. The sea breeze had warmed, and rain clouds were gathering above the mountains.
'That pleases me,' Christophe said. He walked round the desk, and one of his secretaries hastily pulled back his chair for him. 'Sit.'
'And do you now look in the mirror without a shudder?'
'No, sire. I doubt I will ever be able to do that.'
Christophe gazed at him for some seconds. And then nodded. 'There is news, from Europe. The French emperor, Napoleon, has escaped from Elba and returned to France.'
'My God,' Dick said. 'It will mean a resumption of the war.'
'And a resumption, perhaps, of Bonaparte's power,' Christophe said, thoughtfully. 'The same ship which brought me that news brought inquiries after Richard Hilton. We have had several such inquiries.'
Dick frowned. 'You never said so.'
'You had sufficient cause for distress, in regaining your health,' Christophe said.
'Then my family know I am here?'
Christophe smiled. 'I have told no one you are here.'
HF - 04 - Black Dawn Page 24
