HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  And then the ocean itself. In that direction there was nothing between Haiti and Europe. From here Christophe would gaze upon the sails of the invading fleet, long before his country was more than a heavy cloud on the horizon to them. Supposing the fleet ever came.

  'You are impressed,' the Emperor said, at his shoulder. 'That pleases me.'

  'I have been impressed, sire,' Dick protested, 'by everything I have seen on Haiti.'

  'Even the poverty in which too many of my people live?' Perhaps there was humour in that deep voice, a twinkle in those black eyes. Dick could not be sure.

  'Even that, sire. But this surpasses them all. Our historians claim that in all history there have been only seven true wonders created by man. They would have to add this as their eighth.'

  'Well said,' Christophe agreed. 'It is my monument. As I said, it will stand forever. And with it, my name, my memory. But I have another wonder to show you yet, Matt. Or, I think, for this occasion, I shall call you Dick. Come.'

  The guards stood to attention. Christophe led Dick down the stone steps to the courtyard, and across the yard to the Emperor's house. Here again guards presented arms and remained at attention, and white-gowned girls hastened forward with cups of sangaree, and to relieve them of their weapons. Christophe waved them aside. 'I would speak with the mamaloi?

  A girl bowed, and hurried before them, to a curtained doorway leading away from the main withdrawing room. A moment later she returned.

  'The mamaloi will receive you, sire.'

  Christophe nodded, raised the curtain, led Dick into a darkened corridor, at the end of which was another heavy drape. This too was removed, and they found themselves in a small room, dark save for the glow of a charcoal fire, and heavy with scent, of the burning wood, to be sure, but with other odours as well, some delicious, and others strangely repellent. The room appeared to be empty of furniture, save for a single high-backed chair against the far wall. And in the chair there sat a woman. In the gloom Dick could only blink, unable to make out more than long dark hair and equally dark gown, with the face no more than a pale glimmer between. A pale glimmer.

  'The true source of my strength, Richard Hilton,' Christophe said. 'I would have you meet the mamaloi of La Ferriere. In English, she was called Gislane Nicholson.'

  Dick became aware that Christophe was no longer beside him. He was alone, with the priestess. And she was content to wait for some seconds. Her face remained a blur. But perhaps she could see in the dark.

  'Richard Hilton,' she said, at last. 'Light this.' Her English was perfect. Dick moved forward, held out his hand, took the candle; her fingers were cool to his touch.

  He knelt in front of the fire, lit the wick.

  'Tell me of your father,' she said.

  He straightened. 'I have not seen him for five years.'

  'But you have heard more recently than that.'

  'He is ageing, and therefore weak.'

  'And your mother? Is she as beautiful as ever?'

  'As ever.' He held the candle above his head, moved closer.

  'But she is also ageing. As am I.'

  Her face came into the light. And here was beauty, he realized. The high forehead, the wideset green eyes, the perfect nose, the wide mouth, the pointed chin. Could she really be more than fifty?

  'She also ages.'

  She gazed at him for some seconds, then held out her hand. 'Give me the candle. And kneel, here beside me.' He obeyed, and she placed the candle in a holder beside her chair, then thrust her fingers into his hair, tilted his head back. 'You have suffered a terrible injury.'

  He flushed. 'I had forgot.'

  'And I have reminded you. It is my duty, to remind men, of themselves. Do you know me?' 'Yes.' 'All?'

  'I think so.'

  'Told by your mother, or your father?' 'My father does not speak of you.'

  Again her gaze shrouded him. 'Does your mother still hate me?'

  'I do not think so.'

  'Perhaps age has brought her understanding,' the mamaloi said. 'Do you understand, Richard Hilton?'

  'That you were taken from your home, and sold as a slave? I think so.'

  'Do you? Do you know what it is like for a girl—I was no more—educated as an English lady, to be taken from her home, and made the plaything of every man who wished her? Can you understand that, Richard Hilton? Because of a minute drop of Negro blood in her veins? Can you understand such a world?'

  'No,' Dick said. Presumably it was the answer she wanted.

  Gislane Nicholson smiled. 'You will understand it. As I have done. When I was a slave, at first, I wished for my heart to cease beating, very often. But then I found myself, and I found my gods, and I wished only to live. So I live, and I am powerful. Your father, who loved me, and sought to right the wrong that had been done me, is as you say, ageing and frustrated, I have all that I could desire. Henry gives me all that I could desire, has always given me all that I desire. Do you admire him?'

  Dick realized that only honesty would pay here. 'In many ways.'

  'But not all?'

  ‘I do not think all his values are true.'

  'You could say that of any man. But he will fight for his values and, if need be, die for them. He wears a silver bullet around his neck, with which he will destroy himself should he ever be defeated. He has told me of you, Richard. You are running. Away from being a Hilton?'

  'He understands that?'

  She smiled. 'I do not think so. I understand that. But I do not admire it. No man can run away from what he is.'

  'I find myself a planter,' he said. 'And yet I respect the intentions of my father. The two are irreconcilable.'

  'Nothing is irreconcilable, to a man of courage.'

  'Ah, but you see . . .'

  'You are a coward? This has been proved?' 'Well, let us say I lack determination. My brother has determination. He is the true Hilton.'

  'But you can say that. You must think about it, a great deal.' 'Yes.'

  Gislane Nicholson stood up. Her blood-red gown rustled, as she moved round him. He wanted to turn, but dared not move his head. She stood immediately behind him. 'Do you know why you are here? Why Henry wishes you at his side?'

  'I have thought about that, too. I wondered perhaps . . .'

  'If he loved your mother?' Gislane knelt beside him. Her shoulder touched his. He inhaled her scent. 'No. But he admired her, as he admired your father. As he even admired Robert Hilton. He sought such courage, such determination, such arrogance, if you like, amongst his own people. Without success. His life is a hard one. Perhaps you have not realized that. Perhaps you have seen only Sans Souci. But he must rule, and he must lead, and he must fight. With only his own prowess to support him. His father was not a king, not even a wealthy planter. His father was a slave, and so were the fathers of all his generals, all his soldiers, all his people. Their right to power is as good as his, were they able to prove themselves men as good as he. And there are always some, who have no hope of proving themselves thus capable, who will seek to strike down their leader, to make room for lesser men.'

  'I understand that,' Dick said, and at last turned his head. Her face was only inches away from him. He felt quite drunk with the nearness of her.

  'It is on his mind, constantly, like a headache. It prevents him doing much that he would wish to do. I am his only source of strength. But I am naught but a woman. He seeks a man. And Fate brought him one.'

  'Me? There is a joke.'

  'A white man, dependent only upon Christophe himself. There is someone to trust. And when that white man is also a Hilton, he is the person Christophe seeks. Do you not think

  Fate brought you to Haiti?'

  'Well, I suppose, in a manner of speaking.'

  'I do not use the word Fate. My prayers, my powers, brought you to Haiti, Richard. I reached out across the sea, and I found you, and I summoned you hither.'

  Her voice was so intense, her face was so close, her scent was so overpowering, he almost b
elieved her. Voodoo. But he was a Christian.

  He forced a smile. 'You chose the wrong brother, Miss Nicholson. I know nothing of weapons. I can scarce protect myself with my fists.'

  If he had sought to break her spell, he had failed. 'You are a Hilton,' she said. 'Violence, power, is in your blood. Are you afraid of blood?'

  He licked his lips. 'I ... I have never spilt any.'

  'Nor had yours spilt?' She seized his wrist with her left hand, so quickly and so tightly he could do nothing about it for a moment, and in that moment her right hand had come out from beneath the folds of her gown, and a sharp-bladed knife had been drawn across the back of his forearm. He stared at the welling blood in total horror, felt her breath on his face as she smiled. 'You will not die of it.' She lowered her head, pressed her lips to the cut, sucked it for a moment, raised her head again. 'Good blood.'

  It continued to dribble slowly down his arm.

  'I will cure the bleeding in a moment. But first, come.' She held his hand, stood up, and he stood with her. She led him across the room to the far corner, turned suddenly. 'Point, at the candle.'

  His brain whirling, his arm came up. Blood fell to the floor with a gentle plop. Gislane held his shoulder, stared along his arm. 'Point,' she said. 'Do not wave at it. Point.' He felt an excruciating pain, and realized she had bitten his ear. 'Point.'

  His hand settled.

  'That is better. But not good. You are indeed nervous, Richard Hilton. Do I make you nervous?' He stared at her, in the gloom of the corner, at the flash of her smiling teeth.

  She held his wrists, brought up his hands. He discovered that her robe was opened. His hands were placed on her breasts, and she inhaled; her nipples seemed to be driving holes in his palms. She released his wrists, and put her arms round his neck, bringing herself even closer. She kissed his mouth, parted the lips, sought his tongue. A woman old enough to be his mother, several times over. The ground seemed to be heaving beneath his feet. His entire being was filled with the feel of her, the scent of her, with the desire for her.

  But she was gone again, slipped quietly away, and he could not find her for a moment. Then she was back, at his side. 'Do you desire me, Richard Hilton?'

  He turned, reaching for her, and found only the cold butt of a pistol pressed into his hand.

  'Douse the candle,' she said. 'Douse the candle.'

  He turned, without thinking, save of the woman, brought up his hand, and pointed at the flickering flame. The explosion took him by surprise, filled his nostrils with smoke and the acrid burn of powder, sent his senses reeling. Because the room was utterly dark.

  11

  The Soldier

  'They are taking the lower road.' Henry Christophe prodded the map held for him by his aide; the board rested on his horse's neck. 'There. How many?'

  His head came up, and the courier, still panting, heat sweat still rising from his mount, straightened to attention. 'Four thousand, sire. With cannon.'

  'Cannon will do them no good here,' Christophe said. 'General Warner.'

  It still took Dick a few moments to realize he was being addressed. 'Sire?'

  'You will take your regiment down this path. Captain La Chat will show you. He knows the country. You will proceed at a walk. There is time. Soon the drums will begin. When you reach the bottom, you will see the track. The enemy may not yet be in sight. You will maintain your men there until the drumbeat quickens, then you will debouch on to the road and charge along it until you encounter the enemy. Understood?'

  No, Dick wanted to shout. No, I do not understand. No, I am not able to carry out your command. I have never led men into battle before. I have never been under fire before. I shall be afraid. I shall likely run away.

  But instead he thought of the mamaloi, of her scent, of her feel; his right arm pained where the knife had cut his flesh, although, miraculously, uncannily, she had sealed the cut itself with some unguent of hers. He had been bewitched. Oh, undoubtedly. But for this purpose. To fight with the Emperor.

  'Understood, sire.'

  Christophe continued to look at him. 'There will be no quarter. Matt,' he said, in English. 'It would do you no good to grant quarter, in any event, as your men would merely torture their prisoners to death. This is a war of survival. Understood?'

  'Understood, sire.'

  Christophe smiled. 'And by the same token, Matt, do not be taken. If you must die, die fighting.'

  'Yes, sire.' Dick wheeled his horse, Captain La Chat at his side; the aide was a small black man, dressed in the blue uniform with the yellow facings of the Imperial Guard, like Dick, but wearing a tricorne instead of the cocked hat which marked a commander. They entered the trees, the four hundred dragoons jingling at their heels, commenced the descent, for the moment shaded from the sun, as it was early afternoon, siesta time, and the forest was hot and dry. For the moment. Yesterday it had rained, and perhaps later this afternoon, it would rain again; in these mountains, coated with these forests, the clouds accumulated almost without warning. But for the moment it was dry. Only blood would flow, this afternoon.

  His blood? Somehow he did not feel that. But blood, to be sure. So then, Richard Hilton, how far have you come, from a stool in Bridle's Bank in Lombard Street, from being the son of Matthew Hilton, Member of Parliament, pacifist, Abolitionist? What would Mama say? Supposing she ever learned of it; he had not been able to bring himself to write her, although Christophe would certainly have despatched the letter. But would Mama wish a monster as a son? And was Christophe not right? Was not Father the man who had travelled far, and away from his own heritage? He did not know, for certain. But this afternoon he would find out, for certain.

  'There.' Captain La Chat pointed a gauntleted finger. The trees were thinning, and the road was in front of them, and slightly beneath them. A dusty road, empty of people. And now he could hear the drums, murmuring across the hills, booming in the valleys. They were rada drums, used for Voodoo ceremonies. They touched a chord in his memory, for he had heard them as a child, as he had heard them often, here in Haiti. They were compelling, compulsive, frightening to a stranger. They spoke of blood, and sex, and lust, and possession. But they could not frighten those who followed Henry Christophe, because they belonged to him.

  There was no sound above the drums save for the occasional whinny of a horse, the occasional stamped hoof, the occasional jangle of harness. The dragoons waited. Did they have confidence in their new general? He dared not look round at them, in case someone might remark on the sweat which clouded his cheeks, the paleness of the cheeks themselves. La Chat was also sweating. But La Chat was merely hot.

  The drumbeat quickened. Dick drew his sword, and felt his heart begin to pound. What would happen? What would he feel like, when the first bullet tore its way into his body? What would be his last thoughts, as he plunged from his saddle to the ground, and saw the hooves of his own dragoons, looming about his head?

  He pointed his sword at the road, and urged his horse forward. He emerged from the tree screen, and the sunlight made him blink. He listened to the enormous jangle from behind him as his men also debouched into the open. No other sound. They followed him, and would make a noise when the time came.

  The noise came from in front of him. A ripple of musketry, a chorus of shouts and screams. He pointed his sword again, kicked his horse again. He rose in his stirrups, to wave his sword round his head. 'Charge,' he screamed. 'Charge.'

  The drumbeat was very fast, and was merged in the thunder of the horses' hooves, in the immense scream which rose from four hundred throats. He swept round the bend in the road, with the trees thick to his right, saw the enemy column, arrested by the musketry, hastily forming their ranks to face back and to either side, while the wagons were brought round to form a defensive line, and the cannon was unlimbered. They were not four hundred yards away. His horse's hooves kicked dust, his chest pounded, his sweat clouded his eyes. He could see only the blade of his sword, pointing, and the wagons. And a man
, seeing the approaching cavalry, himself pointing and screaming orders, bringing men round to face this new enemy, lining them up, muskets levelled.

  Dick sank lower over his horse's head, felt a hot wind embracing him, saw the black powder smoke rising into the air, realized to his surprise that he was unhurt. That indeed the men had scarce taken aim, so frightened they were, and they were already backing away, running for the shelter of the wagons.