HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  'I'm sure you did,' Dick agreed.

  Owens inspected his fingernails. 'They'll be getting around to people like you soon enough, now.' 'I can hardly wait.'

  'You should be happy to wait, Mr Hilton. The planters aren't in a forgiving mood. Oh, no. They'll get to you. They'll get to them all. They'll get even to those they can't put in a court. Oh, yes.'

  Dick sat up again. 'What did you say?' 'I said . . . aye?'

  For Dick had seized his shirt front. 'What? Who have they got to, that they can't put into court? My wife?'

  'No. Now look here, Mr Hilton, you let me go. I'll have you put in solitary, I will.'

  'Oh, you're a humorist, Owens,' Dick said.

  'Bread and water.'

  'Funnier and funnier. You won't be doing anything with a broken neck, and they will have cause to hang me. Who, God damn it?'

  Owens licked his lips. 'That little bit of yours.' 'Judith? My God, Judith? What happened to her?' 'Took her out, they did. From her own house.' 'Took her out? Who took her out?'

  'Why ... it was the Union, most people say. Who's to know? When those fellows ride abroad people keep their curtains drawn.'

  'Oh, my God. Where is Judith?'

  'Well, I wouldn't know. People living down King Street say they heard her screaming and fighting. But it weren't no good, against half a dozen men.'

  'Half a dozen men? Where was the military?'

  'Well, Mr Hilton, the military have enough fighting to do with the blacks. They ain't anxious to start fighting the whites as well. Not when those same whites pay their wages. You letting me go, or I'm shouting for help?'

  Dick let him go. Throttling Owens would hardly help either Judith or himself. And he had been congratulating himself because she hadn't come.

  Owens stood up, dusted himself off. 'Thought you'd like to know, Mr Hilton. Thought you'd like to know. Boy,' he bawled. 'Come let me out.'

  'Owens,' Dick said. 'If you want to avoid being throttled when I am finally released from here, find out what happened to Judith Gale. Find out where she is now. And find out who was responsible. Names. Owens. I wish names.'

  The Negro was at the door, and it was swinging in. Owens got on the far side, closed it, and turned the key. Then he smiled at Dick.

  'Thought you'd like to know, Mr Hilton. As for finding out, well, it ain't altogether safe to go asking questions about the Union. But the word is they gave her something to be remembered by. They cut a ‘T on each cheek. ‘T, Mr Hilton, for traitor, you know.'

  How he sweated, at the thought of it. Judith Gale. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and the most tragic. Her tragedy had been being born the daughter of a woman like Harriet. Of being involved with people like the Hiltons. Of knowing him at his worst, instead of at his best.

  He tossed on his narrow bed, and dreamed, and heard her laughter, and then with it, her scream of fear. He had never heard Judith Gale scream with fear, in the flesh. But she would have screamed, when exposed to the nightriders of the Union.

  And then he heard her feet, in the corridor, crisp, short steps, her heels striking the stone, multiplying as they approached. Closer and closer, they came, Judith Gale, returning to avenge herself on the man responsible for her misery.

  He found himself awake, and staring at the ceiling of his cell. And still the feet came. It was only just past dawn. He sat up, turning to look at the cell door, to listen to the scrape of the key in the lock. He stood up, his back against the wall, still uncertain that he was not dreaming, watched the door swing in, gazed at Cartarette.

  For a moment he could not speak. The Negro gaoler stood at her shoulder; Owens was not there.

  'Mr Hilton?' She spoke hardly more than a whisper. 'Mr Hilton?' She crossed the cell. 'Dick? My God, what have they done to you?'

  It was, after all, no dream. He could inhale her scent, he could touch her, if he dared move. His fingers closed on her arms, slipped up them to her shoulders, held her face to kiss her lips.

  'Cartarette. Cartarette. They have let you see me?'

  'You are free, Dick. Free.' She clung to him for a moment then stepped back. 'Free.'

  'Free?' he repeated stupidly. 'But. . .'

  'A ship arrived yesterday, dearest Dick,' she said. 'Bringing a new Governor, the Earl of Mulgrave.'

  'Harry Phipps? I had supposed him too old for such a post.'

  'Sir Henry Phipps died last year,' Cartarette said. 'This is his son, Constantine. A young man, Dick, not yet thirty-five. A man of vigour. A man of the Whigs. Dick.' She clung to his arm again. 'A Bill is being prepared, to emancipate the slaves. It will be law by this time next year.'

  'But. . . will they accept such a thing, here?'

  'They must. The Colonial Church Union has been outlawed. All surviving insurgents are to be amnestied. And Richard Hilton of Hilltop to be set free. The Governor himself waits to see you, Dick. But he gave me the privilege of taking you from this place.'

  'Free.' He allowed himself to be pulled towards the door. He listened to his own feet on the stone of the corridor. He stood on the top step and gazed at the empty exercise yard, still bathed in shadow, as the sun had not risen far enough to reach it, and at the rows of windows which surrounded it. And seized her arm once more. 'Harris? Barker?'

  'They too will be free this day. But the Governor wishes the prisoners released one by one. He will have no more cause for riot.'

  He went down the steps, Cartarette holding his arm, crossed the yard, found Owens himself waiting at the main gate.

  'Ah, a happy day, Mr Hilton. A happy day.'

  Dick gazed at him, and the warder flushed.

  'You'll understand much of what I said was jest, Mr Hilton. What? I tried to keep up your spirits, nothing less, sir.'

  'Oh, aye,' Dick said. 'You did that. Cartarette. Where is Judith Gale?'

  Some of the pleasure left her face. 'At Hilltop.' 'Hilltop? But. . .'

  'I could do no less, Dick. She is half out of her mind with fear and shame. I can only pray your release will give her some peace.'

  'You are a treasure, Cartarette. You know the truth, of her and me?'

  She glanced at him. 'She is a wreck, Dick. I could forgive her anything. I have forgiven her everything. Mama,' she shouted, dragging him across the street to where the phaeton waited. 'Here he is.'

  Dick hesitated, glancing from left to right. But at this hour in the morning the street was empty. The Earl of Mulgrave was obviously at once a thoughtful and intelligent man. And there was Suzanne, waiting to take his hands, to hold him close.

  'Dick. Oh, Dick. I never doubted. But the news . . . Cartarette has told you the news?'

  'She has.'

  'It is the seal on your father's life. I must get back to him.' She smiled, as archly as ever in her youth. 'After I have shown you what we have done for Hilltop.'

  'Then let's be out there.'

  'The Governor . . .'

  'Can wait. I'll see him after I have avenged Judith Gale.'

  Cartarette picked up the reins, flicked them over the horse's back. The equipage moved down the street. 'No one knows who they were.'

  'Judith must.'

  'I doubt even she does. It is said they never speak a word on their midnight rides. What they must do is all planned beforehand, every man knowing exactly his task. This silence is part of the terror they spread amongst the blacks.'

  'And now the Union is disbanded, will none of them ever be brought to justice?'

  'I doubt that, Dick,' Suzanne said. 'Mulgrave's duty is to prepare Jamaica for Emancipation, certainly. But yet must the island remain British, and thus be ruled by white men. He has also to heal old wounds5 maintain the peace, restore the island's prosperity. He is hoping you will play your part in that.'

  'I mean to. But I also mean to track down the men who destroyed Judith. You must see that, Cartarette.'

  She leaned across to squeeze his arm. 'I had expected nothing less. I imagine even the Governor expects nothing less
. But it cannot cloud your entire life. You have Hilltop to manage, you have your children to father, you have your slaves to free, and you have me to husband. You have spent all but twenty years in constant conflict. Promise me you will learn to live a little, in the last half of your life.'

  He looked down at her, and then across at Suzanne, smiling at him.

  'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I am a fool. No doubt my brain supposes itself still in that cell. Freedom is not a commodity one thinks about until it has been taken away.' He squeezed both their hands. 'I shall be a happy husband, a happy son, a happy father, I swear it.' The phaeton was already leaving the town behind, and beginning its climb into the mountains. 'How could a man be less than happy,' he shouted. 'In Jamaica.'

  So, once again, that so well remembered road. The last time the three of them had ridden here had been in the dawn, with conch shells whistling, with the certainty of death and destruction awaiting them. And the unknown beyond that.

  Now that was in the past. There was so much to be done. There was Judith to be avenged. There was the problem of Emancipation to be faced. There would be an inevitable drop in the plantation profits. The great days of the plantocracy, of buying and selling men, politicians not less than slaves, were finished. But that had been a shadowy, unreal world. The future remained there for the taking, without a troubled conscience, without a constant look over the shoulder, without a constant apprehension of the morrow.

  And Father would die happy. His life had hardly contained less turmoil, and he had had to wait much longer to achieve his final triumph. He smiled at his mother, and then leaned back, watched Cartarette's firm hands on the rein as she guided the horse up the steep incline, allowed it to find its own way down into the damp, tree-shrouded valleys, and sat bolt upright as without warning she dragged on the brake, almost rising to her feet with the effort.

  The horse pulled to a stop. They were down in a valley, trees to either side obscuring the hills which rose around them, isolated them from the rest of the world. And one of the trees had come down, immediately across the road.

  'That's strange,' Suzanne remarked. 'It was not there when we came in yesterday.'

  'And there was no wind, last night.' Cartarette climbed down, and Dick followed her. 'Can you move it?'

  'I think so.' He parted the branches, bent to lift the trunk, and checked. There was no torn stalk here, but a clean severance.

  He turned, heard Cartarette's breath whistle as she too looked round. For the little valley was filled with horsemen, six to either side of the phaeton, walking their horses from the trees. They wore black capes and flat black hats, and black domino masks. And every one carried a pistol.

  'Oh, my God,' Cartarette whispered.

  Dick stepped in front of her. 'Well, gentlemen,' he said, 'I have long looked forward to making your acquaintance.' For only confidence would pay here. And strangely, he felt no fear at all. Only a bubbling, angry exhilaration.

  The horsemen came closer. They ignored the phaeton, Suzanne sitting rigid inside it, her face pale; on a sudden she looked even older than her seventy years.

  'What, gentlemen, dumb? And perhaps deaf, as well,' Dick said. 'The law wishes to see you. The law will see you, gentlemen. You had best beware it does not hang you all.' He felt Cartarette's fingers on his arm. She at the least had no doubts of their danger.

  'The law,' said one of the mounted men. He spoke in a hoarse whisper to disguise his voice, and certainly Dick did not recognize it. 'We are the law here, Richard Hilton. Those milksops in England may have chosen to release you, but we know you for what you are. And you will pay for it.'

  Think, Dick told himself. Think. You will not make them angry. Can you bluff them into supposing there are mounted men behind you? But they would have overseen their approach. And there was no sound in this valley.

  He watched ten of the men dismount. The other two remained in their saddles, their pistols pointing at him.

  'Richard Hilton,' said the spokesman, one of the two still mounted. 'You are accused of inspiring all the ills that have overtaken this unhappy country, this past twenty years. You are accused of fomenting rebellion amongst the slaves, of serving the black savages of Haiti, of sowing dissension amongst the plantocracy. You have been tried by this court, in respect of these crimes, and have been found guilty. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?'

  The dismounted men stood close around him. Ten of them. No doubt he could survive an encounter with most of them, as they had holstered their pistols. But what of Cartarette, standing at his shoulder, scarce breathing? And what of Mama?

  'Then so be it,' said the mounted man. 'Richard Hilton, you are condemned to death, the sentence to be carried out immediately.'

  Before he could move, two of the men had seized his arms, throwing Cartarette to one side, and a third was binding his wrists together behind his back, leaving him helpless.

  'No,' Cartarette screamed, running forward. 'No.'

  One of the men caught her round the waist.

  'Your turn is also here, Cartarette Hilton,' said the mounted man. 'You are accused of aiding and abetting the condemned man in all the crimes of which he is guilty. Therefore you are as guilty as he. Therefore will you suffer the same fate.'

  Cartarette's arms had already been seized, and now they also were bound. Her hat was knocked off, to allow her hair slowly to cloud about her shoulders. She stared at the mounted men in total disbelief.

  Two other of the men were taking ropes from their saddle horns.

  'You are mad’ Dick said. 'Do you think you will get away with such a crime?'

  'We will defend ourselves, if we need to, Richard Hilton,' said the mounted man.

  'Then defend yourselves now,' Dick shouted. 'Like men, instead of animals. Give me a sword, a pistol, and take your places in front of me.'

  'Condemned felons have no rights,' said the mounted man. 'We would not demean ourselves. And that you may better appreciate the depths of your iniquity, the consequences of your insensate folly, this court decrees that your wife shall die first. Now.'

  Cartarette turned her head to look at Dick, her mouth faintly open. He thought for a moment she might faint, with sheer horror. For the first rope was already being looped over the tree, and now she was pulled back towards it.

  'What?' asked the horseman. 'No words of farewell?'

  'Dick,' Cartarette begged. 'Help me.'

  The cords ate into his wrists. His brain seemed to be consumed with fire. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say, save to utter futile threats of vengeance, and he was all through uttering threats. But allow him to be free, he thought, for one moment. He'd need no weapons. Not now.

  The rope was looped around her neck. Her hair trailed on her shoulders, a blaze of colour against the brown and green of the tree, against the black of the cape of the man holding her. Cartarette Hilton. How much she had suffered for him.

  'Hold.'

  The voice was old, and quavered. And yet cut the morning like a lightning shaft.

  Their heads turned, to look at the phaeton, and Suzanne Hilton, leaning slightly forward, a pistol in her hand.

  'Release her,' Suzanne said. Her left hand also came up, and it too held a pistol.

  The men stared at her in amazement. Then the mounted man gave a brief laugh. 'What, afraid of an old woman scarce able to stand? Beware, old lady, that we do not hoist you beside your son.'

  'Drop your weapon,' Suzanne said. 'Or I will blow the teeth from your grinning mouth.' She spoke in an absolutely even tone.

  'Why, you . .

  'She'll do it, you fool,' shouted one of the men on the ground, and Dick's head jerked again. 'Tony?'

  'Tony,' Suzanne said, with bitter satisfaction. 'As I supposed. I will do it, John Tresling. It will be a pleasure.'

  Still Tresling hesitated, then made a convulsive movement with his right hand.

  The explosion of Suzanne's pistol crashed through the valley. The powder
smoke rose around her, but her face could still be seen, and the quick movement as she transferred the loaded second pistol to her right hand. But by now they were looking at Tresling, his mask destroyed along with his face, slowly turning as he fell forward, rested for a moment on the horse's neck, and then struck the ground with a thud.