She was smiling again. 'An optimist, certainly. I like optimists. And I promise you this, Matt, that should Dirk elect to fight you, then must he also fight me.'
'You did not have to say that. I was already sure of it.'
She nodded. 'You must ride aback alone, from now on. I wish to take no risks.'
He nodded, picked up his hat and whip, went down the stairs, drank the huge mug of sweetened coffee which was waiting for him. He wished no more in the early mornings, looked forward to the breakfast he would enjoy, with Sue, when he returned from the morning ride.
Ian Lander also waited, his face even grimmer than usual this morning. 'Bobman is here.'
Matt adjusted his hat. 'Who would Bobman be?'
'You've not forgotten Bobman? The jumper from St. John's.'
'I remember the jumper,' Matt said. 'What can he want?' 'We've four for punishment.'
Matt frowned at him. 'There's been no one in the stocks.'
' 'Tis a system of my own, Matthew. It seems a terrible waste of labour, to lock a man in the stocks for upwards of a month. Bobman is not a regular visitor. So those I have condemned work in the fields until he comes. I have kept them back this morning.'
'You should have informed me of this before,' Matt said. His coffee seemed to have solidified into lead in his belly.
'You did not ask, and I forgot. But there are only four. It will take but a few minutes. Yet must you be there, as you are here.'
Matt walked down the steps, stared down the drive, at the triangles. They were already filled, three men and a girl, stripped naked and suspended by their wrists.
Lander was at his side. 'Robert Peter, guilty of insubordination,' he said. 'Three dozen. Robert William, guilty of insubordination, three dozen. Petronella Petronella, guilty of stealing, six dozen.'
'Six dozen?' Matt halted. 'For the girl?'
'Well, Matthew, stealing is something I am determined to stamp out. Petronella Petronella was a house girl, and she took a silver spoon and tried to sell it in the market in St. John's.'
'When was this?'
'About a week before you arrived.'
'She has been confined since then?'
'No. I told you, I consider that sort of action a total waste. I told her to expect punishment, and then removed her from the house and placed her in the fields.'
'And since then she has been waiting,' Matt said thoughtfully. 'And the fourth?'
'His name is Ulysses Edward, and he is guilty of making a sacrifice to a voodoo god, and incidentally of stealing one chicken. I have decided twelve dozen lashes for him.'
'Twelve dozen lashes?' Matt asked incredulously. 'For stealing a chicken?'
'That were the least of his offences,' Lander insisted. 'You have been in England too long, Matt, away from the superstitions and cruelties of these people. Voodoo is a serious matter.'
'God give me patience,' Matt cried. 'It is their religion, is it not? You may call it a superstition, Ian, but no doubt they would call Christianity a superstition.'
'Now really, Matthew, there is no necessity to be blasphemous.'
'As Rousseau would no doubt call all religion a superstition,' Matt insisted.
'I have never read Master Rousseau,' Lander remarked. 'I do not believe in obscene literature.'
'Aye,' Matt said. 'It is all a matter of obscenity, to you.'
Lander walked ahead, down the drive, to where the cluster of overseers was waiting with the huge black man known as Bobman. 'We'll begin with this one,' he said, jerking his chin at Ulysses Edward. 'He's a recent purchase, Bobman, from somewhere in the recesses of the Congo, and filled with blasphemous ideas. Take the skin from his back. Twelve dozen lashes.'
The Negro's head jerked, to suggest that he understood English, but his expression, composed and almost withdrawn, did not change.
'Oh, aye, Mr. Lander,' agreed Bobman. 'And what he done?'
'He has prayed to Damballah Oueddo,' said one of the overseers.
'I have yet to be taught where is the crime in praying to one's own version of God,' Matt said, having reached the party.
Lander exchanged glances with his overseers, and drew a long breath. 'It is not as simple a matter as you think, Matthew. This god to whom they pray, this Damballah, the mighty serpent, is dedicated to the destruction of the white people in the West Indies, to the murder of us all, to the murder of you, Matthew. And Mistress Huys.'
'Something to think about,' Matt said. 'Especially when you remember the Romans no doubt considered that the preaching of Jesus Christ was devoted entirely to the murder of all Roman non-believers and the destruction of their property.'
'Aye,' Lander said. 'And this fellow should count himself lucky that we do not treat him as the Romans treated the early Christians.'
'Oh, indeed,' Matt agreed. 'The point I am arguing, however, is whether you consider yourself a Christian, Ian, or an early Roman.'
Lander stared at him.
'I flogging this man or not?' Bobman demanded, of the attorney.
'Get to it,' the Scot growled.
And suddenly Matt was angry, as he had been angry on board the Formidable, as he had been angry in his bedroom when facing Georgiana. Suddenly he knew how much of a specious coward he had been over the months which had passed since Gislane had been swept from his life. His cowardice had cost him her, forever, and in its place, mysteriously and magnificently, had brought him Sue. But he knew now that he could no longer be a coward, and expect even her constant love. And now he was about to be a father.
'You'll address yourself to me, God damn you,' he shouted, and their heads jerked in surprise. 'You're flogging no one here today, Bobman. Take your leave.'
Bobman's astonished gaze turned towards Lander; he rolled his eyes. 'But what is this, man, Mr. Lander?'
‘Your cousin put me in charge of this plantation, Matthew,' protested the manager.
'Until he sent me here as its owner, Ian. You'll not forget that.'
Lander changed his tactics. 'And if we send Bobman away, who's to carry out the flogging? I've no wish to harm the blacks.'
'You've no wish to harm them, Ian. I'm glad to hear you say that. Neither have I, save where it is absolutely necessary. There'll be no flogging here. Munroe, cut them down.'
The head overseer hesitated, watching Lander, and received a quick nod.
'And bring them here,' Matt said.
The four slaves were brought before him, faces bemused with their rapid change of fortune. 'You,' Matt said. 'Ulysses Edward. I'll punish no man for believing in a god, whoever he may be. Get back to your field gang.'
'But...' Lander began, and stopped. Ulysses Edward was already jog-trotting his way up the drive.
'Petronella Petronella,' Matt said. 'You stole a spoon from the house, and sold it in the market. Who to?'
Her head swung to and fro. ‘I didn't sell it, massa. I didn't have the time.'
'We got the spoon back, Matthew,' Lander said. 'It is the deed I proposed to punish.'
'As indeed it should be,' Matt agreed. 'You have spent six weeks in the field, Petronella Petronella. Yet I do not think you have been punished enough. For the next four weeks you'll lose your day off. Now get back up to the house and tell Mistress Huys what I have decreed.'
The girl scuttled away, while Lander scratched his head.
'No doubt you'll pat these two fellows on the head, for insubordination.'
'By no means,' Matt said. 'They sought to prove themselves men, difficult enough in the circumstances in which they must live. You'd quarrel with me, would you, Robert William?' He addressed the larger of the two Negroes.
'Oh, no, massa. Not with you, massa.' His eyes rolled towards Munroe.
'To quarrel with one of my overseers is to quarrel with me,' Matt insisted. 'You'd best think on that. From this moment, any quarrel on this plantation is a quarrel with me. I'll not flog you, Robert William. I'll not flog any man. But by heaven I'll break your jaw, and that's a sight more painful. You un
derstand me?'
'Oh, yes, massa.' Robert William grinned, as he looked down on his master, several inches the shorter.
'You're mad,' Lander declared. 'Clear out of your senses.'
Matt watched the slave. 'You're amused,' he said. 'I like my people to laugh. But I like them to understand me, too. You'd be free, Robert William, to insult who you please. Tell the truth.'
Robert William shifted his feet in the dust. 'Well, massa, we all must want to be free.'
'Only men can be free,' Matt said. 'You can have your freedom this minute, if you're man enough. I say so, before witnesses. Bobman, you're my witness too. I give Robert William his freedom. He has but to walk off the plantation. But to do that he must walk past me. Can you do that, Robert William?'
The Negro stared at him. 'You meaning that, massa?'
'Mad,' Lander groaned. 'Munroe, fetch me a pistol.'
'You'll not move, Munroe,' Matt said, never taking his gaze from Robert William's face. 'Yes, I mean it. I have said it, before witnesses. Have you ever known my father to break his word? I say you shall not leave here, Robert William. But if you do, you are free. And there are no weapons ranged against you.'
Robert William hesitated; sweat globules were forming on his forehead and shoulders. Then he lowered his head and ran for the drive. Matt caught his shoulder and spun him round. Robert William's arms came up in gigantic, bearlike swings, which Matt avoided with the greatest of ease. He stepped inside the Negro's fist, his own arms pumping straight from the shoulder as Jack Broughton had taught him. And as Jack Broughton had also taught him, he made no move for the head, which could only bruise his hands, but instead struck deep for the pit of the belly, hurling all his weight into each blow, and then jumping backwards before the milling black arms could encompass him. But they had in any event lost their power. Robert William's legs had been robbed of all strength by the hammer blows into his solar plexus, and now they gave way, leaving him kneeling and gasping, his head lolling, his arms useless at his side.
'Get up, man,' Matt said. 'Get up, and either oppose me again, or return to your field gang.' Slowly Robert William reached his feet, still seeking breath. He stared at Matt for a moment, dropped his gaze to the fists which had destroyed him, then turned and shambled along the track to the canefields.
'Now it is your tum, Robert Arthur,' Matt said, quietly. 'Man, massa, I gone to work,' Robert Arthur said, and followed his friend.
'By Christ,' Munroe whispered. 'Mad,' Lander said. 'Mad.'
'That is how the blacks shall be treated from now on, Ian,' Matt said. 'Straight up, as human beings. And the overseer who cannot face a Negro with his fists and the power of his mind is not worth his pay. You'd best pass the word on that to your mates, Munroe.'
'Oh, aye, Mr. Hilton, I'll do that,' Munroe agreed, and turned for his mule.
'I'll not stand for it,' Lander declared. 'You'll run no plantation by such tom-fool methods, Matt Hilton.'
'I seem to remember that this plantation was run in a manner very like it, by Kit Hilton, after Marguerite Hilton died. And successfully.'
'Aye,' Lander said. 'So they say. I was not alive then. And the idea didn't survive the captain's death, now did it? And he was an altogether exceptional man. You've a way to travel before you reach his stature, Matt.'
'No doubt you're right, Ian. I'll not do it by refusing to start, now, will I?'
'You'll persist in this madness?'
'I'll persist in my endeavour to remind the Negro that he is a man like myself, and maybe become more of one, myself, in the process, if that is what you mean.'
'You'll do so without my aid,' Lander declared, and stared at the young man, brows drawn together.
Matt hesitated, then shrugged; no doubt he had always known it must come to this. 'Then I am sorry, Ian. You'll have no trouble finding employment elsewhere. I'll write you a reference.'
'You ... you're dismissing me?'
'I'd say you've just dismissed yourself. A plantation can have only one master.'
'By Christ,' Lander said. 'By Christ. We'll see about that.' He turned and made for the house. Matt followed more slowly. Suzanne sat in her rocking-chair on the verandah, sipping chocolate.
'You'll have heard,' Matt said.
'I saw as well,' she said. 'Are you hurt?'
He shook his head. 'I took no risks. I was well taught.' He sat beside her. 'You blame me?'
She smiled. 'I'm surprised you waited this long, Matt. You've a deep wayward streak. But then, so have I. Just as long as you want me at your shoulder, I'll be content to stand there.'
Dr. Thomas Coke stood on the front verandah of Green Grove Great House, his hat held in both hands. He was aware of heat, of trickling perspiration. But then, he was always aware of heat; in three years he had never managed to become acclimatized to the perpetual West Indian summer. He found it incredible that he should be standing here, in the month of November, wearing a light jacket over a shirt, no vest, and not a glove or a topcoat in sight, while the sun scorched the drive up which he had just ridden.
But today's heat was increased by his surroundings. He did not know what he would find here, what he wanted to find here. He had heard enough. All the West Indies had heard enough, of Matt Hilton and his mad experiments, of the beautiful girl who had abandoned husband and friends and even family to live at his side. But then, where was the angry impetuous boy with whom he had shared the passage from England? And where was the dream for which he had actively been searching?
But at least some of the rumours were obviously true. Green Grove was grinding. The canefields resembled a battlefield, littered with scorched and dismembered plants; those nearest the house were still being cleared, the cut stalks being piled on to the carts which would take them to the factory - and the slaves sang as they worked. The factory itself belched black smoke, drifting southward and westward across the Caribbean Sea, and hummed with the chatter of a hundred men and the grinding of the machinery; he had paused to watch the huge treadwheel being mounted endlessly by muscular black men, naked, save for their loincloths, and sweating as they placed one foot in front of the other, and had marvelled - he had been on other estates at grinding, and never had the great wheel moved without the impetus of the white man with the whip. Here there was no white man at all.
He had ridden past the slave compound, and been smiled at by the children and the old women. He had seen no triangles. There were stocks, and in one of the stocks there was a black man, head bowed, but back unmarked; when he had heard the hooves he had jerked into wakefulness, and looked at the visitor, and he too had smiled, uncovering a vast array of brilliant teeth.
And the butler who had taken his card into the house had been no less happy, as was the girl who had hastened on to the verandah with a glass of punch to set his head swinging. So then, he wondered, what could have wrought such a miracle? Or would who be a better word?
Suzanne moved slowly, descending the great staircase with much care and advancing across the parquet floor of the hall towards the open front door; her babe was cradled in her left arm, and chewed at the bodice of her gown. And she smiled, with all the unearthly beauty of the nursing mother. 'Dr. Coke. Matt has told me so much about you. I have sent to the factory to call him.'
Her flesh was amazingly dry. 'I must apologize for disturbing you in this manner.'
She sat down in the rocking-chair placed for her by the butler. 'His name is Anthony, Dr. Coke, and I am sure he is as pleased to see a visitor as I. I assume you are familiar with our circumstances?'
'People talk, if that is what you mean.' He sat beside her. 'I would have come sooner. But travel is that difficult. Or I should say has been that difficult. But now peace has been signed ...'
'Has it, Dr. Coke?'
'Oh, indeed, Mistress ...' he bit his lip.
Her smile widened into a laugh. 'It is difficult, isn't it? I think it would be best were you to call me Suzanne, and then I could call you Tom, and we could forget formalit
y.'
'It will be my pleasure, Suzanne,' he said. 'St. John's is in great celebration. All the West Indies, I imagine will be in great celebration. I find it incredible that you cannot know.'
'My great-grandmother died on this plantation, of leprosy,' Suzanne said, thoughtfully. ‘I cannot believe that even during the last stages of her illness Green Grove was as shunned as it has been this last year.' Her gaze turned away from him. 'Matt will explain.'
The horse waited at the foot of the steps, and Matt was already on his way up. He wore no shirt, and his chest and shoulders were burned mahogany. Now he took off his hat, and extended a powerful arm. 'Tom Coke. I'd have thought you back in England by now.'
'Matt.' Coke grasped his hand. 'No, no. My task is here. And to this day it has been an uncommonly unsatisfactory one. I have not the time to recount the number of plantations from which I have been forcibly expelled, from Barbados to Jamaica. But here...'
'Here you'll stay, Tom,' Matt said, and drained a mug of punch. Coke observed that Suzanne watched him constantly, scarce seeming to blink. She loved him, there could be no question of that; but there was something more than love in her gaze.
Matt kissed his son on the head, and sat down. 'Because here you'll find what you were looking for, I'll warrant.'
‘I have found the rumours difficult to credit,' Coke admitted. 'Have you truly abolished the whip?'
'We have,' Matt said. 'And I will wager you any sum you care to mention that my crop this year is as good or better than last. There will be a bitter draught for my critics in the House. They expect Green Grove to declare bankruptcy at the least.'
'Then will they hate you the more,' Coke observed, soberly. 'And what has been the reaction of your cousin in Jamaica?'
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