Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  But did they obey him, or James Hardy? And yet, he could not manage this plantation without Hardy. Planting might be in his blood, but it was only a microcosm. He did not react to it instinctively, did not know at a glance where needed the most work, could not look at a field of cane and tell whether it was healthy or whether it desperately needed water. Hardy could.

  On the other hand, he could manage the accounting side of the business. Hilltop was probably more financially sound than ever before in its history. So was Green Grove. He had taken ship there, and sat down and discussed affairs with Tickwell, and impressed him with his knowledge of money and markets, and convinced him that the best thing for the two plantations was to amalgamate the bookkeeping side of it, with Green Grove sending all its returns and accounts to Hilltop, where he could enter them up in the great ledger, and have them under his hand.

  But why had he had to convince Tickwell, instead of just telling him, I have decided? I am the Hilton. So then, he was, after all, nothing more than a bookkeeper. A bank clerk. And for the time being, Hardy went along with his economies, supported his decisions, however much Tony might criticize.

  But there was the crux of the matter. For the time being. Hilltop, and Green Grove, prospered as long as James Hardy so elected. By God, he thought, you are becoming jealous of your own employee.

  He took off his hat to wipe sweat from his brow, hastily restored it again; the sun seemed to hang immediately above his head, intent on scorching his brain. It was clearly time to return to the house, and Harriet. It was the only part of the day he enjoyed. He disliked the early morning assembly of the drivers, because although everyone looked to him for the final decision, he knew they expected it to come from Hardy. He loathed and feared the punishment sessions. But what was he to do? Hardy had convinced him it was the only way to maintain discipline, after all. But the sound of the cartwhip, the sight of that steel tip biting into the brown flesh and then snatching slivers of it away, to leave red flecks on the dark skins, made him wish to vomit, just as the sight of the bodies, male or female, twisting in agony, made him feel ashamed of himself. He found the obligatory rides through the canefields embarrassing, because he was sure they smiled behind his back, no matter how they bowed to his face. He dreaded the arrival of messengers from town, with news, with mail. He did not want to know what went on in Kingston; he had almost forgotten what the town looked like, and he knew he would never be able to face any other planter, much less any government official, much less the Governor himself. There had been one invitation, to dinner at Government House, and he had declined, through pressure of work. That had been two years ago.

  Why, he had even forgotten there was a world outside this valley.

  Except for the mail, which constantly reminded him. News, of Father, and his ill health. Of Mama, worrying. But at least she felt easy about her sons, felt that they were prospering, proving themselves Hiltons, making the plantations more successful than ever before, and in a way their father would approve. And at least she was benefiting from that prosperity, as he had been able to make an income on his parents which had removed their financial problems. But if ever she were to learn the truth? Oh yes. They were proving themselves Hiltons.

  And then, Ellen. Apparently resigned to waiting, until the passage became safer, the endless Negro revolts of which he wrote become pacified. Every letter a He, because it replied to a lie. But Ellen ... it was four years since their betrothal. He had all but forgotten what she looked like, even. Which did not make her any the less attractive. On a sudden. Ellen. But then, what of Harriet? Could he be that much of a swine? The fact was, he was even less of a master in his own house than he was in his own fields or in his own factory. Harriet totally ignored him, except in bed. So perhaps she was worth it, in bed. Had been worth it, four years ago. Three years ago. Two years ago. Last night.

  But was she worth it? Now? Oh, she enjoyed sex as much as ever before, and her appetite embraced enough variety to keep most men happy. But it was her appetite. He was young enough and strong enough to satisfy her. He was also her bread and butter. Otherwise no doubt she would find him boring. Oh, no doubt at all.

  But did not the satisfying of her satisfy him as well? Or was he the one becoming bored? He knew her too well. They shared nothing, except sex. They had no conversation, no other interest. She did not seem to require any. And there was the nagging desire to reveal his education, his ability at love, to a younger woman, someone who would be overwhelmed by his prowess. Oh, he was studying to be a villain, sure enough. Or a Hilton.

  So then, today he was merely out of sorts, and proving himself a bigger blackguard than he had supposed. Harriet might be incapable of providing true company, but she was utterly faithful. She was well aware that without his support she was nothing. Less than nothing. And the same went for Hardy, and even for Tony. No doubt they all took every possible advantage of his . . . what was the word? Weakness? Good Lord, no. He would bring them all to heel with a snap of his fingers, if he really found cause. Indolence was a far better word.

  On the other hand, for all her effort, her careful diet and her daily exercise, Harriet was certainly past forty. Ellen was just twenty-one, and as healthy and high-spirited as a young mare. As Tony would say. Why, she would even have come into her inheritance.

  By God, what a scoundrel are you become. But once the war was ended, and it could not be long now surely, he would return to England, for his bride. No risk to his lie in England, and Harriet could have that large settlement he had promised her. Tony would enjoy playing the planter for a season. There would be a great occasion. There would ... he rounded the last bend in the fields, came in sight of the village and the Great House beyond, and of Joshua Merriman, spurring his horse towards him. And smiled. Josh was his only true friend, the only man on the plantation who clearly sought to serve him and no other. For all that he was just as knowledgeable as James Hardy, and therefore just as indispensable.

  'Mr Richard,' he bawled, waving his hat. 'Mr Richard. Man, there is news. That Boney done abdicate.'

  'Eh?'

  'Yes, sir, man. The ship drop anchor in Kingston this last night and it flying all it flag and bunting and thing. The man done give up the throne and surrender. The war is done.'

  'Good Lord.' He could scarce remember a time when there had not been a war, save for that abortive truce in 1802. He had been eight years old when it had started, and now . . .'By God,' he shouted, 'we must celebrate. Ring the bell, Josh. Ring the bell. We'll declare a holiday. Why, the end of the war . . .' He galloped up to the house, leapt from the saddle, throwing his reins to the groom who hurried round from the stables, ran up the steps on to the verandah, and stopped at the squeal, it could hardly be called a cry, of mingled laughter and fear which came from the drawing room to his right. He turned into the archway, and was nearly bowled over by the fleeing figure of Judith Gale, tumbling into his arms, her gown disordered, her hair flying. And gazed over the girl's head at his brother.

  Judith scraped hair from her eyes, stared at Dick. 'Oh, Lord,' she said. 'I didn't know you were home, Uncle Richard.' 'What's been going on?'

  Tony was pulling up his pants. 'I came home early . . .'

  'And assaulted Judith? You must be out of your mind.'

  'Assaulted her?' Tony cried. 'That little whore.'

  Judith wriggled against Dick. 'Do let me go, Uncle Dick. You're hurting me.'

  Dick released the girl, slowly, looking at her for the first time. And perhaps the first time in his life; certainly in the past couple of years. The long legs, bare beneath the thin muslin housegown, and she wore but a single shift, the long arms, delightfully muscular, were still there, but now almost perfect in their shape and strength. The body too, had not changed its proportion, but there was a fullness to her bodice which had previously escaped his notice.

  'You'll apologize to Judith, Tony,' he said, a sudden anger bubbling through his system, as it had threatened to do all day. 'And swear to me you ha
ve not harmed her.'

  'Apologize? Harmed her?' Tony gave a bellow of laughter. 'What a hypocrite you are, little brother. If you mean have I raped the bitch, the answer is no. I'm saving it for a while. She services me, Dickie boy, with her hands. Learned it from watching her Mum, she tells me. And likes it a treat. Well, it is a treat.'

  Dick gazed at his brother in consternation, then turned to Judith.

  'Oh, Lord,' she muttered again, ducked under his arm and ran for the stairs, only to encounter her mother. 'Oh, Lord.' 'Did you hear that?' Dick asked.

  'I should think every servant in the house heard that,' Harriet declared. 'Go to your room, Judith. I'll attend to you in a moment.'

  'Attend to her?' Tony shouted. 'Why, you pair of hypocrites. You spend your entire time feeling each other, and you object to Judith and me? By God . . .' He came forward, and Dick seized his arm. He turned, swung a careless blow, and Dick ducked and pushed at the same time. Tony lost his balance, fell over a chair, struck the floor heavily. 'By God,' he said, 'I'll . . .'

  Dick was aware of a sensation he had never known before, a tearing anger which seemed to be racing through his system, a culmination of resentment which had been building ever since the duel. 'You'll get out,' he said, keeping his voice even. 'You'll collect your things and get on your horse and clear off. Find yourself a passage back to England. I'll pay. But get out and stay out. There's no place for you on Hilltop. No place for you in Jamaica.'

  Slowly Tony pushed himself up. His eyes were grey flints, and colour was filling his cheeks.

  Harriet had remained in the doorway. Now she stepped back into the hall. 'Josh,' she called. 'Boscawen.'

  The two big black men appeared immediately.

  Tony looked at them, then at his brother. Then he turned and left the room.

  'Very good, Josh,' Harriet said. 'Very good, Boscawen. But stay near until Mr Hilton leaves the plantation. Perhaps you could escort him to the boundary.'

  'Mr Richard?' Joshua asked.

  Dick seemed to awake from a deep sleep. 'Aye,' he said. ' 'Tis best, Josh.'

  The black men nodded, and went back on to the verandah.

  Dick gazed at Harriet. 'Did you suppose I was afraid of him?'

  She blew him a kiss. 'He boasts of his prowess. You do not pretend to be a righting man.'

  'He has told you of the duel?'

  A faint flush. 'I told you, he boasts.'

  Was I afraid of him? Again, I was too angry, then. Now? He looked down at his hands, which trembled. In a fist fight? They were the same size. But did he possess the confidence, the resolution? And if it came to weapons?

  Harriet took his arm. 'But you did the right thing, Dick. I am surprised you put up with Tony that long. How I have longed to hear you discipline him. If you knew the number of times he has made advances to me. He is insatiable.'

  'And Judith?'

  'Must be punished. Will you help me? She regards you as a father.'

  'Well, I . . .'

  'I think it would be best,' she decided. 'Perhaps she feels you are too soft. You must show her the iron in your soul, as you showed Tony.'

  The iron in my soul, he thought, as he climbed the stairs. Christ, what a joke. He was trembling again, praying that they would not encounter Tony on the stairs; they could hear him thumping about his room as he packed.

  Harriet opened her bedroom door, waited for Dick to enter. Judith stood by the window, but turned, sharply, as they entered. Her face was pale, but pink spots filled her cheeks. Fourteen, Dick thought. Christalmighty. She could be married.

  'Well?' Harriet demanded.

  Judith's tongue, long and pink, came out and circled her lips. 'Its was his idea.' 'But you didn't object?'

  Again the quick lick. 'He's a man. You like to play with men, Mama.'

  'That will cost you another six stripes,' Harriet promised, and went to her bureau.

  'She was trying to get away when I came in,' Dick said, desperately. But his desperation was about himself. He wanted it to happen.

  'Indeed?' Harriet straightened, carrying a dried cane stalk, four feet long, with hardened ridges every six inches. Judith caught her breath. 'Why did you do that?'

  Judith stared at the cane. 'I ... he wanted . . .'

  'To lay you?'

  'No. To . . .'

  'Ah. One good turn deserves another? Kneel, over the bed.'

  Judith gazed at Dick.

  'I think I had better be off,' Dick said.

  'Of course not, Dick,' Harriet said. 'The child regards you as a father. Besides, you must hold her wrists. She'll never stay still, otherwise. Come on, Judith. Every delay is another stroke.'

  Judith came slowly across the room, allowed her groin to hit the bed, and fell forward.

  'Put out your arms,' Harriet commanded.

  Slowly Judith stretched her arms across the bed; her gaze never left Dick's face.

  'Hold her, please, Dick,' Harriet said.

  Dick gripped the slender wrists, looked into the girl's eyes. They were like her mother's, but perhaps still darker and still deeper.

  Harriet seized her daughter's skirts and rolled them up to her waist. Dick felt his gaze drawn over the girl's glossy hair to the gently rounded buttocks, watched in fascinated horror as the cane swung through the air; Harriet was chewing her lower lip with concentration. And then was brought back to the girl's expression as the eyes widened with the shock of the blow, and the flat mouth flopped open. The second blow brought a similar reaction, the third a tear, and then a shout of agony, followed by sobbed screams.

  'Louder,' Harriet gasped, her hair troubling down, sweat soaking her neck. 'Let them all hear, you little slut.'

  As no doubt they would, Dick thought. The wrists writhed and twisted in his grip, and once Judith attempted to get up, only to be forced down again by her mother. He lost count of the cracks, of the screams, of the sobs, before Harriet finally stopped, having run out of breath. 'There,' she panted. 'Let that be a lesson to you. You'll mind whose breeches you get inside, in the future.'

  Dick released the wrists; the marks of his fingers remained on the suntanned flesh. Judith slowly subsided across the bed, trying to stop her sobs, eyes swollen, hair scattered.

  'Get out,' Harriet commanded. 'Get out. Spend the rest of the day in your room.'

  Judith pushed herself to her feet. Her skirts fell into place of their own accord. She stumbled rather than walked towards the door.

  'And close it behind you,' Harriet said.

  The door closed, and Harriet smiled at Dick. 'Christ, but whipping that child makes me want. You're home for the afternoon, Dick?'

  He stared at her. 'Aye,' he said. 'Maybe . . . maybe after breakfast.' He pulled the door open, found himself on the gallery. Now why had he refused her? His tool was as hard as ever in his life. But the desire was for the girl twisting under his hands, not the woman who had laid on the blows. Oh, Christ, he thought. What have you done? Who? Tony, by making her a woman? Harriet, by exposing all that woman? And by reaching into the deepest recesses of his own mind to bring out the ghastly desires that must dominate the dream world of every man?

  He stumbled down the stairs, collapsed in a chair in the withdrawing room. The plantation was silent, save for the distant rumble of hooves. Tony? No doubt he had stayed to listen to the screams.

  He held his head in his hands, tried to rid himself of that vision. But the girl would stay in his mind for the rest of his life.

  And sat bolt upright as a terrible suspicion crossed his mind.

  Harriet's punishment had been quite unnaturally severe. Unnecessarily severe. And his presence had certainly not been necessary, as she had whipped Judith before, and not required his assistance. And Harriet, being Harriet, would certainly have noticed that he was not quite so fervent in his love making as a year back. Christalmighty.

  The hooves had stopped, but at the steps to the verandah. Tony, come back again. Where was Josh?

  But there was Josh's voice, gree
ting someone, and being summarily told to stand aside. Dick reached his feet in a long bound as the voice slowly penetrated his seething mind, and his jaw dropped in sheer horror as he gazed at the door, and Ellen Taggart.

  7

  The Fugitive

  Ellen wore a brown pelisse over a cream gown, and a matching brown bonnet; as might be expected, she looked extremely hot. Coat and hat were smothered in dust, and there was dust on her face, slightly diminishing the pink in her cheeks.

  But it was Ellen. An Ellen who had filled out, was a tall and buxom young woman, and an Ellen who had also developed an even firmer mouth and chin.

  'Ellen,' he cried. 'I must be dreaming.'

  'Indeed you are not, Richard.' She gave him her hand. 'We are arrived, Mama.'

  Mrs Taggart was even more warmly clad, and thus even more hot and bothered than her daughter.

  'I must have a chair,' she groaned and sat down. 'My God, these boots ... I swear my feet are swollen.' She looked around her. 'But this is a palace.'

  'Filled with revolting Negroes,' Ellen observed. 'And owned by a dumb planter.'

  Dick endeavoured to gather his wits. 'You very nearly induced a seizure, I assure you.' He discovered he had let go of her glove, and hastily grasped them both again. 'Ellen. How absolutely marvellous. If I could but understand. But wait. . .' He released her once more, went to the archway. 'Mr Boscawen. Mr Boscawen,' he shouted, as loudly as he could. 'Sangaree, if you please. My fiancee has arrived. See to it, Mr Boscawen, and have the girls prepare the guest bedrooms. Quickly, man.'

  Ellen sat beside her mother, pulled off her gloves, and released the bow securing her bonnet. 'We shall not be staying,