He tried his other arm, and to his delight it came up. Slowly. If he could straighten his jaw ... his fingers touched bone. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, Christ. I am going to die, lying here in the darkness.
But that was absurd. He had fought the sea, for a whole night, to live. He had killed a man, with his bare hands, to live. To lie here and die would be a crime, after having done so much to keep alive.
His left hand was the one which had moved. He put it down beside him, waited for the thrill of agony which still coursed up and down his right hand. And felt only stone, hard and brittle, under his fingers. He pushed, cautiously, and then with increasing confidence, found himself sitting up, while the night, the ravine into which he had fallen, spun around him. His mouth filled with ghastly liquid, but to his horror he found he could not move his tongue, either to taste it or to spit it out. He could only hang his head and let it flow through his lips, and realized that it was his own blood.
Come daylight, there would be insects, seeking that blood. What a horrible thought, to lie here, and slowly be eaten alive by insects. Or would they wait until he was dead? He did not know.
And he was not going to die. He had already decided that. He was going to move. If he had to crawl, then he would crawl. Away from here. So the insects would be able to follow the trail of blood. But they would know he was alive, if he moved.
He dug the fingers of his left hand into the stones, used his legs, felt more pain, and had to separate one from the other. So, then, he had one arm and one leg, ready for use. Why, he was still half a man.
He crawled and prodded, and moved, and fell on his face, and crawled, and prodded, and moved, and fell on his face. Sometimes it was dark, then suddenly it was light. Then he thought it was dark again, but he could not be sure. He was sure only of the pain, which seemed to grow and grow until it shrouded his entire body, his mind, his very being. He moved, in a miasma of pain, amazed that he could move at all, determined to keep on moving, to keep ahead of the insects.
But he was losing the race. When it was light, the insects were there, settling on his face and shoulders, buzzing in his ears. Drinking his blood. He was, after all, going to be eaten alive by insects.
Then he might as well surrender. He lay, on his face, and then rolled on his back. He had been afraid to doze, before, in case his mouth filled with blood again and he lacked the strength to turn over. But this time his throat remained dry, so dry he thought he would give all of Hilltop for a cup of water.
All of Hilltop. The thought brought tears to his eyes. But tears were liquid. Perhaps he could drink them. He discovered his eyes were shut, forced them open, and stared once again at men. Black men.
10
The Mamaloi
The breeze was cool. He had felt it before. It carried with it a delicious perfume, the scent of the sea filtered by the bloom of a million flowers.
He had smelt it before, as well. It occurred to him that he had been inhaling that magnificent scent for a very long time, without being aware of it.
He moved his shoulders, nestled them in the softness of the bed. Another sensation he remembered, without being sure of how long ago it had commenced. Perhaps he had lain here, forever. His eyes were open, gazing above him at the snowy tent of the bed. Hilltop's linen had never been that clean. But he had never supposed he was on Hilltop. Hilltop was a nightmare, and now he was awake.
To movement. A rustling from around him, a faint whisper. He turned his head, or made the necessary decision to turn his head. And remained staring at the tent. Yet he felt no fear, no sense of panic. He could not turn his head. But as he had lain here, inhaling that breeze, feeling the softness of this mattress, enjoying the cleanliness of these sheets, for so very long, it could be no serious matter.
A face replaced the tent. A black face, serious and concerned, bareheaded but ending in a high military collar, in blue and gold, as his jacket was blue, smothered in gold braid. He said something, but it was in French, and Dick could not immediately translate. Then the man was gone, to be replaced by the gentle rustle he had heard earlier. Once again he attempted to turn his head, and this time discovered that he
could. He looked to his right, at two young women, both black, both dressed in white gowns, their heads shrouded in white bandannas, who were busily preparing a bowl of warm water, with which they now proceeded to shave him. Their fingers were light as feathers, their touch delightful; they exuded the entrancing fragrance of the breeze. And yet their touch filled him with a sense of foreboding. He could feel the razor, scraping gently over his chin, and yet it did not seem to be his chin. He wanted to cry out, in sudden terror, but he could form no words, and they were so quick, they were finished before he could even form a thought. Then they busied themselves with his body, rolling back the sheet, and, now joined by another half-dozen young women who presumably had been present all the while, raising him from the mattress to insert towels beneath him, before bathing him, as gently and as carefully as they might have handled a babe. And this time he could feel more; there was no sense of catastrophe as they touched his body. Touched his body. He attempted to move, and was gently restrained. Their faces remained serious," their brows furrowed with concentration. And now one was drying him, patting leg and arm, stroking chest. The sheet was returned, and they disappeared, although clearly remaining in the room, from the whisper, and leaving him utterly refreshed.
And aware of a consuming thirst. 'Water,' he whispered. And discovered again the sense of terror. That had not been Richard Hilton's voice.
He was surrounded by faces, watching him anxiously, willing him to make them understand.
'L'eau,' he whispered. Or someone whispered, inside his brain.
They smiled, together, a combination of pleasure and relief. Soft arms went round his head, to raise it from the pillow; his cheek lay against a gently pounding heart. A cup was held to his lips, and the liquid trickled down his throat. It was the most magnificent thing he had ever tasted, clear, cool water.
Then the cup was taken away, suddenly. It was the first abrupt movement he had experienced. His cheek left the comfort of the breast, his head was replaced on its pillow. The girls disappeared, and this time they did not whisper. And a new smell entered the room, a scent of leather, of man. And a new atmosphere. He could feel the sudden power with which he was surrounded, and turned his head again, with an enormous effort, to gaze at the cluster of officers, each dressed in a magnificent uniform, red jackets, blue jackets, pale green jackets, every one a mass of gold braid with a high military collar, worn over tight breeches of white buckskin, every one with a jewel-hilted sword hanging at his side, every one with high black boots and jingling spurs.
And every one with a black face. Then was he dreaming all over again?
'Richard Hilton,' said a voice, amazingly in English. 'You are Richard Hilton?'
He turned his head once again, and discovered that one of the officers had reached the side of his bed. One of the officers? That could not be. This man carried no sword. But then, he did not need a sword. He was several inches taller than six feet, and bareheaded; again unlike the others, he did not carry his hat beneath his arm. His forehead was high, his eyes widespaced; they were sombre eyes, hard, and even arrogant, and yet also containing a remarkably wistful expression. His nose was big, his chin thrusting. His mouth was wide, and as interesting as the eyes. When closed, it suggested no more than a brutal gash; when smiling, as now, it revealed a delightful humour, an almost childish delight in the business of being alive.
'Has he spoken?' he asked, in French.
'He asked for water, Your Majesty,' said one of the girls.
Your Majesty, Dick thought. My God.
The man sat beside him on the bed. 'You may say what you wish, to me, in English,' he said, speaking English. 'My people understand little of it. Do you know who you are?'
Dick concentrated, made an immense effort. 'I am Richard Hilton,' he whispered. 'Of Plantation Hilltop, in Jam
aica.'
He was bathed in the tremendous smile. 'I hoped you would say that. Do you know how you came here?'
Dick attempted to shake his head, and found he could not. 'There was a storm. My ship was sunk. And when I reached shore, I was attacked.'
'My country is beset by outlaws,' the man said. 'It is too large, we are too few. But they will be destroyed. I give you my word. And you escaped from them, sorely wounded. Do you know how badly wounded?'
'I fell,' Dick said. 'From a hillside. That is the last I remember.'
'Ah,' said the man. 'We wondered how you came by such terrible injuries. Your leg was broken and your arm. Your ribs were broken. But you would not die. You crawled, in that condition, for a very long way. My surgeons tell me you must have been in that condition for three days, still crawling. And at last you crawled into an encampment of my soldiers. They perhaps would have left you to die, but it so happened that I visited them, on a tour of inspection, that very day, and saw you, and was told how you had crawled. I thought then, here is a man of remarkable courage, remarkable stamina, remarkable determination. Such a man should not die. That was before you spoke.'
Dick frowned at him. ‘I spoke?'
'You were delirious. And . . .' For the first time the black man lost some of his confidence. 'You had other injuries, which made it difficult for you to articulate. Yet sometimes you whispered, and sometimes you screamed. You screamed your name. Do you know me?'
He waited, saw the uncertainty in Dick's eyes, and smiled. 'I am Christophe. The Emperor, Henri the First, of all Haiti. But to you, Christophe.'
'To me?'
'I knew your parents. Your mother was a woman of rare beauty, rare courage, rare determination. A fitting mother for such a son. And your father sought to help the black man. Does he still do so?'
'Yes.'
'Ah. Fate is a strange business, Richard Hilton. That I should be able to save their son.'
'Why?' Dick asked. 'I am a planter, not an Abolitionist. And you destroyed my aunt.'
The smile faded, the face became hard, for just a moment. But even a moment was long enough for Dick to know that this man would be the most implacable, the most ruthless enemy he would ever have, were he ever to become an enemy. Then the smile returned. 'I would have you regain your strength, and get well. You and I have much to discuss. Much to remember, perhaps.' The smile went again, but this time the face was sad. 'I do not hide the truth. Your injuries were terrible, Richard Hilton. You were near to death for weeks. And you have lain in a fever, unable to move, for weeks more. My people have fed you and cared for you, and you will be well again, and as strong as ever before in your life, should you choose to be. But even a broken arm, a broken leg, three broken ribs, were not the full extent of your injuries.' He snapped his fingers, and one of the girls hurried forward carrying a looking-glass in a gilt frame, handed it to the Emperor.
'Now, Richard Hilton,' Christophe said. 'As you are the son of Suzanne Hilton and Matthew Hilton, and, as you are a man of courage and determination, as you have proved, look on yourself.'
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 roo
ms, 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.
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