The morning filled with looming sound as eleven hundred horses surged into the trot, then the canter, then the gallop.
There would be a crush in the gate mouth. But not for him. He drove his spurs in, and his mount rose, over the batteries, leaving the frightened gunners gaping up at him. The cannon in front of him spoke, once, but was he not protected, as he was inspired, as his arm was guided, by the power of the mamaloi? And unharmed, he was in the gateway, his sword thrust forward, to take the first gunner, who ran at him armed with no more than a ramrod, in the chest. Blood flew, spurted into his face. But he had come to anticipate the blood, spurting in his face. Battle, victory, would not be complete without it. He threw back his head, gave another scream of triumphant joy, and sliced into the shoulder of the next man who would oppose him, while behind him his dragoons uttered shrill cries as they spread across the square, crashed through the ranks of men opposed to them.
There was a standard. How incredibly European. Christophe's men did not fight beneath a standard. They wished only the beat of the drums, the sight of the huge figure of the Emperor. But in Petion's army the standard must mark the position of the commanding general, especially as it flew in front of a house, and the house was guarded by a company of men.
'To me,' he bawled, reining his horse and rising in the stirrups to wave his sword. Someone fired a musket at him; he could feel the hot air of the ball almost slapping his face. But the man was immediately cut down by his dragoons as they reformed their ranks. 'That flag,' he shouted, and urged his own horse forward.
The protecting guardsmen fired, but it was a hasty, ill-aimed volley. Their morale had been shattered by the swift destruction of the gate and the artillery, by the rising roar of victory which rose from the other side of the town, and came closer all the while. Dick leapt from his saddle at the foot of the steps, La Chat at his side. A man presented a musket to which was attached a bayonet, and Dick swept it aside with a single sweep of his sword, then brought the weapon back to drive deep into the man's body. So hardened was his right arm by now he scarce felt the jar; as the guardsman lurched against the wall, he raised his foot, placed it in the expiring belly, and with a tug withdrew his weapon.
The door had already been hurled open, and the dragoons were swarming in, checked for a moment by a volley which had three of them tumbling to the floor. Dick leapt into their midst, coughing as he entered the smoke-filled interior room, where the noises of the explosion were still reverberating, mingling with the shouts of the men, and the screams of the women.
Of the women? He waved his left hand, dissipating some of the powder smoke, peered at a large room, on the far side of which was a staircase. Before the stairs the remnants of the guard, not more than a score of men, were gathered; on the stairs themselves was a French officer, hatless, his hair scattered and his face stained with powder, but still holding his drawn sword. And on the gallery at the top of the stairs were gathered several women, mostly black or mulattoes, but one, now rising to her feet to look down at the invaders, very definitely white.
'Hold,' Dick shouted, without thinking. And then did think. He was not, then, a savage, after all. His blood lust was still subjected to his instincts. Or was there more?
His men, accustomed to obeying his every command, had checked their weapons, stood instead glowering at their enemies, who, equally bemused, slowly lowered their own swords and muskets, unable to believe that they might actually be receiving a chance at life.
'General?' La Chat inquired.
But Dick was still gazing at the balustrade, as the powder smoke continued to drift away and he could see more clearly. The woman had yellow hair, streaked with red; or was it red hair, streaked with yellow? In the gloom of the morning, the dark faces and dark coats which surrounded her, her hair blazed like a torch. She stared at him, as did everyone else in the room. There were powder stains on her cheeks and forehead, but the dark marks if anything enhanced the whiteness of her complexion. There was hair clustering on her forehead, as it scattered on her shoulders and down her back, long and straight. Her eyes were enormous; he could not see their colour. Her nose was short, and a trifle upturned, her mouth small, and presently open as she gasped for breath. Her chin was smoothly rounded. He thought he could not describe her as beautiful; her face was actually a mass of flaws. But taken together the flaws were deliciously attractive.
Her body was shrouded in a white undressing robe, but he could tell it was at once short and slender, a mere wisp of femininity.
My God, he thought. Her body. And these men wait on my command.
'Throw down your arms,' he said, and was surprised at the harshness of his own voice.
The mulatto guardsmen hesitated, glancing from one to the other, and thence over their shoulders at their general. The white man was frowning.
'You offer us quarter?'
'Throw them down,' Dick said again.
The first guardsman dropped his musket with a clatter. The rest followed his example. The general hesitated for a moment longer, then threw his sword down the stairs.
'We are fortunate,' he said. 'And grateful, monsieur.'
'A coup de main, Matt,' Christophe said from the doorway. 'Brilliantly executed.'
Dick turned, his knees suddenly felt weak. How long had he been there? Christophe still wore his hat, but there was a rent in his jacket, and blood on the hilt of his sword.
'The town is ours.' He strode into the room, gazed at the guardsmen, who had huddled together in mutual fear. 'Take them out and hang them.'
The guardsmen stared at him in horror.
'But. . .' Dick said.
'We surrendered on a promise of quarter,' said the white officer.
'You surrendered when commanded to do so,' Christophe said. 'That is at discretion. Take them out.' He was frowning at the white man. 'D'Estaing, as I live and breathe.'
The Frenchman had been looking at his discarded sword. But it was being picked up by one of Dick's dragoons. Now his head jerked.
Christophe's right hand was extended, pointing at him. 'D'Estaing,' he said again. 'Sire,' Dick began.
'That man once had me flogged,' Christophe said.
'He ... he would make a valuable hostage,' Dick suggested.
'Not him. I will have him flogged. Take him outside, La Chat. Strip him and tie him to a triangle. Flog him. Flog him until his bones are laid bare. But slowly, La Chat. One blow every ten seconds. I do not wish him to die quickly.'
D'Estaing licked his lips. His face was pale. But he was a brave man. He looked at Dick. 'I had thought I was surrendering to a man,' he said. 'Not an animal.'
Hands seized his shoulders, and were arrested by a cry from above. 'No. No, you cannot.' The young woman half fell down the stairs. Now she was closer, her resemblance to the Frenchman was easy to see.
'And her mother watched,' Christophe said.
'You cannot be sure,' Dick gasped.
'I remember the hair.'
'You'll not touch her,' d'Estaing said. It was half a command and half a supplication.
'She'll die first,' Christophe said. 'You may watch her being flogged. Strip her, La Chat, and tie her to the triangles. The General will enjoy this. The other women may be given to your men.'
'You are a creature from hell,' d'Estaing said in a low voice.
The girl was staring at Christophe, her mouth slowly sagging open as she understood the enormity of what was about to happen to her.
Christophe smiled at them. 'You place me in that hell, monsieur. Now remember, La Chat. Slowly. She should be able to take a hundred strokes.'
'No,' Dick said. And once again his voice was harsh.
Christophe turned his head, frowning. 'They surrendered at discretion, as you say, sire; my discretion.'
'You know my orders, Matt. You should have let them be killed, in battle.'
'They are my prisoners, sire.' Involuntarily, the hand holding his sword twitched.
As Christophe saw. His frown deepened
, and then cleared in another smile. 'Ah. The girl. Very well, Matt. She is yours.'
'Both,' Dick insisted.
Christophe shook his head. 'You have dared to oppose me in public, Matt,' he said in English. 'I can do no less than have you shot, should you continue. But you are known as my closest friend, and you are a white man, who would understandably wish a white woman as his slave. I give her to you. The man dies. Take your choice. The girl, or they both are flogged to death.'
There was no arguing with the decision in his tone. Dick licked his lips, glanced at the pair, saw the concentration on their faces. They understood English.
'Take her, monsieur. For God's sake,' d'Estaing begged.
'No,' the girl muttered. 'No.' She clung to her father's arm, stared at Dick.
'Well?' Christophe demanded.
'I will take the girl,' Dick said.
Christophe smiled, slapped him on the shoulder. And was then suddenly serious again. 'But you will do it properly. You have this day revealed a weakness I hoped to have suppressed forever. You . . .' He pointed at d'Estaing. 'Is your daughter a virgin?'
'Of course, Christophe. She is my daughter.'
'Of course,' Christophe mimicked. 'Well, then, Matt. I give her to you. Now. Take her into one of those rooms up there. You will not be disturbed for an hour. Then I will have her examined. Should you have failed to penetrate her, I will give her to my men, for an hour, and then she will be flogged to death. La Chat, take that man outside.'
'No,' the girl whispered. 'No,' she cried. 'No,' she shrieked. Her hands were wrenched from her father's arm, and d'Estaing was marched down the stairs.
'Wait,' Dick said.
La Chat halted, and his men also.
'Do you still wish me to take her?'
D'Estaing looked at him, for some seconds. 'You are a monster,' he said. 'In face and in deed. But your skin is white. Will you throw her aside, like a monster? Or will you care for her, like a white man?'
'I will care for her,' Dick said. 'I swear it.'
'Then take her,' d'Estaing said. 'You have my blessing.'
Dick thrust his sword into its sheath, stepped round the dragoons and their captive. The girl scrambled to her feet.
'No,' she shouted, and turned, to run up the stairs.
'Stop her,' Dick shouted at the mulatto women, still gathered on the gallery.
These hesitated in turn, and the girl burst through them with the force of her charge. Yet the shock sent her staggering, red-gold hair flying as she stumbled to her knees, grasped the balustrade, and regained her feet.
Christophe gave a bellow of laughter. 'One hour, Dick,' he shouted. 'One hour. You will need all of it.'
Dick had himself pushed through the women, saw the girl entering a chamber farther along the corridor. Before he could reach it, the door had slammed shut, the lock had turned. But the timbers were old. He struck it with his shoulder, and the whole wall seemed to creak. He withdrew against the balustrade, hurled himself forward again. The lock burst with a crack, the tongue tearing its socket right out of the wood, and he fell into the room.
The girl was at the window. She had picked up a chair, and was hammering at the bars, which only caused the chair itself to shatter. At the sound of his entry, she turned, back against the wall, bodice of the undressing robe heaving as she panted. The colour was slowly fading from her face, and she was endeavouring to control her breathing, closing her mouth and then having to open it again to allow the air to escape. With her left hand she pulled hair from her face, an instinctively feminine and yet utterly entrancing gesture. But she was an utterly entrancing sight. He had never in his life looked at any woman, even Ellen at their earliest acquaintance, without some reservations. Until now.
Slowly she slid down the wall, until she was kneeling, and resting on her haunches at the same time. 'Please,' she said, in French. 'As you are a man, monsieur, kill me, I beg of you.'
He pushed the shattered door to behind him. It would be easy to do, to draw his sword and run through that slender body. Nor would Christophe give him more than a slight reproof. And he would be able to look himself in the mirror once again.
But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. And it was over two years since he had dared look in a mirror, in any event.
‘I came to save your life, not take it,' he said.
'Save it?' she demanded. ‘Is it worth saving, monsieur? Will it be worth saving, when you are done with it?' Her head half turned at the sound which seeped through the window, the first crack of a whip. 'Oh, God,' she whispered. 'Oh, God.' Her head sank to her breast, her hair trailed on either side of her cheeks.
He stood above her. Do this, and you are damned forever, he thought. But are you not already damned forever? Did this crime count, with executing the two French soldiers, in that first battle? With slaughtering how many men since? With commanding the slaughter of how many thousands more? Did this girl's body count, beside that?
Afterwards perhaps. There was a compromise. Afterwards he might be able to kill them both, send her to heaven and himself to that hell he so richly deserved. But only afterwards.
He stooped, held her shoulders. She remained limp, and he had to drive his fingers into her armpits to raise her to her feet. Her head flopped back, and she stared at him. She could hear the sound of the whip, slowly, regularly, destroying her father.
He could hear nothing save his own panting, save the blood drumming in his ears.
He half carried, half dragged, her across the room, to the bed. When he released her she fell, on her back, still staring at him, but making no effort to resist. Not even taking her gaze from his face or closing her eyes. But what she thought, what she felt, what she hoped or what she feared, meant nothing now. He was as much beyond his own control as when he had been falling through space, the last memory of Richard Hilton, of Hilltop in Jamaica, before he became Matthew Warner, of La Ferriere, in Haiti.
He put his fingers into the neck of her robe, closed his fist, tore it down. The material offered no opposition to the strength in that right arm, the force in that shoulder, the power in that mind. Pink-white flesh sprang at him; she was again panting. Her breasts were large, and soft; he knew that before touching them. She was a woman of fascinating contrasts, for the huge breasts gave way to the narrowest of waists and slender hips; yet her pubic hair was thick and bushed at him, dominating the thin legs below. But these glories were discovered with nothing more than a glance. He was preoccupied, his sword belt clattering to the floor, his body crashing onto hers, sending breath once again gasping from her opened mouth.
He could not make himself kiss her, lay instead with his mouth against her ear, his breath inhaling wisps of red-gold hair. Now, he thought. Now. As some men have no more fields to conquer, you have no more crimes to commit. Now the devil can die.
'Now,' a voice said, whispering into his ear. 'Now, monsieur, are you sated, kill me.' The whisper became a wail. 'Kill me.'
He rolled his weight away from her, lay on his side, gazing at her. He waited, for the guilt, for the horror of what he had done, to overwhelm him. Instead he merely wanted to touch her again, to feel the strands of that splendid hair, to stroke the contour of that face, to caress the softness of those breasts, to search the dampness of that groin.
She sat up. There was so much noise from beyond the window now, so much screaming and yelling, so many explosions, so many clatters of falling timbers, it was impossible to tell any one sound, such as the crack of a whip. The entire village might have been on fire, so much smoke swept past the window. Yet he was not afraid of burning. He was not interested in the possibility of burning. His attention was taken by the woman, by the silky splendour of her movements. Even by the tears on her face. But there were few tears.
He held her wrist, attempted to pull her back to him. But this time she exerted her strength to resist him, and he would not use force.
'I wanted you,' he said. 'I want you now. I shall want you forever. I do not apo
logize for what I have done. I wish only to make you understand my want. And perhaps feel it as well.'
Her head started to turn, and then looked away again. 'You?' She asked. 'Want you?'
'Because I fight for Christophe? Because your father was expected? In Christophe's judgement he was a criminal.'
'Then am I not also a criminal?' She still spoke softly, tugged at her wrist, gently.
'Who has been reprieved. Tell me your name.'
She hesitated, gave another gentle tug. 'Cartarette,' she said at last.
'Cartarette. Cartarette d'Estaing.' It sounded marvellous. 'Yours is a famous name.'
'You are thinking of papa's cousin, monsieur. A distant cousin. Papa was no more than a planter. Who became a soldier of fortune. Who became a criminal. As you say. Will you let me go, monsieur.'
He released her wrist, and she stood up. He thought he could lie here forever, and watch her move. He watched her walk across the room, her back half to him; her breasts quivered and her thighs rolled, as she walked. Her hair reached past her shoulder blades. How had he lived, for more than thirty years, without knowing this?
She reached his discarded clothes, and he realized what she intended. He sat up, only a vague alarm as yet plucking at his mind.
Cartarette d'Estaing drew his sword, with a single long sweep, and turned to face him.
'I will make you happy,' he said. 'I swear it.' Still he was not afraid. It was too long since he had known fear; he had forgotten the emotion. Up to a few minutes ago it had been too long since he had cared whether he lived or died. Now he had suddenly come to care again. He did not want her to end this morning.
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