The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  He left the shop, stood for a moment on the sidewalk, enjoying the knowledge that he was, for the first time in his life, truly well-dressed.

  'Why, Kit, how splendid you look.' Lilian smiled at him, and then frowned. 'The rumour is true.'

  His turn to frown. 'What rumour?' 'That you are to leave Antigua.'

  'I? Leave Antigua? Now, wherever did you learn that?'

  She flushed. 'Mr Parke and the master of his schooner were at the warehouse yesterday, completing their stock and settling with Papa. In coin, too. He knows not what to do with it. And as you came to St John's in the company of Mr Parke ...'

  'It seemed natural to you that I should also leave in his company. Not I, Lilian. My past is too firmly set in these islands. I should feel a stranger anywhere else.'

  'And you will never be a stranger here, Kit.' Her flush deepened, but she smiled through it. 'Then will you come to supper? Mama would be so pleased.'

  Kit Hilton, dining at the merchant's, on fish and water and grave talk, while Daniel Parke dined at Colonel Warner's Goodwood, on wine and meat and gay laughter and gayer gossip, with dice to follow. There was a salutary lesson in relative society, he thought.

  'Alas, Lilian, I cannot, this night,' he said. 'Believe me, I am sorry. But I shall call. Tomorrow.'

  ‘I’m sure Papa will be glad to see you,' she said, and gazed at his coat once more. 'I had best not detain you. Until tomorrow, Kit.'

  She walked down the street with the graceful flutter of skirts; but what skirts, how drab and formless. And the flat grey hat, tied so securely under her chin, allowed but a wisp of the golden hair to trickle on to her back. Lilian Christianssen? What rubbish. A Quaker? A woman who thought life should be a vast realm of goodness, when anyone could have told her different? But Lilian was, in any event, only a girl.

  Agrippa approached, leading the hired horse. 'He's quiet enough, Kit,' the big man said. 'I wish I could be as sure of his rider.'

  'I can sit a horse.' Kit mounted. 'There. Do I not look splendid?"

  'You'd turn the heart of any girl, Kit.' Agrippa retained the bridle. 'You're sure of what you do?'

  'You do not understand, dear friend. This girl and I have known each other for years. At least, we met as children, and

  I have carried her image in my heart ever since. Why do you think I came to Antigua?'

  'I thought you sought a plantation, where there'd be no slavery, where there'd be no unhappiness, where all would share in the common profit.'

  'And is not Green Grove a plantation? The largest in the Leewards, so it is said.'

  'Scarce the sort of place to suit you, Kit. And if this Mistress Templeton is such an old friend, I'd have thought she'd have come to see you, before now.'

  'Oh, God Almighty,' Kit shouted. 'She is but recently a widow. She has gone nowhere, these last four months. Why should she make an exception for me? But now, I will call upon her, and pay my respects. And who knows what may follow? You are right, Agrippa; I spoke of owning a plantation. So tell me how it should be done? By sailing Philip Warner's sloop to and from St Eustatius until we are caught by the revenue frigate and hanged? By God, in our situation, there is but one way to own a plantation, and 'tis a way I have always meant to follow. Now stand aside.'

  Agrippa hesitated, and then obeyed, and Kit kicked the horse forward, clutching the reins for dear life. Fifteen minutes later he was through the town, and upon the high road which led south, to the sheltered harbours of English and Falmouth, where Edward Warner had first landed with his handful of colonists, from where Aline Warner had been kidnapped by the savage Caribs, and to where Edward had returned with his beautiful French bride, after his successful expedition of vengeance. There had been men about in those days. Edward had wooed Aline, as a slave wooing the daughter of a wealthy planter. He had faced every odd, as Tony Hilton had faced them, and won. So men might have diminished, to Grandmama's cost. But the Hilton blood had not diminished. Kit Hilton would similarly carve, or woo, himself an empire from this fertile land.

  Thus he sought to delude himself, that he had come to Antigua with a purpose, with all the cold determination of a DuCasse or a Morgan, and had humbled himself to Philip Warner, for that purpose. As if he had not clutched at the straw that had been Daniel Parke, to raise himself from the Port Royal beach. As if he had ever done more than dream, of Marguerite Warner. As if he sought, this day, anything more than a smile, if only of recognition.

  Yet it was a fertile land. No high mountains, as in almost all the other islands. No rushing rivers; water was as much of a problem here as in Tortuga. No teeming jungle, in which a man might hide, or become lost. Antigua was a place of gentle, rolling hills, and green fields separated by the endless ribbons of white dust road, with only an occasional great house or a towering sugar mill to break the skyline. And soon enough not even those. But these fields were green, and the green was all waving stalks of sugar, reaching six, eight, ten feet into the air, bending before the trade wind, each stalk worth its volume in solid gold. A growing wealth in every way.

  He reined his horse as a file of Negroes approached him, walking in front of a black man who carried a whip. And what a whip. No cat of nine tails here, but a single long piece of plaited leather, with a gleaming steel tip. They did no more than glance at the rider.

  'Holloa, there,' Kit shouted. 'I am looking for Green Grove Plantation. Can you direct me?'

  The file stopped, because the foreman had stopped. 'Green Grove, mistuh?' he inquired. 'You been riding Green Grove this last hour.'

  'By God,' Kit said. 'I thank you." He kicked his horse, and moved down the path. This past hour. They had not exaggerated, then, when they had told him that Harry Templeton had been the biggest planter on the island. Perhaps in the Leewards. And it all now belonged to his widow. But of her they would not speak. Because she was the Deputy Governor's daughter, and therefore above gossip?

  And now he reached the brow of a shallow hill, and looked, in the far distance, at the sea. But between himself and the sea were more endless acres of green cane, separated by perhaps a mile from what appeared to be a small town. He identified the Negro village, with its orderly rows of barracoons, and the trim, low stone walls which surrounded the white man's compound, with the houses of the overseers and the book-keepers, and beyond that, the bulk of the boiling house, the factory, placed downwind of the houses themselves. Even farther back. and dominating the whole, was the Great House, a massive four-square structure, built upon solid stone cellars, loopholed for defence, with the ground floor entirely surrounded by deep verandahs, each side reached by a flight of wide, shallow steps, and with the upper floor lighted by enormous jalousied windows, although each window mounted its heavy wooden shutter as a protection against either hurricane wind or rampaging slave rebellion. The roof sloped deeply, to throw off water, and was made of green shingles, and, to his surprise, from the back of the roof there arose a great stone chimney. As that surely could not be needed for heat in this climate, it suggested a table to match the house. But the plantation did not even end with the beach and the sea, for off the shore there was yet another little island, perhaps half a mile across the water, as green and as fertile in appearance as its larger neighbour; although there was no evidence of cane growing there, there were certainly people in residence—he could see a wisp of smoke rising from amidst the trees.

  His heart pounded as he rode down the slope towards the gate. It was nearly five years now, and much had happened in that time. They were both older, and no doubt wiser. And she would know by now that he was living in St John's. Her father would have told her, if no one else. So the widow Templeton never left her estate; how had he waited for the mourning period to end. But she would expect Kit Hilton to call. His only fear was that Barnee had been too long in making the coat.

  And how he wanted to see her again.

  The gate was closed, and a white man lounged beside it. 'Halt there,' he shouted. 'What business have you with Green Grove, Ca
ptain Hilton?'

  He was an unprepossessing fellow, whom Kit had met often enough in town. 'No business, Dutton,' he said. 'I am here to call on Mrs Templeton.'

  'Mrs Templeton receives no visitors,' Dutton pointed out. 'Unless their names be on this list.' He flourished a length of scroll. 'Yours is not, Captain.'

  'No doubt because your list has not been revised recently enough,' Kit said. 'Carry my name to your mistress and I will be admitted. I do assure you of that."

  Dutton shook his head. 'My mistress knows of your presence on this island well enough, Captain. She has given me no orders about admitting you. Now turn your horse and get you gone, or I'll set the dogs on you.'

  'You'll do what? Why, by God ...' Kit instinctively reached for his cutlass, and found nothing; he had deliberately left all weapons behind, for this visit.

  Dutton grinned, and brought up a wide-muzzled blunderbuss. 'Or better yet, I'll pepper your horse and have us discover just how safe you sit there, Captain.'

  Kit stared at the man. 'You'll find I'm not an easy enemy, Dutton.'

  Dutton shrugged. 'We of Green Grove have many enemies, Captain. One more will not frighten us.'

  Kit raised his head, to gaze at the house. There was a woman on the verandah. That he could tell from the flutter of her skirt. But nothing more at this distance, save that he could decide she was at once short and slender, a drop of precious femininity. But not to him. She had stood there throughout the conversation, no doubt intending to make sure her instructions were obeyed.

  He pulled the horse around, and rode back the way he had come.

  She had chosen not to forgive, after all. Was that unreasonable? Was there a single reason why the mistress of Green Grove, now the wealthiest widow in all the Caribbean, should deign to look at an ex-buccaneer, who was in the employment of her father, and at a very nefarious game?

  But why, then, was he in the employment of her father at all, breaking the law three nights a week? He stood at the taffrail of the Bonaventure, and watched the sun come peeping above the island of Barbuda, hull down on the eastern horizon. By now he knew every ripple on these waters. He had sailed them too often. And always at night. Always the view was the same, at dawn, St Eustatius on the outward journey, Antigua on the homeward, after the long sweep north. Now they were once again coming home, close-hauled to beat down against the unfailing trades, their hold filled with French wines and sweetmeats, with Dutch powder and cloth, at a fraction of the price Philip Warner would have had to pay to import it from England, and all obtained on that never-ending credit which was the mainspring of West Indian prosperity.

  But the risk was not Philip Warner's. It was Kit Hilton's. And one day ...

  He frowned, into the gradually lightening sky. Sooner than

  he had supposed, by God.

  Agrippa came scrambling up the ladder. 'You see that fellow, Kit?'

  'Aye.' Kit levelled his glass. 'The revenue frigate, and up wind of us.'

  'We'd best run back for St Eustatius.'

  'No chance of that,’ Kit muttered. 'With the weather gauge they'll hold us off and we'll find ourselves on a reef in the Virgins before we know it. If they didn't catch us up long before. We've a foul hull, and you can bet your last penny theirs is clean enough.'

  'But man ...'

  Kit chewed his lip. 'With that square rig, she'll not beat to any purpose, Agrippa, clean or foul.'

  'Yeah, man, but it is we who are doing the beating. She's coming fair and free.'

  'And should we pass her? We'll show her an empty stern, then.'

  Agrippa scratched the bandanna which covered his head. 'Man, Kit, how are you going to pass her without exchanging fire? And that is a warship. We will hang by breakfast.'

  'So we'll breakfast now,' Kit said. 'And then load the guns. One exchange and we're through. It'll be worth it, Agrippa.' He glanced at his friend. 'You've not lost your stomach for a fight?'

  'It is you I'm thinking about, Kit. You'd fire on the English Navy?'

  'I never claimed I'd not fight in self-defence. And we'll do no harm, Agrippa. Elevate the guns as high as you may, it will be easy with us on the larboard tack. We want to slow her up, not kill anybody. And to make sure she cannot prove it was us, afterwards, hang your spare canvas over our name plates and wrap the figurehead as well. There are sufficient small craft sailing these waters to leave them in some doubt.'

  Agrippa hesitated, and then shrugged and went down to the main deck, where he set about explaining to an incredulous crew that they meant to shoot their way past the warship.

  Kit dismissed the helmsman, and himself took the tiller. This was a time for no hesitation, for no delay in carrying out a decision. He looked up at the sails; every one was filling, and the sheets were straining. He could get the sloop no closer to the fresh wind. And now the gap was rapidly closing as the warship bore down on them. There was no question of parleying; there were no English islands north of their position, and they were clearly not on passage from the open Atlantic, nor was it likely that a ship this small would have come down from the American mainland. His first problem was to stop the frigate from approaching close enough to identify them.

  He watched the activity on the warship's deck. For the moment they were confused by the rapid approach of the stranger. But they were running out the bow-chaser, preparing to send a shot in front of him.

  'Light your matches,' he called down into the waist.

  Almost as if he had commanded the frigate there was a flash of light and a puff of black smoke from the bluff bows which were now pointing directly at him. The ball was well aimed, and splashed into the sea about a quarter of a mile ahead.

  'Aim your pieces,' Kit yelled. 'And fire as they bear.' The whole ship trembled, and rolled farther to starboard as the two cannon exploded together. The gunners dropped their linstocks and ran to the rail, to peer into the morning. And utter a gigantic cheer as one of the balls struck home, smashing into the base of the long bowsprit, and sending all the jibs whipping away as their halliards were severed. Coming downwind the loss of her headsails made no difference to the frigate's speed, but her already limited capacity for windward work would be reduced to nothing. Hastily she put her helm up to bring her broadside guns to bear, but Kit had already altered course, and the Bonaventure streaked away on a broad reach, gathering speed with every second, white water foaming away from her bows, Antigua now rising from the ocean on her port bow.

  Behind them the day trembled, and the frigate was enveloped in black smoke; but the flying ball plunged harmlessly into the sea.

  Agrippa climbed the ladder. 'We'll not get back up to St John's.'

  'Nor should we, as that is where she'll look for us first,' Kit said. 'We'll make for Falmouth. We can be unloaded there, and then let them decide which one was us, from all the dozens of sloops in these waters.'

  'Well, then,' Agrippa said. 'You are to be congratulated, Captain Hilton, on a successful action. Colonel Warner should be pleased. I have no doubt that he will present you with another bonus.'

  Kit glanced at his friend. 'I know your meaning, Agrippa. By God, I saved our necks, nothing more. We'll sail no more for that scoundrel Warner.'

  'Now there is a word I have been waiting to hear,' Agrippa said. 'So why have us return at all? You'll have heard that Morgan is returned to Jamaica? Sir Henry, by God, and Deputy Governor to boot.'

  Kit shook his head. 'I'll not sail for that scoundrel, either. And you'll have heard, old friend, that he is also hanging every one of his old acquaintances he can discover. No, by God, we'll act straight up. You may leave the matter to me. Just find me a horse the moment we anchor.'

  The exhilaration was passed, and in its place was growing a deep anger, against himself for firing upon the English flag, against Philip Warner for placing him in this position. But against all the Warners, perhaps, for treating him as an inferior being, for so many things. For an understanding perhaps that Daniel had been right all along, that to Philip he
was just a useful piece of humanity, to be enslaved and dominated as if he were, indeed, a slave.

  While to Marguerite he did not exist.

  The anger sustained him after the anchor was dropped, after he had mounted the hired horse and made his way inland. The last time he had taken these roads it had been with a lilt in his heart. Now it was with grim anger bubbling throughout his system. And once again he was exploring fresh ground, because he had never been to the Warner plantation. He had never been invited, in two months. How all of Daniel's strictures came bubbling back to him in endless outrage.

  A replica of Green Grove, although on a smaller scale. No doubt each plantation had been copied from the others, once a suitable design had been discovered. And once again a closed gate, with a man waiting beside it. But this one looked friendly enough. 'Good morning to you, Captain Hilton,' he said. 'What brings you to Goodwood?'

  'I'd speak with the Colonel,' Kit said. 'The matter is urgent.'

  The man nodded, and released the bolts on the gate. 'He's at the house, Captain. You'll find he has just returned from aback.'

  Kit urged his horse up the drive, past die overseer's houses, watched from die little porches by the women and children, the poor whites, prevented from lack of credit and lack of opportunity from sharing the enormous luxury of the planters, doomed to a lifetime of servility and poverty, with only the pleasure of taking out their spite on the even more unfortunate Negroes beneath them.