The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  He stopped, and turned. Dutton had scrambled to his feet and pulled from its scabbard the double-barrelled blunderbuss which always rested by his saddle. Now he uttered a bellow of rage, and came down the dusty road, shouldering people apart, and none would make a move to stop him. This was overseer against master, but also planter, of however inferior a species, against buccaneer. And now the shouts and the noise had brought even more people on to the street, and filled the windows, and the doorway of the auction house itself. But for Kit there was only Dutton, slowing now, trying to control his breathing, the firearm thrust forward, the muzzle moving from side to side. There could be no mistaking his intention; his face was deep red, and his eyes stared.

  'Roll me in the street, by God,' he said. 'Roll me in the street, you pirating bastard. You bitch's litter. I'll blow you into little bits.'

  He was thirty feet away, feet braced as he brought up the blunderbuss. 'Or would you like to start running?' he invited.

  It occurred to Kit that he was about to die. That he had no choice. To run from Dutton would mean the end of his life, as Christopher Hilton of Green Grove, just as much as if he stood here and took the charge. But to die, at this moment, when life was opening so entrancingly in front of him ... 'Kit.'

  He half turned his head. Agrippa stood on the side of the street not twenty feet away, and held a pistol. Now he tossed the weapon through the air in a gentle parabola. Kit leapt to one side, and the blunderbuss exploded. The noise was tremendous, and a stinging pain in his left arm told him that at least one of the pellets had struck home.

  'Fight me, would you, scum,' Dutton shouted, turning and sighting again, with his undischarged barrel looming large and round and deadly.

  But Kit had reached the pistol, scooped it up, turned, and sighted all in a single movement, as he and Jean had practised so often in their youths. And as the pistol came into line with Dutton's body, long before the overseer could fire a second time, it had exploded. The bang of the blunderbuss followed half a second later, but Dutton was already dead and his muzzle was pointing aimlessly at the sky.

  The sound of the three shots continued to echo over the houses, only slowly fading, while an immense hush clamped on the street and the town itself.

  Agrippa was first to speak. 'By Christ,' he said. 'You have lost none of your skill.'

  'And yet it was a lucky shot,' Kit muttered, and looked at the blood trailing down his sleeve.

  The crowd surged forward, to stand around the dead man and stare at him in horror, to gaze at Kit in wonderment.

  'Did you see that?' they asked each other. 'A single shot, fired without a proper stance? Man, did you see that?'

  Did you see that? Kit gazed over their heads at Lilian, standing on the steps of her father's house, staring at him with a stricken expression. But surely she had been looking from the start, and seen that he had fired in self-defence, that it had been his life or Dutton's, that Dutton had been out of his mind with anger. If she did not know these things, then must she be convinced of their truth.

  He stepped towards her, and was checked by the voice behind him.

  'Kit. Kit? Oh, my God, you are wounded.' Marguerite touched his arm, allowed the blood to dribble over her glove. 'We must have you back to the plantation.' She pulled the skirt of her gown up, and ripped a length from her petticoat, while the onlookers gaped, and tied the linen round the wound. 'Oh, Kit, what a man you are.'

  He looked down at her. 'I but obeyed your instructions. I had not expected it to go this far.'

  Her head came up as she looked at him. 'I saw the shot,' she said. 'I reached the doorway as you fired. I have seen nothing like that in my life. No one on this island can have ever seen that.'

  'And suppose I told you that it was no more than luck? I took no proper aim. I but wished to make him miss a second time, so that I could close with him.'

  Her face broke into that unforgettable smile. 'You made him miss, Kit,' she said. 'You made him miss. By God, there will not be a man on this island will ever dare look you in the face again, unless invited. By God, Kit, but now I am the proudest woman on earth. Come, we will get you home and tend to that wound.'

  The crowd was parting to let the carriage through, and a moment later he was inside and staring at them as they stared at him; Philip Warner stood on the steps of the auction house, Edward Chester at his side. They looked as if they had seen the devil himself. As perhaps they had. Certainly that had been the expression in Lilian's eyes. But when he looked to the Christianssens' house again, it was lost to sight as the carriage thundered out of town.

  'Did you secure any of the blacks?' he asked. How desperate he was to return to normal. As if life could ever be normal again.

  Marguerite continued to smile. 'I have left a bid on some twelve of them. Obviously I will not be at the auction.' She touched her lip in a gesture of impatience. 'I shall have to arrange Dutton's burial. I had all but forgotten in my concern over your wound. But your wound must be attended first. I will send Passmore to see to Dutton.'

  'Will not the other overseers hate me for killing one of them?'

  'Oh, indeed they shall,' she agreed. 'But if it is any comfort to you, you may be sure that they hated you before, for being set above them, as they have always hated me, for being their employer. There is not a planter in this island who is not heartily loathed by every white person of inferior station.'

  'And now I have joined the minority,' he muttered.

  'As you were always intended, by nature and by me, to do," she said. 'I did not elect to fall in love with you entirely because I hoped and expected that you would fill my womb with eager joy, darling Kit. For near a year I had lived alone on Green Grove, the mistress of all I surveyed, and more, the daughter of the Deputy Governor, but a short ride away from all the succour I could possibly need, and yet I was daily growing more and more aware of my position, a mere woman amongst so many jealous and eager men. I noticed it in their gaze, in the manner with which they would appear at the house, uninvited and unexpected. And they all have wives, you know. But I could read their minds as if their very brains had been exposed to my gaze. Here is a lonely woman, they thought to themselves, young and beautiful and healthy, but none the less lonely and alone; surely she must soon seek to share her bed, and he who is available at the decisive moment may well find himself cock of the walk. And from such hopes and ambitions, Kit, there soon stem plans and plots.'

  He stared at her. 'You wanted me to kill Dutton.'

  'He was the worst of them, certainly. But he was not alone in his insolence. Believe me, Kit, I do not trade in violence. I abhor war, for the damage it can do. But I know enough of life to understand that one example, if properly carried out, may save a world of trouble.' She smiled at his frown. 'You find me too straight a woman. I sometimes think. You would prefer me to blush and dissemble and shrink away from manly talk and manly behaviour. But would you wish that, Kit? Could you repose so much confidence in me had you the slightest doubt as to my character?' She kissed her finger, and laid it on his lips. 'I doubt that, somehow.' And a moment later she was staring ahead of the carriage in a frown of irritation. 'Now what in the name of God troubles him? The news cannot have reached Green Grove already.'

  For Passmore was whipping his horse towards them.

  'Mrs Hilton,' he gasped. 'Thank God you elected to return early, madam ..." he paused to pant.

  'For God's sake,' Marguerite cried. 'We have had crisis enough for one day. What ails you, man?'

  'Martha Louise, madam,' he gasped. 'Maurice Peter brought her to my attention, today. He did not know how to approach you, madam.'

  'Martha Louise?' Marguerite frowned. 'You had best speak plain. She has been stealing?'

  'No, madam. Not Martha Louise. She'd not do that, madam.'

  'Then get to the point. God damn you,' Marguerite shouted.

  'The marks, madam. She has come out in the stains.'

  Marguerite stared at him, her brows slowly knitting, h
er mouth slowly clamping into a hard line. When she spoke her voice was low. 'Give rein, George Frederick. Give rein.'

  'Yes, ma'am,' the black said, and scattered his whip across the horses' backs. The carriage jerked forward and rumbled down the road, throwing Kit and Marguerite back in their seats, while Passmore wheeled his horse and rode behind.

  'What did he mean, the stains?' Kit asked, when he had got his breath back.

  'Isn't it strange how troubles never go in ones,' Marguerite mused. 'Stains on the skin. Discolouring of the flesh. It is the first sign of leprosy.'

  Kit sat bolt upright. 'Leprosy?'

  'Oh, do not be alarmed,' she said, a little irritably. 'It is a common enough occurrence amongst the blacks. I suspect they breed it in their filthy habits. But amongst one of my house servants ... that has never happened before. And yet, her nose has been dribbling these past few weeks.'

  'That is a symptom?'

  'It can be. The marks are more positive.'

  'What will you do?'

  She tapped her chin with her forefinger. 'Have the entire place fumigated, you may be sure of that. And immediately. Believe me, Kit, there is naught for us to be alarmed about. No doubt the disease can afflict white people, but be sure that it is first of all necessary for them to exist in conditions which may breed the horror.'

  'I meant, what will you do about the girl?' 'Martha Louise,' she said to herself. 'I like the girl. You know that, Kit?'

  'I do. Can she not be cared for?'

  She glanced at him. 'No. No, there is the terrible thing about leprosy. There is no cure, no treatment. Not even any alleviation of the condition. She must go across the water.'

  'Across the water?' Kit asked. 'I do not understand.'

  'Have you never wondered to what purpose I put that island of mine?' she asked. 'You should know that it is not in my nature to waste land, or labour.' She smiled. 'It is another manifestation of my peculiar methods which so upset my fellow planters. On any other estate Martha Louise would be taken to sea and thrown overboard with weights tied to her ankles. And then forgotten. I cannot bring myself so to destroy otherwise faithful servants whose only fault is the contraction of an unforeseeable horror. So I send them to the island.'

  'Them?'

  'I told you, it is a common enough complaint.' She sighed. 'Poor child, she will be upset.'

  The carriage was hurtling through the gates, and a moment later it drew up in a cloud of dust before the main steps to the Great House. Marguerite got down without waiting to be assisted, and ran up the stairs, while Kit followed as quickly as he could, quite forgetting the sharp pain in his shoulder and the trickle of blood which had again started to course down his sleeve.

  The house slaves were gathered in the dining-room, anxiously awaiting their mistress. They looked terrified.

  'Where is she?' Marguerite demanded.

  'In the pantry, ma'am,' Maurice Peter said.

  Marguerite walked through the doorway without a moment's hesitation. Kit did hesitate, and then followed her. Martha Louise had been sitting on a straight chair, her shoulders bowed, but at the entrance of her mistress she sprang up. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her face about as woebegone as Kit had ever seen.

  'Mistress ...'

  'Take off your chemise,' Marguerite commanded. The girl obeyed, lifting the garment over her head and letting it drop to the floor behind her. Marguerite went closer. Kit remained just inside the doorway, staring at the thin body, aware that the rest of the servants were crowding behind him. Marguerite touched the girl's thigh, ran her gloved finger down the side of her leg. There was undoubtedly a discoloration on the dark flesh there, a slight roughness; and now that Kit looked more closely he could see that there were other, similar marks, one stretching from her right breast almost down to her navel, and another on her right leg.

  Marguerite straightened. 'You will launch the boat, Maurice Peter.'

  For a moment there was absolute silence, then Martha Louise uttered a most terrible wail. 'Aieeee. Mistress, I ain't sick, mistress. There ain't nothing wrong with me, mistress. I feeling well, mistress. I feeling better than ever, mistress.'

  Marguerite stared at the girl for a moment, and then turned and left the room. 'Be sure you wear gloves, Maurice Peter.' She paused at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor, stripped off her own gloves, and dropped them on the floor. 'Burn those,' she commanded. 'And bring me a drink.'

  'Sangaree, mistress?'

  'Rum,' she said. 'Bring me a glass of rum.' She climbed the stairs.

  Kit recollected himself and ran behind her, caught her in the doorway to their bedroom. 'Marguerite, I have just remembered. There is a disease to which the Negroes are subject, called the yaws, which also leads to a roughness of the skin, to a discoloration, but it is not fatal. Can we not wait, to see, if the girl has indeed got leprosy?'

  Marguerite shrugged her arm free, and sat on the bed. 'No,' she said. 'I dare not take that risk. By sending her across the water now I may save the disease from spreading. What am I saying? I will save the disease from spreading. She may have the yaws, Kit. Then truly she is the least fortunate of humans. But I cannot take the risk.'

  'Yet once she is sent to the island, she will certainly contract leprosy from the others there.'

  'She will. So let us suppose she already suffers from that disease.'

  He stared at her. 'Have you been there yourself?'

  'We take them food and drink once a week. Most of them are too far gone to care for themselves. We leave the supplies on the beach. They know better than to approach us, but they stand at a distance and watch us, and ask after their relatives on the plantation.' Her head came up, and he saw that her eyes too were filled with tears. 'Have you ever seen a sufferer from leprosy, Kit?'

  'No.'

  'It is the most terrible thing you can imagine,' she whispered. 'They rot away. Literally, Kit. Their fingers and toes. Their noses. Their entire skin. And all the time the disease is at work within them, and they know that their vital organs are also just rotting away. Christ, my poor Martha Louise.'

  'Yet you will not even have her put aside here for a week, to see if the blotches grow or fade,' he said.

  Marguerite stood up. 'No,' she said. 'No, I will not. I said, I cannot take the risk. I cannot take the risk of infecting the rest of my slaves. I cannot take the risk of infecting my overseers and their families. I cannot take the risk of infecting you and me, my darling. But most of all I cannot take the risk of infecting my child.'

  'Your ...' his jaw sagged open.

  'I would not have told you now, but for this,' she said. 'We have been married only a month, and I have not bled. So that perhaps is the least conclusive of tests, one month. Yet never have I missed even one month in my entire life before. And besides, I know. You have accomplished all that I could have asked of you, this month, Kit, beginning with our first coupling and reaching on to this morning, when you showed the world your mettle. No, no. I will risk none of that, Kit.'

  7

  The Choice

  There was no breeze, and the smoke, belching from the chimney which dominated the Green Grove boiling house, rose into the air like a column, three hundred feet, before spreading itself, in layer after layer, until it obliterated the entire morning sky, hanging over the plantation, and the sea, and the leper colony, like some portent of inescapable doom.

  But rather was it a portent of inescapable wealth. It was a sweet-smelling smoke, which titillated the nostrils as it filled the lungs. And beneath it, in the furnace that was Green Grove, the smell of boiling sugar-cane, and then boiling sugar, and then boiling molasses, filled the air, the mind, the body, even the soul. During the grinding season a normal diet was impossible; everything tasted sweet. But then during the grinding season nothing was normal.

  Gone was the siesta considered so important to Europeans; even at two in the afternoon, when the sun ruled the heavens, the work went on. Although not even the sun, a Caribbean sun, hug
e and round and fiery and imperious, could penetrate the smoke blanket which covered the plantation. The sun could do no more than add its heat to the inferno below. Yet it was scarcely noticed.

  The plantation looked as if the Spaniards had landed and carried fire and sword from one end of it to the next, saving only the houses in an act of unusual magnanimity. For before grinding the canefields must be burned, to remove the possibility of snakes or noxious insects. Thus over a month earlier had the great smoke clouds rolled across the compounds, and the brilliant white sheets become dotted with black wisps of ash, which dissolved into filthy smudges whenever touched. The house servants had been the first to find their work doubled, as they washed and scrubbed and cleaned.

  The fires smouldering, the fields had been assaulted with knife and cutlass. Kit and Passmore had themselves led the van of the charge, while their slaves rolled behind like an army, shouting and cheering, marshalled by the remaining overseers, driven always by the ear-splitting crack of the whip, and followed by the squealing axles of the carts on to which the cut stalks must be placed.

  Once this work had been properly commenced, Kit could leave it to Passmore and attend to the factory. For the previous six weeks this had been in preparation, with grease and polish, to take away the rust and the faults which would have accumulated during the growing season. Now it had been put to work. The selected slaves, great strong young fellows, had mounted the treadmill, the signal had been given, the whips had seared their backs, and the huge wheel had started its ponderous turn, rumbling as it did so, setting into motion the rollers and the crushers by a spindle and gear-box, to spread the creaking grind across the morning.