The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  'Well, sir,' Lewis said, looking very distressed.

  'And of course much will depend on the character of the new governor,' Holgate said. 'Any word of him?'

  'None, sir, at the moment. The islands are to be ruled separately by the Speakers of their Houses, pending the appointment.'

  'Trumbull, by God,' Kit said. 'There is at least an honest man.'

  'Honesty is not always a buffer against angry majorities,' Holgate reminded him. 'None the less, we shall make for English Harbour with all speed. My thanks, Mr Lewis.'

  Lewis was now looking definitely embarrassed. He glanced from Captain Holgate to Kit, and then back again, and his face was red. 'Aye,' he said at last. 'You'll be there by nightfall. 'Tis what must happen, I've no doubt. I'll take my leave, sir. And wish you Godspeed, Captain Hilton.'

  Kit frowned after him. 'Now what the devil did he mean by those words?'

  'Less his words,' Holgate agreed. 'Than his manner. You do not suppose ...'

  'There has already been some disturbance? By God, sir, make sail, I beg of you, and land me at Falmouth.'

  The frigate could not approach the shore too closely, and dropped its anchor in the centre of the bay. Kit was already waiting in the gangway as the boat was swung out.

  "You'll understand that I must make haste for Sandy Point, Kit,' Holgate explained.

  'I understand that, Captain. There are sufficient boats here to bring me across if I should feel it necessary. If I have to I'll seize one, by God. With Agrippa as crew we'll have no trouble.' He shook hands, and climbed down the ladder. 'Give way, lads, give way.'

  So yet again he approached a hostile shore, he thought. But there surely was only his imagination loosing itself without cause. English Harbour? Where he and Lilian had walked on the sand often enough, hand in hand, acknowledging the greetings of the fishermen who were all that lived here? Certainly this place had not changed. The cottages still clung to die edge of the beach, the boats needing repair were dragged up, for the main part of the fishing fleet was out, the fluttering skirts still denoted where the fishermen's wives were gathered for an afternoon gossip. But now they were straying closer to the shore to watch the frigate and the approaching boat.

  The keel grated, and the oars were backed. Kit made his way forward and jumped to the sand. The coxswain saluted and the oars were thrust down again. Kit adjusted his sword belt, felt the comforting weight of the pistols in his pockets, turned to face the houses and the clustering trees. The women stared at him. He knew most of them by sight if not by name. He walked up the beach, the sand crunching under his boots, and raised his hat. 'Good day to you, ladies. 'Tis good to be home.'

  Still they stared at him, in horror it seemed to his eyes. But they could not yet have learned the result of the trial. And now other faces appeared at windows and at doors. But for their complexion he might almost have supposed himself back in the Carib village beyond the Valley of Desolation. Certainly these people seemed to regard him as a creature from another world.

  He shrugged, and walked on, taking the path by the shore for Falmouth, a mile distant, and the cottage. On his left the longboat had already regained the frigate and was being taken up, even as the anchor was hoisted and the sails were loosed. So, Jean had once again triumphed, even if, as he had been quick to recognize, the honour of the victory was not his alone. But what would happen now? Would he return amongst the islands, burning and plundering? Or would he not consider it worth his while, after his earlier visits. Certainly, with the destruction of Benbow's fleet the Caribbean was his.

  The trees on his right thinned, and he saw the cottage. How peaceful it looked, surrounded by its flower garden, waiting apart from the main body of houses farther down the road. And how deserted it appeared. But for the open windows on the upper floor he would have supposed it empty. No doubt they were enjoying their afternoon meal, like everyone else unaware of the disaster which had overtaken their lives. He had not properly assimilated the event himself; his sole concern since the end of the trial had been to get home.

  He pushed the gate open, paused in surprise. The path, which Agrippa had ever kept neat and tidy, and smoothed, was scuffed and pitted, and already weeds were attempting to thrust their way through the disordered earth. And the flowerbeds to either side were also scattered, although farther back they seemed in good enough order, if they all needed weeding.

  He reached the front door, an uneasy feeling causing his belly to roll. The door was locked. He banged on it with his first, and shouted. 'Holloa. Holloa there. Is nobody home? Agrippa?'

  There were startled sounds from above him, and he stepped back to look up, gazed at Astrid Christianssen in amazement. 'Astrid? What brings you here?'

  She regarded him with equal astonishment, but hers was tinged with a strange mixture of distress and relief. 'Kit? Oh, my God, Kit.'

  'There is something the matter? By God. Lilian is ill? Open up, Astrid. Open up.'

  Her head disappeared, and he waited, looking over his shoulder, and espying some of the children from English Harbour, lurking in the bushes on the far side of the path. They must have followed him the entire way. The rascals, and with dusk coming on too. Their parents would have sticks in their hands.

  But why had they followed him the whole way?

  The front door swung inwards, and Astrid stood there. Her face was lined and tired, her shoulders seemed to sag.

  'Astrid?' He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, looked around the parlour. Nothing seemed to have changed. 'Where is Agrippa?'

  He heard the rasp of air in her nostrils as she breathed. 'Dead.'

  'Dead?' For a moment the word did not register. Then he seized her shoulders. 'Dead? Agrippa? But ...' he thrust her aside and ran for the stairs.

  'Kit,' she shrieked, grasping at his arm. 'Do not go up. I beg of you, Kit. Do not go up.'

  He checked and turned, slowly. 'Lilian ...'

  'Is alive, and will be well. Perhaps. But do not go up, Kit. I beg of you. Do not go up.'

  'Not go to Lilian? Then what has happened to her?'

  Astrid licked her lips, and her knees seemed to give way. She sat on the chair by the door, a collapsed woman. 'She will be well,' she muttered.

  There was a sound, and Kit peered up the stairs. Abigail stood there. Her belly had not yet started to swell, and she seemed no different to the girl he had left behind. But she no longer smiled. It was difficult to imagine that face ever smiling.

  'Captin,' she said. 'You'll get them, Captin. You'll get those who killed my man.'

  Kit instinctively took another step. Then halted.

  He had known Lilian, always poised and dignified. And overwhelmingly healthy. Besides, he distrusted his own emotions at this moment. He could identify none of them, save a raging fury.

  He went to the sideboard, poured a glass of rum, returned to stand by the white woman. 'Drink this.'

  She raised her head, and frowned at him. But she took the glass in both hands, and drank.

  'Now tell me what happened, and when, and how, and who was responsible.'

  'Four days ago,' Astrid whispered. 'That close, Kit. That close.'

  'You were here?'

  She shook her head. 'I could only gather, from Abigail. From ... people.' 'And Lilian is unharmed?'

  'Unharmed,' Astrid muttered. 'Aye, Kit, the surgeon says she is unharmed.'

  'Then what happened?' he asked again.

  'Four days ago,' Abigail came down the steps. 'But it was night. A band of horsemen appeared at the gate, Captin. They were masked, with hoods over their faces, and only slits for their eyes.'

  "White men?'

  'Oh, yes, they were white men, Captin. Lilian even thought she recognized one or two of their voices. But she could not be sure.'

  'And what happened?'

  'Three of them dismounted, and came to the door. It was late, you understand, Captin, and we had retired. But the noise of the banging awoke us and Agrippa went down, unbolted the door and
opened it to see what the matter was, and Captin, without saying a word, they ran him through with their swords, again and again and again. I was at the head of the stairs, there, looking down. He died right where you is standing, Captin. If you look close you will yet see the bloodstains.'

  Kit's fingers curled into fists.

  'We supposed we was also to be murdered, Captin. Me, I hid under the bed. But it was Lilian they wanted. She says she was unable to move for a few seconds, but when they started towards her she ran for the bedroom and bolted the door. But Captin, they knocked it down in a single charge. She had no weapon save a single pistol, and this was struck from her hand before she could aim it. Then she was dragged down here, and taken out of the house, and set on a horse.'

  'Did she not cry out for help?'

  'She screamed until her voice cracked, Kit,' Astrid said. 'But Falmouth remained shuttered and dark. 'Tis certain the villagers had been warned not to interfere.'

  'They raped her?'

  Astrid's head moved to and fro. 'No. No, she was not violated, Kit. Far worse.'

  'Worse? Worse than death or assault? By Christ, Astrid, you had best speak plain.'

  'They took her away, she says, into the canefields. They rode for a good time, and she cannot be sure of the direction. But when they reached their selected place they halted their mounts and set her down. And the place had been prepared. There was a fire, and barrels, she said.'

  Kit stared at the woman, his mouth dry. Abigail at last started to sob.

  'They held her down and cut off her hair, Kit. They cut off every strand, and then they lathered her with soap and shaved the rest. But not yet were they satisfied, Kit. They took away her nightdress, and applied tar to her body. They coated her with hot tar, Kit, from her neck to her toes, and accompanied the deed with every act of lewdity that you can imagine, save the ultimate. Then she was rolled in the dust and covered all over with leaves and filth, and placed in a cart.'

  'And taken where?'

  'To St John's, Kit. By now it was close to dawn. The masked men rode her into town, and stopped in the middle of the main street, and took her out of the cart and tied her wrists and her ankles all together in the small of her back, and left her there. In the middle of the street, Kit. Then they thrust a gag into her mouth so that she could not cry out, and rode away.'

  'Who found her?'

  'The entire town found her, Kit. As her kidnappers intended. It was a fisherman first. And he roused the Pinneys at the store, and they roused Barnee. They knew not who it was, you see, and supposed in fact that she was some Negress. It was not until they took the gag from her mouth and she spoke that they understood.'

  Slowly Kit straightened. Lilian, tarred and naked, in the midst of the St John's mob. With her head shaved. He looked down at his right hand; his nails had eaten into his palm, as Marguerite's had done on that terrible day at Green Grove.

  'Dag would not have her in the house, Kit,' Astrid whispered. 'He said she had sinned most terribly, and this was but a punishment on her for that sin. I called upon Mr Barnee for help, and he gave it willingly enough. We got his own wagon, and placed her in that, and brought her back here, Kit. It was then for the first time I understood what had happened to Agrippa. Lilian would not speak, then.' Marguerite. And Green Grove.

  'We got Dr Haines to come out,' Astrid said. 'And he examined her, and bathed her, and tried to get the worst of the tar off. And he gave her a salve for the burns ... tar burns, Kit. It leaves scorch-marks on the skin.'

  Because who else could possibly have done it? She had virtually threatened him, the last day on the boat before they had reached Barbados. Her decision must have been taken then, and the message despatched by the mail sloop almost immediately. She had intended to avenge herself on him, without even knowing which way the trial would go. At a time, indeed, when all had prophesied Philip Warner's condemnation.

  'And then we put her to bed, Kit. And there she has remained. Mr Barnee looked after the burial of Agrippa, Kit. He has been very good.'

  Her voice was a distant mumble; her face was indistinct. So this, then, was what Lewis would have said, and thought better of it.

  'But Dag, Kit. He won't come near her. He says she is accursed. He even condemns me for being here. But she is my daughter, Kit. How could I leave her alone, at a time like this? Why, she would have starved to death. But now you are back, Kit ... Kit?'

  Her fingers closed on his, and he started.

  You'll stay a while longer, Astrid. I beg of you.'

  'Of course I will, if you wish. But ...'

  He had already turned away, and was climbing the stairs.

  'Kit, no,' Astrid screamed. 'You must not. She begged me that you would not see her. Please, Kit. Give her time, Kit. Every day she improves. Every day we get more of the tar off. Every day her complexion recovers. Every day her hair sprouts a little more, Kit. Do not go in to her now.'

  Every day. He hesitated, his hand tight on the banister. 'You'll stay with her?'

  'I will stay as long as you wish me to, Kit. But what will you do?'

  'Do, Astrid? My first concern will be to seize the vermin who carried out this deed, and have them on their bellies before her.'

  'But, Kit ...' she chewed her lip. 'It will mean violence, and anger, and perhaps even bloodshed.'

  'And do you, Astrid, not feel anger, and a desire for violence, and perhaps even a demand for bloodshed?'

  'It is not part of our philosophy,' she said. 'Life is there to be made the best of.'

  'Aye,' he said. 'But it is not achieved by bowing your back to every lash that fate or hideous humanity would inflict upon it. You'll not stop me, Astrid.'

  She hesitated, and then shook her head. 'I'll not stop you, Kit. I'll wish you good fortune, and success. And may God have mercy on my soul.'

  'You bring them men, Captin,' Abigail muttered. 'You bring them men. God going smile on that.'

  But once again, no God was involved here. This was an affair of the devil. And it would be rewarded with devil's work. The sun was already dropping behind the protection of St Kitts as he strode into Falmouth, to demand a horse from the innkeeper. The animal was immediately available. People gathered on street corners to look at Christopher Hilton, but to avert their eyes whenever his gaze swung in their direction. They knew well enough he was on the path to hell, this night, and that anyone who should cross him would surely accompany him on that dread journey.

  He rode out of the village, his sword slapping on his thigh, his pistols heavy in his pockets. What did he intend. Murder? Only if forced to it. But confession and atonement. An atonement so abject that it would make it possible for Lilian once again to venture forth into public, with not an obscene smile or an obscene gesture to be noticed. He could settle for nothing less. The alternative was death.

  It rained, a steady patter which suggested the onset of the storm season. A suitable night for such a venture. The rain was not heavy enough to penetrate his coat and dampen his powder, and the distant lightning suited his mood. He expected nothing more; Antigua was seldom troubled with hurricanes, and in any event it was too early in the season.

  He was aware of being hungry. He had deliberately eaten a light lunch, looking forward to his dinner with Lilian, after their separation. But his belly would not stomach food now, in any event.

  At the crossroads he hesitated, for the first time uncertain. The ship carrying the Warners might have been ahead of the frigate, but it could have docked only hours before. And he had already estimated the scope of the celebrations which would be enjoyed in St John's. There was no possibility of Marguerite already having returned to Green Grove.

  On the other hand, she would return there, soon enough. And on Green Grove he had no doubt he would find the actual perpetrators of the assault and the murder.

  He turned his horse to the right, through the lanes and between the fields he knew so well, topped the hill and looked down on the glimmering lights of the village, the glowing wi
ndows of the Great House. It was close to midnight.

  He walked the horse down the hill, travelling with deliberate slowness, determined to alert no one on the plantation, enjoying the seething anger which bubbled in his belly. He entered the compound as quietly as he had come the whole way, for the gate was open, and guided his horse towards the Great House. To his left the slave compound lay in silence; above it the white village was also dark, and beyond even that the huge bulk of the boiling house loomed through the night. But a lantern hung above the main steps to the Great House verandah, and now the mastiffs barked, and a moment later they came bounding from the kennels beneath the steps, for they were always unchained at night, perpetual watchdogs to restrain marauders, be they white burglars or vengeful slaves.

  And these were fresh dogs. They did not know the master of Green Grove. They charged down the slope with high-pitched venom baying from their throats, and the hired horse whinnied nervously.

  Hastily Kit dismounted. He let the bridle go and walked in front of the animal, up to the house. The dogs roared at him, and checked to bark, and to ascertain his nature before loosing themselves at his throat. They panted and dripped saliva, and inhaled some more, and smelt only the anger standing out on his face and shoulders. Their growls turned to whines and they formed a circle around him, ever parting as he strode towards the steps.

  'But what is that?' Maurice Peter demanded from the night. He stood on the steps, a blunderbuss in his hands, and peered at the dark figure in front of him. 'And the dogs done bite you, man? Ow me God, is a jumbie.'

  'No ghost, Maurice Peter,' Kit said. 'Not yet, at any rate.'

  'Ow, me God,' Maurice Peter said again. 'The Captin? But we ain't expecting you this night, Captin.'

  Kit went up the steps. 'Is the mistress home?'

  'No, suh, Captin. Not yet. But she arrive back in St John's this afternoon, and she send word that she coming this night. So I waiting for she.' Maurice Peter peered more closely at the white man. 'You did hear that the Colonel done been set free, Captin?'