The Devil's Own

by Christopher Nicole

  'I was there,' Kit said.

  'Ow, me God,' Maurice Peter said. 'But you there. Yes, you there.'

  'And now I wish to have a word with my wife, so I'll do the waiting up, Maurice Peter. Fetch me a jug of sangaree. I have ridden long and hard. And then you may retire.'

  Maurice Peter hesitated, then thought better of arguing. 'Yes, Captin.'

  'Where are the children?'

  'Oh, they in bed, Captin. Mistress Johnson done been sleeping in since the mistress gone to Barbados, and she does put them to bed too early.'

  Kit nodded. 'Sangaree, Maurice Peter.'

  He tiptoed up the stairs, pausing only when a board creaked beneath his weight. But the whole upper part of the house was silent; the only sound the faint patter of the drizzling rain on the skylights.

  He reached the gallery, opened Tony's room, stood above the bed to look down on the boy. Tony slept deeply, and quietly, half turned on his side. What did he think of it all, Kit wondered? Because surely he was old enough to understand that his mother and father were enemies. But after this night his father would be gone for ever.

  He closed the door, softly, and went to Rebecca's room. She slept violently, tossing and turning, although fast asleep. But she was too young to understand what was happening, yet she was aware enough to know that something was happening, and was disturbed by it.

  He resisted the temptation to kiss the child, for fear she would awake, and closed her door in turn. No doubt they would grow up looking on Miss Johnson as a parent more than either their mother or their father. But then, no doubt, that was how Marguerite intended it.

  He went back down the stairs, stopped at the foot to listen to the drumming hooves, ran on to the verandah. The lantern still hung above his head, its light attracting swarms of insects. But the blunderbuss was gone. In its place a jug of iced sangaree and a glass waited by the door. Maurice Peter was on his way to warn his mistress.

  Kit sat down with a sigh. How tired he was. He seemed to have been tired for a very long time. He wanted to rest, with Lilian, in some quiet place. He wanted to recapture the delight of Falmouth as they had first known it. But they could never find pleasure or contentment in Falmouth again. In all of Antigua again. Perhaps in all of the Leewards, or all of the West Indies. Unless he guarded her honour and her reputation with his sword and his pistols. Well, he would be prepared to do that. Once he had had a rest.

  His head jerked, and he discovered himself awake. After how long? The rain still drizzled downwards, and the night was still dark, but now increasingly chill. It could not want so many hours to dawn. And the carriage was rumbling through the gate below him and starting to mount the slope. It was driven by two slaves, and Maurice Peter rode alongside, carrying his blunderbuss.

  Kit got up. The carriage came to a halt and one of the drivers got down to fix the step. Patience Jane came out, casting her master a fearful glance. She held the door for her mistress.

  Marguerite wore a light brown cloak over her gown, with a hood to protect her hair from the rain. She came up the steps, slowly, smiling at him. But it was an arranged smile. Her face was tired, with dark shadows beneath her eyes. At least the cold seemed to have cleared up; she no longer held a kerchief to her nose.

  'Kit,' she said. 'What a pleasant surprise. But the frigate did not make St John's. Or we would have invited you to the celebration.'

  'Captain Holgate set me ashore at English Harbour,' Kit said. 'He was in haste to make Sandy Point. You'll have heard that Benbow has been defeated?'

  'There is a rumour to that effect, certainly. Fetch me a glass. Patience Jane. I will have some sangaree. By God, but I am weary.' She sat down. 'So your friend Monsieur DuCasse is once again triumphant. What a pity you did not drown him in your water butt, all those years ago. You may put the carriage away, Henry Kenneth.'

  The vehicle rumbled towards the stable. Maurice Peter dismounted and led his horse behind it.

  Patience Jane returned with the glass, and Marguerite drank, with great satisfaction.

  'You may retire also, Patience Jane,' Kit said.

  The girl hesitated, looking at her mistress.

  'Do as the master says, child.' Marguerite watched her go into the house. 'What brings you to Green Grove in the middle of the night, Kit, sweetheart? There is surely no more harm you can wish to do to my family?'

  Kit leaned against the upright of the verandah. 'I came to learn the names of the men who assaulted Lilian Christianssen, and who murdered Agrippa.'

  She gazed at him, once again sipping her drink. 'Agrippa. murdered? Then indeed there must have been an army. Lilian, assaulted? She wasn't harmed, I hope?'

  'That depends on your interpretation of the word. We'll have no dissembling here, Marguerite. I came for those names, as I came for you. The men I will arrest for murder. You are going to make a public apology in the centre of St John's tomorrow morning at noon.'

  She frowned at him. 'You have lost your senses, Kit. The disappointment of the court case, the exertions of travelling ... who knows. It may even be some deep-seated ailment which afflicts you. Why not come to bed, my darling, and tomorrow you will look on the world in a different light.'

  Kit reached across the verandah. She saw him coming and tried to rise, and he caught her arm as she would have stepped round the chair. She struck at him with her other hand, which still held the glass. He leaned away from her fist and the glass flew against the wall, to smash. She panted, and spat at him. Here was the girl crawling out of the water butt in Tortuga all over again.

  But this time her beauty could no longer affect him. The force of her attempted blow had carried her against him, and he seized her shoulder and twisted her round so that her back was to him, then he pulled the hood from her head and buried his fingers deep in that luxuriant brown hair, closing his fist to put all the pressure he could on the roots. It was, he remembered with a start of surprise, how Indian Tom Warner had held her. And as before, she gasped for breath, and her mouth sagged open.

  'You ...' she inhaled, slowly. 'You are hurting me.'

  'I shall hurt you more,' he promised. 'You know full well what was done to Lilian, Meg. Count yourself fortunate that I do not tie you up and inflict the same humiliation upon you. But I will have a public acknowledgment of your guilt, and a public apology.'

  She tried to turn, and to kick him in the same instant. But her cloak was wet and tied itself round her legs, and she fell to her knees, her face twisted with anger and pain as he retained his grip on her hair. Her hands snaked out to catch his thighs, and he threw her away from him, releasing his hold. She fell across the verandah and through the doorway into the hall at the foot of the great staircase, lay there for a moment, then scrambled to her hands and knees, and checked as he placed his foot on her gown.

  'You will have to kill me,' she said.

  'I doubt that, sweetheart. I suspect, having always inflicted pain and disgrace upon others, you will be unused to enduring any yourself.'

  'You ...' she dragged on her skirt with both hands, and the material split. But when she reached her feet he had again seized her hair. 'Aye,' she panted. 'You'll do well at beating a defenceless woman. 'Tis the first lesson on becoming a buccaneer, is it not?'

  He shook her; as usual she wore her strand of pearls, and he could hear them clicking beneath her gown. Her eyes rolled, and her teeth clattered together.

  'Bastard,' she shouted. 'Help,' she screamed. 'Help me. For God's sake, help me.'

  'Hush,' he said, and shook her some more. 'You'll awaken the children. You have but to do as I ask you, my darling. Give me the names of the men. I believe there were perhaps half a dozen of them. And then signify your own agreement to my request, and you may retire to bed, and tomorrow we shall ride into town and put an end to this business.'

  'You ...' vainly her fists swung, but she was held too far away from him. 'Bitch's litter,' she yelled. 'Hellspawn.'

  'Why, Mama, whatever are you doing?' Tony asked from the top
of the stairs.

  'Mama, Mama, Mama,' Rebecca shouted, jumping up and down. 'And Papa. You've come home.'

  'Children, children.' Miss Johnson bustled along the verandah in her undressing-robe, her hair in plaits. 'Why, Mrs Hilton. And Captain Hilton?'

  'Help me,' Marguerite screamed. 'He's gone mad. He's lost his wits. He means to kill me. Help me.'

  'Papa?' Tony asked.

  'Go back to bed,' Kit said. 'Your mother and I are having a discussion on a matter that need not concern you.' 'But Papa ...'

  'You'll take the children back to bed, Miss Johnson,' Kit said.

  'Yes, sir, Captain Hilton. Come along, children.' She put an arm round each of their shoulders. 'You're sure there is nothing I can do?' She did not specify whom she was addressing.

  'Get help,' Marguerite shouted, once again attempting to kick her tormentor and once again falling over, to sit down heavily. Kit had to go with her to avoid tearing her hair out by the roots. 'Fetch help.'

  He knelt beside her. Her perfume rose from her hair and out of the bodice of her gown to shroud him in that magical scent; her teeth gleamed only inches from his face, and her pink tongue darted at no greater distance. Her breasts heaved against his thigh. Oh, God, he thought, that nothing should ever have come between this tremendous creature and me.

  But yet he loved her too dearly to harm her. Having come this far, and stretched her on the floor, he had to do no more than slap his hand to and fro to bring blood gushing from her cheeks and mouth; with his powerful fingers he could squeeze agony from her belly and her breasts; he had to do nothing more than increase the pressure in his fist to have her head seething with agony. But he could do none of those things. She was now, as she had always been, the victor in their relationship. Because she never doubted her own superiority.

  She frowned at him. She could see the sudden fading of decision, perhaps even of anger, in his eyes. And she could not believe it. This time she had counted herself lost.

  But now there were feet on the verandah outside, hurrying, summoned by her shouts.

  'Seize him,' Marguerite shouted. 'Seize him and bind him. He is not fit to be loose.'

  Kit released her and jumped away from her, drawing his sword as he did so. There were half a dozen overseers on the verandah, most of them men he did not know; Marguerite had dismissed her old staff following their failure to defend the Great House against the Caribs. But these men were the sweepings of St John's. Those of them he did recognize were sufficient evidence of that.

  Marguerite was on her knees, straightening her gown, smoothing her hair. 'Well?' she demanded, her voice harsh. 'What, a half dozen afraid of one man? He is only one man, and his sword has grown rusty with lack of use. As has his mind. He is naught but half a man, now. Advance on him, and he will be yours.'

  Kit smiled at them. He had no doubt that these scoundrels who had so eagerly responded to their mistress's screams were the same men who had, with equal eagerness, carried out her instructions regarding Lilian. 'Well, gentlemen?' he inquired.

  Still they hesitated, their swords in their hands, unable to make up their minds who would be the first to step forward

  'Cowards,' Marguerite shouted. 'Lily-livered eunuchs. Afraid of him are you? Give me a sword and I will show you the way.'

  She forced herself into their midst, and checked at the sound of hooves. And turned, to face her husband. 'Ah,' she said. 'Here are men. You see, dear Kit, when Maurice Peter warned me that you were waiting, I thought it best to send back to St John's for a file of soldiers, just in case they were needed. As indeed they are.'

  'Then I must make haste.' Kit leapt forward before they understood his meaning, swung his sword round his head to send them tumbling back, and had plucked Marguerite out of their midst before a hand could be raised against him. 'We will continue this discussion, gentlemen, I do promise you that,' he said to the discomforted overseers, and ran for the steps.

  'Then have at you,' one of the white men yelled, regaining his courage when he was presented with Kit's back.

  Kit turned on the instant, Marguerite still held under his left arm; she was just regaining her breath and commencing to wriggle and scratch at his face, but his attention was held by the sword-point snaking towards him. His own weapon came up, and the blades clanged, for just an instant, before his own swept along his opponent's, with a screech of tortured steel, and his point thrust deeply into the overseer's chest.

  The man stared down at the blood which suddenly welled from the front of his white shirt, while his sword-point drooped and struck the floor, and a moment later he followed it, his knees striking first before his entire body slumped.

  'Murderer,' Marguerite shrieked, digging her nails into his groin.

  Kit faced the remaining men. 'One down,' he said. 'You'll not let him go alone, gentlemen?'

  But now the hooves were close, and the horsemen were bringing their mounts to a stop. 'Hold there,' shouted the officer.

  Kit glanced at them, still backing towards the steps. But there were six of them, as well as the officer, and they carried muskets. And now they all dismounted, and presented their fire-pieces.

  'Hold there,' the officer called again. 'You'll put down your swords, sirs, I beg of you.'

  The overseers were obviously willing enough for that. Their blades clattered to the floor.

  'Yet one is dead,' Marguerite shouted, at last freeing herself and landing on her hands and knees. 'Run through by this ... this brigand.'

  'Captain Hilton?' inquired the officer.

  'You'll see he held a sword in his hand when he died,' Kit pointed out.

  'Yet was it murder,' Marguerite insisted. 'He made no play with it. But sought to bar Captain Hilton's departure, as he was bent on kidnapping me against my will.'

  'You'll stand aside,' Kit said. 'How may a man kidnap his own wife? I would speak with Mrs Hilton, and as this place is crowded, I intend to remove her to a more private situation.'

  'Stop him,' Marguerite shouted. 'Stop him. Shoot him down if you have to. Only endeavour not to kill him. Yet.'

  Kit faced them, his sword at the ready. The officer looked truly distressed.

  'I do beg of you, sir, not to commit violence upon my men. Be sure that they will defend themselves, and you are grievously outnumbered.'

  'Then why try to stop me?' Kit asked. 'I have committed no crime.'

  'Indeed he has,' Marguerite shouted. 'He has murdered that man. So shall I swear. So shall everyone present swear.'

  'And did you not promise me, my sweet,' Kit said, 'that as master of Green Grove I am above the law in such matters?'

  'When you were master of Green Grove,' she said, her voice at last regaining its more usual timbre, but as filled with venom as ever he had heard before. 'But you are no longer master of Green Grove, Kit. I disown you, as my husband, as my lover, as the father of my children, as the manager of my plantation. Get out of here with these men, and hope and pray that your bald-headed Dane will be able to bring you some solace.'

  'My bald-headed Dane,' he whispered. 'Now you have condemned yourself out of your own mouth, Meg. I did not tell you what happened to Lilian. But you knew, as you yourself commanded it.'

  'Take him,' she shouted, her voice again shrill. 'Take him.'

  The soldiers were close. He had no wish to kill any innocent man. Kit reversed his sword, held it out to the officer.

  'You'll inform me of the charge,' he said. 'It is murder,' Marguerite said. 'Before witnesses. We shall so attest.'

  The cell was to all intents and purposes his alone. The five other inmates crowded down at the far end, and eyed him fearfully. They were drunks and brawlers, shut up for the night. And into their midst had been thrust a tiger, or so they had supposed. Even without his weapons, there was no man would oppose Christopher Hilton. Only a woman would dare do that.

  He sat on the pallet-bed, close by the bars, and stared into the office, where the gaoler sat at a table and ate his breakfast. He had sat here
the night, and stared, and waited. They could not leave him here for ever. And if they did, word would still spread, to his friends, if he had any. And if he lacked that commodity in Antigua, then word would in time spread to Sandy Point. Sir William Stapleton might have departed, but Holgate would be there, and in due course he would come to St John's to demand Kit's release.

  He could but hope that much. Yet it had been a long and lonely night.

  But now it was ending. There were booted-feet outside, and voices, and the door to the office was opening. Kit stood up, as did the gaoler, and the other inmates hastily left the far wall to join him at the bars.

  Five men came in. Kit frowned as he recognized the red hair of Edward Chester, and then the short, stout figure of Philip Warner. A word with the gaoler and they came towards him.

  'Well, Edward,' Philip said. 'Would you not say he is at last where he belongs, behind bars?'

  'Oh, indeed, Philip,' Chester agreed. 'The whole island seems a safer place.'

  But Kit was determined to keep his temper this day. 'Good morning to you, Philip,' he said. 'I never had an opportunity to congratulate you on your fortunate verdict.'

  'By God, sir,' Philip declared. 'But you are a cool rogue. Nevertheless, we shall see how long your humour survives this gaol.'

  'I have no doubt it will survive my release,' Kit said. 'I have already despatched a message to Mr Walker, requesting him to take out a writ of habeas corpus.'

  'Indeed you have,' Philip agreed. 'He showed me it not an hour gone.'

  'Showed it to you?' Kit asked, frowning as a sudden alarm gripped at his belly.

  'And should he not?' Philip inquired. 'Alas, I doubt it will be possible for him immediately to act on your behalf, Kit. Mr Walker, being the only attorney on the island, is most uncommonly busy. Oh, yes, indeed, he has not a moment to call his own. Of course he has no intention of abandoning so valuable a client as yourself. He has placed your name on his list, and hopes to be able to attend to you just as soon as he is able; certainly within a twelvemonth.'