HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness

by Christopher Nicole

  'I shall do no such thing.'

  'But you said ...'

  'I have no idea what has happened to the girl.'

  'And you do not care,' he said angrily.

  'Indeed I do not. This whole venture was ridiculous in the first place. It was filled with danger, from the very start. A Negress...'

  'Now you are being ridiculous,' he protested.

  'A half-caste? What is the difference? Can you be sure your children would not have had kinky hair? I swear, you are perhaps a fortunate fellow, in that your mad scheme was interrupted. By whoever is responsible.'

  Matt was frowning at her. 'But it has, only been interrupted. I shall find her. And if she has been harmed, why...'

  'Find her?' Georgiana demanded. 'Now you are piling absurdity upon absurdity. Why should you find her? To have your head broken a second time?'

  'I should like someone to try,' Matt said. 'No doubt Robert was right, as usual, and my fists alone are not sufficient protection. I will learn the use of a pistol, by God. And a sword. And then let us see.'

  'Very admirable.' Georgiana left the bed and walked the room, restless as ever. 'And supposing Robert is, as usual -your words - right, was he not also right about your infatuation?'

  'How else should I feel about the woman I am going to marry, but infatuated? Now, I repeat, if you would truly assist me, Georgy, send to the Nicholsons and see if they have her there, or if they know what has happened.'

  'And suppose they do not have her there?'

  'Of course she is there. If I was found alone, then Gislane must have made her escape. And where would she go but home?'

  'Leaving you perhaps dead on the ground?' Georgiana asked, coldly. 'Oh, indeed, there is an example of true love.'

  'She would have been terrified,' he said, once again sitting up. 'Oh, my darling Gislane. Give me back my breeches, Georgy. If you'll not help me, I must go myself.'

  'Oh, stay there,' she said disagreeably. 'But there is little enough point in sending to the Nicholsons. The girl is not there.'

  'How can you know that?' 'I... I am sure of it.'

  He frowned at her. 'That man who brought me here. You did speak with him. Come on, out with it. What has happened to her?'

  'Well ...' Georgiana licked her lips. But she was quite incapable of keeping any sort of a secret, as Matt well knew. 'She was taken away. By the men who attacked you.'

  'Taken away?' he shouted, and put both hands to his head to stop the throbbing. 'Taken away? You mean she was kidnapped?'

  'I suppose you could call it that,' Georgiana said, sulkily. 'But... my God. What can they have done to her?' 'I doubt they harmed her.'

  'You doubt...' he was out of bed, crossing the floor, holding her shoulders. 'You know what happened. Tell me.'

  'Do you mind not holding me so tight?' she requested, quietly enough. 'I imagine, from what I was told, that their purpose was to return her to the West Indies.'

  Matt stared at her in horror. 'Hodge's people, you mean? But how did they find her?'

  'How did you find her?'

  'I? I was not looking for an absconded slave. I was looking for a girl I love.'

  'Oh, how you do talk nonsense,' Georgiana said. 'She is an absconded slave, and now she is being returned to her owner. There's an end to the matter, surely.'

  'An end to it? An end?' He released her, stepped away. 'Good Christ in heaven. Can you imagine what it would be like, for a girl like Gislane, educated, gentle, refined, to discover herself a slave? And of a man like James Hodge? I must find her. They'll have sent her to Bristol. Aye. But they'll have to find a ship for her. I'll catch them.' He pulled open the door. 'Richards,' he bellowed. 'Richards. Have me a horse saddled. And prime me a pair of pistols. Make haste now. Christ, that my head would stop this confounded banging.'

  'Will you stop being such a fool,' Georgiana shouted, slamming the door shut. 'You will not find her. She began her journey thirty-six hours ago. You will not catch her up. There is a ship waiting. I doubt not she'll be away the moment she arrives.'

  Matt turned, slowly. 'A ship, waiting?'

  The deep red flush spread upwards from Georgiana's neck. 'Is there not, usually? Can you name a busier port than Bristol?'

  Matt crossed the room. 'A ship, waiting? You knew this?' Georgiana backed against the wall. 'The girl is a nigger, Matt. Robert would have done no less.'

  'Robert?' Even the pounding inside his head seemed no more than a spur, driving him at her. 'You thought you'd be his deputy?' He reached her, and she ducked under his arm and ran for the bed, scrambled across it, and landed on the far side, panting.

  'A nigger,' she shouted. 'A slave. And she's gone now. She'll be gone, by the time you can reach Bristol. And she'll be treated as a slave, you stupid boy. Her maidenhead, for a start. A whip to her back. Scraps of dry bread. You'll not find the girl you knew. Because she never was the girl you knew.'

  rYou bitch,' he shouted, and launched himself across the bed. She sidestepped, but he caught her gown, swinging her round and bringing her to the floor against the wall. 'You unutterable little bitch.' He dug his fingers into her hair and dragged her to her feet.

  'Bedded,' she shrieked. 'By common seamen. Oh, she'll have the pox by now. And I'll swear she'll enjoy every moment of it, the nigger bastard.'

  He swung his fist, to and fro. hitting her on each cheek in turn, making her head jump like a puppet, causing blood to flow from her cut lips and bringing a moan from her throat.

  'Master Matthew. Master Matthew.' Richards and two maids, dragging at his shoulders.

  'He means to kill me,' Georgiana whispered, sinking back to the floor as he released her. 'For saving his life.'

  Matt shrugged himself free of the clutching hands; the servants stood around him in attitudes of mingled terror and protectiveness. 'Kill you?' he asked. 'Now that were a waste of a good whore, Georgy. But by heaven I shall, should our paths ever cross again.' He turned, and the maids hastily retreated. 'Get her out of here,' he said. 'And Richards, you'd best have that horse ready. I'll allow you ten minutes.'

  'You'll take a swig of brandy, Mr. Hilton? 'Tis a fresh bottle I've opened this very day.'

  Matt sighed, and turned away from the taffrail, from the unending rolling blue of the white topped seas, from the swaying rise and fall of the horizon. The man was only trying to be friendly, as he had tried to be friendly throughout the week the voyage had so far lasted. His name was Tom Coke, and no doubt he felt that they might be two of a kind, for he was shunned by the other passengers, as an unfrocked divine. He had, in fact, been dismissed his living in south Wales for holding open-air services in imitation of the Wesleyan method, so it was whispered, and no doubt was on his way to the less conformist West Indies to seek his fortune. He was a short, plump fellow, in his middle thirties, with a shock of thick brown hair and full cheeks. And certainly he liked to live well; he had bought more cheese, more sweetmeats, and more bottles of wine and spirits on board than any other passenger, which come to think of it, Matt realized, supposed that he was not in such dire need of a fortune after all. Certainly he could afford to share.

  And after a week of staring at the sea and sky, and brooding on the hate and anger which filled every corner of his mind, he suddenly felt like company.

  'In the cabin?' he asked.

  Coke smiled, and laid a fat forefinger alongside his nose. 'Indeed no, sir. Mistress Marchbanks is once again emptying her belly in dreadful vomits. I declare that I wonder if she will make land safely. 'Tis monstrous, Mr. Hilton. Monstrous, that twelve people, of both sexes, should be crowded in so confined a space as that cabin. Why, sir, when first we left that accursed port, and I saw you remove yourself and your bundle to the dampness of the deck, I supposed you a very odd fellow. But now I know that you were merely displaying your experience. No doubt you have made this passage before.' He smiled as he spoke, belying the apparent gravity of his words, and now he produced the bottle from the pocket of his coat.

  'Once
,' Matt said. 'And some years ago.'

  'Be my guest, sir.' Coke gave him the bottle. 'Some years? And you are yet hardly more than a boy, if you'll excuse my impertinence.'

  'When I came to England, Dr. Coke, I was a boy.' Matt took a long drink of the liquor, and sighed.

  Coke regained the bottle and drank himself. 'Aha. You are a West Indian yourself. Then, sir, I am doubly happy that we have at last become acquainted. You can advise me as to conditions in the islands.'

  ' 'Tis six years since I have lived in Antigua, and no doubt circumstances have changed. There was no war when I left.'

  'Of course. Your people are in business over there? Antigua, you say?'

  'My people are planters, sir,' Matt said.

  Coke had been about to offer the bottle again. Now he hesitated, then indeed did offer it. 'The wind remains cold, would you not agree? Planters, you say. My goodness, what a fool I am. Matthew Hilton. I have been told that a family of that name ranks itself the very head of the... what is the term they use in the Indies?'

  Matt smiled, and drank. Suddenly he felt wanner, and even a little less anxious. 'The plantocracy. Dr. Coke.'

  'A word I have not heard before,' Coke observed.

  'Nor should you, sir, as it is very West Indian. It arises, you see, because very few of the great planting families were any better than country gentlemen in their origins, and most of them were a good deal less. My own family, is descended on one side from the Warners of Framlingham, of whom you surely have heard, good farming and soldiering stock, on the other side were nothing better than buccaneers. Yet are we now an aristocracy of wealth, and, we like to think, talent, welcome in the best homes in England, powerful in Parliament, and even on occasion invited to Court. Hence plantocracy.'

  Coke retrieved his bottle, drank in turn. 'A brilliant exposition, if I may say so, Mr. Hilton. And one not lacking in candour and even humour. Yet I have heard that you gentlemen take a very serious view of life.'

  'Do you not, Dr. Coke?'

  Coke considered the remains of his brandy, and then offered it once again. ‘I am but dissembling, sir. You will have heard that I am no longer accepted into the Anglican communion?'

  'It means little to me, sir. If you visit the West Indies in order not to conform, then you have chosen wisely.'

  'Such is not my prime intention,' Coke pointed out. 'I am a follower of John Wesley. Have you heard him preach?'

  Matt shook his head.

  'There's a pity. You look an entirely friendly and personable young man.'

  'And Mr. Wesley's words of wisdom would change that?'

  'On the contrary. Mr. Wesley's teaching might make you even more aware of yourself as a man, as the greatest of God's creations, sir, with only one prime duty, that of recognizing all human creatures are made in His image, and should be so regarded.'

  'Ah,' Matt said. *You are addressing me not as a man, or even as a planter, but as a slave owner.'

  'Why, sir, I had heard that the last two mean the same thing.' Coke turned the bottle upside down, and threw it over the side. 'I will be frank with you, Mr. Hilton. Mr. Wesley's concern is not merely that we of Christendom are overburdened with form and sophistry rather than with the true observance of Christ's writ; he-understands it is no more than an extension of that writ, that we should learn to respect and honour all of our fellow creatures, no matter how great or how small. You may not know that he began his teachings amidst the convicts of Georgia, his mind being deeply disturbed by the miserable conditions under which those poor brethren were, and no doubt still are, forced to exist. Now, sir, he devotes the most of his time to improving the lot of the multitudinous poor of Great Britain, to be sure, yet does his brain wander far afield over a variety of other subjects which cause him, and many others, to distress. And of all these, the greatest is surely the terrible situation whereby a handful of Englishmen hold as their personal possessions a perfect nation of unfortunate creatures, subject to their whims and their idiosyncracies, and even where the planter may be a paragon of goodness and virtue, none the less condemned to an endless lifetime of servitude, with no hope of succour at the end of it.'

  Matt sighed. 'Your Mr. Wesley has been conversing with Granville Sharpe, I'd wager.'

  'Indeed he has. Mr. Sharpe is well to the fore of the Abolitionist movement. But we also number some members of Parliament. William Wilberforce, for one.'

  'Who I have heard described, sir, as an idealist in search of the necessary ideal. It would follow that he would subscribe to your view.'

  'None the less, Mr. Hilton, Mr. Fox himself is sympathetic to our cause, and there is no light weight. But I would not quarrel. I approached you in search of information, sir, not as a proselytizer.'

  'And I, Dr. Coke, have little information to give. As I said, I know nothing of the West Indian scene at the moment.'

  'But you are returning there now. Let me see, your family owns two plantations, does it not, one in Jamaica and one in Antigua? No doubt you will be taking up residence at one or other of these?'

  'No, Dr. Coke. I am returning to Jamaica with a definite object in mind. I have no intention of remaining a moment longer in the Caribbean than I have to.'

  Coke frowned at him. 'But ... are you not heir to the Hilton fortune?'

  'That is my misfortune, sir. As to whether I shall remain heir after my visit, that I doubt. Now, sir...'

  'Can it be that you are yourself appreciative of the vast crime we commit in the name of Mammon, by ill-using these unfortunate creatures?'

  Matt stared at him, his brows drawing together in a frown. How you would like to hear my story, to enlist yourself upon my side, with the intention of using my anger and my position as a weapon in your ridiculous, and entirely political, campaign, he thought. But Gislane is not a Negress. She is as much a Negress as I am a Frenchman, because perhaps several hundred years ago one of my ancestors was taken to bed by a Norman knight.

  'I have never thought about the matter, sir,'he said with absolute truth. 'The purpose of my voyage is entirely personal.'

  'Then think about it now, Mr. Hilton, I beg of you. May I say, sir, that there is no more important question facing mankind at this moment.'

  'And may I say, sir, that you are talking balderdash,' Matt said. 'The blacks may be victims of an economic necessity, but the necessity is there, and were they not employed to fill it, someone else would have to be. They have proved the most hardy, the most vigorous, in the climate which exists in the West Indies. The business has been tested by over a hundred years of application, and I doubt even your friend Sharpe would deny that the West Indies are the most prosperous portion of the British Empire. Your abolitionist endeavours are flying in the face of common reason.'

  'And you, sir, have clearly never read Mr. Smith,' Coke declared.

  'No, sir, I have not. I do not even know which Mr. Smith you mean.'

  'Adam Smith,' Coke insisted. 'Who has proved that slave labour produces far inferior results to those achieved by free men working with a sense of purpose.'

  'Dr. Coke,' Matt said, 'if there were room in our cabin for me to spread a sheet of paper, I have no doubt I could produce a logical argument to prove there is no reason at all why this vessel should not sail faster backwards than forwards. The fact is, sir, nature has ordained that some men shall rule and others shall serve. I will not enter into a discussion of how she arrives at her choice, lest it seem flattery to myself and my family, but the fact is undeniable. And those who serve, be they tenants of your duke in England or your boyar in Russia, private soldiers of your general in America, or common seamen on board this vessel on which we sail, invariably regard themselves as insufficiently rewarded for their efforts, inhumanly punished for their misdemeanours, and generally as the most unfortunate of the human race. In the West Indies we have merely reduced these arguments and these resentments to their logical level. And now, sir, while thanking you for your most generous hospitality in offering to share your bottle with me, I w
ould be sincerely obliged if you would leave me to my contemplations, if your company is going to consist of an unending lecture.'

  A speech, he reflected more than once, which was as untruthful as it was rude. Or was it untruthful? He had never considered the matter in that light, as indeed he had never considered the matter in any light at all. Because of course Gislane was not a slave; only a blackguard could ever confuse her with one.

  But rude it certainly had been, and for the remainder of the voyage Dr. Coke refrained from engaging him in conversation, although he invariably greeted him most courteously. And now, as the great jagged mountains of Jamaica loomed green and sombre from the vastnesses of the Caribbean Sea, he once again joined the young man on the poop deck.

  'Your homeland, Mr. Hilton. No doubt it pleases you even more than it pleases us poor creatures. Although after five weeks of confinement within the hell that is our cabin I doubt there is one of us will not go down on his or her knees and give thanks to God for our safe deliverance. Or was that the island we passed but two days ago your homeland more than Jamaica?'