'My word,' Coke said. Then you do allow that the Negro is capable of good sense, and therefore intelligence.' 'Have I ever denied it?'
'No,' Coke agreed. 'No, I suppose you have not. I wonder if it would be possible for me to visit these people?'
'Indeed, sir, you would take your life in your hands were you to do so,' Matt observed. 'They care little for white skins. And I had thought your business was to do with those who still suffer the lash.' He touched his horse with his heels, to increase its speed, and to signify he no longer wished to continue the conversation. Whatever his problems, Coke decided, he was a Hilton to his backbone, in his natural arrogance, his complete confidence in the way of life to which he had been educated, his almost regal bearing.
He sighed, and urged his own mount onwards. Now they were passing more slave gangs, some composed of women as well as men, who squatted by the roadside, their white skirts tucked up around their thighs, and flicked their cutlasses at the creeping weeds with careless accuracy. Then they were riding by the orchard, and he was looking at trees he had never seen before, laden with a variety of unfamiliar fruit.
Those are guavas,' Matt said. 'And beyond you'll see mango trees; they are great delicacies.'
'I'm sure,' Coke agreed. But he was more interested in the approaching houses. The road led by the Negro village, row after row of orderly huts, each with its patch of vegetable garden at the back, almost every one with its dog and its cluster of small black children at the front, watched over by a female. The children were naked, and painfully thin and dirty, for their chief occupation seemed to be rolling in the dust, while the dogs were clearly of the most mongrel variety; but over the entire scene the brilliant sunshine bestowed a kind of aura which entirely negated the possibility of misery.
Which made the shock of the six triangles just beyond the village gate all the more disturbing; these were presently unoccupied, but beyond them was a row of stocks, and in these were several black men, naked and drooping in the intense heat.
'Good heavens,' Coke remarked. 'Of what can those poor people have been guilty?'
'Nothing serious, I am sure,' Matt remarked. 'No doubt stealing or insubordination.'
'And are they not the fathers of those children back there?' Coke demanded. 'Can a boy grow to manhood with other than hatred and despair in his heart at seeing his own flesh and blood so mistreated?'
'The stocks are a part of their life, Dr. Coke, as disease and death are a part of ours. Are you an anti-Christian merely because your father has died?'
'I at least know that he has been taken from me by God, and forever,' Coke said. 'May I ask how long those poor wretches must wait there?'
'Until the jumper's next visit, I imagine,' Matt said.
'The jumper?'
'Whipping a slave is a very delicate matter,' Matt pointed out. 'The culprit must be made to feel the maximum of pain, yet must suffer the minimum of personal injury, or he would be useless for labour. Thus the business is undertaken by professional floggers, called jumpers, who tour the plantations renting out their skill. These men are confined to await their coming.'
'My God,' Coke remarked. 'To sit there, in discomfort and disgrace, knowing all the while a worse fate awaits you?'
But Matt was leading the way along a suddenly paved road, between beds of flowers, blooming with freshness despite the heat and the cloudless sky to suggest constant care, and indeed even as the two horsemen rode by, a gang of slaves with bucketsful of water paraded the paths between the flowerbeds, watched as ever by an overseer. And now they were passing the staff village, which could have been taken, Coke realized, straight from Sussex; the cottages were neat and painted, each was surrounded by a flower rather than a vegetable garden, there were sleepy cats and well-fed dogs basking in the sun, raising their heads at the sound of hooves but showing no further interest, while backing the whole was a large run filled with hens clucking and scratching. And at the end of the street there waited a neat little church with a high steeple. Only the absence of chimney-pots suggested that this was a West Indian rather than an English scene.
And here too there were children, wearing muslin frocks and wide-brimmed hats, playing with their toys in the gardens and overseen by Negro nursemaids in clean cotton gowns and voluminous turbans. Their mothers were not immediately in evidence, but the sound of hooves brought several of them on to their porches; they gave an impression of undress, as not one appeared to indulge herself in a corset, and they also gave an impression of sallowness in their complexions, but that apart they too could have been transported straight from an English home, and were as quick as their compatriots across the sea to gather at their low fences for a gossip on the possible identity of these unannounced visitors. Clearly none of them recognized Matt after his long absence.
Now the road was leading onwards, past the offices and the store houses, past the huge bulk of the grinding house, dominated by its chimney and its treadwheels, its vats and its rollers, for it was an unwalled structure, the roof being supported by uprights set some twenty feet apart, and it was possible to look right through to the farther side. Obviously this was in an effort to keep it cool during the labour and heat of reducing the cane juice to crystalline sugar. But for the moment the great machinery stood silent, although, as the grinding season was approaching, there were men busy with drums of grease, lubricating every moving part.
And even the factory faded into insignificance as they approached the Great House. Here the land actually rose a little, but there the suggestion of a hilltop ended, and looking at the packed and walled earth Coke realized that this entire mound, which could hardly be less than an acre in extent, was artificial, and no doubt intended for defence. Equally surprising, and increasing the suggestion of a glacis, there were no flowerbeds on this slope, and no trees, but smoothly cut grass, while the house, on the top of the mound, was four-square and built of stone, resting on a massive loop-holed cellar which protruded some five feet above the level of the ground. On top of this all was splendid elegance and light; deep-set steps gave way to even deeper verandahs, floored with greenheart and reaching, by means of huge jalousied doors, to an interior which even from the saddle Coke could discern was composed of polished woods, cedar and mahogany, which panelled the walls as much as they composed the parquet blocks of the floors, while from the equally splendid ceilings there hung a succession of crystal chandeliers. Yet even this splendour seemed to anticipate the moment of defence; as they reined their horses at the foot of the steps, he saw that, folded flat against the external wall and half hidden by the open jalousies, there were enormously thick double doors of wood strengthened by iron struts, which could be closed to render them impregnable to any assault unsupported by cannon. He looked up at more verandahs, and now at jalousied windows as well, and above even that, at a sloping roof in which huge skylights were partially opened to admit light and air.
'My word,' he said. ' 'Tis hard to decide whether your home is a fortress or a palace.'
Matt smiled. 'Why, Dr. Coke, it is both of course. Welcome to Hilltop.'
And indeed, they were being welcomed. From the open doorway there now issued a perfect army of domestics, maidservants in white and menservants in sky-blue coats and white breeches, and wearing powdered wigs, Coke observed to his amazement, although, in equal surprise, he noted that they wore neither stockings nor shoes, the whiteness of the breeches ending incongruously in their black legs.
Of these the foremost was a tall, spare man with a remarkably dignified face, who peered at the two dusty horsemen as he might have regarded a beetle crawling upon his polished floor. 'Your business on Hilltop, gentlemen?' he asked, his voice lacking any suggestion of an accent, each word pronounced with careful perfection.
'Maurice, you old fool,' Matt shouted. 'Have you entirely forgotten me, then?'
The butler's head came up. 'Master Matthew? Well, praise be. Master Matthew,' he shouted. 'Hey, you there, take the bridles, man. Master Matthew is back.
Matilda, you run upstairs and tell Mistress Rebecca that Master Matthew is back. Jonathan, get to the kitchen and prepare some punch. Harry, take horse and find Master Robert, and tell him Master Matthew is back. Man, Master Matthew...' he came running down the steps to assist Matt from the saddle. 'But you looking good, man,' he cried, embracing the young man, while his accent sadly slipped into the natural lilt of his people.
Matt grinned at Coke. 'They cannot hate us all that much, can they, Doctor? Come inside. And Maurice, old fellow, it is good to be back, I'll tell you that.'
He stamped up the stairs, flicking dust from his boots, Coke at his elbow, to pause in amazement at his first glimpse of the interior. Fortress or palace? But the suggestion of a fortress ended at the iron-bound doors.
His first impression was one of space, more space indeed than he had ever seen in any house he had ever been in. The entry hall stretched for some sixty feet in front of him, a vast expanse of polished parquet, uncluttered by even a chair, although there were tables along the wall laden with brass ornaments, and a gigantic stand close by the front door, on to which the servants were placing their hats and sticks as they removed them from their keeping.
Halfway along the hall, on the left-hand wall, there was a wide, deep staircase, leading up to a similarly massive gallery, fronted by carved mahogany balustrades, which looked down on them, and on which a coterie of giggling Negresses, all wearing spotless white, had gathered to shout their young master's name and clap their hands in pleasure. Beyond the gallery were other doors, and no doubt other rooms, but Coke's attention was already recalled to the floor on which he stood, for from the hall itself there opened four enormous archways; that facing him, at the far end beyond the stairs, was curtained in red velvet, and clearly led to the servants' quarters; that on the left gave access to a room scarcely-smaller than the hall, yet filled with a mahogany dining-table capable of seating a regiment, he did not doubt, and surrounded by no less than five dozen chairs upholstered in crimson velvet; in keeping with the general incongruity of the whole building, this vast area was set with but a single place. The walls of this room were surrounded with sideboards laden with a variety of silver and crystal, above which hung paintings of men and women, all of them displaying the remarkably fine Hilton features, interspersed only occasionally with the rounded good looks of the Warners.
But Matt was entering the archway on his right, which, like its twin farther down the wall, gave access to the with-drawing-room. At least, Coke estimated this was its probable function. It reminded him of a Court reception chamber, for it was as long as the hall, and was at least thirty feet wide. Here were clusters of carved chairs and embroidered hassocks, settees and divans, miniature tables and china statues, a vast example of the musical instrument called the pianoforte of which he had only heard, but which was reputed to be capable of supplying the want of an entire orchestra, and of course a huge green-topped card and dice table, surrounded by leather upholstered chairs, while at the far end waited a billiard table on a scale to match the rest. Yet the note of incongruity remained; there were no carpets and not even a rug on the floor, so that their boots echoed from one end to the next across the magnificent emptiness of the room.
'My word,' he said. 'My word. I am rendered quite speechless.'
'Then have something to drink,' Matt recommended, for a maidservant waited at their elbows with a tray on which there were glasses filled with ice and with a delicious-looking pale brown liquid. Nor was the taste less pleasing, although the first sip caused Coke's brain to spin.
'Rum punch,' Matt explained. 'There is nothing more refreshing after a long ride. Now, Maurice, is Aunt Becky ready to receive me?'
‘I finding that out now, Master Matt. But Master Robert is coming.'
They could hear the hooves, and the barking of dogs. Coke faced the archway and tugged his cravat straight; it had been so drenched by sweat on their ride that it felt sadly delapidated, and he had no idea what to expect. Certainly neither the man who limped into the room, for Robert wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches tucked into black
boots, nor the pack of terriers who entered with him, making themselves perfectly free with the beautifully polished floor, and bounding across the priceless furniture, while no one, not even the servants who would shortly have to repair the damage, seemed disturbed in the slightest.
But their scurrying yelps were lost in Robert's booming greeting. 'Matt? I could scarce believe my ears. Matt? Where is Georgiana? And what catastrophe brings you here?'
'Georgiana is in England, Robert,' Matt said.
'What? What? By God. You left her there by herself?'
‘I had like to leave her in her grave, sir.' Matt declared. And then appeared to remember the presence of Coke. 'Dr. Thomas Coke, Mr. Robert Hilton.'
'An honour, Mr. Hilton,' Coke said.
'And mine, sir,' Robert said. 'But you'll excuse me while I try to get some sense out of my cousin here. In her grave? She is ill? Speak up, boy.'
'I imagine she is as well as ever in her life.' Matt said. 'If she had been in her grave by now I would have sent her there. She caused Gislane Nicholson to be abducted.'
'Eh? What? Whatever can you be prating about. Abducted? And sent where?'
'Here. To the West Indies. To Nevis, to be exact. Gislane legally belongs to James Hodge. You know of him?'
'Indeed I do,' Robert said. 'The sort of fellow who gives planting a bad name. Oh, indeed, that girl is unfortunate should she find herself back there. But Georgiana did this? I wonder why?' He glanced at Coke, as if expecting the missionary to be able to supply the answer.
'I suspect this business is private,' Coke said. 'Would you prefer me to withdraw?'
'It means nothing to me what you do, Dr. Coke,' Matt declared. ‘I but came here to get my cousin to horse.'
'To horse?' Robert demanded in amazement. 'To ride where?'
'Why to Port Antonio with me. Is that not where you keep your sloops? Then we must sail for Nevis as rapidly as possible. It is possible that we might yet be in time.'
Robert scratched the back of his head with the end of his riding crop. 'Truly I wonder if sending you to England for an education has not in some way demented you. What is it, girl?'
One of the maidservants was hovering at his elbow. 'Mistress Rebecca does be wanting to see Master Matt, sir,' she said.
'What? What? You have not spoken to Aunt Rebecca yet, boy? There's manners for you, in this day and age, Dr. Coke. You'll excuse us, sir. We shall be back in a moment. Maurice. Maurice. Where is that black devil? See to Dr. Coke's requirements, man. Fetch him some more punch. Come along, Matt.' Robert stamped for the stairs.
'But do you not understand, sir,' Matt begged. 'Gislane left England but a day or two in front of me. She can only recently have arrived in Nevis. We may be able to save her.'
'From what?' Robert climbed the stairs.
'For God's sake,' Matt shouted. 'Must I spell it out for you? Can you imagine a girl like Gislane in the power of a monster like Hodge?'
Robert chuckled. 'Indeed I am up hard and anxious at the very thought. But if she is his slave, she is his possession in any event.'
'But she is not his slave any more,' Matt insisted. 'The law proclaimed her free the moment she set foot in England.'
'Rubbish,' Robert declared. 'English law. West Indian law-proclaims her once again a slave the moment she sets foot in the West Indies. The more fool her for risking such a thing.'
He had reached the gallery; Matt grasped his shoulder. 'She did not risk it. I told you, she was abducted and placed on board a boat like a common criminal.'
'By Georgiana? By God, but that girl is a Hilton after all. Although I still fail to understand why.'
'To stop her marrying me,' Matt shouted. 'We were going to elope when we were attacked. They cracked my skull and left me for dead. There's your sister for you.'
Robert stopped, and turned slowly, frowning. 'Elope? You? With that nigger girl?'
> 'Do you suppose, sir,' Matt said, 'that I am less of a Hilton than you or your sister? I love Gislane.'
Robert stared at him, his brows drawing even closer together, but before he could speak again he was interrupted by a voice from the nearest bedroom. It quavered, high and thin, but none the less clear. 'Robert? Is that you? Are the servants telling me the truth? Is Matthew come home?'
'You'd best go in,' Robert said.
Matt hesitated, then turned through the door. His great-aunt sat in a rocking chair, which was moved for her by one of her maids. Matt could never remember her as less than old, a small, wizened woman, younger child of Kit and Meg Hilton, who could tell magnificent tales of the early planting days, of the buccaneers and the Carib raids, and chill the blood with the relation of how her mother had died of leprosy. Now she was past a hundred, and clung to life with a tenacious determination, hunched, toothless, all but blind, with talon-like fingers which seized his arm as she peered into his face. He knelt, and the fingers stroked his cheek. 'Matt?' she whispered. 'I had not thought to sec you alive again. What brings you home?'
HF - 03 - Mistress of Darkness Page 11