'By God,' Kit said. 'I thank you." He kicked his horse, and moved down the path. This past hour. They had not exaggerated, then, when they had told him that Harry Templeton had been the biggest planter on the island. Perhaps in the Leewards. And it all now belonged to his widow. But of her they would not speak. Because she was the Deputy Governor's daughter, and therefore above gossip?
And now he reached the brow of a shallow hill, and looked, in the far distance, at the sea. But between himself and the sea were more endless acres of green cane, separated by perhaps a mile from what appeared to be a small town. He identified the Negro village, with its orderly rows of barracoons, and the trim, low stone walls which surrounded the white man's compound, with the houses of the overseers and the book-keepers, and beyond that, the bulk of the boiling house, the factory, placed downwind of the houses themselves. Even farther back. and dominating the whole, was the Great House, a massive four-square structure, built upon solid stone cellars, loopholed for defence, with the ground floor entirely surrounded by deep verandahs, each side reached by a flight of wide, shallow steps, and with the upper floor lighted by enormous jalousied windows, although each window mounted its heavy wooden shutter as a protection against either hurricane wind or rampaging slave rebellion. The roof sloped deeply, to throw off water, and was made of green shingles, and, to his surprise, from the back of the roof there arose a great stone chimney. As that surely could not be needed for heat in this climate, it suggested a table to match the house. But the plantation did not even end with the beach and the sea, for off the shore there was yet another little island, perhaps half a mile across the water, as green and as fertile in appearance as its larger neighbour; although there was no evidence of cane growing there, there were certainly people in residence—he could see a wisp of smoke rising from amidst the trees.
His heart pounded as he rode down the slope towards the gate. It was nearly five years now, and much had happened in that time. They were both older, and no doubt wiser. And she would know by now that he was living in St John's. Her father would have told her, if no one else. So the widow Templeton never left her estate; how had he waited for the mourning period to end. But she would expect Kit Hilton to call. His only fear was that Barnee had been too long in making the coat.
And how he wanted to see her again.
The gate was closed, and a white man lounged beside it. 'Halt there,' he shouted. 'What business have you with Green Grove, Captain Hilton?'
He was an unprepossessing fellow, whom Kit had met often enough in town. 'No business, Dutton,' he said. 'I am here to call on Mrs Templeton.'
'Mrs Templeton receives no visitors,' Dutton pointed out. 'Unless their names be on this list.' He flourished a length of scroll. 'Yours is not, Captain.'
'No doubt because your list has not been revised recently enough,' Kit said. 'Carry my name to your mistress and I will be admitted. I do assure you of that."
Dutton shook his head. 'My mistress knows of your presence on this island well enough, Captain. She has given me no orders about admitting you. Now turn your horse and get you gone, or I'll set the dogs on you.'
'You'll do what? Why, by God ...' Kit instinctively reached for his cutlass, and found nothing; he had deliberately left all weapons behind, for this visit.
Dutton grinned, and brought up a wide-muzzled blunderbuss. 'Or better yet, I'll pepper your horse and have us discover just how safe you sit there, Captain.'
Kit stared at the man. 'You'll find I'm not an easy enemy, Dutton.'
Dutton shrugged. 'We of Green Grove have many enemies, Captain. One more will not frighten us.'
Kit raised his head, to gaze at the house. There was a woman on the verandah. That he could tell from the flutter of her skirt. But nothing more at this distance, save that he could decide she was at once short and slender, a drop of precious femininity. But not to him. She had stood there throughout the conversation, no doubt intending to make sure her instructions were obeyed.
He pulled the horse around, and rode back the way he had come.
She had chosen not to forgive, after all. Was that unreasonable? Was there a single reason why the mistress of Green Grove, now the wealthiest widow in all the Caribbean, should deign to look at an ex-buccaneer, who was in the employment of her father, and at a very nefarious game?
But why, then, was he in the employment of her father at all, breaking the law three nights a week? He stood at the taffrail of the Bonaventure, and watched the sun come peeping above the island of Barbuda, hull down on the eastern horizon. By now he knew every ripple on these waters. He had sailed them too often. And always at night. Always the view was the same, at dawn, St Eustatius on the outward journey, Antigua on the homeward, after the long sweep north. Now they were once again coming home, close-hauled to beat down against the unfailing trades, their hold filled with French wines and sweetmeats, with Dutch powder and cloth, at a fraction of the price Philip Warner would have had to pay to import it from England, and all obtained on that never-ending credit which was the mainspring of West Indian prosperity.
But the risk was not Philip Warner's. It was Kit Hilton's. And one day ...
He frowned, into the gradually lightening sky. Sooner than
he had supposed, by God.
Agrippa came scrambling up the ladder. 'You see that fellow, Kit?'
'Aye.' Kit levelled his glass. 'The revenue frigate, and up wind of us.'
'We'd best run back for St Eustatius.'
'No chance of that,’ Kit muttered. 'With the weather gauge they'll hold us off and we'll find ourselves on a reef in the Virgins before we know it. If they didn't catch us up long before. We've a foul hull, and you can bet your last penny theirs is clean enough.'
'But man ...'
Kit chewed his lip. 'With that square rig, she'll not beat to any purpose, Agrippa, clean or foul.'
'Yeah, man, but it is we who are doing the beating. She's coming fair and free.'
'And should we pass her? We'll show her an empty stern, then.'
Agrippa scratched the bandanna which covered his head. 'Man, Kit, how are you going to pass her without exchanging fire? And that is a warship. We will hang by breakfast.'
'So we'll breakfast now,' Kit said. 'And then load the guns. One exchange and we're through. It'll be worth it, Agrippa.' He glanced at his friend. 'You've not lost your stomach for a fight?'
'It is you I'm thinking about, Kit. You'd fire on the English Navy?'
'I never claimed I'd not fight in self-defence. And we'll do no harm, Agrippa. Elevate the guns as high as you may, it will be easy with us on the larboard tack. We want to slow her up, not kill anybody. And to make sure she cannot prove it was us, afterwards, hang your spare canvas over our name plates and wrap the figurehead as well. There are sufficient small craft sailing these waters to leave them in some doubt.'
Agrippa hesitated, and then shrugged and went down to the main deck, where he set about explaining to an incredulous crew that they meant to shoot their way past the warship.
Kit dismissed the helmsman, and himself took the tiller. This was a time for no hesitation, for no delay in carrying out a decision. He looked up at the sails; every one was filling, and the sheets were straining. He could get the sloop no closer to the fresh wind. And now the gap was rapidly closing as the warship bore down on them. There was no question of parleying; there were no English islands north of their position, and they were clearly not on passage from the open Atlantic, nor was it likely that a ship this small would have come down from the American mainland. His first problem was to stop the frigate from approaching close enough to identify them.
He watched the activity on the warship's deck. For the moment they were confused by the rapid approach of the stranger. But they were running out the bow-chaser, preparing to send a shot in front of him.
'Light your matches,' he called down into the waist.
Almost as if he had commanded the frigate there was a flash of light and a puff of black smoke f
rom the bluff bows which were now pointing directly at him. The ball was well aimed, and splashed into the sea about a quarter of a mile ahead.
'Aim your pieces,' Kit yelled. 'And fire as they bear.' The whole ship trembled, and rolled farther to starboard as the two cannon exploded together. The gunners dropped their linstocks and ran to the rail, to peer into the morning. And utter a gigantic cheer as one of the balls struck home, smashing into the base of the long bowsprit, and sending all the jibs whipping away as their halliards were severed. Coming downwind the loss of her headsails made no difference to the frigate's speed, but her already limited capacity for windward work would be reduced to nothing. Hastily she put her helm up to bring her broadside guns to bear, but Kit had already altered course, and the Bonaventure streaked away on a broad reach, gathering speed with every second, white water foaming away from her bows, Antigua now rising from the ocean on her port bow.
Behind them the day trembled, and the frigate was enveloped in black smoke; but the flying ball plunged harmlessly into the sea.
Agrippa climbed the ladder. 'We'll not get back up to St John's.'
'Nor should we, as that is where she'll look for us first,' Kit said. 'We'll make for Falmouth. We can be unloaded there, and then let them decide which one was us, from all the dozens of sloops in these waters.'
'Well, then,' Agrippa said. 'You are to be congratulated, Captain Hilton, on a successful action. Colonel Warner should be pleased. I have no doubt that he will present you with another bonus.'
Kit glanced at his friend. 'I know your meaning, Agrippa. By God, I saved our necks, nothing more. We'll sail no more for that scoundrel Warner.'
'Now there is a word I have been waiting to hear,' Agrippa said. 'So why have us return at all? You'll have heard that Morgan is returned to Jamaica? Sir Henry, by God, and Deputy Governor to boot.'
Kit shook his head. 'I'll not sail for that scoundrel, either. And you'll have heard, old friend, that he is also hanging every one of his old acquaintances he can discover. No, by God, we'll act straight up. You may leave the matter to me. Just find me a horse the moment we anchor.'
The exhilaration was passed, and in its place was growing a deep anger, against himself for firing upon the English flag, against Philip Warner for placing him in this position. But against all the Warners, perhaps, for treating him as an inferior being, for so many things. For an understanding perhaps that Daniel had been right all along, that to Philip he was just a useful piece of humanity, to be enslaved and dominated as if he were, indeed, a slave.
While to Marguerite he did not exist.
The anger sustained him after the anchor was dropped, after he had mounted the hired horse and made his way inland. The last time he had taken these roads it had been with a lilt in his heart. Now it was with grim anger bubbling throughout his system. And once again he was exploring fresh ground, because he had never been to the Warner plantation. He had never been invited, in two months. How all of Daniel's strictures came bubbling back to him in endless outrage.
A replica of Green Grove, although on a smaller scale. No doubt each plantation had been copied from the others, once a suitable design had been discovered. And once again a closed gate, with a man waiting beside it. But this one looked friendly enough. 'Good morning to you, Captain Hilton,' he said. 'What brings you to Goodwood?'
'I'd speak with the Colonel,' Kit said. 'The matter is urgent.'
The man nodded, and released the bolts on the gate. 'He's at the house, Captain. You'll find he has just returned from aback.'
Kit urged his horse up the drive, past die overseer's houses, watched from die little porches by the women and children, the poor whites, prevented from lack of credit and lack of opportunity from sharing the enormous luxury of the planters, doomed to a lifetime of servility and poverty, with only the pleasure of taking out their spite on the even more unfortunate Negroes beneath them.
Was that, then, to be the eventual fate of Kit Hilton? By God, he would turn back to piracy, first.
He dismounted at the foot of the steps to the Great House, and a slave immediately ran forward to take his bridle. Philip Warner sat on the verandah, eating the late breakfast in which most of the planters indulged after spending the cool dawn hours in the fields, supervising the day's work plan, before the heat of the sun made such exposure prohibitive for Europeans. With him were his three senior overseers.
'Kit?' Philip asked. 'What brings you to Goodwood? Not trouble, I hope?'
'Trouble,' Kit said. 'We encountered the government frigate from St Kitts.'
'By God,' Philip said. 'And gave her the slip, I see?'
'We exchanged fire to do so.'
'You fired on the man of war?' demanded one of the overseers.
'It was that, Mr Haley, or a rope around our necks.' 'By God,' Philip said. 'But she'll not identify you?' 'I trust not, Colonel Warner. The sloop is in Falmouth now, and I have given orders for her to be unloaded as rapidly as possible. The warship will not make here before she has repaired the damage.'
'If she bothers to come at all, in the circumstances,' Philip mused. 'You're a man of spirit, Kit. I never doubted that. But we'd best lie low for a while.'
'And find yourself a new captain while you are about it, sir,' Kit said. 'I'll have no more part in this business. I'd not anticipated having to go to war with the Navy.'
'What? What?' Warner demanded, getting up. 'You knew the risks.'
'Maybe I had not weighed them properly. My mind is made up, sir. I shall seek employment elsewhere.' 'Not on this island,' Philip shouted.
'Well, then, I shall leave this island,' Kit said, keeping his temper under control with difficulty. 'By God, sir, I'll tell you what I will do. I'll take myself to Sandy Point, and ask Sir William Stapleton for a position. I’ll sail on the revenue frigate, sir, not against it. Then we'll see how your smuggling ventures fare.'
'By God,' Warner said. 'A Hilton who is at once a coward and a turncoat. Aye, your family was ever a scurvy lot, you bitch's bastard. And frightened with it. You can see the yellow bubbling through the white.'
'You'll take back those words, sir,' Kit demanded.
'Will I? Or you'll make me?'
'By God, sir, I will, even if I doubt it will be worth wasting time on a cur such as you. You seek to impugn my family, sir? What of your own, with your treacheries and your feuds, and your cannibal brother?'
'Take him,' Philip shouted, and a heavy stick crashed across the back of Kit's head. Yet it did no more than stun him. He found himself on his hands and knees, turned, dragging his sword from its scabbard, and was met by a kick in the face which sent him rolling down the steps. He gazed up at a crowd of black men, all armed with staves, and realized that he had lost his sword and was in some danger of being beaten to death. He threw up his hands to protect himself and was struck a sickening blow on the arm which left it paralysed. He attempted to roll on to his face to protect his groin and belly, and felt a succession of blows crashing into his back and legs. Dimly he heard voices shouting, women's voices as well as men's, and the beating stopped. But he could not move, he could feel nothing but the surging pain which ran through his body like a continuous thread, above the blood which kept surging into his mouth. I am dying, he thought. Oh, God, I am dying.
Hands gripped his legs and arms, and he attempted to scream with pain, but only blood ran out of his mouth. Then he was thrown down in another excruciating jolt, on to wood, which immediately commenced a whole series of jolts, each one sending his tortured brain screaming away into the recesses of consciousness, but never so far as to bring merciful oblivion.
Time no longer had meaning. The jolting was neverending, he was taking a journey down to hell. Perhaps that was how all men went to hell, bouncing in the back of a cart. Until without warning it stopped, and the hands seized him again. For a moment he hung in the air, then the ground rose up to meet him with another mind-shattering impact, and he rolled, arms and legs flopping helplessly and painfully, until he
came to rest. His face and eyes and ears and nose and mouth filled with dust to coagulate the blood, and he coughed and spat, supposing he would choke. Then he lay still, knowing only the pain which gripped him like a living enemy, tearing at his legs, his arms, his bowels, his head. Movement was impossible, nor did he see how it would ever become possible again. He was lost, at the bottom of a pit of agony, an eternity of misfortune which had been his since time began.
And was not yet over. For there was a voice, a voice he had heard before, and movement around him, and hands once again touching his body and bringing moans of agony to his lips. But these hands were strangely gentle and made more so by the insistent voice, commanding and instructing. With a tremendous effort Kit forced open his eyes, gazed at the morning through a welter of blood, at more black men; he could not tell if they were the same as those who had first beaten him into the ground.
And then at a white face, strangely pale, inexpressibly beautiful, set in a framework of straight, long, dark brown hair, undressed save for the bows which secured the strands.
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