Haggard

Haggard Page 3

by Christopher Nicole

  'Good morning, John.'

  'Good morning, John.'

  These from the senior hands who had known him as a boy. 'Good morning, Mr. Haggard.' 'Good morning, Mr. Haggard.' These the recent arrivals.

  'Good morning.' Haggard stood against the table, looked at the huge plan of the plantation extended there, held down by a lantern at each corner. He reflected for a moment, then tapped two of the grid squares into which the map was divided. 'North west three and four. Weeding parties.'

  'North west three and four.' Ferguson made notes.

  The parallel road, surfacing.'

  Ferguson wrote busily.

  The sugar house. Time to commence fumigation.' Ferguson nodded.

  Haggard continued to study the map. His mind seemed unusually clear this morning, as if he could foresee the future, the way the war would go, the measures that would need to be taken.

  'How many acres have we under cane?'

  'Five thousand,' Ferguson said.

  'And under corn?'

  Two hundred and fifty.'

  ‘I want a further twelve hundred acres diverted to maize after next grinding.'

  Twelve hundred acres under corn?' Ferguson was incredulous, it'll halve your profit.'

  'My profit can stand it. Lay in the grain, Willy. Today. Thank you, gentlemen.'

  The overseers hesitated, exchanging glances. Then their senior, Arthur Prentice, stepped forward.

  'Good fortune, John.'

  Thank you. Thank you all.' He turned to Ferguson. 'Punishments?'

  Ferguson snapped his fingers and the three black men, hitherto waiting in the darkness, were brought forward by six of the Negro drivers.

  'Yes?'

  'Jonah Seven, stealing from Peter Four.'

  It had long been Haggard practice to give numbers as well as names to their field slaves, for ease of identification. This has been proved?' 'He was caught red-handed, Mr. Haggard.' 'Six lashes.'

  'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard.' Ferguson made a note. 'I thank you, Mr. John,' Jonah Seven said. He knew that on any other plantation his sentence would have been triple that. 'David Eight, fighting with Judas Three.' 'Again, David Eight? A month's loss of privileges. Next.' 'Cain Seven, troubling Martha Three.' Troubling? Are you there, Martha?'

  'I am here, Mr. Haggard. He jumping on me every time. I got man, Mr. Haggard. I got Abraham Three. And I happy. But this Cain, he does be bigger than Abraham.'

  'You're a lecherous rogue, Cain,' Haggard said. 'Bind up his cock for twenty-four hours so that he cannot pee. You'd best saddle up, Abraham Two.'

  ‘I got them here, Mr. John.'

  Haggard went back up the steps. Lucas still waited there. 'No nerves?'

  'I'm shaking like a babe.' He held out his hand. 'Come and dine, tonight. No matter what happens.'

  Lucas sighed, and nodded. James Middlesex-waited with a tray and a glass.

  'Brandy, Mr. John. It is the best.'

  ‘I’m sure you're right.' Haggard drank, deeply, replaced the glass. 'Ready, Willy?' 'Will you not change?'

  Haggard looked down at his evening suit. And shrugged. 'It's dark. Tonight, Harry. You'll not forget that.' 'I'll be here.'

  Haggard went down the steps, mounted, but waited as he heard hooves. Even in the gloom he could recognise the grey horse. 'Good morning to you, Reverend.'

  The Reverend Paley was still panting with the exertion of his ride. 'John Haggard,' he gasped. 'You'll cease this madness.' 'Are you from Bolton's?'

  ‘Indirectly.' He brought his horse close to Haggard's mare, and she backed off, giving a nervous whinny. 'You are at fault.' ‘I'd argue that, if I had the time. You'll excuse me.' 'You insulted Adelaide.' ‘I reminded her of what she was, Mr. Paley.' 'And it will be murder.' 'I pointed that out at the time, also.'

  Then apologise, John. Surely to God you can do that. No one in Barbados is going to accuse you of cowardice.'

  'Mr. Paley,' Haggard said, slowing his speech to those even tones which indicated his anger, 'my father, before he died, made me promise him three things. One, always to remember that I am Haggard. Two, always to tell the truth. Three, never to turn my back on any man. You are asking me to break each and every one of those oaths. Now stand aside, sir, or I'll ride you down.'

  Paley pulled his mount out of the way. 'They'll hate you,' he shouted. 'All Barbados will hate you, now and for ever.'

  They hate me already, Mr. Paley.' Haggard touched his mare's side with his heel, and walked away from the house.

  Anger, bubbling deep in his belly. Never fight a duel while angry. Some more advice from Father, on the previous occasion. Then Roger Haggard Senior had himself acted as second. Then he had not been alone. Well, he was not alone now. Faithful Willy Ferguson rode at his heels. But he was the only Haggard. Save for a four-year-old boy.

  They would hate him. As he hated them. Because he was Haggard, he was condemned, before a word could be spoken in his defence. But then, he reflected, they would have hated me had I surrendered to blackmail and married Adelaide Bolton.

  To either side the nearly ripe cane stalks, standing ten feet tall, rustled in the dawn breeze, but now the ground was rising. Only half a mile farther on was the hillock which marked the end of his property, and the beginning of Bolton's, and there already were four men. Even in the half light he recognised them: Malcolm Bolton; Jeremy Campkin, who would be his second; old Peter Woodbury, the senior planter in the island, who would be the umpire; and Dr. Meade, who looked after the healths of both the Haggard and Bolton families.

  'Gentlemen.' Haggard made to raise his hat and discovered that he had forgotten to put one on.

  'Haggard.' Woodbury came up to him as he dismounted. 'In the name of Heaven call an end to it.'

  'I am willing to accept an apology, Peter.'

  'You'll accept an apology. My God.' Woodbury turned and walked back to the waiting men.

  'John . . .' Tom Meade hesitated.

  'We'd best be at it,' Haggard said.

  'You'll inspect these, if you please, Mr. Campkin.' Willy opened the pistol case, and Campkin held the weapons up to the light, peered at the priming, one after the other. Haggard glanced at Malcolm Bolton, but his rival preferred to look away.

  'For the last time, gentlemen,' Woodbury said.

  'No,' Bolton said.

  Woodbury sighed. Then take your places. You know the rules. And so help me should any man raise his arm before I give the word I'll shoot him down.' He took a fowling piece from his saddle holster to prove the truth of his words.

  Haggard stepped forward, into the centre of the meadow. Willy handed him one of the pistols, and he let it hang at his side, at the end of his fingers. A moment later he felt a touch on his shoulder blades and knew that Bolton stood behind him.

  'Commence,' Woodbury said. 'Even paces. One. Two.'

  The breeze played on Haggard's face, began to dry his sweat. Or was it, now that he actually held the pistol in his hand, because he was no longer afraid?

  Three, four.'

  His foot scuffed on a clod of earth, but he kept his balance. So, now, an act of will. He could aim and fire faster than Malcolm Bolton. If he wished.

  'Five, six.'

  But he must aim to kill, or Bolton would bring him down. He would be branded murderer. But the alternative was to die himself. To join Susan, the reverend would say. But he had no faith in a hereafter for a slave owner. And a Haggard. 'Seven, eight.'

  So what would he do? What must he do? 'Nine, ten. Turn and fire.'

  Haggard turned, quickly. His right arm was raising even as he did so. He gazed at Malcolm Bolton's face, just visible in the first light, pale and determined, and angry. Well, no doubt his own face looked no different.

  His hand was extended; Bolton's was just starting to move. The pistol was absolutely steady as he looked down it, and his fingers were squeezing, instinctively, coldly, without even his will behind them. The explosion surprised him, and the powder smoke clouded into his face and made him cough. But he s
tood still, as he must, to receive fire. Supposing there would be any. Malcolm Bolton was on his knees, his face a picture of concern, his coat front an explosion of dripping red. For a moment longer he tried to raise his weapon, then he fell on his face.

  Campkin and the doctor ran forward. Willy Ferguson came to Haggard, took the pistol from his fingers. There was never any doubt.'

  Never any doubt, Haggard thought. He gazed at the dead man. Because there could be no doubt about that either.

  Slowly Dr. Meade stood up. 'You've no nerves at all, John Haggard. And no pity either.'

  Haggard walked to his mare, mounted.

  There'll be an inquest.' Woodbury's face was grim.

  'I shall attend it.' Haggard turned the mare away from the bridle path leading down to his land, made instead for the turnpike which led into Bridgetown. His throat was dry and his brain was swinging. But more than that he was angry, with a vicious loathing which made his rage of the previous night and this morning no more than a sulk. This day would never end, for him. So should he have died?

  He reached the turnpike, kicked his horse, and then dragged on the rein as another rider suddenly came from beneath the shelter of a tree.

  'Murderer,' Adelaide Bolton shrieked. Haggard pulled Calliope away.

  'Murderer,' she shouted again. 'Foul thing from the pit of hell.' She swung her arm, and her riding whip uncoiled. Haggard looked up, caught the flailing lash as it scythed through the air. The young woman jerked, but released the whip in time to stop herself being dragged from the saddle. Slowly Haggard uncoiled the lash from around his hand, watching the flesh redden before turning blue. He dropped the whip on the ground, touched his mare with his heels, walked on.

  The pain in his hand seemed to mingle with the pain in his mind and increase the anger in his belly. But suddenly it was curious anger, embracing all womankind to be sure, but taking on a sexual slant. He wished to have Adelaide Bolton naked at his feet. To do what? He was not a vicious man. At least, he had never supposed so. Merely to jump on her belly would accomplish nothing for his spirit, at this moment. He wanted to hurt her while he loved her. He wanted to hear her moan in agony and ecstasy at the same time. And when he was finished, he wanted to throw her away like a rotten fruit.

  Because, after all, he was what they said of him? A monster of arrogance and impatience and self-indulgence who merely concealed his true self beneath the facade of a gentleman? That could not be true. He had not taken a woman since Susan had died. Four years. No doubt that was the trouble. Because how badly did he want one now. But he had never been attracted by any of the black girls, however willing they might be. He possessed too great a sense of dignity. He could not be Haggard after a night tumbling one of his possessions. Father had not had to remind him of that.

  But he was realising that if he did not take a woman now he might indeed do something foolish, or vicious.

  He topped the last gentle hill—Barbados possessed no mountains—and Bridgetown lay below him, the town clinging to the edges of Carlisle Bay, the square church tower immediately in the foreground, the inlet of the Careenage, where the ships were warped alongside to facilitate their loading and unloading, in the middle distance. Beyond, the bay itself was dotted with anchored vessels waiting their turns at the quay, and even as he watched one was being drawn by her boats closer to the land. Lying as it did a hundred miles upwind of the main arc of the West Indian islands, Bridgetown was the safest harbour in the Americas, at this moment, for British ships.

  He walked his horse down the hill. It was still early in the morning, and the town was just coming to life. Haggard turned down a narrow side street, pulled Calliope to a halt before the two-storeyed house with the high gable, dismounted and tried the door.

  'Who's there?'

  He tilted his head back to look at the upper window. 'John Haggard, Polly.'

  Polly Haynes peered at him. 'Mr. Haggard? Well, glory be. We're all asleep.'

  Then wake up. I want a girl, Polly.'

  'At seven in the morning? Oh, my, my. There was to be a duel.'

  There's been a duel, Polly. Come down and open the door.'

  'And you're standing there. And you want a girl. No, no, Mr. Haggard. Not this morning.'

  'Now don't be a fool, Polly. You'll not refuse John Haggard.'

  'I'll refuse any man what's just fought a duel. Last time I let one in Margo had her arm broke. Go home and sleep it off, Mr. Haggard. Come back tonight.' She saw Haggard considering the door. 'And if you try to break down my door, Mr. Haggard, I've a blunderbuss up here, and it's loaded.'

  Haggard hesitated, fingers closing into fist and then opening again. Then he remounted and rode back up the street. Not even a whore would have him. He was John Haggard. With a snap of his fingers he could buy the whole lot of them.

  He drew rein, and the mare obediently stopped moving. Then why did he not do so? Why did he not go back and offer Polly a hundred pounds, no a thousand pounds, for the right to break one of her girl's arms? She'd not refuse that. But suddenly he didn't want to. He wanted a woman, but she had to be his, his to do what he liked with, his to abuse to his heart's content, not just for an hour. His to torment until in her agony she expiated Adelaide Bolton's crime.

  So then, are you a bad man, John Haggard?

  But whatever the answer to that, his best course was to return to Haggard's as quickly as possible, and discover the prettiest young girl he possessed, and take her and take her until he felt utterly satiated.

  He stood his horse on the trampled earth close to the Careenage, watched the hustle and bustle in front of him, the gangs of slaves carrying bales of cloth and boxes of hats and manhandling great crates of machinery on to the dock, the anxious passengers waiting to take their turns on board for the long hazardous journey to England, listened to the babble of conversation, inhaled the tang of dust which eddied upwards. He was in no hurry to go home. He wanted to avoid thought.

  He dismounted, walked into the throng, the mare obedient at his heels. People parted before him. Everyone in Barbados knew John Haggard, and most people in Barbados would also have heard of the duel; his presence would be sufficiently indicative of the result.

  'Mr. Haggard, as I live and breathe.'

  Haggard paused before the sea captain. 'Biddies. Had a good voyage?'

  'Good enough, Mr. Haggard. Good enough.' Biddies was short and stout; even standing still he seemed to roll with the waves. 'Saw a Yankee sail but once, but gave her a clean pair of heels. Oh, aye.' He frowned at the planter; Haggard was one of his principal customers. There was a rumour . . .'

  'You don't want to listen to rumours, Biddies.' Haggard looked past the seaman at the eleven people shambling down the gangplank; five women and six men. Their clothes were in rags, even at a distance of thirty feet he could smell them, and their faces wore at once the pallor and the misery of people without hope, indentures?'

  'Cutpurses,' Biddies said. 'Well, there's no longer welcome for them in the Virginias. Fancy a white servant, Mr. Haggard?'

  'Not I,' Haggard said. 'We tried them once, and they were dead within the year. You'd get a better price for them if you turned a hose on them for five minutes before landing.'

  'Would make no difference at all, Mr. Haggard. They're not for sale. Indenture. Ten pounds a piece for a ten-year term. What they smell like is immaterial.'

  Haggard frowned at the gangplank. The first group had come ashore, and were standing sullenly together, blinking in the suddenly fierce sunlight of the morning, looking around them at the blacks and the sunbrowned planters with suspicious fear. But now a twelfth convict came down the plank, pushed on her way by one of the seamen, and this girl's wrists were bound behind her. Because she was a girl, Haggard realised. A rather lovely girl, for all the grime and the stench. Her hair was a deep red, and waved on its way past her shoulders. Her face was gamine-like rather than classical, but the beauty was there in the rounded chin and the short, straight nose, the high forehead and the w
ideset eyes; he could not tell their colour. And she was young, certainly only in her mid teens.

  'What's with that one?' he asked, and was surprised to find his heart pounding.

  'Aye, well, every so often we gets a bad one. She's for the rope.'

  'She's been sent to Barbados for hanging?'

  'Oh, no, Mr. Haggard. Stealing from her mistress. But on the way out, oh, 'twere a bad business. Witchcraft.' Biddies lowered his voice.

  'Now, Biddies,' Haggard said. 'You'll not pretend to believe in that nonsense.' He watched the girl reach the land. Her legs trembled and for a moment she nearly fell. But she regained her balance, gazed into the crowd, and looked away again with a little toss of her head, preferring to stare back out to sea. She wore what must have once been quite a decent blue gown. Now its rags exposed her shoulders and left her legs bare from the knees down; she had exquisite calves and ankles. Just looking at her made him wish to adjust his breeches.

  'Well, Mr. Haggard, I'll tell you straight, I never did,' Biddies confessed. 'But when you see something happen with your own eyes . . .'

  Tell me.' Haggard gazed at the girl, watched the wind take her gown and wrap it close round her body. Fifteen? Or just young for her age?

  'Well, Mr. Haggard, they was in the hold, the women one end and the men the other. But this one always had ideas above her station, and the others soon took a dislike to her. Well, sir, there was a quarrel and a fight, and this one all but killed the other. Well, sir, my mate, Tom Hargreaves, and a good man he was too, well, sir, he decided the fault was the girl's, and he ordered her twelve lashes. "You'll not do it," she said. So she was strung up, and the cat put across her. She took it without screaming, sir. Just a tear on her cheek. But when it was done, and they cut her down, she looked at Tom, and she said, "I curse you, Tom Hargreaves. I curse you into your grave." ' He paused, and wiped sweat from his neck.

 

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