The officer stood his ground. He was a brave man, a light-skinned mulatto. He levelled his right hand, and it held a pistol. At this range he could not miss, Dick thought, for he was already upon him. Already upon him. His sword point struck the man in the centre of his green jacket, and blood spurted over the yellow braid, shot into the air and landed on Dick's white gauntlet. The pistol was never fired. It too soared into the air, to fall to the ground. The scream of the charging men rose around him like a paean, and he realized that his own voice was the loudest.
He was in the midst of the running soldiers, cutting and slashing, sending men scattering in every direction. He rode between the wagons, and someone fired a musket at him. But he heard the report, and knew he was not hit, and a moment later the wagon itself crashed onto its side, hurled over by the impact of the galloping cavalry. Men crawled out, weapons discarded, hands raised high in the air. 'Mercy,' they shouted. 'Mercy.'
Dick pulled his panting horse to a halt, stared at the men. At two in particular. Mulattoes? Impossible, with that sun-pinkened white skin, that fair hair.
As they saw that he was no Negro. One of them ran forward, and the dragoons let him come, gazing at their general for orders.
'Mercy,' shouted the Frenchman. 'As you are a white man, monsieur, mercy.'
Dick glanced at La Chat, who had reined next to him, clouded in sweat and blood. Exhilaration still pumped through his veins. Blood lust still clouded his mind. He had killed a man. No doubt he could have killed several men. They were his enemies, and had he not succeeded, they would have killed him. This was, as Christophe had said, a war for survival. 'Cut them down,' he said.
'It is less a town than a village.' Henry Christophe stood in the midst of his officers, the large-scale map at his feet. His sword was drawn, the point resting on the coloured parchment, already dotted with little holes where he had pressed. In the flickering torchlight he looked a demoniac figure. But then, Dick wondered, were they not all demoniac figures, commanding a demoniac army?
'President Petion refers to it as a frontier post,' Christophe continued. 'He dreams of a frontier.' The sword point cut a line across the map. 'We do not recognize frontiers, eh, gentlemen?'
The officers growled their agreement.
'So we will eradicate this frontier of his. Now, the palisade is composed of wooden stakes. We will place our battery here . . .' The sword dug into the map. 'This is before the main gate. Two salvoes, and it will be open. Beyond the main gate there is another defence, to enable them to throw back our assault, and then make good the damage. This is what they did last year. But this time we shall take their frontier post, gentlemen. How?'
No one replied; his habit of asking rhetorical questions was understood.
'I will command the foot,' Christophe said. 'And when the gate falls, I will lead them, not in an assault on the breach, but in an assault here . ..' The sword dug once more into the paper. 'This is as far away from the gate as is possible. They will suppose at the first it is a feint. Should they continue to treat it as a feint, and we gain a lodgement inside the wall, the cavalry will charge after we have entered. Should they begin to realize that it is not a feint, and move their main force against us, then the cavalry will charge as soon as the gate is undefended. Because after all we shall be a feint, but a feint delivered with the major portion of the army. Understood?'
The generals nodded agreement, and looked at Dick.
'What are your plans, General Warner?' Christophe said.
Dick licked his lips. 'I will hold my men in readiness behind the battery, sire. Once the gates are down, I will prepare to charge the breach. But I will not charge until you have delivered your assault. Should the enemy remain facing me in force, I will hold my men until you appear behind him. Should the enemy remove men from in front of me to stop you, I will charge as soon as his defences are sufficiently thinned.'
'This is good, General Warner,' Christophe said. 'Gentlemen, to your posts.'
But he waited, to clap Dick on the shoulder. 'Take care, Matt. Take care. A man who exposes himself as you do, courts death. Not even Murat led a cavalry charge as recklessly as you. But then, perhaps not even Murat had your talent, your courage. Take care.'
He mounted his waiting horse, and Dick watched him go. There had been more than affection in the farewell, although he thought that Christophe did feel affection for him. But there was also the concern of a commanding officer for his most successful subordinate.
So then, did he court death? He walked to his mount, and his attendant held his stirrup. La Chat, now colonel, was already in the saddle, the brigade of horse, eleven hundred men, were patiently waiting. They would wait forever, or they would ride forever, behind the white man. Over the past two years he had led them in a dozen madcap charges, through the greatest hail of fire the enemy could put up, over broken ground and through rushing streams, always in the front, always with his sword pointing forward, always with his heart pumping exhilaration through his arteries, always with the blood lust clouding his brain. Always the first to strike his enemy dead.
The fact was, he did not care whether he lived or died. He was aware of being happy. But what a terrible confession to make, that he was a commanding general in a savage army, fighting in the most brutal of wars, living only for death and destruction . . . and he was happy. He had left the roadway, that first day, and vomited in a bush. Not at the overwhelming excitement. Not even at the blood which had stained his gauntlets, smothered his arms, splashed against his chest. But at the look of pitiful understanding which had crossed the faces of the two Frenchmen, when they had realized that they were about to die, despite the fact of their captor being a European.
But he had not vomited since.
It was nearly dawn. The breeze was chill, and in the distance, perhaps in the town they would attack, a cock crowed and a dog barked.
He drew his sword. It made a hard, blood-tingling rasp in his scabbard. And behind him there came eleven hundred equally blood-tingling rasps. Where was the Richard Hilton who had stammered in Colonel Taggart's parlour? Where was the Richard Hilton who had been unable to face Captain Lanken? Where was the Richard Hilton who had been afraid of Ellen Taggart and her mother, who had lain in the corridor of the Park Hotel in Kingston, while a bully stood above him?
Had that Richard Hilton ever existed? Or had he been no more than a dream?
Or was this Richard Hilton a dream? Induced by the incantations of a Voodoo priestess? Because he still saw the mamaloi before him as he charged, inhaled her as he gasped for breath, knew the softness of her breast, the pulse of her belly, as he gripped his sword. Gislane Nicholson was sixty years old. She could not be less. But her snake god, her Damballah, kept her as she wished to be.
He had nearly thought the word, young.
The drums rolled across the forest, and with them, the sudden bark of the cannon, which had been placed in position some hours earlier, while it had yet been light. But it was again light. The Caribbean dawn, sudden and stark, was bathing the scene. They could look at the town, or the village, the frontier post, as Christophe would have it, at the rounded wood of the palisades, at the glimmer beyond, the candles glowing in the houses, the fires burning for the cannon which would reply, in due course. And those inside the palisades, the mulattoes and their French allies, could look out, at the flash of the guns, at the myriad forces slowly surrounding them. He wondered what it must feel like to know that one is being surrounded, that there is nothing to be done, but to stand and fight, and conquer or die. He had never been in that position. In all his dozen charges he had done the conquering. So then, his experience was not yet complete, his courage not yet proved to the hilt. His demoniac courage.
He stood his horse on a mound, above the cannon, and watched them flash, and heard the roar as the balls struck into the palisade, and listened to the crackle of the timbers and to the drumbeat, rolling out of the forest.
The gates were down, the timbers scattered. Be
yond, in the first sunlight, and the firelight now, as well, for several buildings were already burning, he saw the enemy battery, four field cannon of light calibre, drawn up to face the anticipated gap. Of light calibre, but sufficient to tear gaps in his brigade, to demolish a man. Even a devil from hell.
His time was not yet. He waited, and listened to the sudden cacophony from away on the right. He levelled his telescope, stared into the distance. Behind the cannon, there was drawn up a regiment of men. The main defences. They were there, and they were staying there. Or were they?
'Look, General,' La Chat said, pointing.
A company was wheeling away from the regiment, then another. From the far side of the village there came a series of explosions, a sudden brightening of the flame light, as Christophe's soldiers fired the houses immediately within the wall. The houses within the wall.
The men in front of him, those that remained, were wavering. Dick rose in his stirrups, his sword swinging round his head. 'Aieeeeee,' he screamed. 'Charge.'
The morning filled with looming sound as eleven hundred horses surged into the trot, then the canter, then the gallop.
There would be a crush in the gate mouth. But not for him. He drove his spurs in, and his mount rose, over the batteries, leaving the frightened gunners gaping up at him. The cannon in front of him spoke, once, but was he not protected, as he was inspired, as his arm was guided, by the power of the mamaloi? And unharmed, he was in the gateway, his sword thrust forward, to take the first gunner, who ran at him armed with no more than a ramrod, in the chest. Blood flew, spurted into his face. But he had come to anticipate the blood, spurting in his face. Battle, victory, would not be complete without it. He threw back his head, gave another scream of triumphant joy, and sliced into the shoulder of the next man who would oppose him, while behind him his dragoons uttered shrill cries as they spread across the square, crashed through the ranks of men opposed to them.
There was a standard. How incredibly European. Christophe's men did not fight beneath a standard. They wished only the beat of the drums, the sight of the huge figure of the Emperor. But in Petion's army the standard must mark the position of the commanding general, especially as it flew in front of a house, and the house was guarded by a company of men.
'To me,' he bawled, reining his horse and rising in the stirrups to wave his sword. Someone fired a musket at him; he could feel the hot air of the ball almost slapping his face. But the man was immediately cut down by his dragoons as they reformed their ranks. 'That flag,' he shouted, and urged his own horse forward.
The protecting guardsmen fired, but it was a hasty, ill-aimed volley. Their morale had been shattered by the swift destruction of the gate and the artillery, by the rising roar of victory which rose from the other side of the town, and came closer all the while. Dick leapt from his saddle at the foot of the steps, La Chat at his side. A man presented a musket to which was attached a bayonet, and Dick swept it aside with a single sweep of his sword, then brought the weapon back to drive deep into the man's body. So hardened was his right arm by now he scarce felt the jar; as the guardsman lurched against the wall, he raised his foot, placed it in the expiring belly, and with a tug withdrew his weapon.
The door had already been hurled open, and the dragoons were swarming in, checked for a moment by a volley which had three of them tumbling to the floor. Dick leapt into their midst, coughing as he entered the smoke-filled interior room, where the noises of the explosion were still reverberating, mingling with the shouts of the men, and the screams of the women.
Of the women? He waved his left hand, dissipating some of the powder smoke, peered at a large room, on the far side of which was a staircase. Before the stairs the remnants of the guard, not more than a score of men, were gathered; on the stairs themselves was a French officer, hatless, his hair scattered and his face stained with powder, but still holding his drawn sword. And on the gallery at the top of the stairs were gathered several women, mostly black or mulattoes, but one, now rising to her feet to look down at the invaders, very definitely white.
'Hold,' Dick shouted, without thinking. And then did think. He was not, then, a savage, after all. His blood lust was still subjected to his instincts. Or was there more?
His men, accustomed to obeying his every command, had checked their weapons, stood instead glowering at their enemies, who, equally bemused, slowly lowered their own swords and muskets, unable to believe that they might actually be receiving a chance at life.
'General?' La Chat inquired.
But Dick was still gazing at the balustrade, as the powder smoke continued to drift away and he could see more clearly. The woman had yellow hair, streaked with red; or was it red hair, streaked with yellow? In the gloom of the morning, the dark faces and dark coats which surrounded her, her hair blazed like a torch. She stared at him, as did everyone else in the room. There were powder stains on her cheeks and forehead, but the dark marks if anything enhanced the whiteness of her complexion. There was hair clustering on her forehead, as it scattered on her shoulders and down her back, long and straight. Her eyes were enormous; he could not see their colour. Her nose was short, and a trifle upturned, her mouth small, and presently open as she gasped for breath. Her chin was smoothly rounded. He thought he could not describe her as beautiful; her face was actually a mass of flaws. But taken together the flaws were deliciously attractive.
Her body was shrouded in a white undressing robe, but he could tell it was at once short and slender, a mere wisp of femininity.
My God, he thought. Her body. And these men wait on my command.
'Throw down your arms,' he said, and was surprised at the harshness of his own voice.
The mulatto guardsmen hesitated, glancing from one to the other, and thence over their shoulders at their general. The white man was frowning.
'You offer us quarter?'
'Throw them down,' Dick said again.
The first guardsman dropped his musket with a clatter. The rest followed his example. The general hesitated for a moment longer, then threw his sword down the stairs.
'We are fortunate,' he said. 'And grateful, monsieur.'
'A coup de main, Matt,' Christophe said from the doorway. 'Brilliantly executed.'
Dick turned, his knees suddenly felt weak. How long had he been there? Christophe still wore his hat, but there was a rent in his jacket, and blood on the hilt of his sword.
'The town is ours.' He strode into the room, gazed at the guardsmen, who had huddled together in mutual fear. 'Take them out and hang them.'
The guardsmen stared at him in horror.
'But. . .' Dick said.
'We surrendered on a promise of quarter,' said the white officer.
'You surrendered when commanded to do so,' Christophe said. 'That is at discretion. Take them out.' He was frowning at the white man. 'D'Estaing, as I live and breathe.'
The Frenchman had been looking at his discarded sword. But it was being picked up by one of Dick's dragoons. Now his head jerked.
Christophe's right hand was extended, pointing at him. 'D'Estaing,' he said again. 'Sire,' Dick began.
'That man once had me flogged,' Christophe said.
'He ... he would make a valuable hostage,' Dick suggested.
'Not him. I will have him flogged. Take him outside, La Chat. Strip him and tie him to a triangle. Flog him. Flog him until his bones are laid bare. But slowly, La Chat. One blow every ten seconds. I do not wish him to die quickly.'
D'Estaing licked his lips. His face was pale. But he was a brave man. He looked at Dick. 'I had thought I was surrendering to a man,' he said. 'Not an animal.'
Hands seized his shoulders, and were arrested by a cry from above. 'No. No, you cannot.' The young woman half fell down the stairs. Now she was closer, her resemblance to the Frenchman was easy to see.
'And her mother watched,' Christophe said.
'You cannot be sure,' Dick gasped.
'I remember the hair.'
'You'll
not touch her,' d'Estaing said. It was half a command and half a supplication.
'She'll die first,' Christophe said. 'You may watch her being flogged. Strip her, La Chat, and tie her to the triangles. The General will enjoy this. The other women may be given to your men.'
'You are a creature from hell,' d'Estaing said in a low voice.
The girl was staring at Christophe, her mouth slowly sagging open as she understood the enormity of what was about to happen to her.
Christophe smiled at them. 'You place me in that hell, monsieur. Now remember, La Chat. Slowly. She should be able to take a hundred strokes.'
'No,' Dick said. And once again his voice was harsh.
Christophe turned his head, frowning. 'They surrendered at discretion, as you say, sire; my discretion.'
'You know my orders, Matt. You should have let them be killed, in battle.'
'They are my prisoners, sire.' Involuntarily, the hand holding his sword twitched.
HF - 04 - Black Dawn Page 27