'And you can forgive my family. Well, then, Gislane, you have strength, power, beyond ordinary understanding. Cartarette blames me for the death of her father as much as anything else.'
'For a thoughtful man, you do not think enough. Your woman knows you did not kill her father. She knows that you tried to save him, and certainly that you saved her.'
'But. . .'
'But this is the fact that is unacceptable to her. She knows she should have died, with her father. She reproaches herself, for having lived, for having lacked the courage to take her own life. Yet a human being cannot live, hating himself, or herself. So she takes out her hate on you. But it is herself that she is hating.'
'Aye, well, no doubt you are right,' Dick said. 'But whatever her reasoning, she practises her hate continuously.' 'And you keep assisting her.' 'Eh?'
'By practising rape upon her, daily.'
'I love her. I cannot see her but I wish to take her in my arms.'
'And you see no reason to practise restraint. You see no reason to treat her as a woman, perhaps, instead of a slave.'
Dick frowned at her. 'She will merely insult me more.'
'I doubt that, Dick. I doubt that. Listen to me. I can give you her love.'
'By witchcraft?'
'As I gave you your strength, your power, your ability, with sword and pistol? Was that witchcraft, Dick? Or was that just a cutting away of fear and inhibition, a removal of dead wood, to expose the strength I knew lay beneath? I can strip this girl of her hate for you, and replace it with love. But you will have to help me.'
'Of course I would help you, could I believe it possible.' 'Because of the crimes you have practised on her it will take a longtime.'
'I have nothing but time,' Dick pointed out.
'And when it is done,' Gislane said, 'it is done. You must understand that, Dick. When she loves you, she will love you, now and always. And if I do this thing for you, you must swear to me that you will love her, now and always. I do not speak of physical love. I know the frailty of the flesh. I speak of your care for her, of your respect for her, of your admiration for her, of your determination to place her before all else. You must swear that to me.'
'Before life itself.'
'Before life itself,' Gislane said. 'Be sure that Cartarette will make herself the same promise.'
La Chat opened the leather satchel. 'His Majesty is presently in Sans Souci, and sends you this, General.'
The envelope was sealed. Dick tore the edge, took out the single sheet of paper; writing was an accomplishment Christophe had learned late in life, and he did not waste words.
'I long to be with you, Matt. My spirit is weary. Petion ails, it is said. His armies retreat. But my people murmur. A man fired a musket at me, but a week gone. He was hanged. They do not worship me, any more, Matt. I long to be with you.'
There was no signature. Dick folded the paper, placed it in his pocket. 'You saw him?' 'To receive that message, General.' 'And he is well?'
La Chat hesitated. 'Perhaps he has been too long at war, General.'
'Aye. Well, rest yourself, La Chat.' He went into his house, sheltering beneath the east battlements, and the girls who waited on him bowed their greeting. Cartarette d'Estaing stood in the inner doorway.
'The monster will have his luncheon,' she said. But her voice lacked the brittleness of a year ago, even three months ago. She was a sorely puzzled young woman. Perhaps she had forgotten what it was like to have her own bed, her own chamber, to be allowed the pleasures of solitude. But if she was puzzled, and disturbed, would she not hate him more? Only Gislane knew the answer to that.
'Yes,' he said. 'You may join me, today, Cartarette.'
'I, monster?'
He had reached her by now, and she stepped aside to allow him in. He could smell her, he could almost touch her, without moving his arm. Had she the slightest inkling of what it had cost him, in determined self-discipline, not to touch her for three months?
'You, Cartarette.' He handed his hat to one girl, his sword to another, his gloves to a third, sat at the table. A fourth girl hastily poured him wine, a fifth held the chair for Cartarette, and she lowered herself, slowly, uncertainly. 'And you will take a glass of wine.' Because Gislane had ordered it. Only Gislane could know.
She drank, again hesitantly. And then ate, as they were served. A special meal, today, of oysters, brought up from the coast, packed in ice. At Gislane's command. And of mixed fruits, soursop and golden apples and sappodillas, at the end. What Gislane desired, she simply commanded. As what General Warner commanded, he received. Was he not the closest associate, the right hand man, of the Emperor himself.
'Finish your wine,' he said.
'Whatever the white nigger commands, his slave obeys,' she said, and drained her glass. But the venom remained absent from her voice.
He rose, held her chair for her.
'Are we leaving this prison?' she inquired.
‘We are going on a visit,' he said. 'But within the walls.'
She allowed him to escort her to the door. It remained early afternoon, and the sun was hot; the breeze had died, and the only sound was the tramp of the sentries on the battlements. He gave her a wide-brimmed straw hat, and she settled it over her hair. He placed his cocked hat on his own head, opened the door for her.
She hesitated, blinking at the sunlight, glancing at him, before stepping into the heat. He walked at her elbow, across the huge courtyard, to the curtained door on the far side. And again she hesitated.
'This is the house of the mamaloi.'
'Who is also my friend.'
'Voodooism is unspeakable,' Cartarette declared. 'Enter,' he commanded.
She pushed the curtain aside, and he realized she had forgotten to taunt him with her obedience to either the white nigger or the monster.
A girl opened the inner curtain for them. Cartarette glanced at Dick. 'She expects us.'
'A priestess of Voodoo knows all things,' he said, enjoying his own humour.
Cartarette stepped into the gloom beyond, paused to inhale, the incense, the scent that always filled this room, to stare at Gislane, seated in her armchair.
'Welcome, mademoiselle,' Gislane said. 'I have long waited for you to visit me.'
'I am not visiting you,' Cartarette said. 'I was brought here by my monster.'
Gislane smiled, and stood up. 'It is still a visit, and you are welcome. Come.'
Yet another curtain, behind the chair, was swept aside, and they followed her into another chamber. Here it was utterly dark, save for the inevitable fire glowing in the centre of the floor, doubling the heat. Dick felt sweat trickling down his face. And he only suspected what was about to happen.
Gislane stooped, a taper in her hand. When it glowed, she straightened, handed it to Dick. 'Light the candles,' she commanded.
He would see them now, set around the wall. He left Car-tarette's side, lit each wick in turn. The room glowed, and the candles were scented. He could hear Cartarette breathing. Perhaps she had also supposed this to be a bedchamber. But it was not. It was a love chamber. In the centre of the far wall there was a mattress, laid on the wooden floor, reaching almost as far as the fire. In the wall, above the mattress, were two rings, to which were attached buckskin thongs. At the foot of the mattress, beyond each corner, were two stakes, to which also were attached buckskin thongs.
Cartarette gave a gasp, and turned. But Gislane had remained behind her.
'You practise witchcraft,' Cartarette whispered.
'In this case, white magic, mademoiselle,' Gislane said. 'Undress.'
'I will not.'
'Then will you be stripped.' Gislane stretched out her hand, stroked the material of Cartarette's collar. 'It will be a pity, to destroy a beautiful garment. And you will be humiliated. We may need to call others. Undress, Cartarette. Then your secret will belong to this room alone.'
Her voice seeped around the chamber.
'My secret?'
'You will have
a secret, Cartarette. I promise you. What, are you ashamed, to be naked before your master, who is also your lover? Before me? I am an old woman, Cartarette. I have seen many naked women, many naked men. Many more beautiful even than you.'
Her quiet voice filled the chamber, yet seemed to echo. It made thought difficult, when combined with the heat, and the incense. Cartarette's fingers were already at the buttons of her bodice.
‘I will not be bewitched,' she insisted.
'I do not seek to bewitch you, child. I seek to help you. To release you from your prison.'
'My prison?' Cartarette's gown slid past her thighs, and to the ground. She wore no stays, here in the informality of La Ferriere. A moment later her shift joined her gown. She wore no stockings, either, in the warmth of this climate. Only slippers.
'The prison of your mind. Lie down.'
Cartarette hesitated, glanced at Dick, and for the first time that he could remember in their acquaintanceship, flushed with embarrassment. Or was it only the firelight, flickering in her checks? She lay down.
'Arms above head,' Gislane said, reassuringly, and secured the girl's wrists.
'If you wish me no harm, madame, why bind me?'
Gislane smiled at her. 'To keep you from harm, child.' She secured each ankle in turn, leaving the girl spreadeagled on the mattress. Then she rose, slowly, with the faintest rustle of material. 'You must also undress, Dick, and stand at the foot of the bed,' she said. 'Your woman must gaze upon you, throughout the ceremony.'
Dick obeyed; the heat of the fire scorched his back, made his blood run the more quickly. But no doubt this was as Gislane intended.
Gislane removed her own gown; she wore nothing underneath. It was several years since she had taken him to her bed, made him over in the image she sought, and now she knew she must be past sixty. Yet these firm muscles, these long, slender legs, could still reawaken all his manhood.
She left the bedside, stooped by a chest in the corner, turned and straightened suddenly, and rose at the same time, throwing both arms outwards. Drops of liquid scattered through the flickering light, brushed his cheeks, fell on Cartarette's belly.
The scent was at once erotic and intoxicating, sending his mind, and no doubt Cartarette's as well, whirling into space.
Gislane began to dance, a slow movement, of belly and thighs and groin and stomping feet, accompanying herself with clapping hands in time to the tune she sang. She moved around them, and her sex, her song, served to envelop them, to fill the room. Dick felt himself panting, felt he would explode long before he could enter the woman.
Gislane swept round the room, pausing by the chest to seize a bottle. Her movements stopped, and it seemed the entire day stopped with it. The only sound was their breathing.
Gislane knelt before Cartarette's feet. She uncorked the bottle, poured a little of the liquid into the palm of her hand, and commenced to massage the girl's toes, slowly and gently, humming a little tune. The scent, vaguely sweet, the tune, mind-consuming in its erotic cadence, kept his mind swimming, and no doubt Cartarette's as well. She stared at him, her breath, which had been heavy with fear and anticipation when first she had lain down, slowly subsiding until her breasts did no more than flutter.
Slowly Gislane worked, from time to time renewing the liquid. She came up Cartarette's body, from calf to thigh, from thigh to groin. Now Cartarette scarcely breathed at all, and her mouth sagged open; she was so still she might almost have been asleep, but her eyes remained wide, staring at Dick. And as Gislane reached her belly, her breathing began again, slowly, building up, as was his own.
And Gislane's song grew louder, as she worked. Up from the belly, to caress the ribs, to seek the breasts, to leave them and stroke neck and armpit, before returning once again to stimulate the nipples into erection. Now Cartarette panted, and her ankles strained at the buckskin cords as she attempted to bend her knees. And still she stared at Dick, mouth wide, tongue circling her opened lips.
Gislane stopped, sitting astride Cartarette's thighs, and threw back her head, and gave a gigantic shout, and then leapt up, as if she were the girl.
'Now,' she screamed. 'Now, now, now.'
Dick obeyed. Could this be different? Cartarette had never once attempted to resist him. She had always lain beneath him, in perfect submission. She could not possibly be more submissive when secured. Except she was no longer secured. For even as he reached his own climax her legs came free, to wrap themselves around his body, as a second later her arms came free, the cords loosed by Gislane, to allow her fingers to close on his back, to eat into his flesh. Harriet Gale had screamed her ecstasy. Cartarette d'Estaing reached hers in silence, but her entire body tightened on his, seeming to suck him against her.
And her arms remained tight.
'I love you,' he gasped.
'I hate you,' she whispered in his ear. 'Oh, God, how I hate you.'
Dick raised his head, to gaze at Gislane, kneeling at the head of the bed. Gislane smiled.
'What news, man? What news?'
Dick Hilton leaned over the wall above the main gate, looked down on the patrol. They lacked the sparkle he had come to associate with black men, exchanged no humorous sallies with the sentries, rather drooped on their horses' necks. The uniforms of which they were so proud were dirty and untidy. So no doubt they were tired. He had not known men that tired.
La Chat made a signal, and Dick left the battlement and ran down the steps to the courtyard. His aide dismounted, heavily, spoke in a low voice.
'We were fired on.'
'You? Imperial troops? Where was this?' La Chat pointed at the forest beyond the wall. 'Not fifteen miles from here.'
'Fifteen miles? But good God, man . . .'
'Aye, General,' La Chat agreed. 'It is as you feared.'
Dick gazed at him for a moment, chewing his lip. For better than three months now there had been no word from Christophe. His supply column went down to Sans Souci and Cap Haitien every third month. Last time, the Emperor had been away, and they had brought back rumours, grumbles of discontent with the burden Christophe was imposing upon his people, the unending war, the incessant labour, the increasing taxes required to maintain the edifice of empire. Petion was dead, but his successor, Jean Pierre Boyer, continued the struggle to establish a republic in the south. But there had been rumours ever since he had first landed in Haiti, six years ago; these had not caused Dick any concern. The absence of the quarterly letter from the Emperor had. Yet he had waited, another three months, before despatching La Chat and his patrol.
'And you turned back?'
'They were in great force, General. Black men, not mulattoes.'
Dick pulled his nose, looked out through the gate once again at the mountains, at the forest. 'Feed and rest your men, La Chat,' he said. 'This evening we had best decide what should be done.'
'Our orders are to hold La Ferriere, General.'
'Aye,' Dick said. 'For the Emperor. It follows that we would not be obeying orders in allowing the Emperor to be destroyed before he can reach us. This evening, La Chat.'
He walked across the courtyard, his sword slapping his thigh. Perhaps life had been too easy, these last two years. He practised his weapons daily; he was proud of the skill Gislane had given him. Because it was Gislane's skill; he still thought of her every time a pistol butt nestled in his palm, every time his fingers wrapped themselves around a sword hilt. But he had not fired a shot in anger since the taking of d'Estaing's village.
And in every other respect, this last year had been nothing but happiness. Cartarette waited for him now, as became his slave and his mistress. She still acted the prisoner. Her pride would let her do no less. She even still pretended to mock him, constantly. 'News from the coast, monster?' she inquired. But there was less hate than affection in her voice. When he put his arm round her shoulders, her head instinctively rested on his chest, her red-gold hair mingled with the braid on his tunic. No doubt her emotion was mainly loneliness. In all this dark
world in which they existed, he was her only friend. Without him her life would be too terrible to contemplate.
'No,' he said. 'And there is my cause for concern. The patrol was fired on.' He sat in his armchair, leaned back his head. She knelt before him to drag off his boots. Often, when he sat here, he thought he was dreaming. The room was comfortable, rather than elegant. This was a fortress, not a palace. But he had secured a charcoal drawing of her, done by one of his own troopers who had burned wood in the forests below La Ferriere before Christophe's net had sucked him up. The drawing was framed on the wall opposite him. And the artist had been skilled. He had caught her expression, the eagerness of her half-parted lips, the dart of her wide-eyed gaze, even the sheen of her hair. But in black and white he had not been able to secure the colour, of her hair no less than her complexion, for she seldom risked herself in the sun. Just as he had not been able to catch the scent of her perfume or the tinkle of her laugh. She, and her painting, added lustre to the plain wood of the room, the simple furniture and the lack of carpets or drapes.
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