HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

  Dick smiled at her. 'No, I cannot honestly say that he is. Oh, Tony will not be pleased, I can promise you that. But he is a minor matter. There will hardly be a white face in Jamaica smiling at my return.'

  'Yet you wish to return. Is it that you do not know what to do with yourself, now you no longer have a war to fight? So you would oppose an entire country?'

  'It is a difficult matter.'

  'Beyond my understanding, certainly.'

  'Well, try. I have spoken of my father.'

  'He is an Abolitionist.'

  Dick nodded. 'And brought me up in his beliefs. He was also a pacifist. Then I found myself pitchforked into the ownership of a plantation. Always I felt in a false position, but I was nevertheless happy to enjoy that position. Until all my . . . they were not truly sins. All my weaknesses, perhaps, crept up on me, and I fled, like a frightened child. To a world which made my fears, my uncertainties, truly seem childlike.'

  'A world you conquered,' she said. 'You can have no fears of Jamaica, now.'

  'I do not have any fears of Jamaica,' he said. 'But it seems to me that fate has been leading me on, perhaps all of my life. I have thought a good deal about it, this past year. I am the heir to a great crime. I was not allowed to survive so much, experience so much, become what I am, to continue condoning that crime.'

  'Abolition is best left to missionaries,' she said.

  'I do not think missionaries have the strength. I have had little to do with God, these past fifteen years. But I do remember He is a God of wrath. And it must have been His choice that I survived, and became strong.'

  'You are starting to talk like a Biblical prophet,' she said. But her tone was soft.

  ‘I will free my slaves, Cartarette,' he said. 'It is something I have always wanted to do, and lacked the courage.'

  'And will they thank you? Can black people organize their lives, to survive, to prosper? Can you really say that, after living in Haiti? After what happened to Christophe?'

  'His failure is the proof of his ineptitude.'

  'His ... he was your friend.'

  'That does not alter the fact of the man. He had vision, and ability. But he knew nothing but slave, and master. When he drove out the white masters, he could think of nothing better than to replace them with black.'

  'There must always be masters, and men,' she said.

  'There must always be leaders,' he said. 'And followers. You do not lead, with a whip. You inspire men to follow you.'

  She began to unfasten her gown. 'I doubt the world is yet ready for such a philosophy.'

  'I have thought of that. So perhaps you are right, after all, and I only know how to fight, now, and so I wish to continue fighting. Cartarette . . .' He caught her hands. 'You have fought too long. I would not have you involved in this business.'

  'I am your woman.'

  'Hardly by choice. Nor do I expect you to defend a black cause. If you would like to remain on board this ship, and take passage to England, I will make sure you are forever wealthy, and respected.' He smiled. 'I may even be able to join you, one day, supposing you wish it.'

  'I am your woman,' she said again. 'No doubt I too would be bored to cease fighting. I will stay with you.'

  'And support me?'

  'Of course.'

  'Whether or not you agree with me?' 'Of course,' she said again. 'And will you be happy?'

  She gazed at him for some seconds, then gently freed her hands. 'I was made the slave of a man I hated, and whom I came to . . .' her tongue touched her lips thoughtfully, 'to respect. Now it seems that man no longer exists. So now I belong to, and am asked to marry, a stranger. You must give me time to get to know this new man.'

  'And when you do get to know him?'

  'Then I will know whether or not I am happy, Mr Hilton.'

  'My word,' Reynolds said. 'What a to-do. What a to-do, eh?'

  He leaned across his desk, frowning. 'Richard Hilton, back from the dead? I cannot believe it.'

  Dick sighed. Twenty years had passed since the first time he had sat in this chair—it could very well be the same chair—and nothing had changed at all. The harbour had not changed; there were fewer ships than usual riding to anchor, but the bending palm trees on Los Palisadoes, the rise of mountains behind the town, were the same. The waterfront had not changed, unless the docks had become even more rickety; there had been the same crowd of touts, white and black, to greet Cartarette and himself and the children, as they had stepped ashore. Harbour Street had not changed; the brown paint still peeled from the walls, dust still gathered in the corners of the verandahs, dogs and poultry still scratched in the alleys. And Reynolds had not changed, save perhaps to become even more shrivelled and precise in appearance.

  Only one aspect of the situation had changed. The man who now claimed to be Richard Hilton.

  'You remember nothing about me?'

  Reynolds leaned back, looked at Cartarette, then at Morrison. 'Well, sir, yours is an unusual face, if I may say so. One a man would remember.'

  'It is the result of an accident,' Dick said, patiently.

  'And he is Mr Richard, Mr Reynolds,' Morrison said. 'Why, he can remember events on the voyage out here, like if they was yesterday.'

  'Richard Hilton,' Reynolds said, and suddenly beamed. 'If you knew, sir, how I have dreamed of your return, how I have longed for your return.' He rose, came round the desk, seized Dick's hands. 'Oh, happy, happy, day.' Then his face fell as if someone had jerked a string to take the pleasure away. 'I have sent my boy along to Mr Tony Hilton, to request him to visit me here . . .'

  'You have sent to Hilltop?'

  'Why, no, sir. This day, Mr Hilton happens to be in town . . . why that must be him now.' Booted feet clattered on the outside staircase. Dick stood up, turning to face the door. Cartarette also turned, still seated, her face seeming to close with tension.

  The door opened. 'Reynolds? What farce is this?'

  Reynolds mopped his brow. 'No farce, Mr Hilton. Why here is your brother, returned from the grave.'

  Tony had not put on his coat, and was bareheaded. He stood in front of the doorway and gazed at Dick for some seconds. Then he burst into laughter.

  'That? Is my brother? I have never credited you with so much humour, Reynolds.'

  'Why, sir . . .' Reynolds gave Dick an imploring look.

  Dick held out his hand. 'You could at least say welcome.'

  'To you, sir? Who are these people?'

  Reynolds sat down again, heavily. 'Why, sir . . .'

  ' 'Tis Mr Richard, all right, Mr Hilton, sir,' Morrison said.

  'And this is my wife, Cartarette,' Dick said. 'My brother, Tony Hilton.'

  Cartarette held out her hand. 'Indeed sir, I am so happy to make your acquaintance. To gain some idea of what my husband may once have looked like.'

  Tony looked from the woman to the man, frowning. 'The joke grows tiresome. Once looked like, you say? That monster?'

  'But it is Mr Richard, sir,' Morrison insisted again. 'Why, Mr Hilton, he can remember all the events of that voyage from England, back in 1810. Mistress Lanken, the duel . . . everything.'

  Tony gave him a glance. 'Indeed? Do you still drink, Morrison? There is rum on your breath now. How much did this fellow vouchsafe, and how much did you tell him, in your drunken gibbering?'

  'Why, sir . . .' Morrison protested. But he took a step backwards at the same time.

  'Your own brother, Mr Hilton,' Reynolds said. 'I'd have thought you'd recognize your own brother, Mr Hilton. His voice . . .'

  'Is like the croak of a corpse,' Tony declared, and came closer, carelessly brushing against Cartarette to dislodge her hat. 'I do not know your little game, sir. But I will tell you this. I am Anthony Hilton. The Hilton, of Hilltop. I had a brother once, who died at sea, may God rest his soul. I loved him dearly sir, and will not have him used as a plaything in some attempt at fraud. I tell you this, sir. I will give you twenty-four hours to leave Jamaica, and take your woman with you, or by G
od I will have you thrown into gaol.'

  All of Dick's bubbling anger seemed to well up through his chest to explode in his brain. His two hands, as powerful as steel claws from his long years of campaigning, came up together, to seize the front of Tony's shirt and half lift him from the floor as he brought him close.

  Tony gasped in amazement, and for the moment, sheer fright.

  'Mr Hilton,' protested Reynolds. It was impossible to decide whom he was addressing.

  Morrison clapped his hands in delight. But Cartarette merely moved herself out of the way. She knew no other Richard Hilton.

  'You . . . you . . .' Tony gasped, attempting to swing his own fists, but finding himself unable to move, as Dick held him close.

  'You, listen to me,' Dick said. 'And look at me, very carefully. My face is changed. My voice has changed. But my eyes have not changed. Look carefully, brother, and you will recognize me.'

  'You . . .' Tony continued to struggle to free himself, but from the expression on his face it was clear that he was realizing he had no chance against his strength.

  'And then you will understand, brother,' Dick said, still speaking quietly, 'that it is you would practise fraud, and you who will likely wind up in gaol. Think about that.'

  He released the shirt front so suddenly that Tony lost his balance, and almost fell over. He braced himself on the desk.

  Dick wiped his hands on his kerchief. 'So, I will inform you, brother, that I propose to take up residence on Hilltop, and within the week. I will give you that long to prepare yourself.'

  Tony pulled his clothes straight, glanced at Cartarette. His face glowed with anger.

  'By God, sir,' he said. 'Did I suppose you to be even half of a gentleman, I'd call you out, sir. Then we'd have you singing a different tune.'

  'One week,' Dick repeated.

  Tony looked at Reynolds. 'And you, sir, beware you do not yourself fall victim to fraud. My brother? Dick Hilton? You remember Dick Hilton, Reynolds. Can you really suppose this . . . this bully has anything in common with so gentle a soul?' He backed to the door, opened it. 'Be sure the law will attend to you, sir. Be sure of it.' He closed the door and ran down the stairs.

  The horse wheezed to a halt before the steps. It had been galloped too far. Foam settled around its lips, and its legs quivered; it could barely stand.

  The grooms held the bridle, and exchanged glances. But the master was a law unto himself, and he looked in scarce better shape than the horse.

  Tony Hilton stamped up the steps, sat in one of the cane chairs on the verandah. 'Boscawen,' he bawled. 'Boscawen. Bring me a drink. Quickly, man.'

  'Yes, sir, Mr Hilton. Sangaree?'

  'Rum.' Tony leaned back, looked out across the plantation, down at the town and the slave village, at the factory and the trembling cane stalks. His plantation. It was his. He had made it what it was.

  Boscawen set the tray with the bottle and the glasses beside him, straightened in a hurry as Ellen swept through the front door. She wore pale green as usual, a sun bonnet, and carried a parasol.

  'Tony? You're back early.'

  He frowned at her, drank, frowned some more. 'Where are you going?'

  'For a walk. I walk most afternoons, when it gets cool.' Her turn to frown. 'Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

  His head jerked. 'A ghost? My God.' He drank some more. His hand shook, and some of the liquid dribbled down his chin.

  Ellen's frown deepened. She laid her parasol on the table, sat in the chair next to his. 'You've quarrelled with Judith?'

  'Oh, be sensible.' He refilled his glass.

  'You are the one who will soon be insensible. Whatever is the matter?'

  He glanced at her, peered into the glass. 'We must leave.' He drank, and made an attempt to square his shoulders. 'Aye. There is a ship in the harbour. We must leave. You'll pack, and we'll go into town tonight.'

  'Are you utterly mad?' Ellen inquired, her voice assuming that brittle texture he knew, and feared, so well.

  'Suppose . . .' He licked his lips. 'Suppose I told you I had seen a ghost?'

  'I would repeat, you have gone mad. Or that is not your first bottle.'

  'But this ghost,' Tony went on, half to himself, 'fives and breathes and speaks. And acts. Dick.' Ellen's frown returned. 'Whatever are you talking about?' 'Dick. He is in Kingston. I think.'

  'Dick? Dick is dead. You told me he was dead. He was drowned.'

  'He is in Kingston, I tell you.' 'You saw him?'

  'I . . .' He drank some more rum. 'I think so.' She gazed at him for some moments, then got up. 'You had best come with me.' 'Where?'

  'Somewhere that scoundrel Boscawen cannot overhear us.' She walked down the steps, waited.

  Tony finished his glass, looked at the bottle reluctantly, then rose and followed her. She walked in front of him, away from the house, into the cemetery. Here they would see anyone

  approaching them long before they could be heard. 'Now try,' she said, 'to talk some sense.' 'Reynolds sent for me.' 'Reynolds sent for you!’

  'Well . . .' Tony flushed. 'He sent a message that the matter was urgent. So I went to his office, and this . . . this man was there.'

  'This man? Just now you said it was Dick.' 'Well... he claimed to be Dick.'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' she cried, at last revealing her own anxiety. 'Don't you know your own brother?'

  'Ah,' he said. 'There's the point. This man has had some sort of an accident. You really should see him. His face is quite disfigured. Hideous.'

  'Dick's face?' she asked in a lower tone.

  'It could be anyone's face.'

  'He spoke to you?'

  Tony shrugged. 'It could be anyone's voice.'

  'Oh, you really are a fool,' she declared. 'Why did you not just have the scoundrel arrested?'

  'Well, he remembers things ... he had Morrison with him, and a woman. A Frenchwoman, who seems to be his wife.'

  'His wife?' Ellen inquired, her voice becoming softer still.

  'Aye. A pretty woman. Well, striking more than pretty. Aye. But the fact is, Morrison thinks he is Dick.'

  'And who,' Ellen asked, with great patience, 'is Morrison?'

  'Oh, I'd forgotten ... the captain of the Green Knight. The ship which brought us out here.'

  'Twenty years ago?'

  'Aye. There is the point. This man remembers much of what happened on that voyage.'

  'He remembers the duel, I have no doubt at all,' Ellen said. 'And the name of the woman involved. Joan Lanken. Am I not right?'

  'Indeed you are. But. . .'

  'I remember them too, you see. And I was not there. But you have told me about it. Once. I think.' 'That thought occurred to me also,' Tony said, 'But. . .' 'Where did this man come from?' 'Well, from Haiti.' 'Haiti?' she cried. 'Cap Haitien, in point of fact.' 'A white man?'

  'Well, it seems he has been fighting with the blacks. Oh, he is a right soldier of fortune. Big, and strong, and violent of temper. His manners are as terrible as his looks.'

  'And you suppose such a man to be Dick?'

  'Aye, well, it is incredible. But yet, the ship was supposed to go down off Haiti.'

  'And this proves it did. It may even prove that Dick reached the shore, and may have lived for some time. And no doubt confided much of his past to this fellow. Thus he has waited this long to begin his charade. For as he has begun his charade, you may be sure that Dick is certainly dead.'

  'But,' Tony said again.

  'And you'd run away from a fraud,' she said scornfully. 'Are you so afraid of your own deception? I supposed I had married a man, not a coward. Or are you afraid of the man himself? Big, you say. Terrible. Strong. And you the most feared duellist in all Jamaica. You must be suffering from the heat. Have the man arrested, and put an end to it.'

  Tony chewed his lip. He walked to Robert Hilton's grave, stood above it, looking at the headstone, fists opening and shutting.

  Ellen watched him for some moments. 'Or is there so
mething you haven't told me?'

  Tony inflated his lungs, let them collapse again. It could hardly be called a sigh; more it was a gesture of despair. 'He assaulted me,' he muttered.

  'Assaulted you? This creature dared lay a finger on you? You broke his head, I hope.'

  'Just for a moment,' Tony said. 'He held me close. He made me stare into his eyes. My God, Ellen. Those eyes. They belonged to Dick. I swear it. The man had Dick's eyes.'

  The dining room of the Park Hotel in Kingston was a quiet place. John Mortlake liked it so. For too long the establishment had been little better than a brothel, but since the end of the war he had worked hard on improving his reputation along with its cuisine and decor. The decor remained a trifle garish; Mr Mortlake had a weakness for red, on walls and ceiling, to which he added gold-coloured curtains. But the waitresses, slave girls dressed in white and with red sashes and caps, were carefully taught to move as silently as their bare feet would permit, and woe betide any young woman who rattled a cup or clattered a fork.