HF - 04 - Black Dawn

by Christopher Nicole

She smiled, but it was a sad smile. 'I am under your protection Dick. Until this afternoon.'

  He closed the door behind him, stood on the verandah, breathing the still midday air. Clouds were gathering above the Blue Mountains, and it would rain this afternoon. He was back in Jamaica. But it would be good rain. His instincts had not let him down.

  He went down the steps, checked at the sound of movement, turned. From the side of the house a man emerged. He was a white man, but roughly dressed, and surprisingly, was armed, with a hanger as well as a cudgel.

  Or was it so surprising? For now a second man emerged, from the other side of the house, also armed. Dick turned, to look at the street. At the gate there was a third man, and he too was armed. And the curtains on the houses to either side remained drawn; the cul de sac of Judith's garden was isolated, in the middle of a Jamaican morning.

  Judith's garden. Presumably he could run up the steps and into her house. But they would follow him, and that might involve her in the coming fight. Presumably he could also shout for help, supposing anyone passing on the street would dare go to the assistance of the man who would oppose the plantocracy.

  But why do any of those things? They were the instinctive reaction of Dick Hilton, because he was once again in Kingston, and Kingston, and Jamaica, had always been too much for him. For that Richard Hilton. Not for Christophe's general. Presumably Tony was making the same mistake, in assuming that the Richard Hilton he remembered would not survive a beating.

  He was not even angry, merely happy that, after so many long months, he was going to be fighting again. He smiled at them, and the sight of that ghastly face breaking into a grin made even the three hired thugs pause, within feet of him, cudgels already swinging to and fro.

  'Gentlemen,' he said, and stepped forward. They did not lack courage. One swung his club, and Dick had to throw up his left hand to take the blow, feel the pain shooting up his arm and into his shoulder. To awake the anger.

  'Aieeeeee,' he screamed, as if his eleven hundred dragoons were at his back. He turned, suddenly, reached for the man. Another club struck him on the shoulder, but he was beyond feeling pain. The spirit of the mamaloi was rising inside him, sending vicious strength bubbling through his muscles. He swept the first club to one side, seized the man by the front of his shirt and the slack of his trousers, swept him from the ground while his victim gave a startled squawk of fear, swung him round, and used his body to send the other two tumbling. The first man he dropped at his own feet, stooped to drag the hanger from his belt, straightened, uttered another terrifying whoop of excited joy, and ran through the belly of the second clubman as he regained his balance and attempted to use his weapon.

  The man dropped to his knees, blood bubbling around his hands as they closed on the blade. But the blade was already being withdrawn, leaving its victim dead before he ever hit the ground, to come up and sweep sideways and sever the third man's right arm at the wrist, crashing through flesh and bone and blood to slice into the thigh beyond. The club struck the ground with a dull thud, and the man looked down at his still quivering hand, bleeding into the grass.

  The first man, remaining on the ground, held his head in his hands and screamed his fear.

  'You'd best get up,' Dick recommended, his anger fading into compassion. 'You, give me your wrist.'

  The stricken man was slowly sinking to his knees. Now he held out the shattered arm, and Dick whipped out his own kerchief to make a tourniquet. 'Tell the surgeon it is Richard Hilton's charge. And you.' He stooped, seized the unharmed man by the collar, dragged him to his feet. 'See to your friend. And tell my brother, next time to come himself.'

  'Oh, my God.' Cartarette stood up as Dick entered the lobby of the hotel. 'Oh, my God.'

  'You are bleeding, Mr Hilton. Bleeding.' Mortlake hurried forward. His side was taken, or it had been taken for him, as Ellen Hilton's last words before leaving the hotel the previous week had been to the effect that she would never demean herself by entering these doors again. From Mortlake's point of view, either Richard Hilton proved his claim, or the Park Hotel went bankrupt.

  'Not my own, Mortlake.' Dick put his arm round Cartarette's waist. 'Three men attempted to discourage me.'

  'Oh, my God,' she said again. 'Your brother?'

  'I have no idea. Either him or someone interested in his support. Mr Mortlake, I have killed a man.'

  'Killed . . .' Mortlake swabbed his brow.

  'And grievously wounded another. The wounded man I have sent to a surgeon. The dead man must be removed from Miss Gale's garden, and the Governor must be informed. It was self defence. I have ample witnesses to the fact that I do not carry weapons. I had to remove the fellow's sword before running him through.'

  'Oh, my God,' Cartarette said. 'Will they arrest you?'

  'Not if the facts are true, Mistress Hilton,' said a deep, slow voice, and Dick turned in surprise to look at the mulatto, dark-skinned but well dressed in coat and breeches who stood at the side of the room.

  'Oh, Mr Harris,' she said. 'Mr Hilton, this is Mr Harris.'

  'Indeed?' Dick shook hands.

  'Attorney-at-law, Mr Hilton,' Harris said.

  'But . . .' Dick frowned at him.

  'Oh, indeed, sir.' Harris smiled. 'My father sent me to England to school, and later to the Inns.'

  'Well, then, Mr Harris. Welcome. How did you know of my problem?'

  Harris lowered his voice. 'A message from Mr Reynolds, sir. But he would rather the matter were kept private. He does not usually send me business.' Again the quick smile. 'Nor is the business always happy to come.'

  'I shall be happy, Mr Harris. You know the facts?'

  'Some. We must have a talk.'

  'This afternoon. I must wash this blood and change my clothes. Then I would like you to accompany me back to Miss Gale's house, to take a sworn statement.'

  'She will identify you?' Cartarette squeezed his arm.

  'She will. And now I have an attorney as well. The cards are starting to turn in our favour at last.'

  'I'll see to that other matter, Mr Hilton,' Harris said. 'And meet you at Miss Gale's in an hour.'

  'Good man.' Dick slapped him on the shoulder. 'Mr Mortlake, will you send some luncheon up to our room? There will be gossip.'

  'Oh, aye, I'll see to it right away.' Mortlake scurried for the kitchen.

  Dick left his arm round Cartarette's waist, slowly escorted her up the stairs. Her head rested on his shoulder.

  'Are you really unhurt?' she whispered.

  'I have a couple of bruises about my shoulders, which are painful. But there is nothing broken. I did not mean to kill that fellow, Cartarette. I lost my temper.'

  'And thought yourself back alongside Christophe. Perhaps it was necessary, to teach these people you will not be frightened away.'

  'Aye, well, it will do that. It will also give them something more to hang me with, should my claim fail. Where are the children?'

  'They have already eaten. I have sent them into the garden. Thank God they did not see you like this.'

  She closed the bedroom door, eased his coat from his shoulders—his arm was becoming slowly more and more stiff and difficult to move—then unbuttoned his shirt, her face creased with concentration.

  'You are not beginning to have doubts?' She pulled his shirt free. 'Oh, my God. You have turned blue.'

  He looked over his shoulder at himself in the mirror. 'Better it comes out. No doubts. Save that I fear to involve you in violence.'

  She kissed his flesh. 'You took me, with violence, and I have known little else since. You'd not expect me to be bored in my old age, would you? There is a letter for you.'

  'A letter? From my mother?'

  Cartarette shook her head, began making wet compresses from her linen and pressing them to the shoulder. 'A local letter. Not paid for, but delivered by hand.'

  He saw the envelope lying on the table, reached for it with his free hand. It was sealed, but he tore it with his teeth, extracted the
sheet of paper.

  'If the claimant to Hilltop is truly Richard Hilton, he will find it to his advantage to talk with the Reverend Joseph Strong. A boy will call for your answer.'

  There was no signature.

  'When did this come?' How good her fingers felt, pressing gently into the tortured flesh. And how tired he was, on a sudden.

  'Within minutes of your leaving. The boy said he would return this afternoon.'

  'Joseph Strong. I have never heard of that fellow. Well, I see no harm in it. He may have some information of value. I must get up and dress sweetheart. There is Judith's statement to be taken, and . . .'

  'You lie there and rest,' she said firmly. 'There is our luncheon, in any event. Come,' she called.

  The door opened, to admit Harvey the waiter with a laden tray, which he placed on the table. 'There is also the coloured gentleman,' he said. 'Wishing to see you.'

  'Harris?' Dick rolled over and sat up. 'Come in. That was quick.'

  'The body had already been removed, Mr Hilton.' Harris held his hat in his hands. 'Quite a crowd had gathered. They are calling it the Massacre of King Street.'

  'Oh, really? Mobs will find a source of amusement in anything.' He frowned. 'You do not look amused.'

  'As I was there, Mr Hilton, I called at the house, to inform Miss Gale when we would be attending her for her affidavit.'

  'And?'

  'The door was opened by Mr James Hardy.'

  'Eh? He wasn't there when I spoke with Miss Gale.'

  'Indeed not, sir. Yet he must have been close. He asked my business, and when I said I wished to speak with Miss Gale, he laughed, and said he knew who had sent me, and to tell you that Miss Gale will not be receiving you again. He said, tell that upstart that she is Mr Hilton's witness, not his.'

  'He must have set his men on you, and watched the whole affair,' Cartarette said. 'Oh the scoundrel.'

  'Aye,' Dick mused. 'And the moment I left, he visited Judith. That poor child. What can he have done to her?'

  ‘I did not see the young lady, sir,' Harris explained. 'But Mr Hardy's words seemed strange. I visited Lawyer Reynolds on the way here. You'll know Reynolds has been retained by the Hilton?'

  'I didn't know. But it seems likely.'

  'Aye, sir. Well, I told him what had happened, suggested we would be within our rights to bring a charge of assault on Mr Hardy . . .'

  'Supposing it could ever be proved,' Dick muttered. He could not get the thought of Judith from his mind. Will he beat you, he had asked. And she had not replied. Except to accept his protection. And what good had that done her? 'I must get round there right away.'

  'No,' Cartarette said. 'You may not be so fortunate the next time.'

  'Your good lady is right, sir,' Harris said. 'Miss Gale is widely known to be under Mr Hilton's protection. You would have no rights were you to attempt to force an entry. Anyway, the damage has been done. She has signed a deposition against you.'

  'Against me? What can she say, against me?'

  'Simply this, sir. Miss Gale has testified in writing how she was raped by the real Richard Hilton, as she puts it. She has sworn that she would also have known the man who so cruelly assaulted her—I am quoting—and she is prepared to swear under oath, as she has written under oath, that you are not that man.'

  16

  The Trial

  The sun, huge and round and glowing, dipped in the calm waters of the Caribbean Sea, and in that moment it was dark. Instantly the fireflies commenced their activity, fighting the way for their more noisy fellows the mosquitoes, who came buzzing out of the undergrowth, to follow the sand-flies in then-quest for blood.

  How memory came back to Richard Hilton, of his very first ride into the Jamaican hinterland, how long ago. Then, as now, the thought had crossed his mind that he might be being lured by his guide to some lonely spot, there to be murdered. But then he had been unarmed, and had had no idea of how to cope with the violence, should it come. And for that reason, perhaps, had not known how to be truly afraid.

  This night he was not afraid either. He wore a sword, and there were two loaded pistols attached to his saddle, and another in his coat pocket. He was ready for a fight, and this night he would welcome one. So if the message from the Reverend Strong was nothing more than another of Tony's attempts to save himself by violence, he could count on being accommodated.

  He smiled at the back of the Negro youth who rode in front of him, but it was a savage smile. Last week, he remembered, he had realized he felt no animosity towards Tony, or any of Tony's friends. He had not even really felt animosity towards the three men who had intended to beat him. This evening he was angry. He had returned to Judith's house, against the advice of both Cartarette and Harris, and been met by armed

  men who had refused him admittance, in the name of Judith Gale. He had been prepared to brush them aside, and Judith had herself called from the upper window, telling him to leave as she did not wish to speak with him. Had it been Judith? Oh, indeed, the voice had belonged to Judith, even if the face itself had been veiled and invisible. But it had been a voice trembling with fear, and perhaps pain, just as each word had been uttered through swollen lips.

  And he had offered her his protection. Now he could only offer her his vengeance. When he won his case. If he won his case, now.

  And if she would wish his vengeance, after she had been dragged into court to recount the events of that night, sixteen years ago, to be humiliated.

  'How much farther?'

  The boy turned his head. 'The chapel does be not far now, master.' 'Chapel?'

  'Is Mr Strong own chapel, master.'

  They threaded through the trees, reached a cleared space, could see the low wooden building, the scattered huts beyond. They must have ridden twenty miles from Kingston, Dick estimated, in the main following the coast, and here was a sheltered bay, a few banana trees, some fishing boats drawn up on the beach, and beyond, the sea.

  The boy had stopped his donkey, and was waiting, as black men emerged from the trees on either side.

  'Who you got there?' one called.

  'Is the white man,' the boy called. 'Come for to see the reverend.'

  Dick dismounted. These men were not armed, and they kept their distance. His boots crunched on the sand.

  'You had best come close,' said a man, and Dick frowned, his heart giving a sudden leap as he realized he knew the voice. But that was impossible.

  He hurried forward, into the light of the fire, gazed at the black man who stood there. The Reverend Strong wore a white shirt and white breeches, black boots. The neck of his shirt was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. But his face had not changed.

  'Josh,' Dick cried. 'They said you were dead.'

  Joshua peered at him. 'They said the same of you, Mr Richard.'

  Dick squeezed the black fingers. 'But you know me.'

  The hand returned his squeeze. 'No. But you know me.' He turned, went into the hut. Dick followed.

  'There is some explaining to do.'

  'Yes, sir, Mr Richard. You'll take a drink?'

  It was a mug of rum. Dick sipped, watched Josh do the same. The hut was filled with black men, waiting, quietly.

  'I ran away,' Josh said. 'I had to do that, Mr Richard. You understand?'

  'Aye,' Dick said.

  'My companions died. One drowned, in a rainstorm. The other was beaten to death.' 'By my brother?' 'By his woman, Mr Richard.' 'Ellen? That's clearly rumour.'

  'I watched her, Mr Richard. From up the hill. She rode her mule, behind him, up and down, up and down, flogging. And when he dropped, she dismounted and kept on flogging.'

  Dick frowned at him. 'Who else was there?'

  'Your brother. He had a gun.' Merriman sighed. 'And I was tired, and frightened. My people are always frightened.'

  'You are not frightened now, old friend, or you would not have sent for me.'

  ‘I am a Christian, Mr Richard. I have learned how to pray. Alone, in these mountains, starv
ing, afraid, I couldn't do anything else but pray. And my prayer was answered. People helped me, did not ask who I was, or where I came from. I could hide, for years, until I realized I had a duty to my people. So I took a new name, pretended I was from the United States, come to pray for them all. These people believe in me, now. In my prayers. I have prayed for help and understanding, from the missionaries. But I do not believe they understand us. And as for help, they speak loudly when they address us alone, and curl up and crawl away when the planters come close. So I have prayed for help and understanding, from England. And I have heard now they would help and understand. But then we are told how the planters will not obey them, would rather declare independence than obey them. So I despaired, and prayed for a strong right arm. And this prayer has been answered.'

  'You would consider Richard Hilton a strong right arm?'

  Josh smiled. 'Richard Hilton was a boy. But who in Jamaica has not heard of General Warner, who fought for Christophe? And who in Jamaica has not heard of Richard Hilton, who destroyed three men with a wave of his arm, but a week ago?'