'It would be best, sir,' Barraclough agreed.
Dick nodded, gave the colonel his pistols.
'And you'll command your people to throw down their muskets,' Hardy said.
'And leave my plantation undefended?' Dick inquired.
‘I will leave ten of my men here, sir, to see to your plantation,' Barraclough promised. 'I beg of you, sir. I cannot leave any black people with weapons in their hands.'
Dick hesitated, for the last time; but he knew the blacks would not return, and ten soldiers should be sufficient to protect his blacks from white revenge. 'So be it, Cartarette, tell Absolom to surrender those muskets.' He swung into the saddle. 'Thank them for me. Tell them that when I return from Kingston, it will be as I promised them.'
He could not look at the house any longer, but turned his horse and led the cavalcade down the drive. He could hear Barraclough giving the necessary orders, the banging of the shutters as they were opened. Sunlight would flood the Great House, and the dead would be buried.
And the plantation? The road led by the white town, and the factory, and the slave village. Piles of smouldering ash, from which the smoke rose to tickle his nostrils. The factory had done best, the great machinery, used to overwhelming heat, merely protruded through the collapsed roof. But he had retained his slaves. They came out of the fields, men, and women, and children, to stare at the destruction, at the soldiers, at their master. And not even all of the cane had burned. There were sufficient green fields to salvage part of a crop, supposing he was there to do it.
But of course he would be there to do it. He was Richard Hilton. He had survived too much in the past to be depressed by mere legal formalities now.
Except that he was tired. Suddenly. And it was not merely exhaustion from a sleepless night.
Hardy rode alongside him. 'You'll hang, Hilton. Oh, aye. Not even the Governor's support will save you now.'
Dick glanced at him, looked ahead again. They were beyond the smoke now, and the morning air was cool.
'You'd best get back to Orange Lodge, Mr Hardy,' Barraclough said. 'Those devils may come again.'
'Oh, aye,' Hardy agreed. 'I'll do that. Mr Hilton will be pleased to learn that the incendiary has been brought to book.'
He spurred his horse and made off, his volunteers behind him.
' 'Tis a serious business,' Barraclough said, perhaps to himself. 'Oh, aye, a serious business. These people are frightened. There's naught so frightening as frightened people, when they also hold power.'
Dick ignored him as well. Had he made a mistake? But what else could he do? To have gained a brief victory over the soldiers at Hilltop would have made him an outlaw for ever. He could only hope to stay alive until sanity returned, until the Governor regained his nerve, until the Whigs found out what was happening here.
It was near noon when they entered Kingston, and then his nerve nearly failed. The streets were packed, but mostly with white people, who could ignore the martial law. The men carried arms, the women were outraged already, at least in their minds. They clustered round the cavalcade, shouting obscene threats and promises of revenge. Barraclough had to form his men in a moving wall around his prisoner, to protect him as far as the gates of the city gaol.
It was almost a relief to be inside the heated compound. When he gazed at the black faces of the inmates—there were no other white prisoners—he could almost feel himself back in the safety of Cap Haitien. And these did not jeer or threaten.
'You've a cell to yourself,' grunted Owens, the gaoler. 'Comfortable, you'll be, Mr Hilton. And no lynching in this gaol.'
He was walking a fence, a government official, but a white man.
'Send for Reynolds,' Dick said.
Owens nodded. 'I've done that, Mr Hilton. He'll be here directly.'
Dick stepped inside, listened to the door clang behind him. The cell was on the top floor. There was a single barred window, high in the wall, but by standing on tiptoe he could reach it. He could not look down sufficiently to see the beach, but he could see the pale green water, and then the ships at anchor. This had been his first glimpse of Jamaica. Why, he could make out the Green Knight, riding to her mooring.
He sighed, and inspected the rest of the small room, tried the trestle bed, hastily returned the lid to the slop bucket. The best cell in the prison. He had been in pleasanter stables.
Feet, on the corridor. Owens unlocked the door. And Reynolds stepped inside.
'Mr Hilton. A grim business. Oh, a grim business.'
'Aye. And not one I'll stomach for long, Reynolds. You'll file a writ of habeas corpus and have me out of here.'
Reynolds frowned at him. 'Your own lawyers . . .'
'Arc coloured and will not have so speedy a service. You asked for reinstatement. Hilltop's business is enough for all.'
Reynolds sat down on the bed. 'It will not be easy. Kingston, Jamaica, has been placed under martial law. Habeas corpus has been suspended.'
'Then get me an interview with Belmore.'
'Ah, well, that will not be an easy matter.'
'You seem once again unsure whose side you are on,' Dick remarked, mildly.
'Ah, well, 'tis not that, Mr Hilton. Oh, indeed not. But it is a serious matter.'
'A trumped-up charge of incendiarism, which no court would admit for a moment?'
Reynolds shook his head. 'The matter is more grave than that, sir. Think of it. This island is being threatened by a slave revolt. Rumour has it there are twenty thousand blacks under arms. Troops have been sent for from the Leewards, and the Navy has also been summoned from English Harbour. Now, sir, is that not a clear parallel with events in Haiti, but forty years ago? And have you not recently returned from Haiti, having served one of the leaders of that original revolt faithfully and well for sixteen years?'
'Of all the rubbish . . .'
'None the less, sir, they are saying you came to Jamaica to do nothing less than incite a similar revolution here, with a view to making yourself dictator. Then there is the fact of your secret meeting with the Reverend Strong. Strong has already been arrested and brought to justice, I understand.' 'He was murdered, you mean.'
'Aye, well, justice is the word they use in Kingston. But the important fact from your point of view is that there is possible evidence of conspiracy. And then, the revolt happened on the day you regained your plantation, and thus obtained a position of authority. Was that not a signal?'
'By God, Reynolds . . .'
'Not my opinion, sir. I am but quoting. And then, finally, you successfully defended your plantation. Every other plantation attacked by the blacks has fallen or been evacuated.'
'I defended it, Reynolds. More than forty were killed.'
'Oh, indeed, sir. I have no doubt of that. But there it is. Why . . .' He sighed. 'The situation is grave, sir. Grave. They are saying it is a hanging matter.'
Feet, along the corridor. Dick raised his head. Women's feet. He leapt up, hastily tugged his shirt straight, ran his fingers into his hair.
And frowned through the bars. 'Judith? How on earth . . .'
Judith Gale waited while the key turned in the lock.
'Half an hour,' Owens said, and left.
Judith remained standing by the door. 'You do not look pleased to see me.'
'I am pleased to see anyone,' Dick confessed. 'But I had hoped for Cartarette.'
'She has been refused permission to visit you.'
'My own wife? But you . . .'
'I bribed Owens. He is a lecherous man.'
Dick sat down again. 'My God.'
'You would not have your wife stoop so low, I trust.' She sat beside him on the bed. 'She knows you are here?'
'Of course. When I left Orange Lodge, I visited Hilltop, to see if I could be of assistance.'
'When you left Orange Lodge? Forgive me, but my brain seems to spin.'
Judith flushed. 'I would have given evidence for you, Dick. I would have helped you. But to oppose Tony, perhaps it takes more co
urage than I possess. Than I possessed, then. But when I heard what had happened, I ran away. To Hilltop, and thence to town.'
'He'll not forgive you.'
'No. Thus I will need your protection, after all.'
'My protection?' His laugh was bitter. 'Locked away in here, day after day, week after week. Do you know I have been here a month? Seeing no one. I have asked for Reynolds, and he has not come. I have asked for Harris, and he has not come.'
'Harris and Barker are under arrest. They are in this very building.'
'Under arrest?'
'For carrying arms. It is forbidden for any person of colour. They were lucky they were not hanged on the spot. Over four hundred of the blacks have been hanged.'
Dick nodded. 'I have heard the drumroll. The revolt is over then? I saw the ships arriving, with fresh troops.'
'Oh, that revolt is over, certainly. Not that people will forgive, for a long time.'
'But it is over,' Dick insisted. 'Thus must I be freed or brought to trial. Belmore. I have asked to see Belmore, and he has not come.'
'Very simply because he is no longer here. He resigned his post and left, oh, a fortnight back.'
'Resigned? My God. But who commands the island?'
'The general, Sir Willoughby Cotton. He came from Antigua. The entire colony remains under martial law, pending the arrival of a new Governor. That at least accounts for your survival. Cotton will not permit the planters to try you, and they will not force matters to a head until they discover the political complexion of the new Governor.'
'Cotton,' Dick said. 'Well, then, I must see Cotton.'
'I doubt he will accommodate you.'
'Why not? You say he holds the entire island under military discipline? Surely he cannot be afraid of the planters?'
Judith sighed. 'Perhaps not afraid. Yet does he also tread a tightrope, Dick. He still lacks the men properly to police the entire island. So he relies upon the volunteers for assistance, and they are either planters, or in their pay. Thus he must shut his eyes to their depredations.'
'Depredations? Your tale grows more and more unhappy. What depredations?'
'Well, you see, they claim the entire revolt was inspired by the Baptists and the other missionaries, and was, quite apart from being directed against white people and against slavery, also directed against the overthrow of the Colonial Church. This is how they have succeeded in securing so much support from the more moderate elements in the island, and how, indeed, they hope to obtain eventual support from England. Yet are they impatient for the day of retribution, as they call it. There is a band of them, calling themselves the Colonial Church Union, which rides abroad after dark, their faces masked, burning Baptist or Nonconformist chapels, lynching any man of colour who would oppose them, or who they find at large. It is a fact no decent person will venture out after dark.'
'Cotton condones this?'
She shrugged. 'There is nothing he can do about it. He does not himself know whether or not the Union will eventually find favour in London.'
Dick got up, paced the cell. 'God, to be trapped in here . . . who leads this Union?'
'No one knows. They are masked, as I said.'
'Tony?'
'I do not know, Dick. I personally have not seen them, thank God.'
He smashed his right fist into his left palm. 'But if they ride abroad, what of Hilltop?'
'You have naught to fear there. A platoon of soldiers is maintained on the plantation.' She seized his hand as he passed her. 'That indeed was the main purpose of my visit. Your wife sends her love. So does your mother. Your cause is being fought to the limit of their ability.' 'And my children?'
'Are well. And safe with their mother. Even the plantation prospers. Your mother has recalled her youth, on Hilltop itself, and manages the place for you. Cane is being replanted, buildings are being repaired. You really have nothing to worry about, on that score.'
'On that score.' His shoulders slumped, and he sat down again. 'To be trapped in here . . . and now you have prostituted yourself for me . . .'
‘I would do so again. Anyway, all he wanted was to get his hand inside my bodice. He is a simple fellow. Dick . . .' She squeezed his fingers. 'I will come again.'
'Not at that price.'
'But. . .'
He held her close. 'Dear Judith. I am in your debt too far as it is. But for that day, you would not be in this position.'
'But I caused that day, Dick.' She raised her head to look at him. 'Therefore it is I who owe you.'
'You will make a good lawyer.' He smiled, kissed her again, listened to Owens' boots on the stone floor. 'Take care.'
She got up. 'I will do that.'
'And come again, only if there is bad news. Promise me.'
She hesitated, then nodded. 'Or when the final good news, of your release, is received. Keep courage, Dick. It will not be long.'
Keep courage. It will not be long, Dick reminded himself that his great ancestor, Christopher Hilton, had once been confined in gaol in Antigua for upwards of a year, on a charge of murder. And had survived. But Kit Hilton had been a figure of legend, even while he lived.
Then was not Richard Hilton, alias Matthew Warner, a figure of legend? It was all the hope he could cling to. The man who had charged at the head of Christophe's dragoons surely could not just be left to dwindle in a Jamaican cell.
And then he remembered that Toussaint L’Ouverture, the man who had led Haiti to independence, had been left to dwindle in a French cell, until he had died, of heartbreak not less than neglect.
He saw no one, save Owens, and the Welshman was not communicative. He was given half an hour's exercise every day, but alone, in the yard. He could look up at the other cells, and see faces, looking down at him. He could identify Harris, and Barker, but he could not speak with them. And presumably they were as much in the dark as regards the true situation as he.
He could look out of his cell window, at the ships, coming and going. They were not easy to identify at this distance. There were trading vessels, from England, and leaving again, for England. There were men-of-war, bringing additional troops. And there was the Green Knight, back again. He could recognize her all right. It was only her return gave him an idea of how much time had passed, how many weeks, how many months, he had been locked away in here.
Cartarette sent him some books, but he was not in the mood for reading. He separated each leaf, looking for the message she would also certainly have sent. But someone else had separated the leaves before him; there were dirty finger marks and several of the pages were torn. And Cartarette's message whatever it was, had been removed and destroyed.
Every day he demanded from Owens the right to see his lawyer, and every day he was refused. He had no need of lawyers, Owens said, until he had been charged. 'Well, then, charge me,' he shouted.
'That's up to the authorities,' Owens pointed out.
'I have got to be charged,' Dick insisted, keeping his temper with difficulty. 'Or released. That is English law.'
And Owens smiled. 'But Jamaica is under martial law, Mr Hilton. I don't see what you're grumbling at. The longer the delay, the more chance for people to forget their anger at you.'
'Their anger at me?' Dick demanded in amazement.
'Incendiary,' Owens grumbled, and took his leave.
His only straw of hope was the non-return of Judith. Oh, how he longed to see Judith. As the weeks became months he longed to see her almost as much as he longed to see Cartarette, almost as much as he longed to have a hot bath and a decent shave; he was allowed the use of a blunt razor but twice a week, and then under supervision. As if Richard Hilton would ever contemplate suicide, unless driven mad.
But perhaps that was their intention. They did not know of his arrangement with Judith, his arrangement for sanity.
The rain started, in early summer. By then it was so hot in his cell he stripped to his breeches, and lay on his bed, and thought of Cartarette, of riding with her around Hilltop, o
f sleeping with her in the enormous four-poster, of hearing her laugh and stroking her hair. Of knowing she was there.
Owens' boots, on the stone. He sat up. He had breakfasted some time before.
The key turned in the lock, Owens stepped inside, closed the door again, handed the key to the Negro sub-warder, waiting in the corridor. 'Rain,' he said. 'I like to hear the rain, pattering on the roof. This cell is the best for that. Nearest to heaven, you could say.'
'Is this a social call?' Dick inquired.
'You could say that. Oh, aye. A social call.'
Dick leaned against the wall; the stone was cool, and no doubt Owens would get around to whatever he wanted to say in his own good time.
'It won't be long now, Mr Hilton,' Owens said. 'Do you know, there hasn't been a hanging in a week? All those that need it are dead. Oh, they're licked. They'll not revolt again, not in a hundred years. Oh, we taught them a lesson, we did.'
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