'For treason, madame? It is necessary to make an example. And it is wagered that Oge will die like a coward. He has already offered to betray all his compatriots for an easier death. Oh, it will be a sight.' He looked at a gold watch. 'Another two hours.'

'But... my sister is in town to watch an execution?'

'Ah, no, madame. She wanted to come, but the master thought better. She is with child, you understand.'

'Again?'

Romain smiled at her. 'Is there a more fit state for a woman, madame? But the master is in town. We shall seek him out. No doubt he will be able to secure seats for you and the lads.'

'But I don't want to watch anyone die’ Sue said. 'And neither do my sons.'

Romain continued to smile at her. 'You will enjoy it. It takes a long time. We will find Mr. Corbeau in here.'

The carriage was braking to a stop before a large square building, outside which half a dozen men lounged and gossiped.

'He will be playing billiards,' Romain explained. 'If you will excuse me ...'

How strange she felt. As if she had drunk too much wine. Perhaps it was the heady atmosphere of Cap Francois. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that two young, healthy men were about to die in the most horrible way possible, while a crowd laughed at them. Or perhaps it was just because of Louis. She was only sure that to sit still would be to go mad.

'You will excuse me, Mr. Romain, but I shall fetch him out myself.'

'But you cannot, madame’ Romain was scandalized. 'Ladies do not enter billiards parlours.'

Sue smiled at him. 'I sometimes doubt whether I have any right to be called a lady, Mr. Romain.' The door was opened, and she stepped down, and the door of the parlour was also open. Inside was gloomy after the bright sunlight of the street, and the air was heavy with tobacco smoke. There were half a dozen tables, and perhaps a score of men, some playing, sending the clicks of their ivory balls rippling across the murmur of conversation, most leaning on the unused tables as they talked amongst themselves, while Negro waiters circulated with trays of punch. But all talk and all movement stopped with the entrance of the woman.

'My God,' Corbeau cried. 'Sue?' He hurried across the room, shouldering men out of the way, to take her hands. 'Sue? I am dreaming.'

She wondered if she was herself. He had put on weight, and the colour of his face had deepened to purple; there was a coarseness about his nose and mouth she had not noticed when they had previously met. Presumably he was approaching forty. But he looked nearer fifty.

Not that his eyes had changed. They still loomed at her, shrouded her, seemed to caress her flesh. And his grip on her hands was tight. And his touch sent her excitement mounting. Georgiana possessed this, every night. 'You are looking magnificent,' he said. 'But then, you always do. Christophe. Christophe. Punch. Of course my dear, you should not be in here. A perfect den of iniquity. I promise you.'

She turned her smile on the Negro who held the tray, and paused in surprise. Unlike most of his people, he seemed quite prepared to meet her eye, and indeed returned her stare. And he was a big man, taller than Matt and with a splendid pair of shoulders, topped by a handsome, resolute face.

'Your punch, madame,' he said, amazingly in English.

She took the mug slowly.

'Ah, begone with you,' Corbeau snapped, also taking a mug. 'He is an insolent rogue.' 'He spoke English,' she said.

'He hails from St. Kitts or Grenada, or some such place. But he served as a servant to a French officer during the American War, and has ideas above his station. Were he mine, I'd have the skin from his back.' He drank. 'I wish you had written.'

'I wanted to surprise you.' She looked past him, at the men who were still gazing at them. 'Am I not to be introduced to your friends?'

He finished his drink, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. 'No. No. They are not for you. We'll away to Rio Blanco. Georgy will be so happy to see you. So happy. Christophe, my hat.'

'I must write a letter,' Sue said. Without warning she was afraid, but of herself. 'There has been some revolt, I understand.'

'Oh, indeed,' Corbeau said. 'The mulattoes took it into their heads that they would be our masters. But we rapidly disabused them of that idea.'

'So I have been learning. But the news will spread to Jamaica. Robert and Matt will be worried.'

'I will write them,' Corbeau declared. 'And tell them there in no cause. You will be here to rest, and enjoy yourself. Not write letters. Christophe. Christophe. Where is that black devil?'

'I am here, Mr. Corbeau,' said the slave, holding out the hat and the cane.

'Aye. Listening on your betters,' Corbeau grumbled. 'Come on, Sue, sweetheart. Let us leave town. Romain. Romain.'

The attorney came hurrying into the room.

'I am taking Mistress Huys to Rio Blanco,' Corbeau said. 'You had best remain. Seek out Madame de Morain, and explain, will you. Hire a coach for her return, and see to it yourself.'

Romain bowed, and left again.

'I do not mean to interrupt you, Louis,' Sue said, smiling at him.

'Nor do you. Angelique is just our neighbour. You shall meet her by and by. We often share a ride to and from town. Now let us be off.'

Sue paused in the doorway and looked over her shoulder. Christophe stared at her.

'It's absolutely marvellous,' Sue cried. She gave her hand to Francois-Pierre, and stepped down from the carriage. 'It's a castle, Mama, a castle,' Tony shouted.

Dick stood and stared with his mouth open.

'And for too long it has needed only to be graced by such beauty,' Corbeau said.

She glanced at him. 'My dear Louis, you are too blatant a flatterer.'

"Not I, Sue. Not I. I speak the truth. Francois-Pierre, you'll send a maid to madame's apartment. Tell her I have a surprise for her. And tell the children to join me downstairs.' He took Sue's arm, escorted her up the marble staircase towards the portico.

'And Georgy has her own apartments?' Sue asked. 'Why, there'll be no speaking with her.'

'But you will also have your own apartments, Sue,' Corbeau said.

Once again she gave him a quick glance. 'I am not here to retire for life, Louis. I have come for a season. As I told you, it is only a matter of avoiding unpleasantness until the Hodge trial is over and done with. If I am going to be any sort of a nuisance, I will take rooms in Cap Francois.'

The fingers on her arm tightened. 'A nuisance Sue? You? You are a dream come true.'

For just a moment his voice, and his face, were absolutely serious. And hers? She turned away in some confusion, hurried forward to greet the two children who came slowly and shyly down the great staircase.

'How lovely they are.'

'They are Corbeaux,' Corbeau said. 'Francis. Oriole. This is your Aunt Suzanne.'

The boy bowed, very gravely and took her hand; and he cannot be four, she thought. The girl, a year younger, curtsied, skirts held with all the dignified grace of a great lady. But then, Sue realized, she is going to be a great lady, on a scale unimaginable in Jamaica.

'And these are your cousins, Anthony and Richard,' Corbeau said. 'Take them along to the playroom, Mademoiselle Tantan.'

The woman who had followed the French children down the stairs, tall and thin and middle-aged, with a severe expression, bowed. 'Welcome to Rio Blanco, madame,' she said to Sue. 'Come along, children.'

A liveried footman was opening a door set in the high wall facing the staircase, and Sue followed Corbeau inside. The door closed sofdy behind her, and she found herself in a rose-coloured parlour, quiet and cool, with gauze netting over the windows to repel insects. A fan turned in the ceiling.

'It is operated by a boy in the room beyond,' Corbeau explained. 'It is my private sanctuary, where I sit, and think, and dream. Of you.'

'You did not know I was coming,' she pointed out. 'So your dreams must have been of someone else.'

'Quite the contrary,' he insisted. 'I have long dreamed of you here, in Rio Blanco. A proper setting, I think, for the loveliest woman I have ever known. I am beside myself with joy.'

'Indeed you are,' she agreed. 'Were you not my brother-in-law I'd feel positively unsafe. I wonder where Georgy can be?'

'I think I hear her.' Corbeau pulled the bell-cord.

The door burst open. 'Sue? You? Well, well, well.'

Sue stared at her sister in total amazement. Georgiana was several months pregnant, but even so there was very little suggestion of the slim girl she had once known, as lively and effervescent as a bouncing ball. Or even, she realized, of a grand dame of just thirty. Here was a fat dowager, whose pale brown hair straggled, whose once fine features were dissolved in rolls of fat ending in three chins, who waddled rather than walked, and whose expression, always undecided between bubbling humour and impatient rancour, had finally dissolved into petulance. Nor did she look the least pleased to see her sister.

'Why, Georgy,' she said. 'How lovely to see you, after all these years.'

'All these years,' Georgiana remarked, and sniffed. 'My dear, Matt must be poorer than ever. You looked positively starved. Louis, if I don't have a drink I shall be very bad-tempered.'

'I have rung for the punch, my sweet,' Corbeau said.

'And what are you doing here?' Georgiana demanded. 'Has Robert finally thrown you out, or have you come to see for yourself?'

'I'm afraid I don't understand,' Sue said. 'Except that I am apparently not welcome...'

'Oh, what rubbish,' Corbeau declared. 'Have I not spent the last hour telling you just how welcome you are?'

Georgiana laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. 'Hasn't he got his hands between your legs yet? Oh, don't trouble to deny it. And what did you do with Angelique? Or did she ride with you?'

‘Your punch is here,' Corbeau said, a trifle wearily. 'We may as well have some too, Sue.'

He took the goblets from the tray, and held one out. But Sue did not take it.

'I really feel I had better stay in town,' she said. 'It is only for a short while.'

'I'll not have it,' Corbeau insisted. 'Georgy welcome your sister, or by God I'll take my belt to you.'

Georgiana glanced at him, the ill humour seeming to ooze from her shoulders like sweat. 'He will, you know, Sue. He will. My child will be born with stripes.'

'Really, I ...'

'You are staying here, and there's an end to the matter,' Corbeau said. 'It will be splendid, having you both under the same roof.'

'You never wrote,' Georgiana muttered, her voice toneless. 'All those years, all those letters, and you never wrote.' She drank her punch noisily, and the footman, who had remained standing like a statue in the corner of the room, hastily offered another goblet.

'I wrote every month,' Sue said. 'Until I realized you were not going to answer. Even then, I wrote at least twice a year.'

‘You... you liar,' Georgiana shouted.

Corbeau smiled. 'Now really. Whenever two Hiltons get together there is a shouting competition.'

'She never wrote,' Georgiana shouted. 'Did she, Louis? Did she?'

'Of course she did,' Corbeau said. 'But I did not think you were always in a suitable frame of mind to read Sue's letters.'

'You kept them from her?' Sue asked. 'But...'

'You wretch,' Georgiana shouted, and burst into tears. 'Oh, you wretch. I'm a prisoner, you know, Sue. I could as well be wearing chains. I ... my God, I'll skin that nigger woman. What of my letters?'

'Why, Gislane delivered them to me, of course,' Corbeau said. 'But you have not met Gislane, Sue. I'm sure she is lurking in the hall. She is usually close to Georgiana.'

'Gislane?' Sue asked. 'Now there is a strange coincidence.'

Georgiana stopped crying and began to laugh.

'No coincidence,' Corbeau said. 'Gislane, come in here.'

There was a moment's hesitation, then the mustee stepped into the room.

'Mistress Suzanne Huys, Miss Gislane Nicholson,' Corbeau said.

Sue stared at the girl in consternation. 'Gislane Nicholson?' she whispered.

The mustee's face was as beautiful, as impassive, as a painting. Only the black eyes moved, from the woman in front of her to Corbeau, and then back again.

Corbeau smiled. 'Mistress Huys lives with Matthew Hilton,' he said. 'She will be his wife. One presumes.'

Gislane's lips parted, just a little, and then closed again.

Georgiana sent peal after peal of laughter racing to the ceiling. 'You'll have lots to talk about,' she shouted. 'Oh, lots.'

Sue had recovered her composure. 'I am sure we shall, Miss Nicholson,' she said. 'I look forward to it.' She glanced at Corbeau. 'Is she also a part of your establishment?'

'Of course.' He jerked his head. 'Now begone, both of you. I believe madame has something to reproach you with, Gislane. She has just discovered that you have been purloining her letters, instead of sending them on. Oh, she is very angry with you. Be careful you do not turn your back on her.'

'You ... you bastard,' Georgiana hissed.

'Come along, madame,' Gislane said.

Georgiana hesitated, looked from her husband to her sister, an expression of almost childlike humility on her face, and then turned and followed the mustee from the room. The footman placed the tray of goblets on a table, and also left, closing the door softly behind him.

'You have lots of time to talk with Georgy,' Corbeau said. 'For this evening I wish to enjoy you, all by myself.'

Once again he held out the punch.

'That girl,' Sue said. 'You keep her here, with Georgy? But do you not know...'

'Of course I do. That is what makes it so amusing. And they really get on very well. And so will you. You'd never met her, had you? She is lovely, don't you think? You are the only woman who can stand beside her. And you can tell her about Matt.'

Sue gazed at him, her desire melting into disgust. 'I think I shall leave,' she decided. 'It would be best, in the circumstances. But I should be very obliged if you would permit Georgy to visit me in Cap Francois. I imagine that even in her condition she could manage the journey, were the coach to travel slowly. And I am sure we have much to say to each other. Much that we have already said, perhaps, without being able to reach each other.'

Corbeau smiled at her. 'When you are angry, you are the most beautiful creature in the world. So tell me, my sweet. After you have had your chat with Georgy. What will you do?'

‘I shall return to Jamaica. I told you, Matt and Robert only wanted me out of the way while the trial was in progress.'

'And no doubt you will tell Matt and Robert everything that you have seen here?'

‘I have no doubt they will be interested,' Sue said.

'And what will they do then? Do you think Robert will come to St. Domingue, because my wife has turned into a lecherous, drunken cabbage? That is my misfortune. Oh, Robert might suppose that I was perhaps to blame. What then? Will he come here, pistol in hand? Robert is past fifty, Sue. I would kill him. Then what of Matt? Will he come here, seeking to regain his Gislane? Would you really want that to happen? Seeking to regain you? He shall, in time. And his children. But should he come uninvited, be sure I would kill him as well.'

She gazed at him, the coolness of her expression masking the tumult in her chest. ‘I wonder if you are quite sane,' she said. ‘I wonder if too many years of living like a king have not made you suppose you are a king.'

He raised his goblet to her. 'Then share my throne. At least for a while, Sue. If I am mad, it is at the sight of you again, after all of these years. Do you know, I fell in love with you, the first time I ever saw you, deep in the bowels of that English warship. I lay there, panting for life, and you stood but inches away, washing smoke from your body.'

'You remember that?'

'It has been a secret of mine, Sue. I fell in love with you then, and I have remained in love with you, ever since. Oh, I had to make do with a substitute. But no longer. And now I shall tell you some secrets of my own. My philosophy, for a start. In my public life, I sacrifice everything, or anything, or anyone, to my honour. But you will have no part of my public life ...'

The sound of music filtered upwards, through even the vastness of the house. It was late spring, and the strong sea breezes had not yet begun to blow; the noise travelled without distortion, an even boom of rhythm. Georgiana lay on her bed and wept, cried with great sobs and heaves of her trembling shoulders.

'I am sorry,' Suzanne said. 'Truly sorry, Georgy. But the invitations were apparently sent before I could protest.'

Her sister raised her head, gazed at the ice-pink ball gown, shoulderless and slashed in a deep decolletage, which only seemed to make the golden splendour above the more radiant. 'And the gown?' she cried. 'They did not have to fit the gown?'

Sue bit her lip. 'I ... you'll understand I have to humour him. Until I can think of what to do.'

'Humour him,' Georgiana said disgustedly. 'You'll pretend he has not had you to bed?'

'He has not laid a hand on other than my arm,' Sue said. 'Although of course I am aware of his intention. Hence I must pretend that I need an unusual amount of coaxing.'

'Instead of being the whore we all know you are,' Georgiana said. And then sat up. 'Oh, Sue, I'm sorry. It's just that... it's not what he does to me that I mind. It is his selfishness. A ball... how I have longed for a ball, so often. And he would not have one. Now he is having a ball, and I am confined with this wretched burden. How could ever a man be so cruel?'

'Will he not be condemned for it, in Cap Francois society? Perhaps no guests will come.'

'Not come, to Rio Blanco, to a ball? Condemned? Oh, he will be talked about. But that is all he seeks, to be talked about. Nor will anyone condemn his treatment of me, tonight. The things I could tell you ...'

'The things you must tell me,' Sue said. 'Listen. I will make my way back up here, early, tonight. This night, at the least, that coloured woman will scarce be present, and we shall be able to talk, and tell each other ...' she paused, at the expression on Georgiana's face.

'Monsieur Corbeau desires your presence, Mistress Huys. The guests are arriving.' Gislane wore her ordinary gown, and her hair was loose. She waited, holding the door of the bedchamber open, and the noise was louder.

'Do you not attend the ball, Gislane?'

'No, madame. I am cafe-au-lait.'

Sue hesitated, glanced at Georgiana again, and went into the antechamber. The doors were softly closed behind her.

'Do you not stay, to torment madame with your presence?' Sue asked over her shoulder. 'Or do you suppose you can torment me the more, with your presence.'

'I do not torment the madame, Mistress Huys. In many ways I am her only support, as we have suffered, and continue to suffer, in much the same way.'

Sue stopped before the outer doors to the apartment, waited for the mustee to draw level. 'Yet you must hate her.'

'I could say that your sister destroyed my life, madame.'

‘You have survived, after your own fashion,' Sue said. 'And I would say that I played a greater part in your destruction, by distracting Matt from your search. Because you may believe me, he was bent upon finding you, and marrying you, even if it caused his own ruin.'

Gislane smiled, for the first time that Sue had noticed. 'Then you have made me very happy, madame. I would not have liked to suppose that he forgot me in a minute.'

'And me?'

'Oh, I imagine I hate you as well, madame. But then, is it not reasonable for someone in my position to hate everything and everyone which is purely white? Especially someone as remarkably white as yourself.' She continued to smile. 'I really would go down now, madame, or the master will become angry. And when he is angry he is capable of the most remarkable acts of violence, regardless of the company.'

Sue hesitated for a moment longer, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Gislane followed, but did not go down the stairs. She remained, standing outside the closed door to Georgiana's apartments, listening to the music for some seconds. Another blessed night of freedom. Another blessed night.

She turned left, hurried along the corridor, down the inner stairs and through the pantries. There was no need for concealment. The servants, busy with their bowls of punch, their trays of canapes, waiting to be refilled by the perspiring cooks, carefully averted their eyes. No slave on Rio Blanco would dare suppose where their mamaloi might be hurrying while the white people danced. No slave on Rio Blanco would even dare remember that they had seen her, come morning.

She made her way through the rose garden, taking deep breaths of the cool fresh air, reached the marble wall which surrounded the chateau, and opened the postern gate. She stood for a moment on the edge of the rushing water of the white river, and then made her way along the bank, beneath the shade of the huge trees, gently rustling, the night to her right a blaze of sound and light and laughter as Mistress Huys was displayed to Cap Francois society. Now there was some need for caution. The petit-blancs from the overseers' village always gathered at the foot of the drive when the master was entertaining, to admire and to envy. Usually the cafe-au-laits also did so, but this night they were absent. The mulattoes had kept very much to themselves since the dreadful deaths of Oge and Chavannes. And was she not a mulatto? Or were they not merely as much outsiders as the whites themselves, because as they would ape those with fairer skins they went to mass and believed in the Christ, instead of the true master of their souls, the Great Serpent, Damballah Oueddo?

And beyond the gates there waited the noirs, also watching, and envying. And hating. But, like the house servants, they would not acknowledge her passing even if they saw her. Nor were all of them there this night, for now that the music was dominating the night as it issued from the chateau, it was time for the drum to start.

Gislane paused beneath the trees, to change her gown for her blood-stained, sweat-stained, earth-stained, semen-stained, red gown, to wrap her hair in her red turban, to feel the night air caressing her body, to know what she was about. And this night would be like no other. She waited, for those who would approach her, took her place with them, close to Boukman, gazing with wide eyes at the wizened figure of the coachman, for who had not heard of Toussaint, and at the short, squat, immensely powerful figure of the bull man, for who had not heard of Dessalines, and then smiled at the tall, strong, young figure of Henry Christophe. For he she counted her friend.

'There is a woman,' he said, as they walked through the night, following the drum, following the dancers, following the sacrifice. 'A woman with yellow hair.'

'She is sister to madame,' Gislane said. And glanced at him. "You have seen her?'

'In Cap Francois, when she first came,' Christophe said. 'For a moment. And she looked at me, and saw me.'

'And now you wish her,' Gislane said. 'When the time comes?'

'No,' Christophe said. 'No. I have little time for women. And none for white women. My fate is to serve my people. But she noticed me, and looked at me, and felt my eyes upon her. She is not as others.'

‘Yet she is one of them,' Gislane said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

And now Christophe's head turned, and he looked at her. 'How you must hate,' he said. 'How you must hate, Gislane.'

They reached the clearing, and were taking their places. Christophe remained behind, with Toussaint and Dessalines, dropping to his knees on the earth, away from the guttering oil-filled coconut shells, from the swaying believers, already prepared to lose themselves in the chaotic ecstasy of the coming minutes, away from the sacrifice, seated cross-legged between his attentive maidens, away even from the hougan and his swaying, tossing mamaloi. He glanced at his two companions. Did they believe, in what they were about to see? Did he believe himself? He did not know. He sometimes wondered what he did, with these two mighty men. He was so much the younger, so much the less known. Yet they valued his words, valued his presence, valued his service.

The drumbeat quickened, the mamaloi danced in the centre of the gathering, threw her arms to heaven, called upon all the great spirits of the universe to come down this night and visit their people.

'There is news, from the English islands,' Toussaint said. 'A planter is dead. He has been hanged, by his own people, for murdering a slave.'

'They fight amongst themselves,' Dessalines growled. 'As they fight in France. In France it is said the king himself is a prisoner.'

The mamaloi was finished, and the hougan advanced into the centre of the clearing. Christophe felt his heartbeat quicken. At what would now happen? Or what would happen later? He did not know. He watched the mamaloi, kneeling close to her priest, watched the cutlass flying through the air, watched the blood spurt.

'Then it is now,' Dessalines said. 'All the signs are with us.'

'Not all.' Toussaint also watched the hougan, offering the severed head to the heavens. Did he believe? Could he, the old one, who was so wise and so thoughtful? 'Do you not understand what we do, Jean-Jacques. Have you thought?'

'I think of nothing else,' Dessalines said. 'I know what we do, coachman.'

'I doubt that,' Toussaint said. 'We declare war, not on the planters, Jean-Jacques. We declare war on the world, for there are only white people, in our world. No one will come from Africa to be our allies. It will be a time for killing, yes, for being avenged, yes, but it will also be a time for dying, and for suffering. For all of our people. Have you thought of that, Jean-Jacques?'

The head had been replaced, and the drumbeat was quickening. The corpse rose slowly, stiffly to its feet, pulled the red cloth from its head. The mamaloi was naked, and dancing, posturing and shaking, her turban unwinding and her hair following it to flail the night. And now she looked for her hougan.

'So we will wait,' Toussaint said. 'For the day the prophecy is fulfilled in every way, for the day Damballah comes to us, dark as night and yet covered in shining light.'

'Then look,' Christophe shouted, rising to his feet. 'Look and bow your head to the Serpent.'

For as Boukman danced, the moon came through the trees; pin-pointing his blackness, and gleaming from the sweating white body of the woman as she twined herself around her lover, leg with leg, groin with groin, arm with arm, mouth with mouth.

'It is there,' Dessalines whispered. 'White shrouding black, moving, alive. It is there. Now Toussaint. Now. The hour will not come again.'

'Yet must it be prepared,' Toussaint said. 'We will need time. A month. Perhaps two.'

'But you have seen the god,' Christophe said. 'It will happen. Swear that it will happen.'

'I will give the signal,' Toussaint said. 'It will happen.'

'And the leader?' Dessalines demanded. 'Who will lead?'

Toussaint stared at the dancing figures, the gleaming white and the impenetrable black. 'The god will lead,' he said. 'In the beginning.'

Daylight filtered through endless opaque atmospheres, and was followed by sound. Plantation sounds, house sounds. And memory. This was not Hilltop, as she might have first supposed, but Rio Blanco, a strange world. An alien world. Which had finally engulfed her in its tentacles.

Suzanne sat up, dragged hair from her eyes, looked across the room at the discarded ice-pink gown, the scattered gloves, the shoes. And then down at herself, for she had kicked off the sheets in the night. The spider and the fly. And now the fly belonged to the spider. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. That was childish talk, and she was no child. She wondered if she had ever been a child. If she had, her youth had ended with her marriage, with her sudden transference into a world of masculine adultness. Dirk had been brutal, selfish, domineering, without considering the matter. He was a brutal, selfish, domineering man. And he had valued her. Matt was still in many ways a boy. But he was such an attractive boy, filled with romantic, idealistic, energetic quests and fancies. And Louis?

How easily she thought the name, how easily she slipped into the way of accumulating another man. There. She had accumulated him, and not the other way about. As long as she remembered this, there was nothing to fear.

So then, was she not ashamed of herself? She drew back the mosquito netting and walked across the room, still scooping sweat-stained hair from her face and eyes, holding it clear of her neck with both hands, arms up to stretch her muscles and raise her breasts. She stood before the full length mirror, gazed at herself, and then smiled, at herself. Suzanne Marguerite Hilton. The name had never meant anything before. Now it meant everything. She had been christened after the two most famous Hilton women; should she not then expect herself to take after them? Because it was dawning on her that she had indeed accumulated. She had known that she would find herself in bed with Louis Corbeau from the day of their first meeting. As from that moment he had wanted her. And she had known that too. That she had resisted the temptation for so long was entirely out of loyalty to Matt.

So then, what of Matt? He would have to forgive her. As she had forgiven him for Gislane. Because she was realizing, too, that it was meeting the mustee which had brought her to the point of doing more than dream. No doubt it was femininely childish, to need such an excuse, to require such an excuse. But all evening, as they had danced, oblivious of anyone else in the crowded room, oblivious of heat and noise and even movement, smiling at each other as they whirled in front of each other, knowing that this was their night, she had thought of Gislane. She gave another little pirouette in front of the mirror, still holding her hair away from her neck and shoulders.

And watched the door opening, and stopped turning, to look at him in the mirror, in some surprise, for he wore an undressing-robe, although the morning was well advanced.

'Why are you not aback? Have you taken ill?'

He crossed the room, slowly, stood behind her, cupped her breasts in his hands as he brought her body against his, nuzzled the back of her neck. 'I have given myself a holiday. Why, should a man not give himself a holiday, after a ball such as last night's. After a night, such as last night?'

She turned in his arms. It was incredible what a thrill his fingers gave her, and she had been thrilled often enough. She kissed him on the mouth. 'I am undecided whether to hate myself or adore you.'

'Perhaps you should do both. But be sure of the second, sweet Sue. Last night ... I feel like a lovesick boy. I must undertake a great many things, usually to feel satisfaction. I must beat, and bite, and scratch. I must hurt. I must even hate. Have you a bruise on your body?'

She shook her head, slowly.

'Last night,' he said. His hands, which had slid from her breasts to her shoulders as she had turned, suddenly bit into her flesh. 'No one has ever satisfied me as you, Sue. Saving only Gislane. And I know she accomplishes her miracles from fear. But you ... you do not fear me, Sue.'

She shook her head once more.

'And you do that, for Matt?'

'It is my lot on this earth, it seems, to make men jealous.'

'Aye,' he said. 'Aye. That is your lot. But you will stay, here with me, and let other men suffer.'

Yet again she shook her head.

'I do not accept arguments from women,' he said.

'And will you then beat me, Louis? Be sure you will lose me. I am not Georgy. I am not even your Gislane. I am Suzanne Hilton.'

'By Christ,' he said. 'By Christ. Georgy was no less arrogant when she came to me. And now...'

'Georgy never knew the meaning of the word,' Sue said, still not moving, still feeling his fingers leaving their red marks upon her pale flesh. 'I will not be bullied. I will not be dominated. You would have the best of me. Well, so you shall, for a season. As I am here, I will stay, until Georgy is delivered.'

'That is only a few months,' he cried.

'And then I shall take myself and my children back to Jamaica.'

'Back to Matt.'

She nodded.

'Why, for Christ's sake? Why?'

'I love him. I shall marry him. Now.'

'Marry that... that agitator? He belongs on the streets of Paris, leading a mob. Not sharing a bed with you. And if you meant to marry him, you would have done so long ago.'

'I did not know for sure that I would marry him, before,' Sue said. 'Now I am sure.'

'But... you love me,' he cried, his confusion almost amusing to behold.

Sue kissed him on the nose. 'I adore you. But I would prefer to do so from a distance, most of the time. And I do not fear your dominance, if that is what you are thinking. You appeal to the bitch in me. There is some, you know, in every woman. You bring out my bitch's desires. I am not proud of those desires, Louis. Coming here was a mistake. But as the mistake has been made, I will enjoy it, and have something to remember, for the rest of my life. I will not make the mistake the rest of my life.'

'By Christ,' he said. 'By Christ. You think I'll let you go?'

'You will,' she said. There is a condition on which I will stay even for Georgy's deliverance.'

'You make conditions?'

'Indeed I do. I wish to write Robert. And I wish to write Matt. Be sure that if I do not they will be here quick enough. Do not be afraid. I shall not tell them of Gislane. Not even of what you have done to Georgy.'

'Afraid?' he shouted. 'Me? Of those two?'

'Be sure they will kill you, Louis, should you force them to it. And be sure too that you will lose everything you have planned and apparently gained, should you force them to it. They have discovered that after all their quarrelling they are both very much Hiltons, and that is good enough for each of them.'

'By Christ,' he said. 'You know all this?'

‘I have eyes, and ears. I can guess what you planned, by what you have accomplished. But Robert is perfectly capable of making another Will. So I will write. And you will see the letters are placed on a ship for Jamaica, Louis. Because if I do not receive an answer to my letters within the month you will again lose me.'

His hands fell away and he gazed at her. His eyes were so angry she almost thought he would strike her, and wondered in fact what she would do then.

But instead he shrugged. 'You'll join me for breakfast?'

'Indeed I shall. You may send in my maids.'

Once again he hesitated. Then he turned and left the room. Suzanne sat before her dressing-table, and gazed at herself. It is my lot, she thought, less to make men jealous, than to make men fall in love with me. There is a power, did I but know how to use it.

She did not turn her head at the knock, watched as the door opened again, and smiled at Gislane as the mustee crossed the room towards her. 'You will excuse me, Mistress Huys, but Madame Corbeau requests your presence.'

'Is she well?'

'She appears to be well, madame.'

'Then tell her I will attend her after breakfast.'

'As you wish, madame.' But Gislane did not immediately leave the room. 'Did madame sleep well?'

Suzanne turned, slowly, crossing one leg over the other. 'When I slept, Gislane. Are you jealous of me?'

'I am not jealous, madame. I but wondered, why?'

'Because I am the mother of Matt's children? It would take too long to explain. Nor do I see any need to explain, to you, Gislane. I give you a thought, though. You and I must be very alike. We both attracted Matt, and we both fell in love with him. And it would seem that we are the only two women ever really to please Monsieur Corbeau.'

Gislane gazed at her. 'We are alike in yet another way, when it comes to a man, madame.'

'Indeed? Tell me of him.'

'No, madame. As you say, there is no need for explanations, between us. But yet there is one great difference between us. You slept with the master because you wished to do so. I slept with him because I had no choice. And you may think he is no more than a planter, madame. I know he is a devil from hell, when his mind is disturbed. And so does the mistress.'

Suzanne frowned at her. 'Are you warning me, Gislane, against Monsieur Corbeau?'

Gislane smiled. 'No, madame. I am not warning you, against the master. I am but warning you.'

'She is so consistently rude, I really wonder that Louis retains her here.' Suzanne fanned herself; the month was August and it was very hot.

Georgiana lay on her back and gasped. From the foot of her bed her face could not be seen because of her swollen belly. She was far too fat for childbirth. 'You know his philosophy,' she said. 'He has told it to you. Don't lie to me.'

'Why would I lie to you, Georgy. So she amuses him, in some way. But he must also amuse her, enormously, despite her protestations of hatred. Or why does she stay?' She came round the bed, laid a cool compress on her sister's brow. 'And why should Louis not tell me his philosophy?'

Georgiana smiled, a ghastly breaking of the sweating face. 'Because he only tells this philosophy to those he would bed, Susie dear.' The eyes opened wide for a moment, staring at her, and then closed again.

Sue bit her lip. 'I have never made any great pretence of hypocritical virtue, Georgy. And I think you will find I was but the passion of an idle hour, while you lay here swollen and unavailable. He knows I am only staying until you are delivered.'

'Then your stay is nearly over.' Georgiana's eyes came wide. 'Now, Sue. Now.' The word trailed away into a scream of agony. Sue ran across the room and pulled the bell-cord. And found herself immediately unnecessary. Of course, she thought, as she sat in the corner and watched the maids and the nurses and the girls bringing water, all supervised most efficiently by a sombre Gislane, this will be Georgy's third child, and they have had sufficient practice. Yet the birth was not going to be easy. There was that weight. And so she sat in the corner, while the others came and went, throughout the night. For a while she was joined by Louis, who did not sit, but paced up and down, stopping every few seconds to glance at his wife, and then at his sister-in-law, before resuming the pacing. It occurred to Sue that they were sharing the same thoughts; what would happen were Georgy to die in labour? There was cause for fear, on her part, for the problem it would pose. And on his part, for the pleasure he would then grasp at? And would she have the strength to withstand the grasp?

And did either of them think sufficiently of Georgy, lying there in pain?

But in time the boy was delivered, and the order was given to serve the house slaves with rum, and there was an hour of bell-ringing and wild cheering, and the other children, the Corbeaux as well as Tony and Richard, were allowed in to look at their new brother or cousin, and then there was, at last, peace. But still she would not leave Georgy's bedchamber. For now the decision was at hand, or if already taken, it must now be implemented. There was no reason to stay. Her last letter from Matt was over a month old, seeking her return. The death of Hodge had momentarily shocked the plantocracy into quiescence, and the slaves were being better treated than at any time in the past.

A letter to which she had not replied. A letter to which she must reply.

She slept, slumped in her chair, and awoke feeling strangely rested, even if one arm was stiff. For a moment she forgot where she was, utterly. Her ears instinctively reached for the sounds of morning on a sugar plantation, and heard nothing. Yet it was daylight. Indeed, it was more than daylight, she realized as she sat up. The clock on the mantelpiece showed a quarter to eight.

She reached her feet in a long bound, gazed first of all at the bed, where Georgiana slept with a faint snore, arms outflung and pale brown hair wisping across her face, and then at the cot, where the babe also slept, for he was a good fellow, and indeed had needed waking for his midnight feed.

She straightened her gown, and ran across the room to the verandah, to look down on an empty garden, where by this time the women should have been weeding, and at the trees fringing the river, listened to the faint murmur of the surf on the beach. And heard hooves, rattling across the morning. Hooves, and another sound, like distant thunder. But the hooves were close at hand, and now she watched a horseman debouch along the road which led out of the plantation and farther up the coast. A horseman flogging his horse with his crop as he galloped, long auburn hair streaming in the winds, skirts flying, for he wore no more than an undressing robe over a nightdress. A horseman?

Sue ran for the bell-cord, pulled it, knowing in her heart there would be no response. She seized the doorhandles, threw the doors wide, raced across the parlour towards the other doors, hesitated in the lobby, shouted, at the top of her voice, 'Louis,' knowing it could never reach him in this enormous building, and then ran for the stairs. Now she heard more noise, the sound of a bell, the sound of voices.

'Francois-Pierre?' Corbeau, standing in the hall, wearing only a shirt and breeches, shouting. 'Francois-Pierre? Why was I not called? Where is everyone?' He stared around him like a man lost. 'Gislane?' he bellowed.

Sue tumbled down the stairs, losing her footing when still some distance from the floor, and landing with a crash. She clutched the bannisters and dragged herself up.

'Sue?' Corbeau hurried towards her. 'What in the name of God is happening?'

'A horseman.' She gasped. 'A horseman.'

She pointed at the door, and he ran outside. She gathered her skirts and ran behind him, paused in the doorway as the horse stamped its way up the marble pathway to the front porch, and deposited its rider on the stone steps. Angelique de Morain rolled on her back, and left a bloody mess where she had first fallen.

Sue felt her hands clasping her throat, without knowing how they had got there. She watched Louis bending over the woman, and could not see past his back, but she knew, instinctively, and felt a twitch of pain in her own breasts.

'A mob of them,' Angelique moaned. 'A mob. They left me for dead.'

Hooves, drumming on the roadway. Jules Romain led half a dozen overseers up the drive, leapt from his horse and ran up the marble pathway. His face was pale, his clothes dishevelled. 'There is no one there,' he shouted. 'Monsieur, there is no one in the slave village.'

Corbeau still held the dying woman in his arms. After all, Sue remembered, she was his mistress, before me.

'They held me down,' she gasped. 'They held me down, and crawled on my belly, and laughed. And then they ... they cut me, Louis. They held my breasts up before my eyes, Louis.'

'How many were they?' he asked. 'Where is Charles? Where is Pauline?'

'Pauline?' she stared at him, and then tried to sit up. 'Pauline.' Her voice rose into a scream, and then ended with a sudden break.

'Oh, my God,' Sue whispered.

'No slaves, monsieur,' Romain gasped. He stood above the dead woman, took off his coat.

'They are all at Morains,' Gislane said. 'They have gone to join Boukman.'

They turned their heads, as if she had pulled a string. She stood in the centre of the hall, and wore a crimson undressing-robe, while her head was bound up in a red turban. None of them had ever seen her dressed like that before. It occurred to Sue that she must just have left her bath. But what a bath it must have been, her flesh glowed.

Corbeau laid Angelique de Morain on the stone and stood up. 'Boukman?' His voice was brittle.

'He is a famous hougan, monsieur,' Gislane said. 'A priest of the voodoo. The slaves think he is the Great Serpent, Damballah Oueddo, come to earth, to lead them against the white people.'

'And so they have attacked Morains? By Christ. You know this, and you stand there, before me?'

'I am guessing this, monsieur,' she said, quietly. She did not seem to be afraid.

'And should we not hang you, on the instant?' Romain demanded.

‘I am here, monsieur. Did I deserve hanging, should I not be with them? They will be here, soon enough.'

'By Christ,' Corbeau said. 'By Christ. Romain, get your people up here. Women and children. Every weapon you can raise. Callou. Take horse and ride for Cap Francois. Alert the military, tell them the Morains Plantation is in the hands of insurgents, and that we expect an assault momentarily. Tell them Charles de Morain and his wife are both dead, and their family, and presumably their overseers. Tell them we need support, as quickly as possible. Tell them to send the cavalry ahead. And cannon. Hurry man.'

'I go, monsieur.' The overseer ran for his horse.

'He will not get through,' Gislane said. 'They have cut the road.'

Corbeau glanced at her, then at Romain. 'Well, man, do not just stand there. Get your people.' For the noise came swelling down from the mountains and the canefields, of people shouting. Many people. Romain ran for his horse in turn, and Corbeau lifted Angelique de Morain into his arms. 'You will help me, Gislane,' he said.

'Yes, Monsieur.' The mustee came forward.

'And I, Louis?'

'Get upstairs. Find Mademoiselle Tantan and the children, and take them up to Georgiana's apartment. Stay there. You may close the shutters. Stay there, Sue. Take care of my wife.'

She hesitated, and then went up the stairs. At the top she looked down, saw Gislane and Corbeau carrying the mutilated body into the parlour where Louis had taken her on her first day here. She wanted to do no more than this, stand and stare, and listen to the throbbing of her own heart, know the weakness of her own belly. There was no planter, and no planter's wife, from the very beginning of European settlement in the islands, who had not known that one day this could happen. She had never watched the slave gangs trooping aback without knowing that one day they might turn and rend their overseers and rush at the house. It was a constant awareness, as a sailor must always know that the wind and the sea can rise to overwhelm him and his ship, without ever supposing that he will not be able to survive. So now, here was a time for survival.

She picked up her skirts, ran along to the children's rooms, where Mademoiselle Tantan was already dressing them. 'Mama?' they asked, in surprise.

‘You must all come to Aunt Georgy's room,' she said. 'As quickly as you may.'

Mademoiselle Tantan frowned at her. 'But they have not breakfasted, Madame Huys. And there are the lessons ...'

'Not today, mademoiselle. Bring them to my sister's apartment, as rapidly as you can.'

She ran along the endless corridors, pulled open the bedroom doors, found Georgiana sitting up in bed, the babe to her breast. 'Oh, really, Sue, whatever is happening,' she complained. 'I have rung, and no one has come. Somebody will be whipped for this.'

Sue crossed the room, stood on the verandah, looked down at the drive, up which the overseers' women and children, and a goodly number of the mulatto families as well, were trooping, carrying such belongings as they had been able to gather, chattering amongst themselves, looking over their shoulders at the canefields, listening to the swelling noise.

'And whatever is that racket?' Georgiana demanded. 'It woke poor Louis up.'

Suzanne returned inside. 'There is a slave revolt.' 'A what?'

'The slaves have revolted,' Suzanne said again. 'Our slaves?'

'And others. It has all the marks of a conspiracy. Morains is fallen.'

'Morains? But... Angelique? Pauline?' 'Both dead.'

'Oh, my God. I must ...' she swung her legs out of bed, then looked down at the babe, who had released the teat to start crying. 'Oh, my God.'

'You are to stay here,' Sue said. 'Louis's orders. Come in, children. Come in. Now, you can help me to close these shutters.'

'But...' Georgiana stared at them all in horrified amazement. 'Where are our people?' 'Here. Can you not hear them?'

For indeed a confused babble was spreading upwards throughout the house, punctuated by the banging of the hurricane shutters being placed in position.

'Mama? Mama?' Tonv clutched her arm. 'There is to be a battle?'

'Aye,' she said. 'There is to be a battle. One we will win, because we will always win. But there will be bullets. We must close the shutters.' She went to the windows, Tony and Francis Corbeau and Mademoiselle Tantan at her side. They pulled the first shutter closed, watched the flames rising from beyond the trees, listened to the booming noise.

'The village is on fire,' Mademoiselle Tantan said, and crossed herself.

Sue pulled the shutter to, but did not drop the bar. Instead she stood at the slight aperture, staring down the drive, still so empty, listening to the noise, the shrieks and the yells and the cat-calls from beyond the trees, drowning out even the sounds within the chateau, the orders being called and the wailing of some of the children. At least the babe was again sucking, and content.

'Should madame not get dressed?' inquired Mademoiselle Tantan.

‘I really would rather not get up until those dreadful people have gone away,' Georgiana said. 'Oh, I hope they are all hanged. Every last one. Has Louis sent for the soldiers, Sue?'

Sue nodded, but she watched the gap. Now there were people down there, milling about, waving machetes and swords and muskets. Were they drunk, at this hour in the morning? Perhaps, she thought. But it would scarce be liquor.

And now they advanced, still without order, following a gigantic black man, who strode before them holding a sword high above his head. But they were an undisciplined mob, who would surely be dispersed by the first burst of fire from the overseers. Why, there were nearly fifty white men down there, armed with muskets, and with loaded replacements at their elbows. But how confidently they advanced.

The entire chateau seemed to tremble. 'A volley,' Tony bawled, jumping up and down. 'Oh, let me see, Mama. Let me see.'

'A voyyey,' Dick cried, apeing his brother. 'A voyyey.'

'Keep back,' Sue commanded. She watched the crowd in horror. Because at least twenty of them had fallen, and still they came, only now they were running, and the huge black man in front was unharmed, holding his sword above his head as if it were no more than an extension of his arm.

Again the house trembled, and more black men tumbled to the marble of the pathway. But they were on the marble of the pathway, flooding through the gates, trampling across the flowerbeds, baying and howling like wolves. And the big man, still untouched, was on the steps to the porch.

Suzanne slammed the shutter, dropped the bolt into place. As if it mattered. Should she not rather throw the window wide, and climb out, with her children? Could they suffer more, falling from this height, than they would suffer, in this room?

'Oh, it's all dark,' Georgiana complained. 'And that noise.' The babe rested on her shoulder, belching quietly. 'Have the soldiers come, Sue?'

Sue leaned against the shutter, watched the children, slowly ceasing their jumping as they saw her expression. Mademoiselle Tantan dropped to her knees, her hands clasped in front of her breasts. But she too gazed at the door.

Noise boomed about them, echoed upwards through the floor, crashed along the corridor. Screams and yells were punctuated by oaths; shattering glass was smothered in rippling musket-fire; gigantic tearing sounds swathed the morning, and with it a faint tang of smoke. Oh, God, Sue thought. Perhaps they have set fire to the house. Perhaps it will burn, and consume us all, before they get here. But what a desire, to be burned alive rather than face the slaves.

A shoulder crashed against the door, and then another. Sue found herself slowly sucking air into her lungs until she felt they would burst. She was incapable of movement. Tony and Dick ran to her, clutched her skirt, buried their faces in her thighs, and she dug her fingers into their scalps. Francis and Oriole clambered on to the bed, where Georgiana sat up, the babe still across her shoulders, and stared at the trembling pink and white satin as if mesmerized. Mademoiselle Tantan continued to kneel, and pray.

The door burst open, and there were people. How many people. The room was suddenly crowded with humanity, with sweat, with noise, and with blood. They looked around them in questing surprise, at the still women, the staring children. Then one gave a whoop, and rolled what seemed to be a ball across the floor. But it was no ball; it was Seraphine Romain's head.

'Wait.' The mamaloi came in, her red robe darker where she had knelt in blood, her white hands stained the colour of rust. The men, and women, stared at her, and obeyed. But her face was the most terrible thing Sue had ever seen.

'Gislane,' Georgiana screamed, throwing herself from the bed. 'Gislane.' She fell to the floor, her nightgown flurrying around her. 'Gislane.'

Time stood still as Gislane gazed at her, as her tongue came out and circled her lips in a gesture perhaps copied from her victim, as a variety of emotions crossed that normally impassive face, as Georgiana understood that she was about to die, painfully, and threw back her head to utter a wail which seemed to echo through the house even above the tumult.

'She is yours,' Gislane said. 'You know what to do.'

The men descended upon Georgiana like a pack of wolves, as indeed they were, Sue thought, amazed at her own detachment. They worried her while they growled, and she screamed, and again, each wave of tortured sound a peal of hate and fear which bounced off the ceiling. But she was gone, carried along the corridor, no more than a pale leg feebly kicking. Mademoiselle Tantan had also disappeared in the mob. Sue hugged the boys tighter, and watched the babe thrown in the air as the bed collapsed, to drop upon an upturned sword with a bewildered wail. It will be quick, she thought. It will be quick.

She saw faces, and felt hands. She shut her eyes and heard Tony yelling, felt his nails scour her flesh as he was torn away from her grasp. She was seized, by her hair and her neck, by her arms and her gown, by her thighs and her legs, and struck the floor. And was suddenly released, and found herself on her back, already naked from the waist down, staring at the faces, staring at Gislane.

'Oh, God,' she said. By now she should have been dead.

The mustee stared at her. 'Matt's woman,' she said.

'Oh, God,' Sue whispered. She wants me to beg her, she thought. She wants me to beg. Desperately she turned her head, to and fro, saw Dick and Tony, still alive, but held in angry black hands.

'Matt's woman,' Gislane said. 'I dreamed of taking the skin from your body, slowly, myself, when this day came.'

'Oh, God,' Sue muttered.

Gislane's shoulders drooped. 'Matt's woman,' she said. 'Then die, like a woman.' She turned away, but the hands did not return. In their place Sue stared at Henry Christophe.

THE MAMALOI

'The fact is,' Coke wrote, 'probably the most sacred tenet held by any English gentleman is the right of property. Oh, they are perfectly willing to accept that the day of owning human property in England is well past, but what is happening in France is making the majority wonder whether it should not be restored. And of course the West Indian lobby has lost no time in pointing out that to free the slaves in the Caribbean would mean immediate disaster, as they would not work, and would certainly revolt and destroy all the real property they could lay hands on. The news of Hodge's condemnation and execution has been received here with mixed feelings, and there is a goodly body of opinion which considers he was hardly done by. What is needed is someone of forceful character who can reveal the actual state of affairs. I am put up often enough as a speaker, but I am afraid I lack conviction, and too often the charge is made that as I am a Methodist I am necessarily prejudiced. If it were possible to persuade you, Matt, to return here and continue the fight from perhaps the Commons, I would be the happiest man alive.'

'Well?' Robert had also been sifting through his mail.

'It is from Tom Coke,' Matt said. 'Our cause goes badly. Public opinion is being swayed against us by the excesses of the French.'

'Our cause?' Robert inquired. 'Your cause, you mean.' 'But...'

'I intervened to send a scoundrel to the gallows. Nothing more. Your projects are ruinous. Worse, they are dangerous.' Matt sighed. 'It is that misconception we are labouring to alter. Tom feels we need a knowledgeable voice in the Commons. Perhaps mine.'

'You, in the Commons? Bah. I'll not support you. Why is there no letter from Sue?'

'I cannot say,' Matt said, and got up.

'Isn't it a month? By God, Georgy should have been delivered again by now.'

Then Sue will soon be back with us,' Matt said. 'She stated her intention only of remaining on Rio Blanco until Georgy was again safe.' But he walked to the window, gazed at the canefields. It was August, and the hurricane season would soon be upon them. Sue should have returned by now, or it might be safer for her to remain until November.

'But you worry,' Robert said.

'Should I not?'

'Oh, aye. Especially when she is living with that fellow Corbeau.'

'Really, Robert, I find your expression singularly ill-chosen,' Matt remarked. 'Just as I find your attitude towards Louis extremely equivocal. He is my friend, and Sue's as well. He is your brother-in-law, and I seem to recall that you were so happy to obtain him in that role you made him your heir ...'

'Not him,' Robert growled. 'His son.'

'Which will amount to the same thing. And yet you talk of him constantly as if you loathed the fellow.'

'I do not trust him,' Robert said. 'I have never trusted him.' He got up, stalked around the table, joined his cousin at the window. 'I did not enjoy making him my heir. But what was I to do? Leave all this, Green Grove, all we have accumulated over so many years, to a madman like yourself? Were you to show but an iota of common sense, of loyalty to the family, even ...'

'And have me display myself as a hypocrite to the world,' Matt said. 'But I would like to pay him a visit, if I may. If you will allow me the use of your sloop.'

'Aha,' Robert said. 'You are also wondering how Sue has managed to amuse herself, these last six months.'

'I find your mind quite diseased,' Matt said. 'It so happens that I have never visited Rio Blanco, that if Sue is going to return with my sons while there is the possibility of a storm I should like to be personally responsible, and that if we are going to weather the French revolutionary setback it will be necessary to know more about the situation in France, and I imagine Louis is as knowledgeable on that subject as anyone I am likely to discover in the Caribbean.'

'Aha,' Robert said again. 'Specious talk. Oh, take the sloop. Maybe discovering something about the disadvantages of promoting a revolution will knock some sense into your head. There is a sorry looking sight.'

Matt looked down the drive, at a horseman who walked his mount slowly towards the house. The animal was clearly blown, and scarcely able to put one foot in front of the other. And the rider, untidy and dusty, seemed hardly able to lift his head.

'Caiman, by heaven,' Matt said.

Robert frowned short-sightedly. 'Destroying one of my animals? By God, the scoundrel. I'll have him ...'

'From Cap Francois, I'll wager,' Matt said, running from the room. 'Georgy may have miscarried. Or worse.' He took the steps three at a time, shouldered Maurice out of the way, ran on to the verandah to gaze at the sea captain. 'Caiman,' he shouted. 'What has happened, man? What?'

The horse came to a stop, and Caiman rather fell than dismounted. Fortunately two of the yardboys stood ready to catch him.

'Punch,' Robert bellowed. 'Punch, Maurice, you black devil. Caiman. Are you ill?'

Caiman stood at the foot of the steps. 'Cap Francois,' he said. 'St. Domingue...'

'Eh?' Robert shouted. 'St. Domingue? What has happened to St. Domingue?'

Maurice appeared on the verandah with a mug of punch.

‘You'd best have a drink, man,' Matt said. 'It will settle your nerves. What has happened there? Yellow fever? A storm? We've seen no cloud.'

Caiman shook his head, seized the goblet, drained it, and gasped. 'A revolt.'

That mulatto business, you mean?' Robert demanded.

'That one, Mr. Robert. That one. Now the Negroes are in arms.'

'Eh? What did you say?'

'The slaves?' Matt's heart gave a sudden lurch.

'Aye, Mr. Matthew. The ...' Caiman glanced at Maurice, who waited, face impassive.

'You'd best come inside,' Robert decided, and seized the captain's arm to hurry him up the stairs. 'Away with you, Maurice,' he shouted, pushing Caiman into the withdrawing-room. 'Now sit you down, man, and talk sense.'

Caiman sat down, glanced from one to the other of the two men standing above him. 'There has been a revolt amongst the Negroes,' he said, speaking more calmly. 'On the north side of the colony, but it is supposed to be spreading.'

'Supposed?' Robert demanded. 'Supposed? Who leads this revolt?'

'Who knows?' Caiman said. 'The name most used is Boukman. A voodoo priest, they say. But the revolt is real enough, Mr. Robert. It seems to have begun on Morains Plantation, and spread from there to Rio Blanco ...'

'Rio Blanco?' Matt snapped. 'What news of there?'

'Why, sir, none.'

'What?' Robert demanded. 'What? Has not the military been used?'

'Oh, aye, Mr. Robert. They were called out the moment we saw the smoke in the sky...'

'The smoke?' Matt muttered. 'Oh, Christ Almighty.'

'Go on, man, go on,' Robert insisted.

'Well, sir, the cavalry were mounted and sent away, and were stopped by musketry, sir, and then approached by a large body of blacks, all armed and shouting threats. They deemed it best to retreat, sir.'

'To retreat?' Matt shouted. 'Leaving the plantations in the hands of the insurgents?'

Caiman sighed. 'That is what they did, sir. And since then, why Cap Francois has been virtually in a state of siege. Patrols have been sent out, and fired upon within a mile of the walls. An assault is daily expected.'

'By blacks?' Robert inquired in wonder. 'On a fortified city?'

'But the plantations, man,' Matt begged. 'What of Rio Blanco?'

'Well, sir, Mr. Matthew, as I say ...' 'No news?' Robert shouted. 'No news? You mean they do not know?'

'The chateau could still be under siege,' Matt said.

'Well, sir,' Caiman said, looking utterly distressed, "tis thought that is unlikely. Some refugees reached Cap Francois from Le Chambre, and that is much closer to town than Rio Blanco or Morains, and Le Chambre definitely fell.'

'And what happened there?' Matt seized the captain's collar. 'What happened?'

'There was a massacre, Mr. Matthew. It is too horrible a tale to tell.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.'

'But you do not know,' Matt insisted. 'No one knows. Caiman, you'll navigate me back there?'

'Oh, aye, Mr. Matthew. I've caught my breath.'

'You'll allow me the use of the sloop, Robert,' Matt said.

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. Allow you the use of the sloop, Matt? I shall master her myself.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He peered through his telescope at the smoke pall which hung above Cap Frangois.

'At least the city still stands,' Matt said, identifying the flags.

'Or it is some ruse on the part of the insurgents,' Caiman muttered.

'Come, come, sir, you grant these black fellows far too much ability and cunning,' Robert declared. 'Stand in, man, stand in. The sooner we are ashore the better.'

Sail was shortened, and the Desiree altered course to enter the harbour. This was all but deserted; clearly every ship with a cargo had been evacuated - those that remained were equally clearly empty, and being retained by the authorities for the removal of the white women and children, should the worst befall. And that this could happen was equally clear. As the sloop approached the docks those on board could hear the rattle of musketry and the deeper boom of cannon.

'A battle, by God,' Robert shouted, his face purple with excitement. 'I have never been in a battle. By God, what fun it will be.'

Matt wiped the sweat from his forehead. This would be nothing like the Saintes, where two Christian adversaries had done their best to destroy each other for nearly a week, and then, the issue decided, had settled down once again to live like civilized opponents. This issue would be decided either on the gallows and the wheel, or in the charnel house that would be Cap Francois, should the city fall.

'You'll arm your men, Caiman,' Robert decided, as the anchor was let go and the jolly-boat swung out. 'And put back again for a second load. Volunteers only.'

'But...' Caiman gazed at Matt. The crew of the Desiree was composed of slaves.

'They are English, by God,' Robert declared. 'Those people out there are French. There can be no liaison between them. Now let us make haste.'

The boat pulled for the shore. Now it was possible to see that parts of the city were burning, and although it was not yet midday, the pall of smoke which hung across the sky, drifting slowly on the gentle breeze, quite disguised the sun.

'Your business, messieurs?' shouted a soldier from the dockside. 'No blacks may land here.'

'By God,' Robert said, and jumped ashore. 'You'll not refuse me, by God. We are come to assist you.'

'How goes the battle?' Matt asked.

The corporal shrugged. 'We are holding them, monsieur. That is the fourth assault. You must grant them courage. Men and women, monsieur. Even some children. They come at us like people possessed. Indeed, they are possessed, as it is said they are inspired entirely by witchcraft.'

'What news of the coast?'

'There is no news of the coast, monsieur. But it is in black hands. That is all I know. Perhaps the colonel...'

'Where is this fellow?' Robert demanded.

The corporal looked shocked. 'On the wall, monsieur. Where else?'

'We'll see him. Come, man, our own people are involved.'

The corporal hesitated, then called one of his guard. 'The white men,' he said. 'Not the blacks.'

'But surely you have blacks inside the city?' Matt asked.

'Oh, indeed, monseiur. Some we have hanged, the rest are imprisoned.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. There is a pretty situation, if you like.' But he hurried behind the soldier, followed by Matt, while Caiman took the jolly-boat back to the ship. They made their way through empty streets and between shuttered houses, although occasionally a window was opened and a face looked out. Always a female face, frightened and distraught. The only men to be seen were street-corner patrols, making sure of internal discipline. At each the little party was stopped, and the soldier had to explain the names and intentions of the two Englishmen. And now, as noon arrived, the rain began, sucked down from the mountain-tops by the heat and the cataclysm on the plain, to rattle on the paving-stones with a consistency which even drowned the sounds of the muskets.

But it was hot rain, and caused the equally hot stones to steam, and it was a hot day, as the breeze entirely died; they sweated from within while their clothes were soaked from without.

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. But this climate is worse than Jamaica.'

'The very heavens wish to take part in our struggle, monsieur,' said the soldier.

They reached the foot of the walls, and found themselves in the midst of dozens of bodies, soldiers and armed civilians, some dead, others wounded, lying in what shade they could procure, groaning and cursing, calling out for water. The surgeons and female volunteers moved around them, relieving where they could.

‘I seek Colonel Morhan,' the soldier said. 'I seek Colonel Morhan.'

'On the wall,' he was told. 'On the wall.'

He led them up the steps, and was checked by a bayonet. 'Only combatants on the wall. You know that, soldier.'

'I have two Englishmen,' the soldier explained, and shrugged, as if to indicate to his comrade he was not responsible.

'Volunteers,' Matt said. 'We have arms.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'Oh, aye, we'll volunteer.'

'We wish to see Colonel Morhan.'

The sentry hesitated, and then shouldered his musket, and they emerged on to the comparative coolness of the wall itself, immediately finding themselves opposite an embrasure, through which they could not resist an inspection of the field. For the battle had died away, as the pouring rain had soaked the insurgents' powder.

From the city gate, which was shut and barred a few feet to their right, Robert and Matt looked down on the road which ran west across the coastal plain and towards the plantations. The road was covered with black bodies, thrown about in the grotesque ballet of death, as was the field beyond, and stretching around the curving wall into other fields. And already the great crows were circling high above the city, as there was a gigantic buzz of insects from all around. And the battle had been going on, time and again, for some days. The stench was enough to make a man retch.

But the dead were dead. Matt gazed across the plain, at the dense masses which waited in the rain perhaps a mile from the gates, where the cleared area ended and the first of the trees began. At this distance it was impossible to make out anything except that they were black, and that they were there. After several unsuccessful assaults and a considerable number of casualties, they were still there, slaves, men and women of many countries, Yorubas, and Ibos, Mandingoes and Negroes, united for the first time in their histories in their common hatred for the race which had enslaved them.

For a moment he felt almost afraid of them, of himself, of every white West Indian, for unleashing this force in their search for profit and more profit.

'You wish to speak with me, messieurs?' Colonel Morhan was not a tall man, but was extremely broad, with equally wide moustaches. His white vest and breeches were stained with powder, and his blue coat was torn. He looked tired.

'We are Hiltons, monsieur,' Robert said. 'My sister is Madame Corbeau.'

'Madame Corbeau,' the colonel said. 'Ah.' He held out his hand, palm uppermost. 'The rain has stopped.'

'We wish news of Rio Blanco, monsieur,' Matt said. 'We wish to know if it is possible to get out there.'

Morhan looked at him, and then turned away. 'Indeed it is, monsieur. You have but to walk through those people. Bugler. Sound the alarm.'

Matt ran back to the embrasure, and watched the black mass beginning yet another move forward. And now he could distinguish the swords and the muskets.

'They come like the waves on the sea,' Morhan said. 'There is no cessation. I, monsieur, I fought in America. And there were courageous men, those farmers and traders, who seized their weapons and opposed the redcoats. But not so courageous as these. Why, sir, we kill a hundred of them in every charge, and still they come.'

'And how many of you do they kill, on every charge?' Robert asked.

'Too many, monsieur. Too many. The odds are in their favour. If we could but bring that fellow down.' He pointed and Matt and Robert looked in the direction of his finger. In front of the black army there marched a huge man, sword held at the end of his extended arm, pointing forward.

'They say he is called Boukman,' Morhan said. 'And he is a priest of the voodoo. He walks like that before every assault, and we shoot at him, and he still walks. And where he walks, they will follow. Prepare your pieces,' he bawled, and there was a rattle and a click along the battlements as the soldiers and the volunteers primed their muskets, and waited.

'Behind the priest,' Matt said. 'What is that?'

Morhan stated in turn. 'Ah, that is the priestess who accompanies him. A mulatto, would you believe it? She too marches to battle, and away again. But she is no more than his woman. If we could bring that fellow down ... prepare to fire,' he bawled, and his lieutenants passed the word along. For the mob in front of them was increasing in speed, beginning to trot forward, and now muskets were exploding in dots of red, and swords were clashing.

'By God,' Robert said. 'We can handle muskets, monsieur.'

Morhan glanced at him. 'Then take two, Mr. Hilton. There are sufficient.'

Matt ran down the steps to where the wounded and the dead lay, seized two muskets and two cartouches, hurried back up the battlements. These were already shrouded in noise and smoke as the defenders fired.

'Load,' shouted Colonel Morhan, running up and down. 'Load, you devils. Get in there, monsieur, and fire.' He seized an astonished Robert by the shoulder and hurled him at an embrasure where a soldier was slowly sinking to the ground, blood pouring from his head. Robert levelled the musket and squeezed the trigger. Matt took the next embrasure, aimed into the dense mass, now right under the walls, fired again, and found himself staring at the red-gowned figure of the mamaloi, unarmed, but pointing at the walls. It was too far away to distinguish any of her features, but her whole body was a consumed surge of hate and anger.

'Load,' shrieked Colonel Morhan. 'Fire. Load. Fire.'

Something struck the stone beside Matt's head and he ducked, and waited for the shock of pain. But there was none, and he was again aiming his musket, squeezing the trigger, not knowing where his bullet had gone, confident that it must strike home in the dense mass beneath him, then turning away to crouch as he rammed the bullet home and bit the end from his cartridge, gazing the while at Robert's feet as his cousin in turn fired and then turned back to load.

And as he straightened, listening to an immense moan which seemed to shroud the entire day. He pushed his head through the embrasure, gazed at the Negroes, falling back from the wall, and at Boukman, on his knees, the uplifted sword at last drooping to the ground.

'A sortie,' Morhan shouted. 'Follow me. We must have that fellow.'

Matt watched in fascinated horror, as the red-robed mamaloi attempted to run forward to kneel beside her priest, and was in turn restrained by another huge black man, wearing a cocked hat and carrying a cavalry sabre. The priestess turned and struck at her captor, but he evaded her blow and pinioned her arms, and shouted orders at his people, as they scattered towards the forest, some unashamedly throwing away their weapons and running for shelter, while the garrison continued to fire after them and bring them to the ground.

But now the gates were opened, and Colonel Morhan led his men forward. Boukman had slumped on the earth, his arm still extended. Morhan stood over him for a moment, and the cry came up. 'The blacks are rallying. To your posts.'

For indeed the retreating mass had stopped, and some were again advancing, and kneeling to fire their muskets. Morhan looked at them for a moment, then his right arm swung, right over his head, to bite into the earth as it severed the dead man's neck. Morhan stooped again, and then stood erect, his sword arm now thrust into the sky, his blade topped by the bleeding head.

There is your priest,' he shouted. 'There is your hougan.'

A roar of approbation came from the walls, and the colonel turned, and walked back inside, and the gates clanged shut, while from the watching blacks there came another moan of horror and despair, and they resumed their retreat.

Morhan mounted the steps, handed his sword to a lieutenant. 'Hoist that high,' he said. 'Let it rot, above the battlements, where they can look at it. We'll not have one of the priests claiming he is not truly dead.'

Robert seized his arm. 'That was well done, colonel. Now you have won. Now we can get after those people.'

Morhan turned. 'Get after them?' he asked incredulously. 'My God, sir, are you mad? Once we desert these walls for that forest we are done.'

'But the plantations, man,' Matt cried. There may be white people alive.'

'Out there?' Morhan almost smiled. 'You are dreaming, monsieur. These devils do not take captives. Nor do we, of them. There will be nobody alive out there, sir, if his or her skin be white.'

‘Yet must we be sure,' Robert insisted.

Morhan shook his head. 'No, monsieur. My responsibility is to the living, inside Cap Francois. We hold these walls, until I receive sufficient reinforcements to disperse the blacks once and for all. I have sent for them. They will be here within another week.'

'Another week?' Matt shouted.

'That is too long for us, sir,' Robert said. 'We'll go alone, if you'll not assist us.'

'Out there?' Morhan was horrified as he realized the Englishmen were serious. 'You are demented, monsieur. I'll not permit it. No gate will open for you.'

'No gate,' said Henri Ledon. 'But there is the ocean.'

'Ledon,' Matt shouted. 'What do you here?'

'Why, Mr. Hilton, I fight, as do you.'

'And Rio Blanco?'

'I have no idea, sir. I was away when this business started, and since my return my crew will not leave the safety of Cap Francois. But if you would wish it, sir, I can show you where to anchor and how to get ashore.'

'But I forbid it,' Morhan protested.

"You command the land, sir,' Robert declared. 'But you have no command over the waves. I'll take my sloop.' He limped for the steps.

'Mad,' Morhan groaned. 'Mad. Restrain him, monsieur, I beg of you.'

Matt looked up at the bleeding head of Boukman, being slowly hoisted on the flagpole which surmounted the battlements. 'Not mad,' he said. 'Desperate, monsieur. Be sure that were there any white captives when this day dawned, they will hardly now survive the night.'

'There, sir, there,' Ledon said. 'You may even see the chateau through the trees, if it still stands.'

The sloop hardly did more than drift before the light breeze. It was again early morning, and although there were heavy clouds over the mountains, these had not yet descended towards the shore. It was indeed a heavenly day, with the sun just gaining in heat, the sky and the sea a matching blue and a matching calm. Gone were the stenches and the shrieks of the previous day, the ever-present suggestion of horror. And yet, Matt realized as he levelled his telescope, horror was their business this day. Horror was what they anticipated, what they knew they must expect.

'I can see the chateau' he said. Through the trees, the sun glinted on white.

Robert was inspecting the beach. 'And no niggers.'

'Yet they are there, sir,' Caiman objected. 'We know they are there.'

'What do you think, Ledon?'

The Frenchman hesitated, chewing his lip. 'It is hard to say, monsieur. Perhaps they still wait, in the trees beyond Cap Francois. Perhaps the death of their general has destroyed them, and they flee for the mountains.'

'Bah,' Robert said. 'That fellow was no general. And we do no work by arguing here. Hand sail, Caiman, and prepare a boat. And your cannon.'

Caiman looked down at the single piece the sloop mounted amidships. Then he shrugged, and gave the necessary orders.

'You'll come with us, Ledon,' Robert declared. 'But we'd best not take any of the crew. And we'll be as careful as we can. You understand.'

Matt nodded. This day he wore a sword, and there was a pistol at his belt. He had become, after all, a soldier, to war upon the very people to whom he had devoted his life. But then, they had elected to war on him, first, in the person of Sue. And his children. Oh, Christ, Sue, and the children. For more than a week now he had dared not think of them, dared not suppose what might have happened to them, what might still be happening to them. But now he would know.

And what then, he wondered?

The boat approached the beach, perhaps a hundred yards from where the pale-watered river debouched into the sand, forming a miniature estuary of drying banks and flooded waterways, before rushing against the gentle surf. And the water remained clear, and almost white.

Beyond was a fringe of trees, empty and silent. And then sound. They looked at each other, unsure. Perhaps it was the tumbling water. Except that it seemed to come from everywhere before them, a gigantic hum, rippling across the morning.

Ledon frowned. 'They are working the factory' he said half to himself.

'They? The blacks you mean?' Robert demanded.

Ledon shrugged. 'And yet... it sounds muted.'

'Let's get ashore,' Matt said. For he suddenly remembered that he had heard such a sound before, and only yesterday. Fie pointed above the trees, where the crows circled, lazily, and every so often dipped lower to vanish beyond the branches. 'There are no living people here.'

The boat grounded, the three white men climbed over the bow and stamped on the sand. 'You'll keep your place off shore,' Robert commanded the Negro coxswain. 'We may return in haste.'

'Oh, yes, Mr. Hilton, sir,' the slave agreed. 'We won't let any ignorant black fellow get you, sir.'

'Aye,' Robert said. "You'd best see to it.' He drew his sword and stumped up the sand, tricorne tilted back on his head, left hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Ledon and Matt walked behind. And what did the seaman think, Matt wondered? Because he must have had more friends on this plantation than anyone. Yet his face was impassive, if grim. No doubt he had also by now recognized the hum.

Ledon led the way, through the trees, to emerge on to the lawn. But there was no grass to be seen, only trampled mud. And the first bodies, a cluster of three black men. And a crow, pecking at the eyes, casting a disgusted look at the living men who approached him, and then flapping his wings as he rose from the ground. With him rose the flies and the bees, the flying ants and the beetles. The hum became louder.

And the stench settled around them like a miasma. This massacre was a fortnight old, and yet the smell, of death, of fear, of overstrained emotion, lingered. What must it have smelt like, a fortnight ago, Matt wondered?

They hurried, now. There was no reason to linger. They passed more black men, and women, lying dead and distorted on the marble drives and the marble staircases leading to the patios. But these were merely dead, and in some cases even peaceful, save for the bullet wounds. On the patios they paused, to retch, and cover their faces with their kerchiefs. Here the main work of execution had been conducted. Here there were white men, and women. And children. Here the faces were themselves distorted, as they had died, screaming with pain and screaming for mercy. Here the word mutilation became meaningless. Here was a butcher's shop, in which arms and legs and breasts and heads could not be reasonably connected, in which strands of golden hair formed patterns in the rusty blood, and the insects had to be swept aside with waves of the arms.

These were not men,' Ledon cried. These were beasts.'

Robert said nothing. He picked his way through the corpses, past the shattered doors, stood in the great hall, surveyed the bodies lying here and on the great staircase, the huge paintings, dragged from their hooks and smashed, the pink and white upholstery, scoured and scratched and torn. And the plump white woman, naked, suspended from the landing by her pale brown hair, still swinging gently in the draught which whispered through the house, the agony on her face, the gaping wounds in her chest and belly, the fire blackened mess which had been her feet, testifying to everything she had suffered before death, to the eternity death must have been in coming.

'You'd set these people free,' Robert said. It was not a question.

Matt ran, up the stairs, paused on the landing, leaned over, and with a single sweep of his sword sliced through Georgiana's hair. She fell to the floor of the hall with a dull sound, landed at Robert's feet. But Matt was on his way again, ranging along the corridors, hurling open doors to gaze at the shattered bloody interiors, pausing in horror as his nostrils were freshly afflicted by the tang of smouldering wood. But the fire had consumed only a small part of the back of the house. The rest was dead.

In time, he never knew how much time, he found the room he sought, the room he could recognize from the few tattered garments which lay scattered over the floor. But the room was empty.

After another eternity he found another room he sought, and here discovered the trampled remains of an elderly white woman, and what must have been two children. The sight brought his heart and his stomach welling to his throat. But these were not his. Of that he was sure.

He found himself once again on the main staircase, his stomach rolling, his mind whirling. Where Robert still stood, and stared.

'You'd free these things,' he said.

Matt looked at his cousin, and at Georgiana. 'Why have you not buried her?'

'Buried her? That would be blasphemy, where I cannot bury them all.' At last he raised his head. 'Sue?'

'Not there. Neither are Tony or Richard, I'm sure.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.'

For if death had been so terrible, in the hands of rebels who had so much and so long to avenge, it was impossible to consider life.

'Neither is Monsieur Corbeau.' Ledon stood in the doorway. 'They would have wished him to die even more slowly than madame. He should be here.'

Robert turned and went outside. Here, the air which their lungs had all but rejected an hour ago was now sweet and clean, by comparison. And as it was approaching noon, the clouds were sweeping lower, occasionally obliterating the sun, bringing a suggestion of damp.

They went down the drive, and through the great iron gates. Here the air was clean, and they could even bear to look at each other. Beyond the trees, the overseers' village had been burned to the ground. But the slave village was unharmed, and so, amazingly, was the factory. And above the factory there circled other crows.

Matt ran, heart bouncing around his chest, saliva mixing with threatening vomit, groin feeling weak and empty. The two older men followed more slowly. Perhaps they feared to be present when he discovered what he sought.

He burst into the shade of the great chimney and the huge vats, and was guided by his nostrils. And perhaps by instinct. For what was the most terrible death a slave, who had spent his life on a sugar plantation, could wish on his master? He climbed the ladder to the first of the rollers, and paused, and lost his balance for a moment, in sheer horror. Only Corbeau's head remained, the chin resting on the drum of the upper roller. The rest of his body had been fed through the rotating iron drums. From the expression on the tortured face, he had been alive when the torment had commenced. And across the twisted features there lay a thin golden chain, ending in a golden charm representing a hawk's beak.

Matt climbed down the ladder, slowly, gained the ground. Robert and Ledon waited for him. And the rain began to fall, a gentle patter on the factory roof, a gentle thudding on the dry ground outside.

'We have been here two hours,' Ledon said, and crossed himself. 'It is too long messieurs. And what can we do?'

'I will not leave until I have at least found Suzanne's body,' Matt said.

'Monsieur,' Ledon begged, and turned to Robert. 'Monsieur. She could have fled from the chateau, and been slain in the trees. This plantation covers several square miles. We could search for days. Or she may have been carried off by the rebels, for... for some purpose of their own.'

Robert sighed, and scratched the back of his head. 'The fellow is right, Matt We do no good by standing here. We but risk our own lives.'

'And our lives are of value?' Matt demanded. 'Both your sisters, all your nephews, all your hopes, indeed, lying here rotting?'

'Aye. Well, you are yet young, Matt. It is remarkable how a wheel can turn a circle. You'll yet marry, and have children.'

'Is that all you can think about?' Matt demanded. 'An heir for your wealth?'

'It makes more sense than standing here, aimlessly remembering,' Robert said. 'My grief is not less than yours, boy. But grief were best combated by activity. We'll regain the ship.'

He turned, and limped for the river. Ledon hesitated for a moment, and then turned and followed. Matt watched them go for some seconds. Of course every word Robert had spoken was true. He accomplished nothing by standing here. He could only attempt to live again.

He left the factory, felt the rain splashing on his hat, dampening his shoulders. In time the rain would wash all these bones clean. In time the rain might even clean Rio Blanco.

He checked, because Robert, fifty yards in front of him, and just approaching the trees which lined the river, had also checked, as had Ledon, equidistant between them. He felt a sudden lurch of his own heart, a constriction of his own belly. He had seen enough this morning to understand that capture by the insurgents was a totally unthinkable fate. But there, beyond his cousin, stood the fluttering red gown of the mamaloi.

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He plucked the pistol from his belt.

'Would you die, Robert Hilton, slowly?' Gislane asked.

'By God,' Robert said. The pistol barrel remained lodged.

Matt ran forward, feet scuffing the damp earth, stopped beside Robert, stared at the woman as she pulled the red turban from her head, allowed her midnight hair to uncoil on to her shoulders.

'Christ in Heaven,' he whispered.

'Do you not recognize me, Matt? I recognized you, the moment you landed from your ship.'

‘You were here, then?' Robert asked.

'My people have watched your ship, sailing along the coast. We knew whose ship it was, Mr. Hilton. We knew you would come to Rio Blanco.'

'You were at Cap Francois,' Matt said.

‘Yes, Matt. I must lead my people.'

'And you let us just walk into your trap,' Ledon muttered. 'My God ...' he turned, looked at the black men, who stood all around them. 'My God, messieurs.'

Gislane came forward, her gown darkening as the rain splashed on it, her hair glistening. It occurred to Matt that she had not changed at all, in twelve terrible years. But, oh, yes, she had changed. He found it impossible to gaze into those eyes.

'I do not understand,' he said.

Gislane stood immediately before them. 'It is very simple, Matt. Corbeau heard of me, sought me, and brought me here. I have lived on Rio Blanco for six years, as his mistress, as Georgiana's personal attendant. As her lover, indeed. It was Corbeau's conception of amusement, and he did enjoy being amused. But it was more than that. He explained it to me, that I was his weapon, to destroy you, as and when he chose. He was a man who planned very completely.' The lips widened into what might have been a smile. 'He called my name as he died, as I dangled my chain, his present, his badge of ownership, into his mouth.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'And what would you do with us?'

Gislane turned her eyes towards him. 'Aye, Mr. Hilton, you should ask that question. You left me once; ded to a triangle, at the mercy of Janet Hodge. And with an even grimmer prospect facing me - that of being sold to a Dutchman. Tell me why I should not tie you to a triangle and apply red pepper to your body, and then flog you to death. I have dreamed of doing that, to you, Mr. Hilton.'

'By God,' Robert muttered.

'Or even you, Matt,' she said. 'If Corbeau could find me, then so could you. Had you wished.'

'I ...' Matt bit his lip. 'And so you reserved Sue for some special torture.'

Gislane's nostrils dilated. 'Yes, Matt,' she said, suddenly fierce. 'I reserved her for that, in my mind, as I reserved Georgiana, as I reserved Corbeau himself. But I am a poor, weak creature, after all. I could do no more than turn away, and leave them to my people.'

'Which was sufficient,' Matt said. 'But I would see her body, before I die. And the bodies of my children.'

'Her body.' Gislane said. 'Then come.'

She walked through the trees, and the three white men followed. With them went their black captors. They walked, following the river, through the canefields and beyond. It was difficult to estimate how long they walked, but their muscles ached and their feet were sore when at last they again came to trees, and the Negro encampment.

'By God,' Robert said. 'But this is an army.'

For here were sentries, and then stacks of arms, with exhausted men, and women, lying beside them. Here were rows of hobbled horses, restless under their new ownership. Here were women baking and men slaughtering cattle and smoking the meat. And here were children playing, and dogs barking, and chickens scratching in the dirt.

'Did they wear uniforms, and have white skins,' Gislane said, 'would you sound so surprised? But you are wrong in describing us as an army, Mr. Hilton. We are a people. And this is your woman, Matt.' For Sue had scrambled to her feet at their approach, the dough she had been kneading still in her hands, her sons at her side. Their clothes were torn and dirty, Sue's hair straggled in knots on her back, but she stood erect, and the only suffering was in her eyes.

'Sue.' Matt ran forward, stopped in front of her.

'They said you would come,' she said.

'Tony. Dick.'

'Papa.'

They leapt into his arms, and he held them close, stared at the woman. 'And you?'

Her shoulders rose and fell. 'I am unharmed, Matt. Believe that.'

Gislane stood at his shoulder. 'Would you take her back, Matt, had she been raped?'

'I would take her back, had you cut off her head,' he said.

Gislane sighed. 'So there, madame, you have a man who loves. I would not have saved her for you, Matt. I would have hanged her beside her sister, and taken the same burning brand to them both. In my mind. I would certainly have left her to my people. But no doubt she is blessed, by being Matt Hilton's wife.'

Matt gazed at Sue, and watched her eyes move. He followed her glance, and looked at the huge young Negro, his cocked hat set at a jaunty angle, his sabre incongruous against the cotton of his pants.

‘I saw you, also, at Cap Francois.'

‘I was there, Mr. Hilton,' Christophe said, in English.

'And you saved Mistress Huys?'

‘I saved Suzanne,' Christophe said, carefully. 'For my bed? No, no, Mr. Hilton. I saved her because she looked at me, as a man, and not a thing. And I saved her again, because she told me she was your woman, and that you were the white man who brought a planter to the gallows. Are you that man, Mr. Hilton?' 'Aye,' Matt said.

'And now you wonder if you have done the right thing? Justice is ever right, Mr. Hilton.' 'You call this, justice?'

'Is it not. Mr. Hilton? As you indicted Hodge, must you not have investigated his crimes, and the crimes of his father and grandfather? I will tell you this, Mr. Hilton. Hodge was an entirely innocent man beside the crimes of Louis Corbeau, and his father, and grandfather. Oh, yes, Mr. Hilton. This was justice.'

'And my sister?' Robert demanded. 'What was her crime against you?'

'You mean Madame Corbeau? Her crime was against Gislane, certainly. But she was criminal in being Madame Corbeau. That is the way of life.'

Robert stared at him for some seconds, then shrugged. 'Yet are you lost, black man. My young fool of a cousin here was endeavouring to help you, all of you. He even persuaded me to assist him in that aim, or the folly of my brother planters forced me to it. It is all naught now. When the news of what has happened in St. Domingue reaches Europe, the hand of every white man will be turned against you, against every Negro in the West Indies. You have done your race no service.'

'On the contrary, sir,' Christophe said. 'I have reminded my race that we are men, like you, and not less so. We would not have our freedom from your charity. We will have it because it is a human right.'

'And when the warships come, and the armies?' Matt asked.

'We will fight them also.'

'As you fought before Cap Francois? Your hougan is dead. His head sits atop the wall you would capture. Will your people follow you now?' Robert was scornful.

Christophe smiled. 'Boukman was a symbol. Symbols are necessary, Mr. Hilton, to make a people act as one. Now the time for symbols is past. We will fight, because we dare not stop. And for that very reason, we will win. And it is because I have no doubt of that outcome, Mr. Hilton, that I give you your life, and I give you back your woman and her children, unharmed. You are my first act of charity, as a victor.'

'And Gislane?' Matt asked.

'Gislane does whatever she wishes.'

Matt turned to her. 'To stay here is to die. You must know that.'

'You would offer me a home?' she asked. 'You, Matt?'

He hesitated. "No. Not now. I would offer you transport, back to England, perhaps.'

'And what would I do there, Matt? My home is here. My people are here. My fight is here. I will die here.' She looked at Sue. 'Madame, your family wronged me. I forgive you for that. I wish you joy of your life with Matt.' She turned and walked into the crowd of blacks.

'You will leave this place,' Christophe said. 'I give you two hours of safety. When next we meet, if it should happen, it will be as enemies. Until after our victory. Then you may return, Matt Hilton, and you Madame Suzanne, and you will be my guests. I give you my word.'

He turned and followed his mamaloi.

Ledon snatched the pistol from his belt. 'At least we may settle one of them.'

Robert struck the arm down. 'Are you mad? You would die, for one thing. And he has played the man, this day at least, for another.' He took the pistol from the seaman's fingers, placed it on his own belt. 'Let us leave the place.'

'And go where?' Matt asked.

'Why, back to Hilltop. Eh, lads?' He seized Tony and Dick's hands, walked towards the canefields. ' 'Tis a strange old world. But Hilltop is your home. You'll not forget that.'

'We are for England,' Matt said.

Robert stopped. 'Eh? Now, what madness is this, by God?'

'You were right, just now, in saying that all Europe will be roused against the blacks. But Christophe was no less right, in claiming his freedom as a right. I have done all I can, here. I will join Tom, and we will continue our efforts before Parliament,'

'By God,' Robert said. 'And you?' He glared at his sister.

'The pair of you have spent my life posing me that question. I will go with Matt.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. That any man could be so cursed...'

'I will go with Matt,' Sue said again. 'Because I love him. In a way I never knew, before. But because too, I know he is right now. And I was never sure of that before either.'

'Right?' Robert shouted. 'Having seen your sister slaughtered by these devils? Having been their prisoner...'

'Aye,' she said. 'Having lived with them. And discovered that they are men, and women, and children, like me and mine. I will go with Matt.' She walked away from him, her hand in Matt's towards the pale-watered river.

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He rubbed Tony's head. 'Cursed you are, lad. Like me. With mad people for parents. But you'll be back, lad. Aye, and your brother. You've heat in your blood, and sugar.' He looked around him. 'And you've a deal to do.'

the end