He pushed himself up, and her arm went round his neck. She had learned, from her mother, no doubt, and drew him to her, fingers busy. He had a wild, irrelevant thought that she might scream, as her mother did, when he entered. But instead she gave the longest sigh he had ever heard, seeming to expel all the air from her lungs and then go on exhaling even after that, so that her body appeared to deflate, and she lay absolutely still, her arms tight on his neck, her cheek next to his, causing the most exquisite agony as his face surged against hers.

Then he lay as still as she, lips together, bodies together, feet together, his hair mingling with hers as it flopped from his forehead, passion disappeared in a gnawing, a growing despair. The sickness was back, eating at his belly, eating at his brain, eating at his heart. This girl was fourteen years old. She called him uncle. She had stayed with him after he had been beaten, rather than taking refuge with her mother. She had not fought him, because she trusted him. And his reply had been to rape her.

For merely attempting to molest her, he had quarrelled with Tony, and sent him from the plantation.

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to choke. He wished he could choke. He pushed himself away from her, pulled up his breeches, threaded his belt.

'We could stay the night. It is too late to ride back to Hilltop now.'

Too late, he thought. And she, in her innocence, would compound the crime, again and again. He went to the door.

'Uncle Dick?' She raised herself on her elbow.

'Your mother,' he mumbled. 'You must go to your mother.' He stepped into the corridor, was for a moment dazzled by the flickering candles. The door closed behind him. He went down the stairs, and the clerk gazed at him in amazement. No doubt he remained untidy, his hair scattered.

He stood on the porch, inhaled the night air. It was quite dark, and the windows of the houses were dotted with light. It was also quieter; the revellers had returned home to eat. And talk. And laugh. They would have Richard Hilton to discuss, this night. Harriet Gale, laughing with her friend at the way he had been dismissed. Tony Hilton, laughing with his gambling friends over his brother's absurd attitudes. Ellen Taggart, laughing with the Laidlaws over the way they had brought him to heel. And Judith Gale, sobbing to herself, as the enormity of what had happened slowly overtook her.

He felt in his coat pocket, discovered a bottle of rum. Had he finished the other one? He pulled out the cork, took a long drink, and lost some of the sick feeling. But the street kept rising and falling.

His horse gave a faint whinny, but he ignored it, walked down the street, staggering a little, brain buzzing, head opening and shutting with gigantic bangs, stomach rolling. And came to a full stop at the beginnings of the dock. Before him the harbour was quiet, the water lapping at the piles, the ships riding to their anchors. He took another drink.

A noise, from behind him. He turned, stepping aside as he did so. Half a dozen men came down the street, laughing and chattering amongst themselves. They walked past him without a glance, began to drag a dinghy out from beneath the piles. Seamen. Returning to their ship, and thence, no doubt, to England. Theirs was a freedom which landsmen, and plantation owners, could never know. A freedom to leave their problems, and their women, and their detractors, and those who would give them orders, behind, and look to new horizons.

England. The boat was free of the wooden uprights, and one man was already on board, holding it close while the others got in. Mama was in England, and Father. To tell him where he had gone wrong. To be confessed to, where he had gone wrong, and to tell him what he must now do. Why, perhaps he could persuade Mama to return to Jamaica with him. It would not take very long.

The last man was in the boat. He must act now, or he would have lost the opportunity.

'Ahoy,' he said, stepping forward. The coxswain had been about to cast off. 'Aye?’ 'Where are you bound?' Dick asked. 'Plymouth, your honour.'

'Do you take passengers?' Dick dug his hand into his pocket, found a handful of guineas, brought them out to glint in the faint light.

The sailors exchanged glances.

'You'd have to ask the captain.'

'He's aboard?'

'Oh, aye, We're sailing at midnight.'

'Then give me a ride out to your ship. I'd talk with him.'

The coxswain peered at him. 'You're drunk, your honour, if you'll pardon the liberty. When you wakes up, we'll be at sea.'

'Aye,' Dick said. 'There's a happy thought.' He threw his empty bottle into the harbour.

8

The Brother

Anthony Hilton turned over his cards, one by one. 'Ah, bah,' he said. 'Twenty-three.' He threw them into the pile in the middle of the table.

' 'Tis that unlucky you are, Mr Hilton,' said the dealer, smiling at him. 'You'll sign another note?'

'I will not. 'Tis damn near dawn.' Tony stretched, leaning back in his chair. The other players waited, politely. Once he stopped, they had small reason to continue. 'One day, Lewis, my luck will turn. Or I'll discover how you cheat.'

'Why, Mr Hilton,' Lewis said. 'A man could take offence at that, indeed he could.'

'But you won't, Lewis,' Tony said. 'There's a pity.' He got up, draped his coat over his shoulder, stuck his hat on the back of his head. 'Good morning, gentlemen.'

He opened the door, inhaled the cleaner air of the corridor, closed it behind him, and listened to a cock crow. It was indeed all but dawn. And he had lost near a hundred guineas. Dick would not be pleased.

And then he remembered. Christalmighty, Dick would not be settling these notes. Or would he, because he was Dick? But he'd be expecting his brother to be on a ship to England. Christalmighty.

He lurched along the corridor, found the window at the end, and put his head out, once again breathing deeply to clear the tobacco fumes from his head. Of all the stupid quarrels, over a little cock teaser. But of course it went deeper than that. Dick had not been himself recently, had seemed to have something on his mind.

He smiled at the lightening darkness. And now he had more than just something. Ellen had been at Hilltop yesterday, was probably still there now. That would have put the cat amongst the pigeons.

'Mr Hilton?'

He turned. Noble belied his name by actually owning this establishment. He was a nervous little man, who looked even more nervous this morning.

‘I did not wish to disturb you, earlier. But there is a young woman wishing to see you.'

'Eh? I'm not in the mood, Noble.'

'Oh, no, sir, not one of mine.' Noble allowed himself a grin. 'Although she could be, sir, given time. 'Tis the Gale girl. Harriet's daughter.'

'Eh?'

'Downstairs, Mr Hilton.'

Tony brushed the man aside, ran down the stairs. Judith sat in a straight chair at the bottom. She wore no hat, and was indeed not dressed for town at all. He had never seen her face so solemn. But how good it was to see her. So perhaps she was no more than a tease. He knew now that she was what he wanted, in every way. It was not an admission he would dream of making to anyone—save himself—but women, Joan Lanken, the blacks, expected to be mastered by Tony Hilton. And became contemptuous when he would have them respond in kind.

After Joan's sly smile, Harriet Gale, the thought of Harriet Gale and Uncle Robert, had seemed the answer to a dream. But that bitch had been interested only in the Hilton, in a perpetuation of her position. She had forgotten she had a daughter, who knew no other way of love, as she knew no other man.

'Judith? What has happened?'

She stood up. 'I don't know, Uncle Tony. I'm so afraid.' 'Afraid?' He took her hand; it was as cold as ice. 'Sit down. Tell me.'

'Uncle Dick,' she said. 'He's disappeared.'

'Dick? Rubbish.'

'We came into town,' she said.

'You and Dick? Why?'

'Well, there was this quarrel, Uncle Tony. Between Uncle Dick and that lady. I don't remember her name.' 'Miss Taggart?'

'Aye. And Mummy left in a rage, and then Miss Taggart left, with her mother. And then Uncle Dick said, we'll go into town and see them. He'd been drinking, Uncle Tony.'

'Dick? You mean he was drunk? Good God.'

'So we came in, Uncle Tony, and he went to the Laidlaws' house, where Miss Taggart is staying, and they wouldn't let him in. So then he went to the Park Hotel, where Mummy is rooming. But. . . ' She bit her lip.

'She wouldn't let him in, either?'

'She had a man with her, Uncle Tony. He ... he hit Uncle Dick.'

'Hit him? Beat him up, you mean?'

Her chin flopped up and down, as she nodded.

'Christalmighty. So what happened then?'

Judith Gale inhaled, slowly. 'He left, Uncle Tony. He just walked out of the hotel. But he was very upset, and he had a bottle.'

'What time was this?'

She shrugged. 'About eight o'clock last night.'

Tony felt in his fob, took out his watch. The time was a quarter to six. 'He probably fell down and is sleeping in a ditch.'

'I've looked, Uncle Tony. Well, I waited at the hotel for him to come back. Then I started looking. I've walked all Kingston, Uncle Tony.'

Tony frowned at her. 'You have wandered the streets of Kingston all night. Unmolested?'

'Nobody bothered me, Uncle Tony.'

'Good God Almighty. You are an odd child. Don't you realize that he's gone back to Hilltop?'

'His horse is still outside the Park Hotel, Uncle Tony.' 'Eh?' Tony seized another chair, pulled it next to hers, and sat down.

'And I met one man, Uncle Tony, last night, who remembers a drunken man leaving the Park Hotel. He can't be sure it was Uncle Dick, but the time would have been about right. And Uncle Tony, the man walked towards the docks. The harbour, Uncle Tony.'

Tony gazed at her. Dick, drunk and irresponsible? He would not have said that was possible, for such a level-headed prig. Although he had had a lot on his mind, and more building up all the time. But not enough, perhaps. Unless . . .

'So what do you think has happened to him?'

She licked her lips. 'I think he may have fallen in. Or . . .'

'Or jumped? Because he was beaten up by some client of your mother's?'

'He was very upset,' she said.

It was quite light now; the clerk was snuffing the candles. And Judith thought Dick might have committed suicide. Now why should a girl like Judith Gale even think in terms like that?

And if she had cause, what unimaginable vistas were suddenly opening in front of him. Dick had run away from something. That seemed fairly obvious. From Ellen? Hardly likely. She still had every intention of marrying him. From Harriet's friend? That was nonsense. All he had to do was declare himself to the Custos and they'd have the fellow in gaol. From something on Hilltop? Of which he knew nothing? Or from someone.

And did it matter, alongside the plain fact that the owner of Jamaica's biggest plantation had apparently lost his senses, with a crop to be ground?

'Uncle Tony?' she asked. 'You will do something?'

Tony smiled at her. 'I will, Judith. When you tell me exactly what happened between you and my brother.'

'Seven hundred and four, Mr Hilton’ said the clerk. 'But Mr Hilton, there's a man in there.'

'Never,' Tony remarked. The clerk looked at Judith.

'You sit down here,' Tony said. 'I'm going to have a word with your mother.'

The clerk licked his lips. 'This man ... he had a fight with your brother, we think, Mr Hilton.'

'Oh, aye?' Tony said. 'Tell me about it.'

'Well, there was this noise, and a bump, and I went upstairs, with Harvey, the boy, you know? And there was no one there. But Mr Hilton had just gone up . . . and then, about an hour later, he came down, staggering, and went out of the door. And then, another half-hour later, that young lady came down . . .'

'They'd been in one of your empty rooms,' Tony said. 'Recovering. But you remember all of that. As a matter of fact, old son, I would write it out, just to be sure you have it straight. I'll pick it up in a moment.'

'You be careful, Uncle Tony,' Judith said.

'I'm a careful man.' Because he did not want sex from Harriet Gale. Thus he could be the masterful man every woman who had never shared his bed supposed him to be. There was a paradox. One he found amusing, when he was in the mood to be amused.

He climbed the stairs, and at the top took off his coat and laid it on the floor; the bandanna he used when rising to keep dust from his mouth was in the pocket; he wrapped it several times around his right hand, to bring the fingers together and protect them. Then he knocked on the door of room seven hundred and four.

After a few minutes, it swung in; the time was still only eight-thirty. 'Christ,' said the large man. 'Another one?'

'Good morning to you,' Tony said, and hit him in the belly. The man wore only a pair of pants, and they were no protection. He gave a gasp and his face came forward. Tony put his left hand on his shoulder to stop him, and while he was momentarily checked, hit him exactly on the point of the jaw with his protected right fist. The man gave a sigh, and his knees lost all their strength. Tony caught him under the left arm as well, and gently laid him on the floor. 'And to you,' he said to Harriet.

She sat up in bed, naked, stared at him in total horror.

He dragged the large man into the corridor, sat him against the wall, re-entered the room, closed and locked the door.

Harriet licked her lips. 'What. . . what do you want?'

Tony crossed the room, sat on the bed. 'To talk with you. I believe Dick came here last night.'

Her head flopped up and down.

'And was ejected by your friend. I imagine you were pretty angry with Dickie boy.'

She gasped for breath. 'He just stood there, while that. . . that bitch kicked me out.'

'And she did, kick you out,' Tony said with great satisfaction. 'You must show me the mark, some time.'

'You . . . how did you know?'

'Judith told me. She told me a lot of things. Such as how, after leaving you last night, Dick raped her.'

'He did what? Oh, that little whore. Rape her? She's been dying to get him between her legs for months. Years, maybe.'

'Harriet,' Tony said, gently. 'You just do not seem to be paying attention. Judith was raped. She may not know it, yet, but you had better be sure she finds out. A fourteen-year-old girl? Of course she was raped.'

'But. . .' Harriet's brows drew together, slowly, in bewilderment. 'That's a criminal charge.'

'Indeed it is. And perpetrated by a man like Dick Hilton, why . . . imagination does not cope with the scandal. As he no doubt realizes. He has disappeared.'

'Disappeared?'

'He was last seen making for the waterfront. Certainly he is not to be found in Kingston. I have spent this last hour making inquiries.'

'But... oh, my God.'

'Suicide? Not Dick. On the other hand, he was drunk. He might have fallen in, and drowned. There's tragedy for you.'

'You can sit there? And say that, about your own brother?'

'An odd chap. Not really a Hilton. On the other hand, Harriet, a ship cleared last night about ten. The Cormorant for Bristol.'

'And you think he's on that? Oh, thank God.'

'It is a possibility. A guilty man, running, oh, yes, it is a possibility. But what a time to go, with a crop to be cut and ground.'

Harriet once more licked her lips. 'You ... he ordered you from the plantation.'

'Ah. I was wondering, do you remember that, Harriet?' She gazed at him.

'Because I was thinking, he has also ordered you from the plantation. In effect. Now, even were I to be allowed to act for him, and in the circumstances, with him gone, and us not knowing whether he is alive or dead, and being unable to know until the Cormorant makes Bristol and returns again—why, twelve weeks at the very least—I could not take you back out there.' He leaned forward, gently cupped her right breast in his hand, adjusting its sag. Her eyes widened. 'But at the same time, being a very generous fellow by nature, were I put in charge of Hilltop I certainly would not think of letting you starve, especially after what Dick did to your daughter. And there is another point. With you making a formal accusation of rape, and concerning your daughter, it is doubtful whether Dick will ever dare return to Jamaica, and if he did, he would very probably go to gaol. Twelve weeks, was I saying? Twelve years more like.' He turned his attention to her left breast, stroked the nipple erect. 'I do not see, in the circumstances, how Reynolds could do anything different. Dick has made a will you know, leaving everything to me. Well, perhaps he isn't dead. But there it is. I am his appointed heir.' Harriet gazed at him. 'How much?'

'Your own house, for a start. And shall we say, a thousand a year? There'll be no quarrelling with Judith, mind. She'll live with you, and you'll be the perfect mother, as regards her.

What else you do with your time, and who else you do it with, is your business.'

'A thousand pounds?'

'A thousand guineas.'

'My God,' she whispered. Then her head jerked. 'Boscawen. Merriman. They were there when you left.'

Tony Hilton smiled. 'Boscawen and Merriman are slaves, Harriet. And Dick was an indulgent, an over-indulgent master. Why, those two, they'd perjure themselves to have him back. But I know how to deal with perjury. So do the Custos, I imagine. They're all planters.'

Harriet Gale licked her lips. 'You are a devil from hell, Mr Hilton.'

Tony Hilton stood up. 'I'm a Hilton, Mistress Gale. No doubt Reynolds will be in touch, for a statement.' He went to the door. 'I'll send Judith up. Be sure you treat her kindly.'

The sun was swinging low in the western sky when Anthony Hilton rode up the slope. The rain of yesterday had left the air clean. The rain and the wind. There had been a lot of wind, although it was too late in the year for a full hurricane. And indeed, the gale had already blown itself out. But it could not have sprung up at a better time. It occurred to Tony that he might be an unlucky gambler, but there was nothing wrong with his fortune in other directions.

He drew rein before the Great House. Instantly the yardboys surrounded the horse to take his bridle and give him a leg down. And instantly, too, Boscawen appeared on the verandah. 'Mr Hilton, sir? Man. I'm glad to see you, master. The master done gone to town, three days, and I ain't seen him.'

Tony climbed the steps, took off his hat to fan his face. 'Fetch me something to drink. None of that damned sangaree. A bottle of good wine from the cellar.'

'Man, Mr Tony, sir, Mr Richard done give instructions no wine to be taken from the good cellar unless he saying so.'

'Listen, old man,' Tony said. 'Fetch me a bottle, and jump to it. And then get the drivers and that Merriman up here, and send for Mr Hardy.'

Boscawen hesitated, looked down the steps as if hoping to see Dick materialize out of the dusk, then turned and went into his pantry. Tony entered the withdrawing room. The candles had just been lit, and burned brightly. The entire room glowed. It was a room meant to be crowded, with handsome, elegantly dressed men, and with beautiful, gayly dressed women. It had stood empty for too long.

And now it was his. His now, and, if he played his cards right, his forever. And he played cards well. There was no sharper sitting opposite him this time. All the high cards were tucked away in his sleeve.

Hardy hurried into the room. 'Mr Hilton? Thank God. If we only knew what was going on . . .'

'It seems my brother has fled the island, or committed suicide,' Tony explained.

'Good God. Because of that Taggart woman?'

'Have you met her?'

'Yesterday. She came out here, for the second time, I believe, looking for Mr Richard. It seems he had been meant to call on her in town.'

'Ah. Was she worried?'

'She was indeed, Mr Anthony. Well, she took the road in all that rain. Afraid for her safety, I was. But she would come. And then go again. What's to be done?^’

'There is little can be done, about poor Dick. It is also a criminal matter, James. A business of rape, on Judith Gale.'

Hardy frowned. 'Judith? I would hardly call that. . .'

'Rape is rape, James. The innocent must be protected. A complaint has been laid, and the Custos would certainly have to take Dick into custody should he reappear. But I have a feeling that he won't, for some time. In the meanwhile, I am to manage Hilltop.'

'You, Mr Anthony? But, I did hear . . .'

'Rumours spread by the blacks, James. You'll not believe nigger rumours, now will you? Of course, there will have to be certain changes. I doubt I possess my brother's patience with lazy swine. I have also long felt that you have been insufficiently rewarded for all your efforts on our behalf.'

Hardy gazed at him for a moment, and then smiled. 'Rumours, Ml Anthony. I'll get to the bottom of them.'

Tony also smiled. He had been looking past his manager to the verandah, where Joshua Merriman was hurrying up the steps; behind him were Absolom and several of the drivers. 'Then I suggest you begin.'

'Mr Anthony?' Merriman stood in the hall, his hat in his hands. 'But what is this I hearing, Mr Anthony?'

Tony went outside. 'Nothing that need concern you, Josh. Save that I shall be in charge of Hilltop for the next few years.'

'You, Mr Anthony? But the master done say . . .'

'I am the master, Josh. You'd do well to remember that.'

Josh frowned at him. 'I got for hear that from the master, Mr Anthony.'

'Another opinion I have long held, Mr Hardy,' Tony said, 'is that this fellow is unsuited to the authority my brother saw fit to give him. From this moment he will take his place in the field.'

'You can't do that, Mr Anthony,' Joshua declared. 'I going talk with Mr Reynolds about this.'

'You can talk to the sky,' Tony said. 'Mr Hardy, that man is at the bottom of all the rumours spread about my brother and me. I want him punished. Fifty lashes, Mr Hardy.'

'Yes, sir,' Hardy cried.

'You can't do this,' Merriman insisted. 'The master done say . . .'

Hardy was at the balustrade, looking down at Absolom. 'Take him down, Absolom. Strip him and have him on the triangle.'

Absolom glanced at his fellow drivers. 'When Mr Reynolds hears about this . . .' Josh said. But he was not a Hilltop slave. He was Dick Hilton's man, not theirs.

'You coming, man?' Absolom asked. 'Or we carrying you?'

Thank you, Mr Hardy,' Tony said, and went inside. Things to be done. Mama. She must be told. He must write her a letter, explaining Dick's crimes. And then, Ellen Taggart? She looked like a horse. But a very handsome horse. And a strong, purposeful woman, of whom Dick was very obviously terrified. Why, the poor woman must be absolutely distraught at what had happened.

Besides, he had no idea what arrangements Dick might have made, either with her or concerning her.

'You'll fetch the port, Boscawen.' Anthony Hilton leaned back in his chair, smiled down the sweep of the huge dining table. Ellen Taggart smiled back. She sat immediately on his right. Her mother sat on his left, and James Hardy sat beside Mrs Taggart. The table continued to look utterly empty, save for this corner. But it was an expanse Tony enjoyed. 'So there it is,' he said. 'Perhaps it is difficult to explain, and yet, you know, all my sympathy, all my heart, goes out to poor Dick. Living here, in all this splendour, absolute master of everyone and everything, one loses all sense of perspective, all sense of reality. The same thing apparently happened to Uncle Robert. Isn't that so, Mr Hardy?'

'Oh, indeed, Mr Hilton,' Hardy agreed. 'The former Mr Hilton was renowned for his eccentricity, and his arrogance.'

'And you think my appearance may have pricked Dick's little bubble?' Ellen inquired, softly. She wore a white evening gown, decorated with pink lace flowers at the hem, and pink lace gloves. Her bodice was square, but low. Her hair was up; and also decorated with flowers. She was a quite superb horse. And a woman of character. A woman who would never be mastered? Who would never wish to be mastered? What a splendid thought.

'Oh, undoubtedly. Looked at objectively, of course, it was the best thing that could happen to him. There is yet time. But then, to rape that poor child ... I do beg your pardon, Mrs Taggart.'

'A spade may as well be called a spade, Mr Hilton,' Mrs

Taggart said. 'I never did like that young man, if you'll excuse my opinion. I always found him odd.'

'Oh, Mother, you hardly knew Dick.' Ellen frowned at Tony. 'But then, it seems, neither did I.'

Boscawen had placed the decanter of port beside Tony; now he filled Ellen's crystal goblet before passing it to her mother. 'We shall, of course, endeavour to find him, and to be honest with you, Ellen .... you don't mind if I call you Ellen, I hope ... I shall endeavour to keep him safe away from Jamaica and the law. Blood is thicker than water, what?'

Ellen sighed, and sipped, and sighed again. 'I could forgive him anything,' she said. 'Even assaulting that poor child. But those lies he wrote in his letters, year after year after year.'

'Unforgivable,' Mrs Taggart boomed.

'Incredible,' Tony said, having discovered the opening he had been seeking. 'One can hardly think of a more peaceful place than Jamaica, and in Jamaica a more peaceful place than this plantation. I'd enjoy showing it you, Ellen.'

'I'd love to see it,' she said. 'I've only glanced at it from the windows of the coach, as we came in, and the first time, well . . .' a pretty flush scorched her cheeks, 'I was so angry . . .'

'With reason. With reason. Shall we retire?' Tony stood up, pulled out Ellen's chair; Hardy did the same for Mrs Taggart. 'If you ladies would like to see the bedrooms . . .' He smiled. 'I am afraid I don't have such a thing as a housekeeper.'

'And very wise, too,' Mrs Taggart said. 'Will you accompany me, Ellen?'

Ellen had caught Tony's eye. 'I think a little later, Mother. But you go ahead. I'd like some air.' She walked towards the verandah. 'That was a superb meal, Mr Hilton.'

Tony nodded to Hardy, who withdrew into the drawing room. Mrs Taggart was already half way up the stairs.

He joined Ellen on the verandah. ‘I think you could try calling me Tony.'

She glanced at him, moved to the rail, looked down at the night, at the twinkling lights in the houses of the town, and at the torches burning in the slave village. 'It is magnificent,' she said. 'So quiet. . . and yet, not so quiet, surely. There was a man, suspended from some posts, when we came in. He had been whipped I think.'

'Oh, indeed, an utter scoundrel named Merriman. Do you know, I have had to flog him every day this past week? The fact is, it was another of Dick's aberrations that these people did not require discipline. But I should have had him taken down before you came. I do apologize.'

Her fingers rested on the rail. 'I am glad you didn't. A plantation should look like a plantation. Besides . . .' She gave him another sidelong glance, and her tongue showed, for just a moment.

He stood beside her, his heart pounding. He suddenly realized he could love this woman. And surely a woman like Ellen Taggart could never really have loved Dick. 'What will you do now?'

'Oh.' She gazed into the darkness. 'I seem to have made a complete fool of myself. Mama and I will have to take ship back to England.'

'Why?'

'Well. . .' Another quick glance. 'We cannot remain here, Mr Hilton. Tony. Quite apart from the scandal. . .'

'There would have been scandal, or at best gossip, even had you found nothing with which to reproach Dick, and married him. Our very name accumulates it.'

'But the name protects as well, Tony. I do not have it. Ouch.'

'A mosquito. We do suffer from them, occasionally. Did it sting you?'

She pulled off her left glove. 'It seemed to get into the top.'

'Don't scratch it.' He took her hand, raised it to his lips, gently sucked the sweet-smelling flesh. 'The name will protect you also, Ellen, if you remain as my guest.'

'Your guest?'

'This house is full of empty bedrooms. You are welcome to stay for as long as you wish. At least until we obtain some word of Dick. Besides, it is already all but December. You'd not get home before Christmas. Christmas on Hilltop. There's an occasion you'll not want to miss.'

'And will my staying here not increase the gossip?'

'I don't see how it can. Your reputation will be safe enough, as your mother will be here with you.' He was still holding her hand. Now he kissed it again. 'Besides, you said you wanted to see a plantation as a plantation. In January we commence grinding. And when that is done, why, then you'll really see Hilltop as it should be. I promise you.'

She smiled at him, pulled on her glove. 'You make it sound quite marvellous. And when people say that I have become your housekeeper?'

Her breathing had quickened, just a little. Tony returned her smile, held both her hands. 'You may spit in their eye. You have the permission of Anthony Hilton of Hilltop. Should you wish to, of course, Miss Taggart.'

'It's fantastic' Ellen Taggart stood on the floor of the factory, gazed up at the throbbing machinery, the swarming figures. She wore a green muslin gown with a matching bonnet, riding boots, and carried a whip, but presently her gloved hands were pressed to her ears to resist at least some of the noise. And she sweated, and looked quite entrancing, Tony Hilton decided; her sleeves stuck to her arms and shoulders, her skirts seemed to cling to her thighs, little beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead and upper lip, rolled down her neck. 'But the noise.'

'Leaves me deaf for days,' he bawled. 'Will you go up?'

She seemed not to listen, continued to stare above her. And he realized that she was watching the tumbling rollers, the seething cane, the hideous belts, the reverberating drums, less than the black men, naked save for their breechclouts and dribbling sweat, who paraded the catwalks. Her mouth was faintly open. He remembered the night she had come to dinner, and seen Joshua Merriman, hanging from the triangle. He had not even been wearing a breechclout.

Tony's excitement grew. But then, it had been growing with every day she had remained on Hilltop. To belong to Ellen, to be at her mercy . . . and be sure his secret would be kept. Because with Ellen there could be no risk. She wanted the power that went with being mistress of Hilltop; she would never betray the man who could give her that power.

He held her arm. 'Then I think I'd better get you out in the fresh air.'

She seemed to awaken from a trance. 'Oh, I am sorry. It is the noise. I really have never known anything like it.'

'Ah, but it's worth it,' Tony said. 'Every rumble is worth a hundred pounds.' They had nearly gained the doors, and the sunlight. 'And how is your mother this morning?'

Ellen shrugged. 'The heat really does prostrate her. I'm afraid she will not be able to manage summer here. We shall have to think of returning to England.'

'Or she will,' he suggested. 'It will be another five weeks before we can learn anything of Dick.'

She gave him one of her sidelong glances, then arranged her features into a smile as Hardy hurried towards them; the manager was stripped to the waist, as usual when grinding, and wore a bandanna round his neck to absorb some of the sweat. But Ellen Taggart's eyes, Tony noted, remained politely uninterested.

'Well, James,' he shouted. 'How goes it? Another record crop?'

'No doubt, Mr Hilton, no doubt,' Hardy agreed. 'But 'tis another matter concerns me. The big buck, Merriman. He's gone.'

'Gone?' Tony echoed.

'Him and two others. Well, I took him from confinement for the grinding. We need all hands. And runaways, really, they've no place to go. I'll fetch him back, but I may be gone a couple of days.'

Tony shook his head. 'You're needed here, James. I'll do the fetching.'

Hardy frowned at him. 'You'll be careful, Mr Anthony. He'll be making north, for the Cockpit Country. That's bad land. And he's a bad black, or will be, to you. You'll take Absolom.'

'Aye. I'll need a tracker.'

'And food. You won't find any up there. Water, too. And you'll not forget pistols, Mr Anthony.'

Tony punched him on the shoulder. 'I'll fetch him back; James. You just grind the crop.' He held Ellen's arm. 'We'd best get up to the house to prepare. You'll excuse me for a day or so? Anything you wish, just tell Hardy.'

She allowed him to give her a leg up into the saddle. 'I'll not miss you, Tony. It's my intention to accompany you.'

He frowned at her, even as his heart leapt into his throat with joy. 'That's impossible. Apart from the danger, there's the impropriety. You'd be compromised. And the discomfort. We'll be sleeping rough. Anyway, your mother would never agree.'

'I shall tell mother I am going into town to do some shopping, and shall be staying with Clarissa Laidlaw,' Ellen said. 'As for the rest, this is Hilltop, is it not? Did you not tell me that on Hilltop our laws are our own, social or legal?'

'They come this way, all right.' Absolom knelt by the side of the track, peered at the faint marks, seemed almost to sniff the earth. He was acting. They followed the dogs, and the mastiffs were already casting farther on. But in fact, Tony reasoned, there was no other way they could have come. It was late afternoon, and the sun had already disappeared behind the mountains which surrounded them, leaving the air suddenly cool, and lacking the glare which left eyes tired and heads throbbing on normal days. But of course, they were considerably higher up than Hilltop, which was itself several hundred feet above sea level.

They had climbed all day, through trees, clipping down into sudden sodden valleys, before climbing again. Now the trees continued to cling to the slopes to either side, but the slopes themselves were steep and nothing but boulder and outcrop; to climb there would be exhausting and lead nowhere. Only by the valleys could man journey.

And woman? She had tied a bandanna round her neck, as she had opened the collar of her blouse; now she used the tail of the red kerchief to dab at her mouth and eyes. But when she saw him looking at her, she smiled. 'Are they far away?'

She was exhausted. And no doubt as uncomfortable, with sweat and heat and saddleweariness, as he. But she'd not show it.

'Absolom?'

'Well, I ain't thinking so, Mr Hilton, sir. But it only got an hour of daylight left.'

The other two drivers fidgeted, and caused their mules to fidget as well. They were plantation slaves, and the mountains were a place to fear.

'We'll keep going for another hour,' Tony decided. 'I'm sorry, Ellen, but it seems as if we will have to spend a night out, after all.'

'I had anticipated nothing less. It is an adventure. An adventure is good for the spirit, from time to time.' She walked her mule past him. 'But all Jamaica is an adventure, is it not?'

Her head was turned, and she continued on her way. Proving herself a worthy Hilton woman, no doubt. He smiled at her back, and followed, Absolom and the drivers ahead now, picking their way over the stones and through the sudden soft patches. And without warning there came a breeze, damp and thus amazingly chill to their heated skins, soughing through the mountain passes. The dogs came back to them, whining their discontent.

'Eh-eh.' Absolom pulled on his rein.

'What is the matter?' Tony called.

'That is rain, man, Mr Hilton, sir.'

His head jerked. He had not noticed before, but the afternoon had grown dark. There were clouds everywhere, sweeping in from the Atlantic, perhaps, and being pushed upwards by the high land.

'Much rain?'

'It going be heavy,' Absolom said, sadly. 'We best stop now.'

Tony looked around him. Trees apart, there was a complete absence of shelter, although perhaps the mountains themselves would provide something in the nature of a windbreak. He pointed. 'Over there.' And urged his mule beside Ellen's. ‘I had hoped to find some water to stop by. But it seems it is coming to us.'

'Why all the excitement?' she asked. 'A little rain?'

'There is no such thing as a little rain, in this country.' He dismounted, held her stirrup for her to slip to the ground beside him, inhaled the scent of her perspiration, which quite drowned the last traces of her perfume. And felt again excited. He wanted so much, from this woman.

'I have brought a pelisse. And wondered why, at the time.' She looked up. They stood beneath a fringe of trees, heavy above their heads, branches drooping; beyond and above the trees the rock face rose steeply, to other thrusting shrubs, some protruding at right angles. But here the breeze was muted.

'You'd best prepare some food,' Tony told Absolom. 'Will a fire alert Merriman?'

'Oh, they knowing we is here, Mr Hilton, sir. But I thinking the rain going put the fire out.'

'It isn't raining yet,' Tony pointed out. 'And I am sure Miss Taggart would like a hot meal. Christalmighty.'

It seemed the entire sky immediately above his head had exploded. The lightning was a swathe of pure white which slashed downwards through the valley and struck a tree on the far side; they could hear the crack of the shattering trunk for a split second before the thunder overwhelmed them, doubling its noise as it bounced from hill to hill, a louder noise than he had ever heard in his life, spinning his brain and leaving him bereft of senses.

He discovered himself lying on the ground, noise still crashing in his ears; it was, in fact, a succession of fresh thunderclaps. And being pinned there, by drops of water as big as his thumbnails, which had already soaked him to his drawers, crashed through his straw hat to reduce it to tattered grass, pounded on his head, thrusting the branches of the trees aside as if they were twigs.

The darkness was utter, although it could only be just after six, he reckoned. Then another searing flash of lightning ripped the evening apart, but the sudden brilliance left him even more blind and more bewildered than before.

He made a tremendous effort, pushed himself to his hands and knees, heard the whinny of the mules as they huddled close, the howling of the dogs, realized they were all in extreme danger from the lightning shafts striking the trees beneath which they stood. But he could not make himself take the decision to move away from even this perilous shelter, much less order his people to do so. He wished to find only the woman, and crawled forward, knees sinking into the suddenly soft earth, rain pounding on his back and shoulders.

'Ellen,^’ he shouted. 'Ellen?^’

She whimpered, like a frightened animal. She lay on her side, on the earth, her blouse discoloured with mud, her knees drawn up, as if she were attempting to re-enter the womb. He lay beside her, belly against the curve of her back, her buttocks in his groin. He put his arms round her, held her against him; her hair was lank, plastering her head and his face. The pouring water, the crashing thunder, the darting shafts of terrible light, seemed to isolate them, away from their companions, away from the mules, away from the mountains, away even from Jamaica. They might be floating in a timeless cloud, he thought. A wet cloud, he thought, with grim humour. He held her closer and closer, hands seeping under her arms to find her blouse, which seemed no more than a second skin. She wore no corset. Well, that made sense in view of the journey she had undertaken. The adventure, she had called it. He wondered if she would still call it an adventure.

He found her nipples, thrusting through the soaked linen, chilled into hardness. She made no protest, no move either, save to huddle her back closer to him. He could stroke and caress to his heart^’s content, and in doing so, shelter his own mind from the holocaust around him. And from her, perhaps, draw strength for himself.

A whisper, through the night. But it was no longer night. It was dawn. There was lightness, in the valley, silhouetting the peaks which reached for the sky on every side. There was an absence of sound, save for the whisper of the wind. And only the peaks were visible; the valley itself was shrouded in a white mist, as the moisture coagulated, as the humans sat up, and looked around them. The rain had stopped; the parched earth had hardened again. The grass remained wet, the trees continued to drip water on their heads and shoulders, but a single day's sunlight would soon dry that. By this evening there would be not a trace of last night's storm, save perhaps that the river farther down would be running a little harder. Why, Tony thought, slowly standing up and stretching his cramped muscles, even their clothes would be dry. Although that would be difficult to accept at this moment; water still ran out of his boots.

But what of the humans themselves, he wondered? He looked at the drivers, who peered into the mist as if expecting a return of the thunder and the lightning. He looked at the mules, who had stayed close together, where horses would have galloped into the darkness, driven by the noise. But the dogs were already casting, grunting their hunger.

And he looked at the woman, sitting at his feet. As a woman, she seemed almost destroyed. Her hat was a sodden mass, her hair remained stuck to her head and shoulders as if someone had poured glue over her; her shirt was no less wet, and he could see her flesh, and when she stood up, the nipples he had held through the night. Had she been aware of that? Did she remember?

Oh, yes, she remembered. She glanced at him, and then looked away again, colour flooding upwards from her neck.

'Think anything will burn, Absolom?' he asked, and was surprised at the evenness of his own voice. 'I'd like a cup of coffee.'

Absolom turned over a stone with his bare toe; water bubbled out of the earth. 'No, sir, Mr Hilton, sir. Not for a while. Man, that was some rain, eh?'

'Some rain,' Tony agreed. 'Will it have wiped out the trail?'

'Well, sir . . .' Absolom scratched his head; water ran down over his ears. 'I thinking so, Mr Hilton, sir.'

'And we could all do with a change of clothes,' Tony decided. 'We'd better call it a day.'

'I would like to go on.' Ellen spoke in a low voice.

'Eh?'

'They must have been forced to stop, as we were. They cannot be far away.'

Her face was composed. But there was no questioning the firmness of that mouth, that chin.

'There is no trail. No scent.'

'There is only one way through the mountains,' she insisted. 'If they were following this valley yesterday, if you are sure that they were, then they can only be following this valley this morning.'

Tony looked at Absolom, who scratched his head again.

'So let us have something to eat,' Ellen said. 'And then go on.'

'Man, sir . . .' Absolom began, and then turned, to look into the mist. 'But what is that?'

'Is a jumbi man, is a jumbi,' Jeremiah bawled, running for his mule.

'Stop there,' Tony commanded. But the unearthly wail, coming from an invisible source although obviously very close, had goose pimples running up and down his own flesh.

'It is a man,' Ellen said.

They peered into the mist, and saw the black man approaching. He wore nothing but drawers, and they were wet and filthy. He staggered and trembled. The dogs snarled and bared their teeth.

'Man but it is that boy Henry Twelve,' Absolom declared.

'Hold those beasts,' Tony commanded.

Henry Twelve stopped, and stared at them. He shook, like a leaf in a breeze. 'Man,' he said. 'You hear that thunder? Oh, man, you hear that thunder?'

'Where is Merriman?' Tony asked. 'And John Nineteen?'

Henry Twelve turned to stare on his master. 'Merriman gone,' he said. 'He ain't stopping, even in the rain. He gone. He gone.'

Even in the rain. 'And John Nineteen?'

'He done dead, master. He done drown. He lying there, and he head in a puddle. He done drown.'

There was a moment's silence. The mist began to rise in the valley, the first warmth seemed to enter the air. Henry Twelve continued to tremble.

'We got this one, Mr Hilton, sir,' Absolom said. 'We ain't going to get Merriman now. Not if he go through the rain. And maybe he done drown, too. We got this one.'

Tony nodded. 'Aye. We'll get on back. Absolom is right, Ellen. There is no point in flogging ourselves to death over a man who may be already dead. We'll eat later, Absolom. Tie this man to the back of your mule, and let's move out.'

'No,' Ellen said. Her eyes gloomed at the shivering slave. 'He must be punished.'

'He will be punished,' Tony said. 'When we get back to Hilltop.'

'No,' she said. 'Here. Bring my mule, Absolom.' Absolom looked at his master, then went and fetched the mules.

'Send them away, Tony,' she said. 'Send them down the trail. We can catch them up. Afterwards.' 'After what?'

She gripped his arm; her face was only inches from his ear. 'I want to whip him. I have wanted to whip someone, anyone, since I came to Hilltop. I could not say so to you, before last night. I could not do it, on Hilltop, with everyone there, with Hardy there. With Mother there.'

She panted, and colour flared in her cheeks. Her hair was just beginning to dry, and flutter in the morning breeze. She was a stranger, and she knew she was a stranger, to herself. She would not know herself, when she regained civilization. But perhaps the rain, and the fear, had stripped away her last covering of humanity, left only the animal.

And perhaps his fingers had helped, as well. He felt as if he had been dreaming, all of his life, the most wonderful dream a man could have, and had suddenly awakened, to find his dream was continuing, and would continue forever.

'Let me whip him, Tony,' she said. 'Now. And I will do anything you wish. Anything.'

'You'll have to sound the gong, Boscawen,' Tony Hilton said. 'We'll not be heard, otherwise.'

The butler nodded, and hurried down the room, threading his way in and out of the red-jacketed footmen, the white-gowned maids, who thronged each side of the huge dining room; there was one attendant to each cover, and there were sixty covers.

Tony leaned back in his chair, his glass in his hand, sipped his wine. He wanted to belch. Instead he smiled, at Mrs Taggart, on his right, a perspiring mass of pink flesh and pale blue taffeta, and at Mrs Kendrick on his left., a slim, dark woman, who had eaten little and drunk less, had watched her fellow guests like a predatory bird, storing their idiosyncrasies, their appearances, their mistakes in her mind. But even she returned Tony Hilton's smile.

And if Mrs Kendrick had eaten little, she was the only one. The huge dining table looked like a battlefield, after the conflict. Plates of scattered nuts and sweatmeats lay every which way; priceless crystal glasses rested on their sides, swept over by a careless gesture, a flailing cuff; knives and forks and spoons soaked in the spilt gravy, some guests still gnawed at their ribs of best beef, others worried their ices and slurped their wine; breasts heaved and shoulders shuddered; moustaches drooped; coats were unbuttoned and stays were clearly straining. The air was heavy with wine and perfume and the stench of beef, and brilliant with the conversation which flitted about the chairs and the chandeliers like a flight of sparrows. Here was gossip, malicious and friendly, stories, droll and dirty, flirtations, light and serious, bubbling away. Here was Sunday lunch on Hilltop.

'It warms the heart, Mr Hilton, indeed it does,' Phyllis Kendrick said. 'Your uncle used to give entertainments of this nature. But that was a long time ago. I remember them, when I was a girl. But truly, of recent years, and of course, when your brother and that detestable Gale person were living here, one could suppose Hilltop to be dead. Now it lives again.' She leaned her elbow on the table, rested her chin on one finger. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with so many people.'

'I am not, dear lady,' Tony said. ‘I merely had a fist made out, and despatched it.'

Phyllis Kendrick continued to regard him as if he were a rare specimen—but then, he thought, I am a rare specimen. 'But at such short notice? Supposing no one had come? All of this food?'

'It could have fed the pigs, Mrs Kendrick.' Her eyebrows arched, and she receded, her hand flopping on the table.

'But then,' Tony smiled, 'they all did come. Even you came, Phyllis.'

The sound of the gong, booming across the conversation, drowned her reply. Had she been going to make one. Tony rather doubted that she had. He wondered how old she was. Thirty? Thirty-five? Married to a typical planter, unimaginative and entirely physical. So, was she unimaginative and purely physical? A thought for the future. He was concerned with the present. He looked down the long sweep of littered, stained linen tablecloth, past the upturned bottles, the smiling, reddened faces, the fluttering fingers, the scattered napkins. Ellen was hardly visible, seated at the far end of the table. But she was, entirely visible. She wore pale green, and looked cool. Her chestnut hair was gathered loosely, in a ribbon. She talked animatedly, to the men on either side of her, and yet, she seemed to sense that he was looking at her, and turned her head, to send her smile up the table like a message.

What did they share, so far? Not their bodies, as yet. That would come later. On the day, she had been exhausted, her passion spent. And there had been a dead man. And Tony Hilton? Why Tony Hilton had been afraid. Of her. That could be admitted, to himself. And perhaps even to the woman.

And since then, they had both been content to wait, to know, what was on the way, to anticipate, confident in the enormous intimacy they already shared. The memory, of a woman on a mule, wet hair tumbling about her shoulders, wet blouse clinging to those shoulders, wet skirt wrapping itself around wet legs, galloping to and fro within the confines of a narrow valley, flailing her whip while a black man had to run before her. The memory of her tumbling breath and gasping cries of pleasure, of her teeming laughter. The memory of her pulling her mount to a standstill, when the black man had finally fallen, and dismounting, to flog again. The memory of the black man realizing that his tormentor was no longer protected, rising to his knees, of himself hurrying forward to save her, and stopping, as he realized she did not require saving. The memory of that booted foot thudding into the black man's face, of the woman standing above him, and using the whip again, with an expertise born of a long dream—because surely she could have no experience—to reduce a man to nothing.

And the memory of the ride back, slowly, in the boiling sun. Her clothes had dried by then, and her hair. Their mules had rode close together, and occasionally his knee had brushed hers.

He had said, 'I must have you.' It had been plain surrender. And Ellen Taggart had merely smiled.

'When you can, Mr Hilton,' she had replied. 'When you can.'

So, now. He rose, and the faces turned to look at him. 'Ladies,' he said, 'and gentlemen. How good of you to come. How good of you to grace Hilltop once again with your presence. How good of you to make this old house live again.

I am informed, ladies and gentlemen, that it did live, thirty years ago. I make you my solemn promise, it will live, from this moment on.'

He paused, to smile, and they applauded, and called for more wine. And Ellen returned his smile.

'We have eaten well,' Tony said. 'And we have drunk well. This afternoon we shall talk. The ladies about, well, whatever ladies talk about.' That raised a shout of laughter. 'We men shall talk politics. Because I have not invited you here today, gentlemen, neighbours, fellow planters, merely to sample my cuisine. I have invited you here today, gentlemen, to inform you that Hilltop is now back in the hands of a Hilton, not a decrepit old man, not a dreaming boy. But a Hilton, gentlemen. I am aware of what is going on, gentlemen. I read the newspapers. I know how the British Government seeks to coerce us, gentlemen. Financial aid, trading advantages, such as are being offered the new Crown Colonies of Guiana and Trinidad, on condition we accept their "advice" on the treatment of our slaves. No aid at all, should we prefer to go our own way. That, gentlemen, to my way of thinking, is not government, but blackmail.'

He paused, to smile at the nods of agreement, the murmurs which went round the table.

'So you may expect to see me in the Hilton seat, gentlemen, as from the next Session. And you may expect me to give my voice and my vote to opposing all British interference in our affairs. Times may be hard, gentlemen, but they have been harder. We in Jamaica, my family more than most, gentlemen, have prospered these hundred years and more with no British help. By God, we shall do so for another hundred years, or my name is not Anthony Hilton.'

This time the murmurs became shouts of applause, and hands were clapped.

Tony waved for quiet. 'But that is for the next Session, as I say. Before then, ladies and gentlemen, a far more important, and a far more felicitous event is to take place. It is my great honour to tell you that Miss Ellen Taggart has consented to become my wife.'

This time the room rang to the cheers. Ellen smiled at them all.

'Think of it, gentlemen,' Tony said. 'It is near fifty years since Hilltop had a mistress. Since Hilltop was a home, gentlemen, instead of just a plantation. Ladies and gentlemen, that void is now filled. I ask you to rise with me and drink the health of the mistress of Hilltop. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ellen Taggart.'

They rose together, glasses held high. 'Ellen Taggart.' And then dissolved in a mass, to accumulate around the end of the table to congratulate the bride to be, to look for her smile and her kiss.

Tony used his napkin to wipe his lips and brow, gave Mrs Taggart a kiss on the cheek, and then followed Boscawen's gaze into the hall.

'Is Mr Reynolds, Mr Hilton, sir,' the butler said. 'He just come.'

'You'll excuse me, Mrs Taggart.' Tony left the table, seized the lawyer's hands. 'Reynolds. How good to see you. 'Tis a warm day for a long ride.'

'Mr Hilton.' The lawyer looked distinctly hot and bothered. 'Terrible news, sir. Terrible news.'

'Not here.' Tony ushered him along the hall, past the stairs and into the study. 'Bonaparte? I had heard. But he will make no progress this time.'

'Not Bonaparte, sir.' Reynolds sat down, mopped his brow. 'The Green Knight anchored two days ago, sir. You'll remember she cleared here but three days after the Cormorant. I had specifically asked Captain Morrison to obtain what information he could. I'd have come sooner, Mr Hilton, but the news of Bonaparte's return to France has had all Kingston in a tizzy, and I could not get away.'

'And Morrison has more news yet?'

'Of the very worst, sir.' Reynolds glanced out of the open door at the hall; the sounds of revelry could clearly be heard. 'The Cormorant never made Bristol. But Morrison put in at

Cap Haitien, on his way back here. The Negroes say wreckage came ashore. You'll remember there was that gale, two days after she left.'

'So we must presume the worst,' Tony said.

Reynolds sighed. 'Sad. Sad. You'll want to send those people home.'

Tony frowned at him. 'Why? They are celebrating my engagement, amongst other things.'

'But with Mr Richard very probably dead . . .' Reynolds' turn to frown. 'Your engagement, Mr Hilton?'

'To Miss Taggart.'

'To . . . Good God.'

'As I endeavoured to tell you just now, I have heard the news. All the news. I have maintained an agent in town these last few weeks, to bring me the first available word from England on the whereabouts of the Cormorant. I knew the night before last. Awakened I was, from a deep sleep, at two o'clock in the morning. But it was worth it. As you know, I have long supposed my brother to be dead. But of course I could not invite his fiancee to marry me until I was sure.'

Reynolds gazed at him for some seconds. Then he stood up. 'Your brother is not dead, Mr Hilton. Legally. He cannot be dead until his body is identified, or until seven years have elapsed.'

Tony smiled at him. 'Legally. Yet you will not deny it was his wish that I manage Hilltop in his absence.' Reynolds chewed his lip.

'And you can hardly suppose it would have been his wish that Miss Taggart linger for seven years, which is a lifetime in the consideration of a young woman, waiting to be sure, when we are both, in our hearts, sure.'

Reynolds sighed. 'I suspect you are very much of a scoundrel, Mr Hilton.'

'And I suspect that the next time you use such words to me, Mr Reynolds, I will have my drivers throw you off this plantation.'

'Your drivers? Aye, no doubt they are your drivers. 'Twas your brother's wish, may God rest his soul. No doubt he was too good a man. I cannot interfere with your present prerogatives, Mr Hilton. But I am still the executor of your brother's estate. You'll do well to remember that. The plantation is Mr Richard Hilton's.'

'For seven years.' Tony got up. 'I am a patient man, Mr Reynolds. I have formed a philosophy, which I believe has been expressed before. Everything comes to he who waits. I'll bid you good day, sir. My guests, and my fiancee, are waiting.'

9

The Castaway

Judith's body moved against his, her arms tight round his neck. She squirmed, and seemed able to bounce, even under his weight. And she moved from side to side as well. Lying on her was like being on a ship at sea.

Dick Hilton rolled on to his back, stared at the deck beams immediately above his head, sweat breaking out on his face and shoulders as he realized that he was on a ship at sea.

He attempted to sit up, and banged his head. As if it had been a signal, waves of thudding pain were loosed, to go reverberating through his mind, to crash against his ears, to seep down his neck into his stomach and bring green sickness back into his throat. His chin seemed one enormous bruise.

He discovered himself on his hands and knees, clutching the bunk on which he had lain, bracing himself against the roll of the vessel. And being suddenly bathed in a draught of cool air, seeping around his head.

'Praying, are you?'

He attempted to turn, lost his balance, and fell over. He looked at shoes, and somewhat dirty cotton stockings. The clothes above were hardly cleaner but the face, if unshaven and pockmarked, was not unpleasant.

'John Gibson, at your service.'

Dick licked his lips, slowly, closed his eyes to attempt to shut out the pain. 'What ship?' His voice seemed to come from very far away.

'The Cormorant, bound for Bristol, Mr Hilton.'

'Bristol?' Dick seized the bunk once again, pulled himself

to his feet. ^‘I can't go to Bristol.'

'What you need is something to eat, Mr Hilton,' Gibson decided. 'You'll feel better after something to eat. Boy,' he shouted, sending fresh reverberations crashing into Dick's mind.

He sat on the bunk. 'How came I here?'

'Why, sir, you came out with my boatswain, last night. Insisted, you did. Said you had to get away. Food, boy. Food for the passenger.'

'Had to . . .' Dick scratched his head. Another painful operation. 'I was drunk. Christ, I was drunk.'

'You were that, Mr Hilton,' Gibson agreed. 'Mind you, sir, for a man that drunk, you were wonderfully possessed, you were. Wrote a steady hand and all.' He jerked his head. 'You'd best eat.'

'Eat?' Dick seized the captain's sleeve. 'Listen. You must put back. I was drunk.'

'You booked passage to England,' Gibson pointed out. 'Signed a note, you did.'

'You can keep it,' Dick said. 'I'll sign another. But put me back.'

The captain gazed at him for some seconds, then went into the main cabin and sat down. 'You'll want to think about that.' 'When you've worn ship.'

'Now, sir, that's not going to be easy. You won't believe this sir, but we've a stern wind. Due west, in the Caribbean, in November. There'a chance. Why, sir, do you know, I reckon we've done a hundred miles in the past twelve hours. There's speed for you. But she's a clean hull, Cormorant.''

Dick staggered across the cabin, up the companionway, and into the waist of the ship. And was immediately thankful for the cooling breeze which swept over him, cleared some of the cobwebs from his mind. He stood at the starboard gunwale, looked at the mountains on the southern horizon.

'Hispaniola,' Capt ain Gibson said. 'What the niggers who infest it call Haiti. Like I said, damn near a hundred miles in twelve hours.'

Dick climbed the ladder, crossed the poop, grasped the taffrail to steady himself. But astern the sea was empty, save for the occasional whitecap. It was in fact a peculiar afternoon; the sky was almost yellow, rather than blue, and the wind was hot. And his brain continued to tumble. Memory. But he did not want memory. There were too many unthinkable thoughts banging on the edges of his consciousness. He only knew he must get home. And quickly.

'As a matter of fact,' Captain Gibson remarked, having followed him, 'the sooner we're through the Windward Passage the happier I'll be. There's wind about.'

'Then seek shelter,' Dick said. 'Set me ashore in Haiti.'

Gibson frowned at him. 'Now, I'll not be doing that, Mr Hilton. Why, you'd go to your death. We'd all go to our deaths. Those niggers don't take to strangers. They'd rather slaughter us than slaughter each other, and by all accounts they spend most of their time doing that.'

'Then put about,' Dick begged. 'So it's take a week to beat back to Jamaica. But it won't. The wind won't stay west.'

'A westerly is just what we need, for the Windward Passage,' Gibson explained. 'We'll be through this time tomorrow. Otherwise it's beating up the Florida Channel, and adding weeks to the voyage. As for putting back . . . it'll cost me all my profit.'

'I'll be your profit,' Dick said. 'I'll buy your ship.' 'Eh?'

'I'm Richard Hilton of Plantation Hilltop. Name your price. I'll sign a note, now. I didn't know what I was doing, last night. I must get back to Jamaica. Name your price, Gibson. Name your price.'

The captain stroked his chin. 'You don't know what you're doing now, either, Mr Hilton. You want to think about that for a while.'

'While you get us into the Atlantic? Now, Captain. Now. Put about now, and you have my note.'

Gibson stroked his chin some more. 'Well,' he said at last. 'If you're serious, Mr Hilton. There'll be witnesses, mind.'

'Assemble the whole crew,' Dick said. 'But do it now.'

'Aye. Well. . .' Gibson turned, to look forward, and checked, and looked up instead. With warning the wind had dropped right away, and the sails did no more than flap against then-stays.

'You'd best batten those hatches,' Captain Gibson stood at the rail and looked down on his ship. 'And strike those topsails. Quick, now.'

'It'll shift, Captain,' Dick said. 'You've no reason to hold on. And my offer stands.'

'Oh, aye, Mr Hilton,' Gibson sighed. 'You'll go back to Kingston. When we've weathered whatever's coming.' He pointed at the blackness which was spreading out of the south, overshadowing the distant mountains of Haiti, threatening the drooping sun. 'That's a late hurricane. And we're in narrow waters.'

Dick gazed at the sky. In the four years he had lived on Jamaica they had had sufficient warnings of a tropical storm, but never a full blow. 'What will you do?'

'What can I do, man?' Gibson asked. 'If it comes east, we'll run back. If it stays west, we'll run for the Passage and the open sea. I've no choice, Mr Hilton.'

'And if it is north or south?'

Again the captain sighed. 'North is Cuba, south is Haiti. We'll have to heave to and try not to drift.' He gave a short laugh. 'There's a problem, eh?'

Dick left him, went to the tafffrail. Hurricane winds always shifted, and through a hundred and eighty degrees, as the eye of the storm passed. He looked down at the slow bubble of wake. The ship still moved, drifting with the current, propelled by the almost unplaceable breeze, and eastward. He was sailing away from Jamaica. Christ, how memory came back to him. It seemed as if every mistake he had made, every crime he had committed, had suddenly rolled themselves up into a thundercloud as big as the approaching storm, and delivered themselves against his head. Harriet had been a gigantic dream.

He had known from the start that she could never be anything more than that. Had known too, that she was in many ways a nightmare. And yet had remained sucked into the warm sensuality of that embrace, long after he had ceased to love, or even to like, the woman herself.

And yet, was Ellen anything less of a mistake? Had she been anything less of a mistake from the very beginning? Was he doomed to know only women who would seek to dominate, to rule? Or was the fault entirely his, in being too submissive, too uncertain of his own temper, his own purpose, to oppose successfully?

And in any event, could marriage to Ellen, now, be anything less than a total disaster? The events of the last four years, and more particularly of the last two days, were there to be hurled in his face whenever they had the slightest difference of opinion.

So, then, why did he hurry back, spend a fortune on commandeering this ship to return? He had never enjoyed planting. His entire being rebelled against the necessities of the business; the brutalities and the injustices; the certainty that someone like Josh Merriman, and God knew how many others, were better men than he, in every sense of the word, but yet were forced to crawl, should he so desire, merely because his skin was white, and his uncle had been wealthy.

Even more did he rebel against the concept that he could never be one of them, and equally, never be one of the plantocracy, sitting in the House of Assembly in Spanish Town and waving their fists at the British Government even as they waved their whips at their employees. Theirs was a transitory world. It had to be, no more than that. That it had lasted over a hundred years, that it had provided the Hiltons with wealth and power and omnipotence for so long, was the fault of humanity, not the design of God.

And yet, return he must. To make amends to Judith? How could he make amends to Judith, save by marrying her? There would be the final chapter in the catalogue of disasters. Or would it? Judith was a lovely child. She would no doubt soon become a lovely woman. So she was totally lacking in either education or breeding. That could be provided, and would be a pleasure to provide. But did he love her? He did not know. He had never considered the matter. It was beginning to dawn on him that he had never actually considered loving anyone. Even Ellen had been an achievement, a prize to be won, in the face of opposition, rather than a woman to be loved.

And even more important, did Judith love him? Could she love him, after Harriet, and after an upbringing such as hers, and after he had raped her?

A drop of rain landed on his hand, large and stinging. The afternoon had grown quite dark, and the sun was lost behind the cloud. And the drop had been only the advance guard. He could see the rain approaching him in a solid sheet, like a quick travelling mist. Haiti had already disappeared.

And with the rain, the first of the wind, soughing over the water. Gibson was at the break of the poop, bawling his orders, and the yards were being trimmed; they had already been stripped of most of their sails. Now the helm was put up to take the coming squall on the bow. The Cormorant rose and dipped again, a violent movement. Yet the sea remained surprisingly calm, flattened by the deadening rain, which swept across the ship, smothered the deck and poured into the scuppers as if it had been a wave, flowed through the fairleads and cascaded down the sides.

Dick discovered he was wet through, and the water continued to pound on his hair, flood down his neck. He staggered across the deck, grasped a stay close by the wheel, where two men were on duty, waiting for the real wind, with the captain close at hand.

'You'd best below, Mr Hilton,' Gibson bawled. 'No sense in staying up here. Helm. Helm. Up.'

The two sailors leaned on the wheel, and the Cormorant's bows came up again. Now the wind was fresh, and now the ship was moving, slicing into the suddenly large, and growing waves, tossing spray aft, taking green combers over the bow to flood the forecastle and come pouring down the ladders into the waist. And now too, she heeled, port scuppers well down, making the already slippery deck the harder to stand on.

'Due west,' Gibson shouted in Dick's ear. 'It'll veer, but slowly. We'll make the passage, if it lasts. Then we'll be safe enough.'

The open Atlantic. Would he ever turn back then? But no man could be asked to risk his ship for the sake of an unwanted passenger.

Dick found the top of the ladder, made his way down, slowly, being thrown against the rail by each lurch of the ship, staring in fascination as the bows went up, up, as she climbed the ever increasing swell, to hang there for a moment, seeming to be pointing at the sky and attempting to launch herself into space, and then plunging down, down, with a stomach-tumbling force, bowsprit now pointing only at surging green water, and apparently intent on hitting the very bottom of the ocean. Then the seas broke, or the bowsprit plunged in, he could not be sure which, and tons of water landed on the foredeck, with a crash which seemed about to stave the timbers, before roaring aft, bursting into the waist, whipping at the canvas covers for the longboat, flooding the deck, crashing against the foot of the ladder like a wave on a shore, filling his boots and splashing up his breeches to join the rain damp already there.

But the Cormorant was lifting her bows again, the bowsprit, undamaged, slicing through the heaving sea to aim once more at the sky, the sea itself tumbling over the sides to leave the deck momentarily clear, while all the while the wind increased, from a sough to a whine, from a whine to a scream, and then suddenly to a gigantic roar, a noise which even drowned out memories of the factory, which took away the powers of the mind even as its very force seemed to take away the powers of the body, ripping at the buttons of his coat to send the tails flying, making him gasp for breath, his muscles discovering the ache of a long wrestling match.

He reached the door to the cabin in the midst of a wave, hung there for a moment with water surging at his thighs, wrenched it open and half fell down the ladder to the floor of the cabin.

'Aaagh,' screamed the boy. 'Aaagh. We're sinking.'

'Only a wave,' Dick gasped, grasping the table to pull himself up, and being struck on the side of the head by the lantern swinging from the low deck beams.

'Oh, God,' said the boy, falling to Ins knees beside Dick. 'Oh, God. Lost, we are, sir. Lost.'

'You've not been in a storm before?'

'A gale, sir. Aye. Nothing like this. We're too close to land. Too close, sir. Too close.'

'Lie down,' Dick recommended, and did so himself, not entirely by design; the Cormorant entered a trough sideways and skidded down before bringing up short. There was a crack which seemed to tear the entire ship from top to bottom, and this was followed by a boom which cut across even the wind, and brought another terrified screech from the boy.

Dick found himself lying on one of the berths which walled the cabin, pushed himself up again. But his head continued to swing, and now his stomach was threatening to rebel as well. With fear? Certainly he was sweating.

'What was that noise?' he bawled.

The boy grovelled on the deck, moaning.

And now the Cormorant was behaving very oddly, no longer surging to the waves, but rather being slapped, from side to side, each blow shaking the timbers and sending the table creaking, and being followed by water seeping through the deck above his head.

The door was thrown open, and Captain Gibson fell in, accompanied by half the ocean; water cascaded down the steps and swirled over the cabin floor, hurled back the door to the galley and put out the fire with a gigantic hiss of steam.

'God,' screamed the boy. 'Help me, oh God.'

'Shut your trap,' shouted the captain. 'The foremast has gone, Mr Hilton.'

Dick sat up. 'Will she sink?'

'I've men cutting it away. We can run. But there'll be no beating. 'Tis a question of how far the wind will go; she's veering all the time.'

'And how much of this pounding your ship will stand’ Dick said.

'Aye, well, she's stout enough. I've sent Chips down to sound the well. But you'd best come up again. Lash yourself to the mizzen, sir. There's your best chance.'

Dick seized the boy under the armpits, pulled him up. 'Come on deck’ he shouted in his ear.

'Oh, God/ howled the boy. 'Oh, God. Help me, oh, God.'

'On deck/ Dick screamed, and climbed the companion ladder. The captain had already gone, but the door swung open as he reached the top and another wave burst in, pounding on his chest, clouding on his face, splashing on the floor behind him, and chaining into the bilges. Sound or not, he thought, she'll not take much of that.

'Please God, help me,' whimpered the boy as he was pushed through the doorway.

Dick closed the door behind him, stood against it to gasp for breath and to look at the sea. Where it had been big before, now it was huge. The swell seemed taller than the masts, and each swell was topped by a rolling, ten-foot-high wall of flying foam. Presumably it was night. The ship carried no lights, but the sky was quite vanished, the clouds seeming to rest almost on the top of the waves themselves, and the rain fell ceaselessly. And then the thunder roared right above him, and the entire universe seemed to split open in searing light which left him blinded, even as the crack of the lightning striking the sea drove the senses from Ins head. He discovered himself in the starboard scupper, looking up and up and up and up at a towering green monster, and realized that the Cormorant would not, indeed, survive. And that he was about to die.

But not immediately. Water poured over the deck, and the Cormorant seemed to sag, to be struck by another huge wave before she had recovered from the first. For some seconds Dick was submerged, and he lost his breath and inhaled water which left him spluttering and gasping, and eventually vomiting, in the intervals between waves. Hands seized his shoulders and dragged him back into the comparative safety of the hatchway, where several more of the crew were huddled. By now the lightning was continuous, the thunder merging with the howl of the wind and the roar of the seas to make a blanket of sound across the night, across their senses. But he could look up, at the two remaining masts, now quite bare of canvas. They were driving on, carried in the direction of the wind and the current. And the wind had veered. Gibson had said so, how long ago? But no doubt it had veered even more. With luck they might yet make the Windward Passage. With luck.

And a sound ship. A banging on the hatch informed them that the carpenter was on his way out. They banged back to tell him to wait, chose their moment themselves, and released one of the battens. The three men collapsed into their midst. 'There's five feet down there,' gasped one.

'And gaining,' said another.

'She's just opening up,' said the third. 'She weren't made to take this pounding.'

'There ain't no ship made to take this pounding,' muttered the boatswain.

The Cormorant agreed with a gigantic shudder, and speech was lost in another foaming maelstrom of water.

They looked at the captain, clinging to the rail of the poop, gazing down at them. Even through the noise and his own preoccupations, Gibson had noticed that the pumps had ceased.

'Ahoy there,' he bawled. 'What's amiss?'

The carpenter raised himself to his feet, holding on to a stay. 'She's making water too fast, captain,' he shouted. 'She's sinking.'

The men around Dick stirred. The fact they had known for some time had at last been put into words.

Gibson stared at them for a moment, rocking with his ship. But the Cormorant had no life left. Even Dick, who knew little enough about the sea, could tell that. She was a dead creature, in the water, and every blow struck by the sea killed her a little more.

'Prepare the boat,' Gibson called. 'Careful now.' 'Careful,' grumbled the boatswain. 'You'd best help me, lads.'

Dick rose with them. He felt as if he had known them all his life, as if he and they were intimates of a thousand bottles, a thousand adventures, perhaps a thousand storms. Shoulder to shoulder with them, he tore at the canvas cover for the longboat—amazingly still in place—and helped them secure the slings. And like them, he looked back at the poop for the orders to launch. And thought that they were a good and faithful crew, who stood no chance at all, so far as he could see. So what chance did any crew stand?

'Now,' Gibson shouted. The wheel had been lashed, to keep the ship as much as possible before the wind, and the captain and his helmsmen came swarming down the ladders to assist them. The boat was raised on the slings, several men hauling on each rope, and pushed by the remainder towards the gunwale. And as if intent to assist them, the Cormorant listed to port as well, causing the boat to swing ever faster. The six men pushing slid across the deck, the boat hung clear of the gunwale . . . but instead of the order to release the falls, Gibson gave a strangled scream.

'Get her back.'

Dick's head jerked, and he looked over the boat at another towering wall of green, rearing like a striking snake, its top curling white, hovering some thirty feet above them.

'Get her back.' Gibson's words trailed away into nothing as the sea broke. Dick heard the snap of the parting falls. He realized that, water apart, he was liable to be crushed beneath the falling longboat. But the thought was an abstract. All thoughts were abstract. He was aware only of being in the middle of the water; of striking something solid with his left leg, a jarring blow which left him paralysed; of aching pain and breathless lungs; of water filling his nose, his eyes, his ears, his mouth; of sudden air, which had him choking and gasping; of putting his good leg down to the deck and finding nothing; of rolling over and flailing his arms in desperation; of a sudden, tremendous fear spreading outwards from his belly.

And of anger. He could think of no reason to die. His crimes had been inadvertent, crimes of weakness rather than determined vice. So then, no doubt, God abhorred weakness. He would sooner settle for a man of determination, even if that determination was wholly evil, rather than a man who drifted with the tide, unable ever to do good because he could not make up his mind where the ultimate goodness lay.

Something struck him on the face. The abstract thoughts which kept booming around the back of his mind suggested that he was being rescued. Oh, how he wanted to be rescued. How, on a sudden, he loved Captain Gibson and all his crew. So, then, a rope? Thrown to regain him from the water?

Another surge of pure terror. It was the first time his mind had accepted the fact that he was in the water, that he had lost contact with the ship. Or had he? His arms closed on something solid. They threatened to slip, but by reaching even farther he found he could grasp his own wrist. He thrust feet down to find the deck, find anything, and still could not. So, he was hanging on to the side of the ship, no doubt. He must stay here until someone pulled him back on board.

Why? Did he have the courage to go back? He had begged, implored, and finally bribed Gibson to take him back. Then he had been suffering from the after-effects of drink. But that had only been yesterday afternoon. Had it been yesterday afternoon? Oh, horrible thought, had it only been this afternoon? But surely it was past midnight.

The thought made him raise his head; it had been resting on the wood he was clutching, with water breaking over him. But he had his breathing trained, by now. Breathe, submerge, breathe, submerge, breathe, submerge. He could do that forever, if his strength would last forever. The lightning was gone. Never had he known such darkness. Only the loom of the whitecaps as they surged around him, plucked at his legs, slapped him in the face, dropped on his head. And the whine of the wind. Still the wind. Always the wind.

His head banged the wood, and he realized that his fingers were sliding free of his wrist. He had fallen asleep. How remarkable. And how dangerous. He seized himself again, clutched the rounded wood harder against his chest.

Think, or die. There was a simple choice. Think, or die. Supposing one wanted to live.

But oh, how he wanted to live. There was so much he wanted to do with his life, so much he thought he could do with his life. Then this was the time. It occurred to him that always in the past he had been waiting for something to happen, for his brain to make a decision of its own, when it would assume command, not only of him, but of his entire situation, of all those around him. It would be a cool, a calculated decision, not one taken in anger, as nearly all his decisions had been in the past. That was the only way to rise above the pitfalls which Uttered life, the only way to survive people like Ellen Taggart, Harriet Gale, James Hardy, Harriet's companion . . . even Tony. The only way. Think, and survive. Always.

But for the moment, only think. Of something which would hold his brain. Of a woman. There was the answer. Of... he found himself thinking of Ellen. There was a surprise. But she remained his betrothed. And she possessed the strength he now sought. Had that been the impulse behind that so secret, so confident laugh of hers? Had she known that she was one of the few capable of thought as he now wished to be? Ellen, tall and strong and determined.

He thought of Ellen. He remembered everything he and Harriet had ever done together, throughout the past four years, and replaced Harriet's squirming heat in his arms with Ellen's cool strength. There was a dream to sustain a man.

Then what of Judith? The very thought of her name left an ache in his heart. What of Judith? Oh, my God, what of Judith?

The jar took all his wind away, and was followed by another before he could catch his breath. That had been his belly, pounding on the wood he held. But now his knees jarred as well, and the next wave contained less water than liquid sand, which clogged his nostrils even more thoroughly. He rose to his knees. His knees? He stared up the beach, at the trees, fell forward again as the next gust of wind battered on his shoulders, rose again, holding himself clear of the surf, and stared at the men who came from the trees towards him. Black men.

Dick made another effort, once again reached his feet, was once again knocked over by the surf which pounded into his back. The water rolled him farther up the beach, and he dug his fingers into the sand to stop himself being dragged back by the undertow.

The men remained standing, before the trees, watching him, but making no effort to help him. It was almost light now, and he could see that they were armed with machetes and rusty muskets, while one had a pistol stuck into his belt. They wore drawers, once white, perhaps, now stained a dirty brown, but no other clothes that he could see, and were barefoot.

He tried to speak, but found his jaws so tightly clamped together he could make no sound. The next wave broke over him with less force, and he was able to regain his knees, and sit down, half turning to look back at the sea. Had he survived that? It was nearly impossible to see the blue, so constant were the whitecaps, racing across the morning. He appeared to have entered some sort of a bay, for the trees curved round to his right. The water in the bay was not quite so tormented, but beyond the sea raged, and there was no sign of the Cormorant, or of any other life. Only the spar to which he had clung for so many hours continued to surge in the surf a few feet away.

And the wind still whined, bending the trees, snatching at what breath he retained, drying his face and hair.

Feet, crunching on the sand. He rose to his knees, gazed at them. 'Water.' It was no more than a whisper, but he had spoken.

One of the men grinned at him, he could see the flash of his teeth.

Another spoke, but Dick could not understand what they said, although it sounded vaguely familiar.

Another replied, and this time Dick caught the word eau although pronounced, 'yo'. French, after a fashion. Therefore he was on Haiti, the French colony known as St Domingue before the Negro revolt.

'L'eau,' he begged. 'S'il vous plait. L'eau.'

They laughed, and one of them spat.

Dick moaned again, 'Eau’

The man who grinned came closer, put his bare foot in the centre of Dick's face, and pushed. He rolled over, into the shallow water, his belly twisting. Oh, my God, he thought. Oh, my God. Every tale he had ever heard of Haiti, of the hatred felt by every black man for every white man, clouded his memory. Of the hideous practice of obeah, the black witchcraft, of the Voodoo religion, of blood sacrifices and unspeakable rites. He had been to Haiti before. He had visited the Corbeau Plantation, with Mama, to see Aunt Georgiana after she had married Louis Corbeau. And while he had been here the Negroes had risen in revolt, led by Toussaint, and Des-salines, and the young giant of a military genius, the English slave, Henry Christophe. And Aunt Georgiana had been torn to pieces before his eyes. They had gouged out her eyes and cut off her breasts while she had yet lived, and screamed. He could hear her scream now, echoing across the morning, riding the wind.

Mama they had spared, with her two sons. She had supposed for rape and torture, but it had been because her name had been Hilton, and with the blacks had marched the priestess, who in England had been known as Gislane Nicholson, who had loved Matt Hilton, and for the sake of that love had been returned to the slavery from which she had escaped. Gislane Nicholson had personally directed the mutilation of Georgiana, but Suzanne, the sister who had married her lover, she had saved, out of some quirk of humanity, perhaps. Out of delight at being able to play the deity, perhaps, where a god-like omnipotence had been practised so often upon her.

Did these men know anything of that? They looked hardly older than himself, so could have taken no part in those events, a quarter of a century in the past. Except that they might have tugged at Aunt Georgiana's naked body, and screamed their childish delight, and added to the horror of her death.

The men were kneeling. One fingered the material of his coat. Miraculous, that he should still be wearing a coat. Another looked at his pants. His feet were bare; his boots had come off during the night, and his stockings were in ruins.

'He has nothing,' said one of them, as near as Dick could understand.

'He is from the sea,' said the man who smiled. 'There will be a wreck. Other men, perhaps. We will follow the bay.'

'And this one?' asked the third man.

'He has nothing,' said the first one. 'Leave him. He will soon die.'

'He will not die,' said the man who smiled. 'He is plump, and healthy. This cloth is that of a massa. I remember such cloth. I will drink his blood. It will give me strength.'

Oh, God, Dick thought. Oh, God. I am about to be murdered. To have survived so much. To have survived a hurricane. And now to be murdered.

'Perhaps he will scream when we cut his flesh,' said the third man.

'He will scream,' said the smiling man, and Dick saw the flash of his machete blade in the morning sunlight.

So lie here, he thought, and it will be over. Soon. You will even make them happy, by screaming. But I wish to live, he protested. I did not find the strength to last the hurricane, and survive the waves, to be murdered like a pig.

Then find the energy again, and quickly. His fingers were still dug into the sand. He raised both hands, threw the first fistful at the man with the drawn machete, the second at the man by his feet. They gave shouts, of alarm, and pain and anger, and fell backwards. Dick rolled on his side, and the man kneeling on his left drew his machete. But Dick was moving his arms again, clasping them together, sweeping them over the sand like a flail, catching the black man at the ankles as he attempted to rise, and when his balance was already insecure. The man gave a gasp of exasperation and fell over, scattering across the beach, and Dick was on his feet.

Why had he not reacted like that to the man who had felled him, Harriet's friend? Had he done so, he would not be here. None of this nightmare would be happening. But he had been drunk, and had supposed himself the guilty one. Before he had even committed a crime.

The man who smiled was scraping sand from his eyes, and he still held his machete. There could be no opposing three men while he was alone and unarmed. Dick jumped over the man whom he had knocked down, and ran up the beach. As he left the water's edge the sand dried, and became soft; his feet sank to their ankles and he almost fell, as much out of despair as from loss of balance. But as his knees touched the ground he reflected that they could travel no faster; he could see their own footprints in front of him, deep, slowly filling with subsiding sand.

He regained his feet and ran, lungs bursting, nostrils and mouth gasping for breath. He heard shouts behind him, but did not look back. He reached crab grass, growing through the sand crystals, and his feet began to grip. He stumbled into the trees, trod on a thorny branch, and screamed in pain. But kept on running, the thorns driving deeper into his instep with every movement, the pain seeping up from his legs and into his calves and thighs, into his very belly. He sobbed, and moaned, and ran, and tripped, and fell through some bushes, down an incline, to land in a hollow, half sand and half earth and half bush. He lay there, panting and trying to control his panting, as he heard the crackle of bushes behind him, the sound of voices. The noise was very close. They were stopped, and arguing about where he might have gone. They were deciding to divide, to fan out, to be sure of finding him. They would not be robbed of their sport. They wanted him to scream. He held his breath, for several seconds, as the feet crackled above and to either side, as the pain seethed upwards from his own feet, and then the noise receded, and he allowed breath to explode from his lungs, and sat up to pant, and stared once again at the smiling black man.

For a moment they looked at each other. Then the black man smiled, and the machete came up, and he slowly began to descend the side of the pit.

Dick rose to his hands and knees, his chest still heaving. With fear? He had been frightened, just now. And tins time there was going to be no more surprising them and running away. This time he was going to die. Unless the black man died first.

But the black man held the machete. It darted forward now, in front of the grin. This was sport. He knew the white man was unarmed, and he could see the fear.

Dick fell backwards, stumbled and sat down. The black man's grin widened, and he thrust again. Dick rolled to one side, reached his knees, and then his feet, kicking sand to make some sort of a cloud. And feeling, strangely, an anger bubbling through his veins. He had felt it before and mistrusted it. But now, if he did not trust it, he would be killed.

Sand scattered across the black man's face, and he brushed it away with his right hand. But the smile had gone. Perhaps the white man was not sufficiently afraid. The knife came again, snaking out at the end of the long right arm. Desperately Dick swayed to one side, and the arm brushed him as the black man came close, left hand now seeking to close on Dick's body. But that had to be ignored. Dick grasped the arm holding the knife with both hands, one at wrist and one at shoulder, fingers digging into the taut flesh, forced the arm down, with all his strength, brought his own knee up, with all his strength, heard the gasp of pain, saw the knife drop to the sand, and in the same instant felt a surge of pain himself as teeth closed on his shoulder.

He turned, inside the black man's arms, drumming his fists against the black belly. But this was hard, ridged with muscle, and he seemed to make no effect. And fingers were closing on his own body, hurting where they bit into his own flesh. And the man was again smiling. But realizing that he was not going to destroy this castaway so easily on his own. The mouth was opening. He was going to call for his friends to come back.

Their bodies were tight against each other, the black man hugging, Dick's arms trapped against the black man's chest. Their faces were only inches apart, and the mouth was opening. That had to be stopped. That was priority number one. Dick made a tremendous effort, forced his arms upwards, closed his fingers on the black throat. The mouth snapped shut, and the smile was gone. Dick squeezed.

The arms left his back, pummelled his shoulders. The eyes so close to his rolled, and showed their whites. The fingers scraped flesh from his back, having already destroyed the remnants of his coat and shirt. The black toes hacked at his ankles, twined themselves round his legs. They fell together, on their sides, and for just a moment Dick's fingers relaxed. Then he squeezed again. To let go was to die.

He was forced on his back. Black fingers searched his breeches, found his genitals, twisted and squeezed. Rivers of pain flowed up each groin into his belly, left him faint. Stars spun before his eyes. But he still squeezed with all his strength.

He found his eyes open, staring at the sky. The sun was already high, although it was still early in the morning. He could not see it, but beyond the fringe of leaves and branches he could see the clear blue of the sky, the occasional fleecy white clouds. Up there was escape from the pain, from the misery of being on this earth. If he could keep his mind up there, he might survive.

Dimly he became aware that the pain was receding from his belly, that the constant motion against him had ceased. Still he squeezed, suspecting it might be a trap. Now he forced himself once again to look at the black face so close to his own, the staring eyes, the opened mouth. There was horror.

There was cramp in his fingers. He doubted he'd be able to maintain the pressure much longer. He felt his muscles already relaxing.

So then, lying here placed him at a disadvantage. He freed his fingers, having to tear them away from the black throat, so deeply were they embedded, rolled away from his opponent in the one movement, rose to his knees and turned, saw the machete lying on the sand and picked it up, turned once more to face the man on the ground.

But the man was still on the ground, lying as Dick had left him. He listened to his own breathing, could feel his own chest heave as it sought air, and wondered why the black man did not also seek air. He dropped to his hands and knees, the knife forgotten, peered at the body. I have killed a man, he thought. Oh, my God, I have killed a man. He turned his hands over, stared at them. They had not changed. They were lean hands, strong, slightly calloused. They were destroyers.

He rose to his feet, still staring at his victim. It had been kill or be killed. But he had not intended to kill. He had Wanted to silence, and then perhaps to defeat. Not to kill. As if the two could be separated, in this animal world.

He turned away from the dead man, blundered across the pit in which they had fought, scrabbled up the other side, and realized that he had forgotten the machete. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, saw the man, and the knife. From tins distance he looked asleep in the morning sunlight. But he was dead. There was enough cause for horror. And he had friends, who would soon come back to look for him.

Dick plunged into the bush. Branches tore at his flesh, his hair, even his eyes. Fallen tree trunks clawed at his feet. He fell, and got up again, and fell again, and got up again. He staggered onwards.

He found a stream, bubbling downwards, and only then saw that he had been climbing. The sun was overhead now, and very hot. And he had never been so thirsty in his life. He lay on his face and lapped the water like a dog. And lapped and lapped and lapped. And then lay on his back, and panted, while water ran out of his mouth.

And awoke again, to find the heat receding, although it was still light. How long had he lain there? He did not know. But the men who would be following him would know. It was a stupid thing, to lie still when he should be running, and running.

He regained his feet, splashed across the stream, climbed. The earth ceased to claw at his feet and instead became a series of boulders and loose stones, over which he stumbled, often falling, bruising his knees. Hunger began to bite at his belly, and he tore some berries from a tree and crammed them into his mouth, chewed as he continued to climb. Soon it would be dark, and then perhaps he could stop, and rest. If he could rest, he felt he could think, and decide what must be done. If anything could be done. But it was silly to attempt to think until he had rested.

He stepped into space. Desperately he twisted his head, flailed his arms. He had climbed, and the path he had been following had suddenly ended. For the longest moment of his life he seemed to be floating, and the strange thought crossed his mind that he had died, from exertion, and was flying up to heaven. Or perhaps the black man had killed him after all, and it had not been the other way round.

Pain. He had felt pain before, but nothing like this. Where the other pains had begun with his feet or his belly, this began in his face and head. Nothing but pain. Flying through the air? He must have hit a bird. He wanted to laugh. There was absurdity.

It was dark. He must have slept again. Or perhaps fainted. He could feel nothing but pain. His head crashed, but sharper thrusts seemed to enter his cheeks and mouth and chin, making the duller pains of his body hardly interesting. He could not still be flying. Yet he could feel nothing underneath him. No doubt he was dreaming. He put his hand down to push, and gave a scream of pure agony. Or he would have screamed, he realized. Nothing seemed to come out. Nothing which could compare with the drumming in his ears. But that was because he couldn't move his jaw. There was a silly confession.

He fell over, on to his side, gazed at the stars, filling the empty darkness of the sky. And it was cool. But he must get his jaw moving. Why, he might wish to speak to someone.

He tried his other arm, and to his delight it came up. Slowly. If he could straighten his jaw ... his fingers touched bone. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, Christ. I am going to die, lying here in the darkness.

But that was absurd. He had fought the sea, for a whole night, to live. He had killed a man, with his bare hands, to live. To lie here and die would be a crime, after having done so much to keep alive.

His left hand was the one which had moved. He put it down beside him, waited for the thrill of agony which still coursed up and down his right hand. And felt only stone, hard and brittle, under his fingers. He pushed, cautiously, and then with increasing confidence, found himself sitting up, while the night, the ravine into which he had fallen, spun around him. His mouth filled with ghastly liquid, but to his horror he found he could not move his tongue, either to taste it or to spit it out. He could only hang his head and let it flow through his lips, and realized that it was his own blood.

Come daylight, there would be insects, seeking that blood. What a horrible thought, to lie here, and slowly be eaten alive by insects. Or would they wait until he was dead? He did not know.

And he was not going to die. He had already decided that. He was going to move. If he had to crawl, then he would crawl. Away from here. So the insects would be able to follow the trail of blood. But they would know he was alive, if he moved.

He dug the fingers of his left hand into the stones, used his legs, felt more pain, and had to separate one from the other. So, then, he had one arm and one leg, ready for use. Why, he was still half a man.

He crawled and prodded, and moved, and fell on his face, and crawled, and prodded, and moved, and fell on his face. Sometimes it was dark, then suddenly it was light. Then he thought it was dark again, but he could not be sure. He was sure only of the pain, which seemed to grow and grow until it shrouded his entire body, his mind, his very being. He moved, in a miasma of pain, amazed that he could move at all, determined to keep on moving, to keep ahead of the insects.

But he was losing the race. When it was light, the insects were there, settling on his face and shoulders, buzzing in his ears. Drinking his blood. He was, after all, going to be eaten alive by insects.

Then he might as well surrender. He lay, on his face, and then rolled on his back. He had been afraid to doze, before, in case his mouth filled with blood again and he lacked the strength to turn over. But this time his throat remained dry, so dry he thought he would give all of Hilltop for a cup of water.

All of Hilltop. The thought brought tears to his eyes. But tears were liquid. Perhaps he could drink them. He discovered his eyes were shut, forced them open, and stared once again at men. Black men.

10

The Mamaloi

The breeze was cool. He had felt it before. It carried with it a delicious perfume, the scent of the sea filtered by the bloom of a million flowers.

He had smelt it before, as well. It occurred to him that he had been inhaling that magnificent scent for a very long time, without being aware of it.

He moved his shoulders, nestled them in the softness of the bed. Another sensation he remembered, without being sure of how long ago it had commenced. Perhaps he had lain here, forever. His eyes were open, gazing above him at the snowy tent of the bed. Hilltop's linen had never been that clean. But he had never supposed he was on Hilltop. Hilltop was a nightmare, and now he was awake.

To movement. A rustling from around him, a faint whisper. He turned his head, or made the necessary decision to turn his head. And remained staring at the tent. Yet he felt no fear, no sense of panic. He could not turn his head. But as he had lain here, inhaling that breeze, feeling the softness of this mattress, enjoying the cleanliness of these sheets, for so very long, it could be no serious matter.

A face replaced the tent. A black face, serious and concerned, bareheaded but ending in a high military collar, in blue and gold, as his jacket was blue, smothered in gold braid. He said something, but it was in French, and Dick could not immediately translate. Then the man was gone, to be replaced by the gentle rustle he had heard earlier. Once again he attempted to turn his head, and this time discovered that he

could. He looked to his right, at two young women, both black, both dressed in white gowns, their heads shrouded in white bandannas, who were busily preparing a bowl of warm water, with which they now proceeded to shave him. Their fingers were light as feathers, their touch delightful; they exuded the entrancing fragrance of the breeze. And yet their touch filled him with a sense of foreboding. He could feel the razor, scraping gently over his chin, and yet it did not seem to be his chin. He wanted to cry out, in sudden terror, but he could form no words, and they were so quick, they were finished before he could even form a thought. Then they busied themselves with his body, rolling back the sheet, and, now joined by another half-dozen young women who presumably had been present all the while, raising him from the mattress to insert towels beneath him, before bathing him, as gently and as carefully as they might have handled a babe. And this time he could feel more; there was no sense of catastrophe as they touched his body. Touched his body. He attempted to move, and was gently restrained. Their faces remained serious," their brows furrowed with concentration. And now one was drying him, patting leg and arm, stroking chest. The sheet was returned, and they disappeared, although clearly remaining in the room, from the whisper, and leaving him utterly refreshed.

And aware of a consuming thirst. 'Water,' he whispered. And discovered again the sense of terror. That had not been Richard Hilton's voice.

He was surrounded by faces, watching him anxiously, willing him to make them understand.

'L'eau,' he whispered. Or someone whispered, inside his brain.

They smiled, together, a combination of pleasure and relief. Soft arms went round his head, to raise it from the pillow; his cheek lay against a gently pounding heart. A cup was held to his lips, and the liquid trickled down his throat. It was the most magnificent thing he had ever tasted, clear, cool water.

Then the cup was taken away, suddenly. It was the first abrupt movement he had experienced. His cheek left the comfort of the breast, his head was replaced on its pillow. The girls disappeared, and this time they did not whisper. And a new smell entered the room, a scent of leather, of man. And a new atmosphere. He could feel the sudden power with which he was surrounded, and turned his head again, with an enormous effort, to gaze at the cluster of officers, each dressed in a magnificent uniform, red jackets, blue jackets, pale green jackets, every one a mass of gold braid with a high military collar, worn over tight breeches of white buckskin, every one with a jewel-hilted sword hanging at his side, every one with high black boots and jingling spurs.

And every one with a black face. Then was he dreaming all over again?

'Richard Hilton,' said a voice, amazingly in English. 'You are Richard Hilton?'

He turned his head once again, and discovered that one of the officers had reached the side of his bed. One of the officers? That could not be. This man carried no sword. But then, he did not need a sword. He was several inches taller than six feet, and bareheaded; again unlike the others, he did not carry his hat beneath his arm. His forehead was high, his eyes widespaced; they were sombre eyes, hard, and even arrogant, and yet also containing a remarkably wistful expression. His nose was big, his chin thrusting. His mouth was wide, and as interesting as the eyes. When closed, it suggested no more than a brutal gash; when smiling, as now, it revealed a delightful humour, an almost childish delight in the business of being alive.

'Has he spoken?' he asked, in French.

'He asked for water, Your Majesty,' said one of the girls.

Your Majesty, Dick thought. My God.

The man sat beside him on the bed. 'You may say what you wish, to me, in English,' he said, speaking English. 'My people understand little of it. Do you know who you are?'

Dick concentrated, made an immense effort. 'I am Richard Hilton,' he whispered. 'Of Plantation Hilltop, in Jamaica.'

He was bathed in the tremendous smile. 'I hoped you would say that. Do you know how you came here?'

Dick attempted to shake his head, and found he could not. 'There was a storm. My ship was sunk. And when I reached shore, I was attacked.'

'My country is beset by outlaws,' the man said. 'It is too large, we are too few. But they will be destroyed. I give you my word. And you escaped from them, sorely wounded. Do you know how badly wounded?'

'I fell,' Dick said. 'From a hillside. That is the last I remember.'

'Ah,' said the man. 'We wondered how you came by such terrible injuries. Your leg was broken and your arm. Your ribs were broken. But you would not die. You crawled, in that condition, for a very long way. My surgeons tell me you must have been in that condition for three days, still crawling. And at last you crawled into an encampment of my soldiers. They perhaps would have left you to die, but it so happened that I visited them, on a tour of inspection, that very day, and saw you, and was told how you had crawled. I thought then, here is a man of remarkable courage, remarkable stamina, remarkable determination. Such a man should not die. That was before you spoke.'

Dick frowned at him. ‘I spoke?'

'You were delirious. And . . .' For the first time the black man lost some of his confidence. 'You had other injuries, which made it difficult for you to articulate. Yet sometimes you whispered, and sometimes you screamed. You screamed your name. Do you know me?'

He waited, saw the uncertainty in Dick's eyes, and smiled. 'I am Christophe. The Emperor, Henri the First, of all Haiti. But to you, Christophe.'

'To me?'

'I knew your parents. Your mother was a woman of rare beauty, rare courage, rare determination. A fitting mother for such a son. And your father sought to help the black man. Does he still do so?'

'Yes.'

'Ah. Fate is a strange business, Richard Hilton. That I should be able to save their son.'

'Why?' Dick asked. 'I am a planter, not an Abolitionist. And you destroyed my aunt.'

The smile faded, the face became hard, for just a moment. But even a moment was long enough for Dick to know that this man would be the most implacable, the most ruthless enemy he would ever have, were he ever to become an enemy. Then the smile returned. 'I would have you regain your strength, and get well. You and I have much to discuss. Much to remember, perhaps.' The smile went again, but this time the face was sad. 'I do not hide the truth. Your injuries were terrible, Richard Hilton. You were near to death for weeks. And you have lain in a fever, unable to move, for weeks more. My people have fed you and cared for you, and you will be well again, and as strong as ever before in your life, should you choose to be. But even a broken arm, a broken leg, three broken ribs, were not the full extent of your injuries.' He snapped his fingers, and one of the girls hurried forward carrying a looking-glass in a gilt frame, handed it to the Emperor.

'Now, Richard Hilton,' Christophe said. 'As you are the son of Suzanne Hilton and Matthew Hilton, and, as you are a man of courage and determination, as you have proved, look on yourself.'

The glass was held immediately above him, and he stared into the reflection. Because it was a reflection. Christophe had said so, and indeed, he could see the cambric pillow case spreading away from him on either side, and also the fair hair, which had grown to an inordinate length, and scattered to either side as well. But the face between. His heart seemed to slow, and a wild desire to scream filled his brain.

But perhaps it was merely the glass, which was distorted, and thus made him distorted. Because those were his eyes. When he blinked, they blinked. He could stare at himself, in his eyes. So, then, no doubt he was wearing a mask, with slits through which his eyes could peer. And the mask was carelessly made, and perhaps trodden upon by that careless maker. The forehead was high. He had always had a high forehead. But never one split by a deep, jagged groove, ridged with scar tissue. The chin thrust. He had always had a thrusting chin. But it had thrust forward, not to one side in a lopsided lurch, which carried his mouth with it, elongating the lips, making the mouth seem twice as wide as it really was. And he had once possessed a nose. The Hilton nose, the feature above all others which made Mama beautiful and her sons handsome, small and exquisitely shaped. This face lacked a nose. Rather it possessed two nostrils in the centre of an unspeakable gash, which gave the other grotesque features an appearance of anxious horror.

Christophe snapped his fingers again, and the glass was removed.

'A man should count, first of all, his blessings,' the Emperor said. 'When you fell, from your hillside, you landed on your face. On your nose, I suspect. So you are disfigured. But your brain, I think, is undamaged. And you have lost only a few of your teeth. And you are alive.'

'I am a monster,' Dick whispered.

Christophe smiled, and stood up. 'You are a man, Richard Hilton. Get well, and strong. I have known handsome men, whose beauty disguised hearts of hell, and I have known lovely women, whose beauty sheltered the most vicious of desires. A man is what he is, Richard Hilton. Not what he appears to be. Get well, and we will talk.'

He left the room, his entourage at his heels, and Dick was surrounded by the girls. Now he gazed at them with horror, waiting for the disgust which must animate their faces. But they remained seriously composed, adjusted his covers, raised his head again to offer him another drink. And this time it was rum suitably diluted with lemon juice, but strong enough to send his weakened brain whirling through shadowed corridors. Christophe would take no risks with his sanity.

His sanity. Well, then, what was sanity? He doubted he would ever be sane again. Sanity was, first and foremost, an understanding of oneself and one's surroundings. But his surroundings were unimaginable. Black people, in his experience had been slaves, or, if free, paupers, wearing nothing more than a pair of drawers or a chemise, barefooted, uneducated, amoral. They had lived in one-room logies, and been allowed to die as they became useless, to give birth as they had become pregnant. They had been humble, and they had been afraid. Without, indeed, the fabric of fear which was inextricably woven into the very heart of West Indian society, slavery could not exist.

So then, there was no sanity, in Sans Souci. Because that was the name of the palace in which he now found himself. And it was a palace. Ellen Taggart had called Hilltop a palace. But compared with this endless edifice it was a hut. No doubt Christophe, with his background of slavery, intended it so. Quite unashamedly he had borrowed the design, no less than the name, from Frederick of Prussia. Of all the white men he admired, indeed, and there was a surprising number, Frederick the Great ranked highest. Dick had never been to Prussia. Nor could he see the need, now. In Prussia it was occasionally cold, often damp; the sun did not always shine. At Christophe's Sans Souci there was no natural impediment to endless splendour, endless pleasure, endless delight. Sometimes the trade wind, booming in from the Atlantic, had skirts fluttering, chandeliers swinging, but this same trade wind dissipated the heat, kept the palace cool, kept its inmates smiling.

These were numberless, men and women, treading parquet floors or soft carpets, high heels or spurred boots clicking, silks rustling, swords clinking; and their faces were black. Nor were they overawed by their surroundings. Dick was. When first he left his bed, some weeks after his initial reawakening, he was escorted along endless corridors, decorated in royal colours of brilliant blue, gleaming red, gentle green, imperial purple, hung with paintings of the magnificent country into which he had so strangely strayed. The corridors had ended in galleries, which looked over even more splendid parquet floors, sentried by red-coated guardsmen, armed with musket and bayonet and even bearskin, with ceilings decorated in the classical Italian style, and rising thirty feet above the floor beneath them. To reach the floor he must descend a slowly curving staircase, marble-stepped, gilt-balustraded, down which an endless sweep of superbly dressed, superbly poised, men and women paraded. And they were black.

And beyond the hallways, the reception rooms, with grand piano and upholstered chaise longue, monogrammed silk drapes, twenty-foot-high glass doors leading to the gardens. In here often enough music tinkled and the Haitian nobility indulged in the newest Viennese waltz, a panorama of bare breasts and shoulders, of gleaming uniforms, of witty conversation and whispered flirtation. But the gleaming shoulders and shining faces were black.

And beyond the glass doors, the miles of garden, the shell-strewn walks between the packed flowerbeds, where white-stockinged ministers strolled, gloved hands behind their backs, listening to the pronunciamentos of the Emperor. Where the sea breeze reached its fullest strength, and murmured in the pine trees with which the gardens were surrounded. Where plumed guardsmen, dismounted for their sentry duty, stood to attention with drawn sabres resting on their cuirassed shoulders. And the guardsmen, and the ministers, were black.

Much about them, about the palace, was no doubt ridiculous. At least to European eyes. Most ridiculous of all was the conscious aping of Europeanism, and within that, of Napoleonism. Christophe was the Emperor, and ruled with all the trappings of Paris or Vienna, reviewing his magnificently uniformed guard every morning, conferring far into the night with his ministers, issuing directives, sentencing offenders, making plans, while in the evening he invariably attended the ball which took place in the great hall, accompanied by his queen, middle-aged and soft-voiced, but imperial of presence, with diamonds sparkling in her hair and round her neck, with the train of her white lace gown sweeping the floor. Perhaps it was ridiculous for powdered black people to dance the waltz. Certainly it was ridiculous for the nobility Christophe had created around him to sport names like the Duke of Marmalade, the Count of Sunshine. But there was nothing ridiculous about the gravity, the conscious determination, with which each minister, each belle, each servant and each guardsman went about his duties. Dick took a great deal of persuading to leave his bedchamber, even when he was strong enough once more to walk; he feared that his ghastly face would be an object of ridicule. But no doubt they had been prepared, and indeed, no sooner had he left his room than he encountered the Empress, obviously waiting to insist upon lending him her own arm to descend the stairs, and receive the bows of her people, and never a smile at the disfigured white man.

So then, perhaps it was ridiculous to sit for dinner at a table twice the size of that at Hilltop, with other tables leading off, so that some hundred and fifty people sat down for the meal, to sip French wine and eat breast of chicken fried in butter, to finish with iced sorbet delicately flavoured with soursop, the most sensual of fruits.

But why, he found himself wondering, was it ridiculous? For people consciously to raise their status, from the lowest to the highest, in a single generation? There was achievement, not absurdity. No doubt, to his eyes, incongruous was the more accurate word. And what was incongruous, but a synonym for surprise, for the unusual.

And then, he was forced to reflect, as he strolled the gardens, attended always by his bevy of white-gowned girls, and now supported by two armed guardsmen always at his call, and listened to the bustle of empire just beyond the walls, nothing could even be incongruous, where so much had been achieved. In Jamaica, they had supposed Haiti to be a savage jungle peopled by wild Africans no doubt given to cannibalism, and surviving in the depths of poverty and degradation, at the mercy of the wild superstition they called Voodoo. If the palace of Sans Souci was representative of the culture Henry Christophe had created, then was Jamaica the uncivilized poorhouse.

But was it truly representative? He could not help but remember the empty beach, the sullen forest, the bestial trio who had sought to murder him, when first he had landed. How far then, did Christophe's magnificence stretch? Dick found himself remarkably anxious to find out.

But leaving Sans Souci demanded the same essential as remaining within its magnificent cloisters; the will of the Emperor Henry Christophe. He had said, on the morning Dick first awoke, that he wished to talk. And this was true. As Dick regained his strength, the Emperor set aside an hour a day, first of all to visit his guest in his bedchamber, and then, when Dick began to be able to move around the palace, to entertain him in one of the private rooms, or to walk with him in the gardens. But less to talk, than to listen. He asked questions, concerning Jamaica, concerning Europe, concerning the present state of the Hilton family. As he regularly received embassies, or at least envoys, from various European nations, and as he certainly received overseas news from his own agents, judging by the constant stream of couriers which visited the palace, he was certainly not ill-informed of events outside his own country. Of which he never spoke. Any questions Dick might offer in reply were politely turned aside. It became increasingly difficult for Dick to decide, as he regained his full health and strength, and his brain became correspondingly more alert, exactly what motive Christophe had, in lavishing such care, such attention, on him. He even began to wonder if the repeated questions concerning Suzanne—even if these were equally mingled with questions concerning Matt and the prospects of Abolition in the British colonies—might not be the main reason. Mama had never discussed her months of imprisonment by the Negro army. In circumstances so horrible no one had been disposed to argue about that. But had the circumstances been so horrible?

The thought was itself horrible. But was the thought itself horrible? Or was it just the instinctive reaction of generations of prejudice? What had Mama herself said? The fact of slavery is all the white man has, if he is wealthy, to justify his crime, if he is poor, to justify his pretence at superiority. And every black man in the entire continent of America was a slave, a freed slave, or the son of a slave. And was thus to be doomed to perpetual inferiority? Why, he had recognized the falseness of that in Jamaica, and long before he had known Christophe. Knowing Christophe, seeing what he had achieved, made it even more of a nonsense.

Nor could the idea of love, between white and black, be dismissed out of hand as obscene. He had known the attraction of a black woman, in Jamaica, and rejected it instinctively. Tony had not. And had not Tony, as ever, been right? There came the night, not very long after he was able to take his first steps in the garden, when the door to his bedchamber was opened, and a girl entered. She carried a candle, and wore a deep green negligee, and nothing else. He gazed at her in alarm and she smiled at him.

'I am come to make you happy,' she said, in English.

'I am happy,' he answered, again instinctively. 'You must not stay.'

The girl crossed the room, placed the candle in the holder. She was tall, and slender. She glided rather than moved, and even through the negligee her black flesh seemed to gleam. 'I must stay,' she said. 'It is the will of the Emperor.'

'The Emperor? He has not spoken of it to me.'

'The Emperor knows his own mind,' she removed her negligee. 'My name is Aimee.'

No doubt she had been created especially to be loved. Her slimness was the result of training and exercise, not immaturity. Her breasts filled his hand, and lacked the slightest sag. Her belly was ridged with the muscles of a man. And most remarkable of all to his eyes, her pubes had been shaved, to make her womanhood the more imperious, the more demanding, the more anxious. And now he discovered the reason for the gleam which had surrounded her. She was oiled, from her neck to her toes, with a pleasantly scented unguent, which made her slide over him like a cool breeze. He was inside her before he had properly touched her, his fingers slipping down the powerful arch of her back. And he was spent, it seemed but a single spasm later. No doubt he had wanted a woman, very badly, without even being aware of it.

Aimee kissed him on the nose. 'The Emperor will be pleased. It is a sign of health.'

She made to roll away from him, and he caught her wrist. 'And having done your duty, you will now leave me?'