Her face was expressionless. 'If I remain, Mr Hilton, you will wish to enter me again. And perhaps again.'

'And having done your duty, you no longer wish me inside you.'

'My feelings are of no concern,' she said. 'I am concerned with your strength. It is not yet full.'

'The Emperor's command?'

'The Emperor knows all things.'

'And so he commanded you to love a monster.'

She had been pulling at her wrist, gently. Now her movements relaxed, and she frowned. 'Are you a monster?'

'Have you no eyes in your head, Aimee?'

'You are a man, monsieur.' Almost she smiled. 'A woman should judge a man, not by his appearances, but by his touch. Your fingers are gentle. They seek to give, rather than to take. Your lips are gentle. Your passion is a gentle passion. You are a man to love, because you are a man who seeks to give love.'

No doubt her father had been a slave, and perhaps had torn the flesh from Aunt Georgiana's body while she had screamed and he had laughed. 'Did the Emperor command you to say that?'

'No, monsieur. The Emperor would be displeased with me did he know I was still here. He would have me whipped.' 'But you will come again?' 'Tomorrow night.'

'Then stay this night, Aimee, or do not come tomorrow. I would have you stay, and return, because of me, not because of duty. And if it is because of me, I must be worth at least a whipping.'

She hesitated, and was then in his arms again, and consuming him again, within seconds. And herself? He could swear beads of sweat had appeared on her shoulders, even beneath the oil. And she had sighed.

'And you will not be whipped,' he said. 'I give you my word.'

She smiled. 'I will not be whipped in any event, Mr Hilton. The Emperor left tins night, and will not return for at least a month.'

'Left?' He sat up in dismay.

'He campaigns, monsieur. Against Petion.'

The name was familiar enough. 'I had supposed they shared the same dream. Did not Petion fight with Christophe, under Toussaint, against the French?'

'Indeed, monsieur. But he is not black like us. His father was a white man. He is what we call a mulatto. And if he wished to be free of the French, he did not wish to be ruled by a black man. He has declared the south independent, and would make himself master of all Haiti. So the Emperor must defeat him, and this is difficult, where there are so many forests, so many mountains.'

'But the Emperor will defeat him?'

'Of course,' Aimee said.

It was as simple as that, to the residents of Sans Souci.

'You are well, Richard Hilton.' The Emperor stood before his desk, hands clasped behind his back. He wore uniform, and looked tired. As well he might, Dick supposed. He had campaigned for some two months, and had apparently only returned to his palace the previous day. And immediately summoned his guest. Or was it his prisoner?

'I am as well as ever in my life, sire. Or perhaps, better than ever before in my life. No man could have been cared for as I have been these last nine months.' Could it really be nine months? It was July. The sea breeze had warmed, and rain clouds were gathering above the mountains.

'That pleases me,' Christophe said. He walked round the desk, and one of his secretaries hastily pulled back his chair for him. 'Sit.'

Another secretary held a chair for Dick. He sat, carefully, adjusting his white breeches as he felt the shoulders of his blue coat brushing the back of the chair. He wore uniform, for the simple reason that everyone in Sans Souci wore uniform; Christophe's tailors apparently did now know how to cut civilian clothes.

'And do you now look in the mirror without a shudder?'

'No, sire. I doubt I will ever be able to do that.'

Christophe gazed at him for some seconds. And then nodded. 'There is news, from Europe. The French emperor, Napoleon, has escaped from Elba and returned to France.'

'My God,' Dick said. 'It will mean a resumption of the war.'

'And a resumption, perhaps, of Bonaparte's power,' Christophe said, thoughtfully. 'The same ship which brought me that news brought inquiries after Richard Hilton. We have had several such inquiries.'

Dick frowned. 'You never said so.'

'You had sufficient cause for distress, in regaining your health,' Christophe said.

'Then my family know I am here?'

Christophe smiled. 'I have told no one you are here.'

'But

'I supposed it was your wish, Richard Hilton. You have never asked to have your family informed. That is strange. But my agents also tell me that you are disgraced in Jamaica, sought for a crime, perhaps.'

'A crime?'

'An assault upon a young girl. A white man's crime, Richard. I do not inquire. Perhaps it was the cause of your leaving Jamaica, perhaps not. I will inform your family that you are alive and well, should you wish it.'

Dick hesitated. Judith had told her mother, and Harriet, in her anger, had brought a charge. No doubt Richard Hilton, of Hilltop in Jamaica, would survive such a scandal, and even a court case, by payment of a fine. But did he wish to be Richard Hilton of Hilltop? Could he ever be Richard Hilton of Hilltop again? Ellen would never forgive him. Poor Ellen. She had travelled four thousand miles to meet disaster, and must travel four thousand miles back again.

Well, then, what of the plantation? No doubt it would be sold. Or managed by Tony. There was the answer. It would be managed by Tony. But he had ordered Tony from the plantation. Only Josh, and Boscawen knew that. No doubt Tony would be able to come to some arrangement with both Josh and Boscawen. And Tony was much more of a planter, in spirit, than himself.

Because he had never wanted to rule, and even less wanted to rule now. Was even less able to rule, now. Having seen what his slaves could become, were they given the chance.

Christophe was smiling. 'You do not choose to inform them.'

'I have been happy here, these last few months,' Dick confessed. 'Happier than I can recall. I was never happy as a planter. Or even before.'

'Why is that?'

Dick hesitated. 'I think I have always been too aware of my name. I have always felt I was not acting the part. Here, I cannot act the part, and therefore I am not perpetually worried about it.'

'Honestly said,' Christophe remarked. 'But I have no doubt that you are a Hilton. What of your mother? Do you not wish to inform her that you are still alive?'

'Yes. But not now. I would like to wait a while.'

Christophe nodded. 'Yet will there be inquiries about this white man who is my friend, once the fact is widely known. They will ask who you are. What will I tell them?'

'Whatever you like. So long as they do not learn my name.'

'Ah. Yet they will want a name.' Christophe leaned back and gave a bellow of laughter. 'I will tell them you are an English soldier of fortune, by name Matthew Warner. There is a name, Richard Hilton.'

'You know of the Warners?'

'I know a great deal. And you will tell me more.' He got up, and the humour faded from his face. 'But I said the truth, when I described you as a Warner, an English soldier of fortune come to fight at my side. We are going on a journey, you and I. You are well enough to travel, my surgeons tell me. You are as well, or better, than ever in your life.'

'Except for my face.' But his heart was pounding. How long had he waited, to leave Sans Souci?

'Where no one knows you with any other face, Matthew Warner—for your name comes into being as of now—no one will find anything to remark on. Come. Our escort is waiting.'

Dick wondered if he should ask permission to say goodbye to Aimee. The girl had become part of him during the past few weeks. But he did not suppose Christophe would be interested, or appreciative, of such a tender emotion. The Emperor did not delay to say farewell to his wife, was already striding through the halls and down the stairs, huge cocked hat on his head, sword slapping his thigh, with all Ins tremendous energy.

And Richard Hilton, alias Matthew Warner, followed, a sword slapping hios thigh. A sword he did not know how to use. What would Christophe say when he discovered that?

But it was a good alias.

Their horses waited in the courtyard of the palace, and with them an escort of fifty dragoons, in blue jackets with yellow facings and dusty white breeches, blue tricornes, and armed with muskets and cutlasses. Dick realized for the first time that he was dressed as an officer in the Imperial Guard, and therefore had presumably been granted that rank.

The gates were swinging open, and he looked outside the palace. Beyond was a beaten earth roadway, typical of any in Jamaica, although he would have expected paving stones, thus close to the palace itself, and in such a kingdom. Christophe cantered through, Dick at his heels, the guards behind. And Dick all but drew rein. For beyond the palace there was a town. If it could be so called. A scattered accumulation of wooden lean-tos—they could not even be described as slave logies— amidst which naked children, thin and emaciated, and almost naked women, hastily and wearily rose to their feet to stand to attention as the imperial entourage went by, kicking dust into their faces. And the faces did not smile.

Christophe had glanced at him. It was necessary to say something. 'There are no men.'

'Those of fighting age are in my armies,' Christophe explained. 'The old men and the boys must till the fields. We are a nation of workers, Matt.'

A slave nation, slaving, Dick thought, and wondered why. Perhaps these people were being punished. Perhaps they were just lazy. He could see the houses of a city ahead.

'Cap Haitien,' Christophe explained. 'The French called it Cap Francois, but we renamed it.'

Cap Francois. ‘I have been here, with my mother,' Dick said.

'Of course.' But Christophe was preoccupied, returning the salutes of the people who lined the street. Because this was a street. Or perhaps, Dick thought, it would be more accurate to say, this had been a street. Now grass grew through the cracked paving stones; the giant trees had not been pruned in ten years, he calculated, and their branches dropped low and had to be pushed aside as the cavalcade rode by. And beyond the trees were the palaces. He remembered the houses of Cap Francois, not because they were imprinted on his mind, but because Mama had told him so much about them. But she had not told him about these. She had spoken of turrets and porticoes, of brilliant colours and sheltered gardens, of massed flowers and smiling, beautiful women. Well, there were still turrets, windows gaping holes in the masonry. And there were still porticoes, in which naked decrepit old men squatted to pass the time of day, being pushed and prodded by military boots and gun butts to stand and do obeisance to their emperor. There were no flowers, there were no beautiful women, and there was no scent, but rather a stench, of unwashed bodies and untreated sewage.

And once again, there were no smiles. The streets were lined with soldiers, and these stood to attention, muskets at the present. They would not have been expected to smile. But the women and old men and children behind them did not smile either. They stared at their emperor, some with apathy, more with hatred, Dick thought.

They passed the cathedral. The doors had been wrenched, or had fallen, from their hinges, the great bell tower was cracked. Inside he could see overturned, rotting pews, a derelict altar. So no doubt few of these people were Christians. But he was glad to be out of the city, and taking the road through deserted canefields, with the forest looming in the distance.

'It is not as you remember,' Christophe remarked.

'I do not remember it at all,' Dick said. 'It is not as my mother described it.'

'Ah. Then it was the capital of the French culture in the West Indies.'

'And now it is not your capital?'

Christophe glanced at him, and then looked ahead. 'You know the history of my people?' 'A little.'

'It can be briefly told,' Christophe said. 'As elsewhere in the West Indies, we were brought here as slaves. I was brought here from St Kitts. The Warners' island, Matt. There is a remarkable quirk of fate. And once here, we were ill-treated, on a scale and in a detail that even you cannot consider. Yet, being a supine people, and being too, composed of so many nationalities, we might have suffered for centuries, had not there been a revolution in France. Even then we were not the first to act. It was the mulattoes, who were free, but without social or political power, who sought their rights. In their revolt the authorities became preoccupied, and we saw our chance and rose. Oh, we murdered and we burned and we looted and we raped. We had much to avenge. We have still, much to avenge on the French. And we found ourselves a great man to be our leader.'

'Toussaint.'

They had passed through the canefields now, and were entering the cool of the trees.

'Aye,' Christophe said. 'Toussaint. He beat the French, and he beat the English who would help them as well. I was proud to be one of his men. But then the English and the French signed a peace treaty, thirteen years ago, and Bonaparte was able to send an army against us. An army which had conquered Europe, Matt. They could not conquer us. In the field. But they tricked Toussaint into attending a parley, and sent him captive to France, to die in a prison cell. They thought that without our leader we would surrender. But we found ourselves another leader, in Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and we beat the French again. So what was left of them sailed away, evacuated by your British fleet, Matt. And we were a nation. On paper. For the mulattoes, who had fought with us, now sought power of their own. They murdered the emperor, and Petion declared his independence. I was chosen to take Jean-Jacques's place. I have ruled this country for eight years, and throughout that time I have fought Petion, and I have fought the dissident elements in my own nation, and I have tried to make my people work, and I have tried to make a nation. So sometimes I am very tired. It is difficult to see the end.' 'Yes,' Dick said.

Another glance. The trees had grown thicker, and their path was climbing.

'You do not approve of my methods? They must be driven, Matt. When people have been slaves, and then are suddenly given their freedom, all they wish to do is enjoy that freedom. They do not understand that freedom carries with it the responsibility to work harder than a slave, to protect it.'

'I was thinking that they are poorer now, than when they were slaves.'

'Haiti is a poor country.'

Dick spoke without thinking. 'Perhaps they wonder how much Sans Souci cost to build, costs to maintain.' 'Are there no palaces in England?' 'Yes, but . . .'

'You would bow to your king did he live in a cottage in Suffolk?'

'A cottage in Suffolk is closer to Buckingham Palace, than are these people's huts to Sans Souci.'

'The huts of the Saxons were not closer to William the Conqueror's Tower of London,' Christophe pointed out. 'A ruler must not merely rule, or he is a tyrant. And a transient tyrant, at best. A ruler must be surrounded not only by the evidence of his power, but by the evidence of the permanence of his power. Sans Souci will stand forever. And my people know that, therefore my authority will stand forever. And more. Sans Souci is an achievement for them to seek, for them to dream of. It cost a fortune, money the nation could ill afford. But had I handed that money to these people, they would have squandered it in seconds. Now it is standing for all to see. For ambassadors to see, to admire, to understand that here is no casual, savage community of outlaws, but a nation of men, determined to last. They need to know that, Matt. We are surrounded by dangers. Not only from Petion. He is nothing. But from Europe. From Bonaparte, now that he has returned. The first thing he will do, once he has again defeated the allied powers, is despatch an expeditionary force to Haiti.' Another sidelong glance. 'You do not agree with me?'

'I would say Bonaparte abandoned his ambitions in the Western Hemisphere when he sold Louisiana to the Americans.'

'I do not think so. And if not Bonaparte, then some other European ruler. Perhaps your own English, Matt. The Europeans cannot tolerate the existence of Haiti. We are a scar across their ordered, white, slave-supported world. Oh, they will come. In greater force than ever before, because they know how difficult we are to conquer. But when they come, Matt, they will find us impossible to conquer.' He rode out of the trees and into the brightness of the afternoon sunlight, pointed up the hills that stretched in front of them, reaching all the way to the mountains. 'La Ferriere.'

Dick followed the direction of the pointing finger, up and up, through valleys and above escarpments, rising ever higher into the tree-shrouded mountains, to discover what at first sight appeared to be the prow of a battleship, peering out from a rocky crag five hundred feet farther up. And even at this distance he could tell that the stone buttress rose some hundred feet above the rock at its base.

'Come,' Christophe said. 'It is still distant.'

And indeed it was. They camped for that night in a valley, and listened to the wind soughing in the trees. And sat around the camp fire, while Dick listened to the Emperor.

'We shall fight the invader every inch of the way, of course,' Christophe said. 'Ours is a difficult country to traverse, especially for a white man's army. Your English, as well as the French, discovered that during the war. Yet I will never make the mistake of Toussaint, and underestimate the white man's genius, any more than I would ever trust his word. It is possible, with their ability at warfare, their experience and their skill and their superior weapons, that they may defeat us, and capture our cities, and force us back. But this time, Matt, we shall not merely retreat to the forest, and dissipate our numbers along trackless paths. This time we shall retreat to La Ferriere. There is no force in the world can follow us up here, and assault that bastion. It is not just a fortress, Matt. It is the heart of a nation. It is a military city, within the jungle. It is at all times armed and provisioned to enable a thousand men to withstand a siege of a hundred days, and that, Matt, is far longer than any army could maintain a siege, with the guns of the citadel playing upon them, day and night, with my jungle fighters preying on their skirmishers, with my jungle itself bringing fever into their tents. La Ferriere is a dream I have long held. It surely is a dream that every military commander, every emperor, must always have held, the unassailable fortress, the ultimate retreat. But only I have managed to achieve the dream, here in the mountains of Haiti.' His eyes glowed in the firelight. 'You know of another?'

'I was wondering,' Dick said, 'how much that cost. Forgive me, sire, and remember that I spent seven years of my life in a bank.'

'You think too much in terms of money,' Christophe remarked. 'La Ferriere cost more than Sans Souci, to be sure. But if I consider Sans Souci, which is only for show, important, try to calculate how much more important I consider La Ferriere.'

'And suppose the European invaders never come?'

'They will come, eventually,' Christophe said. 'They came before. They will come again. It does not matter when. La Ferriere will stand forever. And who knows, as a last retreat for an emperor, it may not need to wait for invaders of my country.'

Saying which he wrapped himself in his blanket and went to sleep, for when on the march he lived like the soldier he had been for so long, slept on the ground, disdained the use of a tent. It was a wholly admirable characteristic, Dick thought, in a wholly admirable man. Well, down to two days ago, he would have said wholly admirable. And indeed, where did he discover the right to criticize? Christophe knew only extremes; that most of his people should starve that the other few might impress, would not seem out of the ordinary to him. And he knew only the dominant, aggressive will of the white man. That he should retain an everlasting fear of them, an everlasting determination never to be conquered again, was entirely natural.

Only the last, unguarded remark, that the Citadel of La Ferriere might possibly have been built as a last refuge, not of an heroic defender rallying the remnants of his people around him, but for a tyrant to retreat from the rightful wrath of his subjects, was less than wholly admirable.

Besides, whatever the motive, the mere fact of the creation of such a fortress in so impregnable a natural bastion, was wholly admirable. Except perhaps for the lives it must have cost.

Dick appreciated this more the following day, when they completed the climb. Christophc told him that every block of masonry, not to mention every cannon, every ball, every sack of corn, had been carried up these slopes on the back of a man; and often enough they had to dismount, in order to be sure of not being thrown by their mounts as the horses slipped and tripped on the bare rock.

And always the enormous buttress loomed above them, coming steadily closer, growing in size as it did so, while soon they could make out the mouths of the cannon protruding through the embrasures, and the heads of the men looking down. Certainly it was indisputable that had those men decided to refuse them entry, they could not have proceeded.

But even the buttress soon lost its importance, as they at last gained the plateau, and entered the huge wooden gateway, crossing the drawbridge over a rushing mountain stream. From the outside Dick had gaped at the walls, twelve feet thick at their bases, rising fifty and more feet above the rock into which they had been embedded, every embrasure boasting a cannon. Inside he could only gape again, at the sweep of the parade ground, at the stretch of barracks, at the presidential quarters, a small palace in itself, at the hoists for the munitions, the sheltered wells sunk deep in to the rock. Here was engineering on a scale Europe had never even sought to approach. It made him think of what he had read of the Pyramids.

But there was yet more gaping to be done. Without being told by his host, he dismounted, and ran for the steps leading to the great bastion, hurried to the embrasures, and looked out, at Haiti. The mountains rose in the east behind him, the highest peaks in the entire Caribbean, stretching upwards even beyond the tree-line, to become empty, jagged rock; it was possible to suppose they occasionally knew the kiss of snow. Immediately beneath him commenced the forest through winch they had climbed, stretching far, far to the south and west, green, thick, a defensive bastion in itself. To the north he could make out Cap Haitien, and even, he supposed the magnificent scar on the green that was Sans Souci. And beyond even them, the beach, and the endless Atlantic rollers, blue topped with white, which pounded ceaselessly on the sand.

And then the ocean itself. In that direction there was nothing between Haiti and Europe. From here Christophe would gaze upon the sails of the invading fleet, long before his country was more than a heavy cloud on the horizon to them. Supposing the fleet ever came.

'You are impressed,' the Emperor said, at his shoulder. 'That pleases me.'

'I have been impressed, sire,' Dick protested, 'by everything I have seen on Haiti.'

'Even the poverty in which too many of my people live?' Perhaps there was humour in that deep voice, a twinkle in those black eyes. Dick could not be sure.

'Even that, sire. But this surpasses them all. Our historians claim that in all history there have been only seven true wonders created by man. They would have to add this as their eighth.'

'Well said,' Christophe agreed. 'It is my monument. As I said, it will stand forever. And with it, my name, my memory. But I have another wonder to show you yet, Matt. Or, I think, for this occasion, I shall call you Dick. Come.'

The guards stood to attention. Christophe led Dick down the stone steps to the courtyard, and across the yard to the Emperor's house. Here again guards presented arms and remained at attention, and white-gowned girls hastened forward with cups of sangaree, and to relieve them of their weapons. Christophe waved them aside. 'I would speak with the mamaloi?

A girl bowed, and hurried before them, to a curtained doorway leading away from the main withdrawing room. A moment later she returned.

'The mamaloi will receive you, sire.'

Christophe nodded, raised the curtain, led Dick into a darkened corridor, at the end of which was another heavy drape. This too was removed, and they found themselves in a small room, dark save for the glow of a charcoal fire, and heavy with scent, of the burning wood, to be sure, but with other odours as well, some delicious, and others strangely repellent. The room appeared to be empty of furniture, save for a single high-backed chair against the far wall. And in the chair there sat a woman. In the gloom Dick could only blink, unable to make out more than long dark hair and equally dark gown, with the face no more than a pale glimmer between. A pale glimmer.

'The true source of my strength, Richard Hilton,' Christophe said. 'I would have you meet the mamaloi of La Ferriere. In English, she was called Gislane Nicholson.'

Dick became aware that Christophe was no longer beside him. He was alone, with the priestess. And she was content to wait for some seconds. Her face remained a blur. But perhaps she could see in the dark.

'Richard Hilton,' she said, at last. 'Light this.' Her English was perfect. Dick moved forward, held out his hand, took the candle; her fingers were cool to his touch.

He knelt in front of the fire, lit the wick.

'Tell me of your father,' she said.

He straightened. 'I have not seen him for five years.'

'But you have heard more recently than that.'

'He is ageing, and therefore weak.'

'And your mother? Is she as beautiful as ever?'

'As ever.' He held the candle above his head, moved closer.

'But she is also ageing. As am I.'

Her face came into the light. And here was beauty, he realized. The high forehead, the wideset green eyes, the perfect nose, the wide mouth, the pointed chin. Could she really be more than fifty?

'She also ages.'

She gazed at him for some seconds, then held out her hand. 'Give me the candle. And kneel, here beside me.' He obeyed, and she placed the candle in a holder beside her chair, then thrust her fingers into his hair, tilted his head back. 'You have suffered a terrible injury.'

He flushed. 'I had forgot.'

'And I have reminded you. It is my duty, to remind men, of themselves. Do you know me?' 'Yes.' 'All?'

'I think so.'

'Told by your mother, or your father?' 'My father does not speak of you.'

Again her gaze shrouded him. 'Does your mother still hate me?'

'I do not think so.'

'Perhaps age has brought her understanding,' the mamaloi said. 'Do you understand, Richard Hilton?'

'That you were taken from your home, and sold as a slave? I think so.'

'Do you? Do you know what it is like for a girl—I was no more—educated as an English lady, to be taken from her home, and made the plaything of every man who wished her? Can you understand that, Richard Hilton? Because of a minute drop of Negro blood in her veins? Can you understand such a world?'

'No,' Dick said. Presumably it was the answer she wanted.

Gislane Nicholson smiled. 'You will understand it. As I have done. When I was a slave, at first, I wished for my heart to cease beating, very often. But then I found myself, and I found my gods, and I wished only to live. So I live, and I am powerful. Your father, who loved me, and sought to right the wrong that had been done me, is as you say, ageing and frustrated, I have all that I could desire. Henry gives me all that I could desire, has always given me all that I desire. Do you admire him?'

Dick realized that only honesty would pay here. 'In many ways.'

'But not all?'

‘I do not think all his values are true.'

'You could say that of any man. But he will fight for his values and, if need be, die for them. He wears a silver bullet around his neck, with which he will destroy himself should he ever be defeated. He has told me of you, Richard. You are running. Away from being a Hilton?'

'He understands that?'

She smiled. 'I do not think so. I understand that. But I do not admire it. No man can run away from what he is.'

'I find myself a planter,' he said. 'And yet I respect the intentions of my father. The two are irreconcilable.'

'Nothing is irreconcilable, to a man of courage.'

'Ah, but you see . . .'

'You are a coward? This has been proved?' 'Well, let us say I lack determination. My brother has determination. He is the true Hilton.'

'But you can say that. You must think about it, a great deal.' 'Yes.'

Gislane Nicholson stood up. Her blood-red gown rustled, as she moved round him. He wanted to turn, but dared not move his head. She stood immediately behind him. 'Do you know why you are here? Why Henry wishes you at his side?'

'I have thought about that, too. I wondered perhaps . . .'

'If he loved your mother?' Gislane knelt beside him. Her shoulder touched his. He inhaled her scent. 'No. But he admired her, as he admired your father. As he even admired Robert Hilton. He sought such courage, such determination, such arrogance, if you like, amongst his own people. Without success. His life is a hard one. Perhaps you have not realized that. Perhaps you have seen only Sans Souci. But he must rule, and he must lead, and he must fight. With only his own prowess to support him. His father was not a king, not even a wealthy planter. His father was a slave, and so were the fathers of all his generals, all his soldiers, all his people. Their right to power is as good as his, were they able to prove themselves men as good as he. And there are always some, who have no hope of proving themselves thus capable, who will seek to strike down their leader, to make room for lesser men.'

'I understand that,' Dick said, and at last turned his head. Her face was only inches away from him. He felt quite drunk with the nearness of her.

'It is on his mind, constantly, like a headache. It prevents him doing much that he would wish to do. I am his only source of strength. But I am naught but a woman. He seeks a man. And Fate brought him one.'

'Me? There is a joke.'

'A white man, dependent only upon Christophe himself. There is someone to trust. And when that white man is also a Hilton, he is the person Christophe seeks. Do you not think

Fate brought you to Haiti?'

'Well, I suppose, in a manner of speaking.'

'I do not use the word Fate. My prayers, my powers, brought you to Haiti, Richard. I reached out across the sea, and I found you, and I summoned you hither.'

Her voice was so intense, her face was so close, her scent was so overpowering, he almost believed her. Voodoo. But he was a Christian.

He forced a smile. 'You chose the wrong brother, Miss Nicholson. I know nothing of weapons. I can scarce protect myself with my fists.'

If he had sought to break her spell, he had failed. 'You are a Hilton,' she said. 'Violence, power, is in your blood. Are you afraid of blood?'

He licked his lips. 'I ... I have never spilt any.'

'Nor had yours spilt?' She seized his wrist with her left hand, so quickly and so tightly he could do nothing about it for a moment, and in that moment her right hand had come out from beneath the folds of her gown, and a sharp-bladed knife had been drawn across the back of his forearm. He stared at the welling blood in total horror, felt her breath on his face as she smiled. 'You will not die of it.' She lowered her head, pressed her lips to the cut, sucked it for a moment, raised her head again. 'Good blood.'

It continued to dribble slowly down his arm.

'I will cure the bleeding in a moment. But first, come.' She held his hand, stood up, and he stood with her. She led him across the room to the far corner, turned suddenly. 'Point, at the candle.'

His brain whirling, his arm came up. Blood fell to the floor with a gentle plop. Gislane held his shoulder, stared along his arm. 'Point,' she said. 'Do not wave at it. Point.' He felt an excruciating pain, and realized she had bitten his ear. 'Point.'

His hand settled.

'That is better. But not good. You are indeed nervous, Richard Hilton. Do I make you nervous?' He stared at her, in the gloom of the corner, at the flash of her smiling teeth.

She held his wrists, brought up his hands. He discovered that her robe was opened. His hands were placed on her breasts, and she inhaled; her nipples seemed to be driving holes in his palms. She released his wrists, and put her arms round his neck, bringing herself even closer. She kissed his mouth, parted the lips, sought his tongue. A woman old enough to be his mother, several times over. The ground seemed to be heaving beneath his feet. His entire being was filled with the feel of her, the scent of her, with the desire for her.

But she was gone again, slipped quietly away, and he could not find her for a moment. Then she was back, at his side. 'Do you desire me, Richard Hilton?'

He turned, reaching for her, and found only the cold butt of a pistol pressed into his hand.

'Douse the candle,' she said. 'Douse the candle.'

He turned, without thinking, save of the woman, brought up his hand, and pointed at the flickering flame. The explosion took him by surprise, filled his nostrils with smoke and the acrid burn of powder, sent his senses reeling. Because the room was utterly dark.

11

The Soldier

'They are taking the lower road.' Henry Christophe prodded the map held for him by his aide; the board rested on his horse's neck. 'There. How many?'

His head came up, and the courier, still panting, heat sweat still rising from his mount, straightened to attention. 'Four thousand, sire. With cannon.'

'Cannon will do them no good here,' Christophe said. 'General Warner.'

It still took Dick a few moments to realize he was being addressed. 'Sire?'

'You will take your regiment down this path. Captain La Chat will show you. He knows the country. You will proceed at a walk. There is time. Soon the drums will begin. When you reach the bottom, you will see the track. The enemy may not yet be in sight. You will maintain your men there until the drumbeat quickens, then you will debouch on to the road and charge along it until you encounter the enemy. Understood?'

No, Dick wanted to shout. No, I do not understand. No, I am not able to carry out your command. I have never led men into battle before. I have never been under fire before. I shall be afraid. I shall likely run away.

But instead he thought of the mamaloi, of her scent, of her feel; his right arm pained where the knife had cut his flesh, although, miraculously, uncannily, she had sealed the cut itself with some unguent of hers. He had been bewitched. Oh, undoubtedly. But for this purpose. To fight with the Emperor.

'Understood, sire.'

Christophe continued to look at him. 'There will be no quarter. Matt,' he said, in English. 'It would do you no good to grant quarter, in any event, as your men would merely torture their prisoners to death. This is a war of survival. Understood?'

'Understood, sire.'

Christophe smiled. 'And by the same token, Matt, do not be taken. If you must die, die fighting.'

'Yes, sire.' Dick wheeled his horse, Captain La Chat at his side; the aide was a small black man, dressed in the blue uniform with the yellow facings of the Imperial Guard, like Dick, but wearing a tricorne instead of the cocked hat which marked a commander. They entered the trees, the four hundred dragoons jingling at their heels, commenced the descent, for the moment shaded from the sun, as it was early afternoon, siesta time, and the forest was hot and dry. For the moment. Yesterday it had rained, and perhaps later this afternoon, it would rain again; in these mountains, coated with these forests, the clouds accumulated almost without warning. But for the moment it was dry. Only blood would flow, this afternoon.

His blood? Somehow he did not feel that. But blood, to be sure. So then, Richard Hilton, how far have you come, from a stool in Bridle's Bank in Lombard Street, from being the son of Matthew Hilton, Member of Parliament, pacifist, Abolitionist? What would Mama say? Supposing she ever learned of it; he had not been able to bring himself to write her, although Christophe would certainly have despatched the letter. But would Mama wish a monster as a son? And was Christophe not right? Was not Father the man who had travelled far, and away from his own heritage? He did not know, for certain. But this afternoon he would find out, for certain.

'There.' Captain La Chat pointed a gauntleted finger. The trees were thinning, and the road was in front of them, and slightly beneath them. A dusty road, empty of people. And now he could hear the drums, murmuring across the hills, booming in the valleys. They were rada drums, used for Voodoo ceremonies. They touched a chord in his memory, for he had heard them as a child, as he had heard them often, here in Haiti. They were compelling, compulsive, frightening to a stranger. They spoke of blood, and sex, and lust, and possession. But they could not frighten those who followed Henry Christophe, because they belonged to him.

There was no sound above the drums save for the occasional whinny of a horse, the occasional stamped hoof, the occasional jangle of harness. The dragoons waited. Did they have confidence in their new general? He dared not look round at them, in case someone might remark on the sweat which clouded his cheeks, the paleness of the cheeks themselves. La Chat was also sweating. But La Chat was merely hot.

The drumbeat quickened. Dick drew his sword, and felt his heart begin to pound. What would happen? What would he feel like, when the first bullet tore its way into his body? What would be his last thoughts, as he plunged from his saddle to the ground, and saw the hooves of his own dragoons, looming about his head?

He pointed his sword at the road, and urged his horse forward. He emerged from the tree screen, and the sunlight made him blink. He listened to the enormous jangle from behind him as his men also debouched into the open. No other sound. They followed him, and would make a noise when the time came.

The noise came from in front of him. A ripple of musketry, a chorus of shouts and screams. He pointed his sword again, kicked his horse again. He rose in his stirrups, to wave his sword round his head. 'Charge,' he screamed. 'Charge.'

The drumbeat was very fast, and was merged in the thunder of the horses' hooves, in the immense scream which rose from four hundred throats. He swept round the bend in the road, with the trees thick to his right, saw the enemy column, arrested by the musketry, hastily forming their ranks to face back and to either side, while the wagons were brought round to form a defensive line, and the cannon was unlimbered. They were not four hundred yards away. His horse's hooves kicked dust, his chest pounded, his sweat clouded his eyes. He could see only the blade of his sword, pointing, and the wagons. And a man, seeing the approaching cavalry, himself pointing and screaming orders, bringing men round to face this new enemy, lining them up, muskets levelled.

Dick sank lower over his horse's head, felt a hot wind embracing him, saw the black powder smoke rising into the air, realized to his surprise that he was unhurt. That indeed the men had scarce taken aim, so frightened they were, and they were already backing away, running for the shelter of the wagons.

The officer stood his ground. He was a brave man, a light-skinned mulatto. He levelled his right hand, and it held a pistol. At this range he could not miss, Dick thought, for he was already upon him. Already upon him. His sword point struck the man in the centre of his green jacket, and blood spurted over the yellow braid, shot into the air and landed on Dick's white gauntlet. The pistol was never fired. It too soared into the air, to fall to the ground. The scream of the charging men rose around him like a paean, and he realized that his own voice was the loudest.

He was in the midst of the running soldiers, cutting and slashing, sending men scattering in every direction. He rode between the wagons, and someone fired a musket at him. But he heard the report, and knew he was not hit, and a moment later the wagon itself crashed onto its side, hurled over by the impact of the galloping cavalry. Men crawled out, weapons discarded, hands raised high in the air. 'Mercy,' they shouted. 'Mercy.'

Dick pulled his panting horse to a halt, stared at the men. At two in particular. Mulattoes? Impossible, with that sun-pinkened white skin, that fair hair.

As they saw that he was no Negro. One of them ran forward, and the dragoons let him come, gazing at their general for orders.

'Mercy,' shouted the Frenchman. 'As you are a white man, monsieur, mercy.'

Dick glanced at La Chat, who had reined next to him, clouded in sweat and blood. Exhilaration still pumped through his veins. Blood lust still clouded his mind. He had killed a man. No doubt he could have killed several men. They were his enemies, and had he not succeeded, they would have killed him. This was, as Christophe had said, a war for survival. 'Cut them down,' he said.

'It is less a town than a village.' Henry Christophe stood in the midst of his officers, the large-scale map at his feet. His sword was drawn, the point resting on the coloured parchment, already dotted with little holes where he had pressed. In the flickering torchlight he looked a demoniac figure. But then, Dick wondered, were they not all demoniac figures, commanding a demoniac army?

'President Petion refers to it as a frontier post,' Christophe continued. 'He dreams of a frontier.' The sword point cut a line across the map. 'We do not recognize frontiers, eh, gentlemen?'

The officers growled their agreement.

'So we will eradicate this frontier of his. Now, the palisade is composed of wooden stakes. We will place our battery here . . .' The sword dug into the map. 'This is before the main gate. Two salvoes, and it will be open. Beyond the main gate there is another defence, to enable them to throw back our assault, and then make good the damage. This is what they did last year. But this time we shall take their frontier post, gentlemen. How?'

No one replied; his habit of asking rhetorical questions was understood.

'I will command the foot,' Christophe said. 'And when the gate falls, I will lead them, not in an assault on the breach, but in an assault here . ..' The sword dug once more into the paper. 'This is as far away from the gate as is possible. They will suppose at the first it is a feint. Should they continue to treat it as a feint, and we gain a lodgement inside the wall, the cavalry will charge after we have entered. Should they begin to realize that it is not a feint, and move their main force against us, then the cavalry will charge as soon as the gate is undefended. Because after all we shall be a feint, but a feint delivered with the major portion of the army. Understood?'

The generals nodded agreement, and looked at Dick.

'What are your plans, General Warner?' Christophe said.

Dick licked his lips. 'I will hold my men in readiness behind the battery, sire. Once the gates are down, I will prepare to charge the breach. But I will not charge until you have delivered your assault. Should the enemy remain facing me in force, I will hold my men until you appear behind him. Should the enemy remove men from in front of me to stop you, I will charge as soon as his defences are sufficiently thinned.'

'This is good, General Warner,' Christophe said. 'Gentlemen, to your posts.'

But he waited, to clap Dick on the shoulder. 'Take care, Matt. Take care. A man who exposes himself as you do, courts death. Not even Murat led a cavalry charge as recklessly as you. But then, perhaps not even Murat had your talent, your courage. Take care.'

He mounted his waiting horse, and Dick watched him go. There had been more than affection in the farewell, although he thought that Christophe did feel affection for him. But there was also the concern of a commanding officer for his most successful subordinate.

So then, did he court death? He walked to his mount, and his attendant held his stirrup. La Chat, now colonel, was already in the saddle, the brigade of horse, eleven hundred men, were patiently waiting. They would wait forever, or they would ride forever, behind the white man. Over the past two years he had led them in a dozen madcap charges, through the greatest hail of fire the enemy could put up, over broken ground and through rushing streams, always in the front, always with his sword pointing forward, always with his heart pumping exhilaration through his arteries, always with the blood lust clouding his brain. Always the first to strike his enemy dead.

The fact was, he did not care whether he lived or died. He was aware of being happy. But what a terrible confession to make, that he was a commanding general in a savage army, fighting in the most brutal of wars, living only for death and destruction . . . and he was happy. He had left the roadway, that first day, and vomited in a bush. Not at the overwhelming excitement. Not even at the blood which had stained his gauntlets, smothered his arms, splashed against his chest. But at the look of pitiful understanding which had crossed the faces of the two Frenchmen, when they had realized that they were about to die, despite the fact of their captor being a European.

But he had not vomited since.

It was nearly dawn. The breeze was chill, and in the distance, perhaps in the town they would attack, a cock crowed and a dog barked.

He drew his sword. It made a hard, blood-tingling rasp in his scabbard. And behind him there came eleven hundred equally blood-tingling rasps. Where was the Richard Hilton who had stammered in Colonel Taggart's parlour? Where was the Richard Hilton who had been unable to face Captain Lanken? Where was the Richard Hilton who had been afraid of Ellen Taggart and her mother, who had lain in the corridor of the Park Hotel in Kingston, while a bully stood above him?

Had that Richard Hilton ever existed? Or had he been no more than a dream?

Or was this Richard Hilton a dream? Induced by the incantations of a Voodoo priestess? Because he still saw the mamaloi before him as he charged, inhaled her as he gasped for breath, knew the softness of her breast, the pulse of her belly, as he gripped his sword. Gislane Nicholson was sixty years old. She could not be less. But her snake god, her Damballah, kept her as she wished to be.

He had nearly thought the word, young.

The drums rolled across the forest, and with them, the sudden bark of the cannon, which had been placed in position some hours earlier, while it had yet been light. But it was again light. The Caribbean dawn, sudden and stark, was bathing the scene. They could look at the town, or the village, the frontier post, as Christophe would have it, at the rounded wood of the palisades, at the glimmer beyond, the candles glowing in the houses, the fires burning for the cannon which would reply, in due course. And those inside the palisades, the mulattoes and their French allies, could look out, at the flash of the guns, at the myriad forces slowly surrounding them. He wondered what it must feel like to know that one is being surrounded, that there is nothing to be done, but to stand and fight, and conquer or die. He had never been in that position. In all his dozen charges he had done the conquering. So then, his experience was not yet complete, his courage not yet proved to the hilt. His demoniac courage.

He stood his horse on a mound, above the cannon, and watched them flash, and heard the roar as the balls struck into the palisade, and listened to the crackle of the timbers and to the drumbeat, rolling out of the forest.

The gates were down, the timbers scattered. Beyond, in the first sunlight, and the firelight now, as well, for several buildings were already burning, he saw the enemy battery, four field cannon of light calibre, drawn up to face the anticipated gap. Of light calibre, but sufficient to tear gaps in his brigade, to demolish a man. Even a devil from hell.

His time was not yet. He waited, and listened to the sudden cacophony from away on the right. He levelled his telescope, stared into the distance. Behind the cannon, there was drawn up a regiment of men. The main defences. They were there, and they were staying there. Or were they?

'Look, General,' La Chat said, pointing.

A company was wheeling away from the regiment, then another. From the far side of the village there came a series of explosions, a sudden brightening of the flame light, as Christophe's soldiers fired the houses immediately within the wall. The houses within the wall.

The men in front of him, those that remained, were wavering. Dick rose in his stirrups, his sword swinging round his head. 'Aieeeeee,' he screamed. 'Charge.'

The morning filled with looming sound as eleven hundred horses surged into the trot, then the canter, then the gallop.

There would be a crush in the gate mouth. But not for him. He drove his spurs in, and his mount rose, over the batteries, leaving the frightened gunners gaping up at him. The cannon in front of him spoke, once, but was he not protected, as he was inspired, as his arm was guided, by the power of the mamaloi? And unharmed, he was in the gateway, his sword thrust forward, to take the first gunner, who ran at him armed with no more than a ramrod, in the chest. Blood flew, spurted into his face. But he had come to anticipate the blood, spurting in his face. Battle, victory, would not be complete without it. He threw back his head, gave another scream of triumphant joy, and sliced into the shoulder of the next man who would oppose him, while behind him his dragoons uttered shrill cries as they spread across the square, crashed through the ranks of men opposed to them.

There was a standard. How incredibly European. Christophe's men did not fight beneath a standard. They wished only the beat of the drums, the sight of the huge figure of the Emperor. But in Petion's army the standard must mark the position of the commanding general, especially as it flew in front of a house, and the house was guarded by a company of men.

'To me,' he bawled, reining his horse and rising in the stirrups to wave his sword. Someone fired a musket at him; he could feel the hot air of the ball almost slapping his face. But the man was immediately cut down by his dragoons as they reformed their ranks. 'That flag,' he shouted, and urged his own horse forward.

The protecting guardsmen fired, but it was a hasty, ill-aimed volley. Their morale had been shattered by the swift destruction of the gate and the artillery, by the rising roar of victory which rose from the other side of the town, and came closer all the while. Dick leapt from his saddle at the foot of the steps, La Chat at his side. A man presented a musket to which was attached a bayonet, and Dick swept it aside with a single sweep of his sword, then brought the weapon back to drive deep into the man's body. So hardened was his right arm by now he scarce felt the jar; as the guardsman lurched against the wall, he raised his foot, placed it in the expiring belly, and with a tug withdrew his weapon.

The door had already been hurled open, and the dragoons were swarming in, checked for a moment by a volley which had three of them tumbling to the floor. Dick leapt into their midst, coughing as he entered the smoke-filled interior room, where the noises of the explosion were still reverberating, mingling with the shouts of the men, and the screams of the women.

Of the women? He waved his left hand, dissipating some of the powder smoke, peered at a large room, on the far side of which was a staircase. Before the stairs the remnants of the guard, not more than a score of men, were gathered; on the stairs themselves was a French officer, hatless, his hair scattered and his face stained with powder, but still holding his drawn sword. And on the gallery at the top of the stairs were gathered several women, mostly black or mulattoes, but one, now rising to her feet to look down at the invaders, very definitely white.

'Hold,' Dick shouted, without thinking. And then did think. He was not, then, a savage, after all. His blood lust was still subjected to his instincts. Or was there more?

His men, accustomed to obeying his every command, had checked their weapons, stood instead glowering at their enemies, who, equally bemused, slowly lowered their own swords and muskets, unable to believe that they might actually be receiving a chance at life.

'General?' La Chat inquired.

But Dick was still gazing at the balustrade, as the powder smoke continued to drift away and he could see more clearly. The woman had yellow hair, streaked with red; or was it red hair, streaked with yellow? In the gloom of the morning, the dark faces and dark coats which surrounded her, her hair blazed like a torch. She stared at him, as did everyone else in the room. There were powder stains on her cheeks and forehead, but the dark marks if anything enhanced the whiteness of her complexion. There was hair clustering on her forehead, as it scattered on her shoulders and down her back, long and straight. Her eyes were enormous; he could not see their colour. Her nose was short, and a trifle upturned, her mouth small, and presently open as she gasped for breath. Her chin was smoothly rounded. He thought he could not describe her as beautiful; her face was actually a mass of flaws. But taken together the flaws were deliciously attractive.

Her body was shrouded in a white undressing robe, but he could tell it was at once short and slender, a mere wisp of femininity.

My God, he thought. Her body. And these men wait on my command.

'Throw down your arms,' he said, and was surprised at the harshness of his own voice.

The mulatto guardsmen hesitated, glancing from one to the other, and thence over their shoulders at their general. The white man was frowning.

'You offer us quarter?'

'Throw them down,' Dick said again.

The first guardsman dropped his musket with a clatter. The rest followed his example. The general hesitated for a moment longer, then threw his sword down the stairs.

'We are fortunate,' he said. 'And grateful, monsieur.'

'A coup de main, Matt,' Christophe said from the doorway. 'Brilliantly executed.'

Dick turned, his knees suddenly felt weak. How long had he been there? Christophe still wore his hat, but there was a rent in his jacket, and blood on the hilt of his sword.

'The town is ours.' He strode into the room, gazed at the guardsmen, who had huddled together in mutual fear. 'Take them out and hang them.'

The guardsmen stared at him in horror.

'But. . .' Dick said.

'We surrendered on a promise of quarter,' said the white officer.

'You surrendered when commanded to do so,' Christophe said. 'That is at discretion. Take them out.' He was frowning at the white man. 'D'Estaing, as I live and breathe.'

The Frenchman had been looking at his discarded sword. But it was being picked up by one of Dick's dragoons. Now his head jerked.

Christophe's right hand was extended, pointing at him. 'D'Estaing,' he said again. 'Sire,' Dick began.

'That man once had me flogged,' Christophe said.

'He ... he would make a valuable hostage,' Dick suggested.

'Not him. I will have him flogged. Take him outside, La Chat. Strip him and tie him to a triangle. Flog him. Flog him until his bones are laid bare. But slowly, La Chat. One blow every ten seconds. I do not wish him to die quickly.'

D'Estaing licked his lips. His face was pale. But he was a brave man. He looked at Dick. 'I had thought I was surrendering to a man,' he said. 'Not an animal.'

Hands seized his shoulders, and were arrested by a cry from above. 'No. No, you cannot.' The young woman half fell down the stairs. Now she was closer, her resemblance to the Frenchman was easy to see.

'And her mother watched,' Christophe said.

'You cannot be sure,' Dick gasped.

'I remember the hair.'

'You'll not touch her,' d'Estaing said. It was half a command and half a supplication.

'She'll die first,' Christophe said. 'You may watch her being flogged. Strip her, La Chat, and tie her to the triangles. The General will enjoy this. The other women may be given to your men.'

'You are a creature from hell,' d'Estaing said in a low voice.

The girl was staring at Christophe, her mouth slowly sagging open as she understood the enormity of what was about to happen to her.

Christophe smiled at them. 'You place me in that hell, monsieur. Now remember, La Chat. Slowly. She should be able to take a hundred strokes.'

'No,' Dick said. And once again his voice was harsh.

Christophe turned his head, frowning. 'They surrendered at discretion, as you say, sire; my discretion.'

'You know my orders, Matt. You should have let them be killed, in battle.'

'They are my prisoners, sire.' Involuntarily, the hand holding his sword twitched.

As Christophe saw. His frown deepened, and then cleared in another smile. 'Ah. The girl. Very well, Matt. She is yours.'

'Both,' Dick insisted.

Christophe shook his head. 'You have dared to oppose me in public, Matt,' he said in English. 'I can do no less than have you shot, should you continue. But you are known as my closest friend, and you are a white man, who would understandably wish a white woman as his slave. I give her to you. The man dies. Take your choice. The girl, or they both are flogged to death.'

There was no arguing with the decision in his tone. Dick licked his lips, glanced at the pair, saw the concentration on their faces. They understood English.

'Take her, monsieur. For God's sake,' d'Estaing begged.

'No,' the girl muttered. 'No.' She clung to her father's arm, stared at Dick.

'Well?' Christophe demanded.

'I will take the girl,' Dick said.

Christophe smiled, slapped him on the shoulder. And was then suddenly serious again. 'But you will do it properly. You have this day revealed a weakness I hoped to have suppressed forever. You . . .' He pointed at d'Estaing. 'Is your daughter a virgin?'

'Of course, Christophe. She is my daughter.'

'Of course,' Christophe mimicked. 'Well, then, Matt. I give her to you. Now. Take her into one of those rooms up there. You will not be disturbed for an hour. Then I will have her examined. Should you have failed to penetrate her, I will give her to my men, for an hour, and then she will be flogged to death. La Chat, take that man outside.'

'No,' the girl whispered. 'No,' she cried. 'No,' she shrieked. Her hands were wrenched from her father's arm, and d'Estaing was marched down the stairs.

'Wait,' Dick said.

La Chat halted, and his men also.

'Do you still wish me to take her?'

D'Estaing looked at him, for some seconds. 'You are a monster,' he said. 'In face and in deed. But your skin is white. Will you throw her aside, like a monster? Or will you care for her, like a white man?'

'I will care for her,' Dick said. 'I swear it.'

'Then take her,' d'Estaing said. 'You have my blessing.'

Dick thrust his sword into its sheath, stepped round the dragoons and their captive. The girl scrambled to her feet.

'No,' she shouted, and turned, to run up the stairs.

'Stop her,' Dick shouted at the mulatto women, still gathered on the gallery.

These hesitated in turn, and the girl burst through them with the force of her charge. Yet the shock sent her staggering, red-gold hair flying as she stumbled to her knees, grasped the balustrade, and regained her feet.

Christophe gave a bellow of laughter. 'One hour, Dick,' he shouted. 'One hour. You will need all of it.'

Dick had himself pushed through the women, saw the girl entering a chamber farther along the corridor. Before he could reach it, the door had slammed shut, the lock had turned. But the timbers were old. He struck it with his shoulder, and the whole wall seemed to creak. He withdrew against the balustrade, hurled himself forward again. The lock burst with a crack, the tongue tearing its socket right out of the wood, and he fell into the room.

The girl was at the window. She had picked up a chair, and was hammering at the bars, which only caused the chair itself to shatter. At the sound of his entry, she turned, back against the wall, bodice of the undressing robe heaving as she panted. The colour was slowly fading from her face, and she was endeavouring to control her breathing, closing her mouth and then having to open it again to allow the air to escape. With her left hand she pulled hair from her face, an instinctively feminine and yet utterly entrancing gesture. But she was an utterly entrancing sight. He had never in his life looked at any woman, even Ellen at their earliest acquaintance, without some reservations. Until now.

Slowly she slid down the wall, until she was kneeling, and resting on her haunches at the same time. 'Please,' she said, in French. 'As you are a man, monsieur, kill me, I beg of you.'

He pushed the shattered door to behind him. It would be easy to do, to draw his sword and run through that slender body. Nor would Christophe give him more than a slight reproof. And he would be able to look himself in the mirror once again.

But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. And it was over two years since he had dared look in a mirror, in any event.

‘I came to save your life, not take it,' he said.

'Save it?' she demanded. ‘Is it worth saving, monsieur? Will it be worth saving, when you are done with it?' Her head half turned at the sound which seeped through the window, the first crack of a whip. 'Oh, God,' she whispered. 'Oh, God.' Her head sank to her breast, her hair trailed on either side of her cheeks.

He stood above her. Do this, and you are damned forever, he thought. But are you not already damned forever? Did this crime count, with executing the two French soldiers, in that first battle? With slaughtering how many men since? With commanding the slaughter of how many thousands more? Did this girl's body count, beside that?

Afterwards perhaps. There was a compromise. Afterwards he might be able to kill them both, send her to heaven and himself to that hell he so richly deserved. But only afterwards.

He stooped, held her shoulders. She remained limp, and he had to drive his fingers into her armpits to raise her to her feet. Her head flopped back, and she stared at him. She could hear the sound of the whip, slowly, regularly, destroying her father.

He could hear nothing save his own panting, save the blood drumming in his ears.

He half carried, half dragged, her across the room, to the bed. When he released her she fell, on her back, still staring at him, but making no effort to resist. Not even taking her gaze from his face or closing her eyes. But what she thought, what she felt, what she hoped or what she feared, meant nothing now. He was as much beyond his own control as when he had been falling through space, the last memory of Richard Hilton, of Hilltop in Jamaica, before he became Matthew Warner, of La Ferriere, in Haiti.

He put his fingers into the neck of her robe, closed his fist, tore it down. The material offered no opposition to the strength in that right arm, the force in that shoulder, the power in that mind. Pink-white flesh sprang at him; she was again panting. Her breasts were large, and soft; he knew that before touching them. She was a woman of fascinating contrasts, for the huge breasts gave way to the narrowest of waists and slender hips; yet her pubic hair was thick and bushed at him, dominating the thin legs below. But these glories were discovered with nothing more than a glance. He was preoccupied, his sword belt clattering to the floor, his body crashing onto hers, sending breath once again gasping from her opened mouth.

He could not make himself kiss her, lay instead with his mouth against her ear, his breath inhaling wisps of red-gold hair. Now, he thought. Now. As some men have no more fields to conquer, you have no more crimes to commit. Now the devil can die.

'Now,' a voice said, whispering into his ear. 'Now, monsieur, are you sated, kill me.' The whisper became a wail. 'Kill me.'

He rolled his weight away from her, lay on his side, gazing at her. He waited, for the guilt, for the horror of what he had done, to overwhelm him. Instead he merely wanted to touch her again, to feel the strands of that splendid hair, to stroke the contour of that face, to caress the softness of those breasts, to search the dampness of that groin.

She sat up. There was so much noise from beyond the window now, so much screaming and yelling, so many explosions, so many clatters of falling timbers, it was impossible to tell any one sound, such as the crack of a whip. The entire village might have been on fire, so much smoke swept past the window. Yet he was not afraid of burning. He was not interested in the possibility of burning. His attention was taken by the woman, by the silky splendour of her movements. Even by the tears on her face. But there were few tears.

He held her wrist, attempted to pull her back to him. But this time she exerted her strength to resist him, and he would not use force.

'I wanted you,' he said. 'I want you now. I shall want you forever. I do not apologize for what I have done. I wish only to make you understand my want. And perhaps feel it as well.'

Her head started to turn, and then looked away again. 'You?' She asked. 'Want you?'

'Because I fight for Christophe? Because your father was expected? In Christophe's judgement he was a criminal.'

'Then am I not also a criminal?' She still spoke softly, tugged at her wrist, gently.

'Who has been reprieved. Tell me your name.'

She hesitated, gave another gentle tug. 'Cartarette,' she said at last.

'Cartarette. Cartarette d'Estaing.' It sounded marvellous. 'Yours is a famous name.'

'You are thinking of papa's cousin, monsieur. A distant cousin. Papa was no more than a planter. Who became a soldier of fortune. Who became a criminal. As you say. Will you let me go, monsieur.'

He released her wrist, and she stood up. He thought he could lie here forever, and watch her move. He watched her walk across the room, her back half to him; her breasts quivered and her thighs rolled, as she walked. Her hair reached past her shoulder blades. How had he lived, for more than thirty years, without knowing this?

She reached his discarded clothes, and he realized what she intended. He sat up, only a vague alarm as yet plucking at his mind.

Cartarette d'Estaing drew his sword, with a single long sweep, and turned to face him.

'I will make you happy,' he said. 'I swear it.' Still he was not afraid. It was too long since he had known fear; he had forgotten the emotion. Up to a few minutes ago it had been too long since he had cared whether he lived or died. Now he had suddenly come to care again. He did not want her to end this morning.

'You?' she asked. 'Make me happy? You fight for Christophe. A white man, fighting for a black. That makes you a crawling thing, from the gutter. You fight for a man, who would destroy my father. That makes you a murderer. You have assaulted me, destroyed my value as a woman. That makes you a scoundrel.' The blade was up, the point moving slowly through the air, and now she was advancing. And she had held a sword before. Perhaps never in anger. But her grip was firm, and her tears had dried. 'But most of all, monsieur,' she said, 'you are a hideous thing, a monster. You deserve to die, monsieur. You should be happy, dying.' She lunged, and he rolled to one side, and the girl gave a hiss of annoyance and turned, to face the door as it swung back on its shattered hinges.

'Mutiny?' Christophe inquired, smiling at her.

'You as well,' she panted, and lunged once more. But Christophe's blade was also drawn, and with a single sweep it sent the weapon flying from the girl's fingers. She stood still, gazing after it for a moment, and then the tears did begin, rolling slowly down her cheeks, while her shoulders drooped. Dick realized she had sought only her own death.

'I presume you have been successful,' Christophe said. 'We had best evacuate this place. It burns, and smells. You are to be congratulated, Matt. Your charge, as ever, carried the day.'

Dick got up. 'I had expected your anger.'

'You deserve my anger, certainly. But then again, no. A man is what he is. You are my faithful support, my faithful friend, I hope. With a London upbringing you will never be entirely ruthless, alas. I must use your talents where they are most valuable. As of this moment you are relieved of your command.'

Dick nodded. He had expected worse.

'Your new post will be general officer in command of the Citadel of La Ferriere, Matt,' Christophe said. 'You will select an escort of fifty men and leave immediately. La Ferriere is your responsibility, as of now, Matt. It must be prepared at all times, to receive me, to stand a siege. A thousand men must be able to live there, and fight there, in perfect security. You will see to it.'

'I will see to it, sire.'

Christophe turned, smiled at the girl. 'And in La Ferriere, you will have time to teach your little prisoner to love you. Always providing she does not murder you first. You will see to that also.'

'I will see to it, sire.'

Cartarette raised her head. 'I would like to say goodbye to my father.'

'Then I suggest you get dressed, mademoiselle,' Christophe said, and left the room.

Dick got up, picked up his sword, restored it to his scabbard. 'You will like La Ferriere,' he said. 'It is the best place in all Haiti.'

She glanced at him, stooped, picked up her torn robe. 'Yes, monster,' she said, with sudden composure. 'I have clothes, in another room. Will monster allow me to dress?'

12

The Emperor

He wondered he did not beat her. Surely to beat Cartarette d'Estaing, to tie her up and whip her until she begged for mercy, would be a total pleasure. He could still remember the tumultuous emotions which had chased each other through his mind the day Judith Gale had been whipped by her mother. But that had been in a different world, and the emotions had belonged to a different man. Besides, to whip Cartarctte would be to give her another weapon to twist in his side.

He stood on the great redoubt, gazed across the morning at the forest. It waited, silent. But not empty. He knew that now. Yet from the battlements of La Ferriere, with the sea breeze stirring his hair, it might as well have been empty.

He had feared, in the beginning, that she would seize the first opportunity to commit suicide. He had commanded one of his men to ride ever at her elbow, and at night, when they had lain together under the same blanket, he had tied her right wrist to his left, to prevent her getting up without waking him. Now he knew that he had a great deal to learn about women. No doubt she had considered suicide. But if so she had very rapidly discarded it. Dead, she was nothing. Living, she was a constant dagger in his side, taunting him, hating him with every muscle in her body, with every thought which passed through her mind. He stood for Christophe, for Christophe's men, perhaps for every black man in the world, and through him she could satisfy her hatred of every black man in the world.

So, to whip her, to flog her to death, would only be to give her additional reason to hate.

Besides, it was what she clearly wanted, so it would be a victory, for her. Suicide was a form of surrender, to the forces which overwhelmed her. But to drive him to such a state of desperation where he would strike her, or murder her, would be a victory, because he would be but compounding his crime.

So why did he not? What more could he seek from her? He had explored every pore of her body, kissed every strand of hair. He had sated, on that utterly white delight, every dream he had ever had of woman, every desire he had ever experienced. For was she not his slave? Oh, indeed, she was his slave, and no man could ask for a more servile bedmate. She lay absolutely still, whenever he would mount her. She said not a word, until he was done, then she would quietly and coolly remove herself from beneath him, and standing by the bed, ask, 'Shall I fetch the monster's wine?'

She served him at table, allowing her hair to brush his cheek as she placed each plate in front of him. 'Pork today, monster. Sweet-tasting, succulent pork, such as any white nigger would appreciate.'

So, did she despair, did she weep, in what privacy she was allowed? As now, when he was on a tour of inspection, and she was left alone in their quarters? He invariably hurried back, still dominated by the lurking terror that one morning he would find her hanging from the rafters, as he still always left one of his servants with her, to prevent such a catastrophe. And did he still hurry back just to hear the lash of her tongue? Because she could only tongue-lash him when she could see him, which meant that he could also see her, could lean back and look at every magnificent movement, every flutter of that glorious hair, every twist of that exquisite mouth.

So perhaps she also felt frustrated, at his continuing love.

'And will the fortress stand forever?'

He turned, sharply, was enveloped in the gust of scent from the blood-red robe.

'You'll excuse me,' he said.

'No,' Gislane said. 'I will not excuse you, General Warner.

Richard Hilton. Why do you avoid me?'

'I have my duty. The Emperor entrusted this fortress to my care. I would not fail him.'

'Nor will you, while you retain your strength, Dick. But how will your strength stand up to such continual torment?'

'You are a creature of blood, priestess. You would no doubt have me cut her throat.'

'Would that not be a waste? You act as if you love the girl.'

'What can you know of... of love?'

Gislane smiled. 'You were going to say, of white love? Until I was eighteen I thought I was white, Dick. And I loved. I loved your father. I was prepared to give up all for him. And I stayed in love with him, dreaming of him, for a long time after I was returned to the West Indies. It was only when I understood that he would never come for me, that I sought other loves.'

'And you can forgive my family. Well, then, Gislane, you have strength, power, beyond ordinary understanding. Cartarette blames me for the death of her father as much as anything else.'

'For a thoughtful man, you do not think enough. Your woman knows you did not kill her father. She knows that you tried to save him, and certainly that you saved her.'

'But. . .'

'But this is the fact that is unacceptable to her. She knows she should have died, with her father. She reproaches herself, for having lived, for having lacked the courage to take her own life. Yet a human being cannot live, hating himself, or herself. So she takes out her hate on you. But it is herself that she is hating.'

'Aye, well, no doubt you are right,' Dick said. 'But whatever her reasoning, she practises her hate continuously.' 'And you keep assisting her.' 'Eh?'

'By practising rape upon her, daily.'

'I love her. I cannot see her but I wish to take her in my arms.'

'And you see no reason to practise restraint. You see no reason to treat her as a woman, perhaps, instead of a slave.'

Dick frowned at her. 'She will merely insult me more.'

'I doubt that, Dick. I doubt that. Listen to me. I can give you her love.'

'By witchcraft?'

'As I gave you your strength, your power, your ability, with sword and pistol? Was that witchcraft, Dick? Or was that just a cutting away of fear and inhibition, a removal of dead wood, to expose the strength I knew lay beneath? I can strip this girl of her hate for you, and replace it with love. But you will have to help me.'

'Of course I would help you, could I believe it possible.' 'Because of the crimes you have practised on her it will take a longtime.'

'I have nothing but time,' Dick pointed out.

'And when it is done,' Gislane said, 'it is done. You must understand that, Dick. When she loves you, she will love you, now and always. And if I do this thing for you, you must swear to me that you will love her, now and always. I do not speak of physical love. I know the frailty of the flesh. I speak of your care for her, of your respect for her, of your admiration for her, of your determination to place her before all else. You must swear that to me.'

'Before life itself.'

'Before life itself,' Gislane said. 'Be sure that Cartarette will make herself the same promise.'

La Chat opened the leather satchel. 'His Majesty is presently in Sans Souci, and sends you this, General.'

The envelope was sealed. Dick tore the edge, took out the single sheet of paper; writing was an accomplishment Christophe had learned late in life, and he did not waste words.

'I long to be with you, Matt. My spirit is weary. Petion ails, it is said. His armies retreat. But my people murmur. A man fired a musket at me, but a week gone. He was hanged. They do not worship me, any more, Matt. I long to be with you.'

There was no signature. Dick folded the paper, placed it in his pocket. 'You saw him?' 'To receive that message, General.' 'And he is well?'

La Chat hesitated. 'Perhaps he has been too long at war, General.'

'Aye. Well, rest yourself, La Chat.' He went into his house, sheltering beneath the east battlements, and the girls who waited on him bowed their greeting. Cartarette d'Estaing stood in the inner doorway.

'The monster will have his luncheon,' she said. But her voice lacked the brittleness of a year ago, even three months ago. She was a sorely puzzled young woman. Perhaps she had forgotten what it was like to have her own bed, her own chamber, to be allowed the pleasures of solitude. But if she was puzzled, and disturbed, would she not hate him more? Only Gislane knew the answer to that.

'Yes,' he said. 'You may join me, today, Cartarette.'

'I, monster?'

He had reached her by now, and she stepped aside to allow him in. He could smell her, he could almost touch her, without moving his arm. Had she the slightest inkling of what it had cost him, in determined self-discipline, not to touch her for three months?

'You, Cartarette.' He handed his hat to one girl, his sword to another, his gloves to a third, sat at the table. A fourth girl hastily poured him wine, a fifth held the chair for Cartarette, and she lowered herself, slowly, uncertainly. 'And you will take a glass of wine.' Because Gislane had ordered it. Only Gislane could know.

She drank, again hesitantly. And then ate, as they were served. A special meal, today, of oysters, brought up from the coast, packed in ice. At Gislane's command. And of mixed fruits, soursop and golden apples and sappodillas, at the end. What Gislane desired, she simply commanded. As what General Warner commanded, he received. Was he not the closest associate, the right hand man, of the Emperor himself.

'Finish your wine,' he said.

'Whatever the white nigger commands, his slave obeys,' she said, and drained her glass. But the venom remained absent from her voice.

He rose, held her chair for her.

'Are we leaving this prison?' she inquired.

‘We are going on a visit,' he said. 'But within the walls.'

She allowed him to escort her to the door. It remained early afternoon, and the sun was hot; the breeze had died, and the only sound was the tramp of the sentries on the battlements. He gave her a wide-brimmed straw hat, and she settled it over her hair. He placed his cocked hat on his own head, opened the door for her.

She hesitated, blinking at the sunlight, glancing at him, before stepping into the heat. He walked at her elbow, across the huge courtyard, to the curtained door on the far side. And again she hesitated.

'This is the house of the mamaloi.'

'Who is also my friend.'

'Voodooism is unspeakable,' Cartarette declared. 'Enter,' he commanded.

She pushed the curtain aside, and he realized she had forgotten to taunt him with her obedience to either the white nigger or the monster.

A girl opened the inner curtain for them. Cartarette glanced at Dick. 'She expects us.'

'A priestess of Voodoo knows all things,' he said, enjoying his own humour.

Cartarette stepped into the gloom beyond, paused to inhale, the incense, the scent that always filled this room, to stare at Gislane, seated in her armchair.

'Welcome, mademoiselle,' Gislane said. 'I have long waited for you to visit me.'

'I am not visiting you,' Cartarette said. 'I was brought here by my monster.'

Gislane smiled, and stood up. 'It is still a visit, and you are welcome. Come.'

Yet another curtain, behind the chair, was swept aside, and they followed her into another chamber. Here it was utterly dark, save for the inevitable fire glowing in the centre of the floor, doubling the heat. Dick felt sweat trickling down his face. And he only suspected what was about to happen.

Gislane stooped, a taper in her hand. When it glowed, she straightened, handed it to Dick. 'Light the candles,' she commanded.

He would see them now, set around the wall. He left Car-tarette's side, lit each wick in turn. The room glowed, and the candles were scented. He could hear Cartarette breathing. Perhaps she had also supposed this to be a bedchamber. But it was not. It was a love chamber. In the centre of the far wall there was a mattress, laid on the wooden floor, reaching almost as far as the fire. In the wall, above the mattress, were two rings, to which were attached buckskin thongs. At the foot of the mattress, beyond each corner, were two stakes, to which also were attached buckskin thongs.

Cartarette gave a gasp, and turned. But Gislane had remained behind her.

'You practise witchcraft,' Cartarette whispered.

'In this case, white magic, mademoiselle,' Gislane said. 'Undress.'

'I will not.'

'Then will you be stripped.' Gislane stretched out her hand, stroked the material of Cartarette's collar. 'It will be a pity, to destroy a beautiful garment. And you will be humiliated. We may need to call others. Undress, Cartarette. Then your secret will belong to this room alone.'

Her voice seeped around the chamber.

'My secret?'

'You will have a secret, Cartarette. I promise you. What, are you ashamed, to be naked before your master, who is also your lover? Before me? I am an old woman, Cartarette. I have seen many naked women, many naked men. Many more beautiful even than you.'

Her quiet voice filled the chamber, yet seemed to echo. It made thought difficult, when combined with the heat, and the incense. Cartarette's fingers were already at the buttons of her bodice.

‘I will not be bewitched,' she insisted.

'I do not seek to bewitch you, child. I seek to help you. To release you from your prison.'

'My prison?' Cartarette's gown slid past her thighs, and to the ground. She wore no stays, here in the informality of La Ferriere. A moment later her shift joined her gown. She wore no stockings, either, in the warmth of this climate. Only slippers.

'The prison of your mind. Lie down.'

Cartarette hesitated, glanced at Dick, and for the first time that he could remember in their acquaintanceship, flushed with embarrassment. Or was it only the firelight, flickering in her checks? She lay down.

'Arms above head,' Gislane said, reassuringly, and secured the girl's wrists.

'If you wish me no harm, madame, why bind me?'

Gislane smiled at her. 'To keep you from harm, child.' She secured each ankle in turn, leaving the girl spreadeagled on the mattress. Then she rose, slowly, with the faintest rustle of material. 'You must also undress, Dick, and stand at the foot of the bed,' she said. 'Your woman must gaze upon you, throughout the ceremony.'

Dick obeyed; the heat of the fire scorched his back, made his blood run the more quickly. But no doubt this was as Gislane intended.

Gislane removed her own gown; she wore nothing underneath. It was several years since she had taken him to her bed, made him over in the image she sought, and now she knew she must be past sixty. Yet these firm muscles, these long, slender legs, could still reawaken all his manhood.

She left the bedside, stooped by a chest in the corner, turned and straightened suddenly, and rose at the same time, throwing both arms outwards. Drops of liquid scattered through the flickering light, brushed his cheeks, fell on Cartarette's belly.

The scent was at once erotic and intoxicating, sending his mind, and no doubt Cartarette's as well, whirling into space.

Gislane began to dance, a slow movement, of belly and thighs and groin and stomping feet, accompanying herself with clapping hands in time to the tune she sang. She moved around them, and her sex, her song, served to envelop them, to fill the room. Dick felt himself panting, felt he would explode long before he could enter the woman.

Gislane swept round the room, pausing by the chest to seize a bottle. Her movements stopped, and it seemed the entire day stopped with it. The only sound was their breathing.

Gislane knelt before Cartarette's feet. She uncorked the bottle, poured a little of the liquid into the palm of her hand, and commenced to massage the girl's toes, slowly and gently, humming a little tune. The scent, vaguely sweet, the tune, mind-consuming in its erotic cadence, kept his mind swimming, and no doubt Cartarette's as well. She stared at him, her breath, which had been heavy with fear and anticipation when first she had lain down, slowly subsiding until her breasts did no more than flutter.

Slowly Gislane worked, from time to time renewing the liquid. She came up Cartarette's body, from calf to thigh, from thigh to groin. Now Cartarette scarcely breathed at all, and her mouth sagged open; she was so still she might almost have been asleep, but her eyes remained wide, staring at Dick. And as Gislane reached her belly, her breathing began again, slowly, building up, as was his own.

And Gislane's song grew louder, as she worked. Up from the belly, to caress the ribs, to seek the breasts, to leave them and stroke neck and armpit, before returning once again to stimulate the nipples into erection. Now Cartarette panted, and her ankles strained at the buckskin cords as she attempted to bend her knees. And still she stared at Dick, mouth wide, tongue circling her opened lips.

Gislane stopped, sitting astride Cartarette's thighs, and threw back her head, and gave a gigantic shout, and then leapt up, as if she were the girl.

'Now,' she screamed. 'Now, now, now.'

Dick obeyed. Could this be different? Cartarette had never once attempted to resist him. She had always lain beneath him, in perfect submission. She could not possibly be more submissive when secured. Except she was no longer secured. For even as he reached his own climax her legs came free, to wrap themselves around his body, as a second later her arms came free, the cords loosed by Gislane, to allow her fingers to close on his back, to eat into his flesh. Harriet Gale had screamed her ecstasy. Cartarette d'Estaing reached hers in silence, but her entire body tightened on his, seeming to suck him against her.

And her arms remained tight.

'I love you,' he gasped.

'I hate you,' she whispered in his ear. 'Oh, God, how I hate you.'

Dick raised his head, to gaze at Gislane, kneeling at the head of the bed. Gislane smiled.

'What news, man? What news?'

Dick Hilton leaned over the wall above the main gate, looked down on the patrol. They lacked the sparkle he had come to associate with black men, exchanged no humorous sallies with the sentries, rather drooped on their horses' necks. The uniforms of which they were so proud were dirty and untidy. So no doubt they were tired. He had not known men that tired.

La Chat made a signal, and Dick left the battlement and ran down the steps to the courtyard. His aide dismounted, heavily, spoke in a low voice.

'We were fired on.'

'You? Imperial troops? Where was this?' La Chat pointed at the forest beyond the wall. 'Not fifteen miles from here.'

'Fifteen miles? But good God, man . . .'

'Aye, General,' La Chat agreed. 'It is as you feared.'

Dick gazed at him for a moment, chewing his lip. For better than three months now there had been no word from Christophe. His supply column went down to Sans Souci and Cap Haitien every third month. Last time, the Emperor had been away, and they had brought back rumours, grumbles of discontent with the burden Christophe was imposing upon his people, the unending war, the incessant labour, the increasing taxes required to maintain the edifice of empire. Petion was dead, but his successor, Jean Pierre Boyer, continued the struggle to establish a republic in the south. But there had been rumours ever since he had first landed in Haiti, six years ago; these had not caused Dick any concern. The absence of the quarterly letter from the Emperor had. Yet he had waited, another three months, before despatching La Chat and his patrol.

'And you turned back?'

'They were in great force, General. Black men, not mulattoes.'

Dick pulled his nose, looked out through the gate once again at the mountains, at the forest. 'Feed and rest your men, La Chat,' he said. 'This evening we had best decide what should be done.'

'Our orders are to hold La Ferriere, General.'

'Aye,' Dick said. 'For the Emperor. It follows that we would not be obeying orders in allowing the Emperor to be destroyed before he can reach us. This evening, La Chat.'

He walked across the courtyard, his sword slapping his thigh. Perhaps life had been too easy, these last two years. He practised his weapons daily; he was proud of the skill Gislane had given him. Because it was Gislane's skill; he still thought of her every time a pistol butt nestled in his palm, every time his fingers wrapped themselves around a sword hilt. But he had not fired a shot in anger since the taking of d'Estaing's village.

And in every other respect, this last year had been nothing but happiness. Cartarette waited for him now, as became his slave and his mistress. She still acted the prisoner. Her pride would let her do no less. She even still pretended to mock him, constantly. 'News from the coast, monster?' she inquired. But there was less hate than affection in her voice. When he put his arm round her shoulders, her head instinctively rested on his chest, her red-gold hair mingled with the braid on his tunic. No doubt her emotion was mainly loneliness. In all this dark world in which they existed, he was her only friend. Without him her life would be too terrible to contemplate.

'No,' he said. 'And there is my cause for concern. The patrol was fired on.' He sat in his armchair, leaned back his head. She knelt before him to drag off his boots. Often, when he sat here, he thought he was dreaming. The room was comfortable, rather than elegant. This was a fortress, not a palace. But he had secured a charcoal drawing of her, done by one of his own troopers who had burned wood in the forests below La Ferriere before Christophe's net had sucked him up. The drawing was framed on the wall opposite him. And the artist had been skilled. He had caught her expression, the eagerness of her half-parted lips, the dart of her wide-eyed gaze, even the sheen of her hair. But in black and white he had not been able to secure the colour, of her hair no less than her complexion, for she seldom risked herself in the sun. Just as he had not been able to catch the scent of her perfume or the tinkle of her laugh. She, and her painting, added lustre to the plain wood of the room, the simple furniture and the lack of carpets or drapes.

'Then your Emperor will have a cause for shedding blood closer to home,' she remarked, removing his right boot.

'My Emperor wishes only to see his people at peace,' Dick said. 'Do you believe that?'

'No,' she said, removing his left boot. 'He is a savage, as his people are savages. When he has no one left to fight, and maim, and kill, he will die of frustration.'

Dick leaned forward, and her head came up. However she had grown to desire, and perhaps even to need, his sex, she had still always an initial revulsion to overcome. And yet, she was not miserable, he was sure of that. Perhaps she waited for better times. Perhaps she looked forward to being rescued from her monster by some knight in shining armour. She had at the least come to terms with her present.

He blew her a kiss. 'I think he may surprise you.'

‘I am always willing to be surprised by a nigger,' she remarked, and got to her feet. 'Even a white one.' She frowned, and looked at the doorway, her chin slowly slipping down.

Dick leapt to his feet, turned, reaching for his sword. And was equally surprised. Gislane Nicholson did not go visiting, as a rule. And this day her face was drawn and hard. For the first time in their acquaintance she looked her age. Almost.

'There are drums.'

He nodded. 'My patrol was fired upon, not fifteen miles from the fortress.'

'Those tell a different message,' Gislane said.

He frowned at her. 'What message?'

'That the Emperor is no more.'

'Christophe is dead?' Cartarette's voice was sharp.

'I do not know,' Gislane said. 'The drums say the Emperor is no more. Not that he is dead.'

'He would not give up the throne,' Dick muttered. 'My God, what are we to do?'

'You have your orders,' Gislane said.

'To defend La Ferriere. I had anticipated defending it with the Emperor at my side.'

'Yet must you still defend it, Richard Hilton.'

He glanced at Cartarette, her mouth was open.

'What did she call you?'

He sighed. 'Aye, well, that is my true name. Warner is but an alias. We'll talk of it later.'

Her face was totally confounded. Perhaps she had supposed she knew all about him, in two years of endless intimacy.

'Hilton,' she whispered. 'My God. We know of the Hiltons.'

'I said, we'll talk of it later. Gislane. I cannot just sit here, while Christophe may be fighting for his life.'

'The drums will tell us,' she promised. 'Wait for them, at the least. Wait. . .' Her head turned, slowly, towards the opened door. The distant humming had ceased.

And a sentry was calling. 'Men approach,' he shouted. The Emperor comes.'

'Thank God for that. My boots, girl, quickly.' Dick sat down, and pulled on his boots, then ran outside. Gislane and Cartarette remained in the doorway, joined now by the other servants. 'Turn out the guard,' he called. 'Turn out the guard. Open the gates.' He ran up the steps on to the battlements, only then realized he was bareheaded in the noonday sun. But it was unlike Christophe to ride in the noonday sun.

And at the embrasure he paused in dismay. This was no imperial entourage. This was scarce fifty men, driving exhausted horses, uniforms torn and soiled. Yet there was no mistaking the huge figure at their head.

He ran down the steps again, into the gateway, helped his friend from the saddle. 'Sire?' There was alarm in his voice. Christophe looked older than ever before. It was time to remember that he too was past fifty.

'I heard firing, earlier.'

Dick gave a sigh of relief. There was no change in the resolution of that voice. 'A patrol, sire. It was fired on by bandits.'

Christophe's eyes gloomed at him. 'It was fired on by revolutionaries, Matt.' He turned to La Chat. 'Feed my men. Water their horses. And close those gates.' He walked across the courtyard. 'I must have food, Alatt.'

'Food, for the Emperor,' Dick shouted at Cartarette.

She ran inside, driving her girls before them.

Gislane remained standing in the doorway. 'It has happened, then.'

Christophe glanced from right to left, ducked his head, entered the house. 'I made them what they are,' he said. 'Dukes, princes. Generals. I gave them their power.'

'The Empress?'

He shrugged, sat at the dining table, throwing his hat on the floor. 'Taken. Dead, perhaps. Unless they would use her against me. They have Sans Souci. Have it? It was always theirs, with me away. Their headquarters are in Cap Haitien. They declare me a public enemy, battening upon the blood of my people.' His head raised. 'How many men have you, Matt?'

'Three hundred.'

'And I brought fifty.' For a moment his mouth turned down. Then he smiled. 'But we have La Ferriere, eh? Food.'

The girls were placing planers on the table, wine at his elbow.

'By all the gods in heaven, I am starving. Oh, sit down, Matt. Sit down, madame. I cannot eat alone.' He glanced at Cartarette. 'You should be laughing, mademoiselle. Why are you not laughing?'

'Will you die as bravely as my father, sire?'

Christophe frowned at her, then gave a booming laugh. 'When the time comes, mademoiselle. But I am not going to die. I have been betrayed before. I have been chased into the forest before. But then, then I did not have La Ferriere. And I did not have Matt.'

'Then you had the undying love of your people,' Gislane said, very quietly.

Christophe's head turned. 'Old woman, you have served your purpose. Remember that.'

She would not lower her eyes. 'As you have served yours, Henry Christophe.'

'Eh? Eh? My purpose is to make this pack of lazy niggers into a nation. That is my task. Destiny gave me that task.'

'Destiny commanded you to be a legend, Henry,' Gislane said, still speaking quietly. 'You are that, and in your own lifetime. Destiny required that your people be given an example, a man always to remember. You will always be remembered. La Ferriere will always be remembered. Sans Souci will always be remembered.'

'Bah,' Christophe shouted. 'La Ferriere will stand, forever.

'As will your memory, Henry. But the girl was right, just now. She said you know only fighting, bloodshed, warfare. Your people want peace. And you cannot give them that. You can only give them your memory, for when next they have to fight.'

He glared at her, then threw down his knife, pushed back his chair. 'You are a stupid old woman. And she . . .' He flung out his hand, pointing at Cartarette. 'She wishes only to avenge herself. I know not how you have put up with them this time, Matt. They should be flogged.' He got up. 'Come with me.'

He left the room, and Dick raised his eyebrows at the women before following. Christophe stalked across the courtyard and into the maproom. 'Out,' he bawled at the clerks waiting there. 'Get out. You are all spies, all revolutionaries. Out.'

The men glanced at each other, at Dick, and then sidled from the room. Dick closed the door.

'They think I am finished,' Christophe said. 'Even the mamaloi. There is faith for you. Do you think I am finished, Dick?'

‘I will defend La Ferriere for you, sire.'

'That is no answer.' He frowned at the white man. 'Or is it, indeed, your answer?' He smiled. 'A thousand men, for a hundred days. Therefore, as we are less than five hundred men, we should be able to withstand a siege for two hundred days. Am I right?'

'You are right, sire.'

'But even two hundred days will be insufficient, if my enemies are left to conspire against me. No, no. We must use the citadel as a rallying point for the people who remain faithful to me. There will be many thousands of those. We will despatch messengers, to every part of the country. Yes. We will negotiate with Boyer. We will . . .' The frown was back. 'You do not believe the people will rally to me?'

'I do not know, sire.'

Christophe walked to the window to look at the courtyard; his entire body seemed to freeze, until his arm slowly came up. 'But what is that? I told La Chat to rest my men.'

Dick ran to the door. The entire garrison was lined up, under arms. Behind them waited the women and the children. His own serving girls were there. And Cartarette?

She stood in the doorway, watching the preparations. Watching Colonel La Chat marching across the courtyard towards him.

'What is the meaning of this parade. Colonel?' Dick demanded. 'You are under no orders to leave the fortress.'

'The men wish to leave, General.'

'Leave? Where can they be as safe as in La Ferriere?'

'There is no safety here, General. We cannot withstand the nation.'

'The nation?' Christophe bellowed, joining Dick in the doorway. 'A few conspirators, who have turned the heads of the people. We will soon deal with them, Colonel. Then, then, will I remember those who have been faithful to me.'

'My apologies, sire,' La Chat said. 'The mamaloi has told us you will not rule again.'

'You'd listen to the ramblings of an old woman?'

'She is the mamaloi, sire. You have believed her, long enough.'

'Too long,' Christophe shouted. 'Too long. Where is she?'

'She prays, sire,' La Chat said. 'The men believe her.'

'And you?'

'I believe her also,' La Chat faced Dick. 'You have commanded us, faithfully and well, these past four years, General Warner. We invite you to accompany us. We have been offered a place in the army of General Boyer in the reuniting of Haiti. We would march under your command.'

Dick frowned at him. Here was loyalty. But where was his loyalty? 'You'd desert your Emperor?'

'He will rule no more,' La Chat repeated. 'My men will not wait.'

'Go with them, Dick,' Christophe said. 'You have served we, faithfully and well, these past six years. I release you from your allegiance.'

Dick hesitated, looked across the courtyard at Cartarette. She was looking at him, but he could not tell the expression in her eyes; at this distance. Yet did she still wear nothing more than her housegown. She had never doubted his decision.

'You saved my life, my reason, my dignity, sire,' he said. ‘I will serve you while you live.'

'Aye,' Christophe said. 'Would I had but a hundred more like you, Dick. Well, La Chat? What are you waiting for?'

The Colonel hesitated, then turned on his heel and marched back to his men. He mounted, and the dragoons mounted with him; the Colonel raised his arm, and the regiment moved forward; the women and children with their dogs and chickens, walked behind.

Dick felt a thickness in his throat he had never known before. It was all so dignified. They had not turned on Christophe, and murdered him, as true revolutionaries might have done. They had simply marched away from him. He did not dare look at the Emperor.

'A thousand men,' Christophe said. 'For a hundred days. Well then, Dick, two men for fifty thousand days. We shall die of old age.' He was looking at Cartarette. 'But there are also two women.'

He left the doorway, strode across the courtyard. Through the opened gateway, the sound of the horses picking their way down the hillside still rose to them. Dick had heard it often before, coming the other way. Now he wondered at the absence of booted feet, striking the wooden floors surrounding the walls.

He followed Christophe. The Emperor paused before the door to the commandant's house. 'If we are taken,' he said, 'you will be raped, and then murdered. Slowly. Why did you not go with them?'

'I have been raped before, sire,' Cartarette said.

He snorted. 'Where is the mamaloi?

'She returned to her own chambers,' Cartarette said. 'Sire . . .' She flushed. She had never directly addressed him before, since the day he had sent her father to his execution.

'Well?'

'She but spoke the truth as she saw it.'

Christophe stamped through the curtained doorway. Dick ran at his heels, and Cartarette followed him, holding his arm as the curtain was thrown aside.

Gislane sat on her chair, facing them. The room was as gloomy as ever, the candles burned low.

'You have betrayed me,' Christophe shouted, his voice echoing. 'I will have you flogged.'

The woman did not reply.

'Oh, my God,' Cartarette said.

Christophe crossed the floor, slowly. He stretched out his hand, and then withdrew it again.

'Even she,' he said, 'has deserted me.'

'Or she waits for you,' Dick said. 'In her own heaven.'

Christophe glanced at him, and looked back at the woman. Once again his arm extended. This time he took the mamaloi's hand, and raised it to his lips, before letting it fall again. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

Cartarette went closer. 'She is not marked,' she said.

'Gislane must have had sufficient poisons,' Dick said.

'She has told me she had been your father's lover,' Cartarette said. 'That she had been one of the leaders of the revolution here. That she had made you what you are.'

'All true,' Dick said. 'All true.'

'And now she is dead.' Cartarette sighed. 'She must have been very lonely, at the end. Will you bury her?'

'Aye. There are spades in the armoury.' He turned, and checked at the explosion.

'Oh, my God,' Cartarette said again.

Dick ran from the room, thrust the curtain aside, pounded across the courtyard into the commandant's house. He paused in the front room, inhaling the smell of cordite, gazed at the table; the covers were still set, Christophe's half-eaten meal still scattered. But in the centre of the table, there was a canvas sack, and to the sack was attached a note.

He pulled it free, opened it. 'Take your woman and leave this place,' Christophe had written. 'The money is for you. And remember me.'

He released the cord securing the bag, looked at the gold coin, heard Cartarette.

'There must be a thousand pounds,' she whispered.

'Ten thousand, more like.' He pulled open the door to the inner room, looked at the Emperor. Christophe lay on his side, the pistol still in his hand, his head a gaping wound. His jacket was open, the snapped cord he had worn around his neck trailed onto his lap, but there was no sign of the silver bullet. No doubt it was still lodged in his brain.

13

The Crisis