'Meeting me? I am Dick Hilton.'

'Ah.' Kendrick got up. 'I remember Richard Hilton, sir. I do not remember you.' He glanced at Reynolds. 'I'll take my leave, Reynolds. You'll consider the points I raised. Good day to you, sir.' He left the room.

Reynolds pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and neck, sat down again.

'A friend of Tony's, eh?' Dick also sat down. 'That is to be expected. He was certainly no friend of mine. Well, it is of little consequence.'

'I do assure you, sir, it is of great consequence,' Reynolds protested. 'The plantocracy are closing their ranks against you. There is no more powerful body in the island. The Governor himself can scarce oppose them.'

'Except where they are proved legally wrong, my dear Reynolds. So stop worrying. I have thought of an absolutely positive identification which will prove my case once and for all. Judith Gale.'

'Proving the plantocracy legally wrong is a difficult matter, Air . . . ah . . . Hilton. They make the laws in Jamaica. And I am sorry to have to tell you . . . who did you say?'

'Judith Gale. Harriet's daughter. Does she still live in Jamaica?'

'Judith Gale? My word. She lives in Kingston.' 'Give me her address.'

'Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton, that is quite impossible. Why, Judith Gale . . . if you are Mr Richard Hilton, you'll remember there was a charge of rape against you, with regard to Miss Gale.'

'Was there now? Well, I deserve it. And if anyone is going to charge me with a crime committed by Richard Hilton, they have to admit I am Richard Hilton, surely.'

'Good heavens,' Reynolds said. ‘I never thought of that. Judith Gale.'

'Her address, man.'

'Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton. I'm afraid there is something else of which you are unaware.'

'Her address,' Dick said again.

Reynolds rested his elbows on his desk, placed his fingertips together. 'Miss Gale has an ... ah .. . position.' 'Oh, yes?'

Reynolds began to flush. 'She is . . . ah . . . Mr Hilton's . . . ah . . . housekeeper. Mr Anthony Hilton.'

Dick leaned back to stare at him. 'Judith? And Tony? You're not serious.'

'Of course I am serious.'

'On Hilltop? Ellen would never stand for it.'

'Miss Gale does not live on Hilltop. She has an establishment here in town. And it is not my part to discuss the relations winch may exist between a man and his wife.' He cleared his throat. 'But you do understand that Miss Gale would be reluctant to do or say anything which might jeopardize her position with Mr Hilton.'

'Aye. Tony seems to have this entire community sewn up into a bag.' He leaned forward again. 'Yet I will see her, Reynolds. Give me her address.'

'It can do no good, sir.'

'Reynolds, you are going to make me angry in a moment. Her address.'

'She occupies a house in King Street, sir. Number six.'

'Thank you.' Dick got up. 'I'll go along there now. I'll probably be back immediately after lunch, Reynolds. And you be ready to see Miss Gale, and make out a sworn statement and an affidavit.'

Reynolds cleared his throat again. 'I'm afraid that will not be possible, Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton.' He stared in front of him at the opposite wall.

'What do you mean?'

‘I ... ah ... I find I can no longer act as your attorney, Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton.' 'Why not?'

'Well, sir, I am afraid I must advise you, as a lawyer, that I consider you entirely lack sufficient proof to substantiate your claim. Even should you, ah, secure the testimony of Miss Gale, I still do not think your case will stand up in court, and so . . .'

'Balderdash,' Dick said.

'Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton, I have given you my opinion . . .' 'You have relayed a message just conveyed to you by Toby Kendrick, you mean, on behalf of the plantocracy.' 'Why, sir

Dick placed his hands on the desk, leaned forward. 'Try the truth.'

Reynolds met his gaze, for just a moment, and then looked away again. 'I have a wife and children. My prosperity depends upon the amount of business given me. I dare not, sir.'

'And what of Hilltop's business, when I am reinstated?'

'You will not be reinstated, sir. I am assured of that. And Mr . . . ah . . . Hilton, I already have Hilltop's business.'

Dick walked up the steps, across the verandah, knocked on the door. The house was set somewhat back from the street, and was reached by a path between what presumably were intended as flower-beds; they seemed mostly crab grass. The curtains of the houses to either side were drawn.

But the house itself was freshly painted, and now the door was being opened by a white-gowned girl.

'Yes'm?' She peered at him, and her frown became a gape.

'I'd like to see Miss Gale.'

'Eh? Miss Gale ain't in, sir.' She started to close the door.

Dick placed Ins hand on it, and pushed, very gently. The door went the other way, carrying the girl with it. 'Miss Gale,' he said. 'You tell her that either she comes down, or I will come up.'

The girl released the door and retreated towards the stairs. Dick closed the door behind him. The house smelt cool, and pleasant. Judith Gale, following in her mother's footsteps, but perhaps even more successfully than Harriet. He couldn't blame her for that. But there was the trouble. He couldn't blame any of these people. Not Reynolds, for being afraid, not Judith, for accepting the best possible position. In his heart he could not even blame Ellen for marrying Tony, or Tony for grasping the plantation.

So, then, why did he not just steal away, as the Earl of Bel-more had suggested? He needed only Cartarette to be happy, and he retained enough of Christophe's bag of gold to set them up wherever they chose to live.

And then he could forget people like Josh Merriman, who had trusted him, and who had paid for that trust with his life. And he could blame Tony for that. He could even hate Tony for that, could reawaken the anger which was always bubbling deep in his belly.

He looked up the stairs. Judith stood at the top, wearing a pink undressing robe. She even aped her mother's colours. But where Harriet had been handsome, Judith was superb. The features were at once flawless and calm; even the watchfulness of the dark eyes did not reach the calmness of her expression. And when she descended the stairs her long dark hair did no more than flutter, very gently. But how that gentle flutter brought back memory.

'You should not have come here.' She reached the bottom of the stairs, halted. She did not offer her hand.

'Will he beat you?'

Her eyes gloomed at him. 'I would like you to leave.' 'But you know who I am?'

‘I recognize your face, by what I have heard of it.' 'Is it as hideous as they say?'

She hesitated, and then nodded. 'It is as hideous as they say.'

'But you know who I really am, Judith.'

Once again the long stare. 'What am I supposed to remember about you, sir? Your penis? It was dark, in that room.'

The words seemed strange, coming from those perfect hps. He took a step forward. 'But you know it is I, Judith.'

She did not move, allowed him to take her hand. 'If it is not you, Mr Hilton, then it is a total fool, to challenge the plantocracy. To challenge a man like Tony.'

'But it is me, Judith.'

Her head turned, her fingers tightened. 'Oh, my God,' she whispered. 'Dick. Dick Hilton.' Her whole body turned, and she was in his arms. 'Oh, Dick. Why did you leave? Why did you run away?'

He kissed the top of her head. 'Did I not have cause, Judith?'

'Because of me? Don't you think I wanted it?'

'It made you what you are.'

'Tony's mistress,' she said. 'I would have been yours.' 'But I ran away.'

'And now you have come back,' she said. 'You have stopped running.'

'Oh, aye.' He held her away from him, smiled at her. 'No more running. But it seems I need help.'

There were tears in her eyes, starting slowly to dribble down her cheeks.

'Will you, Judith?'

‘I will need help, Dick.'

'My right arm, until I am re-established. And any money you may require. After I am again the Hilton, you have but to ask.'

Her eyes were enormous, even through the tears. 'They say you have a wife.' 'Whom I love.' 'Ah,' she said.

'Will that make a difference?'

She hesitated, then shook her head. 'I would wish to be loved like that. What must I do?'

'Make a deposition, to begin with. But you cannot stay here.'

'Oh, nonsense,' she said. 'This house is all I possess.' She kissed him on the chin. 'Anyway, who's to know?'

'This is Kingston, Judith. Everyone will know, the very moment you sign the paper.'

She smiled. 'Very well then, Dick. I will move out, and into your protection, the moment I sign the paper. But you must at least give me time to pack.'

'You'll have that. I've just remembered I still have to find someone to draw up the affidavit.' He kissed her forehead. 'But that is a detail. You have just guaranteed the success of my claim. I'll be back this afternoon, with my attorney.'

Her fingers released him, reluctantly. 'Does your wife know of me?'

'No. Not as you mean. But in any event, she is for me, for us, totally. You have nothing to fear from her.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Killed . . .' Mortlake swabbed his brow.

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

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

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

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

'Indeed?' Dick shook hands.

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

'But . . .' Dick frowned at him.

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

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

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

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

'Some. We must have a talk.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Are you really unhurt?' she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'A letter? From my mother?'

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

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

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

There was no signature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And?'

'The door was opened by Mr James Hardy.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16

The Trial

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How much farther?'

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

'Is Mr Strong own chapel, master.'

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

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

'Who you got there?' one called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'There is some explaining to do.'

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

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

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

'Aye,' Dick said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You would have me lead you into battle?'

'We would have you lead us, Mr Richard. You must say where.'

Dick looked at the black men, waiting in the gloom. Free men, certainly. But they had been slaves, and they had earned their freedom by labour, or gained it through a quirk of white generosity. No man here had fought for it. Besides, the idea was impossible.

'Even generals need armies, Josh,' he said. 'I have no army. Your people's freedom must be an act of law.'

'Jamaican law?' someone growled.

'It will be Jamaican law,' Dick said. 'When the planters show sense.'

'Prayer will not accomplish that,' Josh said.

'I think you are right. But they can still be shown, by example. By the Hilton. They will follow his lead. Indeed, they have been following his lead these past fifteen years, which is why things have reached this state.'

'Will you win your claim?' Josh asked. 'I have heard it said there is no one will vouch for you.'

'No white person,' Dick agreed. 'They know I am their enemy, or they are afraid of my brother.'

'And I should not be afraid of your brother?' Josh asked. 'I am a runaway, from Hilltop.'

'It would mean two hundred lashes,' said one of the men.

'If your identification should make me once again the Hilton’ Dick said, 'then you have nothing to fear.'

'Would they take the word of a black man?' asked another voice.

'He is a reverend’ said another. 'But a runaway’ said a third.

'They would take the word of a man who risked two hundred lashes’ Dick said.

'And if they do not?' asked a fourth voice.

Dick hesitated. But of course the risk was enormous. He could promise nothing. He had promised Judith his protection, but that had not saved her. He looked at Josh, and sighed. 'They are right, Josh. I cannot ask you to do this. The risk is too great.'

Josh's turn to hesitate. And then to sigh, in turn. And then to smile. 'I prayed for you to come back, Mr Richard. If you don't get Hilltop back, then none of us ever going to be really free. You send for me, man, when you are ready.'

The tap on the door had him instantly awake, instinctively reaching for the sword which lay by his bed. It was hardly dawn.

Cartarette sighed, and rolled over, her hand on his arm. The tap came again.

Gently he eased himself from the bed, dragged on his breeches, tiptoed to the door, his sword in his hand. He released the bolt, allowed the door to swing in.

'Mr Hilton?' John Mortlake whispered.

'What's amiss?'

'Why, sir, perhaps nothing. There is someone to see you.' 'At this hour? And on this day? Court sits at ten.' 'Aye, sir. There's the mystery, and perhaps the hope. 'Tis Mistress Hilton.'

Dick frowned into the half-light. 'True, sir’ Mortlake insisted. 'You've an empty room?' 'Next door, sir.'

'Then show her up.' Dick stepped into the corridor, went into the room beside his own, opened the jalousie; light was just reaching along the street. He listened to footsteps in the corridor, watched the door open. He preferred not to anticipate, not to wonder, even. He laid the sword on top of the dressing table.

Ellen stepped inside, closed the door behind herself. She wore a poke bonnet over a black pelisse, and a veil. But there could be no doubting the identity of that tall figure. She hesitated, looking from him around the room, seeing the sword.

'How splendid you look,' she said.

'Even disguised as a monster?'

'Monsters can be splendid.' She released the ribbon under her chin, took off her bonnet, shook out her hair. 'Today is the day. Are you excited?'

'No.' He remained on the far side of the room, watching her.

She placed the bonnet on a chair, glanced at the bed, slowly released her pelisse. 'Are you confident?'

'I am a confident man.'

'Ah.' She laid the pelisse beside the bonnet. Her gown was pale green. 'You were not always so.' ‘I have changed.'

She sat on the bed. 'Indeed you have. I am to give evidence against you.' 'So I believe.'

'My evidence will destroy you, when taken in conjunction with that of Judith Gale.' 'Perhaps.'

She frowned at him. 'You do not believe me? You should. And if you lose your case, you will be imprisoned. At the very least.'

'Did Tony send you here to threaten me?' 'Tony does not know I am here. Neither does James.' 'James?' Dick's turn to frown. 'Hardy? Would it matter if he did?'

She smiled. 'It would matter. Have you never wondered how two brothers could be so different in character? That puzzled me even in England. Now I know the answer. Two brothers cannot be so different in character. Tony has the ability to project himself as a dominating man. He has not got the strength of character to be a dominating man.'

Dick nodded, slowly. 'I am beginning to understand.'

'Without James at his shoulder, he would be nothing. James, and me, of course.'

'Oh, quite.'

'But it is you we are discussing. I would not have you go to gaol, Dick. However badly you treated me, I would not wish that on you. You have a pretty little wife, and three charming children. You have never wished to be a planter. You have no friends, here in Jamaica, thus you have no reason to remain. There is a ship in the harbour clearing for England at ten o'clock. At the very moment the court sits. With a little haste you, and your wife, and your children, could be safely on board her, free as the wind. And waiting for you at your very own Bridle's Bank in London would be an order on the Hilltop crop. Shall we say ten thousand pounds a year?'

'All this, to save me going to gaol?'

'AH that. And perhaps because I did, once, love you.'

'Does it not occur to you that you have just ruined yourself as an adverse witness?'

'I have not admitted your identity. At least, not before a witness.'

'You are here. Suppose I made you stay?'

'Then would you be adding kidnapping to the other crimes of which you will certainly be accused. I will merely say that I came here to offer you a settlement out of court, presuming that an impostor such as you is really only in search of money. People will say I was foolish to do so, but no one will condemn me for it. I am Ellen Hilton.' She got up, crossed the room, stood beside him. 'Why do you not make me stay, Dick? I would rather enjoy being manhandled by a monster such as you are become.'

He inhaled her perfume. If she had come out of fear, she concealed it well. And how much did he want to seize her, but not from love. If Josh's tale was true, he at last knew all her secrets, all the lurking desire behind that secret smile, all the cesspool that was her mind. To touch her would be to break her neck. And she dared remind him of her love.

Yet in removing her from the arrogant pleasure of being Mistress Hilton of Hilltop, he would be doing her a far greater injury than any physical punishment he could bestow. As she knew, or she had not come this morning.

'I am touched by your solicitude, Ellen. Thus you have my promise that when I regain Hilltop, I shall give you an income of ten thousand a year, also.'

Her smile died, her lips became a steel trap. 'Do not be a fool, Dick. I am offering you your only chance of surviving this day a free man.'

'And I am refusing your offer, Ellen.'

She stared at him for a moment, then turned to the bed. She put on her pelisse, looked in the mirror to adjust her bonnet. She walked to the door, and there turned. 'I do not know what you hope to achieve,' she said. 'But I promise you this, Dick Hilton. I will destroy you, no matter what the outcome of this case. And as you have rejected me, I will destroy your wife as well. Think about that, Dick. Appear in that court, and you have signed your own death warrant.' She stepped outside, closed the door behind herself.

'At last.' Cartarette adjusted his cravat, stood back to look at him. 'Confident?'

He kissed her on the nose. 'I'd be more confident if you were coming.'

'It will be a long day, and a hard one, for your supporters. We will wait to hear the outcome from your own lips.' She turned away, sat down.

'Cartarette . . .' He knelt beside her, arms round her waist to hug himself against her breast, quite upsetting the cravat again; he had told her nothing of his strange dawn visitor, had been back in bed before she awoke. She had enough to worry about. 'Cartarette. How I love you.' He waited, for a moment, could hear nothing but the beat of her heart. And sighed. 'You have inspired me to fight again, and again, for our rights.'

She kissed him on the forehead. 'And be sure you win, dear Mr Hilton.'

He gazed at her for a moment. But time, after all these months, was at last pressing. And she had used the word dear for the very first time. It might be unwise to press his fortune further.

He stood up. 'Oh, aye,' he said. 'I'll win.' He closed the door behind him, gently. She was right about remaining here. Why, she should not have risked going abroad these past two months. And now, after Ellen's threat... the planters would find an easier target in the Claimant's wife and children, than the Claimant himself. His reputation had gone abroad. Black people smiled at him, the little boys and girls ran behind on the street, as they were preparing to do now, shouting and cheering. The white people, if they had anything at all to do with planting, crossed the street to walk on the farther side when they saw him coming. The opposing sides had solidified.

And yet, he thought, as he went down the stairs, the end was in sight. It had been a long wait, but one intended by the Governor to be entirely in his favour. An unsuccessful wait, alas. Ships had come and gone. His letter had travelled with Morrison on the Green Knight, and Morrison had assured him it had been delivered. But Morrison had brought no reply. And now that he was here again, why, the case had to come to court; Morrison was one of his only two witnesses.

Harris waited in the lobby, looking suitably grave. With him was a black man, carefully dressed in black, with a white cravat.

Dick shook their hands. 'Well, Mr Barker. Confident?'

The barrister smiled at him. 'Oh, aye, Mr Hilton. I have nothing to lose. And an entire reputation to gain should we win.'

Presumably his honesty was an asset, Dick thought. They walked up the street together, stared at from behind curtains and from the far side of the street, cheered by the rabble who followed them, waved at most ostentatiously by John Mortlake, standing on the verandah of his hotel. 'Any word from Strong?'

'He is in Kingston, Mr Hilton, and waiting. He will be there this morning. But he feels it best to remain concealed until the court is called to order.'

'Aye. I wish I could feel more secure in his safety. More secure in anything. Do we have a case, Harris?'

The mulatto gazed at the ground in front of him as he walked. 'Strong is a powerful witness, Mr Hilton. Had Miss Gale also adhered to us there would be no risk at all.'

'And with her evidence against me?'

Barker sighed. 'I will have to destroy her in cross examination.'

Dick turned his head to look at him. 'You said you risk nothing. Yet she is white, you are black. Will you not also destroy yourself?'

Barker smiled, but the smile was sad. 'Mr Hilton, have you not sat back and thought, some time during these past few months, how many lives are hanging on this case. I do not think my life is at risk. And I possess nothing else, save my certificate.'

'My God,' Dick said. Because he hadn't really thought of anyone save himself.

The courtroom was packed. It was necessary for Reynolds and Harris to sit almost alongside each other, as it was equally necessary for Dick to sit almost alongside Tony immediately behind the two lawyers. Tony merely glanced at him, then stared straight ahead. Ellen was not in court; she would be in the witness room, beside Judith. Her friends were certainly here, Gwynneth Evans and Grace Tresling, and a half a dozen other women, but most of them were veiled.

And time for speculation was past, as the jury filed in. All planters there, and therefore all hostile. His hope must be in the Governor, here acting as Chief Justice, as this was a civil case. The earl's face was impartially severe.

Barker had been given the signal by the clerk, and was clearing his throat. Dick could see the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

But his voice was firm, and deep. 'May it please the court,' he said. ‘I represent Mr Richard Hilton . . .'

He was interrupted by a chorus of boos and hisses from the galleries.

The earl gazed over the room. 'This court can easily be cleared,' he remarked. 'Indeed, it will be somewhat cooler. Proceed, Mr Barker.'

'Mr Richard Hilton,' Barker said, even more firmly. 'Who is here today presenting suit to regain rightful title in the plantation known as Hilltop.' He paused, as if expecting another barrage of sound, but this time the court remained quiet. 'My learned friend Mr Calthorpe appears for the present occupant of Hilltop, Mr Anthony Hilton.' He paused again, to bow towards Calthorpe, who gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

'The plantation, Hilltop,' Barker said, 'was left to Mr Richard Hilton by his uncle, Mr Robert Hilton. This fact is not disputed. Mr Hilton, accompanied by his brother, Mr Anthony Hilton, came to Jamaica in 1810, and took up residence on the plantation. Four years later Mr Richard Hilton left Jamaica

suddenly. We need not go into the reasons for his departure ..’

Calthorpe cleared his throat, very loudly, but did not interrupt.

'Except to say,' Barker went on, slightly raising his voice, 'that in leaving the island, Mr Hilton had no intention of abandoning his possession of his plantation. Indeed, he intended to return as soon as possible. However, the ship on which he travelled, the Cormorant, was never heard of again. It was, in fact, wrecked on the coast of Haiti. But as no word was heard from Mr Richard Hilton, he was, in the course of time, assumed to be dead, and after the lapse of the term demanded by law, seven years, Mr Anthony Hilton was granted ownership. He had already been in possession, operating the plantation in his brother's name, for those seven years.'

Barker paused, and looked around the courtroom with the air of a magician about to pull a rabbit from a hat. 'However, Mr Richard Hilton was not dead. He had, in fact, gained the island of Haiti, the sole survivor from the wreck of the Cormorant. And on Haiti he remained, for the next sixteen years. Now it is pertinent to ask why.'

The jurymen were nodding their agreement.

'The fact is, Mr Hilton suffered some serious and terrible injuries soon after reaching the land. He fell from a great height, and so disfigured his face that he could scarce recognize himself. This accident was also a severe shock to his system. He lay ill for more than a year, and then he found himself able to take such a part in the life of the community in which he found himself, he wished to remain there for a time. It was in this period that he assumed a false name, that of Matthew Warner. But indeed, my lord, his very choice of this name is an indication of his identity, for the Hilton and Warner families were in the past closely connected, and Anthony Hilton the First and Sir Thomas Warner were the two very first Englishmen to settle in the West Indies.

'And then, my lord, in the course of time, Mr Hilton regained sufficient health, and sufficient confidence in himself, to return to Jamaica. He anticipated being welcomed by his brother. But on the contrary, my lord, he was rejected. Mr Anthony Hilton professed not to recognize him, and indeed attempted to institute criminal proceedings against him, for fraud. Mr Richard Hilton therefore appears here today, my lord, as a supplicant for a restoration of his legal rights, and it will be my responsibility, and my pleasure, to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that my client is indeed Richard Hilton, the Hilton of Hilltop.'

He paused, and sat down. The Earl of Belmore glanced at Calthorpe, who was already on his feet.

'You do not have to say anything at this stage, Mr Calthorpe.'

'I understand that, my lord. But my point is a simple one. My client counterclaims that the entire case is based upon a fraud, and requests your lordship to dismiss it. The whole list of circumstances related by my . . .' he gave Barker a glance of total contempt, '. . . learned friend is so obviously a tissue of lies that it is difficult to understand his temerity in presenting it. The Cormorant was lost at sea. That is an indisputable fact. It is possible that Richard Hilton may have survived the wreck. But is it likely that this man, the wealthiest planter in the entire West Indies, would prefer to live in a Negro, a savage, an anarchistic community for sixteen years, when he had but to return to the comfort and security of his Jamaica home? This man, this Claimant, bears absolutely no resemblance to the late Richard Hilton. His case is based upon certain events from Richard Hilton's past, which he appears to remember. Sheer common sense must suggest to this court that these events are hearsay, perhaps related to the Claimant before Richard Hilton's death, perhaps, and more likely, gleaned by his inquiries over the past sixteen years, which indeed informs us why he has waited this long to present his claim. He had to build up his own, false, background, and he had to wait for memories in Jamaica to fade. My lord, it is as plain as a pikestaff that this man is an impostor, and I request this court to dismiss his claim, and to permit the counterclaim, of attempt to defraud, which is accompanied by other charges of criminal nature, to be heard.'

Calthorpe sat down. The jury was whispering, but Belmore ignored them entirely, and looked straight ahead of him.

'I trust, Mr Calthorpe, that you are not suggesting this court lacks common sense. However, it seems to me that as Mr Richard Hilton, or General Matthew Warner, whichever he really is, has brought this case, and as his advocate is prepared to substantiate his claim, the least we can do is hear the evidence. Are you prepared to call your witnesses, Mr Barker?'

'I arn, your lordship. I call Captain James Morrison.'

The call was sent out to the witnesses' room. Morrison came in, slowly and uncertainly, blinked at the sea of faces, gave a nervous smile, and was shown to the stairs leading up to the witness box by the clerk. He took the oath in a low mumble.

'Your name is Captain James Morrison, and you are master of the brig Green Knight,' Barker remarked.

'Aye.'

'What did the witness say?' inquired the earl.

'He said yes, my lord, in a nautical fashion,' Barker explained.

'Ah,' said the earl, and made a note.

'And for how many years have you traded between England and the West Indies, Captain Morrison?'

'Longer than I can remember.'

'Well, sir, try to remember.'

'Oh, aye, well, thirty years for sure.'

'Thank you, Captain Morrison. Now, can you remember a voyage you made, in June and July of the year 1810?'

'Oh, aye, that I can.'

'Why can you remember it? We are speaking of some twenty years ago.'

'Ah, but it were what happened, you see.' 'Tell us.'

'Well, there were these two young fellows on board. Hilton, their name was. Anthony Hilton, and his brother Richard. Heirs to the Hilton estates, they were. And there was this quarrel, you see, with a gentleman named Lanken.' Morrison paused and looked around the crowded room.

'What was this quarrel about?'

'Ah, well, it were over a woman, to be sure. And Captain Lanken challenged Mr Richard Hilton to a duel. Well, then it were discovered that Mr Richard had malaria, so his brother fought in his place. Oh, no blood was shed. But a duel, on my ship. Why, it weren't something a man forgets.'

'Indeed not,' Barker agreed. 'And when did you see Mr Richard Hilton again?'

'Aye, well, not for a long time. He was a big planter, and me just a trading skipper. I heard of him, though. Then I heard how he had been lost at sea, and I was mighty sorry. He was a good man, that.'

'But when did you see him again?'

'Aye, well, Jamaica ain't the only West Indian island I trade with. I calls at Cap Haitien, that which used to be Cap Francois from time to time. Risky it is. Them niggers are unpredictable. But a man must try to earn himself a profit.'

'Go on, Captain Morrison.'

'Well, last year it was. I called at Cap Haitien, as usual, and the ship was invaded by these black fellows. Soldiers they was. Arrested me they did, on a false charge of smuggling, and hauled me before their general. Well, I can tell you, I thought I was for it. But this turned out to be a white man, General Warner.'

'You knew him?'

'Oh, no. Not me. But I'd heard of him. Well, who hadn't heard of Christophe's cavalry commander? Well, I went along. I didn't have no choice. And you could have knocked me over with a feather when this general claps me on the shoulder and says captain, don't you remember me?'

'And did you?'

'Well, not at first. But when he started to speak, why, I knew it had to be Richard Hilton.' 'Why?'

'Well, he remembered things that only Richard Hilton could.'

'Things about the voyage?'

'Oh, aye. Names, and what happened.'

'Captain Morrison, is Mr Richard Hilton, of Hilltop, the man you carried to Jamaica in 1810, seated in this court?'

Morrison affected to peer into the room. 'Oh, aye, there he is.'

'Where?'

Morrison pointed at Dick.

'You have no doubts at all about it, Captain Morrison?'

'Doubts? Why should I have doubts? That's Richard Hilton.'

'Thank you, Captain Morrison,' Barker said, and sat down.

Calthorpe took some minutes to stand up. He consulted his notes, rustled his papers, and only when Belmore had cleared his throat did he actually rise to his feet.

'Morrison,' he asked. 'Do you drink?'

'Eh?'

‘I asked, do you drink?'

'I take a sip, from time to time.'

'Thank you. Do you tell tales?' 'Eh?'

'You are a seafaring man, who drinks. When you are . . . happy, in a bar of an evening, home from the sea, do you ever regale your companions with tales, of the sea?'

'Why ... I suppose I do.'

'Have you ever told anyone of the events of that voyage in 1810, that voyage which was so eventful you can remember it today as if it was your last?'

'Why . . .' Morrison glanced at Dick. 'Maybe,'

Calthorpe appeared to consult his notes. 'You have testified that on landing in Cap Haitien, on the occasion of your last visit there, you were boarded by Negro soldiers and commanded to appear before the general. You thought you were for it. I quote. Would I be correct in interpreting that to mean you were afraid?'

'Afraid? Well, yes, I was afraid. Them niggers . . .'

'You have told us about them niggers, Morrison. Did you take a drink, before going ashore?'

'Eh? Well. . .'

'You are under oath, Morrison.' 'Well, yes, I did.'

'And on being taken ashore, under armed escort, you were confronted with a white man, a general, a very powerful man in that community, who greeted you by name, and when you showed surprise, this man recounted some events which you felt were of significance.'

'Aye. So he did. Eventually.'

Calthorpe frowned, for the first time. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, sir, when first we met, Mr Hilton didn't want me to recognize him. Or so it seemed to me. He wanted to know about Jamaica. It was only after I started telling him that he asked if I remembered him.'

'He asked if you remembered him.' Calthorpe smiled. 'And you were happy enough to do so.' He held up his hand as Morrison would have spoken again. 'I have only two more questions to ask of you, Morrison. And I recommend you answer them very carefully, lest a charge of perjury be brought against you. You have related that on that so well remembered voyage, there was to be a duel, between Richard Hilton and a Captain Lanken. But Richard Hilton could not fight, because of an attack of malaria, and his place was taken by his brother, Anthony. Now, Captain Morrison, is it not true to say that there was no attack of malaria? That the illness was a subterfuge to save Richard Hilton, because he had no knowledge of weapons, and because he was afraid of Captain Lanken?'

'Well, now,' Morrison said. 'Afraid? Well, now . . .'

'You are under oath, Morrison.'

'Well. . .' Morrison gave an apologetic glance at Dick. 'There was some talk, about how it might be a subterfuge.'

'Then tell us this, Morrison. Can you conceive of the man standing over there, the Claimant to the Hilton estates, being physically afraid of anyone? Or being ignorant of the use of weapons? This man, who fought with Christophe, and obtained a reputation as a most formidable soldier, this man, who came to Kingston, and upon being attacked by some ruffians, killed one, maimed another, and disarmed a third, all in a matter of seconds? Can you really suppose the shrinking coward of the Green Knight and the notorious Matthew Warner of Haiti can be one and the same man?'

'A man can change,' Morrison said. 'A man can be taught the use of weapons.'

'No man can change that much, Morrison. Now, my last question. Did Matthew Warner, when reminding you of your mutual past, tell you anything that he could not have learned, from hearsay, perhaps from Richard Hilton himself?'

Morrison frowned at his inquisitor. 'Why, of course not. He remembered what there was to be remembered, and there is an end to it.'

'Thank you, Morrison.' Calthorpe sat down, took a drink of water.

'You may step down, Captain Morrison,' the Earl of Belmore said. 'Mr Barker?'

Barker stood up, half started to turn to look at Dick, and then checked himself. But it needed no glance to convey the information that Morrison had been destroyed, as a witness. It was all or nothing now. 'I call the Reverend Joseph Strong,' Barker said.

Josh entered the courtroom, severely dressed in a black suit, wearing a dog-collar. He looked neither to left nor right, as he climbed the stairs to the box and took the oath. Calthorpe was consulting his notes; Tony leaned back and considered the ceiling. Obviously he would have forgotten what Josh looked like. He would not have forgotten the name, however.

Barker was on his feet. 'May it please your lordship, I would like to introduce this witness.'

'We know of the Reverend Strong,' Belmore pointed out.

Barker cleared his throat. 'Indeed, your lordship, the Reverend Strong is well known, and greatly respected, throughout the island. Yet he comes here today under a handicap, and I would beg the court's indulgence.'

'Handicap? Can the man not speak?'

'He can speak, your lordship. The nature of his handicap will become apparent when I commence examining the witness. Have I the court's indulgence?'

'Yes, yes, man, get on with it,' Belmore barked. He was also unhappy with the way the cross examination of Morrison had turned out.

'Thank you, my lord,' Barker said, and turned towards the witness box. 'Your name is Joseph Strong, and you are a parson of the Baptist Church?'

'That is correct,' Josh said, his voice slow and deep.

'And are you acquainted with the Claimant?'

'I am.'

'In what way?'

'I have known Mr Richard Hilton for twenty years. Since the day of his arrival in Jamaica.'

'And you have no doubt that the man you see behind me is Mr Richard Hilton?'

'None.'

'How can you be sure?'

'I am sure because when we first met, on his return to the island, although I did not identify myself, he recognized me immediately.'

'Thank you, Mr Strong.' The court was silent, and once again Barker half turned as if he would look at Dick, and then changed his mind. Clearly he was sorely tempted to leave matters as they were, and see if Calthorpe would press matters in his cross examination. But the risk was too great of alienating Belmore. Any confession had to come from this side. 'Now, Mr Strong, my learned friend will no doubt wish to point out, in cross examination, that when Mr Hilton first came to Jamaica there was no Reverend Strong preaching, and indeed that it is only in the last five years that your reputation as a man of God has become widespread.'

Calthorpe stood up. 'My lord, I would prefer to ask my own questions.'

'Mr Barker is supposing, Mr Calthorpe,' Belmore said.

'Thank you, your lordship,' Barker said. 'I would therefore like you to tell this court what you were doing when Mr Hilton arrived in Jamaica, in 1810, and how you came to know him so well.'

Josh hesitated for just a moment, then continued speaking in his slow, clear tone. 'I was a slave, in 1810, and worked for Mr Reynolds the lawyer.'

'Bless my soul,' Reynolds remarked, completely forgetting himself.

A rustle spread through the court, and Belmore banged his gavel before leaning forward. 'You were a slave, you say, Mr Strong? Of Mr Reynolds?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'And were manumitted?'

'No, my lord. I was sold, to Mr Richard Hilton, at his request.'

Tony sat up, and the murmur grew.

'Ah,' said the earl. 'And it was Mr Richard Hilton gave you your freedom. Yes, indeed, I understand. You would remember that.'

Josh took a deep breath. 'No, sir, your Excellency. Mr Richard made me his head man. That is why I remember him. He treated me as a friend. But when he disappeared, and Mr Anthony Hilton took over the plantation, he treated me too bad, your Excellency. So I ran away.'

'Ran away?' The earl seemed unable to believe his ears.

'By God.' Tony was on his feet. 'Josh Merriman. Arrest that man.'

'Quiet. Order. Order in this court,' the earl bellowed, banging his gavel.

The noise slowly subsided.

'I demand my rights, your Grace,' Tony said, still standing. 'That man is a runaway from Hilltop.'

Dick also stood up. 'You have no rights at all, Tony. As you say, Josh is a runaway from Hilltop. The matter is my concern.'

'Your concern? You upstart fraud . . .'

'Gentlemen,' the earl said. 'It may be irregular to hear a case of this nature while both the principals are confined in a cell, but I assure you it can be done.' He turned back to Josh. 'What is your real name?'

'Joshua Merriman, your Excellency.'

The earl looked at Reynolds. 'You recognize this man, Mr Reynolds?'

The lawyer peered at the witness box. 'It is a long time, my lord, but certainly I owned a slave by that name whom I sold to Mr Richard Hilton.'

'And who has been masquerading as a Baptist minister,' the earl mused. 'Mr Barker?'

'I knew of the risk Merriman was taking, my lord. But the fact that he has taken this risk surely establishes the truth of his evidence.'

The earl sighed. 'That is for the jury to decide. I would but remind you, and your principals, that aiding and abetting an absconded slave is a felony. Mr Hilton?' He looked at Dick.

'I was under the impression that I could do as I wished with regard to my own slaves,' Dick said. 'I have already granted Merriman his freedom, so that he may continue his excellent work as a preacher.'

'My lord,' Calthorpe said, entering the debate for the first time, having been handed a scribbled message from Tony. 'This case has not yet been proven. It may never be proven. In my opinion, which has been but hardened by what I have seen and heard here today, it can never be proven. The Claimant may assume what he pleases, surely the fact is that in law this witness is the property of my client until it is otherwise proved.'

'Hm,' said the earl. 'Hm. It will have to be considered. I will adjourn the court until tomorrow while I consider the matter.'

'And in the meanwhile, my lord?' Calthorpe inquired.

The earl looked at Dick, and then at the jury, and then at Josh. 'The slave will have to be confined, of course.'

'In my client's custody, my lord,' Calthorpe said.

Barker got up. 'I must protest, my lord. This man is a witness against the defence. To place him in the care of the defence is to transgress all rules of justice.'

'On the contrary,' Calthorpe said. 'It is you, my learned friend, who have broken the rules. My client merely wishes his rights under the law.' He turned back to the bench. 'My lord, you are the law in this island. Surely you cannot be seen to do anything other than uphold the law.'

The earl frowned at him. 'I do not need you to remind me of my duty or my responsibilities, Mr Calthorpe. Merriman, I am returning you to the custody of your legal owner. Leave the box.'

'My lord,' Dick cried.

'Quiet,' the earl said. 'I will have quiet in this courtroom. Mr Hilton . . . Mr Anthony Hilton . . . you will produce the man Merriman, in this court, well and able to give evidence, whenever I so order. Is that understood? Bailiffs.'

They already waited at the foot of the steps. Merriman gazed at Dick for a moment, then descended.

'And now . . .' the earl began.

'And now, my lord,' Calthorpe said. 'I would like to make a further protest against these affairs. Here me out, my lord, in order that you may consider my point during the adjournment. This case is the clearest attempted fraud I have ever seen, and not a very clever one, at that. Where is the Claimant's proof of identity? It rests in the testimony of a drunken sea captain and a runaway slave. Your lordship will have seen for himself how simple a matter it would be to convince the sea captain, Morrison. And your lordship may well imagine how easy it would be to secure the favourable testimony of a slave, by promising him his freedom if the case is won. As the Claimant confesses he has already done. My lord, these are not witnesses. But my lord, the defence has witnesses to prove that the Claimant cannot be Richard Hilton.'

'Is this an opening speech, Mr Calthorpe?' the earl inquired. 'I do not believe Mr Barker has closed his case as yet.'

'I am endeavouring to save the time of this court,' Calthorpe said. 'It is a well known fact, my lord, that the real Richard Hilton was betrothed to be married before his disappearance, to a Miss Ellen Taggart. That lady is now the wife of Mr Anthony Hilton. Now, my lord, who should better know a man, whatever his present appearance, than a woman to whom he was for four years engaged to be married? I am prepared to produce Mrs Hilton in this court to testify that that man is not Richard Hilton. And further, my lord, it is also a well known fact that the late Richard Hilton perpetrated a criminal assault upon a young lady in Kingston, the night before his disappearance. Now my lord, surely that young lady would be able to remember the identity of her assailant, a man who locked her in a hotel bedroom and brutally raped her. My lord, I am prepared to produce that young lady in this court, also to swear that the Claimant is not Richard Hilton. My lord, I most earnestly entreat that unless my learned friend can offer evidence as conclusive in character as this, that this civil case be dismissed immediately, and that criminal proceedings be instituted against the Claimant.'

The earl stared at him for some seconds, and then at Dick.

But clearly his faith in him had suffered considerably. Particularly was he obviously thinking that no matter what view he might have, the jury would certainly find for Tony. And there was nothing to be done, now. He had gambled and lost. It would only have worked had the earl been determined enough to ride over the legal objections in his determination to discover the truth. And there was nothing he could do. He had not felt so helpless for a very long time.

'Hm,' said the earl. 'Hm. Mr Barker?'

Barker stood up, licked his lips. He also knew the case was lost.

'My lord . . .'

'My lord,' said a quiet voice from the very rear of the room. 'The Claimant may well possess a witness of superior value to those listed by Mr Calthorpe.'

'Eh? Eh?' Belmore peered at the speaker.

Dick turned, as did Tony, both as if plucked by a long rope. Alone of everyone in the court, they had equally recognized the voice. Previously seated amidst the veiled women at the back of the room, the speaker had now thrown back the gauze covering her face to reveal herself as Suzanne Hilton.

17

The Incendiary

'Mother?' Dick exclaimed, in total consternation. 'Mother?' Tony cried, no less astounded. 'What? What?' cried the earl.

'You do not know me, my lord.' Suzanne wore black, and stood with the aid of a stick. Dick realized she was seventy years old. But her voice had not changed. 'My husband and I left Jamaica some forty years ago. But I am Suzanne Hilton, wife of Matthew Hilton, sister of Robert Hilton, and mother of Anthony and Richard Hilton.'

'My God,' the earl cried. The court burst into noise, and people scrambled on their chairs the better to see. Suzanne smiled at them all. Her hair was now entirely white, and there were lines on her face and neck. But that marvellous bone structure was also unchanged.

'Mother.' Tony left his seat and ran to the back of the court to take her hand. 'Why did you not inform me you were coming?'

Suzanne freed herself. 'I thought it best.'

'But . . . how long have you been in the island?'

'Two days.'

'Two days? And not a word?'

'Again, I thought it best.' She had reached the front rows, stood beside Dick. 'Well, sir, have you nothing to say?'

Dick could only stare at her; dimly he heard the earl's gavel calling for order. 'I supposed you had rejected me,' he said at last. 'Did you not receive my letter?'

'Had I not, I would not be here now.' She walked past them, into the well of the court.

The earl continued to bang with his gavel. 'Order. Order. I will have the court cleared.' He leaned over his desk. 'Suzanne Hilton? By God. Madam, I hope you will allow me to entertain you, at a more suitable moment. But you see us here . . .' He remembered why she was there at all. 'Will you identify that man as your son?'

'If you will allow me a few minutes alone with him, my lord, I will either identify him or swear that he is not my son.'

'Aye, well, there it is. Court will adjourn for fifteen minutes.' He glared at the jury, only now subsiding into quiet. 'You'll accompany me, Mrs Hilton. And you as well, Mr Hilton.'

He was addressing Dick, but Tony hurried forward. 'Am I not entitled to speak with my mother?'

'By all means accompany us, Tony,' Suzanne said.

'Mr Hilton.' Barker leaned out of his seat. 'This is make or break.'

'Aye,' Dick said. 'But she is my mother, Mr Barker.' He followed the earl into the judge's chamber at the rear of the court.

'I will leave you now, madam,' Belmore said. 'To speak with these gentlemen.'

He went outside, and the door closed.

'Well,' Tony said, loudly, 'thank God you are here, Mama, to put an end to this farce. The man's an impostor, some white nigger who fought with Christophe, took the name of Warner, and now has the effrontery . . .'

'Be quiet, Tony,' Suzanne said, softly. She held Dick's arm, peered into his face. 'My God,' she said. 'What did they do to you?'

'It was a fall from a cliff, Mama. But you . . .' 'Mama?' she asked. 'Have you the right to use that word to me?'

'But . . . my letter? The handwriting . . .' 'Bore very little resemblance to the last letter I had from Richard Hilton, a long time ago.' 'The events I described . . .'

'Could easily have been learned.'

'I cannot imagine why you troubled to undertake such a long and dangerous journey,' Tony remarked.

'Perhaps a mother never actually believes her son can be dead,' Suzanne said. 'Perhaps she must dream, always, that he will come back to her.'

'Aye,' Tony said. 'I can understand that, Mama. And I can understand how deep must be the disappointment at the end. But this blackguard shall pay for it, you have my word.'

Suzanne continued to look at Dick. 'Are you a blackguard?'

'Mama, I . . .' He took a step forward, checked himself. She waited, for some sign to convince her, and he could think of nothing, to do or to say.

'Yes?' she asked, her voice soft.

He stared into her eyes, as she stared into his. His hands closed on her shoulders, and she was in his arms, fingers tight on his back, cheek pressed against his.

'Blackguard,' Tony bellowed. 'By God, I'll . . .'

'Be quiet, Tony,' Suzanne said. 'Oh, Dick, Dick, if you knew how long I have waited to hold you in my arms, with what hopes and with what fears I landed from that ship.'

'If only you had told us you were here.'

'Why?' She removed her hat, and sat down. 'To be badgered, or bullied, or worse.'

'Mama . . .' Tony began.

‘I have been receiving letters from Tony, for the past sixteen years,' she said. 'Relating his successes, and your failures, Dick. I supposed you dead, on his hearsay. Why did you not write?'

'With a face like this? Oh, I got used to it. But by then I had become caught up in Christophe's dreams of empire, his perpetual war. I was indeed no longer Matt Hilton's son, Mama.'

'But always Suzanne Hilton's son,' she said. 'Robert Hilton's nephew. I never doubted that when you found your way, you would be a Hilton.'

'You mean you accept his story?' Tony demanded.

'I said, I would end this farce. I travelled with Morrison on the Green Knight, swore him to secrecy. I have lodged, privily, and watched and listened, and heard, how you attempted to have your brother murdered, Tony.'

'Murdered? My brother? Why . . .'

'Because he is your brother. I have watched him and his wife, from the window of my room. He may not look like Dick, he may not talk like Dick, but he most certainly walks like Dick, as his gestures are Dick's.' She smiled at him. 'As he married the woman Dick would have married. She is very beautiful, Dick. I look forward to meeting her.' She got up again.

'You . . . you will betray me,' Tony cried.

'Betray you, Tony. I have come to rescue you from the consequences of your own iniquity. It is now my duty to intercede with Dick on your behalf.'

'Intercede?' he shouted.

'You'll have an annuity,' Dick said. 'Provided you leave Jamaica.'

'Annuity? Leave Jamaica? You think this business will be as simply settled as that?'

'It can be, if you are sensible,' Suzanne said. 'Dick is being more than generous.'

'You'll not have Hilltop,' Tony said.

'I shall come out tomorrow,' Dick said. 'You'll have time to pack.'

'You?' Tony demanded. 'The planters will not stand for it.' 'They'll obey the law.'

'Damn the law. That law was made in England. You are an Abolitionist, a nigger lover. Well, we have finished with those. We are on the verge of declaring our independence. Aye, then we'll make our own laws. You attempt to set foot on Hilltop, and you'll spark a revolution.'

'Why, you . . .' Dick reached for him, and Tony reached for the door.

'Dick.' Suzanne's voice was sharp. 'I'll not have you fighting, when I am seeing you for the first time in twenty years. I had hoped this matter could be happily resolved. I still hope it will be. Tony is upset. That is entirely reasonable. You'll pack your things, Tony, and prepare to leave Hilltop. But when Dick and his wife, and I, come out tomorrow, we will lunch together, and be friends.'

Tony stared at her for a moment, glanced at Dick, then turned and left the room, banging the door behind him.

'Dick. Let him go. And let me hold you, just for a moment. Your letter . . .' She clung to him, her head on his chest. 'I had always supposed you alive, and known that it was nothing more than a mother's prayer.' Her head went back, to allow her to look at him. 'Your letter all but gave us both a seizure.'

'Papa?'

'Is better than for years. The election has rejuvenated him. Even if he could not take part himself, he knows a Whig victory is his victory. Grey is dedicated to reform, and a reformed House of Commons means Abolition. He is proud of you, Dick.'

'For becoming a soldier?'

'For being his son. For returning to Jamaica. You said in your letter it was to emancipate your slaves. Do you mean that, Dick?'

'Aye. But it will not be an easy matter.'

'Nothing worthwhile is ever easy. And you will have me to help you. If you knew how I have longed to help you, Dick, how I have longed to make myself known to you, as I watched you walking yesterday afternoon, with that lovely woman, and those splendid children. My grandchildren, Dick.'

He kissed her forehead. 'And you shall see them in minutes. But we had best return.'

For noise was again bubbling out of the courtroom. He opened the door for her, and the shouts slowly died as they re-entered the room. The earl was already there, waiting at his desk. The jury looked thunderstruck. Calthorpe and Reynolds looked as if they had seen a ghost. Barker and Harris were plainly delighted.

The earl banged his gavel. 'Order. Order. This is but a formality, Mistress Hilton, as Mr Anthony Hilton has seen fit to leave the court. Will you take the box?'

Suzanne climbed the curved staircase, took the oath in a quiet, clear voice. The courtroom had fallen so silent it was possible to hear people breathing.

'Mr Barker?' the earl invited.

Barker rose. 'Will you state your name, please.'

'Suzanne Hilton.'

'Have you ever seen the Claimant before in your life, Mrs Hilton?'

Suzanne smiled at Dick. 'He is my son.'

A great sigh swept through the court room.

'Thank you, Mrs Hilton. Your witness, Mr Calthorpe.'

Calthorpe stood up. 'I have no questions, my lord.' He licked his lips. 'My client accepts that he was mistaken, and that the Claimant is indeed his brother, the rightful owner of Plantation Hiltop.'

Now the noise burst forth. No one had expected it to be set out in quite those terms. 'Blackguard,' shouted one of the jury at Calthorpe. 'You were not so instructed,' cried another. 'Mr Hilton.' Harris shook hands.

'My thanks,' Dick said. 'And to you, Barker. You may be sure of my gratitude.'

'Mr Hilton.' Reynolds hesitated. 'I did what I had to do. I sent you Harris.'

'Indeed you did, Mr Reynolds. I'll not bear a grudge.' He descended into the well to meet his mother as she came down the stairs. The earl also descended.

'Congratulations, Mr Hilton. You'll dine with me. Indeed you will. I have long wanted to meet your charming wife again. She is not in court?'

'She is at the hotel with our children. We thought it best. My lord, I would like to see the Reverend Strong.'

'Good heavens, I had quite forgot the fellow. Oh, indeed. You must set him free, if only to legalize his position.' The earl waved at his provost marshal. 'You'll descend to the cells and get the reverend up here.'

The marshal nodded, and hurried for the stairs.

'Just look at them go,' Suzanne said, watching the planters file out. The jury had not waited to be dismissed, but were also leaving, muttering at each other.

'A stiff-necked lot,' Belmore grumbled. 'And you may depend upon it, they will be putting their heads together to see what can be done. Oh, there is more than a spark of treason hidden in that gang. But we shall be ready for them, eh? And now, Mrs Hilton, Mr Hilton, if you'll excuse me . . .' He frowned at the provost marshal, reappearing in the room.

'Well?'

'He is gone, my lord.'

'Gone?' Dick shouted.

'Well, sir, he was sent out to Hilltop.'

'By whose orders?'

'By Mr Hilton's orders, sir. Mr Anthony Hilton. You'll understand, sir, when it was done Mr Hilton was still the Hilton, and well, I'm afraid Connor the cell-man is a follower of the plantocracy.'

'The devil,' Dick said. ‘I must get a horse.'

'No,' Suzanne said. 'You will fight. I did not come out here to have either of you kill the other. My lord, my son Tony has defied a court order.'

'By God, madam, you are quite right. I'll send the military, indeed I will. You may rest assured, Mr Hilton, the man will be returned here by this very night, or your brother will likely find himself occupying the same cell. Oh, indeed.'

Suzanne squeezed Dick's arm. 'So you may rest easy. And take me to meet your wife and children.'

The Earl of Belmore rose to his feet, raised his glass. 'Ladies and gentlemen. I give you Richard Hilton, of Hilltop.' The company stood. 'Richard Hilton, of Hilltop.'

Dick felt his eyes fill with tears as he looked at them, at his mother, on his right, at Cartarette on his left, at the earl, at the garrison commander, Colonel Barraclough, at the various other government officials, and their wives, at John Mortlake, and at Mr and Mrs John Harris, and Timothy Barker. He supposed it was a unique occasion, when two black men and a black woman dined at Government House.

'For I tell you this,' Belmore said. 'My interest in this affair is far from being merely that of judge, as Mr Hilton well knows, and understands. Hilltop, I would like to think, has returned to sanity. And where Hilltop leads, the rest of Jamaica must surely follow. Who knows, ladies and gentlemen, an end to the disputes, to the wrangling, and even to the downright treason of the last five years may be in sight.'

He sat down, and Dick rose in turn. 'I thank you all,' he said. 'For your support, for your congratulations. And my lord, you may sleep easy tonight. Hilltop has indeed returned to sanity, and if it is possible to accomplish, Hilltop will now set an example which we hope will be followed by all who have the welfare of Jamaica, and of Jamaicans . . .' He paused to bow to the two black men, 'at heart.'

Suzanne squeezed his hand. 'Matt will be proud of you, Dick, in every way.'

'Aye.' He sat down. 'I wish I could rest as easy as I invite you to.'

'If Hilltop is indeed twenty miles outside of Kingston,' Cartarette pointed out, 'the soldiers cannot possibly return before midnight, supposing they ride like the wind.'

For the colonel had not let them go until three, when the heat had started to leave the sun. But Josh had been sent out at eleven.

'I know that,' Dick agreed. 'Yet it rests heavy on my mind. It is not only Josh. It is Judith Gale as well.'

'Now, Dick,' Suzanne protested. 'By all accounts . . .'

'She is no better than she should be. And that is true enough. Yet did she volunteer to testify for me.'

'And changed her mind,' Cartarette said. 'I am not surprised she chose to ride with your brother, instead of remaining in town.'

He smiled at them. 'I am outnumbered. Yet with Tony in a savage mood, who can tell what may be happening while we dine the night away . . .' He paused to watch the Governor's secretary enter the room.

'Lomas,' said the earl. 'What news?'

Lomas wore a worried frown. 'A rider, from Captain Painter's platoon, your Excellency.'

'From Hilltop, you mean?'

'No, your Excellency. Captain Painter has not gone to Hilltop.'

'What?' Dick was on his feet.

Lomas studied the hastily written note. 'They are halted by a messenger from Plantation Golden Acre, my lord. Mr Reed says his house is being surrounded by a mob of blacks.'

'Eh?' Belmore wore an expression of complete bemusement. 'Surrounded? Blacks?’

'May we have the man in, your Excellency?' asked Colonel Barraclough.

'Oh, indeed. Indeed. As long as he does not frighten the ladies.'

Lomas snapped his fingers. He had apparently been expecting this decision. The trooper's red coat was stained with dust, his face with sweat. He stood to attention.

'At ease, man. At ease,' Barraclough said. 'What took place out there?'

'Well, sir . . .' The soldier inhaled. 'First of all there were conch shells, sir. All about us, but mostly in the north.' 'Conch shells?' Cartarette inquired.

'They use them as the people in Haiti use their drums,' Dick explained. 'For the sending of messages. What messages?'

'Well, sir, we did not know. Then. But at Eastside village, where the mountains begin, we halted, and inquired of the headman. Oh, afraid he was, sir. Afraid.'

'Of what, man?' Belmore shouted.

'Well, sir, your Excellency, it seems the conches started the moment the Reverend Strong was arrested this morning. It seems the people had been afraid this might happen, and had been already agitated. Why, sir, a dozen of the young men at Eastside had already gone north.'

'But those are free blacks,' the Governor protested.

'This man, Strong, has a large congregation there,' Barraclough said.

'My God,' said the Governor. 'My God. Well, go on, man.'

'Yes, sir, your Excellency,' the trooper said. 'Well, the captain decided to continue, but about three miles farther on we were met by this bookkeeper, sir, from Golden Acre. It seems the Reverend Strong had been allowed to preach there, your Excellency. And when the conches started this afternoon the slaves came out of the fields without being bid. Mr Reed sent one of the bookkeepers amongst them, sir, with a whip, and he was dismounted and beaten, sir.'

'My God,' Belmore said. 'My God.'

'Then they set fire to the village,' the trooper said. 'Mr Reed retreated to the Great House, with the rest of his white people, but sent this one man for help. Well, sir; your Excellency, Captain Painter decided he could nothing less than ride out there. But he sent me back to town to inform your Excellency of the situation.'

'But why Golden Acre?' Suzanne asked. 'Was not Strong sent out to Hilltop?'

'Indeed he was, Mrs Hilton,' Barraclough said. 'But he will have no congregation there. As a runaway he would not have dared return. Even had he not been a runaway, I do not suppose Tony Hilton would have given the necessary permission. No, no, Strong's people axe to be found in the north and west.' He turned to the Governor. 'Your Excellency, I would like to take a squadron out there. This thing must be nipped in the bud. Or it may very well spread.'

'If it has not already done so,' Harris remarked.

'Well, sir, your Excellency,' said the trooper. 'I saw flames when I was riding back. Far away, they was, but it could have been Plantation Rivermouth.'

'My God,' Belmore said. 'Flames? The house, you mean?'

'Well, no, sir, your Excellency. It looked more like the fields.'

'Aye.' Barraclough was on his feet. 'They'll start with the cane.'

Dick had remained standing. 'Then what of Hilltop?'

Barraclough hesitated. 'Well, sir, Mr Hilton, there is no report of violence on Hilltop, as yet. And we know the people there do not attend Strong's church . . .'

'Yet will the contagion spread to them,' Harris repeated. 'They have no cause to love Tony Hilton.'

'Oh, my God,' Suzanne said.

'He has a large force of bookkeepers, Mrs Hilton,' Belmore said.

'He also has Strong,' Dick said. 'Is not the way to end this trouble to show the blacks that their parson is not under arrest, after all?'

Barraclough hesitated. 'True, I could send some men . . .'

'And what of Kingston, sir?' Belmorc demanded. 'Kingston must be defended.'

Barraclough chewed his lip.

'And it must be done quietly, for the time,' Suzanne said. 'If these people hear there is a slave revolt on even one plantation, there will be a panic'

'Aye,' Barraclough said. 'That is true enough.'

'You must go to Golden Acre,' Cartarette said. 'With what men you can spare. There may be a massacre.'

'A massacre?' Belmore cried. 'My God. In Jamaica?'

'Aye,' Harris said. 'When you tamper with a man's religion you hurt him more than when you take a stick to his back.'

'Take your men, Colonel,' Dick said. 'Ride to Golden Acre. I'll get out to Hilltop, and bring Strong into town.' He glanced down at his mother. 'It is the only way, Mama. Strong is the only way we can stop tins business before it becomes a full scale revolution. Even Tony must see that.'

Barraclough looked doubtful. 'I can spare no men, Mr Hilton.'

'I don't need men,' Dick said. 'We have just established that there is no riot at Hilltop, as yet. Nor will there be if I get there in time.'

'Well . . .' Barraclough stroked his chin. 'Of course you are right, Dick,' Suzanne decided. 'I will come with you.'

'You, Mama? But. . .'

'But nothing. It is thirty years since I have visited Hilltop. Too long.'

'A ride in the dark?'

'We will take a carriage. You can provide one, my lord?' 'Of course. But really, Mrs Hilton . . .' 'I must be there, don't you see, or my sons will merely fight.' 'Your mother is right, Dick,' Cartarette said. 'And I will come too.'

'You?' he cried. 'But. . .'

'For ten years you have regaled me with tales of the splendour of your home. Do you not suppose I am anxious to see it?'

'But what of the children?'

Cartarette looked at John Mortlake.

'Oh, indeed, Mrs Hilton. They will be taken care of.'

'And we shall be back tomorrow,' Cartarette said. 'Will we not, Mr Hilton?'

'Of course, but. . .' Dick looked at the Governor.

'Ladies, riding out into the country, after dark,' the earl said. 'When there is riot about. Oh, no, no. We cannot tell how far the contagion may have spread . . .'

'My lord,' Suzanne said, getting up. 'We are discussing my plantation and my family. The contagion has not spread this far, that is plain. If Colonel Barraclough is taking his men to the west, and we are riding north, he will be between us and any rioters. And I do assure you, we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.'

'Yet may you need support,' Harris said. 'I will accompany you.' He glanced at his wife. 'There will be no danger, as Mrs Hilton says. But even less if we are sufficiently strong.'

'He's right, Mr Hilton,' Barker agreed. 'I'll come too, if you'll have me.'

'Why, you are more than welcome,' Dick said. 'But I do not see why you should be involved . . .'

Harris grinned at him. 'Man, Mr Hilton, Hilltop is my principal client.'

'Settled, then,' Suzanne said. 'If you'll provide a carriage, my lord, my daughter-in-law and I will change our clothes.'

'And we'll get some weapons,' Harris said.

'Aye.' Barraclough was already at the door. 'I'll turn out my men and ride for Golden Acre.'

'Bless my soul,' said the earl, still sitting at the head of the table. 'Bless my soul. Who'd have thought it, in Jamaica.'

Dick caught up with Cartarette at the door. 'Are you sure you know what you do? I had supposed we had done with fighting.'

She smiled at him, kissed him on the chin. 'You, finish with fighting? Besides, we are not going to fight, Dick. We are going to stop a fight. And we are going to claim our home. I'll not have it burned before I even see it.'

'You'll take no chances.' Barraclough sat on his horse beside the carriage, his troopers waiting at his back. The air was chill, and the first cock had already begun to crow; it had taken an interminable time to prepare the carriage. 'There are half a dozen muskets and an ample supply of powder. And you have your pistols.'

'We'll take care,' Dick agreed.

'Aye, well, supposing the trouble at Golden Acre is less serious than we suppose, or that we manage to put a stop to it soon enough, we'll come over to Hilltop to see how things are progressing.' He leaned from the saddle to look into the interior of the coach. 'God speed you, ladies.'

'He will, Colonel, as our cause is just,' Suzanne said. She was in a state of high excitement, Dick realized. Partly no doubt from being back in Jamaica at all. But equally because she was adventuring, recapturing some of her youth. Cartarette on the other hand was perfectly composed. She had wrapped herself in a pelisse, and wore a bonnet tied tightly under her chin. She had not awakened the children, but merely kissed each one before leaving them in the care of John Mortlake, and the servants at the hotel. As she had said, she would be back tomorrow.

So why did his stomach seem so filled with lead? Because he was not galloping at the head of his dragoons? Because it was so many years since there had been a slave revolt on Jamaica, and he could not help but feel that his court case had precipitated it?

Or because his entire being was out at Hilltop, and not only with Josh. Ellen was out there as well, and Judith Gale. He had no cause to love either of them now, but they were white women, in danger. Perhaps.

Then was he not a fool, and a criminal, to place two more white women in danger? But they would not abandon him now. He would have to use force. Well, he could do that, no doubt. But the truth of the matter was he wanted them to come. He wanted them at his side when he saw Hilltop again, for the first time in sixteen years. And he wanted Suzanne there when he confronted Tony. Because he did not wish to fight his brother? Or because, when it came down to it, he was still afraid of him?

He had not known doubts such as these for sixteen years.

'Ready, Mr Hilton.' Harris was already up on the top of the coach, with Barker.

'Aye, ready.' Dick closed the door. 'I anticipate no trouble, Mama, Cartarette. But should there be, you'll remain close.'

Suzanne stroked her pistol. 'Oh, aye, Dick. My God, I feel a girl again. Indeed I do.'

It occurred to him that she would welcome trouble. He sighed, and climbed on to the box beside Melchior, the Governor's coachman. 'Let's go.'

The whip cracked, and the equipage rolled out of the courtyard. Colonel Barraclough raised his arm, and the troop of cavalry followed. The town remained quiet, and asleep; there were no lights in any of the houses. Although at least one began to glimmer as the cavalcade rumbled up Harbour Street. Whatever Belmore elected to do, Dick realized the news would be widespread by breakfast. But perhaps by then the business would have been settled, one way or the other.

The houses thinned, the road divided. The carriage turned right, along that so well remembered route. The cavalry rode left, for the sea coast and the plantations to the west. Now the darkness was turning to grey. They should be at Hilltop by noon. How memory clouded back. The first time he had ridden this way had been with Josh. Twenty years ago. How excited he had been. How uncertain he had been. And how confused he had been.

Now? He found it difficult to decide on his emotions. His heart pounded pleasantly at the thought of seeing Hilltop again. Remarkably, he felt no elation at having won his court case. He had never supposed he would lose it, even when it had seemed that he would not be able to secure a witness, of any description. Even more remarkably, he once again felt no animosity towards Tony, who had only tried to be a Hilton. Save for Josh. Were Josh harmed . . ., but Tony would not dare harm him.

The sun rose, with West Indian suddenness. Wisps of mist still clung to the hillside, and the grass remained damp. But not for long. The heat became instant, and Cartarette was banging on the roof. 'Will you take breakfast?'

Melchior pulled the horses to a halt, and they got down to stretch their legs. The road had already risen by over a hundred feet; the hills climbed to their right, the land sloped away in thick woods to their left. Kingston had disappeared, although they would see it from time to time as they climbed the hills, he remembered. The morning was quiet, now the drumming of the hooves had ceased.

'My God, how long it seems.' Suzanne also stepped down. 'How long it is.'

Cartarette spread her cloth on the folding table Melchior had erected. Harris was opening the wine. A picnic, on a Jamaican morning.

'We have a pie here,' Cartarette said. 'And some good bread. At least, they say it is good bread.' She sniffed a slice. 'Why cannot the English make bread, Mother?'

'The French make good bread,' Suzanne explained, 'because they lack the potato.'

Dick sipped a glass of wine. Incredible, that perhaps only thirty miles away a plantation was in flames. He saw Cartarette's frown, and hastily smiled.

'You anticipate,' she said. 'Pie, Mr Harris? If it comes to blows you'll do better on a full stomach.'

'Blows, Mistress Hilton?' Harris held out his plate. 'Why, I do not think that will happen.' But then he frowned, and gazed at Dick.

Who slowly lowered his glass. The sound of the conches was unmistakable, eerily wailing through the valleys.

Suzanne was filling her plate, calmly. 'How far away is that noise?'

'I have no idea,' Dick confessed.

‘Not far, sir,' Melchior said. 'Maybe five miles. Is the hills make it echo.'

'Five miles. You'll take some wine, Melchior.'

'That is kind of you, sir.' He held up his glass. 'But what is that?'

They faced the path, listening to the drumming hooves.

'Can't be slaves,' Barker said. 'They'd never ride.'

Dust clouded into the morning air, rising almost like smoke, and the riders pulled their horses back. Three white men, armed and anxious.

'A picnic, by God,' cried their leader.

'James Hardy.' Dick stepped forward right, hand resting on the butt of the pistol in his belt. 'Why have you left the plantation?'

Hardy peered at him, and some of the colour faded from his cheeks. He had filled out with age, but still wore his moustaches, and still neglected to shave with any regularity. 'The monster.'

Dick merely smiled at him. 'I asked you a question.'

'They say the country is in arms,' said one of the men behind.

'There is your reason to stay with the estate, not desert it,' Suzanne said. 'Where is my son?'

'Your son?' Hardy frowned at her. 'Well, well, he spoke of you, to be sure. Your son has gone to Orange Lodge.'

'Orange Lodge?'

'Tony has abandoned Hilltop?' Dick demanded. 'What, stay and fight for a plantation which is no longer his?' Hardy inquired. 'There is no sense.' 'But what of my slaves?'

'I know nothing of them,' Hardy said. 'They have not yet joined the revolt, if that is what you mean. But we held no field conference this morning. They are still in their village so far as I know.'

'My God,' Suzanne said. 'Just to ride away, and leave them ... is that not an invitation to violence?'

Hardy shrugged. 'You must ask your son that, Mrs Hilton.'

'What of the firearm store?' Dick asked.

'We took sufficient for our own defence.'

'And left the rest? Muskets, with powder and ball?'

'We were in haste. It was Mr Hilton's decision. He took our people across to Orange Lodge, where Mr Tresling will defend himself, and sent us into town for the military.'

'The military are already out,' Dick said. 'And we are now on our way to Hilltop. You'll accompany us.'

'Us?' Hardy cried.

'It is your plantation.'

'Are you offering us employment, Mr Hilton?' asked a voice behind.

‘I am giving you a chance to prove that you are worthy of employment,' Dick said.

'Supposing you still have a plantation,' the third man muttered.

'I will have a plantation,' Dick said. 'Whether I have to regain it by force or not.'

'Aye, well, you're welcome to it,' Hardy said. 'I'm for town to raise the populace. You hear those conch shells? Any white man . . .' he peered into the carriage, 'or white woman, who goes abroad with those black devils on the rampage is looking for trouble. As for riding with them . . .' his gaze settled on Harris and Barker.

'You'd best be off then,' Dick recommended. 'Melchior, pack up these things; we'll be moving along. But before you go, Hardy, tell me this. Where is the Reverend Strong confined?'

'The Reverend Strong?' Hardy demanded. 'You mean the runaway, Josh Merriman.'

'His name is immaterial,' Dick said. 'He is known as the Reverend Strong to these people. If they are revolting, it is because they suppose their minister imprisoned and abused.'

'Oh, aye,' Hardy said. 'They are revolting on his behalf all right. No doubt about that. Thus we have treated him as the first of their ringleaders to fall into our hands.'

There was a moment's silence. In the distance the conch shells continued to wail.

'You have done what?' Dick asked at last.

'The punishment for revolt is death, as you well know, Mr Hilton,' Hardy declared, and grinned at him. 'So before we left the plantation we strung the devil up.'

Dick's brain seemed to explode. He stepped forward, seized the little man by the thigh and shoulder, and swung him from the saddle.

'Aaaagh,' Hardy screamed. 'Help me!'

The two bookkeepers made a concerted move to dismount, and were brought up by the levelled muskets of Barker and Harris.

'You hanged him?' Dick shook Hardy as a dog might shake a rat.

'Let me go,' bawled the manager. 'Let me go.'

'Dick,' Suzanne said. 'Do not harm him.'

'Harm him? I'll break his neck.'

'Aaagh,' Hardy screamed. 'Help me.'

'Dick.' Cartarette's voice was imperative. 'That will not help. You stupid man,' she said. 'Do you not realize the blacks are in arms simply because their minister was arrested?'

Dick slowly undamped his fingers; Hardy slipped down his legs to kneel on the ground, fingering his throat and gasping for breath.

'As for what will happen now,' Suzanne said.

Hardy regained his feet, backing away from Dick. 'Now?' he snarled. 'We'll hang the lot of them. Everyone with a black skin and weapons in his hands. Aye . . .' He flung out his hand, the finger pointing. 'You two as well.' He vaulted into his saddle. 'And those who would give them arms.' He kicked his horse, sent it careering along the road. His companions hesitated but a moment, then chased behind him.

'There is no sanity,' Harris said. 'When it comes to blows.'

Dick looked down on his hands. Then slapped them together. 'We'd best hurry.'

'Where?' Suzanne asked.

'I came out to repossess my plantation, as well as regain Josh's freedom. I have failed in the one. I'll not fail in the other.'

'Three men?' she looked at Melchior.

'And two women,' Cartarette said, softly.

'You'll go back,' Dick decided. 'The moment we reach the plantation. Melchior will drive you back.'

'I thank you very much, sir,' she said. 'I also came to see my new home. I suspect I will be safer there than on the road. Mother?'

Suzanne hesitated. Dick wondered how far the years were rolling away to allow memory to come creeping in. All the way to St Domingue, in August 1791?

'I think your wife is right, Dick,' she said. 'We are best together.' She smiled at him. 'And I also came to look at Hilltop once again.'

'Then let's get there.' He bundled the breakfast things together, while Melchior folded the table, and Barker helped the ladies back into the coach. 'Keep your weapons primed, I beg of you,' he said, and climbed on to the box. The whip cracked, the coach rumbled forwards into the valleys, creeping ever upwards into the mountains, accompanied now by the sun, bringing sweat to their cheeks, scorching the last drop of moisture from the trees and bushes. There was no cloud in the sky, as yet; there would be later, for the daily shower of rain, And there was no sound either, above the rumbling of the wheels. The conch shells had ceased, for the moment.

He checked his pistols, from sheer restlessness. What did he intend? What could he intend? Hilltop was built to withstand a siege. No doubt about that. But only if adequately defended. And in any event, what would he find, on a plantation abandoned by its white population for several hours?

The horses wheezed their way upwards, slowly, topped the last rise. The sun played full down on the valley, gleaming on the rich green cane stalks, on the village and the factory, on the house. There had been no destruction as yet.

Suzanne and Cartarette were leaning out of the windows. 'But it is beautiful,' Cartarette said. 'So big.'

'Do you see anyone, Dick?' Suzanne asked.

He levelled his telescope. 'Aye.' There were people milling about the slave village. Not yet decided what to do? What to destroy? And there were hideous, bald-headed carrion crows circling before the Great House. 'Make haste, Melchior. Make haste. Ride for the house.'

The whip cracked again, the coach careered down the slope. Within seconds they were in the fields, hidden from view, as a coach, but no doubt signifying their presence far and wide by the dust rising from their wheels. Dick looked round at Barker and Harris, and the lawyers crammed their tall hats the more firmly on their heads and grinned at him. They were mulattoes. But their white blood had earned them nothing but enmity from the planters. So then, why did they risk their lives?

Or was it for Jamaica?

The town came in sight, and beyond it the slave village. And the people there had seen them, had coagulated into a mass in front of the gate, staring, chattering, waving their arms.

'You want me to stop, Mr Hilton?' Melchior asked.

Dick shook his head. 'Make the house.'

They charged up the slope, pulled to a rest before the front steps. The crows gave resentful squawks and fluttered to a safe distance. The doors swung open, the house looked undamaged. But from the central beam over the steps there hung the body of Josh Merriman.

'Oh, God,' Cartarette said. 'Oh, God.'

Dick climbed down. 'Help me,' he said.

Barker and Harris joined him on the verandah. Dick climbed on the rail to cut the rope, and the two mulattoes caught the black man as he fell. He had been dead for about twelve hours, and the sun was noon high. Every wave of the hand scattered a swarm of flies.

'There'll be spades in the stables, Mr Barker,' Dick said. 'Mama, you and Cartarette go inside.'

'We can fight, Dick.'

'And you may have to. But inside. Those people will not have firearms. Melchior, Mr Harris, you'll help me barricade . . .' He paused in surprise as Boscawen came out of the house, fully dressed, even to his wig. 'Mr Boscawen? What has happened here?'

But Boscawen was staring at him in turn.

Dick shook him by the shoulder. 'I am Richard Hilton, old man. Remember me?'

'Mr Dick?' Boscawen peered up at him. 'Ow, me Gawd. Mr Dick? They did say you is all mark up.'

'Aye, but it is me. And this is your new mistress.'

Boscawen fell to his knees. 'You got for forgive me, master. You got for forgive me.'

'For working for my brother? Oh, aye, get up, man, and tell me what has happened here.'

Barker was back with a spade. 'You'll help me, Johnny,' he said.

He and Harris lifted Josh's body down the steps.

'Man, Mr Dick,' Boscawen said, rolling his eyes. 'It is bad.'

'Tell me.'

'Well, sir, Mr Tony, he came riding out here with he friends, and they quarrelling, quarrelling, and they seizing Mr Strong there and hanging he, while the mistress did be looking on, and you knowing what, Mr Dick, sir, she spit on he while he hoisting up.'

'And what were our people doing this time?'

'They standing and staring, because them bookkeeper all armed with musket and pistol and thing, and then the master ... oh, begging your pardon, Mr Dick, is Mr Tony I speaking about, he tell them get the hell out of there and they gone back down to the village, and the master and he people they saddle all the horse and ride out.'

'For Orange Lodge?'

'Well, I hear them saying that. I hear them saying they ain't staying to defend no place what ain't theirs.' 'How long ago?'

Boscawen rolled his eyes. 'Before daylight.'

'And what have our people done since?'

'Well, sir, Mr Dick, they ain't knowing what for do. They come up here one time, and I tell them go, go, and they gone. One or two gone break in the rum store, and they singing, like, and one or two gone up north, I thinking. But most just talking. And look there.'

Dick turned, watched the black people trailing up the hill. Even after sixteen years and at a distance he could make out the giant figure of Absolom.

'Mr Harris,' he shouted. 'Mr Barker. To me.'

The grave was only half dug. The two lawyers dropped their spades and ran back to the house.

'Inside, Cartarette, Mama.' There was no arguing with the bite in his tone. The two women hurried inside. 'Mr Harris, Mr Barker, your muskets, if you please.' He himself stood at the head of the outer steps, watched the men coming towards him. He tucked his thumbs into his belt where the butts of his pistols were close to hand. But he possessed only two bullets. He took a long breath. 'Good morning, Absolom. Remember me?'

They stopped, about thirty yards away. He estimated there were perhaps fifty of them. But the rest, numbering more than a thousand, were watching from a distance.

'You is Mr Dick?' Absolom asked. 'Them boys saying you done change.'

'I am Mr Dick,' Dick said. 'I am come back to live here. I shall not go again. Mr Tony will not be back.'

Absolom and Jeremiah exchanged glances, looked at their fellows.

'And the mistress?' someone asked.

'If you mean Mr Tony's wife, she will not be back either,' Dick said.

Absolom came forward, alone. 'A boy done come,' he said. 'But an hour gone. He saying all Jamaica in arms. He saying the day is here, to kill all the white folk, to burn all the plantation, to make Jamaica a free country for us black people, just like Haiti.' He pointed, at where Josh had swung. 'He saying now the reverend man done dead, there ain't nothing more to be done with the white people.'

He paused for breath.

'Is that man still here?' Dick asked.

'He gone for to raise the next plantation. But he saying them boys marching. He saying there does be thousand and thousand, and they getting musket and thing. He saying they ain't stopping until they taking Kingston itself. He saying we got for join with him. He saying they going be here this afternoon.'

'It is afternoon now,' Dick said.

'They going be here soon.'

'You listen, man, Mr Dick,' Jeremiah said.

The faint howl of the conches could be heard, wailing in the hills. And behind that, a deep roar, like a turbulent sea. Or an army of marching men.

How it made his blood tingle.

'Why are you telling me this?' Dick asked. 'Why are you not already murdering me and my people, and taking our weapons?'

Jeremiah looked embarrassed, glanced at Absolom.

'Man, Mr Dick, sir, we ain't got no grudge with you. You did treat us right when you here,' Absolom said. 'But you must see we got for go with them boys. So what I am saying to you is, mount up and ride back out. Get down to Kingston and take ship, and take them white people with you, or they's all going to get chop up.'

'You want to do this?' Dick asked. 'You want to fight? Be sure a great number of you will be killed. Be sure that your women and children will starve. Be sure that there will be many white soldiers to fight you. I have lived sixteen years in Haiti. I have fought with Christophe and Boyer. I have seen people die, and people starve. In Haiti, it was necessary. Here it is not necessary. Listen to me. There has been an election in England. A new government is in power and that government is dedicated to freeing slaves. You will be free men, within five years. I promise you that. I promise you more. Remain faithful to me, and you will be free men sooner than that. Go to war with these revolutionaries, and you will be killed. You will be hunted into the mountains, and you will starve. If you are caught you will be hanged.'

Absolom and Jeremiah exchanged glances. 'Man, Mr Dick, we knowing what you say, but we got for . . .'

'Why?'

'Man, Mr Dick, them boys coming. Thousand and thousand.'

'They have to pass here,' Dick said. 'They cannot leave Hilltop in our hands. They must take this house, before they can go down to Kingston.'

'Man, Mr Dick, sir, then they going burn this house, and they going kill everybody what ain't joining up with them.'

'With thirty men I will hold this house against an army,' Dick said.

'Thirty men?' Absolom looked around him as if expecting them to materialize out of the ground.

'You pick them, Absolom. Thirty men, who will be prepared to fight and if need be to die. For their freedom. Because that will be your reward.'

Absolom licked his lips.

'And what about them others?' Jeremiah asked. 'There is no room in here, and I have weapons for only thirty. Send your people into the canefields. Tell them to go far from the village, and hide there. Tell them to take food, and some buckets of water, and to stay there until the battle is over.'

'Man,' Jeremiah said. 'We all going get kill.'

'You are going to get killed for sure, if you rebel,^’ Dick said. 'I am giving you a chance to live. I am giving you a chance to let your women and your children live, as well.' He pointed at Absolom. 'Thirty men, Absolom. The best you have. I want them here in half an hour. Melchior, get back on your coach and ride for town. Tell the Governor what has happened, and that we are defending the House. Tell him I reckon we can hold for twenty-four hours. Hurry man.'

He went inside.

'Will they light?' Suzanne asked. 'Against their fellows?' 'They'll fight,' Dick said.

'But those men know nothing of weapons,' Cartarette said.

'Neither do the men who will attack us,' Dick said. 'And we will have firearms. A noise, at the least.' He smiled at her. 'No dragoons, sweetheart. But men with a dream. They'll fight.'

It rained at three o'clock. This was usual for the time of year. The clouds swung low over the Great House, and the steady patter of water cascaded off the roof, trickled along the gutters, filled the fresh water vats which were situated at each corner of the building. The teeming water made a mist which clouded the hills around the valley, obscured even the village, left the factory chimney a shadow. And shut in the Great House behind a wall of sound. The noise of the conch shells died, as did the rumble of people.

There was little conversation inside the house. Boscawen carried round food, and the men ate at their posts. Absolom had picked well, and the thirty slaves were big and strong and eager. And embarrassed, to find themselves actually inside the Great House. The furniture, the piano and the tables and the chairs, had been pushed against the inner walls and covered with dust sheets. The men knelt or sat, two to each window, ten to a side; Harris commanded the south face, Barker the east; Dick himself commanded the north and west faces, from where the insurgents were expected. He had recruited an additional ten of the most alert women, to help Suzanne and Cartarette with the loading. They had rehearsed and seemed reasonably proficient. As he had sixty muskets, with adequate service he hoped to maintain a fairly consistent fire. So, then, he was defending Hilltop, the first Hilton ever to do so. And against people he wished only to help. But there was no other way. He had discovered much to admire in Haiti. But there had been even more to hate and fear, forty years after the blacks had taken their freedom by force. If these people could be made to wait, for just a little while, to receive their freedom as a human right, the tragedies might be avoided, the triumphs still achieved.

But how ironic that he must kill, where he wanted only peace.

He walked the verandahs, talking to his men, reminding them of his instructions, of the orders he would give them. Looking over the canefields meant nothing, now. Every moment the insurgents delayed increased the house's chance of survival.

And at dusk, when Boscawen served supper, they still had not come.

'Tell me of 1791,' Cartarette said. 'Why?' Suzanne asked. 'It was terrible.' 'I would like to know.'

Suzanne sighed. 'There were forty men in the house. But the blacks would not be stopped. They swarmed up the patios, broke down the door. It was really very quick. Do you remember anything of it, Dick?'

'I remember Aunt Georgiana screaming,' Dick said, and walked to the window. All the shutters had been closed, save one, facing north. Outside it was already dark.

'This time,' he said, 'if they get inside, you must kill yourselves. I may not be able to get to you.'

'I will not kill myself,' Cartarette said.

'Mama . . .'

'Nor will I permit your mother to murder me, Dick.'

His turn to sigh. 'Aye. Well. . .' he had expected nothing different. Not from Cartarette. He did not even suppose she would scream, when they cut her body. But that thought made him sweat, made him fume with impotent rage. It must not happen. And only he could stop it. Unless the military came. But the troopers had more than enough to do.

The air cooled, the night grew darker, some of the men slept. Dick watched the clock. At midnight he almost made himself believe they had, after all, been bypassed.

Suzanne went upstairs to bed. Cartarette slept in a chair. Dick watched her face in the glimmering candlelight. When she slept she regained her youth, was again the girl who had been his slave. Who Gislane had tied to the lovebed. A woman to love.

His head jerked. There was again sound, seeping through the morning. The wailing of a conch shell, but close at hand.

He closed the shutter, bolted it. Suzanne came down the stairs. Cartarette sat up. 'You'll take to the cellar if the house burns,' he said. 'And make your move the moment you hear a door break. Promise me.'

The women hesitated, looking at each other.

'We promise, Dick.'

'Aye, you've children, Cartarette. Remember them. And you have a husband, Mama. Remember him.' He walked round the walls. 'They are close. Check your priming. No man is to go outside, and no man is to show himself more than enough to fire his weapon. They will not know how many we have inside, what they have to beat. Remember what I have told you. Point the musket at their bellies, and squeeze the trigger. The ladies will load for you.'

The slaves fingered their weapons in bewilderment.

Dick went into the front hall, found Harris. Between them they opened the door.

'What is your plan?' Harris breathed deeply.

'To hold.'

'You have done this before?'

Dick shook his head. 'My family has. Our history is nothing but holding. But we have made mistakes. Our plantation Green Grove in Antigua, was overrun by Caribs, a hundred and fifty years ago. Christopher Hilton made the mistake of trying to gain the maximum fire power. He assembled his men on the front verandah. His first volley halted the Indians, but before he could reload, his men were scattered and the house was taken. My uncle-in-law, Louis Corbeau, made the same mistake in St Domingue, in 1791. We will sit behind our windows, and sit and sit.'

'They will destroy your plantation,' Harris said. 'They will do that anyway.' Dick pointed. Flames flickered in the canefields.

How many? He levelled his telescope; the nearest field was over a mile away. Hundreds? Thousands? He caught the glint of steel. But only machetes.

Flames clouded the sky. Cartarette stood beside him, her fingers tight on his arm. She knew the worst that could happen to a woman, should the house be overrun. Or did she consider him the worst that could happen? He had not raised the question of her happiness since that night on the boat.

People were pouring out of the burning canefields. Many men, dark-skinned and dark-faced. They flooded towards the slave village, and paused there, giving shrill shouts and yells, punctuated with peals of near hysterical laughter. They could not believe what they were doing. In their hearts, they knew they were committing suicide.

'Inside,' he commanded, and they obeyed. Cartarette gave his arm a last squeeze and withdrew to the drawing room. Dick walked up and down behind his men crouching at the loop-holed shutters in the dining room, and beyond, in the kitchen. The kitchen, built away from the main building to reduce the risk of fire, formed a salient. It was the most vulnerable part of the house, a relatively small area which could be assailed from three sides at once. Here he had seven men, and here Suzanne would act as loader.

He stooped to a loophole, looked down the hillside. Flames began to issue from the village. They had got over their surprise at discovering it empty. And men were coming up the bill, pausing at the white town, to break down doors and rampage through houses, to destroy the church. They were revolting in the name of a Baptist parson; they regarded the established church as their enemy. The factory would be next. This day's damage would take half of next year's crop to put right; this year there would be no crop at all.

The noise was loud now, shrieking voices, loud laughter, the crashings and hangings of a hundred homes being destroyed. Cartarette's fingers were back on his shoulders. 'Why do they not come?'

He straightened. 'You aren't afraid?'

'Oh, aye. I'm afraid,' she said. 'Yesterday there seemed so much to live for.'

'There is more today. They'll soon be here. Do not let these people see your fear.'

She gave a grimace, and returned to the drawing room. Dick looked through the loophole once again, watched the flames in the factory. They were burning the roof, because they could not burn the machinery. A pall of smoke lay over the town, mingled with the smoke drifting down from the canefields; he could not see it in the dark, but he could smell it. Come dawn, Hilltop would be marked for miles, by the smoke drifting over it. But how many plantations would be similarly marked?

The first man came up the hill. He walked confidently, wearing only cotton drawers, swinging a cutlass, holding a bottle from which he drank from time to time. The village and the town was deserted. No doubt the house was similarly empty, even if the shutters were closed.

Others came behind him. But he was a good way in front. Time. There was the essence. How to make them withdraw for another hour.

Dick stood up. 'No man fires until I tell him to,' he called. 'I will see to that one.'

He walked through the hall, boots dull on the parquet floor. He opened the front door, signalled Boscawen to stand close, to shut it again at a signal.

He took a long breath, stepped on to the verandah. He remembered the morning before he had assaulted the frontier post, and found Cartarette. Then he had wondered what it must feel like, to watch death and destruction approaching, to know there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He had wondered, then, if he would be afraid, if he would truly be a brave man, until he had known that experience.

And here it was. And he was not afraid. Only preoccupied, with all the things that must be done, with the importance of this first shot.

The man stopped, twenty feet from the steps, gazed at the white man.

'Throw down your machete,' Dick called. 'Tell your friends to surrender. Or they will die.'

The slave looked past Dick at the opened door, the darkened hallway. His head turned, left and right. Dick could read the thoughts passing through his brains as if they were printed. No horses, no people that he could see. A white man, but the town was empty. Just one white man.

The slave turned his head to look over his shoulder. His friends were coming closer, and more and more people were moving up the hill. The town burned merrily now; the crash of the factory roof as it fell in boomed across the morning.

'Aiiieeeee,' screamed the slave, and ran at the steps. It occurred to Dick that he must have sounded just like that, when leading his cavalry into the charge. But his thought, and the black man's scream, were already history. His arm was levelled, the pistol was kicking against his fingers, black smoke was eddying into his face. The man had reached the steps when the ball struck him square in the chest, at a range of eight feet. His head went back and both arms went up. The machete arced through the air behind him. His chest exploded into red, and he hit the earth with his shoulder blades.

The crowd moving up the hill checked. But it would only be for an instant. Dick stepped inside, and Boscawen slammed the door. Dick dropped the heavy bolts into place, looked back at the house, the tense faces; Cartarette, standing in the centre of the drawing room, a musket in each hand. Suzanne, looking through from the pantry, Barker and Harris, staring at him. Of them all, only he had ever killed in battle. Only he and Cartarette and Suzanne had ever been under fire.

'Hold,' he said. 'And wait.' He stood by the front door, watched the black army swarming up the hill, spreading out as they ran to cover the house from every angle, forming a gigantic enveloping movement.

'Present,' he shouted. 'But hold.'

There was an explosion from the drawing room.

'Hold, God damn you,' he yelled. 'Change your weapon. Reload, Cartarette, Reload. Hold.'

The black men reached the top, panting now, waving their cutlasses; they had all been at the rum. A man climbed over the verandah rail, screaming at the wooden shutters, for the first time noticing that every loophole contained a musket barrel. Now he was joined by his fellows. The verandah was full, and creaking. The first man banged at the front door. At this range a blind man could not miss.

'Fire,' Dick screamed. 'Change your weapons.'

The entire house shook. The crash of the explosions whanged around his ears, and he was surrounded in a seemingly solid cloud of powder smoke, turning his face and hands as black as his assailants. Yet even the noise of the explosions was drowned by the unearthly screams from outside.

'Present,' Dick bawled, the noise ringing in his ears. He left the door, and ran round the house. 'Present,' he bawled, slapping men on the shoulders to bring them back to their, senses. 'Present.'

The fresh muskets went back through the loopholes. Cartarette and her aides were already gathering the used weapons, cramming ball down the barrels, thudding away with their rods, while her titian hair tumbled about her ears; it too was streaked with black powder.

Dick stooped by a loophole, gazed at a scene of destruction not even his experienced eyes could remember. Men lay dead and dying all over the verandah; blood ran into hollows and dripped under the rail. Those left were still standing, dazed, one or two already edging back. 'Fire,' Dick shouted again.

This time he stayed, looking through the aperture. Noise eddied about his head, accompanied by the endless smoke. He watched men collapse, men fall to their knees, men jump from the verandah and stagger down the hill. There were still hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, gathered at a safe distance from the house. And now was the dangerous moment, when all muskets were emptied, save for the few Cartarette and Suzanne had managed to reload. But the slaves were retreating. They had lost perhaps forty men in those two deadly volleys. But far more than mere numbers, they knew that the next time they charged, the leading forty would die again.

He straightened, slowly. His men were withdrawing their muskets through the loopholes, staring at each other in delight. They had used the white man's weapons, and they had killed.

'Well done,' he said. 'Well done. Mr Boscawen, a ration of rum for every man.' He crossed the room, stood beside Cartarette, watched her work, ramming home ball after ball, priming musket after musket, face and hair and dress blackened with smoke, sweat dribbling down her temples, mouth flat with concentration.

She saw his boots, raised her head. 'Will they come again?'

'Not for a while. They'll have to regain their courage.'

He walked into the hall, unbolted the front door, threw it open. Some of the smoke found its way out, the atmosphere became lighter. He wondered if he would ever get his ceilings clean again.

He stepped outside, looked at the dead men. Soon they would smell, whenever the sun rose. Josh had told him that, on his first night here. How many eternities ago.

Someone moved. A hand came up, holding a cutlass. Dick levelled his pistol, squeezed the trigger. The man gave a little leap, and lay still again.

The noise brought Cartarette running through the hall, to check in the doorway in total horror. 'My God,' she said. 'My God.'

He put his arm round her shoulders, the pistol into his belt, took her back inside. Boscawen waited with a tray of rum. Dick took it from him, and the old man closed the door.

'Them boys done, Mr Richard,' he said.

'Aye.' Dick held a glass to Cartarette's lips, and she drank, and coughed, and drank some more.

Suzanne stood in the inner doorway. 'Are all battles like that?'

'All victories.'

'Listen.' Harris had been upstairs to oversee the blacks. 'They're leaving. Listen.'

They could hear the drumming of hooves. Boscawen was hastily withdrawing bolts again. Dick stepped outside, his arm still round Cartarette. Blood dribbled across the floor to wet their boots. 'Oh, God,' she said. 'I am going to vomit.'

He squeezed her against him, went down the steps. The black men were streaming into the fields, running as hard as they could. And galloping up the road was a company of horse, accompanied by a score of white men.

'Barraclough?' he said. 'Hardy? I've almost a mind to forgive your sins.'

'When I forgive yours, Hilton,' Hardy said.

The colonel dismounted, peered at the corpses. 'My God. What happened here?'

The soldiers stared at the Negroes, who now came out of the house, muskets in their hands.

'Present,' Hardy screamed. 'Present.'

'Put them down,' Dick snapped. 'They fought for me.'

'You armed slaves?'

'I used what I had. And they fought well.'

'By God,' Hardy said. 'There's a confession, Colonel. A confession. Serve your warrant, man. Serve your warrant.'

'What madness is he spouting?' Dick demanded.

Barraclough shifted from foot to foot, gazed at Cartarette, then at Suzanne, standing on the verandah in the midst of the black men, then back at Dick again.

'Hardy's doing,' he muttered. 'He met me on the road. Brought me back here. But not to rescue you, Mr Hilton.' He unbuttoned his jacket, felt inside, pulled out the rolled parchment. 'There is a warrant for your arrest.'

18

The Day of Retribution

Dick could only gape at the officer, for the moment too taken back to speak.

'For his arrest?' Cartarette cried. 'You must be out of your mind.'

'Count yourself grateful you are not included,' Hardy said.

'Why, you . . .' Dick reached for his pistol, and was halted by the sight of a score of musket barrels levelled at his chest.

'They won't take you, Dick,' Suzanne called from the verandah. 'We have thirty men in here, Colonel. All armed, and all experienced; they have just repulsed the rebels. Look at the verandah.'

Barraclough licked his lips. He had already looked at the verandah.

'Mr Hilton, I beg of you,' he said. 'Humour me, for the moment. Things are not going well, sir. You may have saved Hilltop, but at least a dozen plantations are in the hands of the insurgents. White people have been killed. More have been insulted. Kingston is in a ferment, and the whole island has been placed under martial law. The militia has been called out. If we exchange shots here, I would not like to say what will happen.'

'Show me the warrant,' Dick said.

Barraclough gave him the parchment, and he looked at the signature.

'John Tresling?'

'Countersigned by the Governor, Mr Hilton. It is legal.' Dick glanced at the charge. It described him as an incendiary who had roused the blacks to revolt.

'You must know this is utter nonsense, Barraclough.'

'I know it, Mr Hilton, and so does the Governor.'

'Then why did he attest his signature?'

Barraclough sighed. 'Perhaps I would wish he could have shown more spirit, sir. The earl . . . well, his prime concern is the preservation of peace. All soldiers are needed on the plantations, Mr Hilton. Therefore Kingston must be defended by the militia. And the militia refused to mobilize unless all incendiaries are confined. Your name heads the list.'

Dick hesitated, still gazing at the paper.

'And who will guard my husband in the Kingston gaol?' Cartarette asked. 'This same militia?'

'He will be safe, Mrs Hilton. The Governor gives his word. But surrender, sir, and show that you have confidence at once in your own innocence and in our triumph. Those are the earl's own words, sir.'

Cartarette's fingers bit into his arm. 'Defy them, Dick. They'll not take you. They'll not move, if you say the word.'

'Aye,' he agreed. 'And then I would indeed be a revolutionary.'

'Dick, the mob will lynch you.' Her voice was urgent.

He smiled at her. 'I've survived worse than Kingston mobs,' he said. 'Belmore may not be the strongest of characters, but he is an honest man. And there are more lives than just mine at stake. But I leave the children, and indeed my defence, if it comes to that, in your care.'

Her tear-filled eyes were only inches from his face. 'I'll get you back, Dick,' she promised. 'I have grown to love this new man.'

He kissed her forehead. 'Then make it soon.' He released her. 'I'll ride with you, captain. But provide me with a horse.'

'You'll hand over your weapons,' Hardy demanded.

'It would be best, sir,' Barraclough agreed.

Dick nodded, gave the colonel his pistols.

'And you'll command your people to throw down their muskets,' Hardy said.

'And leave my plantation undefended?' Dick inquired.

‘I will leave ten of my men here, sir, to see to your plantation,' Barraclough promised. 'I beg of you, sir. I cannot leave any black people with weapons in their hands.'

Dick hesitated, for the last time; but he knew the blacks would not return, and ten soldiers should be sufficient to protect his blacks from white revenge. 'So be it, Cartarette, tell Absolom to surrender those muskets.' He swung into the saddle. 'Thank them for me. Tell them that when I return from Kingston, it will be as I promised them.'

He could not look at the house any longer, but turned his horse and led the cavalcade down the drive. He could hear Barraclough giving the necessary orders, the banging of the shutters as they were opened. Sunlight would flood the Great House, and the dead would be buried.

And the plantation? The road led by the white town, and the factory, and the slave village. Piles of smouldering ash, from which the smoke rose to tickle his nostrils. The factory had done best, the great machinery, used to overwhelming heat, merely protruded through the collapsed roof. But he had retained his slaves. They came out of the fields, men, and women, and children, to stare at the destruction, at the soldiers, at their master. And not even all of the cane had burned. There were sufficient green fields to salvage part of a crop, supposing he was there to do it.

But of course he would be there to do it. He was Richard Hilton. He had survived too much in the past to be depressed by mere legal formalities now.

Except that he was tired. Suddenly. And it was not merely exhaustion from a sleepless night.

Hardy rode alongside him. 'You'll hang, Hilton. Oh, aye. Not even the Governor's support will save you now.'

Dick glanced at him, looked ahead again. They were beyond the smoke now, and the morning air was cool.

'You'd best get back to Orange Lodge, Mr Hardy,' Barraclough said. 'Those devils may come again.'

'Oh, aye,' Hardy agreed. 'I'll do that. Mr Hilton will be pleased to learn that the incendiary has been brought to book.'

He spurred his horse and made off, his volunteers behind him.

' 'Tis a serious business,' Barraclough said, perhaps to himself. 'Oh, aye, a serious business. These people are frightened. There's naught so frightening as frightened people, when they also hold power.'

Dick ignored him as well. Had he made a mistake? But what else could he do? To have gained a brief victory over the soldiers at Hilltop would have made him an outlaw for ever. He could only hope to stay alive until sanity returned, until the Governor regained his nerve, until the Whigs found out what was happening here.

It was near noon when they entered Kingston, and then his nerve nearly failed. The streets were packed, but mostly with white people, who could ignore the martial law. The men carried arms, the women were outraged already, at least in their minds. They clustered round the cavalcade, shouting obscene threats and promises of revenge. Barraclough had to form his men in a moving wall around his prisoner, to protect him as far as the gates of the city gaol.

It was almost a relief to be inside the heated compound. When he gazed at the black faces of the inmates—there were no other white prisoners—he could almost feel himself back in the safety of Cap Haitien. And these did not jeer or threaten.

'You've a cell to yourself,' grunted Owens, the gaoler. 'Comfortable, you'll be, Mr Hilton. And no lynching in this gaol.'

He was walking a fence, a government official, but a white man.

'Send for Reynolds,' Dick said.

Owens nodded. 'I've done that, Mr Hilton. He'll be here directly.'

Dick stepped inside, listened to the door clang behind him. The cell was on the top floor. There was a single barred window, high in the wall, but by standing on tiptoe he could reach it. He could not look down sufficiently to see the beach, but he could see the pale green water, and then the ships at anchor. This had been his first glimpse of Jamaica. Why, he could make out the Green Knight, riding to her mooring.

He sighed, and inspected the rest of the small room, tried the trestle bed, hastily returned the lid to the slop bucket. The best cell in the prison. He had been in pleasanter stables.

Feet, on the corridor. Owens unlocked the door. And Reynolds stepped inside.

'Mr Hilton. A grim business. Oh, a grim business.'

'Aye. And not one I'll stomach for long, Reynolds. You'll file a writ of habeas corpus and have me out of here.'

Reynolds frowned at him. 'Your own lawyers . . .'

'Arc coloured and will not have so speedy a service. You asked for reinstatement. Hilltop's business is enough for all.'

Reynolds sat down on the bed. 'It will not be easy. Kingston, Jamaica, has been placed under martial law. Habeas corpus has been suspended.'

'Then get me an interview with Belmore.'

'Ah, well, that will not be an easy matter.'

'You seem once again unsure whose side you are on,' Dick remarked, mildly.

'Ah, well, 'tis not that, Mr Hilton. Oh, indeed not. But it is a serious matter.'

'A trumped-up charge of incendiarism, which no court would admit for a moment?'

Reynolds shook his head. 'The matter is more grave than that, sir. Think of it. This island is being threatened by a slave revolt. Rumour has it there are twenty thousand blacks under arms. Troops have been sent for from the Leewards, and the Navy has also been summoned from English Harbour. Now, sir, is that not a clear parallel with events in Haiti, but forty years ago? And have you not recently returned from Haiti, having served one of the leaders of that original revolt faithfully and well for sixteen years?'

'Of all the rubbish . . .'

'None the less, sir, they are saying you came to Jamaica to do nothing less than incite a similar revolution here, with a view to making yourself dictator. Then there is the fact of your secret meeting with the Reverend Strong. Strong has already been arrested and brought to justice, I understand.' 'He was murdered, you mean.'

'Aye, well, justice is the word they use in Kingston. But the important fact from your point of view is that there is possible evidence of conspiracy. And then, the revolt happened on the day you regained your plantation, and thus obtained a position of authority. Was that not a signal?'

'By God, Reynolds . . .'

'Not my opinion, sir. I am but quoting. And then, finally, you successfully defended your plantation. Every other plantation attacked by the blacks has fallen or been evacuated.'

'I defended it, Reynolds. More than forty were killed.'

'Oh, indeed, sir. I have no doubt of that. But there it is. Why . . .' He sighed. 'The situation is grave, sir. Grave. They are saying it is a hanging matter.'

Feet, along the corridor. Dick raised his head. Women's feet. He leapt up, hastily tugged his shirt straight, ran his fingers into his hair.

And frowned through the bars. 'Judith? How on earth . . .'

Judith Gale waited while the key turned in the lock.

'Half an hour,' Owens said, and left.

Judith remained standing by the door. 'You do not look pleased to see me.'

'I am pleased to see anyone,' Dick confessed. 'But I had hoped for Cartarette.'

'She has been refused permission to visit you.'

'My own wife? But you . . .'

'I bribed Owens. He is a lecherous man.'

Dick sat down again. 'My God.'

'You would not have your wife stoop so low, I trust.' She sat beside him on the bed. 'She knows you are here?'

'Of course. When I left Orange Lodge, I visited Hilltop, to see if I could be of assistance.'

'When you left Orange Lodge? Forgive me, but my brain seems to spin.'

Judith flushed. 'I would have given evidence for you, Dick. I would have helped you. But to oppose Tony, perhaps it takes more courage than I possess. Than I possessed, then. But when I heard what had happened, I ran away. To Hilltop, and thence to town.'

'He'll not forgive you.'

'No. Thus I will need your protection, after all.'

'My protection?' His laugh was bitter. 'Locked away in here, day after day, week after week. Do you know I have been here a month? Seeing no one. I have asked for Reynolds, and he has not come. I have asked for Harris, and he has not come.'

'Harris and Barker are under arrest. They are in this very building.'

'Under arrest?'

'For carrying arms. It is forbidden for any person of colour. They were lucky they were not hanged on the spot. Over four hundred of the blacks have been hanged.'

Dick nodded. 'I have heard the drumroll. The revolt is over then? I saw the ships arriving, with fresh troops.'

'Oh, that revolt is over, certainly. Not that people will forgive, for a long time.'

'But it is over,' Dick insisted. 'Thus must I be freed or brought to trial. Belmore. I have asked to see Belmore, and he has not come.'

'Very simply because he is no longer here. He resigned his post and left, oh, a fortnight back.'

'Resigned? My God. But who commands the island?'

'The general, Sir Willoughby Cotton. He came from Antigua. The entire colony remains under martial law, pending the arrival of a new Governor. That at least accounts for your survival. Cotton will not permit the planters to try you, and they will not force matters to a head until they discover the political complexion of the new Governor.'

'Cotton,' Dick said. 'Well, then, I must see Cotton.'

'I doubt he will accommodate you.'

'Why not? You say he holds the entire island under military discipline? Surely he cannot be afraid of the planters?'

Judith sighed. 'Perhaps not afraid. Yet does he also tread a tightrope, Dick. He still lacks the men properly to police the entire island. So he relies upon the volunteers for assistance, and they are either planters, or in their pay. Thus he must shut his eyes to their depredations.'

'Depredations? Your tale grows more and more unhappy. What depredations?'

'Well, you see, they claim the entire revolt was inspired by the Baptists and the other missionaries, and was, quite apart from being directed against white people and against slavery, also directed against the overthrow of the Colonial Church. This is how they have succeeded in securing so much support from the more moderate elements in the island, and how, indeed, they hope to obtain eventual support from England. Yet are they impatient for the day of retribution, as they call it. There is a band of them, calling themselves the Colonial Church Union, which rides abroad after dark, their faces masked, burning Baptist or Nonconformist chapels, lynching any man of colour who would oppose them, or who they find at large. It is a fact no decent person will venture out after dark.'

'Cotton condones this?'

She shrugged. 'There is nothing he can do about it. He does not himself know whether or not the Union will eventually find favour in London.'

Dick got up, paced the cell. 'God, to be trapped in here . . . who leads this Union?'

'No one knows. They are masked, as I said.'

'Tony?'

'I do not know, Dick. I personally have not seen them, thank God.'

He smashed his right fist into his left palm. 'But if they ride abroad, what of Hilltop?'

'You have naught to fear there. A platoon of soldiers is maintained on the plantation.' She seized his hand as he passed her. 'That indeed was the main purpose of my visit. Your wife sends her love. So does your mother. Your cause is being fought to the limit of their ability.' 'And my children?'

'Are well. And safe with their mother. Even the plantation prospers. Your mother has recalled her youth, on Hilltop itself, and manages the place for you. Cane is being replanted, buildings are being repaired. You really have nothing to worry about, on that score.'

'On that score.' His shoulders slumped, and he sat down again. 'To be trapped in here . . . and now you have prostituted yourself for me . . .'

‘I would do so again. Anyway, all he wanted was to get his hand inside my bodice. He is a simple fellow. Dick . . .' She squeezed his fingers. 'I will come again.'

'Not at that price.'

'But. . .'

He held her close. 'Dear Judith. I am in your debt too far as it is. But for that day, you would not be in this position.'

'But I caused that day, Dick.' She raised her head to look at him. 'Therefore it is I who owe you.'

'You will make a good lawyer.' He smiled, kissed her again, listened to Owens' boots on the stone floor. 'Take care.'

She got up. 'I will do that.'

'And come again, only if there is bad news. Promise me.'

She hesitated, then nodded. 'Or when the final good news, of your release, is received. Keep courage, Dick. It will not be long.'

Keep courage. It will not be long, Dick reminded himself that his great ancestor, Christopher Hilton, had once been confined in gaol in Antigua for upwards of a year, on a charge of murder. And had survived. But Kit Hilton had been a figure of legend, even while he lived.

Then was not Richard Hilton, alias Matthew Warner, a figure of legend? It was all the hope he could cling to. The man who had charged at the head of Christophe's dragoons surely could not just be left to dwindle in a Jamaican cell.

And then he remembered that Toussaint L’Ouverture, the man who had led Haiti to independence, had been left to dwindle in a French cell, until he had died, of heartbreak not less than neglect.

He saw no one, save Owens, and the Welshman was not communicative. He was given half an hour's exercise every day, but alone, in the yard. He could look up at the other cells, and see faces, looking down at him. He could identify Harris, and Barker, but he could not speak with them. And presumably they were as much in the dark as regards the true situation as he.

He could look out of his cell window, at the ships, coming and going. They were not easy to identify at this distance. There were trading vessels, from England, and leaving again, for England. There were men-of-war, bringing additional troops. And there was the Green Knight, back again. He could recognize her all right. It was only her return gave him an idea of how much time had passed, how many weeks, how many months, he had been locked away in here.

Cartarette sent him some books, but he was not in the mood for reading. He separated each leaf, looking for the message she would also certainly have sent. But someone else had separated the leaves before him; there were dirty finger marks and several of the pages were torn. And Cartarette's message whatever it was, had been removed and destroyed.

Every day he demanded from Owens the right to see his lawyer, and every day he was refused. He had no need of lawyers, Owens said, until he had been charged. 'Well, then, charge me,' he shouted.

'That's up to the authorities,' Owens pointed out.

'I have got to be charged,' Dick insisted, keeping his temper with difficulty. 'Or released. That is English law.'

And Owens smiled. 'But Jamaica is under martial law, Mr Hilton. I don't see what you're grumbling at. The longer the delay, the more chance for people to forget their anger at you.'

'Their anger at me?' Dick demanded in amazement.

'Incendiary,' Owens grumbled, and took his leave.

His only straw of hope was the non-return of Judith. Oh, how he longed to see Judith. As the weeks became months he longed to see her almost as much as he longed to see Cartarette, almost as much as he longed to have a hot bath and a decent shave; he was allowed the use of a blunt razor but twice a week, and then under supervision. As if Richard Hilton would ever contemplate suicide, unless driven mad.

But perhaps that was their intention. They did not know of his arrangement with Judith, his arrangement for sanity.

The rain started, in early summer. By then it was so hot in his cell he stripped to his breeches, and lay on his bed, and thought of Cartarette, of riding with her around Hilltop, of sleeping with her in the enormous four-poster, of hearing her laugh and stroking her hair. Of knowing she was there.

Owens' boots, on the stone. He sat up. He had breakfasted some time before.

The key turned in the lock, Owens stepped inside, closed the door again, handed the key to the Negro sub-warder, waiting in the corridor. 'Rain,' he said. 'I like to hear the rain, pattering on the roof. This cell is the best for that. Nearest to heaven, you could say.'

'Is this a social call?' Dick inquired.

'You could say that. Oh, aye. A social call.'

Dick leaned against the wall; the stone was cool, and no doubt Owens would get around to whatever he wanted to say in his own good time.

'It won't be long now, Mr Hilton,' Owens said. 'Do you know, there hasn't been a hanging in a week? All those that need it are dead. Oh, they're licked. They'll not revolt again, not in a hundred years. Oh, we taught them a lesson, we did.'

'I'm sure you did,' Dick agreed.

Owens inspected his fingernails. 'They'll be getting around to people like you soon enough, now.' 'I can hardly wait.'

'You should be happy to wait, Mr Hilton. The planters aren't in a forgiving mood. Oh, no. They'll get to you. They'll get to them all. They'll get even to those they can't put in a court. Oh, yes.'

Dick sat up again. 'What did you say?' 'I said . . . aye?'

For Dick had seized his shirt front. 'What? Who have they got to, that they can't put into court? My wife?'

'No. Now look here, Mr Hilton, you let me go. I'll have you put in solitary, I will.'

'Oh, you're a humorist, Owens,' Dick said.

'Bread and water.'

'Funnier and funnier. You won't be doing anything with a broken neck, and they will have cause to hang me. Who, God damn it?'

Owens licked his lips. 'That little bit of yours.' 'Judith? My God, Judith? What happened to her?' 'Took her out, they did. From her own house.' 'Took her out? Who took her out?'

'Why ... it was the Union, most people say. Who's to know? When those fellows ride abroad people keep their curtains drawn.'

'Oh, my God. Where is Judith?'

'Well, I wouldn't know. People living down King Street say they heard her screaming and fighting. But it weren't no good, against half a dozen men.'

'Half a dozen men? Where was the military?'

'Well, Mr Hilton, the military have enough fighting to do with the blacks. They ain't anxious to start fighting the whites as well. Not when those same whites pay their wages. You letting me go, or I'm shouting for help?'

Dick let him go. Throttling Owens would hardly help either Judith or himself. And he had been congratulating himself because she hadn't come.

Owens stood up, dusted himself off. 'Thought you'd like to know, Mr Hilton. Thought you'd like to know. Boy,' he bawled. 'Come let me out.'

'Owens,' Dick said. 'If you want to avoid being throttled when I am finally released from here, find out what happened to Judith Gale. Find out where she is now. And find out who was responsible. Names. Owens. I wish names.'

The Negro was at the door, and it was swinging in. Owens got on the far side, closed it, and turned the key. Then he smiled at Dick.

'Thought you'd like to know, Mr Hilton. As for finding out, well, it ain't altogether safe to go asking questions about the Union. But the word is they gave her something to be remembered by. They cut a ‘T on each cheek. ‘T, Mr Hilton, for traitor, you know.'

How he sweated, at the thought of it. Judith Gale. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and the most tragic. Her tragedy had been being born the daughter of a woman like Harriet. Of being involved with people like the Hiltons. Of knowing him at his worst, instead of at his best.

He tossed on his narrow bed, and dreamed, and heard her laughter, and then with it, her scream of fear. He had never heard Judith Gale scream with fear, in the flesh. But she would have screamed, when exposed to the nightriders of the Union.

And then he heard her feet, in the corridor, crisp, short steps, her heels striking the stone, multiplying as they approached. Closer and closer, they came, Judith Gale, returning to avenge herself on the man responsible for her misery.

He found himself awake, and staring at the ceiling of his cell. And still the feet came. It was only just past dawn. He sat up, turning to look at the cell door, to listen to the scrape of the key in the lock. He stood up, his back against the wall, still uncertain that he was not dreaming, watched the door swing in, gazed at Cartarette.

For a moment he could not speak. The Negro gaoler stood at her shoulder; Owens was not there.

'Mr Hilton?' She spoke hardly more than a whisper. 'Mr Hilton?' She crossed the cell. 'Dick? My God, what have they done to you?'

It was, after all, no dream. He could inhale her scent, he could touch her, if he dared move. His fingers closed on her arms, slipped up them to her shoulders, held her face to kiss her lips.

'Cartarette. Cartarette. They have let you see me?'

'You are free, Dick. Free.' She clung to him for a moment then stepped back. 'Free.'

'Free?' he repeated stupidly. 'But. . .'

'A ship arrived yesterday, dearest Dick,' she said. 'Bringing a new Governor, the Earl of Mulgrave.'

'Harry Phipps? I had supposed him too old for such a post.'

'Sir Henry Phipps died last year,' Cartarette said. 'This is his son, Constantine. A young man, Dick, not yet thirty-five. A man of vigour. A man of the Whigs. Dick.' She clung to his arm again. 'A Bill is being prepared, to emancipate the slaves. It will be law by this time next year.'

'But. . . will they accept such a thing, here?'

'They must. The Colonial Church Union has been outlawed. All surviving insurgents are to be amnestied. And Richard Hilton of Hilltop to be set free. The Governor himself waits to see you, Dick. But he gave me the privilege of taking you from this place.'

'Free.' He allowed himself to be pulled towards the door. He listened to his own feet on the stone of the corridor. He stood on the top step and gazed at the empty exercise yard, still bathed in shadow, as the sun had not risen far enough to reach it, and at the rows of windows which surrounded it. And seized her arm once more. 'Harris? Barker?'

'They too will be free this day. But the Governor wishes the prisoners released one by one. He will have no more cause for riot.'

He went down the steps, Cartarette holding his arm, crossed the yard, found Owens himself waiting at the main gate.

'Ah, a happy day, Mr Hilton. A happy day.'

Dick gazed at him, and the warder flushed.

'You'll understand much of what I said was jest, Mr Hilton. What? I tried to keep up your spirits, nothing less, sir.'

'Oh, aye,' Dick said. 'You did that. Cartarette. Where is Judith Gale?'

Some of the pleasure left her face. 'At Hilltop.' 'Hilltop? But. . .'

'I could do no less, Dick. She is half out of her mind with fear and shame. I can only pray your release will give her some peace.'

'You are a treasure, Cartarette. You know the truth, of her and me?'

She glanced at him. 'She is a wreck, Dick. I could forgive her anything. I have forgiven her everything. Mama,' she shouted, dragging him across the street to where the phaeton waited. 'Here he is.'

Dick hesitated, glancing from left to right. But at this hour in the morning the street was empty. The Earl of Mulgrave was obviously at once a thoughtful and intelligent man. And there was Suzanne, waiting to take his hands, to hold him close.

'Dick. Oh, Dick. I never doubted. But the news . . . Cartarette has told you the news?'

'She has.'

'It is the seal on your father's life. I must get back to him.' She smiled, as archly as ever in her youth. 'After I have shown you what we have done for Hilltop.'

'Then let's be out there.'

'The Governor . . .'

'Can wait. I'll see him after I have avenged Judith Gale.'

Cartarette picked up the reins, flicked them over the horse's back. The equipage moved down the street. 'No one knows who they were.'

'Judith must.'

'I doubt even she does. It is said they never speak a word on their midnight rides. What they must do is all planned beforehand, every man knowing exactly his task. This silence is part of the terror they spread amongst the blacks.'

'And now the Union is disbanded, will none of them ever be brought to justice?'

'I doubt that, Dick,' Suzanne said. 'Mulgrave's duty is to prepare Jamaica for Emancipation, certainly. But yet must the island remain British, and thus be ruled by white men. He has also to heal old wounds₅ maintain the peace, restore the island's prosperity. He is hoping you will play your part in that.'

'I mean to. But I also mean to track down the men who destroyed Judith. You must see that, Cartarette.'

She leaned across to squeeze his arm. 'I had expected nothing less. I imagine even the Governor expects nothing less. But it cannot cloud your entire life. You have Hilltop to manage, you have your children to father, you have your slaves to free, and you have me to husband. You have spent all but twenty years in constant conflict. Promise me you will learn to live a little, in the last half of your life.'

He looked down at her, and then across at Suzanne, smiling at him.

'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I am a fool. No doubt my brain supposes itself still in that cell. Freedom is not a commodity one thinks about until it has been taken away.' He squeezed both their hands. 'I shall be a happy husband, a happy son, a happy father, I swear it.' The phaeton was already leaving the town behind, and beginning its climb into the mountains. 'How could a man be less than happy,' he shouted. 'In Jamaica.'

So, once again, that so well remembered road. The last time the three of them had ridden here had been in the dawn, with conch shells whistling, with the certainty of death and destruction awaiting them. And the unknown beyond that.

Now that was in the past. There was so much to be done. There was Judith to be avenged. There was the problem of Emancipation to be faced. There would be an inevitable drop in the plantation profits. The great days of the plantocracy, of buying and selling men, politicians not less than slaves, were finished. But that had been a shadowy, unreal world. The future remained there for the taking, without a troubled conscience, without a constant look over the shoulder, without a constant apprehension of the morrow.

And Father would die happy. His life had hardly contained less turmoil, and he had had to wait much longer to achieve his final triumph. He smiled at his mother, and then leaned back, watched Cartarette's firm hands on the rein as she guided the horse up the steep incline, allowed it to find its own way down into the damp, tree-shrouded valleys, and sat bolt upright as without warning she dragged on the brake, almost rising to her feet with the effort.

The horse pulled to a stop. They were down in a valley, trees to either side obscuring the hills which rose around them, isolated them from the rest of the world. And one of the trees had come down, immediately across the road.

'That's strange,' Suzanne remarked. 'It was not there when we came in yesterday.'

'And there was no wind, last night.' Cartarette climbed down, and Dick followed her. 'Can you move it?'

'I think so.' He parted the branches, bent to lift the trunk, and checked. There was no torn stalk here, but a clean severance.

He turned, heard Cartarette's breath whistle as she too looked round. For the little valley was filled with horsemen, six to either side of the phaeton, walking their horses from the trees. They wore black capes and flat black hats, and black domino masks. And every one carried a pistol.

'Oh, my God,' Cartarette whispered.

Dick stepped in front of her. 'Well, gentlemen,' he said, 'I have long looked forward to making your acquaintance.' For only confidence would pay here. And strangely, he felt no fear at all. Only a bubbling, angry exhilaration.

The horsemen came closer. They ignored the phaeton, Suzanne sitting rigid inside it, her face pale; on a sudden she looked even older than her seventy years.

'What, gentlemen, dumb? And perhaps deaf, as well,' Dick said. 'The law wishes to see you. The law will see you, gentlemen. You had best beware it does not hang you all.' He felt Cartarette's fingers on his arm. She at the least had no doubts of their danger.

'The law,' said one of the mounted men. He spoke in a hoarse whisper to disguise his voice, and certainly Dick did not recognize it. 'We are the law here, Richard Hilton. Those milksops in England may have chosen to release you, but we know you for what you are. And you will pay for it.'

Think, Dick told himself. Think. You will not make them angry. Can you bluff them into supposing there are mounted men behind you? But they would have overseen their approach. And there was no sound in this valley.

He watched ten of the men dismount. The other two remained in their saddles, their pistols pointing at him.

'Richard Hilton,' said the spokesman, one of the two still mounted. 'You are accused of inspiring all the ills that have overtaken this unhappy country, this past twenty years. You are accused of fomenting rebellion amongst the slaves, of serving the black savages of Haiti, of sowing dissension amongst the plantocracy. You have been tried by this court, in respect of these crimes, and have been found guilty. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?'

The dismounted men stood close around him. Ten of them. No doubt he could survive an encounter with most of them, as they had holstered their pistols. But what of Cartarette, standing at his shoulder, scarce breathing? And what of Mama?

'Then so be it,' said the mounted man. 'Richard Hilton, you are condemned to death, the sentence to be carried out immediately.'

Before he could move, two of the men had seized his arms, throwing Cartarette to one side, and a third was binding his wrists together behind his back, leaving him helpless.

'No,' Cartarette screamed, running forward. 'No.'

One of the men caught her round the waist.

'Your turn is also here, Cartarette Hilton,' said the mounted man. 'You are accused of aiding and abetting the condemned man in all the crimes of which he is guilty. Therefore you are as guilty as he. Therefore will you suffer the same fate.'

Cartarette's arms had already been seized, and now they also were bound. Her hat was knocked off, to allow her hair slowly to cloud about her shoulders. She stared at the mounted men in total disbelief.

Two other of the men were taking ropes from their saddle horns.

'You are mad’ Dick said. 'Do you think you will get away with such a crime?'

'We will defend ourselves, if we need to, Richard Hilton,' said the mounted man.

'Then defend yourselves now,' Dick shouted. 'Like men, instead of animals. Give me a sword, a pistol, and take your places in front of me.'

'Condemned felons have no rights,' said the mounted man. 'We would not demean ourselves. And that you may better appreciate the depths of your iniquity, the consequences of your insensate folly, this court decrees that your wife shall die first. Now.'

Cartarette turned her head to look at Dick, her mouth faintly open. He thought for a moment she might faint, with sheer horror. For the first rope was already being looped over the tree, and now she was pulled back towards it.

'What?' asked the horseman. 'No words of farewell?'

'Dick,' Cartarette begged. 'Help me.'

The cords ate into his wrists. His brain seemed to be consumed with fire. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say, save to utter futile threats of vengeance, and he was all through uttering threats. But allow him to be free, he thought, for one moment. He'd need no weapons. Not now.

The rope was looped around her neck. Her hair trailed on her shoulders, a blaze of colour against the brown and green of the tree, against the black of the cape of the man holding her. Cartarette Hilton. How much she had suffered for him.

'Hold.'

The voice was old, and quavered. And yet cut the morning like a lightning shaft.

Their heads turned, to look at the phaeton, and Suzanne Hilton, leaning slightly forward, a pistol in her hand.

'Release her,' Suzanne said. Her left hand also came up, and it too held a pistol.

The men stared at her in amazement. Then the mounted man gave a brief laugh. 'What, afraid of an old woman scarce able to stand? Beware, old lady, that we do not hoist you beside your son.'

'Drop your weapon,' Suzanne said. 'Or I will blow the teeth from your grinning mouth.' She spoke in an absolutely even tone.

'Why, you . .

'She'll do it, you fool,' shouted one of the men on the ground, and Dick's head jerked again. 'Tony?'

'Tony,' Suzanne said, with bitter satisfaction. 'As I supposed. I will do it, John Tresling. It will be a pleasure.'

Still Tresling hesitated, then made a convulsive movement with his right hand.

The explosion of Suzanne's pistol crashed through the valley. The powder smoke rose around her, but her face could still be seen, and the quick movement as she transferred the loaded second pistol to her right hand. But by now they were looking at Tresling, his mask destroyed along with his face, slowly turning as he fell forward, rested for a moment on the horse's neck, and then struck the ground with a thud.

'Pistol shooting,' Suzanne remarked with satisfaction, 'was for many years my favourite sport. Who will be next, you, Ellen?'

'Oh, my God.' Ellen Hilton ran forward, tearing off her mask as she did so, allowing her chestnut hair to float, pausing above Tresling. 'He is dead.'

The other mounted man threw down his weapon.

'How did you know us?' Tony's face was pale.

'I suspected for some time,' Suzanne said. 'And just now I identified one of you as a woman. That made it easy. If not acceptable. You are lower than the gutter to which you belong.'

Ellen continued to stare at the dead man.

'Release my daughter-in-law,' Suzanne said. 'And my son.'

Fingers tore at the ropes holding Dick's wrists. He stooped, picked up Tresling's pistol. Cartarette was also freed. She gained a weapon, turned to face her erstwhile captors. She breathed deeply, and her cheeks were pink, but her face was composed.

'Your prisoners, Dick,' Suzanne said.

'Aye,' Dick said. 'Well, Ellen, Tony, your night riding is over. Was it you, Tony, who savaged Judith?'

Tony hesitated, glancing at his companions. 'It was us.'

'Your own woman,' Dick said. 'I will see you hang.'

'No,' Suzanne said. 'Not a Hilton, Dick.'

'You'd have him crawl away?'

'No,' she said again. 'I find it hard to believe you are my son, Tony. I find it hard to accept that, but for my interference, in sending you with Dick, this could not have happened. You deserve to die. I would shoot you myself, had I the strength.' Her voice was brittle, at last. 'You'll leave Jamaica, tomorrow. Take that . . . that creature with you.'

'No,' Dick said. 'He would have hanged Cartarette. I'll not let him go, mother, I swear it, I will not let him go.'

'You cannot shoot him down in cold blood, Dick. That would be to lower yourself to his level.'

'Aye,' Dick agreed. 'Then give him a pistol. Cartarette, give him yours.'

Tony Hilton smiled. 'Aye,' he said. 'You'll die like the hero you are, little brother.'

Cartarette glanced from one to the other.

And Suzanne sighed. 'Give him a pistol, Cartarette. I suppose this could end no other way.'

Cartarette took a weapon from one of the saddle holsters, then slowly approached Tony, held it out. He snatched at it, brought it up. Dick watched his hand moving, levelling. How strange he felt. How long had he admired this man's skill, with people no less than with weapons. How long had he feared this man's anger.

And how detached he felt at this moment. Ellen had said her husband lacked determination. What then did he see in that handsome face?

'Dick,' Cartarette screamed, as she saw him accept the shot.

But Tony had already fired, and was staring at his brother in horror, as he realized he had missed.

'Too much haste, Tony,' Dick said. 'Too much haste.'

Tony licked his lips. His gaze seemed attached to the pistol in Dick's hand, as if connected by a string. The sounds of the shot slowly faded away, and the morning was silent, save for the restless movements of the horses.

Tony attempted a smile. 'What, little brother? No stomach for a murder?'

Dick gazed at him. Who was, after all, the Hilton? They had fought in the past, viciously, with every means at their disposal, to gain, and to hold. Tony had done no less, up to this very morning. So, then at the end, it was Richard Hilton who was the changeling.

He lowered his weapon. 'Take your woman, and go. Take these gutter rats with you.'

There was a moment's silence. Then Ellen swung round, her hand outflung. 'Now, now, now, Jim!'

Hardy's hands came out from beneath his cloak, a pistol in each. The first was levelled and exploded before anyone could even draw breath. Tony Hilton threw up his arms and fell over backwards without a sound, shot through the chest. Cartarette and Suzanne fired together, but Hardy had already leapt behind a tree, and from there returned his fire, at Dick. Dick was turning and dropping to one knee and also firing. His bullet smashed into the tree trunk.

The noise, the explosions, crashed through the morning. The glade became a smoke-filled hole, and a death-filled hole as well. Hardy darted away from the shelter and ran up the hill, while Dick hastily sought another pistol.

'Oh, my God,' Suzanne said, and half fell from the phaeton. 'Oh, my God.'

She knelt beside her son. Cartarette hastily secured two more pistols from the horses, but the rest of the Union was too shocked to move, just stood, gaping at their dying leader.

Who stared at his wife. 'Ellen?' he whispered. 'Ellen?'

Her lip curled. 'You never were much of a man, Tony Hilton. You could try to die like one.'

'But. . . you, and James? What you hinted was true?'

'Why else should I stay?' she asked. 'To listen to your vapourings? I stayed because James wished it. He wished to see both you and your brother into the grave. He wished to cuckold you to his heart's content.'

'James?' Tony whispered. 'But ... he was my friend.'

'He hated you,' Ellen said. 'He hated the very name of Hilton. He made your plantation prosperous, while he brooded on how to destroy you, both. And in me he found his weapon. And he has destroyed you, Tony. He will destroy Dick as well. He has sworn it. And I will help him.'

Dick stood at her shoulder, looked down at his brother. Tony's mouth opened and closed, but he could no longer speak.

'But why?' Dick asked. 'We gave him a home, position, money. Tony at the least certainly befriended him.'

'Oh, aye,' she said. 'As your father hanged his father.'

He frowned at her. Suzanne slowly lifted her head. 'James Hardy is Hodge's son?'

'Oh, aye,' she said. 'Do you not find it amusing, dear Mama, that the son of the man your husband murdered should have been the real ruler of Hilltop these past sixteen years? Oh, he enjoyed that. He enjoyed knowing that he could step aside, whenever he chose, and watch all the Hilton wealth, the Hilton power, crumble into dust. He was considering doing just that, when Dick reappeared. Then he could sit back and watch the pair of them destroy each other. There was amusement, Mama. Oh, how we laughed. Hiltons.'

'You foul thing,' Suzanne said, slowly rising from beside her dead son. 'You . . .'

But Dick no longer heard her. He leapt into the saddle of Tresling's horse, kicked its flanks, sent it bursting through the trees. Hardy—or Hodge—could not be far. And the trees were hardly more than a fringe. In a matter of moments he emerged beyond them, once again on the road leading up into the hills. Behind him he heard more hooves. But this was his business. Perhaps in his heart he had always known it would be his business, in the end.

And there in front of him was the little figure, crawling into the mountains. Running for his life. As if any man could escape the anger of Richard Hilton, of Matthew Warner, Christophe's cavalry commander.

He set his horse at the slope, and it scrambled up. Hardy paused to look back, and his face cleared as he realized he was pursued by only one man. He stopped, and panted, waiting for his breath to settle. He once again reached beneath his cloak, whipped out a machete.

'Both,' he said. 'Both.'

Dick reined, dismounted. Here was what he had wanted to do, for all those weeks in prison. To fight. To hurt. To kill.

Hardy grinned. 'Both,' he said again, and thrust the knife forward. And then frowned, as Dick merely continued walking towards him. 'Are you mad?'

Dick was now within five feet. Hardy sucked air into his lungs, rose on the balls of his feet, thrust, with sudden desperate energy. The hillside became a sandpit, the morning became hot and still, and Hodge's face became that of a black man. Only the knife was constant. The knife, and the surging angry exhilaration.

Dick swayed to one side, and the knife scraped through his coat, slicing his flesh as well to bring a sharp thrill of pain. His left hand descended to seize the wrist before it could withdraw, his iron fingers eating into the flesh. Hodge gave a gasp of pain and attempted to bring up his knee, but Dick's fist had already closed and was smashing into the unprotected jaw. Hardy's head jerked and he fell backwards, and the knife slipped from his fingers. Dick released his wrist and hit him again before he could fall, then stooped to twine his fingers in the cape, bring the man back to his feet, and hit him twice more.

Hardy lay on the stony ground, scarce breathing. Dick stooped once more, wrapped his fingers around the sallow, beard-stubbled throat, lifting the inert body from the ground as he squeezed.

'Dick,' Cartarette said.

He hesitated, his ringers still tight.

'Your mother waits alone, holding ten villains at gunpoint,' Cartarette said. 'Besides, there is a law, for such as he. For such as the woman. I would have you, us, done with killing.'

The slaves filed slowly down the hill, away from Hilltop, back to their village. They chattered amongst themselves as they walked. Perhaps they thought themselves dreaming.

Certainly Boscawen thought himself dreaming. He approached Richard Hilton, slowly, uncertainly.

'Man, Mr Dick, sir,' he said. 'Is true what you told them people? That they going to be free?'

True,' Dick said, 'You as well, old man.'

Boscawen stared at him for some moments. Then he slowly took off his wig to scratch his head. 'Ayayayay,' he remarked, and went towards his pantry.

Dick turned back to look at his plantation. He had worked hard these six months; so had his slaves, for the last time as slaves. The cane was growing again, the town and the village had been rebuilt, the factory re-roofed. Hilltop looked as it had always looked in the past; it was impossible to suppose that a year ago several thousand men had charged up this hill, shouting for blood, and that each one of those loopholes behind him had belched death and destruction. Impossible to believe. That was as it should be.

Judith waited in the doorway, veiled, as always now.

'Cartarette wishes me to stay.'

'So do I.'

She walked to the verandah rail, looked at the plantation. ‘I loved Tony, Dick. Do you know that?' 'I suspected it.'

'Even when he was cutting me, I loved him.' She turned. 'Only him.' 'I understand that.'

'But the only happiness I ever knew, was here.' 'Then you'll stay,' he said. 'And be our friend.'

He went inside, climbed the stairs. Suzanne had her trunk in the middle of the floor, was packing, helped and hindered by her grandchildren. Cartarette sat on the bed. 'There was no noise.'

'They listened, in silence, and then went back to their homes, in silence. I suppose they do not really believe it. I cannot really believe it myself.'

He sat beside his wife. 'Must you go in such haste, Mama?'

Suzanne pushed herself to her feet, a grandchild's hand in each of hers, smiled at them. 'Of course. Matt is waiting for me. And besides I can do no more here. I would be nothing more than a nuisance. Just be sure, when I decide to visit you again, Hilltop is ready for me.'

'Hilltop will be ready, Mama,' Cartarette said. 'Hilltop will stand forever, and be Hilton, forever.'

the end