Matt Hilton's search for his kidnapped love Gislane took him back to the West Indies - back to the great sugar plantations of the Caribbean which he had left as a boy. Heir to the Hilton estates, he deplored the brutality of Iris fellow planters - men who had built up immense wealth and political influence and who wielded total power over their West African slaves. But now the seeds of rebellion were growing - the slaves were beginning to listen to the message of the voodoo drums and the words of the mamaloi foretelling the coming of a saviour

This, the sequel to CARIBEE and THE DEVIL'S OWN, is the third novel in Christopher Nicole's history of the West Indies, from the founding of the first colony to Emancipation in 1834

Also by Christopher Nicole

AMYOT'S CAY

BLOOD AMYOT

THE AMYOT CRIME

LORD OF THE GOLDEN FAN

RATOON

CARIBEE

THE DEVIL'S OWN

and published by Corgi Books

Christopher Nicole

Mistress of Darkness

CORGI BOOKS

A DIVISION OF TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS LTD

MISTRESS OF DARKNESS

A CORGI BOOK 0 552 10517 1

Originally published in Great Britain by Cassell and Company Limited

PRINTING HISTORY

Cassell edition published 1976 Corgi edition published 1977

Copyright © Christopher Nicole 1976

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1: This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

2: This book is sold subject to the Standard Conditions of Sale of New Books and may not be re-sold in the U.K. below the net price fixed by the publishers for the book.

This book is set in Intertype Baskerville

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Made and printed in Great Britain by

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CONTENTS

I.

THE PROPHECY

9

2

THE SPORTSMAN

16

3

THE LOVERS

41

4

THE SEEKER

73

5

THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

105

6.

THE PRISONER

133

7

THE SLAVE

154

8.

THE SEAMAN

184

9

THE GUEST

218

10

THE PLANTER

254

111.

THE MISTRESS

289

12.

THE ABOLITIONIST

317

13

THE BRIDE

344

14.

THE HOUGAN

376

15

THE PROSECUTOR

405

16.

THE RIGHTS OF MAN

440

17-

THE MAMALOI

471

CHAPTER ONE

THE PROPHECY

THE rumble grew out of the still evening air, cascaded across the lush green fields of the sugar plantation, reached the heavy cedars of the forest beyond, some miles away, echoed upwards into the foothills of the mountains which made a backbone to the island of Hispaniola, and bounced back again to seep across the quiet ocean. The sound might have been caused by a battle, or the first threatening groan of a coming earthquake; it might have been a volcano stretching, or more prosaically, the approach of a thunderstorm. But it was no more than the procession of three dozen barouches, gigs, phaetons, bounding behind their splendid horses, on the road to Plantation Rio Blanco. Pierre Corbeau was entertaining.

The Great House itself might have been on fire, so numerous and so brilliant were the candles and tapers, rushes and lanterns, which seemed to fill every window, flickered and swayed on every verandah. The polished mahogany of the floor in the great ballroom had been scattered with powder, the huge mahogany table in the enormous dining-room groaned beneath the weight of countless dishes of food, West Indian - chicken and pork, smothered with peppers and cas-sareep, tuna fish and mackerel, caught off the coast of the plantation itself, avocado pear and eddo, sweet potato and roasted plantain - and European - sweetmeats and cheeses, best claret and finest brandies. Almost the long row of portraits of previous Corbeaux seemed to smack their lips as their severe gazes surveyed the scene beneath them.

Upstairs the bedchambers, each large enough to contain an average cottage, had been swept and polished, the beds overlaid with their ice-pink covers decorated with golden thread in the Corbeau emblem, the angrily beaked head of the hawk, the snow-white mosquito nets withdrawn and secured to the high tents, ready to be released to protect those who would sleep from the countless insects which made up the Caribbean night, but for the moment not permitted to obscure for an instant the perfection they guarded.

And everywhere, in bedchamber and on gallery, on the main staircase and in the cavern-like entry hall, in the ballroom and in the dining-room, in the study and on the verandahs, haunting the marble statues of the drive and the iron gates beyond, were the Gorbeau servants, every tall Negro - for Pierre Corbeau recruited his domestic slaves rather as his idol, Frederick the Second of Prussia, recruited his guardsmen - clad in an ice-pink coat, with gold thread at collar and cuff, white vest and breeches and stockings, and gilt-buckled black shoes, just as their female counterparts, hardly smaller, wore ice-pink gowns with the Corbeau design, in golden thread, on their bodices, and white caps.

On the front verandah, waiting to greet the first carriage, were the three people who lived in this palace, and who owned every visible object, living or lifeless, on Rio Blanco. Pierre Corbeau, in a pale blue silk coat with gold embroidery and buttons, over a flowered silk waistcoat, with dark blue breeches, white stockings, and black shoes, the whole topped by a powdered and pomaded wig dressed in what was known as the cadogan style - it was loosely curled at the back and tied with a blue ribbon - suggested nothing so much as his own name. He was above average height, but his sixty years made him stoop slightly, while his face was thin, dominated by the beak of a nose. His wife, some twenty years younger, revealed in her bloodless features the ravages of a lifetime in the tropics, the remnants of the bout of yellow fever which had once nearly killed her, the continual malarial attacks which often sent her to her bed with an ague. She wore a pink satin gown, carried away from her hips by enormous panniers embroidered in green and red silk; her wig, towering towards the ceiling, made her seem as tall as her husband, and winked with the sapphires which were her favourite stones, her malacca cane, which supported another enormous sapphire in its silver handle, reached her shoulder, and her fan was painted in the Corbeau colours of ice-pink and gold.

Louis, her only surviving son, stood behind his parents. He was twenty-two, and had but recently returned from Paris' the guests who were at this moment descending from their carriages would only remember him as a small boy, and he would remember them either as very much his elders, or as grubby playmates, whether boy or girl. Now no one could doubt that he was a man, and more, that with his father clearly growing older and weaker every day he would soon be Seigneur of Rio Blanco, owner of the greatest plantation in all St. Domlngue, grandest of grand-blancs; not a man arriving tonight but would see in him a rival, not a woman but would see in him either a possible lover, were she already married, or a possible husband, were she not. It was a thought at once exhilarating and a litttle daunting.

But he reminded himself that he would be a prize, even without his wealth. As tall as his father, and as slender, on his face the Corbeau nose fitted well beneath the high forehead and the wide mouth, did not entirely dominate the big chin. He had refused to wear a wig, because it was absurd in the West Indian heat, certainly, but also because it would have concealed his own hair, which du Barry, on the one occasion he had met her, had remarked was the most beautiful she had ever seen, black as night and softly lank, a perfect match for his eyes. And for this of all occasions he preferred to dress quietly, a dark green coat over a gold-coloured waistcoat, and white breeches and stockings. If the ball was in celebration of His Majesty King Louis XVI's coronation, there could be no doubt that he was the guest of honour.

The carriages were rolling to a halt before the marble steps, and the first of the bejewelled and befanned ladies was being assisted down by white-gloved Negro footmen. Pierre Corbeau's major-domo snapped his fingers, and the orchestra struck up, while the maidservants hurried forward with goblets of sangaree.

Pierre Gorbeau kissed the first hand extended towards his. 'Claire, how splendid to see you. You'll drink the health of His Majesty?'

Claire de Morain raised her glass. 'And the Austrian woman.'

'And damnation to the English.'

This last offered by her husband. But now the greetings, and the toasts, became genera], and the staircase became a long, glittering flow of people and comment, seeming the more brilliant because of the darkness with which it was surrounded.

Of varying shades. The overseers and their wives and children, whether petit-blancs or mulattoes, might be resentful of their betters, but still were unable to resist the temptation to gather beyond the white palings of the garden and watch the wealth from which they were forever excluded. Yet even they insensibly accumulated into two groups. The meanest of the petit-blancs would not allow himself to be a social acquaintance of the best mulatto, even if, under French law, any cafe-au-lait was born free. And the mulattoes, of course, made sure they were nowhere near the noirs, who formed an even vaster, and darker concourse, at the very end of the drive, from where they too, granted a holiday on this greatest of days, could stare and wonder, at beings as far above themselves, and as unaware of their existence as individuals, as was the very moon which was beginning to fill the sky and send a swathe of white light across the sea and the canefields and the forest.

And their numbers grew, constantly, as the maids and the coachmen of the guests, having discharged their immediate functions, left their carriages and joined the Rio Blanco slaves. Opportunities for meeting those from other plantations, from the towns and from the great houses of Gap Francois, were rare. Here was an opportunity for exchanging gossip, for learning what was truly happening about them, in the world, no less than in St. Domingue itself, for reuniting with someone who had shared the horrors of the Middle Passage, or who had once been a slave on one's own plantation, for perhaps again meeting a brother or a son, or even a husband, torn away for sale by the whim of his master.

And here too was an opportunity for plotting, for those who had at once the courage and the intelligence to suppose that the fact of their slavery was not an unalterable law of nature. Into the crowd sidled one of the first of the coachmen to arrive, a wizened little fellow, who walked with a limp, but who was greeted by everyone he passed with some affection. His black eyes searched the black faces in front of him until they found the one he sought, broad and strong, but angry as well, sitting on top of a bull-neck which itself rose out of a barrel-like chest and a powerful body.

'Jean-Jacques,' remarked the coachman, and walked on.

The big Negro hesitated but a moment, glancing to and fro, and then followed. The coachman was already beyond the crowd of slaves, and taking the road towards the Negro village. His visits to Rio Blanco were not to be wasted. But Jean-Jacques sweated. He was a recent arrival in Hispaniola, was not sure whom he could trust, and who would betray him to the whip, or worse, the wheel. Yet was he already a man of power amongst his people, by the very force of his character, the dominant anger of his personality. And he had been told that only the old coachman would be his equal.

Toussaint walked down the lane between the Negro huts, found the one he sought. Now the noise and the laughter and the glittering lights were far behind him, almost lost in the whisper of the trees and the soughing of the gentle wind. A dog barked in the village and then another, but fell silent again as the two black men ignored them.

'You know she will be there?' asked Jean-Jacques.

'She will be there,' Toussaint promised, and turned aside, to pause before the cane mat which made a doorway to one of the smallest of the huts, at the same time motioning his companion to be silent.

They waited for some minutes, and then a whisper seemed to come from the mat itself. 'Who waits to see Celeste?'

'Pierre Toussaint,' said the coachman.

'Jean-Jacques Dessalines,' said the big man.

'You are expected,' said the whisper.

Toussaint nodded, and held the mat aside, then followed Dessalines into the interior. The hut was dark, save for a single guttering candle, set in the earthen floor, sending shadows racing into the corners. It was noisome, and at first sight it seemed unfurnished. The two men knelt, hands on knees, facing the flame, and the woman beyond.

If she was, indeed, a woman. She appeared as no more than a wisp of scarlet cloth, for this evening she had put on her red robe, and bound her head in her red turban; her face, so lined and gnarled it was impossible to gauge her age, seemed but a cage for her eyes. And like her visitors, she knelt, her fists clenched in front of her.

'What do two such men seek of a poor mamaloi?' she whispered.

'We seek knowledge, Mama Celeste,' Toussaint said. 'We seek a sign.'

'There are signs enough,' Dessalines growled. 'A king is dead and a new king is crowned.'

'And there is talk of war,' Toussaint said. 'I have spoken with the men of a ship from Boston, and they tell me the Americans will have no more of the English, and will fight.'

'White people,' Dessalines said contemptuously.

'They will fight the English,' Toussaint said again. 'And the French will help them. This is what they say. And the islands will again be convulsed with war. It will be time.'

'Time,' Mama Celeste whispered, and peered into the flame.

'Time,' Dessalines said, his great fingers opening and shutting.

'Not yet,' Mama Celeste said. 'Not yet, O mighty warrior. Aye, mighty you are, of limb and mind, but yet not mighty enough. You will do nothing without the aid of Damballah Oueddo, without the presence of Ogone Badagris. Without them, you will perish, and all who support you.'

'Then where are they?' Dessalines' voice grew louder, and Toussaint shook his head.

'Who knows?' Mama Celeste said. They are everywhere, at all times. But only they know when they will choose to reveal themselves. I can but tell you to prepare, and to be patient. These signs of which you speak, they are as nothing. When the time is come, you will know it. The white people will talk amongst themselves, and argue, and quarrel, and then they will set to killing one another, and the mulattoes as well. Then, and only then, will Damballah Oueddo make himself known to you.'

'And we will know him, when we see him?' Toussaint asked.

'Black he will be, black as the night from whence he comes, and into which he will sweep the whites. And big he will be, a man of greatness apparent to all. Yet will his might be surrounded by beauty, and his blackness surrounded by light. By this beauty, by this light, shall you know him.'

CHAPTER TWO

THE SPORTSMAN

A ROAR of sound, hands clapping, voices shouting, deluged the afternoon air. It sent the rooks cawing away from the high oaks which surrounded the village, rattled the window panes in the houses, boomed down the turnpike which led over the heathland in the direction of London Town. It startled the pair of black stallions thrusting from the traces of the perch phaeton, causing them to swerve across the road in a cloud of dust, forcing Robert Hilton to rise to his feet as he dragged on the reins.

'Whoa,' he bellowed. 'Come to, you devilish beasts. Christ curse you for a couple of hellhounds.'

The horses panted to a halt, and Robert sucked air into his lungs and allowed it to explode in a gush of relief.

'By God,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'I thought we were for the ditch.'

He whipped off his bicorne and fanned himself, inserting his finger into the high velvet collar of his brown tailcoat to remove a layer of sweat, and then slowly subsided back into his seat. He was a big man, with heavy shoulders and long powerful legs which were well displayed by his close-fitting leather boots. He wore no wig, and revealed only a wisp or two of grey threads in the rich brown of his hair. Between the untidy thatch and the heavy body the small face surprised; the features were neat, with fine nose and narrow mouth, and pointed chin - at forty there was only a trace of jowl - and the whole was conditioned by the heavy suntan which rendered his complexion almost mahogany. Only the eyes disappointed; pale blue, they were cold and angry, daring the world to challenge or even to argue. Now he flicked the whip, and the stallions reluctantly began to move.

'Whatever can have caused that noise?' Georgiana's voice was high. 'It sounded like a riot.' She was his stepsister, and looked it, but on her the Hilton features amounted very nearly to beauty, and her eyes, a deeper shade of blue, sparkled with amusement, immediately at the thought of her stepbrother driving his equipage into a mob, but generally at the sheer prospect of being alive in a summer's afternoon in the year of Our Lord 1780. She wore a deep blue redingote over a pink summer gown, topped the whole with a high green felt hat bestrewn with ribbons, and exuded perfume. Her light brown hair was undressed, and lay straight on her shoulders. The critical observer would only ever be able to find fault with the dusting of freckles which covered the pale skin of her face, indicating that she also came from a tropical climate.

'Aye,' Robert agreed, forcing the horses into a trot. 'And no doubt Master Matthew is involved. I never doubted that boy would cause more trouble than he's worth.'

Georgiana Hilton merely smiled, and craned her neck as the phaeton rounded the corner and came in sight of the village green, beyond which the bright pink walls of the Admiral Vernon public house stood up like a beacon. The steps of the inn were crowded, as were the windows, and these spectators merely overlooked the dense ring of people, housewives and farmers, shepherds and clerks, which surrounded the field itself. Nor were only the peasantry represented; on the far side were two crested coaches and a cluster of men dressed in the height of fashion.

And all were staring at the spectacle before them with rapt attention, at least until interrupted by the rattling arrival of the phaeton.

'Whatever can they be doing?' Georgiana wondered.

For the men on the green appeared to be indulging in some slow and rhythmic ritual. There were fifteen of them altogether, coatless, mostly wearing white breeches and stockings, although their shirts were of several different colours, and sporting the new-fashioned tall beaver hats. They stood around the field, some crouching, some lounging, and one in particular, a tall young man, posing before two sticks set in the ground and surmounted by a cross piece; he carried a large, curved length of wood, which he held in front of him like a club.

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'It’s Matt.'

His shout, coupled with the noisy arrival of his coach and team, momentarily distracted the crowd. And annoyed it. A chorus of boos and hisses rose from the inn, and a peremptory 'Be quiet, sir,' from the knot of gentlemen.

'By God,' Robert said, having never been addressed like that in his adult life. 'By God.'

But he was so amazed he did speak quietly, and the ritual was proceeding. Another man, standing perhaps twenty-five yards from the boy with the club, at the end of a length of grass which had been carefully smoothed, took a couple of quick steps forward, and swung his arm downward from the shoulder to release a small hard ball which shot along the ground towards his opponent, bumping and jumping.

The young man watched it approach, and as it came up to him, swung his club. Down came the thick, curved end, picked up the ball, and sent it flying into the trees. Once again an explosion of noise enveloped the village and distressed the rooks. The young man took to flight, bounding over the pitch towards the man who had bowled at him, passing on the way another young man, also carrying a club; he grounded his weapon beneath the two sticks at the bowler's end, and then turned and ran back again, while the crowd bayed its delight, shouting 'tich and turn', 'tich and turn' as one of the lounging men raced behind the ball, his tall hat falling off in the effort.

Up and down ran the men with clubs, crossing each other several times, until the ball was at last returned and they stood up at each end of the smoothed ground, panting for breath, while the cheers of the crowd slowly subsided and the short man prepared to deliver another ball. Robert meanwhile had guided the phaeton, the horses now at a walk, around the back of the concourse, until he had reached the carriages. 'But what form of devilry is this?' he demanded at large.

'Devilry, sir?' The man who replied was the vicar. 'You'll find none of that in Dorking. Have you no knowledge of cricket?' He observed Georgiana. and raised his hat.

'Cricket?' Robert demanded. 'Cricket?'

'God damn, sir.' said one of the gentlemen, turning away from the game. 'You are a confoundedly loud fellow. If you have no interest in the match, take yourself off.' He also noticed Georgiana, and raised his hat. 'Your servant, madam.'

'By God,' Robert said again, stepping down, and away from the horses. He moved stiffly, with a limp in his left leg, but there could be no gainsaying the strength of his shoulders. 'You'll repeat those words, sir.'

'Your Grace,' the vicar hissed, and then repeated himself, this time as a question. 'Your Grace?'

For the nobleman was frowning with bewilderment rather than offence. 'Your name will not be Hilton?'

'It is that,' Robert agreed, his mouth relaxing. 'Robert Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica.'

'Gad, sir,' said the Duke. 'Billy Beckford has told me enough about you. And you're cousin to our young hero. Why, sir, here is my hand, and proud am I to take yours.'

Robert shook hands. 'You have the advantage of me, your Grace.'

'Sackville, of Dorset.' The Duke gave a wry smile.

'Why,' Robert said, 'the very man I have crossed the ocean to see, amongst others.'

'I think you mean my cousin George,' the Duke said. 'But he has spoken of you also. You nabobs carry too much weight in the Commons, to be sure. Fear not, Mr. Hilton, the war will end, and successfully. There was never a time old England could not lick the French and the Spanish and a parcel of rebellious colonists, altogether. But you'll agree business must wait on cricket. Why, sir, 'tis all the pleasure a man may find in this muddled age. And we need but seven to win.'

'And there it goes,' the vicar shouted, his voice lost in the howl of joy from the crowd. For the ball had been hoisted high over their heads and into the trees, and the two young men were running to and fro as fast as they could.

'Five,' Dorset shouted.

'Six,' the vicar bawled.

'Seven,' roared the crowd.1 Tis a win. 'Tis a win.'

'By but a single wicket.' The Duke removed his tricorne, and then his wig, and mopped his shaved scalp with a silk handkerchief. 'If you had asked me, sir, whether I'd hedge my bets but half an hour ago, I'd have been happy to do so. God damn, sir, I'd rather lick Dick Nyren than Washington himself.'

'You'll have to explain it to me,' Robert decided. The green was now entirely filled with shouting, cheering villagers, and the young man who had struck the final blow was being lifted on to their shoulders.

'Why, sir, those men out there are of the Hambledon club,' Dorset said.

'The premier cricket club in all the world, sir,' the vicar explained. 'Why, sir, they have beaten the rest of England added together.'

'But not the men of Dorking village, eh,' Dorset said. 'Thanks to Matt. Boy, you have saved me four hundred pound and earned me double that. Name your reward.’

'A mug of ale, your Grace, will save my life.' The winning batsman was deposited in front of the nobleman, still panting for breath, his expression slowly changing to amazement as he discovered the presence of Robert Hilton. 'Robert? Can it be you? But you are in Jamaica.'

'By God, boy, but your brain is fuddled,' Robert said. ‘I am here. And right glad to see you.' He took the boy's hands, 'Even if it is to watch you making a fool of yourself.'

'A fool?' Matt smiled. He did so readily, and this was the principal difference between the two men, apart from age; Matt was only twenty. As tall as Robert, he was well shouldered but more slender in the thigh, and he moved with an athletic freedom which contrasted with the older man's hesitation. His features were undeniably Hilton, but his chin was bigger and his mouth wider, and his grey-green eyes lively and confident. 'Cricket is the life-blood of old England.'

'Never was a truer word spoken.' The Duke of Dorset himself presented Matt with a jug of foaming ale. 'And here's a little something for your trouble, eh, lad?' The bag jingled.

'Then 'tis a lucrative profession?' Robert demanded.

But Matt, having drunk, had looked at the phaeton. 'Georgiana!' He ran towards the coach, seized her gloved hands to kiss them.

‘I thought I was but a speck of dust on the woodwork,' she complained. 'Oh, but Matt, it is so good to see you. And you are well? We have been so worried, all these tales of riot and bloodshed...'

'In the City,' he said reassuringly. 'At Oxford, and here in Dorking, my lord of Gordon is but a name, and as for the London mob, it has long been known for its erratic violence. But you, if only I had known you were coming.'

'We wrote.'

'And I never received the letter.'

'Privateers,' the vicar said sombrely. 'The French are making a slaughter off the west coast. And all the fault of...' he glanced at the Duke. 'No politics, your Grace. No politics.'

'We'll not waste the afternoon.' Dorset agreed. 'You'll call, Mr. Hilton. Beckford claims you're the most forward-thinking planter in the West Indies, as well as the wealthiest. We could use your brains, and your money. You'll call. Matt, my thanks again.'

He climbed into his carriage.

'By God,' Hilton said. 'Is this how he spends his time, with a war on?'

'A man must have leisure, Mr. Hilton,' the vicar said. 'Now, you'll dine with me, of course.'

‘I am returning to town this instant, sir. I but sought my cousin. And having found him, I will take him back with me.'

'But...' Matt glanced at the parson, and received a quick shake of the head. 'You will give me time to fetch my things? I have been spending the holidays here.'

'If you make haste,' Robert said, limping towards the phaeton. ‘I doubt there is room for three. He will have to ride on the back.'

'Oh, fie on you, Robert,' Georgiana said. 'After six years? We shall squeeze in, I have no doubt at all.'

'Cricket/ Robert Hilton cracked the whip, and the phaeton gathered speed. 'By God, I could believe neither my eyes nor my ears. Is this what they taught you at Eton? It was different in my day.'

'I'll construe you a Greek sentence, if you wish.' Matt was pressed against the outside of the coach as it rumbled towards London, his right arm round Georgiana's waist; she huddled against him, her hat askew, her head resting on his shoulder. 'But it is so good to see you all again. Six years. Georgiana, why you were ...'

'Skinny as a rake,' she said happily. 'I've filled out, wouldn't you say. Matt?’

'Well...'

'She's a right hussy,' Robert grumbled. 'We'll talk of it later.'

'But what has brought you all the way to England, with the French privateers so active? And with the Yankees, I've heard, no less busy amongst the islands.'

'That for one thing,' Robert said. 'They are costing me money. Why, do you realize, boy, that better than nine hundred of my blacks starved to death over this last year? Taking both Hilltop and Green Grove, you understand.'

'Starved to death?' Matt was incredulous. 'But ... how did you survive?'

'Oh, we survived well enough,' Robert said. 'The food can be got, at a price. Ships do get through. But the price is not economical for feeding blacks. Of course I went for the old ones, but had to let some of the piccaninnies go too. There's part of our future, your future, Matt, just frittered away by this tiresome government of ours.'

Matt discovered that his hand was embracing something soft, as Georgiana had shifted her position. Hastily he removed his fingers to her arm, 'But... you mean you let them starve to death? Near a thousand people?'

'For God's sake boy, would you have me sacrifice my profit? I didn't like it. By God, with the privateers active fresh blood is damned difficult to get. So I'm joining the West India lobby for a season. Billy Beckford's idea. If the government really means to roll up the colonies from Georgia north, it will take them ten years, and that will bankrupt the lot of us.'

Matt looked down at Georgiana to see if the thought of deliberately allowing more than nine hundred men, women and children to die of starvation distressed her in any way, and she smiled and pouted at him,' allowing her tongue to appear between her teeth for a moment before withdrawing it. Georgiana had been thirteen when last they had met, and they had played together in the dust outside the Great House in the shadow of the Blue Mountains. 'And how is Suzanne?'

'Contented, I am sure,' Robert grunted, pulling on the reins as the phaeton entered another village and sent sparks flashing from the cobbles. 'She has a husband, a comfortable home, and the Dutch are neutral. What more could a girl want.'

'She doesn't love him,' Georgiana muttered.

'God's teeth,' Robert declared. 'What has that got to do With it, you stupid whore. Dirk Huys is my oldest friend. By God, I'd call him my only friend. He's a good man, and Sue will make him a good wife. I wish to Christ you had as much sense.'

Georgiana shrugged, moving her entire body up and down Matt's vest.

'Whore,' Robert growled. 'That's what she is, Matt. A damnable whore.'

'I'm sure ...' Matt began, somewhat uncertainly, as Georgiana did not seem unduly disturbed by the stream of invective.

'She's to be whipped every day for a year,' Robert said, trying out his arm on the horses' backs. 'If I'm not here, you must do it.'

'Eh?'

'Oh, you must,' Georgiana said. ‘I am a very naughty girl.'

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'She thinks it is a game. She's had a ramrod up there, Matt. By God she has, and not a husband in sight. That were bad enough. But it was a nigger. By Christ. I all but puked my guts when I learned of it.'

'Good Lord.' Watt looked down at his cousin. Georgiana winked. 'You're joking.'

'Joking? Joking? God's teeth, I wish I were.' 'But ...' Matt scratched his head, 'Georgiana? What of the man?'

'Boy,' she said sulkily. 'Robert hanged him.'

'But I taught him a lesson,' Robert snorted. 'Gelded him myself, I did. And then took him to a tree. By God, he was lucky at that.'

Matt found a handkerchief and wiped his brow. 'You have a strong stomach.'

' 'Tis a thick skin I need the more. Do you know I've been pilloried in the Jamaica press?'

'Well,' Matt said. 'I suppose the boy needed punishment, and should have been whipped ...'

'Whipped? By Christ, boy, but I despair. Truly I do. When I am dead and gone I see this sad world dissolving into ruin. Whipped, for raping a white woman?'

'It was not rape,' Georgiana said. 'If anyone should have been hanged it should have been me.'

'You mean you wanted to?' Matt asked in amazement.

'You should have seen his tool,' Georgiana said. ‘It was a dream.'

'Hussy!' Robert shouted, dragging on the reins. 'I'll have at her now, by Christ. I'll take the skin from her arse. I'll...'

'I'm sure she is joking,' Matt said. 'And the hour is late. We'd best be getting on. There are footpads on these heaths close to town.'

'Ah, bah,' Robert declared. But he flicked the whip again. 'I've pistols. And so have you, no doubt.' 'I'm afraid I do not,' Matt said.

'Eh?' It was Robert's turn to be amazed. 'You've no weapons?'

'I've my fists. They serve for most purposes. I train with Mr. Broughton.'

'Mr. Broughton? Mr. Broughton? God Almighty, what is to become of us? The government intent on ruining us, a sister who is a whore, and an heir who is scarce better than a macaroni? Father will be rolling in his grave.'

'What did you say?' Matt finally disengaged himself from Georgiana and sat up; the carriage slowed to enter the suburbs of Westminster.

Robert's face was flushed, not entirely with exertion. 'Aye, well, you'll be twenty-one soon enough and 'tis time we sorted things out.'

'I was not aware there was any sorting to be done,' Matt said. 'With Father dead, I supposed I would come back to Antigua once I graduate, and assume the managership of Green Grove. You've a change in mind?'

'Have you no ambition? Oh, aye, you're Grandmother Lilian's branch of the family, and Grandmother Lilian's branch has always managed Green Grove, just as Grandmother Marguerite's branch has always managed Hilltop. But the fact is, boy, you're the only Hilton left, after me, now your father is dead. Sue's children will be Dutchmen, and this harlot... God alone knows what she'll produce. But we must find a husband for her, Matt. An English gentleman. That's what she needs, and we'll keep that nigger boy a secret. By Christ, that a sister of mine could have sunk so low.'

'Oh, you should have seen him.' Georgiana snuggled up to Matt. 'He had ten inches, Matt. I swear it.'

'For God's sake,' Matt muttered. 'Control your tongue.'

'Harlot,' Robert said, waving Iris whip and scattering passers-by. 'Whore. Tainted, you are. ‘Tis a fraud I will have to practise on whoever looks at you twice. But 'tis you I'd talk about, Matt. Think about it, boy. Because old Ned Hilton wouldn't marry until he was near past it, there's twenty years between us. I've no right to expect more than another twenty, and what with this war and my troubles, and my harlot of a sister, I'd not be surprised if I had a seizure tomorrow. Then they're yours, Matt. Hilltop and Green Grove. All that Kit Hilton and Tom Warner fought for and killed for, make no mistake about that. Who heads the Hiltons must be a man, not a muling ball-player or a practiser of fisticuffs. You've a good eye with a pistol? Every Hilton has a good eye with a pistol.'

‘I have no idea,' Matt said. ‘I have never fired such a weapon in my life.'

'By God.' Robert shouted. 'By God.' The phaeton rolled dangerously from side to side.

'For God's sake,' Georgiana whispered, a gleam of amused malice in her eyes, 'Control your tongue, or he'll have his seizure right now.'

But the phaeton had turned through a pair of wrought iron gates, and was once again surging to a stop before a four-storied house; two yardboys were hurrying forward to seize the bridles.

'Step down,' Robert bawled. 'Step down.'

Matt assisted Georgiana to the gravel. 'Why, 'tis a mansion. And hard by the park? It must be costing you a fortune.'

'Bah,' Robert said. ' 'Tis only for a season, and we must show our mettle. These prancing dukes and duchesses, they could live off my charity. I'm a Hilton, boy. So are you. They call us nabobs. There's no one in all this miserable wet country controls our income. Remember that, and act the part. Cricket, Bah.' He stamped up the steps, and the door was hastily opened by a curtseying parlour maid. 'But the wenches are pretty.' He dug his fingers into the girl's head, removing the white linen cap to ruffle the yellow hair beneath. 'Aye, pretty.' He turned her round, slapped her backside, and clapped his hands. 'We'll have some of this poison you call claret. You handle a sword, no doubt. Matt? All Hiltons handle a sword.'

'Perhaps if I could try yours ...'

'You've none of your own? By God, but I feel old age overtaking me, minute by minute.' A butler stood in front of him with a tray on which waited a silver decanter and three goblets. Robert seized one and drained it. 'They smuggle this, by God. Give me a glass of rum, any day. You'll come with me, Matt. I'd speak with you in private.' He seized the decanter and climbed the stairs.

'Am I not included?' Georgiana demanded. 'Matt's future is my own.'

'Begone, harlot,' Robert bellowed. 'Get to your needlework. I'll see to your backside before this night is out. By God, I will.'

Matt, already at the foot of the stairs, hesitated, and Georgiana smiled at him; once again her tongue came through her lips. 'Oh, be off to your secret conclave, I'll learn of it soon enough.'

Hastily he followed his cousin. But suddenly he was aware of how tired he was, and realized as well how bemused he was by the remarkable events of the evening. Certainly he should be happy, he reflected. Today had been a triumph. For the village to beat the Hambledon men, and for him to notch forty-seven runs against Lumpy Stevens, there was fame. How magnificent it would have been if Gislane had been there to see it. He had hoped. The Hambledon men did not appear close to London every day, and the match had been well publicized. But her absence was his only disappointment. And then to have Robert and Georgiana descend upon him as if from heaven, when he had not expected to see them again for at least another three years ... except he was not sure that it wasn't a case of having ascended from hell.

The fact was, the West Indies was a different world, and he had forgotten that. Perhaps he had never known that. He had been born on Green Grove in Antigua, the oldest of the Hilton plantations, owned by Kit and Meg Hilton in the early colonial days, long before the great boom in sugar prices had raised the planters from the level of country gentlemen to the wealth and power of a landed aristocracy. He had taken money and power for granted, had never thought about slaves as other than a vast dark cloud at the bottom of the hill on which stood Green Grove Great House, or as a host of white clad soft-footed females who cleaned the house, and prepared the food and weeded the garden. And any notions he might have retained of his own innate superiority had been knocked into perspective at Eton, where he had shared the same discipline as the sons of earls and the pauper students. He had, of course, always known that he was destined to manage Green Grove one day, one day soon since the tragic death of Papa at sea three years ago, but he had not really considered what would be involved. No doubt Robert was right, and when it came to a choice between profit and lives, it was the lives which had to be sacrificed, supposing they were only slaves, but he wondered if he would have had the backbone to take such a decision, or the conscience then to travel across the ocean and rent a most expensive house. As for personally mutilating and then executing a black youth who had tampered with his sister - well, no doubt he was fortunate in having no sisters, and even supposing he would be left head of the family, Suzanne was safely married and Georgiana soon would be.

But what was he to make of Georgiana? His old playmate, who had sat on his shoulders and driven him as her horse round and round the rose garden during his visits to Hilltop?

So then, he was not happy, after all. The sudden appearance of his family had reminded him that he could not play cricket or spar with Jack Broughton for the rest of his life. But Robert was surely being unduly pessimistic.

He knocked on the door of the master bedroom.

'Come.' Robert was alone, and undressing himself. He had already removed his boots and his coat and shirt, to reveal a torso any pugilist might have envied.

Which suggested a cue. 'You'll yet marry,' Matt said. 'Why should you suppose you'll not have children? There are those who claim forty is the prime of life.'

'I'll not marry, and I'll not have children,' Robert said. 'Not even brown ones, boy. I'm ninety per cent a cripple. You'll have heard that.' He filled their glasses.

Matt frowned, more dim boyhood memories drifting back to him. 'Nothing I'd credit.'

'You'd do well to credit them all.' Robert dropped his pants, and Matt stared in horror at the misshapen mound which hung between his cousin's legs. 'A kick from a horse. When I was scarce older than you, boy. Thus I recommend you enjoy yourself while you may, never knowing when such a fate will overtake you.' He pulled on an undressing robe. 'You do not use a sword or a pistol, preferring a heavy club, and you take your sport with men rather than girls. Tell me, boy, is it in your nature to find no joy in the female flesh? Am I that unlucky? If so for certain our line ends here, and that were a sad fate for an old and illustrious family.'

Matt sipped his wine. 'By no means, sir.' He hesitated; a secret of Gislane's quality was pure torture, when kept to oneself, and there was no one else he had dared confide in. But, Robert, his boyhood's idol, who now but waited to share with him the richest inheritance in all Europe ... 'Indeed, perhaps I wish to find too much joy in it, but in a single direction’

'God's teeth,' Robert bellowed, and clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to spill his wine. 'There's a Hilton speaking. You've a mistress?'

Matt shook his head. 'No, sir, I have met the young lady but once. I have written to her, but my letters are unanswered. I have called, but been refused the door.'

'And you still love the creature? She must be a charmer. Or you are a perverse fellow. Yes, you are a perverse fellow. Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha. But you love. By God, Matt, we'll see about this beauty. Writing letters! There's an art I never mastered with any success. Ha ha ha ha ha, Gome on, lad. We'll tell Georgiana.'

Matt stood in front of the door. 'I would rather the secret was ours, if you don't mind. At least for the time being.'

Robert frowned, and then laughed again. 'Why, so it shall be. And I am honoured at your confidence. Then we'll celebrate our reunion, eh? Aye, we'll knock back some of this rotten blood, that we will. And you'll tell me more about this goddess, tomorrow.'

God, how the bed moved. It seemed to float, on a rough sea, but every few minutes it struck a rock with a shuddering jar which sent Matt's spine thrusting through his brain. Yet he was content, lying on the soft mattress with his pillow clutched in his arms. Gislane, Gislane. Today she seemed closer than ever. He did not know why. Before she had been just a face, and a voice, and a scent, a fading memory, from their one meeting. Now she was a body as well. Because ... because... he sat up, wine sweat trickling down his face.

Last night. Last night he had confessed her existence to Robert, and thereby made a dream become reality. Or so it had seemed. And then he had made a fool of himself, drinking far too much, and being put to bed by Richards the butler. And then he had dreamed. He threw himself face down on the pillow again, holding it close, hoping to return to the dream world, wishing his head would stop aching.

'Swine,' Georgiana said. 'Oh, the swine.'

Matt sat up, violently, dragging the sheets to his waist. She stood just inside the door, her hair loose as usual, her shoulders barely concealed by the linen nightdress. 'For God's sake,' he said. 'I do believe Robert is right, and you are nothing but a harlot. Have you no robe?'

'Robert made me take it off.' She came across the room, and Matt retreated up the bed until his back reached the headboard. 'Shall I show you the stripes?'

‘I do not believe it,' he said. 'He cannot whip you every day.'

'Every day for a year,' she said. 'My punishment. Look.'

She turned round, her nightdress pulled to her waist. Matt hastily shut his eyes. 'Please,' he begged.

She shrugged, and let the nightdress fall, then sat on the end of his bed, combing her hair with her fingers. 'Ow. I do believe Robert is right about you, and you are an unnatural wretch.'

'You seem to forget that we are cousins,' he said. 'And grown men and women, now.'

‘I should hope so,' she said. 'And as for cousins, what stupidity. We have the same great-grandfather. I see no relationship after four generations. And from all I have heard of that old buccaneer he'd have not refused his cousin, had he one.' She commenced to crawl up the bed. 'Let me under the sheet.'

'No,' he protested. 'You are the most shameless hussy I have ever come across. I've a mind to whip you myself.'

'Oh, would you?' she asked. 'I'd rather have you do it than Robert. He's a brute, you know. He enjoys it, and he hits as hard as he can. I sometimes think he imagines he's my father. Except that Papa was such a sweet man. But Robert ... horrible misshapen beast. He won't marry, you know, because he's ashamed of himself. He won't come and live in England, because he's ashamed of himself. Or at least, because he is afraid he won't be able to do what he likes. Everyone else has come to live in England, if they can afford it. Old Mr. Beckford, and those Lascelles people, oh everyone. And Robert has more money than all of them put together. But he just locks himself away on Hilltop, with his brown-skinned women, and broods. I was going desperate.'

'And so you seduced a slave? Did you really do that, Georgiana? I still can't believe it.'

'Feel these.' She thrust the front of her nightdress at him, the nipples making Little darts against the material.

'Stop it,' he shouted at her.

'Oh, you're nothing better than a ... a cripple yourself,' she said, throwing herself on her back across the bottom of the bed, feet kicking, nightdress riding up to her knees. 'Yes, I seduced Jonah. It just came over me. I was going mad, just wasting away there on that great plantation with only Robert and those stupid overseers and their stupid wives .., you know, it was all right when Sue was still there. We could ride together, and talk, about when we got married ... and then she did get married, to that stupid Dutchman ... I told you she didn't love him.'

Matt sighed. He could hardly recall what Sue looked like, except that he did remember that she had always been much prettier than Georgiana, with yellow rather than brown hair, and a disturbingly steady way of gazing into your eyes, as if she was trying to penetrate your soul. But if Georgiana had changed so much, perhaps Sue had also.

'And then I was riding my mule through the canefields one morning, and it was very hot, and there was this buck peeing in the ditch, and he looked so ... so gorgeous. That's what he looked, Matt, just gorgeous. That's why I want to see yours, Matt. To see if you'd be as gorgeous.'

Matt hugged the pillow against his stomach.

'He wanted to run away when he heard me coming,' Georgiana explained. 'But I told him to stop, because I wanted to look at him, and I dismounted. And do you know, I touched it... it was all right, I was wearing gloves, of course ... and then I heard a horse coming, so I threw myself on the ground and screamed, and it was Ridding, the overseer. You remember Ridding?'

'But... Robert said ...'

'Well, of course I told them that,' Georgiana explained. 'I thought he'd be certain to send me away, then. I didn't realize he'd come himself. The nasty brute.'

'But... didn't they have a midwife to you?'

'Of course not. Robert wouldn't hear of it.'

'And the boy was hanged. After being castrated.'

'Oh, it was tremendous,' she cried. 'I watched, from the bedroom window. It made me feel all soft inside.'

'Soft?' he cried. 'He'd done nothing.'

She pouted. 'Don't sound so outraged. You're carrying on as if he'd been a white man.'

'By Christ,' Matt said. 'I don't believe you. I can't. You just don't do something like that. What difference does the colour of his skin make? He was human, wasn't lie?'

'He'd let me touch him,' Georgiana pointed out, coldly. She got off the bed and walked about the room. 'He shouldn't have let me do that. Even Peter the head man said that.'

'And suppose he hadn't let you touch him?' Matt demanded.

'I'd have had him flogged, of course. But that would have been better than being hanged, for him.'

Matt scratched his head. 'Anyone would think we were still living a hundred years ago, with Kit the buccaneer. This is 1780, Georgiana. You can't just have someone flogged or hanged because it happens to suit you. Can you?'

'I wasn't talking about anyone,' she pointed out. 'I was talking about a nigger slave. Anyway, I didn't come in here to talk about him. Matt, marry me.'

'Eh?' He hugged the pillow tighter.

'I thought about it all the way across. Of course I wanted to wait until I saw you again to make up my mind, to see if perhaps you'd gone all ugly or fat or something. But you haven't. Why, you're handsome, I think. And I know you. And you know me. We understand each other. And you see, Robert is so determined to marry me off, he's going to land me with someone like Dirk. Imagine, poor Sue having to lie with that great hulk of a man, and he's old enough to be her father in any event, just because he and Robert were friends as boys? How do I know what awful people in England Robert was friends with as a boy? The whole thing just terrifies me.'

'I'll talk to Robert,' Matt said. ‘I’ll find out who he has in mind, But of course I can't marry you. We're ...'

'We're not related at all,' she shouted. 'So my grandfather was the son of Kit and Marguerite Hilton, and yours was the son of Kit and Lilian. That was sixty years ago. So the two halves of the family chose to stay close together, mine taking Hilltop and yours Green Grove. That was economics, not blood. They had the sense to realize that keeping all the Hilton money together was better than splitting it up. And now that you're going to inherit the lot it makes more sense than ever. And don't you see, you'd be doing what everyone always wanted? Keeping it all, the money and the power and the name and even the blood, in one place. Look.' She lifted the nightdress over her shoulders and threw it on the floor. 'Aren't I lovely?'

He supposed she was. He thought of silk. Pale flesh which shone at him, although even her shoulders were speckled with the light brown freckles; white breasts, surprisingly large for so young a woman, criss-crossed with blue veins which seemed hardly below the surface at all; silky belly hair which dominated the spreading thighs; slender legs which scarcely looked capable of supporting the splendour above. It occurred to him that he had never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.

And then it occurred to him that not even this could compare with Gislane. Surely.

Her smile was fading, and frown lines were gathering between her eyebrows. 'Don't you like me, Matt? Don't you think I'm beautiful? Even Robert thinks I'm beautiful. That's why he likes to whip me. For being beautiful.' She turned round, and at last he looked at the red lines on her buttocks. 'You could beat me, Matt. I wouldn't mind. In fact, I'd rather enjoy it. I like being beaten, even by Robert. "What's that?'

There was no mistaking Robert's bellow, echoing upwards through the house, and coming closer. 'Matt. Matt. Still in bed, by God. Up boy. Up.'

'Oh, God.' Georgiana gathered her nightdress into her arms, glanced around the room, and then dropped to her hands and knees and crawled beneath the bed. Matt hastily got out of it, and began to search for his clothes.

The door burst open. 'There you are,' Robert bawled. 'Barton's here. You've met Barton?'

Matt nodded. John Barton was the Hiltons' London agent.

'Must have happened just after we left,' Robert declared. 'We had a bit of a gale a week out. There's been a hurricane. No one has ever experienced anything like it before. Half the ships in Kingston Harbour are wrecked. Martinique is all but destroyed, they say. Well, the frogs deserve it. But Hilltop has been hit too. I must take ship this week.'

'But you've only just arrived.'

'No matter. No matter. That fool Ridding will have no idea how to cope. I must get back. This was a senseless venture anyway. I should have sent that whore to a convent. That's what I'll do. I'll send her to a convent. But you, boy, I want you married. Or at least bedded. I'll have no backsliders in my family.'

'But...'

'So get dressed, boy. Get dressed. You love the girl. You write her letters. I'll go see her for myself.' 'But...'

'Close the door on a Hilton, would they? By God, we'll see about that. We'll take Georgiana, by God. Where is that girl? Sulking, I'll wager.' He stamped out of the room.

For their assault on the Nicholson home, Robert elected to use the carriage, although they would do no more than cross Hyde Park. 'We'll let them know who we are,' he growled. 'Ignorant savages, by God. The name should have been enough.'

He sat with his back to the driver, and stared at Matt and Georgiana, while Matt felt his nervousness becoming a heavy lump in his belly. It was not merely the excitement of actually going to call on Gislane, and apprehension at what might happen if Robert was also turned away at the door. It was the simmering silence of Georgiana beside him. She had escaped from his room immediately Robert had left, without a word. And she had spoken not a word since making her official reappearance, dressed in her favourite pink silk gown with a matching bonnet. He did not know a great deal about women, and he had come to the conclusion that he really did not know anything about his cousin at all, but it occurred to him that she was angry; no doubt she felt that he could have stopped her proposal at once by telling her his heart was elsewhere engaged. Now he could almost hear her breathe, and her freckles were lost in the pink which suffused her cheeks.

'So now, boy,' Robert said. 'Tell me how it came about. You met her at a cricket match, you say? Down in that beastly place, Dorking?'

'Yes, sir. I was fortunate enough to score some runs.'

'Ah. And the spectators came crowding round to shake your hand and buy you beer, as usual. Aha. And this girl was amongst them? By herself, by God?'

'Of course not, sir. She was with her foster parents. They are old friends of the vicar. And she was good enough to smile at me and congratulate me, as were they.'

'And you fell in love on the strength of that meeting?'

Matt felt his cheeks burning. He dared not look at Georgiana. 'I couldn't get her out of my mind, sir. So I wrote her a letter, saying how much I had liked meeting her, and asking if I could call.'

'And?'

'I received a reply, saying that she would very much enjoy receiving me. So I paid a visit to her house, and was turned away at the door.'

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

'Did you not then break down the door?' Georgiana inquired, looking out of the window.

'Well, I ... I did not wish to cause a disturbance. I returned home, and wrote her again, asking if I had in some way offended her, and to this there was no reply. I thought perhaps my letter had gone astray, and so I wrote a third time, and again there was no reply. So I concluded that she had regretted inviting me in the first place.'

'Which made you love her the more,' Robert declared with some satisfaction. 'She could not have understood who you were. We'll soon change her tune, boy. And if she is as handsome as you claim, we'll have her as a Hilton, eh? We could do with some fresh blood, by God. Eh, Georgiana?'

Georgiana merely sniffed, and continued to stare out of the window. The coach was slowing before a small house situated on the lane bordering the park. 'I think this will be the place, Mr. Hilton,' the driver said.

'You'll wait,' Robert said, and thrust open the door. He did not wait for either Matt or Georgiana, but marched up the steps and dragged on the bell. Matt attempted to hand Georgiana down, but she avoided his arm and followed her stepbrother. Matt brought up the rear, the leaden pit in his belly growing with every second. Yet he did so badly wish to see Gislane again, even if it involved a fracas.

The door was opening, and a maidservant curtseyed. 'Your business, sir?'

'My business,' Robert bellowed. 'Why, I have come to call on your employers, child.'

'Do they expect you, sir?' she asked, squinting as if to indicate that it was still a trifle early in the morning for social calls.

'Of course they are not expecting me,' Robert shouted. 'Tell them that Mr. Robert Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica, has come to call.'

'Mr. Hilton? Oh, dear.' The girl glanced past Robert to Georgiana and then Matt. 'Oh, dear, I am afraid Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson are not at home, sir.'

‘Not at home? Not at home? By God. Stand aside, girl. I'll have no more subterfuge here. Where should they be, by God, if they are not at home of a morning?'

'Sir...'

Robert placed his hand in the middle of her apron and removed her from in front of him.

'I beg of you, sir,' Matt said. 'There is no cause for violence.'

'Nor will there be,' Robert agreed, and stepped inside, Georgiana at his shoulder. 'You'll be Nicholson?'

The man, grey-haired and thin, but with a weather-beaten complexion and a pronounced stoop to his shoulders, was just emerging from the door of the study. 'I am, sir,' he said, quietly enough. 'May I inquire the meaning of this outrage? You'd best ask Mr. Gray to attend me, Betty. And tell him to bring a couple of his apprentices.'

'Ah, bah,' Robert said. 'Remain here, girl, and save your master an embarrassment. My name is Robert Hilton, sir.'

‘I heard you announce yourself, sir,' Nicholson replied. ‘I assume you are a relative of that young man. Well, sir, he is not welcome in this house.'

'My dear sir,' Robert said, with remarkably good humour. 'Clearly you are labouring under a misapprehension. This young man, as you suppose, is my cousin. But more than that, he is my heir. So you met him while he resided at the vicarage in Dorking, and no doubt supposed he was penniless. But I am Hilton of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica, and of Plantation Green Grove in Antigua. And judging by your colour you are not unfamiliar with those places.'

'I am well aware who you are, Mr. Hilton,' Nicholson said, 'and I must repeat...'

'Geoffrey? What is the matter?'

The woman who appeared at the head of the stairs was small and grey-haired, her face lined with anxiety as much as with age. Robert Hilton's gaze encompassed her for only a moment, before passing on to the girl at her side, while Georgiana snapped her fan shut with an expression of anger, and Matt started forward to stand beside his cousin. Gislane Nicholson was even more beautiful than his memory of her, a tall slender girl with magnificent midnight hair, long and straight, reaching almost to the middle of her back, quite undressed save for a parting in the centre of her scalp. Yet the hair, splendid as it was, was no more than a part of the whole picture which was her face. Her forehead was high, her nose a trifle small, with nostrils which flared as she breathed, her mouth wide and flat, her chin smoothly rounded. Her neck was long, and like the rest of her complexion absolutely white, without a blemish of any sort. Her gown was a simple blue which swept the floor, and effectively disguised every fact about her body save that it was slender and that she possessed long legs, but it was sacrilege to suppose a face so perfect could possibly belong to anything less than a perfect body, and although she looked calm and undistressed by the commotion downstairs, her eyes, black as her hair and wide-set, moved from one to the other of the three invaders, stopping when they reached Matt, and allowing her mouth the faintest elongation which might just have been a smile, before her expression once again faded into impassivity.

'By God.' Robert Hilton at last removed his hat. 'Your servant, Mrs. Nicholson. And this will be Gislane? By God, sir. My cousin has fallen in love it seems, madam, and before this minute I had doubted his judgement was mature enough to be respected.'

'You are not welcome here, sir,' Mrs. Nicholson said.

'So your husband has been informing me, madam. But that was before he understood my identity.'

'And now you are less welcome than before, Mr. Hilton,' Nicholson said. 'I must ask you to leave, or I will not hesitate to bring an action against you for trespass.'

Matt glanced at Georgiana; he could not believe that Robert still kept his temper. But Georgiana was staring at Gislane, her brows tight with anger.

And still Robert smiled. 'Am I then such an ogre, Mr. Nicholson? I assure you, sir, that such is not the case. In any event, should you call out His Majesty's Life Guards, I shall not leave this house until I have been introduced to the young lady. My name is Robert Hilton, Miss Nicholson, and I am honoured to make your acquaintance.'

Gislane looked at her foster mother, who gave a quick nod. The girl came down the stairs, slowly, her left hand holding her skirt free of the steps.

'You flatter me, sir.' She held out her right hand with an almost regal gesture. Her voice was soft, but she pronounced each word very clearly.

Robert took the hand, gazed at it for a moment, and then kissed the knuckles. 'And do you share your parents' distaste for my name?'

Colour flared in the pale cheeks, but Nicholson came to her rescue. 'My foster daughter has little knowledge of the world, Mr. Hilton. Whereas I have a great deal, and some of it was gained in those West Indies which are the source of your fortune. I am sure Mr. Hilton there is a pleasant and personable young man who would make Gislane an excellent husband, were he otherwise employed. But he is the son of a planter, sir, and the heir to another, as you have just declared. He is a slave owner, sir, and is shortly to become a slave driver, which to me is the same as being a slave torturer and a slave murderer. The wife of such a man must either leave him or subscribe to his brutality. I would neither wish to see any young woman under my protection suffer a broken marriage nor find herself turning into a second Messalina.'

He paused for breath, and Matt felt Georgiana's hand on his arm as they both waited for Robert's outburst of anger. But Matt could not stop looking at Gislane, and now she returned his gaze, a suggestion of real distress in her eyes.

And Robert continued to smile, although his red face had deepened to purple. 'As you say, Mr. Nicholson, it does seem as though our differences are irreconcilable. My cousin will no doubt find a more willing receptacle for his heart, in the course of time. My apologies, sir, for bursting in on you with so little ceremony. My apologies, madam, for disturbing you. Miss Gislane, it has been a pleasure, which I trust for your sake will never be repeated. You'll excuse us.'

He turned for the door, and Georgiana turned with him. Matt hesitated, once again glancing towards the girl, but this time her face was closed. He gained the fresh air, passing an utterly bewildered Betty, but her amazement at the scene she had just witnessed was no greater than his.

The carriage door stood open, and Georgiana was climbing in. 'Come on, come on,' Robert said, irritably but still speaking in a lower tone than was usual with him. 'The morning has been wasted, and I have been made too much of a fool of already.'

Matt sat down, the door closed, and a moment later the carriage rumbled away from the door. 'I do not understand.'

'Faith, Robert,' Georgiana remarked. 'I hope you are not about to have a fit. How you managed to keep your tongue before such insolence ...'

'Insolence,' Robert said, the old familiar growl returning to his voice. 'I know that puling upstart now. Geoffrey Nicholson, by God. I'd not distress you unduly, Matt. I was in love myself, once. But you may take my word that you are fortunate I was present to prevent any misfortune overtaking you.'

'I do not understand you, sir,' Matt said coldly. 'I do not see how any man of spirit could have reacted otherwise to our invading his home.'

'Aye, he is a man of spirit,' Robert agreed. 'I'll grant you that.'

'And Miss Gislane is a girl of rare beauty and charm, would you grant me that?'

'Beauty, certainly. And beauty usually creates charm, at least in the mind of the admirer.'

'Well, then, you'll appreciate my regret at the whole incident. I must now start from the very beginning again in my attempts to convince both Miss Nicholson and her parents that I am not the ogre they consider me.'

'You'll do no such thing,' Robert shouted.

'I at least, sir, will have no wife chosen for me merely because she commands wealth or position or happens to be the heiress to a sugar plantation,' Matt declared. 'I will marry for love, sir.'

'Then go and find someone worthy of your love.'

'Sir? In what possible way can Gislane be unworthy of my love?'

Robert gave a short laugh. 'For at least one very good reason, boy. The girl is a nigger.'

CHAPTER THREE

THE LOVERS

'You seek to provoke me, I think,' Matt declared. 'But you'll have to try harder. The conception is utterly ridiculous.'

Robert glanced at Georgiana. 'You saw her.'

Georgiana nodded.

'And what would you say?'

'She is too white.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' Matt shouted. 'Do you think in six years I have forgotten what a Negro looks like?'

‘I think you never knew just what constitutes a nigger,' Robert said. ' 'Tis any person of black blood. Your charmer Gislane may be high yellow, but she is yellow just the same. I would estimate she is a mustee. Do you know what that is?'

'I really am not interested,' Matt insisted.

'You'll listen none the less. When a white man and a Negress spawn, the offspring is called a mulatto. Am I right?'

'Hark at him,' Georgiana said. 'Why should it not be a white woman and a Negro?'

'Hold your tongue, you impudent harlot,' Robert shouted. 'The thought is impossible, except in your diseased brain. Now then. Matt, when that mulatto, supposing it is a girl breeds by a white man, we have a quadroon, eh? And when that quadroon girl breeds by a white we have an octoroon. And when that octoroon is brought to her bed, we have a mustee. That is to say, the girl is probably one-sixteenth black blood.'

'You think Nicholson is actually her father, by an octoroon woman?' Georgiana asked.

"Very likely he is. But that is irrelevant. The law says that any one of those combinations I have mentioned, supposing the mother is a slave, is born a slave, and remains one until she is manumitted. It is not until we arrive at the child of a mustee and a white, that is a mustifino, that the child is legally born free, whatever the status of her parents.'

'Oh, what rubbish you do talk,' Matt said. 'And now you have given your foul insinuations the lie from your own mouth. Did Gislane look like a slave to you? Have you ever seen a slave could meet your eye with such perfect composure? Did Mrs. Nicholson treat her like a slave? Even supposing there is the smallest fraction of truth in your insinuation, she is at the very worst a mustifino.'

'I am trying to be reasonable about this, boy,' Robert announced. 'Because she appears free here in London is of no consequence - that law I was speaking of is a West Indian matter. If you paid more attention to what was happening in the world around you, and less to your little bits of wood, you'd know that there is a body of misinformed and misdirected opinion in this useless country which is opposed to the very idea of slavery. Do you know who inspires it? That lunatic Granville Sharpe. God save me from the sons of the clergy. At least their fathers read the Bible and understand that certain things are ordained by God. But Sharpe has created so much agitation that at last he has won the point that slavery and English freedom are incompatible, and that other lunatic Mansfield, how he ever got to be Chief Justice is a total mystery to me, gave a judgement a few years back that any slave becomes free the moment he sets foot on English soil. What was the nigger's name?'

'Somerset,' Georgiana said. 'James Somerset.'

'There was the blackguard. Can there ever have been more open invitation to absconders? The only saving grace is that they have to find some other blackguard to carry them across three thousand miles of open water in the first place, and few of them can command such a price. But the fact remains that whatever the combination of colour in her veins, this Gislane Nicholson is free merely by living in England. By God, we'd soon have her on her back were she to set foot in Jamaica.'

'Sir, you nauseate me,' Matt said. 'In fact, I am one with the Nicholsons on that. And with Mr. Sharpe. The very concept that a girl like Gislane could be made into a ... a whore because of the colour of her skin makes me wish to vomit. I refuse to consider the matter further. She is very obviously as white as any of us, and will remain so until she is proved otherwise, at least in my eyes.'

The carriage had arrived at the house, and he got down without giving Robert time to reply. Richards the butler held the great door ajar, and Matt threw his hat and cane in the corner. But Robert was immediately behind him.

'You'll listen to me, by God,' he declared. 'I am not finished yet. In here.' He stamped into the withdrawing-room, and Matt, after a moment's hesitation and a glance at Georgiana, who stuck out her tongue at him, followed. It really made no sense to quarrel with Robert.

'Proof, you say,' Robert declared, taking up his stance before the empty grate. 'Again, sir, your years in England have taught you to be less observant than you should. Tell me this, sir. Have you ever kissed the lady's hand?'

'Why, no,' Matt said. 'It did not seem appropriate on the one occasion we met before.'

'Well, I suggest that should you, by any mischance, meet her again, you do so. And as you bend your head, study her fingernails.'

'Oh, really, Robert, what am I to tell from that?'

'Well, sir, study your own. Observe the colour. Rest them on that table, sir. You will discover pinkness close to the white edge, and pinkness close to the cuticle, while the centre of the nail, unless pressed on the table, will be almost white. Now sir, with your Gislane, the pigmentation is altogether darker, especially close to the cuticle. You will find it very nearly purple.'

'And that is proof of colour? Rather is it proof that she has somewhat richer blood in her veins than I.'

'Scoff if you like. It is based upon years of observation of the Negro. I could add to that the unnatural whiteness of her skin. No doubt you will argue that but proves she is altogether more delicate than you or I, or Georgiana here. But can you argue against her hair? Surely you have observed that, boy. It is one of her most striking features. And when first you met the girl, as I recall, it was on a cricket field, when surely there was a slight breeze blowing. Now I have but to go poof...' and he did so, 'to set Georgiana's wisps trembling. But did even a fair breeze disturb your Gislane's hair? Does it not strike you as being of an altogether different texture to yours or mine? Each strand of it, you would find were you to examine it closer, is somewhat thicker man ours, and tends to stay against its neighbour. There again is the mark of colour.'

'Oh, what nonsense,' Matt said, but he could not stop himself frowning. The unnatural neatness of Gislane's hair had struck him from the first; he had put it down as resulting from the unnatural calm of her character.

'Then what ails you, boy?'

'Robert, I am sorry I lost my temper. I understand that you consider you are doing the best for me in attempting to turn me against Gislane. And who knows, you may very well be right, and she has some West African prince as a distant ancestor. Where you are wrong is in supposing that it matters to me one jot. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She is the most desirable creature I have ever seen. I love her with every part of my body. I shall always love her. Sometimes I feel that I have always loved her. I shall pursue and many her, no matter what it costs.'

Robert stared at him. 'You will do no such thing, sir, if you wish to remain my heir.'

'But even if she is a mustee, as you claim, it lies within our power to set her free, and remove the taint of slavery forever. In any event, you yourself have pointed out that her children will be free, no matter who the father, providing he is white.'

'God give me patience,' Robert shouted, making the chandelier tremble. 'That I should be crippled by such a fool in my family. Do you suppose I care aught for her being a slave or a free woman? It is her colour I care about, boy. Her colour. White people do not marry niggers if they wish to retain their position in the community, and you are a Hilton. By Christ, boy, what do you suppose Great-aunt Rebecca would say? She's past a hundred. She's Kit's own daughter, and she has more than a little of Meg Warner in her. You'd likely drive her to her grave.'

'I doubt that, sir. And if as you say she is past a hundred, then no doubt she will soon be in her grave in any event.'

'Matt,' Georgiana protested. 'That were an unkind thing to say.'

'Then I am sorry for it. But I cannot obstruct my own life with others' considerations. And now you have finally destroyed your own argument, Robert. So we are Hiltons. We are also descended from the Warners, are we not, and is that not the name we hold most proud? As we are Meg Warner's great-grandchildren, so are we old Sir Thomas's descendants. Was there a greater man in all the history of the West Indies? Would we be there at all, enjoying this wealth and this power of which you are so proud, had he not dared to plant the first English colony in St. Kitts? And how did he do that, pray tell me? By the love of the Princess Yarico. By his love for her, and hers for him. Now then, where would wc be if some cousin of his had held up his hand and said no, no, Tom Warner, put that woman aside, she is an Indian. And by God there was no question of sixteenths and thirty-seconds there. She was a pure-blooded Carib.'

'Aye,' Robert said. 'So she was. But he at the least had the good sense not to marry her, but to keep her solely for the comfort of his bed. And that were disastrous enough. If you know so much about the family history you'll recall some of the blood that was spilt, some of the enmity that was created, some of the ruin that was brought upon us before the last of that hellish spawn was put in his grave. If there was no stigma attached to colour at all, that one experience should be sufficient to put any Warner, or any Hilton, from the idea of ever tainting his family's blood again. No, no, Matt. As your elder I command you, as your friend I ask you, and in the name of your unborn descendants I beg you, forget this girl. Let her go her own way to damnation. You have more to do with your life than waste it in miscegenation.'

'My God.' Georgiana slowly lowered the handkerchief she had been waving, as the carriage disappeared from sight round the corner of the street. 'There goes the bane of my existence. I feel as if I have just been released from prison.'

Matt had been waving his hat. Now he replaced it on his head. 'You'll get no peculiar ideas, young lady. You'll not forget that you have been left in my care. And to say truth, this is a responsibility I'd have done better without.'

Georgiana pouted at him, and led the way back into the house. ‘I think the conception is admirable. Are you going to whip me every day?'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'But Robert insisted upon it.'

'Robert left you in my care, at the least until term starts...'

'There is another matter I'd discuss,' Georgiana interrupted. 'You cannot really mean to leave me at the mercy of Mrs. Partridge. Why you might as well shut me up in that convent he was prating about.'

'Mrs. Partridge is a good and honest woman, recommended by the vicar himself, and will keep you from mischief. But as I was saying, as Robert has left our affairs in my care, so he must trust my judgement. And it is my opinion that the sole cause of your misfortune, and the sad decline I have observed in your character, is due to your having grown up on Hilltop, as you yourself have said, with naught but blacks for company, with naught but your own will to be observed.'

'My God,' she said again. 'You have spent too long with your parson friend, dear Matthew. You could almost be standing in a pulpit. Well?'

This last was addressed to Richards, who hovered anxiously.

'Luncheon is served, Mr. Hilton.'

They sat opposite each other, at each end of the long table, their voices echoing in the empty vastness of the panelled dining-room. They ate apple tarts and roast dumplings, carved at a leg of mutton and a ham of pork, while Richards himself served them mugs of ale and goblets of claret.

'I think,' Georgiana said, 'that I will take a stroll after luncheon. It is the only time of the day which even approximates a Jamaican evening.'

'You'll do no such thing,' Matt declared. 'A young lady does not go strolling by herself. You want to remember that the people you will meet here are not your slaves. I suppose you could take one of the maids.'

'I have not the least intention of taking one of the maids,' she declared. 'Whatever would we talk about? Why don't you escort me, Matthew dear? If you are to play my gaoler, should you not keep me constantly in your sight? I expect you to move into my bedroom. The bed is big enough.'

'Then you had better retire there,' he said tartly. 'If you will not walk with a maid, you'll not walk at all. I am to Mr. Broughton's establishment to train.'

'The boxing place? Oh, Matt, darling ...' she sprang up from her seat and ran round the table, to throw both her arms about his neck before he could defend himself. 'Let me come with you? I should so love to watch all those handsome men ... is it true they strip to their breeches, or less?'

'To your room, wretched girl,' he shouted, doing his best to imitate Robert's tone. 'In this country women know their place, and ladies know theirs better than anyone. At least try to act the part.'

But in fact, he reflected sorrowfully, as John Broughton for the third time gently poked him on the nose with a long left hand, he might as well have gone walking with his cousin, for all the concentrating he was able to do. For all the concentration he had mustered in the entire Week since Robert's visit to the Nicholsons.

'Enough for today.' Broughton dropped his fists and stripped off the light gloves he wore for sparring, intended more to save his knuckles from splitting than his opponent's face. 'If you are that disinterested, Mr. Ffilton, I could well do you a serious injury.' But he smiled as he spoke, and robbed the words of their sting. John Broughton was a strikingly handsome man, not tall but with features which could easily have been inherited from some Greek hero, for all the years during which he had dominated the English prize ring, and with a body as hard-muscled and trim as when he had been in his prime.

Matt picked up his towel, sat on the bench which ran round the whole room, while all the other gentlemen who were sparring or lifting weights or conversing in the heated atmosphere of sweaty endeavour, which was inescapable in the gymnasium, paused in their activities in the hopes that they might be the next one selected for personal lessons by the great man. Now this was where he should have brought Robert, it occurred to Matt. This would have taught him what an Englishman really thinks of wealth and position; for in the room at that moment there was an earl and several other members of the lesser nobility, all waiting the pleasure of a onetime stable boy whose only talent was his artistry with his fists.

'You're not ill, Matt?' Broughton spoke softly, as he addressed few of his clients by their first names.

‘I suppose I never felt better in my life.' Matt pulled on his shirt.

'And I have heard how but a week gone you trounced Dick Nyren's men to the tune of forty-seven runs, and were not out at the end of it. Well, then, surely it is not debts? I am told you could call all the riches of the West Indies to your assistance, if need be? But if I can help you...'

Matt clapped his friend on the shoulder. 'No debts. And I suppose I can call all the riches of the West Indies to my aid, if my need is great enough. And if I do as my family sees fit.'

'Ah.' Broughton sat on the bench beside him. 'A young lady, of whom your father disapproves. I had forgot, your father is dead. Your guardian, then.'

Matt nodded.

Broughton pulled his nose. 'Mr. Robert Hilton, of course. He just paid a brief visit to our town. If the tales one hears have the very least accuracy, that is a sizeable fortune you stand to inherit. I can sympathize with your reluctance to forego it.'

'Yet you suppose I shall?'

Broughton smiled. ‘I but considered the matter from my own point of view. As my fortune has ever lain entirely in my fists rather than my pockets, the choice has really never entered my experience. So beware of my advice, Matt. You will undoubtedly regret taking it.'

'I would hear it, none the less, John.'

'Ah, well, in my opinion there can be no money in the world to be compared with pursuing, and gaining, the love of a beautiful woman. She is beautiful, this charmer of yours?'

The most marvellous creature you ever saw, John. But surely, by the same token, there can be no misery in the world compared with pursuing a beautiful woman, and failing to gain her love.'

'Were that a deterrent, our species had died out long ago, Matt. What, will you be frightened by a frown? No woman was ever pursued and not captured, unless she already belongs to another, and even that is not always an insurmountable obstacle. But your charmer is not married?'

'Good heavens no.'

'Neither is she betrothed?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'Yet, if she is as beautiful as you say, the event cannot be long delayed. Every moment you waste sitting here and talking to me increases the danger.'

Matt dragged on his coat, and hesitated once again. 'Forgive me, dear friend, and I do mean to take your advice, cost me what it may. But supposing it does lose me my patrimony, to what should I turn to support my bride? My fists?'

Broughton shook his head. 'They would suffice, Matt. I have no doubt at all. You are quick, when you care to concentrate, and you hit uncommonly hard. Yet however quick you are, you will slow down, soon enough, and then someone will hit you harder yet. Prize fighting is a fool's game, and I am the fortunate exception that proves the rule. Nor would I even recommend cricket, unless you can combine it with a post on say, Dorset's estates as gamekeeper, and that were scarce a position for a gentleman born. No, no, Matt. I would say that you are worrying needlessly. Many a man has thrown away his most treasured possession because he wished first to consider how he might retain it. Possession first, ways and means after, is a very good rule for life, supposing it is the only time we are going to sojourn upon this earth. Your cousin, from all accounts, is a hot-tempered fellow, given to causing offence in every direction, and as soon given to slapping his erstwhile enemy on the back and calling him friend. How much more likely will he be to forgive his own heir. Of course he will speak against you contracting what he considers an unsuitable match. But when he is forced to weigh the lady against losing you, why, I wager he will sing a different tune.'

'By heaven,' Matt said. 'But you are right, you know. Why, throughout my life Robert has been ranting at me for some imagined offence, yet my allowance never fails to arrive, and despite all my past misdemeanours he has yet named me as his heir. And he himself was taken with Gislane, even if he thought her unworthy to be a Hilton. John...' he seized the boxer's hands. 'You have given me the best advice in all the world.'

'I only hope you agree with that in ten years' time, Matt.'

'I shall not hold you to task, there's my word.' Matt put on his beaver, then checked again, frowning. 'And still I am not done asking. You have told me how to cope with my family's objections. But what of hers? They like me as little as Robert likes them.'

'A regular Capulet and Montague business,' Broughton remarked. ‘I imagine your attitude to the young lady's parents must depend upon her. But there is a place called Gretna, only three days from London, if you hurry.'

'By heaven,' Matt cried. 'Gretna. There's the answer.' His face fell again. 'How we do build castles in the air. I've naught but my dreams to suggest she will even wish to smile at me.'

'There is your first hurdle,' Broughton agreed. 'You have but to remember that, after surmounting this one, the rest are as nothing. I'll not expect you back in the gymnasium for a while, Matt, And I'll wish you luck again.'

'And I will thank you again, dear friend,' Matt said, and squeezed the boxer's battered fists for the last time. Yet Broughton had inspired him with such confidence, such a delight in the immediate future, that he did not doubt he would soon be back, and triumphant. That evening, as the days were still bright until nearly eight of the clock, he took Georgiana walking in the park, to her evident delight.

'Because I quite fail to see how you are going to marry me off without showing me off,' she explained. 'On the ship as we crossed the ocean, Robert spoke of balls and receptions in my honour, at which time all the young bloods in the land, or at least those of any pretensions, would have the opportunity to dance with me and fall in love with me.'

'I doubt that I would know how to go about that,' Matt confessed. 'But Robert did mention the matter to His Grace of Dorset, and we have been promised an invitation to coffee...'

'Oh, for God's sake, Matt. Coffee?'

' 'Tis all the rage. Why do you imagine they set so high a store by our sugar? Coffee at the Sackvilles will be like a reception at Court, only you will meet more interesting people. Believe me, you have but to be patient.'

She sighed, and tucked her arm through his. 'Oh, I am used to patience. I cannot help but suppose, however, how much simpler life would be were you to take my hand yourself.'

'I have explained ...'

'And I have explained that that is utter nonsense. I suspect it is because of that nigger girl.'

'The next time I hear you use that expression about Gislane I shall most certainly whip you.'

'Then I shall use it all the time. Nigger girl. Nigger girl. Nigger girl.'

'On second thoughts,' Matt decided, 'I shall not whip you. I shall merely decline His Grace's invitation.'

'Oh, you wretch.' But she was frowning, as they had reached his destination, 'and twice wretch, you horrid man. Is that not her house?'

For as he had hoped, from a little tree-shrouded rise in the park they looked across at the small houses on the far side of the lane. 'Why, so it is.' He glanced at her, and was surprised at the expression on her face. For just a moment it was almost hard; for that brief second she truly looked like Robert Hilton's sister.

But he was not disposed to concern himself with Georgiana's expressions, only her presence. And that problem was easily solved. He pointed out that her clothes, while very pretty, were not really suitable for a reception at the Duke of Dorset's, and even less suitable for the winter which would soon be upon them. He found her a good seamstress in the city, and dispatched her there every day to be measured and fitted, an occupation which delighted her, while he reflected that if it was Hilton money he was squandering, then it was due to be his own in the not too distant future, and therefore he was impoverishing no one but himself.

His own days, he announced, would be spent in studying, for Robert was undoubtedly right; he had been neglecting the academic side of his education in the pursuit of cricket and boxing, and the university term was soon due to recommence. He would retire to his room until Georgiana had left the house, and then himself make his departure by the side gate, cross the park, and take up his position in the little copse from whence he could overlook the Nicholson household, returning home only to lunch, and to spend the afternoon either driving with Georgiana in the phaeton, if it was fine, or playing chess if it was not; she had recently learned the moves, and he had once met the composer Philidor, who had visited Oxford to display his enormous skill at the game blindfold. Once a week he took her to the play, where she attracted a good deal of attention, and soon flowers and notes began appearing at the house, all of which pleased her enormously and removed her interest entirely from his affairs, as he steadfastly refused to be drawn into her bedchamber, or to allow her into his, or to take up the thousand and one little offers and flirtations she threw out during each day.

He lived for the mornings, and in fact it took him just a fortnight to establish the daily routine of the Nicholson family, which indeed was utterly simple, for they drove only once a week, and then in a hired gig which suggested they were not very wealthy; the same gig took Mrs. Nicholson and Gislane to the market twice a week, and the entire family took a walk in the afternoons. Discreet inquiries revealed that they never went to the theatre, and that he was not the only gentleman caller to be discouraged. "Which he found extremely encouraging.

And on the second Tuesday, to his delight, Gislane emerged without her stepmother and accompanied only by a serving maid, who remained a discreet distance behind her. She wore a dark green pelisse and a matching bonnet and carried a parasol, crossed the road, and walked a short distance into the park, passing within twenty feet of his trees, while he found himself quite unable to move, and cursed himself for a total coward.

He observed that she never actually left the sight of her maid, and that it was a very short walk indeed. But clearly it provided his best opportunity for approaching her. The following week he was at his post again, and on the Tuesday morning Gislane once again emerged, crossed the lane, and walked slowly along the path beneath him. He straightened his cravat, slapped his leg with his cane, and stepped from amongst the trees, raising his hat before she even noticed him. 'Why, Miss Nicholson. What a pleasant surprise.'

She glanced at him, stopped walking and looked again, and half smiled while she flushed at the same time. The rush of colour into her cheeks made her twice as lovely as before, and he nearly dropped his hat.

'Mr. Hilton. How nice to meet you.' She made a gesture with her parasol, no doubt to tell her companion to remain out of earshot.

He stood beside her. 'I ... I had doubted whether you would wish to see me at all, after my cousin's rude invasion of your home.'

'On the contrary.' She resumed her walk. 'My parents were at least as forthright as your cousin.'

Matt remained at her side. 'Our wishes were not allowed to enter into the situation at all. Or at least, mine.'

She would not look at him, but the pink remained in her cheeks. 'You flatter me, sir. I really would like to apologize for first of all accepting your kind wish to call upon me, and then closing the door in your face. But you see, when I met you, and when I received your first letter, I had no idea who you were.'

'And when you received my other letters? Or did you receive them?' 'I still possess them, Mr. Hilton.'

'But then you knew who I was, and that puts me forever beyond the hope of being even your friend?'

She stopped, and he realized with a wildly pounding heart that she had navigated them down a side path and behind some trees so that she was completely out of sight of the lane; and the serving girl had also been left behind.

'Believe me, Mr. Hilton, I would welcome you as a friend, were it possible, but there are circumstances which render any conversation between us quite impossible. I am only grateful for this opportunity to meet you again, and to assure you that my reasons are by no means personal, but alas are derived from sources beyond both our controls.' She held out her hand. 'I pray you not to think too unkindly of me, Mr. Hilton. But it would be best for you to forget me.'

He took the hand, gazed into her face. Now, he told himself. It must be now, or you will be damned forever as a coward. Worse, you will have lost her forever. 'May I say that I know the reason you mention, Miss Nicholson?'

She frowned at him. 'You cannot.'

'And I would prefer not even to consider it. I did not, in fact, consider it, until it was brought to my notice by my cousin. Then I but loved you the more.'

Still she frowned, but now she half smiled as well, presenting an utterly delightful picture of irresolution. 'That could be sheer perversity.'

'It could also be love.'

'Sir, I must ask you...'

'Please.' She had given the faintest tug on her hand, but he would not let it go. 'It seems I must be bold, Gislane, else the combination of your parents and my cousin will separate us forever. I swear I care nothing for your background or your forbears. I care nothing for the prejudices of others. I care only for you. I have thought of nothing and no one but you since the moment of our first meeting. If that is not love it is most certainly devotion, would you not say?'

She had regained possession of herself, and now looked down at her imprisoned hand, but made no further attempt to withdraw it. 'It is most certainly gallantry, Mr. Hilton. And I would have expected nothing less from a man such as you. But I am not sure that I can permit you to offend your family by talking with me.'

'My family need know nothing of it,' he assured her. 'Nor would I care if they did. And does not gallantry deserve a certain reward?'

Now the frown had quite disappeared, and the smile had widened. 'May I consider the matter?'

'Then you will meet me again?'

She allowed herself the slightest hesitation, and then nodded, and in the same moment, his grip having relaxed, withdrew her hand. 'I will walk in the park again on Thursday morning, Mr. Hilton.'

And indeed he was happy to have the opportunity to enjoy his delight, to rethink his approach, to anticipate what might develop from her obvious pleasure in his company. But thought was difficult. Any emotion save for sheer joy was difficult. He burst into whistling over dinner, and Georgiana raised her eyebrows. But surprisingly, for that evening, she made no advances, and preferred to discuss her gowns, and the invitation to the Duke's which had just arrived, and was for a week on Saturday morning. As if the Duke mattered, or Saturday week. It came after Thursday, and there was all the importance in the world.

This time he allowed her quite to disappear into the copse which would hide them from her home, before he followed. He had to pass the maid, and raised his hat to her, to her evident delight, before gaining Gislane's side. 'I have not slept for two nights, with excitement.'

She gave him her hand, allowed him to kiss it. 'And I am prepared to believe you, so red are your eyes. You must not injure your health on account of me.'

'I would do more. Gislane ...'

She shook her head. 'First you must listen. Shall we sit down?'

He spread his cloak for her, and she sat at the foot of an old oak, allowing him to the ground beside her.

'We arc of course being very improper, meeting like this,' she said. 'I justify it by necessity. And I have reflected hard and long upon your claim to understand the barrier that lies between us. I cannot believe that you do, but I do know that to allow you to pursue an affection such as you declare without placing you in full possession of the facts would be criminal on my part. So I would be greatly obliged if you would listen to me, without speaking, as it is sufficiently embarrassing to me merely to have to utter the words, and if, at the end of it, you should get up and leave my side without a sound, then believe me, Mr. Hilton, I will bear you no ill will at all, but may even consider that you have acted with wisdom.'

Which was clearly a carefully prepared speech, he decided. 'May I hold your hand while you speak?'

'I should like you to.'

Nor did she raise any objection as he drew off the glove, to feel the warm white fingers in his. He could not resist a closer look at her fingernails, and certainly they were slightly more colourful than his own, but the more attractive for that. And did it matter? Did he not know the truth, and love her just the same, and was she not about to confirm the truth, and make him love her the more?

'I must confess I have not done a great deal of sleeping either,' Gislane said. 'Since our chance meeting. Was it a chance meeting?'

He shook his head. 'I had watched for you every day.'

'I suspected as much. And yet you claim your cousin told you that I have African blood.'

'He did. And I told him I cared nothing for it. Why does that so surprise you?'

She shrugged. 'You are the son and grandson and cousin of a planter. Your cousin announced that you would be his heir. You are a white man. My mother was a slave.' She raised her finger when he would have spoken. 'You promised. Mama was not a pure-blooded Negress, obviously. She is what is known in the West Indies as an octoroon. Do you understand what that is?'

He nodded.

'She was the housekeeper of a man named Hodge, on the island of Nevis.'

Matt frowned, and Gislane smiled, a trifle sadly.

'You'll have heard the name. I'm afraid the Hodges have a bad reputation even in the West Indies. Especially my cousin. My father's name was William Hodge, and he owned a plantation just outside Charleston. I don't think Papa was a bad man, as I remember him. He was always very kind to me, because I was his only child. Or at least, I should say I was the only child he cared to recognize, and when Mama died, he took me into the house, gave me a room of my own, and treated me as if I'd been born to his wife. He had in fact never married. Mama Nicholson - Papa Nicholson was Papa Hodge's attorney-at-law - was my own special friend, who looked after me and saw to my education.'

She paused, but once again shook her head as Matt opened his mouth.

'Papa Hodge always intended to give me my freedom, and indeed to make me his heiress, but he hesitated to do so while I was a child, because as I said my cousin, James, who owned a smaller plantation only a few miles away, and who was generally considered Papa's heir, wouldn't have liked that very much, and he was well known as a violent man. I think Papa was afraid of him. In any event, the plan as outlined to me was that when I was sixteen I would be sent to England to complete my schooling, would obviously become free the moment I landed on English soil, and would then also be manumitted in the West Indies. I think it was Papa's hope that I should marry while in England, and thus gain the protection of someone able to oppose anything James might consider doing to regain his inheritance.'

Once again the pause, and the searching look, 'I don't suppose I gave the matter much thought as a child, as I was perfectly happy, on Hodges. But then Papa died. I was twelve, and of course as he died intestate the plantation, with all the slaves, was required by law to pass to James. I really don't know what would have become of me, but Papa and Mama Nicholson were not prepared to contemplate my belonging to James, and Papa Nicholson was not prepared to work for him, either; he had in fact already decided to retire from the West Indies to England, having by his careful habits accumulated sufficient savings to be placed at interest and guarantee his livelihood. Their passages were booked on a ship leaving Nevis the day after Papa was buried, and before James could properly take over the plantation, and on the morning of their departure, when they came to me to say goodbye, they informed me that I was going with them. I left with only the clothes I was wearing, without a single other thing.'

'You mean they absconded with a slave?' Matt cried, his planter's instincts forcing him to break his promise.

Gislane nodded. 'So you see, I am not only of Negro blood, I am also an absconded slave, no doubt with a price upon my head.'

Matt scratched his head. 'But... no one has ever sought you out?' 'Until you.'

‘You don't suppose I ...'

She laughed, a delicious ray of sunshine breaking through her habitual solemnity. 'Of course I don't. But you can understand the reaction of Papa and Mama Nicholson. The first young man who seriously comes courting is himself a West Indian. There was a stroke of bad luck. In their opinion.'

'And in yours?'

'I am surprised to find you still sitting here beside me.'

'That is not an answer to my question, Gislane.'

She was again serious. 'I do not know. You are a handsome man, Mr. Hilton. You are a pleasant one, and I would estimate that you are an honourable one. I am told on all sides that you will one day be an extremely wealthy one.'

'But I am a slave owner, and therefore must be tainted with the same tastes as James Hodge.'

'I did not say so,' she said, quietly. ‘I just find it impossible to believe that you can regard me, especially after what I have just told you, as more than a plaything.' She paused, and the deep red flush spread upwards from her neck. 'Now I have exceeded propriety, and no doubt offended you.' She got up.

'Wait.' Matt caught her hand once more. 'No. You have not offended me. I believe you are justified in everything you say, in everything you believe. I know you are right, and it would be quite impossible for you ever to return to the West Indies. But here in England you have lived in perfect happiness for some years, and could no doubt continue to do so for the rest of your life.'

'Indeed, Mr. Hilton, I hope to accomplish that. At least in contentment.' But she was frowning.

"Then neither will I return to the West Indies, Gislane. I too have grown up here, and Green Grove or Hilltop are no more than memories, and not all of them pleasant,'

'You would renounce your inheritance?'

'If you would marry me.'

The frown deepened for a moment. 'Mr. Hilton. Is this not but the fourth occasion on which we have spoken?'

He scrambled to his own feet. 'Gislane, in our circumstances there can be no normal behaviour. Be sure your foster parents will now be anxious to marry you off to some - some ogre, as rapidly as possible. And if you did not know

I sought your hand why did you humiliate yourself by recounting that tale?'

Again the flush. 'Why, I ... I thought you had a right to know the truth of me, Mr. Hilton. Lest you permitted yourself to engage your affections.'

'My affections, my mind, my heart, my soul, Gislane, were engaged from the moment I saw you.'

She was shaking her head gently. 'It is too hasty, sir. And I could not permit you to sacrifice so much for me.'

He smiled at her. 'I would be sacrificing nothing save my whip and my sunburn, Gislane. Oh, Robert would shout and threaten and then he would continue my allowance. Beneath that facade of grimness he is a very pleasant fellow, certainly to those he loves.'

'To those he loves,' she said, half to herself. ‘I doubt that embracing protection could ever extend over a person of colour.'

'But it is not Robert you are marrying, Gislane. It is me.'

She freed her hand. 'You are too sudden, sir.'

'Then will I wait, if you will but consider my proposal,'

'Of course I shall. I am utterly flattered. I wish the ground would stop whirling about my head. Will you allow me to go home now?'

He stepped away from her. 'But you'll come again?'

‘I shall walk on Thursday, Mr. Hilton.'

'And you'll bring with you an answer?'

She could never remember her reply, or indeed if she had i-epfied at all. She could never remember returning home. She ate her dinner in a dream, and Mama Nicholson asked her if something was the matter. To which she replied that she had a headache, and retired immediately after the meal to the privacy of her bedchamber at the back of the little house.

She locked the door and threw herself across the bed, on her face, eyes tight shut. Now for the first time she could think. For the first time she dared think, dared remember, dared contemplate what might happen next. She had sought to turn him away by gratifying herself; for too long had she wanted to confess her background to someone. And yet, how incredibly stupid to confess it to a fellow West Indian. Was it not a recurring nightmare that one day an agent from Hodges would discover her whereabouts? If she could reassure herself with the reminder that in England she could never be reclaimed as a slave, yet was she living proof of Papa Nicholson's crime. As if a man like Matt Hilton could ever be less than honourable. And even as she had found the resolution, she had dreamed of how wonderful it could be if he had refused to be driven away.

So now, for the first time she dared attempt to reason, what she was, what she had been, what she might become. Hodges had faded from her memory. She could recall the warm days, and she could remember exactly the awful night of a hurricane, when the rain had blotted out conversation, and the lightning had struck the heavy wooden shutters with a sound as if a giant had been standing outside wielding a whip, while the wall had turned black. She could remember the day Papa Hodge, she was careful to keep her two fathers separate in her mind, had presented her with a pony and trap.

These were pleasant memories, even the hurricane, because always she had been aware of the web of security which surrounded her. She could remember black people, slaves. There had been women servants who padded barefooted about the Great House, serving and cleaning. And when she had driven her trap into the fields there had been gangs of men weeding and cutting the cane, and she could remember the tremendous hustle and bustle when the grinding season arrived, and her occasional visits to the mill, to stare in horror at the ponderous machinery, creaking round and round, driven mostly by wind power on the exposed Nevis slopes, and the pleasure with which her nostrils had dilated to the overwhelming smell of the fermenting sugar in the great vats.

She could remember other things too, but only vaguely. There had been days when she had not been allowed from the house, and in the distance she had heard men, and women, screaming. Many days? She could not be sure. But Papa Hodge had been a humane man, surely, or Papa Nicholson could never have been his friend.

And she could remember Mama, a tall, handsome woman with long black hair, like hers, who controlled the house and her daughter with a will of iron, but who always spoke to Papa Hodge in hushed tones, and who bowed her head in patient acceptance whenever he gave an order. Then she had not understood. But the fact that Mama had been that white man's plaything had haunted her dreams. So Papa Hodge had valued his particular toy, had perhaps even loved her. She had remained only his toy.

That future would never be hers. Thus Papa Nicholson. It might be possible to find a man who valued his toys. It was far easier to find a man who played until sated, and then threw his toy aside, or worse, deliberately broke it to make it useless for anyone else. Papa Nicholson, when he spoke in such apocryphal tones, had a good deal of the Wesleyan in him. He had, in fact, attended meetings at Smithfield and taken his wife and foster child with him. But Gislane had always been more interested in the thousands of people, all earnestly listening to the tall, spare figure on the dais, all nodding their heads while surreptitiously snatching swigs of gin from their flasks, rather than in what the great man had had to say.

But in this sense, Matthew Hilton was a figure from her past. They would have shared the same warmth, heard the same noises, smelt the same smells. The difference was that Matt's mother would not have lowered her eyes and accepted every dictate of Matt's father. She would have had legal rights. And when Ned Hilton had ridden into town, she would have ridden at his side, not been forced always to wave goodbye from the front verandah.

It had been to avoid that constant humiliation as much as any physical mistreatment that Papa Nicholson had stolen her away. So then, what did the future hold? She sat up, tempestuously, her black hair flying. She left the bed, stood in front of the mirror. She did not doubt her own beauty. Had she been no judge of it herself, she was yet made aware of it every time she left the house, in the men who would stop to stare at her. Some had come calling, and been turned away. They lacked introductions, and no doubt she was apparently young. How young? Her fingers tore at the fastenings to her gown. Mama Nicholson dressed her as fashionably as their meagre income would permit, and she never went abroad without a corset. This pushed up her breasts and made them seem larger than they were, held them close together to compress a deep valley. Yet here were no girl breasts; they overflowed from her hands. She was a woman, and should she not be, at eighteen? She had looked no different two years ago.

But what had she known, two years ago? Had she not always lived in a sort of limbo, a pleasant enough existence, with her music and her needlework to occupy her time, and her walks in the park for fresh air. Yet had she been but waiting, as every girl must wait, for the man to come along who would propose marriage, for the change in her existence which would ordain the rest of her life.

So then, Matthew Hilton. Had she ever considered a man? Not really, save that he should be young, but not too young, and well connected, and handsome, and in good health. Matt filled every one of those requirements, save perhaps the first; he could hardly be more than two years her elder. But he was of planting stock. Did that put him in the same class as a man with a face scarred by smallpox, or with a wooden leg? Because if he was of such a background, he was willing to renounce it, for her. There was actually a cause for fear. He was renouncing wealth and fortune, and a high place in the world, to accomplish what? She touched her cheek, and growing more daring, a nipple, felt the thrill coursing down her body to her groin. She did this, from time to time, titillating her senses, daring herself to do more and always lacking the courage while always promising herself that one day she would be bold, at least with herself. Perhaps the day had come. She released the corset and threw it on the bed, stood before her mirror clad in only her shift. She had never dared consider herself in less than this. Mama Nicholson had always said, time enough for the flesh when the moment came. Your body is but a case for your mind. It is the soul that matters.

But Matt Hilton would know nothing of souls. Of that one fact she could be sure. He wanted her body. There was an uncommonly bold thought. But one which had to be thought. He wanted these legs. Would he love them? She had always worried about their length, and about the gentle ridges of muscle which rippled beneath the smooth white skin as she moved. And what did a man want with a woman's legs, what could he do with them? She had no idea, just as she had no idea what he would want to do with the rest of her. Mama Nicholson had always merely used the word 'belong', and rolled her eyes expressively, but not informatively. From such a belonging would come children, in some mysterious fashion, but as Mama Nicholson had never had children of her own, perhaps she had never properly 'belonged' to Papa.

But there was the point at issue. Did she want to belong to Matt Hilton? She could not imagine so gentle a man ever harming anyone, even his toy. And she would be his wife, not his plaything. He had offered her all that a man could, and remain honourable. And he was honourable. She had but to look on his face to know that.

How she wanted to rush downstairs again, to tell Mama, to beg for advice, to beg for forgiveness, perhaps, for the rash of thoughts which kept coursing through her mind. But that would be an end to it. To Mama a planter was a planter, and honour did not come into it at all. They might even take her away. They had spoken of that on the day Robert Hilton had called. ‘It might be best for a season,' Papa Nicholson had muttered to himself. 'But the cost...'

Yet if it came to a proposal of marriage they might very well decide the cost was worth it. Not even Betty could help. She was a romantic and delighted with her mistress's secret trysts. But a serving girl could know nothing of belonging.

Her counsel must be her own. And it could be taken at leisure. He could not expect an answer, now. She must decide whether or not she loved him. And if she was not-sure what love was, what it entailed, what it demanded, then he must give her time to consider the matter.

And in that time, how delightful were her walks become. Yet was she suddenly overcome with fear that he might not be there, that he might have realized the enormity of what he was proposing, that he might have been called away.

He was there, his hat in his hand, as she came round the trees, Betty deserted well to the rear. He suddenly seemed so much taller and well-built and handsome, so much more reliable and so much more honourable than she remembered. And so much more happy, as he smiled at her and extended both his hands.

'I feared you might have decided not to come,' he said.

She stopped, discovering she was panting, while her hands were imprisoned. 'I feared the same.' She flushed. 'Of you.'

'And we are both here.'

She freed one of her hands, turned to lead him on their walk, and found herself checked by his gentle strength.

‘I wonder if you have considered soberly what you do, Mr. Hilton?'

The pressure on her fingers increased. 'And if I have, am I not still here? Gislane, I love you. To say more than that would surely be repetition. I love you, I love you, I love you. Marry me, Gislane. Marry me and laugh with me at everyone who would suppose we cannot be happy, who would throw the West Indies in our faces, who would attempt to stand between us. Will you marry me, Gislane?'

Now he was hurting her, so tightly did he clasp her hand. And yet she would not have him let her go, or even relax the pressure for an instant. She turned, to face him, to look at him, while her mind cried out, no, no, I want to, and yet I know it will be wrong for you even more than for me.

She seemed to hear her voice from a tremendous distance, drifting across the morning air, already chill with the coming of autumn. 'It would give me great pleasure to be your wife, Mr. Hilton.'

'Now,' said Mistress Bartholemew. 'Now. Stand well back, my dear. Well back. We want to see the whole picture. And breathe, Miss Hilton. Breathe.'

Georgiana breathed, sucking as much air into her lungs as she could, making her breasts swell so that they surged out of her decolletage.

'Beautiful, Miss Hilton,' Mistress Bartholemew cried. 'Just beautiful. I swear, my dear, that you will be the talk of the town after tomorrow.'

It occurred to Georgiana that she might well be right. As the reception was a morning affair, they had decided on a straw-coloured satin gown, with a white fichu and sleeve frills, but the fichu was hardly more than a decoration to the bodice, and hid nothing of her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She had wondered if this was wise; since arriving in England she had become terribly aware of her freckles. But Mistress Bartholemew had had no doubts. 'Men will wish to look at you twice, my dear Miss Hilton,' she had said. 'Just to decide what the spots are, and having looked at you twice, and you must allow them to do so, of course, they will want to look at no other.' Her smile and her eyebrows had arched together. 'They will want to discover whether the rest of you is so delightfully decorated.’

She fussed as she carefully placed the huge dark blue velvet hat in place, inclining it slightly to the left to droop over Georgiana's left eye, while she fluffed the ostrich feathers to have them flop carelessly and yet with studied grace, front and back.

'A puff of breeze and I will fly away,' Georgiana complained.

'Then will they all come running behind you to rescue you, my dear,' said Mistress Bartholemew. 'Now, you must hold your cane loosely, just below the bow.' She placed the stick in Georgiana's left hand, arranging the blue satin bows to fall down over the fingers.

'But what do I do with it?' Georgiana inquired. 'Do I lean irpon it?'

'Good heavens, child, what a suggestion. You stand as straight as you can at all times. No, no. You merely must not be seen without it. That is fashion. Now, I will just remove the hat and try the wig, and then we can have the whole together.'

, 'But I really cannot see the point,' Georgina grumbled, as the hat was whisked away and her splendid brown tresses were pinned up so that they would be lost to sight beneath the powdered brown tresses of the wig. 'My own hair is much prettier.'

Mistress Bartholemew settled the wig, making sure none of the cotton wool balls with which it was padded, and which greatly increased its height, could slip. 'But it is not your hair, my dear. You cannot go to a ducal reception wearing your own hair. Besides it will give the men something more to wonder about. Oh, you will soon understand the dictates of fashion. Whatever is that?'

The door was already bursting open, above the squeaking of the maidservants, and Matt was stamping in, kicking dust from his boots. 'Ladies.'

'Why, Matt,' Georgiana screamed in delight.

'Really, Mr. Hilton,' Mistress Bartholemew protested. 'You cannot invade a lady's privacy in this fashion.'

'Nor am I, Mistress Bartholemew. You'd not confuse Georgiana with a lady, now would you?'

'Oh, you beast.' But Georgiana was already rotating once again in front of the mirror. 'Am I not an utterly beautiful creature? All we need is the hat. The hat, Bartholemew. The hat.'

'Now keep still, my dear, and I wilt just...'

'I have no time for that,' Matt said. 'Come on, Georgiana. I wish to take you home. I wish to tell you something.'

She glanced at him, frowned, and turned to face him. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes danced with delight. 'There's been another invitation,' she cried.

'Better than that. You'll excuse us, Mistress Bartholemew.'

'But ... you can't wear it on the street, child,' Mistress Bartholemew shouted. 'Someone might see you. You must not put it on until Saturday.'

'Oh, fiddlesticks, Bartholemew. Matt. Bring the hat. You'll send your account to Mr. Barton.' Georgiana gathered her skirts and ran through the shop outside the fitting room, scattering both the maids and their customers, in an explosion of ribbons and wigs and hats and canes, and scrambled into the phaeton. 'What a fuss. I'd think I was a fancy doll, did I not feel my heart pounding. Matt. Who's it from? Mistress Bartholemew says you are nothing until you've attended the Grenvilles.'

'No invitation,' Matt said, nicking the reins. 'Something far more important.'

She squeezed his shoulder. This way he could not avoid looking down her bodice even if he wanted to. 'What? Tell me, Matt.'

He lowered his voice. ‘I am leaving London, tonight. In a couple of hours, in fact.'

'Leaving London? You mean there is to be another cricket match?'

'Cricket? Cricket is for boys. I know now that Robert was right. No, I am going north, to Scotland. To a place called Gretna.'

'Scotland?' she cried. 'But that is a barbarous place. So Mistress Bartholemew says.'

'I am not going there to live, silly. It is necessary, so there need be no banns.' He paused, staring at the trotting horses. His ears glowed.

Georgiana gazed at the back of his head. 'An elopement? Oh, Matt, darling. Who is she?'

'You'll know soon enough, after we return.'

'But surely I know her already? Matt, you must tell me.'

'Well, I'm not going to, and there's an end of the matter. Anyway, it would only upset you. Now listen. Mrs. Partridge will look after things here, and ...'

'Oh, my God,' Georgiana said. 'Not that Nicholson girl.'

Matt continued to stare after the horses; his ears were redder than ever.

'Is it?' Georgiana pinched his arm. 'Is it?'

'Oh, very well,' he said. 'Who did you suppose I'd want to marry? Only her foster parents would refuse their permission, you see. So we must get away together, and when we are returned, why, we shall be married. She can come and live with us, of course. But I had to tell you, Georgiana. I didn't want you to worry or start calling out the Bow Street runners or anything like that.'

Georgiana frowned at him. Presumably he was indulging himself in some kind of a joke. 'Gislane?'

'Who did you suppose it would be?'

'But ...' A nigger? she wanted to shout. Are you out of your mind, you stupid boy? 'What will Robert say?'

'Well, I know he won't be very pleased, of course. But he'll get over it. He always does.' He grinned at her. 'Maybe he'll flog me every day for a year, too.'

The phaeton was turning into the drive. Georgiana felt so hot she thought she would faint. Gislane Nicholson? Gislane Hilton? A girl with Negro blood in her veins sitting on the front verandah of Hilltop? Sleeping in Mama's bed? Why, as Mrs. Matthew Hilton, after Robert died she'd be giving orders to her two cousins-in-law.

'You will help me?' Matt asked.

The carriage had stopped. 'Oh,' she said. 'Oh, of course I'd help you, Matt, but... it's awfully important, don't you think? I mean, to marry ... and then, you hardly know the girl.'

'I know her better than anyone in the world. She has told me everything about herself. Did you know she is really a Hodge. There was a Hodge worked for the Hiltons, oncet Certainly an ancestor. And she is actually a slave. Escaped from Hodges on Nevis.'

'Oh, my God,' Georgiana said.

'But that makes me love her the more, want her more, care for her the more. I am the happiest man in all the world.' 'Have you slept with her?'

'Good God. Is that all you think about? You really are nothing more than a slut, you know, Georgy. Of course I haven't slept with her. She's going to be my wife.'

'I still don't see how you can know she'll make you happy. Have you kissed her?'

'Her hand, of course.'

'Not her mouth? Just her hand? I'll wager that is the only part of her you've touched, either. Why, she might be ugly, under her clothes.'

'How can she be ugly under her clothes? She's beautiful. Anyway, I love her. Can't you understand that? I love her. Everything about her. The way she looks and the way she smiles and the way she talks and the way she laughs, and the way she walks...'

'You have talked with her, then? I mean, you know she won't bore you, afterwards? You know, with her ... well...'

'You were going to say being a mustee.'

I was going to say being a nigger, Georgiana thought. 'I do feel you should think on it a while longer, Matt. Really I do.'

'Look who is giving advice,' Matt said, contemptuously. 'Anyway, I can't. I have asked her, and she has accepted. She is going to be waiting for me tonight. I'll take the phaeton, of course. Now be a dear and step down. I must go along to the bank and get some coin.'

'But what about the Duke's reception?' Georgiana wailed.

'You can go alone. Just be sure to take a maid in the carriage,' Matt said. 'Make my excuses. It is you they want to see, not me. And don't worry. I'll be back in a week or two, after I've honeymooned. I'll have Gislane with me.'

Georgiana opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She remembered that when they had been children it hadn't done much good to argue with Matt. He could be the most stubborn boy she had ever met. The door was open. She stepped down, and almost before she had reached the gravel the phaeton was whipping away towards the gates. It seemed blurred. She could not believe what he had told her. Robert would put a stop to it, of course. But Robert was probably back in Jamaica by now. It would take weeks to get a letter to him, even supposing the privateers did not capture the ship carrying it.

But something had to be done. Because of course Matt was just being foolish. Gislane was a beautiful girl. Even she had to admit that. So he wanted to bed her. He wanted to bed her where he would not bed his own cousin, the lout. But having done that, what would there be left? What could there be left, between a white man and a nigger woman? It just didn't make sense.

Richards was opening the door for her. 'Why, Miss Georgiana, you look quite upset. May I bring you something?'

Georgiana fanned herself with her hat. 'A glass of wine. No, a botde. Two bottles.' But he had given her an idea.

'And when you have done that, Richards, I wish you to send for Mr. Barton. Tell him it is most urgent that he attend me immediately.'

She sipped her wine, and paced the withdrawing-room, and fanned herself, suddenly afraid that Matt might change his mind and come back; she would never be able to dissemble. But the next thud of hooves was a horseman rather than a carriage, and Barton came rushing in, a short, thickset man with a shock of crisp black hair. 'News from Jamaica? The storm was worse than we feared.'

'Worse than that, Mr. Barton.' She snapped her fingers. 'Richards, a glass for Mr. Barton. And sit down, sir. Sit down. You'll not hear what I have to say standing.'

Barton frowned at her, slowly sat in the chair by the fireplace, took his glass of wine, looked at it, and sipped. He was not used to being treated as an equal by the Hiltons. Georgiana waited until Richards had retired to his pantry, and then informed him of the situation. He listened, finishing his wine the while, his face drawing into a deep frown which even seemed to affect his nose and mouth. 'My God,' he said. 'Mr. Robert will be furious.' 'There's calmness.' Georgiana had continued to walk up and down while she spoke, but now she stopped in front of him. 'And furious Robert may be, but that is only a fraction of the matter. This nigger girl will be your mistress, Barton. And mine. And Great-aunt Rebecca's. You'd best think on that. Think on Matt addressing Parliament on some great question, with his mulatto in the gallery. Think of Mr. and Mrs. Hilton invited to Court. Robert was invited to Court. Think on that.'

Barton stared at his empty glass in horror, and Georgiana refilled it, and then poured another for herself. 'You must reason with him, Miss Georgiana.' 'That were quite impossible with so pig-headed a lout. He has been away from Jamaica for too long. He thinks perhaps no one will know, no one will guess. And he is so romantic he supposes that if they do he will be able to brazen it out, thumping himself on the chest and shouting, I am a Hilton, I do as I choose.' 'Well, miss ...'

'Oh, of course he can do as he chooses, Barton. That is the tragedy of it. But we will all be refused polite society. I'll not have it.'

Barton gazed at his second empty glass. 'Perhaps if I were to speak with him.. .'

'Speak,' Georgiana shouted. 'Is that all you can recommend, words? God in Heaven, no wonder the country is in such a sorry state with every rag tag and bobble Yankee backwoodsman defying even the King's soldiers. This is no matter for talk. Listen. The girl must be disposed of. I have thought of nothing else all afternoon, and I know now there can be no other solution.'

'D ... disposed of?' Barton's colour began to fade. 'You mean...'

Georgiana filled his glass. 'I'd not have her killed. Although I doubt she deserves anything better. I wish her removed, so that she can never come back. Or at least to somewhere Matt can never find her again.'

Barton pulled his nose.' 'Tis a tall order, Miss Georgiana. Mr. Matthew is a determined young man.'

She frowned into the grate. 'Then I wish her so disposed that he will never want to find her again.'

‘You mean ... disfigured? 'Tis breaking the law we will be, Miss Georgiana.'

Georgiana snapped her fingers. 'We'll break no laws, Barton. I have it. You'11 seize the girl, but you'll not harm her, you understand. You'll have her taken privily to Bristol, and set her aboard a ship bound for Nevis. That were not difficult. She is an absconded slave, belonging to James Hodge. We are doing nothing more than returning him his property. I will give you money to pay the captain.'

'You are a cool one, Miss Georgiana. But will not Mr. Matthew be able to trace her whereabouts?'

'No doubt he will, in time,' Georgiana agreed. 'But, in time, will he wish to? When she has spent but a year as a slave, and of a man like Hodge .., you will have heard of Hodge, Barton?'

'Oh, yes, indeed, Miss Georgiana. Everyone connected with the West Indies has heard of Hodge.'

'He comes of bad stock. His great-grandfather was once in the employ of Meg Hilton, as I remember. And he is as known for his lechery as his cruelty. He'll be more than pleased to have his little half-breed cousin returned to him. He'll put some colour into those pale cheeks, I'll wager you that. Not even Matt will wish to have her when Hodge is finished. Besides, it is no more than an infatuation with a pretty face. It will die.'

'No doubt,' Barton agreed. And downed his wine. "Yet is he a powerful young man, Miss Georgiana. We will not frighten him.'

'No more you should,' Georgiana agreed. 'You will have to assault him.'

'We will have to break his head.'

She stared at the agent for a moment. 'Very well, if that is necessary. And so long as you are sure you do him no permanent harm. But he cannot be left on the ground. Arrange for one of your people, someone he doesn't know, to happen by a few minutes after the assault, and fetch him back here.'

Barton hesitated, peered into his empty glass, then sighed and stood up. 'Ten o'clock, you said.'

'Ten o'clock. So you'd best make haste.'

Barton nodded, and sighed, and remained still. There will be repercussions, Miss Georgiana.'

‘I will take full responsibility, Mr. Barton. In the name of my brother Robert. I have no doubt that I am doing what he would do in these circumstances, saving that he might not be so prepared to save the girl's life. You'll not fail me, Barton.'

'No, Miss.' Barton went to the door, paused again. 'And I'm to have Mr. Matthew returned here as soon as possible.'

Georgiana was looking at herself in the mirror, smoothing her fichu back on to her shoulders to leave as much bare flesh exposed as possible.

'Aye,' she said. 'I'll look after Mr. Matthew.'

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SEEKER

DISTANT drumbeats shattered the darkness, filled the universe, louder and louder and louder. Matt forced his eyes open. He would do anything to escape the incessant crashing of the drums, for the drummers seemed to be using his very skull as a surface on which to exercise their sticks,

'God,’ he screamed. 'God.'

'Matt?' Georgiana, leaning anxiously over the bed on which he lay. 'Oh, thank God, We have been so worried.'

There were other people in the room, and now an elderly man bent over him. Dr. Bennett, the Hilton physician. 'Careful now, young man. I think a cooling draught, Miss Georgiana. With just a trace of spirit in it'

'Richards,' Georgiana snapped. 'Quickly. An iced drink for Mr. Matt. And add a little gin.'

'My head,' Matt moaned, rolling to and fro.

'Aye,' Bennett agreed. 'You've some more ice there, woman?' A fresh handkerchief filled with ice was laid on his brow. 'You've taken a nasty crack across the skull, Matthew. But so far as I can see there is no real damage. A little concussion, perhaps. Nothing another twenty-four hours of rest will not cure.'

'A crack?' Matt tried to focus.

'With a stick, Dr. Bennett thinks,' Georgiana explained. 'You must have been set upon by footpads.'

Now her face did come into clear focus, and with it, memory stormed back, of another face, Gislane's face, lit up by her smile as she crossed the darkened lane towards him, her bundle of clothes beneath her arm. And then frowning, as she stopped, and would have said something, and then ,..

'Gislane,' he said. 'What has happened to Gislane?' Georgiana frowned and shook her head. 'But I must know.' With a great effort he raised himself on his elbow.

‘You were lucky,' Georgiana said loudly. 'A gentleman passed by, and the robbers took fright and ran off before they could empty your pockets. Fortunately he recognized the phaeton, and so placed you in it and brought you back here.'

'A gentleman?' Matt asked.

Georgiana raised her eyebrows. 'He would not give his name. Nor would he accept any reward. And I will confess that the sight of you lying there, covered in blood and dead for aught I knew, drove all other considerations from my mind.'

'But Gislane was there.’ Matt lay back on his pillows. 'She must have been assaulted as well.' 'Gislane?’ inquired Dr. Bennett.

'Perhaps you would excuse us, Doctor,' Georgiana suggested. 'It is a private matter.'

'Oh, certainly, Miss Georgiana. There is no more I can do, in any event. Rest, Matthew. Just rest will soon have you on your feet I'll stop by again tomorrow.'

He went to the door, and encountered Richards with a tray. 'Your drink.'

'I'll take it. Georgiana closed the door behind them both, returned to stand by Matt. ‘Drink this, and you'll feel better.

Matt discovered he was parched. He sipped, and then again.

The gentleman who brought you home spoke nothing of Gislane,' Georgiana said.

'But she was there,' Matt insisted. 'She was coming towards me, when I was attacked.'

'So perhaps it was not footpads, after all,' Georgiana said, thoughtfully. 'Perhaps your elopement was prevented.'

'For God's sake, who would do such a thing? Who knew of it?'

'The Nicholsons, for example?'

'Good God.' He sat up, and held his head. 'Ow. Give me the rest of that wine.'

'Now you are not to get out of bed,' she insisted, holding the goblet for him. You really must rest. But don't you see, Matt, who else can it have been, and in such a place? I thought it a little fortuitous that a friend should have happened along in time to prevent the footpads from robbing you. No, no, they made their objections to you as a son-in-law quite plain. Gislane obviously was indiscreet, and they decided to prevent her escaping.'

'I cannot believe it.'

The goblet was empty. She placed it on the table, and sat beside him, put her arms round his shoulders, brought his head down on to her breasts. 'I understand that it must be a terrible shock. But I can see no alternative possibility.'

He struggled to free himself. 'But Gislane ... what will they have done to her?'

'Given her a good thrashing, perhaps,' Georgiana suggested.

‘I must get over there,' Matt said. 'By heaven, I'll make them sing a different tune.' He pushed her away, scrambled from the bed, began to dress, on this occasion quite forgetting the need for modesty in her company.

Georgiana remained on the bed, rubbing her shoulder where his hand had gripped as he had pushed her aside. 'You cannot go out. Dr. Bennett said you should stay indoors. And what will you do, Matt? They have right on their side; the girl is not yet of age.'

'They have no right at all if they inspired the assault on me,' Matt said. 'And I shall know, believe me. They must suppose me a very sorry fellow if they imagine a tap on the head will drive me from Gislane forever."

'Oh, God's teeth,' Georgiana said, and lay down in his place. 'Stop acting the fool and come back here, You'll likely fall from your horse and do yourself some permanent damage. Look at you, swaying all over the floor.'

Matt found himself sitting in a chair, his shirt unfastered, his breeches still around his thighs. God, how the room heaved.

'So there.' Georgiana came towards him, 'Poor, poor Matt. You remind me of Don Quixote, indeed you do. Nor would you have any more success against the Nicholsons than he did with his windmills. I would suppose they are as alarmed as you. Indeed, it is a surprise that they have not come calling. Now let me help you back to bed.'

Her arms were once again round his shoulders, her strength gently pulling him to his feet. How sweet she smelt, and how soft. And how eager, to look after him and be at his side.

'Now you are trying to confuse me,' he grumbled. The bed came up to meet him, and she released him to heave his legs on to the mattress.

'I must get these breeches off,' she said. 'You just lie still, sweet Matt.'

He lay still, and sighed, while her fingers slid over his hips. 'You are too good to me, Georgy. I am a perverse fellow.'

'Oh, indeed you are,' she agreed. 'But if your mishap has taught you where your fortune truly lies, then perhaps you are the gainer. I have written to the Duke, informing him that because of your accident we shall not be attending his reception.'

'But that is absurd,' Matt protested. 'You were going to go by yourself, in any event.'

'I must look after you,' she said firmly, and gently pushed him on to the pillows. 'Anyway, it is too late. The reception will have started an hour ago.'

'An hour. But...'

'It is Saturday morning. Did you not know? You have lain there, no more than halfconscious, certainly not aware of who or where you are, for a good thirty-six hours.'

'Thirty-six hours? My God. Gislane. I must find out what happened to Gislane. If you would truly assist me, Georgy, send a messenger to the Nicholsons.'

'I shall do no such thing.'

'But you said ...'

'I have no idea what has happened to the girl.'

'And you do not care,' he said angrily.

'Indeed I do not. This whole venture was ridiculous in the first place. It was filled with danger, from the very start. A Negress...'

'Now you are being ridiculous,' he protested.

'A half-caste? What is the difference? Can you be sure your children would not have had kinky hair? I swear, you are perhaps a fortunate fellow, in that your mad scheme was interrupted. By whoever is responsible.'

Matt was frowning at her. 'But it has, only been interrupted. I shall find her. And if she has been harmed, why...'

'Find her?' Georgiana demanded. 'Now you are piling absurdity upon absurdity. Why should you find her? To have your head broken a second time?'

'I should like someone to try,' Matt said. 'No doubt Robert was right, as usual, and my fists alone are not sufficient protection. I will learn the use of a pistol, by God. And a sword. And then let us see.'

'Very admirable.' Georgiana left the bed and walked the room, restless as ever. 'And supposing Robert is, as usual -your words - right, was he not also right about your infatuation?'

'How else should I feel about the woman I am going to marry, but infatuated? Now, I repeat, if you would truly assist me, Georgy, send to the Nicholsons and see if they have her there, or if they know what has happened.'

'And suppose they do not have her there?'

'Of course she is there. If I was found alone, then Gislane must have made her escape. And where would she go but home?'

'Leaving you perhaps dead on the ground?' Georgiana asked, coldly. 'Oh, indeed, there is an example of true love.'

'She would have been terrified,' he said, once again sitting up. 'Oh, my darling Gislane. Give me back my breeches, Georgy. If you'll not help me, I must go myself.'

'Oh, stay there,' she said disagreeably. 'But there is little enough point in sending to the Nicholsons. The girl is not there.'

'How can you know that?' 'I... I am sure of it.'

He frowned at her. 'That man who brought me here. You did speak with him. Come on, out with it. What has happened to her?'

'Well ...' Georgiana licked her lips. But she was quite incapable of keeping any sort of a secret, as Matt well knew. 'She was taken away. By the men who attacked you.'

'Taken away?' he shouted, and put both hands to his head to stop the throbbing. 'Taken away? You mean she was kidnapped?'

'I suppose you could call it that,' Georgiana said, sulkily. 'But... my God. What can they have done to her?' 'I doubt they harmed her.'

'You doubt...' he was out of bed, crossing the floor, holding her shoulders. 'You know what happened. Tell me.'

'Do you mind not holding me so tight?' she requested, quietly enough. 'I imagine, from what I was told, that their purpose was to return her to the West Indies.'

Matt stared at her in horror. 'Hodge's people, you mean? But how did they find her?'

'How did you find her?'

'I? I was not looking for an absconded slave. I was looking for a girl I love.'

'Oh, how you do talk nonsense,' Georgiana said. 'She is an absconded slave, and now she is being returned to her owner. There's an end to the matter, surely.'

'An end to it? An end?' He released her, stepped away. 'Good Christ in heaven. Can you imagine what it would be like, for a girl like Gislane, educated, gentle, refined, to discover herself a slave? And of a man like James Hodge? I must find her. They'll have sent her to Bristol. Aye. But they'll have to find a ship for her. I'll catch them.' He pulled open the door. 'Richards,' he bellowed. 'Richards. Have me a horse saddled. And prime me a pair of pistols. Make haste now. Christ, that my head would stop this confounded banging.'

'Will you stop being such a fool,' Georgiana shouted, slamming the door shut. 'You will not find her. She began her journey thirty-six hours ago. You will not catch her up. There is a ship waiting. I doubt not she'll be away the moment she arrives.'

Matt turned, slowly. 'A ship, waiting?'

The deep red flush spread upwards from Georgiana's neck. 'Is there not, usually? Can you name a busier port than Bristol?'

Matt crossed the room. 'A ship, waiting? You knew this?' Georgiana backed against the wall. 'The girl is a nigger, Matt. Robert would have done no less.'

'Robert?' Even the pounding inside his head seemed no more than a spur, driving him at her. 'You thought you'd be his deputy?' He reached her, and she ducked under his arm and ran for the bed, scrambled across it, and landed on the far side, panting.

'A nigger,' she shouted. 'A slave. And she's gone now. She'll be gone, by the time you can reach Bristol. And she'll be treated as a slave, you stupid boy. Her maidenhead, for a start. A whip to her back. Scraps of dry bread. You'll not find the girl you knew. Because she never was the girl you knew.'

rYou bitch,' he shouted, and launched himself across the bed. She sidestepped, but he caught her gown, swinging her round and bringing her to the floor against the wall. 'You unutterable little bitch.' He dug his fingers into her hair and dragged her to her feet.

'Bedded,' she shrieked. 'By common seamen. Oh, she'll have the pox by now. And I'll swear she'll enjoy every moment of it, the nigger bastard.'

He swung his fist, to and fro. hitting her on each cheek in turn, making her head jump like a puppet, causing blood to flow from her cut lips and bringing a moan from her throat.

'Master Matthew. Master Matthew.' Richards and two maids, dragging at his shoulders.

'He means to kill me,' Georgiana whispered, sinking back to the floor as he released her. 'For saving his life.'

Matt shrugged himself free of the clutching hands; the servants stood around him in attitudes of mingled terror and protectiveness. 'Kill you?' he asked. 'Now that were a waste of a good whore, Georgy. But by heaven I shall, should our paths ever cross again.' He turned, and the maids hastily retreated. 'Get her out of here,' he said. 'And Richards, you'd best have that horse ready. I'll allow you ten minutes.'

'You'll take a swig of brandy, Mr. Hilton? 'Tis a fresh bottle I've opened this very day.'

Matt sighed, and turned away from the taffrail, from the unending rolling blue of the white topped seas, from the swaying rise and fall of the horizon. The man was only trying to be friendly, as he had tried to be friendly throughout the week the voyage had so far lasted. His name was Tom Coke, and no doubt he felt that they might be two of a kind, for he was shunned by the other passengers, as an unfrocked divine. He had, in fact, been dismissed his living in south Wales for holding open-air services in imitation of the Wesleyan method, so it was whispered, and no doubt was on his way to the less conformist West Indies to seek his fortune. He was a short, plump fellow, in his middle thirties, with a shock of thick brown hair and full cheeks. And certainly he liked to live well; he had bought more cheese, more sweetmeats, and more bottles of wine and spirits on board than any other passenger, which come to think of it, Matt realized, supposed that he was not in such dire need of a fortune after all. Certainly he could afford to share.

And after a week of staring at the sea and sky, and brooding on the hate and anger which filled every corner of his mind, he suddenly felt like company.

'In the cabin?' he asked.

Coke smiled, and laid a fat forefinger alongside his nose. 'Indeed no, sir. Mistress Marchbanks is once again emptying her belly in dreadful vomits. I declare that I wonder if she will make land safely. 'Tis monstrous, Mr. Hilton. Monstrous, that twelve people, of both sexes, should be crowded in so confined a space as that cabin. Why, sir, when first we left that accursed port, and I saw you remove yourself and your bundle to the dampness of the deck, I supposed you a very odd fellow. But now I know that you were merely displaying your experience. No doubt you have made this passage before.' He smiled as he spoke, belying the apparent gravity of his words, and now he produced the bottle from the pocket of his coat.

'Once,' Matt said. 'And some years ago.'

'Be my guest, sir.' Coke gave him the bottle. 'Some years? And you are yet hardly more than a boy, if you'll excuse my impertinence.'

'When I came to England, Dr. Coke, I was a boy.' Matt took a long drink of the liquor, and sighed.

Coke regained the bottle and drank himself. 'Aha. You are a West Indian yourself. Then, sir, I am doubly happy that we have at last become acquainted. You can advise me as to conditions in the islands.'

' 'Tis six years since I have lived in Antigua, and no doubt circumstances have changed. There was no war when I left.'

'Of course. Your people are in business over there? Antigua, you say?'

'My people are planters, sir,' Matt said.

Coke had been about to offer the bottle again. Now he hesitated, then indeed did offer it. 'The wind remains cold, would you not agree? Planters, you say. My goodness, what a fool I am. Matthew Hilton. I have been told that a family of that name ranks itself the very head of the... what is the term they use in the Indies?'

Matt smiled, and drank. Suddenly he felt wanner, and even a little less anxious. 'The plantocracy. Dr. Coke.'

'A word I have not heard before,' Coke observed.

'Nor should you, sir, as it is very West Indian. It arises, you see, because very few of the great planting families were any better than country gentlemen in their origins, and most of them were a good deal less. My own family, is descended on one side from the Warners of Framlingham, of whom you surely have heard, good farming and soldiering stock, on the other side were nothing better than buccaneers. Yet are we now an aristocracy of wealth, and, we like to think, talent, welcome in the best homes in England, powerful in Parliament, and even on occasion invited to Court. Hence plantocracy.'

Coke retrieved his bottle, drank in turn. 'A brilliant exposition, if I may say so, Mr. Hilton. And one not lacking in candour and even humour. Yet I have heard that you gentlemen take a very serious view of life.'

'Do you not, Dr. Coke?'

Coke considered the remains of his brandy, and then offered it once again. ‘I am but dissembling, sir. You will have heard that I am no longer accepted into the Anglican communion?'

'It means little to me, sir. If you visit the West Indies in order not to conform, then you have chosen wisely.'

'Such is not my prime intention,' Coke pointed out. 'I am a follower of John Wesley. Have you heard him preach?'

Matt shook his head.

'There's a pity. You look an entirely friendly and personable young man.'

'And Mr. Wesley's words of wisdom would change that?'

'On the contrary. Mr. Wesley's teaching might make you even more aware of yourself as a man, as the greatest of God's creations, sir, with only one prime duty, that of recognizing all human creatures are made in His image, and should be so regarded.'

'Ah,' Matt said. *You are addressing me not as a man, or even as a planter, but as a slave owner.'

'Why, sir, I had heard that the last two mean the same thing.' Coke turned the bottle upside down, and threw it over the side. 'I will be frank with you, Mr. Hilton. Mr. Wesley's concern is not merely that we of Christendom are overburdened with form and sophistry rather than with the true observance of Christ's writ; he-understands it is no more than an extension of that writ, that we should learn to respect and honour all of our fellow creatures, no matter how great or how small. You may not know that he began his teachings amidst the convicts of Georgia, his mind being deeply disturbed by the miserable conditions under which those poor brethren were, and no doubt still are, forced to exist. Now, sir, he devotes the most of his time to improving the lot of the multitudinous poor of Great Britain, to be sure, yet does his brain wander far afield over a variety of other subjects which cause him, and many others, to distress. And of all these, the greatest is surely the terrible situation whereby a handful of Englishmen hold as their personal possessions a perfect nation of unfortunate creatures, subject to their whims and their idiosyncracies, and even where the planter may be a paragon of goodness and virtue, none the less condemned to an endless lifetime of servitude, with no hope of succour at the end of it.'

Matt sighed. 'Your Mr. Wesley has been conversing with Granville Sharpe, I'd wager.'

'Indeed he has. Mr. Sharpe is well to the fore of the Abolitionist movement. But we also number some members of Parliament. William Wilberforce, for one.'

'Who I have heard described, sir, as an idealist in search of the necessary ideal. It would follow that he would subscribe to your view.'

'None the less, Mr. Hilton, Mr. Fox himself is sympathetic to our cause, and there is no light weight. But I would not quarrel. I approached you in search of information, sir, not as a proselytizer.'

'And I, Dr. Coke, have little information to give. As I said, I know nothing of the West Indian scene at the moment.'

'But you are returning there now. Let me see, your family owns two plantations, does it not, one in Jamaica and one in Antigua? No doubt you will be taking up residence at one or other of these?'

'No, Dr. Coke. I am returning to Jamaica with a definite object in mind. I have no intention of remaining a moment longer in the Caribbean than I have to.'

Coke frowned at him. 'But ... are you not heir to the Hilton fortune?'

'That is my misfortune, sir. As to whether I shall remain heir after my visit, that I doubt. Now, sir...'

'Can it be that you are yourself appreciative of the vast crime we commit in the name of Mammon, by ill-using these unfortunate creatures?'

Matt stared at him, his brows drawing together in a frown. How you would like to hear my story, to enlist yourself upon my side, with the intention of using my anger and my position as a weapon in your ridiculous, and entirely political, campaign, he thought. But Gislane is not a Negress. She is as much a Negress as I am a Frenchman, because perhaps several hundred years ago one of my ancestors was taken to bed by a Norman knight.

'I have never thought about the matter, sir,'he said with absolute truth. 'The purpose of my voyage is entirely personal.'

'Then think about it now, Mr. Hilton, I beg of you. May I say, sir, that there is no more important question facing mankind at this moment.'

'And may I say, sir, that you are talking balderdash,' Matt said. 'The blacks may be victims of an economic necessity, but the necessity is there, and were they not employed to fill it, someone else would have to be. They have proved the most hardy, the most vigorous, in the climate which exists in the West Indies. The business has been tested by over a hundred years of application, and I doubt even your friend Sharpe would deny that the West Indies are the most prosperous portion of the British Empire. Your abolitionist endeavours are flying in the face of common reason.'

'And you, sir, have clearly never read Mr. Smith,' Coke declared.

'No, sir, I have not. I do not even know which Mr. Smith you mean.'

'Adam Smith,' Coke insisted. 'Who has proved that slave labour produces far inferior results to those achieved by free men working with a sense of purpose.'

'Dr. Coke,' Matt said, 'if there were room in our cabin for me to spread a sheet of paper, I have no doubt I could produce a logical argument to prove there is no reason at all why this vessel should not sail faster backwards than forwards. The fact is, sir, nature has ordained that some men shall rule and others shall serve. I will not enter into a discussion of how she arrives at her choice, lest it seem flattery to myself and my family, but the fact is undeniable. And those who serve, be they tenants of your duke in England or your boyar in Russia, private soldiers of your general in America, or common seamen on board this vessel on which we sail, invariably regard themselves as insufficiently rewarded for their efforts, inhumanly punished for their misdemeanours, and generally as the most unfortunate of the human race. In the West Indies we have merely reduced these arguments and these resentments to their logical level. And now, sir, while thanking you for your most generous hospitality in offering to share your bottle with me, I would be sincerely obliged if you would leave me to my contemplations, if your company is going to consist of an unending lecture.'

A speech, he reflected more than once, which was as untruthful as it was rude. Or was it untruthful? He had never considered the matter in that light, as indeed he had never considered the matter in any light at all. Because of course Gislane was not a slave; only a blackguard could ever confuse her with one.

But rude it certainly had been, and for the remainder of the voyage Dr. Coke refrained from engaging him in conversation, although he invariably greeted him most courteously. And now, as the great jagged mountains of Jamaica loomed green and sombre from the vastnesses of the Caribbean Sea, he once again joined the young man on the poop deck.

'Your homeland, Mr. Hilton. No doubt it pleases you even more than it pleases us poor creatures. Although after five weeks of confinement within the hell that is our cabin I doubt there is one of us will not go down on his or her knees and give thanks to God for our safe deliverance. Or was that the island we passed but two days ago your homeland more than Jamaica?'

A rhetorical question, for of course he would have ascertained their position from the captain.

'No, sir,' Matt said. 'Antigua lies some distance to the south of our route. That large island we left astern yesterday was Hispaniola, the original Spanish settlement in these parts.'

'And now divided between the French and the Spanish powers, I am informed,' Coke said. 'Have you no knowledge of it?'

'None, sir, save that it is one of the largest and most prosperous of European settlements in these waters.' But he could not resist a sally. 'My family also played its part there, however. My great-grandfather, Captain Christopher Hilton, was a buccaneer, as you may recall, and he lived on Hispaniola with his fellow Brethren of the Coast for some time, slaying cattle, and murdering Spaniards whenever the opportunity presented itself.'

'Grim times they must have been,' Coke remarked. 'But this island of Jamaica does not look so very small itself.'

'Nor is it, sir. And of course it also was once the home of the buccaneers. In fact, Dr. Coke ...' he pointed at the long low sandbank curving from the mainland in a semi-circle to enclose the waters of Port Royal bay, and lined throughout its length by stick-like coconut trees, bent this way and that by the wind, 'at the end of that spit, called Los Palisadoes, used to be the town of Port Royal, which was swallowed up by the earthquake of 1692. You will yet see some of the houses on the beach, while should the sea remain calm, and you look over the side as we enter the harbour you may see the remains of the city only a few feet below the surface.'

'The City of Sin they called it,' Coke said reverently. 'Suitably destroyed in a few seconds of heavenly vengeance. But fortunately, no doubt, your great-grandfather was absent at the time.'

'He had already adopted the life of a planter, in Antigua,' Matt said. 'Although he had certainly sailed with Morgan. He was at Panama.'

Coke smiled. 'I detect a certain sadness in your tones, Mr. Hilton, that there are no more piratical expeditions to be joined, no more Panamas to be sacked, that men have become altogether more sober, perhaps. More aware of their responsibilities as men. Some of them, at any rate. I wonder, sir, if you would be good enough to introduce me to your famous cousin, once we are ashore? He will be meeting the ship?'

‘I doubt that, Dr. Coke, as he has no idea that I am arriving today, or indeed at all. But if you would care to accompany me to Hilltop, it will be my pleasure to introduce you to Robert. Although I must warn you, he will listen to no claptrap about abolition or amelioration, and I would strongly suggest that you avoid the subject yourself, if you wish to be welcomed.'

Coke bowed his head. 'Be sure, Mr. Hilton, that I shall in no way abuse your hospitality.' He pointed. 'And see, sir, I am willing to admit that before us is living proof of the strength of your argument, that even in time of war Jamaica's prosperity can be equalled by no other country in the world.'

The vast harbour in front of them was filled with ships riding to their anchors, varying from the cluster of enormous three deckers belonging to the West Indian command of Sir Samuel Hood, down to the small schooners which plied for trade between the various islands. It occurred to Matt that the reason they were all accumulated here in safety was probably the very presence of the French fleet and the Yankee privateers, but he saw no reason to point this out to Coke, while certainly the harbour was busy enough, the bumboats plying for hire and victualling, rowing boats coursing to and fro, and the distant wooden piers of the town thronged with people.

But now the Sweet Adelaide herself was letting her anchor go to rush down into the still, green waters of the bay, and the longshoremen, having discovered a new arrival, were hastily approaching. The cabin passengers debouched on to the deck, looking sadly the worse for wear after their long confinement, while Captain Holman paraded the poop, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his vest, smoking a cigar, plainly at once relieved and self-flattered at having come safely to port in these tumultuous times.

Matt and Coke secured places in the first boat, and sat in the bows, their clothes bags tucked under their arms, as the brawny Negroes who manned the oars pulled for the shore.

'My word, but the heat of it,' Coke complained, tugging at his soiled cravat, and fanning himself with his tricorne, for in the shelter of the mountains which loomed above the town even the tradewind was reduced to occasional puffs. 'I wonder these fellows stand up to it.'

Matt laughed. 'Sir, I perceive that it will require but a week in Jamaica to convert you to the most rabid planter alive. These fellows stand up to it because they were born and bred in a climate even hotter than this, and so find this a positive relief.'

'And are they slaves?' Coke demanded, seeming for the first time to discover that he was in the presence of the reason for his journey.

'Indeed they are,' Matt said. 'And far less fortunate than those who work on the sugar plantations, for these fellows are the belongings of one of their own kind, that chap on the tiller.'

'My word,' Coke said again, casting an anxious glance at the hard-visaged Negro in the stern, dressed for all the world like a European, and even wearing a tricorne hat, but armed with a powerful short whip, at which, he now realized, every one of the oarsmen stared throughout their journey. 'And he is also a slave?'

Matt shook his head. 'He is a free Negro, either manumitted by his white master for some service, or enabled to purchase his own freedom by thrift and perseverance.'

Coke frowned at him. 'But how might a slave obtain the wherewithal to purchase his freedom?'

'They are allowed funds of their own, sir,' Matt said. 'They receive a day a week free, to tend their gardens, and they are allowed to grow vegetables to their heart's content, and to sell them in the market. Granted most of them squander whatever they receive on trinkets or strong drink, where it can be obtained. Those who are determined to be free have but to work for it'

'I see I have a great deal to learn,' Coke muttered. 'And this free day is of course the Sabbath?'

Matt shrugged. 'It depends upon the planter. The Sabbath means naught to these people, Dr. Coke. They are all totally heathen, and indulge in various West African superstitions to do with the worship of some mammoth snake, as I understand it.'

'My word,' Coke repeated. 'But is not that a dreadful state of affairs, which should be remedied as quickly as possible?'

'On the contrary, sir,' Matt said. 'It is a state of affairs which satisfies everyone, including the Negroes, and should be left untroubled, in all West Indian opinion. Shall we go ashore?'

For the boat had come into the side of the dock, where interested spectators, black and white, were gathered to oversee the arrivals, to tout for boarding houses and hotels, for horses and carriages, for laundry and for eating places, and even for employment. Coke stared at them in amazement; in contrast to his own broadcloth coat and warm vest, his soiled but none the less neat linen and cravat, and his cane, the white men who shouted their offers at him wore open-necked cotton shirts, in a variety of colours, tucked into breeches and boots, and were mostly unarmed, save that in many cases a short whip, much as that carried by the boat's owner, hung from their thick leather belts. For hats they wore wide-brimmed straws, and it was easy to see that in most cases their heads were shaved. Which did not equally apply to their faces, although the stubbles which shrouded their cheeks were clearly the result of carelessness rather than design.

'Gad, sir,' he whispered to Matt. 'What a piratical looking lot.' And he hastily searched his pocket for his handkerchief, for the mob sweated, and had clearly been sweating for days, without the relief of a bath or a change of clothing. The dock carried an aroma like that of an uncleansed stable, hanging on the still air.

'You'll become used to it.' But Matt was already releasing his own cravat, and shouldering men aside. Memory of his youth, of the manners practised by Papa, and indeed by Robert himself, were flooding back to him. 'Stand back there,' he shouted, flicking his cane. 'Stand back.'

'And who might you be?' demanded one large, sallow-skinned fellow with a scar on his chin.

'My name is Matthew Hilton, sir,' Matt declared. 'And I am of Plantation Hilltop. Will you question me further?'

'God bless you, Mr. Hilton,' the man said. 'I did not recognize you, sir. You'll be for Hilltop, Mr. Hilton? I have horses...'

'Ah, begone with you,' shouted another man. 'His are broken nags. Now mine, Mr. Hilton ...'

'But you'll not be needing horses, Mr. Hilton,' protested a third. 'As the carriage will no doubt be coming into town to meet you. Until then, why I suggest my establishment, sir, the best in town, clean linen, sir, good food, all the wine you can drink, mulatto girls, sir, no filthy niggers ...'

'My word,' Coke said. 'I really did not appreciate what the concept of plantocracy meant. I apologize, Mr. Hilton, really I do.'

Matt merely smiled. 'Horses,' he shouted. 'I will need horses. Yours, sir, and should they fail me you need expect no payment.'

'Mine, sir?' cried the delighted fellow. 'You'll discover no better mounts in all Jamaica. Clear the way, there. Mr. Hilton would ride to Hilltop.'

Matt and Coke followed him along the suddenly broad street, unpaved and with dust scattering in the gentle breeze which had returned to suggest it might be quite fresh at sea, skimming down from the blue-green haze of the mountains behind the town. On either side were a variety of houses, built of brick or stone in apparently formless variety, but all characterized by wide porticoes and deep verandahs, to admit as much air as possible, while in place of glass in the windows there were jalousied shutters, to perform the same duty of circulating air while rejecting as much of the eye scorching brilliance of the sunlight as could be achieved. Paint was apparently scarce, but whatever damage had been caused by the hurricane of a few months previously had either been repaired or disguised.

And here too were a multitude of hurrying, bustling people; white men in the loose and comfortable garments Coke had noted on the dock; their women in muslins, tantalizingly sheer to European eyes, topped by similar broad-brimmed hats and the whole protected by enormous multi-coloured umbrellas carried by attentive Negro slaves; the slaves themselves, mostly wearing white, long gowns for the women, who concealed their heads in massive turbans, and shirts and pants for the men, who, in imitation of their white betters, sported ragged straw hats. There was a hum of conversation and a cackle of laughter in the air, even amongst the blacks. Certainly the fact that the mother country was waging a losing war, that just beyond the horizon a French fleet might be lurking, that not one of the blacks could be sure where his next meal might be discovered, seemed to have very little effect upon their good humour. But perhaps, Coke reflected, they were all inebriated by the unending, all-pervading, ever-penetrating sun, which made it almost obscene to indulge in anything approaching gloom or pessimism.

And soon enough they were mounted and leaving the city behind, climbing steeply into the hills which surrounded the bay, following another of the white dust roads, built up between steep ditches to carry off the excessive water of the rainy season, now exposed to the heat, now shaded by the enormous spreading trees, cedar and cypress, tamarind and banyan, which loomed at the roadside, watched speculatively by hideous bald-headed crows perched on the lower branches even as they inhaled the endlessly sweet smell of the wild flowers, the orchids and the honeysuckle, which carpeted the ground between the stalwart trunks.

It was a country which, Coke realized, in one brief morning could catch a hold of the imagination and turn dull care and the apprehension of approaching winter into a meaningless memory. It was a country in which a man would easily learn to live to the utmost, and laugh at his loudest, and perhaps love beyond his capacity. He glanced at his companion, not for the first time, with true curiosity. Matthew Hilton possessed this country, to all intents and purposes. Given the slightest ambition he could bestride it even more than did his cousin, than had his illustrious ancestors dominated Antigua. But the young man rode in a silent, self-possessed anger, a man on a mission, Coke realized, and one which had nothing to do with the fellowship of mankind.

But now Matt reined, and pointed. 'Hilltop.'

The road had traversed the side of a steep hill, which rose on their right to shut out the further ranges beyond, and which on their left dropped into a deep valley, mostly wooded, through which there raced a hurrying stream, no doubt seeking the sea, which could occasionally, through the gaps in the trees and the mountains, be discerned away to their left. But on coming round the hill it was discovered that the entire land dipped down to join the canyon, and spread out into a huge bowl of relatively flat country. Coke estimated that it could not be less than ten miles across to the next range. The floor of this valley had been cleared of natural vegetation, and replanted; from a height it suggested an enormous garden, and this, the Methodist missionary realized, was in fact a perfectly accurate description. In the main it was under cane, for the crop was nearly ripe, and it was simple to identify the tall, waving, slender green stalks which provided the wealth of an entire nation. But farther off, and towards the centre of the valley, clustering around the town which lay there, the canefields ended, and there was a large area under corn, and an enormous orchard of fruit trees, while beyond them there was an even larger cleared area, dotted with grazing horses, with a perimeter of deep green grass surrounded by a white railing, and beyond, a tiered stand.

'My family is fond of racing their horses,' Matt said, and urged his mount forward.

'And so have created their own race-course?' Coke asked in wonder, and speaking half to himself. 'But where is the hilltop which gives the place its name?'

For they were descending the side of the hill now; the road led through the centre of the canefields themselves.

'Why, there isn't one,' Matt said. 'My cousin Robert's father, who founded this place, first saw it and determined to have it, from the hill we have just descended. But he built his house in the centre of the valley itself, where it is never exposed to even the strongest of hurricane winds. You will see it soon enough.'

Coke removed his hat to scratch his head, and hastily restored it again; the sun seemed to pounce on his scalp like a physical force, and now that they were sheltered from what breeze there was by the mountains surrounding the amphitheatre, it was remarkable how still it was. He could hear a sound of singing, and a moment later discovered he was indeed in the presence of other humans, as they rounded a bend and came upon a gang of men, forty strong, wearing nothing but cotton drawers and wielding sharpened machetes, long knives lacking points but with their cutting edges sharpened to a razor-like perfection, weeding the road, and chanting together with a most delightful cadence.

The Negroes stopped, to look at the two white men, and then to stand, and touch their foreheads as the horses approached.

Coke sidled closer to Matt. 'Is there no overseer?'

‘I imagine there is. But he is probably sleeping in some piece of shade.'

'But...' Coke licked his lips. 'Those cutlasses would soon settle a man.'

'Indeed,' Matt agreed.

"Then what is to stop them absconding?' Coke asked, speaking more freely as the horses drew clear of the work gang, and the song started up again behind them, the rhythm keeping perfect time with the clatter of the blades.

'The fear of retribution when they are retaken,' Matt said. 'You have come to the West Indies to preach freedom for the blacks. Dr. Coke, so surely you cannot also be afraid of them? If they are worthy of freedom, then they are worthy of your trust.'

Coke decided to ignore the sarcasm. 'I was considering the matter from your point of view. It is an opinion held by some authorities on crime that fear of punishment is no deterrent to the average man. Jamaica is a large island. Surely there is somewhere they could hope to gain, where they could live free?'

'Oh, indeed there is,' Matt agreed. 'Some distance away to the north is what is known as the Cockpit Country, a desolate place of low hills and gullies, ravines and morasses, impenetrable to an organized force, where is situated the kingdom of the Maroons, a nation composed entirely of runaways. But these are slaves who in the main escaped from their Spanish masters, better than a century ago. They do welcome certain new arrivals, but they have to be assured that they are not spies, and life in the Cockpit is extremely hard. And then there is the business of reaching there, with all the resources of the government and the plantocracy, dogs and mounted men, on their heels. And if they are retaken, why they are hanged, and at that are fortunate, as until quite recently it was their fate to be burned alive.'

'What a sombre picture you do paint, to be sure, Mr. Hilton,' Coke observed. 'Yet I would hear more about these Maroons. Can the government tolerate such an armed force, for I assume they carry weapons, in the midst of their island?'

'They can do very little about them, save they undertake a full-scale war.'

'But do they not fear that the Maroons may undertake a full-scale war against them, a war in which no doubt the majority of your slaves would join?'

. 'They are uneasy neighbours, to be sure, to those who are unwise enough to plant in their vicinity,' Matt agreed. 'But their leaders are as aware of our strength as we are of theirs. They know that, should the provocation be great enough, then we would certainly undertake the expense and toil of an expedition to destroy them, and they have sufficient sense to prefer to remain in isolation, and indeed, to subscribe to a Treaty of Peace between their king and our governor.'

'My word,' Coke said. Then you do allow that the Negro is capable of good sense, and therefore intelligence.' 'Have I ever denied it?'

'No,' Coke agreed. 'No, I suppose you have not. I wonder if it would be possible for me to visit these people?'

'Indeed, sir, you would take your life in your hands were you to do so,' Matt observed. 'They care little for white skins. And I had thought your business was to do with those who still suffer the lash.' He touched his horse with his heels, to increase its speed, and to signify he no longer wished to continue the conversation. Whatever his problems, Coke decided, he was a Hilton to his backbone, in his natural arrogance, his complete confidence in the way of life to which he had been educated, his almost regal bearing.

He sighed, and urged his own mount onwards. Now they were passing more slave gangs, some composed of women as well as men, who squatted by the roadside, their white skirts tucked up around their thighs, and flicked their cutlasses at the creeping weeds with careless accuracy. Then they were riding by the orchard, and he was looking at trees he had never seen before, laden with a variety of unfamiliar fruit.

Those are guavas,' Matt said. 'And beyond you'll see mango trees; they are great delicacies.'

'I'm sure,' Coke agreed. But he was more interested in the approaching houses. The road led by the Negro village, row after row of orderly huts, each with its patch of vegetable garden at the back, almost every one with its dog and its cluster of small black children at the front, watched over by a female. The children were naked, and painfully thin and dirty, for their chief occupation seemed to be rolling in the dust, while the dogs were clearly of the most mongrel variety; but over the entire scene the brilliant sunshine bestowed a kind of aura which entirely negated the possibility of misery.

Which made the shock of the six triangles just beyond the village gate all the more disturbing; these were presently unoccupied, but beyond them was a row of stocks, and in these were several black men, naked and drooping in the intense heat.

'Good heavens,' Coke remarked. 'Of what can those poor people have been guilty?'

'Nothing serious, I am sure,' Matt remarked. 'No doubt stealing or insubordination.'

'And are they not the fathers of those children back there?' Coke demanded. 'Can a boy grow to manhood with other than hatred and despair in his heart at seeing his own flesh and blood so mistreated?'

'The stocks are a part of their life, Dr. Coke, as disease and death are a part of ours. Are you an anti-Christian merely because your father has died?'

'I at least know that he has been taken from me by God, and forever,' Coke said. 'May I ask how long those poor wretches must wait there?'

'Until the jumper's next visit, I imagine,' Matt said.

'The jumper?'

'Whipping a slave is a very delicate matter,' Matt pointed out. 'The culprit must be made to feel the maximum of pain, yet must suffer the minimum of personal injury, or he would be useless for labour. Thus the business is undertaken by professional floggers, called jumpers, who tour the plantations renting out their skill. These men are confined to await their coming.'

'My God,' Coke remarked. 'To sit there, in discomfort and disgrace, knowing all the while a worse fate awaits you?'

But Matt was leading the way along a suddenly paved road, between beds of flowers, blooming with freshness despite the heat and the cloudless sky to suggest constant care, and indeed even as the two horsemen rode by, a gang of slaves with bucketsful of water paraded the paths between the flowerbeds, watched as ever by an overseer. And now they were passing the staff village, which could have been taken, Coke realized, straight from Sussex; the cottages were neat and painted, each was surrounded by a flower rather than a vegetable garden, there were sleepy cats and well-fed dogs basking in the sun, raising their heads at the sound of hooves but showing no further interest, while backing the whole was a large run filled with hens clucking and scratching. And at the end of the street there waited a neat little church with a high steeple. Only the absence of chimney-pots suggested that this was a West Indian rather than an English scene.

And here too there were children, wearing muslin frocks and wide-brimmed hats, playing with their toys in the gardens and overseen by Negro nursemaids in clean cotton gowns and voluminous turbans. Their mothers were not immediately in evidence, but the sound of hooves brought several of them on to their porches; they gave an impression of undress, as not one appeared to indulge herself in a corset, and they also gave an impression of sallowness in their complexions, but that apart they too could have been transported straight from an English home, and were as quick as their compatriots across the sea to gather at their low fences for a gossip on the possible identity of these unannounced visitors. Clearly none of them recognized Matt after his long absence.

Now the road was leading onwards, past the offices and the store houses, past the huge bulk of the grinding house, dominated by its chimney and its treadwheels, its vats and its rollers, for it was an unwalled structure, the roof being supported by uprights set some twenty feet apart, and it was possible to look right through to the farther side. Obviously this was in an effort to keep it cool during the labour and heat of reducing the cane juice to crystalline sugar. But for the moment the great machinery stood silent, although, as the grinding season was approaching, there were men busy with drums of grease, lubricating every moving part.

And even the factory faded into insignificance as they approached the Great House. Here the land actually rose a little, but there the suggestion of a hilltop ended, and looking at the packed and walled earth Coke realized that this entire mound, which could hardly be less than an acre in extent, was artificial, and no doubt intended for defence. Equally surprising, and increasing the suggestion of a glacis, there were no flowerbeds on this slope, and no trees, but smoothly cut grass, while the house, on the top of the mound, was four-square and built of stone, resting on a massive loop-holed cellar which protruded some five feet above the level of the ground. On top of this all was splendid elegance and light; deep-set steps gave way to even deeper verandahs, floored with greenheart and reaching, by means of huge jalousied doors, to an interior which even from the saddle Coke could discern was composed of polished woods, cedar and mahogany, which panelled the walls as much as they composed the parquet blocks of the floors, while from the equally splendid ceilings there hung a succession of crystal chandeliers. Yet even this splendour seemed to anticipate the moment of defence; as they reined their horses at the foot of the steps, he saw that, folded flat against the external wall and half hidden by the open jalousies, there were enormously thick double doors of wood strengthened by iron struts, which could be closed to render them impregnable to any assault unsupported by cannon. He looked up at more verandahs, and now at jalousied windows as well, and above even that, at a sloping roof in which huge skylights were partially opened to admit light and air.

'My word,' he said. ' 'Tis hard to decide whether your home is a fortress or a palace.'

Matt smiled. 'Why, Dr. Coke, it is both of course. Welcome to Hilltop.'

And indeed, they were being welcomed. From the open doorway there now issued a perfect army of domestics, maidservants in white and menservants in sky-blue coats and white breeches, and wearing powdered wigs, Coke observed to his amazement, although, in equal surprise, he noted that they wore neither stockings nor shoes, the whiteness of the breeches ending incongruously in their black legs.

Of these the foremost was a tall, spare man with a remarkably dignified face, who peered at the two dusty horsemen as he might have regarded a beetle crawling upon his polished floor. 'Your business on Hilltop, gentlemen?' he asked, his voice lacking any suggestion of an accent, each word pronounced with careful perfection.

'Maurice, you old fool,' Matt shouted. 'Have you entirely forgotten me, then?'

The butler's head came up. 'Master Matthew? Well, praise be. Master Matthew,' he shouted. 'Hey, you there, take the bridles, man. Master Matthew is back. Matilda, you run upstairs and tell Mistress Rebecca that Master Matthew is back. Jonathan, get to the kitchen and prepare some punch. Harry, take horse and find Master Robert, and tell him Master Matthew is back. Man, Master Matthew...' he came running down the steps to assist Matt from the saddle. 'But you looking good, man,' he cried, embracing the young man, while his accent sadly slipped into the natural lilt of his people.

Matt grinned at Coke. 'They cannot hate us all that much, can they, Doctor? Come inside. And Maurice, old fellow, it is good to be back, I'll tell you that.'

He stamped up the stairs, flicking dust from his boots, Coke at his elbow, to pause in amazement at his first glimpse of the interior. Fortress or palace? But the suggestion of a fortress ended at the iron-bound doors.

His first impression was one of space, more space indeed than he had ever seen in any house he had ever been in. The entry hall stretched for some sixty feet in front of him, a vast expanse of polished parquet, uncluttered by even a chair, although there were tables along the wall laden with brass ornaments, and a gigantic stand close by the front door, on to which the servants were placing their hats and sticks as they removed them from their keeping.

Halfway along the hall, on the left-hand wall, there was a wide, deep staircase, leading up to a similarly massive gallery, fronted by carved mahogany balustrades, which looked down on them, and on which a coterie of giggling Negresses, all wearing spotless white, had gathered to shout their young master's name and clap their hands in pleasure. Beyond the gallery were other doors, and no doubt other rooms, but Coke's attention was already recalled to the floor on which he stood, for from the hall itself there opened four enormous archways; that facing him, at the far end beyond the stairs, was curtained in red velvet, and clearly led to the servants' quarters; that on the left gave access to a room scarcely-smaller than the hall, yet filled with a mahogany dining-table capable of seating a regiment, he did not doubt, and surrounded by no less than five dozen chairs upholstered in crimson velvet; in keeping with the general incongruity of the whole building, this vast area was set with but a single place. The walls of this room were surrounded with sideboards laden with a variety of silver and crystal, above which hung paintings of men and women, all of them displaying the remarkably fine Hilton features, interspersed only occasionally with the rounded good looks of the Warners.

But Matt was entering the archway on his right, which, like its twin farther down the wall, gave access to the with-drawing-room. At least, Coke estimated this was its probable function. It reminded him of a Court reception chamber, for it was as long as the hall, and was at least thirty feet wide. Here were clusters of carved chairs and embroidered hassocks, settees and divans, miniature tables and china statues, a vast example of the musical instrument called the pianoforte of which he had only heard, but which was reputed to be capable of supplying the want of an entire orchestra, and of course a huge green-topped card and dice table, surrounded by leather upholstered chairs, while at the far end waited a billiard table on a scale to match the rest. Yet the note of incongruity remained; there were no carpets and not even a rug on the floor, so that their boots echoed from one end to the next across the magnificent emptiness of the room.

'My word,' he said. 'My word. I am rendered quite speechless.'

'Then have something to drink,' Matt recommended, for a maidservant waited at their elbows with a tray on which there were glasses filled with ice and with a delicious-looking pale brown liquid. Nor was the taste less pleasing, although the first sip caused Coke's brain to spin.

'Rum punch,' Matt explained. 'There is nothing more refreshing after a long ride. Now, Maurice, is Aunt Becky ready to receive me?'

‘I finding that out now, Master Matt. But Master Robert is coming.'

They could hear the hooves, and the barking of dogs. Coke faced the archway and tugged his cravat straight; it had been so drenched by sweat on their ride that it felt sadly delapidated, and he had no idea what to expect. Certainly neither the man who limped into the room, for Robert wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches tucked into black

boots, nor the pack of terriers who entered with him, making themselves perfectly free with the beautifully polished floor, and bounding across the priceless furniture, while no one, not even the servants who would shortly have to repair the damage, seemed disturbed in the slightest.

But their scurrying yelps were lost in Robert's booming greeting. 'Matt? I could scarce believe my ears. Matt? Where is Georgiana? And what catastrophe brings you here?'

'Georgiana is in England, Robert,' Matt said.

'What? What? By God. You left her there by herself?'

‘I had like to leave her in her grave, sir.' Matt declared. And then appeared to remember the presence of Coke. 'Dr. Thomas Coke, Mr. Robert Hilton.'

'An honour, Mr. Hilton,' Coke said.

'And mine, sir,' Robert said. 'But you'll excuse me while I try to get some sense out of my cousin here. In her grave? She is ill? Speak up, boy.'

'I imagine she is as well as ever in her life.' Matt said. 'If she had been in her grave by now I would have sent her there. She caused Gislane Nicholson to be abducted.'

'Eh? What? Whatever can you be prating about. Abducted? And sent where?'

'Here. To the West Indies. To Nevis, to be exact. Gislane legally belongs to James Hodge. You know of him?'

'Indeed I do,' Robert said. 'The sort of fellow who gives planting a bad name. Oh, indeed, that girl is unfortunate should she find herself back there. But Georgiana did this? I wonder why?' He glanced at Coke, as if expecting the missionary to be able to supply the answer.

'I suspect this business is private,' Coke said. 'Would you prefer me to withdraw?'

'It means nothing to me what you do, Dr. Coke,' Matt declared. ‘I but came here to get my cousin to horse.'

'To horse?' Robert demanded in amazement. 'To ride where?'

'Why to Port Antonio with me. Is that not where you keep your sloops? Then we must sail for Nevis as rapidly as possible. It is possible that we might yet be in time.'

Robert scratched the back of his head with the end of his riding crop. 'Truly I wonder if sending you to England for an education has not in some way demented you. What is it, girl?'

One of the maidservants was hovering at his elbow. 'Mistress Rebecca does be wanting to see Master Matt, sir,' she said.

'What? What? You have not spoken to Aunt Rebecca yet, boy? There's manners for you, in this day and age, Dr. Coke. You'll excuse us, sir. We shall be back in a moment. Maurice. Maurice. Where is that black devil? See to Dr. Coke's requirements, man. Fetch him some more punch. Come along, Matt.' Robert stamped for the stairs.

'But do you not understand, sir,' Matt begged. 'Gislane left England but a day or two in front of me. She can only recently have arrived in Nevis. We may be able to save her.'

'From what?' Robert climbed the stairs.

'For God's sake,' Matt shouted. 'Must I spell it out for you? Can you imagine a girl like Gislane in the power of a monster like Hodge?'

Robert chuckled. 'Indeed I am up hard and anxious at the very thought. But if she is his slave, she is his possession in any event.'

'But she is not his slave any more,' Matt insisted. 'The law proclaimed her free the moment she set foot in England.'

'Rubbish,' Robert declared. 'English law. West Indian law-proclaims her once again a slave the moment she sets foot in the West Indies. The more fool her for risking such a thing.'

He had reached the gallery; Matt grasped his shoulder. 'She did not risk it. I told you, she was abducted and placed on board a boat like a common criminal.'

'By Georgiana? By God, but that girl is a Hilton after all. Although I still fail to understand why.'

'To stop her marrying me,' Matt shouted. 'We were going to elope when we were attacked. They cracked my skull and left me for dead. There's your sister for you.'

Robert stopped, and turned slowly, frowning. 'Elope? You? With that nigger girl?'

'Do you suppose, sir,' Matt said, 'that I am less of a Hilton than you or your sister? I love Gislane.'

Robert stared at him, his brows drawing even closer together, but before he could speak again he was interrupted by a voice from the nearest bedroom. It quavered, high and thin, but none the less clear. 'Robert? Is that you? Are the servants telling me the truth? Is Matthew come home?'

'You'd best go in,' Robert said.

Matt hesitated, then turned through the door. His great-aunt sat in a rocking chair, which was moved for her by one of her maids. Matt could never remember her as less than old, a small, wizened woman, younger child of Kit and Meg Hilton, who could tell magnificent tales of the early planting days, of the buccaneers and the Carib raids, and chill the blood with the relation of how her mother had died of leprosy. Now she was past a hundred, and clung to life with a tenacious determination, hunched, toothless, all but blind, with talon-like fingers which seized his arm as she peered into his face. He knelt, and the fingers stroked his cheek. 'Matt?' she whispered. 'I had not thought to sec you alive again. What brings you home?'

'You'd best tell her,' Robert said from above him.

Matt turned his head in surprise.

'Aye, she can stand it.' Robert said. 'You've stood enough in your time, eh Aunt Becky? The young fool has fallen in love with a nigger girl.'

Rebecca Hilton's lined face seemed to grow smaller as she smiled. 'Every one of you, one after the other, has fallen in love with a nigger girl,' she said.

'Aye,' Robert said. 'And been content to bring the wench to bed. He's the first wished to marry one.'

'You don't understand,' Matt said desperately, as he watched the humour leave his aunt's face. 'This girl is not a Negress. She has only a fraction of black blood in her veins. Were you not prejudiced you'd not notice it should she enter the room this moment, I swear it.'

'And who in the West Indies is not at once knowledgeable and prejudiced?' Rebecca asked.

'I have thought of that, Aunt Becky,' Matt said. 'We shall live in England.'

'In England?' Robert demanded. 'And who will manage the Hilton estates after I am gone?'

'An attorney can do it, surely,' Matt said. 'Most other planters live in England.'

'They are not Hiltons,' Rebecca said. 'Bed the girl, Matt, and have done with it. Set her up in a house in Kingston, if you choose. But let us have no absurdities like marriage.'

Matt opened his mouth, then changed his mind. There was no time for argument. 'It matters naught at this moment what I would do with her, Aunt Rebecca,' he said. 'She has been sent to Nevis, to Hodge. Her master. Christ, I think I am going mad. Robert, you must come with me to get her away from there.'

'I?' Robert asked. 'What do you expect of me, may I ask?'

'You are Robert Milton,' Matt pointed out. 'There is not a man in the West Indies will not bow before that name.'

'Yet must I always uphold the law,' Robert insisted. 'You say the girl legally belongs to Hodge, at least in the West Indies.'

'Then buy her,' Matt shouted.

'With what purpose in mind?' Rebecca Hilton asked.

'To ... you can give her to me as my mistress,' Matt said. 'There it is. I am to be twenty-one within a year. Give her to me as my birthday present. I'll ask for no more.'

Robert hesitated, and glanced at his aunt. Rebecca stared at him.

'You'd swear to keep her as your mistress, always?'

Matt hesitated. 'If those are your terms, sir. I'd swear. At least for the period of both your lives.'

But his hesitation had been as fatal as his honesty. 'Aye,' Robert said. 'You are in love with the girl. And you are entirely lacking in experience. You'd best forget her, Matt. Believe me, boy ...'

'Forget her?' Matt shouted. 'Forget her? I can never do that. I will never do that. Will you not buy her?'

'It could cause a scandal,' Rebecca said.

'A scandal,' Matt said. 'Aye. Well, then, have your scandal. You'll not help me? I'll help myself.'

'You've no credit to pledge, saving mine,' Robert said.

'Who said anything about credit? I've two good arms here. I'd like to see Hodge stop me.'

Robert frowned at him. 'You'd attempt to seize the girl? That would be breaking the law.'

'And that will cost me a fine or a term in gaol. But by God, I'll have Gislane.'

'That will cost you a bullet through the brain, more like,' Robert said. 'And Hodge will be entirely within his rights.'

'We shall see about that,' Matt declared. 'I must get back to Kingston and find a ship. Oh, fear not, Robert, I have sufficient funds to get me to Nevis, at the least. Aunt Rebecca,' he dropped to his knees beside the rocking chair. 'I beg your forgiveness.'

'You are a stupid, wicked young man,' she said.

'Yet have I my honour. And will act upon it.' He rose, and turned, and discovered Robert had left the room. He ran outside, to the gallery, and saw his cousin, together with Maurice the butler and two footmen, waiting at the foot of the stairs. Coke stood in the background, by the front door, his hat in his hands, his face flushed with embarrassment as much as with heat. 'You'll not try to stop me, Robert.'

Robert Hilton shrugged. 'If you force me to, Matt, why, I shall do just that, even if it means breaking your head again. You have just reminded me that you need several months to manhood. Several months, I would hope, in which you may come to your senses.'

Matt turned; there was another staircase at the back of the house. But behind him were four more menservants, and these had ropes in their hands.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE MIDDLE PASSAGE

GISLANE awoke as from a nightmare, and yet hardly seemed to awake. She had dreamed she was being smothered, and still strands of cloth were blocking her nostrils, and even more unpleasantly, filled her mouth and pushed their way down her throat. The cloying, ill-tasting wool precluded thought, hardly made her aware of the bumping of the vehicle in which she was travelling; she was lying on bare boards and each jolt seemed to lift her from the floor.

Think, she told herself. Think. There is no reason to lose your head. Raise your hand, and discover what it is in your mouth. She attempted to lift her right arm, and discovered to her horror that she could not; the arm itself seemed to lose all feeling just below the elbow.

Now memory came flooding back, intruding even on the wool discomfort in her throat. She remembered leaving the house by the side door, a bundle of clothes under her arm, and seeing the phaeton and Matt standing in the shadow of the trees on the far side of the lane. Had it been Matt? Of course it had, because when she had run across the road he had greeted her, and held his arms wide for her, and in that instant, as she reached the grass by the phaeton, someone had stepped round the coach, carrying a length of wood. She had stopped, and cried out a warning, but she had been too late; Matt had gone down without a sound, and she had turned to discover two other men standing behind her, one carrying a blanket. She had raised her hand, the blanket had been thrown over them as well as her head ... and she had fainted. Presumably. She could remember nothing more.

Her sudden terror of what might have happened to Matt for a moment subdued even her surging fear of what might be going to happen to herself. She found she could move her legs, although they were bound together by a rope passed several times round her ankles. She drummed them on the floor of the wagon, for it could hardly be a coach, she thought; she could feel no seats by her shoulders on either side, and there was a total absence of springing. The attempted exercise made her gasp, and once again she was in danger of choking.

But now there were people, close by her in the darkness. Yet she could not see them, such was the intensity around her. For the first time she realized she was blindfolded.

'She's awake,' a man said.

A hand touched her cheek. The flesh was rough, and it stank. 'And like to suffocate, you've the gag that tight. Take off the sack.'

Fingers dug into her hair, and she discovered that she had lost her hat. But a moment later she could blink her eyes into the gloom. She was indeed in a wagon, which contained some barrels and boxes besides herself; she was lying just behind the driver's seat, and apart from the man handling the reins, who had not turned round, there were two others kneeling beside her. She did not recognize either of them; nor did she much care for their looks. Fear began to surge back into her chest again, making her feel physically sick. Fear of what? She had no idea what to expect, why they should seize her.

'Aye, you're a lively one,' said the man who had first spoken. 'Intelligent, they say, for a nigger. So study this.'

A naked knife blade appeared immediately in front of her face, but she hardly saw it. A nigger, the man had said. Oh God, she thought. Oh, God. She had lived with the nightmare of discovery for so long it did not seem possible it could really have happened.

'Now we're kindly folk,' said the man. 'And we can see you've difficulty breathing. So I'm going to take away the gag. You'll like that, eh, nigger girl? But mark me well, one sound out of you, excepting as we tell you to, and I'll carve you good and proper. It wouldn't do you much good, anyhow. There ain't a house for ten miles. Nod if you understand me.'

Gislane nodded, without thinking. She wanted only to be able to breathe. Her head was jerked forward, and once again the fingers fumbled around her neck. Then the cloth was pulled out, slowly, allowing her first uninterrupted breath, it seemed for all of her life, leaving her throat like a desert. Cautiously she licked her lips. 'A drink,' she whispered.

The man grinned at her. 'Why not, darling. It might cheer you up.' He held her shoulders, pulled her upright, and set her back against the heaving, shuddering wall of the wagon; her hands were bound behind her, she discovered, and they had indeed lost all feeling.

'Head back.' He arranged her to his satisfaction by the simple expedient of dragging on her hair, while his friend pulled the cork from a bottle.

'Not wine,' she begged. 'Water.'

'Water'll do nothing for you, darling.' The liquid was poured into her mouth. She closed her teeth, and it dribbled over her chin and into her gown. Hastily she opened her mouth again, and swallowed. It removed some of the roughness of her throat, at the least.

'Now you've made a mess,' said the man holding her hair. 'But you can give us a thank you kiss.'

Foul breath shrouded her face, and she attempted to close her mouth, but too late. Then she wanted to bite the tongue which came questing between her teeth, but she was too afraid of what he might do to her, and so she submitted to having her mouth and even her throat explored, while his hands slid over the front of her gown and down to squeeze her thighs.

'Ah, you're a darling all right,' he said at last, releasing her. 'Jimmy Hodge'll be that happy to see you again.'

She felt sick again; she had never been kissed like that before - Matt's shy embrace when she had consented to elope with him had been no more than a reassuring suggestion that they would explore each other's desires in mutual uncertainty. Matt. Oh, God, Matt.

'Please,' she said. ‘Did my cousin send you?'

The man's teeth flashed in the darkness. 'Now that would be telling, darling.'

'Please listen,' she said. 'That man who was waiting for me. His name is Matthew Hilton. If you know the West Indies at all you'll know that name. His cousin is Robert Hilton of Hilltop in Jamaica. Please, if you'll take me back to London, Mr. Hilton will reward you well. He'll protect you from Hodge. Please.'

'She was eloping, like,' said the first man to his companion. 'Now what do you think, Jemmy, lad. She'll be no unpicked flower, not her.'

'Barton said not to harm her,' Jem muttered.

'Hold your tongue, you rascal,' the older man growled. 'No names. That were understood. As for the girl, one rod counts much like another, after the first. If we was to untie her legs we could take turn and turn alike, all the way to Bristol. Christ, I feel it coming over me.'

Oh, God, she thought; the fear pain in her chest threatened to choke her. Barton. Barton. The name meant nothing to her. But it had to be remembered. 'Please,' she said again. 'You must know the Hiltons. If they'll reward you for taking me back, be sure they'll punish you for kidnapping me. You can't go against the Hiltons. Please.'

Her voice cracked with fear, and for a moment she thought she might have made some progress. The older man continued to gaze at her for a while. Then he sighed.

'Maybe you're right, Jem. He did say we wasn't to touch the darling. But it's a shame. Now you listen, nigger girl. He didn't say nothing about not having to a stick to your arse if you caused trouble. You'll be getting that soon enough, anyway. We've a long way to go. So you just lie there and keep quiet, or I'll give you something to bawl about.'

Relief seemed to shroud her entire body, and for a little while clouded her brain. She lay against the side of the wagon, bumping and rattling to every hole in the road, her teeth chattering together while her mouth remained filled with the taste of her captor's saliva and the spilled wine settled into a soggy mess on her bodice. In time she fell over, and bumped her head on the boards, but this was more comfortable than sitting up, and she made no effort to move. The night settled into a long misery, nor was the day greatly better. The wagon stopped once, apparently for a change of horses; the boy, Jem, for he Was hardly older than she, came into the wagon and sat by her side, a knife in his hand, while the ostlers moved around them. She wondered if he would stab her should she call out, but she was too tired and numb with pain and utterly miserable to consider attempting it.

So then, she thought, you are nothing more than a coward. Oh, God, she thought, what can I do? But Matt... surely he will have recovered by now. They might have risked assaulting him, but they would never risk kidnapping a Hilton. Then they might have killed him. But to murder a Hilton ... why, Robert would track them down if it took him the rest of his life. No, no, Matt had been rendered no more than unconscious. Then he would have regained consciousness by now, and already be mounting a search. No doubt horses were pounding down the road behind them, driven onward by the Hilton energy and the Hilton wealth. A horse could travel several times as fast as this old wagon. They'd be overtaken at any moment, and he would hold her in his arms.

Oh, God, by now she should have been lying in his arms. Had she really thought what that would mean? How could she, when she had no idea. It had all happened too quickly for understanding or for thought. She had known only that here was a man who would end her fears and sweep her into a future of prosperity and safety and even, perhaps position. So she plunged selfishly and blindly and excitedly forward, not even knowing, or caring, whether or not she loved him. No doubt she was being punished for that presumption.

But he loved her. No one could be that consummate an actor. He loved her, and he would follow and find her, no matter what happened. There was the only important fact at this moment.

Perhaps she even slept. The wagon was moving again, with endless discomfort. It was still daylight, and her tormentor was shaking her into wakefulness, pouring more red wine down her throat to make her head spin, and feeding her lumps of cheese and scraps of bread. She was so hungry that even this stale food tasted delicious, but digestion was difficult. All the time she chewed he sat and stared at her, and at last his desire proved too much for him and he raised her skirts, tugging them up to her knees and beyond to gaze at her legs, while she tried to hold her breath and the half-masticated food turned to lead in her throat.

But he did no more than shake his head, and return to his seat by the driver. He wanted, but he was afraid to touch her. Because of the Hiltons? There could be no one else. She swallowed the last of the food and felt a little confidence returning. They were afraid of what they were doing, and she must keep them afraid.

But soon nature interfered with her courage, and she was forced to beg them to stop the wagon and allow her down. 'God save us from a weak-bladdered whore,' growled her captor, but he was delighted, and slapped Jem on the shoulder. The boy untied the rope holding her legs together, and they jerked her towards the back of the wagon. Now to her horror she found that she could not support herself; thrust through the flap at the rear, she sank to her knees. Nor would they assist her again, but stood on either side of her, laughing and making coarse comments.

How strange, she thought, that this time yesterday I would have preferred to die rather than relieve myself in front of two strange men. But this time yesterday the idea that I would ever spend twenty-four hours bound and gagged in the back of a dirty wagon would also have been inconceivable.

Yet the unfortunate interlude brought with it one blessing; they did not bother to retie her ankles, and she even managed to get some feeling back into her toes by the time they rumbled into another town, just at dusk. But now they returned with ropes and even the gag.

'Please,' she begged. ‘I won't cry out. I am likely to suffocate.'

'Then you'd best breathe quietly,' suggested her captor, and to make matters worse a hood was dropped over her head, imprisoning her in a darkness even more noisome than the interior of the wagon.

'Now you'll walk,' the voice said, and she was once again thrust over the side of the vehicle. But there could be no doubt that she was by the sea; even through the foul-smelling sackcloth she gained a wisp of the salt air, and the October wind was fresh enough to cut into her crumpled cloak and chill her flesh.

She stumbled forward, tripping over the uneven cobbles, but unable to fall as the men each held one of her arms. One of her shoes fell off, but she could make no sound and her captors either were unaware of what had happened or were not prepared to go back for it. Within a moment she had stepped in a puddle and her stockings were wet through. Yet she could neither weep nor give way to her growing terror; she was too busy keeping her breathing as even as possible and endeavouring not to swallow any of the wool.

Her bare foot touched wood, set at an angle from the ground, and she was forced upwards. Now she heard other voices, booming down from above her. 'By Christ, Tom Malley, what have you there?'

'A passenger for you, Captain,' said a voice she recognized as the elder of her captors, the man holding her right arm. 'And I'll thank you not to use my name again in her hearing.'

'A passenger, you say? Are you daft, man?'

Gislane's feet struck the gunwale, and she half fell; in the same moment her arms were released, and she found herself on her hands and knees, while the wind still played about her head and the wood she knelt on moved, and she gathered that she was on a ship.

'Up, nigger girl,' Malley said, kicking her in the thigh and gripping her arm again. 'We'll go below, Mr. Runner, and I'll explain our business.'

'Nigger girl?' inquired Captain Runner. 'By Christ, Thomas, indeed you'll explain your business.'

Gislane was thrust forward and again tripped over a lip of wood; but now to her horror as she fell forward she felt herself flying through the air, to strike the deck, obviously of a cabin some five feet below where she had tripped, with a jolt which knocked all the breath from her body. But immediately there were hands tearing at her hair; no doubt it had occurred even to Malley that she might well suffocate after her fall.

The hood was pulled off and the wool taken from her mouth, and now her wrists were released as well, although so far had all feeling receded from her numbed arms that save for their weight they might have been amputated at the shoulder. She gasped for breath and moaned with pain as she opened her eyes, blinking at the smoky light which seeped from a swaying lantern which hung above the plain wooden table. On either side of the table there were bunks, on which waited uncovered mattresses, and there was a third bunk beneath the grimy stern windows, but that apart, the cabin was bare of furniture or comfort, and the men standing around her were all stooping, so low was the ceiling.

'By Christ,' said Captain Runner. 'What's this?'

Gislane turned her head, and discovered a remarkably thin man, not tall, but seeming so because of his narrow shoulders and slender thighs. His face was a match to his body, his nose long and protruding, as were his yellow teeth, while his mouth was so small it seemed hardly more than an afterthought. He possessed little chin and less forehead, concealed as the latter was beneath a cloud of lanky red hair. His eyes were surprisingly lively, however, although she wondered if it was she causing this effect. After nearly two days in the company of Tom Malley, she was almost relieved; he did not look a particularly evil man.

'She's to while away the weary hours on watch,' Malley said grinning.

'Now there's a treat.' Runner stooped beside her, smoothed hair from her face. 'You know I'm bound for the Guinea coast, first. She'll likely not survive.'

'You'd best be sure she does,' Malley said. 'She's for Nevis, and Hodges.'

Runner continued to peer at her. 'Indenture?'

'God's blood,' Malley said. 'You deal in niggers and can't recognize one? She's got tar in her veins, Harry lad. She's a runaway.'

'By Christ,' Runner said. 'Hodges, you say. He's expecting her?'

'He'll be glad enough to get her, wouldn't you say, Harry?' Malley asked. 'But just in case he ain't, here's her passage money.' He dug into the recesses of his coat and brought out a canvas bag, which jingled in a suitably interesting fashion. 'She's a runaway, name of Gislane. You tell him that, and he'll likely add another bag of coins.'

'By Christ,' Runner said. ‘You must want the girl out of England something terrible, Thomas. What do you think, Penny?'

This question was addressed to the fourth man in the crowded cabin, a burly fellow with a short black beard, and with clothes which stank even at a distance. He wore a woollen cap on his head, and chewed tobacco with stained teeth. His features, like the rest of him, were large and rounded, dominated by a purple nose, but his eyes, in strong contrast, were small, and darted from place to place like imprisoned humming birds. 'I think we should do old Tom his favour, skipper,' he said. 'As he says, it can be mighty tedious working down the Guinea coast.'

Oh, God, Gislane thought. Oh God. This cannot be happening. Please God, let me awake

'So it's done then.' Malley said. 'We'll be off. Now mind, my principal wants the girl taken home, boys. We'd not have a murder on our hands.' He grinned at them.

'Oh, aye,' Runner agreed. 'To murder this creature would be a total waste. But she's a slave, you say? There's no doubt about that?'

Malley still grinned. 'I'll wager if you look, Captain, you'll find her mark. I'll wish you a happy voyage.' He jerked his head at the boy, Jem, and they climbed the companion ladder.

Captain Runner sat down at the table, immediately above Gislane's head. 'You'll close that hatch, Penny. We've an hour before the tide is right, wouldn't you say?'

'Aye.' Penny closed the door, then turned and also regarded her, leaning against the steps.

But at last some feeling was returning to her arms, accompanied by a most painful attack of pins and needles, which but encouraged her to be more desperate in her appeal. She got to her knees. 'Please,' she said. 'Listen to me.

‘I am betrothed to be married, to Matthew Hilton. You'll have heard the name, Captain Runner, if you trade with the Indies. He is the heir to the Hilton estates. I'm to marry him. I was to many him tonight. Listen to me, Captain. Take me back to him and I'll see you are rewarded. I'll see you get a new ship, Captain. Please.'

Runner smiled at her. 'I'm not a hard man, nigger girl. I'll not confine you for the whole voyage. You'll work for us. You can cook for us and keep the place clean, like. What do you think of that, Penny?'

'Brilliant Captain,' Penny said. 'It'll be a voyage to remember.'

'It will be that. See the door by the companion, girl? That's your galley. There's a bunk in there too. Just made for a chit like you. We had a boy, but he died. There's a pity, but he wasn't half so pretty as you.' He leaned forward and stroked her hair again. 'Not half so pretty.'

'Please,' she begged. 'The Hiltons are looking for me. They cannot be more than a couple of hours behind me now. If they think you refused to help me, they'll ... they are terrible people.'

'Oh, they are that,' Captain Runner agreed, nodding his head most solemnly. 'But they'll not come here, girl. Now, when you are not cooking or cleaning for us, or darning for us, too, by God, you'll keep us company. You understand me?'

'Starting now,' Penny said. 'As we've an hour to kill.'

She stared at him, unable to believe herself that she was actually kneeling on the floor of a slaver, about to be raped.

'Aye,' Runner said. 'But you'll not forget who's captain of this ship.'

Fear, despair, welled up into Gislane's chest, now accompanied by an emotion she had never really experienced before, anger. For the first time in her life, that she could remember, she actually wanted to hurt another human being. She wanted to slap and scratch and bite and kick, the nameless man who had caused this to happen, Malley and his friend Jem, and now these two leering faces in front of her. She wanted to hurt them so badly that they would kill her in their rage.

She scrambled to her feet and swung her right hand. Captain Runner caught her wrist without difficulty, an expression of mild surprise crossing his features. She struck at him with her left hand, and this too was caught, so she attempted to get her foot up to kick him. but was hampered by her gown.

'By Christ,' Runner cried. 'But she's got spirit after all. You'll help me, Penny.'

The air was so still it seemed the entire universe was holding its breath. Not a leaf stirred in the endless forest which clustered down to the very water's edge, fading imperceptibly from tall sunlight seeking trees into mangrove swamp and courida bush, the whole shrouded in an impenetrable green and brown miasma which did not even end at the white sand of the narrow beach, above which the heat shimmered like a gauze netting. The Antelope rode to her anchor as if she were planted in a pale green field; her sails loosely furled, hung from her yards, and on her deck the tar melted in the seams, so that wherever a seaman walked he left dirty black marks behind him, while the wood itself was hot to the touch.

Yet Gislane Nicholson, leaning on the gunwale and staring at the distant shore, listening to the silence which was so clear she could hear the faint 'crack' of a falling: rotted tree trunk, was barefoot. She was, in fact, naked save for her shift, and that garment was torn in several places. It was really too hot for clothes at all; the crew wore hardly more than drawers, and they had shaved their heads and tied them up in brightly coloured kerchiefs as they lounged on the foredeck. She retained her shift, because it was part of her plan for retaining sanity. Shoes were a waste of time, even supposing she possessed more than one. Her stockings had long melted into nothing. Her petticoats and her gown she kept, attempting to preserve them from the prevailing filth, the constant sweat which soon rendered any garment stiff as a board and noisome as a side of badly dried beef. Her shift was like that, but then, it hardly smelt any higher than her body. She combed her hair with her fingers, idly, but that too had not come into contact with fresh water, except when it rained, since leaving England; it clung in a greasy mass which lay heavily on her neck and shoulders. But it would certainly rain today. She had come to count on it, and would strip off her shift and run on deck to stand beneath the teeming, soup-warm drops, feeling them sting her face and body, thud on to her head, suggest a cleanliness she could no longer clearly remember, before the clouds swept away and without hesitation the sweat started again.

The crew enjoyed the rain as much as she; they gathered by the mast to watch her antics. As if they mattered. And of course they dared not touch her, for she belonged to the mate and the captain.

Belonged, she thought, was an inadequate description of her situation. Sometimes she fancied she was part of them. They had now been out of Bristol nearly two months, and in all that time she had been granted but six days of rest from their questing fingers, their hungry lips, their demanding tools. Nor had her respite been anything to do with menstrual bleeding; it had been during the storm which had all but sunk them soon after they had left the Spanish coast. For a whole week the wind had howled and the brig had run before it, at first under storm canvas, but when that had been ripped to shreds, under bare poles. For six long days the crew-had worked the pumps and taken turns, three at a time, on the helm. In their fortitude, their energy, their courage, they had been almost admirable, even as Runner himself had been almost admirable in the way, when the wind finally abated and left them tossing on an empty foam-filled ocean, he had produced his sextant and decided where they were, and judging by the manner in which they had made their landfall, had been right.

And for six long days she had been allowed to lie in her bunk, alone and untroubled. She had gazed at the deckheads as she had rolled from side to side, and listened to the waves slashing at the hull only inches from her ear, and to the heavy pounding of the greybeards coming on board, and she had laughed. Because when the ship sank, they would all go down together.

This was perverse of her, because she did not really want to die. In the beginning, whenever she had gone on deck, they had tied a rope round her waist in case she would throw herself over the side. Now they no longer bothered, although now, in fact, she would gladly have gone over the side, had she known how to swim, just to get cool. But they had lain in this bay for four days, filling their water casks, obtaining fresh meat, and waiting, for the Prince, and there was not a moment when a dark fin was not in sight.

And perhaps, in the beginning, she had thought of suicide, briefly. Then she had been sustained by her anger. For a week she had fought them, while her belly retched with seasickness, and blood had dribbled into her mouth with the fury of their kisses. For a week she had hardly eaten, and they had had to beat her with their belts to make her serve their food. In her desperation she had cursed them, and struck at them with her fists, to their huge amusement. She had vowed that she would see them hanged, and they had laughed at that, too. Yet gradually the thought had come to replace all others. She would see them hanged. But to do that it was necessary to preserve her own life. And if she would enjoy their hanging, it was also necessary to preserve her own health. On the fourth night out, when Runner had been drunk, he had hit her so hard she had been knocked unconscious, and had awoken with an enormous bruise on the side of her face. The black stain had faded now, although the bone was still tender to the touch.

But she had reflected then that if her object was to stay alive, she was going about it the wrong way, and from that moment had submitted, almost with a will.

For now she possessed a purpose. All the while, as she lay in their bunks, massaged by their evil-smelling bodies, she had thought of them dangling from a rope above her. It had even provided contentment. Her only resolution was that should she, by some mischance, have to die, they would die with her. Thus the laughter during the storm, the almost pleasurable anticipation of the imminent disappearance of the Antelope and all who sailed in her. But she was glad they had not. And since the storm, they had almost been friends, in their hatred.

Not, she supposed, that they hated her. Runner was a seaman, and an excellent one. He was a slave trader, and no doubt was excellent at that also. But he was not a particularly thoughtful or intelligent man, and he granted women no more feeling than might exist between their legs. She had submitted because she had grown weary of resisting. That was enough. The threats she had offered in the beginning, the bribes she had attempted, had been nothing more than natural. But the fact was, as he had told her often enough, she was a nigger girl, whose ordained fate was to lie on her back, or her front, or in any position a man might desire, and enjoy it. Once she was prepared to be sensible he was almost kind; only when he took to his rum punch was she now in any danger, as the various bruises she had accumulated revealed. But even then, once she submitted and submitted and submitted, he was unlikely to do more than bruise her. Oh, she had learned well. And a fortnight ago, when they had celebrated Christmas - and how incredible it had been to experience the greatest of Christian festivals on this overheated, filthy, hellship - she had even accepted a glass of rum herself, and for the first time in her life lost her misery in the pleasure of inebriation.

So then what had happened to the breathless girl who had stolen away from her foster parents' house? She closed her mind to that. What had happened to Mama and Papa Nicholson themselves? She closed her mind to that. What had happened to Matt? She closed her mind to that most of all. She was living a long nightmare, which would end when the Hiltons caught up with her. Because they would do that. Then they would hang both Runner and Penny, and they would take her, and ... but her mind had to stay closed to that also. To consider what Matt might think of her, after she had spent two months, or more, on this boat with these people, would be to go mad. He would rescue her, because he was Matthew Hilton. That was enough.

And Runner would hang. She had never realized before what a pleasure it could be to hate. Why, in its dream of future achievement it almost equalled love.

He was here now, standing at her shoulder, hand slipping beneath the shift to massage her bottom, squeezing and pinching. She believed he was, now, almost fond of her. She had grown on him, from a pair of breasts and a flat belly and slender thighs and long legs into a companion, a constant helpmate. 'Listen,' he said.

The first law of survival was to do everything Captain Runner even hinted. And indeed there was sound, a mixture of splashing oars and chanting voices, a rustle of weapons and steel, the whole overlaid with a strange moan, as of a large number of people in torment. 'That's the Prince on his way,' Runner said.

'And about time.' Penny stood above them on the poop, also leaning on the rail. 'You'll have me break out the chest?'

'Oh, aye. The sooner we're filled and away from this pest hole the better I'll like it. But mark me, John Penny. You'll have the pieces loaded and run out; grape, not ball. I don't trust that nigger further than I can spit, and it'll do him no harm to see we've teeth. And every man on deck will wear a cutlass and a pistol.'

'Aye aye,' Penny said, and hurried forward.

'And you'll get below,' the captain said. ' 'Tis a certain fact that His Highness will never have laid eyes on a white woman before, and he might just want to add you to his harem.'

'But I am not a white woman, Runner,' she said. 'Else I had not been here, surely.'

'Bury your humour, girl,' Runner growled, and now he was definitely nervous. 'Or I'll have the skin from your hide.'

Gislane shrugged, and retreated to the companion. But she remained in the hatchway to watch the approaching army. For so it seemed, as from the mouth of a large river which debouched into the bay some distance to their right there emerged a succession of canoes, each paddled by a dozen brawny black warriors, and each containing, amidships, a huddle of equally dark humanity. But there was no relation between the paddlers and the slaves. The warriors were tall and powerfully built; they handled their paddles deftly, and their heads were high; they sang as they sent their surprisingly large craft surging towards the Antelope. They wore headdresses of brightly-coloured feathers, and another fringe of feathers at their waists and round their calves; these indeed were their only clothing; their spears were slung over their shoulders by rawhide thongs, and from other thongs at their thighs hung heavy wooden knobkerries. They were not a reassuring spectacle, but there could be no questioning their arrogant humanity.

The moan arose from the prisoners. These were destitute of all clothing, and consisted of women, and some children, as well as men. But none of the children was less than twelve, Gislane estimated, squinting in the morning sunshine, just as none of the men or women was much over thirty. And they were yoked together, and chained at wrist and ankle, without distinction of sex or age, and had apparently been thrown into the bottom of the boats without regard for their comfort, for arms and legs emerged from various angles, and the general moan was occasionally punctuated by a shrill cry.

And now, as the canoes approached the ship, the morning air was obliterated by the most frightful stench she had ever known. It surpassed even the cabin of the Antelope after a gale.

'Where are they from?' she asked.

Runner half turned his head. 'The interior,' he said. 'The Prince undertakes to supply all the slaves we can handle. They are prisoners he takes in the wars, but now he undertakes the wars just to gain the prisoners.'

'And none of them are old,' she said, half to herself.

'What good would there be in an old slave?' Runner wondered. 'Those creatures have marched more than a hundred miles to take passage in this ship, and Christ knows we lose even the healthy ones if the wind fails. And we import them to the Caribee Isles for labour. No, no, those the Prince reckons won't stand the march are killed on the spot. Now get out of sight, if you value any of our lives.'

Gislane crouched on the companion ladder, closing the door to all but a crack. For now the lead canoes were under the lee of the ship, and a moment later a huge black man appeared in the gangway. More than six feet tall, with shoulders like an ox, the red and blue and white feathers surmounting his head added another two feet to his stature, and he wore a fringe over his shoulders as well as at his waist. His muscles bulged at bicep and thigh, his penis almost matched the knobkerry beside it, but the ultimate mark of his authority was that, apart from his normal weapons, he wore a European sword, a Spanish rapier which was thinner than one of his fingers, hanging from a broad leather belt.

He stood in the gangway, and took in the whole ship in a slow stare, and Gislane's heart began to throb as he even seemed able to penetrate the wood of the aftercastle to see her. To belong to Runner and Penny was one thing; to suppose being taken by this animal, into the endless fastnesses of the Congo jungle, was an utterly incomprehensible task for the imagination. Yet she stared at him; she had never in her life seen such a totally splendid male figure. And the strangest of understandings began to seep into her mind, that to contemplate lying nightly beneath Harry Runner would also have been an incomprehensible thought, two months ago.

'Runner.' The Prince pronounced the word slowly. But he had used it before. And now the captain revealed an unsuspected side to his character, as he approached the potentate, bowing low, and speaking in a foreign language. The Prince replied, and the conversation became general for a few minutes, with both men looking pleased enough, although the Prince's glance kept straying to the crew, assembled forward, every man armed and ready.

But at last the negotiations seemed complete, and Penny snapped his fingers to bring forward four sailors lugging between them a large chest. This had lain inside the cabin throughout the voyage, and Gislane knew it contained nothing better than old and rusty muskets, strings of worthless beads, a few gilt ornaments, and some bottles of gin. Yet when it was opened before the Prince he seemed delighted. The lid was snapped shut, ropes were fastened to lower it into one of the canoes, and the main hatch was thrown open.

Insensibly Gislane allowed the companion doorway to swing open a litde further as the slaves came on board. Never had she seen such misery, on their faces, in their naked bodies, emaciated and laden with every conceivable variety of filth, amongst which open sores dribbled blood, and in the spiritless shamble of their footsteps. But Captain Runner was an old hand at the game; if he calculated on losing two out of every ten on the voyage across the Atlantic, he knew the steps he had to take to prevent that deficit growing. Each yoke of six slaves was made to stop as they reached the deck, and half a dozen of the seamen were already working at the pumps, sucking up salt water from the bay and having it gush forth, directing their stream over the shambling people in front of them. These stopped in dismay, no doubt supposing their unhappy existence finally at an end, and that they had been brought here to be drowned, and then slowly resumed their progress, down into the hold.

On and on they came, while Runner himself made the tally, and Penny walked up and down with a whip, slashing here and there where a yoke would not obey his instructions, bringing glances of resigned terror and the occasional moan of pain. Gislane watched in fascinated horror. If not her mother, then certainly one of her ancestors had once boarded a vessel like this in these circumstances. The thought induced a tingle of anger all the way up her spine. And there were so many of them; it almost seemed as if the Antelope had no bottom, for surely the hold had been filled long ago.

She was distracted by a shout from the captain. A yoke had reached the gangway, and there checked. It consisted of two men, a boy, and three young women; they appeared to be stronger and more alert than the average, and there was even a certain plumpness about the girls' bodies. Having reached the deck, they had paused to look around them, at the flooding hose, at the shivering group immediately in front of them, at the next dripping yoke slowly finding its way down the ladder. Now they gave a collective yell, and turned for the gunwale. Hence Runner's shout, as he attempted to stop them, to find himself thrown to one side as, acting in unison, they climbed on to the rail and launched themselves into space.

'God damn you for brainless creatures,' Runner bawled. But he did not seem interested in regaining the runaways, and was already marking the next yoke down as it came up the ladder. These looked over their shoulders at the sea, and then advanced readily into the jet of water.

Gislane could contain herself no longer. She threw open the companion door and ran outside, clambering the ladder to the poop and running to the rail. She watched the six people swimming, easily discernible by the wooden harness which rose above them, and still quite ignored, as much by their late captors as by the seamen of the Antelope. So why, she wondered, did not others take this opportunity to make their escape?

Because there was no escape. The six slaves were still chained together, and still burdened by their yoke. Even as she watched, the boy's head dropped, and he stopped swimming. His weight for a few minutes made little difference, but the shore was still half a mile away, and now one of the two men dropped into the water. Soon the other also died, and the three male corpses were supported by the vigorous efforts of the girls alone. But now they were well away from the cluster of canoes, and the sharks, driven from the side of the brig by the disturbed water, were regaining their courage.

'Can't you help them?' Gislane shouted.

Runner glanced over his shoulder. 'For Christ's sake, I'll have your arse raw for this,' he bawled. 'Get below.'

'They're people drowning,' she screamed. 'You can't just let them drown.'

Runner looked at the distant yoke, still bobbing on the water as the girls urged themselves onwards, but now sinking lower as their own strength began to fade. 'Silly bastards,' he said. 'There's naught we can do for them now, girl. If they will go, they will go.'

Gislane could not stop looking, as the fins circled closer and closer. It was difficult to see now, but she thought that even one of the girls had died, and the whole was being supported by the remaining two. Then the water around the yoke became broken, and a single wailing scream drifted across the bright sunlight of the morning. She found herself on her knees, with tears coursing down her cheeks, and she had not wept since they had been a week out of Bristol.

'I said get below.' Runner seized her arm and dragged her to her feet; the Prince had returned to his canoe, but he was staring at the brig's poop in quiet interest. 'Six ain't going to make much difference. I have four hundred below hatches. We'll take no more.'

She gaped at him. 'Four hundred? In that hold? That isn't possible.'

'They fit,' Runner said. 'We make them lie down, and we put a false floor on top of each row. Oh, they fit.'

'But ... six weeks, lying down in that heat, crowded one against each other?' she cried. 'They'll all die.'

Runner grinned. 'Not them. Well, maybe a hundred or so. I'm only contracted for three hundred, anyways. But I'll keep them alive, girl. Why, I bring them up every day, for a salt water wash and a walk. Ten minutes a day, girl, for every man, woman and child. I'm no monster.'

The girl's giggles awoke Gislane. This happened regularly. The Negress giggled constantly, whenever food or drink was offered to her, whenever a hand was laid on her body. And when she giggled, she moved, sinuously, hips and shoulders and breasts and thighs and even toes, keeping some sort of obscene rhythm. 'Get a black one going,' Runner had declared, 'and you've got something. They don't lie around like sacks of coal. The trouble with you, girl, is that there ain't enough nigger in your veins. You'd do best to cultivate it, if you'd keep your skin.'

No doubt he was right. And there was something fascinating about the Negress's movements, about the abandon with which she threw herself into lovemaking. Of course for her it was heaven, to be taken aft - supposing she believed in a heaven. It meant she received good food, and liquor to drink, and a bunk to sleep on instead of the deck. It meant she had reasonably clean air to breathe most of the day, instead of for a few minutes. It meant she never felt the lash curling around her shoulders; as the sailors spoke none of the African tongues their only means of communicating with their charges was by means of the whip.

And it meant that, having found a plump and willing girl amongst the cargo, Runner and Penny made less demands upon her. Gislane could hardly believe her fortune. Yet at the same time she was prepared to think about Runners strictures. Survival, to the West Indies, had become imperative. Because in the West Indies would be the Hiltons. Once she was off this hellship, she would find her way to Hilltop or

Green Grove, and thence she would be free. Thus nothing mattered, save survival. And survival depended upon pleasing Runner. It occurred to her that she had never actually pleased him at all, judging by his reaction to the Negress. Her body pleased him, because it was white, because she had large breasts and a small waist, because her legs were long and slender. He had told her that these things pleased him, as her narrow thighs pleased him, as her luxuriant hair pleased him, as the inescapable fact of her growing filthiness did not displease him. He could obtain an erection just by looking at her, and certainly by running his hand through the thatch on her belly. But afterwards, he would slap her face and throw her from the bunk, and raise his favourite grumble, that she was a damned sack of coal.

It had never occurred to her before that a woman had an active part to play in pleasing a man. Her observations had always had to do with appearance. A woman was pretty, in which case she pleased, or she was ugly, in which case she displeased. Money and position were important. Pretty clothes and a good bearing and a smattering of education could make an ugly woman attractive, and ignorance and lack of conversation could make a pretty woman dull. All of these facts of life had been hammered into her by Mama Nicholson. But now she was realizing that Mama had been neglecting the really important things, the things that were necessary after the attraction had been completed, after the man had achieved the position he sought.

How strange, she thought, that she should be considering learning about men, and women, from a giggling black girl?

But in the mornings she hated the giggle. When she slept, she dreamed, and she did not feel. When she awoke, it was to another endless day, another problem in survival. Not for her, perhaps. But for so many others. She sat up, swung her legs to the deck, pulled greasy hair from her shoulders and face, idly scratched the various corners of her body where lice and fleas had gathered during the night. By now the movement of the ship was part of her nature, and she swayed with it, placed her feet on the deck to counter the roll, hardly heard the creaking of the rigging and the swish of the water being driven away from the hull. They ran before an unceasing trade wind, always aft the beam, which varied only in force, sometimes whining into half a gale, more often dropping into hardly more than a zephyr, leaving the ship rolling and the yards flapping, causing the ocean to assume the characteristic of an enormous blue carpet, with not a speck of white to be seen.

And allowing the sun to enjoy itself to the utmost. As this morning. It was hardly past dawn, and the heat was intense; she had to stroke a sweat film away from around her eyes. She got up, dropped her shift, now sorely tattered, over her shoulders, peered from the galley doorway into the cabin. The girl saw her, and giggled some more. She lay on top of the naked figure of Penny, the mate, and if he was awake, it was she who did most of the moving.

Gislane tiptoed to the companion ladder, climbed it, opened the door with great caution, and stepped into the waist. Here she was for the moment invisible from the poop. Once she was discovered Runner would certainly want to give her his morning fumble. But here the enormity of the coming day was too amply displayed. For the first duty of the dawn watch was to remove the dead, and they were already engaged in dragging the stiffening corpses up the ladder to the deck. There was no ceremony, no respect for the blacks. They were expected to die at a certain rate, of heat and starvation, some - most, Gislane suspected — of sheer despair. The seamen held them by the ankles, bumped their naked bodies across the deck to the opened gangway, and pushed them through. The splashes were monotonous as the ship wallowed on its way, and the black fins which had followed them all the way from the Gulf of Guinea never lacked for a morning meal.

Today there were six. How strange, she thought, that in London, whenever a hearse passed, I would feel tears in my eyes. And now I do not even feel a roll to my belly. Flow adaptable must be the human mind. And how weak. Because she was not even sure she still felt hate, still cared whether or not Runner and Penny reached the gallows in good time or lived into a ripe and respectable old age. She was turned inwards by the unutterable misery about her, and thought only of her own survival. How else could she stand here and watch the morning parade? For after the dead there came the living, men and women, shambling into the brightness of the sun, blinking their eyes, setting up that moan which so often escaped the noisome hatches. Now was the moment the watch were on their best guard, whips and even cutlasses ready. But most of those who would contemplate suicide had done so in the first week out. Those that were left were resigned, or counted themselves already dead and merely existed until the moment their hearts stopped beating.

Yet there were those who still wanted to live, who dreamed, like her, of survival and perhaps even escape. If Negroes dreamed; she could find no point of identification with these people. Surely. She was white. The amount of black blood in her veins would not fill a pint mug. Thus Papa Nicholson had always insisted. She was white.

But no doubt black people did dream. One in particular, who perhaps dreamed of other things than escape. He came on deck now, slowly following the file, ducking his head beneath the jet of salt water which sparkled on the ebony of his skin. He was a big man, perhaps as big as the Prince. Starvation and privation and the cramped six feet by eighteen inches which composed his living quarters had not weakened those muscles, and when he stretched he suggested contempt for his surroundings, created a hint that were he so minded he could sweep his mighty arms and thrust the entire crew of the Antelope into the sea and take control of the ship.

Perhaps that was his dream. That and another. For as he left the water jet, and paraded the deck with his fellows, his head was turning aft. He had looked, on the third day out, and discovered her, and perhaps she had looked back, and discovered him, as she had discovered the Prince. She had looked for intelligence in the black eyes, and found it, and she had looked for strength in the high forehead and thrusting chin, the wide gash of a mouth and the big nose. As he had looked at a white woman, standing half naked to oversee him, and had taken his genitals in his hand and waved them at her, a gesture which left her unaffected save for a vague wonder if he would feel the same as Runner. He was certainly a considerably larger man.

But when he was swept below, her interest in the day subsided. There was nothing ahead of her but heat, and sweat, and lice, and Runner. Nothing until tomorrow morning, when he would again walk the deck, and tell her what he thought.

In time the wind freshened into a full gale, as Gislane had known it must. The month was February 1781, and after four months on board she was a veteran in her knowledge of the sea and the weather. And with the storm there came rolls of thunder, and shafts of forked lightning which seemed to hover immediately above the masts, and then the rain, teeming down with a force which bowed the head, striking the decks and leaping feet back into the air, almost calming the surging whitecaps with the blanketing intensity of its force.

Sail was shortened to mere scraps of canvas, and the Antelope plunged onwards, ever west, while the pumps now-clacked with a more urgent purpose, to keep the water in the bilges from rising to danger level. Yet the slaves must still be exercised. This was in fact easier than before. None of them had ever been in a storm at sea, and their terror was awful to watch. No risk of dives overboard into those over-toppling waves. Which, she reflected, was but another aspect of human perversity, as there could hardly be a quicker or more certain way to die, and a more painless one; even the sharks had disappeared, seeking the calm of the depths.

But the slaves, in their fear, clung to each other and the hatch covers, and wailed their desire to be thrust into the damp stench of safety in the hold. Saving one, who gripped a shroud and faced the waters, and laughed in sheer delight when a wave would break over him. As she had laughed, in that first storm, off the Spanish coast. She made her own way from the shelter of the companionway to stand beside him, as naked as he, both arms round the same shroud, their shoulders touching. He looked down on her in amazement for a moment, and then cast a hasty glance over his shoulder at the crew. No doubt her place, the captain's woman, was known and accepted even amongst the blacks.

But the crew, and Runner, were preoccupied, four men on the helm to keep the ship immediately before the wind, others standing by at all times to let the sheets run if the pressure on the storm canvas grew too great. Gislane smiled at him. 'They'll not trouble us this morning,' she said.

He looked at her, his eyes moving down from her face to her shoulders to her breasts to her thighs. The tingle in her back grew, and when she ducked her head as the next wave came on board, she bumped it into his chest. And stayed there for a moment, and asked herself, what am I doing? By Christ, what am I doing? To be seized and maltreated by Runner and Penny, and even other white men, was a misfortune which could be forgiven. Certainly by Matt Hilton. To suggest a rapprochement with a black man might be trying his broad-mindedness a shade too far. Except that he would never know. In her more depressed moments she was beginning to wonder if he would ever know anything about her, ever again. But this morning she was not feeling depressed, there was the mystery. Rather was she exhilarated by the storm, as she had been exhilarated by the previous storm. And by the nearness of the man who would not accept his fate.

As she perhaps would refuse to accept hers?

But clearly he understood not a word of what she had said. She raised her head. 'Gislane,' she said, and touched herself on the breast. 'Gislane.'

The black man looked at her for several seconds longer. Then he said, 'Gislane.' His hand released the shroud and came towards her; she had to force herself to remain still, so instinctive was her movement of withdrawal. Yet she wanted him to touch her, as Runner and Penny had touched her time and again, and she was even disappointed as his fingers dug into her hair, seizing whole handfuls of it, pulling it, very gently, and smoothing it, and straightening it, wet as it was, down her back. And then she understood. Her breasts, her belly, her buttocks, these he had known and taken, no doubt as he chose, from many a woman; that hers were white made no difference to the feel or the texture. But hair like hers he had never known. 'Gislane,' he said. 'Dinshad. Dinshad.'

'Dinshad,' she said, and responded by stroking her finger down the salt wet line of his jaw. 'Dinshad.'

He smiled at her, his fingers still locked in her hair, but now she was looking past him, at Runner, holding on to the rail as he gazed down on them from the poop, his eyes glooming. 'Dinshad,' she said, and gently pulled herself free, to hurry aft, into the comparative warmth and dryness of tire cabin, where she discovered she was trembling. And where a moment later she was joined by the captain.

'By Christ,' he said. "You are a nigger girl, at that. So you like the big buck. Would he make you shake your belly, girl?'

'I had supposed you as disgusting as I knew, sir,' she said, tossing her hair at him, scattering water across his face.

It was the first time she had so addressed him since the early part of the voyage, and he stared at her in surprise for a moment. Then his hand swung, but she was an expert in escaping the worst of his punishments nowadays; she knew better than to avoid the blow altogether, or he would hit her again, but by beginning her fall just before his fist landed, she received no more than a jolt. and sent herself tumbling across the bunk. Before she could recover he was kneeling above her, and suddenly there was more passion in his hands, and in his eyes, than she could ever remember. He wanted to hurt her when he squeezed her, made her breasts ache, seized her nipples to pinch them and watch her eyes dilate with pain, slapped her thighs and bottom as he forced an entry. It occurred to her that she learned more about humanity, and about herself, perhaps, every day. Harry Runner was jealous, of a Negro slave.

And what of her? She closed her eyes, and thought of the huge black man, and instead of fear there came enjoyment and even pleasure, and for the first time, indeed, she moved like the Negress.

'By Christ,' Runner said. 'By Christ.' He rolled off her, sat against the table, swaying in time to the ship. 'You'll talk with that buck as you choose, girl. But touch him, or have him touch you, and by Christ I'll hang him over you.'

So by Christ, she thought; what have I done? What have you done, Dinshad the mighty? Yet this was one thought she was not prepared to carry through to a logical conclusion. Incredibly it occurred to her that she was happy, in a terrible fashion. She was on deck at dawn the next day, when the wind had dropped and the clouds had disappeared and the sun was back in all its glory. As was Dinshad, stalking the deck, looking for her.

'Gislane,' he said, as she approached. 'Gislane,' and reached for her hair.

'Avast there,' shouted one of the crew, and struck him across the shoulders with his whip. Dinshad scarcely seemed to feel the blow, but his head turned, and his eyes roamed over the seaman's body, slowly and anticipatorily.

'You'd best below, girl,' the sailor growled. 'Or we'll have a riot.'

'Dinshad,' she said. And smiled at him. And went below, to find the captain waiting for her. And dreamed, once again, with her eyes closed.

So then, it was possible to be happy in hell, supposing one could reach out across the torment to another lost soul. Finding that, even the constant presence of the devils could not again reduce her to misery.

'By Christ,' Runner once again said in wonderment. 'Did you see that, John?'

For Penny had come in during their embrace.

'Maybe we've been going the wrong way about it, Johnny lad. Maybe we could have had a hell of a lot more out of the little bitch. I'll tell you this. I'm going to enjoy the rest of this voyage.'

'Aye,' Penny said. 'While it lasts. I've land on the starboard bow.'

'Land?' Runner threw her off and sat up; she rolled from the bunk on to the floor, and bumped her head. She realized that for the last five minutes, and for the first time since leaving the Nicholsons' house, she had been totally relaxed. 'Where?'

'Green, and high, and black clouds atop. Dominica, I reckon.'

‘You'd best alter course two points to starboard,' Runner decided, reaching for his clothes. 'With the wind where it is. We don't want to land amongst the cannibals.'

'Aye, aye,' Penny said, and left the cabin.

'Dominica?' Gislane asked. 'The Carib isle?'

'There's naught for you to fear, pretty,' Runner said.' 'Tis our usual landfall from the Guinea coast. But it means our time is running short. We'll be at Nevis the day after tomorrow.'

'And Mr. Hodge,' she said, half to herself. Then raised her head. 'Or will you keep me after all, Harry?'

He made a face, and then shrugged. 'It'd be a treat, and that's no lie. But business is business, and I've my living to earn. You'll go to Hodge, nigger girl. And may the good Lord have mercy on your soul.'

CHAPTER SIX

THE PRISONER

THE sun, peeping above the eastern horizon from the endless wastes of the Atlantic Ocean, sent its beam of light exactly between the twin mountain peaks of St. Eustatius, bringing the valley to life, bouncing gleaming shafts from the freshly painted walls of the warehouses which lined the harbour, streaking onwards across the sparkling waters of the Caribbean Sea, silhouetting the Hilton sloop in a sudden glow, chasing the last of the dawn chill from the faces of the watch.

'An hour, Mr. Matthew,' said Caiman.

Matt did not reply. Pie levelled the telescope on the bulk of St. Kitts, some half-dozen miles on their starboard bow, identified the huge mass of Mount Misery towering over the fortifications of Brimstone Hill, swung the glass lower to the busy roadstead which lay off the beach. The beach where Tom and Edward Warner and Anthony Hilton had first landed, a hundred and fifty-eight years before. But St. Kitts was merely an obstacle to him. He moved the telescope again, and watched the sunlight playing on the distant peak of Nevis, twenty miles away. How he sweated at the very sight of it.

'Now's your last chance, Caiman,' he said.

The captain sighed. 'I've explained, Mr. Matthew,' he said. 'I've investigated the matter. There's no word of any near-white girl landing in Charleston. There's been scarce a ship in there this year.'

'You expect me to believe you?'

' 'Tis the truth, sir. And logical. If even-thing you have told mc is correct, she'll have been placed on a slaver. Then she'll have been bound for the Guinea Coast in the first place, before crossing the ocean. That's four months, at the very least. If indeed she was sent out in October, why, she'll not be arriving before the end of February, you can be sure of that. And it still wants a fortnight to Christmas.'

Christ, the thought of Gislane, on a slaver, and being treated as a slave. Christ, the stories which came to him, of the usage on such craft, of the indignities and the cruelties. Stories he had found no more than amusing, in his ignorant past. But Caiman would no doubt also find them amusing.

'Then I should be there to greet her,' he said, quietly. ' 'Tis Hodge I mean to save her from, more than anything else. Caiman ...'

'You'll know I cannot, sir,' Caiman said, as he had repeated the same protest every day of the voyage from Jamaica. 'Mr. Hilton would hang me.'

'And have you no thought for the future?' Matt demanded. 'I'm heir to the Hilton estate, man. To this ship. To you. I'll not forget those who help me. Or those who go against me.'

Caiman sighed. 'You make it hard, sir, indeed you do. Yet must I obey my current master.'

Matt closed the telescope with a snap. 'Because you imagine he is right, that I am besotted with a nigger girl, and will surely recover my wits with the passage of time. Well, you are wrong, Caiman. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I will forget that girl only when I die. And it will not be necessary for me to do so. Do you imagine they can keep me on Statia? Do you imagine they will want to? I'll be taking passage on the first ship out of Orange Town for Charleston. And where will you, or Robert, be then?'

'And I'll wish you luck, Mr. Matthew,' Caiman said. 'There is the honest truth. Yet must I do as I am commanded. And I'll beg of you, sir, not to make my task the more difficult by any rashness.'

'Oh, I'll do nothing rash, Caiman,' Matt said bitterly. 'Had I been a rash man I'd have died assaulting my cousin. You can remove your watchdogs.'

For a sailor had been set to overlooking his every movement on deck since leaving Port Antonio.

'Tis your good common sense, Hilton sense, Mr. Matthew, that we all place our trust in. You'll excuse me.'

He went to the helm to con the sloop into the harbour, and Matt leaned on the rail. Now Nevis was all but lost to sight beyond the bulk of St. Kitts, and he had little better to do than look ahead of him at the endless rows of warehouses. It was said that Statia was the wealthiest island in all the world, that the very streets of Orange Town were paved with gold. This had been so even before the war, as the French and the English, and even the Spanish, had sought to avoid the ruinous duties imposed by their respective governments, and the navigation acts which demanded that national goods sail only in national bottoms, by importing to the Dutch island, and taking their chances on smuggling their luxuries and their necessaries, the few miles to their plantations. But since the whole world had gone to war (ostensibly for or against the desire of the Yankee colonists to be free, but in reality to settle endless and ageless differences), leaving only the Hollanders as neutrals - despite the threatening words of the States General in Amsterdam, who also had an ancient grudge against the British - why, Statia had become the clearing house for even sugar. Beneath the Dutch flag Englishman and Frenchman could meet as friends, and forget the inconsiderate pronunciamentoes of their distant governments.

And here Robert supposed his errant cousin could be given time to come to his senses, Matt thought bitterly. It seemed no one in the entire world could understand. To be in love, one must necessarily choose a woman of one's own station, one's own nation, and above all, one's own colour. Or mankind stood askance. How little did they know, how little could someone like Robert know, with his entire hopes of female companionship blighted at an early age, of the depths of a man's feeling? How little they must think of him, if they supposed he would tamely submit to being shut away until Gislane became no more than a memory? No doubt they were misled by the apparent equanimity with which he had accepted his captivity. Well, then, they were the more fools for that. Had he resisted, in futile rage, Robert might have been persuaded to take truly drastic measures. Instead he was to become clerk to a Dutch merchant, for a season. A season which would end as soon as he found a ship to take him to Nevis. And in a place like Statia, that surely could not be long delayed.

And then? Well, the future could take care of itself, as Jack Broughton had suggested. The present and the past would end, and the future would begin, when once again he held Gislane in his arms. Time enough for worry, when the first task was accomplished.

But of course he could expect no assistance from Dirk, or Suzanne. Dirk was Robert's oldest friend, and would think as he did. And Suzanne was Georgiana's sister. There was sufficient cause for hate. They were only two years apart in age; it was unlikely that they would be very different in attitudes. It would be necessary to keep his own counsel -and he was used to doing that - and to plan and deceive and eventually act, with a single-minded determination to succeed and in so doing to defy the entire world of convention and pro pert)'.

The orders were being given, sail was hastily being shortened, and the anchor was plunging through the clear green water to the bottom of the bay. The Desiree came gently to a stop amidst the already impressive fleet of trading sloops and larger vessels which had made the crossing from Europe, all busily loading or unloading their cargoes. And already a bumboat was coming alongside. 'By Christ, Caiman, but you're early,' shouted Dirk Huys. 'We had not expected you before next week.'

He was a huge man, taller and broader than Robert, with a mop of uncovered flaxen hair and a ruddy face, large friendly features resting on top of a red bull-neck, itself protruding from a barrel chest only scantily covered by his open white shirt, which clung to back and shoulders with sweat. Now he assaulted the ladder with all the vehemence and energy which displayed itself in every movement, every quivering muscle of his magnificent torso.

'There's not been another storm? No, no, we'd have seen the signs in the sky. Your master is well? Aunt Becky is in health?'

'All well, Mr. Huys, all well,' Caiman agreed, touching his tricorne. ' 'Tis another matter brings me back so soon.'

Huys straddled the gunwale, gazed at Matt. 'Matthew? Great God in the sky. Matthew? Home already? And come to pay us a visit? By Christ, boy, but you are a sight for sore eyes.'

But Matt was looking over the side at the lugger, at the woman who was now raising her head as she heard her husband's bellow.

Suzanne Huys sat in the cabin of the sloop and read Robert's letter for the second time, for all that her husband impatiently finished his mug of rum and snapped his fingers for more. To finish the letter would be again to meet the hostility of Matt's stare, and she had no immediate wish to do that. Obviously. Yet his anger was for the moment weakened by admiration. She was taller than Georgiana, although not by much and her hair, as he had remembered, was pale gold, slightly darker in the crown - she had removed her hat in the heat of the cabin - and magnificently fine, as was her sister's, but cut short and resting no further than her shoulder blades, quite undressed. She wore a pale green gown with a deeper green fichu, but her throat was exposed, and freckles dotted her pale skin, as they did on her face, as they drifted downwards into the swell of her breasts. No more, save the sudden widening of her hips. Both breasts and hips were larger than he remembered. But then, he remembered so very little of her. His boyhood visits to Hilltop had been rare enough and on them Georgiana had been his special playmate; Suzanne, from the lofty eminence of her superior age and she was even a year older than himself, had seldom done more than smile wisely at his antics.

But now at last her clear, pale blue eyes met his. 'Robert poses us a problem, Dirk.'

'Whenever did he not?' Huys demanded and took the letter.

'You're welcome, of course, Matt, to stay here for as long as you choose,' Suzanne said. 'We shall be grateful for your company.'

'I doubt that,' Matt said. 'Did Robert not tell you how I all but killed your sister? And as for staying here, surely you mean I shall remain at his pleasure, not my own.'

Pink flamed at her throat, but surprisingly stopped short of filling her cheeks. He remembered now that she had always been a remarkably calm girl, as she was become, apparently, a remarkably calm woman. 'If indeed what he says is correct and she took it upon herself to separate you from ... this young woman, then no doubt your anger was justified,' she said quietly. 'As for your sojourn here, I repeat, it will certainly be a pleasure for us and we must try to make it so for you. Dirk?'

'By Christ,' said the Dutchman. 'By Christ. You Hiltons have a way of making life difficult for yourselves. You're not to leave Statia, Matt. You know that. Robert says so in his letter. He charges us with the responsibility.'

'And of course, you always do what Robert requires,' Matt remarked.

It was Dirk's turn to flush, but his colour was caused by anger, not embarrassment. He glanced at his wife.

Suzanne got up. 'Robert is the head of our family, Matt, and you at the least would surely find it best to oblige him. Now I think you should accompany us ashore. You have not visited Statia before, have you?'

'No, madam, I have not.'

She smiled at him. 'Once you called me Sue, Matt. I should be happy were you to do so again.' She swept past him, leaving the faintest fragrance of musk in the air and gave her hand to Captain Caiman, hovering in the doorway. 'You'll dine with us, Captain. I'm sure there are other messages. And I would know of Aunt Rebecca's health. I'd visit her, but Dirk will not have it.'

'What, suppose you taken by a privateer, Sue? By Christ, I'd not sleep a night with worry while you were away.'

Once again she smiled, with pleasure at his so evident devotion and then went to the gangway, where the seamen were eager to assist her down to the boat. Matt picked up the bag containing the few clothes he had brought with him from England and followed, sat beside her on the transom as they pulled for the shore. ' 'Tis precious small,' he commented.

'Not four miles long,' Suzanne agreed. 'Beside Statia, Antigua must seem a very continent. Nor is there a great deal of entertainment. No horse-racing, not even this cricket of which Robert writes so disparagingly in his letter. Although this last is surely nothing more than ignorance. Perhaps you will teach us.'

' 'Tis not a sport for women.' Matt searched his mind for some other verbal assault with which to penetrate the armour of confident reserve in which she seemed encased.

'Then you will have to make do with our national pastime,' Dirk said, with a bellow of laughter. 'We drink, Matthew boy. We drink.'

Now the flush did reach Suzanne's cheeks. 'As Dirk says, Matt, there is scarce more for a man to do, than find convivial company.'

'And a woman?'

She shrugged. 'I think we occupy our time in a satisfactory manner.'

'She sews,' Dirk said contemptuously. 'Morning and night, she works on her tapestry. By Christ. I sometimes think she is working on my shroud.' He stood up as the boat came into the side of the dock, and caused it to roll dangerously, then jumped ashore with the complacent energy of a boy. 'You'll take Matt to the house, Susie. I'm for the warehouse. You can join me tomorrow, Matt. It's there you'll spend most of your time.'

Matt gave Suzanne his hand: she wore no gloves, and he noticed how remarkably warm and dry was her flesh. The fingers squeezed his, for a moment. She was attempting to reassure, to welcome. Georgiana's sister.

A gig waited by the dock. Ashore all was hustle and bustle, far more than even in Kingston, and indeed, there was so much activity in the harbour, with ships arriving and leaving or preparing to leave all the time, that no notice at all was taken of the Hilton sloop; nor were there any touts around seeking business - a new arrival in Statia, lacking friends, would have to fend for himself and not find it so very easy, unless his pockets were jingling with gold coin. Everyone looked prosperous. Black and white, their cheeks were rounded with good food and drink, their clothes were clean and new, their faces contentedly smiling, yet always the smiles were guarded by the hardness of acute businessmen.

Suzanne was already seated and her husband had disappeared into the throng. Matt sat beside his cousin and the Negro driver - he wore no livery, but plain white cottons and a straw hat - flicked the whip.

'It will be cooler at the house,' Suzanne said.

Matt gazed at the rows of warehouses, and the goods being unloaded on the beach, at the other goods being loaded into lighters for conveyance to the waiting ships, listened to the multiplicity of tongues which rose into the still morning air, dominated, surprisingly, by English. 'So I am to be a clerk,' he remarked.

'That could be a blessing,' Suzanne said seriously. 'For a season. Did more plantation owners understand the intricacies of book-keeping and accounting, less of them would be robbed by their attorneys.'

'And you think I will ever own a plantation, now?'

'Can there be any doubt of that?'

They had already left the little town - there were far more warehouses than dwellings - and were following the white dust road between the inevitable fields of sugar cane, but here also the fields were smaller than anywhere else; those who cultivated sugar in St. Eustatius did so for a hobby. Trade was the island's life-blood. And there was no cane at all surrounding the Huys property, but instead rows of flowerbeds reaching up to the house, situated on the lower slopes of the hill, where it looked down over the town and the anchorage. The house itself was two-storied and square, with gabled upper windows and a steeply sloping roof; it might have been removed bodily from Hoorn or Amsterdam and transported across the sea. Only the great wooden jalousies and heavy storm shutters suggested there was a great deal too much sun and occasionally even more wind, to be contended with.

But the sloping roof was as necessary here as in Holland. Even as they turned into the drive, the black clouds which always gathered around the mountain peaks at noon swept lower and the rain began to fall, great heavy drops which ploughed into the road and left deep pits in the dust, splashed on the backs of the horses and came flooding on to the hats and shoulders of the passengers.

'Ow me lord,' shouted the slave, and whipped the horse into a faster trot.

'Soaked again,' Suzanne cried and burst out laughing, for all that her straw hat was collapsing about her ears, and her gown was starting to take on a sorry appearance. But the gig was sliding to a halt before the wide front verandah, and she was getting down without waiting for a hand from her slaves, who came running from the building to assist her. She hurried up the steps and into the shade of the roof and stood there, panting and laughing, suddenly a quite beautiful picture, for there was deep colour in her cheeks, and her hair was scattered as she removed the sodden hat. 'You'll change your clothes, Matt,' she said as he joined her. 'We cannot have you taking ill on your first day here. Come along.'

She left her hat on a cane chair, led him through the front door and into the house itself. The rooms were surprisingly small, and in the sudden gloom induced by the lowering clouds looked almost poky: there seemed a great deal too much furniture and everywhere there were paintings, drawings, miniatures of Holland, and of large-featured, stern but friendly looking people who were clearly the Huys family. A quick glance did not discover any Hiltons amongst them.

Suzanne was already climbing the stairs, and opening the door to a bedroom on the left of the landing. 'I'm afraid even the bed isn't made,' she said, 'as I had no idea you were arriving. But the servants will see to it. Now please take off those wet things.' She smiled at him, and left the room; a Negress was bringing in his clothes-bag and this she placed on the bed, also with an apologetic smile. Then the door closed, and he was alone.

In his prison. He walked to the window as he took off his coat, to look at the teeming rain; his room was at the back of the house, and the hill climbed steeply, allowing very little view save of tumbled rocks and scattered scrub.

He pulled off his soaked shirt, massaged his shoulders with a towel.

'And how is Georgy?' Suzanne asked.

His head jerked. But he was still alone in the room; for the sake of coolness, as in most "West Indian houses, there was no ceiling, only the rafters and then the sloping shingles of the roof itself, on which the rain drummed with monotonous regularity. But the walls of the rooms ended at the rafters, leaving a space of several feet in the centre, to permit the air to circulate freely. Thus Suzanne's bedroom must be next to his, he realized, and the wall was no more than a screen between them.

'I know that at the moment you bear her no love,' Suzanne remarked. 'But you could at least reassure me as to her health.'

'I am sure she is as well as ever in her life,' Matt said. 'And no doubt enjoying herself to the utmost, now I am not there. I do not really see Mrs. Partridge being able to play much of the chaperon.'

'Not for Georgy,' Suzanne agreed, and he heard a door close. Hastily he buttoned his shirt and went outside, to discover her waiting for him on the landing. She wore a deep crimson undressing robe which began at her neck and trailed on the floor; her hair remained loose, although she had dried and apparently brushed it. 'I imagine you are at once hungry and thirsty,' she said. 'So let us dine. It will make a change, having company.'

He followed her down the stairs, where the butler was waiting with a tray and glasses of hot buttered rum. 'Does Dirk not come home during the day?'

She shook her head. 'He usually eats, and drinks, at the Ice House,' she explained. 'As will you, from tomorrow, no doubt. So today I must enjoy you while I may. No, no, Augustus,' she said, entering the dining-room, less than half the size of that at Hilltop. 'I have not seen my cousin for six years. You cannot seat him in the distance. I wish him next to me.'

He held her chair for her, and then sat on her right hand. 'Six years,' he said. 'Do you know, I had forgotten your appearance?'

She smiled at him, and sipped her drink. 'I doubt I have greatly changed. And you have not changed at all, unless it has been to fill out. Robert also declares you are an expert at fisticuffs. No doubt you must keep yourself in very good health.'

He did not suppose she required an answer, and in any event, Augustus the butler was placing avocado halves in front of them. Georgiana's sister. But could anyone be less like that bundle of lascivious evil than this cool woman, who lived in these unexciting surroundings, married to a man twice her age and fitting herself to his life exactly?

And she was his gaoler. He must not forget that.

'Six barrels of wine. Four sides of salted pork. Twelve boxes of cheese. That seems to be the sum of it.' Dirk Huys scratched his ear with his pencil. 'Oh, and that perfume. General Dalling likes his ladies to smell sweet and he has enough of them.'

The Negroes loaded the last of the boxes on to the cart, and Matt ticked them off on his pad. And wiped sweat from his neck. But the sun was at last starting to droop towards the west and the heat to leave the day. Another day, soon to be followed by another night. Why, in a few days it would be Christmas. And what would happen then? They would sit clown to dinner, and drink more wine than usual, and after dinner some of Dirk's friends would come in for punch -men friends only, for punch - while Suzanne would retire to her sewing, and Matt ... Matt would be invited to join the men. Dirk was scrupulous about treating him as a member of the family. But Matt would decline. Supposing Matt were still here.

He waited for the signal. But Dirk must walk slowly round and round the cart, checking and rechecking the goods. He was a careful man, which no doubt accounted for his prosperity. And now at last he was nodding. ' 'Tis the official sloop, Matt.' He grinned at the boy. 'A sorry world, would you not say, where the Governor of Jamaica himself plays his part in smuggling his requirements. Ah, well, I am off up the hill. We'll expect you in an hour.' He went for his horse, while his Negro foreman began shutting up the warehouse. Matt nodded to the driver, and the mule was given a crack of the whip; slowly the cart rumbled down the road towards the docks, Matt walking behind.

Even at dusk the harbour was as busy as ever. It was impossible to imagine the waterfront of Orange Town as other than busy, an ant heap of anxious prosperity. And General Dalling's jolly-boat was waiting alongside the dock, with Plummer the first mate impatiently flicking his leg with his stick. 'Haste, Mr. Hilton,' he shouted. 'Haste. This wind will not stay east forever.'

'You'd not spoil his excellency's wine, now would you? Or his perfume.' Matt nodded to the driver, who began to unload, with the help of the seamen.

Plummer strolled across. 'You've a manifest?'

'All checked. Have you ever found any shortages from Huys?

'No. That's true enough.' Plummer squinted at the carefully formed letters; he was a seaman rather than a clerk, and did not find reading a simple matter.

Matt lowered his voice. 'And what have you for me, Mr. Plummer?'

The mate sighed, still pretending to read. 'No cheer, Mr. Hilton. No cheer. My captain bids you be patient.'

'Be patient?' Matt cried, and glanced at the Negro. Then dropped his voice again. 'He wants more money, no doubt.'

'Well, sir,' Plummer said, 'of that I cannot say. It would have to be a great deal to make him risk Mr. Hilton's wrath. It would certainly cost him his position. And me mine, no doubt; your cousin plays at cards with the Governor every Saturday night.'

'And who would know it was you?' Matt demanded. 'I am not asking you to anchor in Charleston Road. I am but asking you to find yourself within a mile of the beach. I can swim.'

'And no doubt you are too tough for the sharks, Mr. Hilton,' Plummer said sadly. 'But they would know, sir. As we know you have approached every captain sailing from Statia south or west. Why, sir, your machinations are all the joke on the waterfront.'

Matt flushed. 'And to you as well, I perceive.'

'I am trying to assist you, sir,' Plummer insisted. 'You are too hasty about the matter. My advice to you would be to pretend to abandon all idea of leaving Statia. Set to with a will to play your part with Huys. Pretend to like the place. Pretend to have no more desire to leave. Only that way will you make them lose interest in keeping you here. And then, who knows, it may be possible for us to assist you.'

'And how long, do you think, will that take?' Matt inquired sarcastically.

Plummer shrugged. 'Who knows, Mr. Hilton. Perhaps if you were to give it a month or two ...'

Matt turned away in disgust. A month or two. That would be February. Caiman had estimated that Gislane would scarce arrive in Nevis before then, so he was really losing no time by taking Plummer's advice. He could not assist her while she was in mid-ocean. It was the inactivity, the fact that he was living here, in total comfort and even some luxury, while she ... but his imagination could not frame the necessary pictures. He had too little experience of men and the world. He had seen female slaves ill-treated as a boy, and had thought nothing of it. The idea of Gislane being submitted to the lash was inconceivable, and like to drive him mad. But what about the alternatives?

Matt stamped up the steps, discovered Suzanne and Dirk seated in their rocking chairs on the verandah, sipping punch.

'You look hot and careworn,' Suzanne said with her usual gentle smile. 'Augustus, fetch some punch for Mr. Hilton.'

'And are the goods delivered?' Dirk asked.

Matt nodded, and sat down with a sigh, fanning himself with his hat, watching the sun sinking into the ocean, beyond the ships, listening to the buzz of the insects rising out of the garden.

'And was Mr. Plummer no more co-operative than everyone else?' Dirk asked, and burst into a roar of laughter as Matt's head turned sharply. 'Do you not think we are well aware of your scheming, boy? By Christ, you have made it necessary for me to have a word, personally, with every master who visits Orange Town. Oh, you are a deal of trouble. But surely now you will give it a rest.'

Augustus stood at his elbow with a tray, but Matt ignored him. 'You have known?'

Dirk gave another guffaw of laughter. 'Do you take us for

fools? But what was I to do? Load irons on your ankles? You know, Robert might have done that. I believe in promoting just sufficient force to achieve the object. In your case, why, none was necessary. I had but to sit back and allow you to exhaust every possibility of escaping Statia. And I think you have done so. I trust you will now allow yourself to enjoy life to a certain extent.'

Matt stared at him, and then glanced at Suzanne, who flushed. 'Dirk has always possessed a direct manner, Matt. Yet is he right.' She reached across to take his hand. 'It has been most difficult for us, to watch you consuming yourself with misdirected energy. You fell in love with a face, a smile, a voice, perhaps. Many a young man has done that, Matt, and lived to rejoice that fate intervened to save him from the consequences of his own folly, however miserable it may have left him at the time.'

Her fingers rested on top of his, and he looked down at them. And what of you, sweet Sue, he wanted to ask. Did fate intervene to save you from lying nightly beneath this great oaf, as Georgiana so aptly put it, and as the evidence of my own ears testifies? Is that the best fate, in her wisdom, has to offer?

But he was, indeed, learning to dissemble. He slipped his hand from beneath hers and stood up. 'I feel like a small boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar.'

Dirk guffawed, yet again. 'An apt simile, by Christ.'

'Therefore must I be punished,' Matt said. ‘I will retire without supper.'

'Oh, Matt,' Suzanne said. 'Don't be absurd. We are not here to punish you. Only to prevent you ...' she hesitated, glancing at her husband, 'making a mistake.'

'You would, I think, have preferred to say, making a fool of myself,' Matt said gently. 'In truth, it seems that I have been making a fool of myself, in my frantic approaches to all and sundry, without realizing that they listened only to you, Dirk. And to the far reaching insistence of Robert. So I am ashamed, and have lost my appetite. As you say, by tomorrow I shall have recovered. I will bid you good night.'

'Matt ...' Suzanne began, but Dirk silenced her with a shake of his head. Matt climbed the stairs to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes and crawled beneath the mosquito netting. He lay on his back and stared at the white mound which hung above him, listened to the ceasless buzz of the frustrated insects seeking a way through the restricting gauze, absently brushed trickles of sweat from his neck. How they must have laughed, at his futile, frantic endeavours this past month. How they must be laughing, now, at his equally futile anger, which had done no more than deprive him of his supper.

Did they laugh? He frowned into the darkness. Dirk laughed, certainly. Constantly and vigorously. He could not say the same for Suzanne. She smiled and endeavoured to maintain an atmosphere of tranquillity in her home. No doubt this was what Dirk wanted. But shedid not laugh. She does not love him, Georgiana had said. Well, no doubt Georgiana was right. Yet had she accepted her position as his wife with resignation. And regardless of what she was as a wife, she was Robert Hilton's eldest sister as a woman. There was the sum of her character. Her sympathy could be no more than pretended.

As if she, or Dirk, mattered. He had indeed been foolish. Of course Robert would have issued instructions that every shipmaster must be warned off carrying Matt; there was the power of the Hilton name, which could rob a man of his command, of his very livelihood, if driven to it. There had been his mistake, a mistake of youth, of inexperience. Nevis, and Gislane, were not be gained that easily.

But there were men on Statia who had no position, no commands to lose. Who could only gain, from accommodating the Hilton heir. There were Negro fishermen, who put to sea in the small hours of the morning, and returned at noon to sell their catches. No one knew, or cared, where they went at dawn. So perhaps Nevis was a long carry for an open fishing boat. But they could set him ashore on St. Kitts, only a few miles to the south. Thence he could walk to Basseterre, and find another fisherman to ferry him across the Narrows.

There was his course of action. He felt almost contented, and only a little impatient. As from tomorrow he would seek his freedom in a more subtle manner, and match the patient secrecy of his captors. And this time he would succeed.

But now he regretted having forgone his supper. He lay in the overheated bed, listening to the rumblings of his belly, and listening too, to other sounds. Sounds to which he had become used, which roused his manhood as they revolted his imagination. Dirk Huys was a vigorous animal, married to a young and beautiful wife; he had to be very drunk not to seek to renew his physical devotion in the room beyond the partition, with grunts and sighs, and murmured caresses. He called her his poppet, and the bed creaked as he heaved his weight about, and no doubt hers as well. Yet she uttered not a sound. At least, not a sound that Matt could interpret, and the odd whisper which reached his room might as easily have been uttered by Dirk as by her. But she submitted, no doubt, time and time again. And the thought of it made him sweat. With desire, for Sue? How could it be otherwise. But it was a strange, perverse sort of desire, compounded of the knowledge that she lay, only a thin wall away, naked in the arms of another man. He had only Georgiana's word for it that she was a reluctant lover, and even had she been, in the beginning, no more than a reluctant lover, she had now been married three years, and had certainly become reconciled to her fate. And perhaps more than reconciled.

And perhaps she was silent merely because she knew he could hear and would be listening, and knew too that she must meet him in the morning, and smile at him in that reassuring fashion, her face unmarked by passion, even if her body still retained the bruises caused by Dirk's fingers. Another reason for escaping this place, lest he go mad with confused emotion, lest the purity of his determination to regain Gislane, to live with her in honour and in love, become diluted with the ambition only to achieve woman.

'Man, Mr. Hilton,' Lancelot said, 'you know we can't do that.'

Matt's horse pawed the sand, and he, himself, felt like stamping, to relieve his angry frustration. 'I am offering you all I possess,' he explained. 'At this moment. But in the years to come I will have more money than you can ever have dreamed of. And where is the risk to you? You take your boat farther afield than that.' From the beach, St. Kitts looked no farther than a stone's throw. Close enough, indeed, to be reached by swimming. But he knew better. It was several miles of open sea, with a fierce current boiling between the islands and sufficient sharks and barracuda to bring him down before he was a hundred yards from the shore.

Lancelot removed his battered straw hat and scratched his head. He was the recognized king of the Statia fishing fleet, his black face gnarled by years of sea breeze and flying spray. Matt had not meant to begin with him, but none of the others would contemplate taking him to St. Kitts; it had to be Lancelot, or it would be no one. And now, he was realizing, it would be no one. Statia was too small, and the combination of Robert Hilton's name, even in a Dutch island, and Dirk's physical presence, was too all pervading.

'Man, Mr. Hilton,' Lancelot attempted to explain. 'Man ...'

Matt wheeled his horse, walked it up the gully between the cliffs, leaving the beach and the sea behind. And Gislane, yet again. It was February, and by now no doubt she had arrived, beaten and outraged, but still waiting, and praying, for him to come to her. What would she think of him, of all mankind, of all white mankind, certainly. And to suppose that she might be twenty miles away, and he unable to reach her, was next to unbearable. Well, then, he possessed his last resource. He did not know enough about the sea and even the fishing boats generally required a crew of at least three. But if he had to, he would manage on his own. Certainly navigation should prove no problem, and with the wind steadily from the east he should make good progress. And become a pirate, as well as a vagabond.

He reined as he approached the road, and saw the trap. It contained a single figure, in a rose-coloured gown with an enormous white hat. And this day, as it was Sunday, she had come straight from church; as this day, it being Sunday, he had supposed it safe to leave the house while they were at service, and make his way to the beach.

A touch of his heels, and the horse approached the trap. 'Am I spied upon all the time?'

'Are you angry, all the time?'

'No doubt I am,' he agreed.

She smiled; she possessed an utterly entrancing smile, which raced away from her mouth, spreading to the dimples in her cheeks, expanding her nostrils, reaching up to send slivers of light into her normally cool eyes. Perhaps she did not need to laugh.

'Then I too must be honest. Of course you are spied upon, all the time. Can you imagine what Robert would say were we to let you escape us?' She patted the seat beside her. 'Would you like to drive? Caesar becomes awfully hard on my arms.'

Matt hesitated, then dismounted, and tethered his horse to the back of the vehicle. 'And where is Dirk?'

A faint shrug. 'Taking a glass of punch with Meinheer Schotter.'

'As usual.' He climbed up to sit beside her, inhaled the musk of her perfume.

'As usual,' she said gravely.

She was studying him, and it was impossible to decide the expression in her eyes, the thought in her brain. Except that no doubt she was amused at his feeble squirmings, his indecisive actions, his inability to do more than flutter his wings, like a trapped butterfly. But perhaps, if she could hurt him by her very presence, he could retaliate.

'It seems to me,' he remarked, 'that the only time you really see you husband is in your bed. Or do you see him even then?'

'You were going to drive me home,' she suggested, and waited for him to flick the whip. 'I imagine he finds me dull.'

'There is a remarkable thought.'

Again the faint shrug. 'I do not like to drink myself insensible. I am unable to reminisce sadly or happily about Holland. And I am an unlucky, as well as an incompetent, card player. The fault is obviously mine; by now no doubt I should have been totally preoccupied with the business of motherhood.'

Was she baiting him? The road debouched from the cliff path and the town was below them. 'So then, are you also totally dull in bed?'

This time he did succeed in inducing a faint flush. Yet she would still not take offence. 'In his letter, Robert suggested that part of your problem was a complete ignorance on that subject.'

'Oh, indeed,' he agreed. 'Which makes me, in Robert's eyes, at the least, a totally dull fellow.' He smiled at her. 'We share then, our dullness, Sue.'

She pointed, at the heavy black cloud chasing them down the hillside. 'You'd best hurry. I'd not like this gown to get wet.'

He whipped the horses into a trot, and they scattered gravel as they charged up the drive. The yardboy waited for the reins and Suzanne got down by herself, ran up the stairs as the first drop of rain began to fall. 'My congratulations, sir.'

He took off his hat, threw it on the chair. The midday rain was almost the principal event of his day; it not only cooled the air, it blanketed the senses, in its dull, rhythmical pattern of sound.

Suzanne frowned at his silence, and then smiled at Augustus. 'We shall dine now, Augustus. The master will be staying at Meinheer Schotter's.'

He sat, as ever, on her right hand; they ate boiled fish, with eddoes and yams, and drank sangaree, red wine to which brandy and various fruits had been added, and finished their meal with halved sapodillas. West Indian meals had less than half the content and thus consumed less than half the time, of an English dinner, but this was not merely because delicacies were in short supply; the appetite itself was not so demanding in the unending heat, while strong liquor in the morning was liable to render a man totally unfit for business for the rest of the day.

As indeed were even a few goblets of sangaree. He stretched, and yawned. They had not spoken at all; the rain drummed on the roof, and on the ground outside, with a deafening consistency. 'I had hoped for a letter from Jamaica,' Suzanne said, half to herself. 'But there has been no wind for days.' She smiled at him. 'We must be patient. All life is a matter of being patient.'

He got up, held her chair for her. 'Until it becomes a matter of waiting for death.'

'Sombre words, for a lad of twenty, who will soon be twenty-one. I imagine, when you attain your majority,

Robert will be content to allow you to go your own way. Providing of course you reveal some sense by then.'

She was already on her way up the stairs. He followed, gazing at her shoes. 'Perhaps, when I achieve my majority, I shall no longer be prepared to be afraid of Robert. It puzzles me why you and Dirk should be. What power can he possess over you?'

She waited for him on the landing. 'I merely suppose him to be acting in your best interests, Matt. Given time, you also will come to that conclusion, I have no doubt. If you do not propose to at all, why wait until you are twenty one.'

'I am endeavouring not to.'

'And we are endeavouring to save you from yourself.' She opened her bedroom door, turned her head to look at him. 'I would like to think you will eventually come to your senses.'

'I love the girl, Sue. Perhaps you have no concept of that. Perhaps you have never been allowed to love. You'll not pretend you can love Dirk.'

Now at last he had penetrated her reserve; she flushed. But would not speak.

'If you did love him,' Matt said, 'you'd have become that mother, of which you spoke.' Now why, he wondered. Why pursue the matter? Why keep her standing here, embarrassing her, and surely, in time, angering her. Except that he had never seen Sue angry. He could not envisage the possibility.

'Love has nothing to do with childbirth,' she said, and surprisingly, her colour had faded. 'As you point out, Matt, he lies on my belly as he chooses, and would do so whether I was bound hand and foot, did the mood take him. The fault lies either in him or in me.'

And still she waited, where she might have ended the conversation and closed the door. And still the rain drummed on the roof, immediately above their heads now, enclosing them in a cocoon of sound from which the servants and the rest of the house were excluded. Save that they could be overlooked from the bottom of the stairs. And still he did not know why he also waited. But, oh yes, he knew, without knowing whether he really wished it, whether he would know how to go about it, whether he dare contemplate the consequences.

'But you do not love him,' he insisted, with the inanity of youth.

Her face seemed to close. 'Dirk is my husband, to whom I swore certain oaths, Matt. Now I would retire.'

The door started to close. But she had waited, for a while. To see what he intended? Or if he intended?

She looked down at his foot, blocking the entrance. Had she been Georgiana, now, he thought, there was no problem. But had she been Georgiana, the problem would not have arisen. And yet, she was Georgiana's sister. She raised her head, and the pink was again gathering in her cheeks.

'I lie there,' he said. 'Every night. And listen. I can do nothing else.'

'And dream of the coloured girl?' Her voice was so soft he hardly heard the words.

'In the beginning. Now ...' he sighed. 'Perhaps dreams need some physical substance on which to exist.'

Her gaze was the steadiest he had ever known, seeming to be penetrating his skull, to be reaching down to his very heart. 'And no doubt they will feed upon that which is nearest.'

'I do not know,' he said. 'I ...' slowly he extended his hand, touched her cheek, allowed it to rest on her shoulder. 'As Robert truly says, I know so little, of these matters. I only know that I have two reasons for wishing to escape this place.'

She did not even seem to blink. But she stepped backwards, and he went with her, and the door swung quietly to behind his back. He had only been in here once before. It was the largest of the bedrooms, and contained a great deal of the comfortable, functional furniture which was the mark of this house. But he was aware only of the giant fourposter, close behind her.

'But if you do not leave me now,' she said, 'you must stay. Forever, Matt. I am not to satisfy an idle urge. I had not even supposed that I would ever be an adulteress. If you encourage me to such crime, you must share my guilt forever.' She gazed at him, her mouth slightly parted. And then she closed her own fingers round his wrist, lifted his hand from her shoulder, and rested it on her breast. 'But I, too, have dreamed.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SLAVE

WITH a tumultuous roar which sent a cloud of rust scattering across the pale green of the water, the Antelope's anchor plunged to the bottom of the shallow bay; a moment later the ship once more came to rest. After six weeks, Gislanc thought. The stillness seemed uncanny. But immediately a boat was despatched for the shore, to inform the authorities of the cargo.

She stood on the poop deck and watched the Negroes being brought up from below. They chattered amongst themselves in sudden high good humour, the horrors of the voyage forgotten at this fresh proof that they were not, after all, doomed to sail across an endless ocean until the last one of them had died of heat and starvation. But indeed their spirits had begun to rise two days ago, when the mountain tops of Dominica had been followed by the cloud of Guadeloupe and then the clustering peaks of the British Leewards. She had gazed at the distant shores of Antigua last evening; there the Hiltons and the Warners had come to greatness, just as the next island on the horizon, visible only as the enormous skyward-pointing lava finger of Mount Misery, had been St. Kitts, site of the original Warner settlement, a century and a half in the past. She had wondered then why she did not throw herself over the side, and swim and swim and swim. And drown and drown and drown, even were she not eaten by sharks.

'Well glory be to that,' Runner remarked. ‘I feel I can breathe.' For in the last two days they had twice altered course to avoid suspicious-looking sails which might have been French men-of-war or Yankee privateers. 'I've a mind

to unload the entire cargo here, if I can find a buyer, rather than risk the passage to Jamaica. You'll dress yourself, girl.'

Gislane watched the slaves, clustering the deck, guarded by a party of armed sailors. It was simple enough to identify Dinshad, even had he not turned his head to find her. 'And why do you not take me with you to Kingston, Runner?' she asked. 'I will guarantee you twice as much as you were already paid, as your reward from the Hiltons.'

Runner grinned at her. 'You're an innocent child, Gislane, and that's a fact. The Hiltons won't be rescuing you, girl. And even if they would, I told you, I must trade in these parts again. So I'll keep my part of the bargain. Now get yourself dressed.'

He had already made her stand beneath the hose with the blacks; the drying salt clung to her flesh with constant irritation. Now she abandoned her shift altogether, wore only her petticoat and gown, and felt positively uncomfortable to be restrained by clothes after so many months. And what else did she feel? Why, nothing at all. It was merely a matter of waiting; she had not expected Runner to be persuaded to carry her on to Jamaica. So, there was James Hodge to be anticipated. She remembered him only vaguely, could recall neither his features nor his voice. But he was undoubtedly a man, who would wish exactly the things Runner and Penny had wished. And she knew by now how to accommodate such men; she merely needed to lie on her back with her legs apart. Then he would not hurt her, and then she could prepare her escape. Jamaica might be a long and dangerous two days distant, but Antigua remained hull down on the eastern horizon, and St. Kitts was scarce five miles away.

Survival; there was the key. She even combed her hair with her fingers; it remained soaked and stiff from its wash. And regretted the absence of her bonnet. It must have fallen off during that terrible journey from London to Bristol, and she had thought nothing of it, until now.

Runner appeared in the companionway. 'We're in luck,' he said. 'Penny's back, with news that Hodge is in town. And most other planters too. They must have come running when they heard we was dropping anchor. I'll get rid of you now, and advertise my wares a little.'

Gislane gave him a curtsey; she was almost light-hearted at the prospect of leaving this hellship. 'And will I please my new master, Mr. Runner?'

The captain winked at her. 'Oh, aye, you'll do that all right, me darling. Come on, now.'

She went on deck. Still the blacks waited, a huge mass in the waist of the ship. And still Dinshad stared at her. She wanted to wave, but dared not. She would doubtless not see him again. And they had touched each other but once, her head against his chest. Yet they had communicated more than their names. They had allowed their thoughts to mingle, and if she sought freedom, no less did he. But he was too clearly a slave, and freedom for Dinshad must lie at the end of a rope. There was a disheartening thought.

And for Gislane Nicholson? Or should she now once again call herself Gislane Hodge?

She went down the rope ladder, swaying against the side of the ship, Runner close above her. She sat in the transom of the boat as it pulled for the shore, gazed at the island where she had been born. Nevis was unforgettable, hardly more than a huge mountain rising steeply from the sea for a height of nearly four thousand feet. Charleston huddled at the foot of this immense extinct volcano, in the shelter of the only bay the island boasted, and the plantations, limited to occasional valleys in the steep mountainside, had never the opportunity to grow to the size of those in St. Kitts and Antigua, much less compare with Jamaica or the vast French holdings in St. Domingue, the half of the island of Hispaniola the buccaneers had appropriated from Spain.

And the smallness of the place made any occasion one of universal importance. As Runner had truly said, the prospect of dropping anchor in the bay had brought almost every planter on the island hurrying into town; the narrow-dock was a mass of poorly dressed white men, accompanied by their servants, hardly dressed at all, behind which equally starved looking mules waited in front of the store wagons. Paint peeled from the walls of the buildings; roofs revealed gaping holes to the sky; great potholes dotted the road, and the dock itself seemed about to rot away into the quiet green water.

Runner helped her up the creaking wooden steps. 'Stand back there,' he shouted. 'Stand back. She is for Hodge.'

The men ignored him, clustered close to stare at her. 'A mustee you say,' someone remarked. 'By Christ, what a splendid filly.'

She glanced at him, and did not even blush. So the news of her arrival had reached them all. As if she cared for the opinions, lewd or flattering, of any planter. She tossed her head at them, and would have followed Runner to the shore, had he not also stopped.

'Aye,' another man was saying. 'Now there's a windfall, Jamie, lad. You'll not sleep tonight, I'll wager.'

There was a burst of laughter, and Gislane felt her lungs constricting. For Runner was stepping aside, and allowing Hodge to approach. And suddenly her courage evaporated, and for all the heat she felt a shiver trickle down her spine.

James Hodge was only a few years her elder, and no taller; a short, slender man, with narrow shoulders and a thin but surprisingly handsome face; his features were as regular as her own and he sported a little black moustache, clinging to his upper lip and drifting down each side of his mouth in a very French fashion. His clothes were threadbare, like those of his fellows, and as soiled; he wore no coat, and there were sweat stains at his armpits, but his boots, if cracked, were polished. He had, as she noticed immediately, singularly long and slender fingers, and as he now removed his hat, perhaps to greet her, but if so very rapidly converted into a fan for his cheeks, she could observe that his hair was cut short. His eyes were the coldest she had ever seen, colder even than those of Robert Hilton after he had kissed her hand, and they drifted up and down her like an icy wind, so that she felt naked.

'Gad,' he muttered.' 'Tis her, right enough. Gislane, Gad. Where did you find her, Runner?'

'London, she was, Mr. Hodge,' Runner said. 'Playing the lady.'

Gislane attempted to meet his stare, which had finally settled on her face, and cursed herself at the heat which filled her cheeks.

'Gad,' Hodge said again, and glanced from left to right at his grinning companions. 'I've a wagon waiting.'

'What of her account, Mr. Hodge?' Runner asked. 'I was told you'd pay well for this one, and she was that expensive to feed.'

'Account?' Hodge asked. 'And here was I supposing you were but being an honest man. I'll let you have a bill on my agent. Follow me, Gislane.'

He turned and shouldered his way through the crowd. Gislane hesitated, looked at Runner, who shrugged. She walked behind her cousin.

'Now come, gentlemen,' Runner said. 'Surely you can afford some new slaves? If you do not, how will you harvest your next crop?'

'We cannot feed ourselves,' a man said.

'Aye,' said another. 'You'd best hurry to Jamaica, Runner.'

The voices faded. Gislane found herself on the beaten dust of the road, and paused in surprise; it was the first time she had stood on anything other than wood in her bare feet since she had been a child. Now her toes itched and yet felt wonderfully free.

Hodge looked over his shoulder. 'You'll make haste,' he said. 'There is the wagon.'

It was open, drawn by two mules, and contained a woman. Gislane hurried forward behind her cousin and checked again. Mrs. Hodge, for the hostility which gloomed from the brown eyes implied she could be none other, was even thinner than her husband, her features pinched at once with privation and ill-temper, her body a bag of bones doing no more than support the muslin gown which drooped from her shoulders, her hair wisping rat-tails beneath an old-fashioned and decrepit bonnet. But she wore shoes.

And she is to be my mistress, Gislane reminded herself, and did a half curtsey.

'They were not lying,' Hodge cried. ' 'Tis Gislane, after all.'

'You mean you did not know I was coming, Mr. Hodge?' Gislane asked in surprise.

'Not I, girl. Not I. I was like to have died with surprise when that lout of a mate appeared with his information. Get in, girl, get in. We've a distance to travel.'

Gislane lifted her skirt, placed her left hand on the side of the wagon to pull herself up, and withdrew it as a riding-crop slammed the wood immediately beside her fingers. She stared at the woman in horror, suddenly aware that a large part of the crowd had followed her from the dock, and were watching, whistling and making obscene comments.

'Janet?' Hodge asked in surprise.

Janet Hodge's cheeks were flushed. 'What is she then, Jamie? Your cousin or your slave?' 'Why, I... no doubt she is both.'

'No, no, Jamie. The decision is entirely yours. I will but say this; if she is your cousin she shall ride up here beside me, and I will treat her as a member of the family, and you'll not touch her. Understand me that. Not even a finger on her arm. If she is a slave, you'll use her as you use any other female when the mood takes you, and I'll not even murmur. But if she is a slave then will I also use her.'

Hodge hesitated, and glanced at Gislane. But his wife knew her husband too well. The returning confidence began to drain from Gislane's mind, from her shoulders in rolling sweat, from her very belly.

'Well, of course, she is a slave,' Hodge said.

‘You're positive of that, Jamie?' Janet Hodge asked, her voice soft.

'Oh, aye, positive. 'Tis just chance she is also my cousin.'

'Then is she also an absconder,' Janet Hodge shouted. 'And shall be punished for it.' Her whole body heaved as she moved, rising to her feet in the wagon, and Gislane realized that the riding-crop had been held in her left hand; her right hand held the cart-whip, which was now flailing through the air. She was too concerned to escape the full force of the lash to scream. She dropped to her hands and knees beside the wagon, and the thong curled around the top of the wheel, and just flicked her flesh at the shoulder, tearing through gown and petticoat. Never in her life had she felt such pain, it drove all the breath from her body, all the ability to think from her mind, all the humanity from her heart. She was aware only of lying in the dust, grovelling in her attempt to escape the lash, of screaming and choking in the same instant, of a further succession of shocks racing through her system, of a hubbub of confused noise, of stamping feet and chattering conversation.

A boot kicked her in the thigh, and a hand pulled at her arm. She wanted to scream again, for the touch sent more pain coursing through her body, but she could only moan. Yet she was urgently aware of the necessity to comply, or she would be whipped again. She reached her knees, face rubbing against the grease of the axle, dragged herself upright. She could still hear the noise, but she could distinguish no words; her entire brain was a hubbub of tremendous sound. She looked to left and right, saw amused faces and watched their mouths move in jeering comment. Yet they had no existence to her. She was alone, with her agony, her horror, and the arm which was urging her on; at that instant she did not even feel shame.

The tail-gate was down, and she crawled on to the uneven wooden boards. The gate banged up, and she hugged her knees against her body. She could feel the sun scorching her back and shoulders, which suggested her clothes had been torn, yet she shivered with cold as the cart started to bounce and rattle its way over the uneven road. And slowly the shock began to wear away, and the pain became more intense. She seemed to have deep ravines of it, crisscrossing her back, stretching down to her thighs. She dared not attempt to look at herself, to touch where it hurt; she was too afraid of what she might find. Tears rolled out of her eyes unceasingly, and her hair kept blowing into her mouth. She found herself staring out of the back of the cart, at the road, which climbed slowly between steep embankments, which themselves disappeared into the hills on either side. She heard voices, and would not move, to look at them. To look at her.

Afterwards she could never quite remember how long the journey took. Presumably it was some considerable time, for she had landed from the Antelope - how sweet the Antelope, in retrospect - just before noon, and the sun was drooping fast towards the western horizon when at last the wagon ground to a halt. By then the pain had settled into an all embracing misery, which stretched from the nape of her neck to the backs of her knees, and her mind, too, had settled into an all embracing dullness, which she was terrified would end. If she would live, then she must live like this, at least until the pain ended, or she would go mad.

But she was not to be fortunate. The tail-gate was dropping, and Hodge stood there, with two Negro drivers, and a white overseer, peering at her and grinning.

'Come on, girl. You've rested long enough,' Hodge declared.

She raised her head. She remembered the house. William Hodge had never been very wealthy: it was all but impossible to be wealthy on Nevis; thus his Great House contained no more than a single storey, and there had been little enough luxury within. Yet had the walls always been painted, as there had been flowerbeds by the front staircase, as the little factory had always been kept in a state of greasy perfection, as the barracoons had been orderly and the slaves dressed in clean cotton. Now she could do no more than recognize the shapes of what had been. Paint peeled on the walls, the flowerbeds had disappeared into mud, and a quick glance to her left showed that the factory was hardly more than a rusting pile of metal. While the Negroes, gathered in a group before the gate to their village - they would just have come in from the field - were as dirty and ill-clad a lot as she could possibly have imagined.

'Down, girl,' Hodge said again. 'Would you have another taste of the whip?'

Hastily she climbed down, felt the dust on her toes. Her legs shook, and she remained standing with an effort.

'By Christ, Mr. Hodge,' said the overseer. 'There's a charmer, to be sure.'

'She's for the house, Talbot,' said Janet Hodge. Gislane's head started to turn, and then checked. She dared not look at the woman; she was afraid she would spit, and she was even more afraid she would again burst into tears. 'You'll see to her, Eunice,' Janet Hodge continued. 'You'll season her. Understood? 'Tis undoubted she has ideas above her station.'

‘Yes'm. You coming, child?'

The Negress was tall and big-boned; she wore a white gown and had a turban on her head. Her face was hard, although her broad smile was not unfriendly. But now the smile was fading as she looked past her master and Talbot the overseer at the drive leading to the gate; a pony and trap were coming towards them, at speed. 'Eh-eh,' she remarked. 'But is Dr. Nisbet.'

Gislane insensibly attempted to gather her torn gown in front of her; where it scarce mattered how much of her was revealed to these people, she knew this was a gentleman. And a lady, for there was a slender, dark young woman sitting beside the doctor. He was also thin, like most of the people she had encountered on Nevis; but his was the thinness of ill-health, and his face wore an unhealthy flush below its tan. 'Hodge,' he cried. 'Is it true, then?'

'Aye, Dr. Nisbet,' Hodge agreed. 'There she stands. The prodigal returns.'

The trap came to a halt, the doctor stepped down. His wife remained seated, but her brows drew together in concern as she gazed at Gislane. 'She's not been whipped?'

'She's a returned absconder, Fanny,' Janet Hodge said.

'I'll thank you to address me properly, mistress,' Mrs. Nisbet demanded.

'Oh, aye, you're a great lady,' Janet remarked. 'I whipped her myself.'

'My God.' Dr. Nisbet stood in front of Gislane, stretched out a hand. Instinctively she shrank from his fingers, and he checked. 'She's a white woman, Hodge. All but.'

'All but,' Hodge agreed.

'My God,' the doctor said again. 'There'll be a complaint laid about this, Hodge. 'Tis no way to treat a lady.'

'A lady?' Janet Hodge burst out laughing. 'She's for Jamie's bed. And my floor. There's no lady.'

'Madam, you nauseate me,' Nisbet declared. 'I'd best see to those cuts, Hodge.'

'She's not for the likes of you, doctor,' Hodge growled. 'She's a slave, and there's an end to it. The cuts'll heal. Now be off my property.'

'You can't just leave her, John,' Fanny Nisbet whispered.

The doctor's face was a picture of irresolution. 'There'll be a complaint laid,' he said again.

'Aye,' Janet Hodge said. 'You go and complain until you're black in the face, Nisbet. She belongs to Hodges and there's an end to it.'

The doctor hesitated for a moment longer, then got back into his trap. He flicked the whip and the horses turned and trotted down the drive.

'Interfering bastard,' Janet Hodge said. 'As for that Fanny, I'd like to have her at the end of my whip, I would. Will you be standing there the day, Jamie. So she's nice to look at. She'll look better when she's had a wash. See to it, Eunice.'

'Is here you going sleep.' Eunice pointed to the pile of straw in the corner of the stone-floored room. 'You see she, Wilma?'

Gislane blinked in the sudden gloom, and found that she was shivering again. But perhaps now she was actually chilled. Water still ran down her shoulders and legs from her sudden immersion under the pump, and her cuts were stinging all over again. But the chill was also caused by fear. Even on board the Antelope she had always been segregated from the blacks, a thing apart, a thing superior. Now she was in a small chamber off the cellar, below the ground level of the house itself, and lit by a single smoky lantern, and she was naked, and she was surrounded by black women. And not only women. There were men here as well, the house servants, staring at her, more in bewilderment than hostility at the moment.

'But is true she black like we?' the woman Wilma asked.

'Man, you ain't remembering she?' Eunice demanded. 'She did drop from the belly of that big bitch what used to lie with Mr. William. Oh, I remembering she good. You remembering me, girl?'

Gislane didn't realize she was being addressed until a hand twined itself in her hair and jerked her head back.

'I is speaking girl. You ain't answering?'

The pain was intense. Gislane struck behind herself in a sudden frenzy, and a moment later found herself on the ground, gasping for breath, staring at naked black feet.

'She hit me one time with a stick’ one of the men said. 'I remember she good. But I going take she good too.'

'You all had best watch out,' said a new voice. 'You ain't knowing she is for Hodge?'

She rose to her knees, identified the speaker, and remembered him. His name was Charles, and he had been her father's butler, a small, wizened, old black man, who still wore the faded green livery jacket William Hodge had insisted on.

'Charles?' she whispered.

He grinned at her; his teeth were broken and yellow, unlike most of the others present. 'Eh, eh, but you remembering me, girl?'

'Charles.' She scrambled to her feet. 'You'll help me, Charles?'

'Help you, girl? Well, I going see these people don't hurt you bad. There it is. But you got for respect them, or they must be going take a stick to you.'

She glanced from him to the grinning faces around her, dragged hair from her eyes. She wanted to say, yes, yes, I'll respect you. I'll do anything you say. Only please don't hurt me any more. But she lacked the courage to be such a coward.

'You got gown for she?' Charles asked Eunice. 'The mistress want she look a proper servant, and is a fact if she stay so somebody going mount she before the master.'

'Is I,' said the man who had first spoken. He came close now, fingered her breast, squeezed her shoulder and then her bottom. 'Oh, is I.'

He thrust his belly at her and she shrank away.

'Dress she,' Charles commanded, and a moment later a white cotton gown, entirely shapeless except for the hole through which her head went, was dropped over her shoulders. 'Now bind up she head,' Charles said, and another roll of cotton, this time in strips, was bound round and round her head by Eunice, while Wilma gathered her hair out of sight. 'Now take she sweep the floor,' Charles decided.

Gislane licked her lips. 'Please,' she whispered. 'If I could have something to eat...'

There was a cackle of amusement from around her. 'You

wanting food, then?' Eunice asked. 'You best follow them dogs around, girl. There ain't no food now.' 'But I'm so hungry,' she begged.

'We going eat when the master and mistress done,' Charles said. 'And that ain't coming soon. Now you take she, Eunice, and show she where she going work.'

'Come, nuh,' Eunice said.

Gislane followed the big black woman. Suddenly she felt more tired than at any previous moment in her life; far more tired than when she climbed the gangplank of the Antelope. But hadn't she suffered violence before, and survived it by a simple act of will? No doubt there were different sorts of violence. To be kicked or cuffed in an excess of brutish passion or equally brutish anger was somehow impersonal; to have the flailing thong of the cartwhip slicing through skin and, it seemed, arteries and bones and nerves and into her very brain, still left her uncertain of every footstep, unsure when she would again break out into a violent trembling, incapable of restraining the tears which she felt might come at any moment.

But that was Janet Hodge. Surely and singly Jamie, her own cousin, had not seemed such a bad fellow at all. Had his wife not been present, she might even have thought she was improving her station, from that of cabin girl on the Antelope. So Janet was jealous. No doubt she would get over her jealously. And, she told herself, she must never forget that she was now in Nevis, only a few miles from Antigua and Green Grove, and not that terribly far from Jamaica and Hilltop. The Hiltons were all around her. She had but to find them, or have them find her, and her troubles would be over.

Except that surely she could never again be the girl with whom Matt had fallen in love. But was she now more, or less of a woman? Could she ever lie beneath Matt, as she had lain beneath Runner and Penny, as she would certainly have to lie beneath Hodge, and not remember? And remembering, tremble with fear. And with hate.

Well, then, she must learn to control the fear and conceal the hate. Even from Matt. And even that were wasted time unless she reached him. Survival. Only survival mattered.

Eunice was indicating the bedrooms which lay at the back of the house, and which they had reached by means of a narrow, lightless corridor; it was all but dark outside, but there were scarcely any candles burning in the house, or in the overseers' houses down the drive. 'You going keep these clean,' she said. 'You going sweep, and you going polish, and you going wash that linen. You understand me, child?'

Gislane peered into the gloom, and wrinkled her nose. She could feel the dust gathering on her bare feet, her face had just been brushed by a cobweb, arid her nose told her that the sheets had not been changed for several weeks. 'Who did this work before?' she asked.

'Is me, nuh,' Eunice said. 'But now you is going do it, or I going bust you ass. Like so.'

She swung her hand and hit Gislane on the side of the head. Once again taken entirely by surprise, she fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath.

Eunice grinned down at her. 'You understanding me, child?'

Gislane got up, slowly. Suddenly she was as angry as she had been that first night in the cabin of the ship; but now she was more aware of her helplessness. She nodded, slowly. 'I understand you, Eunice.'

'Well you can turn down them bed, eh?'

Gislane nodded again, slowly approached the tent bed which occupied the centre of the room; there was a spotted mirror on the wall, and a dressing-table, but no chairs and the floor was unpolished wood. It occurred to her that she did not really remember this room at all; yet the bed looked old enough. Perhaps her mother had lain in it, with Papa Hodge. How many years ago. Perhaps she had been conceived, in this very bed, in a long night of passion.

She checked, her hand on the gauze mosquito netting. Then certainly she would have been delivered in this bed. There was a waste of energy and effort, to deliver a child into this world, this West Indian paradise of hell. Why, she was becoming quite a philosopher.

A floorboard creaked behind her. Eunice, about to hit her again? Hastily she parted the curtain, reached for the rumpled, sweat-stained sheets, the disordered pillows, and felt a hand on her shoulder. But this was not Eunice's hand; the fingers dug into her flesh, and now she smelt the gin-laden breath swirling around her head, while a moment later the half-empty bottle was itself tossed on to the sheet.

She turned, sitting down as she did so. The hand slid away from her shoulder, and instead seized her chin, moving it this way and that, raising her head to stare into his eyes. These were bloodshot, as his whole face seemed to have changed in the short hour since she had last seen him. Because then he had been sober, and now he was drunk. And now she was afraid. Here was no boisterous excess of liquor such as had affected Runner. The small eyes had receded until they were no more than reddened pits in the handsome face; but the handsomeness of the face had itself dwindled into coarseness, the mouth loose with a trace of saliva dribbling from the corners, the breath rasping, the tongue emerging to flicker at her.

Oh, God, she thought. So soon? Oh, God.

His fingers twined in the turban, and released it. The cotton uncoiled itself on to the bed, followed by her hair.

'By Christ,' he said. 'Gislane. By Christ. I remember you, girl. I remember a child. By Christ.'

His fingers kneaded her scalp, pulling her head forward so that her face was lost in his shirtfront, her breath gagging on the odour which came from his body. Now the fingers were poking into her ears, massaging her neck, feeling the line of her jaw, even squeezing her nose, as if he were blind and could only discover her through the medium of his fingertips. And there was nothing caressing in his touch; she realized that he was unaware, or uncaring, that she might have feelings, that it might be possible to hurt her in his search for gratification.

'The gown,' he muttered. 'Take it off.'

'I cannot move,' she whispered.

The hands released her, and he sat beside her. She stood up, head brushing the netting, gathered the gown in a quick movement and lifted it over her head, allowing it to fall to the ground at her feet.

'Christ,' he said. 'By Christ.'

The fingers were back, and she remained standing, feeling as if her entire person were being turned inside out. He explored with a relentless interest, like a child examining a new toy whose working confounds him. He raised her arms to pull on the soft down, and even to inhale her sweat. He sucked and bit at her nipples, kneaded her belly, carried his minute investigations between her legs, amused himself for near half an hour before drawing her on to the bed. Then he wept and slobbered, alternatively sucking and biting, rolling and working her body up and down the mattress. She closed her eyes, and sought to close her mind. She thought of Runner, strangely, but of Runner hanging, as she had so often thought during the voyage. Then she could replace Runner with Hodge and he too dangled from the neck, naked, a long obscene sliver of ghastly whiteness. And she stood beneath and looked up at him, and by her side was Dinshad, who laughed, and occasionally poked the dangling figure with a stick.

'Drunken wretch,' Janet Hodge remarked.

Oh God, Gislane thought. Oh, God. Hodge's weight still lay on her belly, still moved against her. The unexpected presence of his wife did not seem to disturb him in the slightest. But the movement was slowing, and a moment later he rolled away from her.' 'Tis as we agreed.'

'Oh, aye,' Janet Hodge said. 'She's to be a slave. But in my bed, Jamie? You have no shame. Up, slut.'

Gislane sat up, cautiously; the room was quite dark now, but Janet carried a candle, behind which her face was invisible. As was her right hand.

' 'Tis settled you are, no doubt,' Janet said. 'You have clothes?'

Gislane stooped, picked up her gown, and before she could straighten the riding-crop cracked on her back. ‘Ow,' she screamed before she could stop herself, and landed on her hands and knees.

'Slut,' Janet shouted. 'Nigger bitch.'

The blows seared across Gislane's shoulders, and without thinking she dropped further, seeking to protect her head.

'You'll not harm her, Janet,' Hodge protested from the bed.

'Harm her? She's a nigger,' Janet said. 'What's there to harm? 'Tis as we agreed, you'll remember? You'll lay the wench and I'll flay her, as the mood takes us. Out, slut, out.'

She added her foot to her riding-crop, and Gislane forced herself to move, crawling towards the door, her heart rebelling against the shame of it, her mind unable to force her body to do anything better than respond, abjectly and quickly.

She fell through the door and into the corridor, and the light was extinguished as the door banged behind her. She lay and panted, her gown drawn into a bundle against her belly, and saw feet, black and looming. 'No,' she whispered. 'Oh, please God, no.'

Surprisingly, the hands on her shoulders this time were gentle, and helping her up. And Eunice's voice even contained some sympathy. 'That woman done hate you too bad, child,' she said. 'You want for watch she good. You know what she done with that Gertrude?'

Gislane reached her feet, leaned against the massive, comforting shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks, each silent sob seeming to rise from her very belly.

Eunice moved slowly down the corridor, the girl cradled in her arm. 'She find she in that bed, one time, because that Hodge can't keep he stick down no how when he been drinking, and you know what she done? She pin she to the wall with a knife, one through each ear. Child, you should have heard that Gertrude screeching. It fit to wake the dead. I going show you the mark tomorrow. One through each ear, whap, whap. And she hanging there, afraid to move in case the whole ear cut off. The mistress leave she there for two hour before she take she down. And then she gone in the field. Child, you want for watch she.'

'Oh, God,' Gislane whispered. 'Oh, God. What am I to do?'

Eunice paused, and glanced at her, her huge face half invisible in the gloom of the corridor. 'Do, child? You got for do like we. And live for the night.'

'It is night now,' Gislane muttered.

Eunice grinned at her. 'Not night, child. The night. That is the thing.'

Gislane awoke with a start, raised herself on her elbows. She had been sleeping deeply; after a week, even the hard floor of the servants' room had become comfortable. Rivers of exhaustion spread up and down her thighs, made the muscles of her arms jump; rivers of fear coursed constantly through her mind, seeming to move round and round her consciousness; rivers of shame filled any part of her waking self that could still think. She worked from dawn until well after dusk, sweeping and cleaning, making beds, preparing and serving food; she worked not only for the Hodges, but she worked for the servants as well. 'You got for learn, child,' Charles the butler said. 'Or I going put Henry on you. It ain't mattering now that Hodge done have you.' And Henry would leer at her, squeezing her thighs and allowing his fingers to wander up her crotch. Hodge was bad, but Henry would sure be a great deal worse. And once she had hated Runner.

The worst thing about Hodge, she reasoned, was his unpredictability. When sober he was a thoughtful, withdrawn, somewhat uncertain man, entirely dominated by his wife, who even seemed a little embarrassed by his position as a slave-owner, and certainly embarrassed by the remarkable being who had so strangely come into his possession; when drunk he was a monster, vicious and cruel, and yet his cruelty was the curious brutality of a child. His wife was some years older than he, and no doubt had bullied him from the moment they had first met. And like any white man in the tropics he had been brought up to believe the blacks as nothing better than animals, sent for the benefit of his labour requirements and occasionally to gratify his senses. To discover a woman who was to all intents and purposes as white as himself but bound to obey his every whim was to discover himself apparently in a gigantic playroom, with an unimaginably splendid and interesting toy. He delighted in exploring her; she felt that could his questing fingers reach her very womb he would have it out to examine it and decide for himself how it worked. He delighted in physically irritating her, pinching or squeezing or biting until she wanted to scream with a combination of discomfort and revulsion. And yet, so limited, so one-sided was his view of life that he never demanded anything of her save that she be there, waiting for his sex and his hands; it never seemed to occur to him that she might be capable, perhaps with kindness and bribery, of responding to him. Which was as well, she reflected, for she would not have been capable of responding, and that would no doubt have led to another beating.

Because the fear lurked, constantly, and the fear possessed a physical shape in the personage of Janet Hodge. Janet was the fear and the shame wrapped up together, for she often discovered her in Hodge's company, as on the first night and would stand there, watching them, while Gislane shivered with apprehension. So intent was the white woman's gaze that she feared herself about to become the victim of some obscenely perverse assault, but the only feeling she seemed to arouse in Janet Hodge's breast was hate, and although she seldom interfered with her husband's pleasures not a day passed but she would seize Gislane by the hair as she scrubbed a floor, and push her face down into the bucket of water, cursing her for a filthy wretch, or would kick her on the back or thighs, or commence belabouring her across the shoulders with the short stick she always carried. And with every day the beatings grew more severe, as Gislane gradually lost the ability to cry. In the beginning the very first throb of shocked pain brought the tears racing down her cheeks, but after a week she merely bowed her back, and waited for the punishment to stop, and took refuge in her vision; only to Runner and Penny, and the nameless man who had brought her to this, and to Hodge, was now added Janet, hanging from the same gallows, but Janet was suspended by her hair, and thus living and waiting... for what? Gislane did not know. Her hate stopped at her own experience and none of that was sufficient for Janet.

There was no escaping the pair of them, for Hodges was as lonely as if there had been no other plantation on the island. Their fellow planters seemed to shun the present owners, and even the overseers seldom came up to the Great House for a meal or a convivial evening; Gislane could not help but remember the often crowded dining-room during the lifetime of her father.

She longed for the sight of a strange, and perhaps a friendly face, for the return of Dr. Nisbet and his pretty young wife. She was isolated in a desert of hatred, resentment, and contempt. There was no point of contact with Charles and Eunice, even if she knew their dislike was mainly directed against her mother, merely for being William Hodge's mistress and thereby raised above them. They seized the opportunity to do as little work as possible, and to make sure she did as much; they discussed her and the Hodges in front of her, and took pleasure in reminding her that she had seen nothing yet, that when that Janet, as they called her, got herself worked up, then she would know what had hit her. They made sure she received the very scrapings of their already meagre ration of food, and that she served them before eating herself. Did she make the slightest mistake in her allotted task they cuffed her about the ear and if she lay down at night, from sheer exhaustion, before the last of them, they kicked her until she got up again. She was terrified that they would do more, her anguish centring in the obvious desire of Henry the footman. She realized that to be jointly assaulted by these four, after a long hour with Hodge, would be to snap the very slender links that contained her sanity, and wondered whether that might not after all be a good thing. Because if the Hiltons were on their way to rescue her, surely they should have been here by now. And then she remembered she had herself only been here a week; the thought of the dominant figure of Robert Hilton riding triumphantly up that driveway, Matt at his side, accompanied by the wealth and power of the Hilton name, brought a continuing revival of courage and determination. She would live, and she would remain in full possession of her sanity, for that glorious day.

Hope and hatred. There was a strange combination. She even tried extending her hatred to the Negroes who tormented her, but found this difficult, to her surprise. Perhaps they did not possess sufficient personality, as yet. Perhaps she had to be brought into active contact with someone to hate him, or her. She was more aware of a sense of rejection by them, than of contact. She lived with them, and they ill-treated her as the fancy took them, but she was not of them.

Their minds were withdrawn behind an impenetrable black wall of knowledge and memory, and, she was sure, of anticipation. She could not forget Eunice's words on her first day, that she must live for the night. This had been the most terrifying thought of all, in the beginning, that she would be alone with them, at night, in this small and noisome room, at the mercy of whatever monstrous desire might overtake them. Yet throughout this week they had done no more than sleep.

Until tonight. Gislane strained her ears in the darkness, and heard nothing. And this was the strangest thing of all, because all four of them snored and tossed in their sleep. But the room was silent as a grave, and for that reason suddenly more terrifying than ever.

And then she realized that there was, after all, sound. The steady, distant throb of a drum. Or perhaps there was more than one, seething across the night, in their incessant rhythm dulling the senses, but beckoning at the same time. Come to me, come to me, come to me. Or flee from me, flee from me, flee from me. Indeed perhaps that was it. Perhaps the French were landing, and the drumbeat was summoning the men to arms, the women and children to retreat into the hills.

She scrambled to her feet, went to the door, opened it a crack and listened. The house was silent. So was the yard beyond, and the village. There was no hurrying and scurrying such as might have occurred were an enemy really about to destroy the plantation. And the night was dark; there was no moon, and thus no shafts of light to alternate shadow and brilliance. And still; there was no wind to interfere with the endless throbbing of the drum.

She discovered her heart was pounding and sweat was gathering on her neck. The drum was obliterating her senses, driving the ache from her arms and back, the terror from her mind. She tiptoed to the stairs, crept up them into the hall of the house, and thence to the side door, which stood, amazingly, ajar. She went on to the verandah, scarcely less close than the house, suggesting a thunderstorm might be gathering in the mountain valleys. And still there was no sound above the throb. No sound, and no movement.

Until she realized she was wrong. There was indeed movement. As she stared down the drive she saw white-clad figures, leaving the slave village and disappearing into the fringe of trees which lay beyond the road.

Without quite realizing what she was doing, she found herself tucking her hair up in a bundle on top of her head, swathing the whole in the white turban. She wore a white gown, as did the other women. And the night was black. Only the white of their garments could be discerned. And the drum was summoning her, more and more incessantly.

Her bare feet scuffled the dust of the drive; she skirted the overseers' houses, dark and silent, and reached the back of the village, heart still pounding, afraid, but determined. This was surely the night of which Eunice had spoken, the occasion for which the slaves preserved their lives and their sanities. And she was not less of a slave than them, not less in need of preservation. Thus rationality. But there was a more compelling urge than that. The throb of the drum caressed her mind, reached her belly and beyond, demanding, urging, calling. It possessed a power strangely reminiscent of the gaze, and the touch, of Dinshad.

She passed the slave village, and discovered herself behind a white-clad figure, moving slowly into the trees. She took her place in the column. Now the darkness increased, as they entered the shade of the huge branches, and twisted vines snatched at her feet, together with scurrying lizards and the thousand and one rustlings that made up the night in the tropical forest. She felt no fear. She had explored these woods often enough as a girl, and knew that the most vicious creatures in them were stinging ants. But even had she been afraid, she could not now have resisted the beat of the drums.

The trees were parting again, and the white-clad figures were moving to their right round a clearing. And here there was light, provided by emptied coconut shells, cut in half and filled with oil, to burn with an eerie glow, guttering even in the windless night. And here too there were six fowl cocks, tethered by their legs to sticks, eyes darting to and fro, heads jerking at the stealthy sound around them. For the moment they occupied the clearing alone; but surrounding them were people, kneeling and crouching in the tree fringe, men and women, and even children. Gislane knelt, well to the back of the throng, to stare at the flames and the cocks, and identifying, in the gloom beyond the helpless birds, the shape of the rada drummers, three of them, each commanding a different-sized instrument, each sending forth a different note, over and over again, echoing through the trees, and up and down the mountain.

She was one of the last to arrive. Only a handful of white-gowned figures came behind her, to take their places in the silent assembly. She wondered how many there were altogether; not less than a hundred, she thought, or perhaps even more. She wondered if there were a hundred slaves on Hodges.

Her attention was caught by the flickering lights in front of her, because the frightened fowl cocks were no longer alone; beside them had appeared a woman, tall and strongly built, and wearing a red gown instead of a white, with a red turban on her head. She moved to the rhythm of the drums, slowly and sinuously, and she threw her arms to the heavens, and called upon the great Damballah Oueddo, the Serpent, ruler of all things, and upon Agone, the master of the sea, and upon Ogoun Badagris, the Dreadful One, who would soon be coming to lead his people to war. And as she prayed to the God of War, she seized one of the cocks, and with a twist of her powerful hands tore his head from his neck.

There was a shriek from the people around Gislane, and they surged forward, carrying her with them, holding up their hands to catch the flying blood, reaching for the quivering body to grasp it and shred it into pieces, cramming raw flesh and blood and bone into their mouths, seizing the other birds to destroy them in turn. And as they did so, the beat of the drums changed, slightly and perhaps insensibly to all but a careful listener, but the rhythm had increased, and the slaves danced, sinuously and even gracefully at first, but rapidly becoming more vigorous and forceful, while the drumbeat gradually quickened its tempo even more. Now passion and desire and hate and fear came bubbling to the surface and turbans and gowns, cotton drawers and straw hats were discarded, flung to the edges of the clearing. Sweat flew, and the panting cries of the dancers began to surge above the drumbeat, until the noise stopped entirely without warning.

Gislane found herself alone, as the slaves shrank away from her. They had not observed her, had ignored her, in the rush to share the dismembered cocks. They had not noticed her in the beginning of the dance. But now she stood, as naked as they, nipples pointed and belly throbbing with aroused sexuality, body dripping sweat, long midnight hair clouding around her face and shoulders as she swirled with them, and now they had noticed her. She also stopped dancing, and waited helplessly; she could not remember discarding her clothing, she could not remember beginning the dance. But she could still taste the piece of warm, blood-dripping flesh which had been thrust into her mouth.

She stared at them, uncertain what to do, unable to decide on shame or ecstasy, ecstasy or fear, and the drum began again, slowly now, but always quickening. From the darkness around her there came a man, twisting and bending, bowing and stretching, smiling and frowning, posturing to thrust his towering penis towards her, pushing his belly forward to caress hers, withdrawing it from her, moving his shoulders and arms in time to the rhythm. As was she, again. The touch of his body sent shivers running up and down her spine, rippling across her shoulders. It recalled the occasional emotion, the occasional desire, she had felt when standing in front of her mirror in London. But that had been a different woman, in a different world. Here she had entered a world of darkness, to which she undoubtedly belonged, and which was now stretching out eager hands to welcome her. It was a world to which she had first been introduced by Dinshad, on the deck of the Antelope, and which perhaps she had not even understood. But now she understood. Dinshad was coming to claim her, and Dinshad would make her once again aware, strip away the cocoon of insensitivity which she had deliberately draped around her to protect her mind from the enormities committed on her body.

She reached for him, felt his hands on her ribs as he brought her against him. But Dinshad was a hundred, perhaps a thousand miles away, by now. Perhaps he was dead.

The man holding her against his throbbing belly, she realized with a strange shock of mingled horror and delight, was Charles the butler.

The night had been still; the morning was even more stagnant of movement or sound. By nine o'clock the heat was oppressive, and the great thunder clouds gathered around the peak of Mount Nevis. And nothing had changed; the slave gangs had trooped to the canefields at dawn, the house servants had gone about their duties. Gislane had been awakened from a deep sleep by Eunice's invariable kick on the thigh, and now, on her hands and knees, white gown pulled up to her thighs, she scrubbed the front verandah, chasing columns of ants across the scuffed, unpolished wood. Last night was no more than a dream, could be no more than a dream.

Certainly Charles had given her no more than a glance this morning as he had prepared to serve coffee to his master and mistress. No ecstasy there. But she could remember every second of it; she could remember every thrust of his member, she could remember screaming with pleasure and desire as she had been overtaken by orgasm after shuddering orgasm; she could remember dancing without touching the ground at all, her legs wrapped around his spindly thighs. She could remember.

Therefore, so could he, and so could everyone. She had attempted to ask Eunice, what it had all been about, why, and how, and when. Oh, especially when. And Eunice stared at her.

'But you were there, Eunice,' she had insisted. 'I saw you there.'

'You done have one nightmare, child,' Eunice said. 'There wasn't nobody there. You done walk while you sleeping. And you going dream so, because the great god Damballah done enter into you.'

So she had understood. 'But when, Eunice?' she begged. 'When again?'

‘I ain't got no power over your dreams, child,' Eunice said. 'Maybe you got for wait until you hear the drum in your head. Then is the time for dreaming.'

When, when, when? And why, why, why? Not just release, surely. Not just animal passion. There had to be more to it than that, else was she damned forever. But it was the animal passion that she craved, the touch of Charlie's hand, the thrust of Charlie's weapon. Charlie? Her head jerked, and gazed at him as he passed her. He was probably the ugliest man she had ever seen, entirely lacking in nobility or youth or even muscular development. But last night he had been young and noble and enormously strong. Last night, like her, he had been dreaming.

To what end? This was what she must discover. Because surely, where more than a hundred people, all of whom must carry the bitterest of sentiments in their hearts, assembled to share a dream, the dream must have to do with revenge, with the blood which had flown around their faces, with the determination to achieve their own salvation, here on earth.

The slash of the riding-crop across her shoulders made her shriek with mingled anger and pain, and she turned, on her knees, wet cloth clutched in her fist like a stone.

'Dreaming, girl?' Janet Hodge demanded. 'You'll be telling me next you followed the sound of the drum.'

Gislane stared at her in horror, and her mouth fell open. But she stared past her mistress at Eunice, and the expression on Eunice's face, and hastily closed her mouth again and began to scrub. No dream. No dream. Janet Hodge had also awakened to the drumbeat. And gone back to sleep? But then, surely, every white person on Nevis had heard that drumbeat. And turned over, pillow pressed across their ears.

'I spoke to you, girl,' Janet Hodge said, her voice brittle. 'Did you follow the drum?'

‘I heard no drum, mistress,' Gislane muttered.

'Wretch,' Janet Hodge screamed. 'Foul whore. Nigger bitch.' She seized Gislane by the hair and dragged her across the verandah. 'You heard the drum. You followed it. You prostituted yourself before it. You drank blood and swore death to all white people. Tell me, or I'll tear your heart out.'

Gislane gasped for breath; she felt as if her entire scalp was being ripped from her head. ‘I heard no drum,' she screamed. 'I heard no drum.'

'Manton,' shouted Janet Hodge. 'Brenner. Take this nigger bitch and string her up. She followed the drum, and she'll not speak of it. Flog her until she confesses. Flog her until the flesh leaves her bones. Make her howl.'

The fingers left Gislane's hair, and her face bumped on the floor; she tasted blood. But now she was surrounded by the booted feet of the overseers, and hands were seizing her arms to drag her to her feet. Yet Manton was prepared to protest. 'We all heard the drum, Mistress Hodge. And maybe she did follow it. But she'll not say so. You know that, Mistress Hodge. The niggers would tear her into pieces if she said so. She'd no doubt rather die.'

'Then let her die,' Janet Hodge yelled. 'Flog her to death, by God. I want to sec her bones. I want to hear her scream. I want to hear her beg, for my mercy. I want to see her heart, by Christ. Lay it bare for me.'

Gislane's mouth sagged open. 'Oh, God,' she gasped. 'Oh, God.' She twisted her head to look at Eunice, and Eunice looked back, her face expressionless. Instead she found herself staring at Manton, his unshaven chin the picture of irresolution. But his companion, Brenner, was already dragging her towards the steps. 'Oh, God,' she gasped. 'Oh, God,' she screamed. 'Please. You cannot, mistress. I'll beg you, mistress. You cannot. Please.'

The overseers stopped, their fingers biting into her arms, and Janet Hodge came closer, smiling, thin lips drawn back from the white teeth. 'Then tell me, child. You heard the drum. You followed the drum. Tell me where. Show me the place. Show me who was there with you, child. I'll protect you from them.'

Gislane stared at her, and past her at Eunice. And beside Eunice, as if materialized from nowhere but undoubtedly summoned by her screams, Charlie, ugly face expressionless, staring at her. 'Oh, God,' she whispered, and felt her knees give way. 'I heard no drum.'

Janet Hodge's hand slashed across her face, and her head jerked. Again she tasted blood, licked it from her lips. 'Flog her,' Janet said. 'I want her skin hung out in strips to dry in the sun.'

Gislane closed her eyes. She could only think, Oh, God.

Oh, God. But then she thought, Oh, Damballah Oueddo. Oh, mighty serpent, rise up from the ground and strike these people down. Allow me to live. Oh, God, allow me to live, until the Hiltons come for me.

She felt the sun on her back, and knew that they had removed her gown. Now she was between the uprights, and her arms were being extended above her head, and tied to the wood. And for a moment she stood there, in the heat and quiet, her eyes shut tight, her whole being filled with the pounding of her heart. 'Oh, God', she whispered. 'Just let me stay here, oh, God. Let me stay here.'

Hooves, and voices. 'You'll not flog her, Janet,' Hodge said.

'The bitch will not admit she followed the drum,' Janet Hodge declared.

'And would any of them do that?' asked another voice, a voice she had heard before, although on but one occasion of her life. But now surely she was dreaming. She would not dare open her eyes.

'No doubt, sir,' Janet Hodge said. 'But she is not a full-blooded nigger. She will not be able to withstand the lash. She'll tell us what we wish to know.'

'And what will you do then, Mistress Hodge? "Will you attempt to surround the place, to capture the drum, to shoot down the dancers? We all know these things go on. We all know they must go on. We all know they must be allowed to go on. Even the slaves need the outlet of an emotional release. It would be dangerous of us ever to attempt to put an end to it.'

Slowly Gislane opened her eyes. The glare brought tears leaping from her tortured pupils. But not only the glare. Oh, God, it had to be. Oh, Damballah Oueddo, there could be no doubt, even if he stood behind her. The Serpent had indeed come to her rescue.

'You do not know this girl, Mr. Hilton,' Janet Hodge declared. 'She's an absconder, who got away to England. Aye, she's a villain. She should have been flogged when she first returned, but Jamie would have his way with her first. Well, he's done that. Now I'll have the skin from her back. And there's no man alive will stop me. It's no business of yours. You have no business on Nevis at all.'

'Be sure I have, Mistress Hodge,' Robert Hilton said. 'And be sure I know this girl. She is indeed my business.'

Pie walked in front of Gislane, and she stared at him, watched his eyes move up and down her body. 'By God,' he said. 'But there is not a part of you less than magnificent. Do you remember me, girl?'

'Oh, God,' she whispered. 'Mr. Hilton. You have come for me. Matt has sent you. Oh, God, Mr. Hilton.' She could hardly see him for weeping.

But Robert Hilton was frowning. 'You aim too high, Miss Nicholson,' he said. 'Too high.' He turned to James Hodge. 'I want the girl removed from Nevis.'

Hodge's turn to frown. 'You wish to buy her, Mr. Hilton?' Then that thin face broke into a smile. 'Aye, well, she's easy on the eye, you can swear to that. And easy on the body too. She's born to be someone's housekeeper, Mr. Hilton. I'd be sorry to lose her and there's a fact, but you'll see she's upsetting to Janet here. Now a man like yourself, lacking a wife ...'

'Would find her comforting, no doubt,' Robert Hilton agreed. 'But she's not for my bed, Hodge, much as I'd like her. I want her sold, by you. I want her taken away from Nevis, away from the British Islands. I'll not have her harmed. Christ knows she is innocent of anything save her beauty and her white skin, and there was no reason for punishment. Yet she must be removed. You'll sell her to a Dutchman. Someone from the Main, will be best. Place her on a sloop for Demerara.'

Hodge scratched his head. 'I am totally confused, Mr. Hilton. You have travelled from Jamaica to Nevis, in time of war, merely to endeavour to have me sell a slave?'

'You're impertinent, sir,' Janet Hodge cried.

Robert Hilton looked at her for some seconds and she flushed, and lowered her eyes. 'You'll do as I ask, mistress,' he said. 'You'll lose nothing. Here is an order against my agent for five hundred pounds. There's no slave in the world worth that. You'll be the gainer, because you can also keep whatever you make from the auction. But she's to go where she cannot return, ever. Demerara or Essequibo or Berbice.'

'And you think a Dutchman will spare that white flesh?'

Janet Hodge demanded contemptuously. There's no slave would not rather die than belong to a Hollander.'

'Oh, God, Gislane whispered. 'Mr. Hilton, please take me away from here. Please take me to Matt. I only want to be with him, Mr. Hilton. I'll be his servant. I'll be his slave. Just take me with you, Mr. Hilton.'

Robert Hilton gazed at her in turn. Then his hand left his side, slowly, as if impelled by some force he could not resist. It gripped her chin, moved on the line of her jaw, stroked her cheek. 'By God,' he said. 'You would be a prize, girl. But you're not for us. You'd split my family from one end to the next, and God knows, it clings too precariously to itself as it is. Demerara, Mr. Hodge. You'll not gainsay me, or I'll have every hogshead you produce refused here and in England. I'll be away now. I'm for Antigua and Green Grove. But she'll be gone before I stop here on my way back, or by God I'll see to you.'

He walked round Gislane, and she listened to the sound of his boots scuffing the earth. Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God, she wanted to shout, to shriek. No, no, no. You cannot play such a trick on me. Dear God, you cannot send him and then take him away.

'God damned arrogant bastard,' Janet Hodge remarked. 'You'd think he was descended from royalty, you would, the way he gives himself airs. Well, let him flash his ugly self. We'll see him in hell, eh, Jamie?'

Hodge licked his lips. 'We'd best do as he says, Janet. God knows we've trouble enough selling our sugar with this damnable war dragging on, without having the Hiltons as enemies. And he's paid well. You'll get a new gown out of this.'

'A new gown?' she demanded. 'God damn you for a snivelling cur, Jamie Hodge. You're afraid of the man.'

'I'm a sensible man, you mean,' Hodge insisted. 'And the girl will only cause trouble between us, darling. 'Tis best she goes.'

'She'll go when I'm done with her, what's left of her,' Janet Hodge said.

'You'll not flog her, Janet. She'll command no price at all after she's been flogged, this one. She hasn't the hide for it. And Hilton will be sure to find out.'

There was a moment's hesitation on the part of the woman, while Gislane held her breath, held back the tears which were hammering at her consciousness, demanding to be released. Then the white woman smiled. 'You're right, of course, Jamie. I'll not flog her and ruin a good carcass. I'll make her know herself better, that's all.' She stared into Gislane's eyes. 'Eunice. You've red peppers in the kitchen. Bring them to me. Maybe, given time, the bitch will beg me for the whip.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SEAMAN

FOREVER. If only there could be such a word, such an existence. Two months, four months, eight months, time had no meaning, existence became as unchanging as the very tropical seasons, with Suzanne to lie in his arms. There was more to it than physical possession, for indeed, he did not possess her at all. It was she who owned, who commanded, and who disbursed, and he who received, anxiously and passionately. The very sight of her was sufficient to bring him up hard and wanting, and he saw her every day. He remembered every second of their first embrace, the promise of her body as she had slowly removed her clothes, never once ceasing to gaze at him, as if she would mesmerize him to insure that he did not, that he could not, change his mind; the magnificent contrast of heavy, slightly sagging breasts and utterly slender thighs, the perfect symmetry of the strangely dark 'V of her groin, of the muscular legs, the tempting, fine-spun gold of the hair which lay so lightly on her shoulders, separating into invisible strands whenever she moved, and yet always presenting a gauze-like curtain of magnificent colour around her head. Georgiana had made him think of silk, but here was finest damask and about to be his.

This indeed had been a terrifying thought. Where he was a virgin she had known three years of marriage, and whatever his faults no one could doubt that Dirk Huys knew how to play the man in bed. And his terror had been justified. The compelling mixture of desire and fear had left him unable even to fill her hand. Yet had she been not the least disturbed, as perhaps she had anticipated such a possibility.

She had put her arms around him and kissed him, slowly and for several seconds, sdll gazing into his eyes, saying not a word but leaving no doubt that she was repeating her terms, that if he took her now he must take her forever. And he could still remember the heaven induced by that first touch, the velvet-like quality of the tight drawn flesh which encased her ribs, the sudden swell of the breasts, so soft and yet so firm, which had left him trembling like a babe, the gentle smile with which she had retreated to the bed, drawing him to her as she had drawn him into the room.

After eight months he could still remember the feeling that he would burst when he had felt himself against her belly, the desire to scream with joy as her hands had in turn slipped down his thighs to seize him, to caress him to her satisfaction, to guide him. Then memory failed, but it returned to his feelings only a few seconds later, when he had known the bitter thought that no doubt, each night, she did a similar service for Dirk. But Dirk possessed her, and she possessed him. For he would have heard the suddenly loud gasp of pleasure, had there been pleasure, the tumultuous creaking of the bed, even above the rain which had filled his ears. And from thence forward there had been no failing of memory. He had wanted again and again and again, until she had been forced to escape him, leaving the bed and pouring water into the china basin to wash her face, while her hair drooped on each side of her cheeks; the sight had yet again drawn him from the bed to hold her round the waist, feel the magnificence of her buttocks against his belly, bring his mouth nuzzling into her shoulders.

She had turned in his arms. 'Forever,' she had said. 'Together we have murdered a marriage, Matt. There can be no gainsaying that, now or ever.'

How loud had the rain been that day, beating on his brain, repeating endlessly, Suzanne, Suzanne, Suzanne. 'Then you will leave with me?'

She had frowned. 'Now you are being foolish. Dirk would kill us both. There is nowhere we could escape him. He would certainly be aided by Robert.'

'But...'

She had kissed him, and resumed staring at him. 'I can only say, would you had happened back into my life, three years ago. But life is there, Matt, and we must make the best of it. Perhaps I never loved Dirk. Indeed I did not. I was informed that I was to marry him, because he and Robert were boyhood friends. Does it not amaze you, the way our lives are preordained by events that happen before we are even conceived? When Robert first returned from Oxford, he was, like you, sweet Matt, considered too young to manage a plantation, and so was given command of the sloop. He spent a good deal of each year in this town, this very house. So it never crossed his mind to refuse Dirk anything. And Dirk, has, I think, loved me from the first day he saw me.' 'But ..

'So there is an end to it. I am Dirk's wife, and must remain so until the day he dies. For both our sakes, now. But you must remain with me, Matt, as long as possible. No one need ever know. But without you, having known you, having held you in my arms, my darling, I should go mad. You must stay, Matt. Forever.'

Forever. And ever. And ever. And now it rained again, and it was November rain, not February, and she lay in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her soft golden strands lying across his chest and tickling his chin as she breathed. Without moving his head he could look down the long pale curve of her back to the mole which waited immediately above her left buttock, and beyond, to the endless delight of her legs. Perhaps she slept. She often did, in the middle of the afternoon. Her breath was even, and she was absolutely still, replenishing the exhausting passion which had consumed her but minutes before. One arm was round his neck, the other rested on his chest.

And if he was hers, then she was his, equally, now. If he still had to lie abed and listen to Dirk's grunts, he could be sure that she was thinking of him, and would be more eager for his embrace the next day. She was, indeed, Georgiana's sister, but with a cloak of maturity and restraint Georgiana had never possessed, a cloak perhaps of deceit and, as she would have it, criminal purpose, which could be thrown off as she chose, and donned again as she chose, which could send her so entrancingly from naked, sweatstained, tempestuous lover to serene distant cousin, placed to look after him, in a matter of seconds.

And Dirk suspected nothing. Perhaps there was the more serious crime, at least from his point of view. That he had lived here for more than a year, had celebrated his twenty-first birthday, had attained manhood and apparently become content to remain no more than a clerk at the warehouse, eating Dirk's food, drinking Dirk's wine, sheltering beneath Dirk's roof - and possessing Dirk's wife. There was crime.

But was that, even, the extent of his crime? He shut his mind to all else. He dared not think, of anyone or anything save Sue. To allow his brain to wander, even twenty miles from this house, was to damn himself forever. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wondered if he was not indeed the victim of some desperate conspiracy. He knew Georgiana. He knew Robert. He was not sure he knew or understood Sue at all, but she was their sister, and no doubt as capable as them of pursuing an objective with the single-minded determination of the Hiltons. When they were alone together he could not gainsay her love. But when they were in the company of others she was cool and even disdainful of him. No doubt this was a necessary part of the continuous deception they practised, as she constantly reminded him. But could he swear that she loved him as she pretended? That she was not really only interested in bedding a young man, as opposed to her husband? That she did not, indeed, know that this was the true way to keep him on Statia, to make him forget Gislane?

And could he deny that she had succeeded? Not in making him forget. But how easy to explain to himself. He had tried, to make his escape in February, and failed. It had been made clear to him, then, even had Suzanne not happened into his life, that his departure from Statia was going to take a great deal of patient endeavour, and perhaps even require the audacity of the stowaway, with no guarantee as to the attitude of the captain when he was discovered, or the thief, with no guarantee that he would be able to navigate his craft successfully to Nevis. No doubt he was in many ways a coward; he could not imagine this situation daunting Kit Hilton. Or Tom Warner and his vigorous, determined son. They had built this empire; he was no more than the heir.

And then, having failed to escape in time to greet Gislane's arrival in Nevis, what was there left? She had now been the slave, the chattel, the plaything of James Hodge for nine months. Long enough indeed for her to have been delivered of a child by that foul brute. She would have no defences against him. And before that she would have been the plaything of the crew of the ship which had taken her from Bristol. Once that thought had filled him with rage; now he knew better. To love, to be loved, was to share, to be possessed. One could retain nothing, and he could not see that it would be possible to retain anything even supposing one was an unwilling partner. He could not envisage life without Sue; he was not prepared to envisage life without Sue, even should she truly be playing no more than Robert's game in her own way. So then, what could Gislane have left for him, or him for her?

Unless she had rejected everything, had submitted no more than was necessary, to the lash, to the constant humiliation, to the business of being a slave. And of course Gislane would have accepted nothing more than this, and would put all her trust in him, and his promise of freedom from the dreadful fact that overshadowed her life. Then indeed was he criminal, was he damned.

And even now he had not reached the end of it. For what of the Nicholsons? What misery had he brought on them by his blind passion? And theirs was the increased misery of not knowing, for being guilty of breaking West Indian law they could not even seek their foster child themselves.

But could that alter the fact, that it was impossible for any woman to have undergone the fate of Gislane and remain unchanged? That the girl with whom he had fallen in love no longer existed? That to seek to marry her now, after Hodge and after Sue, would be to make a mockery of both their lives? Easy to think. There was the rational man of the world solving the problems of the world with lofty disinterest.

Then why did he lie awake at night, and know nothing but misery, when he should have been the happiest man in the world? But perhaps misery was the lot of man. And did he not have a part to play? As the master of Hilltop, and the master of Green Grove, did he not have to take his place in the world, in history? Dare he have the effrontery to throw all that away? Was he not, indeed, very much in the position of a Crown Prince? There were sufficient kings in the world with less patrimony than Robert Hilton. And could a Crown Prince ever afford to give way to the demands of his own heart, when set against the demands of the state? The West Indies was his kingdom, and his responsibility to the numberless human beings who would in time depend upon his prosperity, his justice, his influence, must surely outweigh all others.

There was the most insidious consideration of all. And yet, not quite. For the woman at his side was stirring, drawing her legs up, contracting her muscles, and then releasing them in a long stretch, and her fingers were sliding across his belly to remind him that Dirk would not be back for another hour, at the least.

'You are a lazy fellow,' she whispered. 'Or have you grown tired of me?'

He turned her on to his chest with a heave of his left arm. She smiled at him, her hair dropping on either side of her face to tickle his chin. 'There was not a possibility, sweetheart,' he said. 'But I lie here, and wonder, what is to become of us.'

She pouted and let her lips brush his. 'You are too young to worry so about the future.'

'And you?'

Again the slow, happy smile. 'Perhaps I am too old. I sometimes imagine that I was born old. Or perhaps it is because I have spent too much time in the company of older men, and women. There is no future, Matt. There is only the present. The future is now, a minute from hence. No farther.'

'Yet eventually Robert will arrive, and pronounce me fit to leave.'

'That must depend upon my report of you.' 'And what will you say? Can you believe I dream of any woman but you?'

Suddenly she was serious, with that long stare which seemed to paralyse him. 'I do not know. I do not know what to believe about you. I only know that while you are here, with me, you can want no other woman.'

'So you will keep me here forever?'

The glorious smile broke through the solemnity, and she reached forward to bite his chin. 'I suppose not. I suppose I must let you go, eventually.'

'And will you not come with me, then? On Green Grove Dirk can have no terrors for us.'

The smile was gone again, as if it had never been. 'I do not know. What would Robert say?'

'Robert. Robert. Is all the world afraid of Robert?'

'All of the West Indies. You worry too much about the future, Matt. When it comes, it comes, and you and I will face it then. For the moment we are here, you and I, and no one else. Don't waste these moments brooding on possibilities.'

Now she was anxious, demanding, and the pressure of her body on his had restored his own vigour. She panted in his ear, and surged her body to and fro. She was the only woman he could ever contemplate, as perhaps he was the only man for her. Now there was, as she claimed, nothing but the bed, and the room, and the rain and two people. And a sudden, looming roar which rumbled up the hill from the harbour, battering across even the pounding of the water on the roof.

Suzanne was on her knees, still between his legs, head turning from left to right.

'Thunder?' he asked.

'Cannon. Perhaps the French assault St. Kitts.' She snatched her robe, ran to the door. 'Do not come out for five minutes. I will be downstairs by then.'

The door closed behind her. Matt sat up in turn, reached for his clothes. If it had been cannon, it had been closer than Basseterre. And now he heard another sound, a confused babble of people shouting, drifting across the still afternoon. He pulled on his shoes, ran down the stairs, joined the servants and Suzanne on the front verandah, gazed at the throng on the street, and below at the town, where wisps of white smoke were already rising into the air from those of the warehouses which had been set on fire; beyond were the clustered ships in the roadstead, but some of these were also burning, and they seemed huddled, like a flock of geese suddenly assailed by the fox. Because the fox was there. Many-foxes, great three-deckers, some twenty of them, sailing slowly into the bay, the foremost already bringing up to anchor, but not ceasing their firing as they did so; their sides constantly exploded into red-tinged black and the watchers could see the sea and the beach, and the wooden docks, scattering as the ball ploughed into them.

'Oh, my God,' Suzanne said. 'A fleet of war? But...'

Matt had seized the telescope from the desk, and was levelling it. 'They fly the Union Jack.'

'English?' she stared at him.

'To horse. To horse.' Dirk came running down the street from the Schotters' house, followed by several other warehouse owners. 'Fetch my horse, Augustus, you black devil. Matt, mount up. They are bombarding the warehouses. Sue, get inside. Dress yourself and seek the cellars.'

'But what does it mean?' she asked.

'Mean? Mean? Why, unless all the English have turned to pirates, it must mean that those fools in Amsterdam have entered the war on the side of the Yankees. And delivered us into the hands of Rodney.'

Augustus was already bringing the horses from the stable, and Dirk leapt into the saddle. Suzanne gazed from her husband to Matt, her mouth slowly opening in an expression of bewildered dismay he had never noticed before. He could not meet her gaze. Whatever misfortune the arrival of the English might bring to the Dutch, it provided him with a means of leaving here, if he chose. And how could he do other than choose, and remain a man?

'I'd best see what can be done,' he muttered, and ran down the steps. . .

'Take care,' she shouted. Who was to know whether it was after her husband or her cousin.

He kicked his mount, sent it charging after Dirk and his friends. The bombardment had ceased; the fort guarding the anchorage had scarce replied. And now boatloads of blue-jackets accompanied by red-coated marines were swarming at the beach. The horses thundered down the road, pulled up in a flurry of sand and foam.

'By God, sirs,' Dirk shouted. 'But what means this invasion?'

The officer he addressed saluted. 'Why, sir, it seems that St. Eustatius has been taken for the Crown. If you gentlemen would be good enough to assemble in your town square, you will be addressed by the admiral in due course.'

'And leave our goods to be looted?' Hugo Schotter demanded.

'Why, sir, your goods are in any event forfeit, as contraband of war,' the lieutenant said. 'Now, gentlemen, will you disperse, or must I use force?'

The Hollanders stared at him, and muttered amongst themselves, but there was nothing they could do. Matt slipped from the saddle and went forward. 'And I sir?' he demanded.

The officer frowned. 'You do not speak like a Dutchman.'

'Indeed sir, I am not. My name is Matthew Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica.'

'By heaven,' the officer cried. 'A West Indian, and a smuggler at the least. We were warned there'd be some of you gentlemen to be found skulking ashore here. Well, sir, as of this moment you stand accused of treason. Place this fellow under arrest.'

‘It is an outrage, sir, an outrage,' declared Meinheer Schotter.

Admiral Sir George Bridges Rodney regarded him with a total contempt. 'On the contrary, sir. You may regard it as an act of charity, in that I have refrained from giving your town over to a sack. Now, sir, if you will take your place with your people, I shall address them.'

Schotter attempted to meet the cold stare, then turned and walked back to join the assembled merchants. Rodney nodded and slowly climbed the three steps to the improvised dais his men had made for him; he was troubled by one of his regular attacks of gout, but did not wish to limp before these layabouts. And indeed he was a dominating figure, not tall, but with a full face and a thrusting chin, square shoulders and an utter confidence, gained from a career which had hardly once tasted failure, which affected his mouth no less than his eyes no less than his every movement; he wore a plain blue frock-coat over white vest and breeches, and a blue cocked hat. But the very utility rather than splendour of his dress seemed a threat And this was a score he had long meant to settle; his dislike for the smugglers of St. Eustatius, and those who would use them to their advantage, reached back thirty years to when he had first commanded a ship in the West Indies, and found it impossible to bring the proud planters to heel.

Now he faced the assembly, and dried his hands with a towel presented by his aide. He thought it was a splendid sight, and lingered on it for some seconds; against the backdrop of the twin mountains and the neat town, the burghers of Statia and their women, and their slaves, were gathered in a crowd on the rain-damp street which fringed the harbour; to their left was a battalion of his own marines, splendid in their red jackets, rigidly at attention, not a man appearing to do so much as breathe; to their right were gathered the itinerants discovered here, the real villains, in the admiral's opinion. And behind him waited his fleet, and their captives, their guns run out and overseeing almost every inch of the island, while their boats plied to and fro with ceaseless energy, transferring the treasures of this Aladdin's Cave to the safety of British holds, and in the process, he did not doubt, making himself a millionaire and every sailor he commanded at the very least a comfortable present.

He smiled at the crowd, at the hostility in their faces. Nothing so angers a man, he reflected, as to have to watch himself becoming a pauper.

He nodded to his flag captain, and the signal was given. The marine drummer struck up a roll, and the Dutch flag was slowly lowered from the staff over the town hall, while the Union Jack was run up in its place.

The admiral cleared his throat, waited for the last echoes to drift across the harbour. ‘I take possession of this island, in the name of His Majesty King George the Third, of Great Britain and France, and of the British Empire, Defender of the Faith.' He paused and gazed at them. 'This war is not of our choosing,' he said. 'Least of all with Holland, a country with whom for too long we have been allies to withstand the might of France, a country with whom, less than a hundred years ago, we shared a great king. But your States General would have it so. However, it is my duty to inform you that your lives and properties shall be respected, provided you undertake to live peacefully beneath the British flag.'

'What of our warehouses?' someone demanded.

Rodney's gaze swept along their ranks. 'Those goods are confiscated,' he said. 'As contraband of war.' He turned, to look at the non-Dutch assembly to his right. 'Of you people,' he said, 'the French are legally prisoners of war, but I have neither the means nor the inclination of imprisoning you, and I am therefore providing you with a ship to return to St. Domingue, or Martinique, or wherever it is you wish.'

Again he paused, to allow a whisper of delighted relief to filter along the ranks.

'The rest of you,' he said, 'whether English or American, are traitorous dogs.' He allowed his brows to come together in a frown. 'Guilty at the very least, of smuggling and of contravening His Majesty's Navigation Acts. I should be well within my rights were I to hang every one of you, and God knows I am tempted. But it so happens that my ships need men. Our mission is to seek out the French fleet here in the West Indies, and destroy it. We need to be fully manned for that contest, for be sure de Grasse shall outnumber us. Therefore I am prepared to commute your proper sentences to service on board my men-of-war for the duration of this war. You will assemble on the beach down there for division amongst my captains.'

There was a moment's silence, then Suzanne Huys cried, 'No.' Dirk attempted to hold her arm, but she evaded him and ran forward, holding her broad-brimmed hat on to her head, until she reached the dais, where the marine sentries restrained her with crossed muskets.

'What means this?' Rodney looked down at her, frowning.

'You cannot condemn them all,' Suzanne insisted. 'They are not all smugglers, or traitors. Nor are they all common men so to be treated. My own cousin is amongst them.'

'And this is of importance?' Rodney demanded. 'Or do you mean that a Dutchman has got himself included amongst the English? What is your name, woman?'

'My name is Suzanne Huys,' Suzanne said. 'But I am the sister of Robert Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica. You'll have heard of him.'

The admiral continued to frown. 'I am acquainted with Mr. Hilton, Frau Huys. It seems to me, however, that by marrying a Hollander you have removed yourself from his protection. Not that I am aware of your being offered any harm. Has one of my men insulted you?'

Suzanne shook her head impatiently, and took off her hat. 'I do not speak of myself, Admiral Rodney. But amongst those men over there is my cousin, Matthew Hilton, sent to stay with us to learn the intricacies of trade. Matt is the heir to the Hilton estates. You cannot condemn him to impressment.'

'Madam,' Rodney declared. 'I care not if he is the cousin of the King. He is living and working in an enemy territory, and must be considered in tiiat light. And believe me, I am being far too lenient as it is. Did I not need men so desperately he'd be hanging by now. And he stands doubly condemned from your own mouth. Sent here to learn trade? To learn the art of smuggling, more like. Oh, I well know the subterfuge of you West Indians. You may be able to frighten the Government with your wealth and your affectations, but by God, madam, I have served here before, as no doubt you are aware, and I know the plantocracy for as disloyal and faithless a pack of scoundrels as this earth has had the misfortune to produce.' He glanced at his flag captain. 'Have the fellow brought out.'

Suzanne stared at the admiral in a mixture of dismay and anger, as two of the marines marched Matt from the crowd of prisoners. He was also flushed and angry, embarrassed at having been singled out. And now, too, Dirk had come forward, sorely puzzled by Suzanne's action, but endeavouring to soothe her.

She kept her temper and her voice under control with an obvious effort. 'You'll see we are related, Admiral,' she said.

Rodney looked from one to the other. 'Oh, indeed you are, madam. But the boy looks fit and strong. He will make a good sailor. Eh, lad?'

'Mistress Huys is telling the truth, sir,' Matt declared. 'I am Robert Hilton's cousin and heir. You'd do well to bear that in mind.'

'Insolent dog,' shouted the marine sergeant, and struck Matt on the face. Angrily the boy swung his own fist, but was brought up short by a musket barrel thrust into his chest.

Rodney almost smiled. 'Spirit, by God. I hope that all his companions are similarly endowed. You'll do well at sea, Master Hilton. And there is much to do. Come, come, lad, you're a patriot, surely, even if you are a West Indian. The country needs you. Needs us all. Have you not heard how disasters pile thick and fast upon old England? Have you not heard that Lord Cornwallis has surrendered his entire army?'

He gazed at them, half smiling at the consternation which had crept into their faces, whether Dutch or English.

'Aye,' he said. 'They seek to bring us down. But they have not yet beaten Rodney, by God. You'll not backslide, Master Hilton, if that is your name. We'll find de Grasse together, lad, and send him to the bottom, together. March them to the beach, Captain.'

'No,' Suzanne shouted. 'No, you cannot.'

'Indeed madam,' Rodney commented. 'I would almost imagine the youth to be your brother, from your concern. Remember this; you are a prisoner of war. You are all prisoners of war. There is nothing, madam, nothing, that I cannot do.'

She flushed, and bit her lip. But yet she met his gaze. ‘You may find you are mistaken, sir,' she said, speaking more quietly. 'You take my cousin at your peril.'

Rodney stared at her for several seconds, once again frowning. 'Mine is a perilous life, madam,' he said at last. 'If I except one, I must except them all, and I need men. England needs men. Our business is the protection of those very plantations you say will one day belong to this boy. I'll fight them as I choose. Now you, sir ...' he pointed to Dirk. 'Remove that woman before I forget myself as an officer and a gentleman. And dismiss this crowd, Douglas.' This to his flag officer. But as he turned to descend from the dais, he added in a lower voice, 'You'd best have that lad placed on board Formidable, whence I can keep an eye on him.'

'Come on, come on,' roared the quartermaster. 'Up those ladders, you hounds of hell. God curse you for a pack of slovenly landlubbers.'

The powder team gasped, sweat-wet bare feet slithering on the rungs of the ladders, fingers desperately clutching the barrels on their shoulders, lungs reaching for the fresh air which drifted down from the upper decks to dispel the odorous miasmas of the orlop. They debouched on to the gun deck and those whose loads were intended for these heavy culverins gratefully came to a halt; the unfortunates who were destined for the main deck ran for the next ladders, while the quartermaster flicked his knotted rope impatiently.

Matt ran with the rest, sweat pouring from the handkerchief which bound his head, dribbling into his eyes; his team served the quarterdeck and had the farthest distance to travel. And wondered why. Why did he not stop and say, I am no slave, no donkey, to be worked like a beast? Why indeed? Because all the other pressed men ran, and he ran with them? Because he was afraid of the quartermaster's rope's end? He had already had a slice across the back, his third day on board, and all but turned to strike the man. But then, he had remembered the articles which had been read to them that very first day, when the fleet had still lain at anchor off Statia. To disobey an order, even to hesitate in obeying an order, could mean death. It seemed utterly incredible, that the whim of a man he'd carelessly kick to one side should they meet on Kingston High Street, could end his life. But then, the whole situation seemed incredible.

He had never considered life, or death, before. He was alive, and would remain so for the next fifty or sixty years. Time enough to worry when that span was nearly complete. The Hiltons did not die young, as a rule. Father had been the exception, and Father had been unlucky, his ship overwhelmed by a hurricane when desperately beating for the shelter of English Harbour. So then, was the son also to be

unlucky? They sought Monsieur de Grasse, as the officers sneeringly remarked. Who could tell what would happen then? Who could tell how many stout fellows would die, or be horribly mutilated? What good would the name Matthew Hilton be then?

He panted to a halt beside the cannon which had been designated his responsibility for feeding. His breath seemed to be reaching from the very pit of his belly, and still not very successfully filling his lungs. His heart beat so loud it made the day swing. And yet, he was happy enough to be one of the quarterdeck crew. From here he could see the sea, and even the land. The fleet made south, reaching before the trade wind, inside the circle of islands. The cloud on the port beam was the fabled forest of Dominica, the cannibal isle, home of the fierce people against whom the Warners and the Hiltons had waged unceasing and pitiless war. The Caribs still controlled most of the island, although they had been taught sufficient of a lesson by Philip Warner, a century ago, no longer to indulge in raids upon neighbouring European settlements.

'Seven minutes, Mr. Arbuckle,' said Lieutenant Hill, the gunnery officer. 'Too long, sir. Too long. These scoundrels must be driven to it. Use your rope's end, sir. Use your rope's end. Now we'll have it again.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' the quartermaster said. 'Come on, you land-lubberly devils. Down to the hold for more powder.'

The men turned wearily, for the moment faced the wheel, behind which the officer of the watch patrolled ceaselessly, and above that the poop, the sanctuary of the admiral and Sir Charles Douglas, his flag captain. Rodney was there now, gazing down at the waist, accompanied by Captain Symonds, master of the Formidable.

'Swine,' muttered the fellow next to Matt, a plantation overseer from St. Kitts. 'By Christ, I'd like to meet him one dark night outside Basseterre.'

'There's a dream,' Matt agreed. 'But only a dream, Davis. If the froggies don't get us be sure we'll die of exhaustion.'

'Avast there,' bellowed Arbuckle. 'Cease talking. Fall out that man.'

They waited at the head of the companionway, staring stonily in front of themselves. This much they had learned, even in the few days they had been on board. But whether on instructions from aft, or whether it was merely because he carried himself differently to the other pressed men, Matt was marked.

'You there, Hilton,' Arbuckle snapped. 'You spoke. Don't lie to me, man. What did you say?'

Matt gazed at him. By heaven, he thought, but Davis is right; if I happen to survive this miserable adventure, I'll go looking for you.

'Speak up,' roared Arbuckle, his rope flailing the air, the knotted end catching Matt on the shoulder. Instinctively his fists came up, but Davis held his arm.

'You'd be mad, Mr. Hilton.'

'Mutiny,' Arbuckle shouted. 'To me, the watch.'

Matt allowed his arms to drop, and stood still, panting for breath, feeling the breeze playing around his head, feeling curiously weak in the belly.

'What is the trouble, Mr. Arbuckle?' asked Mr. Hill, returning from aft.

'This fellow, sir,' Arbuckle panted. 'Talking he was, sir, and when I took him to task, making ready to strike me.'

'Yet he had more sense, I observe,' the lieutenant remarked.

'Aye, for the time,' Arbuckle grumbled. 'Tis the man Hilton, Mr. Hill. A trouble-maker from the beginning.'

'Ah,' Hill agreed. 'With ideas above his station. Come man, what did you have to say?'

Matt sighed. ‘I remarked that if the French did not kill us, his lordship certainly would, sir.1

'Gad, sir,' Hill said. 'You'd criticize your betters?'

'I doubt there is such an animal on board this vessel, Mr. Hill,' Matt declared, his anger finally breaking through his fear.

'Gad, sir,' Hill said. 'Gad.' His face turned purple and he seemed almost to lose the power of speech.

'What is that man complaining about, Mr. Hill?' Captain Symonds had descended from the poop, unnoticed in the altercation.

'Gad, sir,' Hill said again. 'He is a regular sea lawyer, sir. A born trouble-maker.'

'As I observed even while he was on the beach at Orange Town,' Symonds agreed.' 'Tis clear to me he needs a dose of naval discipline. Twelve lashes, Mr. Arbuckle, and have it done immediately.'

Matt stared at him in utter horror, mingled with total consternation. 'You ... you cannot flog me,' he protested. 'My name is Matthew Hilton.'

Symonds gazed at him in turn, brows drawn together over icy eyes. 'Make that fifteen lashes, Mr. Arbuckle,' he said. 'For addressing me uninvited.'

He turned on his heel and went for the ladder to the poop. Where Rodney waited. Rodney. Matt stared at the admiral, willing him to take notice, and indeed he was watching the proceedings on the deck. Then willing him to interfere. Sufficient to take a planter away to fight, and perhaps to be killed. To flog him like a common seaman, or a slave ...

But Rodney was not going to interfere, he realized, and the empty feeling was back in his belly as fingers gripped his arms and marched him to the side of the vessel, while behind him the marine drum rippled across the morning to summon the ship's crew to watch punishment, to inform the rest of the fleet of what was taking place.

His shirt was pulled from his back, and the breeze tickled his nipples even as the sun scorched his shoulders. He could hear movement now, the shuffling of feet behind him. Many would be grinning and winking; the seamen had little time for the impressed planters and overseers in any event, and for Matt Hilton least time of all. He resisted the temptation to turn his head, just as he resisted the temptation to shout out that this could not be happening, that one could not flog a Hilton, that with a wave of his hand he could buy this entire crew as indentured labour, that he could, within a few years, personally impeach George Rodney before the House of Commons. That would all be futile now, and make him a more contemptible figure than ever.

But to resist those temptations he must refuse to acknowledge that he was here at all. He discovered his eyes open, and staring at the sea, and then the cloud capped peak of Mount Pelee, dominating the skyline. The fleet was past Dominica, and abeam of Martinique. Martinique, they had been told, was the West Indian home of the French fleet. The harbour of Fort Royal was too strongly defended to be assaulted by sea, but surely the French, having shared the honours With Hood and Graves off the Chesapeake, would be willing to take on Rodney? Surely, as they reached to the south, they would see the topmasts and then the filling sails as the French came out to do battle, and his punishment would be forgotten in the general beat to quarters.

But it would not happen soon enough. He was suddenly aware of having had all the breath torn from his lungs; the pain did not penetrate for nearly a second afterwards, then, as his mouth sagged open in shocked horror, the second blow-fell, and this he heard, and felt, at the moment of impact. His body stiffened, and his thighs and belly slapped against the gunwale, while again he was afflicted by a paralysing shortage of breath.

Martinique had disappeared in a mist of tears. But so had the sea and even the sun, and the gentle thrumming of the wind and the sloughing of the waves past the hull. The morning was dominated by the drum roll, which was back in his ears. Think, he screamed at himself. Think, or scream aloud. He thought of Sue, shapelessly and formlessly. A white body dangled in front of him, purest, finest damask, throbbing at tumescent breast and passion-wet at beckoning groin; and there were eyes, a cool, steady blue, staring into his with all the intensity she could summon, willing him to stay firm, to stay sane, to survive until they could meet again, and a mouth, slightly parted, as she would when passion began to creep up her body, revealing a trace of white teeth, a whisper of pink tongue. Oh, Sue, Sue. No doubt she was lost now. For even if he survived this misery and agony, she would have had time to think, to understand the enormity of what they had done.

Besides, had she not said, that when he left her, it would be forever?

Oh, Sue, Sue. But the body was gone, whisked away by the spreading pain, by the filthy dampness of his breeches, for he had no more control of his muscles than of his mind, and hung by his wrists, banging the gunwale with every roll of the ship. He was being flogged like a slave, until he would be unable to think, unable to do more than feel, blindly to obey any command for fear of another session with the lash.

Like a slave. So then, should he not be thinking of another body, another face, another smile? Oh, Christ in heaven. He had scarce thought of Gislane for months. Robert had accomplished all he had set out to do, even if in a manner he could not have forseen. But Gislane. Gislane. How often had she been suspended like this, to have the flesh torn from her back. Had she screamed, as he so wanted to scream? Had she hated those who stood around her, as he hated Rodney and all his scum? But Gislane's hatred would have extended onwards and outwards. For she would have waited, with slowly gathering despair, for the coming of the man who had sworn to love her, and would therefore rescue her from her tormentors. And as the days had become weeks, and the weeks had become months, then would her hope have turned to hate.

And she had been no more than twenty miles away, all of that time, a constant lurking despair in the recesses of his own mind which had driven him the more urgendy to the arms of Suzanne.

He was conscious of his body slowly slipping down the gunwale, until he knelt on the deck. They had released his wrists. He crouched, head resting against the wood, and sobbed. And was aware of people standing around him.

'Up lad,' said Mr. Arbuckle, the harshness gone from his voice. 'You'll walk away from fifteen lashes, lad. You must.'

Matt breathed, slowly and carefully, aware of a growing sensation of the purest agony, which was somehow dissociated from his mind, and yet dominated it, and his every movement.

'Up lad,' Arbuckle said again.

Wearily he gripped the rail and pulled himself to his feet, and Arbuckle nodded, and pointed with his chin. 'You'll salute the poop.'

Matt turned, and faced the quarterdeck, and raised his right hand. Christ that I held a pistol, he thought. An endlessly loaded pistol with which I could fire again and again and again at their laughing faces. Except that none of the faces were laughing, or even smiling. Punishment was a serious business, at sea. The salute was returned, and Arbucklc was taking his arm, to face him forward. He moved over the deck, trying not to stumble, no longer aware of the tears which still streamed down his face. Men parted before him, and there were hands to assist him down the ladder.

'Easy, lad,' they said. No contempt now. He had taken his punishment without a word, and he was one of them. A tired member of the lower deck. He was in the lantern-lit gloom of the gun deck, and there were other hands eager to stretch him on his face, and smooth hair from his face, wash the blood from his cuts, hold him down as they tenderly applied salt to burn away any infection. His head was pillowed on a woman's lap, and another wiped his brow. None of the women had paid him the least attention when first he had come aboard. They belonged to the tars, to the men who had proved their manhood and their ability time and again, not to a boy who could do no more than protest. But now he belonged. Now he was one of the slaves.

'Three minutes,' Mr. Arbuckle said, closing his watch with a snap. 'Now there is a very good time. And all a waste of time, indeed. Fall out, lads, and take a breather.'

He was almost a friend, now, and like them, he doubted the reason for their existence. The fleet lay at anchor in Gros Islets Bay, at the north end of St. Lucia, sheltering behind the bulk of Pigeon Island, an accumulation of brilliant floating fortresses, their yellow-hulls punctuated by the rows of red gunports, come to rest in a tropical paradise, surrounded by mountains to the south and east, gazing at the empty sea to the west and north, scorched by the sun all day, cooled by the breeze in the evening, while the varnish peeled from the topsides and the tar bubbled in the seams, and the guns had to be cooled with gallons of water less they become too hot to touch.

Here they were, and here they stayed, in apparently timeless patience, waiting. Yet the ocean was not entirely empty. There were frigates out there, ceaselessly patrolling, ceaselessly watching de Grasse. For he was out there too, not twenty miles away, securely tucked away in Fort Royal. He had come, behind them, and stolen to safety while they had searched for him south of St. Vincent, ranging past the Grenadines in angry impotence. Nor had he come empty-handed, for on the way he had seized St. Kitts and placed a French garrison on the grim ramparts of Brimstone Hill which had first been fortified by old Tom Warner. What had Dirk and Suzanne thought of that, as they had watched it happen from Statia; or Gislane, from the mountain peak of Nevis? Matt could think these things now. He had lost the capacity for tears, lost the capacity for feeling. He worked, and he drank his ration of Tenerife wine, and he chewed his salted pork and his tooth cracking biscuit, with their complements of molasses and pickled cabbage, an innovation, like the wine instead of watered rum, of Dr. Blane, the fleet surgeon, which, however grumbled at by the old tarpaulins, had kept the crews wondrously free of sickness. He rolled dice and listened to the reminiscences of the jack tars, and he polished his cannon and trained his leather-hard feet to carry powder up and down, up and down, until he thought he could do it in his sleep. And he waited. Like everyone else on board this fleet. Like them, he presumed himself in purgatory, which would end, no one knew when. De Grasse had accomplished enough for glory this year, and was safely to port. He could afford to laugh, and enjoy himself; sometimes, when the wind shifted northerly, they almost thought they could hear the sound of music and laughter drifting towards them across the channel. Then they played their own fiddles and endeavoured to strike up a dance, but there was little enough laughter.

Even the common seamen were aware of the dismal times on which their country, and their navy, had fallen. Hood and Graves between them had not been able to save the army from the disgrace of Yorktown; some said the two admirals had quarrelled, others that it was simply because the British navy was no longer a force to be reckoned with. Hood on his own had outmanoeuvred de Grasse off Basseterre, brilliantly excluding the French from the roadstead while occupying it himself. The English could still work their vessels better than the frogs. But having proved his seamanship, he had been unable to do more than sail away. The French were masters of Brimstone Hill, and that one fortress, the Gibraltar of the West Indies, they call it, could defy an entire line of battleships. Hood's squadron of the red lay closest to the sea, now, and licked their wounds in angry disappointment. Often enough, when the boats' crews went ashore for water and fresh vegetables, the men from the main fleet and the men from the van encountered each other, and jeering became open hostility, which ended in fisticuffs and some unfortunates being triced up in the rigging to have their backs sliced to shreds.

Oh, they were slaves all right, slaves to the Articles of War, and through them, to the will of the captain of each ship, and through them, ultimately to the will of George Bridges Rodney, that distant and aloof figure they only saw sitting in his wicker chair, his right leg propped on a stool to relieve the agonies of his gout. He was the planter, the captains and officers his overseers, and the seamen the nameless mass who lay beyond their commands and their decisions. So perhaps, Matt thought, remembering how Sue had said that a spell as a clerk would benefit every planter, a spell on the lower deck of a man-of-war would also benefit every planter. But to think about Sue would be to make purgatory unbearable.

So then, think about slavery. He polished the gun barrel and gazed beyond the port at the green-clad slopes of St. Lucia. God alone knew whether he would ever be able to order a flogging after this voyage. But then, God alone knew whether he would survive this voyage. God, and Rodney.

Always his thoughts and his surreptitious glance came back to the distant figure. The admiral sat there now, beneath a tarpaulin rigged up from the rail to the mizzenmast to shade him somewhat from the sun. And he read his correspondence. There had been a great deal of it since the fleet had anchored here, and none of it calculated to improve the great man's temper. No doubt he had critics enough, who wondered why he had not been in command at St. Kitts, and who wondered by what real authority he had confiscated all the vast wealth of St. Eustatius and indeed, what had happened to it, or, if they truly suspected that much lay in the holds of this very fleet, what would happen to it were the squadron to be defeated in battle or scattered by a hurricane. The month was April, in the year of our Lord 1782, and in June, only two months away, the first signs of bad weather would start to appear in the sky. Then, the word was on the lower deck, they would sail for home, as was Rodney's custom, to refit and replenish their stores, and avoid the tempests, returning to the West Indies in October.

And then, he had thought, and they had laughed, divining his very mind. 'You're dreaming, Matthew, lad,' they said. 'Do you think any of us are allowed ashore? The girls now, they go, and come back. And if we're lucky bring some fresh blood, eh lass?'

How much more of a slave could one be than that? And to be confined on board a warship when anchored just off the English shore, for four months ... but he was confined on board a warship when anchored off the shore of St. Lucia, where he would be sure to find friends who would help him. And he was neither going mad nor attempting to swim to safety. Because he was a coward? Or because he feared that Rodney would merely march a file of marines behind him and further reduce him in manhood and indeed humanity.

So then, what did Rodney think of his seamen? Or did he think of them at all? Matthew Hilton had never thought of his slaves at all, with rare exceptions of house servants like Maurice, Robert's butler, or Thomas Arthur, who had held a similar position at Green Grove. But the very names, Maurice and Thomas Arthur, dictated by the mood of the Hilton of the moment, had been a contemptuous non-recognition of them as individuals. As for the rest, they were no more than a mass, on whose broad backs rested the prosperity of the plantations. Just as Rodney, if he thought of his seamen at all, must recognize that if he ever caught up with the French, on their speed and ability and training would rest his ultimate victory. His task was to maintain that speed and training and ability at its maximum efficiency, much, no doubt, as he sharpened his sword, and if some of the blade was worn away every time he applied it to the whetstone, well, perhaps this was all to the good, as the steel left behind would be the more pure.

But could it possibly be God's will that any human beings should be so used? And indeed, where in the immense vault of heaven was it decided who was going to be born a planter and who a common seaman?

Dangerous thoughts, for the heir to a planting empire. But even more dangerous thoughts for a common seaman. Should Arbuckle even suspect a tenth of what was roaming about his brain he would find himself once again at the end of a cat-o'-nine-tails. He raised his head, and watched the shore once again, and the boat which had just left it and was returning towards the flagship. The morning's mail, more letters to irritate the admiral. And a flutter of skirts sheltering beneath a broad-brimmed hat; this was common enough. The officers were often invited ashore by the planters of St. Lucia, to alleviate their boredom, and they were always happy to entertain the ladies in turn, to rum punch beneath the awning on the quarterdeck.

But this young lady travelled alone, without a chaperon, which was bold. Further speculation was lost by the 'Coooeee' of Arbuckle's whistle, summoning them to attention as the boat came into the side of the ship. Matt stood as straight as he could, hands at his side and shoulders back as he had been taught, and watched Sir Charles Douglas descending the ladder into the waist, accompanied by the officer of the watch and the signal midshipman. Now the boat was alongside, and now too the passenger was climbing the ladder to the gangway. Sir Charles saluted, and raised his hat. And then frowned. 'Mistress Huys?'

Matt's head turned, although he knew Arbuckle was watching him. Sue? It was incredible. But there she was, and dressed not as Dirk Huys' hausfrau, but as the eldest Hilton woman, in a pale blue satin gown, with a darker blue fichu, and a matching bow to protect her breasts, the whole sheltering beneath an enormous pink-dyed straw hat from which there flopped a blue feather; tapping the deck with a blue-bowed cane, and regarding the flag captain with the utmost contempt. 'By my faith, sir,' she remarked. 'But you are difficult people to discover. I'd see the admiral.'

Douglas was shaking his head. 'I do not think ...'

Sue handed him a sheet of paper. 'Perhaps I may persuade you, Sir Charles.'

The captain glanced at the parchment, and then at the poop, where Rodney was being assisted to his feet by his servant. 'We'd best discuss this aft,' he decided. 'If you'd accompany me, Mistress Huys.'

Sue inclined her head, and allowed her gaze to sweep the amazed seamen. But Matt was several rows from the front, and she did not see him although he had to bite his lip to stop himself crying out.

'All right, you louts,' Arbuckle snapped. 'Back to your work. Anyone would think you'd never seen a female skirt before.' His shadow loomed over Matt. 'Would I be right in supposing that's your cousin, Matthew, lad?'

Matt polished the gun barrel. 'You would be right, Mr. Arbucklc.'

'Well, well. You'd best work up, then. No doubt she's come to purchase your release. You'll soon be a gentleman again, lad.' There was contempt and disbelief in his tone; he did not suppose Sue would fare any better with Rodney this time than the last. But she was here. Surely she could not be allowed to leave again without seeing him. Surely, just for one moment, he would be allowed to be a human being, a man rather than a creature. But then, after that moment, how could he ever again become a creature, save following another acquaintance with the whip?

He knew the midshipman stood there, even without turning his head. 'Is this the man Hilton?'

'Aye, aye, Mr. Cartwright,' Arbuckle said.

'He's to report aft. On the double, man. And look smart.'

Matt touched his hat and ran for the quarterdeck. He checked at the ladder, but Cartwright jerked his head to indicate he was to mount first. Hastily he went up, averted his eyes from the knot of officers who glanced at him, curiously but also apprehensively, he thought, and hesitated again at the ladder to the poop. No seaman was ever allowed up here, save in action.

'Go up, man, go up,' Cartwright said.

Matt climbed the ladder, his heart pounding, his breath catching in his throat, and faced the admiral, and Douglas and Sue. Colour filled her cheeks, but she kept her face expressionless, although her gaze fixed itself upon his eyes with that peculiar intensity she possessed.

'Uncover, man, uncover,' Douglas said.

Matt snatched his hat from his head.

'Matt,' Sue said, softly. 'Oh, Matt, what have they done to you?'

'Taught him the value of obeying orders, Mistress Huys,' Rodney commented. ' 'Tis a benefit to any man. And most women suffer from a lack of it.'

She glanced at him; but there was no doubting who was in control of this situation; the admiral was also flushed, and his colour was anger. 'Well, sir?' she demanded.

'Aye.' Rodney looked once more at the paper in his hand. 'It seems I may have acted hastily, Master Hilton. You are indeed the heir to Robert Hilton, as is attested by this document, and your cousin is apparently incensed with me. Gad, sir, he proposes to impeach me before the Commons for tampering with the rights of a gentleman.' Rodney gave a short laugh which was almost a bark. 'As well, naturally enough, for impounding some goods held by his brother-in-law, and destined for his plantation. There's patriotism for you. Ah, well, Mistress Huys, Mr. Hilton will have to take his turn in the queue. There are at least seventeen articles of impeachment against me before his. Oh, the planters are that concerned at losing the fruits of their treason.'

'No doubt, sir,' Sue remarked. 'You will turn to your own interest in England to acquit you of the charges. Mine is here, with my cousin. I'll not leave this ship without him.'

'My interests, madam? My interests are this fleet, and the task given me by His Majesty, God bless him. As for your cousin, would you desert us, boy, in time of war?'

Matt bit his lip, and looked from Sue to Rodney in embarrassment.

'You have bewitched him with fear of your discipline,' Sue declared.

'On the contrary, Mistress Huys, we have, I hope, instilled some symptom of patriotism into his blood. Do you not know, madam, that the French are preparing for sea?

Admiral Byron's frigates report that all day long they have been loading men on board. There will be a day not to be forgotten, madam. They will sail, and we will sail behind them, and we shall destroy them, too.'

'Your confidence does you credit, Sir George,' Sue agreed. 'And I wish you every success. But the presence of Matt, inexperienced as he is, can have but little effect on that success.'

'He can serve a gun, madam. And play his part. What's that, Sir Charles?'

For one of the lieutenants from the quarterdeck had appeared at the top of the ladder.

'Speak up, man,' said the flag captain.

'A signal from the island, Sir George,' said the lieutenant. 'There are ships leaving Fort Royal harbour.'

'Gad, sir,' Rodney cried, in an almost boyish delight. 'We are there. Is Hood underway?'

'Already, Sir George,' said the signal lieutenant.

'Well, then, we must chase him down. Beat to quarters, Captain Symonds.' He went to the rail. 'Take up that boat, or leave it. Smartly, now. Set those topsails, Mr. Parminter. We'll not trail behind.'

'And the men ashore, sir?' inquired the captain.

'They'll know we are leaving. Those who make the ship will accompany us. The rest will have to remain. Even a minute may cost us the advantage.'

'You'll set us ashore, sir,' Sue cried. 'My brother demands it.'

Rodney turned to her. 'There are greater forces than your brother, Mistress Huys. Do you know the last words spoken to me by my lord of Sandwich before I left England? He told me that the fate of the Empire was in my hands. I did not doubt him then or now. But there is more to it than even that, Mistress Huys. That fleet, thirty-five ships of the line and sixteen frigates, and heaven alone knows how many transports, is presently loaded with six thousand French soldiers. Its destination is the Leeward Passage, to rendezvous with a Spanish fleet not less in numbers and carrying even more of an army. And then, madam, the combined fleet will make for Jamaica.'

'Jamaica?' Matt gasped.

'Aye, lad. The Dons have long coveted it. Don Bernardo de Galvez is already being toasted in Havana as the Governor of Jamaica. It is their promised portion. Now tell me this, madam, where will your family's wealth and prestige be then, eh?'

'Why, I ...' Sue flushed and bit her lip. 'But the ship is moving.'

For already the anchor was clanking up, and at that moment the boat in which she had come from the shore was hoisted over the gunwale. 'How do I get ashore?'

'The answer to that, Mistress Huys, is that you either swim or take yourself below.'

She stared at him in horror. 'But you are going to war.'

'We are going to fight a battle, madam, but successfully, you have my word on that. There are women below decks. They will see to your requirements, and they will also find you something worthwhile to do, I promise you. Captain Douglas, show Mistress Huys to the orlop.'

Matt gazed at Sue, at the angry flush on her face. But Douglas already held her arm. He turned to follow them, and was stopped by a word from the admiral.

'Boy. Avast there.'

Matt waited, while Sue was hurried down the ladders to the waist, amidst the interested gazes of the gunners who were stripping off their shirts and preparing their buckets and lanyards, while above them the sailors released the huge folds of white canvas which came clouding downwards from the yards, already filling with the gentle offshore breeze.

'I'll not wait for the Queen herself,' Rodney said. 'But I'd not have any harm come to Robert Hilton's sister. So she must stay below. And the same applies to you, I'd wager. If I do not win today, Matthew Hilton, then am I a disgraced and broken man. If I do win, then am I a hero, and free from any man's judgement. Either way your future is bound up with mine. You'd best get below with the women.'

'And who'll take my place at the cannon, Sir George?'

'They'll manage, boy.'

But a curious tingle had taken possession of Matt's veins, perhaps encouraged by the very presence of Sue, more certainly created by the excitement around him. He shook his head. 'I'll stay my place, Sir George, with your permission.'

Rodney gazed at him for some seconds, then smiled. 'Now I know you're a Hilton. Get to your post.'

Which had been, he reflected sadly, as silly and quixotic a gesture as one could make. He could have spent the night below decks with Sue. God alone knew what she was doing down there, what she would have to say to the women, whose every sentence contained an oath, who knew nothing of perfume or fine clothes, who would regard her as an upstart and might well ill-treat her. But then, God alone knew what she was doing here, how she had managed to persuade Dirk to let her go when he had refused even to allow her to visit her family in Jamaica.

But she was here. There was the tremendous thought. Sue was a few feet below him, breathing and smiling and being, and waiting, until he could take her in his arms. And she had brought his freedom. He had but to survive. And that no longer seemed difficult.

He stretched his cramped muscles, peered along the gun barrel. They had now stood to their guns for a full twenty-four hours, had slept by them and eaten by them, been allowed to leave their posts for only minute at a time depending on the calls of nature. Yesterday all had been excitement at the imminence of the conflict. By noon the entire fleet had been underway, and the white squadron under Rodney's personal command had already been abeam of Pigeon Island, with the mountains of Martinique hull down on the northern horizon, and the red squadron under Hood's command spread out in front of them, behind only the screen of frigates. The enemy had been out of sight, but rumours were already roaming the decks of an armada of perhaps a hundred and fifty ships, mostly transports crowded with men and artillery to reduce Jamaica, but none the less with those thirty-five battleships bringing up the rear, two less than the British fleet, to be sure, but with a much heavier weight of metal.

And in the middle of the afternoon, as the wind had freshened, they had sighted the enemy, some twelve miles north of the main fleet. Then a great cheer had echoed from end to end of every vessel. Forgotten had been the grumbles and private quarrels, as each man had felt his heartbeat quicken at the thought of action. Even he had felt a responsive surge to his body. But that had been a forlorn hope. The wind had remained fresh, and even strong as the great ships had swept up the coast of Martinique, and the spray had come cascading over the bows to slither along the decks and leave them wet and slippery. Then the possibility of an action that evening had seemed imminent. But dusk had meant a steady drop in the breeze, and since midnight they had hardly moved, drifting along through the darkness. Dawn had brought the reason; they were under the lee of the huge mountain peaks of Dominica, where the trade wind could not reach them, and the French were emerging beyond it, into the passage between the Carib isle and the French island of Guadeloupe, a dangerous fast running current divided by the mass of small islands which Columbus had called the Saintes from the day on which he had first espied them.

'They're away,' said McLeod the gunner, looking at his linstock as if it was diseased. 'We'll not take them now.'

'Then look there, you daft fool.' Arbuckle had a telescope levelled. 'The aft squadron is turning back. By Christ, 'tis Hood. He's caught the wind.'

Like the other gunners, Matt scrambled into the lower rigging to watch, as every eye on board the ship was turned north. For Arbuckle was right. Hood's squadron of the red, having, like the rest of the fleet, drifted with the current throughout the night and early morning, had at last emerged into the open water, where the wind was fresh; they could see the distant whitecaps even from the Formidable. Thus carried forward, and separated from the main body, with Admiral Drake's squadron of the blue still more miles astern, the twelve battleships of the vanguard were isolated, temporarily cut off from any assistance. As de Grasse had noticed, and now a squadron of French ships had put about to run down with the wind at their sterns.

'Tis de Vaudreuil,' Arbuckle grumbled. 'They say he is the best seaman in the froggie fleet.'

Orders were issuing from the poop, and there was a rustle from the main peak as the red battle flag broke out. The men broke into a cheer, and in that instant the rumble of distant gunfire came rippling across the bright morning. Matt discovered himself in a rash of sweat, suddenly afraid that they would indeed miss the conflict, his brain a torment of conflicting thoughts and emotions, ranging from a wonder at how Sue felt, trapped below the waterline, waiting for the wounded to be brought down to the cockpit, to what the Caribs must be thinking, as they lined their forested cliffs and watched the white man at play with all the mighty achievements of his gifted civilization.

How slowly the ship seemed to move, and all those around it, while the cannon continued to boom, coming closer and closer, but yet too far off. Arbuckle kept them informed. 'Typical froggie tactics,' he said. 'They'll not close. Not even de Vaudreuil. He's pounding at long range. Sammy Hood will stand that without flinching.'

'Run out your guns,' came the order from the quarterdeck, where Mr. Hill paced to and fro, sword slapping his thigh, cocked hat placed at an angle. The great ports were clewed up and in that instant the Formidable heeled to its first puff of wind.

'Aye,' Arbuckle said. 'Won't be long now, lads.'

Dominica was beginning to drop astern, and in front of them the ocean was lost beneath the mass of white sails, and the rolling black smoke which arose from those nearest. It was impossible to decide whether or not any of the British fleet were damaged; none had dropped out of line.

‘Load your pieces,' came the order, and the ball was taken up from the waiting mound, passed to Matt. He held it in both arms, for it weighed twenty-four pounds, hugged it against his belly, and was assisted by his mate, Davis, as they forced it into the breech, while McLeod busied himself with the filter tube which they had been told would give them twice the speed and twice the reliability of the French gunners, who still poured powder down an open touchhole.

Now the noise was very loud, the crashing of the guns mingling with the continuous swish of the water around the bows and the thrumming of the rigging as the wind freshened ever minute. The order was given, 'Wear ship', and the seamen were scrambling aloft to trim the yards. The Formidable heeled even more as she turned into her station in the line, and the command came, 'Give fire.'

The entire battleship seemed to leap out of the waves. The noise left Matt senseless for a moment, and he could not see much less breathe as he was enveloped in a cloud of acrid black smoke. The thud of the rope's end across his shoulders seemed no more than natural in these suddenly hellish surroundings.

'Load, you scum. Load, you bastards,' screamed Arbuckle. Another twenty-four-pound ball was pressed into Matt's arms, and passed by him and Davis into the breech.

'Quickly now.' Lieutenant Hill walked behind them, hands clasped behind his back. 'We'll not lag behind the others. Quickly now.'

Once again the ship exploded and the decks heaved. Matt shook his head to clear the smoke and the ringing in his ears, and discovered himself on the deck. Holding another cannon-ball in his arms. A blood-wet cannon-ball? He stared down at the features of Mr. Hill, so suddenly arrested in mid-sentence, mouth still open, cocked hat incredibly still in place and only now slipping to one side, eyes staring at the heaven he was already entering, blood draining from the empty neck, flowing down Matt's trousers. He seemed isolated in time and space, by a tremendous noise which obliterated thought, and by streaming blood which was filling his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. He wanted to vomit, but never knew whether he did or not. He discovered hands lifting him from the deck, and saw faces, tight with fear and tension. The head had been taken from his arms.

The brilliant sunlight disappeared, and he decided he was below deck. Was the ship sinking? It still heaved, but he could again identify sound and the tremendous ringing in his ears began to dwindle. He struck something hard, and found himself on the deck, staring at the beams only a few feet above his head, at the swinging lanterns, and at the faces, female faces now, anxiously staring. And at Sue.

Her lips were moving, and she was pillowing him in her arms, forgetting the blood which drenched her gown. 'Matt?

Matt? Oh, Christ almighty, what has happened to him?' Her face disappeared, and Dr. Blane was there instead, frowning, pulling and tugging. And now Matt could feel the fingers, and the singing gradually died. 'Easy, now,' Blane said. 'Easy. Sit up there. You're a lucky young man, Mr. Hilton. 'Tis well said you are the devil's brood, and with all the devil's good fortune. Fetch him a tot of rum. Ten minutes, Mr. Hilton, and you'll be back on deck. I've more urgent matters to attend.'

He turned away, and Sue knelt beside him again, holding the mug to his lips. 'Oh, Matt,' she whispered.

He drank, and coughed. 'What happened to me?'

'The gun port next to yours was struck, and you were knocked over by the blast.'

'Mr. Hill ...'

"They say his head was taken right off. Oh, Matt, I'm so afraid.'

And then she smiled, to belie her words. 'And so happy, to be here with you.'

He finished the rum, sat up. ‘I must be on deck.'

'Ten minutes, Dr. Blane said.' Still she held his shoulders. 'Oh, Matt, my darling Matt. When I saw you brought in, all covered in blood ... I did not know then it was the lieutenant's. And then, when I saw your back ... what did they do to you, dearest?'

'I was flogged for insubordination. Oh, several weeks ago. But Sue, to have you here, to understand ...'

'I came for you, Matt. Do you imagine I could ever sleep easy in my bed again, not knowing where you were, not knowing if you were alive or dead? It was simply a matter of obtaining Robert's help. You saw the admiral's reaction. Not even he will consider going against the Hiltons.'

'But ...' Matt listened to the sudden silence, as the guns fell silent. 'What has happened?'

One of the women had crept up the ladder to the lower gun deck to ascertain the reason for the ceasefire. Now she came back into the noisome gloom of the cockpit. 'The froggies have borne away,' she said. 'Not a ship taken or sunk. The whole lot is in full chase northwards.'

'Then Rodney has failed,' Sue said.

'I doubt that, Mistress Huys,' Dr. Blane said. 'Sir George has a task to perform, and he will catch de Grasse if he must chase him halfway around the world. We'll be to action again soon enough.'

'Soon enough,' she whispered. And once again hugged Matt close. 'Oh, Matt, Matt. Promise me you will not be killed.'

He smiled into her ear, and stroked her hair. 'I'd be that unlucky, would you not say, to be brought down twice in the same battle. But should you not take care, my sweet? The doctor is looking at you with a great deal of interest. Perhaps your affections are somewhat more than to be expected from a cousin.'

'Then let him look his fill,' she said. 'How do you suppose I left Statia?' 'How? But...'

'Dirk refused me permission. So I stowed away on a sloop for Port Antonio.' She smiled at him in turn, and kissed him on the nose. 'I did not tell Robert, of course, pretended that Dirk and I were as one on the necessity of regaining you from this infamous place. But he will know by now. The whole world will know by now. I must be your woman now, darling Matt. For be sure I can belong to no one else, having deserted my husband.'

CHAPTER NINE

THE GUEST

' 'Tis demented he is.' Gunner McLeod leaned on the barrel of his cannon and stared at the blackness. ' 'Tis too old, you see, Mr. Arbuckle, sixty-four years, to command a fleet at sea. He's not stood the strain.'

'And then there is the gout, Mr. Arbuckle,' Davis put in. 'Ah, 'tis a crippling illness, the gout. Affects the mind it does.'

'God blast the pair of you for mutinous dogs,' Arbuckle growled. 'You talk as if you understand strategy. As if you understand ships. As if you understand men. You understand that gun, McLeod. That lifeless lump of metal is your talent. You'd best leave the command of a fleet at sea to them that's been trained to it.'

'Then you tell us why we've turned away,' McLeod insisted. 'Six hours, and we've beat into this wind, and on the port tack. You watch, by dawn we'll be on the wrong side of Dominica, all over again.'

'I've no knowledge of the admiral's mind,' Arbuckle said. 'But I'll tell you this. Rodney has never been beat. And he'll not be beat this time, either. You may reckon on that.'

Matt wished they would stop talking. Yet it was strange. For two days after the action off Dominica they had clung on the heels of the French, watching them slowly draw away to the north, suggesting their bottoms were a sight cleaner than the British ships. For two days the admiral had sat on the quarterdeck - he was unable even to mount the ladder to the poop, his leg was that swollen with the gout - as indeed he had been on deck since the fleet had left Gros Islets Bay.

And for two days his face had grown longer and longer as the prospects of a decisive battle had dwindled.

And then yesterday two of the French rearguard had been in collision. When the news had been reported to the flagship, Rodney had snapped his fingers with happiness. The crippled ships had drifted, slowly pushed to the west by the brisk north-easterly wind. And the orders had been given for the entire British fleet to alter course to cut them out. There was a gamble. To forgo even the slightest chance of defeating de Grasse, and the Jamaica expedition, for the sake of picking up two already crippled vessels, would involve the admiral in a court martial. But Rodney apparently knew his man. The honour of the French fleet was at stake; de Grasse would not abandon his two lame ducks. And so they had watched, breathlessly, as the whole French fleet had put about, and come bearing majestically down on the British; great, yellow varnished hulls, magnificently dotted with the still closed red gunports, plunging into the swell, topped by the utterly beautiful spreads of white canvas billowing in the breeze. Theirs was still the advantage; the wind was behind them - they had the magic weather gauge which would decide whether or not they accepted battle, and should they decide to accept it, what form it would take. But they were coming. And at dusk they had still been drawing closer, ever closer.

Then the wind, as usual, had dropped, and while the great ships had wallowed slowly onwards, the boats had been swung out, and the captains had been rowed across to assemble on the flagship's quarterdeck, and listen to the admiral's plans. And no sooner had they regained their ships than had come the whispered commands, douse all lights, and trim your yards. The Royal Navy was putting about. As the French swept out of the north-east, the British made off on the port tack, south-east, into the empty night. It was incredible, but it was happening. Rodney had declined battle and was standing away.

And so the gun crews whispered amongst themselves in incredulous dismay. Whereas he should be singing for joy, Matt thought, and pondering his own problems. No battle meant no risk of death or mutilation. And Rodney would doubtless be court-martialled in any event. And their destination would remain Jamaica.

And what then? It was still difficult for Matt to grasp what had happened. Sue had left Dirk, had left her home and her husband, had left her respectability and indeed her honour, to chase behind him. What had she said, that first rainswept afternoon, more than a year ago? That she was not for an idle hour, but forever? And she had meant every word of it. What a remarkable woman. But what a remarkable responsibility had she thrust upon his shoulders. He was slowly realizing, as he crouched beside his gun and thought of her, perhaps sleeping, but surely dreaming of him, three decks away, that all his fife he had done no more than dream, of fine actions and fine achievements, certainly, but still dreams, of one day being a second Beldham, the finest batsman in England, of one day equalling the skill and prowess of Jack Broughton, knowing in his heart that he could never be either of those, but because of his small skill at both, cricket and boxing, pretending to himself that he might, were he prepared to devote his life to it. And then Gislane. He had dreamed, of defying the world, his world, with her at his side, and felt ten feet tall for the dream. But had it not always been a dream, never to be exposed to the bright light of day? Had he not fallen at the very first hurdle, and, for all his feeble efforts, been afraid to get back to his feet?

But now the dreams were rolled up into a ball and thrown over the side. Sue had forced him into reality, for the first time. She was here, and she had deserted all, for him. He could no longer say, to himself or to her, let us ponder and plan, and decide what is to be done. It had happened, and the course on which she had embarked, and on which he must necessarily escort her, would not be checked or altered until they reached their graves.

He did not know whether to shout for joy or weep with apprehension.

Men, all around him, were scurrying about their tasks. Orders were being whispered: 'Wear ship.'

The yards were being backed, and the Formidable was coming about. If Matt could see nothing but the white splashes where the bluff bows cut the waves, he could feel the wind, no longer on the left side of his face, but on the right.

Arbuckle was consulting his watch. 'Two o'clock,' he said. 'Oh, aye, lads. The admiral knows what he's about.'

'By Christ,' McLeod muttered. 'By Christ, but he's a cool one.'

Even Matt was suddenly lost in admiration for the moral courage of a man who could take such a decision. For now it became clear. As the English lights had been doused, and the night was moonless, the French, not knowing where they were, would either heave to, plunge on into the darkness, or come about to beat back to the north-east. Either way, they would have been confident that the English must remain south-west of them, and downwind, only able to follow, not to dictate. But by standing away close-hauled on the port tack for six hours, and now coming about on the starboard tack, Rodney would hope to place himself upwind of the French during the darkness, and between them and the cloud of transports still making north. Tomorrow morning de Grasse must either fight, on Rodney's terms, or abandon his army and run south-west.

Suddenly he was caught by the excitement, by the confidence which seemed to be spreading through the entire ship. Their admiral was once again proving himself the boldest, and the best, fighting seaman afloat. Eagerly they peered into the darkness, dimly making out the canvas of the other vessels around them, all having altered course at precisely the same moment, as had obviously been decided during that conference yesterday evening. What would the dawn reveal, he wondered? What would the dawn bring, in fact? But half an hour ago he had been congratulating himself that there was going to be no battle. Now ... he could not say for sure what he wanted.

The light came suddenly; there was no twilight in the West Indies. One moment it was dark as pitch, the next clear enough to see twenty miles, and the glowing red ball of the sun was already peeping above the empty Atlantic to the east. But how surprising was the scene, too unexpected for Matt to grasp it, for the moment. No spray ever reached the quarterdeck, but last night it had been breaking fairly steadily on the bow as the ship had beat into the north easterly. Now the Formidable, and all the British fleet, once again steered north east, but there was no breaking water. Waves, certainly, and whitecaps, but running with them.

'By Christ,' McLeod whispered. 'By Christ. Can you beat that for luck. The wind's veered.'

Matt looked up, at the canvas ballooning as the wind filled it, just as the French canvas had billowed the previous afternoon. Fortune favours the brave, he thought.

Lord Cranstoun, the Scottish volunteer nobleman who had taken the place of Lieutenant Hill in charge of the guns, and who was alone on deck, the admiral and his staff having gone below to breakfast, had also observed the change in the wind direction. He ran to the companion ladder, and encountered the flag captain, Sir Charles Douglas, coming up. 'Sir Charles,' he shouted. 'Sir Charles. The wind has veered. It is fair, man. Fair.'

Douglas gave a hasty glance aloft, and then at the sea. 'God fights for us, my Lord,' he remarked, and turned back down the ladder.

Or perhaps he merely wants a battle, Matt thought, seizing the salt pork and biscuit which was being brought round by the cook's mate, chewing without tasting, staring forward. It truly was, he supposed, the most beautiful sight he would ever see. The sun was now clear of the horizon, and like the breeze, directing its light immediately down the wide passage between Dominica and Guadeloupe - some twenty miles of water. Fifteen miles away, dead ahead of the British fleet, were the scattered islets of the Saintes; and beyond even them was the blue-grey cloud of Guadeloupe, while to the south Dominica was etched on the clear morning sky. Closer yet to the north, from eight to twelve miles off, straggling somewhat and certainly lacking any close formation, was the French fleet, still steering south of west, and exactly broadside on to the British. The sun reflected from their topsides, even winked from the open gunports as the heavy brass was run out, and sparkled too from the breaking white horses which surrounded them.

And bearing down on them in line ahead were the thirty seven battleships of the British navy; in the van, as the whole fleet had gone about at two o'clock, was Admiral Drake's squadron of the blue. The white squadron was in the centre, and Hood's red squadron now brought up the rear. They ran onwards, propelled by the fresh fair wind, gunports open, pennants and flags streaming in the breeze, hurrying for the exact centre of the French fleet. And this was to be a big ship battle only; the frigates, having done their job of shadowing the enemy until contact would be assured, had hauled away, knowing that a single broadside from one of these seventy-four-gun monsters would send them to the bottom.

There came a rumble of fire from in front of them, travelling slowly towards the wind, reaching the English fleet long after the black smoke had clouded upwards into the morning air. Then there was more and more black smoke, and the white horses doubled in number as the cannon-balls plunged into the waves. But the French fire was inaccurate, and the British did not respond. There was something peculiarly menacing about the manner in which the huge ships kept silently on their way, awaiting the command to wheel into line parallel with the French, and then to return fire. The midshipman with the signal pad in his hand stood beside the admiral. But Rodney was watching the French through his telescope, as was Douglas.

'By heaven,' said the flag captain. 'By heaven.'

'Aye,' Rodney said, snapping his fingers with indecision.

Matt peered over the gunwale to see what was exciting them; the French fleet, already become disorganized during the night, had insensibly coagulated into two halves, separated by several miles of open water.

' 'Tis the way to do it, Sir George,' Douglas said.

Rodney bit his lip. It was also the way to that court-martial he feared, should he discard conventional naval tactics and then be defeated.

'The fleet waits for orders, Sir George,' Douglas said. 'It must be now, or never.'

Rodney looked through his telescope once again, then snapped it shut. 'We'll stand on, Charles. Signal no ship to wear, and no ship to give fire, until my command. We'll break their line, by God.'

The leading ship of the blue squadron, the Marlborough seventy-four, was already right up to the French line, and receiving shot from some four of the enemy, but still there was no answering fire. For the admiral had not given the signal. He sat in his chair, his telescope again to his eye, staring forward, while every man on board the Formidable, and surely every signal and gunnery officer in the entire fleet, watched him. Matt felt his palms become wet with sweat; the balls were plunging into the sea on every side, and he could remember as if it had been only a few seconds previously the explosion of three days ago.

The rhythm of the bells rang out; four couplets. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and the entire day was a cataclysm of sound. As the last stroke died away Rodney nodded his head to Captain Symonds, and the seaman who had been standing by the halliard gave it a little jerk and sent the red bunting streaming upwards.

'Fire, you hounds of hell,' shouted Lord Cranstoun. 'Fire you devils from the pit.'

The guns were already double-shotted. No doubt every gun in the fleet was double-shotted, and waiting. The noise was unlike any Matt had ever heard before. He turned his head as he seemed to leave the deck, as the ship seemed to leave the sea, and saw a vessel close by on the starboard beam, glimpsed the fleur-de-lis streaming from her masthead, and then lost her in the tremendous cloud of smoke which seemed to isolate him in time and space. But already Davis was pressing another ball into his arms, and he was feeding it into the smoking breech, and McLeod was pouring powder into his tube, and the breech was slamming to and the cannon was exploding again, all in a matter of seconds. Time seemed to cease, or to hasten onwards. Nothing mattered, save the sweat-wet ball and the smoking breech. He heard noise, nothing but noise, now and then interspersed by a shriek or a hoarse yell. He trod in blood and kicked his foot clear. He felt, rather than saw, a spar come crashing to the deck beside him. He blinked into the gloom and saw nothing but smoke. He scrabbled for the next ball and realized that it was no longer Davis. He took it, crammed it into the breech, turned back for the next, gazed in horror at the powder-blackened face, the powder-scorched yellow hair trailing free, the powder-encrusted white shift which was all she wore, the red blood which stained her fingers and her toes. He crammed that ball too into the breech, swung back as the day yet again exploded, watched her lips move, could not understand what was being said for a moment, stared past her at the admiral himself, leaning on his stick, his hat gone and his wig tinged with black.

'What? What?' he shouted. 'What means this, woman?'

'I could not stay below,' Sue insisted. 'In that darkness? That stench? Matt is here. I belong beside him.'

Rodney almost smiled. 'Proof enough, madam. Proof enough. Now get back to your place as a woman, or I'll set a marine to you.'

'Please,' Matt begged.

She gazed at him for a moment, and her tongue came out to circle her lips, and then she turned and disappeared into the gloom. Impossibly, a trace of musk hung on the air for just a moment.

'God damn,' Rodney said. 'You Hiltons. You Hiltons.'

She seemed to take the battle with her. A bugle rang out, and the guns fell silent. It took some moments for the smoke to clear, and even then for some minutes it was difficult to decide what had happened, what was still happening. There was still firing on every side, although most of it was distant. Closer at hand there was endless heart-rending sound, the crashing of timbers, the screams of tormented men. For the smoke was at last lifting, to reveal that the French line had been split in three places, whether by accident or design Matt could not tell. The ships were scattered, several were sinking, others were on fire, drifting helplessly while the wind carried the contending fleets apart. The Formidable had herself suffered, and parties of marines were taking wounded men below, but no British ship had experienced anything like the beating received by the French.

' 'Tis the speed of our firing,' Arbuckle said, his voice hoarse. 'Why lads, we sent off three to every one we took.'

'Aye,' McLeod said sombrely. 'Or we'd be taking the fate of those poor lads.'

Matt looked down at the sea, and nearly retched with horror. The Formidable was perhaps half a mile from the nearest French ship, which was clearly sinking. She had lost her foremast and even as he watched her mainmast went overboard, and her foredeck was already running water. Her boats being as shattered as her bulwarks, her crew were taking to the sea. But what a sea. "Wherever he looked there were black fins, carving the tortured waves, almost seeming to shout their joy at the feast which had been granted them. The men already in the water were shrieking their terror at the fate which was about to overtake them, and the very blue was turning red as the sharks started their attack.

Matt looked aloft to see if there was sufficient wind to move the Formidable back towards her victim, but the breeze had died, and the sails were drooping against the yards. He turned towards the cluster of officers gathered round the admiral, offering their congratulations, for there could be no question that the victory was his, even supposing there was tidying up to be done.

'Sir George,' Matt cried. 'Those men are being eaten alive.'

The officers stared at him in amazement, and Arbuckle, about to grasp him by the shoulder and drag him back to the gun, stood still, face crimson with embarrassment.

'And you would rescue them?' Rodney demanded. 'Do you imagine a boat could live in the midst of those monsters?'

‘I would try, sir.'

'You Hiltons,' the admiral muttered, and glanced at Douglas. ‘You Hiltons.'

'The battle is recommencing, Sir George,' said Lord Cranstoun, pointing to the west where the English van and the main French body were drifting back within range.

'So it is,' Rodney agreed. 'We should get over there, by whatever means we can.'

'Sir George ...' Matt said again.

Rodney turned to him. 'You are a confoundedly impertinent fellow, Matthew Hilton. Were you destined for a career in the navy I doubt it would be a very long one.' Then he smiled. 'But it might carry its share of honour. One boat. You'll command, Mr. Arbuckle.'

'Me, sir?' Arbuckle cried in consternation.

'I must have a quartermaster in a boat, sir,' Rodney said. 'But Mr. Hilton has spent his entire life in these waters. He'll know how to deal with the sharks.'

'Volunteers,' Matt shouted. 'I'll need volunteers.'

Several men came forward at once, and one of the few undamaged boats was hastily swung out.

'By Christ,' Arbuckle grumbled as he took his place in the stern. 'I hope you know what you are about.'

Matt said nothing. He was in the bows, a boarding pike in his hands, gazing in disgust as they approached the water, watching the seething, bubbling waves as the sharks coursed to and fro, listening to shriek after shriek as here a leg, there an arm, there a whole waist was taken in the gnashing jaws.

'Give way,' Arbuckle bellowed as the falls were cast free. 'Give way, as you value your lives.'

The oars thrust into the waves, and the boat surged away from the battleship's side. Now the entire gunwale was lined with men, breaking into cheers as Matt dashed his pike into the water to drive a fin to one side, and into shouts of warning as a row of serrated teeth would seize upon one of the blades. But the stout ash was too much even for the sharks, and they were hurled aside, revealing their white underbellies as they rolled over.

'There are none alive,' Arbuckle shrieked, heaving on the tiller.

'There,' Matt bellowed. 'There.'

Four men were clinging to the fallen mainmast, legs dangling in the water, while the fins circled closer.

'Easy,' Arbuckle bawled. 'Easy. Should that lance hole us, we are dead men.'

'Back your oars,' Matt shouted. 'Back your oars.' For indeed the mast was coming close. And the first Frenchman was reaching for him, arms outstretched. 'Here. Ici. Ici.'

But even as their fingers touched there was a flurry of red-tinged water, and the man shrieked and disappeared. Matt struck down with vicious anger, again and again, and the boat heaved as a heavy body struck it.

'You'll capsize us, you crazy fool,' Arbuckle shrieked.

'Monsieur,' cried the remaining Frenchman. 'Monsieur.'

His face was pale, but it was a fine face, and he did not lack courage, leaving the mast to swim for them. Matt struck again as a fin loomed close, and then discarded the pike and leaned into the water. His fingers touched flesh, and then cloth, and the leather of the man's belt. He heaved with all his strength and fell backwards, and for a moment supposed he had fallen overboard, his entire heart seeming to cloud into his mouth in horror. Then he found himself lying in the bottom of the boat, panting.

'Give way,' Arbuckle bawled above him. 'Give way.' He looked down at Matt. 'All that risk,' he said. 'All that risk, to save one man.'

'Indeed, sir,' gasped the Frenchman, speaking perfect English. 'The risk was unwarranted. But then, you could have saved no one better.' He leaned across the dripping bilges, and seized Matt's hand. 'I'm your slave for life, sir. My name is Louis Corbeau.'

Gunfire rippled from end to end of Kingston Harbour. The fort on Port Royal point had begun it, but the feu de joie had been taken up by every vessel at anchor, and was replied to in kind by the fleet as it slowly handed its sails and turned up towards the wind before letting its anchors go, to bring each great battleship to anchor in a perfect line.

Already the boats were setting out from the shore, the leaders containing every dignitary in Jamaica; Rodney's frigates had done their work of spreading consternation and joy amongst the plantocracy.

In the first boat, making for the flagship, was the new Governor, Sir Archibald Campbell. With him were the members of his Executive Council, and also the leader of the Jamaican plantocracy, Robert Hilton. The boatswains' whistles sounded, and the red-coated marines clicked to attention in the waist as the guests climbed the ladders to the deck.

'Sir George.' Campbell hurried forward, perspiring in the heat of the brilliant midday sunshine. 'Blessed is your name. Why, sir, from this day forth Jamaica has no other national hero. This I declare, sir, for all time.'

Rodney bowed, a trifle stiffly; he supported himself upon his stick. 'I was fortunate enough to be able to perform my duty, Sir Archibald. May I have the honour to present His Excellency Monsieur Francois Joseph Paul de Grasse-Briancon, Knight of Malta, Grand Cross of the Order of St. Louis, Chevalier of the Order of Cincinatus, Comte de Grasse and Marquis de Grasse-Tilly; Sir Archibald Campbell, K.C.B., Governor of Jamaica.'

'My pleasure, Your Excellency,' said the French admiral, a tall, heavy man, with the swarthy complexion of the Provencal, also bowing as he took the Governor's hand.

'Bless my soul,'Campbell acknowledged. 'This is an honour I'd never have supposed possible, in these circumstances.'

'The fortunes of war, Your Excellency,' de Grasse agreed. 'I can but hope that, had our circumstances been reversed, I should have been enabled to grant your admiral and yourself as much courtesy as I have received.'

'Bless my soul,' Campbell said again. 'Bless my soul. You'll not have met Mr. Robert Hilton.'

'Alas, no,' the Count said. 'But I have heard sufficient of your name, sir. One of your ancestors fought with DuCasse.'

'That would be Christopher Hilton, the buccaneer, Count,' Robert said. 'They were friends as boys.' But he was more anxious to speak with Rodney. 'My congratulations, George,' he said. 'You are all of a hero, and as you have saved my plantation from the Dons, you have in any event my deepest gratitude. Now tell me you have also saved my cousin, and I shall be your friend for life.'

Rodney smiled. 'You'll excuse us, gentlemen.' He limped in front of Robert into the shelter of the poop, where Matt waited, with Sue and Louis Corbeau. Once the battle had been won it had been possible for the officers' quarters to be restored to their normal comfort, and Sue had been installed in the admiral's own suite for the three-day voyage to Jamaica; she had had the luxury of a bath and now looked as cool and self-possessed as ever in her life. 'Why, Robert,' she smiled, at the utter consternation on his face. 'You'd think I was a ghost.'

'By God,' Robert cried. 'By God. But where did you find her, George? She was for St. Lucia when last I heard.' 'And caught up with us there, as she intended,' Rodney agreed. 'But as we were at that moment informed that the frogs were putting to sea, why, she had no choice but to come along.'

'By God,' Robert said again. ‘You were in the battle?' 'And more than that, Robert,' Rodney said, before Sue could reply. 'She found herself on deck fighting a gun.' 'What? What?'

'I was like to be violently ill, below decks in the heat and the smoke and the scent of blood,' Sue explained. ‘I but sought the fresher air on deck.'

'At a sad cost to discipline,' Rodney said. 'But none the less, it is actions like hers which give this glorious old navy of ours its legends and its tradition. And truth to tell, I think she was concerned about her cousin.'

Robert gazed at his sister, his mouth opening and then closing again, and turned to look at Matt. 'By God,' he said. 'Another survivor.'

'And all of a hero, I do assure you,' Rodney said. 'Let me present Monsieur Louis Corbeau.'

'My great pleasure, Mr. Hilton.' The Frenchman bowed. He was as tall as Matt, but not so broad in the shoulder. Indeed, if there was a single word to describe him, it would be elegant, even in his ill-fitting clothes, borrowed from Lord Cranstoun. Nor were his features less distinguished, with the high forehead and long nose hanging over the tremendous wide gash of a mouth and the big chin. His hair was black as midnight, and lay loose on his shoulders, and his eyes were also black, and more filled with life than any Robert could recall.

'Corbeau?' he asked. 'Corbeau? You'll not pretend your father was Pierre Corbeau.' 'The same, Mr. Hilton.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'Why, sir, I sat you on my knee when you were a babe. And was christened by your bladder. By God. And does Rio Blanco still thrive?'

'It yields to no plantation in the Indies, Mr. Hilton. Save Hilltop, of course.'

'Aye. Aye. Your father was always a diplomat also. I was sorry to learn of his death, boy, even if he was a froggie. Yellow fever, they said.'

'It is the curse of St. Domingue, Mr. Hilton.'

'But... you were with de Grasse in Martinique?'

'You forget, sir, I own a plantation at Trois Islets, as well as Rio Blanco, much as you also own Green Grove. And I was there, endeavouring to repair the damage done by that storm of two years ago - you will not credit this, Mr. Hilton, but there was scarce a house left standing on my estate -when the Count de Grasse arrived with his ships, calling for volunteers, gentlemen, as well as common people, to help him beat Admiral Rodney here.' He paused and smiled.

'And got beat himself, by God,' Robert shouted. 'I like that, sir. I like that.'

'But you have not heard the heart of the matter, sir,' Corbeau said. 'My ship was sunk, and I was thrown into the most busy water I have ever seen. I suspect every shark in the Caribbean had found its way to that spot.'

'It was quite horrible, Robert,' Sue said. ‘I shall never forget the screams of those men to my dying day.'

'And your young cousin here would have a ship's boat away to see what could be done,' Rodney said. 'With the rest of the battle still to be fought. But it was a brave thing.'

'And so you see me, forever in the Hilton debt,' Corbeau said, still smiling, but now at Sue. 'Nor could I have found a more charming family to owe my gratitude.'

'So you are all of a hero, Matt,' Robert said. 'Have you nothing to say?'

'I wondered perhaps what you might have to say to me, Robert,' Matt said. 'You will observe that I am no longer in Statia.'

'Aye. Aye.' Robert was suddenly serious. 'There is much ... aye, much to be discussed. Have I your permission to take these two rascals ashore, George?'

'With my pleasure,' Rodney said. 'I doubt not we could make Matt into a brilliant seaman, given time. But I also doubt whether the Royal Navy has that much time. As for you, Mistress Huys, you may be sure that if the Battle of the Saintes will fill my memory for every day of the rest of my life, your role in it will be a considerable part of that recollection.' He kissed her hand. 'It has been my pleasure.'

'You'll excuse us, Corbeau,' Robert said. 'My family is in a state of turmoil. But you'll dine. Oh, yes, you'll dine. And you, George. I'll expect you tomorrow night.'

'But I am coming with you,' Corbeau said, looking from Matt to Suzanne to the admiral in a mixture of amusement and dismay.

'What? What?'

'Monsieur is a prisoner of war, Robert,' Rodney said. 'But he is also a prominent planter, and a gentleman, and it was your cousin dragged him from the mouths of the sharks. I have agreed to release him into your custody, on parole, until the conclusion of peace.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. Then you'd best come along.' He stamped to the gangway, where Arbuckle waited, with McLeod and the gun crew.

'God bless you, Mr. Hilton,' said the quartermaster. 'You'll do well, sir. You'll do well.'

Matt shook their hands and discovered to his distress that his eyes were moist. ‘Do you know, I almost wish I were staying, and a week ago I'd have regarded such a thought as sheer madness. Mr. Arbuckle, may your prize money amount to millions. McLeod, I'll never hear a cannon again in my life but I'll think of you.'

'And God bless you, mistress,' they shouted after Suzanne, who was already on her way down to the boat. 'We'll drink to you for fifty years, on how you served the gun at the Saintes.'

Suzanne smiled and waved even as she flushed; her eyes were also bright.

'By God,' Robert said. 'You're a right pair. A right pair.' He stared at the warship as the boat pulled for the shore. 'You'll not credit this, Corbeau, but I had considered this cousin of mine as little better than a dandy. Cricket, bah.'

'Cricket?' Corbeau asked. 'What is this cricket?'

'We'll not go into that now. So you're a hero, Matt. And you're set fair to becoming a legend, Sue. By God, but you'd best prepare to become one sooner than that. There's not a woman in Kingston but will spit in your teeth, given the chance.'

Suzanne's face was as composed as ever. 'Be sure that I also am capable of spitting, Robert. And what of Dirk?'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. I don't see how you dare utter his name. One whore in the family is bad. But two ... how can a man have ever been so cursed.'

'You have not answered my question,' she said coldly.

'He is presently unable to leave Statia, because of this confounded war. Which is as well for you.' He gazed at Matt. 'Both of you. But he has written. He wishes to know, reasonably enough, how I stand in this lamentable matter.'

The boat was pulling in to the dock. 'And how do you stand, brother?' Suzanne asked, very quietly.

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He climbed ashore in front of her. 'I've a surprise for you.'

'Sue,' Georgiana screamed, debouching from the carriage in a cascade of skirts and bows, leaving her hat behind her on the ground. 'Oh, dearest, darling, Sue.'

'One winter was bad,' Georgiana declared. 'But two ... and the people were so boring. Especially the men. So absolutely boring.' She smiled happily at Louis Corbeau who smiled back.

'And did you receive no proposals at all?' Suzanne asked. She sat between Matt and Robert, facing forward as the carriage bounced over the road outside Kingston.

'Oh, dozens. Absolutely dozens.' She winked. 'Most of them of an utterly scandalous nature. It seems, darling Robert, that we did not do things right. You just cannot abandon a young lady of quality in London, either in the care of her cousin ...' she gave Matt a scornful glance, 'such as that might be, or in the care of a housekeeper. Do you know, I was at one reception, and I heard some dreadful old hag, a duchess or something, talking about that frightful colonial girl, who, and do you know, she began to whisper, lives with her servants.'

'But this did not deter the men,' Robert remarked.

'On the contrary. They clustered like bees. But most wished only to get their hands beneath my shift.' She smiled at Corbeau. 'Are all men like that, monsieur?'

The Frenchman continued to smile. 'Without exception, Miss Hilton. Alas, most young women are like you, and choose to guard their virtues with the utmost determination. So we are forced to marry the gorgeous creatures.'

'Hilltop, at last,' Robert said. 'And just soon enough. Now mark me well, Georgiana, and you, Matt. I have enough on my mind without continuing this stupid feud. I've watched you the whole journey, seen you glowering at each other. Kiss your cousin, Matt, and there's an end to the matter.'

'And suppose I do not wish to be kissed by that lout? A common seaman,' Georgiana declared. 'He ever had the instincts of a common seaman.'

'By God, Miss, but you'll do as I say. Now and always,' Robert growled as the carriage came to a stop.

Georgiana pouted, and then pursed her lips. Matt leaned forward and brushed her mouth with his. Maurice was already opening the door. 'Oh, Mistress Suzanne,' he cried. 'Mr. Matt? But man, we did hear so much. We did fear that you was dead and gone.'

'Oh, be quiet man,' Robert snorted, getting down. 'Georgiana, you'll entertain Monsieur Gorbeau to a glass of punch. Suzanne, you'll come with me. You too, Matt.'

'Are we then to be whipped like runaway children?' Suzanne inquired, still speaking quietly, but with flints of steel seeming to form parts of her eyes.

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'It would be nothing less than you deserve.' He stamped up the stairs.

'And is Rio Blanco anything like Hilltop, Mr. Corbeau?' Georgiana inquired, tucking her arm through his.

Corbeau watched Suzanne's hips moving beneath her skirt as she mounted the stairs in front of him. 'Rio Blanco is more beautiful, Miss Georgiana. If only because of the river which gives it the name.'

'Oh, fie on you,' Georgiana shouted. 'You are a despicable froggie.'

'You'll excuse my sister, Mr. Corbeau,' Suzanne said from the foot of the great staircase. 'And me, for the moment. We'd best hear what the old tyrant has to say, Matt. Robert,' she called. 'We shall pay our respects to Aunt Becky, first.'

Robert stopped at the landing, looked down at her. 'Becky is dead,' he said. 'She had a seizure the day after you left for St. Lucia on the packet. There's the effects of your absurdities mounting all around you.'

Suzanne had stopped, and colour flamed into her cheeks. 'Then I should like to see her grave.'

'And so you shall, when I am done with you.' Robert stamped into the room he kept as an office; the walls were lined with books, which were never read, and the furniture consisted of a huge desk, and half a dozen cane chairs. He sat down, sweeping field returns and slave registers to one side. A little, bald-headed man hastily got to his feet from a smaller desk in the corner. 'Out, man, out,' Robert bellowed. 'We have serious matters to discuss.'

'Good morning to you, Mr. Hardiman,' Suzanne said. 'I hope we are not interrupting your work.'

'No trouble, Miss Suzanne. No trouble. Glad to have you back.' Hardiman sidled towards the door. 'Good to see you again, Mr. Matthew. Good to see you again.' He closed the door behind himself.

'Sit down,' Robert shouted. 'Sit down, the pair of you.'

Suzanne had already taken a chair immediately before the desk. Now she removed her hat, and fanned herself. Her hair scattered lightly before the self-created breeze. Matt sat beside her. His brain was in a whirl. It had, indeed, been in a whirl since leaving the Formidable. Or perhaps, he was beginning to think, it had been in a whirl for too long before that. Now he only knew that he was entirely at Suzanne's mercy. But that was a pointless exercise. She had come on deck to work the gun beside him. She had made herself into a deathless legend. It was not likely that she would ever desert him now. So then, where did that leave him?

Robert was sifting papers, not looking at them, but with some embarrassment. 'Now,' he said. 'I have penned a letter to Dirk which I have not yet despatched, because I deemed it best that you should yourself carry it, Sue. In it I have done my best to explain the situation, have offered him my most profound apologies for what has happened, and have begged him to take you back as my friend, and as the gentleman I know he is, and because he loves you, which I know he does. I have no doubt at all that when he sees you again, when he holds you once again in his arms, and when you add your entreaties to my own, he will be prepared to forgive you this escapade, and who knows, in time you may even regain your previous felicity. Of course there is absolutely no hope of your ever being accepted in polite society again, at least, not for many, many years. But there it is. You will at least have a husband. Now, then, as for you, you young scoundrel...'

‘I beg your pardon,' Suzanne said. 'But we have not finished talking about me, and it is useless discussing Matt until that is done.'

'What?' Robert demanded. 'What? I am afraid it would be very unwise of either of you ever to attempt to see each other again. Scandals of this nature are only mended by strict behaviour and confidence in the ability of the human race to forget.'

'Robert, sometimes you are capable of playing the absolute fool,' Suzanne said, without anger.

'What? What did you say?'

'Do you seriously suppose I intend to return to Dirk Huys? Even supposing I did not love Matt, and had acted out of some whim, do you possibly imagine that I could go back to my husband, and experience all the continued humiliations which would be heaped upon me, as well, no doubt, as the physical mistreatment? I should have to be demented.'

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

'But as it happens,' Suzanne continued, speaking very quietly and very clearly, 'I am in love with Matt. And I propose to continue being in love with him. I never loved Dirk, as you well know. You elected that I should marry your friend, and I was not then twenty-one years of age. I am now twenty-three, and I have had three years of living with that great boring hulk of a man. I think I have obeyed you long enough.'

'By God.' Robert stared at Matt in absolute consternation.

'So you see,' Suzanne continued, 'wherever Matt goes, whatever Matt does, I shall also go and do. And whatever befalls him, shall undoubtedly befall me also.' She held up her hand as Robert would have exploded again. 'And before you have a seizure, let me remind you, and Matt, that he also is now more than twenty-one years of age, and entitled to form his own life. He has for too long been concerned with your opinions.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. That any man can be so unfortunate ...'

'As to be handicapped by two whores as sisters, you were no doubt going to say,' Suzanne interrupted. 'I think you are totally wrong. I think that, in forcing me to marry Dirk, you were then making me act the whore. I have come to my senses.'

'Senses,' Robert bellowed. 'Senses? By God. By God. And suppose I cut you both off without a shilling, turn you from my door, leave you to starve upon the streets of Kingston?'

'Then at least we shall starve in each other's arms,' Suzanne said. 'Unless Matt has some better suggestion.'

Certainly she had fought alone long enough; but Matt's mind was once again reeling. That Sue, dearest, darling, magnificent Sue, should be willing to sacrifice all for him, seemed an utterly incomprehensible concept.

'Well?' Robert demanded.

'I am not entirely bereft of wits or accomplishments,' Matt said. 'Why, I doubt not that your friend George Rodney would be happy enough to have me back. Certainly we could find refuge with Louis.'

Now why, he wondered, did Suzanne suddenly frown.

'Oh, aye, Corbeau,' Robert said. 'You'd do well to be wary of that gentleman, the pair of you. Oh, he is a gentleman, do not mistake me on that. But the French planters, well, and especially those of St. Domingue, have a different attitude to life than us. Not that it is relevant. Have you considered what you will do when Dirk comes looking for you, pistol in hand? As he most certainly will once this accursed war is done. He could take the mole from your cheek without bruising the flesh.'

'Then I shall have to practise,' Matt said quietly.

'By God,' Robert said again. 'By God.' He got up, turned his back on them, and stared out of the window.

'No doubt you would like us to take our leave,' Suzanne said.

'And what of the cause of all this misfortune?' Robert asked, still not looking at them. 'As I recall the matter, when last we met, Matthew, your heart was irretrievably gone in favour of a nigger.'

Matt felt his cheeks burning, and looked at Suzanne. But both her face and her eyes were quite cool, as she returned his gaze.

'Well?' Robert demanded.

Matt licked his lips. ‘I doubt Dirk, were he standing here with a loaded weapon, could have done quite so much pain to me,' he said. 'My honour demands that I find Gislane, Robert. Be sure that I shall do so. Nevis is still only a few days' sail.'

'Your honour? By God. Nevis, by God. And what of the dishonour you have inflicted upon Sue?'

'I love her as she loves me,' Matt said. 'I shall remain by her side for the rest of my life, if she will but have me. No doubt you were right, and my affection for Gislane was no more than infatuation, but...'

'But now you would set up a menage a trois? Oh, very French you are suddenly become. What do you say to that, Sue?'

'I well understand Matt's predicament, Robert. I also respect his desire to behave in an honourable fashion.'

'Bah. Words. Words, by God. I wonder I do not take my whip to the pair of you, indeed I do.'

'Because I would twist it from your hands and break it over your head,' Matt said, his embarrassment taking refuge in a sudden anger.

'By God,' Robert said, in total wonder.

Suzanne smiled, for the first time that morning.

Matt waited.

Robert filled his lungs with air, and allowed them to explode. 'What a family to be cursed with,' he remarked.

'I do not think we are any different to any other members of the family,' Suzanne said. ‘I think we Hiltons, and the Warners as well, perhaps have a truer sense of values than ordinary folk.'

‘Values, by God. Values.' Robert sat down again, and leaned across his desk. 'Now you listen to me. Two whores and a scoundrel, by God, are my lot, no doubt decided by God to punish my pride. But as you are my lot, by God, I must make the best of it. Sue, you are determined upon this course?'

'I have made that plain, I think.'

'Aye. So you have. Then you shall take ship to Green Grove, tomorrow.' He banged the desk as she would have protested. 'Matt will go with you. God alone knows what Antigua society will make of it, but at least they are less in numbers than Jamaican society. You will live there as you choose, for three years. I wish you to swear me that. Three years, never leaving that island.'

'But...' Matt began.

'You'll hear me out, by God. In that time, I will accomplish what I can with Dirk, and attempt to persuade him to divorce Sue. I cannot see why he should not, as she has utterly disgraced him. Then you may marry, and live honourably at least in the sight of God. Three years, Matt. Then we'll talk about the future. By God, boy, you'd be a fool as well as a blackguard to refuse me that.'

Matt glanced at Suzanne. Now at last the pink was gathering in her cheeks. But she would not attempt to persuade him either way.

'Three years,' he said, half to himself. Oh, Robert was cunning enough. After three more years, Gislane would be nothing but a memory. Could be nothing but a memory. And he would be then an utter scoundrel. But he would have Suzanne, and would be able to keep her, honourably, and in comfort. Christ, he thought, what a tangled world we can create by but a single careless moment. Had I not confided in Georgiana that October afternoon ...

Suzanne was still staring at him. He reached across to take her hand. 'I never doubted that blood was thicker than your notions of propriety,' he said. 'And I doubt that three years will be long enough, for Sue and me to honeymoon.'

'Cricket? What is this cricket?' asked Louis Corbeau.

Georgiana had reined her horse on the edge of the racecourse, and now she clucked her tongue impatiently. 'Oh, really, Louis. It is an utterly foolish game, played with sticks and a ball.'

'Tennis,' Corbeau suggested. 'We call it tennis.'

'No you do not,' she insisted. 'We also play at tennis. This is altogether different, and even less intelligent. But do we have to talk about Matt all the time?'

'And should I not? Were he not the man he is, I would not be the man I am.' He smiled as he spoke; when she was angry, or even pretending to be angry, she was twice as pretty as when her rather waspish features were in repose. It was a thousand pities that she was the unattached one, while her truly lovely sister - lovely in every way, he had no doubt at all - was hopelessly compromised. But yet, this girl promised much, in her laughter, in her flights of humour, in the traces of utter delight his practised eye could discern beneath the thin muslin.

'And that is probably the only good deed he has ever accomplished,' Georgiana agreed, walking her horse over the track. 'You will be attending the races, Louis?'

'But of course, Miss Georgiana. I have no choice, as I am your prisoner.'

'Now there's an attractive thought,' she said, and her ill-humour disappeared into one of her beguiling laughs.

Because, he thought, it was impossible not to be continually amazed at the workings of fate. It had never occurred to him to plan his life before, or even for one moment to consider the future further than a day ahead. He was thirty-one, and for the first twenty-five years of his life he had pursued nothing more important than pleasure, whether in Cap Francois or in Paris or in Fort Royal. The death of dear Papa six years ago had been no more than an interlude of sorrow; the plantations had been so well organized they had required nothing more than the assurance that there remained a Corbeau's hand on the whip to continue as prosperous as ever in the past. Even the Great Storm which had bankrupted so many lesser men had been no more than an irritation to him. He had elected to spend a year in Martinique entirely because it had occurred to him that it might be a good idea to get married, partly to preserve the name and heritage, of course, and partly because of what had happened to Helene. He had lost his temper, as he often did when drunk, and hit her, and she had cracked her skull open.

He regretted it. Helene had been, if not beautiful, certainly pretty, and most accomplished at her art, while one would hardly have supposed she was very nearly half black - unlike so many of his friends he had never been able to discover anything attractive in a pure Negress, however much he might occasionally desire their acknowledged ability in love-making. So Martinique had had an ulterior motive in beckoning him, for he remembered how when he had been a boy he had played with Rose Tascher de la Pagerie; even then she had been the most beautiful creature he had ever met. He had not doubted that as a woman she would be twice as desirable.

And there his ambition had encountered its very first check. Rose Tascher had no longer been in Martinique. She had married, above herself indeed, for de la Pagerie had been of little account, and in fact he had been one of those bankrupted by the storm. But Rose had become the wife of young de Beauharnais, son of the governor general and an officer in the army, and had departed for Paris. He had almost followed, but changed his mind. Louis Corbeau was no chaser after other men's wives; he desired only possession, when he desired. To share was quite beyond his nature, a fault he well recognized in himself, except that he preferred to regard it as a virtue.

So then, throwing himself into the reconstruction of the Trois Islets' plantation with all his energy, while feeling utterly disheartened, it had seemed no more than a logical, lime-consuming adventure to go to war, when de Grasse and de Bouille had summoned the youth of the Indies to their colours. A war which had ended so suddenly and so abruptly in a shark-infested ocean, from where he had been transplanted, in a quite miraculous fashion, to this stronghold of the plantocracy.

He was envious, certainly. Planting was in his blood. He knew no other way of life. And Rio Blanco was several times the size even of Hilltop; there was more land to be had in the vastness of St. Domingue. But was Rio Blanco as efficiently run? That he doubted. His rides with Georgiana had been quite a revelation. Here was concentrated wealth, being continually reconcentrated. And fate had chosen to plant him in the very centre of it. There was an interesting consideration. Especially as fate had also elected to plant an Eve in her garden of Eden with him. And also a serpent? He had not been able to discern one, as yet.

'You are very thoughtful.' Once again Georgiana reined her horse. 'You have been unusually thoughtful ever since Matt and Sue departed.'

'Perhaps I worry for them. I regard them both as my benefactors, you know. And with all these privateers...'

'Oh, rubbish. Robert says the war will be over this time next year. They are already discussing peace.'

'Oh, indeed, Miss Georgiana. But who is to convince the privateers of that?'

She glanced at him, and her tongue, red and wet, showed between her teeth for just a moment in a gesture which was peculiarly her own. ‘I don't believe you are thinking of them at all, Louis. I believe you are thinking of me.'

He had been warned that she was an uncommonly direct young woman. 'Would that displease you?'

She guided her horse into the paddock beside the stand, and slipped from the saddle. 'On the contrary, sir. It would displease me, intensely, were you not thinking of me. Am I not beautiful?'

He joined her on the ground. 'Indeed you are.'

She pouted at him. 'But you think Sue is prettier? Don't trouble to deny it. Everyone thinks Sue is prettier. And do you know what is so amusing? They think Sue is much nicer, too. They think Sue is a poor lovesick fool who has been led astray, just as they think I am a whore. But really she is the whore, running away after her own cousin. Wouldn't you say?'

She was very close, her face upturned towards him, no longer shaded by the broad-brimmed hat. And they were alone in the paddock, half a mile from the house or the village, on a still, hot morning; he could watch beads of sweat forming on her upper lip, and had the strangest desire to kiss them away. But then, this girl continually aroused strange desires in him. As perhaps she intended to do. He would really be unwise to fall into any trap she might be laying unless he was sure that he had dug the deeper hole.

'I think,' he said, 'that you are jealous because it is she Matt has taken off with.'

Her frown was genuine, he was sure. 'Me? Jealous of that ... that lout? Oh, really, Louis, if you knew...'

'Why do you hate him? Why don't you tell me?'

'I absolutely refuse to discuss him for one moment longer.' She turned away with a flounce, started up the steps to the lowest tier of the stand, and missed her step. She gave a little shriek and fell backwards, but the whole thing had been so patently planned that he was ready for her, and caught her round the thighs, discovering to his delight that his suspicions were no more than justified, and she wore but a single shift beneath her gown. His fingers slipped on the flesh beneath, and then lodged under her breast; he could feel each rib.

She turned, in his arms, dragging her nipples across his palms. 'Upstairs,' she whispered. 'There is a couch.'

He tightened his grip and swept her from the ground, started up the steps, while her arms went round his neck and she kissed him on the mouth again and again, licking his lips, his nose, his eyes, his chin, seeming to count his teeth. She was utterly abandoned, and gurgled with delight, as she was a delight to hold. So then, he thought, as he emerged on to the floor level, I have after all fallen into her trap. Or has she fallen into mine?

And does it matter? She is Suzanne's sister. And Suzanne is unavailable. Presently. Pie wondered how long it would take that gorgeous creature to grow tired of that over-solemn little boy.

His knees hit the couch before he realized how close it was, and he fell forward. Georgiana gave a little shriek of pleasure and landed on her back, and seemed to bounce back into his arms as he sat down. Her skirt rode up, and his hands, starting at her ankles, and sliding past the leather of her boots, were already touching the sweat-damp warmth of her flesh.

'Oh, God,' she whispered. 'Oh, God, Oh, Louis, how I have waited ...' her own hands came down to seize him and fumble at his belt, as she then guided him to his goal, arching her body and rolling her tongue round and round her lips, seizing his mouth with hers and forcing her tongue into it until she filled every millimetre of space, throwing her legs round his thighs to hold him closer, tearing at his shirt with her nails, and ripping through the material to scratch his back, and then uttering another little shriek, and this time the pleasure was mingled with pain. Then it was too late for him; he was imprisoned and could not have withdrawn, except to thrust again, had he been commanded at gunpoint. But even as his body sagged on to hers, and he felt her legs relaxing to fall beside him, and her head lolled backwards to allow her mouth to flop open, and her eyes drooped half-shut, although she continued to stare at him with an almost frightening intensity, the alarm bells were jangling in his brain.

He pushed himself on to his elbow, gazed down at her. 'They said you were wanton.' 'Who said?'

'Well ... does not your brother always refer to you as a whore?'

Now her eyes were wide again, and her tongue was returning into her mouth, and her nostrils were dilating as she breathed. 'No doubt you'll have heard the story.'

'Indeed I have.'

'And now you will know it to be untrue. My maidenhead belongs to you, dearest Louis. No one else. Did I not say, that it is Sue who is really the whore in our family?'

He stared at her for some seconds. And then burst out laughing, his chest thumping against her breasts. 'I have been out-generalled, sweet Georgiana. And I accept my defeat gracefully, as I must. But then, who could wish for a sweeter captor.' He kissed her on the mouth, slowly. And surely, he thought happily, all these roads also lead to Rome.

'Again?' she begged. 'Can you do it again? This time it will not hurt. Will it?'

‘I have no idea,' he said. 'Certainly it will not hurt me.'

'Oh, you are a wretched man.' She pouted, and smiled, almost in the same instant. 'Are all men wretched?'

'It seems so,' he said. 'You may count upon it that I am an utter scoundrel, mademoiselle. As my wife, you will suffer untold agonies. I promise you.'

Her tongue slowly circled her lips in that anticipatory gesture he was coming to recognize. 'Then begin now. I count myself as your wife from this moment.'

'Alas,' he said. 'It will be necessary to wait, for at least a few minutes.' He rolled off her, and held her in the crook of his arm while he rested on his elbow. 'You can while away the tedious moments by telling me why you hate Matt.'

'Constellation,' bellowed Robert Hilton. 'Constellation,' screamed Georgiana Hilton. 'Constellation,' shouted Sir Archibald Campbell. 'Eclipse,' roared Louis Corbeau. 'Eclipse,' called Lord Cranstoun. 'Constellation,' bawled Sir Charles Douglas. 'Eclipse,' said Sir George Rodney.

'Suzanne,' whispered Lady Campbell to Mistress Ellison. 'You remember Suzanne. A lovely girl. But my dear...'

'He's her cousin, you know,' Mistress Ellison said darkly. ‘I mean my dear Harriet, they ought to be locked up. It's positively criminal.'

'And that poor man Huys,' Lady Campbell said. 'What a position to be in. Oh, I do wish this noise would stop.'

The horses swept up to the stand. There were six of them altogether, but only the Hilton mare and Sir Archibald's stallion were in it. And now the roars of the competing parties seemed to raise the very heavens; it was four in the afternoon, and this was the last event of the day, as it was the premier event of the day, and the very sun, now beginning its stately decline in the west, seemed to be gathering itself together for a last burning effort as it bore down on the flying dust, the sweating horses, the straining Negro jockeys and their varicoloured silk shirts, the stand, crowded with everyone who was anyone in either Kingston or Spanish Town, a kaleidoscope of pale greens and pinks and blues belonging to the ladies, sombre browns and blacks of the gentlemen's coats, dotted with the brilliant blue of the naval officers or the even more brilliant scarlet jackets of the officers of the garrison and the marines, and then the slaves themselves, for race day at Hilltop was a holiday, gathered in a vast crowd, well over a thousand strong, all in clean white cottons, in the cleared area beyond the paddock.

And now the horses were past, and the dust filtered slowly through the still air, coating faces and arms and expensive gowns, causing the onlookers to cough and sneeze.

'Constellation,' Robert said. 'Now there, Sir Archibald, is a filly for you.'

'Aye,' Campbell said. 'Only a short head, though.'

'Enough, sir, enough,' said General Lake. 'That is fifteen hundred pounds.'

'Gad, sir, I'll have my whip to that jockey,' Campbell grumbled.

'And now,' said Lady Campbell, 'they are installed at Green Grove, if you please. Living openly together, in the utmost sin. Do you know, my dear Marjorie, I very nearly refused to come this afternoon.'

'It makes the blood curdle,' Mistress Ellison agreed. 'But what was poor dear Robert to do? I feel so sorry for that man.'

Lady Campbell snorted. Marjorie Ellison had lived in Jamaica too long, that was her trouble. So once upon a time she had had hopes of becoming mistress of Hilltop; no doubt it had been a fortunate escape. ‘I doubt,' she remarked, 'that he is any better than either his sister or his cousin; they all come from the same tainted stock. And as for that child Georgiana...'

Georgiana was leading the route down to the paddock, where the steaming horses were being unsaddled, and the jockeys were receiving their rewards.

'Here's a purse for you, Abraham,' Robert bellowed. 'A hundred guineas, by God. You rode well, well, by God, sir.'

'I thanking you, Master Robert, suh,' Abraham grinned, and held the bag to his ear to hear it jingle. 'You going to sell me free, suh?'

'I will not, you black devil. You'll ride for me until you drop, by God.'

'Wretched nigger,' Sir Archibald shouted at Eclipse's rider. 'The whip, man. The whip. Have you never learned how to use the whip?'

'Man, Excellency, sir,' explained the boy. ‘I did think he would take she. I really tliink so.'

'Ah, bah, you'll come up to the house, my dear, for sangaree?' He had discovered his wife and Mistress Ellison at his elbow.

'I suppose we must,' Lady Campbell said, but her eyes gleamed as she watched Georgiana, arm tucked through Louis Corbeau's, head against his shoulder as she chattered away.

'I'm afraid my officers and I must decline your kind invitation to dinner, Robert,' Rodney said. 'We must catch the tide.'

'It's an outrage,' Robert declared. 'An outrage. Why, George, so to treat the nation's hero ...'

Rodney's smile was sufficiently confident to dispel any fears for his future. 'I imagine our Whiggish masters dispatched the frigate before the news of the battle can have reached them,' he said. 'They have accused me of monstrous crimes. Statia is only the half of it. No doubt your impeachment stands amongst them.'

'But I have written to abandon the action,' Robert protested.

'And no doubt that also has not yet gained London. I find the whole thing more amusing than disturbing. There'll be a great to-do when the Count and his officers reach Plymouth, and the news gets abroad.' He took Robert's hand. 'Meanwhile, my month here has been of the happiest. No doubt I shall not return. Sixty-four is a shade too old for active campaigning, and this gout gets no better. You'll give my best regards to your young scoundrel of a cousin, and his so beautiful lady.'

'I'll do that,' Robert promised. 'You do not then join in the general condemnation of the pair?'

Rodney shrugged. 'He would appear to be one of those men who has been destined either for greatness or disaster. It is too early to decide which.' He laid his finger alongside his nose, 'You'd do well to remember you have another sister.'

'That wretched girl.' Robert frowned at the pair, leading the procession back towards the carriages. 'Aye, I'll remember it, by God,' .

But it was midnight before the last of the guest equipages went rumbling down the drive, and Maurice led the servants round the house to accumulate the glasses and the devastated plates of cold meat and jellies, and to douse the candles.

'Georgiana,' Robert bellowed, stamping on the verandah. 'Georgiana.'

'She has retired,' Corbeau said. 'It has been a long day.'

Robert peered at him through an alcoholic fug; the Frenchman's cravat had been released, and he had discarded his coat. 'And did you tuck her in, sir?'

Corbeau pretended to frown. 'Surely you do not mean to quarrel, Robert?'

Robert threw himself into a chair, and was immediately surrounded by his terriers, crawling over his feet to scramble on to his lap. ‘You think you'd take me, boy? Over-confidence is a great weakness. I'd killed my first man when you were still sucking.'

'I meant, sir,' Corbeau said, 'that I should have to kneel and beg your forgiveness. I could quarrel neither with my host, my captor, nor my future brother-in-law.'

'What? What? Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha.' Robert sat up, scattering the dogs. 'You've spoken to her?'

'Indeed I have, if you will forgive me.' Corbeau collected a half-empty bottle of wine from a passing tray, and dragged up a chair.

'And she is willing. Oh, yes, she is willing.'

Corbeau drank, and offered the bottle. 'I think she will accept my troth, subject to your approval of course, Robert.'

'Then I approve, by God. Oh, yes, I approve. With her safely married, I can breathe again. I'll have the lawyers draw up the contracts tomorrow.'

'There are matters to be discussed.'

'Details,' Robert said. 'You wish a dowry? Take what you will.'

'A dowry interests me not in the least,' Corbeau said. 'I mean, firstly, that there must be some delay in the affair.' 'Oh, yes?'

'Well, sir, I will not take Georgiana as my wife while I am a prisoner in your house.'

‘A prisoner, by God.'

‘Nor can I really ask her to engage in the perils of a voyage back to Rio Blanco, at least until I have returned there myself, and made sure the plantation is ready to receive her. She understands this herself, and is happy to agree.'

'Once the betrothal is official,' Robert said, 'you can wait as long as you like.'

'It will be official by the time we finish this discussion,' Corbeau said, getting up and pacing the floor, while the servants hurriedly got out of his way. 'You'll understand, dear Robert, that mine is a very old family in these parts.'

'Ha ha/ Robert said. 'Ha ha ha ha ha. You seem to have forgotten that I am descended from the very first Englishman ever to plant a colony in the West Indies.'

'There was a Corbeau with d'Esnambuo.'

'A quartermaster, I believe. At that time Sir Thomas Warner was already governor of St. Kitts.'

'I'll not quarrel, Robert, and there's an end to it. I would merely say that while the Corbeaux have renewed their blood time and again with the best Paris can offer, the Warners and the Hiltons have had their mishaps.' He held up his hand. 'Hear me out, I beg of you. The past is the past, and there is an end to it. 'Tis the present and the future that concerns me. I understand that Matt is to be your heir.'

'Aha,' Robert said. 'I begin to get your drift. I have hopes of placing that pair in a slightly less compromising position, given time. Dirk has not yet replied to my letter, but he is a reasonable man.'

'As to whether or not their children are bastards, means very little to me,' Corbeau said. 'I admire, indeed I love them both. I am concerned about the other shadow in Matt's life.'

Robert frowned at him. 'Other matter? By God, that wretched sister of mine has been gossiping as usual.'

'You are speaking of my future wife, sir,' Corbeau said coldly. 'In my opinion she but did her duty.'

'And has your family no skeletons in its closet?'

'Oh, indeed we have, Robert. But none, at the moment in any event, like to overshadow our future prosperity.'

'Nor do we.'

'Indeed? I understand that young Matt, a very positive fellow, I have observed, even if he has not yet learned that constancy of purpose which can lead to a successful life, fell deeply in love with a mulatto girl, some two years ago, am I not right? She was removed from his reach by Georgiana, greatly to her credit, indeed, and in pursuit of her he comes chasing back to the West Indies. That is certainly an evidence of love. Now, you in your wisdom sent him to Statia, and there, being a young man with red blood in his veins who has just tasted the delights of the feminine world for the first time, he seduces your other sister, and she, being married to a man she does not love...' he held up his hand. 'Oh, come now, Robert, you cannot persist in that fiction any longer, surely? Suzanne chooses to fall in love with this handsome young man. And so she in turn chases behind him all over the Caribbean, and now they are preparing to settle down in happy sin. Again I repeat, they are welcome to it. But I would like to hear what proof you have, firstly, that Matt will not fall out of love with Sue as easily as he appears to have fallen in, and then revert to his passion for Gislane, which still taxes at the least his honour, I know; or worse, what is likely to happen should Gislane reappear in his life. The Caribbean is not so large an area that this is impossible. Or even, in my opinion, unlikely. And you will agree, dear brother-in-law, that either such eventuality will bring the utmost disaster upon your family. Which I now have the honour to call my family.'

'Ha.' Robert got up, paced the room, waved his arms and the servants disappeared. 'I understand your concern, Louis, truly I do. I can only reassure you as best I may. As for the vagaries of Matt's heart, I can offer no opinion. But even should he manage to recreate his first passion, which will be a very unusual experience, I can tell you, he will not find the girl again. And for that same reason, she is unlikely to encounter him again by chance.'

Corbeau frowned. 'You have not done away with the girl?'

'I am no murderer, sir.'

'But... how can you be so sure? Georgiana says she was sold to Hodge of Nevis. My God, that is but ten miles from

Antigua. Do you not see the peak from Green Grove's front verandah?'

'Oh, indeed you do. But Gislane is no longer on Nevis.'

'I must ask you to be more explicit.'

Robert glanced at him, then sighed, and sat down again. 'You'll understand this is a most secret matter, Corbeau, which has hitherto been known only to myself.'

'I'll respect your confidence. But I have a right to know.'

Again Robert sighed. 'I suppose you do. Well, you may suppose I was well aware that Nevis is altogether too close, to either Statia or Antigua. I visited Hodges privily, oh, more than a year gone - the girl had only just arrived - and convinced him that he should sell her again.'

'Convinced him, by heaven. I like that. Sell her where?'

'To a Dutchman.'

'My God. A planter?'

Robert nodded.

'My God,' Corbeau said again. 'Knowing their reputation?'

'Knowing their refusal to countenance any restrictions on their treatment of their slaves, if that is what you mean. Nor do your people, Corbeau.'

'Yet are we somewhat more refined. You have a heart of stone, Robert.'

'I have a duty to protect my family, you mean. As you were just insisting.'

'Aye. Oh, I admire you. Yet am I not convinced. A Dutch planter? Not from Statia, obviously. And there is little enough planting on Saba. Where did you find this man?'

'She was sent to Essequibo.'

Corbeau stared at him. 'The River Coast? That great swamp, where Europeans die like flies?'

Robert shrugged. 'She is only part European.'

'My God,' Corbeau said again. 'And the man's name?'

'I have no idea,' Robert said. 'I thought it best.'

Corbeau nodded. 'Smartly done, to be sure. You are to be congratulated, sir. However, I am afraid I must press you just a shade further. You have done, I admit it freely, everything in your power, short of that murder which repels you, to your honour, to ensure that this girl never again threatens the future of the Hiltons. Yet are there very many strange coincidences in life, some good, some disastrous. It is at least possible that she might escape the Guyanese swamps, or that Matt may learn what happened to her, and chase behind her. What then?'

'The idea is impossible.'

'If it is so impossible you can at least consider it.' 'What would you have me say?'

Corbeau sat beside him. 'Listen to me. I am thinking now of my children, Georgiana's children. No matter what happens, you'll agree they will be the only truly legitimate heirs to your estates. Dirk Huys will never divorce Sue, and you know that as well as I. Now Matt is entitled to his inheritance, so long as he acts the part. God knows, I would stand between no man and what is rightfully his. But should he act less than the part, why, then, the Hiltons of the future must be protected.'

Robert gazed at him for some seconds. 'You're a cunning fellow, Louis. Yet I cannot gainsay your point. Very well. Should Matt ever introduce Gislane into this house or Green Grove, he shall forfeit his inheritance, should I still be living, and I shall insert a clause to that effect in perpetuity, into my Will. In which case the Hilton estates will devolve upon the children of Georgiana.' He sighed. 'And a famous name will quite disappear.'

Corbeau laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. 'You take altogether too gloomy a view of the situation, Robert. As you say and hope, perhaps Matt is indeed in love with Sue, and we worry needlessly. But to have taken the proper precautions, that were the sensible thing to do. Now I am for bed.' He went to the archway into the hall, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. 'Tell me, Robert. This Gislane, Georgiana even has to admit that she is quite the most beautiful creature she has ever seen. Is that a fact?'

'What? Oh, aye. Entrancing. Do you know, I last saw her, naked and triced up to a bar. Indeed I saved her from a flogging. And she had then spent four months on a slaver. And yet... by God, Louis, I nearly took her for myself. Try to imagine every bit of high yellow you have ever known, take each of their very best points, from toe to tit, and put them all together, and you'd have that girl. As to what she'd be like now, after a year of Dutch company, well, I cannot say.'

'An intriguing thought,' Corbeau agreed. 'But between Georgiana and yourself, you almost make me understand Matt's point of view. 'Tis an odd world we live in, to be sure.'

CHAPTER TEN

THE PLANTER

GREEN GROVE was the largest plantation on Antigua, and yet was by some degree smaller than Hilltop. It was far more beautiful; its compactness gave an impression of tremendous fertility - seen from the gentle hill which overlooked at once the canefields and the Great House and the slave village and the beach beyond, and the Leper Island, it was simple to understand how it had first obtained its name, even in the month after grinding.

It was also the most evocative of the Hilton possessions. Here Kit Hilton the buccaneer had come courting, and here he had wooed the beautiful Meg Warner, despite the opposition of her family and indeed of all Antigua society. Here they had lived their stormy lives, loving and hating each other with equal intensity, and here Meg had contracted the leprosy which, had left her even more notorious in death than she had been in life. Her bones still lay on the Leper Island, even if the island was now deserted, shunned by all as a place of evil spirits; the Government had itself taken over the segregated treatment of the disease and built its own lazaretto close to St. John's.

But it was Meg Hilton's spirit which dominated these fields, and this house. And Meg, with her single-minded determination to have what she wanted, regardless of legal or moral impediment, would surely be smiling on this latest example of Hilton perversity, Hilton disregard for convention. Matt felt it in his bones, knew it in the swelling of his heart, as the gig started its downward journey. He glanced at Sue, and found her watching him.

He closed his fingers over hers. 'Happy?'

'If you will be happy. Matt.'

He pursed his lips to blow her a kiss. 'I am happy whenever I am near enough to touch you.'

Now at last she smiled. 'There is a challenge no woman should resist. I shall always be near enough to touch, Matt. Until you grow tired of me.'

'There is an incomprehensible thought.' He watched the drive unfolding in front of the horses, the muscles flexing in Thomas Henry's shoulders as he tightened the reins; the slaves on Green Grove had always retained the double names invented by Marguerite. But there were so many incomprehensible thoughts, chasing about his head, demanding to be exposed. He had spoken no more than the truth; when Sue was within an arm's length he knew no doubts, no fears, would accept no self-condemnation. Yet was she also right. Their love depended on their physical joy in each other, and it was difficult to see that lasting a lifetime, through sickness and inevitable separation, even if neither of them doubted it would at least survive the current scandal.

But there was the sum of her problem. She had acted as a Hilton, thrown up husband and respectability for the company of a man she had chosen to love. Her business must be to keep him, if only to justify herself. But what of him? How simple to say, why, I am the same. I saw, I loved, and now my existence is controlled from embrace to embrace. Except that he had used those thoughts, enjoyed those emotions, once before, and in so doing brought catastrophe upon a girl who had done no more than respond. Perhaps, he thought, this is what truly frightens me, that having destroyed Gislane, merely by loving, I am now in the process of destroying Sue. But Sue could never be destroyed; no matter what happened to her, she would face life, and treat life, and conquer life, as a Hilton. Not a slave.

So, then, every moment he sat here, or rode the dams at Green Grove, or drank his punch and sangaree on the front verandah, he was compounding his crime. He had, to all intents and purposes, committed murder, and was taking his ease while his victim still died.

But always his conscience foundered upon the same rock.

Was not Gislane already dead? Or at least, the Gislane he had known? Could he not but make matters worse, by seeking and finding her? Must not her hatred of white people, and of the Hiltons, and of Matt Hilton most of all, be the dominating fact of her life? Whatever had become of her, however horrible her life, he could only accept the fact that to him she was dead, as to her he must be dead. It was a simple enough resolve.

The pressure of Suzanne's fingers tightened on his own, and he started. She smiled at him, but her eyes remained solemn. No doubt she was sufficiently used to his brown studies, and sufficiently aware of their cause.

But now too the time for thought was past, at least for a while. The gig was pounding up the driveway, and as it was late afternoon they were encountering files of slaves returning from the fields, driven by the whips of their overseers. They stared at the carriage in disinterested bemusement, two visitors for Mistress Lander's dinner table, perhaps. But one of the overseers recognized Sue, and then Matt, and raised his hat, and called out to another. Here was a fruitful cause for speculation in the white compound.

The gig rolled to a stop. Green Grove Great House was but a smaller version of that at Hilltop, from the carefully constructed mound of earth on which the house stood, through the deep verandahs and the reinforced doors, past the mahogany floors and the cedar walls, to the huge skylights in the roof; Hilltop was in fact no more than an enlarged copy of the original Hilton house. And on the verandah were Thomas Arthur the butler, and Jane Lander herself, a tall, angular Scotswoman, complexion bleached yellow by an adult lifetime in the tropics, grey-streaked black hair drawn back in a tight bun to emphasize the pointed forcefulness of her features. She was frowning at the sudden appearance of an unexpected carriage, and the frown was only deepening as she recognized the occupants, even as she hurried down the stairs behind her butler to assist Suzanne to the ground.

'Mistress Huys,' she cried, and bit her lip. 'How good to see you. Matthew, is that you?' She could remember him as a babe.

'The bad penny himself, Jane,' he cried. 'Ian home yet?'

'I expect him shortly. But come inside. Come inside. There are mosquitoes. Thomas Arthur, you'll prepare sangaree. Is this a visit...' she checked, to glance at Suzanne, and flush.

'I am afraid we are come to stay, Jane, Suzanne said, lifting her skirt to climb the stairs. 'We? I... I do not understand.'

'Robert has decided it is time I become a planter,' Matt explained. 'Of course Ian will continue to oversee the plantation. Make no mistake about that. No doubt in the next twenty years or so I will learn the business.'

She glanced at him, before her eyes seemed to roll back to Suzanne. Antigua was only a dozen miles from St. Eustatius; they had seen the Dutch island on the northern horizon as they had sailed past St. Kitts.

'And I have elected to be a planter's wife, if it is possible,' Suzanne said, with that coolness which however well Matt knew to be affected, was certainly her greatest asset. Now she drew off her gloves and sat down.

'Oh, my dear,' Jane cried, joining her on the settee, her mind apparently made up. 'There will be a divorce?'

Suzanne took a glass of sangaree from Thomas Arthur's tray, and waited while Matt did the same. 'Not in the immediate future. Dirk is a possessive man.'

'Oh. Oh, dear. I ... I must see to your rooms, of course.' Jane got up. 'You will remain in the front room, Matt, and...'

'Matt will move into the master bedroom, with me, Jane,' Suzanne said. 'We may as well understand each other, and our situation. I have no doubt at all, from the way Joanna Chester averted her eyes when she happened to see us disembarking this morning, that all Antigua is well aware of what has happened. So please do not pretend to be ignorant. I have left my husband, in order to become Matt's mistress. As I said just now, I hope in time to become his wife, but there is little possibility of that for some years. In that time I have no desire or intention to act the nun.'

Jane Lander stared at her. 'But...'

'Green Grove will become the centre of endless gossip, and all who live here will doubtless be ostracized. It has happened before, Jane, and certainly it will happen again.'

‘Oh, my God ...' Jane gazed past Matt at her husband.

Ian Lander was no taller than his wife, and had somewhat less strong a face. But now it was cold. 'I'm sorry I was not in St. John's to meet you, Matthew. I was not informed you were coming.'

'I have Robert's letter here.' Matt pulled it from his pocket, and waited, while Lander slit the envelope and perused its contents, his frown deepening the while.

‘I think I will go upstairs and change for supper,' Suzanne decided. ‘I have been wearing these clothes for two days; the captain would not let us leave the deck as we sneaked past St. Kitts for fear Dillon's people would rush out upon us. Do you think one of the girls could draw me a bath, Jane?'

‘I will see to it,' Jane Lander said, but she hesitated, as her husband was clearly reaching the end of his study.

'Mr. Hilton says you are to assume full control of the plantation,' he said, gazing at Matt.

Matt nodded. 'I understand that was his intention. I have promised him to devote myself utterly to the task, for a period of at least three years.'

Landers gaze drifted in the direction of Suzanne, who was again on her feet. 'And in that time —'

'I shall be living here also, Ian.' Sue's cheeks glowed, but with anger rather than embarrassment, Matt had no doubt.

The manager drew a long breath. ‘I doubt you will have much use for my services in the future, in these circumstances.' He did not specify to whom he was speaking.

'Oh, what rubbish, Ian,' Matt shouted. 'I have forgotten all I ever knew about planting, if indeed I ever knew anything at all. Without you the plantation would rapidly descend to ruin.'

'Aye,' said the Scot. 'But I doubt...'

'We shall be happy to help you in every possible way, Matthew,' Jane said, quietly. 'And you, of course, Mistress Huys. I will see to your bath.'

She left the room, and Sue hesitated only long enough to gaze at Matt, and speak to him with her eyes, demanding strength. He nodded. 'You attend your bath, Sue; I am sure Ian and I have a great deal to discuss. You'll sit down, Ian, and tell me of the plantation. And take a glass of sangaree.'

Lander sat down, rolled his glass in his hands as he listened to Suzanne's boots on the stairs. 'It is said, when the war ends, that Dirk Huys will go seeking the man who has dishonoured his name.'

'I shall not ask any man on this plantation to fight my battles, Ian.'

Lander sighed. 'You grew up on Antigua, Matt. You'll recall its size. Dirk is but the half of your problem.'

'What, will anyone refuse to ship Hilton sugar?' Matt took another glass. 'Barton would give him short shrift.'

'Oh, aye. No one will refuse our sugar, Matt. And Mistress Huys must be the most beautiful woman to walk these boards since Miss Meg, God rest her soul. But to stare at that sea, and the island, and those fields, endlessly, will become a purgatory with the best of company.'

Here was an immediate crisis; Ian clearly could not forget that he had been Ned Hilton's best friend. Matt drained his second glass, and set it down with great care. 'I'll bow to your knowledge, your experience, in the field and in the factory, Ian. Not once we mount those stairs. And by heaven I'll break the head of the first man who utters a word against Mistress Huys.' He stood up. 'And I'll hold the men responsible for the tongues of their wives. Remember that.'

Dawn was the best time of the day. It seldom changed its hour, invariably arrived between five and six of the morning. The Great House faced south, and the master bedroom was on the south-facing wall, so that the light was never piercing, but rather a tremendous pink and yellow glow, which ranged into the windows, slid up and down the walls, set up an aura around the white mosquito netting which shrouded the tent bed and left the occupants inside invisible.

The netting did more than repel insects; it also excluded anything short of a gale, and the tropical night which began hot, and cooled somewhat after midnight, was by dawn again close and warm. By then the sheets had been rolled back by their sleepily kicking feet, and they were uncovered.

Yet always intertwined, a leg across a leg, an arm across a chest, strands of her fine golden hair tickling his nose. If during the day she imposed upon all around her the imperious hauteur of that steady stare and determined arrogance, at night she dissolved into a delight whose only joy was passion, and who was knowing it, with him, for the first time in her existence.

But the first intimation of dawn was not yet time for movement. He loved to watch her awake, and was content to wait for it to happen naturally. He also loved to listen to the sounds of the awaking plantation, the stealthy whisper from downstairs as the servants began their mammoth task of sweeping and dusting and expelling ants and spiders, the neighing of the horses as they were taken from the stable for exercise, the incessant tolling of the bell from the slave compound, summoning the unfortunate blacks to another day of endless, unrewarded labour.

His own part in this was as yet small. In the two months they had lived here they had unashamedly honeymooned. Besides, it was the slackest time of the year. Grinding had been completed but ten weeks earlier, and the field hands were concerned solely with preserving the young shoots from the attacks of weeds. As the plants grew stronger, and able to defend themselves, the field work would diminish for a spell, and then the business of maintaining and improving the plantation would commence. Roads would be re-surfaced, houses would be re-roofed. Honeymooning or not, Sue was already making notes of where she wanted paint renewed, and what changes she would have made in the furnishings of the house. She pursued her course as chatelaine of Green Grove with the careless energy of a woman who had been born simply to perform this duty; nor had she been disturbed. Predictably, no one had come to call on the runaway Hilton sinners, and they had not as yet ventured into St. John's.

His daily task consisted of no more than a leisurely ride through the fields, before the sun grew too hot, and the obligatory daily inspection of the dispensary, to chat with the sick and receive William Arthur's report on which were likely to survive. It had been Lander's idea that he should immediately commence taking the chair at the morning punishment sessions, but this he had declined, for the time being; Green Grove appeared to run smoothly, and the blacks appeared to be happy, if blacks ever were happy. He wished to get to know them all again before he stepped in as their immediate master. For the time being he was content to be a remote figure with eventual power over them all, and for that reason, he reminded himself, the more formidable, from their point of view.

Which was specious enough. If he ever had the courage to admit the truth to himself, it would have to be that he feared them. Not physically, but for the memories they threatened to recreate for him, memories which always hovered on the brink of his consciousness, which he knew but waited on his own conscience, his own determination, whether to allow them to overwhelm him altogether, or whether the planter in him would in time submerge them. Memories which for the moment could only certainly be lost in Sue's arms.

She sighed, and eyes still shut, blew a strand of hair from its resting place on her mouth. But she was awake. Matt reached down, rested the curled fingers of his right hand behind her left knee, which lay across both his legs, and slowly stroked the nails up, along the back of the thigh, over the gentle curve of the buttock, into the pit of the back and up to the smooth shoulders. As he did so her entire body undulated, like a cat's. And she smiled, and discovered one eye to be open.

His fingers crossed her shoulders and commenced the descent, pausing at the soft swell of her breast, hovering to finger her nipple into erectness, sliding past her rib cage and navel to arrive at her groin and gently scratch the curly mat. This she enjoyed more than orgasm itself, and her tongue came out from between her teeth - strangely reminiscent of Georgiana, this - to touch his own, as she pushed her body closer to his to force his fingers deeper, and then, quite without warning, rolled away from him, sitting up in the same movement, thrusting the netting aside with her toes.

'Sue?' He caught her wrist, gently pulled her back.

She rested her head on his shoulder. 'You cannot enter me, Matt. I'm pregnant.'

He twisted to see into her face. 'You cannot know.'

'I am sure enough. I have been becoming sure, over the past week. I am now on my third month.' She smiled, that slow, lazy smile he liked so much, and kissed him on the chin. 'It must have happened on our first night in Jamaica, after the Saintes. The first time for over a year. We were both uncommonly anxious.'

'We must get you to a surgeon.'

'What nonsense. I would but ask you to forgive me. You must make a choice from amongst the mulatto girls on the plantation, for the time. Unless a Negress will do.'

'Neither will do.'

Her smile had faded, and her gaze seemed to be searching for his heart. 'Aye,' she said at last. 'I sometimes wish you had bedded the girl, Matt. Then perhaps she'd be easier to forget.'

'And now you must forgive me. Perhaps I wish no woman but you.'

'That would be a strange man indeed. Then I must service you with my hands and my mouth. If that will satisfy you.'

He kissed her on the nose. 'Just to lie here with you satisfies me, sweetheart.' But he got out of the bed, pulled on his clothes. 'A son, do you think?'

'Does it matter so much?'

'No. Not the sex. The fact of it. Surely now...'

She shrugged. 'He is a man of strong passions.'

They had heard nothing from Dirk, or of Dirk, had assumed this was because the French had taken St. Eustatia back, and even if the Hollanders were officially their allies, were retaining it for the duration of the war. But hostilities had entirely ceased, except for privateering; peace was expected every day.

Her hand squeezed his. 'But I agree, if he is at all human, he must now understand that it can never again be him and me.'

Matt nodded, sat down to lace his boots. Suddenly he was afraid to look at her, the naked beauty of her, standing in front of him. Damask.

'Do you fear him, Matt?'

Never before had she risked such a question. But then, perhaps never before had the answer been so important.

'I don't think I am afraid of him,' he said, carefully. 'I know I will be defeated should I have to face him, weapon in hand. This is a certainty, like the knowledge that I could not jump from this window without at least breaking my leg. Yet, supposing the house were on fire, I would jump from this window and hope that I might not break my leg. I do not know what that makes me.'

She was smiling again. 'An optimist, certainly. I like optimists. And I promise you this, Matt, that should Dirk elect to fight you, then must he also fight me.'

'You did not have to say that. I was already sure of it.'

She nodded. 'You must ride aback alone, from now on. I wish to take no risks.'

He nodded, picked up his hat and whip, went down the stairs, drank the huge mug of sweetened coffee which was waiting for him. He wished no more in the early mornings, looked forward to the breakfast he would enjoy, with Sue, when he returned from the morning ride.

Ian Lander also waited, his face even grimmer than usual this morning. 'Bobman is here.'

Matt adjusted his hat. 'Who would Bobman be?'

'You've not forgotten Bobman? The jumper from St. John's.'

'I remember the jumper,' Matt said. 'What can he want?' 'We've four for punishment.'

Matt frowned at him. 'There's been no one in the stocks.'

' 'Tis a system of my own, Matthew. It seems a terrible waste of labour, to lock a man in the stocks for upwards of a month. Bobman is not a regular visitor. So those I have condemned work in the fields until he comes. I have kept them back this morning.'

'You should have informed me of this before,' Matt said. His coffee seemed to have solidified into lead in his belly.

'You did not ask, and I forgot. But there are only four. It will take but a few minutes. Yet must you be there, as you are here.'

Matt walked down the steps, stared down the drive, at the triangles. They were already filled, three men and a girl, stripped naked and suspended by their wrists.

Lander was at his side. 'Robert Peter, guilty of insubordination,' he said. 'Three dozen. Robert William, guilty of insubordination, three dozen. Petronella Petronella, guilty of stealing, six dozen.'

'Six dozen?' Matt halted. 'For the girl?'

'Well, Matthew, stealing is something I am determined to stamp out. Petronella Petronella was a house girl, and she took a silver spoon and tried to sell it in the market in St. John's.'

'When was this?'

'About a week before you arrived.'

'She has been confined since then?'

'No. I told you, I consider that sort of action a total waste. I told her to expect punishment, and then removed her from the house and placed her in the fields.'

'And since then she has been waiting,' Matt said thoughtfully. 'And the fourth?'

'His name is Ulysses Edward, and he is guilty of making a sacrifice to a voodoo god, and incidentally of stealing one chicken. I have decided twelve dozen lashes for him.'

'Twelve dozen lashes?' Matt asked incredulously. 'For stealing a chicken?'

'That were the least of his offences,' Lander insisted. 'You have been in England too long, Matt, away from the superstitions and cruelties of these people. Voodoo is a serious matter.'

'God give me patience,' Matt cried. 'It is their religion, is it not? You may call it a superstition, Ian, but no doubt they would call Christianity a superstition.'

'Now really, Matthew, there is no necessity to be blasphemous.'

'As Rousseau would no doubt call all religion a superstition,' Matt insisted.

'I have never read Master Rousseau,' Lander remarked. 'I do not believe in obscene literature.'

'Aye,' Matt said. 'It is all a matter of obscenity, to you.'

Lander walked ahead, down the drive, to where the cluster of overseers was waiting with the huge black man known as Bobman. 'We'll begin with this one,' he said, jerking his chin at Ulysses Edward. 'He's a recent purchase, Bobman, from somewhere in the recesses of the Congo, and filled with blasphemous ideas. Take the skin from his back. Twelve dozen lashes.'

The Negro's head jerked, to suggest that he understood English, but his expression, composed and almost withdrawn, did not change.

'Oh, aye, Mr. Lander,' agreed Bobman. 'And what he done?'

'He has prayed to Damballah Oueddo,' said one of the overseers.

'I have yet to be taught where is the crime in praying to one's own version of God,' Matt said, having reached the party.

Lander exchanged glances with his overseers, and drew a long breath. 'It is not as simple a matter as you think, Matthew. This god to whom they pray, this Damballah, the mighty serpent, is dedicated to the destruction of the white people in the West Indies, to the murder of us all, to the murder of you, Matthew. And Mistress Huys.'

'Something to think about,' Matt said. 'Especially when you remember the Romans no doubt considered that the preaching of Jesus Christ was devoted entirely to the murder of all Roman non-believers and the destruction of their property.'

'Aye,' Lander said. 'And this fellow should count himself lucky that we do not treat him as the Romans treated the early Christians.'

'Oh, indeed,' Matt agreed. 'The point I am arguing, however, is whether you consider yourself a Christian, Ian, or an early Roman.'

Lander stared at him.

'I flogging this man or not?' Bobman demanded, of the attorney.

'Get to it,' the Scot growled.

And suddenly Matt was angry, as he had been angry on board the Formidable, as he had been angry in his bedroom when facing Georgiana. Suddenly he knew how much of a specious coward he had been over the months which had passed since Gislane had been swept from his life. His cowardice had cost him her, forever, and in its place, mysteriously and magnificently, had brought him Sue. But he knew now that he could no longer be a coward, and expect even her constant love. And now he was about to be a father.

'You'll address yourself to me, God damn you,' he shouted, and their heads jerked in surprise. 'You're flogging no one here today, Bobman. Take your leave.'

Bobman's astonished gaze turned towards Lander; he rolled his eyes. 'But what is this, man, Mr. Lander?'

‘Your cousin put me in charge of this plantation, Matthew,' protested the manager.

'Until he sent me here as its owner, Ian. You'll not forget that.'

Lander changed his tactics. 'And if we send Bobman away, who's to carry out the flogging? I've no wish to harm the blacks.'

'You've no wish to harm them, Ian. I'm glad to hear you say that. Neither have I, save where it is absolutely necessary. There'll be no flogging here. Munroe, cut them down.'

The head overseer hesitated, watching Lander, and received a quick nod.

'And bring them here,' Matt said.

The four slaves were brought before him, faces bemused with their rapid change of fortune. 'You,' Matt said. 'Ulysses Edward. I'll punish no man for believing in a god, whoever he may be. Get back to your field gang.'

'But...' Lander began, and stopped. Ulysses Edward was already jog-trotting his way up the drive.

'Petronella Petronella,' Matt said. 'You stole a spoon from the house, and sold it in the market. Who to?'

Her head swung to and fro. ‘I didn't sell it, massa. I didn't have the time.'

'We got the spoon back, Matthew,' Lander said. 'It is the deed I proposed to punish.'

'As indeed it should be,' Matt agreed. 'You have spent six weeks in the field, Petronella Petronella. Yet I do not think you have been punished enough. For the next four weeks you'll lose your day off. Now get back up to the house and tell Mistress Huys what I have decreed.'

The girl scuttled away, while Lander scratched his head.

'No doubt you'll pat these two fellows on the head, for insubordination.'

'By no means,' Matt said. 'They sought to prove themselves men, difficult enough in the circumstances in which they must live. You'd quarrel with me, would you, Robert William?' He addressed the larger of the two Negroes.

'Oh, no, massa. Not with you, massa.' His eyes rolled towards Munroe.

'To quarrel with one of my overseers is to quarrel with me,' Matt insisted. 'You'd best think on that. From this moment, any quarrel on this plantation is a quarrel with me. I'll not flog you, Robert William. I'll not flog any man. But by heaven I'll break your jaw, and that's a sight more painful. You understand me?'

'Oh, yes, massa.' Robert William grinned, as he looked down on his master, several inches the shorter.

'You're mad,' Lander declared. 'Clear out of your senses.'

Matt watched the slave. 'You're amused,' he said. 'I like my people to laugh. But I like them to understand me, too. You'd be free, Robert William, to insult who you please. Tell the truth.'

Robert William shifted his feet in the dust. 'Well, massa, we all must want to be free.'

'Only men can be free,' Matt said. 'You can have your freedom this minute, if you're man enough. I say so, before witnesses. Bobman, you're my witness too. I give Robert William his freedom. He has but to walk off the plantation. But to do that he must walk past me. Can you do that, Robert William?'

The Negro stared at him. 'You meaning that, massa?'

'Mad,' Lander groaned. 'Munroe, fetch me a pistol.'

'You'll not move, Munroe,' Matt said, never taking his gaze from Robert William's face. 'Yes, I mean it. I have said it, before witnesses. Have you ever known my father to break his word? I say you shall not leave here, Robert William. But if you do, you are free. And there are no weapons ranged against you.'

Robert William hesitated; sweat globules were forming on his forehead and shoulders. Then he lowered his head and ran for the drive. Matt caught his shoulder and spun him round. Robert William's arms came up in gigantic, bearlike swings, which Matt avoided with the greatest of ease. He stepped inside the Negro's fist, his own arms pumping straight from the shoulder as Jack Broughton had taught him. And as Jack Broughton had also taught him, he made no move for the head, which could only bruise his hands, but instead struck deep for the pit of the belly, hurling all his weight into each blow, and then jumping backwards before the milling black arms could encompass him. But they had in any event lost their power. Robert William's legs had been robbed of all strength by the hammer blows into his solar plexus, and now they gave way, leaving him kneeling and gasping, his head lolling, his arms useless at his side.

'Get up, man,' Matt said. 'Get up, and either oppose me again, or return to your field gang.' Slowly Robert William reached his feet, still seeking breath. He stared at Matt for a moment, dropped his gaze to the fists which had destroyed him, then turned and shambled along the track to the canefields.

'Now it is your tum, Robert Arthur,' Matt said, quietly. 'Man, massa, I gone to work,' Robert Arthur said, and followed his friend.

'By Christ,' Munroe whispered. 'Mad,' Lander said. 'Mad.'

'That is how the blacks shall be treated from now on, Ian,' Matt said. 'Straight up, as human beings. And the overseer who cannot face a Negro with his fists and the power of his mind is not worth his pay. You'd best pass the word on that to your mates, Munroe.'

'Oh, aye, Mr. Hilton, I'll do that,' Munroe agreed, and turned for his mule.

'I'll not stand for it,' Lander declared. 'You'll run no plantation by such tom-fool methods, Matt Hilton.'

'I seem to remember that this plantation was run in a manner very like it, by Kit Hilton, after Marguerite Hilton died. And successfully.'

'Aye,' Lander said. 'So they say. I was not alive then. And the idea didn't survive the captain's death, now did it? And he was an altogether exceptional man. You've a way to travel before you reach his stature, Matt.'

'No doubt you're right, Ian. I'll not do it by refusing to start, now, will I?'

'You'll persist in this madness?'

'I'll persist in my endeavour to remind the Negro that he is a man like myself, and maybe become more of one, myself, in the process, if that is what you mean.'

'You'll do so without my aid,' Lander declared, and stared at the young man, brows drawn together.

Matt hesitated, then shrugged; no doubt he had always known it must come to this. 'Then I am sorry, Ian. You'll have no trouble finding employment elsewhere. I'll write you a reference.'

'You ... you're dismissing me?'

'I'd say you've just dismissed yourself. A plantation can have only one master.'

'By Christ,' Lander said. 'By Christ. We'll see about that.' He turned and made for the house. Matt followed more slowly. Suzanne sat in her rocking-chair on the verandah, sipping chocolate.

'You'll have heard,' Matt said.

'I saw as well,' she said. 'Are you hurt?'

He shook his head. 'I took no risks. I was well taught.' He sat beside her. 'You blame me?'

She smiled. 'I'm surprised you waited this long, Matt. You've a deep wayward streak. But then, so have I. Just as long as you want me at your shoulder, I'll be content to stand there.'

Dr. Thomas Coke stood on the front verandah of Green Grove Great House, his hat held in both hands. He was aware of heat, of trickling perspiration. But then, he was always aware of heat; in three years he had never managed to become acclimatized to the perpetual West Indian summer. He found it incredible that he should be standing here, in the month of November, wearing a light jacket over a shirt, no vest, and not a glove or a topcoat in sight, while the sun scorched the drive up which he had just ridden.

But today's heat was increased by his surroundings. He did not know what he would find here, what he wanted to find here. He had heard enough. All the West Indies had heard enough, of Matt Hilton and his mad experiments, of the beautiful girl who had abandoned husband and friends and even family to live at his side. But then, where was the angry impetuous boy with whom he had shared the passage from England? And where was the dream for which he had actively been searching?

But at least some of the rumours were obviously true. Green Grove was grinding. The canefields resembled a battlefield, littered with scorched and dismembered plants; those nearest the house were still being cleared, the cut stalks being piled on to the carts which would take them to the factory - and the slaves sang as they worked. The factory itself belched black smoke, drifting southward and westward across the Caribbean Sea, and hummed with the chatter of a hundred men and the grinding of the machinery; he had paused to watch the huge treadwheel being mounted endlessly by muscular black men, naked, save for their loincloths, and sweating as they placed one foot in front of the other, and had marvelled - he had been on other estates at grinding, and never had the great wheel moved without the impetus of the white man with the whip. Here there was no white man at all.

He had ridden past the slave compound, and been smiled at by the children and the old women. He had seen no triangles. There were stocks, and in one of the stocks there was a black man, head bowed, but back unmarked; when he had heard the hooves he had jerked into wakefulness, and looked at the visitor, and he too had smiled, uncovering a vast array of brilliant teeth.

And the butler who had taken his card into the house had been no less happy, as was the girl who had hastened on to the verandah with a glass of punch to set his head swinging. So then, he wondered, what could have wrought such a miracle? Or would who be a better word?

Suzanne moved slowly, descending the great staircase with much care and advancing across the parquet floor of the hall towards the open front door; her babe was cradled in her left arm, and chewed at the bodice of her gown. And she smiled, with all the unearthly beauty of the nursing mother. 'Dr. Coke. Matt has told me so much about you. I have sent to the factory to call him.'

Her flesh was amazingly dry. 'I must apologize for disturbing you in this manner.'

She sat down in the rocking-chair placed for her by the butler. 'His name is Anthony, Dr. Coke, and I am sure he is as pleased to see a visitor as I. I assume you are familiar with our circumstances?'

'People talk, if that is what you mean.' He sat beside her. 'I would have come sooner. But travel is that difficult. Or I should say has been that difficult. But now peace has been signed ...'

'Has it, Dr. Coke?'

'Oh, indeed, Mistress ...' he bit his lip.

Her smile widened into a laugh. 'It is difficult, isn't it? I think it would be best were you to call me Suzanne, and then I could call you Tom, and we could forget formality.'

'It will be my pleasure, Suzanne,' he said. 'St. John's is in great celebration. All the West Indies, I imagine will be in great celebration. I find it incredible that you cannot know.'

'My great-grandmother died on this plantation, of leprosy,' Suzanne said, thoughtfully. ‘I cannot believe that even during the last stages of her illness Green Grove was as shunned as it has been this last year.' Her gaze turned away from him. 'Matt will explain.'

The horse waited at the foot of the steps, and Matt was already on his way up. He wore no shirt, and his chest and shoulders were burned mahogany. Now he took off his hat, and extended a powerful arm. 'Tom Coke. I'd have thought you back in England by now.'

'Matt.' Coke grasped his hand. 'No, no. My task is here. And to this day it has been an uncommonly unsatisfactory one. I have not the time to recount the number of plantations from which I have been forcibly expelled, from Barbados to Jamaica. But here...'

'Here you'll stay, Tom,' Matt said, and drained a mug of punch. Coke observed that Suzanne watched him constantly, scarce seeming to blink. She loved him, there could be no question of that; but there was something more than love in her gaze.

Matt kissed his son on the head, and sat down. 'Because here you'll find what you were looking for, I'll warrant.'

‘I have found the rumours difficult to credit,' Coke admitted. 'Have you truly abolished the whip?'

'We have,' Matt said. 'And I will wager you any sum you care to mention that my crop this year is as good or better than last. There will be a bitter draught for my critics in the House. They expect Green Grove to declare bankruptcy at the least.'

'Then will they hate you the more,' Coke observed, soberly. 'And what has been the reaction of your cousin in Jamaica?'

Matt exchanged a glance with Suzanne. 'Why, there has been no reaction at all, to our knowledge.'

'We know Ian Lander returned to Jamaica when Matt dismissed him,' Suzanne said. 'But there has been a remarkable absence of letters.'

'I suppose the war is playing its usual havoc with shipping,' Matt said.

'But the war is now ending,' Suzanne said. 'So Tom says.'

'Peace was signed at Versailles last month,' Coke said. 'America is free, but that apart, all the colonial conquests are to be restored, save that Great Britain will retain Tobago. You can thank Admiral Rodney's victory at the Saintes for that achievement at the least. But you were there. I had forgotten.'

'We were both there,' Matt said.

'Indeed. There is another of the many rumours which hang about your heads like clouds about Olympus,' Coke said. 'But you are wrong to suppose you are entirely neglected. There is a letter for you.' He felt in his pocket, produced the somewhat crumpled envelope. 'I think there was difficulty in having it delivered, so I volunteered.'

Matt frowned. 'Robert?'

'Or Dirk,' Suzanne suggested.

'Not so distant,' Coke said. 'English Harbour.'

Matt turned the envelope over, then slit it with his thumb. 'I know of no one in English Harbour.' He read, and his frown faded into a smile, which rapidly became a laugh. 'You'll not believe it.'

'Then tell me of it,' Suzanne suggested, 'and at least give me the chance.'

' "His Royal Highness the Prince William, and the captain and the officers of His Majesty's ship Boreas, request the pleasure of Mr. Matthew Hilton and Mistress Suzanne Huys at a dinner to celebrate the signing of peace with France and Holland, to be held on board H.M.S. Boreas on the evening of Friday, 17th November, 1783." Why, that is the day after tomorrow.'

'So it is,' Coke agreed.

Matt gazed at Suzanne. 'After more than a year.'

'But this is the navy, Matt. Not the planters. They'll have learned you were present at the Saintes.'

'Thus they hope to entertain you as well, sweetheart.'

'Which is obviously impossible. And the Prince ... there is a pity. You will have to make my apologies. And to the captain. Do you know him?'

Matt looked at Coke. 'Do you?'

Coke shook his head. 'You'll attend?'

'Why, I ...' again the quick look at Suzanne. 'What do you think, sweetheart?'

'That you should go. You were at the battle, and covered yourself with glory, indeed. You are worth a place. And this will be a naval and military gathering. You'll have no planting controversy.'

Coke shook his head. 'Now that I'd think is at least likely. If the navy is entertaining, then will it be everyone of consequence on Antigua.'

Suzanne shrugged. 'Matt has but to keep his temper. You'll do that, Matt?'

'Eh? Oh, yes, sweetheart. I shall keep my temper. I promise you that. But we'll talk no more of it. You'll stay with us, Tom? If I am presently criticized by my fellows, surely my success here on Green Grove will initiate support and indeed, copy? From here we can really construct that happy society of which your Mr. Wesley dreams.'

'And then?' Coke asked quietly.

'Ah. Now there is a point on which we will have to debate.

I'd use the whip on no man, but I cannot see how we can

keep these islands prosperous without forced labour. And my

ancestors died for this prosperity, Tom. I can do no less...' he smiled at Suzanne. 'For my son.'

Coke nodded. ‘I honour your point of view, Matt. 'Tis something we will discuss. And I will happily stay with you the while, if Suzanne will permit it.'

'It will be my pleasure, Tom. Matt is so busy I sadly lack a companion, often enough.'

'I shall be here, I promise you,' He accepted a fresh glass of punch, leaned back in his chair, and inhaled. 'To Green Grove, and her enlightened owners. I feel, you know, as if at last I have caused a crack in the facade of unfeelingness, of brutality, of inhumanity, if you like, which shrouds these marvellous islands. For be sure I place much of the credit on our conversations as we came across the Atlantic, Matt. And the rest on your own courage and determination. And no doubt on the support of Suzanne here. I drink to you all.'

'And you ask no questions,' Matt said, quietly.

'I cannot believe it is my place to do so.'

'Aye.' Matt gazed at Suzanne. 'We none of us ask questions. Probably because we all of us know I have no answers.' His shoulders rose and fell. 'You do me no justice, Tom. I, a man of courage and determination? I am a hateful fellow, a shallow coward.'

Coke looked at Suzanne, but she said nothing; she gazed at Matt.

'Robert was right, of course, from the beginning; Georgiana was right. Suzanne, thank God, has never tried to be either right or wrong, as regards me. It was an infatuation. But because of it to what was that poor child condemned? Had I not come along might she not have married some English squire and lived out her life in contentment and even happiness? Now I do not know if she is dead, or enduring some living death. And thanks to me, poor Sue has had her life utterly ruined ... by heaven, I am all of a criminal, when you come down to it.'

'Oh, what nonsense,' Suzanne said. 'Because of you, I perhaps realized that my life was being ruined, and took steps to correct that sadness. Believe me, Matt, if your Gislane has gained as much from life as I have, because of her knowledge of you, then is she blessed.'

Matt looked at Coke. 'What do you think, old friend?'

The missionary sighed. 'God knows. Certainly He moves in a mysterious way. I see you expiating your sins in attempting to treat your slaves as human beings. Be sure that Augustine, Francis of Assisi, perhaps even Mr. Wesley himself, were but expiating sins when they undertook their great steps into the unknown of human thought and endeavour. Again I say, I drink to you both, to the man who would dare, and the woman who would support him; both are equally deserving of honour. And I say again, Matt, take care, and guard your temper, for all of our sakes, when you venture into public'

What memories were brought back as he was rowed across the still, landlocked waters of English Harbour. The Boreas was the only frigate presently moored here, but the entire magnificent natural harbour had been transformed into an unassailable naval base, with barracks dotting the shoreline and the small islands in the bay, and gun emplacements dominating the narrow entrance to the sea beyond. It was totally unlike the somewhat exposed anchorage at Gros Islets, and yet totally similar. He half expected to see Arbuckle and McLeod leaning over the side to welcome him aboard.

Yet there was a difference. There seemed less noise and bustle as he mounted the ladder, and there was less strain on the faces of those who waited to welcome him, either officers or men. While the captain was as far removed from Rodney as it was possible to imagine, no more than average height and very slightly built. His voice, too, was as quiet as Rodney's had been overloud. 'Mr. Hilton.' He offered his hand. 'Welcome aboard, sir. Horatio Nelson, at your service. Your Royal Highness, may I present Mr. Matthew Hilton, of Plantation Green Grove.'

'Hilton.' Prince William of Clarence was the King's third son, and possessed all his brother's florid good looks, with a mop of fair hair to crown a rather moon-like expression. 'Gad, sir, it seems impossible to move in these West Indies without hearing that name. My pleasure, sir.'

'And my honour,' Matt agreed. 'I can but apologize for Mistress Huys' absence, but she is a nursing mother.' He gazed at the Prince.

'Then is the child's fortune our misfortune,' Prince William agreed, without embarrassment.

'You'll come below, Mr. Hilton,' Nelson suggested. And hesitated. 'We have been joined by some other planters, you understand.'

Matt smiled at him. 'And you understand that I am not popular with my peers.'

'One is surrounded by rumour, Mr. Hilton. But this night I would prefer to ignore all such controversial matters. You are my guest, sir. You have but to remember that.'

Matt entered the great cabin. Here were several other officers, and eight planters; he only recognized two of them, and these mainly from his boyhood - one was Murray Chester, descendant of those Chesters who had been so resolutely opposed to both Kit Hilton and his friend Daniel Parke in the early colonial days, and as Matt remembered, an inveterate opponent of his own father in every possible way, and the other was Harry Dewing, a friend of Chester's. But all were smiling pleasantly enough for the time being and the cabin itself was a picture, the great table laden with silver, the serving to be done by marine privates, in brilliant red jackets faced with white and gold; the officers in full dress, with gold-hilted swords and gleaming white vests -indeed the planters, although every one sported a spotless white cravat, and there was a smattering of plum and deep green amongst their vests, were made to look remarkably shabby. Nor could anyone doubt that Matt was guest of honour, as he was seated on the captain's right, with the Prince on his own right. And as dinner commenced, the marine band struck up on the quarterdeck.

‘I will confess to be quite overwhelmed by your hospitality, Captain,' he remarked as they ate.

Nelson's smile was a trifle melancholy. 'Pure jealousy, Mr. Hilton, I do assure you,' he said. 'You have been where I should have been. Where I shall always regret not having been; in the line at the Saintes. Why, man, there is an entire career gone to waste.'

'Oh, come now, sir,' Matt argued. 'Surely you are unusually young to hold the rank you do? The future can have no terrors.'

'I am twenty-four years old, Mr. Hilton, and as such I think I am the youngest post captain in His Majesty's Navy. But that is a direct result of the war. War, sir, is almost the natural state of man, and in it a man may find his true direction, his true place. But now, sir, why, are we not celebrating peace? And we must be honest with ourselves, Mr. Hilton. This is no victory we honour. Rodney's achievement is the only success we can truly acclaim. Thus will our nation be content to lick its wounds, to brood and attempt to recover. How long do you think, ten, fifteen, twenty years? There will be no promotion save into dead men's shoes for that time, and twenty years will be too long for me. I shall then be one of the oldest post captains, no doubt.' Then he smiled, and wiped away all the potent misery which had been gathering in his face. 'At least I have put myself in the best possible way. The West Indies, sir, this is the station for honour.' He waited, while the sliced roast beef was placed in front of them, and Matt discovered that Chester was watching him, frowning, and constantly emptying his wine glass. He realized that Coke had been more correct that he in estimating the possible hazards of this evening, and in demanding that he keep a firm hold on his temper.

The marine moved on, and the captain carved his beef. 'Mr. Chester's,' he remarked. 'He slaughtered two cows for our benefit.'

'I should have been happy to assist you,' Matt said.

'Tush. What are a couple head of cattle? And I am hoping you will be able to assist me in another way. You were born and bred in these islands. Do you know our neighbour, Nevis?'

Matt started, and his head turned. ‘I have never been there.'

'Ah.' Nelson chewed, thoughtfully.

The Prince gave a bellow of laughter. 'Our captain seeks some solace, Mr. Hilton, from the boredom of keeping the peace. Perhaps you'll recall a doctor, by name of Nisbet?'

Matt frowned. 'I have heard the name. But I think...'

'He is dead, poor fellow. Oh, indeed. Some years ago. And has left behind the prettiest little widow in all the islands, I do declare. Our captain has managed to lose his heart.'

'I'll not have Fanny's name bandied, sir’ Nelson declared, flushing very red.

'Nor will it, Horatio, I promise you that,' agreed the Duke. 'Hasting, tell that band to stop its confounded banging. I wish to propose a toast.'

The marine lieutenant nodded and hurried for the companionway. Nelson sighed. 'You'll at least wait on the loyal toast, Prince William.' He lowered his voice as he leaned towards Matt. 'It is confoundedly difficult having the fellow along, although truth to say he is pleasant enough, and a useful patron.' The music stopped with a roll of drums, and he rose to his feet, his glass held high. 'Gentlemen, the King.'

Everyone rose. 'The King.'

They sat down, but left the Prince still standing. 'Now a more important toast,' he declared. 'Gentlemen, I give you, Mistress Frances Nisbet.'

Once again they rose. 'Mistress Frances Nisbet.'

The marines hurried round to refill their glasses, for it was the captain's turn to remain standing. 'And now, gentlemen, I will ask you to join me in toasting the real reason for our presence. Gentlemen, I give you the Victory of the Saintes, and couple with it the name of that remarkable woman who will ever fill a page in the history of the Royal Navy, Mistress Suzanne Huys.'

This time there was the slightest hesitation before the planters joined their hosts. 'Mistress Suzanne Huys.'

Matt's head began to roll after the third bumper in rapid succession, but he deemed it was certainly his turn, and kept his feet. 'Then, Captain Nelson, and Prince William, may I offer, on behalf of my fellow planters and myself, the force which has kept us solvent, and if I may speak entirely on behalf of Jamaica and Antigua, where my interests lie, has kept us English. Gentlemen, the Royal Navy.'

The other planters rose readily enough for this, and the ship's officers beamed and nodded their agreement. Matt sat down with a sigh of relief, and realized that Chester had remained standing, opposite him.

'And now, Captain Nelson,' he said. 'And Your Royal Highness, if I may be allowed to propose a toast, it shall be to that institution which indeed does keep us all solvent, and has made us the men we are. Gentlemen, I give you slavery; long may it prosper.'

It was Matt's turn to hesitate; everyone else was on his feet in a moment, and Nelson was looking down at him.

'Come, sir,' said Prince William. 'Will you not drink to your own prosperity? You are a planter, are you not?'

‘I am, sir,' Matt agreed. 'And daily wonder how I may support such an equivocal position.'

'Well, then,' Chester declared. 'We shall drink without you, Matt, and I shall add a rider to my toast, damnation to all abolitionists.'

He stared across the table, but Matt merely nodded, for all he felt the blood begin to pound in his cheeks.

Nelson sat down. 'You are a confoundedly contrary fellow, Mr. Hilton. So you are a humanitarian. As am I. I have heard it said that you no longer use the whip on your plantation. Neither do I use the whip on board my ship, save where it is quite unavoidable. I honour you, sir, for your sentiments, as I hope you will honour me.'

'Yet you support the iniquities of owning a fellow man,' Matt said.

Nelson frowned. 'Well, sir, perhaps I have never considered the matter deeply enough. I am a sailor, Mr. Hilton. I pretend to nothing more than that, but I claim to think about my profession. And on those grounds at the least I would oppose the abolition of the slave trade, which I understand is at least a part of your platform. I tell you, sir, there is no better school for seamen. I'd rather take a man from a slaver than from the finest Indiaman afloat.'

'If I may say so, Captain, without I trust giving offence, there is a very limited point of view. Although believe me I honour your regard for the service you adorn.'

Once again the normal severity of Nelson's face was relieved by his smile. 'Then are we agreed to differ, as friends?' He raised his glass without standing. 'I drink a private toast, to a man who is not afraid to display his sentiments, however unpopular. The world could do with more of your stamp, Mr. Hilton. Now is the matter buried.'

But the table had become silent as everyone had listened to the brief argument.

‘I think it should remain above ground for a while longer, Captain Nelson,' Chester suggested.

'I'll have no quarrelling on board my ship, Mr. Chester.'

'Nor do I desire a quarrel, Captain,' Chester insisted. 'But to say truth we so seldom have the pleasure of conversing with Matt here - he remains locked away on Green Grove with that beautiful... ah ... cousin of his - that I am sure we are truly interested to discover how he keeps discipline.'

‘I think, sir ...' Nelson began, clearly anticipating the very quarrel he had meant to avoid, in view of Chester's studied rudeness.

But Matt interrupted, keeping his smile fixed. 'I think a man does best to lead, rather than to drive.'

'Oh, well said, sir,' Nelson agreed.

'Do you then, head the gangs in the field?' Dewing inquired.

‘I should not be afraid to do so, did I consider it necessary,' Matt said. 'It is my profit at stake.'

Chester's face was cold. 'Yet you play an ambiguous role, Matt. One which I feel should be clarified, for the benefit of all Antigua. Is it not true that you give bed and board to a notorious trouble-maker, Thomas Coke?'

Matt felt he was sliding down a snowy hillside, with no means of stopping until he reached the bottom, and could only hope it was soft there as well. 'I see no reason, sir, for discussing my guests with you.'

'Then perhaps you will discuss yourself,' Dewing insisted. 'Are you, or are you not, a supporter of the Abolitionist Movement?'

'Gentlemen,' Nelson protested. 'The Duke of Clarence is present.'

'Oh, let them differ, Horatio,' Prince William cried. 'It does a man good to listen to the points of view.'

‘I am not the least afraid to answer Mr. Dewing's question, Your Royal Highness,' Matt said. 'Yes, sir, I think I am an abolitionist, at heart, I cannot but believe that the abolition of slavery is an inevitable event, and perhaps sooner than any of us believe possible. I cannot but believe that the whole weight of English opinion, than which there is no more powerful factor in all the world, is increasingly moving in that direction. And I believe they are right. I would be happy to lend my support to such a venture.'

There was a moment of utterly scandalized silence, then Nelson spoke. 'Yet you do in fact have slaves on Green Grove.'

'Yes, sir, I do. You may describe me as a moral coward, if you wish, but I cannot see that to turn my slaves free, into a society where I could not afford to pay them wages and still compete against my fellow planters, and where, by law, they would very rapidly be re-enslaved were I to shut down my plantation, would be productive of anything but disorder.'

Nelson nodded, thoughtfully.

'A moral coward, sir?' Chester cried. 'Why, that is too good for you. I suspect you are a physical one as well. And you are more than that, Matt Hilton. You are a traitor to your class and your kind, a veritable blackguard, sir.'

The sound of catching breath was audible throughout the wardroom.

Matt sighed. 'You are entitled to your point of view, Chester. I cannot expect you to understand mine.'

'By Christ,' Chester said at large, and leaned back in his seat.

'Then, sir, I will declare that even the word blackguard is too good for you,' Dewing shouted. 'It is my opinion that you are a dishonourable scoundrel, who can think of nothing better to do than debauch his own cousin.'

Matt's head came up, and he stared across the table. Dewing's complexion paled, very slightly, but he would not lower his eyes.

'Be sure that I shall give you satisfaction. You have but to name your weapons.'

Matt nodded, as thoughtfully as Nelson. 'Indeed I shall, Mr. Dewing. Our fists, and immediately.'

‘Your fists?' Chester cried. 'We are gentlemen, sir, not street urchins.'

'It would give me no pleasure at all to shoot Mr. Dewing down from thirty paces, or to spear him on the end of three feet of steel, Mr. Chester,' Matt said, speaking very carefully. 'Even supposing I was capable of such a feat. But I propose to make him regret saying those words. He has challenged me, gentlemen, and I have named my pleasure. You will either apologize, most humbly, both to me and Mistress Huys, or you will meet me now, man to man.'

Dewing looked around the table, but he could find no support in the stony stares of the naval officers. He had abused his position as their guest, and spoiled their evening. And whatever their personal views on slavery, Matt was a veteran of the Saintes, and almost one of themselves.

'Apologize?' he demanded at last. 'To you? Why, sir, I will meet you when and wherever you choose, barehanded or armed, as you choose.'

'I said now,' Matt reminded him. 'Captain Nelson, I can only thank you for your hospitality, and myself apologize most humbly that it should be my presence which has caused such an unfortunate end to the evening. If your people will set Mr. Dewing and myself ashore ..

'Fiddlesticks,' declared Prince William.

'I am inclined to agree,' Nelson said. 'If you gentlemen will fight, why not do it here? We can at least guarantee you fair play.' This last with a meaning glance at Chester.

'That's the ticket,' Prince William shouted. 'The quarterdeck. The quarterdeck. There's the place for fisticuffs. Gad, sir, I have not seen a proper set-to since leaving England.'

Instantly all was orderly bustle as the navy took control. Matt and Dewing were hurried up the companionway, and the sentries were hastily cleared off the quarterdeck. Although the rumour of what was about to happen spread over the ship with remarkable rapidity and before the two protagonists were even stripped to their waists the rigging was filled with seamen, peering down at the guttering lanterns which illuminated the scene.

'Now, gentlemen,' Nelson said. 'I assume you are both familiar with the rules of prize fighting. We'll have no fouling, that you may be sure of. Mr. Blackman, you'll keep time.'

The lieutenant nodded, and clanged the ship's bell. Matt assumed the posture of defence he had been taught by

Broughton, left leg and left arm thrust forward, right arm held in front of his chin and belly. Dewing preferred to half crouch, and circle, no doubt hoping for the opportunity to seize his opponent round the waist and throw him - he was at least as tall as Matt, and somewhat more heavily built. But the whole thing was rather absurd, Matt decided; his opponent did not even know the first elements of defence. They watched each other for a few seconds, Matt slowly circling to his left, then he stepped in and led a long left hand. Dewing brought up both his fists and at the same time straightened. Matt withdrew the lead and pumped it out again, and Dewing's hands came still higher. Matt stepped inside, swinging his right leg and his right fist at the same time, landing one of his wind-stopping belly blows just under the rib cage. Dewing gasped, and his hands fell as Matt pumped out yet a third left hand. This connected on the cheek beside the mouth, and left a splash of blood, at once from the split flesh of the face and the bruised knuckles.

Dewing moaned, and half turned away, and Matt struck him twice more. This time he again aimed for the head, however painful such a course might be for his own fingers. But it was essential that Dewing bear the marks as well as the memory of his beating. The left-handed blow shattered the planter's lips and sent two teeth flying across the deck, the right hand, connecting as the head was hurled towards it, landed on the temple and felled him as if he had been shot.

'The bell, Blackman, the bell,' Nelson shouted.

It clanged, and Matt's hands fell.

'You have one minute, Mr. Chester,' Nelson said, taking out his watch.

'One minute?' Chester knelt beside his friend, raised his head, and gasped. 'I doubt he's alive.'

'He is alive, man, he is alive,' Prince William shouted, beside himself with excitement. 'Get him up. Get him up.'

And indeed, Dewing's eyes were opened, and he gazed at Chester as his friend whispered in his ear. Then his head shook, for just a second, but clearly seen by every man present.

'Fifteen seconds, Mr. Chester,' Nelson said, still looking at his watch. 'Or does your man concede?'

Chester released Dewing's head, allowed it to bump on the deck, and slowly stood up.

'Aye,' Nelson said. ‘I declare Mr. Hilton the winner, and I declare his honour entirely vindicated.' He held out his hand. 'By heaven, sir, that was as quick and neat an execution as I have seen in twelve years at sea. My compliments. And now, Mr. Hilton, my boat will take you ashore. Not you, gentlemen,' he added, as Chester would have spoken. ‘I think Mr. Hilton deserves a chance to regain his plantation in peace.'

Matt walked his horse up the Green Grove drive. So then, was he satisfied? For too long had he wanted to oppose himself to someone, anyone, worthy of his mettle. No doubt he owed Captain Nelson a vote of thanks for the way the affair had been managed. But what had he accomplished, if anything? By the standards of a gentleman he had not acted the gentleman. The whole affair might have delighted the navy, but it would not readily be forgotten, or forgiven, by the plantocracy.

And what would Sue say, or Tom, after the promise they had extracted from him?

The dogs barked, and Thomas Arthur appeared on the verandah to take his horse. But there were people coming out of the house to join Thomas Arthur. Sue, of course. And Tom. And ... Robert?

Matt dismounted. 'Did you not suppose I was capable of grinding a cane crop?'

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

Sue came down the steps to kiss him on the cheek. 'Matt? What has happened?'

'Oh,' he said wearily. 'As you no doubt foresaw, Chester was there, and Dewing, and there was a challenge ...'

'You've been fighting?' Robert demanded.

'With my fists,' Matt said, and smiled. 'As I had the choice of weapons.'

'Oh, I say,' Coke cried. 'Capital, Matt. Capital. You dismissed the fellow?'

Matt nodded, and climbed the steps, Sue still holding his arm. 'And now may I ask what brings you here?'

'You may well ask,' Robert said. 'Fisticuffs, by God. Between gentlemen.'

'Robert has been hearing tales about us, Matt,' Sue said. 'Lander's doing.'

'I have no doubt they were all true,' Matt reached the verandah, faced his cousin.

'What? What? You'll not deny it?'

'At the moment I've not heard what I should deny.'

'The dismissal of Lander, for one thing. The abandonment of the whip. The refuge you give this ... this ...' he glanced at Coke. 'This incendiary.'

‘I have already said that I consider that remark unjustified, sir,' Coke protested.

'So you have, by God. So you have. No doubt you have little knowledge of what you do. Well let me tell you, sir, in this society any man who marches around the place pronouncing that all men are equal, that all men are born free, is a revolutionary. I'd expect no less of Rousseau.'

'Nor would I, sir,' Coke said. 'He but states a truth.'

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

'And these absurdities have brought you hurrying across the sea?' Matt inquired. 'Well, tomorrow I will take you on an inspection of the plantation. You'll find the ratoons already sprouting, and you'll find us with the best crop Green Grove has ever produced.'

'And I'll find a parcel of mutinying blacks on my hands, no doubt, as well.'

'No, sir, you will not,' Matt insisted. 'You'll find better discipline on Green Grove than on any plantation in Antigua.'

'Aye? I'll believe that when I see it. In any event, there's to be a change.' Robert turned and went inside.

Matt followed him, Sue at his side. 'Be careful, I do beg of you, sweetheart,' she whispered.

'Change?' Matt demanded. 'What change?'

'Lander has told me how you have dismissed all the worthwhile overseers,' Robert said. 'I have recruited some fellows for you. Charlie Benton ...'

'By heaven,' Matt said. 'I'll not have Benton on my plantation.'

Robert seized the decanter of port presented by the maidservant, drank from the neck. 'God give me patience. Your plantation, did you say?'

Matt frowned at him. 'Is it not?'

'No, sir, it is not. Green Grove is my plantation, as it has always belonged to my branch of the family. You may consult any lawyer you choose, the matter is there in black and white. That Grandmother Lilian's branch has been allowed to enjoy the living here has been because we have always counted them our surest support. Withdraw that support, and we have no more use for you.'

Matt stared at him.

'Is not the prosperity of a plantation a guarantee of that support, Mr. Hilton?' Coke inquired.

'Hold your miserable tongue, sir,' Robert shouted. 'You'd best count yourself fortunate I do not take a horsewhip to you. I reckon you at least as responsible as Matt himself for this debacle.'

'Tom came here at my invitation,' Matt said. 'And as for a debacle, be sure you bring it on yourself. I recommend for you a study of King Canute, and his problems, cousin. For be sure the tide will rise, whether you will it or no.'

'Bah,' Robert said. ‘I’ll have none of it. These islands have prospered for a hundred years. They'll prosper for a hundred more.'

'Properly conducted, I am sure they shall,' Matt said.

'Then let us hear no more about it,' Robert said, and held out the decanter. 'You'll drink to Green Grove.'

'That I will,' Matt agreed. 'Under my management, and with my methods.'

Robert hesitated, and withdrew the decanter as Matt reached for it. 'You'll explain that.'

'I thought I had made my position clear. I'll employ no overseers but of my own choosing.'

'What? What? You seek to defy me?'

'I seek to come to an understanding with you.'

'Then understand me, God damn it.'

'On the contrary, Robert. You must attempt to understand me.'

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'By God.' He gazed at Suzanne, and found no comfort there. 'By God. You think I need you, by God? You'll be mistaken. Green Grove has returned a handsome profit every year, while you played at cricket in England. It will continue to do so, I have no doubt at all.'

'You'll find this year to be a record.'

'Maybe. Maybe. But it is an accident. The blacks have not yet understood the milksop who rules them. I put it to you plain, Matt. You'll act the planter, as I will have it, or Lander will be returned.'

'I'll not have him on the plantation.'

'Then you must go. Be sure of that. And mark my words...' Robert wagged his finger. 'I have been patient with you, long beyond what my commonsense dictated. Leave Green Grove now, and you leave forever. Make no mistake about that. And not only Green Grove. To my mind you cease to be a Hilton. Think on that.'

'I have thought on that, before, Robert, and determined that it was a bribe beyond my capacity to accept. Then I was defeated by force. Now I am more ready for you. I know, sir, that you, that every planter, aspires to a station above his humanity. I'll have no part of that. But give me the opportunity, and I'll prove to you that slave-owning is yet a task for Christians. Refuse me the opportunity, and I'll have no part of it. But by heaven I'll take my part in opposition to it.'

'You'd threaten me?' Robert shouted. 'By God, I've a mind to take my whip to you,'

'Do that,' Matt said. 'And face the consequences.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'Then begone. Take your belongings and leave my plantation. And take that ... that false prophet with you.'

'Aye,' Matt agreed. He went to the stairs, and there waited. 'And Sue?'

'Sue stays here,' Robert declared.

Matt looked at the woman.

'Like Robert, I should say, by God, but the pair of you turn my belly with your constant quarrelling,' Sue said, speaking as quietly as ever. 'Oh, believe me, Robert, you are right. I hold no brief for a black skin, and I have no doubt that Matt's actions and Tom's beliefs can involve us in nothing but disaster.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'At last, a relative of mine with some sense. Sue, I forgive you everything.'

Matt gazed at her, and she smiled at him.

'But yet I will go with Matt,' she said. 'He is the father of my child, the landlord of my heart. So spread your hatred wide, sweet brother. It shall no doubt be returned.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MISTRESS

THE steady swish of the paddles was hypnotic, hardly less so than the regular movement of the Negroes' arms and backs, up and down, up and down, up and down. And the heat was unlike anything Corbeau could remember. Born and bred in St. Domingue, he thought he knew everything the West Indies had to offer in the way of scorching sun. But then, he had to remind himself Guyana was not the West Indies. Guyana was a place apart.

He dared not take off his hat, even for a moment, so he tugged his shirt still more open, and mopped at his neck and chest with a silk bandanna. He looked from side to side, over the smooth brown water at the endless green of the banks, at the huge trees looming beyond. It was but nine in the morning, and the great leafy crowns, searching for light, seventy, eighty feet above the roots which gave them life, still hid the sun. But it was rising, and warming all the time. What it would be like in two hours' time did not bear consideration.

But then, looking at the forest wall which enclosed the water of the river, he did not suppose that even the sun was the most dangerous enemy this country had to offer. That vine-twined tree-stockaded wilderness held creatures long exterminated in the islands, venomous snakes and snakes which could crush a man to a pulp, scorpions and spiders which could induce the worst of fevers, ants which would take the flesh from living bones. Nor was the water through which the bateau ploughed so quietly any safer for being brown instead of blue; already this morning he had seen a caiman basking by the shore, and the Negroes spoke of fish hardly less voracious than ants.

Truly, Henri Ledon, the captain of his sloop, had had cause to cross himself as they had come to anchor before the old Dutch fortress of Kyk-Over-Al, lower down the river. 'A dead place, Guyana,' he had muttered. 'Inhabited only by death.'

But the Dutch burghers had looked prosperous enough, and certainly there was enough water here, both on the ground and in the rivers and gathering in the heavy black clouds which surged across the sky, to suggest that drought was unknown. And that cane would grow in abundance here too was obvious; he had left the fort at dawn in his hired boat, and had already passed three plantations, each stretching from perhaps a mile into the bush down to the water's edge, ending in a low dock, or stelling as the Dutch called it, alongside which the punts could tie to be loaded with sugar. There was little evidence of luxury. The Dutch scarcely believed in fine clothes or magnificent houses. But the crop looked to have value.

He whipped off his hat, gave his face a hasty fan, wiped his scalp, and crammed the straw on his head again. The Negro in the stern grinned. 'Soon, massa, soon,' he promised. 'Round the next bend.'

And then, what, Corbeau wondered? He felt a quite unusual excitement at the thought of finally seeing the girl. And it was an excitement which had been growing, in the strangest way, over the months. He had begun with a plan. He envisaged a West Indian empire, Rio Blanco, Ocean View in Martinique, Green Grove in Antigua, and Hilltop in Jamaica, all owned by the Corbeaux, each managed by one of his sons. Georgiana was his. In the months he had spent on Hilltop waiting for the war to end he had renewed her devotion time and time again. She was a woman who knew only how to feel. To her, all mankind, all emotion, all ambition was wrapped up in the touch of a man's hand, and his was the hand she liked best. No doubt time would change that innocence, but before that could happen she would be his wife, to be enjoyed, to be enhanced, to be destroyed as a person, as he saw fit. She was no more than a part of the grand design.

And the mustee was no more than another part. With her he could destroy the entire Hilton family, and leave himself unchallenged master of the West Indian plantocracy. She was a weapon to be used. Nothing more than that, surely. And yet the thought of her fascinated him, and increasingly haunted his mind as he approached her. Because she would have to be won, first, as she would live on French soil? He had won, by fair means or foul, a great number of women. The thought of it had never excited him in this fashion before.

The trees were once again dwindling, to be replaced by more fields of cane. And as they came round a bend in the river he could see the stelling. 'Mulders, massa,' said the Negro coxswain.

Three hours upstream from the fort, they had said, and they were right. Corbeau wiped more sweat from his face, and then knotted the wet bandanna round his neck. He set his hat more firmly on his head, and grasped the gunwales of the bateau as it came into the side of the dock. There were slaves here, waiting to take the bow rope and assist the white man ashore, and then to gossip with the men from town.

'Your business, meinheer?' demanded a swarthy white man, wearing a filthy white cotton shirt and breeches and a straw hat, and carrying a thick leather whip.

'Where is Mulder?' Corbeau inquired. His Dutch was poor, and his grammar worse, but he did not intend to be polite to an overseer.

The man pered at him from bloodshot eyes. 'You're English.'

'No, sir. I am French. I should be obliged if you'd not make that mistake again, eh? Or I will remove your ears,' Corbeau said. 'Now I will go to the house. You'll inform your master that Louis Corbeau, of Rio Blanco in St. Domingue, has come to visit him.'

For he could see it, a low, rambling accumulation of sticks and palm thatch, hardly more than an elongated shack, and set only a few hundred yards from the water. And between it and the dock were no less than a dozen triangles, each one suspending a naked black man or woman, each back a mass of bloody grooves, a home for a thousand humming insects, each tortured mouth moaning its agony and its despair. The sound rose above even the swish of the river. Beyond, the grinding house was a primitive affair, operated mainly by water power, which was reasonable enough in view of the abundance of that energy, but clearly the machinery was better than a hundred years old. There was no flower garden, and the Negro village looked scarcely better than an encampment, while he could see no overseers' houses at all. He seemed to be stepping backwards through history, and the feeling was accentuated by the stillness and the heat, for now the sun was ascending in all its power through the last of the trees to beat full down upon the plantation.

'Corbeau, you say? Plantation Rio Blanco?' The Dutchman was at his side, and speaking French.

'You'll have heard the name.'

'Oh, indeed I have, monsieur. Hans Mulder, at your service.'

Corbeau stopped, and looked at the man again. But he was here to do business. 'Then I apologize. I had not expected to be met. You've no overseers?'

'What use have I for overseers? This is not a large plantation. Not like Rio Blanco, eh?'

They were passing the triangles. 'And your blacks love you that much you live here alone?'

Mulder grinned. 'My blacks fear me that much, monsieur. With slaves it is the more effective emotion.' His feet clumped on the wood of the low steps leading to his verandah. ‘You'll take a glass of punch?'

Corbeau nodded, and studied the shade, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the sudden removal of glare, and also enjoying the sudden increase in his heartbeat as a naked woman detached herself from the shadows and came towards them. But this girl was clearly at best a mulatto, although a young and pretty one.

'Punch,' Mulder growled, and sat in the hammock which swung between two of the uprights, leaving the one chair, a somewhat insecure antique, for his guest.

The girl nodded, and withdrew. Corbeau removed his hat and sat down, cautiously. 'I wonder you stand the heat, and the isolation.'

Mulder grinned. 'I am not lonely, monsieur. I enjoy the

isolation. But you did not come all the way to Essequibo, and all the way up this river, to pass the time of day.'

Corbeau had long decided that his best chance of finding the girl would be to avoid dissembling. 'I seek Gislane Nicholson.'

'Gislane ...' Mulder frowned, and glanced at the mulatto, who was back with a wooden tray and two cane tumblers of rum punch.

'I know you bought her from Hodge, of Nevis,' Corbeau said. 'Now I wish to see her.' 'You wish?'

Corbeau reached into the satchel which hung from his shoulder, took out a canvas bag, allowed it to clink. 'I have here five hundred gold pieces, Mulder. Should she please me.'

'Five hundred ...' Mulder stared at him. 'Open it,' Corbeau suggested.

The Dutchman hesitated, then reached for the bag, untied the neck. 'By Christ. For a slave girl? And you are French. You ...'

'My purpose is my own.' Corbeau regained the bag, re-tied the cord. 'Is she here or not?'

Mulder stood up. 'Oh, she is here. Annie, summon the girls. Fetch Gislane. Quickly now.' He went into the house, and Corbeau followed, to pause as his head brushed a drooping palm leaf which had detached itself from the prevailing thatch of the low roof. But now he could see in the gloom; there was no furniture save hammocks and an old scarred table, and the floorboards creaked with age and rot as they walked. But there were a dozen women summoned by the stroke of the gong delivered by Annie. And all of them, of varying in shades from black to yellow, were young, and naked, and afraid. They entered the room, silently, and dropped to their knees, hands clasped in front of their breasts as if in supplication.

Mulder grinned. 'You'll see I have no lack of company, monsieur. Gislane is but my favourite. Come here, girl.' He snapped his fingers, and a woman rose from the darkness at the very back of the room. 'Gislane Nicholson.'

She was first of all a shadow, but an incredibly white one, which but slowly took on substance as she approached. He reminded himself that she was twenty-three, and that for nearly four years she had been the object of the worst that man, or woman, could devise in personal mistreatment, and then discovered that there was no reason to find excuses for her. Her flesh was as smooth as any man could wish, and she moved as gracefully as a princess. Her breasts were heavier than he had imagined, and tended slightly to sag, but for this reason were the more compelling; they underlined her maturity, and he had not come here to find innocence. But it was a body, however alluring, which could no doubt be duplicated easily enough; even Georgiana would look like this after a year or two of married life. It was her face which kept him silently watching as she came closer, because here was beauty, unaided by personality, the intense eyes and the flickering tongue, which for instance made Suzanne Huys so attractive. Gislane Nicholson's face was utterly closed, and yet utterly beautiful, in its every feature. And her eyes, wide and seeming to return his stare, yet looked almost asleep; he was there, as was her master, and they were white men, so to them she must submit, and submit, and submit, but she granted them no humanity, considered them as lifeless, if as impossible of rejection, as the heat which afflicted her senses or the rain which occasionally bounced off her skin. This he knew, immediately. And immediately too, he knew what a triumph it would be were he, or any man, able to bring those eyes to life.

And only when she stood immediately in front of him did he realize that he had not previously noticed her hair, black and thick and glossy, tumbling past her shoulders to her thighs.

'You'll leave us,' he said to Mulder. 'And take your harem.'

'Eh? By Christ, monsieur, she is not yet yours.'

'Nor will she ever be, if I do not speak with her alone.'

Mulder hesitated, then nodded. 'Away with you,' he shouted. 'Have you no work? You'll obey Monsieur Corbeau, Gislane. In everything.'

Her head half turned, and for just a moment she gazed at her master. Then she nodded.

'I'll be outside’ Mulder said, and left the room behind his women.

'I am to lie with you, sir?' Her voice was soft, her French faultless.

'Does your master often give you to other men?' She nodded. 'It pleases him.' 'Aye. And you are not diseased?' 'No, sir.'

'But you are a mother?' 'No, sir.'

'You must have a secret all your own.' She did not reply. Her gaze was almost a physical presence, a veil, lying across his own body. 'I know your story.'

Was there a change of expression? He decided not. But the eyes had become watchful.

'So I had expected ...' he shrugged. 'I do not know what I expected. There are no marks upon your skin.'

'No, sir.'

'After four years as a slave? Does Meinheer Mulder never flog you?'

Almost she smiled. 'He will not destroy what he values, sir. He uses a cane. Sometimes.' 'Turn round.'

She obeyed and he bent to look at her flesh. And had to prevent himself touching the smoothly rounded buttocks. 'On my feet’ she said.

'By Christ’ Corbeau said. 'The bastinado. This pleases him?'

'Of course’ she said. 'As I am tied to his bed, the master can lie on me while I yet writhe with pain. This pleases him.'

Her voice remained soft, yet Corbeau could feel the hate, shrouding every word.

'And do you scream?'

'No, sir. I pray.'

'By Christ’ he said, and she almost smiled again. 'By Christ, to the Serpent, I'll wager.'

The smile disappeared, and her face was again closed. 'But you belonged to Hodge. And never tasted the whip?' 'But once, sir. Mistress Hodge preferred red pepper.'

'By Christ,' he said again. 'And you prayed?'

'No, sir,' she said. 'Then I screamed. I thought I was dying. My breasts were swollen to twice their normal size.'

'And none of these things have changed your face, changed your body. Yours is a powerful serpent.'

The very intensity of her stare was her answer. He touched her hair, stroking it across his fingers. He touched her shoulder. But she did not turn, or acknowledge him in any way. She could be no careless devotee. There was too much intelligence here, too much determination, and even, perhaps, a little humour. A mamaloi? By Christ, he thought, there is a risk. Yet why? He knew a great deal about voodoo; no one living in St. Domingue could help but know about the religion of the snake and the drum. It was an idle superstition, brought across from West Africa, but in it the blacks found some form of release from the intolerable harshness of their lives. And in it this girl had certainly found a mental refuge. So why should it be a risk? To be harmed by a voodoo spell one had to believe in it, and he had no time for superstition: he had little enough time for religion in any form. And if she was, indeed, a priestess, then might the future be even more crammed with alluring prospect.

'Do you hate your master?' There was no reply.

'There shall be no more bastinado, I promise you,' Corbeau said. 'I have come to buy you.'

Now her head did turn, and now he had penetrated the reserve. She frowned. 'Sir?'

'I told you, I heard your story, and I wished to see for myself, this girl who is so beautiful, and so tragic'

'You came, two thousand miles, to see a slave?'

Corbeau smiled; she was for the first time talking as a human being. Not even four years of slaver)', and perhaps as long of voodoo, could diminish her natural female curiosity. 'Life is a business, of doing, and seeing and experiencing, is it not, Gislane? Guyana is a place I have always wanted to visit. I will tell you my philosophy. In my public life, I am governed solely by honour. And I will kill any man who impugns that honour. But you will have no part of my public life. In my business life, I am governed solely by profit. And

I will sacrifice any man, or any woman, to attain the maximum profit. But you will have no part in my business life. And in my private life, I am governed solely by my wish to be amused. I think you will be able to amuse me, for the rest of my life, in one way or another. Will you be able to amuse me, Gislane?'

She hesitated. Another success. She was realizing for the first time that here was no brute of a man, like Hodge or Mulder, who could be conquered in turn merely by spreading her legs. She was understanding she would need her mind, for this new master.

'If you desire me, sir.'

'So tell me, do you hate your master?'

Once again the hesitation. 'I hate the master, yes, sir.'

'What of Hodge? And Mistress Hodge?'

This time there was no hesitation. 'I hate them, sir. Is that strange?'

'I am merely surprised you can say it so quietly. And what of Matthew Hilton?'

He had remained standing behind her, and she had never turned. But now her movement was almost vehement as she faced him. 'You know Matt Hilton?'

Corbeau shrugged. 'The Hiltons are great planters. So are the Corbeaux. Of course I know him.'

Her hand moved, as if she would have held his arm. Then it fell to her side again. 'Then where is he?' she asked. 'Please, Monsieur Corbeau.' Her upbringing, her education, came slicing through the humility of the slave, the remoteness of the mamaloi. 'Is he all right?'

'Oh, indeed,' Corbeau said. 'He lives on Plantation Green Grove, in Antigua.'

'Green Grove,' she whispered.

'With a young woman. His cousin. I believe they intend to get married, whenever she can secure a divorce from her husband.'

Slowly the interest, the eagerness, faded from her face.

'The story has it,' Corbeau said, quietly, 'that he wished to seek you, and then fell in love with this cousin, and so changed his mind.'

'The story,' she said. 'Who tells this story?'

Corbeau shrugged again. 'It is common talk.'

'And is this why you would possess me, sir? Because I am common talk?'

'I would possess you because you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,' Corbeau said, and wondered if he was not, perhaps, even telling the truth.

Certainly he had again penetrated that withdrawn mind. Her eyes searched his face. 'Monsieur does not speak like a slave-owner.'

'But as a man, I would hope. So tell me, do you still love Matt Hilton?'

She hesitated, then she shook her head. 'No, monsieur. Perhaps I do not hate him, either, as I hate the others. Perhaps he is no more than weak. I wish him to be happy, and he will be happier with a white woman, even if she is his cousin and another man's wife, than he could ever have been with me, as his name is Matthew Hilton. But I do not love him, any more. I do not love anyone, or anything, any more.'

Corbeau smiled. 'It will be my pleasure, mademoiselle, to teach you how to love again. Now get your clothes. Let us brush this mud from our feet.'

To love again. She supposed, incredibly, that that could almost happen. Given time to understand the utter incredibility of everything that was happening to her, that had happened to her, it seemed throughout her life.

She had known, from the day of Robert Hilton's visit to Hodges, the day she would not forget to her dying moment, that Matt would never come for her. She had understood this as the burning pepper had seemed to eat into her flesh, reaching through breast and bone to penetrate her very heart, seeped upward from her groin and cut her body in half, as she had screamed and twisted and spat, trying to make her feeble saliva reach Janet Hodge's grinning face. Then she had hated, in a manner which made her hatred of Runner and Penny, of the Unknown who had condemned her to this, of the Hodges themselves, previously, no more than a slight discontent.

And then too, she had known that she was damned, perhaps being punished for some long-dead ancestor's crimes, but certainly damned, and thus excluded forever from the courtesies and considerations due to a lady in the white man's world, and excluded too from the hopes and fears of the white man's religion, from the love it preached and no doubt, in some fortunate cases, practised. Her refuge must be Damballah Oueddo, the Serpent, who taught patient hatred and physical gratification. And to that refuge she had devoted the last three years. Indeed, but for Damballah she would long have gone mad. She owed the invisible Serpent who was so omnipresent in her every sensation her very life, for he had taught her to accept the slobbering brutality of Mulder no less than the slobbering uncertainty of Hodge. But he had taught her more than that. In his eyes her removal from Nevis to the hell of Essequibo had been a necessary part of her education. He had been able to teach her that the ceremony she had attended on Hodges, when he had first appeared to her in the form of Charles the butler, had been no more than a polite gathering of devotees. The slaves of Nevis had lacked the desire, and even on Hodges they had lacked the necessary hatred, properly to communicate with the Serpent. In Essequibo, where the sun was too hot and the rain too heavy, where there was no refreshing sea breeze to calm the spirit, and no clear-green water in which to bathe, but only the piranha-filled brown rivers, Damballah was no god of pleasure to be enjoyed, but instead a god of wrath, to be feared, and to be used, as well, and the blood on her fingers these past two years had too often been human.

In those two years she had learned to exist in the bosom of the Serpent, to wait, with that patience which he demanded, for the day he would rise up amongst them and grant them that revenge which was all they lived for, to pray that she would remain alive for that moment, to ask nothing more of life.

So then, what was she to make of this last week? Whenever she thought this, she rolled on her back and stared at the deckbeams immediately above her, doubting that they were really there, and reached down to touch the soft cambric of the sheet beneath which she lay, of the nightgown in which she was enveloped, from neck to ankle. She had not worn a nightdress since the night before she had sought to elope.

But if these were there, waiting for her touch, if the creaking of the rigging and the soft swish of the water passing the hull, were at last real - and the first night the motion of the ship had kept her awake in a long nightmare - what was she to make of her situation? Of the gowns, richer than any she had ever known, which hung on the door and waited, as yet untouched, in the chest by the bed. What was she to make of the perfume which shrouded her body? Only on the perfume had he insisted. Odour was everything, he said.

So perhaps she was not dreaming, as she could inhale, and now that dawn had broken she could see the clothes. But surely she was dreaming, in that they had been at sea for nine days, slowly beating northward, and in all that time no man's hand had touched her body, save to assist her from her seat after dinner. But there again was a dream, that she should sit down to dinner in the great cabin, opposite her master, and have wine poured for her by an attentive Negro boy, and be engaged in conversation, of Paris and London, of politics and art, for all the world as if she were his bride, rather than a chattel he had purchased for an unreasonably large sum.

But there was the most fantastic dream of all. For had she been his bride, he would have been in here with her. The bunk was certainly large enough for two. But to lie here, in cleanliness and comfort, well fed and even a little dazed with wine, and to be alone ... almost it made her afraid. What did he intend? For what torture was he reserving her?

Or could Damballah himself be no more than an illusion, the past four years no more than a nightmare from which she would now awaken?

Oh no, because she was, most certainly, a slave. And the waiting, which grew more and more unbearable with every day, was surely at an end. She heard the deck creak, and a moment later the door opened. He had not entered here since he had shown it to her as her cabin, while they had still lain at anchor off Kyk-Over-Al in the mouth of the Essequibo.

'Awake?'

She sat up, the sheet drawn to her throat. How easy was it to regain the habits of a lifetime.

'Come,' he said. 'I would show you the most beautiful sight in the world.'

She hesitated. 'You wish me to dress?'

'It will not be necessary.' But he waited, and watched her throw back the sheet and step down from the berth. The cambric was sheer, and clung to her body. But why stare at her through gauze, when by a command he could snatch it from her? And now he held out a robe. She turned away from him and he touched her shoulders as he rested the heavy material. But only for a second, and his fingers were gone again. She could count the number of times he had touched her, from their very first meeting, on the fingers of her hand. So he had declared that his sole purpose in buying her had been to be amused. Then this must be his idea of amusement.

If only she did not feel, did not know, whenever she met his gaze, that there were depths behind those black eyes deeper even than the darkness she had plumbed. And she knew too well the boiling cauldron which lay in the recesses of her own mind.

Corbeau held the door for her, and she ducked her head to enter the great cabin, and mount the companion ladder, already deepening her breathing as the fresh sea air filled her lungs. She held the robe close as she gained the deck, and tossed hair from her eyes, and looked at the sparkling blue of the sea, and then ahead. Since leaving the brown waters of the Essequibo they had sighted no land as they had made their way directly across the centre of the Caribbean Sea. But now the horizon was suddenly filled with mountain peaks, and these were unlike any she had seen in her life before, reducing Dominica to a proper insignificance, towering across the skyline, rising and falling and disappearing into the blue haze beyond.

'It is a continent,' she whispered.

Corbeau smiled. 'No. But it is certainly the second largest island in the Caribbean. It yields only to Cuba.'

‘I had no idea we were so close,' she said. 'To Rio Blanco?' 'We are not close, to Rio Blanco,' he reminded her. 'My plantation is on the north coast, and that is still three days' sail away. I but wanted to show you your new home.'

'It is magnificent,' she said. 'They say there are high mountains in Guyana, but I have never seen them.'

'You will see these,' he promised her. 'They tower over Rio Blanco like the walls of a fortress.'

Once again he held the door for her, and she returned down the companion ladder, and hesitated. He stepped past her, and opened the cabin door. She entered, and waited yet again. His fingers touched her shoulders, and she hastily released the cord holding the robe, felt it being slipped from her body.

'You have had a week,' he remarked, 'to get to know me. To become used to me, perhaps.'

So then, it had only been a game after all. 'I am grateful, sir,' she said. ‘I have lived like a lady, for that week, and remembered how pleasant it was.'

'And do you now suppose you shall cease to be a lady?' he asked.

She sucked her lower lip beneath her teeth, and waited. She could not join in the game until she had learned the rules.

'Sit down,' he said.

She sat on the bunk, her hands clasped on her lap. 'Do you wish me to undress?'

‘I know what you look like,' he said, gently, and sat beside her. 'Any beautiful woman has the right to be a lady, if she chooses. Although sometimes the choice is a difficult one. But then, you are by far the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, and I completed my education in Paris and Vienna.'

'It pleases you to flatter me, sir.'

'I never flatter,' Corbeau said. 'It is not in my nature. But it is your future we should discuss. Are you totally unfamiliar with French law?'

She glanced at him, frowning. 'Should I be familiar with it, sir?'

He shrugged. 'I suppose not. French law in many ways is the most liberal in the world. For example, it states quite plainly that any human being with but a drop of white blood in his or her veins is free from the moment he or she sets foot on French soil.'

He paused, and she checked her head as it started to turn. For a moment she was not sure what she had heard.

'And St. Domingue, of course, counts as French soil,' Corbeau said, softly.

Now she did stare at him, and hated the hot flush which filled her cheeks, even as she hated the way her mouth had drooped open. But it was a game. It had to be a game. He had told her this was her sole purpose in life, for him.

'And I have been informed, of course, that fifteen-sixteenths of your blood is white,' he said, still speaking very softly. 'So you see, you have but three days of slavery left to you, unless the wind entirely drops.'

She swallowed, and found it hard to lose the lump which had appeared in her throat, stretched down to her chest and belly. How strange, that she felt physically sick, now, where she had never known it before. A game. It had to be a game.

'Or unless, having shown me your island, you command your captain to alter course, and take me to an English or Dutch colony,' she said.

He smiled. ‘I have spent the better part of the past two years in Jamaica, as a prisoner of war,' he said. 'I have had my fill of the English. And I have never liked the Dutch. In three days, wind permitting, we shall disembark at Cap Francois, and you will be free.'

A fresh cause for hatred. Her eyes had filled with tears. And how long was it since she had known that comfort.

'Do you not believe me?' he asked.

'Dare I believe you, Mr. Corbeau?' she asked. 'It makes no sense to me, that you should pay so much to set me free.'

'Ah,' he said. 'There are, of course, many forms of freedom. There is mine, for example, mademoiselle. I think of something I wish, and I snap my fingers, and voila, I own it. I think of somewhere I wish to go, and I snap my fingers, and voila, I am on my way. I am freer than the strongest eagle in the sky, because my range is unlimited.'

'You are fortunate, sir.'

'Oh, indeed. Below me, of course, there are infinite reaches of freedom. The freedom of the army commander, who has power of life or death over his men, but yet must answer with his reputation, perhaps his own life, for his successes or failure. The freedom of the overseer, who dominates the slave beneath him, but yet walks in fear of his employer. The freedom of the whore, who bows to no man, but must lie before them all. Or the freedom of freedom, which as often as not leads to starvation in a gutter.'

Gislane stared at him, her colour fading, her brows slowly drawing together as she began to understand.

'So, you see, my dear, you must choose, which of those freedoms is to be yours. I make a virtue of necessity, perhaps. I wish to possess you, the woman. I wish that very badly. To do that, I gave away a large sum of money. Not large to me, but none the less large. Perhaps then I was not sure, but now I am. There would be scant pleasure in commanding you to lie down before me, and thrusting my member into you, and knowing that you merely waited for my weight to be removed. There would be some pleasure, but not enough, in applying the bastinado to make sure your body moved. It is your mind I wish to respond to me. And a mind, to respond, must be free. But of course, as I said, when I purchased you, I knew that I was also freeing you from slavery.' He smiled at her. 'I knew I must win you.'

Slowly Gislane left the bunk, and reached for her robe. She draped it round her shoulders. 'There is only freedom, Mr. Corbeau. Did you suppose that because you for a week treated me as a lady, I would stay with you of my own free will?'

'Of course I did,' Corbeau said, still smiling. ‘I supposed it not merely because I consider myself to be a charming and attractive man, and a wealthy one, but because I understand you to be a most intelligent young woman. As my housekeeper, you will enjoy every privilege I can grant you.'

'Save that of being your wife, perhaps,' she said. 'Or do you already have a wife?'

'I am betrothed, certainly. But the marriage will not take place before next year. And even after it does take place, your position in my household will be unaffected. I give you my word on that. Rio Blanco is amply large enough for two mistresses.'

'As you say,' she agreed. 'Whatever you wish, you take, and have.'

'There is common sense,' he agreed. 'Now I can ask you, for the first time, to take off both that robe and that nightgown, and come here. I have waited for this, I sometimes think before I ever saw you, when a woman like you was no more than a dream.'

'And I am still your slave,' she said. 'Until we touch land. So I must obey.'

‘You do not seem to understand,' he said. 'I gave you your freedom the moment I bought you. I merely sought to break news of such importance in its proper place and time.'

She stared at him. 'And if I refuse to undress for you now, you will not beat me?'

‘I shall never beat you, Gislane.'

'Then, sir,' she said, 'undoubtedly I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude, and believe me, I am grateful. Yet sir, as you appear to be a man of such sensibility, I am sure you can understand that I doubt I can at this moment look at anyone with a white skin without a shudder, deep in my heart. Certainly any planter. And in any event, upon this I am resolved; when next I share my body with any man, it must be for love of him, unless I am forced to it.'

'And you do not love me,' Corbeau said. 'There is a pity. But do you not suppose you could grow to do so?'

'You are a planter. Will I not be constantly surrounded by memories of my former life?'

‘I should have thought there would be a constant cause for self-congratulation. But no matter. Well, then, I seem to have erred in my judgement. But I am not a man who breaks his word. You shall be set ashore as soon as possible, this morning in fact. There is no point in sailing all the way round the island to Cap Francois when you surely wish only to be rid of me. I'll give my captain orders to set you ashore at the first village we reach.'

'You would do that?' she asked. 'Then, sir, my gratitude is redoubled.'

'But your determination is unchanged.' Corbeau stood up. 'Then you had best prepare yourself. You'll undress, if you please, and take the deck.'

Her head came up. 'Sir?'

'I give you your freedom, Gislane. The clothes, you may recall are mine. So is this cabin, reserved for my most intimate companions. This you are declining to be.'

Her mouth slowly dropped open, and then she snapped it shut again. 'And so is this ship.'

'Ah, but I would not murder you, sweet Gislane. I am a generous man. You may enjoy the deck until we can set you ashore.'

'Naked.'

'But of course. You possess nothing save your skin, do you not?'

'And you think I shall immediately starve?' she demanded, a touch of her old anger surging back to the surface. 'As you say, I have my skin.'

'Yet will it avail you naught,' he said. 'I am Louis Corbeau. In St. Domingue, I make or break men with a snap of my fingers. Within a week of my gaining Cap Francois there is not a soul, white, brown or black, who will so much as dare to offer you shelter for the night, not a sea captain who will offer you passage, not a beggar who will dare offer you a share in his crumb.'

She found herself panting. For a moment she had almost believed. 'And that is the freedom you offer me?'

'Did I not explain that freedom is a matter of choice, my sweet child? You can be as free as air, but then you must make your own way, and the world is full of dangers and difficulties. Or you can be equally free, acknowledging only that you are my mistress, bound to me by ties of love and no other.'

Gislane licked her lips. 'And suppose I promise you that I -could never love you, that I should always hate you?'

Corbeau continued to smile. 'My father told me, long ago, that it is futile for any man to attempt to understand the workings of a woman's mind. If you stay, Gislane, it will be because you wish to, and that surely can only be because, whether you are aware of it or not, you love me. I will insist at the least that if you stay, you reveal your love for me every day and all day, whether or not you are in my company. In return, I shall accord you every honour I may. Short of marriage. But that is an accident of your birth, is it not?'

'Or I can starve.' She hesitated, and then threw back her head and laughed. And was rewarded with an expression of surprise on his face. But then, she remembered, she had not heard herself laugh for a long time, either, and never in that tone. It was a laugh compounded at once of despair and hatred and frustration. But of determination, too. For she would still survive, and Damballah would still be waiting for her, but in even newer and perhaps more positive guise; certainly the poor half-starved fellow who had acted the hougan in Essequibo had scarce measured up even to old Charlie.

And Louis Corbeau was probably the most attractive man she had ever encountered, superior even to Matt, as a man is to a boy.

She released the robe and allowed it to fall to the deck. She raised the nightgown over her head, and threw it also at her feet. She crossed the cabin and stood in front of him, and when he would not move, she put her arms round his head and brought his face against her belly. 'Then shall I love you, Louis, sweet. You do not mind if I call you Louis?'

'I should wish you to.' His voice was indistinct.

Gislane looked down on the lank black hair. 'I shall love you, and I shall be your mistress, and I shall act every part you wish. And one day, Louis, I will kill you.'

Perhaps she had expected another reaction. But she merely felt his breath on her flesh as he smiled. 'That will be a pleasure,' he said. 'One day, sweetheart, when I am old and ill, I will ask you to place those magnificent breasts on my face and hold them there, until I expire.'

At last his hands caught her thighs, and she turned, to sit beside him. 'Must I wait that long, my sweet?'

He was. after all, no more than a man. His fingers moved upwards, from her hips to her breasts, and he was pleased at the responsive hardening of her nipples. Because he was at the least far more gentle than any man she had ever met. And now he kissed her on the lips. 'They would break you on the wheel,' he whispered. 'For murdering a Corbeau. Have you any conception of what it is like to be broken on a wheel?'

'They?' she asked.

'The authorities, of course. The government of St. Domingue.'

'Ah,' she said, and put her arms around his body to hold him close, and smile at the bulkhead beyond. Nothing had changed, except perhaps her comfort. It was still necessary to wait, for Damballah Oueddo to come to her. But then, it was only necessary, to wait that long.

And perhaps she had never known comfort. Certainly, she reflected, as she once again lay in bed beneath cambric sheets, and listened to the house awakening around her, and watched the shafts of brilliant sunlight playing along the verandah outside her bedchamber, had she not experienced this she would not have believed it to exist. Her first month on Rio Blanco was spent in a continual daze. She felt she needed signposts to tell here where to go and what to do, minute by minute, hour by hour. The house itself was quite unlike any she had ever known, and totally different to any English Great House, where however splendid the comforts within, the accent was always on possible defence. In St. Domingue this did not seem to be considered necessary, although Rio Blanco itself was situated on the coast, and indeed took its name from the pale-watered river which tumbled through the very heart of the plantation before losing itself in the white-sanded beach which fringed the shore; the house rambled, from a vast central hall, into wings and towers and conservatories; it was a ten-minute walk along oak-panelled corridors to reach the library from the main doorway. But then it took half an hour to walk round the library even if one never chose to stop and examine the title of a book.

As for her suite, it involved a carefully planned expedition, up a broad flight of grand stairs, lined with paintings of the Corbeaux, along a corridor wide enough for a regiment to march in column, down a short flight of steps and into another, somewhat narrower corridor, a right turn down yet another passage, a climb up another flight of stairs, another horizontal march, and then yet another descent. Then she passed through a pair of double doors in white wood decorated with the ice-pink motif which was as much the mark of the Corbeaux as the hawk's beak, and after traversing a lobby, in white and pink, entered her withdrawing-room, also in white and pink, and containing, amongst other magnificent pieces of furniture, a white and pink harpsichord. She had been almost afraid to touch it, so long was it since her fingers had been permitted such a luxury. But it was hers, as the three bedrooms of this apartment were hers, as the multitude of gowns which hung in the closet was hers, as the single gold chain with the golden hawk's head which was the only jewellery he had given her, was hers. Her only duty was to leave her doors always unlocked, and to be always smiling, and always passionate. And even this was no more than a routine, for Louis himself followed a careful routine. He rose at dawn, and went downstairs for his cup of coffee laced with rum, before going aback on his mule for his parade through the endless dams which separated the canefields. He returned to the house at ten, and sat down to breakfast, at which she was present. At this meal they were attended, like a king and his consort, by every one of the eighteen overseers, the three chemists, the nine bookkeepers, and the five engineers who formed the plantation's staff, and now it was that Louis dispensed his orders for the day. For this was no ordinary breakfast, but a seven-course meal which lasted for upwards of two hours and was accompanied by a variety of punches and wines.

Breakfast completed, usually by half past twelve, Louis retired to bed, in his own apartment, to which she had never been admitted. He rose again at three, and took his bath. By this time the midday heat was leaving the sun, and he once again visited the fields, and on this occasion she was usually invited to accompany him, riding side-saddle on the magnificent mare he had given to her on her first day here. This inspection was completed by five of the clock, because as the sun drooped towards the mountains which hid the western horizon, then the insects came buzzing from the ditches and water-courses to make themselves as intolerable as possible to the insolent humans who would share their world. Then it was time to retire behind the gauze netting which shrouded the parlour, itself a room as large as the entire Great House on Hodges, where there was a piano rather than a harpsichord, and where she either sang to him, or read to him, or played at cards with him, according to his mood. Supper was served at seven, and they were invariably abed by nine, nor was he inclined to remain awake after eleven. And as he was always gone when she awoke in the morning, it really meant that she was totally free from eleven of every night until ten of the following morning. For if she was euphemistically described as Monsieur Corbeau's housekeeper, there was never the slightest suggestion that she take any part in the management of the vast business which was Rio Blanco Great House. Truth to tell Francois-Pierre the majordomo would have been scandalized at the idea, even had she possessed the slightest idea of how to go about it.

So then, she thought, as she stretched and massaged her body up and down the sheets, and inhaled the musk of her perfume, only a total fool would have the slightest doubt about enjoying the life to which she had been so strangely translated. A fool, or one totally cursed. But then, she was totally cursed. Or was she not blessed, by having known the wonders of the Serpent?

To submit to Louis, to force herself to respond to him with the passion he desired, to moan with ecstasy and even on occasion to feel a suggestion of that ecstasy, for he was an accomplished lover, there was no hardship. She could even indulge her hatred by hurting him, and pretending it was sheer passion. She could draw her nails up his back and bring blood; she could lose control of herself and forget she had teeth, and know that the sharp pain would but make him desire her the more. But she could not shrug off the emptiness with which he left her, every time he got out of her bed, the feeling of unfulfilment, the knowledge that she lived no more than a sham, that indeed, her life had been more real when she had lived in fear of the whip and the cane, and when every time she had been forced it had been rape.

That was her physical problem. There were others, even more difficult to bear. She watched Therese, her personal maid, enter the room, softly, afraid to wake her mistress, watched her tiptoe around the room, drawing the drapes, carefully, afraid to damage or even to crush the rich material, watched her collecting the glasses used for their nightcap of iced rum punch and place them on the silver tray, carefully, afraid of breaking or even scratching a single surface. Afraid. Always afraid. Therese was representative of every black person on Rio Blanco. They feared. Well, did not slaves everywhere live in fear? Oh indeed, but not quite in such an intense atmosphere of fear, she thought. She had experienced slavery on board a slave ship, slavery on Hodges, which had been bad, and slavery up the Essequibo, which had been worse. She had seen men and women having their backs torn to shreds, their genitals deliberately smashed with wooden clubs; she herself knew the agonies of red pepper applied to her private parts, and she had watched other unfortunates staked out on red ant nests, as had been Mulder's favourite method of punishing recalcitrant females; in Essequibo she had even watched a black man being burned alive, slowly, for murdering his master. And yet she had not known such concentrated fear, as on Rio Blanco.

Without being able to decide why? Oh, there were floggings enough, but hardly more than on Hodges. And the petty treason of murdering a white man was apparently rewarded in St. Domingue by breaking on the wheel rather than by burning; it was difficult to see that one could be worse than the other. Yet Louise Corbeau moved in an atmosphere of fear, of which, remarkably, he seemed to be unaware. So then, there was a side to his character which he had so far concealed from her, and indeed, which he had apparently concealed from everyone during the months she had lived here. Yet everyone else on the plantation knew of its existence, and feared its reappearance. Saving her. So then, was she living in a fool's paradise?

But she was the master's woman, and thus classed with him. There was a disconcerting fact. They feared her as much as they feared Louis, because they did not know what she whispered in his ear at night. Because they could not see past her skin, and her skin was white. Because they did not understand her hatred was as great as their own, because she could not convey to them how much her desires followed

theirs, how she longed once again to find Damballah, in whatever guise he might assume.

The burden was hers. And the time was now, or it would be never. For a fortnight ago Louis had left, his sloop flying every pennant it possessed, to fetch his bride. Remarkably, he had never mentioned her name; Gislane knew no more than that she was from Jamaica. But she would be queen here; no more breakfasts for the housekeeper.

Something she welcomed. She would be left alone, to pursue her own path. She had in fact already made tentative advances to Therese, and been met by a stony stare. Yet she had no doubt. She had known Therese in a state of delayed ecstasy, which could have had only one cause. And by then she had had a sacrifice at hand. Corbeau had made her pregnant, as Mulder had so often made her pregnant. This time she had waited longer before having the miscarriage she had learned to induce so easily. She felt no pity; the unborn child would have been white, and thus guilty. Then she had wrapped the bloody mess in a cambric sheet, and had given it to Therese. 'For Damballah,' she had said. He would understand a message composed of blood.

Two days ago. She sat up, and Therese started, and hastily crossed the room to draw back the mosquito netting. ‘I didn't wake you, mistress,' she begged.

'I have been awake for hours.' Gislane thrust her feet to the floor and stood up. She slept naked, because Louis liked her that way, and because she enjoyed it. She was clean, all the time. After four years of being filthy, all the time. She could actually once again bear to smell herself. And she devoted an hour of every day to her bath. Now she walked to the huge glass doors leading to the verandah, and looked out at the plantation, and the rain-drenched mountains beyond; her apartment faced inland instead of towards the never-changing sea.

'I got your coffee hot so, mistress,' Therese said.

Gislane turned, and took the china cup in both hands. And stared at the Negress. But she could wait no longer. ‘I heard the drum last night,' she said.

Therese gazed at her.

'Do you not think I know of the drum?' Gislane asked.

'Do you think I have the heart of a white woman because my skin is the colour of a white woman's? I am one of you, Therese. I know the power of the drum. I know the power of the Serpent. And I am lonely for that power, Therese.' Therese licked her lips, slowly.

'You will take me, Therese,' Gislane said. 'You and me. There is a mamaloi in the slave village. There is a mamaloi and a hougan. I know these things. And I, too, am a mamaloi:

Therese shook her head. 'I ain't knowing what you saying, mistress.'

'Don't lie to me, Therese. Don't you understand? I am a mamaloi. I have the power to see into your mind, into your heart. I have known Damballah Oueddo, and held him to my breast. Don't lie to me.'

'Mistress, I ain't know nothing about that.'

'I can have you flogged, Therese. I can tell the master that you have been rude to me.'

Once again the tongue circled the lips. But the head continued to shake, which was all the confirmation Gislane needed. There could only be one power in all the universe of which Therese would be more afraid than Louis Corbeau.

She smiled. 'But I will not do those things, Therese. Listen to me. This afternoon, when it is hot, I will go for a ride.'

Therese gaped at her. 'You can't go out midday so, mistress. White woman done get knocked down by the sun.'

'No doubt you are right, Therese. But I am not a white woman, and so I will not get sun stroke. I will prove to you, this afternoon. I will go riding, as soon as I have finished breakfast. This afternoon, Therese. Make what preparations you wish. I will let you go now. But come to me at one of the clock.'

Therese continued to stare at her.

'But first you will tell me his name,' Gislane said. 'Tell me how he is known to you.' Therese sweated.

'His name, Therese. Or I will be angry.'

Once again the tongue circled her lips. 'He does be called

Boukman, mistress.'

'Boukman. Boukman. Thank you, Therese. Now go!’ Gislane commanded. 'Be off with you. Tell Boukman I am coming. But tell no one else, Therese. Remember, I am a mamaloi. Remember the blood I gave you. I will reach you, wherever you are, should you seek to betray me. I will destroy you, Therese. I know all things, understand all things. And I will see this hougan. Today.'

When she spoke like that she almost believed herself. She was able to put so much power and intensity into her tone; she could not help but wonder what might happen should she speak to Louis like that. But for the mamaloi to have power, the devotee must believe, and Louis would merely laugh. And after he had laughed, why, she did not know what he would do, but she knew it would be something terrible. It was not a risk worth taking. But Therese believed, and would obey. She left the room silently, and Gislane returned to bed, and stayed there until it was time for her bath. And in her bath she was attended by Clotilde, the chambermaid, who did not utter a word. Therese was gone, about her mistress's business, about the business of the Lord Damballah.

Then it was necessary to wait, to look out over the plantation, to watch the overseers walking their horses up the drive to join the attorney, Jean Romain, who ruled the plantation in Corbeau's absence. But with Louis away, there was no need for her to attend the meal. She remained in her apartment, did no more than nibble a few biscuits, and pour herself a glass of wine. Normally she ate a hearty breakfast, and aped Louis's habit of reclining during the heat of the afternoon, even if she preferred to read than sleep. For how long had she wanted to read, lying in a soft bed, with no knowledge other than that she would be visited by her lover when the afternoon drew on. But this was the side of her character, the luxury of being almost white, which constantly threatened to obliterate her true self. For that was not Gislane. The Gislane who had been stolen away to England, who had been carefully educated as a young lady by Mama and Papa Nicholson, who had allowed herself to dream of marrying a Hilton, that Gislane had never existed. It had been no more than a cloak which she had been forced to wear, to cover her true self, to cover her nakedness. She had only discovered Gislane, discovered herself, that morning on board the Antelope when she had looked along the deck and seen Dinshad, and seen, too, his eyes searching for her. Then Gislane had been born, and to let her ever again be submerged beneath the cloying make-believe of a white man's civilization would be a crime for which Damballah would surely never forgive her.

But at last it was noon, and the great house, never noisy, slowly became even more silent. Gislane dressed herself in her blue silk riding habit, tied a wide-brimmed straw hat beneath her chin by a blue ribbon, opened the door of her apartment and listened. A houseboy walked down the corridor; his feet were bare although he wore the pink and white liveried jacket of the Corbeaux. He gazed at her, and she returned his stare. Undoubtedly there would be gossip, but it could not harm her. If she failed, well then, she had but to explain to Louis, when finally it reached his ears, that she had felt restless. If she succeeded, then the gossip would never reach his ears.

She knew this maze-like tropical palace well, now. She found her way down corridors and across withdrawing-rooms, down small staircases and short hallways, and reached the north doorway. And there, as she had commanded, her mare waited, saddled, with one of the yardboys holding the bridle. And there too was Therese.

'Are you coming with me?' Gislane asked.

'Me, mistress? I got for stay here. You say you going ride by yourself. Or I can call one of them girls.'

She was almost hoping, no doubt. No hougan would then show himself.

'I shall ride alone,' Gislane said. 'But I am undecided where I should ride.'

The girl licked her lips. 'It cool by the river, mistress. This is where it is best to ride at midday.'

Gislane nodded, and the yardboy made a back for her. She settled herself in the saddle, right knee high, whip in her left hand, and nodded again. The boy stepped away and a flick with the whip had Annabelle moving slowly forward, away from the house, along the paved path through the gardens, her hooves clicking gently on the stones.

How hot it was, and still. Sweat trickled out from her hair and down her neck. And she could hear not a sound. The gangs were still in the fields, but around the plantation villages all work had ceased in the heated silence of the siesta. One o'clock in the afternoon was probably a more secluded time on Rio Blanco than one o'clock in the morning.

The noise of even the hooves ceased, as she left the immediate vicinity of the house and walked Annabelle along the beaten earth of the plantation roadways. Now the river was immediately in front of her, an avenue of swiftly flowing water concealed by the row of tall trees on either side, a place of relative coolness and shade, coursing through the very heart of the plantation, supplying power for the sugar mill, and providing too all the fresh water they could use, to leave Rio Blanco independent of drought even in the driest season. And beneath the trees there waited a man. This she could see immediately, for he revealed himself for just an instant, to guide her, before once again withdrawing into the shade. Heartbeat quickening she turned Annabelle again, and entered the shade. Boukman. Her latest manifestation of Damballah. Her sole reason for existence. And even that hasty glance had convinced her that this was no shrivelled halfstarved old man. Here was height, and vigour, and strength, and perhaps even dominance. Here was a man.

Annabelle stopped, and the black man stood beside her. He wore only the drawers of a field slave, and a straw hat, and his huge muscles gleamed with sweat. 'Boukman,' she said, and frowned at him as he took off the hat, and then stared, in a mixture of horror and utter delight. 'Dinshad?'

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE ABOLITIONIST

'I AM afraid it will be expensive. Mr. Reynolds placed his fingertips together as he rested his elbows on his desk, and peered over the top of his pince-nez.

'How expensive?’ Matt sat between Coke and Suzanne, facing the advocate; they had been given straight wooden chairs, sufficiently uncomfortable even for a man, and Suzanne was again pregnant, although there was no telling it in that cool demeanour. But he wished the matter done, quickly.

'Ah .. .’ Reynolds appeared to consult a note in his pad, although obviously he had no need to. 'Forty pounds.'

'Forty pounds?’ Coke demanded. 'For an acre of worthless land?’

'Within the city limits of Kingston, Dr. Coke. The city grows, you understand, and land has once again gained in value since the end of the war. Why, sir, even at that price, when you come to sell you will make a profit.’

'Except that should we buy, we will not mean it as an investment,’ Matt pointed out. 'Yet must you be right about its growing value, Mr. Reynolds; when I was last in Jamaica, scarce two years ago, an acre of land behind Kingston was not commanding a pound.'

'Ah, well ...' Reynolds allowed himself a gentle smile. 'Two years ago we were still at war...'

'And two years ago,' Suzanne said, very quietly, 'you had not made it known that the land was sought by Dr. Coke.'

Reynolds flushed, and removed his pince-nez to polish the glass. 'It was difficult enough, I do assure you, Mistress Huys, to find anyone willing to sell land to a ... a...'

'An abolitionist,' Matt suggested. ‘A Wesleyan?' Coke offered.

'I suspect one is as bad as the other,' Suzanne agreed, and gave a delicious little ripple of laughter at the lawyer's discomfort.

'Well, madam, if you will have it so,' he said angrily. 'Neither word is much regarded in Jamaica, as no doubt you are well aware. Forty pounds, and there it is. I can see no prospect of bargaining. And as that is too heavy a sum, well then, the matter is closed.'

'The matter is just beginning, Mr. Reynolds,' Sue remarked. 'We are being robbed, but then, presumably that could also happen to us on a dark night at the point of a pistol. We shall take your so valuable acre of scrub.'

Reynolds looked from her to the two men. 'I am afraid the vendor will require cash.'

'Then give him cash.' Sue opened her reticule and took out a piece of paper. 'There is an order for a thousand pounds. I place it in your care.'

Reynolds's pince-nez dropped to the end of its cord as he studied the draft. 'This is against Hilltop.'

'And signed by my brother, you'll observe.'

'But...' his head came up.

'You had heard how he threw us off Green Grove. The tale has been embroidered, Mr. Reynolds. Robert and Matt do not see eye to eye on a great number of things, principally on how a plantation should be managed. Yet would he not let his sister beg. You will further observe that the order is made payable at my demand, to be used as I see fit. We shall require further drawings, from time to time. For the moment you may apply forty pounds of it on this land of yours.'

'Bless my soul,' Reynolds remarked. 'Bless my soul. You will have title this time tomorrow.'

'I thank you, sir.' Sue stood up. 'You have been most cooperative.' She led Matt and Coke outside on to the verandah, looked down at the street, and inhaled.

‘I really do not see that I can permit such generosity, Sue,' Coke protested. 'That money, as I understand it, was for your passage back to England, and to see you established there. Can you be sure Robert will again be as open-handed, especially when he learns to what use you have put his credit?'

Sue wrinkled her nose. 'Do you know, Tom, I have never been to England. Nor do I have any great desire to go there now. I was born in Jamaica, and I grew up here. No doubt I shall eventually the here. If Robert does not understand that by now, and if he does not understand that I must also have somewhere to live until I do die, then is he a total fool.' She squeezed Matt's hand. 'Somewhere for us all to live.'

'Aye,' he said. 'If I have no doubt at all that my reappearance in your life was a curse, sweetheart, I am also certain that yours in mine was a gift from heaven. I can only repay you by work. You'll excuse me. I must get down to the market and procure some labour.'

'Slaves, you mean?' Coke demanded.

Matt grinned at him. 'Hired hands, Tom. We'll get your chapel up before the rainy season commences. I promise you that.' He kissed Sue on the forehead. 'Take care of her for me.'

He ran down the steps and along the street. Coke held Sue's arm as he escorted her more slowly to where the rented gig waited for them. 'I sometimes wonder where he gets the energy. And if I am right in allowing him to dissipate it in my cause.'

'I suspect your greatest fault is that you wonder too much,' Sue remarked, gently. 'You doubt, too much. Have you no confidence in this project?'

'Oh, indeed I have. I would the for it.' He handed her into the coach, took his seat beside her, and flicked the whip. 'Would you go for Tony?'

'He is safe enough with Mistress Lucas. I'd visit our property. And attempt to convince you that you must have confidence in the tools with which God provides you. Even two such sinners as Matt and I.'

'Two such sinners,' he mused. 'It is the enormity of it, of what you must sacrifice, that concerns me.'

'I could say that we had doubtless sacrificed it whether you had appeared in Antigua or not,' she pointed out. 'But

Matt, you must understand, is continuously and repeatedly atoning for the crime of having loved Gislane Nicholson.' 'You can speak of her so calmly?'

Sue shrugged. 'Let us suppose that Matt had married her, and she had died, perhaps in childbirth, while he was roistering with his friends, or of the flux, in England, while he was in Jamaica in the heat, or of yellow fever, here in Jamaica, while he was safe in England. Then I, as her successor, would know every moment how guilty he must feel.'

'Yet would you also be sure of her death,' Coke said. 'So far as we know, this girl still lives.'

'Indeed she does. On the other hand, she was never Mart's wife, as I suggested in my example. He atones for a dream. You might suppose a general succeeds in battle because all his life he has dreamed of conquests, of marshalling vast bodies of men, of outwitting his opponent. Certainly, for example, my Lord Rodney has always been successful because of his ambition, and England has used him well. You would be very foolish not to use Matt, who is now prepared to lend all of the Hilton energy, the Hilton determination, and the Hilton courage, to your cause, even if his reasons are not your own.'

Coke did not reply, and studied the road. They had left the main part of the city behind, and were passing through the poorer quarters, where the freed Negroes squatted on Crown property, sheltering beneath troolie roofs. 'Our estate.'

The gig rattled to a halt, and they surveyed the brief area of uneven, parched grass. 'At least we have a view of the sea,' Sue said. 'Albeit a distant one.'

‘You speak as an observer,' Coke suggested. 'As an observer even of Matt. Yet must your feelings be totally bound up in what is happening, in what you have forsaken to live in poverty, in what you must fear might happen in the future. Or do I speak entirely out of turn?'

'Of course you do not,' she assured him. 'As my life is now equally bound up with yours, Tom. I am here because I love Matt. Ah, you will say, love is scarcely enough; it is even, perhaps, a sign of immaturity. But I am also here because I respect him, and what he has elected to do. He will not sit back and reap the profits of being a planter, or even of being a Hilton. And that were surely easy enough. He may well fail. I am sorry to say I believe he will fail; there are too many odds stacked against the pair of you. But I would rather spend my life with a man who failed, after attempting, than with one who merely inherited, and squandered.'

'And now,' Matt said, 'if you will pass me that hammer, Abraham...'

'Oh, yes, suh, Mr. Matthew.' Abraham held out the hammer, and Matt took it, and hafted it, and looked around him. It was a brilliantly sunlit morning, with only a suspicion of dark cloud gathering over the Blue Mountains above Kingston, and no more than a zephyr of breeze to stir the dust. Behind him were gathered all who had participated in the building; Tom, also stripped to the waist, although not even eight weeks of unremitting labour had been able to change much of his plump flesh for muscle; the four black men and their three women who had actually been employed; Abraham, the foreman, and Suzanne, little Tony in her arms, her belly distending the front of her gown. And if Tom seemed incongruous to Matt's eyes, what was he to make of his mistress? She looked for all the world like one of the poor white women, the wives of those who were not planters and were not merchants or employed by the Government, but who yet sought to eke out a living in this segregated paradise, who existed in the direst poverty, and yet who considered themselves immeasurably superior to anyone with a black skin.

No doubt Sue did so consider herself, although there was little evidence of it in the way she stood close to the black women. It was her clothes which were so indicative of her changed station, for her gown was plain white cotton, and he knew she wore no petticoats underneath, not even a shift, while her hat was straw, lacking even a ribbon. And her feet were bare; and dusty.

But she smiled, as they all smiled, as they waited for the last nail to be driven. Nor were they alone. At least a hundred people were gathered on the borders of the property, mostly blacks these, either freemen or slaves sent into town on errands for their masters; but there were also one or two white men and women, amazed at this phenomenon of people like themselves, and indeed people above themselves, Hiltons working with their hands in the heat of the sun. Or perhaps, working with their hands at all.

But it had been good work. The house stood a little distance to his right. It consisted of walls, a sloping roof, and a porch, beside which was situated a large vat to catch their fresh water; there was no stone, no paint and no decoration. Within were four rooms, two sleeping chambers, a general room for living in the centre, and a kitchen at the back. The furniture so far consisted of hammocks slung from hooks set in the walls, and the cooking pots. And the entire building would have fitted into Sue's bedroom on Hilltop. But he and Tom and Abraham had built it themselves, and he was as proud of that tiny structure as of anything he had ever accomplished.

What then would he say about the church? Tom had not been sure they needed a chapel. 'The great vault of heaven is our church, Matt,' he had said. 'There is no need for buildings.'

'You aim to compete with Christianity organized on the one hand,' Matt had retorted, 'and with voodoo on the other. Both demand visible evidence of the presence of their god, be it priest and altar or priestess covered in blood. Both will expect the same from you. What you must offer them is something better, something more simple perhaps, more easy to understand, more universal, more appealing. There it is.'

Coke had scratched his head, and looked uneasy, and Matt had clapped him on the shoulder, and laughed.

'Besides,' he had said. 'We must be practical. This is Jamaica. Would you have your congregation dwindle away once the rains start? Be sure they will not stand and worship in a downpour.'

Well, he thought, as Abraham held the board in place for him, this will keep off the rain. There was a sloping roof and four walls. Within there was a dais, on which Tom would stand. He would accept no pulpit and no lectern. 'Simplicity, Matt,' he had insisted. 'There is Mr. Wesley's principal concern.'

The onlookers burst out clapping. The final board was of course no more than a symbolic gesture. The chapel had been completed the previous day, but he knew how important it was to impress the Negroes with some sort of ceremony.

'Matt,' Sue cried, corning forward. ' 'Tis a triumph.'

'Aye, so it is,' Coke agreed. 'I'd not have accomplished it without your energy, Matt. And your support, Sue.'

'Then count on them both, for ever,' she said. 'Are we allowed inside?'

' 'Tis what it is intended for,' Coke said, and himself held the door for her.

She stepped into the gloom, and wandered slowly the length of the rectangular building. 'It smells delicious.' Matt had used cedar wherever possible; it was cheap enough. Sue reached the dais, and turned. Matt and Coke had also entered, and behind them, Abraham and his fellows. But now there were others; the crowd of onlookers, drawn by curiosity, was peering through the door, and some even cautiously sidling inside. Very few of the Negroes had ever been permitted inside a white man's church before.

'Man, Mr. Matthew, is true this Lord God you does speak about living in here?' Abraham inquired.

'Why, so He does,' Matt agreed.

Abraham looked around him somewhat nervously, and seized his wife, Rebecca, by the arm. Matt wondered if he had never in turn wondered about the name he had been given by his erstwhile owner.

'That is not strictly speaking correct, of course,' Coke said. 'As the building has not yet been consecrated.'

'Then consecrate it,' Matt suggested.

‘I? Why, I doubt I have the authority.'

'For heaven's sake,' Matt cried. 'You'll not have the bishop do it. He'd be more likely to pull it down about our ears.'

'I will study the matter,' Coke said. 'I suppose, being alone here, in the sense of the Wesleyan movement... I will have to study the matter. There are others of equal importance. We have a church, a splendid church, Matt. Now we must consider how we are going to fill it.'

Matt stared at him in mingled amusement and irritation, and scratched his head, and then looked down at the crowd in front of him. "You would not say it is presently filled, then?' There could not be less than seventy people inside the building, he estimated.

'My word,' Coke said. 'My word, but you are right. Do you suppose they will come again on Sunday?'

'They might,' Matt said. 'If you made their coming sufficiently attractive a prospect. Talk to them, Tom. Now, while you have them here. Tell them what you hope for them, what you require of them.'

'Now? But it is Thursday.'

'Does that make a difference? Do they not say, needs must when the devil drives? How much more must that be applied when the Lord beckons. You have them here now, gathered in front of you, impressed by what we have so far accomplished. I will wager you will never have a more receptive audience in your life.'

'My word,' Coke said. 'But I believe you are right.' He looked down at his naked chest. 'But I cannot preach like this. You must give me time to don my clothes, and prepare a text.'

'Time?' Matt demanded. 'Time?' For already the least curious were drifting back to the door, chattering amongst themselves. 'Avast, there,' he shouted, reverting to his navy days. In the limited space his voice sounded like a cannon shot. Everyone stopped talking and turned to face the dais. Desperately Matt searched his brain for words, and cursed himself for having paid so little attention to religious matters throughout his life.

'Brethren,' Sue suggested in a whisper at his elbow.

'Brethren,' he shouted. 'Aye, you are that. I call you brethren, and I welcome you to this Wesleyan Chapel in the name of our pastor, Dr. Thomas Coke. Dr. Coke will now address you.'

Coke stared at the people, then at Matt. 'I have no notes,' he muttered. 'No text. What am I to say?'

'For heaven's sake,' Matt exclaimed, and no doubt he meant it as a prayer, he thought. Once again the crowd was edging towards the door. 'Wait,' he shouted. 'Dr. Coke has asked me to make this address to you. Listen to me, my brothers. You know my name. It is Matthew Hilton. You know I am the son of a planter, the cousin of another. You'll know I have been a slave owner. But perhaps you do not know that I abolished the whip on my plantation. I did it because I too have felt the lash, because I have come to realize that we are all brothers under the sun, under God; that no one of us has the right to ill-treat another; that in time we must all answer to Him.'

He paused, and licked his lips. At least they were waiting. But with nothing more than polite interest.

'Listen to me,' he said again, his voice filling the room. 'You live in a country where the white man rules, and where he appears to be supported by his God. You know that here in Kingston black people are not allowed into the white man's church. You think with reason, that this is the way the white man will have it, everywhere. But you are wrong, my friends, my brothers. In that great country across the ocean, whence are all the Jamaican white men come, God is the God of all men. He will protect every one of you in front of me no less than will He protect me and mine. And to God all men are brothers. And more than that. All men are free.'

He drew breath into his lungs, and they stared at him. 'You cannot stop now,' Sue whispered.

'So this God of mine,' he shouted. 'Of ours, my brothers. We cannot see Him, because He is everywhere. Abraham asked me just now if He truly lives beneath this roof. He lives beneath the roof of Heaven, my brothers. He but prefers to speak with us poor mortals under the roof of one of His houses. God is great, and He is universal. But so too is He jealous, my brothers. If you would seek His assistance, so must you turn to Him, and no other. I beg of you, my friends, forget your Damballahs and your Agones ...'

There was a murmur from the concourse before him, and he drew breath again.

'Forget them,' he shouted, louder than before. 'Forget Ogone Badagris. They cannot help you, here. Have they ever helped you before? But God, the one God, the God of us all, He will help you. And soon. He is already helping you, by entering the hearts of white men, in England and all over the world, and telling them that they are to stop ill-treating their black brothers. He has entered my heart, and the heart of my friends. And He is a God of wrath. He will have His way, or He will be avenged. Let every white man who hears these words know this. God will be avenged on those who gainsay His will, His determination that all His people shall be free.'

Now the last of the muttering had stopped, and they gazed at him in wonder.

He leaned forward, and lowered his voice. 'But God is also a God of mercy, my brothers. He will forgive those who understand his word, and take heed of it. And He is not a God of war, of fighting and destruction. He will punish His enemies in His own way. For you, for me, for us, our task is to pray to Him, and try to understand His meaning as told to us by His representative here, Dr. Coke, and be patient. Your freedom is coining. Freedom from the lash, freedom from fear, freedom from poverty, freedom even from inferiority. God will have it so, and what God has decreed, no man can oppose without involving his own damnation. Gather in this chapel, my brothers, whenever you may. Whenever you are in this town, come here. Dr. Coke will be here, or I will be here. Come and talk with us, my friends. Tell your friends to do the same. Come here and learn the word of the Lord, and learn too what He would have us do, to prepare for the great day of freedom. Now go in peace. But return, my friends, and learn more of God.'

He discovered himself to be sweating as if he had run several miles in the noonday heat. And the Negroes were slowly filing through the door, talking amongst themselves, looking over their shoulders at the dais, and then hurrying away, almost fearfully.

'My word,' Coke muttered. 'My word.'

'Did I fail you?'

'Fail me? Good heavens no. There was a speech which could have been made by Dr. Wesley himself. But he preaches in England. Should word of what you have said here today get abroad ...'

'As it will,' Sue said.

'They will call it treason, most likely,' Coke said. 'My word, as they accuse me of being an incendiary, what will they call you?'

'We must wait and find out,' Matt said. 'You came here to accomplish a mission, Tom. I know not whether to attribute my part to God or to the devil, but circumstances have transpired to place me at your side. And I'll tell you this, you will not attract any Negro to this church just to hear readings from the Bible. As for offending the planters, did you not know for sure that you must do that? Did you know that by buying this ground and building this church you have already done so?'

'You must confine your preaching to the congregation,' Sue said, and kissed him on the nose. 'We are already believers.'

'Is Tom?'

Coke hesitated, and then sighed. 'I honour everything you have done, Matt. No doubt I lack your raw courage, your pioneering spirit. Your arrogance, if you like. But then, I am not a Hilton. I only pray that we, that you, for I know my own weakness, will ever be able to control the forces that you have set in motion here today.'

'But you were magnificent.' Sue settled Tony into his cot, and lay down in her hammock, sent it swaying gently to and fro to create a slight breeze; the night was still and hot, and from Kingston sound seeped towards them, a burst of music, a shriek of laughter, the high-pitched barking of a dog. 'Almost I could see fire and brimstone hurtling from your eyes, seeking to destroy any man who stood before you in opposition. Had you possessed a beard, I'd have supposed myself in the presence of Moses.'

Matt sat in his hammock, legs dangling, and watched her combing her hair. As usual she had not permitted him the use of her body since discovering her pregnancy, and since her belly had started to swell she had even insisted on separate hammocks. All of which was reasonable enough. But how he wanted her this night. He wondered if, although he would never admit it, he was even a little afraid himself of what he had said this morning. 'You are making fun of me.'

'No,' she said. 'You are not the sort of man of whom anyone should make fun, Matt. Your energy, your determination, your passion, in whatever you do, is too plain to see.'

'I sometimes suppose that all of those characteristics you seem to admire can be little more than the worst of vices,' Matt said. 'What joy has it brought you, sweet? To live in a shack, and be forced to support me?'

'And naturally,' she continued as if he had not spoken, 'one who can feel so strongly about whatever he does must also swing to the other pole of human endeavour, and be left sated and gloomy within a few hours of his best effort. As now. By tomorrow you will again be happy to take up the struggle.'

'You have not yet answered my question.'

She blew out the candle. ‘I have answered that question a thousand times, Matt. I shall not do so again. I am happy where you are happy, and if you find happiness a difficult commodity to obtain, then am I happy where you are at least content. And Matt, I am proud of the words you uttered today, whatever consequence they bring. It is you, and men like you, who will free the slaves, if it can ever be done. Not dreamers like Tom. Now go to sleep, sweet. I have no doubt you will need all of your energy tomorrow.'

How he wanted to touch her. But that would surely be a mistake, as then he would be unable to let her go. And he did not lust for her. He wanted only reassurance, and the comfort of her strong arms. So then, did he regret today? Certainly it had never previously entered his mind to play the preacher, and the idea of playing the revolutionary filled him with horror. But how else to reach the hearts and minds of people who were necessarily at once uneducated and suspicious, save by appealing to their senses, to their hopes, to their ambitions? But now surely he was damned, by every man, woman and child with a white skin in the entire West Indies, and no doubt by every ancestor in the vault of heaven itself. Even Kit the buccaneer, while he had never used the whip, had ruled his plantation and his slaves with a will of iron. Because he was a man of iron. As before him Edward Warner and his father had been men of iron. Had they known that, when they were men? Or was iron only perceived in a man's character when he was dead, and his deeds could be considered as a whole. But had none of that fearsome trio ever known doubts? It was hard to accept that Tom Warner, who had ordered an entire Carib tribe to be massacred to safeguard his St. Kitts colony, could have doubted; or that Edward his son, who had fought the Spaniards with such ferocity that he had become a legend in his own lifetime, had ever wondered what he was doing; or that Kit Hilton, who had marched with Morgan on Panama and had defied, almost alone, the entire Antiguan plantocracy, had ever known fear.

But there was one difference. For Matt Hilton had also sought to defy the Antiguan plantocracy. And he had been defeated.

He stared at the darkness of the roof above his hammock. So then, now he was attempting to defy the entire West Indian plantocracy. Was that not courage worthy of all his ancestors? Or was that merely youthful foolhardiness?

The room was silent, and Sue was no doubt already asleep. Although the candle seemed to glow, throwing little shadows up and down the roof. Yet it too was extinguished. No doubt his over excitement at the events of the day was affecting his eyesight.

But there were moving shadows. Shadows which could only be caused by flames.

'Christalmighty,' he shouted, and sprang from the hammock in a single bound, running for the door as he scooped his pants from the floor. And pausing there in horror.

The church blazed, flames shooting out from the opened doorway, already licking their way through the roof. The wood crackled, and occasionally a shower of sparks shot into the air and landed perilously close to the cottage.

'Oh, my God,' Sue gasped at his shoulder. Behind her Tony began to wail as his parents' agitation communicated itself to him.

'Undone,' Tom Coke cried. 'We are undone.'

'By God, or by men?' Matt shouted, and ran across the yard. Now he realized there were people, gathered on the edge of the fence, staring at the flames and at him. Black people, mostly. No doubt some of them had been in the congregation this afternoon.

He faced them, arms spread wide. 'Help me,' he shouted. 'This house belongs to the Lord. Will you not help me?'

They stared at him as he approached, and muttered amongst themselves.

'Abraham,' Matt shouted. 'You helped me build that church. Will you stand there and watch it burn?'

'Man, Mr. Matthew,' Abraham said. 'Them boys done say if we seen on that land again we going to get beat up.'

'Them boys?' Matt shouted. 'What boys? You, Orlando, did you see someone here?'

‘I can't say nothing, Mr. Matthew,' Orlando said. 'Man, I got wife and child.'

'Oh, Christ in heaven.' He turned and ran towards the tremendous heat of the blazing chapel. But there was nothing to be done. There would have been nothing to be done, now, even if every man in the crowd had run forward to help. The flames had too secure a hold. He could do no more than watch and wait.

Coke stood beside him, and in time knelt beside him as well, as their legs grew weary. Suzanne was there too, Tony in her arms. And the Negroes also stayed. They had listened to his words, and they had found comfort in them, and even some hope. Now they waited, to see what he would make of this. What his Lord would make of this, perhaps.

In time the heat died, as the roof fell in and the last of the wood was consumed. The night grew chill as dawn approached. Then it was very dark, for a few hours, until the black became grey, and the dawn breeze swept down from the Blue Mountains, and the cocks began to crow. Matt stretched, and raised his head, and wondered if he had actually slept, kneeling there. Coke was still at his side. Sue was sitting on the porch of the cottage, Tony in her arms, leaning against an upright. He thought she was asleep.

The church had entirely disappeared in a mound of still smoking ash. Matt turned his head, slowly, and painfully; he seemed to have doubled his age and discovered every rheumatic possible, in a single night. He looked at the fence, and found that the negroes had gone, melted away into the dawn. In their place there waited a single horse, and its rider.

Slowly Matt pushed himself to his feet. 'Have you come to gloat?'

'I wish to learn if you have come to your senses,' Robert said.

'Senses?' Matt demanded. 'By Christ in heaven, Robert. Did I suppose you had anything to do with this, I would tear your head from your shoulders and feed it to the dogs.'

'Then suppose,' Robert said. 'It was the only way I knew to save you from a criminal charge. Perhaps from hanging. You spoke treason yesterday morning, by all accounts.'

'By Christ,' Matt said again, and started forward.

'Stop.' Sue ran across the yard. 'Are you mad?'

'Did you not hear him?'

'You'll quarrel,' she said. 'I can hardly suppose the pair of you ever doing much else. But you'll not fight, Matt. That would be to put too great a burden on my loyalties.'

Matt stood close to the fence, fists clenched with anger. 'I'll build again, Robert. Will you burn again?'

'That depends on what you use your building for.' Robert was looking at Sue. 'Is this how you propose to spend the rest of your life? Scrounging in a dirt yard, with your belly hanging out. Is this what I gave you money for?'

'You gave me the money, Robert. It is mine to spend as I wish. Just as my life is mine to spend as I wish. And you'd do well to remember that the next house you burn well may contain me. And your nephews.'

'By God,' he said. 'Cursed, I am. Cursed.' He half wheeled his horse, then checked it, and felt in his pocket. 'I have a letter for you. From Georgiana.'

He leaned across the fence, and Suzanne took the envelope. 'Does she add her strictures to yours? It would hardly become her.'

'She lacks that much sense,' he said. 'Your friend Corbeau will be returning to Jamaica in the New Year, Matt. By God, but it has taken him long enough. It seems his plantation had not prospered sufficiently to satisfy him during his imprisonment here with us, and it was necessary for him to undertake a lengthy business journey. Where he does not specify, but I assume it was to France. However, his affairs are now in order, and he will be back. No doubt he will visit you...' he looked around the little plot of land, growing more and more derelict in appearance as the sun rose. 'Your estate. Who knows, he may even be able to talk some sense into you.'

'And Georgy writes to tell me this?' Sue inquired. 'By no means,' Robert said. 'You have there an invitation to a wedding.'

'For me alone.' Sue sat on the front porch of the little house and bounced Tony on her knee. ‘I’ll not attend.'

'She is your only sister,' Matt pointed out.

'Come February, and I shall be nursing, anyway,' she muttered. 'And she wishes me as her maid of honour. Good God Almighty, does she mean to insult all Jamaica?'

Matt grinned. 'Oh, she has spirit. You must grant her that. And you'll attend, Sue. I would not have you cut yourself off from Georgy on my account. I am quite capable of looking after the boys for a weekend. I'll have Tom to help me. Why, by then we'll have our new church.'

'You'll build again?' Coke still stared at the blackened ruin.

'Of course I shall. We shall. Do you not intend to help me?'

'I suppose we must,' Coke said, half to himself. 'Perhaps, if we left Jamaica, and sought some less censorious isle ... after your sister's wedding, of course, Sue.'

'We shall not leave Jamaica,' Matt insisted. 'We shall build again right here. We must. The Negroes will wait to discover who is strongest, the God of Whom we tell them, or the anger of the plantocracy. We must leave them in no doubt.'

'And suppose it is already proved?' Coke demanded. 'And can but be reiterated.'

Matt frowned on him. 'For a parson you have a surprisingly short supply of faith.'

‘I do not know,' Coke said. ‘I cannot understand. If indeed He blesses our work, why did He permit this to happen? Why does He permit all the enormities which surround us to happen? Is there not at least a possibility that your brother is right? That all the planters and the slave-traders are right? That God has ordained mankind shall be divided. By heaven, Matt, I seem to remember you preaching a very similar sermon at me one day at sea.'

'And realized since I was wrong,' Matt said.

'So how can you be sure that you are not wrong now?'

'Oh, for Christ's sake.' Matt got up, stalked down the steps. 'I shall not change again, Tom. This I swear to you. And you shall not either. And we shall build ourselves a new church, only this one shall be a fortress, and we shall bolt and lock the door except when one of us can oversee it. And I shall buy myself a pair of pistols, and then, then, by heaven, we shall see.' .

'And that is Christianity?'

'I seem to remember reading somewhere that the Lord thy God is a God of wrath,' Matt declared.

'And you see yourself as His chosen instrument,' Sue said, very quietly.

He rounded on them. 'Is it not possible that I am? Have events not conspired, quite without any ambition on my part, to pluck me from the very apex of the plantocracy and set me down here on this barren place? Has God not made stranger selections? Has ...' he stared past them and round the corner of the cottage. 'An incendiary, by heaven. Come to see the effect of his work.'

He ran round the house, but the white man who had been standing there did not move.

'You mistake the situation, Mr. Hilton,' he said. 'I was amongst your congregation, yesterday morning.'

Matt frowned at him; he was short and sallow, and had a nervous twitch in his right eye. 'And decided then to offer your services to my brother,' he growled.

'No, sir, I swear it. I all but decided then to approach you with a view to offering my assistance. But my courage failed me.'

'What sort of assistance would you offer, friend?' Coke inquired.

'At least invite the gentleman to join us,' Sue suggested. 'You no doubt know our names, sir. We are ignorant of yours.'

'Charles Manton, Mistress Huys.' He came round the building hesitantly, his hat held between his hands.

'And how are you employed, Mr. Manton?' she asked.

'I am ... at least, I was, an overseer, Mistress Huys. Now I am unemployed.'

'There you have it,' Matt said bitterly. 'Should we attract no more prosperous specimen than this then are we lost indeed.'

'You'd work for us?' Coke asked.

Manton stood before the porch, licked his lips, glanced from one to the other. 'I'd know your purpose.'

'Why, to teach the Negro to recognize his humanity,' Coke said. 'And to teach him to believe in God.'

'There is a generality, sir,' Manton said. 'I recall, as a boy in Lancashire, watching the authorities constructing a reservoir. It would contain sufficient water for all, they said. And as such must necessarily be in the public good. And sir, no one could argue against that. But it was no more than a dream, saving the use of gunpowder to blast the rock, and pick-axes to cut out trenches, and determination, that to achieve a beneficial result for mankind it was necessary to indulge a great deal of force.'

'I would prefer it if parables were left to the Bible,' Sue suggested.

'Well, Mistress Huys, gentlemen, I would say that you can accomplish neither of the objectives you mention without first of all conquering the resistance of the plantocracy. Your own brother, Mistress Huys, has claimed the credit for burning your church. And has threatened to do so again and again if it is used for what he and his colleagues might consider seditious preaching. Will you spend the rest of your lives as builders?'

'May I say, sir,' Coke observed, 'that I began my mission in these parts by attempting to appeal to the better natures of the planters, and met nothing but abuse.'

'Better natures?' Manton demanded. 'Sir, you are either too much of a Christian or too much of a fool.'

'And you are a planter yourself, of course,' Matt said. 'I wonder what made you abandon your course? Or were you merely dismissed for some fault and now seek to take your revenge?'

'You were also a planter, Mr. Hilton. I have heard it said you became nauseated with the obligations of your profession.' He glanced at Sue. 'And were perhaps encouraged by a personal tragedy.'

'That's common knowledge,' Matt said.

'Well, then sir, you must agree with me. You cannot improve the lot of the black man while the white man opposes you with money, with men, and with no fear of violence. You must first defeat him, and then you may do as you please. Hear me out, sir. You know as well as I that there is a growing body of opinion in Great Britain which abhors the very suggestion of slavery, and yet is very little aware of the actual horrors which a slave may have to endure.'

'It is that body of opinion which dispatched me here, sir,' Coke said.

'Indeed. And are you not also aware that there is in existence in these very islands a series of laws designed to remove the possibility that any planter may carelessly murder a slave, or mutilate him, for that matter?'

'Oh, you are an amusing fellow,' Matt said. 'What, would you have me arraign a planter on a charge of causing grievous bodily harm? He has but to retort that the slave in question was mutinous or absconding. Even supposing we could find a court to try him.'

'I agree, sir,' Manton said. 'In the past the law has been a dead letter, because the plantocracy has administered it in respect of themselves. Yet, sir, as you should know better than I, times are changing. The plantocracy cannot help but be aware of the tide of public opinion in England, and even supposing they assume they can ride out that tide, there are men in power in these islands who think differently, who are very inclined to take note of English opinion.'

'General Campbell?' Sue demanded. 'You are dreaming.'

'Perhaps not General Campbell, Mistress Huys. But he is not the only governor in the West Indies.' Manton licked his lips. 'And even he, gentlemen, would have to listen could you produce incontrovertible proof that a planter was using not even brutal force, but quite inhuman methods in the treatment of his slaves.'

'Oh, aye,' Matt said bitterly. 'Incontrovertible proof, you say.'

'Supposing, sir, you were to discover an overseer who would testify against a late master?' ‘You?'

'You asked me why I abandoned my position, sir. It is because even I, and I have spent my adult life managing slaves, I admit it freely, became sickened by what I saw, by what I was forced to undertake.'

'Such as what?' Coke asked.

'Well, sir, the planter for whom I worked was not always so, although his wife was never less than a tyrant. Why, gentlemen, I have seen one of her maidservants pinned to the wall by a knife through each ear, and left there to hang. Is that reasonable punishment? But if times were then bad, sir, why, they became worse. This man of whom I speak gained possession of a splendid treasure, and was then forced to sell his prize, and this had a most terrible effect on his character. He began to outdo his wife in demoniac endeavour. If Mistress Huys will excuse me, I have seen him line up three men and use his stick deliberately to beat their members until they possessed no more than withered stumps; I have seen him assault a hapless girl with red pepper until no natural function was permitted to her, so badly was she swollen; and once at grinding, sir, when a cup of wine was brought to him from the house and a slave inadvertently jogged his arm and caused him to spill the liquid on himself, why, sir, I saw that unhappy black picked up and dipped in a cauldron of molten molasses. It was that day I abandoned my place.'

'Good God,' Coke said.

'Are you sure you are not spewing the contents of a diseased imagination?' Sue demanded.

'I will swear to what I have said, on any oath you care to name.'

'And before a magistrate?' Coke asked.

'If I could be sure of protection. Which is why I am here. It has occurred to me that a man who would be that vicious would not hesitate to attempt murder should it suit him, even of a white man.'

'Protection,' Sue said. 'Aye, we would grant you what we can.'

Matt continued to frown, and his expression was forbidding. 'This man of whom you speak, he lives in Jamaica?' 'No, sir. I am from Nevis.' 'Hodge,' Sue said.

'I have heard rumours,' Coke agreed. 'But never so specific a charge. Nor so horrible a one.'

'Hodge,' Matt muttered. 'Hodge,' he shouted, and leapt forward to seize Manton by the shirt front. 'Now I know why you came to me.'

'Yes, sir, Mr. Hilton.' Manton glanced at Sue.

'Then where is she, man? Where?' He shook the little man like a rat.

'God alone knows, Mr. Hilton,' Manton gasped. 'She was sold to a Dutchman, and taken to the mainland.' To a Dutchman?'

'So she was the prize he gained, and lost,' Sue muttered. 'You said he was forced to it?' 'By Mr. Robert Hilton.'

Slowly Matt's fingers relaxed, releasing the shirt front, and then clenching again. 'And you held me back, this morning.'

'I would do so again now, Matt. He acted as he thought best. And if anything Manton tells us is true, he did the girl a kindness.'

'To a Dutchman? On the mainland? Have you any idea?' She seized his arm. 'Three years ago, Matt. You can only avenge her.'

'I intend to. I'll begin with pistols.'

'To fight Robert? He will kill you. Are you that much of a fool? Can you not see that Manton is right? You cannot help or rescue Gislane now, and if you truly wish to take part in a liberating or even ameliorating movement you have no right to bring something so great and so worthwhile down to a personal level. But here you are fortunate. You wish to bring down the plantocracy itself? Begin with Hodge, and satisfy both yourself and your principles at the same time.'

Matt stared at her.

'Oh, she is right, Matt,' Coke said. 'And do not suppose it will be the easier task. Indeed, you may find the way much more thorny than merely to challenge your cousin.'

'Hodge,' Matt muttered. A man he had never seen. But a man with whom he shared a terrible memory. 'You'll stand by your story, Mr. Manton? Write it out and sign it under oath?' 'I'm your man, Mr. Hilton. Come what may.'

For how long, Matt wondered, had he meant to stand here, or close to it? He leaned on the verandah of Government House in Charleston, looked at the ships in the roadstead beneath him, felt the morning breeze drifting down from the mountain at his back. Charleston, Nevis itself, looked as poor and desolate as ever it had been described, although on this occasion there was jollity in the streets; the navy was in port, in the presence of the Boreas frigate. Still commanded by Captain Nelson? But even if she was, Nelson would hardly again wish to meet the young man who had spoiled his dinner, and about whose point of view he had expressed determined opposition. How long ago was that? Very nearly a year.

He turned, looked up the hill. Up there, somewhere, was Hodges. How lonely he suddenly felt, how empty, without Sue at his side. Even Tom Coke would have been a blessing. But it was Tom's business to take care of her until his return; this was not a mission he could reasonably or honourably have entrusted to anyone else.

A soft cough had him turning to face the jalousied doors which gave access to the interior of the house. The secretary bowed. 'Mr. Loman has completed his perusal of your papers, Mr. Hilton. Will you come inside?'

Matt nodded, and stepped through the door, followed the young man along a polished corridor and into a large and airy room, containing a desk and three comfortable chairs. The man behind the desk rose as he entered, tall and thin, with a somewhat gloomy face and stooped shoulders, and wearing a sack coat which seemed too large for him. 'Matthew Hilton,' he said. 'Yours is a famous name. George Loman at your service.'

'You are very kind, Mr. Loman’ Matt said.

'At least’ the Administrator said, 'I would like to be at your service. Sit down, Mr. Hilton. Sit down. Redvers, some wine. I'm afraid I have not yet been able to cultivate the West Indian habit of spirits before noon.' Loman sat down himself, shuffled the papers in front of him. This man, Manton. He has not accompanied you. Why?'

'You've read his testimony,' Matt said. 'My associates and I thought it best for him to remain out of sight, so to speak, until we had commenced our action against Mr. Hodge. Mr. Manton, as our chief witness, may well be in some physical danger.'

'Oh, indeed he will be,' Loman agreed. 'And he is not exactly your chief witness, Mr. Hilton. He is your only witness.'

'At the moment,' Matt argued. 'All others will surely be restrained by fear. But once Hodge is apprehended, why, we shall find a host of witnesses, I have no doubt at all.'

'Once Hodge is apprehended,' Loman remarked, speaking apparently to his wine glass. He raised his head, and sighed. 'When I received your letter, I undertook certain investigations. Oh, in strictest confidence, I do assure you, Mr. Hilton. Now I want you to be very clear on one tiling. I regard slavery as a distasteful business. When I was required to move myself here, I protested that surely it was unwise of my lords of Trade and Plantations to impose upon their colonists someone who would necessarily be lacking in sympathy towards their society. I was commanded to come, and so I am here, and in all the circumstances I have no doubt it is my duty to obey the dictates of my conscience, and I also have no doubt that my superiors understood this when they appointed me. On the other hand, it is equally necessary that, as representative of the King, God bless him, whatever I do is unassailably fair, and above all legal. Again, I would like you to be sure that what I have been able to learn about James Hodge, and about his appalling wife, convince me that they are two of the greatest criminals who have ever walked the face of this earth, and I am sure that they are quite capable of having perpetrated all the crimes listed in this paper.'

'Well, then ...' Matt began.

Loman held up his hand. 'Unfortunately, I cannot operate on prejudice. I need proof. And this paper is totally worthless, as it stands.'

'But...'

'It is a list of quite monstrous crimes, alleged to have been committed by Hodge or his wife, on certain black men and women. But it is a list composed by this man Manton alone, and attested by no one else. And even more unfortunately, as I have told you, when I investigated Manton's background I learned that he was dismissed his place on Hodges after being found so drunk as to be quite incapable.'

'He has explained that,' Matt said. 'He got drunk from sheer horror at watching the slave drowned in a vat of boiling molasses.'

'Which is again merely unsupported testimony,' the Administrator pointed out, very gently. 'The point is, Mr. Manton would be very rapidly destroyed by any defending counsel as a credible witness, and with him would disappear your entire case and you could be worse off than before you started. And if I may say so, Mr. Hilton, any competent defence attorney would also destroy your motives in bringing the action with no less ease. I am referring to the tragic case of Miss Nicholson, of course. There is no one in Nevis, perhaps in the whole West Indies, who is not horrified by what happened to that poor girl, what indeed may still be happening to her. But still Hodge acted entirely within his rights and within the law. Your only recourse there would be to bring an action against the person who was responsible for her situation, and in England, not the West Indies.'

'My own cousin,' Matt muttered.

'I understand your predicament. But you must see that any jury would easily be convinced you are acting out of sheer vengeance, in hounding Hodge to his death. For be sure it is a matter as serious as that; the penalty for unreasoning homicide of a slave is death. On the other hand, to obtain a conviction on that basis would be quite impossible.'

Matt stared at his half empty wine glass. 'You mean I am wasting my time? Hodge or any other monster, is as free as air, merely by being a planter?'

'I did not say that, Mr. Hilton,' Loman pointed out. ‘I merely insist that when we bring a charge against one of these gentlemen, we must be in a position to press it home. If you could procure the testimony of some independent witness, now, there would be a different matter.'

'Do you suppose Hodge makes a practice of his excesses here in Nevis, before an invited audience?'

Loman sighed. 'To lose your temper with me, much less with Hodge, would be to defeat your own objective, Mr. Hilton. I will wish you good day.'

It was Matt's turn to sigh, as he stood up. 'At any rate, Mr. Loman, I must thank you for receiving me at all. My apologies for wasting your time.'

Loman held out his hand, clasped the young man's fingers. 'You have not wasted my time. For a moment or two you raised my hopes that we might at last find ourselves in a position to bring down one of these rascals, and by so doing influence the rest to act in a more Christian manner. But no, I will not be despondent. You have raised my hopes, Mr. Hilton. And I will promise you this. Regardless of the consequences, and I am sure you understand these will be considerable, do you bring me a single person of standing in this community willing to testify to but a tenth of the outrages enumerated in this statement, and I will have Hodge under arrest if it takes me the support of the entire militia to accomplish it.'

Enthusiasm which even brought a smile to Matt's lips. 'No man could ask fairer than that. I will see what can be done.'

He left the room, went down the corridor, and out into the suddenly intense heat. Grave words. But the fact was, he did not even know a single other person in Nevis, much less have the ability to introduce them as a witness against Hodge. He paused on the dusty street, watched a pony and trap rolling towards him, scattering dust; perhaps he could subpoena Robert himself. There would be a remarkable event. Except that Robert would doubtless defy the Courts without a thought.

The trap drew level with him, and he raised his hat to the lady, and then waved as he recognized the naval officer with her. Nelson immediately dragged on the reins, and they came to a stop; Matt saw there was a small boy seated between them.

'Mr. Hilton,' Nelson said. 'What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you did business in Nevis.'

'I do not as a rule, Captain. But I am very pleased to see you again. I still owe you a profound apology for ray behaviour on board Boreas?

'Nonsense’ Nelson declared. 'The fault was that fellow Chester's. But I would have you meet my fiancee. Fanny, this is Mr. Matthew Hilton, Mrs. Frances Nisbet.'

'Mr. Hilton.' Fanny Nisbet gave him her hand. 'I have heard your name often enough. It is a great pleasure.'

'And for me, Mistress Nisbet.'

'And this is Josiah’ Nelson said, rumpling the boy's hair. ‘I am going to take him to sea, Mr. Hilton, and make a navigator of him. Mr. Hilton was at the Saintes, Josey. What do you think of that? None of us alive will ever know a battle like that.'

The boy stared at Matt with wide eyes.

'You'll do us the honour of dining, Mr. Hilton’ Fanny Nisbet said. 'Then you can tell Josey all about Admiral Rodney.'

Matt bit his lip. Tt'd give me a great pleasure, Mistress Nisbet. But I am not sure you would do your social standing any benefit. You'll have heard ...'

'That you have renounced your patrimony to defend the cause of the blacks, Mr. Hilton.' She smiled. 'I honour you for it.' And glanced at her future husband. 'Although I am not sure Horatio agrees.'

Nelson flushed. ‘I have said that I would be sorry to see the end of the trade, Fanny, as the slave ships provide our best recruiting grounds, and without her navy, why, old England would be worth nothing at all. And I understand, as I am sure Mr. Hilton does, that forced labour is as necessary to the prosperity of these islands as is impressment to my ship. But I'd condemn any man as a scoundrel who ill-uses his people, be he sea captain or planter, saving where it is absolutely necessary for the preservation of discipline. And I understand this is also Mr. Hilton's point of view.'

Matt nodded. 'I'd not quarrel with any of that.'

But Fanny was frowning at him. 'And now you are in Nevis, and leaving Government House, and looking not at all pleased with yourself, Mr. Hilton. I'd wager you're after Hodge.'

'You know him?'

She half smiled, but it was a bitter twist of the lips. 'Nevis is not that large, Mr. Hilton. One knows everyone.'

'Aye.' Matt sighed. 'But Mr. Hodge, being a planter, is inviolable, whatever his crimes. Or so it seems.'

Fanny nodded. 'There is your problem. The things I could tell you, Mr. Hilton, the dreadful tales my late husband related ...'

Matt frowned in turn; but his heart was singing. 'Your husband was a doctor. Of course. And he attended Hodges?'

'From time to time. Oh, fear not, I shall not spoil your day. Or your dinner. But we shall expect you at seven.'

Nelson picked up the reins, but Matt seized the leather-work of the trap. 'A moment, please. Mistress Nisbet, would you be willing to set down what you know of Hodge, in the form of a statement?'

She glanced at Nelson. 'An accusation? Against a planter?'

'I have an accusation,' Matt said. 'But it is unsupported. Mr. Loman is sympathetic, but says he can do nothing without some corroboration, and from a person of standing. But you...'

'Well, I...' again the quick glance at Nelson.

'I have heard enough of Hodge,' the captain remarked. 'If you could assist in bringing him to book, Fanny, you can be sure of my support.'

'And you may need it, Mistress Nisbet,' Matt said. 'This is no light thing we undertake. The plantocracy will surely form an army behind any of their number who is impeached.'

Frances Nisbet stared at him for some seconds, and then smiled. 'But it seems I will have the navy behind me, Mr. Hilton. Come to dinner, and I will undertake your statement.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE BRIDE

'THERE he is,' Georgiana screamed, jumping up and down and squeezing Robert's arm. 'There. Oh, doesn't he look simply splendid.'

'Aye,' Robert agreed, and rubbed his muscle where she had pinched it. 'Maybe at last he'll be able to beat some sense into your head.'

She glanced at him, and released his coat. 'I'll not discuss it any more wretch.' She picked up her skirt and ran along the dock, her Negro attendant hurrying behind to keep the parasol as much as possible between her and the sun. 'Louis. Louis.'

The sloop flying the fleur-de-lis lay at anchor perhaps a hundred yards from the shore, gently bobbing on the swell which rippled into the harbour from the ocean, for San Antonio faced north and was not so sheltered as Port Royal. The jolly-boat was already alongside, however, and Corbeau was leaping ashore, arms spread wide.

'Georgy.' He held her close, kissed her forehead and then her lips, causing her broad-brimmed hat to slip back down her head until it was held only by the pink ribbon under her chin. 'My God, I wonder how I have managed to survive this past year without looking at your face.' He smiled past her. 'Robert.'

'Corbeau.' The two men shook hands. 'By God, but I am that happy to see you again. Sometimes I wondered if this wedding was but a dream I had enjoyed.'

'May I present Father Stanislaus?'

The black-robed priest inclined his head towards

Georgiana. 'You will add to the beauty that is Rio Blanco, my child.'

'Ooh,' Georgiana said.

'Damned hocus-pocus,' Robert grumbled.

'Now, Robert,' she begged. 'You promised.'

'Aye. And welcome you are, Father. I care not how the ceremony is conducted, so long as she is safely wed.'

'Oh, isn't he a horrible man.' Georgiana tucked her arm through Corbeau's as they made their way up the dock towards the carriage. 'You'd think it was more of a nightmare, the way he has been grumbling about the cost of everything. But it is all prepared, Louis. There'll be nothing like it ever seen in Jamaica.'

'Well,' Corbeau agreed, continuing to smile at Robert, 'there has never been such an occasion, has there? A Hilton, wedding a Corbeau? This date will be set aside in all the history books.'

'Aye.' Robert held the door for them. 'We'll not wait for the monsieur's gear, Philip. It can follow in the wagon.'

Louis sat himself beside Georgiana; he still held her hand, and he squeezed it continually, as if to reassure himself that it was flesh and blood. ‘You do not sound convinced. Are all my guests not arrived?'

"They come every day,' Georgiana said. 'Kingston's hotels are so filled with French chatter you'd think we were conquered.'

'And others,' Robert grumbled, sitting opposite them, beside the priest, and resting his hands on his knees. 'Dirk Huys arrived yesterday.'

'And that does not please you?' Corbeau inquired. 'Surely it can only mean he has decided to let bygones be bygones.'

Georgiana burst into a ripple of laughter. ‘I can hardly wait.'

'You've not seen him?' '

'We exchanged a glass,' Robert said. 'He was stiff, but not unfriendly. He knows I have the same opinions about ... well, about everything. He has no idea of the ordeal to which he is going to be exposed.'

'You'll explain?'

'Why, this ...' he seemed to change his mind about the word he would have chosen. 'Foolish sister of mine will have no one but Sue as her maid of honour. How can she apply the word?'

'I do not,' Georgiana said. 'She will be my matron of honour.'

'Then she is in Jamaica?' Corbeau inquired. 'You'll not have heard?'

Corbeau shrugged. 'Rumours. But the world is full of rumours, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen, much less believe.'

'Aye.' Robert stared out of the window as the carriage rumbled along the road. 'But there is generally a fire beneath the smoke. Sue is living in Kingston, sharing a shack with her paramour and a detestable fellow called Coke. But a month gone she was delivered of a second child.'

'Sue, twice a mother?' He wondered what difference childbearing would have made to that magnificent body, that remarkable personality. Ah, well, he supposed, like poor Rose Tascher, he must now relegate Sue Hilton to the realms of what might have been. 'By Matt?'

'Who else?'

'And will he also be attending the wedding?' 'I'd not allow him in the drive.'

'Oh, really, Robert,' Georgiana said. 'I'm afraid you will have to change your mind. Louis, you will have to make him change his mind.'

'I really do not understand what it is all about.'

'Why, simply that Sue has written to me refusing to attend my wedding unless Matt is also invited. So naturally I have decided to forget our quarrel for the time being. But I would have done so anyway, I think, had I thought of it. Weddings are not a time for quarrelling, with anyone. I am so happy, Louis. So happy.' She pinched his arm; he could feel it turning black and blue.

'Ah, but I see the predicament,' he observed. 'Robert wonders what Dirk's reaction will be.'

'Indeed I do,' Robert agreed. 'But that is the very least of the matter. You have not heard what that young fool is about now?'

'Rumours...'

'Which have not sufficiently interested you. But he will have nothing less than a revolution.' 'Sir?'

'Oh, that is a fact. He preaches freedom for the niggers, damnation to the plantocracy, abolition and amelioration. You name it, he says it in public. He has built himself a church. What do you think of that, Father?'

'Be sure God will be avenged on those who take his name in vain.'

'Oh, well said sir. There is a good point.'

Georgiana giggled. 'He has been trying, hard enough. Robert burned it down.'

'So he built himself another,' Robert declared.

Georgiana was still laughing. 'So Robert sent two men to burn that down as well.'

'And did they succeed?' Corbeau asked.

Georgiana's laughter became a shriek of pleasure. 'Matt was waiting for them. One is still in bed, with a broken jaw.'

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

'And do you know what makes the whole situation so absurd?' Georgiana said. 'This church, and the first one, were built with Robert's money. He sends Sue money every month.'

'You'd not have me allow my own sister, your own sister, to starve?'

It was Corbeau's turn to burst into laughter. 'By Christ, Robert, but beneath that flint-like exterior I do believe you are a perfect mound of kindness. Now come, admit it, you admire Matt, for his principles, even if they differ from your own. And you admire Sue, for her support of him.'

'Ha,' Robert said. 'No doubt I also admire the fortitude with which a scorpion rears on its hind legs to strike a man, knowing that with the very movement it must die. Yet would I, being the man, step on the insect without hesitation.'

'You admire him,' Corbeau repeated. 'And you will forgive him without hesitation once he comes to his senses. As he surely will. He is but a young man of passion, given to following wild dreams and fancies. But as he grows older he will stop dreaming, and become once again a Hilton.'

'Never,' Robert growled. 'Never. It is too late for him, now. He has gone too far. You've not heard the end of it, Corbeau.'

"There is more? You'll be telling me next he has committed some crime. I beg your pardon, Father, I meant some legal crime.'

Once again Georgiana gave a peal of laughter. 'He may as well have done so. He is bringing a planter to court. For mistreating a black. Can you believe it?'

Corbeau frowned at her. 'That he would wish to do so, possibly. That it would be practical, no. How may one ill-treat a slave, legally? Is not the act of enslavement sufficient proof of omnipotent power?'

'You begin to talk like him,' Robert said. 'Or like the frog-gie you are. We English lack such uncompromising attitudes. It so happens that with the Americans so successfully asserting their determination to be, as they call it, free men, public opinion in England has taken fright. You must be aware of that. And public opinion in England is mirrored by governmental opinion. So now we have laws, to safeguard the slaves. Our Assemblies were persuaded, by God, that should we show ourselves to be humanitarians, then would we be admired by England, by those senseless do-gooders who, believe me, only do good because they have insufficient matters of importance to occupy their lives.'

'And you passed such laws?' Father Stanislaus inquired.

'We passed laws to insure that no planter, from an excess of cruelty or anger, could maim or murder a slave.'

'But ...' Corbeau was clearly incredulous. 'How is discipline kept?'

'There is no law against punishing a slave with death or mutilation should he rebel,' Georgiana explained. 'Or should he attempt to escape, or attempt to lift his hand to a white man. The laws were intended only to prevent gratuitous cruelty.'

'Well, then. I do not see the problem. Was there ever a slave punished except for such a grave crime? At least in the eyes of the law?'

'To my knowledge, no,' Robert said. 'But Matt has found some renegade overseer, Manton, by name, to sign a statement that his employer, Hodge of Nevis, did in fact mutilate and murder his slaves and for the pleasure of it.'

'Hodge,' Corbeau said, thoughtfully. 'We have heard the name, even in St. Domingue.'

'Oh, the man is an utter blackguard,' Robert agreed. 'If any planter in the entire West Indies is so guilty, it will be James Hodge. But supposing he were to be convicted, Corbeau. It is not his life we discuss. Is there a planter who could seriously stand such a scrutiny, if it were extended?' He glanced at Georgiana, and flushed.

'Probably not,' Corbeau agreed. 'But surely this man Manton can be discredited?'

'Oh, indeed he can,' Robert said. 'He was a drunken layabout, by all accounts, and was so dismissed. But his statement is supported.'

'By another of similar ilk, I have no doubt.'

'By a lady who is greatly respected in Nevis. Mistress Nisbet. You'll not know her. She is a widow, who is to marry a sea captain. But she was the wife of the doctor in Charlestown, and as such accompanied him on his visits to the plantations. And she has sworn under oath that everything Manton has said is true.'

'My word,' Corbeau said. 'And cannot she ...?'

'I told you, she is a lady of the most unimpeachable character. Worse, her uncle is a man of position. He has been Speaker of the Nevis House, by God. Believe me, Corbeau, all the West Indies is in a tizzy about it.'

'I can understand that,' Corbeau agreed, thoughtfully. 'And when is this trial to take place?'

‘I have no idea. There is much legal argument, as you may suppose. The case will certainly be unique. But I doubt there is a planter in Jamaica will not wish to knock Matt down, should they come face to face.'

'Except that by all accounts, they are the more likely to be knocked down,' Corbeau said, even more thoughtfully. 'Well, well. What a family I have elected to call my own, to be sure.' He squeezed Georgiana's hand, and smiled at her.

'Yet I am proud of it. But I can see that it will make a reconciliation difficult.'

'It will make a reconciliation impossible sir,' Robert shouted. 'I will not have it. Ever. You may as well know. I have instructed my lawyers to draw up a new will. All I possess passes to your eldest son. Hilltop, Green Grove, my sloops, everything. So you'd best set about having a family, as rapidly as possible, or we shall wind up in chancery.'

Gorbeau stared at him. 'My son? Everything? No matter what happens?'

‘I have said so. And I am a man of my word. You'll not pretend to be overwhelmed?'

'Oh, indeed I am. In fact...' Corbeau burst out laughing.

'In fact you are amused,' Robert said coldly. 'I'll inform you, sir, that Hilltop and Green Grove may not amount to as much acreage as Rio Blanco and Ocean View, but I'll wager what you like that they are more productive.'

'Oh, I'd not argue that,' Corbeau said. 'I was merely laughing, because ... well, I am continually amazed at the care man takes to accumulate possessions, or to make sure that they are eventually his, when really, all he needs is a trust in the course of events.'

'I am not sure I understand you, sir.'

Corbeau continued to smile. 'No more you should dear brother-in-law. You may understand only that I am fully prepared to take my part in the requirements of being a Hilton. I am your support in everything, and for ever.' He leaned across the carriage to squeeze Robert's hand. 'You may have lost a cousin, but I promise you that you have gained a brother.'

The first carriage seemed to arrive at dawn, but this had been no more than prudence on the part of the Ellisons. For as the wedding luncheon was set for eleven thirty, it was clear that by mid-morning all roads between Kingston and Hilltop would be crowded to impossibility. And indeed, regarded from the upper verandah of the Great House, by nine o'clock the road through the canefields was jammed with vehicles, of every size and description, and yoked to the most varied collection of animals, horses, mules, and even donkeys, that it was possible to imagine, while those bachelors who were on horseback threaded their way in and out of the equipages with view-halloos and the dust rose above them all, to settle on faces already caked with French powder, and gloves already containing sweat-filled hands.

Fortunately there was a slight breeze, and this dispelled most of the dust cloud as the equipages came to a halt before the Great House. The breeze also fluttered the flags and banners which had been implanted all around the house itself, the Union Jack of Great Britain and the fleur-de-lis of France, together with various other devices, while from the flagpole on the house itself, for this special occasion, there flew the white banner of the Corbeaux, with the hawk's beak in ice pink frowning from the centre.

This colour motif had been applied inside as well, to drapes and loose covers, and as icing on all the cakes. ' 'Tis next year's entire profit I squander today,' Robert grumbled to Hardiman, his accountant,

'But for the last time,' Hardiman said.

'Oh, aye, and there is a blessing. Although hardly to be compared with actually seeing that rapscallion wed, and to a man of stature. For that privilege I'd have paid double.'

By ten o'clock the guests were assembled, thronging the verandahs, clustering in the withdrawing-room, haunting the great hall to await the descent of the bride. There were so many of them it was impossible to identify anyone, even had he known more than the few who had made the journey from Gap Francois, Corbeau decided. Nor was it possible to concentrate, as couple after couple were presented to him by Mistress Ridding, wife of the head overseer, this day acting the part of the lady of the house. There were short women and there were tall women, there were pretty women and there were ugly women, there were women who giggled and women who lowered their eyes demurely, there were blonde women and there were dark women, each one a swelling, sweating accumulation of femininity beneath a broad-brimmed hat, with bare shoulders and heaving breasts, bulging from yards of tulle and silk and satin.

But no less anxious were the men, in dark broadcloth coats or military uniforms, sweating even more profusely than their ladies, as they had less opportunity to expose themselves, stiffly bowing from the waist as they shook his hand, mentally totting up the probable value of his ice-pink silk coat with its gold embroidery, or the gold thread which made the design on his silk waistcoat.

And not one of them registered even for a moment on his mind. That remained upstairs, where his bride was being dressed by her maids, under the supervision of her matron of honour. As he had seen neither of them today, perhaps his memory actually lingered over dinner, last night. She had arrived just before dusk, sent for by Robert, and riding alone in the Hilton carriage. And she had sat beside him at supper, and talked, and laughed with her family as if she had never been separated from them for a day. Even Robert, this night under the strictest of instructions from Georgiana, had been almost charming.

He calculated that she must be twenty-six years old. And he knew she was twice a mother. Indeed, according to Georgiana, her latest child could only just have finished tugging at those tits he longed to touch. He had, in fact, seen her naked, once. It had the quality of a dream. On that dreadful day when Matt had plucked him from the shark-filled ocean, on his return to the flagship he had been carried below, into the cockpit, to be examined by Dr. Blane. Apart from the wounded, the deck had been full of women, and one of them had been washing herself in a bucket of water. He had stared at her, at the powder-streaked yellow hair, the muscular shoulders, the heavy breasts, and then she had faded into the darkness and he had been surrounded by ministering hands.

When next he had seen her, she had been Suzanne Hilton - he could never consider her as Suzanne Huys - tall and cool and self-possessed and utterly confident. And utterly unaware that he remembered anything of what had happened below decks the previous day. So then, must she always remain a memory? She had none of the classic but static beauty of Gislane. She had none of the bubbling earth-iness of Georgiana. But of the three of them she was clearly the only one truly worth possessing. The thought of lying beside her, of watching those remote eyes fill with passion, of watching those firm lips widen with desire, of feeling those slender strong fingers on his flesh, made his mind quite incoherent. And she had neither aged nor changed in any way. He had taken the opportunity, as they had left the table last night, to slip his arm round her waist, and had established beyond doubt what he had already suspected, that she wore no stays; yet her belly was as flat as it had ever been, and he did not doubt that those long, powerful legs he had glimpsed on that one unforgettable day had remained as splendid as ever.

But she belonged to that madman - he could no longer be called even a stupid boy - who seemed intent on tearing down the structure of a society it had taken his ancestors better than a century to build. And seemed happy to support him. They had not discussed Matt last night. Again on Georgiana's instructions. There was no way of telling whether or not he would come to the wedding. But there was no way of doubting either, that when the wedding was over, Sue would be returning to his arms.

And yet, in an hour or two she would be his sister-in-law. Surely, in the course of time, she would come visiting her sister at Rio Blanco. It should not be too much time. To possess all that magnificent womanhood, before it was too late, was his last remaining ambition.

Strange thoughts, for a bridegroom. And now he was brought back to reality with a start, as Mistress Ridding whispered, 'Meinheer Dirk Huys.'

Gorbeau raised his head, for the first time truly looked into the face of the person to whom he was being introduced. 'How good of you to attend, Mr. Huys.'

'Robert is my oldest friend,' Dirk said. 'I regard the two girls as almost my daughters.'

He bowed again, and moved on. By Christ, Corbeau thought. What a strange world it is, to be sure. And how must he feel, to have possessed all that, and then to have lost it to a boy. But if indeed Matt dared come today, might that not be a settling of the matter? Because things were working themselves out. He could afford to be amused. After all his trouble and effort to secure Gislane, Matt had by his own folly got himself forever excluded from his inheritance. Gislane now became redundant, except that the pleasure of possessing her remained; she was the most magnificent woman, and the most magnificent lover, he had ever known, had ever seen indeed, saving only the one he had never known. And Gislane could be used to destroy Georgiana, if he ever wished. And strangely, he did not doubt for a moment that he would so wish. Not to destroy the eager child, perhaps, but to reduce her to a proper level. Of all the Hiltons, and none of them lacked self-confidence, she was by far the most arrogant.

'It is time, sir,' said Ledon, the captain of his sloop, who on this occasion would act as his best man. And the throng in front of him was parting, for as there were far too many-guests to be contained by the Hilton family chapel, Robert had decided that the ceremony should take place in the withdrawing-room, and here Father Stanislaus was already waiting, as the guests assembled in their places before the carefully installed altar. As this was a marriage between different denominations, there could be no music, and the enormous room was filled with a stealthy whisper, less of voices than of material brushing against material. But now the noise was behind him, and he was facing the priest, with Ledon at his side, yet half-turning, together with everyone else, to watch his bride walk slowly up the room, Robert on her left and Sue on her right.

And she was a lovely young woman. That could not be denied. Her gown was white satin, lined with silk, with white lace ruffles on her sleeves, and for this most special occasion in her life she wore panniers, usually considered far too hot and cumbersome for use in the tropics; the applique work was in flesh-coloured silk. Her hair was her own, loose and curled and powdered and decorated with orchids. She wore no veil, and her white silk train stretched from the collar of her gown and was held from the floor by two satin-clad pages, the Ridding sons.

Sue was in pale blue, and utterly lovely. Robert merely looked hot and bothered, and kept jerking his head; they had tied back his hair with ribbon as he steadfastly refused to wear a wig, and he seemed to find even this restriction uncomfortable. But for this one day Georgiana dominated them, and indeed dominated the room, with the serene confidence of a bride.

Corbeau smiled at her, and gave her his hand, and looked past her and down the long line of guests, smiling at them in turn, for equally this was his moment. His gaze brushed across their faces until it reached the very end of the room, and there it picked out the tall young man who had just entered and stood by the arch to the hall, immediately in front of the massed Hilton servants. Matt had dared after all.

'I have never been to St. Domingue,' remarked Marjorie Ellison. 'A terrible place, so I have been told. Nothing but forests and mosquitoes.'

'And Frenchmen,' said Lady Campbell, and gave a little titter of laughter. 'No doubt our Georgiana will do very well.'

They sipped wine and stood together in a corner of the withdrawing-room, endeavouring to evade the heat and the babble of conversation which rose around them. The wind had dropped and the air was still, and clouded with a variety of odours, attractive and repellent, while the servants circulated with the laden trays and guests chattered and gossiped.

'At least she is now respectable,' Mistress Ellison remarked.

'How that... well, I don't know what to say.'

Lady Campbell looked across the room to where Sue was deep in conversation with the bridegroom. 'Indeed. I suppose she had to attend her sister's wedding, but to make her the matron of honour ... why, 'tis an insult to us all.'

'Oh, indeed it is,' Marjorie agreed. 'And it was Georgy's doing. Clare Ridding was quite appalled. Poor, poor Robert. He is the most unfortunate of men. It comes from being a bachelor, you know.'

Harriet Campbell tapped her nose with her fan. 'Perhaps. No doubt if he had had children, if he could have had children, poor misshapen man, they'd have turned out badly as well. Do you know, Archibald whispered to me that Matthew Hilton was here? No doubt still is.'

Marjorie surveyed the room. 'I do not see him. Nor do I see how he could dare attend. Is that not Meinheer Huys?'

'Indeed it is. As you say, Robert must be praying for this day to end without a catastrophe.'

'Poor Robert,' Marjorie said again. 'Then he will be all alone in this great house, in the middle of this great estate...' she rested a most speculative gaze upon her husband, as if mentally totting up how many years were left before she could undertake the business of being an eligible widow.

'A year's profit,' Robert declared to Sir Archibald Campbell. 'Would you believe it were possible to spend so much on a single morning? But it will be worth it, by God. Every penny of it. Why I see Corbeau as the only prop of my old age. Now you must excuse me, Archibald. I have a painful duty.'

Campbell nodded, and fell to muttering to the man beside him. Robert shouldered his way through the throng, well aware that every head in the room was turning to watch his progress, and becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the sweat gathered beneath his cravat and seemed to be bubbling up his high collar.

'Dirk. I had not the chance to greet you before. But I will confess I had expected you to call before now.'

'I thought it best to remain out of the way, at least until after the ceremony.' Dirk stared across the room to where Sue continued to talk with Corbeau.

'Yes. Yes. By God, you and I must have a meeting, Dirk. You'll stay behind after the others have gone.'

At last the Dutchman's head turned. 'Will you be alone?'

'Why, I ...' Robert felt the heat in his cheeks and cursed himself for a fool. ‘I can arrange to be. Have you spoken with her?'

'I would not trust myself so far,' Dirk said.

'Ah.' Robert stopped a Negress walking past with a tray and rescued two glasses. 'You'll know...'

'That she is twice a mother? I know.'

'Ah. And you'd not ...' he glanced from left to right. It seemed almost all conversation in the room had ceased, as everyone tried to overhear what the two men were saying. 'By God, our talk will not wait. You'll join me in the study?'

'Robert.' Georgiana swept towards them. 'It is twelve of the clock. You'll summon everyone to lunch, please. I'd not undertake the ride to Port Antonio in the dark, if I can avoid it.'

'Eh? Oh, yes. Maurice. Maurice, you black devil. Announce luncheon, by God. Dirk, we'll talk. Yes, we'll talk.'

'If you wish it,' Dirk agreed. 'You'll not change my mind.'

'Oh, you ... you wretched man,' Georgiana declared, loudly enough to be heard at some distance. 'You remind me of a dog in the manger, indeed you do.'

Dirk flushed, his entire bull neck seeming to suffuse with blood. 'I did not come here to quarrel, Georgiana. Indeed I wonder that I came at all. Perhaps ... but no matter. I will take my leave. I wish you and Monsieur Corbeau every happiness in the world. Robert, I shall remain in Kingston for three more days. You will know where to find me if you wish to discuss anything.'

He turned and made his way through the crowd, which parted readily enough before him.

'Oh, my God,' Sue whispered.

'You should at least have smiled on him,' Corbeau suggested.

'I couldn't, I...' she bit her lip. Well' said Marjorie Ellison.

'It had to happen, my dear,' remarked Harriet Campbell. 'We are perhaps fortunate there has been no actual fracas.'

'Ladies and gentlemen,' Maurice announced from the archway to the hall. 'Luncheon is served. Ow man, but what is this?'

Dirk Huys had halted at the top of the stairs, his big hands opening and shutting.

'I had intended to remain out of sight until after luncheon,' Matt said, quietly enough. 'But if you are leaving, Dirk, I'd ride with you a little way. Unless you object.'

'Object?' Dirk demanded. 'By Christ boy, I have nothing to say to you, unless it be at the end of a sword. But you, I understand, know nothing of swords. Well, sir, if it pleases you to pit your fists against mine, be sure that I am ready for that also.'

Matt flushed. He had deliberately abstained from drinking, had kept to himself in a corner of the verandah, unwilling to embarrass either Robert or Sue. Had Sue not insisted, indeed, he would not have come. And now he cursed himself for stepping forward at this moment, when Maurice had just called the attention of everyone in the room. But then, why else had he come, but to speak with this man he had so wronged? His life was compounded of so many crimes he could only survive by atoning for them, one after the other.

Yet the contempt in the big man's tones sent his temper soaring. 'Be sure, if you demand satisfaction,' he said, still speaking quietly, 'I will give it to you, Dirk. And with whatever weapon you choose.'

Dirk stared at him, heavy brows slowly drawing together.

'Well? remarked Marjorie Ellison.

'It had to happen,' Harriet Campbell pointed out. 'It just had to happen.'

'Oh, my God,' Sue said again. She stepped away from the wall, and Corbeau caught her arm.

'You cannot interfere, now.'

She glanced at him so imperiously he released her. 'Even if they must fight over me? And on such a day?' She hurried through the crowd, accumulated Robert on the way. 'Dirk. Matt. I beg of you.'

Dirk's stare moved from the young man to his wife. 'You'd beg for his life?'

She flushed, and bit her lip.

'She will not,' Matt declared. 'You may be sure I'll hide behind no woman.'

'Ah, cut the puppy's ears,' said a voice from the crowd. ' 'Tis no more than he deserves.'

'Hold your tongue, by God,' Robert bellowed, causing everyone to start. ' 'Tis a wedding, not a brawl.'

‘Yet since he is here,' Dirk said, 'I will have satisfaction.'

'Dirk,' Sue screamed. 'Robert, you must stop them.'

Robert sighed, and ran his finger round the inside of his collar. ‘I doubt I can do that. Unless you will return to him.'

'Well? said Marjorie Ellison.

'My wedding,' Georgiana declared. 'By God, the lot of you should be horsewhipped. My wedding.'

‘Yet it is a serious matter,' Corbeau said at her side.

'There can be nothing more important than a man's honour. Here there is several people's honour at stake.'

'I will fight you, sir,' Matt said. 'I repeat, when and where you choose, and with what weapons you choose. Here and now, sir.'

'By Christ,' Dirk shouted. 'Then let it be now.' 'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.'

'You cannot mean to let them fight at your sister's wedding, Robert,' the Governor objected.

'Why not,' someone shouted, and it was a different voice to the one which had recently spoken.

'Aye,' called another voice. 'Let's have them at it.'

'Kill the bastard,' said another voice.

'You've the right to insist, Meinheer,' called another. 'Wife-stealer.'

'Oh, my God,' Sue whispered, and clutched Robert's arm. 'Well, sir?' Dirk demanded.

Matt's colour had faded, leaving his face pale. Perhaps he had not before realized how deeply he was hated. And Sue was no more than the excuse. They hated him for the charges he was bringing against Hodge. Well, then, he thought, let them hate. Let them lust for my blood. I have right on my side, and that should suffice.

'Here, sir, and now,' he said, and looked at Robert. 'I have no doubt that my cousin can supply us with weapons and seconds.'

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

'You cannot allow this,' Sue said. 'You cannot.'

'Oh, let them fight,' Georgiana shouted. 'Let them shoot at each other. Then perhaps we can all enjoy our lunch.'

'Robert,' Sue begged.

'It would be best, Suzanne.' Corbeau said. 'There is so much hatred in the air the day is spoiled anyway.'

'The day?' she cried, in a sudden fury. 'Is that all you can speak of, the day?'

'I but meant...'

'Aye,' Robert said. 'One exchange, by God. No more. And then honour is satisfied between you.'

'And that is a duel?' someone asked. 'A single exchange?' 'By God,' Robert shouted. 'The next man who seeks to challenge my judgement will face me, by God. And I'll promise you I'll need no more than a single shot to settle him:

'Now Robert,' Sir Archibald said. 'Calm yourself, I beg of you.'

'Well,' said Marjorie Ellison.

'I've never seen a duel,' said Harriet Campbell. 'Oh, isn't it splendid.'

'Then we'd best hurry,' Marjorie suggested, for the entire throng was moving towards the verandahs, and Robert's pistol case was already being brought down.

'Ladies will remain on the verandah,' Robert bellowed.

lMy wedding,' Georgiana said. 'Christ Almighty, who would belong to such a family. Louis, you are an utter fool to have so exposed yourself.'

Corbeau smiled at her and kissed her ear. 'Yet will your wedding day be remembered above all others, sweet Georgy. And I thought you hated Matt?'

'Oh, I do.' Then she frowned. 'But you love him.'

'Like a brother,' Corbeau promised her. 'But it is a question of honour. I would expect my own brother to do no less.'

She burst into laughter. 'And it will be a famous day. Oh, but I hope poor Matt isn't killed.'

'With a single shot?' Corbeau demanded. 'There is an unlikely chance.'

'I will second the boy,' Robert announced. 'No offence to you intended, Dirk. But it would be best.'

'No offence taken.' Dirk seemed to have lost all his anger now the business was actually in hand. They stood at the foot of the steps and the midday sun scorched out of an empty sky, while the slaves, given a holiday to celebrate the wedding, came flooding up the hill at the news that two of the white men were actually going to fight.

'And I will second Meinheer Huys, as he entirely lacks a friend,' announced Patrick Rawdon. A planter who was clearly one of the inflammatory voices of a moment ago.

'Then consider these.' Robert took the pistol case from Maurice, opened the lid.

'They will do admirably,' said the planter.

'Very good. Sir Archibald, will you conduct the affair?'

'Me? Bless my soul.' The Governor came down the steps, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. 'Both your principals understand the laws of duelling?'

'Indeed they do,' Robert said.

'Well, then. Ellison, will you pace out thirty yards, please.'

Robert offered the pistol case again, and Rawdon selected one of the guns. Robert took the other one, gave the case back to Maurice, and walked over to Matt.

'Why do you second me?' Matt demanded. 'You'll know by now I have cause to hate you more than anyone.'

'Like you, I have no doubt, I do what I think best,' Robert replied, without heat. 'And you'd do well to keep your mind on the business in hand. Have you been practising?'

'I had not supposed I would ever be called upon to take a life.'

'Nor will you, unless fortune is in a very odd mood. But with a single shot the odds are that you will not be hit either. And then this dreadful business will be completed. Now when the signal is given, do you level the pistol, and take him through the sight.'

'There will be no need for that,' Matt said. 'I have no desire to hurt Dirk more than I already have.'

'God give me patience,' Robert declared. 'If you have any sense in that addlepate of yours at all, you will aim at least at his legs and attempt to bring him down. That way you stand less chance of being struck yourself. Now let us have no more argument about the matter.'

'Robert.' Matt gripped his arm. 'Why do you help me? Do you not agree with every word that was said against me?'

'Indeed I do. And you deserve to be struck down, believe me. But you are my cousin, and by God if you are going to die you'll do it properly. I'll wish you God-speed.'

He walked away to where Rawdon and Sir Archibald Campbell were waiting, in front of a cluster of gentlemen. The rest of the male onlookers were gathered in front of the steps to the verandah, thus leaving an open area behind each of the contestants. And the verandah itself was lined with the fluttering skirts of the ladies. The scene reminded Matt of a medieval tourney. He glanced to his left, but could not make out Sue in the throng. Then he looked in front of him, at Dirk, standing four square, the pistol hanging at his side. From the corner of his eye he could see Sir Archibald, hand held high, red handkerchief fluttering. How still it was, and how silent, for the moment. And how hot.

The handkerchief dropped, slowly to the ground. Matt started to raise his arm, instinctively, and then checked. For Dirk had not moved. He was awaiting the first shot with the utmost composure. Matt found his hand moving again, until it was extended from his body, and he looked along the barrel. Aim at the legs, Robert had said. It made sense. Bring the man down, and he would be safe enough.

But what cause had he to hurt such a man, and for such a reason? For Dirk, perhaps unwittingly, was not defending his own honour here so much as acting as champion for the outraged plantocracy.

There was a loud noise and he was blinded at once by the flash and the puff of black smoke. He had squeezed the trigger without meaning to. And still there was utter silence, apart from the rolling reverberation of the shot. And at last he could see, and look at Dirk, still standing, and now smiling, contemptuously, as well he might. The bullet must have missed by a yard. Matt had a sudden urge to throw down the pistol and run forward, hand outstretched. But Dirk was in turn raising his right arm.

How slowly it moved. Matt gazed at it, and then down at the empty weapon still clutched by his fingers. He could not even throw it down, for that might distract his opponent and leave him dishonoured. Thus the laws. He could not move. He could only wait, and watch, as the pistol barrel came level, and Dirk's eyes narrowed. At what had he decided to aim?

An enormous weight seemed to come to rest in his chest. He felt no pain, but was vaguely surprised to discover that the entire world had turned upside down, and reasoned that he had hit himself with the pistol. Certainly it was no longer in his hand, and he was lying on the ground, staring at the dazzling sun which hung immediately above him, and was then quite blotted out by faces which loomed over him. Too many faces, obscuring the sky, hiding the wind, inducing a great heat and a sudden startling stab of pain. Too much pain for a man to bear. Matt closed his eyes.

'Oh, God. Oh, God.' Sue dropped to her knees beside him, stared at the pale face, the blood swelling over the waistcoat. 'Oh, God.'

'You'll be satisfied, then.' Robert stood next to his sister, spoke to Dirk.

'Is he dead?' asked the Dutchman.

'Please,' Sue begged at large. 'Dr. Mounter. Please.'

The surgeon joined her on his knees, his face grave. ' 'Tis the right side. Much will depend on whether it has pierced the lung.' He forced Matt's mouth open, watched the bubbling saliva for a moment. 'No blood. He may be that lucky. But we must have the bullet out. Gentiemen, you'll assist me to carry Mr. Hilton to the house.'

'He'll live?' Sue grasped the doctor's arm. 'Say he'll live?'

'If the wound stays clean, and we extract that lump of lead soon enough, Mistress Huys, he should live.'

'Oh, thank God, for that.'

'Amen/ Dirk said.

'Tis a shame, it is’ said a voice from the crowd. 'Now the job will have to be done all over again.'

'Who said that?' Robert bellowed. He ran at them, seized their shoulders and hurled them to one side. 'Who said that? I'll have his hide, by God.'

They stared at him in surprise. He was their leader in all they attempted, as he had led them in their united opposition to the concept of abolition.

'Aye’ he said, standing amongst them, hands on hips. 'You'll not admit it. A pack of snivelling curs, 'tis that I am cursed with for neighbours. Begone. Leave my plantation. By God, if a man jack of you sets foot on my property again I'll have him strung up and flogged like a black. Go on. Clear off.'

For a moment longer they hesitated, then they turned and went for their carriages. Their women hurried down the steps to join them.

'Well,' said Marjorie Ellison.

‘I do not include you in that herd, Marjorie/ Robert said. 'Nor you, Ellison. You'll stay to lunch, Sir Archibald? Harriet?'

Harriet Campbell gazed at her husband, then at the group 363 of Hilltop overseers carrying Matt towards the House. ‘I suppose someone must eat all that food.'

'Bless my soul,' said the Governor. 'Bless my soul.' He gazed at Sue, still kneeling by the bloodstained grass, then carefully stepped round her and went towards the house.

'My wedding,' Georgiana said. 'My wedding,' she shouted. 'Now the Hiltons will be totally spurned, throughout the West Indies.'

Corbeau squeezed her against him. 'But you are a Corbeau now. As for being spurned, it has happened before, to both our families, without in any way harming our fortunes. But I think you and I had better slip away before our wedding day is entirely spoiled.'

She glanced at him, frowning. 'Should we not wait, to see if Matt will survive?'

'I have no doubt he will survive,' Corbeau remarked, and Georgiana's frown deepened at the suggestion almost of disgust in his tone. 'And besides,' he said, 'he has mourners enough.'

Dirk Huys continued to stand above his wife, staring at the bloodstained grass.

'You had best go with him,' he said. She raised her head.

'Aye,' he said. 'Maybe I meant to kill him. Maybe I thought that, because he had wronged me, he would not stand before me. Maybe I thought that when you saw the two of us, face to face, you'd realize your mistake.'

She shook her head, slowly.

Dirk nodded. 'I'll not understand the ways of a woman's heart. You've chosen a hard road, just to be with him. You heard those people just now. Were he not a Hilton I doubt he'd have survived.' He sighed. 'But I'll not have you a slave, Sue. You'll be divorced, and I'll wish you joy of your new life.' He turned away, and hesitated. 'I'll not forget you, Suzanne. But I'll not stand in your way again. You've my promise.'

'Aaaaagh.' And slowly the breath left Georgiana's body, seeming to be expelled from the very last recess of every bone, every muscle, scraping the very bottom of her lungs.

Her head had dropped over the side of the berth, and her hair trailed on the deck. Her mouth was wide, and she could feel her saliva drying in her throat, such of it as was left. And the ecstasy was only just beginning to fade, leaving her lazily happy, lazily aware that before her was a lifetime of just this, of lying beneath Louis, of being his wife.

'It was so long,' she said. 'So long. But worth the wait. Louis?'

His weight was gone, and she opened her eyes, to watch him roll off the bunk and reach for a towel, bracing himself against the slight heel of the sloop. He had not spoken a word since taking her in his arms. But then, he had spoken little enough during their ride from Hilltop, had merely commanded his captain to raise anchor and make sail.

She sat up. 'Louis?'

'Do not constantly bleat my name,' he said.

Georgiana stared at him, watched him pull on his robe. He had never spoken to her like that before. No one, save Robert, and Matt on the occasion they had quarrelled in London, had ever spoken to her like that before.

'You will have to do better,' he said. 'Or I will have to make you do better.'

She licked her lips. 'Did I ... did I not please you?'

He gave a short laugh. 'I doubt you know what pleasing a man means, Georgy. But you will learn. By Christ, you will learn.'

‘I pleased you well enough before,' she said angrily.

He turned, violently. 'You'd argue?' His hand snaked round her neck before she could move, twined itself in her hair, brought her close and at the same time tilted her head backwards as he tightened his grip, causing her eyes to widen and her mouth to open. 'A wife does not argue, with her husband,' he said. 'A woman does not argue, with her lover.'

'You ...' she struck at him, punched him on the chest, tried to bring up her knees, and was thrown away from him, so hard that she rolled across the bunk and into the bulkhead of the ship itself, where she lay panting.

‘I can see,' he remarked, 'that you have a lot to learn, about pleasing a man.'

Georgiana gasped for breath. Her brain was in a totally confused whirl. ‘I...'

'Pleased me well enough, before? On the contrary, my dear,' he said. 'I pleased you. As I just pleased you again. You are a simple, stupid little girl, who desires only the thrust of a man's weapon to be transported into ecstasy. How many men have you bedded in the year we were separated?'

Her head jerked, from side to side. 'None. None, I swear it, Louis. Is that what you supposed?'

He laughed, a short brittle sound. 'No. No. I did not suppose you'd possess that much courage. Because if I suspected that were the case, or could ever be the case, I'd string you from that yardarm out there and flog you like a slave.'

"You'd ... you'd not dare. Robert...'

'Is my brother-in-law,' he said. 'But you are my wife. I have the right to shoot him, should he attempt to interfere between us. It would be well for you to understand that.'

'You ... you ...'

'As for hurting you,' he said, 'why, there might be the answer to our current problem.' He reached across the cabin, plucked his belt from the bulkhead where it hung. 'Aye. That would please me, I think.'

"You ...' she drew up her knees. 'You wouldn't dare. You ...' her voice got lost in a strangled gasp as the heavy leather cut across her calves. Instinctively she reached down for her ankles, and was struck across the shoulders. Now the cry mingled rage with pain, and she struck at his face, to be hurled backwards by another blow, thrown horizontally to cut into her stomach like a flail and bring her forward on to her elbows and knees, gasping, while the tears, of anger as much as of pain, started from her eyes. The belt descended on her buttocks, but she lacked the breath to scream and could only moan, while she tilted to one side, lost her balance, and fell out of the bunk, striking the deck with a jar which drove right through her body. She looked up and saw his body stretching it seemed forever above her, watched the flailing strap descend, and turned on her face with a wail of horror. Twice more the searing blows cut into her shoulders, each one carefully avoiding her face or neck or breasts which could possibly ever be exposed to a public inspection.

Then the belt struck the deck beside her, and instead his hands were digging into her armpits, bringing her back to her feet and then laying her on the bunk. She stared at him with wide eyes, only seeing his face through a mist of tears, while she writhed and moaned, twisting her body to and fro because very contact with the mattress was sheer agony. But soon enough she could not move at all as his weight pinned her to the bunk, and she knew the utterly incomprehensible delight of an orgasm while shrouded in pain, and knew too, as his mouth thudded on to hers and she tasted blood, that this time they were as one.

She gasped, and once again discovered her head drooping over the bed. She felt him move, and attempted to tense her flaccid muscles for some new assault. And instead was kissed, quite beautifully on her torn lips, as her head was raised, with incredible gentleness, and restored to the pillow. He left the cabin, and returned a moment later with two goblets of wine, sat on the side of the bunk, and held one to her lips.

'Then you pleased me’ he said.

She drank, staring at him every moment, afraid to take her eyes from him for an instant, lest he begin some new torture.

'And you,' he said. 'You'll not pretend you do not feel utterly sated.'

She finished her wine, cautiously explored her lips with her tongue. 'I had supposed I was about to be murdered.' 'From a few strokes of a belt?' 'From the look in your eyes.'

'Ah.' Once again he left the cabin, and this time returned with the flagon, and refilled their goblets. 'I am a man of moods.'

'And our wedding put you in a bad mood? Or was it because of the duel? Because, I think, Matt, the man to whom you owe your life, survived his encounter with Dirk?'

Even as she spoke she was amazed at her courage; her back still stung. But this was an entirely different man to the monster of a few minutes before.

He smiled. 'Because of many things. You will get used to my moods. Be sure I shall never do you a permanent harm.'

'But I must be prepared for a body full of bruises, from time to time.'

He continued to smile. 'From time to time. Perhaps you are unfortunate, in that I had allowed my desire for you to build, to an unbearable level. Normally there are sources whence I may slake my passion, and thus approach you only with due propriety. If you would have it so.'

She hesitated, looked into her glass. 'I would have my husband love me, rather than treat me as a tiresome duty.'

'Even if it means, from time to time, a scarred back?'

She shrugged. 'No doubt I shall get used to it. And it may, as you suggest, have its compensations. I am not so dull, I hope, as to expect service where I offer none.'

'Quite the great lady,' he remarked, but his smile continued to rob his words of the contempt she might have otherwise suspected. 'But if you would truly be my wife, then must you rid your tone of that coldness. I hurt you, to inflame my passions, because they would not ignite themselves. You may find that I have even less civilized inclinations, from time to time. I must tell you my philosophy of life. It is that in my public life, I must sacrifice all, and I use the word advisedly, to the honour of the Corbeaux. As you now bear that proud name, my sweet, you would do well to remember that. Our public honour is paramount to our very lives. Then in my business life, I will sacrifice all to profit. Again, as my profit is now yours as well, you'd do well to remember that. And perhaps most important of all, in my private life, I desire only to be amused. I use the term in its most embracing sense. Whatever interests me, titillates me, makes me laugh, excites me, that is what I mean. Of course I do not expect you to bear that burden entirely by yourself, but it is another of your responsibilities, none the less.'

'I wish you had informed me of your requirements before asking for my hand,' she said, still maintaining her stiffness. . 'Or you would have refused me?'

'I doubt that. The challenge does not seem so great. Rather is it stimulating. But perhaps I might have spent this last year in better preparation, rather than in just looking forward to the continuing embrace of a man I loved.'

He leaned forward, took her chin between thumb and forefinger, and tweaked her head from side to side. 'And I will not be reproached. Not even by you, my darling. Now get yourself dressed and come on deck. The wind was fair all night, for a miracle. I'd expect to see the peaks of Hispaniola at any moment.'

He was already at the door.

'Louis,' she said. 'You have, I think, been telling me that I must expect to share your passion, and indeed, that I should be grateful for the occasional rest. Of course I make no criticism of your needs. But I should rather not be informed of them in particular. I imagine that Rio Blanco is sufficiently large a plantation, as St. Domingue is sufficiently large a country, for that to be not difficult.'

He turned. How desperately she fought to preserve her individuality, her status as a Hilton. Perhaps breaking her to his will would be more difficult than he had supposed. But then, surely it would be more enjoyable. 'I'm afraid that will be impossible, my sweet. I do not maintain a harem, like some. But I do possess a housekeeper. I shall expect you to be her friend, as I know that she will desire to be yours. Already desires to be yours, in fact."

'You ...' colour flared into her cheeks.

'And as you say,' he continued, as if she had not interrupted. 'Rio Blanco is a large plantation, and of course unlike you English, we do not entertain our overseers in St. Domingue, as they are by some distance our social inferiors. You will be glad of the company, I do assure you, especially as there will obviously be no subject you may not discuss with complete freedom.'

'You ... you cannot mean that,' she said.

'But I do. I always mean what I say.'

'And suppose I absolutely refuse to see the creature?'

Corbeau's smile was gentle. 'My dear, sweet child, how can you refuse your husband what he asks of you? I had supposed that on that point, at the very least, we had just achieved a perfect understanding.'

The door closed behind him.

Cap Francois, Georgiana recalled, was known as the Paris of St. Domingue, or indeed, by its own residents, as the Paris of the Western hemisphere. And even her eye, prepared to be prejudiced, was forced to accept the suggestion that here was a city transported from the very heart of European civilization to grace the magnificently lush green of the mountains and the forest which had dominated the skyline for the past three days as the sloop had skirted the coast. She had never been to Paris, but the somewhat sombre aspect of London, to her mind the greatest city of all, suddenly became shabby and drab as she surveyed her new home through the telescope provided by Captain Ledon, while when she stepped ashore from the sloop's jolly-boat on to the greenheart dock she discovered that Kingston was scarcely better than a slum.

Almost she smiled at Louis, as her breath was taken at once by the buildings, every one seeming to be new and most splendidly appointed, by their architecture, which cascaded from turrets and high balconies to verandahs and patios, to massed banks of multi-coloured flowers, to ornate and indecent statuary carved from purest marble, to tall shade trees leaning across the wide boulevards; by the kaleidoscope of humanity which bustled everywhere, grand-blancs driving in carriages and sporting the latest in silk and satin, ostrich feather drooping and decolletage plunging, cafi-au-laits gossiping on street corners, brown faces animated, gowns the colours of firework explosions, heads bound up in no less brilliant bandannas, or noirs working on the docks themselves, faces gleaming with sweat and endeavour; by the variety of scents and aromas, almost every one pleasant, which arose from the perfumed gardens and the no less perfumed bodies of the population; by the accumulation of vast ships anchored in the harbour; and perhaps most of all by the deference paid to the Corbeau entourage, which exceeded even that paid to the Hiltons in Kingston, where at the least everyone possessing a white skin considered himself as good as everyone else, even if ready to admit that there were those more fortunate.

But here the petit-blancs were positively menial, and even the carriages of grand-blanc families were eager to stop, and greet Louis, and pay their immediate respects to his new bride, all the while promising to call in the immediate future. The only discordant note was provided by the cafe-au-laits, who glowered at the boxes of clothes and the crates containing the wedding presents as they were unloaded, and averted their gazes when she would smile at them.

'Wretched people,' Louis said, as at last, having given all the instructions he could think of to his waiting overseers and agents, he settled himself beside her in the barouche bearing the emblem of the hawk's beak. 'They consider themselves much wronged, you know, my sweet, for all that here in St. Domingue there is no question as to their freedom, at the least. But because most of them recall a grand-blanc father or grandfather, and not a few of them were educated in Paris, they resent their inferiority, and take no trouble to hide it.'

He treated her as if there was no cause for disagreement between them. Indeed, from the moment after their quarrel he had been his old self, although the knowledge that he could have such moods was sufficiently sobering. But certainly he allowed her no positive feelings of her own, and had come to her bunk on each of the remaining three nights of the voyage, and extracted from her all the passion he required, as he could do so easily. So then, it was apparently up to her, she realized. She had plunged into marriage with him, and she was honest enough to know that she could make no extravagant claims about being forced to it. So then, she was Madame Corbeau, wife of one of the two richest planters in the West Indies, and that meant one of the two richest men in all the world, as she was the sister of the other. She was indeed a queen in this society, and would be treated like a queen in any society. And this was what she had always wanted. Thus if her husband possessed certain vagaries of temperament she must be prepared to sustain them, and perhaps even enjoy them, much as she might have to sustain a bout of malaria, which would return again and again as ague without the slightest warning, but which it were surely stupid to allow to ruin her life.

Besides, she thought, as Louis is not less than ten years older than I, our relationship will slowly change with time, and he will become more dependent upon me, if I go about it the right way, while I become less dependent upon him.

Such a prospect almost made her happy all over again.

Certainly she was prepared to dissemble for the time being. 'And have they any inferiorities, Louis? Being free?'

'But of course. They have no rights at all, save that of freedom. They cannot take part in any political activity.' He smiled at her. 'And to make quite sure that not even the fairest of them ever forgets just who or what he is, we even make them forego the use of certain clothes. No male mulatto may carry arms, for example. You did not notice, perhaps.'

'No,' she said. 'I did not notice. And so they hate us.'

Corbeau shrugged. 'There is always someone, who hates someone else. It is a fact of life to which one must become used. Unless, like us, one is sufficiently fortunate to be above hate. Would you agree?'

She continued to look out of the window; she suspected he was baiting her again. 'Of course.'

'You are hoping for an early view of Rio Blanco? You have been riding over your own property for some time.'

'Have I?' She could not restrain her enthusiasm. The road had clung to the seashore, with no more than the wide strand of pink beach between the trees and the white-topped blue rollers which thundered in from the Atlantic. For the moment there was no suggestion of cane, or indeed of any cultivation, but the scene was the more beautiful for that, with the mountains seeming to rise immediately on their right, although she knew they were several miles away. But what mountains. Twice the height of any she had ever seen in Jamaica, they stretched interminably away from her. And yet this was also a country, she had been told, of enormous plains and impenetrable forests. 'Everything is on such a grand scale,' she confessed.

'There is the magnificence of the place. You will not find that Rio Blanco disappoints.'

And of course he was right. The canefields, when they appeared, seemed to stretch interminably, just as the road over which they had travelled, bending only slightly away from the seashore, might have taken them from one end of Jamaica to the other, instead of merely from the boundary of their plantation to the house, just as the Negro village seemed a miniature city, and the overseers' village at least a town, just as the huge shade trees which lined the river itself and spread themselves over the cleared area between the factory and the houses seemed taller than anything she had previously known, just as the factory seemed to make Hilltop's no more than a workshop.

But, thus entranced and bewildered by every mammoth discovery, Georgiana was yet not prepared for the chateau which now appeared, close by the river, shaded from the eye of an unwelcome visitor by the huge trees, and yet itself on a scale to make any house in Jamaica, and not a few stately homes she had seen or visited in London, scarcely more than shacks. The carriage rolled to a halt and pink-coated Negro footmen were waiting to help her down, their wigs powdered, their feet encased in brilliantly polished leather shoes. Beyond them was a perfect regiment of pink-and-white-clad Negresses, bowing and clapping their hands to greet their new mistress, and beyond them again were the rest of the male staff. She left the carriage and gazed at the turrets which overhung her, at the balconies and the wings, at the brick patios which could only be insulted by calling them verandahs, and at the raised rose gardens which surrounded the grand staircase, and found herself being carried forward by Corbeau's hand on her elbow.

'Oh, smile at them,' he begged. 'They wish only to serve you.'

On the patio itself were the overseers and their wives, the bookkeepers and their wives, the engineers and their wives, the chemists and their wives, all with their children, not less than a hundred representatives of the petit-blancs, every one wearing his or her best on this most illustrious occasion, bowing and smiling, and Corbeau was making her halt at the top of the great staircase, while a little girl with long ash-blonde hair and a pale complexion came forward, to make an elaborate curtsy and a short speech in French so rapid Georgiana could understand not a word of it, before presenting the new lady of the plantation with an enormous bouquet of flowers.

Then, her head whirling, keeping a fixed smile on her lips, she walked slowly through their ranks, nodding her head to their greetings, listening to her husband calling them byname, praying for the ordeal to end that she might lie down, and have her sweat-sodden gown removed, and perhaps wallow in a warm bath, and being faced with another mountainous staircase as wide as a road, this one carpeted and lined with pink-coated footmen, and overlooked by a continuous row of grim-faced Corbeaux, both men and women. It occurred to her with a start that no doubt her own portrait would shortly hang there. And that of her children.

She reached the top of the stairs, and Louis's fingers tightened on her arm. There will be a fete later on,' he said. 'But I have explained that you wish to see your own apartments, and to have a bath and change of clothes. Nevertheless, just smile and wave to them before you go.'

She turned, and looked down at the throng which had clustered in the great parquet-floored hall, and drew back her lips as she waved her hand, and then, with a sudden inspiration, took off her hat and waved it as well, forgetful about the immediate collapse of her coiffure.

Her people responded with loud applause, and even Louis looked pleased. 'Oh, well done,' he said. 'That will please them all enormously. Now come.'

He guided her through double doors, hastily opened, through a succession of withdrawing-rooms to another huge pair of double doors, panelled in pink and white satin. These were thrown open and she discovered herself in a bedroom in which every article of furniture was in pink and white, and every window thrown wide to allow the sea-breeze to enter and rustle the drapes and the mosquito-netting. And here too there already waited a filled tub, and four maids, robes and towels in their hands, and another woman.

'Your bedroom,' Corbeau said. ‘Ill leave you now, to bathe and have a rest. But first there is someone I wish you to meet.' Still he held his wife's elbow. 'Gislane, this is Madame Corbeau. Georgiana, this young woman's name is Gislane Nicholson.' He paused for a moment, as Georgiana's head came up with a jerk, and as Gislane's mouth fell open in a quite unsuspected expression of human weakness. 'But of course,' he cried, slapping himself on the thigh. 'I had entirely forgot. You two are old friends, are you not? How splendid. You will have a great deal to talk about, I am sure. Why, Gislane, you will not credit this, but I believe Madame Corbeau was responsible for your return to the West Indies in the first place. Did you not arrange her passage for her, my sweet?' He smiled, and kissed his trembling wife on the forehead. ‘You must tell Gislane all about it.'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE HOUGAN

GEORGIANA stared at her husband in utter horror, discovered her mouth was open, and closed it with a snap.

Corbeau continued to smile. 'Now I will leave you,' he said. 'I am afraid my slaves understand only French, and you may find their accents difficult. But Gislane of course speaks English as well as you.'

He turned for the door, and she grasped his arm; she dared not turn her head towards the mustee.

"You can't go, Louis.'

'My sweet,' he said, gently removing her fingers. ‘I have been away from my plantation for some days. I must discover that all is well.'

'But...' she licked her lips.

'There is nothing to be afraid of,' he said, still smiling. 'Gislane will not dare harm you, dearest. She knows that as well as I. And I forbid you to harm her. She is far too splendid an object to be needlessly spoiled, would you not agree? And she was extraordinarily expensive. But I would like the pair of you to be friends. Indeed, I command it. I will see you at breakfast, in an hour.'

He left the room, closing the double doors behind him. Georgiana remained staring at the pink and white satin.

‘You look tired, madame,' Gislane said. 'And hot. Allow me to assist you.'

Hands touched her shoulders, and she sucked air into her lungs. The fingers were releasing the bows on her gown, sliding the material away from her shoulders.

'Ah, madame.' Gislane made a clucking noise with her tongue. 'The master has used his belt.' A finger ran along one of the still red weals. 'But it is mending well. And I shall care for you. Some powder, and an ointment of which I know ...'

Georgiana swung round, stepping back, finding herself against the wall, panting. The four maids looked at her in amazement.

'Madame?' Gislane's face was closed, expressionless. But her eyes were the deepest and blackest pits into which Georgiana had ever looked.

'I could have had you murdered,' she whispered. 'Indeed, I should have.'

Gislane nodded, gravely. 'It would have been best, madame.'

'Instead I...' she frowned. 'What did they do to you?'

Gislane appeared to consider the matter. 'They beat me, madame. And they raped me. And they mistreated me in various ways.'

Georgiana stared at her, while the released gown slowly slipped down to her thighs. 'And you stand there, unharmed? Not even your face has changed.'

'Has it not, madame? I am sure you flatter me. But indeed I survived. I have come to the conclusion that one can survive anything, if one wishes to do so.' She came forward. 'Now you must permit me to undress you.'

'Don't touch me,' Georgiana whispered. 'Don't touch me. Get out.'

Gislane sighed. 'Madame, I will bow to your will in all things, except where my master, our master, has previously instructed me. And he instructed me not to leave you alone, until he so commands.'

‘Not to leave me alone? Not to ...' Georgiana gathered the gown before her breasts. ‘Do you not hate me?'

'Oh, indeed, madame. I would have hated you anyway, I think. But now ... to me you are two people, you see. A white woman of wealth and position, and now my mistress, which is cause for hate certainly. And also a nameless Thing, whom I have hated for five years, because he ... I had supposed it was a man, you see ... chose to condemn me to a living death. Now I discover those two hateful objects come together into one person, why, I really do not know how I feel. I shall have to think about it.

It occurred to Georgiana that she was dreaming. No one could actually be standing in front of her, uttering such words. ‘I shall have you whipped,' she said.

Gislane smiled at her. 'You will not, madame. The master would not approve.'

'You...' Georgiana looked around the room, seized a vase from a table by the door, and hurled it. Gislane merely ducked her head, and the china shattered against the wall. The maids stared.

'Your bath water is getting cold,' Gislane said.

‘You ...' Georgiana bit her lip, reached for the bell cord, and hesitated. She had no means of knowing if she would be supported. She had no means of knowing what Louis thought of it all, what he intended. 'Get out,' she shouted at the maids. 'Oh... Allez. Allez... Allez:

They gazed at Gislane in turn, and she nodded. They scurried from the room. _

'You do not mean that I am actually allowed to give an order which will be obeyed?' Georgiana demanded.

'Of course, madame,' Gislane said, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. 'They but require to understand your wishes in all things. Now, will you take your bath?'

Georgiana stared at her for some seconds. So it is all another part of Louis's desire to be amused, she thought. No doubt we suffer equally, this creature and I. Well, then, we shall see who will stand it the longest.

'Of course,' she said. 'And you will attend me.'

Gislane bowed her head, and began removing the rest of her mistress's clothes.

'Clearly I have a lot to learn,' Georgiana said, standing before the full-length mirror and watching her body slowly-appearing. 'But you may be sure I shall learn.'

Gislane removed the shift, and busily began to accumulate the soft brown tresses on the top of Georgiana's head, binding them there with a blue ribbon.

'And be sure, too,' Georgiana said, 'that I will replace you in my husband's esteem, as I shall indeed study to do so, with success, I have no doubt. I am more intelligent than you. Or would you grant me that?'

'I would not,' Gislane said. 'But then I am prejudiced.'

'Ah. But even that is not the sum of the matter.' Georgiana inspected the huge diamond on her finger, the thick gold band beyond. 'I am his wife, whereas you are nothing more than his housekeeper. I shall soon be the mother of his children. I could say that your days are numbered, Gislane.'

'All our days are numbered, madame. From the day of our birth.'

'Oh, you ...' Georgiana stepped into the tub with a splash. 'Undress.' 'Madame?'

'I have dismissed all my maids save you, Gislane. I now appoint you my personal maid. I am sure Louis will be most pleased. Now I would have you bathe me. And I should not like your gown to get spoiled.'

’I assure you it will not, madame. I have but to turn up my sleeves.'

Georgiana sat down in the hot water, her flesh became tinged with pink. 'I have made a very reasonable request, Gislane. One I have no doubt at all Louis would approve. You will see that I have already commenced understanding my husband.'

Now at last it was Gislane's turn to hesitate; she drew her upper lip under her teeth, for just a moment. Georgiana smiled.

'I am waiting, Gislane. And my bath is getting cold.'

Gislane removed her gown, laid it carefully on the bed, knelt beside the tub.

'Neither would I have you ruin your shift,' Georgiana said. 'It is such a pretty thing.'

Gislane gazed at her for some seconds, then stood up, and removed the shift.

'There,' Georgiana said. 'Now we may compare, you and I. I am waiting to be bathed, Gislane.'

Gislane knelt beside her, slowly massaged Georgiana's shoulders with the sponge. Georgiana turned her head, gazed at the white body moving beside her own, felt a remarkable sensation of excitement. On the day of her wedding she had been plunged, quite without warning, into a world she had not known to exist, had not known could exist Even Robert, who had a considerable number of vices as she well knew, had always kept them strictly under control. But Louis was a man who apparently indulged his every whim, as he was fully entitled to do, and rather gloried in it than felt ashamed of it. And she was Louis's wife, who had to yield only to him, on the whole earth. And there was no doubt of what he would approve.

She drew a short breath, and took one of Gislane's breasts in each hand, kneading the flesh, feeling the texture. The sponge ceased moving.

'You are heavier than I,' Georgiana said. 'But no doubt, in time, I shall grow heavier.'

She could feel Gislane's breath on her neck.

'Why do you stop? The water is cooling all the time.'

The movements of the sponge resumed, more quickly.

'I am sure you will rub a sore in my flesh,' Georgiana complained. She released the breasts and lay back. 'I have another side.'

Gislane gazed at her, then slowly resumed washing. The sponge coursed over the stomach.

'Tell me.' Georgiana said, watching the door of the bedroom opening. 'Suppose you had me in your power, Gislane. What would you do?'

Gislane was absorbed in her task. 'I would hang you,' she said. 'But slowly. By your hair.'

Georgiana smiled at Louis. 'She is a remarkably frank young woman, is she not, my darling?'

The sponge stopped moving again, resting on her thigh, waiting; she could see the artery throbbing in Gislane's neck, but the mustee would not turn her head.

'I would have her no other way,' Corbeau said. 'She also dreams of killing me, no doubt slowly, but recognizes that it is only a dream. And I must tell you, my sweet, that I have never seen a more magnificent picture than this. And it is the one I have always longed to see. I am delighted. Whose idea was it?'

'Mine, of course,' Georgiana said.

Gislane at last turned her head. 'Why, Louis,' she said. 'You told me to look after the madame.'

Louis smiled, and then laughed. 'I can see,' he said, 'From this moment I shall not understand the meaning of the word boredom. I am delighted. I will have you both with me for breakfast, I think. Make haste now, ladies. I will sit here and watch you dress each other.'

Georgiana sat at the huge desk, dipped her quill into the inkwell, but did not immediately write. Instead she stared at the wall opposite, and waited for the room to settle; Louis had insisted she eat far too much, and drink far too much, at breakfast. Louis had insisted. Equally had he pressed food and drink upon Gislane, but perhaps she was the more used to it. And in any event, she was not the mistress of the house. He sought to make them compete, for his attention, for his favour. It was an insult, which would bring Robert here by the fastest available means, pistol in hand.

If he was to learn of it. She sucked the end of the pen, listened to the silence, felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck; it was two in the afternoon, and very hot.

Her first afternoon on Rio Blanco, the heaven of which she had dreamed for two years. Or the hell into which she must now delve, for the rest of her life.

Yet had she not considered all this already, yesterday at sea, this morning in a space of seconds? She must investigate some more. Could Louis really have bought Gislane, merely to torment her? He had not known of the mustee's existence before she had told him.

But when it came to the business of setting cats amongst pigeons, of making people prove themselves, she was the equal of anyone. Certainly of Louis or Gislane. She dipped the pen again, and this time she wrote, in great haste, hurling her careless scrawl across the page. To and fro raced the pen. Never had she written with such facility. But then, never had she had such a tale to tell.

She was so absorbed in her task that she covered several sheets of paper without stopping to think, without being aware of the passage of time, without being aware of the growing weariness in her fingers,, until she was alerted by two hands rested on her shoulders.

She raised her head. 'Louis?'

'And you have not been sleeping? I purposely stayed away, that you might be fresh for the fete.'

'I was restless.' She smiled. 'And suffering from indigestion.'

'And you had much to do. A diary?'

How gentle was his voice, how soft his hands. If only she could tell for sure which side of his character was the true one. ‘I have never kept a diary,' she said thoughtfully. 'Although perhaps it would be a sensible idea.'

'Then it is a letter.' He frowned past her shoulder.

'To Robert,' she said casually, although her heartbeat was quickening.

'Already?'

'Well ...' she licked her lips. 'He will wish to know how I am enjoying being a madame.'

'But you do not know how you enjoy being a madame, yet,' Corbeau pointed out. 'Now it is time for the fete. I am afraid you will not have the time to change your clothes. You must come as you are.'

Georgiana hesitated, and then stood up. 'I will finish the letter later.'

He smiled at her; his eyes were cold. 'I would prefer it if you started the letter later, all over again.' He reached past her and picked up the sheets of paper, glanced at them again, and then shuffled them together and tore them into shreds.

'Louis,' she shouted. 'How dare you.'

Corbeau dropped the pieces into the waste basket. 'I told you, I have no doubt that Robert would prefer a more considered opinion on your new situation. Shall we go?'

She glared at him. 'Am I then a prisoner?'

He took her arm. ‘You are my wife. From the day you married me, your priorities changed. You are a Corbeau first, a Hilton second. You are my wife first, a woman second. You have but to remember both of those very simple facts, and also the philosophy I outlined to you, which you would do well to adopt as your own, and you will enjoy a splendidly happy life. Now come and entertain your guests.'

She tried to stop herself moving forward. 'And suppose I refuse?'

He checked as they reached the doorway. 'If you refuse, Georgy, I will punish you.'

Her mouth dropped open, and yet she could not doubt for a moment that he meant it. Her brain seemed to seize up with rage, and she discovered a tremendous hot flush spreading upwards and outwards from her belly to make her cheeks catch fire. But he was urging her on again, and now they were once again at the top of the grand staircase, and at least a hundred eyes were gazing at her as she started the descent.

'You've not had a chance to speak with anyone individually,' Corbeau said. 'It would be good were you to do so. Jules, old friend. Jules Romain, my dear. Jules is my manager. Without him I have no doubt Rio Blanco would grind to a halt.'

Romain, a short, fair man, bowed from the waist. 'Monsieur chooses to flatter me, madame. May I present my wife, Seraphine.'

She was taller than her husband, and surprisingly plump, for a Creole. She did a half-curtsy and gave a nervous smile; being a woman she could tell that all was not well.

Georgiana gave her a cold smile and found herself meeting someone else. But their names and their faces were a blur. She had never been so angry in her life. And she was not going to put up with it. If he thought he could bully her, well... he would have to be taught differently. As he would have to be taught differently about humiliating her, as well.

'Charles, my dear, dear fellow,' Corbeau cried.

They had reached the terrace and some welcome fresh air, and looked down the marble pathway to the gates, where a carriage had recently halted. And these new arrivals were clearly no petit-blancs. Georgiana realized; the man, tall and with a distinguished face, was as expensively dressed as Louis, and the woman, also tall, slender, with a plain enough face but incredibly haughty features, her mouth twisted in a perpetual sneer, her eyes darting shafts of silent criticism, wore diamonds in her auburn hair.

'Charles de Morain, Georgy. Angelique, what do you think of her?'

The woman took Georgiana's hands. 'You sweet child. Why, Louis, she is absolutely lovely. And do you know, Georgiana ... I may call you Georgiana, I hope ... I had even supposed that he was no more than a lovesick swain with his talk of you.'

Georgiana stared at her.

'Angelique will be your own special friend, sweetheart,' Corbeau said. 'The Morain estate is our neighbour. Charles indeed is my rival. Eh, Charles?' He threw his arm round his friend's shoulder.

'I owe you a deep apology, my dear,' Angelique de Morain said to Georgiana. 'For not attending your wedding. Alas, little Paulette was not well. She is only three years, you know, and I thought for a moment it was yellow fever. It was not, of course, but then, one cannot be too careful.'

'I thought I did not recognize your face,' Georgiana said. 'But then, there were so many French-speaking people present I really could not keep track of them all.'

'Ah, yes, of course,' agreed Madame de Morain. 'But I really am sorry not to have visited Jamaica. You must tell me all about it, whether it is as barbaric as is claimed.' She smiled as Georgiana's mouth opened. 'But now you are here, my dear child. There is nowhere in the world like St. Domingue, and in St. Domingue there is nowhere quite like Rio Blanco. They have made you comfortable?'

'Oh, yes, indeed, madame,' Georgiana declared at the top of her voice. ‘I am so well looked after, by Louis, and by his housekeeper, Mademoiselle Gislane. You know her, of course? I am surprised she is not present this afternoon. She is present at all other times, apparently.'

The entire assembly had fallen silent, and now Angelique de Morain's mouth drooped open. And then she looked at Corbeau, who smiled, although his eyes were terrible to see.

'She is such an amusing child, Angelique,' he remarked. 'Full of humour.'

'Do you know,' Georgiana remarked, still speaking very loudly, 'when you are all gone, my dear Angelique .. . you do not mind if I call you Angelique, I hope ... he is going to beat me with his belt. So I think you should stay as long as possible.'

'My dear,' Angelique whispered. 'It really will not do.'

But Corbeau continued to smile. ‘I think we should play a game,' he said. 'My wife is a trifle excited, and no wonder, as she has never visited Rio Blanco before. We shall play skittles. What do you say to that, Georgiana? You may work off some of your excess energy.'

'Skittles, monsieur?' Romain asked, some of the colour fading from his face. 'There are children present.'

'Then send them home,' Corbeau suggested.

'Skittles,' Angelique cried, and clapped her hands. 'What a droll idea. I do love skittles. Especially as Louis plays them. Come along, my dear.' She thrust her arm through Georgiana's and escorted her along the terrace.

'I really can find little of interest in children's games,' Georgiana complained.

'This is a game for adults. It takes a steady hand.' Angelique halted where the marble steps led down to the lawn, the crowd of overseers and their wives behind her; all conversation had come to a stop, and Georgiana discovered to her horror that it was not, as she had first supposed, on account of her. For there was a great deal of activity on the lawn, at the far end of which nine pits had been dug in the grass, obviously some time before. Thus Louis must have intended this, some time before. Now she watched the Negro drivers bringing forward nine male slaves, each man wearing manacles on his wrists and ankles, and each man moaning with a peculiar intensity.

'Oh, my God,' she whispered.

'Oh, indeed,' Angelique agreed. 'Louis has a way with him.'

'But...' Georgiana stared at the men, being forced in turn into the pits, while other slaves stood by to pack earth around them and leave them unable to move, only their heads exposed to view. 'They are criminals?' She pulled herself free and ran to Corbeau's side. 'Murderers, who are condemned?'

He looked down at her. 'I do not imagine so,' he said. 'I do not permit my slaves to murder one another.'

'Then ...' she licked her lips. 'What is their crime?'

'They have committed no crime, surely, Madame Corbeau,' de Morain said. 'Or they would be punished.'

'Punished?' she shouted. 'You do not call that, punishment?'

'I am merely using them for sport,' Corbeau said. 'Now - come.' He took her arm. 'You, as the guest of honour, are going to roll the first bowl. And I will wager that you can do no more than knock out a few teeth.'

'You ...' she stared from him to the waiting people some smiling, others vaguely apprehensive, but none, so far as she could estimate, experiencing the nausea which was spreading upwards from her stomach. She turned to stare at the nine slaves, who returned her gaze, mouths open to gasp the breaths which would soon be robbed of them forever, at the gardeners, who waited in a group some distance farther off, at the brilliant flowers in the garden beyond and the cloudless blue of the sky over the ocean. Then she wrenched her arm free again and ran for the house.

Georgiana felt rather than heard someone in the room with her; the pillow was so tightly pressed over her ears she could hear nothing at all. But now she allowed it to relax, just a little, and now too she opened her eyes. She did not even have any idea how long she had lain there, across her bed, her entire mind a seething mixture of indignation and horror. But now it was nearly dark, and she could hear the buzzing of insects. And the house was quiet.

'Are you awake, madame?'

Georgiana sat up.

'Ah.' Gislane held a candle, and this she now took around the room, lighting all the others. 'The master wishes to see you.'

'To see me? Did you see what happened out there?'

'I know what happened,' Gislane said. 'I did not watch it.'

'Were they ...' she bit her lip.

'The men all died, eventually.' Gislane completed her task and returned to place the candle in the holder by the bed.

'Oh, my God,' Georgiana said. 'You speak so calmly.' 'Did I suppose my tears could help those men, madame, then be sure I would weep.' 'It has happened before?'

'Not since I came here. But I have only been here a few months.'

'A few months,' Georgiana said. 'Then ... it was you Louis sought when he left Jamaica.' 'I believe so,' Gislane said. 'To torment me?'

'That I cannot say, madame. If you will get up, madame, I will help you to undress.'

'Undress? To sleep with that... that monster?' 'He is your husband, madame.'

'And your lover.' But Georgiana got out of bed, stared at herself in the mirror, watched the beautiful white-skinned girl moving behind her, felt her fingers on the ties of her gown.

'I am sure that he will prove scarcely less of a lover to you, madame. As you said this morning, you have every advantage over me. Except one of age, I think.'

'Christ, how you can be so easy in your mind ... tell me of his other cruelties, Gislane. I beg you.'

'He has shown no cruelty, before this afternoon, madame. Except with words. He is fond of being cruel, with words. And yet...' she hesitated.

'What. Tell me what.'

'He creates fear, in his people. This much I can feel, madame. So I suppose that he has played skittles before, at the very least.'

'Oh, my God.' She raised her arms, allowed the nightdress to be draped over her shoulders. And then turned, to seize the mustee by the shoulders. 'What am I to do, Gislane? What do you do? Do you ... do you feel any afinity for those black people?'

'I would hope to feel some affinity with all people, madame,' Gislane replied.

'But my husband does not.'

'He is a planter, madame. I do not think one can be a planter, and the son of a planter, and the grandson of a planter, without coming to regard slaves as subhuman.' She gazed at the white woman.

Georgiana's hands dropped. 'As I am the sister of a planter and the daughter of another and the granddaughter of another,' she said. 'Yet would I not needlessly kill a dog. To die on Hilltop, a slave must commit a serious crime against a white man. You say I must go to him?'

'No, madame. I said you must prepare for him.' She watched the great doors, which were at this moment opening. Louis stepped inside, wearing a pink and gold undressing robe.

Georgiana turned to face him, but her knees shook.

'Well?' he demanded. 'Have you recovered?'

'I ...' she licked her lips. But she knew now that she could not fight him with open defiance; she lacked that strength. 'I must apologize, Louis. I ... perhaps if you had warned me what to expect.'

'Warnings entirely spoil the effect of any event,' he remarked. 'Do you not agree, Gislane?'

'Yes, Louis,' she said, as quietly as ever. 'Do you wish me to retire?'

'I do not wish you to retire,' he said, and pulled the bell cord. Almost immediately a footman entered with a tray on which there was a flagon of wine and three goblets. ‘I have had my homecoming spoiled,' he said. 'I think all of our guests had my homecoming spoiled.' He gave each of the women a goblet of wine, took one himself. The footman placed the tray on the table, and withdrew, closing the doors behind him.

'I have apologized,' Georgiana said, feeling her determination to be patient and meek draining away. 'Am I then to be punished? Do you mean to whip me, Louis?'

'It would certainly be no more than you deserve,' he agreed. 'But then, as you are expecting it, it would be less than useless. But I certainly wish to be entertained. It is your duty to atone for your misbehaviour this afternoon, in order that you may restore my esteem for you. You understand this, my sweet?'

Oh, God, she thought. What does he mean? What can he mean?

'So drink your wine,' he said. 'And let us retire.' She gulped at the liquid, but relief was starting to seep upwards from her belly. After all, he wanted nothing more than some special attention this night. And after all, no doubt she could provide that, this night.

'Thank you, Gislane,' she said. 'You may leave.'

Gislane watched her master.

Corbeau smiled. ‘I have said that I wish Gislane to stay. Now come, ladies, to bed. And Georgy, take off that nightgown. It is a charming garment, and becomes you enormously, but I prefer the flesh.'

She stared at him, and then at the mustee, and found that her fingers had insensibly wrapped themselves around her own throat.

'No,' she whispered.

Corbeau's smile faded into a frown. 'You refuse to retire with your own husband?'

'I ... yes, in those circumstances. What do you take me for?'

'A woman,' he said. 'Who will obey me. Oh, I recognize that in many ways you are still a child, Georgy. It will be my pleasure, and Gislane's, too, I have no doubt, to make you into a woman. Will you assist madame, Gislane.'

Georgiana stared from him to the mustee, who moved forward, her face still impassive. 'You ... you will not do this,' she shouted. 'You will not. You ...' she swung her hand, and Gislane leaned backwards to avoid the blow. Then her arms were caught by Corbeau, and pulled behind her body.

He laughed in her ear. 'See how she flutters, Gislane. Do you remember fluttering like that, only a short while ago?' 'Yes, Louis.'

'You ...' Georgiana gasped for breath and kicked. But the mustee remained out of reach.

'I think I am going to be very happy,' Corbeau said, perhaps to himself. 'And do you know, I had wondered if a girl like this could ever truly make me happy. I told you to assist madame, Gislane.'

At last the black eyes moved, from Georgiana's face to Corbeau's, questioning, and receiving a nod of confirmation. Gislane came forward again, and Georgiana panted, and kicked again. But now she moaned with pain as well, as Corbeau twisted her arms, and there was no strength in her frantic movements. Gislane seized the thin material and pulled, and again. It ripped at the shoulders, slid down Georgiana's body, hung around her thighs for a moment, and then settled in a white mound on the floor.

'Bastard,' Georgiana screamed. 'Nigger lover. I hate you. By God, but Robert will kill you for this. Robert will...' she drummed her heels on the floor as she was dragged across it by her husband. Gislane was behind her now, and a moment later she was in the bed, and held there in turn while the mosquito netting was released to unfold, and leave the three of them confined and concealed within. Still she fought, twisting her body to and fro, kicking with her legs, but slowly the futility of it was reaching her, as Corbeau continued to smile down at her, and continued to hold her arms above her head.

And as Gislane slowly undressed, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

‘It occurred to me, this morning,' Corbeau said, 'that you had taken quite a liking to Gislane, Georgy. Or did you merely seek to humiliate her?'

'Bastard,' she shouted again. 'Wretch. Foul thing from the pit of hell.'

'But even wishing to humiliate someone reveals a considerable feeling for them,' he pointed out. 'Had that not been so, I would hardly be wishing to humiliate you now. And I do not, really mean to humiliate you, Georgy. Only the part of you that does not yet recognize that you are a Corbeau, and not a Hilton. Georgiana Hilton must be buried forever, together with her Hilton arrogance and her Hilton dignity and her Hilton prurience. I wish to replace all of those things with a Corbeau arrogance, with a Corbeau dignity, with a Corbeau ability to understand pleasure, and to take it. Only thus can we truly be man and wife. Only thus can you truly hope to attain, and hold my love.'

Georgiana panted, and heaved her body a last time, for Gislane was naked and kneeling beside her.

'You may kiss madame,' Corbeau said.

Gislane hesitated. 'Will she not bite me?'

Georgiana heaved and kicked; her legs were free. But they could not reach anyone.

'No.' Corbeau's face came lower, hovered over his wife's. 'You will not harm Gislane, Georgy. I made that plain earlier today. Do you remember?'

Georgiana sucked saliva into her mouth, pursed her lips to spit at him, and had her throat seized. She nearly choked.

'You will submit,' Corbeau said. 'To her, and to me. As we shall no doubt submit to you, my sweet. And besides, you do not want to fail yourself, do you? The ultimate reward, of possessing me, will go to the one of you who pleases me best. It would be a sad thing if, on your first night in your new home, you were bested by a cafe-au-lait:

Georgiana discovered that her arms were free. Slowly, painfully, she brought them down from above her head, and found them around Gislane's shoulders.

Dawn, and the sounds of an awakening sugar estate. For a moment Georgiana supposed that she was still on Hilltop. There was the same stealthy rustle throughout the house, the same muted bustle from the distance, where the slave gangs were beginning their task of weeding the fields, the same distant clangs from the blacksmith's shop and from the factory.

But there were other sounds as well, and these were unfamiliar to her: the constant rustle of trees by the river, the constant low rumble of surf, only a mile away on the beach where the Atlantic rollers came to a throbbing rest, and with these unfamiliar sounds, unfamiliar smells; where Jamaica had smelt hot, and at times even parched, here the sea-breeze wafted gently through the bedchamber, and carried with it the accumulated moisture of the ocean. It was a clean smell, a healthy smell; it made her awake with a curiously clear head, a feeling that this day much could be accomplished.

And in a few moments it also brought memory. She sat up, her entire body clammy with sweat, her heart pounding, her cheeks burning. But she was alone in the bed. Although there could be no doubt, from these tumbled sheets, these body-scented pillows, that this bed had been shared, and shared, and shared.

Cautiously she stroked her lips, which were sore, and felt slightly swollen. Thoughtfully she pulled her fingers through her hair, which was tangled, and lay in a mass on her shoulders. Tentatively she rolled the sheet back from her waist, and the flesh on her left thigh seemed to turn blue as she looked at it. She could not remember receiving the bruise. But it could have been caused by any one of a number of embraces, of sudden movements, of passion-filled undulations. Because in time she had been as passion-filled as they. 'Oh, God,' she whispered. How could she ever look at them again? How could she ever look at anyone, again?

How could she ever look at herself, again?

The crisis was closer than she had suspected. Strong white fingers were reaching through the mosquito netting, to gather it into a cloud, and whisk it away from the bed, in the same movement securing it with its cord. The room ceased to be a mist and became startlingly clear, and almost cool. And the mustee stood by her bed, dressed in a blue gown, black hair severely restricted to the top of her head, magnificent face etched across the morning, unbruised and unmarked, black eyes as impassive as ever.

'Good morning, madame,' she said. 'I am afraid that I quite forgot to ascertain whether you preferred chocolate or coffee, and so I have had both prepared.'

Georgiana stared at her. Should I then, take your hand, and kiss it, she wondered? Or should I instead kiss your lips, your body, hold you once again in my arms, as you held me last night?

'Madame?' Gislane repeated, patiently.

'Coffee,' she said. 'I will have coffee. And a mirror.'

'Of course, madame.' Gislane fetched the mirror from the dressing-table, handed it to her mistress, then returned to the table for the cup of coffee. Georgiana found her hands trembling; she had to hold the glass in both hands to see herself. Georgiana Hilton. Oh, no, no, no, no. Georgiana Corbeau. Now, and forever more.

The coffee waited by her shoulder. She laid down the mirror and took the cup, and her fingers brushed the other's. She would not look at them, buried her nose in the cup as she sipped.

'It is ten o'clock, madame,' Gislane said. 'And your bath is waiting. The master went aback some hours ago, but he invariably returns at eleven, for breakfast. He has invited you to join him there.'

The master. Oh, God Almighty, the master. She had quite forgotten his existence. Because he had been the least important of the three of them. Until the very end. The very end, when she had been defeated and yet been allowed to possess the fruits of victory.

'It is her first night,' Corbeau had said, gently, smiling at her. 'We will allow her the honour.'

And Gislane had also smiled. Contemptuously? But then she had not cared.

Yet must she now ape the mustee's calm, her self-possession. 'And do you also attend breakfast, Gislane?'

'No, madame.' Gislane held up the undressing robe, and waited.

'But you have, before.'

'Yes, madame. For my first three months on Rio Blanco I was permitted to play the lady of the house. The master found it amusing.'

'And the master must always be amused. Does he ever punish you?'

'To punish me would be to destroy me, madame. The master is a very sensible man.'

'But he knows, your hatred. Does he not fear that you might poison him?'

'Of course not, madame. Should I poison the master, I would be executed, by the government. Had I not a strong desire to live, I could easily have found many less painful or humiliating ways of dying, during the past five years.'

Georgiana smiled at her. 'So, you are a coward, and a woman of no moral stature whatsoever. As I always suspected.' She got out of bed, turned her back to allow the undressing robe to be draped around her shoulders, and felt the fingers again. This time they rested on her flesh for a moment. No doubt deliberately.

'Indeed, madame. It has occurred to me that moral virtues have little to do with survival. The two things are incompatible.'

'And a philosopher,' Georgiana declared. 'But then, I have observed that philosophers are invariably also cowards. They prefer to meditate than to do. Yes, I am ready for my bath.'

Was she acting? She could not be sure. She sat in her tub, and this time the girls were allowed to remain, and assist Gislane in her ministrations. Because she was sated? Or because she was afraid that otherwise she might not be able to contain herself? Was she then realizing that her life on Hilltop had been no more than a primitive existence, magnificent as she thought it at the time? How Louis must have smiled, at their simplicity, their inadequacy.

How he must have wondered, if his chosen bride could possibly rise to the heights of opulent omnipotence, in thought and word and deed, which was his privilege.

A knock sounded on the door as she was being dried. Gislane glanced at her, and received a nod. The towel was wrapped around her shoulders, to hang down to the floor about her, while one of the maids hurried forward to open the pink and white satin.

'Madame de Morain, wishes to call upon Madame Corbeau.'

Gislane's glance was this time surprised. Georgiana smiled. 'Come in, Angelique. Come in.' She crossed the bedchamber, Gislane hurrying behind her to keep the towel in place. 'How good of you to call.'

Angelique de Morain swept into the room in a flurry of rustling skirts, looked around her for a moment, as if she was a stranger to this part of the chateau - which was something to know, at any rate, Georgiana decided - and then held out her arms to envelop the young woman. And kiss her on the cheek. Now, Georgiana thought, what would she say were I to kiss her on the mouth, seek out her tongue, allow my hands to stray from her shoulders. How long would it take that scandal to travel from one end of St. Domingue to the other.

'Oh, my dear,' Angelique cried. 'I just had to come and see if you were all right.'

She stepped back, and seemed to notice Gislane for the first time.

'But of course I am all right,' Georgiana declared. 'Did you suppose Louis had flogged me? You may see for yourself.' She shrugged herself free of the towel. 'Those marks are several days old.'

'Oh, my dear,' Angelique cried, and glanced anxiously at the servants.

'They are about to dress me.' Georgiana walked across the room to stand before the mirror, raising her arms to allow Gislane to spread the powder. 'You'll stay to breakfast, of course.'

'My dear,' Angelique said. But she advanced farther into the room. 'I should adore it, but I am on my way to Cap Francois. I but stopped ...'

'To make sure I was all right,' Georgiana said. 'I hope you are reassured.' She bobbed her head as Gislane dropped the shift over her shoulders.

'Oh, indeed I am reassured.' Angelique was frowning. 'You have not introduced me to your friend.'

'Friend?' Georgiana stared at them in the mirror, puckering her mouth in delicious bewilderment. 'I have no friends here, Angelique. Saving you, of course, my dear.' Once again she stared at the face behind her. 'Oh, you mean Gislane. Gislane is not a friend, my dear Angelique. She is my maid.'

'Your ...' Angelique de Morain's mouth made a perfect O.

'Her name is Gislane Nicholson. Of course, she is not only my maid. She is also Louis's housekeeper.' Angelique's mouth snapped shut.

'And she is not white, you know,' Georgiana said. 'She only appears to be white. She is ... what are you, exactly. Gislane?'

Was the girl angry? It was difficult to tell. There was not even colour in her cheeks. No doubt, during her years as a slave, she had heard herself discussed like a cow sufficiently often to become used to it.

'I am a mustee, madame,' Gislane said, quietly.

'Who hates me, and would kill me, had she the courage,' Georgiana said happily, nibbling Gislane's ear as her gown was settled in place and her sash secured.

'Good heavens,' remarked Angelique de Morain. 'I wonder you bear the creature's presence.'

'I do not know how I could exist without her,' Georgiana remarked, and wondered if she was not, on a sudden, telling the truth. 'Besides, you know, she makes Louis so very happy. Now come, Angelique. You'll at least take a cup of coffee?'

'No. No, I simply must rush. Isn't the news terrible?'

'News? What news?' It was Georgiana's turn to frown.

'The news from Paris, of course. There have been bread riots. Can you believe it? Rioting for bread? And then, that horrible business with the necklace.'

'What horrible business with the necklace? I must confess that I have never been to Paris.'

'Never been to Paris?' Angelique de Morain stared at her. 'My God.'

‘I have no doubt that Louis and I will be visiting Europe before very long,' Georgiana remarked. 'And of course then we shall go to Court.'

‘If it is still there,' said Angelique de Morain, in sepulchral tones. 'Well, I must be on my way.'

'Oh, you must at least explain your remark, madame. Tell me about this necklace.'

'It is obviously nothing you would understand, my dear child,' Angelique said. 'His Majesty, God bless him, was constrained to marry an Austrian woman, a most tactless and thoughtless princess, if I do speak treason. Her extravagance is incalculable, her ability to become involved in scandal limitless. And now, it seems, she has managed to become associated with certain known criminals, in the stealing of a diamond necklace she would wish to possess. Be sure it will but make the task of governing France that much more difficult. Ah, well, we must put our faith in Monsieur de Calonne. I was at school with his daughter, you know. A charming family. And a most competent man. I will bid you good-day, dear Georgiana. I look forward to seeing you at Morains.'

Gislane hurried forward to hold the door for her, but she only checked for a moment, to glance at the mustee. 'Have her whipped,' she said, half over her shoulder. 'Believe me, Louis will love you the more for a touch of spirit.'

The door closed behind her, but Gislane remained standing beside them.

'Pompous bitch,' Georgiana remarked.

'You matched her, madame. In spirit.'

'Yes, I did,' Georgiana agreed. 'Will my husband have returned yet?'

'No, madame. The clock has not yet struck the hour.'

Georgiana nodded, and seated herself at her escritoire. 'Did you enjoy last night, Gislane?'

'I am here to give pleasure, madame. Not receive it.'

'What nonsense. I have decided to be your friend. I think Louis is probably right, and your repeated avowal of hate is no more than a plan to preserve your identity. You see, I am quite as capable as he of thinking deeply. I think you well know that even had I not sent you back to the West Indies, and instead you had married some humdrum Englishman, or even Matt, indeed, you could never have enjoyed such luxury as you do now. He would certainly have lost his inheritance.'

Gislane remained standing by the door.

'So from this moment,' Georgiana said happily, 'you will indeed be my constant companion. My constant support. My constant love. Does that please you?'

'Of course, madame,' Gislane said.

'Because you never wish to forget, my sweet, that if Louis will presently not punish you, because, as you say, that would be to destroy you, there will certainly come a time when he will no longer care whether he destroys you or not. Have you thought of that?'

'Yes, madame.'

'And who will protect you then, but I, Gislane? All I ask in return is that you transfer your every allegiance, from Louis to me.' Georgiana began to write.

'Of course, madame.' Gislane left the door, stood by the desk.

'Good.' Georgiana finished her letter. 'Are you ever allowed to leave the plantation?' 'Of course, madame.'

Georgiana nodded. 'Then you will deliver this to the captain of a ship trading with Jamaica. Pay him well, and ask him to deliver it in Kingston. It is to my sister. You do not know her.'

Gislane took the letter. The master would prefer to know what you are writing to your family, madame.'

'Which is why I am giving the letter to you. Because be sure that if you betray me, he will tell me, and I will have you punished. I think that Madame de Morain is probably quite right, and were I to assert myself in Louis's absence, and have you whipped, he would be less angry with me for marking your skin than proud of me for my spirit. I wonder, indeed, if he does not merely seek to awaken more spirit in me. You would do well to remember that.'

Gislane gazed at her.

'Besides, I am inquiring after Matt's health. He was wounded, you know, in a duel, on my wedding day.'

Gislane's expression did not change.

'Badly wounded, I imagine,' Georgiana said. ‘I really must discover if he has recovered. So you will not betray me, Gislane. Will you?'

Gislane took the letter.

At midnight there was no sound but the whisper of the wind and the unceasing rumble of the surf. Even the mosquitoes were muted, and humanity slept. Where it could. And where it had no more urgent requirement.

There was no drum. There was never any drum, on Rio Blanco, at least never any drum audible from the house. The plantation was too enormous, the sea-breeze too unchanging. And soon there would be rain, as the clouds were swept out of the Atlantic; the night was already damp.

Gislane hurried along by the river, lost beneath the swaying shade trees. Behind her the chateau had faded into darkness, denoted by nothing more than the ever guttering lanterns on the verandahs. This night she had not been required. Almost she found it difficult to remember when last she had not been required, at once as a weapon between them and as a plaything for them both. But now at last Georgiana was pregnant, and Louis had taken himself to Cap Francois, in search of other pleasures. And she had been able to call for the drum.

She could hear it now, as she reached the limits of the canefields themselves. But now it was time to be herself, for a night. She knew where she was, exactly, standing by the last of the trees. She stopped, and waited for her breathing to settle. She had walked through the trees with her skirt held high to avoid the snagging branches. Now she lifted the gown over her head, carefully folded it, and placed it on the ground. She wore no shift, and for some moments stood there in the darkness and the gathering damp, naked, arms spread wide, mouth open and nostrils dilating as she breathed, hair tickling her back in the breeze, feeling the moisture gathering on her skin, raising nipple and pore, accumulating desire in her mind.

After some minutes she knelt by the tree and located the box, hidden beneath the great roots. No doubt many people knew it was there, but no one would tamper with the wardrobe of a mamaloi, and especially such a mamaloi. She opened the box, took out the blood-red robe, the blood-red turban for her head. The clothes smelt of damp and of earth, and of blood, too. It was an odour winch, inhaled in the refinement of her drawing-room in the chateau, would have made her retch. But it was an odour which belonged here in the darkness and the damp, which seemed to seep down her nostrils and into the very pit of her lungs, which alerted her every sense.

And now the drum was approaching, but a single beat, this, an almost military cadence, thrilling across the night. Gislane settled the robe on her shoulders, gathered her hair in a series of thick black coils on top of her head, concealed it with the turban. In the box she placed her gown, and then restored the box itself beneath the tree. Then she stepped away from the shade, and took her place in the centre of the path.

For the drum was close, and with it the people. They came up to her, and they bowed, and then reared upright again, and clapped their hands, once, twice as they passed her, and then went on their way, behind the drummer. All save one, who walked erect in their midst, lungs swelling as he breathed, height enhanced by the posturing about him, head turning neither to left nor right, drawn onwards by the throb of the drum, by the embracing power of the drug he had been fed.

There were no other animals, this night.

But now the column was all but past her, saving only those who walked behind. Here were two men, much of a size, tall and strong, so similar in build and in demeanour they might have been brothers. Gislane frowned at them, and stepped between them, joining in the chant as she did so, arching her back to bring her body forward, then rearing back and throwing her arms high into the air above her, joining their movements exactly.

'Do they come?' she whispered, even as she chanted.

'They say the time is not yet,' Boukman replied.

'Then who is this one?'

'His name is Henry. He comes from Toussaint. He bids us be patient.'

'Henri?' Gislane said.

'Henry,' said the tall young man. 'The name was given to me by my first master, in St. Kitts.'

Gislane looked at him more closely. Here was power, only thinly disguised beneath his so obvious youth; she doubted he was any older than she. And he was also English?

'Our people will not wait,' she said. 'You have heard?'

'Of your master's sport,' Henry said. 'We have heard. But the time is not yet. The prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.'

'Prophecy?' she asked.

'It was given on this very plantation,' Henry said.

'By Celeste,' Gislane said. 'But Celeste is dead. How may a mamaloi truly die? Where is the value of this prophecy?'

'Yet will our friends wait upon it,' Henry insisted.

'And our people?' Gislane demanded. They will not wait forever, while they are slaughtered to suit the whim of a madman. Nor will they listen to an Englishman.'

'Then call me Christophe,' Henry said. 'It is the name given to me by my new master. Yet must it be your responsibility to have them wait. If they do not, they will have us all slaughtered, and by the soldiers.'

The drummer had reached the appointed place, a clearing in the canefield, and here he halted, without ceasing his rhythmical beat. The devotees, every man and every woman a person of note in the Negro community, walked round the clearing, to form a wall of humanity, much as the Negroes in Nevis had formed a wall around the clearing on the first occasion she had attended a voodoo ceremony, and thought that she had discovered the secret of all secrets, without understanding that the slaves of Nevis, in their poverty of mind no less than imagination, had no more than aped a memory. But that was an eternity ago, and now she must persuade these people that they obeyed the dictates of their god, by patiently waiting for the day of blood. She knew how she would do this, as she had arranged this evening, the moment she had learned of Corbeau's determination to visit Cap Francois. She knew, but she was not sure she believed.

And the moment was at hand. The drugged Negro had taken his place in the centre of the clearing, sitting cross-legged immediately in the centre of a shaft of moonlight, shoulders square and head erect, body a gleaming testimony to the magnificence that can be man. On either side of him waited a young woman, each holding a palm leaf, bodies rigid with tense expectation. And the drum-beat had altered, perhaps insensibly, reaching ever deeper into the senses, summoning all the powers of belief it possessed.

So then, did she believe? Would she be able to fulfil her sacred mission, as taught her by Boukman?

She walked away from the men, and into the centre of the circle, stood next to the young man. Her head spun with the rhythm of the drum; she knew the frenzied tearing at her self-control which was coming ever closer to the surface. And the drum was getting louder.

She threw her arms to heaven, and shouted. 'Hear me, O mighty one. Hear me, O Serpent, Damballah Oueddo. Hear my prayer, and promise me deliverance for my people.' She paused, and breathed, and listened to the moaning chant which arose from around her. She filled her lungs with air. 'How long, great Agone, Master of all the Oceans of the World, must we wait? Hear me, O mighty lord. Speak to me, great Loco, Lord of the Trees. Grant me and my people thy sign of deliverance. Come to me, Gentle Ezilee, sweet maitresse, and take from my mind, from my body, the very last weakness.' Once again she paused, and now the chant had grown louder. And now sweat ran down her arms and body and legs as if it were raining. And once again her lungs were full. 'Come to me, O mighty Ogone Badagris. Come to my people, O Dreadful One. Lead us to war, as is thy purpose. Grant us an end to all white people. Grant us the mood of hate and cruelty, that their destruction may be known throughout the world, and forever. Grant us revenge, O Dreadful One, for the wrongs that are daily committed upon us. Grant us now a sign, my lords, that our prayers are heeded.'

She gasped, and fell to her knees, exhausted. She felt rather than saw Boukman leave the circle of devotees, knew rather than observed the machete he carried, blade honed to a razor-sharp perfection. She wanted to get up again. She wanted to scream, no, no, no, I did not mean a word of it, I do not understand what power I set in motion here, I do not know ... and now I am afraid, O Mighty Serpent. But she moved nothing, save her head, which slowly came upright, to watch Boukman before the young man, neither man even blinking his eyes, as the hougan threw back his head and screamed to his gods in an unknown tongue, and then whirled the cutlass around his own head, and with a single unbelievable sweep of the razor-sharp sword swept through the neck of the victim.

The head fell forward, and the machete had been dropped. Boukman caught the head, his great hands immediately smeared with blood, while the two girls hastily fanned the still upright, blood-spouting neck with vigorous anxiety; should but a speck of dirt, a single insect, settle on the tortured flesh, the sacrifice would be a failure.

She forced herself to watch. Because I am not seeing, she told herself. I am dreaming, as I surely dreamed that first night on Hodges, as I have surely dreamed ever since. But the blood spurting from the severed arteries held her spellbound.

And now Boukman was advancing again, having held the dripping head high to present it to the worshippers. Slowly he advanced, and slowly he replaced the head, carefully, exactly, while in that moment another young woman threw a large piece of red cloth over the dead man.

The dead man? Within seconds his feet began to move, and then his arms, and the throbbing of the drum had resumed command over all their senses. The young man's mask was taken away, and he was unchanged, but shuffling and posturing immediately in front of her, calling her to her feet, calling her to discard her gown, calling her to take his sex as he would take hers. And the drum was reaching a crescendo, even as she was impaled. By a dead man? She clung to his shoulders, nails tight in his flesh, as he whirled her round and round, her feet also lost from the ground, and thrust himself against her, time and again. But she scarce felt him, now, so persistent, so irresistible, was the beat of the drum. And of course it was no more than an illusion, a gigantic trick, perpetrated by the rhythm of the drum, by the mood of the worshippers. A trick in which she had been a willing assistant, their mamaloi. For certainly it could not be real. This thought swung through her mind time and again, as the dancing grew more frenzied, as she lost her young man and found herself with others, and in time as the drummers themselves grew exhausted and she lay beneath the trees, cradled in Boukman's arms, weeping like a babe from overstretched desire and overstretched fear. A trick, an illusion, necessary to bring these people to the pitch where they would kill, and die, and suffer, for their freedom.

Her head was on Boukman's chest, and his chest was wet. She raised a hand, and stroked her chin, and held the finger in front of her eyes, in the moonlight, and looked at the blood. And shuddered.

His hands were on her shoulders. 'It is said how you are the white woman's friend,' he whispered. ‘Nay, her inseparable companion. It is said that you share her bed, and her body.'

'It is the wish of Corbeau,' Gislane whispered. 'And you do not love her?'

Gislane looked at her finger. 'When the time comes,' she whispered, 'I have changed my mind. You may give Corbeau to his people. Give me the woman. Oh, Boukman, grant me that, and they will hear her scream in Africa.'

Boukman's lips brushed hers. 'It shall be. You shall have them both, my woman.'

Movement, and she rolled on her back, her head still resting on her lover's chest. Christophe stood above them.

‘It is good,' he said. 'Ogone Badagris has sent his sign, that he is there, and will listen. Toussaint will be pleased.'

'But still we must wait,' Boukman said.

'It is the prophecy.' Christophe knelt beside them, and slowly reached out. He had not touched her during the dance, and she had wished for it. He was the most magnificent man she had ever seen, saving only Boukman himself. But now he touched her, taking first her hair, and then lifting her hand, to look at the white skin, to hold it for a moment against his own. Then he released her, and stood up again. 'Toussaint will be pleased,' he said again, and vanished into the night.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE PROSECUTOR

BANG, bang, bang, went the shutters, each crash accompanied by the rasp of the steel bolts being dropped into place to hold the greenheart timbers against the strongest gusts. And with each bang the house grew darker. Matt could hear the men on the roof, hastily placing boards across the skylights, thudding their nails into the shingles to protect the glass. Christ, how inadequate he felt, when there was so much to be done.

'Papa. There is to be a storm.' Tony raced into the room, as he raced everywhere. 'Maurice says the sky is black.'

Behind him crawled his brother Richard, hardly more than a year old, determinedly following his guide and mentor wherever he could. Both boys were clearly Hiltons, as much in their fair hair as in their features. But then, how could they be anything else?

'Aye.' Matt sank back on the cushions. 'But we will be safe in here. Hilltop has stood up to enough hurricanes in the past.'

Tony crawled on to the couch, leaving poor Dick to scrabble at the legs. 'Were you in them, Papa? Were you? Tell us.'

'I remember one, when I was scarce older than you,' Matt said. 'But that was on Green Grove.' He scratched his son's head, and wondered what the little fellow thought of a father who could hardly move, whom the effort of crawling down a flight of stairs left utterly exhausted. And it was more than twelve months since Mounter had cut the bullet from his chest; the pain remained. He looked at his hands, so thin and wasted. Those hands had once upon a time been able to fell a man like a blow from an axe. Would they ever do so again?

Richard started to cry, a high-pitched wail, as he realized he was not going to be able to reach his brother.

‘You'd best help him,' Matt suggested. He could not even lift his own babe, in safety.

But the wail brought Sue hurrying up the stairs. Her hair was wrapped in a bandanna, and her gown was untidy and stained; she had been working as hard as anyone to prepare the house for the shock of the wind. 'He's not hurt?'

'Just impatient,' Matt said. 'I can hardly blame him for that.'

She scooped the boy from the floor, set him on the couch, stooped to kiss her lover; the divorce was still pending, although there could be no doubt of it now. On the other hand, could he really permit her to marry a cripple?

'You are hot,' she said. "You've not been fretting again?'

'And should I not?' he demanded. 'To lie here, every breath a painful memory, with no news ...'

'Well calm yourself,' she recommended. 'Because today there is news. We have a visitor.'

'Tom.' He sat up, looking past her at the always plump figure in the doorway.

'Matt. You're looking well.'

'Don't lie to me, old friend.'

'But you are. I swear it. Much improved on the last time.'

‘I wish you'd be convinced of that, Matt,' Sue said, and sat beside him. 'It is a miracle you are not dead. How can you expect to snap your fingers and be again the man you were? These things take time.'

'Time. The world does not stand still. Does the chapel prosper, Tom?'

'In its small way. I have a congregation, of sorts. And Manton is a tower of strength.'

'And no assaults?'

'Oh, they have forgotten my existence, with you absent. Although I doubt things will remain that way for long.'

'News?' Matt sat up, and Sue threw her arm around his shoulders.

'These sudden movements are not good for you, sweetheart.' She rang the little brass bell on the table. 'Maurice. We will have some punch.'

'News.' Coke sat on the far end of the couch, removed Richard from around his ankles, and opened his satchel. 'Have you ever heard of a fellow called Clarkson?'

Matt shook his head.

'He cannot be much older than yourself,' Coke said. 'From Cambridge. I thought perhaps you'd have met.' ‘I attended Oxford.'

'All. Well, he has written a pamphlet concerning the ills of slavery. Essay on the Slavery and Commerce of the Human Species, he has called it.'

'And that is news? Some undergraduate has thoughts on slavery?'

'Ah, but he is no longer an undergraduate. And his pamphlet has caused a stir. Questions are being asked in the House of Commons not the Assembly. There is talk of a Parliamentary inquiry into the conditions in the West Indies. Of a society to promote the Abolition of the Trade, at the very least. And not just churchmen, this time.'

Matt took his glass from the tray held by the butler. 'They will talk, and talk, and talk. But they will not do.'

'Now that I cannot say. But I have here a letter from Nevis, for you.'

'Nevis?' Matt snatched at the envelope.

'Dearest,' Sue begged. 'You must control yourself.'

Matt slit the envelope, glanced at the contents. His friends watched the animation drain from his face.

'Well?' Coke demanded.

'It is from Captain Nelson.'

'And is that not good news?'

'Not entirely. He invites us to his wedding, Sue. Should it ever take place.'

'They have not quarrelled?'

'Not they. But he has managed to antagonize every planter in Nevis, and not merely by taking my side in the slavery matter. There is also a small matter of his seizing four American vessels out of Charleston Harbour, for contravening the Navigation Acts. Well, 'tis certain they were breaking the law. But I do not recall even Rodney being so bold in time of peace.'

'And the other business?' Sue asked. 'The indictment of Hodge?'

'Nothing. Loman had of course to refer the matter to his Governor, in Antigua, and Shirley sits, and waits. Nelson says, "the rumour is that he waits for you to be strong enough to take the stand." Then will he wait forever, no doubt. But he says more. "To be frank with you, Matt, I cannot pretend to be sorry that your cause, and more especially Fanny's testimony, has come to rest in a pigeon-hole. It will certainly cause some tumult here. And Nevis is at last promised prosperity. A hot spring has been discovered, bubbling out of the mountain, with the most marvellous health-giving qualities, it is said. People are already speaking of Fanny's little island as the Bath of the West Indies." There speaks a friend.'

'You cannot blame him,' Sue said, 'As he would seem to have problems enough. But Shirley ... there is the worst of colonial governors. He fears for his place, for his salary, should he antagonize the planters.'

'Yet did I have Loman's word.'

'Oh, indeed. But without the Governor's aid you can do nothing.' She sucked her lower hp beneath her teeth in a peculiarly thoughtful gesture, and glanced at Coke, almost apologetically. 'Sweetheart,' she said. 'If you will forgive me, do you not think that you have done all you can in this matter? That you have indeed all but given your life in this entirely futile cause? Do you not suppose that you might owe it to me, and to your sons, to make a life for yourself? Especially if Tom is right, and Parliament itself is taking an interest in our affairs. Can you not now rest on your laurels, and leave the burden to more powerful backs?'

Matt stared at her, and in despair she turned to Coke. 'Can you not persuade him, Tom? Even you must see that ours is a forlorn hope.'

Coke licked his lips. 'Well, I ... Sue, it is I must beg your forgiveness. But once you told me that you would not have Matt as otherwise than a man who did, rather than inherited.'

'Once,' she said. 'Perhaps I did not know then what I said.

And what can he do, now? Answer me that? Every man's hand is against him, against us, saving only an itinerant sea captain, who himself is beginning to doubt, and who in any event has managed to isolate himself. And who, you may be sure, will be away and forgetful of the entire West Indies the moment his term of duty is completed. Where will we be then?'

'Sue ...' Matt protested.

'He can keep on trying, and we can keep on supporting him,' Coke said, with unusual vehemence. 'All is not dark. The real reason for my visit is that I also have some news, from St. John's, of which perhaps your friend Horatio is unaware.'

Matt frowned at him. 'Good news?'

‘I think so. It is that Shirley has been recalled. His term of office has expired, certainly.'

'And his successor will be of a different stamp?' Sue demanded.

'I think there is a chance. His name is Hugh Elliott. You've heard it, I imagine. He is a brother of Lord Minto, and is thus scarce dependent on his salary, like Shirley. You'll be sure of a disinterested hearing, at the very least, Matt.'

'By heaven,' Matt shouted. 'You are right. I will to Nevis once again, and ...'

'You'll wait until you are fully restored to health, I hope,' Suzanne said. 'And in any event, where is the point until the new man actually takes up his office? And this time, I will accompany you. Robert can play the good uncle, for once in a while. Am I not right darling brother?' For they could hear the stamping feet and the barking terriers, and a moment later Robert was in the room.

'What? What? Here again?' he shouted at Coke. 'Are we to become a meeting place for revolutionaries?'

'Oh, take a glass of punch, Robert,' Sue suggested. 'Dr. Coke has merely brought letters, and risked the wind to do so.'

'Wind?' Robert demanded. 'It is not here, yet.'

'It will be here soon enough. Listen,' she said. 'There is the first of the rain. You'll spend the night, Tom. It will scarce be safe to return to Kingston.'

'Why, I... I doubt Mr. Hilton will second that idea.'

'Of course he will,' Sue said. 'Robert?'

'By God,' Robert declared. 'By God. You'll not credit this, Coke, but I doubt I am still master in my own house. Thanks to this... pair of scoundrels, I am quite cut off from polite conversation. Even the governor is afraid to have me to cards of a Saturday night, for fear there is a challenge. The presence of Matt under my roof suggests to all my erstwhile friends that I am a supporter of these ridiculous ideas. His living here in open immorality with my own sister is brought against me even in church, so that I never attend the thing any more ...'

Sue burst out laughing. 'Oh, really, Robert. When did you last attend church, save for a wedding or a funeral?'

'And my other sister,' he continued, as if she had not spoken, 'has disappeared into the arms of foreigners. A year now, she has been married, and not a letter. Not a line. Not a message, save her affection. And she is a mother.'

'Then how ...' Coke inquired.

'Louis writes,' Sue said. 'Constantly. Oh, he makes his excuses for Georgy, says she is far too busy. The fact is she was ever a poor correspondent. During her two years in England we never heard from her once.'

'At least she is in an honourable state,' Robert grumbled. 'But truth to say ... I think you should pay her a visit, Sue. She may need your support. Surrounded by foreigners. And that Corbeau ...'

'Oh, I agree,' Sue said. 'But there you have the very reason I will stay in Jamaica, if you do not mind. He looks at a woman as if he is stripping her naked with his eyes. I have no doubt that in the privacy of his own home he goes further than that. Georgy chose to marry him, not

'Jealous,' Robert bawled. 'That's what you are, jealous. She has married a man, not a puling preacher who cannot hold a pistol.'

'By Christ,' Matt said, attempting to get up.

'Oh, hush, sweetheart,' Sue said, both arms round his shoulders. 'He must babble, like a stream. He means no harm.'

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'By God.'

'Ahem,' Coke said. ‘I think I should endeavour to return to Kingston before the storm breaks. I doubt that my presence really is of use here.'

'You'll stay the night,' Sue said. 'Robert?'

'Oh, sit you down, Coke,' Robert shouted. 'Sit you down. What, man, would you know us if we did not fight amongst ourselves? Our name is Hilton, Dr. Coke. You'll not forget that.'

With the following spring, Matt found himself able to leave the house, although he could sit a horse for no more than a few minutes, and Sue invariably insisted that he be driven in the trap, either by her or by one of the footmen. She continued to profess herself satisfied with his progress, as was Dr. Mounter.

'What?' the surgeon would demand. 'A bullet through the chest? The odds on your survival at all were at least a hundred to one. Had you not possessed the constitution of an ox you would have died in a week.'

'And what of my constitution now, do you think?' Matt would ask.

'These things take time, Matt. Time. How long has it been? Scarce two years? But now it is all upwards, boy. You have but to take care, and you can count the months, rather than the years.'

To mend his shattered muscles, his cracked bones. Not to assuage his spirit, which caused them far more concern. As if time mattered, now. Once he had supposed that to wait four months, in Statia, for the arrival of Gislane in Nevis, was quite impossible. And so he had found a sweeter solace than he had had any right to expect. Now the solace was there, all the time, caring for him, keeping him company, mothering his children, with the utmost patience and good humour, while he could not but wonder what went on behind those steady blue eyes, as he had wondered from the very beginning, whether she understood that she might have made a dreadful mistake in leaving the solid comfort and support of Dirk Huys to follow a boy who seemed destined to flounder through a morass for all of his life, and who for some time now had scarce been able to pay her a man's attention.

The matter came to a head with the formal pronouncement of the ending of her marriage to Dirk, in the summer of 1788. The morning after the letter arrived they clung to each other with more than usual vehemence. 'You are still beautiful, Sue,' Matt said. ‘You must be the most beautiful thirty-year-old in all the world.'

She kissed him on the chin. 'Save that I am not yet thirty, sweetheart. You do me an injustice.'

'And will a few months change you?' Christ, how he loved to touch that velvet flesh, caress those swelling breasts, feel the power in those long legs.

'And do you then, love only my body?' she asked, biting his chin. 'And are therefore preparing to tire of me and discard me?'

'I could not love you more, sweetheart, were our positions reversed, and you lying here unable to do more than twitch. I love the very thought of you. I am ready to weep when I consider your unending support of me. I shudder to consider the boredom you must experience, with no company other than Robert. As for desertion, I was considering requesting you to abandon so lost a cause in your own favour.'

'I am your wife,' she said. 'In intent, if not yet in law.' And then flushed.

'It is because I love you so much that I hesitate to face you to that irrevocable step,' he said. 'I am a wretched fellow, dependent upon my cousin's charity, bound to cause trouble wherever I go ...'

'You are a Hilton.'

'Yet you know as well as I our marriage should wait, until I have finished with this business.'

'Until you can forget Gislane, you mean,' she said quietly. 'Sue ...'

'Sweetheart, let us at the least always be honest with each other. You love me. I know that, in your gaze, in your touch. But you cannot be sure you would not love her more, should she reappear in your life.'

'You can say that, so calmly?'

'I can wait, too, until we neither of us have any more doubts. As for Robert, he is as glad to have us here as we are to be here, I am sure. He is a lonely man, and you must have seen enough of him these past years to know that he is only half the tyrant he pretends. Were you but to make the slightest effort, you and he could be the best of friends. You'll not have forgotten this is a matter which could be of some importance to Dick and Tony.'

‘It is a matter which has long been settled, and there's an end to it.' Matt got out of bed and began to dress, how slowly, how awkwardly, afraid to exert the slightest effort that might revive the breath-taking agony in his chest. 'In any event, for me to play the planter now would be hypocrisy.'

'Yet can you be his friend,' she insisted, drawing up her knees and resting her chin. Tour problem is one of boredom. You sit here, and brood, and imagine. So you'd not return to planting. I would not have you perjure your every ideal. It is not the only occupation a gentleman may follow.'

'In Jamaica?'

'Well ... you could write.'

'You jest.'

'I see no reason why not. If Billy Beckford's son could compose a novel, surely Ned Hilton's son could so as well. Have you read Vathek?’

'Now really ,sweetheart, when have I had the time to read?'

'I am just pointing out that your problem is too much time. And you might enjoy it. It is an utter fable, and quite indecent. But I actually did not think of novel writing. You claim to be a leader in the field of abolition, and Tom says it is the coming thing in England, and you know with what undisciplined zeal the English literati throw themselves upon any new ideas, any new person they might suitably devour. At the least devouring you will be difficult at a distance of four thousand miles. But you can scarce do less than help your cause.'

She was right, as always. He knew that, and followed her suggestion. He wrote long letters to Mr. Wilberforce and Tom Clarkson, to Mr. Fox and Lady Montagu, and was encouraged by their answers. He outlined the situation in the West Indies, and pointed to the increasing moral degeneracy of the plantocracy, as sons born to wealth and unlimited power too often gave in to that power. As he grew stronger, he took to riding, into town, to assist Coke and Manton with their services, at which growing numbers of Negroes attended every week, as the word got around that there would be no more midnight visitations to the Wesleyan Chapel. For indeed the Jamaica plantocracy, following the strange events of the Corbeau wedding, seemed determined to kill the Methodists by ignoring them, rather than by directly opposing them. Or more likely, Matt thought, now that Robert had been forced, however unwillingly, into taking the side of his sister and her lover, they just lacked a capable leader. He could not help but wonder what might be achieved could Robert, by some means, be forced into lending them his active rather than his passive support. But Robert forbade the discussion of slavery or religion inside Hilltop, and would stamp from the room should anyone defy him.

And for all his endless activity, his surge of growing strength, his delight in his sons as they left babyhood behind, and his even greater delight in the unchanging splendour of Suzanne's love, he continued to fret. The pending case against Hodge was more even than a crusade of vengeance for the supposed fate of Gislane Nicholson; it was all that had kept him alive after his wound. But now the months became years, and indeed it was already several years since the date of Manton's deposition and Fanny Nisbet's supporting testimony. She would have to be called Fanny Nelson, now. It had been decided that in view of his health and his unpopularity amongst the whites, it would be unwise for him to visit Nevis for the wedding; but apparently the occasion had been splendid enough as the planters, on learning that Prince William would himself give the bride away, had decided to let bygones be bygones, at least as regards Nelson. Soon enough the entire business would fall under the statute of limitations, and the campaign would have to begin again.

Supposing it ever could. His hopes rose and fell, as they had bounded when Coke had told him of Shirley's imminent departure, and fallen as the word imminent, when applied to a governor, had seemed to be a matter of two years, and rose again when Shirley did indeed retire, and fell again as Hugh Elliott's arrival was delayed, and rose again when the new lieutenant governor was finally installed. Then he would have gone to Nevis on the instant, but Suzanne and Tom persuaded him at least to write first, to discover if the new governor was of a more definite stamp than Shirley. This he did, as usual obeying her suggestion, and once again was delighted to receive an early reply. But the envelope contained nothing more than an acknowledgement of his letter, and a promise that the matter would be investigated. Then there was silence, as the months stretched into another year, until Matt almost determined to have done with it, and being obviously unable to obtain the slightest justice in the West Indies, to return to England, where the Anti-Slavery Movement was gaining adherents every day.

To his surprise, this was opposed by Sue. 'I am selfish, I know,' she said. 'But I belong here, on Jamaica, in the heat and the peace of Hilltop. Everything Georgy ever told me about London is a criticism.'

'Yet will Tony at the least soon be going,' he pointed out.

'What rubbish.'

'All the Hiltons attend Eton,' Matt said. 'Robert has already spoken to me on the matter. It would seem that he is well on the way to becoming reconciled, at least with his bastard nephews. You are in favour of that, judging by your ideas for myself.'

'It cannot possibly take place for another five years, at the earliest,' she insisted. 'Why, Robert? Whatever is the matter?'

Her brother stamped into the room, as usual. In the past three years he had strangely aged, Matt thought, his hair becoming increasingly grey at the temples, and his limp more pronounced. No doubt all his erring family had a share in that responsibility, but Georgy had ever been his favourite.

'There are letters,' he shouted. 'Letters. One from Rio Blanco. From Georgy, if you please. Oh, Corbeau penned it, but she appended her signature. Quite the grand lady she is become.'

'And what does she say?' Sue inquired.

'Why, very little. Francis is doing well, and Oriole is as pretty as a picture. Mother talk. She is going to visit Paris as soon as the present troubles are over, to see about the boy's education. It would be a good idea for you to take Tony over as well, Sue. Then the two boys can get to know each other; there is hardly more than a year between them. And you can tell me something more of Georgy.'

'When the present troubles are over,' Sue reiterated. 'The nation is bankrupt. How do you cure that especial trouble?'

'Aye,' Robert said, sitting down with a sigh. ‘I cannot say Corbeau's letter - he has written as well - is any more cheerful. He says that by all accounts since the fall of the Bastille the nation is quite undisciplined. And worse, he says that the irresponsible pronunciamentos of this National Assembly they have got themselves is causing unrest amongst the mulattoes in St. Domingue. Damned French. They'd better not export any of their wild ideas to Jamaica.'

'And are there no other letters?' Sue inquired.

'Eh? Oh, from Barton, of course. Prices are falling. There is no news like bad news, what? Oh, and there is one for you, Matt, from that madman Elliott.'

'Antigua?' Matt snatched at the envelope, broke the seal, his heart pounding.

'Well?' Sue cried. 'What does he say?'

'Listen,' Matt shouted. 'Listen. He begs my indulgence for the length of time it has taken him to reply to my letter. But then he writes, "as soon as I was permitted time from my official functions, you may be sure I had a search made of the archives here, and indeed found not only your deposition, but the man Manton's statement and Mrs. Nisbet's confirmation of much of his evidence. However, I am sure you will understand, Mr. Hilton, that this being a matter of such gravity, and likely to cause such a disturbance in West Indian opinion, as well as to create a precedent of incalculable effect were the case ever to come to court, that I deemed it my duty to refer the testimonies and the whole matter to their Lords of Trade and Plantations, who are all of our masters. My Lords, again with some reason, considered it necessary to refer the whole business to the Chancellor, and these matters, you will appreciate, Mr. Hilton, take time." '

'Time,' Sue said. 'A century, no doubt.'

'Bah,' Robert said. 'The fellow acted sensibly, for once. They'll never indict Hodge.'

'Well, then, listen,' Matt said. ' "You will no doubt be pleased to learn that I have now heard from their Lordships, to the effect that they have received learned opinion that Mr. Hodge has far exceeded his authority over his slaves in his unwarranted and unchristian mistreatment of them, and that, should I proceed against him at law, I will receive their full support."'

'By God,' Robert said.

'Oh, Matt,' Sue cried, throwing both arms around his neck. 'You've won.'

'Not yet. The case must still be heard, and the jury will be planters,' Matt said, continuing to scan the letter. 'Indeed, he begs my continued patience, as there is much to be done and to be arranged. But the indictment has gone ahead, and indeed he says, "By the time you read this letter, James Hodge, and his wife, if I can manage it, will be in gaol awaiting trial for murder."'

'By God,' Robert said again.

'And you?' Sue asked.

'I am to hold myself, and Manton, in readiness to take ship for Nevis to give evidence. Mistress Nelson, alas, is now living in England, and the governor would prefer not to recall her on so long and dangerous a voyage to testify, but he feels sure that it will not be necessary, in view of the position of her uncle, and her own known character. Her deposition should be sufficient.' He put down the letter. 'At last.'

'At last,' Sue said.

'By God,' Robert said. 'You'll be stoned in the street, when this gets about.'

'Well, then,' Sue said. 'They'd best throw straight, because I will be at his side. You can play the father for a season, Robert dear.'

Robert elected to accompany them, with the boys, at least as far as Kingston.' 'Twill be the last time I shall see you,' he declared, 'for at least a year. And perhaps longer. You have no idea how drawn out can be a trial. And a trial of this nature, without precedent ... why, judging by the list of names Elliott supplies in his last letter, he is calling almost every person in Nevis, other than the slaves themselves, who can possibly have ever visited Hodges.'

'No doubt it is the prosecutor's business to make the case as certain as possible,' Sue suggested.

'Oh, it is. Although I wonder if he will not be concealing the wood with an overabundance of trees. There is no man here, I'd wager ..:' he waved the letter, 'who can testify to having seen the crimes of which Hodge stands accused. It is all hearsay evidence. Without Manton the case would very likely fall to the ground. And many a heart would beat the more pleasantly should it do so.'

'Yours also, cousin?' Matt demanded.

'Aye, by God,' Robert growled. 'We'll not keep planting what it is by prosecuting every planter who strikes a slave.'

'Strikes a slave,' Matt shouted. 'Why, by heaven ..

'Oh, cease your perpetual quarrelling,' Sue cried, and hugged the two boys closer, one on each side. 'The matter will be resolved close enough.'

The carriage rumbled down the road into Kingston itself, taking the way by the Wesleyan Chapel, where they were to be joined by Coke and Manton. And indeed the chapel was already in sight, and surrounded by a considerable number of people, mostly black. Paul, the coachman, dragged on the reins, as the crowd spread across the road.

'What's this?' Robert shouted. 'What's this, by God?' He spied Coke, having his hand wrung time and again. 'What's this, doctor? A riot?'

'On the contrary, Mr. Hilton; these good people have come to wish us God speed. It is their battle we fight no less than any slave's, you know. Good morning to you, Sue. Matt. I have never seen you looking better.'

'I have never felt better,' Matt said. 'The summons to Nevis was just what my health needed, I suspect. Manton, why so pale?'

The erstwhile overseer climbed into the carriage behind Coke. ' 'Tis the world we are about to shake, Mr. Hilton. Good morning Mr. Hilton. Mistress Huys.'

'By God,' Robert growled, as the carriage once again slowly moved forward, and the Negroes gave a cheer. 'You mean they know where you are going, what you are about?'

'Why, sir,' Coke declared, 'the news is all over Kingston. Has been for some time, indeed. What, Hodge arrested? There can have been no other topic of conversation this last month.'

'Only Hodge,' Matt muttered. 'This Elliott perhaps lacks the backbone we had hoped. Did you not estimate she is by far the worst of the pair, Manton?'

'In my time, she was, Mr. Hilton.'

'Still, it is hard to see any white jury condemning a white woman for ill-treating a black,' Sue pointed out. 'Perhaps the governor acted wisely, after all. Whatever is that racket?'

'By God,' Robert said, and pushed his head out of the window. 'Paul?'

'A lot of people, Mr. Robert,' Paul said.

'Shouting, and waving sticks,' Coke remarked, also looking out of the window. 'There is your riot, Mr. Hilton.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'Drive through them, Paul. Drive through them. They'll know who it is, by God.'

'Them's white people, Mr. Robert,' the coachman protested.

'Scum,' Robert bellowed. 'The sweepings of Kingston, I'll be bound. Charge them, Paul. Charge them. Gad that I had my pistols.'

'No violence, sir, I beg of you,' Coke protested.

'Mama?' Tony asked. 'What can all those people want?'

Sue's face was pale. 'I imagine they disapprove of your father's point of view,' she said.

The noise grew louder. Now they all looked out of the windows at the mass, gathered in the main square before the harbour. Almost all the faces were white, and there were women as well as men in the mob. And while Robert was right in supposing that the main part were poorly dressed, there were a few on horseback, and wearing decent clothing. And all were brandishing at the least fists, with several sticks to be seen waving in the air. What they were saying was mainly a confused babble, but now someone seemed to have obtained a speaking horn.

'The Hilton coach,' he bellowed. 'The Hilton coach.

There go the turncoats. Spill them out, lads. Spill them out.'

'My God,' Manton said. 'They mean violence.' 'Spill me out?' Robert shouted. 'Spill me out, by God?' Sue opened the speaking hatch. 'Turn off, Paul,' she shouted. 'There must be a side street. Turn off.' 'Run from a mob?' Robert bawled. 'I have my children,' she insisted.

Matt took Manton's place by the window; the overseer was trembling. The coach began to bear to the right, where the crowd was thinnest, and where there was a side street leading parallel with the harbour. But at the sight of Matt's face a stone struck the coach beside him. Hastily he withdrew, but now the people were massed in front of the vehicle, having run across the square to do so, and Paul was dragging on the reins and on the brake, causing the horses to rear and squeal.

‘Keep down,' Sue snapped at her sons. 'Keep down.'

'By God,' Robert shouted, as the carriage was surrounded by yelling humanity, and swung to and fro by hands on the body as well as on the wheels.

'My good people,' Coke shouted, but his voice was lost in the din.

Sue screamed, and the right side of the carriage was lifted bodily from the cobbles. For a moment it hung there, teetering on its left-hand wheels, while the people on that side ran in every direction, and those inside went tumbling across, desperately trying to save themselves. Then the entire vehicle fell over with a tremendous crash, and Paul jumped from the box with a wail of terror.

The interior was filled with dust, but from the shouts and curses Matt estimated no harm was done to any of them. He groped for Sue, found her, and squeezed her hand. 'We'd best get the boys out,' he said.

'Into that crowd?' She coughed and spat dust.

'They'll not harm you, Sue. Nor the boys. Give me a hand, Manton. Are you all right, Robert?'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. I'll have my whip to that scum if it is the last thing I do, by God. Couldn't they see the crest? Didn't they know it is the Hilton coach?'

Coke was also coughing. 'I'm afraid they knew that best of all.'

'Up you go, Manton,' Matt said, shouting to make himself heard above the din for the mob had once again gathered around the overturned equipage, and the frightened horses, still in the traces, were screaming with terror. 'I will pass up Mistress Huys.'

Manton hesitated for just a moment, and then grasped the window and pulled himself up. Instantly there was an even louder howl of execration from the crowd, and stones started to fly. 'Quickly,' he begged.

Sue reached her hands up for him to grasp the wrists; she had lost her hat and her hair was slowly untwining around her shoulders. The overseer seized her arms, and Matt held her round the thighs to lift her up. A moment later she sat beside the overseer, to be greeted by fresh shrieks of anger.

'Tis the whore,' they bellowed. 'The Hilton whore.'

'Stone the bitch,' came a woman's voice.

'Keep the boys,' Sue shouted. 'We'll not get through.'

Manton half turned, and thrust down a man who was trying to climb up the back of the coach.

'Let me up there,' Robert shouted. 'By God, let me up.'

There was a muffled explosion, and a cry from the overseer.

'Got the bastard,' yelled a voice from the crowd. 'Now, for the woman.'

'Oh, my God,' Sue cried, as Manton's head fell across her lap. She slipped from her perch, and Matt had to catch her as she tumbled into the coach. The sound of the second shot boomed across the morning.

But now there came also the trill of a bugle call; the militia cavalry had turned out. With continued shouts of anger and disgust the mob started to disperse, hurling last stones at the carriage, but doing no damage to those within.

'My God,' Sue gasped. 'They wanted to kill me.'

'And Manton ... ?' Matt asked, still holding her close.

'Is dead,' Coke said. 'May God rest his soul.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'The scum. The unutterable scum. Hargrove,' he shouted at the lieutenant commanding the horse, who now appeared on the top of the coach, looking down at them. 'Did you ride them down?'

'No, Mr. Hilton. But I dispersed them.'

'We've a man murdered down here. And I shall bring charges of attempted murder against the scoundrel who fired on my sister.'

The militia men put their shoulders against the coach and restored it to its wheels. Paul pulled the door open. 'You'll identify him?' asked the officer.

Robert stepped down, glared at the empty, litter strewn square; there were loungers on each street corner, obviously recent members of the mob, but not identifiable. 'There must have been witnesses.'

'None who'll testify,' Hargrove said. 'Why do you think we were available in force, Mr. Hilton? Kingston has been in a turmoil since the news of Hodge's arrest was received. The governor feared there'd be a riot.'

'And when there was one, you were late in arriving.'

'You asked for no escort, sir,' the officer insisted. 'And it was felt that to patrol the streets in force might have provoked the very strife we had hoped to avoid.'

'They shot at me,' Sue said, stepping down, accompanied by her sons. Neither boy looked particularly afraid of their narrow escape.

'My most humble apologies, Mistress Huys,' Hargrove said, raising his hat. 'But there is a deal of feeling about this matter. And look there.'

They stared over the rooftops, at the smoke rising into the sky.

'The chapel,' Coke cried. 'They have burned the chapel.'

Now the crowd was again gathering on the far side of the square, hooting at the soldiery, but not at the moment using more than words as missiles.

‘I think we should seek shelter,' Hargrove suggested. 'The church is well gone. You'll not save it now. I will arrange to have Manton's body removed.'

'What, run before that pack of rascals?' Robert demanded. 'You'll furnish me with a sword and a horse, Hargrove. I have no doubt Matt will also use one on such an occasion.'

Hargrove shook his head. 'I cannot permit it, Mr. Hilton. My orders are to prevent strife, not encourage it. In this regard I must insist that you remove yourselves to the City Club, and I will discover when your vessel is ready to sail, and arrange you an escort. Supposing you still intend to travel.'

'What do you mean?' Matt demanded, assisting Paul to regain their boxes from the ground.

'Well, sir, as I understand it, your case is now lacking its principal witness. Some would say its only witness. And be sure your reception in Nevis will be hardly more friendly.'

Matt glanced at Robert.

'Be sure he is right,' Robert said. 'I'll not permit Sue to go, Matt. Nor should you even consider it.'

'You'll not permit?' Sue demanded. 'And do you suppose I'll be in less danger here, seeing what happened today?'

'Aye,' Robert said. 'You're right. You'll go to Rio Blanco for the duration of this trial. Don't argue with me, girl. I have long felt it was important for you and Georgy to get together again, or she will become a totally Frenchified madame. And I want a report from you on those children of hers. You'll take these two brats. On Rio Blanco you'll be safe enough, and once this business is concluded the furore will rapidly settle.'

'I'll do no such thing. Rio Blanco? Why, that would be ...' she hesitated, and bit her lip.

'Matt?' Robert asked.

Matt sighed. 'Robert is right, sweetheart. As is Hargrove. There will be continued strife and insults in Nevis, and how can I do my best against Hodge when I shall always be worrying about your safety?'

Still Sue hesitated.

'Or is Mr. Hargrove not even more right than that,' Coke said dismally, still watching the drifting smoke. 'Will there be any cause for strife, with Manton dead?'

'To be sure,' Robert said. 'Your own case is hardly better, doctor. You'll leave Jamaica.'

'What? What, sir? Desert my friends, my cause, in their most difficult hour?'

'Aye, sir, you will, for the sake of those friends,' Robert said. "You can accomplish nothing here now. These people will fight you with more force than you can muster. But do I not hear all the time of how your friends in England are growing? Go home, sir. I will finance your passage. Go home, and tell Mr. Fox and Mr. Wilberforce of what has happened here, of what is happening here, of what will happen here in the future, should men like Hodge be permitted to rampage unchecked. There is your best aid, sir.'

Coke stared at him, and slowly scratched his head. 'Your advice, sir? Mr. Robert Hilton's?'

'My advice,' Robert said.

'Again sound,' Matt said, and sighed. 'Be sure that we shall accomplish nothing now without real support from Whitehall.'

'What?' Robert shouted. 'What?'

'Hargrove is right again,' Matt said. 'With Manton dead, and Fanny Nelson in England, our evidence is all hearsay.'

'That I would argue,' Robert declared. ‘I have been to Hodges and seen enough.'

'You?' Matt cried.

‘You?' Sue asked.

'My word,' Coke remarked. "You, Mr. Hilton?'

‘I,' Robert said. 'Shoot at my sister, would they, by God. Overturn my coach, would they, by God. Seek to trample me would they, by God. Oh, aye, if Hodge's people are responsible for this, I'll give them the pleasure of watching him swing for it.'

'You'll raise your right hand, Mr. Hilton, and repeat after me,' said the clerk of the court.

Matt obeyed, uttered the words as instructed, ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.' And while he spoke he surveyed the crowded courtroom, the endless rows of hostile faces from the visitors' benches, the brooding gaze of Janet Hodge, seated close to the defending counsel, and the contemptuous smile on the thin-moustached face of the defendant himself. It came as some surprise for him to realize that this was the first time they had ever seen each other, after all but ten years of unmitigated hostility, at least on his part.

But then, he had seen hardly any of these people before. Since their arrival in Charleston, some weeks ago now, he and Robert had been kept in such seclusion they had occasionally wondered whether they were not actually the prisoners. And even within the walled and sentried privacy of the Administrator's House, they had heard the chanting of the crowds in the streets, whipped up by the plantocracy, who had indeed closed ranks behind the member of their privileged order who was being assailed, marching back and forth denouncing the abolitionists and emancipators as enemies to order and prosperity, and crying out the name of Hodge. Why, should he be acquitted here, the man would be an immediate hero. As he was no doubt well aware, Matt thought.

But now Mr. Malahine was waiting for him, willing him to concentrate. They were in a unique position. Matt could add nothing to what had already been said, but he had brought the original indictment, and everyone in the room had heard of Gislane; was he not being called by the prosecution, he would certainly have been called as a witness for the defence. 'Would you state your full name, and present address, please.'

'Matthew George Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop, in Jamaica.'

'Thank you, Mr. Hilton. Are you known to the defendant?'

'I have never met the defendant,' Matt said. 'I know of him. I imagine he knows of me.'

'Thank you, Mr. Hilton. You are, however, aware that the defendant stands charged with several monstrous crimes?'

'I am.'

'Would you tell us how you became aware of them?'

He had already been warned to keep his answer precise. 'I was approached by Mr. Charles Manton, a gentleman who had previously worked as an overseer on Hodges.'

'Thank you, Mr. Hilton. Now, of course, you are not in a position to give this court any testimony regarding these alleged crimes.' Mr. Malahine smiled at Mr. Corder, the Defence Counsel, who was poised to stand at the hint of an incorrect question. ‘We have, indeed, already heard a considerable recital of the miserable occurrences on Hodges, not only through the depositions of Mr. Manton, who is now unhappily deceased, and of Mistress Nelson, who is unable to be present, but also of various other witnesses. Yet it is of Mr. Manton that I would have you speak. You say he approached you. May I ask why?'

'With a view to having the defendant prosecuted.'

'Indeed sir. But why you, in particular?'

'Because my opposition to the very idea of slavery is well known I would say.'

'Ah. You were the champion he sought. Yes, indeed, and the result was that you approached the authorities and persuaded them to indict Mr. Hodge. Now, sir, would you tell us how Mr. Manton died.'

'He was murdered by a mob, in Kingston, but two months ago.'

'Murdered, you say. Struck down, by a blackguard. Have you an opinion as to what this mob was about?'

'Their intention appeared to be to prevent Mr. Manton and myself from travelling to Nevis to give evidence in this case.'

'Ah. A very one-sided mob. Would you suppose they had been instigated to this act?'

Mr. Corder was on his feet. ‘I must protest, Your Lordship.'

Sir Ralph Payne scratched his wig with the tip of his quill; burly and red-faced, the Chief Justice was as much a planter as anyone in the room.

‘I am but asking witness for an opinion, Your Lordship.' Mr. Malahine protested in turn. 'Which he is surely qualified to give, as he was one of the objectives of this very mob, and was indeed only rescued by a regiment of cavalry.'

‘Is that so?' asked Sir Ralph. 'None the less, I think you have made the point that the mob intended to prevent Mr. Hilton's departure. To investigate the causes of the crowd gathering would be to embark upon an entirely irrelevant course. Objection sustained.'

'Very good, My Lord. I have but one more question to ask of you, Mr. Hilton. Your opinion of the man Manton. He had been an overseer, on Hodges, for some time. Until at last events there grew too strong for his stomach. Or so he claims in his deposition. Was he an honest man?' 'In my opinion, yes,' Matt said.

'Would you have any reason to suppose that Mr. Manton should lie about his former employer?'

'No,' Matt said. 'In the four years I knew Mr. Manton, I always found him a very reliable fellow.'

'Thank you, Mr. Hilton.' Mr. Malahine sat down, but immediately took out a large pocket handkerchief to mop his brow. As Mr. Corder rose to his feet an immense rustie went right round the courtroom. Everyone was aware that here was the true crisis of the trial. As indeed Mr. Malahine had warned Matt in advance. And as Mr. Corder clearly intended to illustrate to the jury.

For the moment he was smiling, if a trifle sadly. He read from his notes. 'Matthew George Hilton,' he remarked. 'Yours is a famous name in these islands, sir.'

Matt did not consider this to be a question.

'Indeed,' said Mr. Corder, 'were a roll call to be taken of every family which has ever planted cane here in the Carribean, the name Hilton would occur very near the top. But more, are you not related to the Warners?'

'Distantly.'

'Oh, indeed. Your great-grandmother was a Warner. And that family was the very first to plant cane in the British Islands. One could almost say that cane juice might run in your veins instead of blood, Mr. Hilton.' He smiled, and the court smiled with him.

'One might,' Matt agreed.

'But you, the very last of this long and famous and indeed glorious line of planters and leaders of planters, have lost interest in the ancient and profitable art.'

‘I would prefer to say that my interest has been redirected,' Matt said.

'Oh, indeed. How stupid of me. Because if you refuse to manage a sugar plantation yourself, you yet enjoy the luxury offered by your cousin's plantation, which you give as your address.'

‘I live there, yes,' Matt said.

'Of course. It is your home. And believe me, sir, I have nothing but sympathy for a man who must continually be undergoing the most frightful pangs of conscience. But now, Mr. Hilton, I am going to ask you for your assistance. Oh, I am well aware that you are a prosecution witness. But then, sir, you see, this is an unusual, indeed, a unique case. What normally happens in the case of a murder? Suppose a man kills his wife. She is missed, perhaps, or the neighbours hear screams, and they hurry along to the magistrates who in turn instruct the constables, who descend upon the criminal's house with a warrant and search it, and either fail to find the wife altogether, in which case a more general search may be inaugurated, supposing the accused cannot provide them with a satisfactory account of her disappearance, or they find traces of the unhappy woman, perhaps even a body, and thus take the husband into custody. And the conduct of thus straightforward a case is even so a long and difficult business. Mr. Hilton, I must confess myself to be entirely in a fog in this present instance.' Mr. Corder continued to smile as if to indicate he enjoyed fogs. 'Because here, sir, we have a man accused of a crime, not against his wife, or some stranger, but against his own chattels. I was quite unaware that such a crime was possible.'

He paused for breath, and Mr. Malahine was on his feet. 'Is my learned friend addressing the jury, Your Lordship?' he inquired. 'Or is he in fact asking witness a question?'

Sir Reginald snorted. 'Mr. Corder?'

'My apologies, Your Lordship. I was but endeavouring to make witness understand my questions better. Surely I cannot be accused of leading a prosecution witness?'

'Hm,' remarked the Chief Justice. 'Well, I suppose you cannot. But make it brief, man. Make it brief.'

'I was merely going to point out, Mr. Hilton,' said Mr. Corder, 'that supposing such a crime were possible, in this case we have no bodies, nor any search for bodies, as I understand it. We have in fact, a single accuser, the late Charles Manton. Oh, I am well aware that my learned friend has introduced a whole host of evidence consisting entirely of suggestion and innuendo. It has been suggested, time and again, that there was an atmosphere of terror on Hodges Plantation. This is not a criminal matter. We have had the admirably written testimony of Mistress Nelson that her first husband, Dr. Nisbet, told her of treating the most frightful injuries on Hodges Plantation, but there has been not one jot of evidence to indicate that those injuries were received as other than normal punishment for insubordination, for stealing, or for downright mutiny. There is no crime. No, sir, Mr. Hilton, the prosecution case, your case, rests entirely on the testimony sworn by the late Charles Manton. I must therefore cross-examine you, sir, as if you were indeed that gentleman, as it is you who introduced his evidence in the first place, as I understand it.'

'That is correct,' Matt agreed.

'Well, sir, still is my difficulty not resolved. I cannot ask you questions of fact, as you were not present at any of the incidents described by Mr. Manton. I can only attempt to arrive at a valuation of the truth of these accusations, at the truth, indeed, of the entire statement. For instance, sir, you have testified that you never knew Charles Manton before he appeared in Kingston and offered this testimony. May I ask why he selected you?'

'I have already answered that question.'

'I would like you to do so again, if you would be so kind.'

'My opposition to the ill-treatment of slaves, and indeed of the concept of slavery, and my Wesleyan principles, were well known,' Matt said.

'That is equally true of Dr. Coke, surely. But Manton approached you:

'Well, sir, he approached us jointly,' Matt said. 'Dr. Coke felt, equally with Manton, that the matter would best be left to me.'

'Because you are a Hilton? Or because you might have some ulterior motive, some much stronger motive, for wishing to see James Hodge reduced?'

Matt silently cursed the heat he could feel gathering in his cheeks.

'Tell the court, Mr. Hilton, if you have ever heard the name, Gislane Nicholson?' invited Mr. Corder. ‘I have heard the name,' Matt said. 'Have you met the young woman?' 'I have met her.'

'Perhaps you knew her better than we suppose, Mr. Hilton. Did you ever, perhaps, propose marriage to the young lady?'

There was a murmur around the court; here was a decade of rumour being turned into crystal hard fact. 'Yes, I did,' Matt said.

'But she was a lady of colour, and a slave, to boot, absconded from Hodges, and before you could proceed with your plans she was returned to Hodge, to be punished, quite justifiably as a runaway slave. Mr. Manton says that on one occasion it was commanded by Mrs. Hodge that she be flogged, as he puts it, to death. This we may dismiss as an exaggeration, a remark of temper, as the girl was by all accounts quite incorrigible, so incorrigible, indeed, that shortly afterwards she was sold by James Hodge.' Mr. Corder allowed himself another smile. 'No doubt this was after she had been flogged to death, Mr. Hilton.'

The court tittered.

‘I would presume that Mr. Hodge intervened,' Matt said.

'What, this black-hearted murderer who is on trial here today? I find that difficult to believe. But alas, you cannot tell me, Mr. Hilton. You can tell me, however, whether I am right in supposing that it was the fact that this girl, this Gislane Nicholson, had been a slave on Hodges and the other fact that she was the same girl with whom you had planned marriage, that first encouraged Mr. Manton to bring his tale of imagined ills to you.'

'I cannot answer for Mr. Manton's motives,' Matt said.

Corder's smile disappeared, and his face grew red with passion. 'But you can answer for your own, sir,' he shouted. 'Come, sir, be honest with us. Tell this court, sir, whether or not you would have been prepared to indict any planter save James Hodge, whether you are not entirely driven in this matter by a desire to avenge yourself on a man who never did you any harm, sir, who but owned a slave girl to whom you had taken a fancy. Come, sir, you are under oath to speak the truth.'

Matt stared at the lawyer.

'Well, sir?' demanded Corder. 'Well, sir?'

'I am trying to decide,' Matt said, speaking very carefully. 'As you say, I am under oath. Mr. Hodge's reputation for harshness is well known, and I was determined to bring the worst usages of slavery before the public notice. I think I would have proceeded against him in any event. But I would be dishonest were I not to admit there was personal feeling involved.'

Again the rustle round the court, but now Corder was smiling once more.

'My thanks, Mr. Hilton. You may step down.' But he remained standing, facing Payne. 'Your Lordship,' he said, 'I understand that Mr. Hilton is the last prosecution witness, and I feel that at this stage I can do nothing better than repeat the plea I made at the very beginning of this trial. I wish to save the court's time, sir, and the public money. Your Lordship, I submit there is no case here for my client to answer. The prosecudon has submitted a written testimony charging my client with the most horrific crimes, but I fail to see that they have substantiated a single one of them, that they have indeed done anything more than prove that the gentleman who instigated this accusation, Mr. Matthew Hilton, was motivated by a very personal hatred for James Hodge, which I submit must at the least have coloured his attitude towards Manton, and may sir, it is no more than a suggestion, have caused him to influence what Manton had to say. My Lord, James Hodge has committed no crime. I ask that he be dismissed.'

'Hm,' said Sir Reginald. 'Hm.' He looked at Mr Malahine. 'There is much in what Mr. Corder says. It occurs to me that Mr. Hodge is being accused of being a planter, not a murderer. Well, then, Mr. Malahine, where would we all stand then, eh?'

Mr. Malahine did not look particularly troubled. 'My learned friend is in error, Your Lordship, in supposing that I have finished presenting my case. I have another witness, and can only offer my apologies that I did not make this clear. But as he has deprecated the lack of any evidence against his client from planting sources, he will welcome my last testimony. Call Mr. Robert Hilton to the stand.'

There was a moment of utterly shocked silence in the crowded courtroom which ended in a hum of muttered comment as Robert limped up the stairs and into the witness-box, and took the oath. Sir Reginald banged his desk with his gavel, and gradually the noise subsided.

'Your full name, please, sir,' invited Mr. Malahine.

'Robert Anthony Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop, in Jamaica.'

'Your occupation. Mr. Hilton?' 'Planter.'

'Have you ever met the accused, Mr. Hilton?' 'Three times. On the occasion of visits to Hodges Plantation.'

'And will you tell the court if you ever saw any ill-treatment of the slaves, beyond what you as a planter, would consider necessary discipline?'

'On the occasion of my first visit,' Robert said, his voice expressionless, 'I saw a young woman of mixed blood, a house slave, I believe, suspended from a triangle under sentence of death by the whip.'

'For what offence, Mr. Hilton? Had she struck her mistress?'

'She had attended a voodoo ceremony, I believe,' Robert said.

'And for this she was to be flogged to death. What of your second visit?'

'I should prefer to discuss my third. My second visit was extremely brief.' 'Yes?'

'On this third occasion, I saw nothing myself, but I was told of events on Hodges which seemed to me to be unnecessarily harsh.'

Corder, hitherto leaning forward with a frown, gave a short laugh and leaned back in his seat. Clearly he apprehended no danger from evidence which was but a recital of what the court had already been told, of second and third-hand rumours.

'Will you tell the court, Mr. Hilton, who it was told you of these events?'

Robert looked at Hodge for the first time, and almost smiled; his expression was quite terrible. 'It was Janet Hodge.'

Corder sat bolt upright, and once again there was a complete silence in the courtroom. But heads turned, to look at Janet Hodge. She stared at them for a moment, then rose and left the room.

'You are speaking of the defendant's wife,' Mr. Malahine said.

'I am.'

'Will you relate the circumstances to the court?'

'I happened to be in Nevis on business some years after the incident I described before, and visited Hodges. I should say that I was on bad terms with Mr. and Mrs. Hodge, in that I had prevented the ill-treatment of the young woman I have spoken of, and on this occasion Mrs. Hodge took some pleasure in giving me examples, as she put it, "of her way with the blacks". She showed me a girl whose ears had been split, and a man whose member had been beaten with a stick until it was quite unable to perform its proper function.'

'Did she mention a slave named Jeremiah?'

'Indeed she did. Jeremiah was quite a joke with the Hodges. He had been thrown into a vat of molten molasses and there drowned. They supposed, as the molasses were later refiltered and reprocessed, that Jeremiah was now sweetening coffee throughout Great Britain. They found this very amusing.'

'Mr. Hilton, in your judgement, having regard to what you saw and what you were told on Hodges, is the testimony offered by Mr. Charles Manton in this statement substantially true?'

The paper was passed up to Robert, who read it slowly and carefully, aware that every eye in the courtroom was upon him. 'I see no reason to suppose that there is any exaggeration in this statement,' he said at last.

'I thank you, Mr. Hilton.' Mr. Malahine sat down.

Corder stood up, moving slowly. He had in fact been whispering over the edge of the dock with his client, but clearly he did not like his situation. 'Mr. Hilton,' he said. 'Surely, sir, you do not expect this court to accept in evidence the memory of a conversation with the defendant's wife?'

'I hold no brief for this court,' Robert said. 'I was asked a question and I answered it.'

'And suppose I told you that I shall put Mrs. Hodge in that box to refute your statement?'

'Do you presume to call me a liar, sir?' Robert said, his voice like a rumble of distant thunder.

Corder bit his lip. But clearly he was no coward. 'I merely seek to establish, sir, that your evidence, like so much of the evidence we have heard in this case, is sorely lacking in identifiable facts. But yet I will offer you a fact, to confirm or deny, Mr. Hilton. This young woman you describe as having been under sentence of death by flogging, would you tell the court her name?'

'Gislane Nicholson,' Robert said.

'All.' Mr. Corder smiled at the court, as it rustled with comment. 'We have heard that name before. Your young cousin told us of that name but a few moments ago. And in so doing destroyed his own credibility.'

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God, Corder, if you call me a liar once more I shall come down there and break your head. Mark my words.'

'Your Lordship,' protested Mr. Corder.

'Now really, Robert,' said Sir Reginald. ‘I mean, Mr. Hilton. This is a court of law and you will conduct yourself properly.'

'Let him conduct himself properly,' Robert bellowed. 'He seeks to twist words and impugn facts, by God. Well, let him have these, sir. I know the girl. I sent her to Hodges, and I sent her from Hodges. Aye, chew on that you rumourmongering rascals. I intervened to save her from being flogged to death, and I had her sent to the mainland, to a Dutchman, may God rest her soul. I did it to stop her marrying my cousin, and there's a fact. But I am not here today to discuss Gislane Nicholson.'

'Really, sir,' Corder protested. 'You are not here to discuss anything. You are here to answer questions.'

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'I'll discuss what I choose, Corder, and be damned to you. That man ...' his hand flung out, its finger pointing, 'is an utter blackguard. His wife is worse, and in my opinion she should be standing beside him. I'd not have the pair of them in charge of my dogs, much less a parcel of human beings. You ask me whether or not Manton's statement is true? I'd say, sir, that Manton has not recounted the half of it. What is more, sir, you know that as well as I, and every damned man in this courtroom knows it too. Including you gentlemen,' he said to the jury. 'Call yourself planters? By God, you, we, are more than that. We made these islands what they are, and God willing, we shall keep them what they are. But we'll not be helped by scoundrels like Hodge. There are eyes upon us, by God, English eyes, the eyes of Parliament, gentlemen. They'd not trouble us if they can help it. We mean too much to their pockets. But if they are forced to it, why by God they will have to. I know you there, I know the extent of your own criminality. I know it was you gentlemen who mounted an attack upon my coach, who nearly killed my own sister. By God, when I find the actual instigator of that deed I'll have him at the end of my pistol, you may be sure of that.'

'Your Lordship,' Corder said. 'I must protest.'

'Oh, hold your miserable tongue,' Robert bellowed. That man is a murderer, and a villain, and a scoundrel. He is a criminal, sir, and we all know that. Turn him off gentlemen. Turn him off, and make sure that the world knows of it, or we shall all be tarred with the same brush.'

'Your Lordship,' spluttered Mr. Corder.

'Your Lordship,' said Mr. Malahine. The prosecution rests its case.'

'The court will rise,' said the clerk.

Matt rubbed the back of his head. The jury had been out for twelve hours, since eight o'clock of the previous evening, and few of the residents of Charleston had had any sleep. All night the crowds had gathered, on street corners and in bars, and woe betide any Negro, slave or free, found on the streets. Matt and Robert, with Mr. Malahine and Hugh Elliott and Mrs. Elliott, and Mr. and Mrs. Loman, had dined together, and then remained sitting, and talking, over their glasses of brandy. There was much to be considered, much to be appreciated. For the first time in his life, that Matt could recall, Robert had known doubts.

'You were quite magnificent,' Mrs. Elliott had insisted.

'Even if decidedly illegal,' her husband had agreed. 'If anything can swing the case in our favour it was your denunciation of Hodge and all who support him.'

'Aye. A planter,' Robert had said. 'There is a sad business. But the wretch had his minions fire on Sue. By God, I'd like to get my hands on him myself.'

'I think you may safely leave him to the hangman,' Loman remarked. 'Corder opted to stake his all on prejudice when he decided not to call Janet.'

'Yet is the jury a planting one,' Matt said. 'Supposing the verdict is adverse?'

'Ah, well,' Elliott had said. 'It will involve my resignation, for a start. But I have a vessel standing by to carry you and your cousin back to Jamaica. I truly think, however, that my problems will only really start should the verdict be in our favour.'

And when they had been summoned back to the court, he had taken his leave of them. Matt glanced at Robert, sitting hard-faced at his side, staring at the jury as they filed into the room. For him, more than anyone in the room, there could now be no turning back.

'Gentlemen of the jury,' said the clerk. 'Are you agreed on a verdict?'

'We are,' said the foreman.

The clerk stretched out his hand, and took the slip of paper. The jurymen gazed at the spectators, defiantly, Matt thought. It was difficult to decide whether or not that meant anything.

The clerk passed the paper up to Sir Reginald Payne, who unfolded it, glanced at it, and then looked again. The rich colour in his face seemed to deepen. Then he raised his head, and looked around the room, as if seeking someone. And not finding him.

'My Lord?' asked the clerk.

'Ask them,' Payne muttered. 'Let them speak.'

'What is that verdict?' asked the clerk. 'We find the prisoner at the bar guilty of murder, as charged.'

There was a moment of utter silence in the courtroom. Then Hodge shouted. 'You're crazy. You, John Townsend? You, Harry Watts? You ...'

Noise swelled up in the room and drowned his voice, and indeed everything else. Several men left their seats and ran for the corridor, but the door was suddenly closed, and in front of it stood a squad of red-coated soldiers. And Elliott had appeared on the bench beside Payne.

'Quiet,' he shouted. 'Quiet. As of this moment, the island of Nevis is placed under martial law. No man will leave this room bearing arms. Swords and pistols may be left in the care of the clerk. Will you proceed, Sir Reginald?'

'Is that the verdict of you all?' asked the clerk, in sepulchral tones.

'It is,' said the foreman.

The noise was slowly subsiding, while Sir Reginald Payne took off his wig, apparently to scratch his head.

'You'll proceed,' Elliott said. 'And quickly man.'

The black square was placed on his bare head, and he stared at Hodge.

'You'll not do it,' Hodge said. 'You cannot. It will mean the end of all planting.'

'James Hodge,' Sir Reginald said. 'You have been found guilty by a jury of your peers of the crime of murdering one of your slaves, and must now suffer the penalty, which is that you shall be taken from this place to a prison, and thence to a place of execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead.' He paused, and sighed. 'The sentence to be carried out at the discretion of His Excellency the Governor.'

'Then it shall be done immediately,' Elliott declared. 'Sergeant.'

More soldiers had filed into the courtroom, and now they surrounded the dock, while the sergeant mounted the steps to dismiss the warders and take charge of Hodge himself.

"You'll not do it,' Hodge shouted. 'You have no right, sir. You cannot turn a man off the moment he is sentenced. There is no justice.'

'My care is the preservation of law and order in this colony, Mr. Hodge,' Elliott said. 'Every moment you remain alive threatens that law and order.'

'I wish to appeal,' Hodge cried. 'I have the right to appeal.'

'Your appeal is denied,' Elliott said. 'You'll remove the prisoner, sergeant. Gentlemen, you'll leave your arms in here, if you please.'

'No,' Hodge screamed. The soldiers seized his arms, and he struck at them before being restrained. 'You'll not do it,' he yelled. 'You'll not hang a planter.'

Then he began to scream incoherently, as he was marched to the stairs leading down to the cells, while the room stood and stared, still too stricken with horror to understand what had actually happened.

'It would be best for us to leave now,' Mr. Malahine whispered to Robert. 'There is that ship, waiting for you. Unless you actually wish to see the execution.'

Robert glanced at Matt.

How suddenly flattened Matt felt, how totally lacking in all emotion. It had perhaps taken too long, consumed too much of his life. He knew now he felt only pity. 'No,' he said. 'I have hounded that man to his death, and Corder was more than a little right when he suggested my desire for vengeance was greater than my desire for justice. But I would speak with him, before I leave.'

'With Hodge?' Robert demanded. 'That is madness. What can you say to him?' He led them to the door, while several members of the crowd began to boo and hiss. 'Bastards. They are a despicable crew, to be sure.'

The door closed behind them, and they stood in the corridor, while Elliott left the judge's chambers and came towards them. ' 'Tis done,' he said. 'By heaven, but I doubted.'

'I would like a word with Hodge,' Matt said. The governor stared at him. ‘I have told him it is senseless,' Robert said. 'None the less,' Matt said.

Elliott shrugged, and called the sergeant of the guard. A moment later Matt was descending the stairs to the cells, where a priest was already standing over the seated prisoner, book in hand. Hodge's head jerked at the footsteps, but he had regained his composure. 'Revenge must be sweet,' he said.

'Aye,' Matt said. 'I sought revenge. But yet I regret my part in this affair, Mr. Hodge. I have no doubt at all you deserve your fate, for the crimes you have committed on those hundreds of poor black creatures in your care. But I forgive you, for Gislane. Here is my hand.'

Hodge looked at the outstretched hand, and then spat on it. 'I scarcely need your forgiveness, Hilton. Oh, she was a charmer. I bedded her, Hilton. Every day for the time she was on Hodges. I bedded her, and I made her squirm. Think on that Hilton. I had her not you. And now she's warming the bed of some Dutchman, and dying of the lash and despair, Hilton. Most like she is already dead, or if she is not, then she's nothing but a hag. You'll not see her again, Matt Hilton. You'll never know what I knew. So spare your pity. I give you mine.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE RIGHTS OF MAN

CAPTAIN HALMAN himself took the tiller of the gig to see Sue and the boys safely ashore. 'Damned foreigners,' he grumbled. 'Begging your pardon, Mistress Huys. But Cap Francois is not a place I often come to. And when you think of the weather...'

The journey had taken them nearly three weeks, so unfailingly contrary had been the wind.

'But it is as lovely as they claim.' Sue shaded her eyes, even beneath the broad brim of her hat, to peer at the city. And wonder at her own excitement. She had endeavoured not to come, and resisted both Matt and Robert with all her strength, and had yet submitted. Because she was, after all, nothing but a whore? Or because she could not forget the way Corbeau had looked at her, the words he had whispered in her ear, on the day of his wedding?

And neither Robert nor Matt even suspected the temptations which were haunting her mind, so bound up were they in their own affairs, male affairs.

'And so many soldiers, Mama,' Tony shouted, jumping up and down and causing the little boat to rock. 'So many-soldiers.'

'The lad is right,' Halman muttered, frowning at the docks, which were guarded by at least a company of blue-coated regulars, while more were to be seen beyond. And here was no regiment taking a holiday; every man was armed with musket and bayonet. 'Pray heaven we have not again come to war.'

'No attempt was made to stop our vessel entering the harbour, Mr. Halman,' Sue pointed out. 'This must be a domestic matter.'

The boat came into the side of the dock, and one of the military, clearly a non-commissioned officer, stood above them to hail them in French.

'Ah, speak English, you damned Frenchy,' Halman said. 'How are we to know what you're about?'

'He no doubt holds the same opinion of you,' Sue said. 'Good day to you, sir,' she said in French. 'We are seeking Mr. Louis Corbeau, of Rio Blanco.'

The sergeant inspected her, slowly, from hem to hair. 'Corbeau you say, madame? Oh, indeed, come ashore.'

'I'd best accompany you,' Halman growled.

'You'd best be on your way back to Jamaica,' Sue recommended. 'This gallant fellow will look after us, I have no doubt.' And indeed the sergeant was snapping his fingers and giving orders to his squad. 'So if your men will place our boxes on the dock...' The boys were already ashore, holding each other's hands and staring with wide eyes at the soldiers they had only previously heard about. Sue shook hands with the captain, and allowed the sergeant to assist her. 'My thanks, Mr. Halman. Bon voyage.'

'I have sent for the coach, eh?' said the sergeant. 'Rio Blanco is some distance up the coast. But you will need an escort. And then, why, one of my men says he has seen the Corbeau barouche in town this very day. And why not, madame? Everyone is in town today. Such pretty boys.' He ruffled Richard's fair hair, looking at Sue the while to suggest he'd far rather be doing it to her.

'But what is all the excitement about, sergeant?' Sue asked.

'Well, madame, today Oge and Chavannes are to be executed.'

'Oge? Chavannes?'

The sergeant raised his eyebrows to suggest that if she was worth looking at she was also extraordinarily ill-informed. 'The mulattoes, madame. The rebels.'

'Rebels? There has been a revolt, in St. Domingue?' Before she could stop herself she burst into laughter.

The sergeant frowned. 'Madame finds a rebellion amusing?'

'Oh, no,' Sue explained. 'It is just that I was sent here for my safety.'

'Ah.' The sergeant nodded, solemnly. 'But indeed, madame, here you will be safe. The rebellion, pouf. We know how to deal with such things. Here is the barouche.'

The coach with the pink beaked head on its snow-white doors was rumbling on to the wooden planks of the dock, while the pink-and-white liveried Negro driver dragged on the reins, and a short fair-haired white man stepped down. 'Madame?' He frowned at her, and raised his hat. 'Good heavens, you must be Madame Corbeau's sister. Jules Romain, at your service. I am Mr. Corbeau's attorney.'

'Suzanne Huys, Mr. Romain. And these are my sons, Anthony and Richard.'

'What splendid fellows. But madame, if only we had known you were coming, we should have been waiting.' He shrugged. 'I can only apologize.'

'The fault is mine, Mr. Romain. And you are here, are you not?'

'Oh yes, indeed. Load those boxes, fellow.' He held the door for her to get in. 'For the executions.'

'The sergeant has been telling me.' Sue gave the soldiers her most dazzling smile as the equipage rumbled back towards the street. 'Some rebellious mulattoes?'

'Sans culottes, they call themselves,' Romain growled. 'Eager to take advantage of the situation in Paris. Ah, France is fallen on sorry times, madame. These people sent their leaders to this National Assembly which now governs us, and were there promised freedom, and so returned here to seize it when our administration here would not immediately grant their demands.'

'But the sergeant says the revolt was easily suppressed.'

'Oh, indeed, madame. They were an undisciplined lot. And now their leaders are to suffer on the wheel. It will be quite a spectacle.'

The coach was making slow progress as it ploughed through the crowded streets.

'On the wheel?' Tony asked.'What does that mean, Mama?'

'It means a man is to die’ Sue said, quietly.

'His bones will be broken while he still lives’ Romain said, smiling at the boy. 'One by one, they will be shattered with an iron bar, until he is nothing better than a jelly.'

'Ugh’ Richard remarked.

'I am inclined to agree’ Sue said. 'Could they not just be hanged?'

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

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

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

'Again?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She took the mug slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attorney came hurrying into the room.

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

Romain bowed, and left again.

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

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

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

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

Dick stood and stared with his mouth open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How lovely they are.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Really, I ...'

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

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

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

‘You... you liar,' Georgiana shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Georgiana stopped crying and began to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Come along, madame,' Gislane said.

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

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

Once again he held out the punch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You remember that?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Do you not attend the ball, Gislane?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And me?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head, slowly.

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

She shook her head once more.

'And you do that, for Matt?'

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

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

Yet again she shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Back to Matt.'

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You make conditions?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Is she well?'

'She appears to be well, madame.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Indeed? Tell me of him.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, my God,' Sue whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes, Monsieur.' The mustee came forward.

'And I, Louis?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, God,' Sue muttered.

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE MAMALOI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But you worry,' Robert said.

'Should I not?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Caiman, by heaven,' Matt said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maurice appeared on the verandah with a mug of punch.

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

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

That mulatto business, you mean?' Robert demanded.

'Why we heard of that. And were told it was suppressed easily enough.'

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

'Eh? What did you say?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Why, sir, none.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How goes the battle?' Matt asked.

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

'What news of the coast?'

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

'Where is this fellow?' Robert demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'We wish to see Colonel Morhan.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yet must we be sure,' Robert insisted.

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

'Another week?' Matt shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

'And Rio Blanco?'

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

'But I forbid it,' Morhan protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What do you think, Ledon?'

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

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

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

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

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

And what then, he wondered?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Christ in Heaven,' he whispered.

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

‘You were here, then?' Robert asked.

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

'You were at Cap Francois,' Matt said.

‘Yes, Matt. I must lead my people.'

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

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

'I do not understand,' he said.

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

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

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

'By God,' Robert muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'They said you would come,' she said.

'Tony. Dick.'

'Papa.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I saw you, also, at Cap Francois.'

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

'And you saved Mistress Huys?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'We will fight them also.'

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

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

'And Gislane?' Matt asked.

'Gislane does whatever she wishes.'

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

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

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

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

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

He turned and followed his mamaloi.

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

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

'And go where?' Matt asked.

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

'We are for England,' Matt said.

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

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

'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. And you suppose you will be any more successful there?' 'Given time,' Matt said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END