HF - 04 - Black Dawn (2 page)

'I am with child,' she gasped. 'I have not been condemned.'

'Nor will you be,' the Governor said. 'Mr Hilton would speak with you.'

Robert looked through the bars. ' 'Tis done, Janet.'

She met his gaze; her tongue slowly came out and circled her lips. 'I heard the shouts. And you are avenged, Mr Hilton.'

Robert sighed. 'It was an act of justice, not vengeance.'

Janet Hodge crossed the floor, to stand close to him. 'You are a hypocrite, Robert Hilton. You and your Bible-thumping cousin. You wanted that little nigger girl, and when you couldn't have her, you went for Jamie. You're no better than any of us, Robert Hilton, for all your money. For all your fine clothes.'

'You'll believe what you will, Janet.' Robert hesitated, then reached into his pocket. 'You'll need money. I'll give you an order on my agent.'

Janet Hodge frowned, for just a moment. 'Money? From you? I'd not use it to wipe my arse.'

'Janet

'Hiltons! The wealthiest people in the world, they say, and the most powerful, who can have a man hanged at their whim. But also the stupidest, Master Robert. You think you have hanged my Jamie? You have hanged us all, every white man in the West Indies, aye, and their women, and their children. The Hiltons too.' She flung out her arm, finger pointed at Matt. 'He lives with your sister. There's morality. He has two little boys, too, eh? Lucky little bastards, because they'll be called Hilton. But they'll all go down, the same way Jamie did.' Her face broke into a ghastly smile, and she rubbed her belly. 'And by God, there will be a Hodge there to see it.'

2

The Opportunity

'Seventy-five thousand, eight hundred and seventeen pounds, twelve shillings, and eleven pence.' Richard Hilton underlined the figures with great care, using a pen dipped into red ink. 'At last,' Maurice Beden said.

Richard slipped off his stool, rubbed the somewhat shiny seat of his trousers, ran his fingers into his straight fair hair. 'Seventeen minutes past five. Not as bad as I thought.' He was a tall young man, just twenty-five years old. A West Indian would have recognized his face immediately; the long, rather large features, the grey eyes, the delicious little nose, were all too clearly those of the fami
ly which had dominated the plan
tocracy for a hundred years. But a West Indian would have puzzled over the absence of a brogue, just as he would have frowned at the threadbare cuffs, on both shirt and coat, at the well-worn pants and boots, at the absence of the slightest suggestion of a tan from the pale flesh. In the high vaulted office of Bridle's Bank in Lombard Street, Richard Hilton was no more than another of the score of clerks who spent their entire days shut away from the sun, however famous his forbears.

'You be off then,' Beden agreed. 'I'll lock up.'

'Will you, Maurice? Oh, splendid fellow.' Richard punched his friend on the arm, seized his tall hat from the peg, and ran for the door.

'In a hurry, Mr Hilton?' said Perkins, peering over his pince-nez from behind the big desk in the accountants' room. Richard paused, and panted. 'No, Mr Perkins.'

'But the ledger is balanced?'

'Oh, yes, Mr Perkins. And Mr Beden will lock up, whenever you are ready.'

'How good of him,' Perkins remarked drily. 'I attended your father's meeting, last night.'

Richard sighed. 'Yes, Mr Perkins?'

'The man is a fool. No offence, Mr Hilton, but slavery was ordained by God Himself. No man can go against God. And for a West Indian, why, it smacks of madness.'

'Yes, sir, Mr Perkins. Father knows he is not the most popular of men.'

'Save with the mob, Mr Hilton. Save with the mob. You tell him from me, he and his friends are trouble makers. He's not the worst. I blame Wilberforce.'

'Yes, sir, Mr Perkins. I'll tell Father. Good night, Mr Perkins. Good night.'

He closed the door behind him, stood on the stone steps, inhaled the crisp spring air. To enter the bank in the early morning was to be sealed in a vast cavern, a place of studied quiet and neatly inked figures, a place, indeed, of ink itself, and a place populated by Perkins, and all the other, more senior Perkinses, reaching up to Jonas Bridle. Young men like himself, or Maurice Beden, were merely in transit, neither free nor forever lost, in the process of being converted into suitable Perkinses. He supposed that another couple of years would do the trick, where he was concerned.

He ran down the steps, hurried along the pavement. It was late, although on a May afternoon there were still another two hours of daylight. But Ellen would not wait forever. And it was quiet; most of the traffic had already left the city, an
d he could hear his own heels dru
mming on the cobbles. And wondered why he hurried. He approached Ellen Taggart in the guise of a beggar, seeking a smile, a touch of her hand. Not Ellen's fault. She would give him much more. She offered more, continually. But a gentleman, retired from Company service in Bombay— with all that
that
suggested—and with the rank of colonel, would never consider permitting his only daughter to marry a bank clerk, even if the fellow's father was an MP. The wrong sort of MP was worse than not being one at all.

He rounded a corner, nearly stumbled into two red-coated officers, hastily apologized and hurried on. But paused at the next corner to look back. How splendid they were. How confident, no, how arrogant. With reason, no doubt. He studied the military, their manners, their morals, and their uniforms, could identify these two as members of the 16th Foot, the Bedfordshire regiment, from their badges as well as from the yellow facings to their tunics and the silver lace. The 16th were under orders to sail for Lisbon, there to join General Wellesley. No wonder they were arrogant; they were now part of the only English army ever to face the French with success.

He hurried on, his belly rumbling with excitement. Whenever he saw a uniform, his instincts screamed at
him
to find the nearest colour-sergeant, and surrender his liberty even more definitely; he had neither the money nor the backing to purchase a commission. But he would rise, he had no doubt at all. The Hiltons had always been men of ability, and men of action, too. His earliest remembered ancestor had been an associate of Tom Warner and his son, Edward, who had defended St Kitts against the Indians and the Spaniards, and founded the British West Indian Empire; one of his great-grandfathers had marched with Morgan on Panama; why, Father himself had fought with Rodney at the Saintes. But there was the problem. Father had found himself in the Navy by accident, as a pressed man, and his experiences, both there and elsewhere, had raised within him a seething distaste for all things military, for any possible event where blood could be shed. It was treason, in this spring of 1810, even to hint that Great Britain should not pursue the war against Napoleon, but Father suggested peace whenever it was his turn to speak in the House.

Another bend, and the trees of the Park came in sight. He could pause, to catch his breath and straighten his cravat. She would be there.

To join the army would mean a quarrel. And yet, it was not one he would avoid. But for Mama. He often wondered what she thought of it all. Certainly she supported her husband with total loyalty. But in the privacy of her bedchamber, must she not often count the cost? To live with Matt Hilton, her own cousin, she had abandoned her lawful husband and prosperity and respectability; to marry him, in defiance of her brother, had lost her the chance of inheriting the greatest plantations in the West Indies; to follow his point of view had cost her the friendship of every planter, and every planter's wife, and even forced her to watch her own sister being torn to pieces by the very slaves Matt sought to free; and to bring up her two sons she had been obliged to deprive herself of almost everything that a woman could wish from life.

Now to deprive her of one of those sons would surely be a crime. Besides, to leave Mama? There was an incredible thought. She remained the most magnificent woman he had ever seen, could ever envisage.

Saving perhaps Ellen Taggart. He paused, and took off his hat, at once to wave it and wipe his brow. Because there she was.

The gig approached at no more than a walk. On a fine afternoon the park was crowded with ladies and gentlemen strolling, riding, ladies and gentlemen riding, ladies and gentlemen taking the air in their phaetons. And with uniformed nursemaids, wheeling their charges, gossiping and prattling. They could not have asked for a better setting. The huge trees were in leaf, the grass was brilliantly green, and the flowers were coming into bloom, dominated by the stiff rows of tulips, all yellows and reds, almost like a guard of honour drawn up for inspection. Dick Hilton supposed that nowhere more than in Hyde Park of an evening was the prosperity, the confidence, the bursting energy of this nation so amply displayed. Why, old Boney might spend his time rushing about Europe, from Madrid to Vienna to Berlin to Tilsit and thence back to Paris, defeating armies here, executing opponents there, pausing whenever he passed a Channel port to wave his fists at the sea, and the rulers of the sea; the fact was that Great Britain did rule the sea — the men Nelson had led had imbibed the master's beliefs and plans too well to fear any alteration in the strategy and the tactics which had won Trafalgar.

And behind the Navy, the trade, ballooning year after year. Even old Bridle nowadays smiled, from time to time. But he took care to see that little of his wealth filtered down to his clerks in the forms of an adequate salary.

'Why, Mr Hilton.' Aunt Julia Taggart had the long face of her family, in her case accompanied by the pop eyes and prominent teeth of her brother, as well as the somewhat braying voice. She was the only senior Taggart who had the least time for Dick, but even she allowed her gaze to sweep over his pants and coat and hat, perhaps estimating their age, before permitting herself to smile at him. He suspected she was less partial to him than to the concept of romance. 'What a pleasant surprise.'

'Miss T
aggart. Ellen.’

'I had given you up,' Ellen Taggart held the reins, her gloved fingers tight on the leather. The pony waited docilely enough. The fingers, the hand, were no more than an extension of the determination in her expression. So no doubt, Dick thought, should I ever be able to marry this girl, I will be exchanging one imprisonment for another. But what a delightful gaoler she would make. She was tall, and slim, but her deep green pelisse was suitably full at both breast and thigh; her chestnut hair was almost lost beneath the pale green silk bonnet, leaving her face exposed, but on her the long oval, the straight nose, the wide-set grey eyes and no less wide mouth, the firm lips and the pointed chin, were boldly handsome. And her voice, at least when greeting him, was soft.

'I was delayed. Our business seems to double every day.'

'I suppose it is for the good of the country,' Julia Taggart agreed. 'But money
...
it is such a dirty thing. Well, Mr Hilton, it has been our pleasure. But we are already late. We must take our leave of you.'

'Oh, I . . . ' Dick flushed, and glanced at Ellen, who laughed. She had an unusual laugh, surprisingly low, and somehow conspiratorial, although he had always felt that the secret which amused her was private to her alone.

'You are a tease, Auntie,' she said. 'We have at least half an hour. And look, is that not Lady Beamish, peering out from the window of her carriage like a goldfish?'

'Oh, really, Ellen. You are too disrespectful.'

'So will you be, Auntie, if you do not at least pass a moment with her. Dick, will you help Aunt Julia down?'

Dick offered his arm, and Julia Taggart descended to the turf, somewhat heavily. 'Thank you, young man. I shall not be long.' She made her way across the grass, skirts swinging, prodding the ground with her stick as if suspecting a sudden ravine.

'Wretched man,' Ellen said. 'Do you place your figures above me?'

He leaned on the step, his elbow on the door itself; this way his hand could drop inside and find her fingers. 'Do you really believe that?'

'No.' She sighed. 'But I suspect I am the most unfortunate of women, to love a man who must earn his living. And at what an occupation.' She frowned at him. 'Tony doesn't earn his living.'

'And sometimes barely lives,' Dick pointed out. 'Besides, he has not marriage in mind. To anyone, much less you.'

'I have never met two brothers less alike,' she agreed. 'As for your fine words, Master Dick, I wonder I still believe them.'

Clearly she was in one of her moods. From being kept waiting, no doubt.

'Can you imagine your father's comments were I to ask for your hand?'

She gave another of her secret laughs. 'Can you imagine his comments were you to climb up here beside me, whip this horse into a gallop, and not stop before Gretna?'