HF - 04 - Black Dawn (38 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mutiny?' Christophe inquired, smiling at her.

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

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

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

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

Dick nodded. He had expected worse.

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

'I will see to it, sire.'

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

'I will see to it, sire.'

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

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

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

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

12

The Emperor

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

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

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

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

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