HF - 04 - Black Dawn (40 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And her arms remained tight.

'I love you,' he gasped.

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

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

'What news, man? What news?'

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

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

'We were fired on.'

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

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

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

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

'And you turned back?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'There are drums.'

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

'Those te
ll a different message,' Gislane
said.

He frowned at her. 'What message?'

'That the Emperor is no more.'

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

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

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

'You have your orders,' Gislane said.

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

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

He glanced at Cartarette, her mouth was open.

'What did she call you?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I heard firing, earlier.'

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

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

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

She ran inside, driving her girls before them.

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

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

'The Empress?'

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

'Three hundred.'

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

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

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