'Oh, yes, man, Mr. John.' But Middlesex frowned. Haggard seldom inquired after his son. Enough that the boy's life had been purchased at the expense of his mother's.
Haggard walked into the hallway. He had not bothered to replace his pumps with boots, and his feet did no more than whisper on the polished mahogany floor. But even the whisper echoed. The hall was some thirty feet deep and rose twenty feet above his head. The walls were hung with pictures of past Haggards, the stands filled with walking sticks and sporting guns, and hats; Haggard added his to the collection. To his right, archways gave into the withdrawing room, another vast area of polished floors and uncomfortable chairs and low incidental tables laden with brass ornaments. The smoking room, shrouded in netting to repel mosquitoes, lay beyond; here were the billiards table and the baize-topped card table, as well as the deep trays for cigar ash. On his left a similar archway allowed access to the dining room, equally large, but almost filled by the mahogany dining table and its accompanying sideboards, and sparkling with the array of silver trays and crystal glasses and decanters which filled the polished surfaces. Beyond the dining room were the pantries and then the kitchen, built away from the house proper to lower the risk of a disastrous fire commencing in the huge wood-fed ranges, and connected with the main building by a covered corridor.
Immediately in front of Haggard waited the main staircase which led up to the galleries above his head, off which opened the dozen bedrooms. He walked towards this, pausing at the foot. 'John Essex,' he said.
'Yes, sir, Mr. John.'
All of the footmen had gathered beyond the stairs, by the red velvet curtain which allowed access to the back of the house, the offices and the rear staircase and the other entrance to the pantries. Now one of them came forward.
'Prime my pistols and set up a target, John Essex.'
'Yes, sir, Mr. John.'
Haggard continued his climb, turned to his left at the top, made his way towards the nursery. Here was unfamiliar territory; he seldom saw his son other than for a good-night kiss on the forehead. He opened the door, and immediately Amelia the nurse sat up from her bed against the wall.
'Who is there?' she demanded, blinking at the flickering candle.
'Hush, You'll wake the boy.'
'Eh-eh, but is the master?' Amelia inquired at large. She still counted her good fortune. Four years ago she had been a field slave, but she had been the only girl to have lost a child in the week Susan Haggard had died, and so had been brought into the house. She had ceased feeding the little boy two years ago, but her position as nurse was not in doubt; she was the only person on the entire plantation who could quell Roger Haggard's bellowing when he chose to reveal the famous Haggard temper.
Now she threw back the coverlet, and hurried before her master to open the inner door. Conscious of her recent authority, she wore a white linen nightdress which undulated across her fat buttocks.
Haggard stood in the doorway, looked at the cot, and the boy who lay there. In a few hours' time, he thought, he will be the last Haggard in all the world. Perhaps. I wonder what he will make of it all?
'You want for kiss he, Mr. John?'
Tomorrow,' Haggard said. Whenever tomorrow comes. He turned and left the room, and a sorely puzzled Amelia, and went down the stairs. The footmen still waited, marshalled by Middlesex. They could sense that this was not as other nights. For one thing, their master had returned from a ball sober.
'Go to bed,' he said. 'All of you. But call me at five, James.'
'Yes, sir, Mr. John.'
But still they waited, while he went through the curtain and down the lower staircase to the cellars. Here a wide corridor allowed access to the store room, of meat and wine, of ice— brought in specially sawdust-packed containers all the way from the Labrador coast—of arms and ammunition. At the far end two cellars had been knocked together to make one large room, some twenty-five yards across. Here there was a counter immediately inside the door, on which there lay six pistols. The candles lining the wall had been lit, and at the far end there waited the wooden figure of a man. John Essex stood by the door.
Haggard took his position at the counter. He inhaled, slowly, grasped the first pistol, raised and sighted, squeezed the trigger, laid it down and picked up the second, raised and sighted, and squeezed the trigger, and moved on to the third. The six explosions seemed to merge into one, the entire cellar became a rumbling echo shrouded in black smoke which left him coughing. As Haggard laid down the last pistol, John Essex hurried forward to examine the target.
'Four in the chest, Mr. John. One in the shoulder. And one gone.'
Haggard nodded. There was no one in Barbados able to improve on that accuracy. He practised every day. Not with any idea of duelling in mind. He had in fact exchanged fire but once in his life, five years ago, and then he had killed his man entirely by accident. That had been enough to give him a reputation. But practice was necessary because, for all the present tranquillity of Barbados, the obvious contentment of his sla
ves, in a planting society
one could never tell when the contagion of revolt would spring up and spread like bush fire. Yet it was reassuring to discover that his hand was as steady as ever. Only his mind, his will, mattered now.
He left John Essex to set up another target, climbed the stairs, met Ferguson in the hall.
'Well?'
'You are challenged. I chose pistols, at six.' There's an
early hour. You'll call the morn
ing briefing for five.' Ferguson frowned at him. 'You'll brief today?' Today is it? My God. Of course I'll brief today, Willy. It is a day like any other. Where is this exchange?' 'On the hill between the two plantations.' 'Reasonable. All right, Willy. Get some sleep.' 'And you?' 'Come to me at five.'
Haggard went into the office, sat in his swivel chair before the enormous roll-topped desk in which were kept the Haggard accounts going back to the very first shipment of sugar in 1671. He leaned back, closed his eyes. Only my will, he thought. To take a man's life, coldly and deliberately. And a man with whom I have drunk and played polo and gambled. A friend. No, he supposed that was wrong. He had never been a friend of Malcolm Bolton's. Malcolm was too consumed with jealous ambition.
He awoke with a start as the door opened, surprised that he had slept at all. But the air was cool with the promise of dawn.
'Mr. Lucas does be here, Mr. John,' Middlesex said.
'Harry. Good of you to come.' Haggard stood up, stretched his stiff arms.
The lawyer peered at him. 'What's happened? It had better be important.'
'It is important. I'm to fight a duel in a couple of hours.' 'A duel? My God.' Harry Lucas sat down in the one other chair in the room. 'Who with?' 'Malcolm Bolton.' 'Oh, my God. Whatever for?' 'A matter of honour.' 'Which can surely be resolved?'
'I doubt it. Anyway, I cannot take the risk.' Haggard sat down again. 'You will be my executor.'
'I had not anticipated the possibility so soon. The boy . . .'
That's why you're here. You, and you alone, will control his upbringing.'
'But . . . what of Susan's people?'
'Jamaicans. I'll not have it. You, Harry. A governess, here, until he is eight, then England and Eton. Make no mistake now. Willy Ferguson will manage the plantation.'
Lucas found a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his brow. 'Yes, Well, it may not happen. One exchange . . .
’
'Is usually sufficient where two good shots are involved. Don't fail me in this, Harry, or by God, I'll haunt you.'
'I'll not fail you, John. But . . .'
'Then let's get on with it.' Haggard opened the door, went into the hall. Ferguson was just entering the front door. 'Five o'clock?' The staff is waiting.'
Haggard nodded, went on to the verandah. The faintest tinge of grey was diluting the black, and the air was now distinctly chill. At the foot of the steps the trestle table had been erected as usual, and the lanterns gleamed. The forty-odd bookkeepers stood around, waiting for their master.
'Good morning, John.'
'Good morning, John.'
These from the senior hands who had known him as a boy. 'Good morning, Mr. Haggard.' 'Good
morning
, Mr. Haggard.' These the recent arrivals.
'Good morning.' Haggard stood against the table, looked at the huge plan of the plantation extended there, held down by a lantern at each corner. He reflected for a moment, then tapped two of the grid squares into which the map was divided. 'North west three and four. Weeding parties.'
'North west three and four.' Ferguson made notes.
The parallel road, surfacing.'
Ferguson wrote busily.
The sugar house. Time to commence fumigation.' Ferguson nodded.
Haggard continued to study the map. His mind seemed unusually clear this morning, as if he could foresee the future, the way the war would go, the measures that would need to be taken.
'How many acres have we under cane?'
'Five thousand,' Ferguson said.
'And under corn?'
Two hundred and fifty.'
‘I
want a further twelve hundred acres diverted to maize after next grinding.'
Twelve hundred acres under corn?' Ferguson was incredulous, it'll halve your profit.'
'My profit can stand it. Lay in the grain, Willy. Today. Thank you, gentlemen.'
The overseers hesitated, exchanging glances. Then their senior, Arthur Prentice, stepped forward.
'Good fortune, John.'
Thank you. Thank you all.' He turned to Ferguson. 'Punishments?'
Ferguson snapped his fingers and the three black men, hitherto waiting in the darkness, were brought forward by six of the Negro drivers.
'Yes?'
'Jonah Seven, stealing from Peter Four.'
It had long been Haggard practice to give numbers as well as names to their field slaves, for ease of identification. This has been proved?' 'He was caught red-handed, Mr. Haggard.' 'Six lashes.'
'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard.' Ferguson made a note. 'I thank you, Mr. John,' Jonah Seven said. He knew that on any other plantation his sentence would have been triple that. 'David Eight, fighting with Judas Three.' 'Again, David Eight? A month's loss of privileges. Next.' 'Cain Seven, troubling Martha Three.' Troubling? Are you there, Martha?'
'I am here, Mr. Haggard. He jumping on me every time. I got man, Mr. Haggard. I got Abraham Three. And I happy. But this Cain, he does be bigger than Abraham.'
'You're a lecherous rogue, Cain,' Haggard said. 'Bind up his cock for twenty-four hours so that he cannot pee. You'd best saddle up, Abraham Two.'
‘I
got them here, Mr. John.'
Haggard went back up the steps. Lucas still waited there. 'No nerves?'
'I'm shaking like a babe.' He held out his hand. 'Come and dine, tonight. No matter what happens.'
Lucas sighed, and nodded. James Middlesex-waited with a tray and a glass.
'Brandy, Mr. John. It is the best.'
‘I’m
sure you're right.' Haggard drank, deeply, replaced the glass. 'Ready, Willy?' 'Will you not change?'
Haggard looked down at his evening suit. And shrugged. 'It's dark. Tonight, Harry. You'll not forget that.' 'I'll be here.'
Haggard went down the steps, mounted, but waited as he heard hooves. Even in the gloom he could recognise the grey horse. 'Good morning to you, Reverend.'
The Reverend Paley was still panting with the exertion of his ride. 'John Haggard,' he gasped. 'You'll cease this madness.' 'Are you from Bolton's?'
‘I
ndirectly.' He brought his horse close to Haggard's mare, and she backed off, giving a nervous whinny. 'You are at fault.'
‘I
'd argue that, if I had the time. You'll excuse me.' 'You insulted Adelaide.'
‘I
reminded her of what she was, Mr. Paley.' 'And it will be murder.' 'I pointed that out at the time, also.'
Then apologise, John. Surely to God you can do that. No one in Barbados is going to accuse
you
of cowardice.'
'Mr. Paley,' Haggard said, slowing his speech to those even tones which indicated his anger, 'my father, before he died, made me promise him three things. One, always to remember that I am Haggard. Two, always to tell the truth. Three, never to turn my back on any man. You are asking me to break each and every one of those oaths. Now stand aside, sir, or I'll ride you down.'
Paley pulled his mount out of the way. 'They'll hate you,' he shouted. 'All Barbados will hate you, now and for ever.'
They hate me already, Mr. Paley.' Haggard touched his mare's side with his heel, and walked away from the house.
Anger, bubbling deep in his belly. Never fight a duel while angry. Some more advice from Father, on the previous occasion. Then Roger Haggard Senior had himself acted as second. Then he had not been alone. Well, he was not alone now. Faithful Willy Ferguson rode at his heels. But he was the only Haggard. Save for a four-year-old boy.
They would hate him. As he hated them. Because he was Haggard, he was condemned, before a word could be spoken in his defence. But then, he reflected, they would have hated me had I surrendered to blackmail and married Adelaide Bolton.
To either side the nearly ripe cane
stalks, standing ten feet tall,
rustled in the dawn breeze, but now the ground was rising. Only half a mile farther on was the hillock which marked the end of his property, and the beginning of Bolton's, and there already were four men. Even in the half light he recognised them: Malcolm Bolton; Jeremy Campkin, who would be his second; old Peter Woodbury, the senior planter in the island, who would be the umpire; and Dr. Meade, who looked after the healths of both the Haggard and Bolton families.
'Gentlemen.' Haggard made to raise his hat and discovered that he had forgotten to put one on.
'Haggard.' Woodbury came up to him as he dismounted. 'In the name of Heaven call an end to it.'
'I am willing to accept an apology, Peter.'
'You'll accept an apology. My God.' Woodbury turned and walked back to the waiting men.
'John . . .' Tom Meade hesitated.
'We'd best be at it,' Haggard said.
'You'll inspect these, if you please, Mr. Campkin.' Willy opened the pistol case, and Campkin held the weapons up to the light, peered at the priming, one after the other. Haggard glanced at Malcolm Bolton, but his rival preferred to look away.
'For the last time, gentlemen,' Woodbury said.
'No,' Bolton said.
Woodbury sighed. Then take your places. You know the rules. And so help me should any man raise his arm before I give the word I'll shoot him down.' He took a fowling piece from his saddle holster to prove the truth of his words.
Haggard stepped forward, into the centre of the meadow. Willy handed him one of the pistols, and he let it hang at his side, at the end of his fingers. A moment later he felt a touch on his shoulder blades and knew that Bolton stood behind him.
'Commence,' Woodbury said. 'Even paces. One. Two.'
The breeze played on Haggard's face, began to dry his sweat. Or was it, now that he actually held the pistol in his hand, because he was no longer afraid?
Three, four.'
His foot scuffed on a clod of earth, but he kept his balance. So, now, an act of will. He could aim and fire faster than Malcolm Bolton. If he wished.
'Five, six.'
But he must aim to kill, or Bolton would bring him down. He would be branded murderer. But the alternative was to die himself. To join Susan, the reverend would say. But he had no faith in a hereafter for a slave owner. And a Haggard. 'Seven, eight.'
So what would he do? What must he do? 'Nine, ten. Turn and fire.'
Haggard turned, quickly. His right arm was raising even as he did so. He gazed at Malcolm Bolton's face, just visible in the first light, pale and determined, and angry. Well, no doubt his own face looked no different.
His hand was extended; Bolton's was just starting to move. The pistol was absolutely steady as he looked down it, and his fingers were squeezing, instinctively, coldly, without even his will behind them. The explosion surprised him, and the powder smoke clouded into his face and made him cough. But he stood still, as he must, to receive fire. Supposing there would be any. Malcolm Bolton was on his knees, his face a picture of concern, his coat front an explosion of dripping red. For a moment longer he tried to raise his weapon, then he fell on his face.
Campkin and the doctor ran forward. Willy Ferguson came to Haggard, took the pistol from his fingers. There was never any doubt.'
Never any doubt, Haggard thought. He gazed at the dead man. Because there could be no doubt about that either.
Slowly Dr. Meade stood up. 'You've no nerves at all, John Haggard. And no pity either.'
Haggard walked to his mare, mounted.
There'll be an inquest.' Woodbury's face was grim.
'I shall attend it.' Haggard turned the mare away from the bridle path leading down to his land, made instead for the turnpike which led into Bridgetown. His throat was dry and his brain was swinging. But more than that he was angry, with a vicious loathing which made his rage of the previous night and this morning no more than a sulk. This day would never end, for him. So should he have died?
He reached the turnpike, kicked his horse, and then dragged on the rein as another rider suddenly came from beneath the shelter of a tree.
'Murderer,' Adelaide Bolton shrieked. Haggard pulled Calliope away.
'Murderer,' she shouted again. 'Foul thing from the pit of hell.' She swung her arm, and her riding whip uncoiled. Haggard looked up, caught the flailing lash as it scythed through the air. The young woman jerked, but released the whip in time to stop herself being dragged from the saddle. Slowly Haggard uncoiled the lash from around his hand, watching the flesh redden before turning blue. He dropped the whip on the ground, touched his mare with his heels, walked on.
The pain in his hand seemed to mingle with the pain in his mind and increase the anger in his belly. But suddenly it was curious anger, embracing all womankind to be sure, but taking on a sexual slant. He wished to have Adelaide Bolton naked at his feet. To do what? He was not a vicious man. At least, he had never supposed so. Merely to jump on her belly would accomplish nothing for his spirit, at this moment. He wanted to hurt her while he loved her. He wanted to hear her moan in agony and ecstasy at the same time. And when he was finished, he wanted to throw her away like a rotten fruit.
Because, after all, he was what they said of him? A monster of arrogance and impatience and self-indulgence who merely concealed his true self beneath the facade of a gentleman? That could not be true. He had not taken a woman since Susan had died. Four years. No doubt that was the trouble. Because how badly did he want one now. But he had never been attracted by any of the black girls, however willing they might be. He possessed too great a sense of dignity. He could not be Haggard after a night tumbling one of his possessions. Father had not had to remind him of that.
But he was realising that if he did not take a woman now he might indeed do something foolish, or vicious.
He topped the last gentle hill—Barbados possessed no mountains—and Bridgetown lay below him, the town clinging to the edges of Carlisle Bay, the square church tower immediately in the foreground, the inlet of the Careenage, where the ships were warped alongside to facilitate their loading and unloading, in the middle distance. Beyond, the bay itself was dotted with anchored vessels waiting their turns at the quay, and even as he watched one was being drawn by her boats closer to the land. Lying as it did a hundred miles upwind of the main arc of the West Indian islands, Bridgetown was the safest harbour in the Americas, at this moment, for British ships.