'Eh-eh, but you back quick, Mr Hilton.' The butler came in from the pantry, minus his wig, and wiping his lips with a linen napkin. The beef, master? We—we just done finish it.'
'Eh? A whole side of beef?'
'Well, sir, Mr Hilton, there does be fourteen of us out there, what with the maid and thing.' 'My God.' Dick sat down.
'But no matter, sir, I going fetch another side of beef. It only a matter of cooking it quick. One hour, on the spit. Meantime you and Mistress Gale can drink some wine, eh?'
'One hour? More wine?' Dick got up again. 'I'm for bed. I'll say good night, Mistress Gale. Maybe you'd try waking up my brother.'
'They're waiting, Mr Hilton.' Joshua stood in the door to the dining room, his straw hat in his hands. In the half light of the dawn he looked even bigger than he was.
Dick finished his mug of steaming black coffee, handed it to the serving girl—he still could not remember their names— and got up. 'No sign of Mr Hilton?'
'No, sir. Mr Boscawen saying his bed ain't been slept in.'
Dick nodded, and sighed. All week Tony had been growing more and more restless, more and more bored with life on Hilltop. And it had seemed a good idea to send someone into Kingston, to see how Reynolds was getting on with raising some new bookkeepers . . . but then there had been the quarrel over money. Tony just had not been able to understand the need for economy. He had discovered that in the good old days Robert Hilton had kept his own string of race horses, had matched them, here on Hilltop, against the best in the island on magnificent social occasions which were still the talk of Kingston. But that had been twenty years ago, and the race course was now overgrown, the grandstand rotting. It would cost a fortune to clear and repair. Money they did not have, and would never have, so far as Dick could see. The waste on this plantation was on a scale he had not suspected possible. By reasonable accounting techniques they were quite literally tearing their wealth up. Nor had his day spent in studying the books in the office brought him much happiness. The turnover was in figures not even his banking background allowed him properly to grasp, and yet there was no profit that he could see. The plantation was worth five million pounds, on paper; there was the question as to whom they could ever sell it to. Their last crop had fetched nearly five hundred thousand pounds on the London market, but by the time all the notes had been settled, all the provisions, the wines and the cheeses and the sweetmeats, the clothe
s and the furniture, the staves
and the barrels, the replacement machinery for the factory, the powder and the ammunition for the firearm store, the perfumes for Mistress Gale, the ice for the cold cellars, brought all the way from Newfoundland by specially equipped ships, had been accounted for, they had been left with a debit balance of two thousand, which had had to be added to the debit balances accumulated over the previous twenty years to make a total outstanding of thirty-one thousand pounds. The London agent was not apparently concerned. It was the war, the closure of the European markets, the high freight and insurance costs. Once the war ended, why, the debt would rapidly be reduced. At one time in the middle of the last century, a Hilltop crop had fetched a million pounds on the London market. Another year like that and the debt would be liquidated. Supposing sugar ever regained quite that place in the nation's favour. Because now the American market was closed as well.
But Tony, for all his huffing and puffing, had promised to return by dawn.
Dick put on his hat and went outside. The drivers were assembled in front of the steps. Even after a week they still grinned with embarrassment, and shifted their feet, to be standing where the white bookkeepers had assembled in the past. But they chorused their 'good morning master' with enthusiasm.
'Well, Josh, what's the programme for today?' Dick asked.
'I thinking the north west corner, Mr Richard, sir.' Joshua had spread the map of the plantation on the table Boscawen had placed in the centre of the verandah. 'There is too much weed up there. So I thinking we making a concentrated effort there, and working our way down. Is only two months to grinding.'
'Aye.' And what then, Dick wondered. Joshua was an excellent field manager, to be sure; as good as any white man. But who would be sure all the machinery worked properly, or indeed that the sugar was properly boiled, the molasses properly separated? 'See to it then. I'll follow in a few moments.'
'Yes, sir, Mr Richard,
sir. Come on. Come on,' Joshua
bawled. 'Mount up. Get those black people moving.'
He mounted his horse, his whip slapping his thigh. He wore a white shirt tucked into his brown corduroy breeches, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, and black boots. He was the most enthusiastic man on the plantation. This was his chance of a lifetime, and he did not intend to waste a moment of it.
Boscawen held Dick's stirrup, and he swung himself into the saddle, carefully. He really was not used to spending half of every day sitting on hard leather which happened to be situated on an even harder horse; his backside was raw. 'Thank you, Mr Boscawen,' he said. 'Whenever Mistress Gale arises, invite her to join me for breakfast, will you?'
The meal was taken at eleven, when the sun grew too hot to remain longer in the fields. And of course she always joined him; but he was determined to maintain the formality of their relationship. When sober she was the soul of propriety, but she did not believe in staying sober a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. Presumably he should do something about that, such as refusing her all alcohol. Presumably . . . there was so much that he should do something about. Whoever had given the English public the idea that West Indian planters were a bunch of arrogant megalomaniacs who whipped their slaves and gambled and fornicated and drank themselves into early graves?
Although he could believe the early grave aspect of the situation. He drew rein at the foot of the hill. 'For God's sake, Judith, whatever are you at?'
The girl had been playing at tag with several black children, and had apparently fallen, or been rolled, in the dust. Her hair was matted and her face might have been coated with a brown powder.
'Just playing, Mr Hilton. Just playing.' She straightened her skirt, which had wrapped itself around her legs. She had very long legs, a trifle thin. But they would fill out. As the match-stick which formed the upper part of her body would also no doubt fill out. There was a problem, for the future. As if she was the only one.
He walked his horse into the little cemetery, dismounted, took off his hat. He came here every day. It was a peculiarly solemn place. The graves seemed to frown at him, each headstone a piece of West Indian history.
'Christopher Hilton, born 1651, died 1722, Rest in Peace.'
He wondered if old buccaneers ever rested in peace. But Kit Hilton had been the most successful of the breed, however many men, or women, he had had to kill to reach his prosperous heights. Which had been responsible for all this.
'Marguerite Hilton, born 1652, died 1690, Rest in Peace.'
There was nothing under that stone, neither bones nor peace. Marguerite Hilton had died of leprosy, had mouldered away on the leper island off Green Grove in Antigua. My God. Green Grove. He owned the place and had never visited it. Something to be done. But Reynolds said John Tickwell was a good man, and the Green Grove bookkeepers had not elected to quit. Now there was an idea; perhaps one or two of them could be persuaded to come to Jamaica for the grinding.
'Lilian Hilton, born 1659, died 1727, Rest in Peace.'
His own great-great-grandmother, Kit Hilton's second wife, the Quaker who had brought some goodness into that turbulent family, whose influence had perhaps made Matthew Hilton what he was. And thus his son? Or at least one of them.
An unmarked grave. But the stone was now being carved, and would read, 'Robert Hilton, born 1740, died 1810, Rest in Peace.' His decision, to follow the fashion of the severely limited wording, the blessing at the end. But of them all, Robert Hilton would perhaps lie the l
east peacefully. If all the tale
s were to be believed. He was Marguerite's great-grandson, not Lilian's, and had acted the part.
And in time, perhaps, Richard Hilton, born 1785, died —? And would there be a Rest in Peace on that? Dick climbed into his saddle, walked his horse away from the cemetery and into the avenue of canes, tall now, reaching above even a mounted man to shut him away from human sight, from even the dawn breeze. A lonely, quiet place, and the pleasanter for that. And yet, an evocative place, as well. The towering green stalks to either side symbolized his wealth, and his power, and his responsibility, and the labour which was rushing on him like a runaway horse.
He rounded a bend, came upon a gang of women, presumably weeding; they squatted, most of them to either side of the path, their chemises drawn up to their thighs in a most indecent manner, and flicked at the stones with their knives. At the sound of his hooves perhaps half a dozen increased their rhythm; the rest merely glanced up, and giggled at him, tilting the wide-brimmed straw hats back on their heads the better to look at him.
'Come on,' he said. 'Come on. Get on with it.' He slapped the whip which Boscawen always attached to his saddle, and tried to look, and sound, like Joshua, or Absolom, or indeed, Tony. But like animals, they could sense where they were in danger of a beating and where they were not. Their giggles increased, and one called out.
'Man, Mr Hilton, sir, but it hot. Why we ain't resting like?' 'There's the weeds,' he said. 'It'll choke the cane. Get on with it.'
'Not this cane, Mr Hilton, sir, it all but ready for cut.'
'Hey, Mr Hilton,' cried another, standing up. 'Why you ain't getting off that horse and having a little sweetness?' She raised her skirt to her waist and wagged her mount at him, at once bushy and dusty and provocative. He cursed the colour rising into his cheeks, and wrenched his horse round, and sighed with relief at the sound of hooves.
'Mr Boscawen? Has something happened at the house?'
The butler drew rein, adjusted his wig. 'You got a caller, Mr Richard, sir. Mr Kendrick, from Rivermouth.'
'Indeed. I'd best get back. Speak to these women, will you, Mr Boscawen. They don't seem very energetic'
'Ah, get on with your work, you worthless whores,' shouted the butler, riding his horse into their midst, and laying about him with his crop. 'Get to it. You ain't hear what the master done say?'
They cackled with a mixture of amusement if they had avoided the blows, or anger if their flesh happened to be stinging. But the sound of the machetes quickened. Dick sighed, and trotted out of sight. Presumably it was easy enough to do, to charge into the middle of a mob of women and lay about him as hard as he could. All one had to do was do it. All.
He came in sight of the house, and the horse standing before the steps. By now Boscawen had caught him up again, and was waiting to take his bridle. He ran up the steps, faced the short, heavy man, dressed in planting clothes but with a sweat-stained blue coat over his open shirt, and carrying an old tricorne, who was seated at the top, in one of the cane chairs which lined the wall. Harriet Gale was beside him, looking her cool best in a green morning gown.
'Mr Hilton,
’
she cried. 'Mr Kendrick has come to call.'
Dick took off his hat, held out his hand. 'Richard Hilton, sir. Welcome.'
Kendrick was on his feet. 'Tobias Kendrick, sir. My pleasure. Mistress Gale has been making me most welcome.' He glanced at Harriet, his cheeks pink. 'Your servant, ma'am.'
'Oh, indeed.' She smiled at Dick, archly. 'He wishes to discuss business. You'll excuse me, gentlemen. There is a menu to be planned.'
She swept from the verandah with a rustle of skirts, leaving the scent of her musk on the still air.
'A remarkable woman,' Kendrick observed, shifting from one foot to the other.
'Indeed she is,' Dick agreed. 'Mr Boscawen, coffee. Do be seated, Mr Kendrick. Let me see, Rivermouth. You are my nearest neighbour.'
Kendrick sat down, carefully. 'That is so. Do you call all your people mister?'
'Those in a position of authority, certainly. Should I not? It is common politeness.'
'Politeness?' Kendrick scratched his head. "Tis true, then.'
'What?'
'Well. . .' Kendrick flushed still darker, accepted a mug of coffee from Boscawen's tray. 'That you call your slaves mister, that you intend to maintain your uncle's domestic arrangements
...
'tis what Laidlaw told me.'
‘
Oh, yes?'
Kendrick held up his hand. 'Please, Mr Hilton, no offence. A man does what he chooses. And by God, sir, in my belly I envy you Mistress Gale. Indeed I do. But it is difficult, sir, difficult. Your uncle, may God rest his soul, pursued his own path, enjoyed the ostracism he courted. We had hoped, my wife and I, that new blood, so to speak, would change things. Why, Mistress Kendrick would ask you for dinner, sir, to meet the other planters in Middlesex county, but to say truth, she was disturbed, disturbed, sir, to learn that you had immediately assumed, well, your uncle's prerogatives towards Mistress Gale. Well, sir, you must know, she is forty, if she is a day. And besides, why, the whole thing smacks of incest.' He frowned. 'I am trying to explain a serious matter, sir.'