He found her nipples, thrusting through the soaked linen, chilled into hardness. She made no protest, no move either, save to huddle her back closer to him. He could stroke and caress to his heart
’
s content, and in doing so, shelter his own mind from the holocaust around
him.
And from her, perhaps, draw strength for himself.
A whisper, through the night. But it was no longer night. It was dawn. There was lightness, in the valley, silhouetting the peaks which reached for the sky on every side. There was an absence of sound, save for the whisper of the wind. And only the peaks were visible; the valley itself was shrouded in a white mist, as the moisture coagulated, as the humans sat up, and looked around them. The rain had stopped; the parched earth had hardened again. The grass remained wet, the trees continued to drip water on their heads and shoulders, but a single day's sunlight would soon dry that. By this evening there would be not a trace of last night's storm, save perhaps that the river farther down would be running a little harder. Why, Tony thought, slowly standing up and stretching his cramped muscles, even their clothes would be dry. Although that would be difficult to accept at this moment; water still ran out of his boots.
But what of the humans themselves, he wondered? He looked at the drivers, who peered into the mist as if expecting a return of the thunder and the lightning. He looked at the mules, who had stayed close together, where horses would have galloped into the darkness, driven by the noise. But the dogs were already casting, grunting their hunger.
And he looked at the woman, sitting at his feet. As a woman, she seemed almost destroyed. Her hat was a sodden mass, her hair remained stuck to her head and shoulders as if someone had poured glue over her; her shirt was no less wet, and he could see her flesh, and when she stood up, the nipples he had held through the night. Had she been aware of that? Did she remember?
Oh, yes, she remembered. She glanced at him, and then looked away again, colour flooding upwards from her neck.
'Think anything will burn, Absolom?' he asked, and was surprised at the evenness of his own voice. 'I'd like a cup of coffee.'
Absolom turned over a stone with his bare toe; water bubbled out of the earth. 'No, sir, Mr Hilton, sir. Not for a while. Man, that was some rain, eh?'
'Some rain,' Tony agreed. 'Will it have wiped out the trail?'
'Well, sir . . .' Absolom scratched his head; water ran down over his ears. 'I thinking so, Mr Hilton, sir.'
'And we could all do with a change of clothes,' Tony decided. 'We'd better call it a day.'
'I would like to go on.' Ellen spoke in a low voice.
'Eh?'
'They must have been forced to stop, as we were. They cannot be far away.'
Her face was composed. But there was no questioning the firmness of that mouth, that chin.
'There is no trail. No scent.'
'There is only one way through the mountains,' she insisted. 'If they were following this valley yesterday, if you are sure that they were, then they can only be following this valley this morning.'
Tony looked at Absolom, who scratched his head again.
'So let us have something to eat,' Ellen said. 'And then go on.'
'Man, sir . . .' Absolom began, and then turned, to look into the mist. 'But what is that?'
'Is a
jumbi
man, is a
jumbi,'
Jeremiah bawled, running for his mule.
'Stop there,' Tony commanded. But the unearthly wail, coming from an invisible source although obviously very close, had goose pimples running up and down his own flesh.
'It is a man,' Ellen said.
They peered into the mist, and saw the black man approaching. He wore nothing but drawers, and they were wet and filthy. He staggered and trembled. The dogs snarled and bared their teeth.
'Man but it is that boy Henry Twelve,' Absolom declared.
'Hold those beasts,' Tony commanded.
Henry Twelve stopped, and stared at them. He shook, like a leaf in a breeze. 'Man,' he said. 'You hear that thunder? Oh, man, you hear that thunder?'
'Where is Merriman?' Tony asked. 'And John Nineteen?'
Henry Twelve turned to stare on his master. 'Merriman gone,' he said. 'He ain't stopping, even in the rain. He gone. He gone.'
Even in the rain. 'And John Nineteen?'
'He done dead, master. He done drown. He lying there, and he head in a puddle. He done drown.'
There was a moment's silence. The mist began to rise in the valley, the first warmth seemed to enter the air. Henry Twelve continued to tremble.
'We got this one, Mr Hilton, sir,' Absolom said. 'We ain't going to get Merriman now. Not if he go through the rain. And maybe he done drown, too. We got this one.'
Tony nodded. 'Aye. We'll get on back. Absolom is right, Ellen. There is no point in flogging ourselves to death over a man who may be already dead. We'll eat later, Absolom. Tie this man to the back of your mule, and let's move out.'
'No,' Ellen said. Her eyes gloomed at the shivering slave. 'He must be punished.'
'He will be punished,' Tony said. 'When we get back to Hilltop.'
'No,' she said. 'Here. Bring my mule, Absolom.' Absolom looked at his master, then went and fetched the mules.
'Send them away, Tony,' she said. 'Send them down the trail. We can catch them up. Afterwards.' 'After what?'
She gripped his arm; her face was only inches from his ear. 'I want to whip him. I have wanted to whip someone, anyone, since I came to Hilltop. I could not say so to you, before last night. I could not do it, on Hilltop, with everyone there, with Hardy there. With Mother there.'
She panted, and colour flared in her cheeks. Her hair was just beginning to dry, and flutter in the morning breeze. She was a stranger, and she knew she was a stranger, to herself. She would not know herself, when she regained civilization. But perhaps the rain, and the fear, had stripped away her last covering of humanity, left only the animal.
And perhaps his fingers had helped, as well. He felt as if he had been dreaming, all of his life, the most wonderful dream a man could have, and had suddenly awakened, to find his dream was continuing, and would continue forever.
'Let me whip him, Tony,' she said. 'Now. And I will do anything you wish. Anything.'
'You'll have to sound the gong, Boscawen,' Tony Hilton said. 'We'll not be heard, otherwise.'
The butler nodded, and hurried down the room, threading his way in and out of the red-jacketed footmen, the white-gowned maids, who thronged each side of the huge dining room; there was one attendant to each cover, and there were sixty covers.
Tony leaned back in his chair, his glass in his hand, sipped his wine. He wanted to belch. Instead he smiled, at Mrs Taggart, on his right, a perspiring mass of pink flesh and pale blue taffeta, and at Mrs Kendrick on his left., a slim, dark woman, who had eaten little and drunk less, had watched her fellow guests like a predatory bird, storing their idiosyncrasies, their appearances, their mistakes in her mind. But even she returned Tony Hilton's smile.
And if Mrs Kendrick had eaten little, she was the only one. The huge dining table looked like a battlefield, after the conflict. Plates of scattered nuts and sweatmeats lay every which way; priceless crystal glasses rested on their sides, swept over by a careless gesture, a flailing cuff; knives and forks and spoons soaked in the spilt gravy, some guests still gnawed at their ribs of best beef, others worried their ices and slurped their wine; breasts heaved and shoulders shuddered; moustaches drooped; coats were unbuttoned and stays were clearly straining. The air was heavy with wine and perfume and the stench of beef, and brilliant with the conversation which flitted about the chairs and the chandeliers like a flight of sparrows. Here was gossip, malicious and friendly, stories, droll and dirty, flirtations, light and serious, bubbling away. Here was Sunday lunch on Hilltop.
'It warms the heart, Mr Hilton, indeed it does,' Phyllis Kendrick said. 'Your uncle used to give entertainments of this nature. But that was a long time ago. I remember them, when I was a girl. But truly, of recent years, and of course, when your brother and that detestable Gale person were living here, one could suppose Hilltop to be dead. Now it lives again.' She leaned her elbow on the table, rested her chin on one finger.
‘I
did not know you
were acquainted with so many pe
ople.'
'I am not, dear lady,' Tony said.
‘I
merely had a fist made out, and despatched it.'
Phyllis Kendrick continued to regard him as if he were a rare specimen—but then, he thought, I am a rare specimen. 'But at such short notice? Supposing no one had come? All of this food?'
'It could have fed the pigs, Mrs Kendrick.' Her eyebrows arched, and she receded, her hand flopping on the table.
'But then,' Tony smiled, 'they all did come. Even you came, Phyllis.'
The sound of the gong, booming across the conversation, drowned her reply. Had she been going to make one. Tony rather doubted that she had. He wondered how old she was. Thirty? Thirty-five? Married to a typical planter, unimaginative and entirely physical. So, was she unimaginative and purely physical? A thought for the future. He was concerned with the present. He looked down the long sweep of littered, stained linen tablecloth, past the upturned bottles, the smiling, reddened faces, the fluttering fingers, the scattered napkins. Ellen was hardly visible, seated at the far end of the table. But she was, entirely visible. She wore pale green, and looked cool. Her chestnut hair was gathered loosely, in a ribbon. She talked animatedly, to the men on either side of her, and yet, she seemed to sense that he was looking at her, and turned her head, to send her smile up the table like a message.
What did they share, so far? Not their bodies, as yet. That would come later. On
the
day, she had been exhausted, her passion spent. And there had been a dead man. And Tony Hilton? Why Tony Hilton had been afraid. Of her. That could be admitted, to himself. And perhaps even to the woman.
And since then, they had both been content to wait, to know, what was on the way, to anticipate, confident in the enormous intimacy they already shared. The memory, of a woman on a mule, wet hair tumbling about her shoulders, wet blouse clinging to those shoulders, wet skirt wrapping itself around wet legs, galloping to and fro within the confines of a narrow valley, flailing her whip while a black man had to run before her. The memory of her tumbling breath and gasping cries of pleasure, of her teeming laughter. The memory of her pulling her mount to a standstill, when the black man had finally fallen, and dismounting, to flog again. The memory of the black man realizing that his tormentor was no longer protected, rising to his knees, of himself hurrying forward to save her, and stopping, as he realized she did not require saving. The memory of that booted foot thudding into the black man's face, of the woman standing above him, and using the whip again, with an expertise born of a long dream—because surely she could have no experience—to reduce a man to nothing.
And the memory of the ride back, slowly, in the boiling sun. Her clothes had dried by then, and her hair. Their mules had rode close together, and occasionally his knee had brushed hers.
He had said, 'I must have you.' It had been plain surrender. And Ellen Taggart had merely smiled.
'When you can, Mr Hilton,' she had replied. 'When you can.'
So, now. He rose, and the faces turned to look at him. 'Ladies,' he said, 'and gentlemen. How good of you to come. How good of you to grace Hilltop once again with your presence. How good of you to make this old house live again.
I am informed, ladies and gentlemen, that it did live, thirty years ago. I make you my solemn promise, it will live, from this moment on.'
He paused, to smile, and they applauded, and called for more wine. And Ellen returned his smile.
'We have eaten well,' Tony said. 'And we have drunk well. This afternoon we shall talk. The ladies about, well, whatever ladies talk about.' That raised a shout of laughter. 'We men shall talk politics. Because I have not invited you here today, gentlemen, neighbours, fellow planters, merely to sample my cuisine. I have invited you here today, gentlemen, to inform you that Hilltop is now back in the hands of a Hilton, not a decrepit old man, not a dreaming boy. But a Hilton, gentlemen. I am aware of what is going on, gentlemen. I read the newspapers. I know how the British Government seeks to coerce us, gentlemen. Financial aid, trading advantages, such as are being offered the new Crown Colonies of Guiana and Trinidad, on condition we accept their "advice" on the treatment of our slaves. No aid at all, should we prefer to go our own way. That, gentlemen, to my way of thinking, is not government, but blackmail.'
He paused, to smile at the nods of agreement, the murmurs which went round the table.
'So you may expect to see me in the Hilton seat, gentlemen, as from the next Session. And you may expect me to give my voice and my vote to opposing all British interference in our affairs. Times may be hard, gentlemen, but they have been harder. We in Jamaica, my family more than most, gentlemen, have prospered these hundred years and more with no British help. By God, we shall do so for another hundred years, or my name is not Anthony Hilton.'