11
The Soldier
'They are taking the lower road.' Henry Christophe prodded the map held for him by his aide; the board rested on his horse's neck. 'There. How many?'
His head came up, and the courier, still panting, heat sweat still rising from his mount, straightened to attention. 'Four thousand, sire. With cannon.'
'Cannon will do them no good here,' Christophe said. 'General Warner.'
It still took Dick a few moments to realize he was being addressed. 'Sire?'
'You will take your regiment down this path. Captain La Chat will show you. He knows the country. You will proceed at a walk. There is time. Soon the drums will begin. When you reach the bottom, you will see the track. The enemy may not yet be in sight. You will maintain your men there until the drumbeat quickens, then you will debouch on to the road and charge along it until you encounter the enemy. Understood?'
No, Dick wanted to shout. No, I do not understand. No, I am not able to carry out your command. I have never led men into battle before. I have never been under fire before. I shall be afraid. I shall likely run away.
But instead he thought of the
m
amaloi,
of her scent, of her feel; his right arm pained where the knife had cut his flesh, although, miraculously, uncannily, she had sealed the cut itself with some unguent of hers. He had been bewitched. Oh, undoubtedly. But for this purpose. To fight with the Emperor.
'Understood, sire.'
Christophe continued to look at him. 'There will be no quarter. Matt,' he said, in English. 'It would do you no good to grant quarter, in any event, as your men would merely torture their prisoners to death. This is a war of survival. Understood?'
'Understood, sire.'
Christophe smiled. 'And by the same token, Matt, do not be taken. If you must die, die fighting.'
'Yes, sire.' Dick wheeled his horse, Captain La Chat at his side; the aide was a small black man, dressed in the blue uniform with the yellow facings of the Imperial Guard, like Dick, but wearing a tricorne instead of the cocked hat which marked a commander. They entered the trees, the four hundred dragoons jingling at their heels, commenced the descent, for the moment shaded from the sun, as it was early afternoon, siesta time, and the forest was hot and dry. For the moment. Yesterday it had rained, and perhaps later this afternoon, it would rain again; in these mountains, coated with these forests, the clouds accumulated almost without warning. But for the moment it was dry. Only blood would flow, this afternoon.
His blood? Somehow he did not feel that. But blood, to be sure. So then, Richard Hilton, how far have you come, from a stool in Bridle's Bank in Lombard Street, from being the son of Matthew Hilton, Member of Parliament, pacifist, Abolitionist? What would Mama say? Supposing she ever learned of it; he had not been able to bring himself to write her, although Christophe would certainly have despatched the letter. But would Mama wish a monster as a son? And was Christophe not right? Was not Father the man who had travelled far, and away from his own heritage? He did not know, for certain. But this afternoon he would find out, for certain.
'There.' Captain La Chat pointed a gauntleted finger. The trees were thinning, and the road was in front of them, and slightly beneath them. A dusty road, empty of people. And now he could hear the drums, murmuring across the hills, booming in the valleys. They were rada drums, used for Voodoo ceremonies. They touched a chord in his memory, for he had heard them as a child, as he had heard them often, here in Haiti. They were compelling, compulsive, frightening to a stranger. They spoke of blood, and sex, and lust, and possession. But they could not frighten those who followed Henry Christophe, because they belonged to him.
There was no sound above the drums save for the occasional whinny of a horse, the occasional stamped hoof, the occasional jangle of harness. The dragoons waited. Did they have confidence in their new general? He dared not look round at them, in case someone might remark on the sweat which clouded his cheeks, the paleness of the cheeks themselves. La Chat was also sweating. But La Chat was merely hot.
The drumbeat quickened. Dick drew his sword, and felt his heart begin to pound. What would happen? What would he feel like, when the first bullet tore its way into his body? What would be his last thoughts, as he plunged from his saddle to the ground, and saw the hooves of his own dragoons, looming about his head?
He pointed his sword at the road, and urged his horse forward. He emerged from the tree screen, and the sunlight made him blink. He listened to the enormous jangle from behind him as his men also debouched into the open. No other sound. They followed him, and would make a noise when the time came.
The noise came from in front of him. A ripple of musketry, a chorus of shouts and screams. He pointed his sword again, kicked his horse again. He rose in his stirrups, to wave his sword round his head. 'Charge,' he screamed. 'Charge.'
The drumbeat was very fast, and was merged in the thunder of the horses' hooves, in the immense scream which rose from four hundred throats. He swept round the bend in the road, with the trees thick to his right, saw the enemy column, arrested by the musketry, hastily forming their ranks to face back and to either side, while the wagons were brought round to form a defensive line, and the cannon was unlimbered. They were not four hundred yards away. His horse's hooves kicked dust, his chest pounded, his sweat clouded his eyes. He could see only the blade of his sword, pointing, and the wagons. And a man, seeing the approaching cavalry, himself pointing and screaming orders, bringing men round to face this new enemy, lining them up, muskets levelled.
Dick sank lower over his horse's head, felt a hot wind embracing him, saw the black powder smoke rising into the air, realized to his surprise that he was unhurt. That indeed the men had scarce taken aim, so frightened they were, and they were already backing away, running for the shelter of the wagons.
The officer stood his ground. He was a brave man, a light-skinned mulatto. He levelled his right hand, and it held a pistol. At this range he could not miss, Dick thought, for he was already upon him. Already upon him. His sword point struck the man in the centre of his green jacket, and blood spurted over the yellow braid, shot into the air and landed on Dick's white gauntlet. The pistol was never fired. It too soared into the air, to fall to the ground. The scream of the charging men rose around him like a paean, and he realized that his own voice was the loudest.
He was in the midst of the running soldiers, cutting and slashing, sending men scattering in every direction. He rode between the wagons, and someone fired a musket at him. But he heard the report, and knew he was not hit, and a moment later the wagon itself crashed onto its side, hurled over by the impact of the galloping cavalry. Men crawled out, weapons discarded, hands raised high in the air. 'Mercy,' they shouted. 'Mercy.'
Dick pulled his panting horse to a halt, stared at the men. At two in particular. Mulattoes?
Impossible, with that sun-pink
ened white skin, that fair hair.
As they saw that he was no Negro. One of them ran forward, and the dragoons let him come, gazing at their general for orders.
'Mercy,' shouted the Frenchman. 'As you are a white man, monsieur, mercy.'
Dick glanced at La Chat, who had reined next to him, clouded in sweat and blood. Exhilaration still pumped through his veins. Blood lust still clouded his mind. He had killed a man. No doubt he could have killed several men. They were his enemies, and had he not succeeded, they would have killed him. This was, as Christophe had said, a war for survival. 'Cut them down,' he said.
'It is less a town than a village.' Henry Christophe stood in the midst of his officers, the large-scale map at his feet. His sword was drawn, the point resting on the coloured parchment, already dotted with little holes where he had pressed. In the flickering torchlight he looked a demoniac figure. But then, Dick wondered, were they not all demoniac figures, commanding a demoniac army?
'President Petion refers to it as a frontier post,' Christophe continued. 'He dreams of a frontier.' The sword point cut a line across the map. 'We do not recognize frontiers, eh, gentlemen?'
The officers growled their agreement.
'So we will eradicate this frontier of his. Now, the palisade is composed of wooden stakes. We will place our battery here . . .' The sword dug into the map. 'This is before the main gate. Two salvoes, and it will be open. Beyond the main gate there is another defence, to enable them to throw back our assault, and then make good the damage. This is what they did last year. But this time we shall take their frontier post, gentlemen. How?'
No one replied; his habit of asking rhetorical questions was understood.
'I will command the foot,' Christophe said. 'And when the gate falls, I will lead them, not in an assault on the breach, but in an assault here . ..' The sword dug once more into the paper. 'This is as far away from the gate as is possible. They will suppose at the first it is a feint. Should they continue to treat it as a feint, and we gain a lodgement inside the wall, the cavalry will charge after we have entered. Should they begin to realize that it is not a feint, and move their main force against us, then the cavalry will charge as soon as the gate is undefended. Because after all we shall be a feint, but a feint delivered with the major portion of the army. Understood?'
The generals nodded agreement, and looked at Dick.
'What are your plans, General Warner?' Christophe said.
Dick licked his li
ps. 'I will hold my men in readiness behind the battery, sire. Once the gates are down, I will prepare to charge the breach. But I will not charge until you have delivered your assault. Should the enemy remain facing me in force, I will hold my men until you appear behind him. Should the enemy remove men from in front of me to stop you, I will charge as soon as his defences are sufficiently thinned.'
'This is good, General Warner,' Christophe said. 'Gentlemen, to your posts.'
But he waited, to clap Dick on the shoulder. 'Take care, Matt. Take care. A man who exposes himself as you do, courts death. Not even Murat led a cavalry charge as recklessly as you. But then, perhaps not even Murat had your talent, your courage. Take care.'
He mounted his waiting horse, and Dick watched him go. There had been more than affection in the farewell, although he thought that Christophe did feel affection for him. But there was also the concern of a commanding officer for his most successful subordinate.
So then, did he court death? He walked to his mount, and his attendant held his stirrup. La Chat, now colonel, was already in the saddle, the brigade of horse, eleven hundred men, were patiently waiting. They would wait forever, or they would ride forever, behind the white man. Over the past two years he had led them in a dozen madcap charges, through the greatest hail of fire the enemy could put up, over broken ground and through rushing streams, always in the front, always with his sword pointing forward, always with his heart pumping exhilaration through his arteries, always with the blood lust clouding
his
brain. Always the first to strike his enemy dead.
The fact was, he did not care whether he lived or died. He was aware of being happy. But what a terrible confession to make, that he was a commanding general in a savage army, fighting in the most brutal of wars, living only for death and destruction . . . and he was happy. He had left the roadway, that first day, and vomited in a bush. Not at the overwhelming excitement. Not even at the blood which had stained his gauntlets, smothered his arms, splashed against his chest. But at the look of pitiful understanding which had crossed the faces of the two Frenchmen, when they had realized that they were about to die, despite the fact of their captor being a European.
But he had not vomited since.
It was nearly dawn. The breeze was chill, and in the distance, perhaps in the town they would attack, a cock crowed and a dog barked.
He drew his sword. It made a hard, blood-tingling rasp in his scabbard. And behind him there came eleven hundred equally blood-tingling rasps. Where was the Richard Hilton who had stammered in Colonel Taggart's parlour? Where was the Richard Hilton who had been unable to face Captain Lanken? Where was the Richard Hilton who had been afraid of Ellen Taggart and her mother, who had lain in the corridor of the Park Hotel in Kingston, while a bully stood above him?
Had that Richard Hilton ever existed? Or had he been no more than a dream?
Or was
this
Richard Hilton a dream? Induced by the incantations of a Voodoo priestess? Because he still saw the
mamaloi
before him as he charged, inhaled her as he gasped for breath, knew the softness of her breast, the pulse of her belly, as he gripped his sword. Gislane Nicholson was sixty years old. She could not be less. But her snake god, her Damballah, kept her as she wished to be.