He had nearly thought the word, young.
The drums rolled across the forest, and with them, the sudden bark of the cannon, which had been placed in position some hours earlier, while it had yet been light. But it was again light. The Caribbean dawn, sudden and stark, was bathing the scene. They could look at the town, or the village, the frontier post, as Christophe would have it, at the rounded wood of the palisades, at the glimmer beyond, the candles glowing in the houses, the fires burning for the cannon which would reply, in due course. And those inside the palisades, the mulattoes and their French allies, could look out, at the flash of the guns, at the myriad forces slowly surrounding them. He wondered what it must feel like to know that one is being surrounded, that there is nothing to be done, but to stand and fight, and conquer or die. He had never been in that position. In all his dozen charges he had done the conquering. So then, his experience was not yet complete, his courage not yet proved to the hilt. His demoniac courage.
He stood his horse on a mound, above the cannon, and watched them flash, and heard the roar as the balls struck into the palisade, and listened to the crackle of the timbers and to the drumbeat, rolling out of the forest.
The gates were down, the timbers scattered. Beyond, in the first sunlight, and the firelight now, as well, for several buildings were already burning, he saw the enemy battery, four field cannon of light calibre, drawn up to face the anticipated gap. Of light calibre, but sufficient to tear gaps in his brigade, to demolish a man. Even a devil from hell.
His time was not yet. He waited, and listened to the sudden cacophony from away on the right. He levelled his telescope, stared into the distance. Behind the cannon, there was drawn up a regiment of men. The main defences. They were there, and they were staying there. Or were they?
'Look, General,' La Chat said, pointing.
A company was wheeling away from the regiment, then another. From the far side of the village there came a series of explosions, a sudden brighteni
ng of the flame light, as Chris
tophe's soldiers fired the houses immediately within the wall. The houses
within
the wall.
The men in front of him, those that remained, were wavering. Dick rose in his stirrups, his sword swinging round his head. 'Aieeeeee,' he screamed. 'Charge.'
The morning filled with looming sound as eleven hundred horses surged into the trot, then the canter, then the gallop.
There would be a crush in the gate mouth. But not for him. He drove his spurs in, and his mount rose, over the batteries, leaving the frightened gunners gaping up at him. The cannon in front of him spoke, once, but was he not protected, as he was inspired, as his arm was guided, by the power of the
mamaloi?
And unharmed, he was in the gateway, his sword thrust forward, to take the first gunner, who ran at him armed with no more than a ramrod, in the chest. Blood flew, spurted into his face. But he had come to anticipate the blood, spurting in his face. Battle, victory, would not be complete without it. He threw back his head, gave another scream of triumphant joy, and sliced into the shoulder of the next man who would oppose him, while behind him his dragoons uttered shrill cries as they spread across the square, crashed through the ranks of men opposed to them.
There was a standard. H
ow incredibly European. Christo
phe's men did not fight beneath a standard. They wished only the beat of the drums, the sight of the huge figure of the Emperor. But in Petion's army the standard must mark the position of the commanding general, especially as it flew in front of a house, and the house was guarded by a company of men.
'To me,' he bawled, reining his horse and rising in the stirrups to wave his sword. Someone fired a musket at him; he could feel the hot air of the ball almost slapping his face. But the man was immediately cut down by his dragoons as they reformed their ranks. 'That flag,' he shouted, and urged his own horse forward.
The protecting guardsmen fired, but it was a hasty, ill-aimed volley. Their morale had been shattered by the swift destruction of the gate and the artillery, by the rising roar of victory which rose from the other side of the town, and came closer all the while. Dick leapt from his saddle at the foot of the steps, La Chat at his side. A man presented a musket to which was attached a bayonet, and Dick swept it aside with a single sweep of his sword, then brought the weapon back to drive deep into the man's body. So hardened was his right arm by now he scarce felt the jar; as the guardsman lurched against the wall, he raised his foot, placed it in the expiring belly, and with a tug withdrew his weapon.
The door had already been hurled open, and the dragoons were swarming in, checked for a moment by a volley which had three of them tumbling to the floor. Dick leapt into their midst, coughing as he entered the smoke-filled interior room, where the noises of the explosion were still reverberating, mingling with the shouts of the men, and the screams of the women.
Of the women? He waved his left hand, dissipating some of the powder smoke, peered at a large room, on the far side of which was a staircase. Before the stairs the remnants of the guard, not more than a score of men, were gathered; on the stairs themselves was a French officer, hatless, his hair scattered and his face stained with powder, but still holding his drawn sword. And on the gallery at the top of the stairs were gathered several women, mostly black or mulattoes, but one, now rising to her feet to look down at the invaders, very definitely white.
'Hold,' Dick shouted, without thinking. And then did think. He was not, then, a savage, after all. His blood lust was still subjected to his instincts. Or was there more?
His men, accustomed to obeying his every command, had checked their weapons, stood instead glowering at their enemies, who, equally bemused, slowly lowered their own swords and muskets, unable to believe that they might actually be receiving a chance at life.
'General?' La Chat inquired.
But Dick was still gazing at the balustrade, as the powder smoke continued to drift away and he could see more clearly. The woman had yellow hair, streaked with red; or was it red hair, streaked with yellow? In the gloom of the morning, the dark faces and dark coats which surrounded her, her hair blazed like a torch. She stared at him, as did everyone else in the room. There were powder stains on her cheeks and forehead, but the dark marks if anything enhanced the whiteness of her complexion. There was hair clustering on her forehead, as it scattered on her shoulders and down her back, long and straight. Her eyes were enormous; he could not see their colour. Her nose was short, and a trifle upturned, her mouth small, and presently open as she gasped for breath. Her chin was smoothly rounded. He thought he could not describe her as beautiful; her face was actually a mass of flaws. But taken together the flaws were deliciously attractive.
Her body was shrouded in a white undressing robe, but he could tell it was at once short a
nd slender, a mere wisp of femi
n
i
nity.
My God, he thought. Her body. And these men wait on my command.
'Throw down your arms,' he said, and was surprised at the harshness of his own voice.
The mulatto guardsmen hesitated, glancing from one to the other, and thence over their shoulders at their general. The white man was frowning.
'You offer us quarter?'
'Throw them down,' Dick said again.
The first guardsman dropped his musket with a clatter. The rest followed his example. The general hesitated for a moment longer, then threw his sword down the stairs.
'We are fortunate,' he said. 'And grateful, monsieur.'
'A
coup de main,
Matt,' Christophe said from the doorway. 'Brilliantly executed.'
Dick turned, his knees suddenly felt weak. How long had he been there? Christophe still wore his hat, but there was a rent in his jacket, and blood on the hilt of his sword.
'The town is ours.' He strode into the room, gazed at the guardsmen, who had huddled together in mutual fear. 'Take them out and hang them.'
The guardsmen stared at him in horror.
'But. . .' Dick said.
'We surrendered on a promise of quarter,' said the white officer.
'You surrendered when commanded to do so,' Christophe said. 'That is at discretion. Take them out.' He was frowning at the white man. 'D'Estaing, as I live and breathe.'
The Frenchman had been looking at his discarded sword. But it was being picked up by one of Dick's dragoons. Now his head jerked.
Christophe's right hand was extended, pointing at him. 'D'Estaing,' he said again. 'Sire,' Dick began.
'That man once had me flogged,' Christophe said.
'He
...
he would make a valuable hostage,' Dick suggested.
'Not him. I will have
him
flogged. Take him outside, La Chat. Strip him and tie him to a triangle. Flog him. Flog him until his bones are laid bare. But slowly, La Chat. One blow every ten seconds. I do not wish him to die quickly.'
D'Estaing licked his lips. His face was pale. But he was a brave man. He looked at Dick. 'I had thought I was surrendering to a man,' he said. 'Not an animal.'
Hands seized his shoulders, and were arrested by a cry from above. 'No. No, you cannot.' The young woman half fell down the stairs. Now she was closer, her resemblance to the Frenchman was easy to see.
'And her mother watched,' Christophe said.
'You cannot be sure,' Dick gasped.
'I remember the hair.'
'You'll not touch her,' d'Estaing said. It was half a command and half a supplication.
'She'll die first,' Christophe said. 'You may watch her being flogged. Strip her, La Chat, and tie her to the triangles. The General will enjoy this. The other women may be given to your men.'
'You are a creature from hell,' d'Estaing said in a low voice.
The girl was staring at Christophe, her mouth slowly sagging open as she understood the enormity of what was about to happen to her.
Christophe smiled at them. 'You place me in that hell, monsieur. Now remember, La Chat. Slowly. She should be able to take a hundred strokes.'
'No,' Dick said. And once again his voice was harsh.
Christophe turned his head, frowning. 'They surrendered at discretion, as you say, sire; my discretion.'
'You know my orders, Matt. You should have let them be killed, in battle.'
'They are my prisoners, sire.' Involuntarily, the hand holding his sword twitched.
As Christophe saw. His frown deepened, and then cleared in another smile. 'Ah. The girl. Very well, Matt. She is yours.'
'Both,' Dick insisted.
Christophe shook his head. 'You have dared to oppose me in public, Matt,' he said in English. 'I can do no less than have you shot, should you continue. But you are known as my closest friend, and you are a white man, who would understandably wish a white woman as his slave. I give her to you. The man dies. Take your choice. The girl, or they both are flogged to death.'
There was no arguing with the decisio
n in his tone. Dick licked his li
ps, glanced at the pair, saw the concentration on their faces. They understood English.
'Take her, monsieur. For God's sake,' d'Estaing begged.
'No,' the girl muttered. 'No.' She clung to her father's arm, stared at Dick.
'Well?' Christophe demanded.
'I will take the girl,' Dick said.
Christophe smiled, slapped him on the shoulder. And was then suddenly serious again. 'But you will do it properly. You have this day revealed a weakness I hoped to have suppressed forever. You . . .' He pointed at d'Estaing. 'Is your daughter a virgin?'
'Of course, Christophe. She is my daughter.'
'Of course,' Christophe mimicked. 'Well, then, Matt. I give her to you. Now. Take her into one of those rooms up there. You will not be disturbed for an hour. Then I will have her examined. Should you have failed to penetrate her, I will give her to my men, for an hour, and then she will be flogged to death. La Chat, take that man outside.'
'No,' the girl whispered. 'No,' she cried. 'No,' she shrieked. Her hands were wrenched from her father's arm, and d'Estaing was marched down the stairs.
'Wait,' Dick said.
La Chat halted, and his men also.
'Do you still wish me to take her?'