'Oh, really? Mobs will find a source of amusement in anything.' He frowned. 'You do not look amused.'
'As I was there, Mr Hilton, I called at the house, to inform Miss Gale when we would be attending her for her affidavit.'
'And?'
'The door was opened by Mr James Hardy.'
'Eh? He wasn't there when I spoke with Miss Gale.'
'Indeed not, sir. Yet he must have been close. He asked my business, and when I said I wished to speak with Miss Gale, he laughed, and said he knew who had sent me, and to tell you that Miss Gale will not be receiving you again. He said, tell that upstart that she is Mr Hilton's witness, not his.'
'He must have set his men on you, and watched the whole affair,' Cartarette said. 'Oh the scoundrel.'
'Aye,' Dick mused. 'And the moment I left, he visited Judith. That poor child. What can he have done to her?'
‘I
did not see the young lady,
sir,' Harris explained. 'But Mr
Hardy's words seemed strange. I visited Lawyer Reynolds on the way here. You'll know Reynolds has been retained by
the
Hilton?'
'I didn't know. But it seems likely.'
'Aye, sir. Well, I told him what had happened, suggested we would be within our rights to bring a charge of assault on Mr Hardy . . .'
'Supposing it could ever be proved,' Dick muttered. He could not get the thought of Judith from his mind. Will he beat you, he had asked. And she had not replied. Except to accept his protection. And what good had that done her? 'I must get round there right away.'
'No,' Cartarette said. 'You may not be so fortunate the next time.'
'Your good lady is right, sir,' Harris said. 'Miss Gale is widely known to be under Mr Hilton's protection. You would have no rights were you to attempt to force an entry. Anyway, the damage has been done. She has signed a deposition against you.'
'Against me? What can she say, against me?'
'Simply this, sir. Miss Gale has testified in writing how she was raped by the real Richard Hilton, as she puts it. She has sworn that she would also have known the man who so cruelly assaulted her—I am quoting—and she is prepared to swear under oath, as she has written under oath, that you are not that man.'
16
The Trial
The sun, huge and round and glowing, dipped in the calm waters of the Caribbean Sea, and in that moment it was dark. Instantly the fireflies commenced their activity, fighting the way for their more noisy fellows the mosquitoes, who came buzzing out of the undergrowth, to follow the
sand-flies
in then-quest for blood.
How memory came back to Richard Hilton, of his very first ride into the Jamaican hinterland, how long ago. Then, as now, the thought had crossed his mind that he might be being lured by his guide to some lonely spot, there to be murdered. But then he had been unarmed, and had had no idea of how to cope with the violence, should it come. And for that reason, perhaps, had not known how to be truly afraid.
This night he was not afraid either. He wore a sword, and there were two loaded pistols attached to his saddle, and another in his coat pocket. He was ready for a fight, and this night he would welcome one. So if the message from the Reverend Strong was nothing more than another of Tony's attempts to save himself by violence, he could count on being accommodated.
He smiled at the back of the Negro youth who rode in front of him, but it was a savage smile. Last week, he remembered, he had realized he felt no animosity towards Tony, or any of Tony's friends. He had not even really felt animosity towards the three men who had intended to beat him. This evening he was angry. He had returned to Judith's house, against the advice of both Cartarette and Harris, and been met by armed
men who had refused him admittance, in the name of Judith Gale. He had been prepared to brush them aside, and Judith had herself called from the upper window, telling him to leave as she did not wish to speak with him. Had it been Judith? Oh, indeed, the voice had belonged to Judith, even if the face itself had been veiled and invisible. But it had been a voice trembling with fear, and perhaps pain, just as each word had been uttered through swollen lips.
And he had offered her his protection. Now he could only offer her his vengeance. When he won his case. If he won his case, now.
And if she would wish his vengeance, after she had been dragged into court to recount the events of that night, sixteen years ago, to be humiliated.
'How much farther?'
The boy turned his head. 'The chapel does be not far now, master.' 'Chapel?'
'Is Mr Strong own chapel, master.'
They threaded through the trees, reached a cleared space, could see the low wooden building, the scattered huts beyond. They must have ridden twenty miles from Kingston, Dick estimated, in the main following the coast, and here was a sheltered bay, a few banana trees, some fishing boats drawn up on the beach, and beyond, the sea.
The boy had stopped his donkey, and was waiting, as black men emerged from the trees on either side.
'Who you got there?' one called.
'Is the white man,' the boy called. 'Come for to see the reverend.'
Dick dismounted. These men were not armed, and they kept their distance. His boots crunched on the sand.
'You had best come close,' said a man, and Dick frowned, his heart giving a sudden leap as he realized he knew the voice. But that was impossible.
He hurried forward, into the light of the fire, gazed at the black man who stood there. The Reverend Strong wore a white shirt and white breeches, black boots. The neck of his shirt was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. But his face had not changed.
'Josh,' Dick cried. 'They said you were dead.'
Joshua peered at him. 'They said the same of you, Mr Richard.'
Dick squeezed the black fingers. 'But you know me.'
The hand returned his squeeze. 'No. But
you
know
me.'
He turned, went into the hut. Dick followed.
'There is some explaining to do.'
'Yes, sir, Mr Richard. You'll take a drink?'
It was a mug of rum. Dick sipped, watched Josh do the same. The hut was filled with black men, waiting, quietly.
'I ran away,' Josh said. 'I had to do that, Mr Richard. You understand?'
'Aye,' Dick said.
'My companions died. One drowned, in a rainstorm. The other was beaten to death.' 'By my brother?' 'By his woman, Mr Richard.' 'Ellen? That's clearly rumour.'
'I watched her, Mr Richard. From up the hill. She rode her mule, behind him, up and down, up and down, flogging. And when he dropped, she dismounted and kept on flogging.'
Dick frowned at him. 'Who else was there?'
'Your brother. He had a gun.' Merriman sighed. 'And I was tired, and frightened. My people are always frightened.'
'You are not frightened now, old friend, or you would not have sent for me.'
‘I
am a Christian, Mr Richard. I have learned how to pray. Alone, in these mountains, starving, afraid, I couldn't do anything else but pray. And my prayer was answered. People helped me, did not ask who I was, or where I came from. I could hide, for years, until I realized I had a duty to my people. So I took a new name, pretended I was from the United States, come to pray for them all. These people believe in me, now. In my prayers. I have prayed for help and understanding, from the missionaries. But I do not believe they understand us. And as for help, they speak loudly when they address us alone, and curl up and crawl away when the planters come close. So I have prayed for help and understanding, from England. And I have heard now they would help and understand. But then we are told how the planters will not obey them, would rather declare independence than obey them. So I despaired, and prayed for a strong right arm. And this prayer has been answered.'
'You would consider Richard Hilton a strong right arm?'
Josh smiled. 'Richard Hilton was a boy. But who in Jamaica has not heard of General Warner, who fought for Christophe? And who in Jamaica has not heard of Richard Hilton, who destroyed three men with a wave of his arm, but a week ago?'
'You would have me lead you into battle?'
'We would have you lead us, Mr Richard. You must say where.'
Dick looked at the black men, waiting in the gloom. Free men, certainly. But they had been slaves, and they had earned their freedom by labour, or gained it through a quirk of white generosity. No man here had fought for it. Besides, the idea was impossible.
'Even generals need armies, Josh,' he said. 'I have no army. Your people's freedom must be an act of law.'
'Jamaican law?' someone growled.
'It will be Jamaican law,' Dick said. 'When the planters show sense.'
'Prayer will not accomplish that,' Josh said.
'I think you are right. But they can still be shown, by example. By
the
Hilton. They will follow his lead. Indeed, they have been following his lead these past fifteen years, which is why things have reached this state.'
'Will you win your claim?' Josh asked. 'I have heard it said there is no one will vouch for you.'
'No white person,' Dick agreed. 'They know I am their enemy, or they are afraid of my brother.'
'And I should not be afraid of your brother?' Josh asked. 'I am a runaway, from Hilltop.'
'It would mean two hundred lashes,' said one of the men.
'If your identification should make me once again
the
Hilton’
Dick said, 'then you have nothing to fear.'
'Would they take the word of a black man?' asked another voice.
'He is a reverend’ said another. 'But a runaway’
said a third.
'They would take the word of a ma
n who risked two hundred lashes’
Dick said.
'And if they do not?' asked a fourth voice.
Dick hesitated. But of course the risk was enormous. He could promise nothing. He had promised Judith his protection, but that had not saved
her.
He looked at Josh, and sighed. 'They are right, Josh. I cannot ask you to do this. The risk
is
too great.'
Josh's turn to hesitate. And then to sigh, in turn. And then to smile. 'I prayed for you to come back, Mr Richard. If you don't get Hilltop back, then none of us ever going to be really free. You send for me, man, when you are ready.'
The tap on the door had him instantly awake, instinctively reaching for the sword which lay by his bed. It was hardly dawn.
Cartarette sighed, and rolled over, her hand on his arm. The tap came again.
Gently he eased himself from the bed, dragged on his breeches, tiptoed to the door, his sword in his hand. He released the bolt, allowed the door to swing in.
'Mr Hilton?' John Mortlake whispered.
'What's amiss?'
'Why, sir, perhaps nothing. There is someone to see you.' 'At this hour? And on this day? Court sits at ten.' 'Aye, sir. There's the mystery, and perhaps the hope. 'Tis Mistress Hilton.'
Dick frowned
into the half-light. 'True, sir’
Mortlake insisted. 'You've an empty room?' 'Next door, sir.'
'Then show her up.' Dick stepped into the corridor, went into the room beside his own, opened the jalousie; light was just reaching along the street. He listened to footsteps in the corridor, watched the door open. He preferred not to anticipate, not to wonder, even. He laid the sword on top of the dressing table.
Ellen stepped inside, closed the door behind herself. She wore a poke bonnet over a black pelisse, and a veil. But there could be no doubting the identity of that tall figure. She hesitated, looking from him around the room, seeing the sword.
'How splendid you look,' she said.
'Even disguised as a monster?'
'Monsters can be splendid.' She released the ribbon under her chin, took off her bonnet, shook out her hair. 'Today is the day. Are you excited?'
'No.' He remained on the far side of the room, watching her.
She placed the bonnet on a chair, glanced at the bed, slowly released her pelisse. 'Are you confident?'
'I am a confident man.'