Cartarette sent him some books, but he was not in the mood for reading. He separated each leaf, looking for the message she would also certainly have sent. But someone else had separated the leaves before him; there were dirty finger marks and several of the pages were torn. And Cartarette's message whatever it was, had been removed and destroyed.
Every day he demanded from Owens the right to see his lawyer, and every day he was refused. He had no need of lawyers, Owens said, until he had been charged. 'Well, then, charge me,' he shouted.
'That's up to the authorities,' Owens pointed out.
'I have got to be charged,' Dick insisted, keeping his temper with difficulty. 'Or released. That is English law.'
And Owens smiled. 'But Jamaica is under
martial
law, Mr Hilton. I don't see what you're grumbling at. The longer the delay, the more chance for people to forget their anger at you.'
'Their anger at me?' Dick demanded in amazement.
'Incendiary,' Owens grumbled, and took his leave.
His only straw of hope was the non-return of Judith. Oh, how he longed to see Judith. As the weeks became months he longed to see her almost as much as he longed to see Cartarette, almost as much as he longed to have a hot bath and a decent shave; he was allowed the use of a blunt razor but twice a week, and then under supervision. As if Richard Hilton would ever contemplate suicide, unless driven mad.
But perhaps that was their intention. They did not know of his arrangement with Judith, his arrangement for sanity.
The rain started, in early summer. By then it was so hot in his cell he stripped to his breeches, and lay on his bed, and thought of Cartarette, of riding with her around Hilltop, of sleeping with her in the enormous
four-poster
, of hearing her laugh and stroking her hair. Of knowing she was there.
Owens' boots, on the stone. He sat up. He had breakfasted some time before.
The key turned in the lock, Owens stepped inside, closed the door again, handed the key to the Negro sub-warder, waiting in the corridor. 'Rain,' he said. 'I like to hear the rain, pattering on the roof. This cell is the best for that. Nearest to heaven, you could say.'
'Is this a social call?' Dick inquired.
'You could say that. Oh, aye. A social call.'
Dick leaned against the wall; the stone was cool, and no doubt Owens would get around to whatever he wanted to say in his own good time.
'It won't be long now, Mr Hilton,' Owens said. 'Do you know, there hasn't been a hanging in a week? All those that need it are dead. Oh, they're licked. They'll not revolt again, not in a hundred years. Oh, we taught them a lesson, we did.'
'I'm sure you did,' Dick agreed.
Owens inspected his fingernails. 'They'll be getting around to people like you soon enough, now.' 'I can hardly wait.'
'You should be happy to wait, Mr Hilton. The planters aren't in a forgiving mood. Oh, no. They'll get to you. They'll get to them all. They'll get even to those they can't put in a court. Oh, yes.'
Dick sat up again. 'What did you say?' 'I said . . . aye?'
For Dick had seized his shirt front. 'What? Who have they got to, that they can't put into court? My wife?'
'No. Now look here, Mr Hilton, you let me go. I'll have you put in solitary, I will.'
'Oh, you're a humorist, Owens,' Dick said.
'Bread and water.'
'Funnier and funnier. You won't be doing anything with a broken neck, and they
will
have cause to hang me. Who, God damn it?'
Owens licked his lips. 'That little bit of yours.' 'Judith? My God, Judith? What happened to her?' 'Took her out, they did. From her own house.' 'Took her out? Who took her out?'
'Why
...
it was the Union, most people say. Who's to know? When those fellows ride abroad people keep their curtains drawn.'
'Oh, my God. Where is Judith?'
'Well, I wouldn't know. People living down King Street say they heard her screaming and fighting. But it weren't no good, against half a dozen men.'
'Half a dozen men? Where was the military?'
'Well, Mr Hilton, the military have enough fighting to do with the blacks. They ain't anxious to start fighting the whites as well. Not when those same whites pay their wages. You letting me go, or I'm shouting for help?'
Dick let him go. Throttling Owens would hardly help either Judith or himself. And he had been congratulating himself because she hadn't come.
Owens stood up, dusted himself off. 'Thought you'd like to know, Mr Hilton. Thought you'd like to know. Boy,' he bawled. 'Come let me out.'
'Owens,' Dick said. 'If you want to avoid being throttled when I am finally released from here, find out what happened to Judith Gale. Find out where she is now. And find out who was responsible. Names. Owens. I wish names.'
The Negro was at the door, and it was swinging in. Owens got on the far side, closed it, and turned the key. Then he smiled at Dick.
'Thought you'd like to know, Mr Hilton. As for finding out, well, it ain't altogether safe to go asking questions about the Union. But the word is they gave her something to be remembered by. They cut a
‘T
on each cheek.
‘T
, Mr Hilton, for traitor, you know.'
How he sweated, at the thought of it. Judith Gale. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and the most tragic. Her tragedy had been being born the daughter of a woman like Harriet. Of being involved with people like the Hiltons. Of knowing him at his worst, instead of at his best.
He tossed on his narrow bed, and dreamed, and heard her laughter, and then with it, her scream of fear. He had never heard Judith Gale scream with fear, in the flesh. But she would have screamed, when exposed to the nightriders of the Union.
And then he heard her feet, in the corridor, crisp, short steps, her heels striking the stone, multiplying as they approached. Closer and closer, they came, Judith Gale, returning to avenge herself on the man responsible for her misery.
He found himself awake, and staring at the ceiling of his cell. And still the feet came. It was only just past dawn. He sat up, turning to look at the cell door, to listen to the scrape of the key in the lock. He stood up, his back against the wall, still uncertain that he was not dreaming, watched the door swing in, gazed at Cartarette.
For a moment he could not speak. The Negro gaoler stood at her shoulder; Owens was not there.
'Mr Hilton?' She spoke hardly more than a whisper. 'Mr Hilton?' She crossed the cell. 'Dick? My God, what have they done to you?'
It was, after all, no dream. He could inhale her scent, he could touch her, if he dared move. His fingers closed on her arms, slipped up them to her should
ers, held her face to kiss her li
ps.
'Cartarette. Cartarette. They have let you see me?'
'You are free, Dick. Free.' She clung to him for a moment then stepped back. 'Free.'
'Free?' he repeated stupidly. 'But. . .'
'A ship arrived yesterday, dearest Dick,' she said. 'Bringing a new Governor, the Earl of Mulgrave.'
'Harry Phipps? I had supposed him too old for such a post.'
'Sir Henry Phipps died last year,' Cartarette said. 'This is his son, Constantine. A young man, Dick, not yet thirty-five. A man of vigour. A man of the Whigs. Dick.' She clung to his arm again. 'A Bill is being prepared, to emancipate the slaves. It will be law by this time next year.'
'But. . . will they accept such a thing, here?'
'They must. The Colonial Church Union has been outlawed. All surviving insurgents are to be amnestied. And Richard Hilton of Hilltop to be set free. The Governor himself waits to see you, Dick. But he gave me the privilege of taking you from this place.'
'Free.' He allowed himself to be pulled towards the door. He listened to his own feet on the stone of the corridor. He stood on the top step and gazed at the empty exercise yard, still bathed in shadow, as the sun had not risen far enough to reach it, and at the rows of windows which surrounded it. And seized her arm once more. 'Harris? Barker?'
'They too will be free this day. But the Governor wishes the prisoners released one by one. He will have no more cause for riot.'
He went down the steps, Cartarette holding his arm, crossed the yard, found Owens himself waiting at the main gate.
'Ah, a happy day, Mr Hilton. A happy day.'
Dick gazed at him, and the warder flushed.
'You'll understand much of what I said was jest, Mr Hilton. What? I tried to keep up your spirits, nothing less, sir.'
'Oh, aye,' Dick said. 'You did that. Cartarette. Where is Judith Gale?'
Some of the pleasure left her face. 'At Hilltop.' 'Hilltop? But. . .'
'I could do no less, Dick. She is half out of her mind with fear and shame. I can only pray your release will give her some peace.'
'You are a treasure, Cartarette. You know the truth, of her and me?'
She glanced at him. 'She is a wreck, Dick. I could forgive her anything. I have forgiven her everything. Mama,' she shouted, dragging him across the street to where the phaeton waited. 'Here he is.'
Dick hesitated, glancing from left to right. But at this hour in the morning the street was empty. The Earl of Mulgrave was obviously at once a thoughtful and intelligent man. And there was Suzanne, waiting to take his hands, to hold him close.
'Dick. Oh, Dick. I never doubted. But the news . . . Cartarette has told you the news?'
'She has.'
'It is the seal on your father's life. I must get back to him.' She smiled, as archly as ever in her youth. 'After I have shown you what we have done for Hilltop.'
'Then let's be out there.'
'The Governor . . .'
'Can wait. I'll see him after I have avenged Judith Gale.'
Cartarette picked up the reins, flicked them over the horse's back. The equipage moved down the street. 'No one knows who they were.'
'Judith must.'
'I doubt even she does. It is said they never speak a word on their midnight rides. What they must do is all planned beforehand, every man knowing exactly his task. This silence is part of the terror they spread amongst the blacks.'
'And now the Union is disbanded, will none of them ever be brought to justice?'
'I doubt that, Dick,' Suzanne said. 'Mulgrave's duty is to prepare Jamaica for Emancipation, certainly. But yet must the island remain British, and thus be ruled by white men. He has also to heal old wounds
5
maintain the peace, restore the island's prosperity. He is hoping you will play your part in that.'
'I mean to. But I also mean to track down the men who destroyed Judith. You must see that, Cartarette.'
She leaned across to squeeze his arm. 'I had expected nothing less. I imagine even the Governor expects nothing less. But it cannot cloud your entire life. You have Hilltop to manage, you have your children to father, you have your slaves to free, and you have me to husband. You have spent all but twenty years in constant conflict. Promise me you will learn to live a little, in the last half of your life.'
He looked down at her,
and then across at Suzanne, smili
ng at him.
'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I am a fool. No doubt my brain supposes itself still in that cell. Freedom is not a commodity one thinks about until it has been taken away.' He squeezed both their hands. 'I shall be a happy husband, a happy son, a happy father, I swear it.' The phaeton was already leaving the town behind, and beginning its climb into the mountains. 'How could a man be less than happy,' he shouted. 'In Jamaica.'
So, once again, that so well remembered road. The last time the three of them had ridden here had been in the dawn, with conch shells whistling, with the certainty of death and destruction awaiting them. And the unknown beyond that.
Now that was in the past. There was so much to be done. There was Judith to be avenged. There was the problem of Emancipation to be faced. There would be an inevitable drop in the plantation profits. The great days of the plantocracy, of buying and selling men, politicians not less than slaves, were finished. But that had been a shadowy, unreal world. The future remained there for the taking, without a troubled conscience, without a constant look over the shoulder, without a constant apprehension of the morrow.