'But why?' Dick asked. 'We gave him a home, position, money. Tony at the least certainly befriended him.'
'Oh, aye,' she said. 'As your father hanged his father.'
He frowned at her. Suzanne slowly lifted her head. 'James Hardy is Hodge's son?'
'Oh, aye,' she said. 'Do you not find it amusing, dear Mama, that the son of the man your husband murdered should have been the real ruler of Hilltop these past sixteen years? Oh, he enjoyed that. He enjoyed knowing that he could step aside, whenever he chose, and watch all the Hilton wealth, the Hilton power, crumble into dust. He was considering doing just that, when Dick reappeared. Then he could sit back and watch the pair of them destroy each other. There was amusement, Mama. Oh, how we laughed. Hiltons.'
'You foul thing,' Suzanne said, slowly rising from beside her dead son. 'You . . .'
But Dick no longer heard her. He leapt into the saddle of Tresling's horse, kicked its flanks, sent it bursting through the trees. Hardy—or Hodge—could not be far. And the trees were hardly more than a fringe. In a matter of moments he emerged beyond them, once again on the road leading up into the hills. Behind him he heard more hooves. But this was his business. Perhaps in his heart he had always known it would be his business, in the end.
And there in front of him was the little figure, crawling into the mountains. Running for his life. As if any man could escape the anger of Richard Hilton, of Matthew Warner, Christophe's cavalry commander.
He set his horse at the slope, and it scrambled up. Hardy paused to look back, and his face cleared as he realized he was pursued by only one man. He stopped, and panted, waiting for his breath to settle. He once again reached beneath his cloak, whipped out a machete.
'Both,' he said. 'Both.'
Dick reined, dismounted. Here was what he had wanted to do, for all those weeks in prison. To fight. To hurt. To kill.
Hardy grinned. 'Both,' he said again, and thrust the knife forward. And then frowned, as Dick merely continued walking towards him. 'Are you mad?'
Dick was now within five feet. Hardy sucked air into his lungs, rose on the balls of his feet, thrust, with sudden desperate energy. The hillside became a sandpit, the morning became hot and still, and Hodge's face became that of a black man. Only the knife was constant. The knife, and the surging angry exhilaration.
Dick swayed to one side, and the knife scraped through his coat, slicing his flesh as well to bring a sharp thrill of pain. His left hand descended to seize the wrist before it could withdraw, his iron fingers eating into the flesh. Hodge gave a gasp of pain and attempted to bring up his knee, but Dick's fist had already closed and was smashing into the unprotected jaw. Hardy's head jerked and he fell backwards, and the knife slipped from his fingers. Dick released his wrist and hit him again before he could fall, then stooped to twine his fingers in the cape, bring the man back to his feet, and hit him twice more.
Hardy lay on the stony ground, scarce breathing. Dick stooped once more, wrapped his fingers around the sallow, beard-stubbled throat, lifting the inert body from the ground as he squeezed.
'Dick,' Cartarette said.
He hesitated, his ringers still tight.
'Your mother waits alone, holding ten villa
ins at gunpoint,' Cartare
tte said. 'Besides, there is a law, for such as he. For such as the woman. I would have you, us, done with killing.'
The slaves filed slowly down the hill, away from Hilltop, back to their village. They chattered amongst themselves as they walked. Perhaps they thought themselves dreaming.
Certainly Boscawen thought himself dreaming. He approached Richard Hilton, slowly, uncertainly.
'Man, Mr Dick, sir,' he said. 'Is true what you told them people? That they going to be free?'
True,' Dick said, 'You as well, old man.'
Boscawen stared at him for some moments. Then he slowly took off his wig to scratch his head. 'Ayayayay,' he remarked, and went towards his pantry.
Dick turned back to look at his plantation. He had worked hard these six months; so had his slaves, for the last time as slaves. The cane was growing again, the town and the village had been rebuilt, the factory re-roofed. Hilltop looked as it had always looked in the past; it was impossible to suppose that a year ago several thousand men had charged up this hill, shouting for blood, and that each one of those loopholes behind him had belched death and destruction. Impossible to believe. That was as it should be.
Judith waited in the doorway, veiled, as always now.
'Cartarette wishes me to stay.'
'So do I.'
She walked to the verandah rail, looked at the plantation.
‘I
loved Tony, Dick. Do you know that?' 'I suspected it.'
'Even when he was cutting me, I loved him.' She turned. 'Only him.' 'I understand that.'
'But the only happiness I ever knew, was here.' 'Then you'll stay,' he said. 'And be our friend.'
He went inside, climbed the stairs. Suzanne had her trunk in the middle of the floor, was packing, helped and hindered by her grandchildren. Cartarette sat on the bed. 'There was no noise.'
'They listened, in silence, and then went back to their homes, in silence. I suppose they do not really believe it. I cannot really believe it myself.'
He sat beside his wife. 'Must you go in such haste, Mama?'
Suzanne pushed herself to her feet, a grandchild's hand in each of hers, smiled at them. 'Of course. Matt is waiting for me. And besides I can do no more here. I would be nothing more than a nuisance. Just be sure, when I decide to visit you again, Hilltop is ready for me.'
'Hilltop will be ready, Mama,' Cartarette said. 'Hilltop will stand forever, and be Hilton, forever.'
the end