'And what happened there?' Matt seized the captain's collar. 'What happened?'
'There was a massacre, Mr. Matthew. It is too horrible a tale to tell.'
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.'
'But you do not know,' Matt insisted. 'No one knows. Caiman, you'll navigate me back there?'
'Oh, aye, Mr. Matthew. I've caught my breath.'
'You'll allow me the use of the sloop, Robert,' Matt said.
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. Allow you the use of the sloop, Matt? I shall master her myself.'
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He peered through his telescope at the smoke pall which hung above Cap Frangois.
'At least the city still stands,' Matt said, identifying the flags.
'Or it is some ruse on the part of the insurgents,' Caiman muttered.
'Come, come, sir, you grant these black fellows far too much ability and cunning,' Robert declared. 'Stand in, man, stand in. The sooner we are ashore the better.'
Sail was shortened, and the
Desiree
altered course to enter the harbour. This was all but deserted; clearly every ship with a cargo had been evacuated - those that remained were equally clearly empty, and being retained by the authorities for the removal of the white women and children, should the worst befall. And that this could happen was equally clear. As the sloop approached the docks those on board could hear the rattle of musketry and the deeper boom of cannon.
'A battle, by God,' Robert shouted, his face purple with excitement. 'I have never been in a battle. By God, what fun it will be.'
Matt wiped the sweat from his forehead. This would be nothing like the Saintes, where two Christian adversaries had done their best to destroy each other for nearly a week, and then, the issue decided, had settled down once again to live like civilized opponents. This issue would be decided either on the gallows and the wheel, or in the charnel house that would be Cap Francois, should the city fall.
'You'll arm your men, Caiman,' Robert decided, as the anchor was let go and the jolly-boat swung out. 'And put back again for a second load. Volunteers only.'
'But...' Caiman gazed at Matt. The crew of the
Desiree
was composed of slaves.
'They are English, by God,' Robert declared. 'Those people out there are French. There can be no liaison between them. Now let us make haste.'
The boat pulled for the shore. Now it was possible to see that parts of the city were burning, and although it was not yet midday, the pall of smoke which hung across the sky, drifting slowly on the gentle breeze, quite disguised the sun.
'Your business, messieurs?' shouted a soldier from the dockside. 'No blacks may land here.'
'By God,' Robert said, and jumped ashore. 'You'll not refuse me, by God. We are come to assist you.'
'How goes the battle?' Matt asked.
The corporal shrugged. 'We are holding them, monsieur. That is the fourth assault. You must grant them courage. Men and women, monsieur. Even some children. They come at us like people possessed. Indeed, they are possessed, as it is said they are inspired entirely by witchcraft.'
'What news of the coast?'
'There is no news of the coast, monsieur. But it is in black hands. That is all I know. Perhaps the colonel...'
'Where is this fellow?' Robert demanded.
The corporal looked shocked. 'On the wall, monsieur. Where else?'
'We'll see him. Come, man, our own people are involved.'
The corporal hesitated, then called one of his guard. 'The white men,' he said. 'Not the blacks.'
'But surely you have blacks inside the city?' Matt asked.
'Oh, indeed, monseiur. Some we have hanged, the rest are imprisoned.'
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. There is a pretty situation, if you like.' But he hurried behind the soldier, followed by Matt, while Caiman took the jolly-boat back to the ship. They made their way through empty streets and between shuttered houses, although occasionally a window was opened and a face looked out. Always a female face, frightened and distraught. The only men to be seen were street-corner patrols, making sure of internal discipline. At each the little party was stopped, and the soldier had to explain the names and intentions of the two Englishmen. And now, as noon arrived, the rain began, sucked down from the mountain-tops by the heat and the cataclysm on the plain, to rattle on the paving-stones with a consistency which even drowned the sounds of the muskets.
But it was hot rain, and caused the equally hot stones to steam, and it was a hot day, as the breeze entirely died; they sweated from within while their clothes were soaked from without.
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God. But this climate is worse than Jamaica.'
'The very heavens wish to take part in our struggle, monsieur,' said the soldier.
They reached the foot of the walls, and found themselves in the midst of dozens of bodies, soldiers and armed civilians, some dead, others wounded, lying in what shade they could procure, groaning and cursing, calling out for water. The surgeons and female volunteers moved around them, relieving where they could.
‘I seek Colonel Morhan,' the soldier said. 'I seek Colonel Morhan.'
'On the wall,' he was told. 'On the wall.'
He led them up the steps, and was checked by a bayonet. 'Only combatants on the wall. You know that, soldier.'
'I have two Englishmen,' the soldier explained, and shrugged, as if to indicate to his comrade he was not responsible.
'Volunteers,' Matt said. 'We have arms.'
'By God,' Robert said. 'Oh, aye, we'll volunteer.'
'We wish to see Colonel Morhan.'
The sentry hesitated, and then shouldered his musket, and they emerged on to the comparative coolness of the wall itself, immediately finding themselves opposite an embrasure, through which they could not resist an inspection of the field. For the battle had died away, as the pouring rain had soaked the insurgents' powder.
From the city gate, which was shut and barred a few feet to their right, Robert and Matt looked down on the road which ran west across the coastal plain and towards the plantations. The road was covered with black bodies, thrown about in the grotesque ballet of death, as was the field beyond, and stretching around the curving wall into other fields. And already the great crows were circling high above the city, as there was a gigantic buzz of insects from all around. And the battle had been going on, time and again, for some days. The stench was enough to make a man retch.
But the dead were dead. Matt gazed across the plain, at the dense masses which waited in the rain perhaps a mile from the gates, where the cleared area ended and the first of the trees began. At this distance it was impossible to make out anything except that they were black, and that they were there. After several unsuccessful assaults and a considerable number of casualties, they were still there, slaves, men and women of many countries, Yorubas, and Ibos, Mandingoes and Negroes, united for the first time in their histories in their common hatred for the race which had enslaved them.
For a moment he felt almost afraid of them, of himself, of every white West Indian, for unleashing this force in their search for profit and more profit.
'You wish to speak with me, messieurs?' Colonel Morhan was not a tall man, but was extremely broad, with equally wide moustaches. His white vest and breeches were stained with powder, and his blue coat was torn. He looked tired.
'We are Hiltons, monsieur,' Robert said. 'My sister is Madame Corbeau.'
'Madame Corbeau,' the colonel said. 'Ah.' He held out his hand, palm uppermost. 'The rain has stopped.'
'We wish news of Rio Blanco, monsieur,' Matt said. 'We wish to know if it is possible to get out there.'
Morhan looked at him, and then turned away. 'Indeed it is, monsieur. You have but to walk through those people. Bugler. Sound the alarm.'
Matt ran back to the embrasure, and watched the black mass beginning yet another move forward. And now he could distinguish the swords and the muskets.
'They come like the waves on the sea,' Morhan said. 'There is no cessation. I, monsieur, I fought in America. And there were courageous men, those farmers and traders, who seized their weapons and opposed the redcoats. But not so courageous as these. Why, sir, we kill a hundred of them in every charge, and still they come.'
'And how many of you do they kill, on every charge?' Robert asked.
'Too many, monsieur. Too many. The odds are in their favour. If we could but bring that fellow down.' He pointed and Matt and Robert looked in the direction of his finger. In front of the black army there marched a huge man, sword held at the end of his extended arm, pointing forward.
'They say he is called Boukman,' Morhan said. 'And he is a priest of the voodoo. He walks like that before every assault, and we shoot at him, and he still walks. And where he walks, they will follow. Prepare your pieces,' he bawled, and there was a rattle and a click along the battlements as the soldiers and the volunteers primed their muskets, and waited.
'Behind the priest,' Matt said. 'What is that?'
Morhan stated in turn. 'Ah, that is the priestess who accompanies him. A mulatto, would you believe it? She too marches to battle, and away again. But she is no more than his woman. If we could bring that fellow down ... prepare to fire,' he bawled, and his lieutenants passed the word along. For the mob in front of them was increasing in speed, beginning to trot forward, and now muskets were exploding in dots of red, and swords were clashing.
'By God,' Robert said. 'We can handle muskets, monsieur.'
Morhan glanced at him. 'Then take two, Mr. Hilton. There are sufficient.'
Matt ran down the steps to where the wounded and the dead lay, seized two muskets and two cartouches, hurried back up the battlements. These were already shrouded in noise and smoke as the defenders fired.
'Load,' shouted Colonel Morhan, running up and down. 'Load, you devils. Get in there, monsieur, and fire.' He seized an astonished Robert by the shoulder and hurled him at an embrasure where a soldier was slowly sinking to the ground, blood pouring from his head. Robert levelled the musket and squeezed the trigger. Matt took the next embrasure, aimed into the dense mass, now right under the walls, fired again, and found himself staring at the red-gowned figure of the
mamaloi,
unarmed, but pointing at the walls. It was too far away to distinguish any of her features, but her whole body was a consumed surge of hate and anger.
'Load,' shrieked Colonel Morhan. 'Fire. Load. Fire.'
Something struck the stone beside Matt's head and he ducked, and waited for the shock of pain. But there was none, and he was again aiming his musket, squeezing the trigger, not knowing where his bullet had gone, confident that it must strike home in the dense mass beneath him, then turning away to crouch as he rammed the bullet home and bit the end from his cartridge, gazing the while at Robert's feet as his cousin in turn fired and then turned back to load.
And as he straightened, listening to an immense moan which seemed to shroud the entire day. He pushed his head through the embrasure, gazed at the Negroes, falling back from the wall, and at Boukman, on his knees, the uplifted sword at last drooping to the ground.
'A sortie,' Morhan shouted. 'Follow me. We must have that fellow.'
Matt watched in fascinated horror, as the red-robed
mamaloi
attempted to run forward to kneel beside her priest, and was in turn restrained by another huge black man, wearing a cocked hat and carrying a cavalry sabre. The priestess turned and struck at her captor, but he evaded her blow and pinioned her arms, and shouted orders at his people, as they scattered towards the forest, some unashamedly throwing away their weapons and running for shelter, while the garrison continued to fire after them and bring them to the ground.
But now the gates were opened, and Colonel Morhan led his men forward. Boukman had slumped on the earth, his arm still extended. Morhan stood over him for a moment, and the cry came up. 'The blacks are rallying. To your posts.'
For indeed the retreating mass had stopped, and some were again advancing, and kneeling to fire their muskets. Morhan looked at them for a moment, then his right arm swung, right over his head, to bite into the earth as it severed the dead man's neck. Morhan stooped again, and then stood erect, his sword arm now thrust into the sky, his blade topped by the bleeding head.
There is your priest,' he shouted. 'There is your
hougan.'
A roar of approbation came from the walls, and the colonel turned, and walked back inside, and the gates clanged shut, while from the watching blacks there came another moan of horror and despair, and they resumed their retreat.
Morhan mounted the steps, handed his sword to a lieutenant. 'Hoist that high,' he said. 'Let it rot, above the battlements, where they can look at it. We'll not have one of the priests claiming he is not truly dead.'
Robert seized his arm. 'That was well done, colonel. Now you have won. Now we can get after those people.'
Morhan turned. 'Get after them?' he asked incredulously. 'My God, sir, are you mad? Once we desert these walls for that forest we are done.'
'But the plantations, man,' Matt cried. There may be white people alive.'
'Out there?' Morhan almost smiled. 'You are dreaming, monsieur. These devils do not take captives. Nor do we, of them. There will be nobody alive out there, sir, if his or her skin be white.'
‘Yet must we be sure,' Robert insisted.
Morhan shook his head. 'No, monsieur. My responsibility is to the living, inside Cap Francois. We hold these walls, until I receive sufficient reinforcements to disperse the blacks once and for all. I have sent for them. They will be here within another week.'
'Another week?' Matt shouted.