'That is too long for us, sir,' Robert said. 'We'll go alone, if you'll not assist us.'
'Out there?' Morhan was horrified as he realized the Englishmen were serious. 'You are demented, monsieur. I'll not permit it. No gate will open for you.'
'No gate,' said Henri Ledon. 'But there is the ocean.'
'Ledon,' Matt shouted. 'What do you here?'
'Why, Mr. Hilton, I fight, as do you.'
'And Rio Blanco?'
'I have no idea, sir. I was away when this business started, and since my return my crew will not leave the safety of Cap Francois. But if you would wish it, sir, I can show you where to anchor and how to get ashore.'
'But I forbid it,' Morhan protested.
"You command the land, sir,' Robert declared. 'But you have no command over the waves. I'll take my sloop.' He limped for the steps.
'Mad,' Morhan groaned. 'Mad. Restrain him, monsieur, I beg of you.'
Matt looked up at the bleeding head of Boukman, being slowly hoisted on the flagpole which surmounted the battlements. 'Not mad,' he said. 'Desperate, monsieur. Be sure that were there any white captives when this day dawned, they will hardly now survive the night.'
'There, sir, there,' Ledon said. 'You may even see the
chateau
through the trees, if it still stands.'
The sloop hardly did more than drift before the light breeze. It was again early morning, and although there were heavy clouds over the mountains, these had not yet descended towards the shore. It was indeed a heavenly day, with the sun just gaining in heat, the sky and the sea a matching blue and a matching calm. Gone were the stenches and the shrieks of the previous day, the ever-present suggestion of horror. And yet, Matt realized as he levelled his telescope, horror was their business this day. Horror was what they anticipated, what they knew they must expect.
'I can see the
chateau'
he said. Through the trees, the sun glinted on white.
Robert was inspecting the beach. 'And no niggers.'
'Yet they are there, sir,' Caiman objected. 'We know they are there.'
'What do you think, Ledon?'
The Frenchman hesitated, chewing his lip. 'It is hard to say, monsieur. Perhaps they still wait, in the trees beyond Cap Francois. Perhaps the death of their general has destroyed them, and they flee for the mountains.'
'Bah,' Robert said. 'That fellow was no general. And we do no work by arguing here. Hand sail, Caiman, and prepare a boat. And your cannon.'
Caiman looked down at the single piece the sloop mounted amidships. Then he shrugged, and gave the necessary orders.
'You'll come with us, Ledon,' Robert declared. 'But we'd best not take any of the crew. And we'll be as careful as we can. You understand.'
Matt nodded. This day he wore a sword, and there was a pistol at his belt. He had become, after all, a soldier, to war upon the very people to whom he had devoted his life. But then, they had elected to war on him, first, in the person of Sue. And his children. Oh, Christ, Sue, and the children. For more than a week now he had dared not think of them, dared not suppose what might have happened to them, what might still be happening to them. But now he would know.
And what then, he wondered?
The boat approached the beach, perhaps a hundred yards from where the pale-watered river debouched into the sand, forming a miniature estuary of drying banks and flooded waterways, before rushing against the gentle surf. And the water remained clear, and almost white.
Beyond was a fringe of trees, empty and silent. And then sound. They looked at each other, unsure. Perhaps it was the tumbling water. Except that it seemed to come from everywhere before them, a gigantic hum, rippling across the morning.
Ledon frowned. 'They are working the factory' he said half to himself.
'They? The blacks you mean?' Robert demanded.
Ledon shrugged. 'And yet... it sounds muted.'
'Let's get ashore,' Matt said. For he suddenly remembered that he had heard such a sound before, and only yesterday. Fie pointed above the trees, where the crows circled, lazily, and every so often dipped lower to vanish beyond the branches. 'There are no living people here.'
The boat grounded, the three white men climbed over the bow and stamped on the sand. 'You'll keep your place off shore,' Robert commanded the Negro coxswain. 'We may return in haste.'
'Oh, yes, Mr. Hilton, sir,' the slave agreed. 'We won't let any ignorant black fellow get you, sir.'
'Aye,' Robert said. "You'd best see to it.' He drew his sword and stumped up the sand, tricorne tilted back on his head, left hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Ledon and Matt walked behind. And what did the seaman think, Matt wondered? Because he must have had more friends on this plantation than anyone. Yet his face was impassive, if grim. No doubt he had also by now recognized the hum.
Ledon led the way, through the trees, to emerge on to the lawn. But there was no grass to be seen, only trampled mud. And the first bodies, a cluster of three black men. And a crow, pecking at the eyes, casting a disgusted look at the living men who approached him, and then flapping his wings as he rose from the ground. With him rose the flies and the bees, the flying ants and the beetles. The hum became louder.
And the stench settled around them like a miasma. This massacre was a fortnight old, and yet the smell, of death, of fear, of overstrained emotion, lingered. What must it have smelt like, a fortnight ago, Matt wondered?
They hurried, now. There was no reason to linger. They passed more black men, and women, lying dead and distorted on the marble drives and the marble staircases leading to the patios. But these were merely dead, and in some cases even peaceful, save for the bullet wounds. On the patios they paused, to retch, and cover their faces with their kerchiefs. Here the main work of execution had been conducted. Here there were white men, and women. And children. Here the faces were themselves distorted, as they had died, screaming with pain and screaming for mercy. Here the word mutilation became meaningless. Here was a butcher's shop, in which arms and legs and breasts and heads could not be reasonably connected, in which strands of golden hair formed patterns in the rusty blood, and the insects had to be swept aside with waves of the arms.
These were not men,' Ledon cried. These were beasts.'
Robert said nothing. He picked his way through the corpses, past the shattered doors, stood in the great hall, surveyed the bodies lying here and on the great staircase, the huge paintings, dragged from their hooks and smashed, the pink and white upholstery, scoured and scratched and torn. And the plump white woman, naked, suspended from the landing by her pale brown hair, still swinging gently in the draught which whispered through the house, the agony on her face, the gaping wounds in her chest and belly, the fire blackened mess which had been her feet, testifying to everything she had suffered before death, to the eternity death must have been in coming.
'You'd set these people free,' Robert said. It was not a question.
Matt ran, up the stairs, paused on the landing, leaned over, and with a single sweep of his sword sliced through Georgiana's hair. She fell to the floor of the hall with a dull sound, landed at Robert's feet. But Matt was on his way again, ranging along the corridors, hurling open doors to gaze at the shattered bloody interiors, pausing in horror as his nostrils were freshly afflicted by the tang of smouldering wood. But the fire had consumed only a small part of the back of the house. The rest was dead.
In time, he never knew how much time, he found the room he sought, the room he could recognize from the few tattered garments which lay scattered over the floor. But the room was empty.
After another eternity he found another room he sought, and here discovered the trampled remains of an elderly white woman, and what must have been two children. The sight brought his heart and his stomach welling to his throat. But these were not his. Of that he was sure.
He found himself once again on the main staircase, his stomach rolling, his mind whirling. Where Robert still stood, and stared.
'You'd free these things,' he said.
Matt looked at his cousin, and at Georgiana. 'Why have you not buried her?'
'Buried her? That would be blasphemy, where I cannot bury them all.' At last he raised his head. 'Sue?'
'Not there. Neither are Tony or Richard, I'm sure.'
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.'
For if death had been so terrible, in the hands of rebels who had so much and so long to avenge, it was impossible to consider life.
'Neither is Monsieur Corbeau.' Ledon stood in the doorway. 'They would have wished him to die even more slowly than madame. He should be here.'
Robert turned and went outside. Here, the air which their lungs had all but rejected an hour ago was now sweet and clean, by comparison. And as it was approaching noon, the clouds were sweeping lower, occasionally obliterating the sun, bringing a suggestion of damp.
They went down the drive, and through the great iron gates. Here the air
was
clean, and they could even bear to look at each other. Beyond the trees, the overseers' village had been burned to the ground. But the slave village was unharmed, and so, amazingly, was the factory. And above the factory there circled other crows.
Matt ran, heart bouncing around his chest, saliva mixing with threatening vomit, groin feeling weak and empty. The two older men followed more slowly. Perhaps they feared to be present when he discovered what he sought.
He burst into the shade of the great chimney and the huge vats, and was guided by his nostrils. And perhaps by instinct. For what was the most terrible death a slave, who had spent his life on a sugar plantation, could wish on his master? He climbed the ladder to the first of the rollers, and paused, and lost his balance for a moment, in sheer horror. Only Corbeau's head remained, the chin resting on the drum of the upper roller. The rest of his body had been fed through the rotating iron drums. From the expression on the tortured face, he had been alive when the torment had commenced. And across the twisted features there lay a thin golden chain, ending in a golden charm representing a hawk's beak.
Matt climbed down the ladder, slowly, gained the ground. Robert and Ledon waited for him. And the rain began to fall, a gentle patter on the factory roof, a gentle thudding on the dry ground outside.
'We have been here two hours,' Ledon said, and crossed himself. 'It is too long messieurs. And what can we do?'
'I will not leave until I have at least found Suzanne's body,' Matt said.
'Monsieur,' Ledon begged, and turned to Robert. 'Monsieur. She could have fled from the
chateau,
and been slain in the trees. This plantation covers several square miles. We could search for days. Or she may have been carried off by the rebels, for... for some purpose of their own.'
Robert sighed, and scratched the back of his head. 'The fellow is right, Matt We do no good by standing here. We but risk our own lives.'
'And our lives are of value?' Matt demanded. 'Both your sisters, all your nephews, all your hopes, indeed, lying here rotting?'
'Aye. Well, you are yet young, Matt. It is remarkable how a wheel can turn a circle. You'll yet marry, and have children.'
'Is that all you can think about?' Matt demanded. 'An heir for your wealth?'
'It makes more sense than standing here, aimlessly remembering,' Robert said. 'My grief is not less than yours, boy. But grief were best combated by activity. We'll regain the ship.'
He turned, and limped for the river. Ledon hesitated for a moment, and then turned and followed. Matt watched them go for some seconds. Of course every word Robert had spoken was true. He accomplished nothing by standing here. He could only attempt to live again.
He left the factory, felt the rain splashing on his hat, dampening his shoulders. In time the rain would wash all these bones clean. In time the rain might even clean Rio Blanco.
He checked, because Robert, fifty yards in front of him, and just approaching the trees which lined the river, had also checked, as had Ledon, equidistant between them. He felt a sudden lurch of his own heart, a constriction of his own belly. He had seen enough this morning to understand that capture by the insurgents was a totally unthinkable fate. But there, beyond his cousin, stood the fluttering red gown of the
mamaloi.
'By God,' Robert said. 'By God.' He plucked the pistol from his belt.
'Would you die, Robert Hilton, slowly?' Gislane asked.
'By God,' Robert said. The pistol barrel remained lodged.
Matt ran forward, feet scuffing the damp earth, stopped beside Robert, stared at the woman as she pulled the red turban from her head, allowed her midnight hair to uncoil on to her shoulders.
'Christ in Heaven,' he whispered.
'Do you not recognize me, Matt? I recognized you, the moment you landed from your ship.'
‘You were here, then?' Robert asked.
'My people have watched your ship, sailing along the coast. We knew whose ship it was, Mr. Hilton. We knew you would come to Rio Blanco.'
'You were at Cap Francois,' Matt said.
‘Yes, Matt. I must lead my people.'
'And you let us just walk into your trap,' Ledon muttered. 'My God ...' he turned, looked at the black men, who stood all around them. 'My God, messieurs.'
Gislane came forward, her gown darkening as the rain splashed on it, her hair glistening. It occurred to Matt that she had not changed at all, in twelve terrible years. But, oh, yes, she had changed. He found it impossible to gaze into those eyes.
'I do not understand,' he said.
Gislane stood immediately before them. 'It is very simple, Matt. Corbeau heard of me, sought me, and brought me here. I have lived on Rio Blanco for six years, as his mistress, as Georgiana's personal attendant. As her lover, indeed. It was Corbeau's conception of amusement, and he did enjoy being amused. But it was more than that. He explained it to me, that I was his weapon, to destroy you, as and when he chose. He was a man who planned very completely.' The lips widened into what might have been a smile. 'He called my name as he died, as I dangled my chain, his present, his badge of ownership, into his mouth.'