HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (25 page)

The Governor of the Leeward Islands was a tall man with a red face and a martial air; he wore a red coat and a black periwig, and was one of the few gentlemen present to have retained his sword; but then he was a soldier pure and simple, who had made his reputation in the late war. Rumour had it that he was not popular with the planters; had he a touch of true patriotism in his soul Kit could well understand that.

'The buccaneer.' Stapleton's voice was dry. But he shook hands. 'You are to be congratulated, sir. Alone amongst the people here I claim no acquaintance of your famous grandfather. Had we met I should no doubt have been after hanging him from his own yardarm. But I am most heartily pleased at your own good fortune, sir.'

'My thanks, Your Excellenc
y.' Kit wondered just what yard
arm would be made available were the Governor ever to discover he had commanded the
Bonaventure
in its brush with the warship. Or was he, now being a member of the plantocracy, immune from such proceedings? It was a most delightful feeling.

'Kit, my dear fellow.' Edward Chester, his face as red as his hair. 'How good to see you again. You have not met my wife. Mary, this is the man himself.'

Mary Chester gave a little giggle of embarrassment, and half curtsied. She was hardly more than a girl, and plump and fair. 'You are the sole subject of conversation at our tea parties, Captain.'

'Which means your reputation has been torn to shreds, Kit,' Chester beamed. 'But I doubt that troubles you in the slightest. And dare I hope, once this happy affair is consummated, that we shall once again see darling Marguerite in society? The island has seemed a duller place these past few months.'

'I'm sure you should ask that question of Marguerite,' Kit said, and could not help but add, 'dear Edward,' just to watch the planter's eyes flicker. What a horde of hypocrites they were, to be sure.

A fan tapped him on the shoulder, and he hastily turned. This woman was almost as tall as himself, and middle-aged; her face was sun-browned and long, and unhappy, and her body angular. 'I think it is time,' she said, 'for you to take your place, and for us to meet. I am Celestine Warner.'

'Madam,' Kit said in confusion. 'Forgive my manners. I should have sought you out immediately. But I was not sure ...'

'If we would at
tend? The marriage of our own .
..' she sighed, 'daughter? Who else do you think would give the bride away? Now come, I am sure these good people will have as much time as they need to gawp at you and pick your brains and whisper behind your back. For the moment, let us have you married.'

A woman to be liked. Because she alone was honest? Or because he could see the misery in her eyes; the strain of being Philip Warner's wife?

Passmore was waiting to escort him from the house, into the suddenly brilliant sunshine, a
nd into, too, the cheers of
the slaves, assembled in a vast mass half-way down the hill to applaud their master and mistress; for this day there had been no field labour. And how hot it was. As he smiled and waved at the Negroes he could feel sweat trickling down his arms. But he at least was fortunate; he was entering the chapel. How unlucky were those guests forced to remain outside; there was room within for only the twenty most distinguished.

The Reverend Spalding was already in place before the altar, almost obscured by the masses of flowers, and the spinet was gaining in volume. Kit heard the whisperings behind him, and the restless turning of heads and craning of necks. But he would not turn himself. He waited, until the soft footfalls sounded beside him, and then he allowed himself to smile at her, and was dazzled in return. She had elected to indulge her taste for colour, and wore a pink taffeta gown with gold stripes and a red lining, pulled back from a white silk underskirt which was edged with silver; her bows were of green velvet to complete a kaleidoscope of colour, magnificently set off by her hair, which was loose and brushed forward over her shoulders to lie against the brilliance of her gown, and was in turn illuminated by the high, white lace head-dress, which matched the white lace ruffles on her sleeves, while over her underskirt she wore a white linen apron, edged with lace. Her only jewellery was her pearl necklace, but her fan was ivory, and the whole was shrouded in the richness of her scent and illuminated by the sple
ndour of her personality. She fil
led even the crowded chapel, and left it empty of competitors. Kit did not even notice Philip Warner, at his most resplendent, standing at her left shoulder.

And now her hand was in his, soft and damp, and the priest was beginning to speak.

'Gad, sir, but were I at sea on this night, and looking towards this shore, I would suppose this island to have suddenly discovered for itself a volcano such as St Lucia or Martinique.' Stapleton swayed, and tugged his cravat somewhat looser. The Governor had consumed a great deal of liquor. But then, who had not? And his observation was accurate enough, Kit thought, as he leaned against one of the verandah uprights, and looked out at the yard. There a gigantic bonfire had been

lit, safe enough from the house for what breeze there was blew the sparks towards the canefields. And here the Negroes danced. And what a dance, for they had decked themselves out in a variety of fantastic garments and head-dresses, feathers and the masks of weird beasts, huge jaws and snapping teeth, great rolling eyes and long waving stalks of arms, some reaching as high as the second storey of the house itself, and they stamped and shuffled and swayed, brought their bodies close together, men and women, and separated again in long snaking lines. They had been given rum to drink on this most special occasion in their lives and they were celebrating the marriage of their mistress.

Johnny Canoe,' George Frederick had said. 'They dance to the memory of Johnny Canoe.'

So then, was there nothing but pleasure in their sinuous movements? For Johnny Canoe was the English corruption of the name of the chieftain who had held his court in the Bight of Benin, and who had rounded up these unfortunates for sale to the Dutch slave traders. And if they were dancing to pull down a curse on his unhappy memory, might they not also, locked away in the secrets of their obeah, or magical religion, be bringing down curses on their mistress and their new master?

But they looked happy enough, and sounded more so. They exuded a quality of insidious sexuality, of abandon and gaiety, increased and accentuated by the throbbing drum which seeped upwards through the night, which reached out and encompassed the white people on the verandah. But certainly they too were in a mood to be titillated. They had drunk far too much, and they were gathered to celebrate a wedding, with all that entailed and promised; in the dark corners of the verandah men stroked and squeezed women they would normally pass by with a decorous bow, and women smiled and gasped, and sought this evening's temporary escape from the prison of their homes and their husbands. Why, Kit thought, given another hour, the entire crowd will be coupling on the floor.

Such was the power of the African drum. But it was not to be. Marguerite had drunk hardly at all, and she was on her feet, and at the sight of that dominant figure the drum stopped without warning, and the dancers
too, and silence descended
on the compound almost like a blanket dropped from the sky.

'Enough,' Marguerite said. 'I have been a widow for more than a year. My bed and my body alike have wilted in their loneliness. Would you keep me longer from my husband's manhood?'

A gale of cheering and laughter swept the night. The Negroes yelled and stamped and clapped their hands; but the drum remained silent. No one could doubt that the slaves at Green Grove were the best disciplined on the island.

But not the planters and their wives. Kit was seized by a forest of arms and rushed up the great staircase, a path along which Marguerite, laughing and protesting, had already been carried, and into one of the spare bedrooms, where his clothes were torn from his body with scant regard for Barnee's exquisite stitching, and replaced by an embroidered silk nightshirt, to the accompaniment of loud laughter and louder lewdity, and then hustled along the gallery, while the house servants and the more faint-hearted of the guests gathered in the hall below to clap and cheer their approbation of the coming events.

The great bedchamber was so crowded Kit doubted they would get through. But a space was cleared, and he was pushed between the laughing, cheering women, each of whom reached out to squeeze or kiss some portion of his anatomy. But at the least the enormous implications of everything that was happening were having the desired effect, and he was as hard and as anxious as any boy confronted with his first naked breast. God forbid that he should be anything less; he did not suppose this crowd would be satisfied with second hand news. Not on an evening of rum and sangaree.

Marguerite was already ensconced beneath the sheets in the huge four poster, the covers held primly to her neck, her hair spreading across the pillows. Her smile was a delicious indication of pleasure; this was her night, and clearly she felt not a drop of embarrassment, much less nervousness. Not even when the sheets were raised to allow him in, and the men gave a roar of approval as they caught a brief glimpse of her naked body.

And how warm she was. And damp. And eager.

'The thrust,' they shrieked. 'We'll see the first thrust, by God.'

Her breath was on his face, her smiling teeth but inches away. 'You'd best accommodate them, dear Kit,' she whispered. ' 'Tis certain they'll not leave us alone before.'

He drove his body downwards. Christ, what a memory that brought back, clouding up out of his unconscious to blanket his brain with despair. But there could be no despair here. There was no risk of this quivering body sliding away into a void of empty flesh. This was his, and again, and again, for as long and as often as he could wish or accomplish.

Her arms were tight on his back, and her voice continued to whisper in his ear. 'Stay,' she insisted. 'Stay, and thrust. Stay and thrust. And begone,' she shouted. 'It is done.'

The noise flowed around his head, filled his ears, clouded his senses. He thrust, and kissed her neck, her eyes, her nose and her mouth, and thrust again, and discerned the noise receding, driven by the sharp voice of Celestine Warner. The groom had proved himself a man, and the bride had revealed herself to be content. Now at last was the wedding completed, and now at last could they be left in peace.

And now at last was he exhausted, and prepared to sleep. But not to dream. A blanket descended on his mind, as he slipped from her warmth to lie on the cooler sheet, to lose himself in the oblivion of utter contentment, to awake, reluctantly, dragging his mind upwards through endless eons of drowsy sleep, to blink in the daylight, and marvel at the silence, although always there was that ripple of muted sound just beyond earshot, which told him that the plantation was also awake, and beginning its daily round.

The bed was empty. He sat up, pushing hair from his forehead, looking around him in sudden alarm. And finding Marguerite, fully dressed in her riding habit, standing at the window gazing out at the canefields somewhat pensively, but turning as she heard the movement.

'Sweetheart.' She came towards him, striking the small gong on the table as she did so. 'I would not disturb you earlier.'

'My darling.' He reached for her shoulders as she sat on
the bed, explored her mouth.

A soft sound alerted them, and she released him as Martha Louise placed the tray on the table by the bed. 'Coconut milk,' Marguerite said. 'Cool and refreshing, and essential for a man on his honeymoon.'

He drank, and indeed it tasted delicious.

'And now,' she said. 'You must get dressed. For we must honeymoon as and when we may. There is a plantation to be managed, and I would have you play your part as soon as possible, that the people here may be in no doubt that they have a master again.'

'Of course.' He got out of bed. ' 'Tis a responsibility I have long anticipated sharing.'

'I will send the girls to you.' She turned, to face the still opened door as booted feet clumped on the stairs. 'Well?'

Passmore stood there, his face flushed, his hat held in both his hands. 'He had sought the beach, Mistress Templeton.'

Marguerite smil
ed. 'My name is Hilton, Passmore
. I'd not have you forget that in the future. Aye, the beach. I had supposed him more intelligent. Which but proves how absurd it is to waste time in worrying. Very good, Passmore. Prepare the fire. I will attend shortly. As soon as Captain Hilton is dressed.'

Passmore bowed, and withdrew. Kit was already reaching for his pants. 'There has been a misadventure?'

'I had supposed so,' she said. 'But I was mistaken. I purchased a new batch of slaves but a month ago, and one of them, a buck about whom I will confess I had some doubts at the time, chose to make the excitement and the preoccupation of yesterday as an excuse to abscond from the plantation.'