Mistress of Darkness (2 page)

They waited for some minutes, and then a whisper seemed to come from the mat itself. 'Who waits to see Celeste?'

'Pierre Toussaint,' said the coachman.

'Jean-Jacques Dessalines,' said the big man.

'You are expected,' said the whisper.

Toussaint nodded, and held the mat aside, then followed Dessalines into the interior. The hut was dark, save for a single guttering candle, set in the earthen floor, sending shadows racing into the corners. It was noisome, and at first sight it seemed unfurnished. The two men knelt, hands on knees, facing the flame, and the woman beyond.

If she was, indeed, a woman. She appeared as no more than a wisp of scarlet cloth, for this evening she had put on her red robe, and bound her head in her red turban; her face, so lined and gnarled it was impossible to gauge her age, seemed but a cage for her eyes. And like her visitors, she knelt, her fists clenched in front of her.

'What do two such men seek of a poor
mamaloi?'
she whispered.

'We seek knowledge, Mama Celeste,' Toussaint said. 'We seek a sign.'

'There are signs enough,' Dessalines growled. 'A king is dead and a new king is crowned.'

'And there is talk of war,' Toussaint said. 'I have spoken with the men of a ship from Boston, and they tell me the Americans will have no more of the English, and will fight.'

'White people,' Dessalines said contemptuously.

'They will fight the English,' Toussaint said again. 'And the French will help them. This is what they say. And the islands will again be convulsed with war. It will be time.'

'Time,' Mama Celeste whispered, and peered into the flame.

'Time,' Dessalines said, his great fingers opening and shutting.

'Not yet,' Mama Celeste said. 'Not yet, O mighty warrior. Aye, mighty you are, of limb and mind, but yet not mighty enough. You will do nothing without the aid of Damballah Oueddo, without the presence of Ogone Badagris. Without them, you will perish, and all who support you.'

'Then where are they?' Dessalines' voice grew louder, and Toussaint shook his head.

'Who knows?' Mama Celeste said. They are everywhere, at all times. But only they know when they will choose to reveal themselves. I can but tell you to prepare, and to be patient. These signs of which you speak, they are as nothing. When the time is come, you will know it. The white people will talk amongst themselves, and argue, and quarrel, and then they will set to killing one another, and the mulattoes as well. Then, and only then, will Damballah Oueddo make himself known to you.'

'And we will know him, when we see him?' Toussaint asked.

'Black he will be, black as the night from whence he comes, and into which he will sweep the whites. And big he will be, a man of greatness apparent to all. Yet will his might be surrounded by beauty, and his blackness surrounded by light. By this beauty, by this light, shall you know him.'

CHAPTER TWO

THE SPORTSMAN

A
ROAR
of sound, hands clapping, voices shouting, deluged the afternoon air. It sent the rooks cawing away from the high oaks which surrounded the village, rattled the window panes in the houses, boomed down the turnpike which led over the heathland in the direction of London Town. It startled the pair of black stallions thrusting from the traces of the perch phaeton, causing them to swerve across the road in a cloud of dust, forcing Robert Hilton to rise to his feet as he dragged on the reins.

'Whoa,' he bellowed. 'Come to, you devilish beasts. Christ curse you for a couple of hellhounds.'

The horses panted to a halt, and Robert sucked air into his lungs and allowed it to explode in a gush of relief.

'By God,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'I thought we were for the ditch.'

He whipped off his bicorne and fanned himself, inserting his finger into the high velvet collar of his brown tailcoat to remove a layer of sweat, and then slowly subsided back into his seat. He was a big man, with heavy shoulders and long powerful legs which were well displayed by his close-fitting leather boots. He wore no wig, and revealed only a wisp or two of grey threads in the rich brown of his hair. Between the untidy thatch and the heavy body the small face surprised; the features were neat, with fine nose and narrow mouth, and pointed chin - at forty there was only a trace of jowl - and the whole was conditioned by the heavy suntan which rendered his complexion almost mahogany. Only the eyes disappointed; pale blue, they were cold and angry, daring the world to challenge or even to argue. Now he flicked the whip, and the stallions reluctantly began to move.

'Whatever can have caused that noise?' Georgiana's voice was high. 'It sounded like a riot.' She was his stepsister, and looked it, but on her the Hilton features amounted very nearly to beauty, and her eyes, a deeper shade of blue, sparkled with amusement, immediately at the thought of her stepbrother driving his equipage into a mob, but generally at the sheer prospect of being alive in a summer's afternoon in the year of Our Lord 1780. She wore a deep blue redingote over a pink summer gown, topped the whole with a high green felt hat bestrewn with ribbons, and exuded perfume. Her light brown hair was undressed, and lay straight on her shoulders. The critical observer would only ever be able to find fault with the dusting of freckles which covered the pale skin of her face, indicating that she also came from a tropical climate.

'Aye,' Robert agreed, forcing the horses into a trot. 'And no doubt Master Matthew is involved. I never doubted that boy would cause more trouble than he's worth.'

Georgiana Hilton merely smiled, and craned her neck as the phaeton rounded the corner and came in sight of the village green, beyond which the bright pink walls of the Admiral Vernon public house stood up like a beacon. The steps of the inn were crowded, as were the windows, and these spectators merely overlooked the dense ring of people, housewives and farmers, shepherds and clerks, which surrounded the field itself. Nor were only the peasantry represented; on the far side were two crested coaches and a cluster of men dressed in the height of fashion.

And all were staring at the spectacle before them with rapt attention, at least until interrupted by the rattling arrival of the phaeton.

'Whatever can they be doing?' Georgiana wondered.

For the men on the green appeared to be indulging in some slow and rhythmic ritual. There were fifteen of them altogether, coatless, mostly wearing white breeches and stockings, although their shirts were of several different colours, and sporting the new-fashioned tall beaver hats. They stood around the field, some crouching, some lounging, and one in particular, a tall young man, posing before two sticks set in the ground and surmounted by a cross piece; he carried a large, curved length of wood, which he held in front of him like a club.

'By God,' Robert shouted. 'It’s Matt.'

His shout, coupled with the noisy arrival of his coach and team, momentarily distracted the crowd. And annoyed it. A chorus of boos and hisses rose from the inn, and a peremptory 'Be quiet, sir,' from the knot of gentlemen.

'By God,' Robert said, having never been addressed like that in his adult life. 'By God.'

But he was so amazed he did speak quietly, and the ritual was proceeding. Another man, standing perhaps twenty-five yards from the boy with the club, at the end of a length of grass which had been carefully smoothed, took a couple of quick steps forward, and swung his arm downward from the shoulder to release a small hard ball which shot along the ground towards his opponent, bumping and jumping.

The young man watched it approach, and as it came up to him, swung his club. Down came the thick, curved end, picked up the ball, and sent it flying into the trees. Once again an explosion of noise enveloped the village and distressed the rooks. The young man took to flight, bounding over the pitch towards the man who had bowled at him, passing on the way another young man, also carrying a club; he grounded his weapon beneath the two sticks at the bowler's end, and then turned and ran back again, while the crowd bayed its delight, shouting 'tich and turn', 'tich and turn' as one of the lounging men raced behind the ball, his tall hat falling off in the effort.

Up and down ran the men with clubs, crossing each other several times, until the ball was at last returned and they stood up at each end of the smoothed ground, panting for breath, while the cheers of the crowd slowly subsided and the short man prepared to deliver another ball. Robert meanwhile had guided the phaeton, the horses now at a walk, around the back of the concourse, until he had reached the carriages. 'But what form of devilry is this?' he demanded at large.

'Devilry, sir?' The man who replied was the vicar. 'You'll find none of that in Dorking. Have you no knowledge of cricket?' He observed Georgiana. and raised his hat.

'Cricket?' Robert demanded. 'Cricket?'

'God damn, sir.' said one of the gentlemen, turning away from the game. 'You are a confoundedly loud fellow. If you have no interest in the match, take yourself off.' He also noticed Georgiana, and raised his hat. 'Your servant, madam.'

'By God,' Robert said again, stepping down, and away from the horses. He moved stiffly, with a limp in his left leg, but there could be no gainsaying the strength of his shoulders. 'You'll repeat those words, sir.'

'Your Grace,' the vicar hissed, and then repeated himself, this time as a question. 'Your Grace?'

For the nobleman was frowning with bewilderment rather than offence. 'Your name will not be Hilton?'

'It is that,' Robert agreed, his mouth relaxing. 'Robert Hilton, of Plantation Hilltop in Jamaica.'

'Gad, sir,' said the Duke. 'Billy Beckford has told me enough about you. And you're cousin to our young hero. Why, sir, here is my hand, and proud am I to take yours.'

Robert shook hands. 'You have the advantage of me, your Grace.'

'Sackville, of Dorset.' The Duke gave a wry smile.

'Why,' Robert said, 'the very man I have crossed the ocean to see, amongst others.'

'I think you mean my cousin George,' the Duke said. 'But he has spoken of you also. You nabobs carry too much weight in the Commons, to be sure. Fear not, Mr. Hilton, the war will end, and successfully. There was never a time old England could not lick the French and the Spanish and a parcel of rebellious colonists, altogether. But you'll agree business must wait on cricket. Why, sir, 'tis all the pleasure a man may find in this muddled age. And we need but seven to win.'

'And there it goes,' the vicar shouted, his voice lost in the howl of joy from the crowd. For the ball had been hoisted high over their heads and into the trees, and the two young men were running to and fro as fast as they could.

'Five,' Dorset shouted.

'Six,' the vicar bawled.

'Seven,' roared the crowd.
¹
Tis a win. 'Tis a win.'

'By but a single wicket.' The Duke removed his tricorne, and then his wig, and mopped his shaved scalp with a silk handkerchief. 'If you had asked me, sir, whether I'd hedge my bets but half an hour ago, I'd have been happy to do so. God damn, sir, I'd rather lick Dick Nyren than Washington himself.'

'You'll have to explain it to me,' Robert decided. The green was now entirely filled with shouting, cheering villagers, and the young man who had struck the final blow was being lifted on to their shoulders.

'Why, sir, those men out there are of the Hambledon club,' Dorset said.

'The premier cricket club in all the world, sir,' the vicar explained. 'Why, sir, they have beaten the rest of England added together.'

'But not the men of Dorking village, eh,' Dorset said. 'Thanks to Matt. Boy, you have saved me four hundred pound and earned me double that. Name your reward.
^’

'A mug of ale, your Grace, will save my life.' The winning batsman was deposited in front of the nobleman, still panting for breath, his expression slowly changing to amazement as he discovered the presence of Robert Hilton. 'Robert? Can it be you? But you are in Jamaica.'

'By God, boy, but your brain is fuddled,' Robert said. ‘I am here. And right glad to see you.' He took the boy's hands, 'Even if it is to watch you making a fool of yourself.'

'A fool?' Matt smiled. He did so readily, and this was the principal difference between the two men, apart from age; Matt was only twenty. As tall as Robert, he was well shouldered but more slender in the thigh, and he moved with an athletic freedom which contrasted with the older man's hesitation. His features were undeniably Hilton, but his chin was bigger and his mouth wider, and his grey-green eyes lively and confident. 'Cricket is the life-blood of old England.'

'Never was a truer word spoken.' The Duke of Dorset himself presented Matt with a jug of foaming ale. 'And here's a little something for your trouble, eh, lad?' The bag jingled.

'Then 'tis a lucrative profession?' Robert demanded.

But Matt, having drunk, had looked at the phaeton. 'Georgiana!' He ran towards the coach, seized her gloved hands to kiss them.

‘I thought I was but a speck of dust on the woodwork,' she complained. 'Oh, but Matt, it is so good to see you. And you are well? We have been so worried, all these tales of riot and bloodshed...'

'In the City,' he said reassuringly. 'At Oxford, and here in Dorking, my lord of Gordon is but a name, and as for the London mob, it has long been known for its erratic violence. But you, if only I had known you were coming.'

'We wrote.'

'And I never received the letter.'