Mistress of Darkness (18 page)

Yet there were those who still wanted to live, who dreamed, like her, of survival and perhaps even escape. If Negroes dreamed; she could find no point of identification with these people. Surely. She was white. The amount of black blood in her veins would not fill a pint mug. Thus Papa Nicholson had always insisted. She was white.

But no doubt black people did dream. One in particular, who perhaps dreamed of other things than escape. He came on deck now, slowly following the file, ducking his head beneath the jet of salt water which sparkled on the ebony of his skin. He was a big man, perhaps as big as the Prince. Starvation and privation and the cramped six feet by eighteen inches which composed his living quarters had not weakened those muscles, and when he stretched he suggested contempt for his surroundings, created a hint that were he so minded he could sweep his mighty arms and thrust the entire crew of the
Antelope
into the sea and take control of the ship.

Perhaps that was his dream. That and another. For as he left the water jet, and paraded the deck with his fellows, his head was turning aft. He had looked, on the third day out, and discovered her, and perhaps she had looked back, and discovered him, as she had discovered the Prince. She had looked for intelligence in the black eyes, and found it, and she had looked for strength in the high forehead and thrusting chin, the wide gash of a mouth and the big nose. As he had looked at a white woman, standing half naked to oversee him, and had taken his genitals in his hand and waved them at her, a gesture which left her unaffected save for a vague wonder if he would feel the same as Runner. He was certainly a considerably larger man.

But when he was swept below, her interest in the day subsided. There was nothing ahead of her but heat, and sweat, and lice, and Runner. Nothing until tomorrow morning, when he would again walk the deck, and tell her what he thought.

In time the wind freshened into a full gale, as Gislane had known it must. The month was February 1781, and after four months on board she was a veteran in her knowledge of the sea and the weather. And with the storm there came rolls of thunder, and shafts of forked lightning which seemed to hover immediately above the masts, and then the rain, teeming down with a force which bowed the head, striking the decks and leaping feet back into the air, almost calming the surging whitecaps with the blanketing intensity of its force.

Sail was shortened to mere scraps of canvas, and the
Antelope
plunged onwards, ever west, while the pumps now-clacked with a more urgent purpose, to keep the water in the bilges from rising to danger level. Yet the slaves must still be exercised. This was in fact easier than before. None of them had ever been in a storm at sea, and their terror was awful to watch. No risk of dives overboard into those over-toppling waves. Which, she reflected, was but another aspect of human perversity, as there could hardly be a quicker or more certain way to die, and a more painless one; even the sharks had disappeared, seeking the calm of the depths.

But the slaves, in their fear, clung to each other and the hatch covers, and wailed their desire to be thrust into the damp stench of safety in the hold. Saving one, who gripped a shroud and faced the waters, and laughed in sheer delight when a wave would break over him. As she had laughed, in that first storm, off the Spanish coast. She made her own way from the shelter of the companionway to stand beside him, as naked as he, both arms round the same shroud, their shoulders touching. He looked down on her in amazement for a moment, and then cast a hasty glance over his shoulder at the crew. No doubt her place, the captain's woman, was known and accepted even amongst the blacks.

But the crew, and Runner, were preoccupied, four men on the helm to keep the ship immediately before the wind, others standing by at all times to let the sheets run if the pressure on the storm canvas grew too great. Gislane smiled at him. 'They'll not trouble us this morning,' she said.

He looked at her, his eyes moving down from her face to her shoulders to her breasts to her thighs. The tingle in her back grew, and when she ducked her head as the next wave came on board, she bumped it into his chest. And stayed there for a moment, and asked herself, what am I doing? By Christ, what am I doing? To be seized and maltreated by Runner and Penny, and even other white men, was a misfortune which could be forgiven. Certainly by Matt Hilton. To suggest a rapprochement with a black man might be trying his broad-mindedness a shade too far. Except that he would never know. In her more depressed moments she was beginning to wonder if he would ever know anything about her, ever again. But this morning she was not feeling depressed, there was the mystery. Rather was she exhilarated by the storm, as she had been exhilarated by the previous storm. And by the nearness of the man who would not accept his fate.

As she perhaps would refuse to accept hers?

But clearly he understood not a word of what she had said. She raised her head. 'Gislane,' she said, and touched herself on the breast. 'Gislane.'

The black man looked at her for several seconds longer. Then he said, 'Gislane.' His hand released the shroud and came towards her; she had to force herself to remain still, so instinctive was her movement of withdrawal. Yet she wanted him to touch her, as Runner and Penny had touched her time and again, and she was even disappointed as his fingers dug into her hair, seizing whole handfuls of it, pulling it, very gently, and smoothing it, and straightening it, wet as it was, down her back. And then she understood. Her breasts, her belly, her buttocks, these he had known and taken, no doubt as he chose, from many a woman; that hers were white made no difference to the feel or the texture. But hair like hers he had never known. 'Gislane,' he said. 'Dinshad. Dinshad.'

'Dinshad,' she said, and responded by stroking her finger down the salt wet line of his jaw. 'Dinshad.'

He smiled at her, his fingers still locked in her hair, but now she was looking past him, at Runner, holding on to the rail as he gazed down on them from the poop, his eyes glooming. 'Dinshad,' she said, and gently pulled herself free, to hurry aft, into the comparative warmth and dryness of tire cabin, where she discovered she was trembling. And where a moment later she was joined by the captain.

'By Christ,' he said. "You are a nigger girl, at that. So you like the big buck. Would he make you shake your belly, girl?'

'I had supposed you as disgusting as I knew, sir,' she said, tossing her hair at him, scattering water across his face.

It was the first time she had so addressed him since the early part of the voyage, and he stared at her in surprise for a moment. Then his hand swung, but she was an expert in escaping the worst of his punishments nowadays; she knew better than to avoid the blow altogether, or he would hit her again, but by beginning her fall just before his fist landed, she received no more than a jolt. and sent herself tumbling across the bunk. Before she could recover he was kneeling above her, and suddenly there was more passion in his hands, and in his eyes, than she could ever remember. He wanted to hurt her when he squeezed her, made her breasts ache, seized her nipples to pinch them and watch her eyes dilate with pain, slapped her thighs and bottom as he forced an entry. It occurred to her that she learned more about humanity, and about herself, perhaps, every day. Harry Runner was jealous, of a Negro slave.

And what of her? She closed her eyes, and thought of the huge black man, and instead of fear there came enjoyment and even pleasure, and for the first time, indeed, she moved like the Negress.

'By Christ,' Runner said. 'By Christ.' He rolled off her, sat against the table, swaying in time to the ship. 'You'll talk with that buck as you choose, girl. But touch him, or have him touch you, and by Christ I'll hang him over you.'

So by Christ, she thought; what have I done? What have you done, Dinshad the mighty? Yet this was one thought she was not prepared to carry through to a logical conclusion. Incredibly it occurred to her that she was happy, in a terrible fashion. She was on deck at dawn the next day, when the wind had dropped and the clouds had disappeared and the sun was back in all its glory. As was Dinshad, stalking the deck, looking for her.

'Gislane,' he said, as she approached. 'Gislane,' and reached for her hair.

'Avast there,' shouted one of the crew, and struck him across the shoulders with his whip. Dinshad scarcely seemed to feel the blow, but his head turned, and his eyes roamed over the seaman's body, slowly and anticipatorily.

'You'd best below, girl,' the sailor growled. 'Or we'll have a riot.'

'Dinshad,' she said. And smiled at him. And went below, to find the captain waiting for her. And dreamed, once again, with her eyes closed.

So then, it was possible to be happy in hell, supposing one could reach out across the torment to another lost soul. Finding that, even the constant presence of the devils could not again reduce her to misery.

'By Christ,' Runner once again said in wonderment. 'Did you see that, John?'

For Penny had come in during their embrace.

'Maybe we've been going the wrong way about it, Johnny lad. Maybe we could have had a hell of a lot more out of the little bitch. I'll tell you this. I'm going to enjoy the rest of this voyage.'

'Aye,' Penny said. 'While it lasts. I've land on the starboard bow.'

'Land?' Runner threw her off and sat up; she rolled from the bunk on to the floor, and bumped her head. She realized that for the last five minutes, and for the first time since leaving the Nicholsons' house, she had been totally relaxed. 'Where?'

'Green, and high, and black clouds atop. Dominica, I reckon.'

‘You'd best alter course two points to starboard,' Runner decided, reaching for his clothes. 'With the wind where it is. We don't want to land amongst the cannibals.'

'Aye, aye,' Penny said, and left the cabin.

'Dominica?' Gislane asked. 'The Carib isle?'

'There's naught for you to fear, pretty,' Runner said.' 'Tis our usual landfall from the Guinea coast. But it means our time is running short. We'll be at Nevis the day after tomorrow.'

'And Mr. Hodge,' she said, half to herself. Then raised her head. 'Or will you keep me after all, Harry?'

He made a face, and then shrugged. 'It'd be a treat, and that's no lie. But business is business, and I've my living to earn. You'll go to Hodge, nigger girl. And may the good Lord have mercy on your soul.'

CHAPTER SIX

THE PRISONER

T
HE
sun, peeping above the eastern horizon from the endless wastes of the Atlantic Ocean, sent its beam of light exactly between the twin mountain peaks of St. Eustatius, bringing the valley to life, bouncing gleaming shafts from the freshly painted walls of the warehouses which lined the harbour, streaking onwards across the sparkling waters of the Caribbean Sea, silhouetting the Hilton sloop in a sudden glow, chasing the last of the dawn chill from the faces of the watch.

'An hour, Mr. Matthew,' said Caiman.

Matt did not reply. Pie levelled the telescope on the bulk of St. Kitts, some half-dozen miles on their starboard bow, identified the huge mass of Mount Misery towering over the fortifications of Brimstone Hill, swung the glass lower to the busy roadstead which lay off the beach. The beach where Tom and Edward Warner and Anthony Hilton had first landed, a hundred and fifty-eight years before. But St. Kitts was merely an obstacle to him. He moved the telescope again, and watched the sunlight playing on the distant peak of Nevis, twenty miles away. How he sweated at the very sight of it.

'Now's your last chance, Caiman,' he said.

The captain sighed. 'I've explained, Mr. Matthew,' he said. 'I've investigated the matter. There's no word of any near-white girl landing in Charleston. There's been scarce a ship in there this year.'

'You expect me to believe you?'

' 'Tis the truth, sir. And logical. If even-thing you have told mc is correct, she'll have been placed on a slaver. Then she'll have been bound for
the
Guinea Coast in the first place, before crossing the ocean. That's four months, at the very least. If indeed she was sent out in October, why, she'll not be arriving before the end of February, you can be sure of that. And it still wants a fortnight to Christmas.'

Christ, the thought of Gislane, on a slaver, and being treated as a slave. Christ, the stories which came to him, of the usage on such craft, of the indignities and the cruelties. Stories he had found no more than amusing, in his ignorant past. But Caiman would no doubt also find them amusing.

'Then I should be there to greet her,' he said, quietly. ' 'Tis Hodge I mean to save her from, more than anything else. Caiman ...'

'You'll know I cannot, sir,' Caiman said, as he had repeated the same protest every day of the voyage from Jamaica. 'Mr. Hilton would hang me.'

'And have you no thought for the future?' Matt demanded. 'I'm heir to the Hilton estate, man. To this ship. To you. I'll not forget those who help me. Or those who go against me.'

Caiman sighed. 'You make it hard, sir, indeed you do. Yet must I obey my current master.'

Matt closed the telescope with a snap. 'Because you imagine he is right, that I am besotted with a nigger girl, and will surely recover my wits with the passage of time. Well, you are wrong, Caiman. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I will forget that girl only when I die. And it will not be necessary for me to do so. Do you imagine they can keep me on Statia? Do you imagine they will want to? I'll be taking passage on the first ship out of Orange Town for Charleston. And where will you, or Robert, be then?'

'And I'll wish you luck, Mr. Matthew,' Caiman said. 'There is the honest truth. Yet must I do as I am commanded. And I'll beg of you, sir, not to make my task the more difficult by any rashness.'

'Oh, I'll do nothing rash, Caiman,' Matt said bitterly. 'Had I been a rash man I'd have died assaulting my cousin. You can remove your watchdogs.'

For a sailor had been set to overlooking his every movement on deck since leaving Port Antonio.

'Tis your good common sense, Hilton sense, Mr. Matthew, that we all place our trust in. You'll excuse me.'

He went to the helm to con the sloop into the harbour, and Matt leaned on the rail. Now Nevis was all but lost to sight beyond the bulk of St. Kitts, and he had little better to do than look ahead of him at the endless rows of warehouses. It was said that Statia was the wealthiest island in all the world, that the very streets of Orange Town were paved with gold. This had been so even before the war, as the French and the English, and even the Spanish, had sought to avoid the ruinous duties imposed by their respective governments, and the navigation acts which demanded that national goods sail only in national bottoms, by importing to the Dutch island, and taking their chances on smuggling their luxuries and their necessaries, the few miles to their plantations. But since the whole world had gone to war (ostensibly for or against the desire of the Yankee colonists to be free, but in reality to settle endless and ageless differences), leaving only the Hollanders as neutrals - despite the threatening words of the States General in Amsterdam, who also had an ancient grudge against the British - why, Statia had become the clearing house for even sugar. Beneath the Dutch flag Englishman and Frenchman could meet as friends, and forget the inconsiderate pronunciamentoes of their distant governments.

And here Robert supposed his errant cousin could be given time to come to his senses, Matt thought bitterly. It seemed no one in the entire world could understand. To be in love, one must necessarily choose a woman of one's own station, one's own nation, and above all, one's own colour. Or mankind stood askance. How little did they know, how little could someone like Robert know, with his entire hopes of female companionship blighted at an early age, of the depths of a man's feeling? How little they must think of him, if they supposed he would tamely submit to being shut away until Gislane became no more than a memory? No doubt they were misled by the apparent equanimity with which he had accepted his captivity. Well, then, they were the more fools for that. Had he resisted, in futile rage, Robert might have been persuaded to take truly drastic measures. Instead he was to become clerk to a Dutch merchant, for a season. A season which would end as soon as he found a ship to take him to Nevis. And in a place like Statia, that surely could not be long delayed.