HF - 03 - The Devil's Own

The Devil's
Own

CASSELL · LONDON

CHRISTOPHER NICOLE

CASSELL & COMPANY LTD

an imprint of Cassell & Collier Macmillan Publishers Lt
d 35 Red Lion Square, London WC1
R 4SG and at Sydney, Auckland, Toronto, Johannesburg

and an affiliate of The Macmillan Publishing Company Inc, New York

Copyright ©
Christopher
Nicole
1975

All rights reserved. No part
of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Cassell and Company Ltd

First published 1975

isbn
o 304 29469 1

Printed in Great Britain by Northumberland Press Limited, Gateshead

CONTENTS

The 'Matelots
^’

The man panted. Partly because of the heat; the sun hung above the barren rock that was the island of Tortuga, and sucked the last drop of moisture from the volcanic fissures much as it brought the sweat trickling from human pores. But he had been running for some time, and climbing, away from the open beach which fringed the bay, and the worm-eaten ships which lay at anchor in the harbour, away from the shacks and lean-to tents of the town, over the uneven track which was called a road, towards the house which crowned the red-rock hill. The house was weathered now, with cracks in the wooden hurricane shutters and the roof of one wing fallen in, but none the less strongly built of stone, loopholed for defence on the lower floor, perched above the rest of the settlement, gazing south across the narrow strait at the immense bulk of Hispaniola, largest of all Caribbean islands, which blotted the horizon, a cloud which overhung life for those who would attempt to live so close to the mainspring of Spain's colonial empire.

At the top of the hill the man checked, to catch his breath. He fitted his surroundings. He wore cracked leather shoes with tarnished gilt buckles, and torn breeches; his chest was bare and burned mahogany by the sun, his black hair was lank and hung past his ears, from one of which dripped a gold earring. He was unarmed, but his big hands looked capable of twining themselves around a rope or a cutlass. His face was devoid of intelligence; only animal passion had ever illuminated the brown eyes, and his beard was more a few sprouts of untidy scrub than a uniform growth. He lived by haunting the taverns a
nd boasting of his deeds when h
e had
sailed with L'Olonnais, and waiting for some more fortunate seafarer to throw him a coin.

But if he had ever taken part in the raids which had first made the men of Tortuga famous, he had gained no courage from the experience. His feet dragged and his shoulders slumped as he made his way towards the verandah on which the woman sat.

And she was, after all, only a woman. Still tall, and still slender. The thick hair was more white than red, now, but her face was still sharp in its outline, her expression as lively as ever in the past. She had watched the man climbing towards her, as she sat here most days and watched the comings and goings in the harbour beneath her house. Whenever there were any comings and goings. Today was important, because last night's gale had brought a ship limping towards Tortuga, and even Susan Hilton's fading eyes could tell at a glance that this was no rotting pirate hulk, staggering home from a disastrous visit to the Main, in which wind and reef would all but have ended her career at least once in every day, and the Spanish gold of which her crew would boast had remained always nothing better than a dream. This morning's visitor was a well-found ship, and it was flying the Cross of St George.

As Bale was about to tell her. ' 'Tis the Governor of Antigua, Mistress Hilton,' he babbled. 'Himself, ma'am, with a sprung foremast. He's here for a refit, ma'am, and he sends his compliments.'

Susan stood up, only a brief downward twist of her lips revealing the spasm of rheumatism which accompanied the upward jerk. 'Warner?'

'Himself, ma'am,' Bale spluttered. 'Colonel Philip Warner, and asking to be remembered to your honour. 'Tis said his father first set the English flag flying in these islands.'

'His father and his brother. So that Philip could inherit, the name and the glory.' Forty-five years in the West Indies had not diminished Susan's Irish brogue. 'Ye'll return to the harbour, Bale.'

'Oh, yes, ma'am. In time.' He circled his dusty lips with a dry tongue. In the ten years since Tony Hilton had died there had scarce been anyone to investigate his well-stocked cellar. '
It's mighty hot on that hill.'

'I will write a letter. Ye"ll wait, Bale.' She went inside, and Bale sidled up the steps, to check at the rumble of threatening noise which came from behind the door; the mastiff formed a shaggy shadow against the wall. Bale remained at the top of the steps. From here he could peer into the interior of the house and sec the woman as she sat at the scarred writing desk, dipping her quill into the old silver well. Apart from the desk, and a few straight chairs, the room was empty. And of people, when a servant might have been instructed to bring him a drink. But Susan Hilton had to live for the rest of her life on what gold her husband had accumulated during his career as a pirate, and Governor of Tortuga. Estimates varied. Certain it was that she lived tight, seldom went out, and when she spent money, it was on that grandson of hers.

She stood up and held out two letters. 'There ye are, Bale. One for Monsieur D'Ogeron, and one for Colonel Warner. I wish these delivered within the hour.'

Bale took the papers, reluctantly. 'Sure, and the sun is fit to strike a man dead, ma'am, on that hill.'

Susan regarded him with a stare which had frozen better men to the floor, then nodded, and went back to the desk. From one of the drawers she took a gold coin, and threw it.

Bale grabbed the flying sliver of light with a certainty born of practice, turned it over, opened his palm. 'A crown piece, by Christ.'

'So drink yourself into the gutter,' Susan suggested. 'After ye've delivered those letters.'

'Oh, aye, ma'am. Til be at it now. God bless you,
Mistress Hilton. God bless you.’
He eyed the dog as he backed down the steps.

Susan watched him shamble down the hill. The noise of his progress receded, and the house once again became still. It was a quiet she enjoyed. When Tony lived here, and ruled this accumulation of outlaws and debtors, pimps and whores, he had filled these rooms with laughter and with song, with the clink of bottles and the stamp of feet. Since his death the loudest sound had been the whisper of the wind through the rotting shutters. Susan never wore shoes about the house. It was a habit she had formed as a child in Ireland,
how many centuries ago. Nor had she reason to change here in the unending summer. Her feet were as smooth and hard and flawlessly shaped. And as no man had known her bed for ten years, her figure was no less youthful. She lived with her memories, and only when these were not quite enough did she hate the silence.

But tonight there would be noise. Philip Warner ... she plucked at her lower lip. Only
a boy, when last they met, in 16
29,
in
th
at
tumultuous summer when the Spaniards had made their supreme effort to destroy the heretical colonies which had sprouted like weeds in their private paradise, and had failed, because of the courage and determination of the Warners—and their friends. Then Philip had been a short, thick-set youth filled with jealousy of his brother. But now he was a Deputy Governor, and of Edward's old colony, too; Edward's widow, Aline, had chosen to take her surviving children back to France rather than remain on the island where her capture by the Caribs continued to be a source of gossip. But surely forty years would have given him dignity, and more. And a reputation for trimming; it was said he found it as easy now to be an admirer of His Majesty King Charles the Second as he had found it to do business with Cromwell's commissioners.

But that was not a question on which Susan Hilton would pass judgement. Philip was here. He must meet Kit. She turned, in a flurry of skirts, moved silently through the entry hall. Rufus immediately rose, shook himself, and padded behind her. They went through the great empty kitchens to stand together at the back door and look at the few stunted trees which made up the orchard. There the two boys faced each other, wearing only breeches, feet and heads bare, sweat glistening on muscular shoulders and rolling down their cheeks as they presented their swords, crossed the blades, thrust and retreated, swept and ducked, grunted and smiled. They did nothing else with their time, except when they practised with their pistols or went fishing in the shallows. They dreamed of leading their own buccaneering expeditions, of following in the footsteps of Tony Hilton and Jean L'Olonnais, of seeking a fame to equal that of Mansveldt; perhaps of rushing off to join
the new adventurer whose name
was upon everyone's lips: Henry Morgan.

Time enough for that when they were older. She had no eyes for Jean DuCasse, although the French boy, at eighteen, was already as tall as a man and remarkably handsome, black hair smoothly wavy on his shoulders, cheekbones high and dignified, smile elongating the small mouth beneath the trim moustache and then as quickly fading to return the long face to its more natural solemnity. A good friend, Jean, as was his father; without DuCasse's warehouse Tortuga would be more of a sandbank than it needed.

But Jean was not her problem. Christopher Hilton, a year younger, already possessed an equal height. And with it her features, small and delicate, hardened only by the jutting chin. She looked in vain for the great gash of a mouth which had been Tony's principal characteristic. But then, Kit's father had not possessed the Hilton mouth either, and he had been her eldest son, conceived during those tumultuous weeks in the St Kitts forest, when Tony and Edward Warner had equally shared her embraces. That was not a riddle to which she had ever dared discover an answer. And all others who might be interested were long dead. Sufficient that of all her memories this boy was the sweetest, and were he Warner or Hilton, he was equally fortunate in his forebears.