He walked his horse down the hill. It was still early in the morning, and the town was just coming to life. Haggard turned down a narrow side street, pulled Calliope to a halt before the two-storeyed house with the high gable, dismounted and tried the door.
'Who's there?'
He tilted his head back to look at the upper window. 'John Haggard, Polly.'
Polly Haynes peered at him. 'Mr. Haggard? Well, glory be. We're all asleep.'
Then wake up. I want a girl, Polly.'
'At seven in the morning? Oh, my, my. There was to be a duel.'
There's been a duel, Polly. Come down and open the door.'
'And you're standing there. And you want a girl. No, no, Mr. Haggard. Not this morning.'
'Now don't be a fool, Polly. You'll not refuse John Haggard.'
'I'll refuse any man what's just fought a duel. Last time I let one in Margo had her arm broke. Go home and sleep it off, Mr. Haggard. Come back tonight.' She saw Haggard considering the door. 'And if you try to break down my door, Mr. Haggard, I've a blunderbuss up here, and it's loaded.'
Haggard hesitated, fingers closing into fist and then opening again. Then he remounted and rode back up the street. Not even a whore would have him. He was John Haggard. With a snap of his fingers he could buy the whole lot of them.
He drew rein, and the mare obediently stopped moving. Then why did he not do so? Why did he not go back and offer Polly a hundred pounds, no a thousand pounds, for the right to break one of her girl's arms? She'd not refuse that. But suddenly he didn't want to. He wanted a woman, but she had to be his, his to do what he liked with, his to abuse to his heart's content, not just for an hour. His to torment until in her agony she expiated Adelaide Bolton's crime.
So then, are you a bad man, John Haggard?
But whatever the answer to that, his best course was to return to Haggard's as quickly as possible, and discover the prettiest young girl he possessed, and take her and take her until he felt utterly satiated.
He stood his horse on the trampled earth close to the Careenage, watched the hustle and bustle in front of him, the gangs of slaves carrying bales of cloth and boxes of hats and manhandling great crates of machinery on to the dock, the anxious passengers waiting to take their turns on board for the long hazardous journey to England, listened to the babble of conversation, inhaled the tang of dust which eddied upwards. He was in no hurry to go home. He wanted to avoid thought.
He dismounted, walked into the throng, the mare obedient at his heels. People parted before him. Everyone in Barbados knew John Haggard, and most people in Barbados would also have heard of the duel; his presence would be sufficiently indicative of the result.
'Mr. Haggard, as I live and breathe.'
Haggard paused before the sea captain. 'Biddies. Had a good voyage?'
'Good enough, Mr. Haggard. Good enough.' Biddies was short and stout; even standing still he seemed to roll with the waves. 'Saw a Yankee sail but once, but gave her a clean pair of heels. Oh, aye.' He frowned at the planter; Haggard was one of his principal customers. There was a rumour . . .'
'You don't want to listen to rumours, Biddies.' Haggard looked past the seaman at the eleven people shambling down the gangplank; five women and six men. Their clothes were in rags, even at a distance of thirty feet he could smell them, and their faces wore at once the pallor and the misery of people without hope, indentures?'
'Cutpurses,' Biddies said. 'Well, there's no longer welcome for them in the Virginias. Fancy a white servant, Mr. Haggard?'
'Not I,' Haggard said. 'We tried them once, and they were dead within the year. You'd get a better price for them if you turned a hose on them for five minutes before landing.'
'Would make no difference at all, Mr. Haggard. They're not for sale. Indenture. Ten pounds a piece for a ten-year term. What they smell like is immaterial.'
Haggard frowned at the gangplank. The first group had come ashore, and were standing sullenly together, blinking in the suddenly fierce sunlight of the morning, looking around them at the blacks and the sunbrowned planters with suspicious fear. But now a twelfth convict came down the plank, pushed on her way by one of the seamen, and this girl's wrists were bound behind her. Because she was a girl, Haggard realised. A rather lovely girl, for all the grime and the stench. Her hair was a deep red, and waved on its way past her shoulders. Her face was gamine-like rather than classical, but the beauty was there in the rounded chin and the short, straight nose, the high forehead and the wideset eyes; he could not tell their colour. And she was young, certainly only in her mid teens.
'What's with that one?' he asked, and was surprised to find his heart pounding.
'Aye, well, every so often we gets a bad one. She's for the rope.'
'She's been sent to Barbados for hanging?'
'Oh, no, Mr. Haggard. Stealing from her mistress. But on the way out, oh, 'twere a bad business. Witchcraft.' Biddies lowered his voice.
'Now, Biddies,' Haggard said. 'You'll not pretend to believe in that nonsense.' He watched the girl reach the land. Her legs trembled and for a moment she nearly fell. But she regained her balance, gazed into the crowd, and looked away again with a little toss of her head, preferring to stare back out to sea. She wore what must have once been quite a decent blue gown. Now its rags exposed her shoulders and left her legs bare from the knees down; she had exquisite calves and ankles. Just looking at her made him wish to adjust his breeches.
'Well, Mr. Haggard, I'll tell you straight, I never did,' Biddies confessed. 'But when you see something happen with your own eyes . . .'
Tell me.' Haggard gazed at the girl, watched the wind take her gown and wrap it close round her body. Fifteen? Or just young for her age?
'Well, Mr. Haggard, they was in the hold, the women one end and the men the other. But this one always had ideas above her station, and the others soon took a dislike to her. Well, sir, there was a quarrel and a fight, and this one all but killed the other. Well, sir, my mate, Tom Hargreaves, and a good man he was too, well, sir, he decided the fault was the girl's, and he ordered her twelve lashes. "You'll not do it," she said. So she was strung up, and the cat put across her. She took it without screaming, sir. Just a tear on her cheek. But when it was done, and they cut her down, she looked at Tom, and she said, "I curse you, Tom Hargreaves. I curse you into your grave." ' He paused, and wiped sweat from his neck.
'Well?' Haggard found he was interested despite himself.
'A week later, he was dead.'
'Dead? She poisoned him? Knifed him?'
'He just took to his bed, Mr. Haggard. Took to his bunk and died.'
'Coincidence.' 'Witchcraft, Mr. Haggard.'
'You'll get no court to convict her of that, Biddies. This is 1780, not 1680.'
'I've an entire crew will swear to it, Mr. Haggard. So will those eleven over there.'
Haggard watched the girl. Despite her determination, her legs would no longer support her. Slowly her knees gave way and she sank into a bundle on the ground. Dust eddied about her shoulders. Haggard walked towards her, slowly. Are you a bad man, John Haggard? Are you everything they say of you?
He stood before her, but she did not seem to notice. Or had she noticed? Her head started to move, then slumped again. Haggard put out his riding crop, tucked the end of the bone handle under her chin, raised her head. Her eyes looked into his. They were pale blue, like his own.
'What's she called?' He walked back to Biddies.
'Emma, Mr. Haggard. Emma Dearborn is what her sheet says.'
'Condemned for stealing from her mistress. You'll not convict her of more than that in Barbados. Biddies.'
'Well, sir, I've a crew . . .'
'You've a magistrate standing here, Biddies. You may take my word for it. But you can make her over to me.'
Oh, indeed, you are a bad man, John Haggard. Those who criticise you, who hate you, do not know the half of it. But how his heart swelled in tune with his penis at the sight of so much feminine beauty, sitting there, waiting to be destroyed.
To you, Mr. Haggard?'
Ten pounds, is it? I'll give you twenty.'
Biddies frowned, and pulled his nose. 'I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Haggard.'
'She'll wish she could hang, Biddies. Twenty pounds.'
The girl knew they were discussing her even if she could not hear what they were saying. She glanced from one to the other of the men, and a frown was gathering between her eyes.
Twenty pounds,' Biddies murmured. Of which ten would be for his pocket. 'She's yours, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard nodded, looked into the throng, snapped his fingers. 'You. You belong to Mr. Crippen?'
The big black man hastily touched his forehead.
‘
I does, Mr. Haggard, suh.'
Tell him I want the hire of a kittareen. Now. He'll have it back this afternoon.'
'Yes, suh, Mr. Haggard.' The Negro put down his bale of cloth and hurried up Broad Street.
'I thank you. Biddies. Remember, tear up her sheet. She's guilty of murder.'
'Oh, aye, Mr. Haggard.' But Biddies looked worried. 'You'll be careful, Mr. Haggard. Tom just took to his bunk and died.' 'I'll remember that,' Haggard said. 'Stand up. Emma.' The girl gazed at him.
'Stand up,' Haggard said. 'Or you'll be dragged,'
She seemed to consider the threat, then she stood up.
'Walk in front of me,' Haggard said. 'Over there,' He pointed with his crop at the more open space of Broad Street, where the kittareen—a small two-wheeled vehicle, with two seats, beside each other, and a single horse—was already waiting.
Emma Dearborn walked through the crowd. They parted before her, both because they saw Haggard behind her, but also, he thought, because a second glance made them wish to look a third time.
'Are you a lord?' she asked. Haggard was surprised. Her voice was low, with just a trace of a north country accent.
‘I’m
better than a lord.' he said.
‘I’m
John Haggard. Get up.'
‘I’m
to ride beside you?'
Haggard nodded. The girl grasped the side of the equipage, put up one leg. Haggard watched the skirt fall away, watched the muscles ripple in the thigh, watched the veins suddenly stand out on her neck, realised that she was desperately weak with cramp and hunger. He gripped her thighs, lifted her effortlessly from the ground. Her head turned, sharply, then looked away again, and she sat down. Haggard tied the mare's reins to the back of the kittareen, sat down himself, nodded to the Negro who held the bridle. The whip flicked, and the equipage bumped up the street towards the green hills beyond.
Haggard looked at the girl. She gazed around her with interest, the more so as windows were opening to allow people, mainly other women, to stare at her. She made several attempts to straighten her gown, to conceal her legs
. There was breeding locked away
in there. Haggard realised. But it was not a subject
to
be purs
ued. She was there to amuse him,
to remove the canker gnawing at his mind. He could not permit her to exist, as a person.
The houses thinned, and they were in the open air. Ahead of them lay the sea of waving cane which was the wealth of the island,
'Captain said I'd be hanged,' Emma said. 'I changed his mind for him." Haggard said. They exchanged quick glances, and she looked away again. Haggard realised his entire body was a swollen mass of desire; he could not recall being in such a state before in his life, even on his wedding night. But it was almost a pleasure to feel that way, to feel the passion growing, to know that it was going to be assuaged, the very moment he was ready.
'Sugar cane,' she said. They told me about sugar cane.' She looked up at the sun; it was nearly noon, and she wore no hat. But already Haggard's was in sight. Emma stared around her in wonderment, as they rumble
d down the drive, as the mastiff
s came out to bark and frolic, as the black men hurried forward to hold the reins, and as she slowly took in the size of the Great House rising above them.
'Mr. John.' James Middlesex hurried down the steps. 'Oh, Mr. John, but we is too glad to have you back.' There were tears in his eyes.
'It's good to be back,' Haggard said, and squeezed the black man's hand. 'Where is Annie Kent?
’
'She there, Mr. John. She there.'
For all the house slaves were gathered on the verandah by the pantry.
'Annie,' Haggard said. This girl needs a bath. And then food. Take her upstairs and get her clean, then allow her to eat with me.'
'Yes, sir. Mr. John.' Annie Kent could size up the situation at a glance. 'You coming, child?'
Emma hesitated, gave Haggard a quick glance, and received a nod. She climbed down, all but fell, then recovered her strength and went up the steps. Haggard got down more slowly, followed. He stood in the hallway, watched the two women disappearing on the gallery above his head, now surrounded by several other upstairs maids. He inhaled. He stood once again in his own house. Had there ever been any doubt? None at all in retrospect.
'Man, Mr. John, this suit finish,' Middlesex observed.
'Burn it,' Haggard said. He did not wish to be reminded of last night in any event. He climbed the stairs, hesitated at the top. He could hear water being emptied into a tin tub, the scurrying of the maids as they ran down the back staircase with empty buckets. He turned to the left, went to the nursery. Amelia sat in a rocking chair, moving slowly to and fro.
'Mr. Haggard, suh.' She hastened to her feet. The boy sleeping, Mr. Haggard. He does be have he breakfast one hour ago, and he sleeping.'
'You didn't tell him where I'd gone?'
'He ain't asking, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard nodded. He didn't suppose Roger really knew who his father was, or indeed if he had one. He went into his own room, where Henry Suffolk, his valet, waited for him. 'Get rid of all of these, Henry,' he said, as he undressed.
'Yes, sir, Mr. John. Mr. John . . . we is too glad you didn't get hit.'
'So am I, Henry. So am I.' The last of his clothes fell to the floor, and Henry hastily gathered them up, averting his eyes from his master's erection. Now how long was it since Henry had had to do that? And why was he waiting any longer? He was here, she was there . . . but she would be better after she had eaten.
Yet there was no reason not to look. He allowed Henry to wrap him in an undressing robe, left his feel bare, walked along the gallery and opened the door to the spare bedroom where Emma had been taken. The four slave girls who had been scrubbing her hastily stood up. For a moment it seemed Emma did not realise what had happened, then she saw Haggard standing in the doorway,-gave a startled half scream, and leapt out of the tub, kneeling on the far side in an attempt
to
hide herself while her hands closed on her breasts.
Haggard realised that he had done better than he supposed possible. The skin was creamy white, dotted with occasional freckles; the legs were long and slender; the belly was only slightly pouted; the breasts were bigger than he would have dared hope—they overflowed from the small hands attempting to conceal them. While the whole was made utterly entrancing by the wet red hair which see
med to stain her shoulders, by t
he dark forest at her groin, just
visible above the edge of the t
ub.
He licked his lips. 'Stand up, girl,' he said, 'I would look at you.
’
Her own tongue came ou
t, slowly, anxiously. 'You're a
man,' she accused.
'You got a queer one here, Mr. John," Annie remarked.
Haggard gazed at her for a moment longer. Could she really be the innocent she pretended? Or even the half lady she pretended? But to think about
her
would be to lose his own purpose. Remember only that she should be hanging, and dying. She had no existence, save in his mind and his presence. He walked into the room, stood behind her; she would not tum her head. There were only faint marks on her flesh where she had been flogged. 'Give her something to wear and send her to me,' he said, and was surprised to find his voice was thick.