HF - 05 - Sunset (39 page)

She returned to the gangway, studied the shore again. It was empty. There was nothing to stop her going for a swim. Because the sea was equally empty. And the water looked so cool while the day was so hot; sweat was gathering between her shoulder blades and between her breasts, coating her neck, dampening her armpits. She considered pulling her hair on top of her head, then decided to leave it and let it also have a wetting, stepped onto the ladder, turning to face the boat to descend into the water, and heard the sound of a shot.

For a moment she clung to the ladder, quite paralysed with a mixture of shock and fear. Then she twisted her head; the sound had come from the shore. But the beach was empty. And then she heard more shots, a perfect fusillade, followed by others, fired singly.

'Oh, my God,' she gasped, and scrambled back up the ladder, instinctively reaching for her discarded gown. One could not face a battle naked.

A battle? She stood at the gunwhale, peered at the shore. The firing was now fairly continuous, but she could see no smoke and she could see no people. It was quite uncanny. And what should she do ? What
could
she do ?

She panted, and took a turn up and down the deck. Alan was over there, being shot at, perhaps killed. With his crew and his friends. She had no doubt about that. They had been surprised by Spanish soldiers. And she was here, alone. Why, they might never return.
Margarita
might be left here to rot. And, with the ship, her namesake.

She felt tears beginning to start and angrily fought them back. She was Margaret Hilton. That was all she need remember, at any time. Margaret Hilton need fear no one, and nothing.

A man's voice made her raise her head, once again peering at the shore, and then slowly rising to her feet. She wanted to scream for joy. The sailors ran down the sand, carrying rifles, to be sure, but not at this moment firing. And with the sailors
...
but he was not there, and they were launching the boat, running into the shallow water with it as they pushed it over the sand.

'No,' she wanted to scream. 'Go back. You cannot desert your captain.' Well, she'd soon put a stop to that when they gained the ship. She'd
...
she stared at them. Having launched the dinghy, and dipped their oars, the five men had suddenly abandoned the boat and leapt over the side, swimming for the shore, leaving the derelict boat drifting slowly down wind.

Meg scratched her head. They'd lose it. It would drift into the reefs and be lost, and how then would Alan get on board? Perhaps she should dive in and swim after it. She had no doubt she could. On the other hand she wasn't at all sure she'd be able to scull that heavy boat back here.

She turned, her mind a frenzy of uncertainty, and stared over the seaward side of the vessel, at the launch which came slowly out of the cluster of islets. It was a steam launch, uttering little belches of vapour from its single small funnel. It was full of men in blue uniforms, and in the bow was mounted a strange-looking weapon. She had never seen a Maxim gun, but she had seen enough pictures to recognize it immediately.

She dropped to her knees. The men on the pinnace had certainly seen the dinghy, just as the men in the dinghy had seen the pinnace. Perhaps they would pass the ship by. She crouched on the deck, holding her head in her arms, holding her breath.

Now she could hear the putt-putt-putt of the engine, coming very close. Oh, my God, she thought, they are going to board. Well, then, stand up and declare yourself. Margaret Hilton, mistress of Hilltop in Jamaica. Even Spanish soldiers must have heard of Hilltop. If not, there was a British consul in Havana. She would demand to be taken there. She braced herself to stand up, and her brain was paralysed by a new sound, a swift rat-a-tat which seemed the deadliest thing she had ever heard, as it was accompanied by the crunch of bullets biting into wood, and below her.

The schooner shook, even the masts seemed to tremble. And Meg heard laughter. She left the rail and crawled across the deck. She wanted only shelter. And now a burst came over the gunwhale, seeming to pass immediately above her head, tearing into the masts and sending flying splinters of wood in every direction. They were aiming at the quarterdeck; she would never make the cabin hatch. She rolled against the open hatchway to the hold, got her legs over, hung for a moment, and dropped into the darkness.

And was immediately surrounded by sound. The chatter of the machine gun seemed much louder down here, and the crunch of the bullets into the hull was like blows from a giant hammer. She gasped, and watched water spurting inches from her face. They were aiming at the water line, enjoying themselves, shooting and shooting and shooting, until someone came on deck or the ship began to sink. It would sink. She could tell that immediately. The timbers were old, and the machine-gun was being fired at almost point-blank range. She crouched behind the pile of bananas and watched the deadly spurts of water. Perhaps it would be better to stay here and drown. Her instincts warned her that men who could so wantonly destroy an anchored, helpless vessel, who could laugh while doing so, were not the sort of men to whom she ought to surrender.

Something ran across her foot. She drew it up, and stood up in the same instant. The sound of the chattering gun was almost lost in the squeakings which arose from the
Margarita's
bilges. Oh, my God, she thought, instinctively reaching for the hatch. The rats had no thought of attacking her. Their one idea was to escape the sinking ship. Yet they were terrifying, in their size, in their very meaning, and above all in their desperation.

Meg dug her fingers into the hatch combing, swung herself up, tumbled onto the deck. There was a shout from the pinnace. Someone had seen her head for a moment before it had again dropped behind the bulwark. But they would not come after her. The deck was already sloping, and the gun had not ceased its deadly sound.

She rolled on her back, sliding away from the hatch, still hearing the squeals of the terrified, drowning rats, gazed at the masts, suddenly at a crazy angle, and, as she watched, parting the shrouds with their weight. The mainmast hung for a terrible second, then there came a crack which cut across the morning. Meg was against the gunwhale by now, and threw up her hands, as if she could possibly have staved off the bone-crushing weight of the timber. But it fell aft of her, with a crash which again shook the morning, and pulled the schooner even farther over. Meg discovered her legs in the water, and flung herself clear of the ship. For a disgusting moment she was surrounded by squealing rats, and one crawled onto her head. She shook it away, dived into the water. But she was hampered by the gown which wrapped itself round her legs, and was forced to surface immediately, to find herself alongside the pinnace.

The gun was silent. Willing hands reached down to pull her out, the men laughing and chattering amongst themselves in Spanish. Fingers dug into her legs, her ribs, her breasts, her hair. One even held her toes. They were all anxious to secure a piece of their so strange, so magnificent prize.

Then the hands were gone, and she was dumped on the deck of the pinnace with a force which left her breathless. And stared up at an officer, peering at her, thin lips twisted, cap pushed back on his head. He asked her a question, and she gazed at him in bewilderment. He asked again, his face hardening, and accompanied his question by a kick on the thigh.

She drew up her legs, aware that her gown was clinging to her body like a second skin.
^l
Non
...
non comprendo,'
she said, hoping it was the right thing.

The officer leaned forward, thrust his fingers into her wet hair, turned her head this way and that violently, asked again, and while she tried to catch her breath, slapped her so hard she thought for a moment she had lost consciousness.

'Stop,' she screamed as the morning seemed to rotate about her. 'I am Margaret Hilton. Margaret Hilton, Mistress of Hilltop. You cannot harm me. Margaret Hilton.' But her words were almost a sob. The officer could no more understand her than she could understand him. He straightened, and shrugged, said something to his men.

One of them answered him, asking a question, smiling, as were his companions.

The officer hesitated, again staring at her, his face also smiling. Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, my God. This question she could understand.

The officer shrugged once again, and turned, and walked aft, away from her.

Meg attempted to sit up, and her shoulders were seized to hurl her flat again, once again leaving her breathless. While she gasped her wrists were grasped and a man was also kneeling on her hair. She gazed at their grinning faces, and attempted to kick, realized her mistake as her ankles were in turn seized and pressed to the deck, pulled as wide apart as her arms. The man who had asked the question knelt between her thighs, reaching forward to dig his fingers into the neck of her gown and rip it down, slowly, as a child might peel the wrapping from a sweet. She stared at him, wishing she could summon all the force of her mind to strike him dead, but the gown was at her waist, and another man was leaning forward to fondle her breasts, giggling with anticipated pleasure as he did so.

Then the man between her legs jerked away, and threw the gown into the air, while his companions cheered. She was naked, on the deck, in front of twelve men. Twelve men.

But it was only the first who mattered. He had dropped his breeches before she knew what he was doing, was thrusting at her with a tremendous lance, burning into her flesh, no caresses here, jerking back and forth. She tried to raise her bottom, and was thrust against the deck again. She tried moving from side to side, and was hit a blow in the stomach which had her head swinging and made her think she would choke. And as if to add to her misery, the engine had commenced its putt-putt again, sending throbs through the deck, through her, through the penis upon which she was impaled.

She tried screaming. Her breath was back and she opened her mouth as wide as they had opened her legs, and screamed and screamed and screamed, and lost her breath again as his weight lay heavily on her belly and chest.

But there were twelve men. She had not, after all, escaped the rats. They crawled on her, they played with her, they investigated her, looking into her mouth, thrusting fingers into her ears, rolling her on her face to practise she knew not what upon her, for always there was one between her legs, caressing and hurting, thrusting and gasping. For a terrible moment she felt a build-up of passion, the ecstasy bubble which lurked in her belly. No, she prayed. No. I cannot have an orgasm while being raped. And the ecstasy soon enough faded in pain and horror. She could only lie there, and pray for death, and think, I am Margaret Hilton. I am Mistress of Hilltop. Oh, my God, then I am being punished for being Margaret Hilton. For being mistress of Hilltop.

She discovered that she was alone. Relatively. There were still men all around her, but they were going about their duties, coiling warps, preparing canvas fendoffs. She lay in a huddle against the wheelhouse, each throb of the engine still seemed to travel right through her body. She ached, from her toes to her head. She smelt. Her hair was a tangled ruin. She could tell, as she attempted to lick her lips, that her face was bruised and swollen. Had they hit her there? She could not remember. But she could remember someone trying to kiss her, as she twisted her head to and fro, and finally holding her jaw between his fingers. She could still feel their imprint on her flesh.

But it was the imprint on her mind which mattered. She had been raped, by twelve men. She had revelled in sex, in the enjoyment of her body, in the indulgence of her belly desires, for more than a dozen years, ever since that night in the mountains with Cleave. Her body, her sensuality, had been her weapon, far more than the wealth of Hilltop or the aura of the Hilton name, which she had used to dominate all Jamaica. Now it had been torn from her hand, and defiled. She wondered if she would ever have the courage, or the wish, to pick it up again. If she would ever be granted the opportunity.

The thuds through the deck were slowing, and again she saw feet. She raised her head, stared at the officer. He held a blanket, which he now dropped on her. Then he turned away without a word.

The cloth was filthy, but it was some protection. She pulled it about her shoulders, managed to sit up, discovered that they were in a small harbour and about to come alongside a dock. The officer turned, and said something. She did not understand the words, but she did not wish to be kicked again, and hastily scrambled to her feet. The blanket hung from her shoulders but only reached her thighs. She took it off and wrapped it around her like a sarong, hiding her breasts and her groin, leaving her shoulders and legs exposed. Her muscles shook, and her knees touched each other. She discovered she was shivering, despite the afternoon heat.

The boat came alongside the dock, and the engine died. The officer jerked his head, and she saw the gangway had been opened. She stepped across, onto the wood of the dock, gazed at the soldiers and policemen waiting there, at the crowd of people, men and women and children, gathered in the dust road beyond, some Negroes, most mulattoes, at the cluster of ramshackle buildings.

The officer pushed her shoulder and she staggered forward and tripped, and all but released the blanket. Hastily she hugged it tighter, regained her balance, walked up the street, feeling the dust between her toes. Once she had liked to roll in the dust. Now she was going to be made to do more than that. She had no doubt of that.