Caribbee

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Something was slapping at the smoldering straw in her hair and she felt a hand caress her face, then an arm slide beneath her. The room, the mill, all were swallowed in dark, blinding smoke; now she was aware only of the heat and the closeness of the powerful arms that lifted her off the flame-strewn floor.

  Then there were other voices, faraway shouts, in the same musical language that she heard whispered against her ear. The shouts seemed to be directed at the man who held her, urging him to leave her, to come with them, to escape while there was time. Yet still he held her, his cheek close against her own.

  Slowly Atiba rose, holding her body cradled against him, and pushed through the smoke. The heat was drifting away now, and she felt the gentle spatters of rain against her face as sections of the water-soaked thatched roof collapsed around them, opening the room to the sky.

  The sound of distant gunfire cut through the night air as he pushed out the doorway into the dark. She felt his body stiffen, painfully, as though he had received the bullets in his own chest. But no, the firing was down the hill, somewhere along the road leading to the coast.

  The cold wetness of the rain, and the warmth of the body she knew so well, awoke her as though from a dream. "You must go." She heard her own voice. Why had he bothered to save her, instead of leading his own men to safety. She was nothing now. The revolt had started; they must fight or be killed. "Hurry. Before the branco come."

  As she struggled to regain her feet, to urge him on to safety, she found herself wanting to flee also. To be with him, in death as in life. If he were gone, what would there be to live for. . . ?

  "We have failed." He was caressing her with his sad eyes. "Did you hear the thunder? It was the voice of Shango." Now he looked away, and his body seemed to wither from some grief deep within. "I somehow displeased Shango. And now he has struck us down. Even Ogun is not powerful enough to overcome the god who commands the skies."

  "It was because I wanted to protect you."

  He looked down at her quizzically. "I didn't know you were in the mill house till I heard you call out Shango's name. Why were you there tonight, alone?"

  "I was praying." She avoided his dark eyes, wishing she could say more. "Praying that you would stop, before it was too late. I knew you could not succeed. I was afraid you would be killed."

  He embraced her, then ran his wide hand through her wet, singed hair. "Sometimes merely doing what must be done is its own victory. I'll not live a slave. Never." He held her again, tenderly, then turned away. "Remember always to live and die with honor. Let no man ever forget what we tried to do here tonight."

  He was moving down the hill now, his machete in his hand.

  "No!" She was running after him, half-blinded by the rain. "Don't try to fight any more. Leave. You can hide. We'll escape!"

  "A Yoruba does not hide from his enemies. I will not dishonor the compound of my father. I will stand and face the man who has wronged me."

  "No! Please!" She was reaching to pull him back when a voice came out of the dark, from the pathway down below.

  "Halt, by God!" It was Benjamin Briggs, squinting through the downpour. "So it's you. I might have known. You were behind this, I'll stake my life. Stop where you are, by Jesus, or I'll blow you to hell like the other two savages who came at my men."

  She found herself wondering if the musket would fire. The rain was still a torrent. Then she felt Atiba's hand shove her aside and saw his dark form hurtle down the trail toward the planter. Grasping his machete, he moved almost as a cat: bobbing, weaving, surefooted and deadly.

  The rain was split by the crack of a musket discharge, and she saw him slip momentarily and twist sideways. His ma­chete clattered into the dark as he struggled to regain his bal­ance, but he had not slowed his attack. When he reached Briggs, he easily ducked the swinging butt of the musket. Then his left hand closed about the planter's throat and to­gether they went down in the mud, to the sound of Briggs' choked yells.

  When she reached them, they were sprawled in the gully beside the path, now a muddy flood of water from the hill above. Atiba's right arm dangled uselessly, but he held the planter pinned against the mud with his knee, while his left hand closed against the throat. There were no more yells, only deathly silence.

  "No! Don't!" She was screaming, her arms around Atiba's neck as she tried to pull him away.

  He glanced up at her, dazed, and his grip on Briggs' throat loosened slightly. The planter lay gasping and choking in the rain.

  "Dara . . . !" Atiba was looking past her and yelling a warning when the butt of the matchlock caught him across the chest. She fell with him as three straw-hatted indentures swarmed over them both.

  "By God, I'll hang the savage with my own hands." Briggs was still gasping as he began to pull himself up out of the mud. He choked again and turned to vomit; then he struggled to his feet. "Tie the whoreson down. He's like a mad dog."

  "He's been shot, Yor Worship." One of the indentures was studying the blood on his hands, from where he had been holding Atiba's shoulder. "Would you have us attend to this wound?''

  "I shot the savage myself." Briggs glared at them. "No credit to the lot of you. Then he well nigh strangled me. He's still strong as a bull. Don't trouble with that shot wound. I'll not waste the swathing cloth." He paused again to cough and rub his throat. "He's going to have a noose around his neck as soon as the rain lets up."

  Briggs walked over to where Atiba lay, his arms pinned against the ground and a pike against his chest. "May God damn you, sir. I just learned you managed to burn and ruin a good half the sugar in my curing house." He choked again and spat into the rain. Then he turned back. "Would you could understand what I'm saying, you savage. But mark this. Every black on this island's going to know it when I have you hanged, you can be sure. It'll put a stop to any more of these devilish plots, as I'm a Christian."

  Serina felt her eyes brimming with tears. In trying to save him, she had brought about his death. But everything she had done had been out of devotion. Would he ever understand that? Still, perhaps there was time . . .

  "Are you well, Master Briggs?" She turned to the planter. Her cinnamon fingers stroked lightly along his throat.

  "Aye. And I suppose there's some thanks for you in it." He looked at her, puzzling at the wet, singed strands of hair across her face. "I presume the savage was thinking to make off with you, to use you for his carnal lusts, when I haply put a halt to the business."

  "I have you to thank."

  "Well, you were some help to me in the bargain, I'll own it. So there's an end on the matter." He glanced at Atiba, then back at her. "See to it these shiftless indentures tie him up like he was a bull. Wound or no, he's still a threat to life. To yours as well as mine."

  Even as he spoke, a dark shadow seemed to drop out of the rain. She glanced up and just managed to recognize the form of Derin, his machete poised above his head like a scythe. It flashed in the lantern light as he brought it down against the arm of one of the indentures holding Atiba. The straw-hatted man screamed and doubled over.

  What happened next was blurred, shrouded in the dark. Atiba was on his feet, flinging aside the other indentures. Then he seized his own machete out of the mud with his left hand and turned on Briggs. But before he could move, Derin jostled against him and grabbed his arm. There were sharp words in Yoruba and Atiba paused, a frozen silhouette poised above the planter.

  "By Christ, I'll . . ." Briggs was drawing the long pistol from his belt when Atiba suddenly turned away.

  The gun came up and fired, but the two Yoruba warriors were already gone, swallowed in the night.

  "Well, go after them, God damn you." The planter was shouting at the huddled, terrified indentures. "Not a man on this plantation is going to sleep till both those heathens are hanged and quartered."

  As the indentures gingerly started down the hill in the direction Atiba and Derin had gone, Briggs turned and, still coughing, headed purposefully up the
pathway toward the remains of the mill room.

  The burned-away roof had collapsed entirely, leaving the first sugar mill on Barbados open to the rain—its wide copper rollers sparkling like new.