by Jan Needle
“It ain’t a private language, though,” she said. “It’s what we speak here on this island. A lot of white folk can’t — planters and their ladies, and the rich — but don’t put trust in that, for many do. And some like the master and his friends pretend they cannot, but they know the gist and fall upon you like a ton of bricks if you should be talking out of order. There’s slaves have died by thinking they were safe in Kreyole talk.”
Deb wondered why the slaves did not use African, but Bridie laughed at that, as well. Because Africa was not a country, but a place, she said. Africa was many, many countries, and the people from each part spoke their own languages and could not understand each other half a jot.
“Do you speak Irish?” she said. “Do you speak Welsh, and you from just beyond the border? You do not, so. Why then should Mabel, who’s a Coromantee, say, know the talk of Mildred, who might be Ebo, or a Paw-paw, or Mandingo? By sea they could be months apart, from what the traders tell us. And by land in Africa — impossible!”
And then the bell went, and there came a shout, and Deb walked through a broken door to meet her fate. The master sat at the head of the table, shortish, bullish, with his toad-face flushed, while two young men were flanked along the sides and facing. They were rough-dressed, like their father was, and more like hands than farmers in Deb’s eyes. One was big and quite well-looking, with tight-curled hair and wide, firm mouth, while his brother was a different kettle altogether. His eyes were dull and staring, his features in some subtle way displaced, and the smile upon his lips a combination of vacancy and lust. As she walked in, he stood up behind the table, rattling the platters, cups, and cutlery almost to the floor, and licked his lips.
“Sit you down, Ammon,” said the toad, affectionately. “You’ll have to wait your turn. Miss Tom-tittery, that there’s my second son. His name is Ammon, and he’s looking for a wife. What say you?”
“Tom-tittery?” said Ammon, with astonishment on his features. “Is that her name, feyther? My golly, that’s a pretty one! Am I to change it for thee, lass?”
He sat down heavily and stared some more, while Miss Tomelty felt as hollow as a drum.
“She answers to the name of Deb,” said Sutton. “I expect she’ll allow thee call her that, Ammon. She is a Cheshire lass. Good breeding stock.”
“I heerd she were an ’ore,” said the other one. He smiled at Deb, an open, friendly smile. “I’m Seth, don’t mind me ’alf-bro,” he went on, “’e’s simple, like. I don’t know which ’alf of me’ e’s got, but it wa’ not me brain, no ’ow.” He paused, a short, timed pause. “’E’s got the Sutton podger, though. ’E’s donkey-rigged. Mebbe his ma were black, eh, Pa?”
“Get off wi’ you!” said Alf, as if annoyed. “I don’t have m’nigger sons at dinner table, do ah?” He gave a bellow of amusement. “Need a bloody big table, when all’s been counted; there’s enough of ’em to fill a bloody cattle pen!”
Ammon was blinking, eyes puzzled. “’Tent right though, that, is it?” he said. “’Bout nigger podgers being bigger.” He turned his face to Deb, with care of explanation. “Ah checks, tha see’st,” he said. “Theer’s only two got bigger ones ner me, and ah fucks theer women to show as who is boss.” He turned the eyes to father next, then brother. “Ah swived that Bonzo’s yester’een again,” he told them, full of pride. “He tried to stop me, Bonzo did, but I had me pistol in me hand in case, and I smacked his face with it. Then Fido got two lads on ’im and give ’im a fine kicking for his cheek.” The eyes went back to Deborah, the smile was kindly, broad and frank. “Ah’m very good,” he told her. “You can try me, an’ you like. Would you like to see m’ podger now?”
There were roars of laughter and derision from around the table, which made him blush although he could not see, in truth, what he had said so wrong. Deb felt her stomach dropping down and feared that she might faint, or vomit on the hard earth floor. Not faint: the thought revived her. If she fainted among these animals they would strip and use her, one by one. She had fallen among wolves. Or maybe all the English planters were like this. She took the dishes out, as her excuse for leaving, and Bridie told her not to return, but to go outside and vanish for a while in the deep black night.
*
Next morning, and in ensuing days, Deb (with Bridie’s connivance) spent much time hiding in the open largeness of the plantation, and avoiding contact with the men. It was a busy time in the planting year, and all three of them were scarcely in the house, and scarcely sober when they were. Interested in lechery, certainly, but exceeding easy to avoid or give the slip. Deb smiled at their advances when she had to, and apologised as she skipped off to do some chore she’d dreamed up, and nodded seriously when they told her “just thee wait!” Little Ammon, who was six feet tall of bursting flesh and muscle, did seize her once, but as he tried to get his penis out she bit his hand and streaked away. By the time she had emerged to lay the supper out, he had forgotten all about it.
After ten days, as predicted, she came down with an ague, but it was not a major one, and she survived. Had any of the Suttons wished to join her in her bed, Deb would most likely not have cared, or noticed, but sweat, coughed blood and vomit are effective prophylactics, and she remained unvisited. Bridie ignored her, too, but Mabel took it on herself to save Deb’s life. In the days of her recovery they started to communicate, she teaching the Cheshire maid Kreyole, and Deb asked her why she’d cared for her so selflessly. As far as she could understand the answers, it was because Mabel hated Alf, and Alf did not care if Deborah lived or died. Alf was the father of her son Wasambu, she said — but called him Spot. Sadly, Deb could not pronounce Mabel’s given name.
Throughout the weakness of her recovery, Deb haunted the plantation, watching. She saw the poor black people being gathered up outside their shacks, then walking to and working in the fields, cutting and transporting stacks of cane to pick-up points for carting to the factory. The poor black people were driven on by other blacks, she noted, who carried whips they used with casual liberality. None of them — drivers or the driven — acknowledged her, and Deborah felt invisible in some wise. Even the few children would not meet her eyes, and when she turned round suddenly to catch them peeping, were in fact indifferent, as though she were not there. Of white men she saw none, save for a glimpse of Sutton, on his big black mule, on the skyline every now and then. Little Ammon, great big hulking Little Ammon, had disappeared from open air, as had Seth. Above, the sky was always blue, and calm, and clear — and Deb was desolate as the grave.
The factory, when she at last drew near it, was another hellish vision in her eyes. It was a huge building, with open ends, and inside a maelstrom of furnaces and vats and mighty boilers. There was machinery, groaning and racketting as it slowly turned by man and mule-power, and chutes down which she saw chopped cane fed constantly towards great rollers, which cracked and screamed and screeched under duress. She had little idea what might be going on, but over all there was a pall of sweet steam, hot and heavy, which she realised soon was leaving an awful stickiness on her skin and hair and clothes, a stickiness so all-pervading she found it most unpleasant. But although she ran away the first time, she felt it as compulsive, and returned quite often as her strength came back to her, careful to sit on the windward hillside, clear of the blowing vapour, lost in the rhythmic, violent noise. Thus it was, one day, she did not hear the scream as Little Ammon died within the boiling-hall. She saw the running, though, watched the commotion as people poured from out the factory, ran about like headless chickens, wailed and hid themselves, then burst out and ran and wailed again. She saw the lines of mules on the turning wheel falter then stop, heard the screeching of the rollers fade and die. She saw dozens of black men and women running in every direction, saw overseers and drivers lay about them with their whips in violent paroxysms. She saw Seth burst out of one end of the factory blowing a whistle, loud and long, then saw him hold a pistol in the air and fire it. Shortly afterwards, she saw Alf Sutton
, at a gallop, driving his black mule across the yard and straight into the factory, and heard shouts and blows and many other screams.
Little Ammon, Bridie told her later, had fallen into a vat of boiling sugar cane, and it served the bugger right. She had it on authority that he had slipped by simple accident, like the clumsy oaf he was, while prancing about demented in the way he always had, dicing with death and taunting all the niggers for their cowardice as they refused to follow in his path. The master and Seth, though, had called it murder on the spot and had taken Bonzo into the lock-up to wait his execution. Ammon had raped his wife the day before, as he so often did, and Bonzo, it was held, had dared to take revenge.
“You know his wife,” said Bridie. “We’ve had her in the kitchen, friend of Mabel. Her name is Moira, and she’s six months gone.” She laughed, a little bitterly. “Whichever one the father was,” she said, “the babe will be an orphan, won’t it? If it should live so very long…”
TWENTY-TWO
It took the Biter one full night to lose the Spaniard, and cost her three more days in seeking her again. Throughout this time the pumps were manned, without any break at all for the first few hours, until the carpenter and his crew had found the leaks and worked on them with caulking, matting, and gallons of hot pitch to staunch the major flow. Mr Carpenter, however, had a long face from that moment forward and would complain to anyone about the vessel’s hull. So much so, indeed, that Will, at last, was told to fetch him to the cabin, where the captain had a quiet word with him to tell him to desist. Not that quiet; it was heard throughout the aft part of the ship. The captain, it would seem, was locked on one thing only now — his need to have the plunder. Mr Carpenter, it would seem, was therefore bound to keep his mouth tight shut.
When the Scots had got on board the galleon to leeward — and they had picked up a drowning man or so to add to the first two — Kaye could see through his spyglass that she was being snugged down “almost comfortable.” While all his Biter men were running round him “in a devil’s funk,” he said contemptuously. He was pleased indeed he had “a good prize crew” on board the captured vessel. In fact, he swelled ridiculously, with a small smile fixed on his face, which Sam was sure was to do with money. While he dreamed of silver ingots, though, Holt and Bentley, along with Gunning and his bottle, worked hard to save the ship. Ideas of pursuing the cutter or following the Scots on board the galleon were abandoned when they’d clattered down below to see the water gushing in. Will raced aft to tell Dick Kaye they were in straits, Big John ambled happily to issue orders to set and trim her canvas to take off all the strain he could, while Sam worked with Taylor and his better men to stop the ship from sinking. The weather, just to do its part, blew squall on squall on squall until the Carib could have been Charybdis.
To start with, Slack Dickie was insistent they must stay close to the cripple, ease in by slow degrees till they could put a line on board and take her under tow. Gunning laughed out loud.
“Tow the bitch!” he cried. “Tow her where, with what, and how? The only line we’ve got that’s man enough would be the cable, and if that should break and we should need to anchor, what do we then? In any way, think of the strain when we come to the snub! If it didn’t pull our arse right off, the bottom would drop out, I’m telling you! We’re taking water, man; we have been hit!”
He was in high good humour all the while, although his words struck Will as ominous. He did agree with Gunning, though, that a tow was not in question. For a start-off, even if they could come up with their “prize,” how would they get a line on her?
“There’s not the weight on board to haul a tow-rope in, sir,” he told Kaye. “We could maybe get up close and pass a messenger, although if we got near enough to throw it we’d be much too near to get away without a hit, I’d guess. But there’s no muscle for the rest, is there? The bight of cable will be down in the sea, and wet, and sinking. You’d need ten men on her capstan in a blow like this.”
“And what’s the point?” said Gunning. “We could only tow downwind. She’s twice the size of us. Even with only one mast she’ll slide to l’ward faster nor we can, and we can’t carry much until we’ve patched the bottom up. Bloody Hades, I ain’t so sure we’ll even catch her at this rate!”
The light was fading from the sky, and the Spanish ship looked suddenly quite far away from them. She was still rolling, but no longer to her beam-ends, as the Scots had squared her off from out the troughs. In fact, she had her stern to them, and it struck Will, by a quirk, that she was on the run. It struck him urgently.
“Sir!” he said. “The night is falling soon! If she goes on at that rate, we might miss sight of her. Had we not best up helm?”
“Aye, that’s what I’m saying, is it not?” said Kaye, all snap and temper. “We need to get a line on board. Not to tow, maybe, but at least to keep her tabbed.” Gunning hooted, and Slack Dickie glared at him. “What is it, Mister? Have you some words to say? Will you stop mumming like a fool and get her sailing? Taylor! Call the hands there! We’re going off the wind and setting canvas! Gunning — do your duty!”
Jack Gunning smirked, while assessing what to set aloft and how to trim it before he gave his orders. “Gets dark like thunder in these parts, Capting,” he said. “Drops like a stone, the night do. One minute broad daylight, next minute — whoof. A monkey’s armpit! I’d signal while we’re still in sight of ’em, if I were thee. Signal ’em to carry lights.” He stopped. The smirk grew deeper. “Can they read signals, though?” he asked. He was sneering. “Them Scotch brothers? I wouldn’t bet my pay on it, would you?”
“Gunning, you’re a fool,” said Captain Kaye. “If they put lights on, who do you think might find them? Where do you think those Guarda-Costa ships might be? In any way, the signals are agreed already, thank you very much, between myself and my prize crew. They will show lights at intervals, responding to our own, whenever we should show them. Mr. Holt, I shall leave that up to you, sir.”
Lieutenant Holt acknowledged, as was his duty, but Gunning, chuckling, took another pull at his brandy bottle and wandered off to rouse his men to trim the canvas. Will wondered, but did not dare to ask, just when the captain had done his detailed planning with the Scots, and why the hell he placed his trust in them.
Kaye was expansive, though, and needed no outside prompting.
“I told them I would try to get a line on, Will,” he said, “but Big Angus was quite sanguine either way. The signalling will go well enough, long as we stay in close. Double up the lookouts, will you, sir? All eyes skinned and peeled, a flogging for the man who loses her! No, I mean it,” he said earnestly, seeing Bentley’s face. “Now is the time for blood and fire, lad, not slackness. Double up the lookouts and give that as my warning. There!”
At present the lookout at the highest point was Abel Phillips, who everyone save the captain and his surgeon, Grundy, thought was ill of scurvy. When Will, relieved, suggested he should now come down, though, Slack Dickie’s new resolve was hardened even further. Phillips was a malingerer, he averred, and his punishment should not be curtailed in any way. The weather might be windy, but it was warm, and slackers should be shown the folly of their ways. Thus Phillips stayed up high aloft, and made Will Bentley think of earlier such punishments he had seen, and their awful consequence. He did, however, send others on to lower points, to back the main man up. When darkness fell he shouted as a test, and all of them, Phillips included, responded.
But in the night, although the weather eased considerably, they lost the Spanish prize completely. As dusk fell she was visible, going straight downwind as easy as you like, and when it went pitch black not many minutes afterwards, in the Caribbean way, she disappeared as well, as though she was a lantern newly doused. Bentley and Sam were on the quarterdeck alongside Captain Kaye, and neither wished to be the one to say it. In fact, Slack Dickie taunted them.
“Well,” he said, after some few minutes. “Which of you can point her out to me, for a g
olden guinea? What? Can you not see her, then? But was it not your duty to report?”
Will, decisively, stepped away from the captain.
“Aloft!” he bellowed. “Lookout, there! Where away the Spaniard?”
It was abnormal long before Phillips replied. His voice was thin and reedy, not sounding right at all.
“I can see him, sir,” the hoarse shout came at last. “Direct to lee. But very faint, sir. Very hard to pick.”
“Make a signal, Mr Holt,” Kaye ordered crisply. “One white lantern to the foretopgallant yardarm, with a red one underneath. Lively now. I instructed Tilley earlier. He awaits you on the foredeck.”
Holt and Bentley exchanged glances. Dickie was up to his tricky tricks again. But Holt shouted for the boatswain’s mate, and Tilley responded. Ten seconds later the lanterns climbed into the sky — to be replied to almost instantly by a red one in the night ahead, with a white one underneath. How far away, Will wondered. A mile? A little more? Too far for comfort, anyway. Slack Dickie, though, was cock-a-hoop.
