Sugar Money

by Jane Harris

  Bianco wave the root in my face one last time but – when I forbore to accept it – he thrust it back in his pocket with a shrug of his shoulders and set about hauling ropes.

  Provided we encounter no problem, the next place we dropped anchor would be Grenada. I wondered how much longer Emile might wait before deciding what we should do. In a matter of hours, we would be at our destination.

  Chapter Eleven

  We sail down the coast of Carriacou and out again into the open sea. On a sudden, my breath stopped at the sight of a shark-fin breaking the surface of the water. Then, all at once, the ocean grew lumpy. Though the sky remain clear, waves began to buffet our vessel, splashing over the sides and banging the hull so hard she shuddered each time. The sound only intensified my dread and the paw-paw I had so recently devoured did slosh around sour inside my belly. In due course, The Daisy was rolling to her scuppers and Bianco tossed us two coconut shell and set us to bail. Now more than somethingish qualmy, and still on the lookout for that shark, I crouched amidship and threw bilge water over the side for all I was worth. Whenever the yawl did pitch or reel the content of my stomach threaten to gush up into my throat but I was determine not to submit to mal de mer lest my shipmates tease me. Meanwhile, neither Emile nor the skipper seemed in any ways consternated by the sudden swell.

  Came a time my inners twisted in agony and my mouth fill with saliva. I clap my hand over my face and moaned. Bianco saw me – curse him – and with a grin he whistle to Emile, drawing attention to my plight. One glance at me and my brother sprang to his feet. He pick me up, threw off my hat and lean my head over the side. For a flash the ocean surge toward my face like a green wall then my throat erupted and I spewed, again and again, in gushes. The force of heaving cause me to strain over the rail and I would have tumbled into the depths, down amongst the cold tangle-weed and shark, had Emile not kept grip on my shoulders and waist, despite the drenching waves.

  ‘Vwala, ’ti pantalons,’ he said, as I puked again. ‘Kam-twa, kam-twa, respire.’

  He stroke my back and held me until my purging diminish to a dry retch. Then he drag me back in, sodden, and laid me beside him on the deck whiles he bailed alone.

  ‘You rest, little brother,’ he said, in my ear. ‘You lie there and get some rest.’

  Before my eyelids closed over, I caught a glimpse of Bianco. He could grin all he liked. Much as I might appear maladif and miserable, he would never know how glad I felt inside – for Emile had showed me kindness and call me ‘little brother’, and I saw this as proof that he held me in his heart, no question.

  Of course, sometimes, the difference in our ages did seem like a prodigious chasm between us. Emile was twice my age, at least. After our mother, Aphrodite, gave birth to him, several other infant were born to her but every one of them died and by the time I came along, my brother was almost a man, slaving for the friars, tending their growing ground under supervision of Father Prudence. Alas, less than two years after I arrived, our mother perished in the throes of yet another still-birth.

  After her death, Emile could scarce care for me since he was oblige to toil the earth from dawn to dusk. Normally, I might have been given to one of the field women but a Scottish nurse-man, John Calder, took pity on me, perhaps because his own mama had perish when he was an infant. He brought me to live in the hospital where he and Céleste (then in training) looked after me. Calder allowed me to sleep in his chamber – firstly in a drawer and then, when I grew older, on a mat – and it was he who taught me to speak English. I loved nothing better than to hear his stories of old Caledonia. He had read many a book and when he was in his cups he would recite what he could recall of the plays he had seen at the theatre.

  Some said Calder had been a pirate; others that he was a convict on the run. But the true story told to me by the man himself is that he had been training as a surgeon when he got all fired up to the Jacobin cause and abandon his medical studies. He had gone on to fight at the mighty battle of Culloden, whereafter – force to flee his own land – he became a nurse-man for the friars at their hospital in Paris. Some time later, when a party of Fathers set out for the Antilles, they took Calder with them and that was how he ended up at Fort Royal, arriving there a few years before my birth.

  If only John Calder, this man-nurse, had been our parent, life might have been easier for my brother and me. Unfortunately, it was a known fact that the man who sired us was one of the friar, none other than Damien Pillon, the Pestle. Over the years, he had pestered our mother with his lascivious attention and my brother and I were the sole surviving children of that union. Each-every day, it was a horror to know that the blood of such a vile devil ran in our veins and perhaps, every otherwhile, this came between us. No doubt, Emile would rather that one of the other friar had fathered him, such as the gentle Prudence who taught him to grow provision. However, Father Prudence never tampered with the female slave like Pillon did – though, for his part, Prudence never acknowledge that such abominations took place.

  It was hard to forget our parentage. On occasion, when Emile looked at me, I knew from something dark in his eye that he was thinking of the Pestle. My very presence in the world reminded him of where he came from; my image made him think of our father – his father – and perhaps made him want to turn away from the sight of me. I cannot say that I felt the same, partly because I found myself too much in simple-hearted awe and adoration of my brother. Perhaps, a few times, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Pestle in his features, but nothing more. On one occasion, long ago, after a disagreement about something, a squabble which ended in a scuffle, Emile grab me by the shoulders and said, through his teeth: ‘Remember our mother. Her blood flows in our veins too, just as much as his. We never have to be like him, not ever.’

  We had our disagreements, for true, and could put each other in a rage with naught more than a single word or glance. Yet, despite all, despite that sometimes Emile seem distant or remote, despite his evasions, his mysteries, his temper and his pride, even back then I knew that nobody could break the bond of blood – good and bad – between us.

  Chapter Twelve

  Presently, I became aware that the sea had return to calm. A shadow fell across my face and I open my eyes. Bianco stood over me. I sat up with a groan, thinking he wanted me to bail, but instead he pressed his jug into my hands and encourage me to take a drink. This was not the first time I had tasted liquor. Now and then, Père Lefébure gave us small batches of his new-made silver rum to test and on one of those occasions I had even got myself a trifle rocky. Bianco tip the jug to my lips. The Kill-Devil burn my mouth but warm my inners on the way down. Slapdash, my legs grew heavy but after a few more swallow I could scarce feel them at all. My sea distempers faded; my spirits began to lighten. Indeed, after several further swig, I came over all misty inside and considered myself to be quite invincible. The skipper pass the taffey to Emile but my brother cared little for rum and only took a sip for politesse before handing back the jug. With a wink at me, Bianco resumed his place at the tiller where he continue to quaff.

  Up ahead, I could see Grenada, at first pearl-grey in outline then violet like the distant ocean. As the island grew closer, my notion of myself as unconquerable began to wane. I found myself wishing that we might never reach her shores. Over the years, I had often imagine returning to the island of my birth but never under such dire circumstance.

  ‘There she is,’ said Emile.

  He shook his head and gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Just thinking about Cléophas.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’ve met some artificious friars in my time – but that quack-salver. Dangling Céleste in front of me like a ladle of molasses.’

  Well, stone me down. He had spoke her name. I could have seize this chance to discuss her but I knew he would become evasive should I dare to question him. Thus, forbearing to take the bait, I simply said:

  ‘Correct. The man
is an old sly-boots. But it strikes me, if those English lobster are half as bad as everyone says then we should get her and the rest of them out of Grenada. The more I think on it, the more I reckon it might be our best chance of – well, our best chance.’

  Emile nodded.

  ‘For true,’ he said.

  He glanced off to starboard. Hard to tell what went through his mind in that moment because his face was averted.

  ‘Will Cléophas really come and help us?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s bringing a bigger boat to Petit Havre on Christmas Eve. So he claims.’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ said Emile. ‘Well, we’ll see. Do your growl.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your growl. Do one for me.’

  When I was only small fry, Emile had taught me to bare my teeth and growl like a wild animal or rabid dog. We use to amuse ourselves with such nonsense. Over time, I practise so much that my growl got better than his. It use to make him laugh.

  ‘Go on,’ said he.

  And so I bared my tooths and made the scariest growl noise I could muster. I growl so hard the hairs rose up on the back of my neck. My throat did rasp until I near choked, after which I made-believe to die of an apoplexy and was rewarded by a weak smile from Emile, though he soon grew serious once more.

  ‘So, are we agreed?’ he asked. ‘We do it?’

  ‘Wi.’

  ‘Have you still got your ticket? You might need it if we’re stopped.’

  I showed him the pouch around my neck.

  ‘Tjenbé rèd, ’ti pantalons. Pa moli,’ he said.

  Be strong, little britches. Don’t give up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As we drew closer to Grenada, her forest summits became more sharply defined and green patches began a glimmeration among the inky blues. The distant mountains of the interior were veiled in grey mist, whiles to the west – as the afternoon gathered in – the sun melted the sky into the sea, turning them both pale-pale lemon. We began to coast down her western flank and, once we were leeward of the island, the wind dropped and Bianco worked hard, resetting the sails and chasing every little gust and breeze.

  I watched Emile, staring up at the towering wall of green mountains. Eventually, without taking his eyes off the heights, he asked me:

  ‘How many runaway stories you heard about in Grenada?’

  ‘Some few.’

  ‘Any of them get away? Aside from those that die trying?’

  ‘Hard to tell. I did hear about one man, he stole a canoe and paddled out to sea. They never saw him again.’

  ‘Probably drowned,’ said Emile. ‘Or sharks got him. There’s no point taking a canoe. Nowhere safe to paddle that’s close enough. All these islands own by the Béké and no matter be they French or English, Spanish or Dutch, they all have us under the yoke. But some people have escape, for true. Those Maroon. Living their days out in groups now, up in that high forest.’

  ‘Cho!’ I said. ‘You trust them? I heard they turn other runaways in for reward.’

  ‘Some of them aren’t so bad,’ said Emile. ‘The ones that hide out near the big lake. They might help us.’

  ‘Nn-nn,’ I said. ‘They’d tie you up, drag you like a hog to the English.’

  Although I had never told my brother, I once found a Maroon in the shed where Father Prudence kept his pots and tools. This was back when I was only a spratling, not yet task with work about the hospital. One day, I crept into the shed to hide from one of the Fathers and just about leapt six foot in the air at the sight of a poor wretch standing there, eating seed; a full-grown man, rake-lean and fidgety as a cornered rat. The smell of him was worse than any wild animal. He grab me and made me promise not to tell anyone he was there. Then, under pain of death, he told me to fetch whatever food and drink I could scavenge. All a-tremble, I stole two corncake from the hospital kitchen and found some rainwater in a bucket. The Maroon swallowed the two cake whole and wash them down with water. Then he told me he hardly slept because he always had to keep on the move. That morning, he had only come down from the heights because he was gut-foundered. He warned me he’d be watching to make sure I never betrayed him. At last, to my relief, he went scurrying off up into the trees on Hospital Hill. Although I never saw him again, the memory still made my blood run hot and ever since I had been terrified of those Maroon and the mountains.

  ‘Well,’ said Emile. ‘Just in case it looks too dangerous at any point, I vote we take foot, head for the lake. You know how to find it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  In fact, this was far from the truth, but since I had no mind to throw myself on the mercy of any Maroon it hardly seem to matter.

  Just then, we were sailing past a black stretch of sand. A movement up on a rocky outcrop at the end of the beach caught my eye and, presently, I was able to discern some few English troop loitering in the shade of the trees on the point, their scarlet coats visible at a distance. Emile gazed up at the cape, his eyes narrow and watchful. I plucked at his sleeve.

  ‘Already seen them,’ he said.

  Having assume that Bianco would carry us all the way to town, it came as a surprise when we sheer toward this lofty bluff. Close and close we sailed until we pass beneath the point and could most probably have held a shouted conversation with the soldiers. Bianco snatched off his hat and waved it at them as we skimmed around the headland but nary a one of those men return his greeting; they simply stare down upon us, a few of them cradling muskets. I kept my gaze fixed on their ruddy faces until they seem to lose interest in us and strolled away, slipping out of sight as we rounded the point and entered a cove. There, the wind dropped further still. I looked around. No settlement in this lonely place. To the left, a narrow shore gave way to trees and behind them up-sprung a coffee plantation, the estate house on a distant hill. Over on the right, the forest came down to meet the water. Two small vessel had moored up there in the bay: a pair of drogher, no doubt waiting for coffee. Bianco peered past them at a dark stretch of sand ahead. Evidently, this was where he intended to seek harbour.

  I look to Emile, wondering what he would make of this development. He had his arms folded across his chest, his leg jiggling.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked.

  ‘Petit Havre, unless I’m mistaken. That old sawbones Cléophas must have given this bug instruction to bring us here. He wants us to step ashore somewhere quiet. Which means coming here in secret was his plan all along – like I told you.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Back in St Pierre, yestermorning, what instruction did he give this dummie about where to take us?’

  I thought awhile then replied:

  ‘None.’

  ‘Vwala,’ said Emile.

  ‘They might have met after he spoke to us in the morgue.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Somehow I doubt it.’

  Our skipper darted glances right and left, busy-busy at the tiller as he guided the yawl between the two drogher. I peered at them in passing but they had the air of abandon vessel; no doubt their crews on land somewheres, enjoying themselve, or below deck, avoiding the afternoon sun.

  We had scarce enough breeze to carry us along in the shelter of this small harbour and the water lay so tranquil that Bianco could run The Daisy slow and easy, right up to the shallows where he drop sail and anchor. No need for the skiff to take us ashore. He stuck his cutlass through his belt and shove the rum jug down the back of his britches. Then he clenched a strand of coir-cable tween his teeth and sprang off the side and landed in the sea, chest-deep. He staggered up onto the sand and tied the rope to a big almond tree at the edge of the forest. Thereafter, he beckoned us to join him. We clenched our burlap bags and tickets in our teeth then Emile swung over the side into the shallow water. I handed the satchel to him and he put it on his head to keep it dry. Then I lowered myself in after him and together we floundered up onto the shore.

  There, on the sand
, I hesitated, the earth heaving under me like a ship deck. The baylet lay deserted, the only sounds watery ones: the sluggish surf caressing the shore and the gurgle of a muddy creek that oozed out of the forest, spilling across the sand into the sea. I could see little sign of activity among the coffee trees but a thin column of rising smoke told of a cooking fire nearby. Along with the scent of burning charcoal, a faint smell of rotting vegetation hung in the air.

  ‘You know how to get to Fort Royal from here?’ I asked Emile.

  He gazed over to the headlands and then up at the forest.

  ‘This the west side of the island,’ he said. ‘If we follow the coast south, that way, once we hit the St Jean river we’re at the hospital plantation. About a half-day walk.’

  Meanwhile, some ways off, our skipper had found a spot to rest in the shade. Alas, he had chosen to sit beneath a Manchineel, most poisonous of all trees in the island. Eating the fruit could be fatal and any contact with the leaves or branches or sap, or even to shelter beneath such a tree during rain, might cause the skin to blister and send a soul into agonies. Bianco had taken off his hat and press his jug into the sand beside him. He appear quite content there, all set for a proper nap at last.

  My brother had also notice the Manchineel.

  ‘Look there,’ he said. ‘Poor fool. We should tell him.’

  ‘You tell him if you want,’ I replied. ‘But he might take against you for being procacious. What will he do after we’re gone, do you reckon?’

  ‘My guess is he’ll finish that jug,’ Emile said. ‘Then find another one.’

  Bianco gave a spluttering cough. Then – blow me tight – if he did not open his yam-trap and speak.

  ‘Au contra, boys,’ says he. ‘I intend to careen this boat here on this beach, if I can find enough locals to help me drag her out of the water.’

  And then he grinned and raise his jug to toast us. His words were a mingle-mangle of English and bad French mixed up with some of our tongue. My brother and I stared at him – and then at each other – so thunderstruck you could have knocked us down with a hummingbird wing. The man was no more deaf nor mute than we were.