by Jane Harris
Angélique just blew smoke into the fire, trying to take it in her stride.
‘They’re sending a big boat in a day or two,’ Emile continued. ‘We have to get everybody up-island somehow. And they want us to do the whole thing in secret, at night, on Christmas Eve. We have to get away without the English finding out.’
‘Puten!’ said Chevallier again.
‘Who sent you here?’ demanded Angélique. ‘Damascene?’
‘No,’ said Emile. ‘There’s a new superior now at St Pierre. Père Lefébure.’
‘What’s happen to the Good Father? Is he sick?’
‘Just old, his mind wandering,’ said Emile. ‘Lefébure is in charge now. We’re acting on his instruction. Him and another Father from Paris – man they call Cléophas.’
The old woman gave a hollow laugh.
‘Well, that makes sense. He came sniffing around here himself a while back, that Cléophas, in the hurricane time. Came and spoke to us about Martinique, the land of milk and honey. Hah! I told him that hellhole is nothing but a bad memory. Oh yes. That’s where they took us first, you know. I will never forget it. But he tried to tell us everybody in La Matinik speaking French and if we go there we would be just like in Paradise. Fool of a man.’
Chevallier said: ‘Most of the time, he was down at the plantation there, persuading them they belong to les Frères and then—’
‘For true,’ his woman interrupted. ‘Until the overseer saw what he was up to – tampering with the slave. Then Bell told the surgeon doctor and he scared that silly Father off the plantation. Threaten him with the Glasgow Greys.’
‘Told him to go and tumpty-tum his-self.’
‘That’s right,’ said Angélique. ‘But that Cléophas swore he’d come back to fetch us. Told us he’d bring a document that prove the friars own us – and all the plantation slave – and the whole jiggumbob would be settle in his favour.’
My brother narrowed his eyes at me, across the fire.
‘There is a document,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure it’s proof of anything. And with or without it, we have orders to take everybody in secret. Besides, I expect this Bryant and the overseer might try to stop us if they find out.’
The old woman snorted.
‘You expect? No question. These Goddams aren’t about to let the slave all go skitter-scatter across the water, nevermore to be seen. How would they run this hospital? How would they bring in the cane? They need the sugar money. If we all scamper off like fools, they’re going to come after us and then—’
She shook her head, grimly.
My brother said: ‘Well, let’s see – there might be a way.’
Angélique looked at him, sceptical, whiles Chevallier scratched his head.
‘I would like to see my sister again,’ he said, suddenly wistful. ‘Does she still work for les Frères over there? Tattio? They call her Thisbee. Last I heard she was on the friar plantation, looking after children whiles everybody else in the field. Have you seen her?’
Emile glanced at me for the answer.
‘Mm-hmm,’ I said. ‘She’s still there.’
Chevallier turn to his woman.
‘I haven’t seen her in twenty Christmas or more.’
Angélique gave her teeth a loud suck.
Emile lean forward.
‘So – would you come with us?’
The old couple stared at each other across the fire. Nobody spoke until eventually Emile said:
‘Well, no need to make up your mind tonight. We need to get word to everybody on the plantation and everybody hired out, and find out what they want to do. Now, tell me, who exactly is left here beside you two?’
The old man reached up and pulled at the chicken-skin on his own scrawny neck.
‘Not many,’ he said. ‘Our grandchildren – Léontine is down there at the refectory, serving Bryant his dinner. Vincent is over there somewhere.’ He jerked his thumb at the hillside. ‘Picking grass or catching rat. They got him tending stock mostly. Thérèse, our oldest grandchild – you remember Thérèse?’
‘Of course,’ said Emile. ‘When I left, she was hired out in town to the jeweller.’
‘That’s right,’ Angélique replied. ‘She spent nine year wiping his mother filthy old Béké bung-hole – but at least his wife taught her to read, that’s something. Then a few month back she got hired on again. Now, she works for Governor Melville himself.’
Emile tilted his head. I could tell that this interested him.
‘The English Governor?’
‘Wi,’ said Angélique. ‘In his kitchen and sometimes at his own self table.’
Emile frowned.
‘I see. What about the nurses? Marie-Rose? And Joseph? And LeJeune?’
‘Well – LeJeune is hired out too,’ said Chevallier. ‘Three hurricane season agone. She works now for a French family over in Megrintown. Serving table and dusting their silver and tumpty-tum whatnots.’
‘And Céleste?’ I asked. ‘Where is she?’
Emile glared at me, whiles the old couple exchanged a look I couldn’t fathom.
‘Oh,’ said Chevallier. ‘She’s still here at the hospital. She’s – eh—’
My brother interrupted.
‘But what about Marie-Rose and Joseph?’
Chevallier sat back and a shadow passed across his face.
‘Well, that’s not so good.’
He went on to explain that Joseph – father to my playfere Vincent – had been demoted to field hand soon after the invasion. But at the turn of that year, just before the last harvest, he had been found in a tree, down at the plantation. He had hung himself. And Marie-Rose had been pulled out of the river a few month afterward. They reckon she had drowned her own self and the baby in her belly.
‘You see, Bryant and Bell hardly flog much,’ said Chevallier. ‘The whip stops people working. So they use – other punishment.’
‘Like what?’ Emile asked. ‘Collars? Those bilboes?’
Chevallier looked uncomfortable. He glanced at me and shook his head.
‘Well, sometimes – but – worse than that.’
‘Di mwen,’ said Emile.
The old man stared at the ground.
‘Hard to say. Bad things.’
Clearly, he was not about to divulge more in my presence. A mood of gloom descended. We sat there awhile, nobody speaking, until Angélique got to her feet.
‘Well – you boys want fed, I suppose?’
Chevallier grab her hand to detain her.
‘Listen, ché. If we all creep off on Christmas Eve, after dark, we’d be gone long before those Goddams even wake up and notice.’
The old woman sucked her teeth again as she pulled away from him and shuffled off behind the kitchen. We watched her go, then Chevallier spoke to Emile in an undertone:
‘Bryant and Bell tipple most nights. The doctor is invited to dine with this one and that about the island. Meanwhile old lonesome Bell staggers off into town for the billiards. Most Saturday, both of them so full of Kill-Devil and wine, you could drive five hundred hungry goat through the valley, they be none the wiser.’
A disembody voice came from behind the kitchen:
‘Do not talk STUPIDNESS.’
Chevallier cracked his knuckles.
‘Christmas Eve, they’ll both be over at the Anglade place in the hills. Old Monsieur Anglade stayed on after the invasion, kept his estate, and he still has his Christmas soirée every year. Bryant and Bell will be there. Last Christmas, they got drunk as fiddlers. Of course, we are not invited to the dance. Be lucky if we get a day of rest.’
‘Talking of that,’ said Emile. ‘Why are the hand working today? It’s Sunday.’
Chevallier blew air through his lips.
‘These days, if they fail to finish a task, they have to make up for it by going out again on Sunday. So, on top of everything, they have no time to tend their provision ground. They have to do it whenever they can, mostly at night. These tum-tum E
nglish been working us to death.’
Angélique return to the fire and dropped a few handfuls of leaves in the pot.
‘Listen, ché,’ said Chevallier. ‘Just think how it might be if we went with these boy here. No more speaking English, tou ça bordel. I could see my sister. And Augustin – the Fathers would make him a nurse again.’
Angélique cast him a filthy look.
‘Not to mention you go back to fishing,’ said she. ‘All day lie slugging in a boat.’
‘Oh, now, ché …’
‘Who’s head driver down there now?’ my brother asked.
‘Saturnin,’ said Chevallier. ‘Nobody likes him but the field hand do what he says.’
‘Well,’ said Emile. ‘If he decides to go with us, the rest might follow. I need to talk to him, sooner the better. Is there a watchman down there after dark?’
‘Just Old Raymond. Keeps an eye on their produce ground. No Béké watchmen except Bell himself. He likes to sneak around the tumpty-tum plantation, trying to catch people doing what they ought not, spies on them making chouc-chouc in the bushes.’
There was silence for a moment. My brother stared into the flames.
‘What do you think? Would the field hand want to leave here?’
‘Some of them are old,’ said Angélique. ‘Some dragging weights and collars. Where is the boat?’
‘Petit Havre,’ said Emile.
‘All the way up there? With children and babies? No matter how bad it is here, I doubt most of them would take the risk. I could hardly walk there myself with my knees.’
‘We could go in the old row-boat, ché,’ said Chevallier. ‘I can fit four, maybe five, in there. Won’t take long to row to Petit Havre. You won’t have to walk.’
‘Talking stupidness again, old man. That boat is locked up. No man can get in the boat-house without the key.’
Chevallier gave Emile a wink.
‘For true,’ said he. ‘Without the key no man can get in. But what about the man who knows where the key might be? What about him?’
Just then, we heard the sound of someone else approaching from the hospital, someone singing soft-soft. Emile jumped up, grabbing the satchel.
‘Who’s that?’ he whispered.
Angélique was watching him, a gleam in her eye.
‘Your old sweetheart,’ said she, then called out: ‘Is that you, Céleste?’ She turn back to my brother. ‘You must be all exagitated to see her, Mandingo.’
Emile strode away from the fire just as a figure emerge from the trees, carrying a lantern. It was indeed Céleste, in a pale head-wrap with dark stripes, a light shawl draped about her shoulders. She glanced at me – apparently without recognition – then she notice Emile and came to a dead stop. He stare back at her and I saw the two of them exchange a look of pure anguish. Céleste reached out to him with one hand, her mouth half-open as though to speak but no sound came from her lips. Emile appear to waver for an instant but then I saw his gaze drop to her waist. Something passed across his face – as though whatever he dreaded was now confirm – then he span around and off he went down the goat track, striding away until he was swallow by the night.
By this time I was on my feet, yet rooted to the spot, my heart beating so hard it hurt my chest. It was so long since I had seen Céleste. And there she was, just as I remembered. She step further into the yard, her head held in the air like a couresse-serpent might swim a river. Yet, her eyes were brim-full of tears; I could see them glisten in the lamplight. I felt that old sensation again, like a hot candle melting inside me.
Angélique called out to her.
‘Bonswa, ché. Vien manjé. Come and eat.’
Céleste shook her head.
‘No mèsi,’ said she, softly, in her own dear voice. ‘I’m not hungry. Mwen pa fin.’
She made her way toward the nearest hut, a sound construction with a well-trim bagasse roof. As she reached up to unhook a hanging lamp, the shawl slipped off her shoulders and I caught a glimpse of her belly: big and round and tight as a fat melon, pushing out the front of her skirts. That was all I was able to see before Céleste stepped into her cabin and close the leaves of the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
The old couple began to exchange all manner of significant look: Angélique pursed her lips and shook her head whiles Chevallier made one-handed chop-chop motions at his throat. There followed a sort of consultation, of eyes only. Hard to tell what they were communicating.
Angélique called out to me, her voice too bright and cheerful.
‘Vien ché. Sit down now and eat.’
They began to serve themselve from the cooking pot but I just stood there, obstupified. A moment previous, I could have dog down a leper lung but my hunger had vanish. For true, the old couple might answer any question I had on the subject of Céleste and her belly. Yet I was disincline to enquire. My brother and Céleste and our two dead mothers had been like family to each other – more so than we ever were with this Arada pair and their off spring. To consult them for tittle-tattle seem like a failure of sorts: as though we had been fighting a battle and now my side had lost.
Céleste remain shut away in her cabin. I could see light behind the little jalousie and wondered what she might be doing in there. It occur to me that she knew my brother at once but – apparently – had fail to recollect me. No doubt, I had done some growing and changing since I quitted Fort Royal six years agone. Céleste could hardly be blame for not recognising my face but it stung that she might have forgotten me. And yet, there she was herself, transformed, getting baby, perhaps seven or eight month into her term. Her obvious condition made me feel betrayed in a way that, back then, I could not understand. Worst of all, the sight of her had sent my brother into a state of turmoil. Without him, I grew ill at ease, sensing myself to be expose. At any rate, I could bear to stay there no longer, thus I set out across the yard to follow him.
Angélique glanced up from her calabash.
‘Mm-hmm, go fetch him,’ she said. ‘But careful now. Watch out for Addison Bell. You can tell him by his hat, cocked hat, made of straw. He’ll eat you for supper then shit you out into a pot.’
I fled the yard, her words ringing in my ears as I set out along the goat track. My guess was that Emile would head for the plantation quarters and cross the river at the new bridge. Thus, I more or less retraced our steps from before, except this time, alone. The moon had yet to rise entirely. Sometimes the stars were enough to light my way but every otherwhile it fell so dark beneath the trees that I stumbled. My ears strain to discern any sound beyond the massed flutes and recorders of a million frogs and insect. Now and then, fireflies sparkle past my face like fragments of charcoal carried on the breeze. They say even a cripple likes to walk au clair de la lune but on that night every shadow held a threat. I kept spinning around to check the path behind me. Of course, it was not La Diablesse I feared, none such superstitiosity – the Fathers had taught me better than to pay heed to old-wife tales. Neither was I scared of serpents for Grenada has no venomous snake, just cribo and the like. No tiger, lion or wild beast. Only dogs and men, and a peck of English Béké ones at that.
At a fork in the path I paused, trying to pluck up courage to head down to the plantation. Huge branches loomed over me, black against the stars. Whiles I stood there, deliberating, three plaintive hoots floated down from the slope above: ‘Who? Who? Who?’ Some might mistake those calls for a mountain dove but I knew otherwise. No doubt in my mind, this bird was my brother. I whooed back and headed uphill toward the source of the signal. Soon enough, I found him seated beneath an old campèche tree, jabbing a stick in the dirt.
He greeted me with a furious whisper:
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To find you. I thought you went to see Saturnin.’
‘Just wanted to sit here awhile and think.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’
He gave no answer to that, only an angry sniff. I threw m
yself down beside him.
‘How did you see me in the dark?’ I asked.
He gave a laugh in the back of his throat.
‘No need to see. You make more racket than a goat dancing on a tin trunk.’
Despite my youth, I knew it was just his wounded pride that made him chastise me: something to do with Céleste and her belly, matters I did not yet fully comprehend. In my bountiful mercy, I decided to refrain from vexing him with further reference to Céleste – at least, that was before he carried on:
‘You walk around like an old woman gone to market, panting and puffing. You might as well jangle your bracelets and sing to the trees and sky.’
I shot back at him.
‘Well, if I’m an old woman, you’re a mouse. Why run off like that? Did you know she is getting baby?’
He held his hand up to my face, turned away.
‘No more of that word.’
‘What? Baby?’
‘There you go again. That’s enough now, Lucien. Go back to quarters.’
I kicked out my leg, disconsolate, begging him:
‘Don’t make me stay with those old Arada. Let me go with you.’
Emile set the satchel of herbs in my lap.
‘I’m sick and tired carrying these. Take them back to the huts.’ He fumbled in the bag then withdrew the Power of Attorney and tucked it into the pouch around his neck. ‘Tell them I’ll be back soon.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘And be polite. They’re old people. They carry on sometimes but that’s just how they are, those old Arada. They had a hard life.’
‘Eating dogs,’ I said.
‘They don’t eat dogs. You ever see them eat a dog?’
I thought about it and made no reply.
‘Well then,’ said Emile.
‘Everybody knows they eat dogs,’ I muttered.
‘Talking stupidness. Now, will you be careful?’
‘Wi.’
Yet still he hesitated, hacking at the dirt with his stick. I could smell the stale salt of him, feel the heat rising from his skin. Eventually, he spoke again:
‘Did you – did you talk to Céleste?’
‘No. She went in her hut.’ After a while, I found the courage to ask: ‘So you knew about this – the – baby?’
