by Jane Harris
Chapter Thirty-Two
Behind the cabins, I almost collided with Saturnin. He was mighty displease, having retrace his steps to find me.
‘What are you doing?’ he muttered. ‘Hurry up.’
Léontine stood waiting at the edge of the provision ground. The driver led us around the perimeter of this vegetable patch until we had reach the cane-pieces that lay to the east. Here, the cane grew well above head height, the crop almost ready to cut. At one spot, at the edge of the field, Saturnin paused and spoke in a whisper:
‘LaFortune? Koté ou yé?’
From somewhere in the midst of the grasses came a reply:
‘Isidan chef.’
The voice of a boy, soft-soft.
‘You see anything?’ the driver hissed.
‘Non, chef, toupatou trantjil.’
‘Good. Stay there.’
I peered hard into the cane but no sign of this boy LaFortune. In my own mind, I made a solemn resolve to hide myself just as well as LaFortune when I reach my own spot.
We skirted the edge of the field, keeping in the star-shadow of the stalks, and soon stopped at a place with a clear view across the rows of produce. Over at the quarters a few children were running around and, just discernible by the light of the flambeaux, Old Raymond sat smoking his pipe near the smallest hut.
Once again, we had to wait whiles Saturnin stood listening, importantly. In the distance, somewheres inland, I could hear an ox lowing as if in agony. The sound pierce my soul for I did miss my cows, Victorine most of all. She made me laugh, the way she would on occasion rub her snout along the grass or – on cool days – gambol around the pasture for sheer joy, kicking up her heels. For true, I would have given my thumb to be back in St Pierre at that instant, stroking the velvety fur behind her ears.
I must have been lost in my reveries because next thing I knew Saturnin had grab me by the shoulder and shove me into a dense patch of cane at the edge of the field.
‘Stay there,’ he whispered, his breath in my face. ‘If you see any person go over to the quarters or any Béké man anywhere, sing out.’
‘Sing?’
He gave me a narrow look.
‘You were taught to signal, I suppose?’
In my own mind I said: ‘Better than you were, spud, for I have yet to hear you put your lips together and hoot.’ But I had prudence enough to maintain politesse.
‘Wi.’
‘Good. See him over there?’ The driver pointed with his whip to the old fellow near the small hut. ‘That’s Raymond. Now, if you see anybody, you give him a warning. He knows you’re here. Kompwan?’
‘Of course.’
Nothing incivil in that, yet Saturnin subjected me to a long, hard look, just to let me know he did not trust me entirely. Then he wagged his finger at me and whispered:
‘I see you looking at my whip. Let me tell you, it can tear skin from flesh, flesh from bone and leave you like a standing skeleton. Kompwan?’
Though more incline to ask him if he was dumb as a beetle, I simply nodded.
Beside him, Léontine stood in silence, her eyes downcast. The driver treated me to another menacing glare, whiles – quietly but comprehensively – he blew his nose into his hand. For true, I experience some degree of trepidation regarding what he might do next but, to my relief, he just wiped his slimy fingers on his breeks. Then he trudged off along the edge of the cane-field. I would have like to spiflicate him.
Léontine reached out to touch my arm.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispered. ‘Someone will come and get you later.’
‘When?’ I asked her. ‘How long do I stay here?’
It came out more pathetic than I intended but, mercifully, Léontine had already scampered off in pursuit of the driver, else she might have deem me wishy-washy.
I watch their progress toward the cane-pieces in the west until I could see them no more. After that, I tried to settle down and listen. This far inland, you could no longer hear the sea but all around me the cane was full of noise. Little sounds that in other circumstances would scarce be worth the fret – a scuttle here, a rustle there – rats, no doubt, or toads; but, all the same, they gave me the twitters. Also, it was hard to find a comfortable stance among the stalks. In the end, I crouch down on my hands and knees. In daylight hours, the cane would provide poor cover there at the edge of the field, but by dark of night it was as good as that cap of invisibility my brother always talked about.
After a while, I saw Saturnin reappear at the quarters, alone, just a squat dark shape against the light of the fires. No doubt, he had shove Léontine into one of the other cane-fields. He exchange a few words with Raymond on his way past but I was too far distant to hear what they said. As Saturnin retrace his steps to the large cabin, Raymond gazed out across the rows of produce as though idly taking in the stars. His face in shadow but, for a short while, he seem to stare directly at me. Then he return to his pipe.
Out there in the cane, on lookout in the darkness, I felt very alone. Hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of Léontine, I peered across the produce ground and almost stared the eyeballs out of my head looking for her but all was murky in that direction. I just hoped to hellfire that Thérèse would rattle through the Power of Attorney faster than a cryer at a half-day market. Raymond sat within whistling distance, and beyond him I could see one end of the big cabin. My brother was in there, I knew, and that gave me some small comfort despite his bad mood.
With each passing moment, I grew accustom to my situation and soon the scuttles and rustles close at hand became less disturbing. I stretch my ears beyond them until I could have heard an iguana blink over at Morne Rouge – and that was when I became aware of someone – or something – moving through the cane.
The sounds came from the field to the north of the produce ground but they seem to draw closer all the while to where I stood. For an instant, I thought it might be Léontine come to find me, for some reason. But the harder I listen, the more I became convince that this was no slip of a girl. Whoever it might be, they breathe heavily and, once or twice, I heard a clumping tread. Of course, these sounds might have a simple explication. Perhaps a mule had got loose and wandered into the field, perhaps a clumsy goat. Since I did not fancy getting all womanish over nothing and making a numps of myself in front of the plantation slave, I held back on hooting an alarm to Raymond.
For a time, all was silent. I began to think I must have imagine the noises and had just begun to recompose myself when I caught sight of movement in the cane-piece, within a stone-cast of where I stood. The long leaves of the cane shivered and then a dark hunch figure emerge from the field and scuttled along, ever closer to my hiding place.
All at once, despite my scorn of superstitiosity, half-forgot notions of wolf-men and night-hags flooded my mind. Was it Loup-Garou come to get me? Or La Diablesse?
Raymond sat smoking by his hut, oblivious, but I could no more summon him than I could step out my own skin and fly up in the sky for – if I did make a sound – this thing had crept so nearhand it would pounce on me fast as a viper on a rat.
Closer, closer it came, through the gloaming starlight. I swear, in that moment, I must have been about the worst scared boy in the whole Antilles. As the figure drew near I saw, first, a ghostly face and then a pair of pale hands holding – what? A cocked hat, made of straw. This here was no old-wife tale, but worse: a sneaky Béké with a three-corn hat. Stone me down. I found myself within spit and stride of Addison Bell, the overseer, as he skulked along in the shadows of the cane.
The blood surge through my ears with a sound like a thousand men at march on shingle, so loud I feared that Bell would hear. At one point, when he tripped and almost lost his footing, he mumbled a few words and my inners turned over. Had he brought soldiers with him? But then he muttered again and giggled, it dawned on me that he had address nobody but his own self. He was entirely alone and, by all appearances, as drunk as a tick in tafia. He must have taken it in
to his head to creep about the plantation upon his return from town, trying to catch some slave doing what he ought not. Evidently, he had no notion that someone might already be hid in the fields. I prayed that he would stumble beyond my hiding place into the night. And, indeed, he did creep right past me but – after only a few more step – he sat himself on the ground, a mere spirt from where I hid. Then he produced a flask from his pocket and took a sip. I was close enough to hear him swallow.
Believe me, I had scarce a breath in my body. All I could do was keep as still and quiet as possible until he decided to leave. Easier said than done. My knees, pressed against the ground for so long, had begun to ache; my throat felt drier than a twice-bake biscuit. Meanwhile, having toss back a few more pulls from his flask, Bell began to stare over at the quarters whiles muttering under his breath. I strain my ears to hear what he said. The way he spoke reminded me of John Calder, though Bell sounded somedeal more loutish.
‘Aye, ye damn’d lazy old bas——. Sat there on your a——e. And youse dirty wee black bas——s. Where’s that trollop, yer mother? Lying on her tum-tum back, as usual, nae doot, lazy b——ch – ha ha!’
Had he been in less rummy condition, he might have wondered why the yard stood more or less empty, but he could see Raymond smoking a pipe and some pickaninny draggling about the place and that seem to satisfy him. Despite being drunk, it would appear he still had wiles enough to have cross the river well upstream such that he might sneak around to the north and approach the cabins from a direction nobody would expect. Now, he seem content to sit in the dark and spy on the village whiles sipping rum and raining down oaths and imprecations on the slaves. Presumably, this was not the first time he had amuse himself in such a fashion. But how long would he remain there? All I could do was keep still until he grew bored and gave up or – perhaps – fell into a swinish stupor. After a while, he began to hum a tune beneath his breath, a mournful Scots lament, about his own land. At last, with a sigh, he put on his hat and began to stagger to his feet: he was about to leave. I could scarce believe my luck. My knees still ached and – having delay the moment as long as possible – I shifted my weight ever so gently, stretching out my leg in silence.
All at once, I felt a rare, hot and piercing spasm as though someone had extinguish a segar on my foot and then some horrible creature slithered across my toes. What had bit me I cannot be sure, but the slithering reminded me of when I was a child and a giant centipede – a creature at least a foot long – had stung me, an injury that in aftermath had cause me untold agonies. Although I manage not to yell, I kicked out my foot to shake off the horrid beast then curled up in throes of anguish, causing the dry leaves beneath me to crackle and sigh. All this grand disaster took but an instant to unfold yet, needless to say, none of it occurred in silence.
Bell span around at once.
‘What’s that?’ he whispered. ‘Who’s there?’
I force myself to take shallow breaths, though sheer fright now made me more incline to gasp. Meanwhile, a burning agony shot up my leg, like a rusty nail dragging poison through my veins. The pain made me light-headed. I thought I might swoon. Bell paced the edge of the field not ten feet from where I lay. Every so often, I caught a shadowy glimpse of his legs between the cane-stalks. Starlight gleamed on something in his hand: the short blade of a cutlass.
‘Come out here, ye tum-tum bas——,’ said Bell, louder now. ‘I’ll have ye! I’ll slice your belly open and wash my hands in your tripes and trullibubs.’
Slow-slow, I turn my head to peer over at the quarters. I could just see Raymond, a shadow against the firelight. Having heard our commotion, the old slave had put his hands to his mouth and now made three pigeon hoots to alert the hands that something amiss.
Meanwhile, Bell took another step toward the cane.
‘Dinna be feart,’ he said, more gently. ‘I never meant whit I said there the noo. I’ll not hurt ye. Dinna worry. Come on oot here. No harm will come tae ye.’
Since all of this he spoke whiles testing the bite of his blade against his thumb, I felt disincline to believe him. In a trice, he lost patience and began to slash at the air with his cutlass, puffing himself up as though preparing to dive into the field. Alas, the insect-bite had drain my strength. I was too weak to crawl any distance and, besides, Bell would have heard me. He took a step into the row longside where I lay, and thrashed about him with the flat of his blade, rattling the cane-stalks, left and right. A few more paces, a slight change of path and he would stumble over me. In desperation, it came to me: my only hope was to scare him away. If I could just frighten him enough, he might scuddle off and shut himself inside his cabin.
And so – I will admit, without properly considering the consequences – I bared my teeth and gave the most convincing and deepest growl from my répertoire, low and threatening at first then building to a savage pitch, just like my brother had taught me. It took almost all my remaining vigour. To my surprise, before a second growl had even formed in my throat, Bell staggered back a few paces then turned and fled the field. At the sound of his rapidly receding footsteps, I peered out between the cane-stalks. Alas, instead of running in the direction I had expected – toward his own cabin – he was racing across the produce ground, headed directly for the field hand quarters.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Alerted by Raymond, the field hand had begun to assemble, streaming out of the big cabin. With every passing instant, more people arrived. I could see them as shadows against the firelight. They all peered out at the figure of their overseer running pell-mell toward them across the rows of produce. Of my brother, I could see no sign. Perhaps he had fled the quarters already, gone back up the hill.
Bell began to shout as he ran:
‘There’s wild beasts in there, in that cane. Quick now! All of youse! Fetch torches! Fetch torches, ye ba——ds!’
His hat flew off but he raced on without stopping to retrieve it. A low babble floated across the provision ground as the slave began to raise their voices. Then Saturnin pushed his way to the front; his short stature and bullocking demeanour marked him out. Dull-voiced, he began to yell orders:
‘Mr Bell now. He says fetch torches. Mr Bell coming. Go quick. Fetch torches.’
A crowd gathered around the driver, all a-clamor, and he spoke to them in low tones, perhaps explaining in illicit kréyòl. When Bell reach the quarters he grab Saturnin, shouting, telling him to make the slave search the cane, pointing at the field where I still lay hid. Some heated discussion and much arm-waving ensued. I’m not sure how well Saturnin spoke English but the overseer seem to have some trouble making himself understood. I got the gist of it from their raised voices: the two men debated the topic of wild beasts and whether they existed in Grenada; the driver seem to think not, whiles the overseer claim to have just heard a savage animal growl in the cane-field. I expect Saturnin had drawn his own conclusions about what had happened and was happy to procrastinate by putting up an argument. Someone found a conch shell and began to blow upon it. Everybody shouting. Then the chickens got themselve loose – whether by accident or design was hard to tell – and all the bird flapping around and screeching and the efforts of the children to catch them only added to the hollow-balloo.
Meanwhile, I had begun to shake uncontrollably. What ever creature had bit me had gone but the bite itch me something fearsome and I could scarce stop scratching. Fever crept up on me, through my veins. In my mind, I chided myself: if only I had kept still, I would not have been bit. Or, had I held my tongue instead of growling, Bell might have walked past without finding me. My lip trembled as I tried to stop bursting into tears. I considered myself to be no better than a dolt. Now, I had but two choices: try to get back to the hospital as fast as I could pull it – if I could hobble that far – or stay put and hope that Saturnin could dissuade Bell from conducting a search of the cane-pieces. It was the toss of a penny, either way. Whether I limped off into the night or hid, if Bell set sight upon me, I w
as done for. And if it chance that some field hand stumbled upon me, well, I could only pray he would give me the goby, rather than turn me in. Most likely the plantation slaves would help me – but how could I be sure?
Alas, when I tried to stand up, my injured foot could take no weight. The only way to escape was to crawl. I began to creep along on hands and knees and then, of a sudden, heard a faint fistle among the dead leaves on the ground behind me. I might have had an apoplexy right there and then, but when I glanced around it was no overseer or giant centipede but Emile himself coming toward me, his face gleaming in the starlight.
Just then, a shout went up at the quarters as Saturnin split the field hand into gangs and told them to search the cane. Evidently the overseer had prevail. People ran this way and that, calling to each other, lighting torches, dropping torches, grabbing bill-hook, stick and axe. Surrounded by a cohort of slave bearing blades and flambeaux, Bell became a man again. He grabbed a torch from one of the women. Then, with some remark to a nearby gang, he began to stride across the provision ground. The poor hands had to hurry along beside him, hopping between the rows, trying not to step on their precious crops – unlike Bell, who stomped along with scant regard for where his feet might land. He was heading directly for the spot where we lay hid.
Emile spoke in my ear.
‘Can you walk?’
My throat had closed over with fear and shame. My lungs were tight. Unable to speak, I picked myself off the ground then felt myself falling forward into a fog but Emile caught me and pulled me onto his back, tucking my legs under his arms to carry me like a child.
‘Hold tight,’ he whispered.
Keeping his head low, he set off through the field, northward bound, going slow enough not to disturb the cane-stalks, bearing me along, slipping through the tall grasses nice and easy, like a hermit-crab through weed, and I was his shell.
