by Jane Harris
Chapter Forty-Five
The next few moments are confused in my memory. I know that Saturnin stood in silence until the clamour of the dogs began to wane as they headed down toward the sea. Then, he fled uphill among the trees, quiet as he could, me slung over his shoulder, topsy-turvy. I heard more yelling from the bay, more shots. Various shadowy figures fled longside us, running this way and that like crazy-ant. Upside down, it was hard to recognise anyone. I saw only feet and skirts skitter-scatter, hear Saturnin shu-shu at them:
‘Up there! That way!’ and ‘Quick-quick!’
I recall the rushing darkness. Augustin lumbered along behind, bearing his weight before him, his fetters jingle-jangling. Several of the others skirred along with us to begin with but it seemed as though some of them soon sheered off or surged ahead. Twigs and branches scratch my face, the air knocked out of my chest as the driver tried to run bearing my weight and then a great thwack as my head hit something hard – most likely one of those slim tree trunks that lay half-fallen here and there amid the undergrowth. Blue and white points of light span before my vision as on we went, up into the foothills. Augustin kept up with us a fair while but soon the clank of his chain faded into the night. I could still hear yelling and the dogs barking down at the shore but the sounds grew dim the further we got from the coast until, finally, they died out.
After that, it was just the driver and me on his shoulders. He pounded on through the trees, staggering uphill, mostly. Then, we slithered down a muddy bank and with a splash we were in a creek. Water flew up and drench my face and shirt as Saturnin tried to wade upstream but he stumble twice and I near lost my crutches. With a curse, he stagger to the other side of the river and I had to cling to his back as he crawled up the bank. On we went again, toward the heights, pausing once or twice whiles he looked about him until, finally, just below the crest of a ridge in the foothills, he set me down beside a stand of bamboo. Then he bent over to recover, his breath tearing at his lungs. I sat there, on the damp ground, shaking. In my mind, I kept hearing the bang of firelocks ringing out around the bay and the cries of anguish. I felt winded still, from the shock of it all, wondering what might have happen to Emile and the rest.
Presently, a faint sound interrupted my thoughts, a clink-clink drifting toward us from further down the slope. Saturnin shot upright. We both listen hard for a while until it became plain that what we could hear was the muffle jangle of fetters. The driver gave a low hoot and presently Augustin came staggering up to join us, panting like a half-dead mule. He flung his iron weight to the muddy ground and it landed with a thud. Then he stood there, his chest heaving. Meanwhile, Saturnin stared up into the dusky foliage above us.
‘This tree here,’ he said, to Augustin. ‘Help me lift the boy.’
Together, they hoist me into the lower branches. I was able to pull myself aloft to where the leaves were thickest and made myself as snug as I could astride a stout branch. Then something tap my good ankle. I reach down. Saturnin had clambered up to hand me my plyers. I grab them, one by one, and stow them beside me.
‘Mèsi,’ I whisper to him.
‘Stay there until you’re sure the soldiers are long gone.’
‘And then what?’
‘Try to get back to Martinique.’
‘What? How?’
‘That I cannot help you with, little man.’
‘But what about Emile? Céleste?’
‘They can look after themselve, pa ni pwoblèm.’
The distant bang of a musket shattered the night.
‘A talé,’ the driver muttered as he slithered down the trunk, out of sight. I heard some further murmurs down below and then Augustin called out, soft-soft, asking if there was room for him in the tree. Above me, the foliage gleamed in the starlight, a cradle of branches a ways further up where someone might find a perch. I whisper down:
‘Wi.’
Ensuite, I heard the two men scuffle around amid the tree roots, along with a few thuds and the tingle-tangle of fetters and when I peer down through the leaves I could make out their shadowy figures: the driver trying to help Augustin clamber up the trunk – but his weight and shackles were too much hindrance and so, after a while, they gave up.
Saturnin shu-shu up to me again:
‘I have to go.’
A crunch of dead leaves, then silence, until a low voice called out:
‘Lucien?’
It was Augustin.
‘I’m here. Where are you?’
‘In the bamboo. You sit tight up there.’ Just then, the hounds set up barking again; this time closer than before. I heard Augustin murmur: ‘I should be quiet now.’
After that, he said nothing further. I clung to the tree trunk, all my senses alert, my foot dangling and throbbing. The night air filled up with the frantic high-pitch sound of frogs and bat and, once in a while, from downhill, the howl of a dog. Up above me, high in the sky, the Man in the Moon now wore a torn and tattered wig: two fluffy shreds of grey cloud, one each side of his head. He gaze down upon me, a mad old judge, ready to pass sentence.
Chapter Forty-Six
So much time passed, I felt as though I was about ninety years of age and had spent 200 of them up that tree. At one moment, a bat flew past my face so close that the warm breath of his wing brush my cheek and I near fell from my perch. Then, in the distance, I heard someone advancing uphill. My pulse hammered along in my veins. I clench my thighs to the branch and peer through the foliage, hoping to see Emile or Céleste. The scrambling footsteps grew closer, closer, until I perceived a shady figure, toiling up the slope: Lapin – one of the fittest field hand – a young man several years older than myself. He pass by the clump of slim bamboo stems inside which Augustin had conceal himself and then disappeared into the night. Presently, Lapin was followed by three more field hand. I could guess who they were in outline, the other Crackermen: Montout, Coco and Philoge. They were gone in an instant, vanished up the slope. After a while, another fugitive came scrabbling upward, this time a woman. She pulled along a girl, about ten years of age, too old to be on her mother back. The woman murmur to the child as they went along:
‘Here we go, you keep hush now …’
From behind the screen of bamboo, Augustin hiss to her, called her name:
‘Ss – ss. Claudette. Isi-a!’
She paused at the foot of my tree, and I heard her say:
‘Augustin? Se twa?’
‘Wi. Isi-a! Vini la. Cache-twa.’
Clearly, the woman thought about it for a twink, then I heard her say:
‘Non, mèsi. Bon chans, Augustin. Bon chans a twa. A plis!’
She set off once again, muttering more words of comfort to her daughter:
‘Mm-hmm, now, there we go again. We’ll find our own-own place to hide. You hold onto me now, baby one. You just hold on tight, that’s right.’
And off they went, creeping uphill, until her whispering melted into the dark.
After that, silence again, if you discount the tree-frog. Listening to their voices, I lost track of time. Of course, I had heard those creatures every night of my life. We were all so accustom to ’ti gounouys that sometimes we scarce heard them at all. Yet, that night, their incessant silly squeaking almost pierce my brain. At first, they seem to call to each other but, as time went by, I wondered if they might not be trying to warn me and then I grew giddy and began to think that they were trying to alert the soldiers to my hiding place. My ears ringing. Convince that I might fall, I clung harder to the tree. With no distraction save my fears about what might have happen to Emile and Céleste, it was as though those little peepers were intent on driving me out of my mind.
On a sudden, I distinguish another sound: a soft yelp, close enough that I could hear it above the clamour of the night-creatures. My scalp began to tingle. Nobody came, nobody came – until, at last, I saw movement in the shadows: just a pale flash sneaking uphill, a low, sleek shape flitting between the stands of bamboo: a white dog, t
here he was, nose to the ground. A shiver cross my shoulders. He came bounding right up to my tree and snuffled a while at the roots. Then, tail wagging, he smelled his way over to the bamboo thicket where Augustin hid. Two sniffs at the base of the canes and then the hound set up a savage bark. At once, I heard the tramp of men in boots and two figures came running: more Glasgow Greys. I could see the outline of their hats, one high mitre cap and one three-corn: a stocky, clean-shaven officer and a mackerel-back soldier of the rank and file. The pale facings of their red coats and their white breeches and stocking gleamed in the moonlight; the havresacks and cartridge-boxes showed as dark shapes at their backs. Muskets raised, they closed in behind the dog and began to yell into the thicket:
‘Ger yersel’ oot here now.’
‘Come oot, or we’ll shoot ye.’
The officer pointed his musket at the bamboo whiles the tall soldier ventured forth and began to thrust his bayonet between the canes. One thrust. Two. I winced, as though I myself had been stab. Three!
Augustin called out:
‘Mwen ka vini! Le chyen, le chyen!’
‘What’s he saying?’ the officer shouted.
‘He’s feart of the dog, Sergeant,’ said the musketeer. ‘Wait now.’
Grabbing the hound, he dragged it off a short distance and slipped a leash around its neck. The stocky sergeant bellowed again into the canes.
‘Right now, you. Out you come.’
Slow-slow, Augustin emerge, bearing his fetters before him. The dog kept barking and bucking but the redcoat held him fast. Poor Augustin, his bandaged head was hanging – but then – whap! – he looked up and flung his lead weight at the sergeant. The man dive to the side just in time; the weight missed him and fell to the ground. Augustin tried to grab it and run, but the soldier recovered quick-sharp. He swung back his musket and hit Augustin on the head with the butt, a blow that felled him. By this time, the dog had gone stark mad. The sergeant stood over his captive, bayonet fix and pointed, as if to stick him through, and spat down at him:
‘I’d like to get my hands in your guts for a wee while.’
He might indeed have done Augustin harm but, just then, up-sprung a commotion of shouts and tramping boots. More white breeches and stockings. Alerted, no doubt, by the clamour, half a dozen more Greys came at a run, accompanied by a black and tan hound as big as a horse. A bewhiskered man in a high mitre hat called out:
‘Hold there, Sergeant Grant. Stand back.’
This new bearded fellow must have been the superior for the sergeant put up his bayonet and retreated a few step.
‘Yes, sir, Captain Ross, sir.’
Poor Augustin curled into a ball as the white dog snapped at his ankles.
‘Le chyen! Le chyen!’
Ross turn to the mackerel-back musketeer.
‘Munro,’ said he. ‘Whisht that thing and get it away from there or I’ll shoot it.’
The soldier drag the white dog back. As for me, I kept one eye on that black and tan hound. For a brief spell, he rolled around on the dirt, then sprang up and trotted off into the darkness, sniffing the ground, following the scent of the field hands.
‘Right,’ said the captain. ‘Munro – you and McPherson take this prisoner down to Lieutenant Hewett. Then I want you both to go up the other side of the bay with the dog, see what you can find. Tell Hewett to take the slaves he’s got back to the plantation but leave some men on watch at the beach.’
‘Sir.’
Two of the redcoats pulled poor Augustin to his feet and made him pick up his weight. Munro let the hound off the leash and then he and his compeer began to prod the prisoner ahead of them down the slope. Fetters clanking, Augustin hung his head as he stumbled along, the dog a pale streak, running circles around him.
Someone called for the black and tan beast and when it came galloping out of the undergrowth, tail wagging, the remaining soldiers headed uphill. Soon, the glow of their white breeks faded into the night. To be sure they had gone, I listened until I could no longer hear the soft tramp of their boots. The dog lingered a while to sniff the bamboo until the men called him again from some distance. He set off but, in passing, did pause to mouse around the roots of my tree. He sniffed and wheezed, sniffed and growled. Then he tilted back his meaty head and looked up into the branches. For a few moment, his eyes glittered like black glass and then he began to bark. My heart drop to my dangling feet. In the darkness, amid the foliage, I doubted he could see me. Yet, he knew I was there and, if he kept up that racket, the men would come hurrying back to vestigate and I would be discovered for true.
At a loss, I grab one of my crutches and hurled it down at the dog, hard as ever I could. By some miracle, the crossbar struck him bang on the snout with an audible crack. He yelped and scrabbled away off up the hill, complaining to himself. I fought to calm my own breath and listened until all sound of him had ceased. Thereafter, I waited – and waited – but the great hound did not return and neither did those musketeer.
PART NINE
Fugitive
Chapter Forty-Seven
Saturnin had advise me not to move until the redcoats had gone. But how was a person suppose to know when that might be? I stayed put for what seem like the course of ages. It began to occur to me that if I sat there until sunrise, I would most likely have to wait for darkness to fall again the following night before I climb down. The thought of remaining in that tree, hour upon hour, all through the next day made me squirm. Of course, it would be safer to stick where I was but if I moved under cover of night, I could seek out some hiding hole closer to the coast and – in so doing – I might find my brother or, at least, discover what had happen to him and Céleste and the others. Surely Emile would have manage to evade the clutches of the Greys?
My mind in a ferment, I sat there in my leafy cage, trying to guess how long it would be before the rosy light of dawn bled up into the sky: two hours, I reckoned, perhaps three. Finally, I could bear it no more. Concluding that my best option was to creep closer to the bay before sunrise, I listen for a long time to ensure that no man was near. Then I let my remaining crutch drop from the tree. It hit the earth below with a dull clatter that made me wince. I waited to see what might happen. After a while, hearing nothing untoward, I slither down the trunk and fell to the earth in a heap. Sprawled among the roots of the tree, I peered this way and that. At every turn, I saw phantom figures in the shadows but some time went past and no soldier came rushing forth to apprehend me. So far as I could tell, I was now alone in that part of the forest.
I scrabbled across the ground to retrieve my fallen plyers. Then, I heave myself upright and stood in silence, listening, listening, just as Emile would have done. Little by little, it began to dawn on me that quitting that tree may have been a mistake. My brother would have perched up there for days if necessary. Cursing my own impatience and lack of wit, I attempted to climb back up the trunk but, without the help of Saturnin, even the lowest branches were beyond my reach.
Hampered by crutches, the safest option – to head for the heights – would be out of the question. My only course: to descend to the bay. Although my leg burned like the fires of hell, the swelling in my foot appear to have subsided somewise. Thus, I began to pick my way downhill, ears alert to any sound beyond the customary din of the night. If some redcoat saw me now, I was doomed, for I could no more take foot than ride a travelling carpet.
‘Emile is not here,’ I told myself. ‘Emile is not here. But I’m going to find him. Yes, I am. I surely am. I’ll find Emile and Céleste and then together we can try to get back to Martinique. Tjenbé rèd, pa moli.’
Hard work, limping along in the dark on those plyers, tottering netherward toward the bay, my eyes and cheek stinging wet. I must have been sweating like a bloated old Béké-off-the-boat.
Chapter Forty-Eight
It took forever and a day to hobble back down the foothills, inch by inch. The closer I got to the bay, the more I strain my ears to hear any sound –
especially the hoot or coo of a bird that might suggest I was not the only one still at liberty. Yet, though I hirpled all the way back to the coast road, I encountered not a single human creature, neither soldier nor slave.
I paused at the edge of the woods, near where the sweet creek cross the highway, the sky above me still lit by stars. Presently, I heard the sound of wheels on dirt and soon a donkey-cart came rattling along from the direction of Gouyave. The tumbrel sped past, a Béké driver hunched over the reins; behind him, in the cart-bed, a heap of something, most likely fruits. Perhaps he was bound for some kind of festive market in Fort Royal. Once he had gone on up the road, I waited until a bank of cloud drifted across the face of the moon and only then did I venture forth, hopping over the road and into the trees on the other side, fast as my crutches would carry me. Back in the shadows, I stood stock-still but could hear no sound of movement and so I set off again, slow-slow, peggity-peg, toward the sound of the sea.
The air smelled faintly of smoke. At first, I thought it must be the lingering scent of gunpowder but presently, through the trees, I saw a flickering orange light: the flames of a bonfire on the beach. Full of dread, I crept closer, one peg at a time, until I reach the edge of the woods, and was able to peer out from behind the wide trunk of an old almond tree that grew on a slant toward the water.
About halfway along the narrow strip of sand, a handful of Greys sat around the fire. I could see other shadowy figures in tri-corns pacing the shore. Two men – one of them an officer – stood conferring beside a few tethered horses. No trace of the hospital slaves. As I watched, the clouds moved off to reveal the moon once more and the water of the bay shone like quicksilver. Not one vessel at anchor out there which led me to wonder where the boats had gone. Most important, where was Emile? And what of Céleste? Had they been captured, marched back to the hospital estate like Augustin? For aught I knew, they might have escape to sea with Cléophas, or fled to the mountain. Or could they still be there somewheres, at Petit Havre, hidden among the trees?
