by Jane Harris
One of the horses whinnied and I glance back at the two men. They had approach the fire and whiles the officer spoke to one of the rank and file, the other bent forward to light a segar. As the flames lit up his face, I recognised him: Bryant. The officer addressed him again, pointing into the trees, across the headland and back up into the hills, perhaps explaining how we had been ambush.
Just then, one of the watchmen on the foreshore turned and began to stalk along the sand toward my end of the bay. Deciding to take leg-bail, I hitch back into the seclusion of the woods and return to the highway, alert all the while for a dove or pigeon call, but I heard only the tree-frog screaming at each other.
I hopped across the empty road and slithered into a ditch near the sweet creek. For a time, I lay there out of sight, considering my position. I could hardly stay there forever, hobbling about Petit Havre till Kingdom-come, hoping to stumble upon my brother or Céleste. Saturnin had advise me to return to Martinique but how that might be accomplish on my own I had not one iota. Besides, there would be no leaving without Emile. If I could find the Maroon then I might throw myself on their mercy but, in my heart, I could not shake the fear that they might betray me. Having chawed over every option six times and more, I resolve to return to Fort Royal. At least there I might learn what had happen to my brother and the rest.
The sky grew light, turning first pink and yellow then palest blue. I tested my injured foot and found, to my relief, that I could put some weight upon it, just enough to limp along unaided. Ergo, I thrust my crutches into a pile of dead leaves and crouch there in the ditch to wait. Soon enough, more wagons and wains would come rolling en route to town. If one of those carters stop to water his mules, and if I were quick, it might be possible to scramble up and hide among his produce and in that manner sneak a ride all the way to Fort Royal.
Chapter Forty-Nine
By then, the sound of whistling-frogs had begun to fade until only one little fellow persisted in peeping and, in the end, even he grew tired of his own silly voice and stubbled it. I kept my head low and listen for vehicles approaching from the north. Soon enough, a wagon did appear but the driver carried on without stopping at the creek. Next came the first few porteuses striding past, the traits on their head piled high with bright green christophine. They lifted their skirts and splash straight through the shallow water. Then another cart appeared but that one also sped on toward Fort Royal sans pause.
I had begun to despair of any driver stopping when I heard the squeak and rumble of wooden wheels and a mildewed mule cart came along, ding-dong, and slow to a halt just a spit from my ditch. Gingerly, I peered out. The mules – a pungent pair – had already dip their heads to the creek. The vehicle bore only a partial load on one side of the cart-bed; a tar cloth covered the produce. It struck me that I could very well conceal myself neath such a canvas. The carter climb down from his perch and went over to the bay side of the road to drain his pump. He could have been forty-five or fifty years of age and was – perhaps, by his appearance – a free Negro, but no day of rest for him it would seem. He wore a waistcoat and breeks woven from cane trash, an excentric costume that I thought might be design to make him stand out in the marketplace.
Whiles his back turn, I rolled up out of the ditch and limp lowlow to the cart. Quiet as a creeping nun, I ducked under the canvas and lay on my side, my eyes squeeze shut. Just in time for, moments later, the axles creaked as old Trash-breeks swung himself into his seat. Presumably, he was taking some few pig carcass or somesuch to the Christmas market for it smelled like meat under the tarpaulin, meat on the point of turning. I open my eyes, but all the carcass lay behind me in the dark and I dared not turn over in case Trash-breeks might, at that moment, glance back and wonder why his dead pigs moving. He shook the reins and the tumbrel set off again, splashing through the shallow river and on along the highway.
I tried to waft in some fresh air by raising the cloth a crack. Meanwhile, the cart-bed tilted as we climbed up out of the bay and around the headland. The carter kept to the coast road, slowing down now and then to ford a stream or climb an incline. Every time I lifted the cloth to snatch a breath of air, I caught a glimpse of the landscape: a blue-green flash of sea; a blur of trees; black rocks receding.
My thoughts raced ahead. We would probably cross the St Jean on the ferry at the river mouth. I could leave the wagon before we reach there but then would have to find a way over the water myself, in the open. There might be soldiers everywhere; my bad foot would slow me down and mark me out; everyone would be on the lookout for runaways. All in all, I concluded that it would be for the best to stay in the tumbrel until the last possible instant, even if that meant going on the ferry: a log raft that the Béké pull back and forth across the water by winches. Provided I could remain out of sight neath my tar cloth during the crossing, I could escape on the far side, somewheres on the approach to the waterfront, beyond which point the chance of slipping off unnotice by some passer-by slim. Once we left the ferry, I would have only a short interval to throw myself off the cart-bed and limp into hiding without being seen. Then I remembered that the trees grew thick down by the store-houses at the mouth of the river. I could hide there until sunset, then make my way to a more secluded spot on Hospital Hill.
The closer we got to town, the more anxious I became. Morning sunlight beat down on the tarpaulin. The stink of meat made my stomach turn and my skin ran with sweat. Although the day had just begun, I knew that the streets around the market and parade square would already be busy as a nest of ant. Onward, onward, the cart jerked and jolted, and in what seem like no time at all, we left behind the headlands of St Eloy and came to a halt on the northern bank of the river St Jean.
The ferry must have been moored up on our side for as the carter jump down he bid someone ‘Merry Christmas’ in English, then there was a chink-chink as coins exchange hands. Trash-breeks coaxed his mules onto the rudimentary craft, such that I heard the knock of their hoofs on the logs. Under the weight of the cart, the raft tilted and sank a few inch and, at this sensation, the mules brayed and honked and tried to back off but the carter murmur to them until they settled.
We were about to cast off when I heard the sound of horses approaching at a canter. I peered out neath the cloth at the road behind and nearly died of apoplexy when I saw two men dismount: Dr Bryant and the redcoat officer. I drop the cloth at once and shrank back against the pig-meat. Something fleshy and bony flopped over me, a leg of pork. Revolted though I was, I dared not shift further lest the men notice the tar cloth move. As they coax their horses onto the raft, I lay there, quaking, afraid the redcoat might order the carter to throw back the tar cloth and show his produce, in case it concealed runaways. Howsomever, after returning a ‘Merry Christmas’ to the ferryman, the officer fell silent. Presumably, any runaways were expected to head for the wilderness of the interior, rather than back to town.
I heard a splash, then another, as the hawsers hit the water. The Béké raftman called out to his fellow on the far bank; the winch clattered into action and we began the slow drift across the river. Although the mouth of the St Jean could hardly be judge wide, the apparatus was stiff to turn, thus the crossing often took a while. I listened out for any chit-chat that might pass between the men about the escape but Trash-Breeks uttered not a word and, apart from a few bland remarks about the weather, the others made the crossing in silence.
Even as the raft settled against the southern bank of the river, the carter had resume his perch behind the reins. At the click of his tongue, the mules scrabble back onto solid ground and we rattled and groaned up the slope, away from the ferry landing. With any luck, Bryant and the redcoat would canter on ahead. However, as they led their horses off the ferry, I heard the south bank raftman call out, asking about the ‘trouble’ over at the plantation. I dared to lift the tar cloth just enough to see Bryant and the officer pause to talk to him. Their attention thus diverted, I took the chance to disgage from the pork-leg but in
grasping the trotter I almost screamed out loud – for what I had grab was not the pettitoe of a pig but the fingers of a human hand. Though I dropped it in a flash and squirmed away, I had time enough to feel knuckles, nails, a thumb. The hand so stiff, I knew at once that the rank smell beneath the cloth was the stench of human death. Such revulsion rose up in my tripes, it was all I could do not to vomit. My throat constricted and a whimper escape me. I tried to breath shallow and lie still as a log, though I felt like bursting out of my own body. The cart kept rolling and, presently, one of the men at the ferry landing gave a chuckle. It would seem they had notice nothing.
Having recovered somewise, I force myself to turn my head and raise the cloth just enough to admit a shaft of light. First thing I saw, the face of a stranger, a girl, naked entirely. Her eyes and mouth open but the life had left her body. Her cheek and shoulder branded. Perhaps she had been a field hand in the north of the island. Behind her, in a tangle of limbs, several other cadaver, more naked strangers, men and women, brands on their faces and backs, all dead of some cause or causes unknown. Having satisfied myself that none were from the hospital estate, I drop the cloth and lay still – or at least as still as I could, for my whole body shook with fear and revulsion. Were it not for Bryant and the officer, I would have leapt from the cart and hid in the trees but I heard them bid the raftman ‘Good day’ and then the clop of hooves as they set their horses to follow the tumbrel at an easy pace.
I had just resign myself to being trapped when the wagon change direction and instead of proceeding along the highway to town, we turned up the River Road. I lay there wondering anew what our destination might be, praying it was not the plantation, which must surely be crawling with musketeers. Yet, before I had even recover from my surprise, we turned again and began to climb the poor-made track that cut up and across the back of the hill. In sum, we were headed directly for the hospital itself. All at once, it dawned on me that the carter must be taking these bodies to the morgue where – no doubt, just as our surgeon friars like to do – Bryant would dissect them. As soon as we reach the hospital, the corpses would be unloaded and I would be discovered.
My blood raced as the mules drag the cart on and on, up the track. That part of the hill had been cleared but not yet cultivated and the fields were bare as bleach bones. The nearest trees lay some distance off, back at the coast or up on the high ridge. Bryant and the redcoat continue to ride in our wake. There was no question that if I threw myself out and hobbled away, they would see me and give chase.
At every instant, I tried to goad myself to jump. The incline grew steeper, then steeper still and the cart slowed until we reach such a crawling pace that Bryant and the officer overtook us at last and I heard the clatter of hooves as they reach the battery and rode through the tunnel. The cart lumbered on in their wake and soon entered the same passageway with a great din of grumbling wheels that rattled and rebellowed off the stone walls and floor at deafening pitch. Here, for true, was my one desperate chance to escape. Grip by what felt to me like a reckless madness, a great folly, I slither to the edge of the cart-bed. From there, I drop to the hard floor of the tunnel with a jolt that jarred my entire anatomy. Clench like a fist, my body aching, I lay there, ready for rough hands to seize me or some harsh voice to raise the alarm.
Nothing of the sort. The squeak and rumble of the cartwheels continued, echoing off the walls and ceiling. I waited – waited – until, presently, I dare to look and saw Trash-breeks and his horrific load lumber on, oblivious, out into the daylight of the hospital courtyard.
No time to waste, I hobble back out of the tunnel, fast as my foot would allow, and crept along the battery then up into the trees.
There below lay the hospital cabins, apparently deserted. Given what had happened, a wise man would avoid those huts in daylight and so I limped uphill and found a secluded spot from where I could survey the terrain. The High Road behind town ran below me and there, on the bluff, sat the residence of Maillard, the French doctor. Only a few days previous, I had been at his door, delivering herbs, though that visit now seem to belong to a different life, a life not my own. Sitting there nursing my foot, I recalled the squeaks and scuttles that had come from neath the veranda and – at once – my mind and eyes fixed on that structure, for it seem to me there must be a space below the floorboards where a person might hide. Such a spot would remain tolerable cool in the daytime and the house stood close enough to both town and plantation that, if need be, I could sneak back and forth after dark.
The road was clear save one porteuse striding along. When she disappeared into the hospital courtyard, I looked around again. Not a soul in sight. My heart in my throat, I stagger to my feet and half hop, half limp downhill to the edge of the trees opposite the Maillard place. Beyond the gate, the garden lay empty. The jalousies at the front of the house had been prop open but I could see no movement inside. I stole across the road and down the garden path. The veranda – a raise wooden porch – ran along three sides of the building. Behind some ringworm bushes and wild hollyhock, I found a spot where a few boards in the upright end-piece of the structure had rotted and broken. The resulting hole looked about wide enough to squeeze through. I crouch down and peered inside. There was indeed a fair-size void beneath the floorboards and, in places, the earth had been washed out by rains, leaving some deeper hollows.
Normally, the thought of what vermin might lurk under there would fill me with horror, but I had to get out of sight until dark and – given the events of the morning – I felt more than equal to sharing berth with a few rodent. However, rather than come facety-face with some rat and his cousin, I push myself into the gap, feet first. Took but a twinkling to wriggle inside and slide along the damp dirt into the shadows. A few tiny lizard went scuttling as I scrambled in but so far as I could see they were the only creatures in the vicinity. Nevertheless – just in case I had to make a quick exit – I stretched out near the gap in the end-piece, to wait. The floor was low; there was scarce room enough to sit up. The air smelled of wet earth and mould and to that I added the high rank smell of my clothes and body. It was hotter under there than I had anticipated, and more humid. Exhausted, and with nothing to do but wait until nightfall, I lay there for what seem like hours.
Chapter Fifty
By and by, beams of sunshine began to stream in through the spaces between the boards. In the slatted light, I was able to examine my foot. It still looked angry but least it had benefited from some few hours of rest. I put my eye to a crack in the veranda but could see little except a clump of wild hollyhock. Thus, quiet as I could, I drag myself along the damp earth to a spot behind the steps and peered out through another gap. The garden steamed in the forenoon sun. Beyond and below the tree-clad bluff, the town sat baking in a haze of heat. A million-million insect sizzled like they were frying in a pan. Just across the yard, a water-barrel stood by a small out-house, only a spit and stride away from me but I had no spit; my mouth was dry as dead crab shell. I could have kick myself for forgetting about water. Though I felt dizzy from thirst I dare not leave my hiding place.
That morning felt like the longest of my life. I flinched at each unexpected sound; any movement I glimpse from the side of my eye – the twitch of a leaf, the dash of a lizard – made my inners jump. Every passing moment seem to last an hour, every hour, an eternity. Out there in the world, Christmas Day had dawned. From what I could hear, Maillard and his girl Zabette were enjoying a quiet time together, mostly conducted in the bedroom. Every other while, I hear them exchange a few word but their bed-talk was only a murmur.
Too anxious to sleep, I just lay there under the porch, fretting. Foremost in my mind, of course, was Emile, his whereabouts. It seemed unthinkable to me that he would have allowed himself to be captured. I wondered about Céleste and the others, how many of them had manage to escape. The only way to find out was to leave my hiding place and take a sneaking look at the village over in the plantation. Failing that, I could take the more pe
rilsome course of going into town and attempting to see Thérèse. Since she work for the Governor, she would surely have heard something and might be able to tell me who had escape. However, either alternative would be foolhardy in daylight and so I had to wait – and wait, and wait – until nightfall.
Eventually, the doctor and Zabette drag themselve out of bed. I heard the creak of the bedstead, his heavy footstep, the odd bang of a pot or scrape of a chair leg on the floor. At one point, Zabette emerge from the house. She wore just a shift ruffled up over her protruding belly. I spied through the gaps in the boards as she went back and forth, first fetching water then picking beans, singing to herself a lullaby, most likely to serenade her unborn child.
Watching her, I fell to wonder whether I should enlist her help. She might know – or be able to find out – what had happen to Emile. In plus, I was desperate to slake my thirst and perhaps she would, with some persuasion, bring me food and drink. On the other hand, it was hard to know if she could be trusted. She had struck me as the kind of person who would act according to her own selfish need. For all I could tell, she might betray me or let slip something that would drop me in the suds. As I lay there, perpondering, I ask myself what Emile would do in the same circumstance. Of course, would never forget to take water into hiding. But would he do all in his power to discover what had become of me? No question, he would.
After much back and forth of this sort, I decided to alert the girl to my presence and was about to whistle, soft-soft, when a heavy heel thudded overhead. The sudden fear of discovery surge through my veins like needles. I gazed up through the cracks in the boards. There stood Maillard, dressed only in a shirt, his bawbles dangling like two fig against his bare legs. He ask the girl when his food would be ready.
