by Jane Harris
‘Very good. White tells me there are redcoats all around the huts at night. But what about in the daytime? One assumes the overseer keeps an eye on them, same as in Martinique.’
‘Hard to say, Father.’
‘One assumes they would normally be watched over by the overseer and the driver, same as in Martinique.’
‘Yes, Father. But now, they might keep soldiers on them when they are in the field, because of the escape.’
He frowned.
‘Well, if they are under guard, it makes everything more difficult. I myself cannot afford to be seen at the plantation, of course. People remember a priest. The overseer would definitely remember me from last time – or Bryant would, if I was unfortunate enough to bump into him, which is quite possible. Whereas nobody pays any heed to a little black imp. You’re seven-a-penny.’ He seem to drift off in his thoughts awhile before continuing: ‘Et bon. Now tell me – have you had any contact with Céleste? I believe she escaped again.’
‘Yes, Father. But I haven’t seen her.’
‘Well, we shall just have to try and find her somehow, get her to the boats. Now – you should be on your way. Mr White will explain everything as you go.’
‘But Father – what about Emile?’
Cléophas gave a sigh.
‘It’s such a pity he got himself caught. I had thought he would make a success of this venture.’
At first, I could scarce trust myself to reply. I had to swallow before speaking.
‘Father, if you please … what do you think might happen to him?’
‘To Emile? Well, it’s hard to say. Depends on a number of things. But, if you ask my opinion, I find it hard to believe that he’ll escape a flogging. And – I doubt they will let him return to Martinique. They’ll probably keep him here, put him to work on a plantation. Of course – just our luck – we will then owe the Dominicans the price of him – but we really have no choice …’
‘Father – how many?’
‘How many what, child?’
‘How many lashes?’
‘That I know not.’ He scratch the back of his neck. ‘I believe they gave the driver fifty so – perhaps – a hundred? Flogging stings at the time, of course, but most men get over it. Someone like your brother should be back to good health tout suite.’
A hundred lashes. Into my mind flashed a picture of my brother flinching under the whip, his back glistening with blood and gore. I push the image aside.
‘Father, I was thinking—’
‘Yes, my son?’
‘If only there was someone who could speak to the Governor and explain everything. If the English knew that Emile was simply acting on instruction – carrying out orders – then they might not whip him.’
‘Well, perhaps … but I doubt it.’
‘Do you know anyone that could speak for him, Father?’
‘Sadly, no. At least, not anyone who would be of much assistance in such a matter. Mr White is – I should say – how can one put it? I’m not sure his – his credentials or reputation would – be adequate to recommend him.’
‘But there must be someone else, Father, if you please, someone right here, who could speak to the Governor …’
Cléophas put his hand on my shoulder.
‘I know what you’re thinking, boy.’
I stared at the ground, kept silent.
‘But, of course, there’s one small flaw in your plan. You know very well that if I presented myself to the Governor … what would you have me say to him? Excuse me, dear sir, that naughty Negro you have locked up in the jail – well, it was me who instructed him to take the slaves from the plantation. But please don’t flog him and be a good fellow and give him back to me.’
‘… I know not, Father, what you might say exactly—’
‘But you must realise that the English would, at the very least, put me under watch, if not detain me. And then where would we be?’
‘Father—’
‘Lucien, I have already put myself at considerable risk by not immediately scurrying back to Martinique. If I announce that I am here, or present myself to the authorities—’
‘But Father, could you not explain to them that the slaves belong to les Frères? That we had the right to take them?’
‘Alas, it’s – rather more complicated than that.’
‘But if you spoke to the Governor at the inquiry—’
‘It’s not a public inquiry, boy. Get that out of your head. The Governor will simply have been listening to various reports – from Bryant, the overseer, the slaves and so on. They will be telling him what he needs to know. And that is that.’
‘But Father, if you could just speak to him—’
Without warning, he struck me several blows about the head, so fast that I had no chance to dodge out of the way.
‘Not another word,’ he said. ‘Your brother will just have to take his lashes and there’s an end to it. Enough now. Mr White will accompany you to the plantation.’
My ears were ringing; my cheek stung. Cléophas rubbed his hand, as though he had hurt himself in striking me. My gaze burn so hot as I stared at him in the darkness it is a miracle he did not reduce to a cinder right where he stood. I considered launching myself at him, intending to go through him like a thunderbolt. He was bigger than me but I reckoned to get a fair few kicks to his head and scallions before White came running and together they over powered me. Indeed, I might have done it too – with no more remorse than winking – except I knew it would be little help to Emile. Besides, just then, I heard a dim crack like bamboo splitting underfoot and the Englishman emerge from the trees.
‘Wait here,’ said Cléophas, to me.
He hurried over to White and they began a whispered consultation. Eventually, the Father return to where I stood.
‘Sunrise will soon be upon us,’ he said. ‘Mr White will explain everything as you go.’
My jaw hurt. My hands hurt. Every muscle in my body was clench tight-tight. A sob swelled and ached in my throat.
‘But Father – what about Emile?’
Cléophas made a weary sound but when he spoke again his voice was gentle.
‘Dear boy. I’ve told you, there’s nothing we can do. Look on the bright side. You yourself are safe. And your brother is a strong man. He will recover. Now promise you won’t do anything foolish.’ When I made no reply, he repeated himself. ‘Promise.’
‘I promise.’
‘You won’t do anything foolish.’
‘No, Father.’
They were just words. They meant nothing. My mind was numb. I had no idea what I might do.
‘Et bon,’ said Cléophas.
The Englishman set off and I hesitated until the friar put his hand in the middle of my back and began to push me along. Realising I had no choice, I followed White. Cléophas fell into step behind me and we clambered uphill in single file, me between the two of them, a prisoner. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, my mind blank, at first, then it began to jump all over the place like a scalded frog. All at once, it came to me: I would have to speak to the Governor myself. Only I could save Emile from what seemed like an inevitable flogging.
When we reach the road, Descartes crept out of the trees to meet us. He handed over the rabbit-foot charm and Cléophas stashed it within his robes, asking the boy:
‘Do you still have your ticket?’
Descartes touch the pouch around his neck.
‘Wi, mon pè.’
‘And you know what to do?’
‘Wi, mon pè.’
‘Very good. If you can’t find her by – say – midnight, just go back to the boat. We’ll see you there.’
Quick-sharp, the boy scurried off down the road, heading for town. Within moments, he had melted into the night.
‘Where is he going?’ I ask Cléophas.
‘To find Céleste and take her to the boats – if he can. We suspect she may go to seek help from Thérèse – so he will begi
n there.’
Meanwhile, White was slashing with his cutlass at a low-hanging branch. The Father addressed him in English.
‘If they are under guard – well – use your judgement. And stay away from town.’
‘Fret ye not,’ muttered the Englishman and began to wipe his blade on his britches. Cléophas turn to me.
‘Once you’ve finished at the plantation, Lucien, Mr White will escort you to where the boats are waiting at Petit Bacaye. Do you know where that is?’
‘No.’
He pointed along the road, away from town. ‘Follow this highway to the far side of the island. You cross a river, then another, this one smaller. Keep going until you come to a third river. That one is smaller still and muddy. It leads down to Petit Bacaye. There’s a small bay with a tiny island just off shore to the right. That’s how you know you’re in the correct place – the little island. If you set out from the plantation of a morning, you should be there by noon.’
He made me repeat these directions then gave me a quick blessing.
‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Now off you go. We have to leave your brother for now but – all being well – you and Céleste and hopefully some others will be in Martinique by the day after tomorrow and you can reacquaint yourself with your precious beasts. You will be pleased to know we hired a boy especially to look after them.’
In my mind, I could see the cows – their black, shining eyes and velvety nostrils – but for once, in picturing them, I felt only emptiness.
White had already set out across the road. I had no choice but to follow him. On the far side, I glance back to find the Father lingering at the edge of the woods, watching us, but when I turned again a moment later, I could see nothing, not even the trace of where he had stood. Everything had been swallowed up by the dark beneath the trees.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Now, the Englishman made me walk ahead of him, perhaps to ensure I did not straggle or – more likely – sneak off behind his back. From time to time, he slash needlessly at the underbrush with his cutlass. I could only wonder what Cléophas wanted us to do at the plantation. Indeed, the very prospect of going there fill me with sick anxiety. The sooner I could give White the slip, the better. In my mind, I had yet to figure out how I might insinuate myself into the presence of the Governor. However, for now, White strode foot and foot behind me and there was little I could do except climb fast enough to avoid being hacked across the back of my legs.
We took a traverse route up the slope and emerged onto the spine of Hospital Hill behind the battery then continue down the other side to the campèche thicket. There, White paused in order to survey the field hand quarters. The flambeaux had burned out but the Glasgow Greys still on guard: in the dim starlight, I could just make out a few shady figures in uniform at either end of the bridge. As yet, I could see no sign of activity in the village. White did stare down at the huts for a good spell then, with a flap of his hand, indicated that I should precede him along the ridge toward the hospital fortifications.
Although that patch of hillside had been cleared in some bygone era, the forest had soon resumed its relentless creep and – inch by inch – invaded the trenchments. White must have been there before because he went directly to the end of the battery where a thick curtain of vines and leaves hung down. He pull back the creepers and guided me into the narrow space between them and the wall. Then he stepped in after me. Conceal by this screen of vegetation, we were invisible to anyone who might pass by, even close at hand. Thin starlight filtered in through the foliage. I could just make out the Englishman, a shadowy figure beside me in the dark.
He sat down against the battery and I heard him uncork a flask. Soon, the burnt-sugar smell of rum began to fill the damp air in that confine space. White smacked his lips together. He had scarce uttered a word since we left Cléophas.
‘If you please, sir,’ I whispered. ‘What are we doing here? What’s the plan?’
He took another sip of rum.
‘We wait,’ he said.
‘What for, sir?’
‘First bell.’
‘Then what?’
‘You’ll see.’
I lean back against the wall. No matter what happened, I had a feeling that I would soon be in the suds. Either they had cooked up some scheme to steal the slaves in broad daylight (heaven forbid!) or they wanted me to sneak into the quarters, for some reason, once everyone was out in the field. Neither prospect held any appeal. If only I could get beyond range of that cutlass. It might mean hitting him on the head – but with what? A rock? A branch? A bare fist? And though my foot had healed somewise, I wondered how far and how fast I could run.
Once again, I glanced over at White. The flask had fallen to the ground. His head had drop forward onto his chest. He appear to have drowsed off. With one finger, I gave the flask a push and could tell by the light weight that he had finish the rum. I was trying to suppute whether it might be possible to slip away through the vines without waking him when my speculations were interrupted by the faint sound of laughter in the distance. Cautiously, I parted the screen of leaves and liane and saw – in the first rosy peep of daylight – a group of soldiers, about ten of them, walking away from the huts and the bridge, toward town. Evidently, the overnight watch on the quarters had stood down. A few of the men jostled each other and, once more, their laughter floated up to the battery. Then the first bell began to ring up at the hospital, so loud they could probably hear it in Brazil.
White snorted. His eyes snapped open.
‘Redcoats are going back to town, sir,’ I told him.
He shot forward to peer through the foliage. For the immediate, I put aside the notion of escape and looked out again just as the Greys entered the patch of woodland at the coast and disappeared from view.
‘Did any come to replace them?’ asked White.
‘Not so far as I can see.’
Just then, the bell down at the plantation struck up its own racket in answer to the one at the hospital. As if by magic, tiny figures began to emerge from the cabins. At that distance it was hard to distinguish one person from another. I even fail to spot Addison Bell at first, but then I peered again and there he was, leaning against one of the huts: straw tri-corn and pinkish skin, his sleeves roll back, arms folded.
Within a short while the whole gang had assembled and then they set out for the bridge. Two or three had coils of rope on their shoulders and most of them carried tools of some sort: saws, axes, mattocks, shovels and big long iron-crows. The sun glinted on the blades as the line of slave cross the river. Only when they reach the other side, did I begin to recognise individuals among them. In first place came Augustin, his head still bandaged but now free of his shackles; in his hand, a short whip – the one that Saturnin used to carry. So, Bell must be trying him out as driver, probably to punish him, for no man could be more ill-suited to the task. After him came the big men: Coco, Lapin, Montout, Philoge, all in shackles. Then Polidor and Narcisse and the boys and girls of the fast group, followed by Charlotte and the other women, two or three of them in shackles. Ensuite came Magdelon and Cléronne, discernible as ever by their collars and the gap – fore and aft – where the others gave them a berth. Next, Raymond, apparently – despite his age – still fit for field work. In his wake, Saturnin, limping along in fetters. Then Léontine: the way she stalked along showed how wretched she felt with her new low status as field hand. Behind her, old Chevallier, looking somewhat bewildered. No sign of Angélique Le Vieux. Perhaps she had been left behind at the quarters to cook food or supervise peeny children with old Marigot. Trailing Chevallier came Rosalie, also shuffling along in chains, her baby on her back.
Last of all, Addison Bell. He walked with a measured pace, his gaze fix on the slaves ahead of him.
‘No soldier guard,’ said White. ‘Good. Now, where are they headed?’
‘Most likely that open patch there, sir, the felling on the side of the hill.’
‘Well.
Let’s see if you’re right.’
We watched the line walk away down the road and then turn up the slope where the hillside lay bare.
‘Blow me sideways,’ said White. ‘Full marks to the nigger.’
Whiles the others streamed up the slope like a line of ant, the overseer spoke to Old Raymond, who set off in the direction of the mill. Presumably, he had been trusted to fetch the cart. Bell watched him go, having no doubt instructed him to return quick-sharp. Meanwhile, up on the felling, the field hand set to work without delay. They knew what to do; had done this many times before, no need to be told. The strongest and fittest were in charge of toppling trees and rooting out any stumps that remained in the ground whiles the rest began to trim branches and stack logs. Magdelon and Cléronne seem to be giving instructions to the hospital slave. By this time, Bell had left the road and was walking uphill among them, watching them work. A great sense of urgency hung over the hillside, as though the slave wish to prove to the overseer how industrious they could be.
‘Now,’ said White. ‘We’ll wander on over there and I’m going to hail that overseer and engage him in conversation. You saw me play the dummie – well, now you will see me pass myself off as a new settler from England. I’ll ask that Scotch shabaroon about the weather or somesuch – or I might pretend we’re lost, I have yet to decide.’
‘But – if you please, sir – if I go down there, they’ll recognise me.’
He glared at me out of his side eye. He was drunker than I had thought.
‘You like to be difficult, do you, boy?’
‘No, sir.’
‘… Where was I?’
‘Talking to the overseer.’
‘Yes. Good – you’re paying attention. I’m testing you, boy, testing. So – while I’m talking to him I want you to tug my sleeve as though you need to speak to me.’
‘Who am I suppose to be?’
‘You’re my boy, of course. Now, I’ll ignore you but you just keep tugging until I shoo you away. Then – here’s the fun! I want you to drift off far enough that Bell cannot hear you – and you must wander over and pretend to pass the time of day in some nigger-talk with a few of your fellows in the field as they work – but really you’ll be giving them the message. Komprendee?’
