The leader of the escaped slaves was a heavily muscled black named Famularis. His right cheek was marred by a cross that had been deeply burned into it, and there was a good deal of puffiness about his left eye. It was an altogether motley group he led, mostly women and youngsters. They’d erected a few tents and looked to be feeding themselves by foraging for fruits and berries and bringing down the occasional turkey vulture or white-tailed deer. It must have been scant fare they were surviving on, and the water here looked stale and foul. The traveler had had to assure Famularis of his good intentions and had submitted to the surrender of his pistol and his two sharp knives, and they were now huddled round a guttering fire, roasting a haunch of venison, with a few rays of glimmering twilight still slanting through the ancient cypresses. The sounds of the forest were hushed, just a few birds still calling. Bats flittered in the gloaming. Famularis shoved another log onto the dying fire, and turning to his visitors asked them why the smartest thing he could do wouldn’t be just to kill them and take their possessions. He especially made note of the jaunty pair of boots sported by one of his guests.
“That wouldn’t take you very far, would it?” asked the traveler. “You’ve a problem, seems to me, that’ll not be sorted by a pair of boots. You’re cut off from your family, and any friends you had were probably killed or most certainly disciplined. How was it that you came to break out?”
“I was to be whipped for killing a man, Massah. But I seized the whip from the yobbo’s hand and beat him with it.”
“Don’t call me master. Who was the man you killed?”
“Yes, Massah. Another slave. That’s why I was only to be whipped. He thought he could take my things and lord it over me. He was the white man’s tool. The Master put the knife into me but it was he who turned the knife. It was he who put me out to work each morning and then took my woman behind my back. He thought he could build his little empire in the white man’s dust but he was wrong and I killed him.”
“Who was your master?”
“Lord Merriwether.”
“An upstanding and a God fearing man,” said Smith.
“Yes, Massah. And a whoremonger, and a rum runner, and a slave dealer,” added Famularis.
“I see he has reason to fear God,” said the traveler with a wicked grin. “So now you’ve broken out, and you’ve taken some with you. But you can’t move from here without falling into the arms of those who are hunting for you, and you can’t stay here. Either you’ll starve or they’ll come for you and burn you out. You can’t stand still. For you to stand still is to die. You have to make a move now, here on the last day of April. All you’ve got are girls and boys.”
“They was the house slaves convenient to be led out. The field hands was under the gun and could not get away.”
“Maybe I’m thinking the girls and boys you’ve led here will start seeing the truth of the matter, that they’d be better off where someone will take care of them, even if it comes at the price of a good whipping.”
“The truth of the matter? I freed them. They is loyal, to me.”
“Right now one of those young ones is thinking what can he get for the price of your head. You sit still you die.”
“Has you been hungry? Has you been whipped? Has you seen your brothers and your sisters – allathem — dead before they’s twenty years old? No. I don’t think you has, and a little bit I hate you for that. Has you been sold away from your mama and your papa? Don’ tell me the truth of the matter.”
“Truly do you think you’re better off here where you’re scrounging for the crust of existence? Or wouldn’t you like a good master who’d take care of you and see your needs are met?”
“Here we is free.”
“No, you’re slaves still. What a man wants is not to be free. A man wants food in his stomach and a house to live in, good clothes to put on his back and a woman to take them off for. Very little of that have you got. There’s no man on God’s earth wouldn’t give up that empty word free in return for that, and isn’t that the bargain we’re all of us making every day, to sell our freedom for the best price we can get? There’s no way to live but to live in chains.”
“The greatest good a man can claim is his freedom. I is free to make myself; I is not made by my masters. The only one who can enslave my soul is me. And what is your name anyway?”
“Leave my name out of it. I do not want my name invoked. You can call me Mister X.”
“I don’t want to sit here all night and listen to the gibes of a nameless one. If you can talk to me you can tell me who you are. I tell you I am free now. True, all the day I scrounge to meet my needs, but they is my needs, not those of my master.”
Smith saw fit to interject that if he wanted to remain free, Famularis would have to leave this spot, since Merriwether and the other owners were sure to be coming.
The traveler brushed this aside. “What brought you here, and what keeps you here, is your hate: hatred, nothing else. If you were smart you’d be a good slave, but you hate your master and you hate his whip, and you hate them both so much you’d wipe out their whole stinking race before you’d go back to being a slave. Everything inside you says it’s right to hate him, so hate him you must. This is your strength. This is your army.”
“If I was smart I’d be a good slave? Really do you say this? Then I’m glad I am not smart. But also I am not stupid. I know what your friend says is true. I cannot long survive here. I must move, and all these I must take with me. It is not an easy thing. I need more like me. There is others, I know, who would join if they thought they had a chance of something better.”
“There are others. For many years, for decades, the masters have brought you and those like you across the ocean to pick their cotton and grow their food. But the crop they’ve been planting is you, and now it’s time to reap the harvest. There are others being brought this very moment to Indradoon to be sold in the markets there. I will lead you to them. They haven’t been broken. They’ll be hard, and yearning, like you, to be free. Your hatred is the spark to ignite them.”
Famularis took this in and pondered it for some time in silence. Lifting the roasting haunch of venison from the fire he offered it to his guest.
“Save it for yourself,” he answered.
“You will not share my food? I’s not worthy?” He glanced at the traveling man, then stared at the grass around his feet. It was difficult for him to look white men in the eye.
“You need it more than I.”
“Massah Smith?”
Smith silently declined. The last glimmers of sunlight were gone. Their faces were lit solely by the flickering flames licking at the meat.
“Where are these others?” asked Famularis.
“Close at hand.”
Famularis thought awhile, as though musing over a difficult puzzle, while he chewed slowly. “Very good. I would still much like to kill you and take your boots, but you can keep them for now . . . And I think it will all be simple. Once there is enough of us we can live our own way. This forest has many riches; she can provide. We will live together and all be friends. There is no need always to grow this cotton. We will grow the fruits that spring from the earth.”
“The fruit of revenge is death. There is no other fruit that grows more fertile from this soil. Return to me my pistol and my knives. We’re friends now.”
At a signal from Famularis his weapons were handed back to him. With his artillery on him he felt more like his true self. “I will lead you to the others, and they will be a knife in your hand, a knife to put to your master’s throat, and isn’t that a throat worthy to be slit?”
“You will lead me to them?”
“Certain it is that I will.”
“Swear to me.”
“I swear.”
“Not that. Tha’s just words.” Famularis took a dagger from his belt. “We will swear with the oath of blood. We will be close as brothers.” He slashed the dagger across the palm of his hand, raising a riband o
f blood. He held his palm out to the traveler, who drank from it, tasting the salty iron tang that filled the man’s veins. Then eagerly, as though gleaning a reward unlooked for, the traveler slashed his own palm and held it out to Famularis. When they were done, they sealed the wounds with ashes from the fire.
Famularis said, “Now we is bound by blood. You will lead me to these slaves who is to be sold.”
“Certain it is that I will.”
“Lead me tonight. I’s ready.”
“You’re not ready. Tonight is too soon. Tonight I will return to town. I will be back with the morning’s first light. Prepare your campground to move.”
“What is there to prepare? All we have we carry on our backs. We will be ready.”
As Smith was steering the traveler back towards town, they came to a large clearing. The traveler gazed at the immensity of the stars above. Like a shiver down the back of his spine he sensed before he saw them the witches, cavorting in their gaudy evil, dancing before the stars, making them go dark and then light again, as they passed in front. In that clammy silence he could almost hear their dismal cries, and almost fathom their worthless, empty hearts.
Chapter Four
THE TOSS OF A COIN
On the same evening the traveler spoke with Famularis, the Master of the Queen of Bel Harbor was dining with Ramsey and his First Mate in his cabin at the stern of the ship. These were men of commerce, their ears never weary of the prattle of chaffer, so conversation turned on matters of merchandising, as to what profit would be reaped from the wines and silks and the richly-tinted featherwork, a specialty of Port Jay, the ship carried in her hold. Also there was discussion concerning a certain laxness of discipline that had been observed amongst the seamen. The First Mate put it down to simple rudeness, but the Master felt there was more to it than that. He felt that the brawl on deck the first night out, when one man had been stabbed in the arm, the drunkenness he’d observed on occasion, even in the case of the surgeon, and other such manifestations of an impulsive character should be brought to a halt by the arrest and punishment of a prominent individual who could be made an admonitory spectacle to the rest of the crew. He’d observed this to work wonders on other occasions where it was the character of the men that was at issue.
At the same time, the gimbaled oil light in Tom’s cabin before the mast illuminated an altogether different scene: three berths and the floor, albeit the illumination afforded the upper berth, where Brutus slept, was little and dark. The cabin was not spacious, there was just about room for one chair, and then the floor for those that chose to squat.
Tom, Brutus and Vincenzo were perched on their berths conversing of the day’s events. None of them being needed up above, the moment gave a wanted chance of communal contentment. Vincenzo lit a pipe, and taking a good puff, passed it in a friendly fashion across to Tom.
“Opium,” he said. “Pure as the night air.”
Tom thought it the best wisdom to assent to this friendly overture. Having taken a puff himself, he made to pass the pipe to Brutus in the upper bunk. After some hesitation, Brutus declined, so he passed it back to Vincenzo, who said, “I’ve seen you’ve a way of tossing a coin. What if I was to wager a coin myself. Would you take a chance on it?”
Tom had no interest in gambling. Especially with Vincenzo. “That wasn’t my intent. You’ll find I’m not a betting man.”
“Just a small bet. Between friends . . . Might as well have a little bit of fun.”
“If you’re desperate for a wager of course we’ll have one. What shall it be?”
Brutus broke in, “That smell you’re putting under my nostrils gives me some unease. Either you will stop smoking or I will leave this place.”
“Then I think you’re bound to leave, as it looks the odds on that are two to one, eh, friend Tom?”
“And why are you always calling me friend Tom? Plain Tom will do.”
“Alright, plain Tom, so you’d not be my friend?”
“Pass that up here. I find my legs are too heavy to be moving just now.”
“Yes, Brutus,” said Tom.
Brutus took a deep puff. “Ah, this is a good pipe. Here, Tom.”
Vincenzo stood. His face, now it was higher than the light, took on a queer expression. “I’ll wager my dollar against yours.”
“Are you putting the pipe away then?” asked Brutus.
“Enough for tonight. Here’s my dollar. I’ll claim tails. Toss your coin, plain Tom.”
“Not plain Tom. Just Tom. Simple Tom.”
“That’s the way of naming you then: simple Tom. Toss your coin, simple Tom.”
Tom wanted nothing to do with this. He started to say no, but he looked at the expression on Vincenzo’s face and what he said instead was, “All right. One toss.” He tossed.
“No, no, you’ve caught it in the air. Let it fall to the floor so all can see for themselves if it’s heads or tails.”
“It makes no difference if I catch it. It’s just this way I’m less like to lose it.”
“Let it fall to the floor I say.”
Tom bit back his irritation and tossed again. “Now it’s rolled under the chair.”
“Well let’s have a look.”
It was proven to the satisfaction of all that the coin had come up heads. Vincenzo was crestfallen, but he passed his dollar over to Tom.
“There. I hope you’re content now you’ve had your bit of fun.”
“You’ve got to give me a chance to get it back.”
“Here, I’ll give it back to you.”
“No, no, you won. It’s yours, man.”
“I’m sorry we started this.”
“I’ll double the wager. My last two dollars.”
“I’d hold onto them if I was you.”
Mr. Chips put his head in the room. “It looks to be smooth sailing tonight. There’s a light breeze from the east, and the skies are clear. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks, friend Chippie, but here below the sailing is naught so smooth as all that. Luck has turned her back on me.”
“Is it a wager you’re having?”
“Vincenzo just wanted to toss a coin,” said Tom.
“Might another join in?”
“No. Now he’s lost his dollar I’m thinking that’ll be the end of it.”
“Here, simple Tom, I’ve two dollars more.”
“Keep your last dollars. I’ve a stash of dollars of my own.” This unguarded phrase echoed in the chambers of Vincenzo’s mind. He shared a look with Mr. Chips.
Mr. Chips said, “There’s room in my cabin for a table, if you’ve a mind to a game of cards like a civilized soul.”
“Perhaps another night,” said Vincenzo as Mr. Chips, with a tip of his hat, moved on. “I’ll claim tails again. It’s due to come up tails so I’m doubling the wager.”
“I trust you’re aware the logic of that is unsound. Each toss the chance is the same. If it was heads ten times in a row, still the chance that it will be tails is only one in two.”
“Is that right, friend Brutus, do you agree with that?”
“I’d agree with another pipe,” said Brutus.
“Another pipe it’ll be. Now toss, simple Tom.”
Tom tossed again. “It seems luck is not with you tonight.”
“Here. Take it. My last dollars. And you’ll take my opium too. Clearly I’ll have nothing left, dealing with the two of you.”
“And you’ve no one to thank but yourself. It was your constant notion to toss.”
“Here, Brutus, sit up.” Vincenzo handed him the pipe.
Brutus took a puff.
“You’ll have to give me one more chance to win it all back. One more toss. It can’t come up heads forever.”
“I’ve told you the logic of that is wrong.”
Vincenzo was taking the earring from his ear. “Here. I’ll wager my earring against the four dollars you have in your possession.”
Tom didn’t answer. Noticing it was
getting dark he checked the oil in the lamp.
“What do you say? My earring against your four dollars.”
“I’ve had enough wagering. Now,” trimming the wick and adding a bit more oil, “we’re casting a little more light on the situation.”
“What if our words were coins?” said Vincenzo.
“What’s this you’re saying?”
“I’m just minded of a story I think we were told when we were young ones. I think me Mam told me. That the words came out their mouths like solid things that fell to the ground. Have you no memory of such a story?”
“Not at all.”
“Maybe they could be coins, or a lucky earring such as this, that’s brought me a great deal of good luck.”
“Lucky earring?”
Brutus intoned, “The thieving children of Slothikay played a game. They’d steal a coin and place it beneath the tongue to elude detection.”
“I don’t want your earring. Have you ever seen me with an earring? Next you’ll be cutting off your mustache to wager that, calling it your lucky whisker.”
“That must be it. Your young child makes your best thief.” Then to Tom, “You want my mustache too? Would you like a wager for my nose also? You’ll be wanting my whole face next.”
“If I wanted a face I’d wager with Brutus. His is worth winning.”
“My earring is gold, it is worth more than your four dollars, but I’d not ask you to wager more. I’m so certain I’ll win I’ll call it even odds.”
“Gold, is it?”
“Bite it, but gentle.” Vincenzo handed Tom his earring.
“Yes, soft it is, like gold.”
“It is gold. So will you toss then?”
“It’s unlike you to propose a wager unfair to yourself.”
“Just a bit of fun as I said at first. We’re all friends here.”
“You’ll take tails again?”
The Devil's Workshop Page 4
