Coffee, Cream and Curry

by Judy Powell

  The planters even complained that one day slavery itself might meet its demise at the hands of the self-righteous missionaries. Then where would the country be, they moaned. As far as they were concerned Jamaica was not ready for the wholesale freedom of the slaves and would not be so for a very long time because the only thing holding her together was the planter class. Take us away, they said, and she would perish.

  “Stupid boy,” Katherine jeered under her breath so that only he could hear. He refused to take the bait and remained silent, waiting for the moment to pass, waiting for them to forget, as usual, that he existed.

  “I got a letter from Peter this morning,” Katherine announced brightly.

  “Did you, now?” Mrs. Gordon’s eyes twinkled with interest as she turned to her daughter. “And what, pray tell, is the latest news from the dear boy?”

  “He wants me to come visit his family for two whole months. May I go?” She turned pleading eyes to their father. “Father, may I, please?”

  “It seems you have your heart set on this young man.” Adam smiled at her.

  “You know I do.”

  “Well, Princess, you have my blessing.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Katherine jumped up and threw her arms around his stout neck.

  Joseph rolled his eyes. As usual, the main thing on his sister’s mind was marriage. She was twenty-one years old, five years his senior, and eager to catch the perfect husband. She had met Peter while visiting a cousin in London. He was a bookkeeper at a well-known London firm and soon after meeting him Katherine announced that he was the one for her. She was ready to be the perfect society wife. She often moaned that life on a plantation was not for her. She loathed the heat, the insects and the Negro slaves.

  With the family’s money and her good looks Katherine could have had a husband by now. Her heart-shaped face was fringed with curls. She had their father’s small, straight nose and hazel eyes but her rosebud mouth, constantly set in a cute pout, was all her own. Katherine had been courted by men of good breeding but she had always been vocal about her ideal mate – a man who would be understanding and lenient; in Joseph’s opinion, a man who would let her ‘wear the breeches’.

  He wondered if her stance was because she had seen the way their father had cowed their mother over the years. Maybe she did not want to have the same experience as Mother. From what he had heard of Peter, Katherine would have no trouble taking charge. He stared at the two women as they discussed the virtues of Peter and his family. Getting bored, he stopped listening and as his mind moved back to that afternoon’s game a slight smile crept across his lips.

  “There he goes, daydreaming again.” Katherine’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  He stared blankly at her grinning face then down at his half-eaten meal. He could not stomach another bite. Turning to his father, he said, “May I be excused?” At his father’s nod Joseph excused himself from the table and headed for the stairs.

  In his room, far from the maddening chatter of his sister and the reprimands of his parents, he relaxed and found escape in his thoughts. He lay on the canopied four poster bed and looked out the window at the leaves of the mango tree trembling in the summer breeze. His thoughts grew sombre as he remembered the harsh words of the boys at boarding school and the loneliness he felt when they refused to speak to him. Still, he did not regret anything that he had said and simply made up his mind to survive as he had always done, alone.

  He jumped up off the bed, picked up a bag of hard biscuits from the window sill and went over to the canary which sat on its perch, staring out at him through the bars of its cage. “Hey, Jack,” he whispered to his friend as he fed him a biscuit. “We don’t need them, do we?” The bird chirped and he smiled. “I knew you would see it my way.”

  ******

  Next Sunday Joseph was in his usual hiding place, watching the game. It was a cool afternoon. The sky was grey and the fresh smell of rain was in the air. As the leaves of the coconut palm swayed in the soft breeze he lay on his stomach in the soft bed of ferns. He bit into a guava and peered through the leaves. The slave boys played with wild abandon. They had earlier lamented that next morning they would have to be up before daybreak to toil in the fields until the blazing sun disappeared behind the hills. Sunday was the only day they had to enjoy themselves as the boys they were, so they put their all into it.

  The game was only halfway through when Joseph decided to go; it was a slow game and he was getting restless. He gathered his legs under him and stood slowly, stretching to ease the cramps then headed back through the bushes. As he walked his thoughts went back, as it so often did, to school and England. He wished he did not have to go back there to the drone of the schoolmaster, the grey skies, the boiled mutton and turtle soup, and the strain of fitting in.

  Suddenly, a sharp scream ripped into his thoughts. It had come from the other side of the bushes. He quickly ducked his head and crept on hands and knees into the bushes, closer to where he had heard the noise. He stopped when he heard the sound of a girl’s sobs. He peered through the bushes and gasped as he saw Frederick Johnson, the carpenter, sprawled on top of a skinny, black girl.

  “No, Massa Johnson.”

  The girl was struggling violently, tearing at the man’s face with her fingernails and kicking her legs frantically. Her eyes were wide with fear and her breath came in gasps. “Massa Johnson! Don’t do it, sah. Please!”

  “Shut up, girl. You do whatever I want, you hear me?” The bulky man growled as

  he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head in one of his huge fists. “Who d’ye think’s in charge here?”

  “But Massa, I nevah…”

  “I said shut up.” He slapped her hard across the face. “Now spread them legs and let

  me in.”

  The girl let out a wail as the man dug his knees between her legs and forced them

  apart. Grabbing a handful of her skirt he dragged it up to her waist and began to rip at her drawers.

  “No!” The girl’s shriek was agonizing.

  “Let her go,” Joseph shouted from his hiding place.

  “Huh? Who’s there?” The big man’s head whipped around but the rest of his body remained frozen, his hand still clutching the girl’s knickers.

  “I said, let her go!”

  Frederick Johnson quickly got up off the girl, pulling up his breeches as he stood. His eyes widened as Joseph pushed through the bushes and stepped into the clearing. His heavy brows came together in a frown.

  “Squire Joseph,” he growled, “what are ye doin’ here?”

  “Leave the girl alone, Mr. Johnson. Go find yourself a grown woman.”

  The bigger man looked like he was about to say something then seemed to decide against it. His eyes shot daggers but he only snorted and brushed at the leaves on his shirt. Without a word he turned, pushed his way through the thick foliage and disappeared.

  Joseph let out his breath in a whoosh then he turned his attention to the dark-skinned girl who still crouched in the leaves and broken bushes, trembling and sobbing. The collar of her dress was ripped open to reveal a slim ebony shoulder. Her yellow head wrap, which had come loose in the struggle, hung from one ear and revealed thick, woolly plaits. Kneeling, Joseph put out a hand and touched her on the shoulder. She jumped.

  “It’s alright,” he said gently, “He’s gone.”

  Still trembling, the girl raised wet eyes to stare up at him. She drew in a shaking breath and whispered, “Thank you, Massa. You save me life.”

  Joseph did not answer but simply leaned over and pulled the torn dress back onto her shoulder. Looking embarrassed, she pushed her skirt back over her knees then began fumbling at the head wrap.

  “Here, let me help you.” Joseph picked the brown leaves from her hair then watched as she tied the bright cloth around her head. He stood up and stretched out his hand. She hesitated for a moment then placed a small hand in his. As soon as he had pulled her to a standing position sh
e let go and dropped her glance to the ground. Joseph guessed that he was a good six or seven inches taller than she was. He stared at her bowed head for a moment, watching her try to regain her composure.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  She looked up at him and replied, “Binta, Massa.”

  “Binta,” he repeated. It sounded like one of the African names some of the slaves insisted on using. He looked at the girl’s tear-streaked face. Her full lips still quivered slightly but some spirit had returned to the dark brown eyes which she now turned up to him, almost boldly. He frowned slightly. Somehow, she looked familiar. “You work in the great house, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Massa.”

  “So what were you doing all the way down here?”

  “Mother Dinah sen’ me to the stream to get the clothes she leave to dry on the rocks. I was on me way when Massa Johnson grab me arm and drag me into de bushes. I try to fight,” her nostrils flared in anger, but then she sighed, “but it was no use. Him too strong an’…him say him would whip me if I fight.”

  Joseph was silent. He was no fool. He was aware that these things happened on the plantation. Still, he had been shocked to actually witness it. What made it worse, this slave girl looked so young.

  “How old are you?” His voice was harsh.

  “Massa?” The question seemed to take her by surprise.

  “How old are you, Binta?”

  “I think…” She hesitated then she said, “Fourteen, Massa.”

  He bit his lip and frowned. He had actually thought that she was older, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Even through the coarse shift she wore he could see that her body had blossomed. He wondered if Negro girls matured earlier than white ones. He had heard it said that they were a loose lot, unencumbered by thoughts of chastity and morals – there was still too much of Africa in them. There they ran wild and mated whenever and with whomever struck their fancy. Perfect for practice when you want to learn to be a man, some of the boys at school had told him. They, too, were sons of West Indian planters, and they laughed at his lack of experience in a land of plenty.

  He looked sternly at the girl and asked, “Has this happened before?”

  “No, Massa Joseph. First time.”

  He stared hard at her and she lowered her eyes. Finally, he spoke. “Get yourself together. We’re going back to the house.”

  ******

  Joseph climbed the stairs, bird cage in hand, and headed for the room at the end of

  the hall. It was Thursday afternoon and Binta would be in the sewing room, as usual. It had been four weeks since the incident with Frederick Johnson. Since then he and Binta had developed a friendship of sorts, much to Joseph’s surprise. He had little in common with this slave girl who spoke little but gobbled up anything he chose to share with her. Sometimes he would give her titbits about England and she would sit wide-eyed, seeming almost entranced by his stories. Other times he would leave her to her work while he read or simply lounged in a nearby couch.

  When he got to the room he pushed the door without knocking and went over to sit by the window. He placed the bird cage on the window seat beside him then looked at Binta who had glanced up from her work when he walked in. She smiled broadly when she saw the two mangoes he rested on the windowsill. She nodded then turned her eyes back to her sewing. He looked at the bowed head in its familiar yellow wrap, and smiled.

  Joseph put his feet up on the window seat, relaxed, and stared out at the scene below. In the distance the fields of sugar cane were a sea of green under the endless blue of a cloudless sky. Closer to the plantation house Joseph could see black people clothed in dark blue and khaki, slaves bending and chopping at stalks of cane. It was a hot, windless day and he watched as the unforgiving sun baked the already black skin of the men, women and children.

  Suddenly, he drew in a sharp breath. One of the labourers had stumbled and fallen. Before the man could rise a white man was on top of him with a whip. He lifted it and brought it down several times and the man on the ground writhed in pain. Another white man rode up on a horse and barked orders. The whipping ended. The slave struggled to his feet, picked up his scythe and bent again to his task. None of the other slaves had stopped for even a moment when the man fell under the foreman’s whip. No-one acknowledged him when he regained his place among the crew.

  Joseph released his breath slowly. He took his feet off the window seat and, turning his back on the scene, rested them on the ground. Binta had rested her sewing in her lap and was looking at him quizzically. He avoided her gaze. He turned to the bird cage, opened it, and gently took the canary on his finger. It immediately flew off, circling the room twice, then perched on top of the armoire.

  Both Joseph and Binta looked up at the bird then Joseph said, “He came up to the house, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, Massa Joe, but him no mess with me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, Massa, I tell you the truth.”

  Joseph frowned as he watched Binta’s face. The girl averted her eyes and concentrated on the shirt she was mending. He could see that something had made her nervous. “Binta, is there something you are not telling me?”

  The girl tightened her lips then spoke, her voice cracking, “Yes, Massa…dere is somet’ing else.”

  “Yes?” Joseph’s voice came out sharper than he had intended. “What is it?”

  “I…I…” She shook her head. “Nothing, Massa.”

  “It can’t be nothing. You look afraid. You have to tell me what is bothering you.”

  “Massa, me want tell you…” Binta’s eyes were pleading. “…but me can’t. I sorry to trouble you, sah.”

  “Binta,” Joseph’s voice became gentle as he tried to reassure her, “tell me what’s wrong. I’m sure I can help.” When she looked hesitant he continued, “Just trust me.”

  Suddenly, her timid eyes blazed with anger. “I don’ trust no white man. You all be like Massa Johnson.”

  As soon as the words were out Binta clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Massa,” she whispered, “I sorry, sah. I never mean to say dat.” Distress clouded her eyes and a hiccup escaped her lips. “Please don’t whip me, Massa. I sorry for what I say.” Quick tears filled her eyes.

  Shocked by her vehement response Joseph could only stare at the tearful girl. Finally, he said, “Stop crying, Binta. I’m not going to have you whipped. You know that.”

  She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffed, but said nothing. Finally, she whispered, “Yes, Massa.”

  Joseph opened his mouth to say something else but then thought better of it. He turned back to the open window and stared outside, grimfaced. From the corner of his eye he saw the girl bend her head once again to the shirt in her hand. Suddenly she gave a yelp.

  “What is it?” Joseph turned quickly at the sound.

  “I…I just prick me finger.” She flashed her left hand up and down while making a hissing sound through her teeth.

  “Let me see.” Joseph went over and took her hand. A tiny ball of blood was on her thumb.

  “It not too bad now, sah. Is jus’ dat de needle did go down deep.” She tried to pull her hand away but he held her wrist in a firm grip. She raised nervous eyes to his but he simply wiped the blood away with his thumb.

  “It’s okay, Binta.” He grinned at her. “You’ll live.”

  At that moment the door swung open and Rachel Gordon walked in. “What is going on here?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the two. “Joseph, what are you doing in the sewing room? What business do you have with this girl?”

  Joseph quickly dropped Binta’s hand and stepped back a pace. “Uh, nothing…”

  “And you! You’ve been up here all morning. Get yourself down to the kitchen. Now!”

  Binta dropped her sewing and as she scurried out of the room Rachel Gordon turned to Joseph. “Don’t you know you should not be fraternizing with the slaves?”

  “Mother…”

  “
Your father and I have spoken to you about this before, Joseph. There is a line of separation between us and our slaves. They are not our equals. I don’t know why you insist on this foolish behaviour.”

  “But I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “That is irrelevant. You need to let slaves know their place, and their place is not in the company of their master.”

  “But I’m not the master,” Joseph said weakly.

  “One day you will be. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Gathering her skirts around her Rachel turned and swept out of the room. Joseph could still hear her scolding voice as she walked down the hallway. He knew this was not the end of it. She was certain to tell his father and then he would have to endure another lecture at dinnertime.

  With a sigh he sat down heavily on the chair that Binta had just vacated. He kicked the shirt which had fallen to the floor, leaned back and groaned. He sat for a while with his eyes closed. Finally, he rose and picked up the bird cage. At his whistle Jack left his perch and flew down into the waiting cage. Joseph slammed the door shut, lifted the cage and walked out the door.

  ******

  Despite the reprimands of his parents Joseph still managed to maintain some contact with the Binta. He sneaked up to the sewing room every now and then, and once he even convinced her to watch the game with him.

  While they sat watching the boys and eating sweet sugar cane she pointed out the hut where she lived with her mother, Mama Pearl. She mentioned, too, that she would be turning fifteen soon. December seventeen, she said.

  From the moment Binta told him Joseph thought of surprising her with a gift. He knew immediately what he would give her. Like many of the slaves on the plantation Binta walked barefoot. Shoes were considered a luxury and those who had a pair treasured them. He knew that she would be delighted.

  December seventeen finally arrived. He planned to sneak out of the house when the family was asleep and go all the way to the slave village to deliver his gift. He had been there several times in the last few months, but never at night. However, it could not be avoided. He had not seen her for the past few weeks and when he enquired about her he was told that she had been sent to the fields. They were busy in the fields and all available hands were needed.