by Judy Powell
Still, Joseph could not help wondering if his mother had been behind it. Lately, Rachel seemed to be watching him like a hawk and it made him wonder if, somehow, she had found out that he still spent time with the girl. He could not risk her thwarting his plan – not today. He would just have to wait a few more hours until they had all turned in for the night then he would go. He was determined to deliver Binta’s gift on her birthday. Feigning a headache, he headed up to his room right after dinner and waited patiently.
By the time the house was finally silent it was almost ten o’clock. He waited another half hour then, gathering up a small canvas bag, slowly opened his bedroom door. The hallway was in darkness. He pulled the door shut behind him, tiptoed down the wide mahogany staircase and headed for the back door. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed the heavy door. Finally, he had it just wide enough to slip through. He gently pulled it shut behind him, ran across the wide verandah then headed for the shelter of the nearby trees. The moon was almost full and Joseph was grateful for the light.
The night air was cool and crickets were chirping in the trees. Tree frogs added their noise to the din for he disturbed their slumber as he ran. Joseph hardly noticed this symphony of the night. His thoughts were on Binta and how she would react when he presented the gift. He knew that she would never believe he had remembered her birthday, and even if he had, he guessed that she would not think that he would have even bothered to get her a gift. A smile crossed his face as he ran. He was looking forward to the surprise.
He crept stealthily past the barracoons and soon came to the rows of huts where he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. Walking slowly he approached Binta’s hut. He was almost at the door when a big, broad woman suddenly stepped out of the shadows. Joseph jumped, then calmed down when he heard her voice.
“Massa Joseph? Is dat you?”
“Mama Pearl. Yes, it’s me.” Joseph took a step closer to the stout woman. “I’m here to see Binta. I know it’s late but I need to see her. Is she asleep?”
Mama Pearl’s eyes narrowed and she sucked in her breath. “Massa Joseph, it very late.”
“I know but I want to talk to her. I won’t stay long.” Joseph took a step closer but the woman moved to stand in front of the door, arms folded over her bosom. He looked at her, surprised. He knew Mama Pearl was a strong, determined woman but he was the master’s son. Why would she try to stop him from entering?
“Massa Joseph, me can’t let you go in, sah. Binta not going see you tonight.”
Joseph stared at her, confused. The woman stared back at him stubbornly.
“Why don’t you want me to see her? It will only be for a minute.”
“No, Massa Joseph. No more question, sah. Enough. No more tonight.” She shook her head.
Something in the woman’s eyes made Joseph uneasy. Her words, somehow, made his heart beat faster. He sensed that something was wrong. “What’s going on? Is she ill?”
He tried to force his way past the large woman but she backed up against the door and whispered forcefully, “Massa Joseph! I say no Binta tonight!”
Joseph pretended to turn away but as the woman relaxed her body he swung back and shoved her away. She stumbled and almost fell but he had no time to concern himself with that. He pushed against the flimsy door, calling out as he entered, “Binta! Are you alright?” The shack was in darkness except for a single candle which flickered behind a thin curtain. Joseph headed towards it.
“Binta,” he whispered as he tiptoed towards the curtain and gently drew the cloth aside, “it’s me.”
He got no further. Joseph’s eyes opened wide and he gasped as a large man jumped off the sprawled body of the young girl. The white man turned his bearded face to Joseph and they both stared at each other in shock. It was Adam Gordon who looked back at Joseph, his usually ruddy face now chalk-white.
“Joseph! What are you doing here?”
Joseph stared open-mouthed at his father struggling to pull on his breeches. He swung his eyes to look at the dark-skinned girl who lay frozen on the bed. As his eyes raked her face she pulled a thin, rough sheet over her naked body then covered her face with her hands and began to sob.
With a snarl of disgust Joseph threw the canvas bag straight at the weeping girl. He turned and ran from the hut, the picture of his father’s half-naked body still imprinted on his mind.
Over an hour passed before Joseph could stomach returning to his room. He sat on the bed, his face in his hands, hurt and disappointment washing over him. After what seemed an eternity he got up and took the cloth off Jack’s cage. He smiled wryly at the bird and said softly, “Serves me right, Jack. What else can you expect from those people, anyway?”
******
Years later Joseph Gordon lay in his four poster canopy bed. The warm night air passed over his naked chest. When his restless body could take it no longer he turned slowly to his wife who lay sleeping deeply. At thirty-two years old he had already been married nine years. His wife had borne him two beautiful daughters but she had become contented with plantation life and was rarely interested in anything sexual. He sighed in frustration.
As the light snores escaped his wife’s throat Joseph slowly rolled out of the bed, slipped into his shirt and gathered up his boots. Twenty minutes later he was lying on top of a slim, black body which writhed under his own. The girl strained against him and whispered “No, Massa,” but he gripped her shoulder, shoved her back into the pillows and forced her legs apart. The act was over quickly.
As he lay spent, the faint memory of the dark brown eyes of a long-departed slave girl pierced his heart…a girl who had once been his friend. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had become his father. With a groan, almost of pain, he pushed himself out of the bed, dressed quickly and walked out into the tropical night.
CHAPTER TWO
1839
Creamy sat under the mango tree, scrubbing the heavy iron pot. The red sun was still low in the sky and he shivered in the cold, clean air. He had burnt the cornmeal porridge. Again. After scrubbing a moment longer he hissed through his teeth and threw it down in the grass, frustrated. No amount of scrubbing was going to make it look any better. He marvelled at the way his mother was able to keep the cooking vessels and utensils sparkling. He was a strong, twenty-five year old man and he could not do it. How did she, petite as she was?
Creamy stood up slowly, his knees creaking, then put his hands to his spine and leaned back in a long stretch. He yawned long and wide. He had been up most of the night tending to his mother and he could do with some sleep. Although he was tired he had risen very early to make sure that she had some food in her stomach. He wanted her to have a good day. He rubbed his eyes, sniffed the crisp morning air then shuffled back into the shack.
As soon as he entered he heard the laboured breathing of his mother who lay on the narrow bed in the corner. She stirred then spoke weakly, “Zeke? You finish already?”
“Yeah, Ma. Me wasn’t doing too good on that pot so me just give up.”
He went over to her but she had closed her eyes again. He stood there for a long while staring at his mother’s shrunken body. For the past two years he had watched her slowly declining, changing from vibrant and cheerful to sick and withdrawn.
He remembered the days not so long ago when he and his mother used to play like children in the yard. Once, she even beat him to the top of a tree to pick a ripe mango. One would never believe that at the time she was thirty-eight years old. She was a grown woman with an adult son but she was young at heart and childlike in many ways.
Now she lay in her corner, a mere shell of the woman she used to be. Apart from her distended belly her emaciated body was like a skeleton. Because of her illness she could only keep down soft foods. Meals of rice and peas and meat were substituted with soup or porridge. Maybe it was a good thing that that was all she could stomach any way, Creamy thought, because lately there had been no money for anything else. Right now they were just barely survivin
g.
The house was a mess. He had not been paying attention to it these past few days. He had been so preoccupied with trying to make life bearable for her that he had not even noticed that things were piling up. Clothes were strewn all over the dirt floor and plates and cups were piled high in a tin bucket. Suddenly he felt that he had to get things in order or he would go mad.
He grabbed the bucket and made for the door. There was a loud crash. Tin cups and plates scattered all over the dirt floor. The woman in the bed jerked upright and opened startled, sunken eyes.
“Sorry, Ma,” Creamy said quickly, “the handle give way.”
“Why you so clumsy, bwoy?” Her voice was a hoarse, breathless growl. “You can’t give me a chance to rest?”
Creamy bit his lip and gathered up the plates and cups from the ground. He knew that his mother was simply venting her pain and frustration on him. After two years he was almost used to it. He went out and deposited the bucket beside the pot he had thrown down by the mango tree.
Creamy let out a sigh then walked slowly to the back of the shack. He had saved a couple of pieces of corn pone for the dog. As he threw the scraps of food at the scrawny animal he spoke apologetically.
“Hey, boy. Me know you hungry but this all me have.”
The dog gobbled up the food in one bite and wagged his tail wildly, eagerly awaiting more. He strained at the rope around his neck and yelped at his master.
“Calm down, boy.” Creamy stooped down and rubbed the dog’s head. “I goin’ get you more later, Pitchy-Patchy. Jus’ drink some water for now.” He pushed the enamel pan under the dog’s nose and watched him lap thirstily.
Creamy smiled as he remembered how the dog had ended up with that name. When he was just a pup Pitchy-Patchy knocked over a pail of white lime which was being used to whitewash the roots of coconut trees to ward off insects. White lime flew everywhere and when the dog ran off he was splattered in white. For days he ran around with white patches on his black body and even when the white was gone the name remained.
Creamy’s face sobered as he remembered how he, too, had been saddled with a nickname because he was different. He had been only six years old when the other slave boys started calling him “Creamy”. His olive skin and wavy black hair made it obvious that his father was not of the Negro race. “Your chocolate tea have in too much cream,” they would shout with screams of laughter and Creamy would go off by himself to cry. He would ask his mother who his father was but he never got an answer. All she ever said was that they had each other and that was all that mattered.
As Creamy got older he learned to ignore the taunts of the other slave boys, and he even made friends with a few of them. Still, they never let him forget that he was different. Over the years he learned to deal with his loneliness by relying on his mother for the friendship he craved. When he passed childhood his relationship with his mother grew even stronger because then he could really speak to her about his thoughts, his feelings, his problems. At that time he felt that he could survive without the rest of them. But when he got older and physical urges became a part of his life he realized that he could not survive alone. His relationship with his mother was not enough. He’d had a few encounters with women while he lived on the slave plantation but none since he left the estate over a year ago.
Although the slaves were emancipated in 1834 he had had to serve four years of apprenticeship to the Williams family. When full abolition came in 1838 he found himself a free man at the age of twenty-four. He remembered his elation at being finally free. The whole country was in uproar. Young black men and women were eager to start their lives in freedom. There were celebrations all over the island.
But now, looking back, he wondered if this freedom was real. It was physical freedom, yes, but he felt as if he were still under the control of the plantation owners. Being a free man without education, without skills other than chopping sugar cane, was almost worse than being a slave. At least while he was a slave he had a roof over his head and regular meals. Now it was a struggle to find the next meal and with his mother sick the situation was even worse. She needed medicine - lots of it - and he had no money. He hated to see her suffer day after day. They could no longer depend on the kindness of neighbors to keep them going. He had to do something...fast.
Next morning Creamy stood shivering in the chill air. It was still not yet five o’clock but already several men had gathered at the gate of Innswood Estate. Unemployment was a crisis on the island and, like Creamy, there were thousands of ex-slaves looking for work. The situation was desperate for many of them because they had no option outside of working in the fields. Many of the planters had gone back to England once slavery was abolished. Because of that the few plantations that were hiring workers were bombarded. Creamy knew that the chances that he would be hired were slim but he had to try. His mother was back at home waiting for him and she needed food and medicine. He would do anything in his power for her.
The foreman did not come to the gate until seven that morning and by that time Creamy had been standing for over two hours. The morning had warmed up considerably and he was feeling much more comfortable. He always loved the sun, not only for its warmth and because it darkened his skin, but because it seemed to keep him in a positive mood. Even in his darkest moments the brightness of a sunny day always seemed to make him see the brighter side of any situation.
By this time over sixty or seventy men were standing at the gate, all waiting hopefully for a job. Some of them stared questioningly at him while others glared openly but he tried not to pay attention to them. He knew what he was here for. Still, it was difficult to ignore them.
One of them said, in a very audible voice, “What him doing here? Him no should be on de other side o’ de fence?”
There was some grumbling among some of the men but Creamy tried to deafen his ears to it. He knew they resented his light skin and his presence at the gate. He was competition because he could possibly take one of the few places available for work. He knew that they thought he had more privileges than they did, but this was not the case. The fact was, regardless of his lighter skin, with no education he had no advantage over the black men who stood beside him. He was just as much a slave to his situation as they were. Creamy closed his ears to the jeers, hardened his heart to the pain, and stood silent.
As the gate opened they made a move to rush forward but the foreman held up his hand, rifle above his head, and shouted, “Hold on! Only need fifteen today.” A universal groan went up as the men realized how slim their chances were.
“Stand back. All of you!”
As they backed up the foreman stepped forward, glaring at the men in front of him. He pointed a grimy finger at the largest of the group.
“You. Go stand over there.”
As he pointed to the spot the black man moved forward, a smirk on his face. The foreman continued the process of selection until all fifteen stood before him. Disappointment heavy in his heart, Creamy turned with the rest of the rejected men and slowly walked away.
Back in his village that evening Creamy sat on a boulder on the bank of the White River and stared into the muddy green water. He needed to gather his thoughts. He had just had a long conversation with his mother and they had come to some serious decisions. She desperately needed help and he was her only source of support. Although she wanted him near and he would have preferred to be by her side they knew that a parting would be inevitable. This was the only way he could help her. He had tried his best to find employment right there in their community but nothing had worked so far. The competition was too tight.
He and his mother spoke about that plantation on which she had grown up so many years ago, the one all the way on the western side of the island. Life there had not been bad, she said, and even when slaves had starved on other plantations during the bad times when foreign trade was affected by the American War she had always had food to eat.
Now he was considering leaving her, traveling
almost a hundred miles to get back to this plantation, to find a way to survive. The plan was for him to try to secure a job there, stay for the entire cane cutting season, if possible, and negotiate for some time in-between to come and visit her. He was not totally comfortable leaving his mother in the care of neighbors but it was the best he could do.
He got up from the boulder and walked slowly back to the shack. The skinny dog tied to the post yelped in eager anticipation but Creamy’s face remained serious this time. He bent and loosened the knot in the rope and gave the dog a brief pat on the head. He had never been able to feed the animal properly and he knew that there were other people in the community who would throw scraps to him. He would survive. He slapped the dog hard on the rump and watched him run away.
On Monday morning Creamy was up before there was any hint of sunlight. He hurriedly packed a canvas sack with pieces of bread, ‘turn cornmeal’ and a bottle of water. He had a long journey ahead of him and no money to buy food so he had to be prepared. He did not know what today would bring but he was counting on luck smiling down on him. He was taking the last few coins that were in the house to pay for his passage to Negril and although he knew there was no certainty that he would find work, somehow he felt positive.
“Mama, I going now.” He spoke softly in the stillness of the early morning.
“Zeke, come here, boy.”
“Yes, Ma?”
“Zeke…I got something to tell you. ‘Bout dat plantation.”
Creamy winced as his mother groaned in pain. Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Don’t talk now, Ma,” he begged. “Just rest.”
“Ezekiel, maybe me no see you again…” The speech was cut short by a violent fit of coughing.
