by Sarah Lark
He looked hungrily at the servant, but didn’t want to stand out by refilling his plate. After all, it would probably soon be followed by three or four more courses.
“Really?” Nora asked, making a face. “Well, I think we would have complained. I mean, you do pay for the crossing!”
She made a slight gesture to the servant, who then appeared beside him and presented the dish to him once more. Doug grinned at her boyishly. “I traveled as a sailor,” he confided in her. “And then you can’t really complain.”
Nora looked at him with wide eyes, in which there was a flash of insolence. “You’re making fun of me!”
She responded properly like a lady, but she looked like a child that had just heard an outrageous story.
“No, really.” Doug hastily chewed a few more bites.
“You must know that … well, from the money that my father sent me each month, I could hardly put something aside for the passage. And besides,” his eyes now flashed, “I would have been bored to death during the journey. So, at least I had something to do. But don’t tell my father, he would be upset.”
“But he was a sailor himself for years,” Nora responded with surprise. “But, no matter. Can you answer a burning question for me: how do you sleep in a hammock?”
Doug had rarely been as amused as he was during this banquet alongside his stepmother. Both paid no attention to Elias, who already had enough to do conversing with Lady Keensley sitting on his other side. She was notoriously difficult company.
After dinner, Elias led Nora in a dance — they opened the ball, and the guests continued with a Minuet. Then Nora danced with a few more men — there was a lack of women in the colonies. The guests’ enthusiasm for dancing quickly waned, as it was hot that Christmas Day and no one had any interest in moving more than necessary. Only the younger ones danced for any length of time, showing off the new dances they’d been taught. Doug did not miss the girls’ furtive glances in his direction. However, on that evening, they made no advances, nor did their mothers — the surprise at his sudden homecoming was probably too great. Eventually, all the guests left the dance floor, enjoying the music of the small orchestra merely as background to their conversations. The ladies were served coffee, tea, or cocoa; and Doug’s mouth watered at the smell of the pepper and other spices in the drinks that were brought out. How long it had been since he’d tried it! But, of course, he couldn’t join in with the ladies, and instead followed his father and the other men to the study to smoke and drink. Doug turned down the stronger drinks and stayed with the rum punch. He was tired and the strong liquor would make it worse. He listened without interest to the mens’ conversation, which while initially was about business soon moved onto the top of Maroons.
Doug’s ears pricked up.
“A woman? Oh, come on!” Lord Hollister commented on a story from a planter from inland. “A woman leading a raid?”
“An Ashanti woman,” Elias said, as if it would explain everything. “She is, isn’t she? And didn’t she previously deal in slaves in Africa herself?”
“So do all Ashanti,” Keensley said, dismissively. “That’s what you hear, at any rate. The Ashanti are probably something like the boss niggers on the gold coast. But was this Granny Nanny involved in it? She would have to be in her forties now; she was just a child when she first came over. In those days her brothers probably did more trading, although they were also very young. In any case, the lot of them escaped into the mountains almost as soon as they got here. They are a hearty people; you have to give them that. And they’ve been making us pay for years. First and foremost, this Cudjoe man, but they’ve all jumped into the saddle. And in the most literal sense of the word — the women have even been seen riding!”
Doug tried to make sense of the history, but the few snippets of conversation gave him very little to work with. Eventually he asked about the woman.
“She’s called Granny Nanny, or more recently, Queen Nanny,” the men happily explained.
“Small for an Ashanti, but a tough thing. She was captured, along with her brothers, on the Ivory Coast and brought to a farm on the north coast where she spent a few years. So, she didn’t escape the way Keensley described it. But then something happened and they were gone — an ugly thing. They took out three overseers, and a year later, during a raid, the entire planter family. They burned down the farm. And that’s essentially everything they say about the Windward Maroons. The brothers and the girl — they played a vital role in getting all the bastards to pull together — they gathered all of the marauders from the mountains and merged them into groups. Supposedly, they have proper cities up there in the Blue Mountains, and they’ve divided the area up among themselves. Nanny is up in Portland Parish — or Nanny Town, as she calls it now — with Brother Quao. The one with the funny name—”
“Accompong,” Keensley helped out.
“In the southwest, Cudjoe, the biggest bastard in Saint James Parish. They run their operation from there — raids, murders, looting. Granny Nanny seems to even have a heart for field niggers, as she’s already released eight hundred slaves.”
Doug was surprised. “But if everyone knows exactly where they are, why doesn’t anyone go and look for them?” He asked, more out of interest than a desire for warlike undertakings. As a child, he found the life of the Maroons wild and romantic, but he knew that his father and the other planters would take rigorous and merciless action against them wherever they managed to get their hands on them.
“Right, good joke!” the planter from the north replied. “The jungle inland is thick, and the mountains are inaccessible. Any advance is dangerous, especially since they know the area like the back of their hand. They’re also cunning. We know exactly where Nanny Town is — a long Stony River, or to be more specific, above the river on a mountain ridge. So they immediately see if anyone approaches. The town is practically impregnable.”
“So, someone has tried it?” Doug asked.
The planter laughed an evil laugh. “Indeed, my boy! More than once, whenever they have a particularly horrible raid on any plantation. You should see it — everything that isn’t burned to the ground is swimming in blood! But there’s been no success at it so far. Most of the time, people don’t even get to the place. A few patrols lured them into ambushes and killed them off.”
Doug found it disconcerting to hear that a war of sorts was ranging on the island. It might even escalate into a full-scale battle at some point, although he would rather try to negotiate than advance with combat in mind. Reasonable whites had always negotiated with the Maroons. It was hopeless to try and destroy them; a peaceful existence was far more sensible. And the best thing was to not make the blacks so angry in the first place, as Granny Nanny, Accompong, Quao, and Cudjoe apparently were.
Doug eventually left the party exhausted after such a long day, but not before slipping into the kitchen to be greeted with open arms by Adwea, who sobbed as though he were her missing son. He left her with the promise that they would talk more in the morning, but before he could finally fall into bed, he had another encounter that reminded him of his own problems with angry slaves. He bumped into Máanu in the corridor outside the family’s living quarters, but she hurried away without speaking to him. Doug stopped her. “Máanu! Don’t run away! Let me at least look at you once if you don’t want to talk to me! You remember me?”
Máanu nodded, but looked very serious. “Naturally, Backra Doug. All the little birdies have been whispering about your arrival. And of course I will talk to you, if you wish,” she curtsied.
Doug rubbed his forehead. The same attitude as Akwasi.
But at least Máanu spoke in full sentences.
“Máanu, what’s the matter? I bumped into Akwasi before. And he … he’s acting—”
“Did you expect joyful dancing?” Máanu asked, harshly. “After what you’ve done?”
Doug would have liked to shake her. “I haven’t done anything, I—”
“Exa
ctly!” Máanu hissed. “And if you want to do something for Akwasi now, then leave him alone! He’s had it hard enough.”
“But why did he stay?” Doug asked, helplessly. “I had thought … well, we had always thought that he would go to the Maroons. Why hasn’t he fled?”
He thought about Akwasi’s torn-up back. The boy that he had known would not have put up with that.
Máanu glared at him “Maybe because he didn’t want them to cut off his foot! That is the usual punishment for running, Backra Douglas! As you well know! My God, one would think that you were still the same green child who left all those years ago!”
Máanu turned on her heel and ran away from him — almost right into Nora’s arms, who had been standing on the stairs and listening. She had only just missed her. Nora hid behind a column, and Máanu looked neither right nor left as she hurried down the stairs. She had to fetch water, the feast was over, her mistress wanted to undress, and her bed had to be turned down.
Nora was sitting at her dressing table when Máanu came in, considering whether it would be better to confront her maid or her stepson about the conversation that she overheard on the stairs. She decided not to ask her tonight, but knew she was too curious to let it go entirely. Máanu and Doug had quarreled, but they were also familiar with each other — far too familiar for master and slave. And Akwasi also had something to do with it — of course; they all grew up in the kitchen under Adwea’s gentle rule. And Akwasi spoke English just as well as Máanu — Nora had long wondered why she was in the house when he had been sent to the fields. In general, this wasn’t common practice among the planters — clever slave children, as few as there were, born on the plantation normally spoke better English than their parents and so were used as house servants or in the stables.
But then something happened that temporarily distracted Nora from her stepson and his relationship with the slaves. It was two days after the party, the lasts guests had left, and Doug and Elias had ridden out to Kingston. Nora took advantage of her husband’s absence to ride out to the beach again, and then went to the kitchen to decide upon a menu with Adwea. In itself, this was unnecessary — she never interfered in the cook’s work and could have simply let herself be surprised by the evening menu. But Adwea seemed to appreciate her attentiveness and eagerly described the individual transitions, while Nora let her eyes wander idly across the kitchen garden until they stopped on a tiny orchid at the edge of the flowerbed. Nora was still uncovering new wonders in the garden and was delighted by this small, delicate flower.
“It’s a weed!” Adwea responded, when she asked about it, and started getting up to run over and unceremoniously rip out the plant.
Nora stopped her. “Don’t just destroy it!” she said, firmly. “If you don’t want it here, I will replant it in my garden. But we should first find out what it’s called. Máanu, will you please bring me my book by Sir Sloane from the pavilion?”
Nora didn’t want to go herself, as Adwea could be very rigorous about stray weeds in her herb garden.
Máanu looked up from the pot that she had been stirring and took it off stove. “Which, Missis?” she asked. “With animals, or that talk about old times?” She still spoke in broken English when she wasn’t alone with Nora.
“Flora and fauna,” Nora answered. “I left it in the garden house.”
Once Máanu was already on her way, Nora realized that she had also read a book about the history of Jamaica when she was in the garden. Máanu would probably just bring both books, as they were not very heavy. But then Máanu returned with the right book.
“Well, that was lucky,” Nora said offhandedly, “or can you read?”
She wasn’t really expecting an answer, as she must have chosen the right one by chance — or Máanu had simply looked inside the books and compared the pictures. But before she had even finished her sentence, Adwea jumped between her and Máanu, like an overexcited jack-in-the-box.
“She can no read. Course not. Is nigger, stupid nigger. Can only see pictures. You only look at pictures, yes, Kitty?”
Nora looked from one to the other. Adwea never called her daughter Kitty when Elias wasn’t present. But now she seemed frightened and upset. Máanu’s face also seemed to go pale.
“I only compare pictures,” she said.
Nora nodded, but she couldn’t believe it. The covers of the two books were almost the same — and had no images. Of course, Máanu could have opened the books and compared the images inside, but she had returned too quickly for that. And why even bother with the effort? They were both slim volumes and she could take them with her in one hand.
But now was not the time to discuss it, especially since Adwea seemed completely beside herself. Nora accepted Máanu’s explanation for the time being and postponed investigating the issue until later that evening. When it was time to undress and Nora was alone with the girl, she held out a book about Barbados.
“Here, Máanu. Read it. And I don’t want to hear any excuses!” Máanu lowered her eyes.
“B … Ba … rrr … I can’t read very well, Missis. Really. Just a few letters and words. Akwasi is good, but I … I was still so little …” The words poured out of Máanu, and Nora noticed that she had begun to tremble; the girl was clearly panicked. “Please, please don’t tell backra!”
“But this is nothing bad, Máanu!” she said, reassuringly. “Yes, I know the planters say that you shouldn’t learn, so you can’t write messages and organize the others to revolt, or whatever it is they way … but that is really nonsense!”
Elias shared this attitude with practically all of the other male planters, but Nora knew the conditions of the slave quarters far too well to share his fears. Where would they get paper? Quills? How would they print and reproduce posters? And how would those Africans who hardly spoke a word of English then understand them? In contrast, messages spread quite rapidly by word of mouth, even from one plantation to another. No one would even think of writing letters.
Nora knew there was something completely different behind the strict bans: if they conceded to the slaves learning to read and write; they would also have to admit that they had minds. Then they would read the Bible like all other Christians and demand to be baptized and recognized as humans like their masters. The whites could no longer pretend that they were hardly superior to animals.
“You don’t tell? You say nothing? Otherwise, the … the backra sends me to the fields like—” Máanu could not stop trembling.
“Like Akwasi?” Nora asked. “Calm down, Máanu, I won’t tell anyone. But now you have to tell me everything. Where did you learn this, you and Akwasi? And what does the young backra have to do with it? I heard you, Máanu, you and him, when you were quarreling …”
Máanu sniffled. She needed a bit of time to pull herself together, but then she willingly explained.
“Backra Doug and Akwasi were always together. With Mama Adwe, and then also later when Doug had a private tutor. The teacher didn’t mind it, since he took all niggers for stupid and Akwasi always found something to do, like fanning him or getting refreshments. Of course, he also looked over Doug’s shoulder. Later, when I was a bit older, I did too. I looked up to the boys and ran after them like a puppy. In the process, I also learned a bit, but naturally not as much as Akwasi. He was also with Doug when he did his homework. Akwasi was good at arithmetic; Doug more with writing.”
Nora could imagine it. Half of the homework was done by the slave boy.
“The two had a special bond, didn’t they?” she asked.
Máanu nodded. “They were friends, they were like brothers. And then, when Doug was ten, Backra Elias gave him Akwasi.”
“He did what?” Nora asked, horrified.
“Gave him, Missis, Akwasi was Doug’s nigger,” Máanu confirmed.
“But that’s horrible!”
Nora rubbed her temples. It was unthinkable to give one child another for his birthday — for a boy to own his friend!
“The
boys didn’t it find it so bad,” Máanu said. “On the contrary, they were very excited. Now they were proper brothers, they said, and never had to be apart. And whatever they did, they would do together … they were very happy.”
“But then they bickered,” Nora assumed.
Máanu shook her head. “No, they never bickered. But they were careless. In any case, Backra Elias found out that Akwasi could read and write. Fortunately, I was not there — I was sick and Mama Adwe kept me in the kitchen. Otherwise he probably would have also punished me. So, I don’t know exactly what happened, but Doug went to England very soon after. And Akwasi … first they locked him up and beat him. In the dark, alone, and without water. I remember how he screamed and cried the entire night — for Doug, especially. The two really were never apart; they even slept in the same room. He begged Doug to help him—”
Nora pursed her lips. “But Doug didn’t come,” she then said.
Máanu shook her head. “He let Akwasi down,” she said, disdainfully. “He betrayed him.”
CHAPTER 4
Máanu’s disclosure had impaired Nora’s burgeoning relationship with her stepson, which she found extremely unfortunate. Douglas had seemed very likable on Christmas Day and it was the first time she had enjoyed such a celebration. But now she would avoid him if he invited her for a ride together, or if he tracked down rare plants for her, delighting her by knowing all of their names. At first, she had thought she might have found an ally. Doug’s attitude towards the slaves was clearly different from his father’s, regardless of what had happened between him and Akwasi. The young man had already tangled with Elias several times in the first week — the first time being when the planter sent his slaves back out to the fields the day after Christmas.
“A single day? You give them a single day off to celebrate the highest Christian festival? No surprise that they are so reluctant to go to services and prefer to stick to their Obeah practices! And the house slaves had no time off at all!”
