‘I’m with Moses,’ I panted. ‘He’ll explain.’
The stick-wielding man motioned to his fellows to watch me as he strode to pound on the door of the hut.
‘Moses, you traitor, get out of dere!’ he roared. ‘What you be doing bringing white gal with you?’
The door opened slowly. A tall figure stood in the doorway – not Moses but the Obeah man, robed in a long cloak trimmed with beads. The muttering crowd fell silent as he swept past them to where I stood. He cast one scornful look at the boy I had felled and then turned to inspect me. I had imagined an elderly wrinkled witch; I saw a warrior in his prime with haughty stare and wide, flat nose. Like Moses, his body was a swirl of tribal markings, giving him a ferocious appearance.
‘Er, hello, sir,’ I said, dipping in my best curtsey.
His gaze narrowed a fraction. Perhaps he was wondering if I was mocking him, but I assure you, Reader, my gesture of respect was genuine. I’d rarely seen a more awesome sight.
He gave a shallow nod then beckoned me to follow him.
What did that mean? That I was to be dispatched quickly and buried under a tree? That I’d passed the test? Cautiously following him, I entered the hut and sat down on the low stool he indicated.
Pedro, I thought miserably as I massaged my neck, wherever you are, I hope you’re sorry for getting me into this.
ACT III
SCENE 1 – OBEAH MAN
Moses remained outside, leaving me alone for my interview with the Obeah man. I would have much preferred to have his company in this strange place, but that was not to be. Silence fell as my host crouched on his haunches and busied himself at the fire. This was built in the middle of the pressed earth floor and surrounded by a ring of stones. The smoke rose up to hang in the rafters and from there found its way out through a vent in the apex of the roof. But the ventilation was hardly adequate: the air in the hut was thick and my eyes were watering. If I stayed here much longer I’d resemble an oak-smoked kipper.
Not wanting to look directly at my host in case he thought me impertinent, I surreptitiously surveyed my surroundings. Through the murk I could make out the interior of his home – a simple affair of wooden pallet bed, stools, and plain shelves suspended by ropes against the walls. Strings of dried plants festooned the room like hundred-year-old Christmas decorations that someone had forgotten to take down. Two chickens, probably destined for the pot bubbling over the fire, clucked sorrowfully in a rough cage by the door.
There was a clatter by the hearth and a black hand thrust itself into my line of vision, holding out a battered tin cup full of a dark liquid. It was thick and sticky and in this half-light reminded me of blood.
‘Drink,’ ordered the Obeah man. His beaded cloak clicked as it scuffed on the floor.
I took the cup and sniffed. ‘What is it?’
He said nothing but pushed my arm up to my mouth. Steeling myself, I took a sip, prepared to spit if it did turn out to be blood. But it was coffee – the thickest, strongest coffee I’d ever tasted, flavoured with sugar. I smiled with relief.
‘Thank you.’
The Obeah man poured himself a cup and crouched opposite, perfectly balanced on flat feet, needing no chair to be comfortable. In the silence I could feel him studying me. My pulse pounded in my ears, but this may only have been due to the unfamiliar stimulation of my drink. I was scared but did not feel in particular danger from him, not like from the people outside. If he posed a risk, it was in a deeper way. As the quiet stretched to long minutes, I had the unnerving feeling he was reading me like a book.
‘Moses say you have heart of black gal,’ he said at last, putting down his empty cup. ‘But me tink him wrong.’
This did not seem an auspicious opening but I held my peace. He was not a man with whom one could argue. Or hurry.
‘You not part of dis – not black, not buckra.’
He was right, so I nodded slowly.
‘Me see someting else me not understand. You are not scared of Obeah.’ He waved his arm to the paraphernalia of his craft. ‘Why?’
I snagged a braid of dried palm leaves from a bundle on the floor and pulled it into my lap. ‘I am an adopted daughter of the Creek Indians.’ His eyes widened momentarily before his face resumed its habitual haughty expression. ‘They gave me the leaping fish as my spirit guide. My grandmother was the medicine woman of my tribe, the Wind Clan.’ I stroked the leaves, filled with fond memories of the little woman’s sharp tongue and wisdom.
He laced his long fingers together and studied me again. ‘Long years have passed since anyting surprise me. You are a surprise.’
I bowed, feeling secretly rather pleased that I had managed to shock this formidable man.
‘So you have heart of red-skinned woman in you.’ He chuckled at the image, a most unexpected sound from him. ‘Dat explains much, why white colour not fit you. De skin not fit right.’
This seemed about as friendly as he was going to get so it was time to bring matters to a head.
‘So, sir, I believe you know why I am here. Will you help me find my friend?’
He nodded. ‘Obeah man will ask brothers.’
‘Thank you.’
With that, he waved me away with a flick of his wrist. I backed out, feeling as if I was leaving an audience with royalty, or the Archbishop of Canterbury at the very least. As I closed the door, his dark, low chuckle followed me out into the night.
The crowd was still waiting outside. Moses stepped forward to shield me but no one made any move.
‘Let us go,’ he said in a rumbling murmur.
I took his offered arm and we beat our retreat back down the mountain. I glanced around once to see all eyes were on us, hostile, calculating stares. I couldn’t blame them. I was the trespasser on their secrets. The Obeah man lived in hiding, beyond the laws of the white man. The punishment for consorting with him was doubtless severe. They had little enough as it was and I threatened even that if I betrayed them. Not that I would in a million years, but why should they trust me? What Jenny had called the black heart of Jamaica was not an easy thing to know – I certainly couldn’t claim to on the strength of the glimpse I had just gained – but what I did know was that it was beating firm and steady beneath the superficial world down in Kingston. And it pulsed to a tempo that owed more to Africa than to the European settlers who thought they owned the land and all in it.
The Obeah man’s network proved impressively efficient. By the end of the following week I knew where Pedro wasn’t: not in prison, not in any of the hideouts for runaways, not anywhere that the brotherhood reached.
‘Dat mean, missis, he be not on de island,’ Jenny said cheerfully as she shook out a clean sheet for our bed.
‘Then where is he?’ I asked, pinning up Georgie’s hair as she sat at the dressing table. We were preparing for an early dinner with our friends from the ensemble before the performance. ‘I’m relieved that he’s not been caught, but that now leaves me the rest of the world to search.’
‘Maybe he not want to be found, missis.’ Jenny was quite right, but this was Pedro we were discussing. I couldn’t rest until I knew he was safe.
‘I can’t believe he’d do this to you, Cat,’ chipped in Georgie, her eyes flashing with indignation on my behalf. ‘He might’ve been cross with you, but surely he knew you’d worry?’
I dug in the last pin and stepped back to inspect my creation: a thin blue ribbon matching the trimming on Georgie’s dress now held her exuberant curls in place. ‘Yes, the punishment does seem to exceed my offence, doesn’t it?’
My tone sounded overly bright as I tried to hide my hurt from them. I knew I shouldn’t doubt Pedro’s affection for me – it had been tested enough over the years and never failed before – but his abandonment had hit at my most vulnerable spot. Having been dumped on the steps of Drury Lane, I now had to struggle with the private conviction, learned early on, that somehow this was my due, that no one stayed with me for long.
Ge
orgie, who had known Pedro for so little time, took a more robust view of the situation. ‘In that case, Cat, I suggest you forget all about it. If he doesn’t want to be found, so be it. We’re transferring soon to Antigua, remember. I’m looking forward to showing you around my old home.’
Not wishing to argue, I gave her a smile in the mirror then took my place on the stool so she could have her turn as lady’s maid to my unruly red locks. Georgie rummaged through the box of pins and ribbons, preparing her armoury for the challenge of taming my curls into something presentable. Hearing the snap of a sheet being folded behind me, I looked up and met Jenny’s eyes. She was studying my reflection, seeking confirmation that I was as committed to Pedro as I had claimed. I grimaced and flicked my eyes to Georgie; Jenny nodded in understanding. She knew I wouldn’t give up and I felt sure she had just pledged to support me.
The dinner was held at the Ship Tavern at the unfashionable hour of four. As in London, people were eating later and later these days, taking their cue from high society, known as the Ton, who had abandoned the practice of an early meal. Now only country squires and we working folk ate before six. Thanks to the change in habits, we had to be on stage when most people were just sitting down to dine. This meant that the second or third act was often interrupted by latecomers ambling in after a tardy dinner – an annoyance as much for me in Kingston as it had been for Mr Kemble in Drury Lane.
The compensation was that we had no trouble securing a long table for ourselves in the tavern. Georgie and I, both looking our best in freshly pressed gowns, joined our fellow players who were already seated. We all felt we deserved a treat after a successful run in Kingston, so we’d pooled our wages and ordered up three covers. The dishes came and went quickly. I tasted a little of everything – honeyed chicken, roasted sweet potato, spicy fish, sweet slices of the prickly fruits called pineapples which tasted of paradise. If there was one thing I really enjoyed about Jamaica, that was the Creole cuisine, so much more tempting than the plain diet I had been used to in London.
The noise from our table rose with each course. Theatre folk are not known for their reticence and I’m afraid we were getting quite boisterous, drunk more on high spirits than the indifferent wine on offer. Jim and his friends were singing snatches of the latest songs doing the rounds of the taverns, Hetty Peabody was laughing raucously at one of Georgie’s jokes, and even Mrs Peabody was chuckling at Mr Barker’s impression of the governor dancing at a recent ball. It was into this din that Billy Shepherd and Captain Bonaventure wandered. Both were already dressed in evening clothes and showed no surprise to find us all there. I looked away. I’d successfully avoided Billy since our last conversation on the waterfront and saw no reason to change this happy state of affairs. He’d only gloat over my ongoing state of slave ownership. Too late I wished I hadn’t put on the cat pendant tonight, but I had succumbed to the temptation to look my finest for the celebration.
On spotting the two gentlemen hovering at the head of the table, Mr Barker jumped up, exchanged a few words, and ushered them over to Mrs Peabody. As her agent, he was always on the alert for any useful connections. I didn’t hear what passed but it resulted in them being invited to join our party. Chairs were pulled up to the table. Bonaventure took his next to Georgie, much to Jim’s chagrin, I noticed. Billy bumped his over the wooden floor next to mine, clearly delighted to see me. Without pausing for permission, he flopped down beside me and grinned.
‘How’s things, Cat?’ he asked affably, nicking a slice of mango off my plate.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I replied in clipped tones. ‘And you?’
‘Gettin’ itchy feet. The plantation is sorted out now so I’m thinkin’ it’s time to move on.’
‘Really? How fascinating.’ I nibbled a pastry dusted with almonds and sugar, affecting a studied air of indifference.
‘I was thinkin’ of joinin’ you in Antigua. I’ve ’eard it’s a pretty place.’
The last thing I wanted was Billy trailing after me all over the Caribbean. I leant forward confidentially, hoping Georgie wasn’t listening.
‘Actually, I’ve heard it’s horrid. Full of disease. Snakes and spiders.’ I thought hard for a few other things to deter him. ‘The hot tip is that there are no business opportunities and the society is very law-abiding: in short, a complete desert for a man of your interests.’
‘Oh?’ He poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Funny ’ow reports differ, ain’t it? P’rhaps I should go find out the truth.’
I let the subject lapse. After all, if he took it into his head to go, I couldn’t stop him.
‘Fine necklace,’ he commented, unable to resist mentioning his anonymous gift.
I pretended ignorance. ‘Isn’t it? Very apt.’ I waved my fork expressively in the air. ‘In fact, it matches my tattoo.’
He choked on his mouthful. Oh, it felt so good to wrong-foot him again. ‘Your what?’
I gave him an enigmatic smile. I was not about to reveal to him the rather bizarre circumstances that left me with a cat tattooed on my shoulder blade.*
‘I’m glad you like the pendant. I was given it by a secret admirer. I rather think the choice of such a sweet animal suggests that the person is a sentimental old biddy, don’t you? You know: the kind that has pet cats instead of children.’ I frowned thoughtfully and played with the chain. ‘Probably overweight and a hypochondriac as well – those animal-loving spinsters very often are.’
Billy looked aghast. ‘You think an old lady would send you a gold necklace with emeralds?’
I nodded sagely. ‘Yes. I think I can even guess which one she was. She was sitting in the gallery with a white lace cap and steel-rimmed glasses – most attentive to my performance.’
‘She wasn’t the only one payin’ attention,’ he muttered, in a foul temper now. He had the choice of owning up to a sentimental taste or letting me labour under the impression that an old lady of Kingston had taken me to her heart. It was fun to watch him suffer.
‘Don’t you think,’ he said after a few moments, ‘that it might’ve been a gift from a gentleman?’
‘No, I’m absolutely sure no gentleman would’ve sent it.’ I gave him a look, managing to convey the insult as well as let him know I’d been teasing.
‘Humph! You’re bammin’ me, ain’t you?’
I laughed at the puzzled look in his eye.
‘I don’t normally go sendin’ people expensive presents.’ He seemed almost hurt by my levity.
My laughter dried up at his serious tone. ‘So why give one to me, Billy?’
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Don’t rightly know. I saw it in Sackville Street and took a fancy to it.’
‘You didn’t steal it off a lady, did you?’
‘Nah. I bought it at Thomas Gray’s.’ He shifted in his seat, embarrassed by the admission of lawabidingness. ‘And when you made such a swell job of your debut, I felt you deserved it.’
I nudged him playfully. ‘My, Mr Shepherd, you are becoming quite the philanthropist.’
‘Philan-what?’
‘Lover of humanity, doer of good deeds.’
He looked horrified. ‘Nah, not me.’
‘I was joking, Billy.’ I patted his arm reassuringly. ‘I’d say the devil still has you on his books; you won’t be meeting St Peter.’
He relaxed, rocking back in his chair. ‘You’re probably right, Kitten.’
‘Actually, Billy, I wanted to thank you for taking the trouble of coming after me. Even if your motives were as twisted as usual, mixed up with personal profit,’ (he grinned), ‘I guess somewhere there was a nub of real concern for what became of me.’ I held out my hand. ‘It seems strange to say it but I suppose that makes us friends – of a sort.’
He took my hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘Yeah, of a sort. Until the next round of hostilities.’
‘But of course.’
We both laughed at that. Strange how we understood each other so well, despite our mutual antipathy.
‘You never did tell me how you came to be here all on your own.’ Billy refilled my glass.
‘Ah.’
‘I’d’ve thought the Earl of Whatsit would’ve stuck by you. And Fletcher.’
Seeing it was a good moment to avoid his shrewd eye, I busied myself in watering down my wine. ‘They had business back in England.’
‘What about the other one – the black boy?’
‘Didn’t you know they’re not letting black freemen on to the islands?’
He took a gulp of his wine. ‘Gawd, this is foul stuff. Bonaventure’s got a much better cellar . . . So where is ’e?’
‘Good question.’
Billy’s eyes flicked to my face then slid back to his drink. ‘Like that, is it? I wondered what was eatin’ at you.’
Surprised that he had noticed my mood, I considered confiding in him. Was there anything for him to gain in this? As far as I knew there was no reward for betraying illegal black entrants to the authorities, and Billy had no personal grudge against Pedro. I needed all the help I could get – even his.
‘Pedro’s missing, Billy. According to my sources, he’s not on Jamaica.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Are they good ones? It’s a big place, in case you ain’t noticed.’
‘Excellent ones – better than your network in the Rookeries.’
Billy gave me a sceptical smile but let it pass. ‘All right, so he’s not here. Wise boy. So where?’
I rested my head on my hand wearily. ‘He probably took a ship out.’
‘And?’
‘He could be going home.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘Not really. I think he might’ve gone to San Domingo.’
‘Gawd Almighty! Is ’e mad? The place is in chaos.’
‘He wants to fight with Toussaint.’
‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same ’alfpint violinist?’
I nodded.
‘Ha! They’ll make mincemeat of ’im.’
‘Billy!’
‘Sorry, Cat, but this takes the prize. The little musician fightin’ for freedom – ’ow poetic.’
Black Heart of Jamaica Page 10
