by Jane Harris
‘Take this knife and kill him.’
Convince I had misheard, I turn my head. Emile sat there, arms folded.
‘What?’ said I, bewildered.
He said it again, louder this time:
‘Take this knife and kill him.’ Then, keeping his eyes fix on Bianco, he yelled it: ‘Kill him with this knife quick!’
All throughout, Bianco continue to rummage in his basket, oblivious.
My brother thrust out his bottom lip, then flex his knuckles, evidently satisfied.
‘I bon,’ said he. ‘Looks like he’s deaf, for true.’ Then he murmured: ‘Hé, Lucien – watch out for him with that cutlass.’
‘Why bother to whisper?’ said I. ‘You just proved he cannot hear you.’
‘Just watch the cutlass, is all.’
‘Cutlass,’ I scoffed. ‘He had six cutlass I could still put him over the side with one hand.’ Then I call Bianco a name, not a pretty one, I will admit the fact.
‘Cho!’ said Emile. ‘No need for that. Poor man’s only a dummie.’
Just then, the skipper span around with a madcap grin, holding up a handful of small cod-cake, like they were a trophy. He tossed us two a-piece.
‘Thank you, master, sir,’ I heard my brother say. ‘Thank you very much.’
Well, of all the hypocrisies. First he disapproves of me for thanking Cléophas, next he bessys-down to this Spaniard. There and then, I vow to cease all dialogue with Emile and – since I was ignoring him – my next remark I address to my cod-cake.
‘Can this old lobster hear you thank him?’ I asked it. ‘No, he is deaf as a bat.’
Emile just shook his head.
Whiles we ate, Bianco began some intricate business with ropes, hauling on them and tying them off. The Daisy was bleach with age and her sails much mended but on closer inspection she seem sound enough. Despite my phantasies regarding pirates and the like I knew precious little about the sea in those days and thus watch the skipper in fascination. At one point I stood up to offer a hand but he shove me back down, fair and square; and quite right too for a novice can wreck a vessel quick as hell can scorch a feather. With nothing else to do, I sat back and listen to the creak and tick of the hull, the air currents out there in the bay like cool caresses on my skin.
From this place, out on the ocean, the whole Martinique was a mass of verdant green. A wreath of cloud sat about the crown of Mont Pelée with St Pierre like a pile of red rubble that had slided down the mountainside and come to rest by the shore. Despite the English bombardment, she was still a fine, handsome settlement. Just behind town, the hospital estate stretched out below the cliffs. I strain to see my cows but the trees grew too high all around and I could only glimpse the roof of the hospital building among the lush vegetation.
Meanwhile, Bianco continued his preparations. I could scarce help but cast curious glances at him, not least at the almighty bulge that strain the front of his britches. Deaf mute he might be, but he seem well equip in other respects. Either that or he stowed all his worldly goods in his pockets. It did cross my mind that his pink segar might be upstanding for some reason. I wondered if Emile had notice the same thing but he was staring at the horizon in silence. A dummie Spaniard and a brother in the doleful dumps, such would be my company on our great voyage. I gave thanks that I had not brag to the wharf boys about my illustrious venture, only to be witness sailing off in such a miserable tub.
Just then, Emile gave a sigh, no doubt lost in memory of Céleste – or perhaps just gazing across the ocean, yearning for the land of our Mandingo ancestors. I took up my second cod-cake and spoke to it in scolding fashion:
‘Some people might believe Africa is over in that direction,’ I told it. ‘But they be silly. They are looking west not east. Only land over there is St Domingue.’
Well, I thought that might get a rise out of my brother, but he just yawned. Then the light in his eyes darken as they fixed on something behind me.
‘Company coming,’ he said.
I followed his gaze. Heading straight for us and within pistol-shot, here came a pinnace with about a dozen French military aboard, four soldiers of the marine rowing, the rest of them Royal Grenadier, staring at us in hostile fashion. Despite their faded and tattered uniforms, they look to be a stalworth crew, all a-bristle with weaponry. I counted six musket with fix bayonets, eight pistol, four cutlass and two boarding axe. A well-knit officer with the build of a swordsman sat in the prow and as they came up to our stern he called out:
‘Ho, lads!’
The marines lifted their oars such that the vessel slowed to a near standstill close aboard of us. Bianco notice me craning my neck for a better view and turn to see what had caught my attention. He and the officer came so close they could have reached out for an embrace but naught so tender came to pass. Bianco simply glared at the man who, in return, made no gesture save to lean forward and inspect our yawl, glancing along her deck then taking a good study at each of us, and all the bluejackets in the pinnace also stared at us with menaces. I held my breath, wondering what might happen.
Then the officer smiled at Emile.
‘Is that you, Mandingo?’
My brother snatched off his hat and stood up.
‘Yes, sir, Lieutenant Fournier, sir. Good day to you.’
The officer glanced at Bianco then back at Emile.
‘Is this man treating you well?’
‘Oh quite so, sir,’ said my brother. ‘He can’t hear you though, sir, he’s a dummie.’
‘A dummie, is it?’
The lieutenant look Bianco up and down with frank curiosity.
‘Well, we shall detain you no longer,’ he said, loud and slow, to the Spaniard. ‘Strange boat, you see. Need to check you aren’t up to no good.’
Then – blow me sideways – he gave my brother a wink. Thereafter, he turn to our skipper and spoke in his face, slowly, whiles pointing at Emile.
‘You must be careful with this man here. He saved my life at Morne Grenier.’
‘Sir,’ said Emile. ‘If you please, sir, you exaggerate.’
All this, I found most intriguing. For true, the French had conscripted some slave to help fight off the Goddam invaders and my brother had been among their number but he had told me that since the east of the island was mostly unaffected by the conflict, he had seen no combat; the English had more interest in the towns on the west coast. Morne Grenier, a lofty well-defended hill with many guns and batteries, was in the south-west. So far as I knew, Emile had never been there.
A few of the Grenadier stared oddly at Emile, their eyes shining. Meanwhile, he appear to be avoiding my gaze. Lieutenant Fournier grinned at him again.
‘What are you now, Mandingo, a fisherman?’
‘No, sir,’ said Emile, with a glance at the Spaniard – who had loop his arm through a hanging rope and was swinging from it by his elbow, quite composed, as he watch the proceedings, following the conversation by studying their lips. ‘This is not my master, sir. I’m hired out, sir. We’re – we’re bound for Grenada, sir, on behalf of les Frères de la Charité. Delivering medicinal plant to a physician there.’
The officer looked surprise.
‘La Grenade, eh? Well, be careful. We cannot have those Goddams steal you away from us. Can’t have you spying for the enemy.’
My brother gave a short laugh, somewhat hollow.
‘No, sir.’ He frowned. ‘But – please you, sir, if you would be so kind.’ Here, he gestured toward me. ‘Take this boy ashore with you. Turns out we have no need of him.’
I stared at Emile, aghast, as Fournier pointed at me and asked Bianco:
‘You need this boy?’
Much gesticulation ensued, the gist of which being that the skipper required both me and Emile, most definitely. The lieutenant gave my brother a quizzical look.
‘Well, Mandingo. I know not what tricks you’re up to but it looks as though the boy goes with you.’
‘Please, sir,’ said Emile.
‘This is my brother. He’ll be safer here in Martinique.’
But the officer was already calling out over his shoulder, keen to be off.
‘Nothing to concern us here, men. Allons-y. À la frégate.’ He turn back to Emile. ‘He’ll be fine, Mandingo. We’re not at war any more, you know. You can sail right into the harbour at Fort Royal, nobody will bother you.’
The marines dip their oars and began to row. In parting, the lieutenant bid our skipper farewell and, for reply, Bianco gave a kind of salute. Slow-slow, the pinnace got underway and Fournier called out to Emile:
‘Good to see you again, Mandingo. You have my thanks, as ever – et bon voyage.’
He raised his hand in farewell but my brother did not respond in kind. The pinnace ploughed a wide arc in the water then surged away toward the frigate, north of the bay. A few Grenadier wave their hats and grinned, calling out as they went:
‘Goodbye, Mandingo. Farewell.’
I was not altogether convince they knew Emile in person but they were evidently well dispose to the notion of him. Meanwhile, their commander seem lost in thought, gazing back at my brother as though reliving some memory. Emile resumed his seat. Forgetting my vow to disregard him, I asked:
‘Who was that?’
‘Nobody you should worry about.’
‘When were you at Morne Grenier?’
But he just clicked his tongue and gave me a brief smile, which I returned, only mine were entirely sardonic, a grin so forced and wide that it hurt my face. Confound him and his mysteries. He replaced his hat on his head, then spent a moment adjusting his sleeves: His Excellency, Prince Mandingo.
By this time, the pinnace was just a shimmering spot of colour in the distance. Bianco gave an exaggerated shiver and, with that, began to hoist his sails. The breeze must have been favourable because no sooner did he haul up his mud-hook than the yawl began to move, feeling herself free. Along the hull, came a crisp sound of water hissing and then with a snap the mainsail caught the wind and we were away, slapping through the waves.
Since I had already broken my vow to ignore Emile – and we could scarce spend the entire journey in silence – I decided to strike up an innocent conversation with him from which origin I might coax some revelation. For true, I was intrigue to hear the story of the lieutenant and how Emile had saved his life but I also wanted to know what Cléophas meant by a ‘change of approach’.
Howsomever, when I glanced around, I saw that Emile had curled up beside the little skiff in the prow, his hat over his face and his head in the shade of a thwart, by all appearance, already asleep. I turn back to shore for a last glimpse of our plantation but we had almost rounded the point at Morne aux Boeufs; the red roof of the hospital no longer visible and even the town of St Pierre herself had faded from view.
All at once, I became aware that – from his place at the tiller – Bianco was watching me close-close. A kind of uneasiness settled across my heart, for I dislike the way his pale eyes seem to stare into my soul. Jésis-Maïa! In haste, I turn to face the prow. That way I could keep lookout for sharks and make sure that Emile slept safe. I had no fear of the Béké, not one iota, but if he could not get sight of my countenance then that was an added bait and bonus.
PART TWO
At Sea, Western Antilles
Chapter Eight
To begin with our course took us down the west coast of Martinique. We were scarce underway when the skipper reached into some cache neath his seat and produced a wicker-cover flask – perchance a better class of taffey than the one I brought aboard – and on this liquor he commence to swig. Devil the bite to eat had passed his lips, yet a pottle of rum on empty guts in noways impaired his faculties; I could only suppute that he was well accustom to strong drink.
We sail beyond that mossy great rock in the sea that resembled an old back tooth and yet – for reason unknown – is dub the Diamond; then we tack south of the island past the Islets des Salines. Bit by bit, La Matinik began to recede, the hill shapes fading from green, to bluish-grey, then to a vapory smoke. So far as I could see, we would progress down the windward side of the Antilles, retracing the route I had travel some years previous, only this time in the opposite direction. The breeze blew strong and warm and soon we were in the open sea, the two piton of St Lucia visible on the horizon. No sign of any shark as yet but – from time to time – flying fishes came to visit with us. They skimmed along the waves as they overtook the yawl, twitching their tails and shining like polished metal birds.
All this while, my brother lay in a dead sleep but toward the mid of the afternoon he sat up and made some sign to Bianco, seeking permission to move closer to me. The hombre beckoned him forth, warning him with gestures to keep low in case of accidents. Emile bessy-down along the deck until he sat alongside me.
‘Speak up if you need to puke,’ he said.
‘Cho! Puke yourself. I am not sick at all.’
Admittedly, on my previous voyage between the islands I had been somethingish queasy, but I was only little then, six or seven years old. Besides, that had been a particular rough passage; Damascene and everyone else aboard said so at the time.
Emile glance toward the aft. There, Bianco sat, sharpening his cutlass, lost in his own thoughts, whatever they might be: the reveries of a Spaniard, a sailing man. For aught I knew, he was dreaming of hard cheese or doubloons of gold.
My brother lean closer to me.
‘That bug’s been watching you since we left St Pierre.’
‘Says the man who was napping the whole time,’ I replied.
‘You silly. I was awake, watching through the holes in my hat. Turns out he did nothing save keep his eye on you lest you tried any mischief. He likes that old cutlass of his. I would wager he might like to use it in earnest.’
‘Who was that soldier back there, that lieutenant?’
‘Never mind him. We need to talk about this change of plan. You see, all that macaque yesterday, Cléophas talking, was only palaver. He was just buttering us, nice and sweet.’
‘Is that so?’ said I. ‘What other shocking fact am I to learn from you this day, I wonder? Will you tell me next that the sky is blue, perhaps? Or that the sea is made of salt water?’
He gave me his sour face.
‘You want to hear what that old jackal said this morning or not?’
I raise my hands.
‘All ears,’ I told him.
‘I bon. Well, he said this idea came to him overnight – this so-call different approach – after hearing my concerns about what we have to do. The way he framed it, you might think I gave him the idea. But my guess is, this was his intention all along. He fail to tell us yesterday because – well – I half suspect he would not have us think about it overnight.’
‘Think about what?’
Bianco was squinting up at the heavens, making some calculation about the hour or wind. Emile cast an eye at him, then his gaze wandered upward to the tip of the mast. There, his thoughts seem to drift. When I flicked his arm with my finger, he took a breath and held it awhile before he spoke again:
‘What he says is, overnight he got to worrying about this English doctor, Bryant, and the overseer – that they might try to stop us taking the slaves. So this morning, he told me that instead of approaching them with the Power of Attorney, we’re to go straight and talk to the slaves at the hospital and plantation – without those English finding out. Keep ourselves hid so far as possible. He says those poor wretches at the plantation won’t need persuading; he’s convince they want to leave. But fact of the matter is he wants us to do it all in secret and get them away without being seen.’
‘How are we suppose to do that?’
‘By night, foremost. Cannot be done by day. And we can’t take them to the harbour at Fort Royal; you know what a bacchanal it is there, and right next to the barrack. Cléophas says a boat will be waiting for us up the coast at Petit Havre on Christmas Eve. We have to take them there dousman-dousman – gently-gently
– whiles all the Béké are groggy with rum. There’s the truth of it, so far as I can tell. He wants us to steal the slaves without asking, right from under the nose of those English.’
‘Tambou!’
I slap my own legs, partly in disbelief and partly through a kind of half-craze nerves or shock. Emile looked at me askance.
‘Think on it, before you start puffing yourself up like a bombast mome.’
A concentrated silence ensued as we stared first at each other and then out across the waves. My heart opened and close like a fist in my chest, a rising panic at the back of my throat as I considered our predicament.
‘At any rate,’ Emile said, ‘I told Cléophas we should wait a few week. That’s what I tried to persuade him this morning but he refuse to listen.’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘By Christmas, the moon will be almost full. If there’s no cloud, we’ll be lit up like a boiling house. I told him we should wait until the wane. For true, I was hoping to delay, such that we might find some means to wriggle out of it. But Cléophas insists it must be Christmas Eve. He says the moon will be full but so will the English – full of rum – and moonlight will help us on our way.’
‘So – what do you think we should do?’
My brother rubbed his eyes.
‘I’ve been debating that back and forth since this morning and I am still at a loss. What do you think?’
It was a surprise and some gratification that he did me the honour of consulting my opinion. Alas, I had no answer for him and could only shake my head.
Chapter Nine
By the end of the day, we had borne down upon the isle of St Lucia, a monstrous black shape against the flambant glow of the sunset. I wondered if we might berth there overnight but with vigorous gesticulation Bianco made us to understand that since the weather condition were most favourable he intended to sail on through the night, guided by the stars, and take dog-sleeps every otherwhile at the tiller. For nourishment, he gave us coconuts along with a bunch of plantain and when darkness fell with a heavy dew he threw us some old sack to use in case the wind grew chill.