by Jane Harris
Beyond the cliffs, the sea had begun to glow in shades of pink and orange, reflecting the sunset and a long scatteration of violet clouds at the horizon. Dusk was creeping up on the land. The first little frog began to whistle his song – and then another joined in, and another, until the whole entire landscape came alive with the piping chorus of those invisible creatures.
Emile beckoned and I followed him up into the trees, past the end of the battery. Although it was unguarded, we moved along in pure silence. We crested the ridge just as the last golden sliver of sun slip down behind the ocean. And there – at last, laid out below us, in its healthy position – L’Hôpital des Frères de la Charité, a few white building arranged around a courtyard, beyond which forested cliffs dropped away to the sea. In the deepening shadows between us and the hospital lay the familiar slave quarters, in two rows divided by a narrow yard. Six small cabin made of board, with thatch roofs, and at the bottom end, an open kitchen, all clinging precarious to the hillside like a cluster of shaggy burrs. The sight of them in the last glim of day made me tenderhearted and sad.
I took a step toward the huts but Emile grab my arm.
‘Wait,’ he whispered.
‘What for? We’re here.’
‘Just wait and listen.’
He crept further along amid the tall grass and after a moment I followed him to a spot that overlook the town. Well, I never thought to have seen that place again – but there she was, Fort Royal: bright flambeaux already burning here and there; a forest of mast in the carenage; and, out on the bluff, the dark shape of the fort.
Emile crouch down among the grass and after a moment I sank to the ground beside him. The sea was just a surge and a hush below us in the dark. Every so often, I could hear a goat bleat in the distance. We waited – and waited. Soon, the stars came out and bathed everything in silvery light. Some nights in those Antilles are so clear that – even with no moon – the heavens shine bright enough that you can see your own shadow. All around us, the sound of a million million insect and creatures assaulted my ears. I thought about the poor field hand down on the plantation with his head nail to the cabin wall. Would he remain there, awake all night, taunted by the peep of those frog?
Down below in town, I could see the church spire, glowing in the starlight. Most likely, our father – which art not in heaven – had been buried somewheres in the cemetery yard. Several month after I had left Grenada, word of his death reached us in Martinique. The story we heard was that when one of the field women resisted him, he beat her about the head until she bit him in retaliation. Soon thereafter, he fell sick with blood poisoning and decease this world just a few days later. For true, there could scarce have been a more apt demise for Father Damien Pillon.
Had he been alive, I would have dreaded even more this return to Grenada. Howsomever, it was some comfort to know that he no longer walk the earth. I was wondering whether I might have time to see his grave with my own eyes when my brother began to speak, his voice so soft I had to strain to hear him.
‘Now then, Lucien – listen to me … I’ve been thinking … I want you to go down into town and find a boat bound for Martinique.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because you’re going back to St Pierre.’
‘But we just got here.’
‘I know,’ said he. ‘But your part in this matter is finish. You came in case we needed to speak with any Englishman. Well, here we are, safe. We did not have to talk to anyone. I’ll just keep to the huts out of sight while I’m here. So – you see – I have no further need of you. Makes sense you should go back now.’
‘What about taking everyone to the boats? Is that not what we’re suppose to do? In small groups? Cléophas said it would take two of us, at least. What about going to find all the hired-out slaves and fetch them?’
He tried to press the twist of cloth with the coins into my hand.
‘Take these,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to pay your fare.’
I pushed him away and sprang to my feet.
‘You just want to do it all by yourself – play the big Don Diego.’
With that, I began to walk toward the quarters.
‘Come back here,’ I heard Emile say. ‘Come back, you—’
He fell to cursing me. But I paid him no heed and carried on, straight for the huts. I would not have him lord it over me any more. Besides, I was gut-foundered. I could smell no fire yet, but surely our old compeers would return from their labours soon and start to cook.
Next thing I knew, I was on the ground with Emile on top of me. He grab my arms and lay his full weight on my body. Although I struggle with all my might, he held me fast, his face in my face.
‘Go back,’ he said. ‘Go back, Lucien. This will not end well.’
I wrestled him again, trying to free my arms, grunting and gasping with the effort. Then, without warning, there was a clatter and a change in the light. A bright flash shone in my eyes and a deep voice said:
‘What the tumpty-tum are you boys doing there?’
PART FOUR
Grenada (FIRST NIGHT)
Chapter Twenty
Although we had not seen him for years, we would have known those grumbling tones anywhere: it was Chevallier, one of the hospital slave; and if we had fail to recognise his voice, we could have distinguish him by his ‘tumpty-tum’ profanities for old Chevallier swore harder than any fellow you ever met. I caught a glimpse of his sconce (mostly bald now) and on his chin some patchy grey whiskers, before he thrust a lantern in our faces. His mouth dropped open as the light fell upon my brother.
‘Jésis-Maïa! What the tumpty-tum? Is that you, Emile?’
‘Wi,’ said my brother, somewhat sheepish, perhaps because we had been skirmishing around, undignified, like two frigatebird squabbling over stick. ‘Bonswa, tonton. Mwen kontan wè zot. Good evening, Uncle. Good to see you again. How is—?’
‘Mèd,’ the old man interrupted. ‘Thought we saw the last of you. Who’s this here?’
He held up the smut-lamp to my face.
‘It’s me,’ I said and, when he look none the wiser, was oblige to add: ‘Lucien.’
‘TAM-bou. Little Lucien. I would hardly know you. Well, boys, stop standing there like a pair of stones.’
He span around and began to head for the huts, muttering to himself:
‘Well, I’ll be tumpty-tummed …’
Emile called after him, in an undertone: ‘One moment – we must fetch our bag.’ Then he drag me back, all the while speaking in my ear. ‘First sign of trouble, you run. Don’t wait for me. Head for the mountain, north of the big lake – I’ll find you. You understand me?’
I tried to wriggle out of his grasp but knew he would only let go if I replied.
‘Wi,’ I said.
‘And keep your mouth shut at the quarters. I’ll do the talking. I bon. Annou alé.’
He grab the satchel and followed the old man. I trailed along in his wake. Emile stepped into the yard as wary as a dove but the place seemed empty save for Chevallier who was now crouch down in the open kitchen in front of the fire pit.
‘Just let me light this,’ he said. ‘Else she’ll tan my tumpty-tum hide.’
By that, I suppute he meant his woman, Angélique. He lit a piece of dry bagasse from the lamp then held the flame to some kindling. I stood behind him to watch. When I was a child, Chevallier use to go out in the boat every day to catch fish for the Fathers, cursing all the way down to the shore and cursing all the way back. He had been a sturdy fellow back then but now he look much scrawnier than I remembered and the shirt he wore hung on him like a sack.
Meanwhile, Emile was stalking around the huts. He peered circumspect inside any open doors and cast uneasy glances downhill through the trees, toward the hospital. Inside those buildings – no doubt – were a Béké doctor or two, perhaps some nurse-men and patients: settlers of the less wealthy kind and even sick soldiers from the fort.
My brother paused in front of
the smallest cabin at the end, where he had lived alone after our mother died. That hut was also where he and Céleste had shut themselves away all those time. Now, the door lay ajar.
Chevallier fed the flames with charcoal and the twigs began to crackle.
‘You boys on the run?’ said he.
I cast a glance toward my brother but he was peering inside the little cabin.
‘No, tonton,’ said I. ‘Not at all.’
‘Your brother seems agitable.’
‘He’s just wondering if you can still have visitors here.’
Chevallier gazed up at me, his dark, rheumy eyes glistening in the firelight.
‘Depends on the visitor. We can’t take no runaway.’
‘We’re not runaway,’ said Emile, returning abruptly. ‘That redoubt up on the hill there – do they keep it manned?’
‘Not lately. They send someone to clean the cannon on the battery every otherwhile but mostly the redcoats stay down at the fort. Greys, they call them – Glasgow Greys. That’s the regiment.’
‘What about this English doctor? How often does he check on you here?’
‘Most Sunday he looks us over. He was here this morning. Not every Sunday, though, depending how drunk he was the night before. So long as we keep toiling obedient they hardly bother us much here. But that’s about the only thing has stayed the same. Everything else topsy-turvy, Emile – you would scarce believe.’
‘Di mwen. Tell me.’
‘Oh! Tout bagay chanje. Mèd. Everything changed. They don’t let me fish any more because Bryant don’t like fish. They got me working the surgeon provision ground, since they demoted Augustin to field hand. All he said was “Bonjou” and then they – but of course, you ought to know we’re not permitted to speak French any more. La la la! Pa de Fwancé. Puten! Anything from the old days is bad: French language is bad; French food bad; French dancing bad. Anything French, they forbid it, these Goddams.’
He made a vulgar gesture with his arms.
‘They think the French too soft on us. Bring a new regime all over the island, harsh-harsh. This overseer now, Addison Bell, that man would string you up soon as look at you. Him and Bryant together – puten! They make us bessy-down and speak English: “Yes, master sir; no, master sir.” Well, nobody likes it, of course. Pèsonn! Pèsonn vlé pale Anglé. Now French – that’s a language. La langue Fwancé. Bel; dou; ravissonne. A man can say what he wants in French. But this English – mèd!’
By no stretch of imagination was he speaking French, but we were too polite to point it out to him.
‘Well, you know our friend Augustin. He’s stubborn. Every time they want him to say “Yes, if it please you, sir,” he pretend to forget, talking French: “Wi, messié, souplé.” And that, they do not like. They shout at him: “Speak English, dog!” But he kept forgetting – on purpose. So first, they punish him, stop him taking any rest. Made him work all day, sans pause, no time to piss, nothing. Then, five, six markets agone – plam!’
Chevallier banged his hands together.
‘He gave the doctor “Bonjou” instead of “Good morning” – and right there and then Bryant told the overseer to put him in the field. They got shackles on him, set him to work felling tree. He’s been there ever since. And now – we heard just last night – Addison Bell nailed his ear to a wall. For no reason.’
So – the poor wretch down at the village was Augustin. To my recollection, he had been a mighty man, somethingish wild and reckless, with broad shoulders and powerful hands. It was hard to reconcile this memory of him with the haggard fellow hammered to the cabin.
Emile caught my eye across the flames. I wondered if he would mention what we had seen at the quarters but a scarce-perceptible shake of his head told me to keep my yam-trap shut. Chevallier had bent down to set a pot of water on the fire, perhaps to hide the anguish on his face. He dropped in some salt-fish and vegetable. When he stood up again, Emile put a hand on his shoulder.
‘That must be hard to bear, tonton,’ he said. ‘But Augustin is strong.’
Just then, I heard a sound on the path from the hospital, someone coming up the slope. Emile seem to panic. He span around, scanning the dark beneath the trees.
‘Here she comes,’ said the old man. In the same instant, Angélique Le Vieux hobbled out of the gloom. When she caught sight of Emile by the fire she stop dead.
‘There you are,’ she said, then turn to Chevallier. ‘Is it him?’
‘It’s him all right.’
‘Well,’ said Angélique. ‘I can’t believe it. How long you been gone now, boy?’
‘Seven Christmas,’ replied Emile. ‘I hope you are well, tati Angélique.’ She was not our aunt, no more than Chevallier was our uncle, but we call them such to be polite.
‘Seven Christmas,’ said she. ‘And I haven’t thought of you once.’ She held up her finger. ‘Until today.’
I looked at my brother. He raise both eyebrows.
‘Correct,’ said Angélique. ‘Not one time have you cross my mind and then, this afternoon, you came into my head and I spoke your name out loud. Is that not so, ché?’
She look to Chevallier who gave her an apologetic smile.
‘Well, ché,’ said he. ‘I haven’t seen you since this morning. But I’m sure you’re right. You spoke his name out loud.’
‘I spoke his name out loud. “Emile Mandingo.” Someone was there – I said it to somebody. Léontine. We were folding sheets in the laundry. She heard me. “Emile Mandingo,” I said. And then I said: “What has become of him?” And now – before the day is out – there you are, right in front of me. I conjured you up. Yes, I did. Exactly so.’
‘Quite so, ché,’ said her man. ‘You still got your powers. Strong as ever they were.’
‘Conjured you up out of nothing,’ she told Emile. ‘And it was no more trouble to me than eating pastry.’
Of course, my brother might have pointed out that when she had thought of him that afternoon he was already in Grenada, at Petit Havre. But perhaps out of respect for her age, or for the bad news about their friend Augustin, he only bowed his head. Angélique hobbled over to Chevallier.
‘Any news of Augustin, ché? How is he? Have they set him free?’
‘Not yet,’ the old man said. ‘I went down just before sunset, took a look from the hill. He was still there. But he will be fine. He’s strong.’
Angélique had already turn back to Emile.
‘Did you hear? They made him work with those dirty dogs down there. And now they nail him to a wall. I get sick to think of it.’
She clutched her stomach. Chevallier slipped his arm around her shoulder.
‘I told them all about it,’ Chevallier said. ‘Come, ché.’
Meanwhile, Emile fiddle with his hat and clung to that satchel as if he might depart in a twinkling. Then Angélique notice me at last.
‘But who is this with you, Emile?’
Chevallier forced a laugh.
‘You must recognise him?’
The old woman cast her eye over me, her mouth downturn. Then she took a step back.
‘Ha! Just like his mother – big ugly lips and skinny face.’
Well, that was nonsense for my mother was known for her beauty and I would have said as much except Emile shot me a warning glance.
Angélique sat down and took up her pipe. The firelight threw flickering shadows across her face. Sharp creases ran from the corners of her nose to the ends of her lips. The skin below her eyes look puffy. She was old and lame. Nevertheless, she was still tough as old turtle, for true.
‘Well, Mandingo, what the dickens you doing here, hmm? You back for good? You know they got us working the surgeon provision ground now, so they’ll have to find other work for you to do. Watch out – they could put you down in the field, get you cutting cane. You might have to break a sweat. Tant pis pou ou.’
She laughed and then fell to coughing.
‘He could cut cane if he wanted,’ I told her. ‘
He’s plenty strong enough.’
‘Lucien,’ said Emile, sharply. ‘Souplé – tati Angélique, I need to ask – is there somewhere we can rest our head for a few night?’
‘Well, so many of us gone these days, we all spread out – but the two hut at the end are empty.’
Perhaps she had fail to remember that one of these was where our mother and Emile had slept in bygone days. My brother glanced over his shoulder and his face grew mournful again as he looked at the smallest hut, visible now only in outline. Across the yard stood a slightly taller construction, more ramshackle, with a broken shutter. Emile pointed to it.
‘What about that one? Is that empty?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ the old woman said. ‘You can use that. So long as the Goddams never find you. But you still haven’t told us why you’re here.’
My brother cleared his throat.
‘Well, we – we’ve been sent by les Frères.’
He tried to sound light-hearted but Angélique must have heard the grave tone in his voice, for she paused in the act of relighting her pipe.
‘What for?’
Emile glance down toward the hospital buildings.
‘I’ll tell you but – when will the others get here? I should tell everyone.’
She waved her hand, dismissive.
‘Tell us now, instead of making us peck at dust.’
My brother place the satchel on the ground then sat by the fire. When he spoke his voice was no more than a whisper, such that Chevallier had to crouch down with us.
‘Well – you might not believe this but les Frères want you all to come to Martinique. We’re to take you back with us, everybody from the hospital here and anyone that’s hired out and all the field hand too.’
‘Puten!’ exclaim Chevallier.