Sugar Money

by Jane Harris

  ‘Come now, let’s lie down for a few hour.’

  He allowed me to guide him to the ramshackle hut, barely noticing where we went. His eyes remained open but he fail to see in front of him, too busy staring at all the thoughts of Céleste whirling about in his mind.

  Inside, the cabin was musty and blacker than a blind man holy-day. Leaving the door open for air, I scrabbled around in the dark whiles Emile slumped in a corner. No blanket in the place, just an old white pinafore hanging on a nail and some damp mouse-eaten burlap on the floor. I draped the apron across Emile but saw at once a pale flash in the gloom as he tossed it aside. His words came to me out of the dark.

  ‘Be sure and rouse me at dawn.’

  ‘Of course. Soon as the ’ti gounouys fall asleep, I wake up.’

  A few raindrop began to patter on the roof and, presently, the heavens opened. I peered outside. The deluge lash the earth all around the quarters, thundering upon the cane-trash over our heads. I reached out and pull the door flaps shut so that we were tight-tight inside. The racket of rain went on and on, battering the roof. It was like lying inside a giant drum. I heard my brother shifting, restless.

  ‘Emile? What did Saturnin say?’

  ‘Oh – he’ll talk to the field hand. Tell us tomorrow what they want to do.’

  ‘Then what?’

  He gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘What does it matter? We’re all dog-meat in the end.’

  We lay there without a word for a while until, at last, I found the nerve to ask:

  ‘And what about Céleste? Did you find out – anything …?’

  I heard him roll over to face the wall.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Now – dodo – go to sleep. Bònnuit.’

  How was I suppose to look out for him if he never confided in me? He was like a closed-up box within a box with locks. A few days previous, I would have put my life in his hands, no question. Now, I’d scarce trust him to watch a tether goat, never mind lead a motley gang of slaves up-island in a perilsome escape. He might well be unfit for our task – and it was all the fault of Céleste and her belly. At the very least, I resolve to keep a close eye on him next day. Whether he liked it or not, I would go with him when he went to see LeJeune and Thérèse.

  I curled up on the bare floor, contriving how I might persuade Emile to let me accompany him, listening to him breathe and wondering if he had lost his mind entirely until, in the end, I dropped off the edge of the world into slumber, lulled senseless by the constant din of rain.

  PART FIVE

  Grenada (SECOND DAY)

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The following morning I awoke blear-eyed and confused, Emile no longer beside me. Light streamed in through the gaps in the boards. The rain had stopped and the heat of the day was well advance. Someone tap the door and a female voice murmured:

  ‘Lucien? Vincent?’

  My heart gave a jump at the thought it might be Céleste. However, when I sat up to push back the flaps, they swung open to reveal a thin girl, somewise older than me. Her head bare; her hair fixed up in plaits. She had a rip in her skirt but her petticoat and apron look clean.

  ‘Bonjou,’ said she.

  ‘Bonjou, Manzell.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Se mwen. Léontine.’

  Well, I wouldn’t have recognise her. Last time I saw Léontine, she was only peeny-weeny. She handed me a calabash full of cassava porridge.

  ‘From Céleste,’ she said.

  Since I was hungry as a starve-gutted dog, I set to eat quick-sharp.

  Léontine peer past me, into the hut.

  ‘Is Vincent in there?’

  ‘No. Where’s Emile?’

  ‘Gone to Megrin to see LeJeune.’

  I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over the porridge.

  ‘What? When did he go?

  ‘Oh, long time since. You slept through both bells. But have you seen Vincent?’

  ‘No.’

  Awake less than a pig whisper and already I was out of sorts. Calling myself all kinds of fool for oversleeping, only to be left behind with women and girls. I tried to squeeze past Léontine, intending to head after Emile, but she block my path.

  ‘Where you going? He will be half across the island by this time. He told us you’re to stay here out of sight until he gets back.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I must go. The doctor breakfast plates need to be cleared, then I have to wash the floor of his chamber.’

  Yet, instead of heading back to the hospital, she hurried across the yard and entered one of the other huts. As I sat down again to finish the porridge, my gaze fell on the satchel inside the doorway. The French doctor, Maillard, resided just down the road. It occur to me that I could run to his house and back in no time at all, deliver the herbs like Cléophas had commanded. Then we would no longer have to cart them everywhere. My brother might want me to hide away all day like a chicken-heart but I was too much the man to sit around doing nothing. No, sir. Non mèsi.

  When Léontine return she had tied a ribbon around her throat – a faded, crease ribbon that look like it might once have serve to secure a parcel, but a ribbon nonetheless.

  ‘We used to make dirt-pies together,’ I said. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course. Everybody remembers you and your brother. Is he really going to take us to Martinique?’

  I gave a dry laugh.

  ‘Well now, I’m not exactly sure what he might do, in the immediate.’

  ‘What kind of man is he?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that for?’

  ‘I just wondered. Does he have a woman in Martinique?’

  ‘No. Leastwise, I doubt it.’

  Most vexing, for some reason, she kept asking about Emile. I decided to change the subject.

  ‘What about Céleste? Seems to me she’s getting a baby. Who is her man?’

  Léontine gave a careless shrug of her shoulder.

  ‘Di mwen,’ I said. ‘She must have a man.’

  Girl shook her head.

  ‘But if you had to guess – what would you say? Who is the father of this baby?’

  ‘The English doctor,’ she replied. ‘Bryant.’

  I just about leapt out of my linen.

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  She shrugged her shoulder again, gave her teeth a little suck.

  ‘I see things. Hear things.’

  ‘You saw her – with Bryant?’

  ‘Not exactly. But everyone thinks it must be him.’

  Split me! In my head, I heard the crack of the stick that Emile had snap with his bare hands. If he heard this story, like as not he would find Bryant and do the same to his neck. But before I could ask more, a bell rang down at the hospital.

  ‘I have to go,’ said Léontine. ‘They’re looking for me.’ She began to walk away. ‘If you see Vincent, tell him he’s in big trouble. He fail to show for work this morning.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘What you just told me about the doctor. Keep it to yourself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if Emile finds out … if he starts any kind of mayhem with Bryant, this whole plan is shot, kompwan?’

  She nodded then hurried off downhill, in the direction of the hospital, leaving me alone. Dazzling sunlight made everything appear bright and hard. A breeze drifted through the quarters at that instant and there seem to me nothing lonelier than the way it whisk the dead leaves around and stirred up the dust.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Maillard residence stood about halfway along the High Road above town, situated on its own, atop a small inland bluff. Since we had mostly avoided highways the previous day, I resolve to continue in the same vein and pick my way downhill through the trees rather than on the road. Emile had taunted me for crashing about too loud, thus I vowed to try and make less noise. Hugging the satchel to my chest, I crept along on tiptoe, trying to breathe in silence – though as soo
n as I quitted the quarters, my nerves were all a-jangle and it was an effort to keep myself from panting.

  Fortunately, I reach the Maillard place sans incident. The road outside the residence lay quiet and still, shimmering in the heat. Beyond and below the bluff, I could see Fort Royal and the carenage, blue-blue, almost close enough to touch. Plenty of ship down there, at anchor. The scents of swamp water and burnt wood drifted up on the warm breeze. Dogs barking in the distance, someone hammering, the odd shout of laughter. Of course, in my travels since those days I have seen some of the great cities – Quebec and Paris and, of course, London – but back then Fort Royal seem like a great metropolis to me and I would have given my right spleen for a closer look at the town. I had only set foot there once, on the day that Damascene took me to Martinique, but on that occasion, we had hurried through the streets so fast I scarce had time to take it in and what I witnessed of the place I mostly saw from the deck of the sloop as we set sail. It was tempting to go down there and witness for myself the bustle of the quayside and the parade ground. However, I had already stretch the leash by leaving the quarters and so, with a sigh, I scuttled across the highway and through the garden gate.

  Ignoring the foredoor, I crept around the back of the house and stepped up on the veranda to tap the jalousie, just how I use to summon Miss Praxède beforetimes. Everyone spoke of her as the housekeeper or bonne for Maillard. Nobody mention that she was – to all intent and purpose – his wife. He had bought her when first he came to the island and they had been together since. Praxède sometimes gave me a sweet glass of d’leau pain when I came to fetch the doctor, which happened whensoever the friars needed an extra pair of hands if, for instance, one of them fell sick or perished overnight (they had a terrible habit of dying).

  In fact, the person who appeared in response to my tapping was not someone I recognised at all: a petite cocotte about sixteen years of age, wearing only a chemise and a flower in her hair. Her skin shone like mahogany. She open the door just a crack and commence to inspect me up and down, the look on her face like I had crawled out from some dirty-dirty hole.

  ‘Bonswa, Miss Lady,’ said I, with a bow.

  She gave her teeth an indifferent suck. Her curls were short and her eyes damp and clouded. By the look of her, she might have been crying all day long.

  ‘What d’you want, banana boy?’

  ‘Souplé, may I speak with Monsieur Maillard?’

  ‘Nn-nn. He’s down in town, probably at that salle de billiards.’ She had a lisp and the way she spat out the word ‘billiards’ you might think she dislike the game. ‘If you go down there you give him a message from me. Tell him that tomorrow he can cook his own damn food.’

  I scratch my ear.

  ‘Well now, do you really want me to tell him that?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ said she. ‘What business is it of yours in any case?’

  Rather than trust the bag of herb to this person – who struck me as a fickle type and unreliable – I could just run down express to the billiard hall and hand the jars over to Maillard in person, sound and safe.

  ‘Never mind, Miss Lady. I’ll go down there – but—’

  ‘You do that,’ said she.

  I hesitated. For true, I had a raging thirst and was just in the mood for some d’leau pain, spiced up nice and sweet with cinnamon.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Lady – what’s your name?’

  ‘Zabette.’

  ‘Enchanté, Manzell. But – by any chance – is Miss Praxède at home this morning? Might I speak with her?’

  ‘Not unless you a zombie.’ When I look perplex, she said: ‘That woman been gone to Kingdom-come since the Michaelmas.’

  The door had crept open. A faint smell of burning wafted out. On a sudden, I grew dizzy.

  ‘I’m – I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Did she get sick?’

  ‘Nn-nn. Shot dead.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  She pursed her lips at me and frowned.

  ‘Why you so interested, banana boy?’

  ‘I – I used to know her. I used to call here.’

  Her expression soften somewise.

  ‘Well – after he sold her, she ran off and then—’

  ‘Wait – Maillard sold her?’

  ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ said she. ‘Nothing to do with me. I thought he should keep her. She was just getting old is all, near fifty, but Pierre – Monsieur – he can’t afford to feed two of us and he wanted a younger one. Are you going to the billiard hall?’

  She press one hand to her side, frowning. The door had inch open further and I saw now that – beneath the chemise – she had a big belly. Another infant on the way. Seem like every female on the island was cooking a baby.

  ‘Well, are you?’ said she.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Going to see Monsieur … only give him a different message. Just tell him – tell him there’s a good dinner waiting for him at home.’

  All sorts of distracted notion flicker through my mind. I thought: I never did see a billiard hall before. I thought: but his dinner is burnt. I thought: this girl here is the new Praxède. I thought: poor Praxède – gone kickeraboo.

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked. ‘I mean to say – who bought her?’

  Zabette tossed her head.

  ‘One of those new Scotchmen – Mister Mac-Something.’

  ‘And he killed her?’

  ‘No, but she ran away and when they caught her she got herself shot in the back.’

  ‘… Why did they not just give her a whipping?’

  ‘Ah, you know, so many rascal been running off lately, Jésis-Maïa help them if they get caught.’

  Just then, there was a great crash from somewhere in town, down by the quay, as though a cart had dropped a heavy load. The bloucoutoum set a dog to barking somewhere downhill and I must have flinched.

  ‘Kam-twa,’ said the girl. ‘They keep him tied up. Are you sick?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Then why do you want to see the doctor?’

  I showed her the satchel.

  ‘To give him this, from les Frères de la Charité in Martinique.’

  She eyed the bag with interest.

  ‘What’s in there? Rum?’

  I lifted the flap, to reveal the muslin-wrap jars.

  ‘Just some herb, for medicine.’

  ‘Phhh!’ said she, disappointed. ‘Well, you know where to find the billiard hall?’

  She started to give me directions but as she spoke my thoughts began to drift. I imagined myself wandering through town, getting lost, then being stopped by drunken redcoats. I could picture them, standing in the middle of the street, belligerent, like roosters looking for a fight.

  ‘– so then you turn left off the parade,’ Zabette was saying. ‘That’s if you’re facing the water—’

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘If it’s all the same to you – can I just leave these herb here, souplé? I should really get back to – eh—’

  I gestured vaguely toward Hospital Hill. Zabette sucked her teeth again, this time in irritation. She pointed to the floor of the veranda.

  ‘Put them there; I’ll see he gets them.’

  I set down the satchel.

  ‘A plus,’ said she and bessy-down but full of disdain. Then she shut the door.

  For a short interval, I stood there, prepondering over what she had told me. Poor Praxède, sold on and shot for running away. Shot in the back.

  Some creature was scuttling about in the space beneath the boards of the veranda: an agouti, perhaps, or a rat. I heard the sound of scratching and then a series of vile urgent squeaks, one upon the other, as though some small animal was being devoured alive. With a shiver, I step back down into the garden.

  Laid out below me, there was Fort Royal: the parade square, and all the bustle of the carenage. Beyond the town, I could see the fort out on the promontory. All at once, I heard a great shout of laughter and a clang of steel from within the barracks, as though the Gla
sgow Greys might be in the midst of some kind of fighting tournament. With another shiver, I turned on my heel and instead of heading to town I hurried across the road and back into the woods.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I had scarce gone any distance when I heard the sound of voices; male voices. Looking up, I saw – descending the path through the trees – two men. One I knew at once as the French physician Maillard, though his hair had turned entirely grey since last I saw him and his skin had acquired a yellow tinge. The other was less familiar but I recognise him from the previous day for it was the bacon-face Béké that I had encounter down at the river whiles waiting for Emile. He wore the same garments, same shirt, the broad-brim cloth hat. Neither man carried a gun and so I doubted they were on their way to hunt; rather, they had the air of gentlemen out for a morning promenade. They had notice me already and I could hear them converse in English as they descended the path.

  ‘A half-breed there ahead,’ said the stranger.

  ‘Indeed,’ Maillard replied.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Maillard squinted down at me.

  ‘It’s hard to tell at this distance.’ He stopped in his tracks and pointed into the undergrowth. ‘Over there, sir, you’ll see the other plant I told you about.’

  Something deferential in his tone told me that the other man must be his superior – and English, for two Frenchmen, alone, would surely have spoke in their own tongue.

  Whiles they paused, peering into the greenery, I had a brief instant to consider my position. Where they stood, I would soon be oblige to walk past them. Of course, I could have slipped away into the trees but that would appear suspect. Instead, hoping that the doctor might fail to recognise me, I dawdled up the track, trying to act unruffled, though my heart beat a taptoo in my breast. Alas, Maillard turn to watch me as I approached and then he swore under his breath:

  ‘Putain! Lucien? C’est toi?’ He glanced at his companion. ‘Je m’excuse. C’est à dire – I know this boy. Lucien? Is that you?’