by Jane Harris
As it was, I did my best to sound cheerful:
‘Good day to you, sirs.’
The Englishman turn to Maillard.
‘Who is this boy?’
‘Oh, he used to live here. In fact, he may be of interest to you, Dr Bryant – he’s living proof they can speak good English if they wish.’
And so – here was Bryant: the new superintendent of the hospital. He wipe the sweat from his brow, regarding me with interest.
‘What a surprise, Lucien,’ said Maillard, in his precise English. ‘I thought you were in Martinique.’
‘Indeed, sir. But the Fathers sent me here on your account, in fact. I have just been at your house to deliver some herb from them. Your girl took them in.’
Dark thoughts about poor Praxède flitted through my mind all the while and I fear they might show in my expression but Maillard seem not to notice. His face look more haggard than I remembered, his eyes dark and flinty.
‘Ah! Really? Well, of course, I’m most grateful. I must write a letter of thanks to the Fathers. Perhaps send them some wine.’
‘They would like that, sir.’
He turn to Bryant.
‘You see, Lucien was born here at the hospital in the time of our predecessors, the Fathers of the Charity. A Scottish nurse-man of theirs took care of the boy, following the death of the mother, a Mandingo female. This Scotch fellow raised him and fed him and so forth. And, as you can hear, he did learn to speak your language quite well. Most of the friars came to look on him as something of a pet, or so it seemed to me, and one of them took him to Martinique after the nurse died. An intriguing case, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He regarded me again. ‘I hardly recognise you, Lucien, you’re quite grown.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s six Christmas, more or less, since I left.’
The Englishman – who had been eyeing me suspiciously all through this conversation – now spoke.
‘This is the second time I’ve seen you loitering on hospital property, boy. What are you doing here? Do you have a pass?’
‘Sir?’
‘A ticket,’ Maillard explained.
‘Oh yes, sir.’
I took it from the pouch around my neck. Bryant glanced it over before returning it to me. He rubbed his lower lip tween thumb and forefinger whiles continuing to inspect me. Then he spoke to the French doctor.
‘Is there any policy on this?’
Maillard narrowed his eyes.
‘Policy? Perhaps, my English … I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘All the Negroes and half-breeds and so forth that were left here by those Charity Fathers now belong to the English Crown. Surely then this boy must also …’
‘Ah!’ said Maillard and wagged his finger. ‘I see where your thoughts have taken you, sir, but no. This boy belongs to the French friars in Martinique.’
I cannot express how alarmed I felt at the unexpected turn this conversation had taken. The blood pounded in my ears. It was all I could do not to run off at full fling.
‘They took him there several years agone,’ Maillard continued. ‘Before you – ah – he was gone from here long before the – the change of regime.’
‘But surely—’ Bryant paused, pointing at me whiles he gathered his thoughts. ‘Forgive me, Maillard, but—’ He gestured over the hill. ‘Those Negroes down on the plantation belong to us.’ Then he waved his hand toward where the hospital quarters lay. ‘And those up there belong to us.’ His finger return to me. ‘Why not this one? Surely he is hospital property – or he belongs to the Crown, at least?’
‘No, no,’ said Maillard. ‘He belongs to the French. He’s here simply on an errand. I imagine he will soon return to his masters in St Pierre.’
He looked at me, something approaching a warning in his eyes.
Tout and suite I said: ‘Quite so, sir. I’m commanded to go back there directly.’
‘In that case, why are you loitering here?’ the Englishman demanded.
‘Sir, I just delivered the herb to Monsieur Maillard. Now I must wait for the boat, sir.’
‘When do you sail?’
‘Tomorrow, sir.’
‘I see.’ His lips parted and stretched in an approximation of a smile. ‘And where can we find you in the meantime?’
‘Sir?’
‘Where are your lodgings?’
‘Oh – in town, sir. Near the – the carenage.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘In rooms, sir, by the – by the billiard hall.’
‘Who’s the owner?’
I was struggling to think of a name when Maillard clicked his fingers.
‘I know it,’ said he. ‘Run by that Spanish woman. Señora Franco, is that right? The place with the blue door?’
I just nodded, dumbly. Maillard turn to Bryant with a roll of his eyes.
‘Terrible place, verminous. But, dear sir, allow me to show you this other plant. I’m expected for luncheon chez Mme. Bertrand and I’ve no wish to keep her waiting.’ He drew Bryant off the path. ‘It’s a remarkable leaf. The hospital Negroes use it in cases of mal d’estomac. After you is manners.’ He allowed the Englishman to step ahead of him with a last word to me as they picked their way into the undergrowth. ‘Lucien, good day to you. I’m sure you have other errands to run on behalf of your masters.’
‘Quite so, sir. Good day to you, sirs.’
I went up the track at the most sedate pace I could muster, all the while expecting Bryant to call out, ‘Stop! Wait! Halt!’ At one point, I glance back and was unnerve to see that – whiles the French doctor had bent down to pluck a leaf – Bryant stood motionless, staring up in my direction, regarding me like a cat might watch a juicy cutlet, a cutlet that is snatched away from neath his whiskers just before he can take a bite.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Having no desire for any further vis-à-vis with inquisitive Englishmen, I hurried straight back to the hospital quarters. So far as I could see, the place still deserted. The cabin where Emile and I had slept was stuffy but I shut myself inside to await his return. I must have dozed off in the heat and fell away into a dream in which I was among many passengers on a sloop. The hull sat low in the water, low enough for those aboard to touch the waves. People kept dipping their hands in the ocean as though to test its temperature. All seemed well for a time until they pull their arms out of the water and then I saw that every one of their hands had been bitten or cut off. The stumps oozed thick red blood and the ship soon became awash with sticky gore.
In a hot panic, I open my eyes to find that Emile had returned. He sat perfectly still, his back against the wall of the hut. Grey mud cake both of his feet and his skin shone slick with sweat but other than that I could see no mark upon him. He had open the door and was staring out into the yard. A heavy stillness lay over the quarters. For a while, I stayed there, motionless, watching him. After my unsettling encounter with the English doctor, it was somehow tranquil to let my gaze rest upon my brother, the slow rise and fall of his chest. But I had to know if he was still half crazy. I sat up, somewise light-headed, perhaps because of all the blood in my dream.
‘You look sick,’ said Emile.
‘I’m not,’ I told him. ‘Did you find LeJeune?’
‘Mm-hmm. I had to wait and wait but in the end I found a way. She wants to come with us, for true. She has a bad master over there. But he promised her a ticket for Christmas Eve so pa ni pwoblèm.’
‘How did you get to speak to her?’
‘Bunch of flowers.’
‘Flowers?’
‘Correct. I pick flowers from the roadside and took them to the back door of the house, presented myself like a suitor, all bashful and shy, asking to see Miss LeJeune. While the house-boy went to fetch my sweetheart I wandered off far enough that LeJeune would have to come outside, so we could have a private conversation. And that’s what happened.’
‘What about Thérèse? Did you see her?’
‘No. We sent a message into town
this morning with one of the porteuses, telling Thérèse to come here tonight, if she can, to read the Power of Attorney to us and the field hand.’ Here, he paused and glanced around the hut. ‘Where’s that satchel?’
My guts turned over. I had to admit then that I had gone to the Maillard place. Of course, Emile was displeased, not only that I had left the quarters, but that I had forgotten to bring back the bag which he had promise to return to Cléophas.
‘You know what they’re like about their goods and gear. Won’t lend a thimble without wanting to know when they might get it back. Oh well … Did you see Maillard?’
For a twinkling, I did consider lying about my encounter with the two doctors, then thought better and told Emile about meeting them on the path, how suspicious Bryant had been, his questions about who owned me and where I was sleeping.
‘Anything else to tell me?’ said Emile. ‘You bump into any soldiers? What about the Governor? You seen him on your travels? Did General Monckton invite you for tea?’
‘It’s not funny,’ I croaked. ‘That doctor will know me if he sees me again.’
‘Well, he won’t see you. Besides, you have your ticket.’ He nudge my leg with his toe. ‘What’s the matter, ché?’
‘Nothing. Only – we should get away from here quick-sharp.’
‘That’s the intention.’
‘No, but – do we have to take all these slave? If they’re sick or dragging chains, they’ll slow us down. And the babies will cry, somebody might hear them. We need to decide who to take and who to leave behind.’
Emile gave me one of his looks.
‘We’re not leaving anyone,’ he said. ‘Whoever wants to come with us, we take them.’ Then he stretched and sighed. ‘Any messages for me,’ he asked, apparently indifferent.
No doubt, he was mousing for news of Céleste. She appeared in my mind as she had been the night before. I could almost feel the swell of her belly pressed against me as we embraced, the scent of vanilla. Then I pictured her in the arms of Bryant.
‘Non,’ I replied.
Emile tip back his head and gave an elaborate yawn. He stretch his legs and shut his eyes, but I could see now that he was trembling.
‘Well, if anyone wants to speak to me, they can come and find me.’
‘Quite so,’ said I. ‘Best you stay here out of sight, in hiding.’
His eyes snapped open.
‘I care not one fly-smut for hiding,’ he said. ‘You know me. I would stroll down there to that refectory, sit down – plain as day – whiles the Béké nurse-men are at supper—’
‘For true, you would.’
‘– put my feet up on the table, help myself to their wine. But I won’t scuttle about the place like a spider on account of any female – or any man.’
‘Correct,’ said I. ‘Exactly right.’
His words were naught but swagger yet it was a comfort to hear him bluster and brag – though we both knew in our hearts, it was only a sham.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We emerge from the hut just as shadows began to rise up around the quarters. The sky glowed in shades of yellow and blue. Emile lit a smut-lamp and I set about making a fire, gathering up what dry kindling could be found and picking any salvable cinders out of the ashes. Howsomever, my construction refuse to ignite, no matter how much I blew on the smouldering twigs. Emile crouch down beside me and poked at my careful arrangement of combustibles.
‘Want a piece of advice about laying a fire?’ he said.
‘Not really,’ I replied.
‘I might be tempted to get a few stick alight first,’ he said. ‘Then add the coal later, piece by piece.’
‘You might be tempted?’
I was about to scoff in his face when he held up his finger and frown to silence me. Then he cup one hand to his ear and open his lips wide. In this manner, he listen for a while. At any other time the sight of him – squatting there, mouth agape – might have struck me as comical but my nerves were in fritters. No telling what he had heard. I held my breath but could detect no sound except the first ’ti gounouys.
Emile pointed to where the path dip toward the plantation.
‘Over there,’ he mouthed. ‘One man.’
Then, soft as a ghost, he took my hand and drew me behind the nearest cabin: a shadowy and dense-wooded spot. From there, we could see most of the narrow yard. Not a thing happen for a spell, save that a faint breeze caress my skin and the point of flame on the abandon lamp bent and flickered. Just as I began to wonder if Emile was imagining things, a lean figure emerge from the undergrowth on the far side of the quarters: a man, neither young nor old, naked from the waist up, his skin dark as the back of a cedar beetle. He peered warily about him as he advanced into the yard. Not a handsome fellow; I’ve seen more comely manicou, but his bearing proud. He walked cautiously across the open ground, darting glances to and fro: back into the trees and through the door of each hut he passed. As he drew closer, I saw that he was unshaven, his britches worn and soiled. He held a short whip in his hand. When he reach the kitchen, he came to a halt and gaze down at the flickering smut-lamp.
Only then did Emile step out from behind the hut, moving on velvet paws like a cat, such that the man fail to notice him until he spoke:
‘Bonswa, Saturnin.’
The driver gave a start then his face cleared when he saw my brother. He drew himself up to his full – short – height and said, in a rasping voice:
‘Bonswa, Emile.’
‘You’re early.’
‘Belly-ache. I must go to the hospital, see a nurse.’
‘Sorry to hear that, my friend,’ said Emile. ‘We can wait until you—’
His voice tailed away. I saw then that the driver had twisted his lips into a grin.
‘There is no belly-ache,’ he said. ‘I’m never sick. A man has to be strong down there in the field. Only way to survive. I’m sure you understand what I’m talking about.’
He stared at my brother, a glint of sardonic humour in his eye. No doubt, he thought we led a soft life. I chose that moment to step out from the shadows.
‘Bonswa,’ said I.
At the sound of my voice, the driver turned. His gaze moved over me like a fly walking then he turn back to Emile.
‘This your brother?’
‘Correct.’
Saturnin sniffed.
‘What are you banana boys doing behind there? Shitting in high grass?’
‘We heard you coming,’ Emile replied. ‘But you gave no signal.’
‘I saw no need.’
‘You could have been anybody.’
‘Well, clearly, you boys are expert at hiding.’
Perhaps he meant to imply that we were cowards – or perhaps not. He tap the bull-whip against his leg. There was a pause in which nobody was entirely sure what to say or do. Then Emile found his manners.
‘Well, my friend, I’m glad you are in good health. And what of your crops? Have you been able to tend your produce today?’
Saturnin sucked his teeth, dismissive.
‘Never mind all that Mandingo palaver. I’ve no time for chitchat. I came to tell you, I talk to them this morning, all of them.’
Seeing Emile look apprehensive, I spoke up in his stead.
‘What do they want to do?’
Saturnin held out his hands to my brother, as though in appeal.
‘You boys are the intelligent ones. What do you think they want?’ Never mind the whip, I was beginning to understand why nobody much like this man. He glared at Emile. ‘A few thing we want to know first. Some of them need to be assured that if we go with you it will be to toil for les Frères. They won’t sell us on to some other master?’
‘So far as I know,’ said Emile. ‘They just want their old slave back.’
‘So – if we go with you – we would be growing cane? Not indigo – nobody wants to do that stink thing again.’
‘No, they gave up on indigo a while back. Better money in suga
r. You’ll be growing cane and some of you might learn to work a distillery.’
‘Making rum?’
‘Yes, they want to fashion a new kind, a white rum. Most of you will tend fields but Lefébure wants to build a new distillery and he needs people to work it.’
Saturnin was clearly not averse to the prospect of making Kill-Devil. His eyes began to gleam but he soon grew combative again, perhaps somewise shifty.
‘Well, that’s all very well but we need to know – they are wondering, all of them – who will be chief field hand over there? If the Fathers have slaves already – then they have a driver.’
‘Caesar,’ said I. ‘He’s as fair as can be.’
Saturnin cast nary a glance in my direction; he was only interested in my brother.
‘So – who would be chief driver? This Caesar – or me?’
‘Well, now.’ Emile cleared his throat. ‘I did discuss that with Cléophas. He wants Caesar to work the existing fields with his gang as usual. You and your people will be set to clear and plant new fields. But you’ll drive your own-own hands; Caesar will drive his.’
‘What about once the new fields are planted? What happens after that?’
‘Same-same,’ Emile replied. ‘You drive your gang and tend your own field.’
He said it straight-face but so far as I could remember Cléophas had not mention drivers and who worked what field. Perhaps that was one of the subjects that they had discuss down at the Sugar Landing whiles I flew about like a damn foo-foo, begging for fishes and rum.
Saturnin rubbed his hand back and forth across his whiskers then asked about provision ground. Emile told him that the Fathers had set aside land for crops.
‘You’ll have plenty to eat. Cléophas told me to make sure you knew that. And he says any punishment they mete out will be fair.’
At these words, Saturnin gave a dry laugh.
‘He would say that. As if it was Paradise here in Grenada with them before. That old Father Damien, remember? He knew how to put stripes on a body. Oh, but – I must apologise. No need to tell you boys about the Pestle.’
He made it seem as though this mention of our father was accidental, yet I wondered whether he had done it express. We might yet come to fisticuffs. Emile looked as though he had a quid of tobacco on the chaw; his jaw worked, hard and tight; his eyes glittering: none of it a good sign.