Sugar Money

by Jane Harris

  Saturnin carried on as though oblivious.

  ‘Well – fair punishment and provisions: I’ll tell them that. What about dancing?’

  Emile looked at him, his features a blank.

  ‘Dancing?’

  ‘These cockroaches – Bryant and Bell – have forbid all the French dances. The Gavotte. The Saraband. Will the Fathers let us dance French again, like before? I like that old French dancing.’

  Though clearly exasperated, my brother kept his countenance.

  ‘Oh yes. Martinique is a French island again. Everything French.’

  ‘The Englishmen all gone,’ said Saturnin, sounding decisive but all the same looking to Emile for confirmation.

  ‘More or less. They speak French there, like always.’

  Saturnin brightened.

  ‘Good. One more thing. The field hand get their Christmas rum tomorrow night, after work. Most of them have tickets to visit sweethearts or family in different parts of the island. Half won’t be back until late the following night. Do we have to go tomorrow or could it wait until St Stephen? That way they can have a few day of rest and see their family, say goodbye.’

  ‘Absoliman pas,’ said Emile. ‘Think about it. If they go drinking tomorrow night and visiting around the island, half of them will tell their family they’re leaving, everybody saying goodbye and crying, wailing or – just as bad – they’ll invite their family to come with us. Every damn slave on the island will hear about it and then it takes just one person to let slip and the troops will be down on top of us before you can spit. Either that or we might end up with too many to fit the boat.’

  Saturnin rubbed his whiskers.

  ‘Now you explain it like that …’

  ‘Besides, Cléophas won’t wait longer than first light on Christmas Day. We have to go tomorrow self. Can you stop them getting into the rum? The last thing we want is whip-cat niggers crashing around the forest.’

  ‘I can try. But there’s a couple – the younger men – a couple of hotheads.’

  ‘Anybody drunk will be left behind. So tell me – how many want to go?’

  The driver frowned, thinking.

  ‘Hard to say. Some are scared to get caught. They are afraid of being punish. But a few of them still have kinsfolk left behind in Martinique. They’re the ones that want to go most, them that have family over there.’

  ‘That’s to be expected,’ Emile said. ‘Did you explain the Power of Attorney?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘That parchment I showed you. They have to know about it.’

  ‘I’ll tell them, word for word.’

  ‘How can you tell them word for word – you can’t read.’

  Saturnin gave my brother the dead-set with his eye. No doubt, he took a stitch at this reminder of his own shortcoming.

  ‘Thérèse will be here tonight,’ said Emile. ‘She can tell us if the English Governor sign the paper or not. I’ll bring her down to the plantation and she can read it to them. Then they can weigh up the risk, make up their own mind.’

  The driver groaned.

  ‘You really have to read it to them? If Bell or any Béké-man finds us there, you with some document, all the way from Martinique—’

  ‘It won’t take long. You can post lookouts.’

  ‘– everyone stood talking like a public rencontre, we’ll have some explaining to do. Besides, you try getting those slave all in one place together. They wander off, catching rats, making chouc-chouc in the bushes. And if you want lookouts, then they won’t be there to hear your damn document …’

  ‘Well then, put children on lookout,’ said Emile, through his teeth. ‘I’ll bring Léontine to help. Just get as many of them together as you can. Men and women. Do any of them know how to get to Petit Havre on the goat track?’

  ‘Most of them never left the plantation.’ Saturnin pulled up his britches, making himself taller by about half an inch. ‘But I know the way. Use to visit a girl up at Gouyave if I could get a ticket. Hee hee! Went there plenty of time, over the hills.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Emile. ‘You stop visiting that girl back when I lived here. Must be ten years ago. I bon. The hills are the same; we both know the way. And Lucien too, from walking here.’ A pang of guilt twisted my inners but I said nothing. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Well – Magdelon was hired out to Beausejour a few years ago,’ said Saturnin. ‘She might remember how to get there. Petit Havre is just over the next ridge so …’

  ‘Good. That’s four of us.’

  ‘Same for Céleste,’ I said. ‘She was hired out to Beausejour too.’

  My brother gave a blink that was almost a flinch.

  ‘She might not be coming,’ he said. ‘Who else? What about Augustin? He used to visit some girl up in Palmiste years ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ said Saturnin. ‘Except he has a bad case of the blue devils, since Bell made him eat his own ear.’

  Emile just looked at him.

  ‘What?’

  Saturnin proceeded to tell us that the overseer had cut Augustin down from the cabin wall that afternoon by slicing the ear from his head with a knife. Then straightways Bell had cooked the severed ear on a hot griddle and forced Augustin to consume it.

  ‘Takes a while for a man to get over that, swallowing his own cooked ear,’ said Saturnin. ‘Not the first time it’s happened.’

  All at once, I felt giddy, as though I might be sick. Emile caught my eye.

  ‘Lucien,’ he said. ‘Go and sit down over there.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘In any case,’ Saturnin continued, ‘I doubt Augustin could lead a group. Plus he’s still in shackles.’

  ‘Let’s see how he is later,’ said Emile. ‘He’s strong in his mind. If he is capable, we must use him. His group will just have to go at his pace.’

  The driver pursed his lips as he took this in. Something troubling him but Emile was too agitated to notice. Saturnin took a backward step.

  ‘I should go and see a nurse soon or I’m in trouble if Bell finds out.’

  So saying, he began to walk off in the direction of the hospital.

  ‘Make sure they’re all there tonight,’ said Emile. ‘And post lookouts.’

  The driver huffed out his cheeks then spat on the ground.

  ‘Kam-twa, banana boy,’ said he. ‘No need to get all fluffed up like a frighty hen.’

  And with those words, he set off at a trot, down through the trees toward the hospital. We watched until he was swallowed by the shadows and even then we carried on standing there until we could no longer hear the slap-slap of his feet on the earth. Far out to sea, a few violet cloud had moved in across the horizon.

  I glanced at my brother, wondering whether he would stay long enough to see Céleste that night, or if he would run off again with the excuse of speaking to the plantation hands. Another few moments passed in silence. Then he sighed.

  ‘Vwala,’ he murmured.

  ‘Do you trust that man?’ I asked.

  Emile sighed again, then replied:

  ‘Would you trust a barracuda?’

  PART SIX

  Grenada (SECOND NIGHT)

  Chapter Thirty

  Under instruction from Emile, we were all to gather in the yard that evening to hear the Power of Attorney. He made sure we had enough lamp around the fire for Thérèse to read by. We knew that Céleste would be somewise late because Bryant had been invited out to supper and had ordered her to admit a new patient to the hospital in his absence. Léontine return to the quarters early since she was not require to wait upon his table. Whiles Emile told Chevallier about our encounter with Saturnin, Léontine kept fidgeting and stroking her lips, all the while staring at my brother until, at last, he asked her:

  ‘Sa ou fé?’

  She covered her face with her hands. Making a silly sot of herself. Somewise bemused, Emile turn back to the old man.

  I gave Léontine a nud
ge.

  ‘Ho! Listen—’ said I, but she was too busy staring at my brother.

  I was about to prod her again when we heard a dove hoot in the trees on the Fort Royal side where the path dips toward town. Old Angélique exchange a look with her man then resume stirring the pepperpot.

  ‘That’s Thérèse coming,’ Chevallier said then hooted in reply.

  Presently, a well-fed young woman step into the yard. Last time I saw Thérèse she was a waif in a threadbare shift. Now she wore shoes and respectable clothes, most likely discarded by her mistress: white chemise and dark skirt and a bodice of some kind of sheeny cloth. She had bright ribbons in her hair and dragged along a tatterly old whalebone parasol, so full of holes it would have offer scant protection from rain or sun.

  Emile and I jumped up to greet her.

  ‘Look at this handsome pair of fools,’ she said. ‘Never thought to see you boys again. Bonswa tout moun. Bonswa Gwan-mè.’

  ‘Bonswa,’ Angélique replied. ‘Tell me, ché, have you seen your brother or heard from him?’

  ‘No,’ said Thérèse. ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  The old woman exchanged a glance with her man.

  ‘Nobody seen him since last night.’

  ‘Probably nothing to vex up about,’ said Chevallier. ‘The doctor gave him rum. He’ll be back when it runs out – but he’ll be in trouble.’

  Thérèse had acquire some fine affectations down in town. Her skirts too precious for the dirty ground and Angélique had to fetch a clean cloth for her to sit upon. The cast-off parasol must have been her prize treasure, judging from how often her fingers strayed to stroke its old bones. And the soup she declined with the excuse of saving appetite for some sugar-bread promise by the Governor. Of course, Emile had questions for Thérèse – was she in good health? Did the Governor treat her well? And so on – but once Mandingo politesse was served, he turn back to Chevallier. Thereafter, Thérèse set to pinch my cheeks as she did when I was small, always treating me like a newborn.

  ‘Little britches,’ said she. ‘Look at those big cheeks now.’

  She squeeze my face, making all manner of baby talk, despite I reminded her that I was no longer an infant, until – in the end – I told her I had made caca-merde in my ‘little britches’ then – plaf! She punch me in the back of the head, all airs and graces gone.

  ‘Méchan,’ said she. ‘Naughty boy.’

  Then, like a fine lady just off the boat from La Rochelle, she picked up her skirts and cloth and flounced away. I caught a glimpse of her frilly calzoons as she sat down beside her grandmother and would have kept looking except – in that same instant – Céleste arrived, calling out to reassure us as she approach the yard:

  ‘Mwen ka vini. Bonswa tout moun.’

  She crossed over to her hut, unfastening her apron as she went. I glanced at Emile, half expecting he might take foot again like a madman but he appeared not to notice that Céleste had even arrived because – all at once – he was deep in conversation with Léontine. Beforehand, he had paid her scant attention but now he seem to hang on her every word as she recounted some skit-brain nonsense about serviettes, perscribing how she was oblige to fold them up fancy fashion for the doctor. Hardly a tale for the ages yet my brother appear to be bewitch by the girl. He kept touching her arm as they spoke, encouraging her to say more.

  ‘Oh really? So you fold it in half, then to a point? Then what?’

  His eyes never left her face yet he must have been aware of Céleste for we all heard her call out as she approach the yard. Next time Emile reached out to touch Léontine, he kept his hand on her wrist.

  ‘Well, that sounds complicated, for true. You must have nimble fingers, ché.’

  And so saying, he stroke them – just as Céleste glanced over and saw him. She knew what he was doing, just as well as I did: playing coquet and courtship, as though he no longer cared for her. My guts ached with shame, for I wished he would stop all this tomfool simmy-dimmy. I tried to catch his eye but he was still pretending to be hypnotise by Léontine. Meanwhile, Céleste folded her apron, slow-slow, and placed it inside her hut. By the time she returned, her face was empty of expression. She lowered herself carefully to the ground behind Angélique and Thérèse, a spot where Emile couldn’t see her unless he craned his neck, but he must have had eyes in the side of his head for – as soon as she settled – he reached into his shirt and pulled out the Power of Attorney. Then he held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Ecoute mwen, tout moun. Listen, everyone. Thérèse, you know why we are here?’

  ‘Gwan-mè just told me. You think you’re going to take us all to that Matinik.’

  ‘Well – nobody can force you to go with us,’ said Emile. ‘But if you agree to come, here’s how I think we can do it. Léontine – would you mind standing watch? Just keep an eye on the hospital and the shortcut to town.’

  Whiles Léontine got up and began to pace the yard, Emile took a stick and drew a rough shape in the dirt, like a fat fish with a tail that curl to a point.

  ‘This is Grenada,’ he said and pointed to a spot above the tail. ‘Here’s the hospital, on the coast by the river.’ Then he pointed to a spot further up the island. ‘Here is Petit Havre, where we have to get to. Me and Lucien chanced the road once or twice but too many slave out on the highway will cause suspicion. Also, they post soldiers here.’ He pointed to a spot just north of the St Jean. ‘It’s not safe to leave the plantation that way. Our only choice is to avoid the road and head inland.’

  He explained that we would have to cross mountain ridges and rivers en route. The only way to climb some stretches would be to haul ourselves up with the help of vines. Anybody old or sick or lame would struggle.

  ‘So we have to help each other. Kompwan?’

  A few people nodded. The plan was to go in small groups, each a mix of young and old, sick and healthy, led by someone who knew the goat track. That way, the more able could help the others.

  ‘And we must go tomorrow. Christmas Eve. Nwel toupatou ka fété. Everyone will be busy swilling and carousing. We can go as soon as Bryant and Bell leave for the Anglade dance. By this route …’ He traced a curve in the dirt, from the plantation to Petit Havre. ‘What do you think?’

  He glanced around at the group. Angélique glared at the map in the dirt whiles rubbing her bad knees. Céleste was staring down at her swollen belly. Thérèse stroked the spokes of her parasol, a worried look in her eye.

  ‘What about Vincent?’ she said. ‘You can’t go without my brother.’

  Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Emile sighed.

  ‘Well, nor can we hang on here hoping he will turn up. We have to get everybody to Petit Havre by first light, Christmas Day, otherwise Cléophas will go without us and we’ll be stuck here. In the meantime, if the Béké notice the slave are gone …’

  With a flick of his wrist, Chevallier snapped his fingers.

  ‘They will hunt us down.’

  Emile unfolded the Power of Attorney.

  ‘This document is a kind of legal certificate,’ he said. ‘According to Cléophas it contains permission from the English Governor for us to take you. But though he says it gives authority, he still wants us all to sneak away in secret. Make of that what you will.’

  Chevallier scratched his head.

  ‘Makes no sense to me.’

  Céleste gave a hiss.

  ‘Either there is permission or there’s not,’ she said, hotly.

  Without even glancing at her, Emile continued:

  ‘My guess is we have no real permission to take you, no permission from the English, that is. But you should look at this deed, then hear what it says.’

  With these words, he pass the manuscript to Chevallier who pitched it tout suite at his woman as though it might burn his fingers.

  ‘Careful,’ said Emile.

  The old man shuddered.

  ‘Puten documents. I have a horror of them.’

  Meanwhile, Angél
ique held up the parchment in the fading light, peering at it from several angles, much to the amusement of Chevallier.

  ‘You can read now, woman, can you? What does it say – pray tell? Ho-ho-ho!’

  His laugh cut short when she made a fist over his lap, the unspoken threat a punch to his most delicate part.

  ‘Puten!’ said he, squirming out of her reach whiles she made further show of inspecting the deed and concluded: ‘Looks like a genuine Attorney Power to me,’ though I would be surprise if she had ever before seen such a thing.

  She handed the parchment to Thérèse who scrutinise the page for an instant then cleared her throat and – without stumbling or hesitation – commence to read aloud:

  ‘December 1765. St Pierre, Isle of Martinique. Be it known that this day before Pierre Henri Emerigon, lawyer, and by virtue of his office, a Notary Public for the town and Isle aforesaid, commissioned and sworn, personally came and appeared—’

  ‘Listen to that,’ crowed Angélique – who couldn’t have look more proud had Thérèse reached into her calzoons and pulled out a live chicken. ‘Reads like a born lady.’

  ‘Where was I?’ Thérèse peer down at the page. ‘… personally came and appeared Père Edmund Lefébure of the town and Isle aforesaid, and Victor-Thérèse Charpentier, Comte d’Ennery, Governor of the Isle aforesaid both of whom do Declare and Swear that all the Negroes currently residing at the Hospital of Fort Royal town, Isle of Grenada, in and upon the Plantation Tract or parcel of land adjacent to said Charitable Institution are the bona fide possessions—’

  ‘What the—’ Chevallier cried. ‘Who can make head or tail of this nonsense?’

  ‘Chut, old man,’ said his wife. ‘Shut your dirty beak and listen.’

  ‘– bona fide possessions of Les Frères de la Charité of St Pierre, Isle of Martinique which property the said Lefébure has a right to recoup and reclaim having a Just Title to said Negroes, which are Slaves for Life—’