by Jane Harris
By contrast, around a small fire on the far side of the yard, another group had gathered – about a dozen of them. Here we had a different species – at a glance: the old, the weak, the mad, the ramshackle, the encumbered. Old Raymond and crack-brain Choisie; Magdelon and Cléronne in their spike collars; one sick-looking elderly woman sitting on a step with her head in her hands and a few mothers with babes-in-arms and toddling infant who would have to be carried. Longside them stood two miserable-looking young men, presumably fathers to these children. One of the men had a missing hand; his arm ended in a blacken stump. Nearby, Augustin lay curled up on the ground in his fetters, the bloody bandage still wrapped around his skull. We might as well have been a party of cripples bound for Rome.
With a jab of his whip, Saturnin indicated this group to my brother.
‘That’s your party over there.’
Then he strolled off to join the fast group, en passant gazing upon my plyers. He made no comment, simply raised his eyebrows and scratched his chin in a manner design to let me know he was entirely unsurprise that I had got myself in such a pickle.
Just then, I heard a low hoot from the bridge. Someone in the fast group made a reply and then, to my surprise, Léontine came darting into the yard.
‘What’s the matter?’ Emile asked her. ‘Something wrong with the boat?’
‘We’re coming with you,’ she replied. ‘Gwan-mè decided we should not be separated from everybody else.’
Just then, Angélique arrive with Chevallier helping her along.
‘Here come the old folks,’ said Saturnin. ‘Got all frighty out there on their own. Turn tail and run back to camp.’
Chevallier scowled at him.
‘We just changed our mind,’ said he.
Angélique drew herself up to her full height and pointed at my crutches.
‘If that boy can go climb around the island then so can we. I’m quicker than him.’
As though to prove it, she shook her man off her arm and hobbled across the yard, giving the fast group a haughty look as she join the sick old woman on the step.
‘Bonswa, Marigot,’ said Angélique. ‘Sa ou fé?’
Marigot looked up with a start.
‘Angélique,’ said she. ‘Mwen kontan wè zot. I’m so tired I wish I was dead.’
Meanwhile, Céleste had begun to hand out the corncake. For once, I had no appetite and so stash my piece in my pocket for later. Céleste passed another portion to a young mother who carried a tiny baby strap to her back.
‘Here, Rosalie, eat. We may not have time to stop once we get moving.’
‘Mèsi.’
The young woman broke the cake into pieces. She called out to a little imp who sat in the dirt wearing a baby hat.
‘Casimir.’
The child toddled over to her and took the cake. Rosalie held out another to the man beside her, a young fellow. He was so caught up in gazing over at the fast group that he fail to notice until she spoke his name:
‘Narcisse.’
With a start, he turned and I saw that he had only a flap of skin and a hole where his ear should have been. Another victim of the overseer. When Rosalie offered him the corncake, he shook his head and his gaze soon wandered back to Saturnin and the others.
Meanwhile, Céleste offered a cake to Choisie. The old crazy only sniffed it once or twice like a cat might surview a morsel.
‘Just eat it,’ Magdelon told him. ‘Eat.’
He inspected the cake minutely. Only after a while did he break off a crumb and push it tween his lips. Chevallier had gone to sit beside Augustin. Céleste gave them both a cake. Chevallier took a bite.
‘This is good,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘I intend to eat like this every day in Martinique. We can ask the Fathers for a loaf like they sell in the market.’ He groaned. ‘With flour from La Fwance – and pastry made with butter that melt on your tongue.’
Angélique paused in lighting her pipe to gaze at him, somewhat caustic.
‘He’s going to tell us about pastry now,’ she said, blowing smoke. ‘He ate pastry once.’
A few people in both groups laughed.
‘Never mind pastry,’ said Cléronne. ‘I just can’t wait to get rid of this collar.’ She plucked at the spikes encircling her throat then gave Magdelon a sideways glance. ‘They will take these off, won’t they, over there?’
‘Oh certainly,’ said Magdelon. ‘The Fathers will take them off us, for true.’
However, from the expression on both their faces, you could tell neither of them was certain. Behind me, I could hear hush voices. I glanced over my shoulder. The young couple – Rosalie and one-eared Narcisse – had become embroiled in a heated conversation.
Saturnin stepped into the space between the groups and threw his arms wide, saying:
‘Once we get to Martinique we shall have our own dance to celebrate. Wait and see.’
Emile – who had been silent up until this moment – gave an exasperated laugh.
‘A dance to celebrate … have you lost your mind?’
Saturnin scowled.
‘We’re only – speculating,’ said Chevallier. ‘What it will be like over there.’
‘Speculating!’ Emile replied. ‘They’re not going to set you free in Martinique, you know. Life with the Fathers is not much better than here. Some of you might remember it like that, but you’re dreaming. You’ll still be slaves. You’ll still be getting up every day to work in the field. Those men are still your masters. There’s no magical Father is going to ply you with pastry and let you dance all night.’
‘But some of les Frères are good men,’ said a voice from the fast group. ‘Better than these English.’
Emile gave another dry laugh.
‘You think so? How many of you remember the Fathers that were here before? Hmm? Not all were good men. Père Gabriel, for example, comes to mind. He was one. Père Barnabé. You think he was good? And there were others …’
The obvious name, of course – a creature far worse than Gabriel or Barnabé – was Damien Pillon. Since he had died only five years previous, many of the field hand would remember him. I stared at the ground, unable to look them in the eye. My face grew hot. The scars on my back began to tingle.
I expect the field hand were waiting to see if Emile would utter the Pillon name, but when he resume speaking, he simply said:
‘I’m sure some of you can think of other Fathers who were not good men.’
Had some person called out ‘The Pestle’ or even ‘Your own papa’, I would scarce have been surprised, but every field hand, Saturnin included, remain silent – which, in hindsight, seems an act of kindness on their part. Mostly, they look dejected and uncomfortable. Nonetheless, Emile had not yet done berating them.
‘These new Fathers over there in St Pierre, they’re just white men from Europe same as any other. Lefébure, from what I hear, is only interested in making rum. What that suggest to me is, he will do whatever necessary to get sugar. He’ll work you hard. And Cléophas is no saint. Most of you met him when he was here. You know the kind of man he is. He only wants sugar money. That’s why they need you.’
Raymond took a step forward.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But, for true, it has to be better than here. Every day now, we are wondering – who will be next? What will they chop off? Will it be a finger, toe, a hand or foot? Who will lose his head? How will they torture us? What terrible thing will they make us do? What will they make us eat? Our own ears – or worse?’
I glanced around at their gloomy faces. Everywhere, eyes were downcast.
Saturnin nodded.
‘For true. They treat us worse than they treat their animals.’
‘Correct,’ someone said.
The driver turned his gaze upon Augustin, Magdelon and Cléronne.
‘Want to get rid of these collars and chain?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Magdelon and Cléronne nodded, whiles Augustin simply looked miserable.
>
Saturnin turned a jaundiced eye on my brother and when he spoke again he had a mocking tone to his voice.
‘Emile, anyone would think you don’t want us to go. But you were the one who came here with your document. You’re the one who started all this. You’re not changing your mind now, are you? Have you lost your nerve? Perhaps you are afraid.’
My brother fell silent for a time. He looked more sad than afraid. Meanwhile, the young woman and her one-eared man seem to have stop bickering. Rosalie sat as though turn to stone whiles Narcisse stood apart from her, arms folded, staring at the ground.
Eventually, Emile spoke again.
‘For true, you won’t have to speak English. And I believe there will be better provision ground, more food – so they say. They might get the blacksmith to take off the collars and weights. And their punishment might not be as bad as what you have suffered here of late. But – whatever happens – you will still be slave. They will punish you and flog you. And there may be Fathers who will do worse than that in future. I’m not saying Cléophas is one of those, or Lefébure. But who knows what might happen, who their successor might be.’
‘Puten! We know that,’ said Chevallier, his voice husky. ‘But it can’t be any worse than it is here now.’
My brother sighed and looked around at them all again, the fast and the slow.
‘You really want to go? All of you?’
There was general nodding and murmured assent, a few people calling out:
‘Yes,’ and ‘Correct,’ and ‘Most certainly.’
As these voices faded, I saw Narcisse lift his head as though coming to a decision. Then, slowly-slowly, he walked over to join the fast group. Rosalie stared after him, in shock and disbelief. Céleste noticed him and spoke out.
‘Narcisse?’
The young man said nothing; he simply went to greet some of his compeers at the back of the group, trying to melt into the shadows. Rosalie bent her head and hugged her child Casimir close to her chest. The baby on her back began to cry. Céleste hurried over and put an arm around them.
Emile turned to the other young man in our group, the one missing a hand.
‘Polidor – you want to join him?’
The young man pursed his lips. His woman glanced up at him, anxious, holding her baby to her breast. He touched her shoulder with his one good hand then lifted the little girl beside them into his arms.
‘I’m stay with my family.’
Charlotte smiled up at him.
‘Good,’ said my brother.
He turn to Léontine, jerked his head at the fast group. ‘You could go with them. You know we might be slow.’
‘No,’ said she. ‘I’ll stay to help Gwan-mè and Gwan-pè.’
‘Good girl,’ replied Emile.
At this mention of Angélique, I notice she was no longer on the step where she had been sitting beside Marigot. As I looked around, she emerge from behind the hut, somewhat shifty in appearance. My heart gave a lurch. What had she been doing?
‘Well, let’s make sure nothing goes wrong,’ Emile said. ‘If any of you have to hide anywhere, make sure you take something to drink or hide close to clean water.’
Angélique step forward and stood in the light of the fire.
‘Let us see!’ she pronounced.
She raised her arm and I saw that in one hand she held a clay jar, corked. Her eyes wide, she threw back her head.
‘If there is spirit in this bottle,’ she said, ‘all will go well tonight.’
She waved her hand around, then – when all eyes were upon her – pulled out the cork. A wisp of smoke floated up from the neck of the open flask.
‘Vwala,’ she cried. ‘We will have a success!’
She grinned around at both groups, showing her teeth. Some people nodded or smiled but this superstitious display of hers only made me feel ill at ease.
Just then, the two skinny boys return with the lookouts, a girl and boy of about the same age, both lithe and fit. They scattered to various hut to collect their paltry gear.
‘Is everybody here now?’ said Saturnin, counting heads. ‘Who is missing?’
‘LeJeune,’ said Emile. ‘She’s coming from Megrin.’
‘Well, she will have to catch up,’ said Saturnin. ‘We cannot wait. Are we ready?’
There were a few murmured replies. Céleste handed the remaining corncake to one of the women in the fast group. People began to gather up their small bundles.
‘Just leave the flambeaux and fire to burn out,’ Saturnin told my brother. ‘That way, anyone passing on the road will think we are here. Emile – we will see you at Petit Havre, by the dirty creek, south end of the bay.’
‘I bon,’ said my brother. ‘But stay back in the forest until we get there, don’t cross the road or go down to the shore. Keep out of sight.’
The driver rolled his eyes as much to say ‘fussy-fussy’. Then he hurried toward the growing ground, beckoning his platoon to follow. Quick and fast, they fled after him, Narcisse among the first, his head bowed. There were few goodbyes between the two groups. Some of the fast platoon could scarce look the rest of us in the eye. Others gave a last mournful glance at the unopen cask of rum as they streamed out of the yard, heading for the foothills of Morne St Eloy.
Last to leave were the two lookout, boy and girl. They had scramble to grab a few possession and now they went running to catch up with the others. Part of me longed to go with them. As they skip toward the provision ground, I limped over to the rear of the huts and watched until they disappear from sight in the darkness. Then I hobble back across the yard whiles the others finish their corncake and drank water, under instruction from Emile. Without looking, I could sense their eyes upon me and I knew what they were thinking. They were all wondering whether or not I would slow them down.
PART EIGHT
The Escape
Chapter Forty-One
Emile counted heads: in total, fifteen adult, plus two babes-in-arms and three toddling children. The mothers fed the infant before we set out and whiles they were thus occupied my brother explain the route. Saturnin and the rest could take shortcut but we would skirt the high ground so far as possible. The first obstacle in our path was Morne St Eloy. We would tackle the inland end, where the cane-fields ascended gradually to a wide ravine then down to the next valley. Thereafter, we could make our way, mostly, through the plantation that line the coast.
Magdelon had been retying her bundle but now she looked up in alarm.
‘The plantation? What if they have a night-watcher or dogs?’
‘We go around the edge of each estate,’ said Emile. ‘Nowhere near the houses.’
‘How long will it take?’ Polidor asked.
‘We might do it in three hours,’ Emile replied. His gaze rested for a flash on my crutches. ‘Perhaps four.’
‘What about Saturnin and the rest?’ Chevallier asked him. ‘How long for them?’
‘If they go fast, perhaps two hours.’
I glanced around at their faces in the flickering firelight. Nobody looked abundantly ecstatic. Rosalie pulled her boy Casimir closer to her.
‘What if they get tired of waiting and set sail without us?’
‘No,’ said my brother. ‘That won’t happen.’
‘Who is sailing this boat?’ demanded Cléronne.
‘Two boat,’ Emile replied. ‘Cléophas on a sloop with a skipper and in a yawl, the man called White who brought us here, an Englishman—’
Magdelon looked appalled.
‘English?’
‘In the employ of Cléophas,’ Emile said. ‘His boat might carry ten at most.’
‘Cléophas,’ said Angélique, full of disdain. ‘I would not take his word for a straw.’
‘Who could trust him?’ said Marigot, the tired old woman. ‘Sneaking about the place, shu-shuing in every ear. If he gets those young one aboard he might think that’s plenty slave, set sail without us. Then we are left behind whiles the others all
gone.’
Raymond gazed around at us, an old-man glimmer in his eye.
‘My guess is Cléophas will wait until dawn, like he said. But once the sun comes up, he might not care to be sitting there in shallow water with a boatload of stolen slave. He will want to be away from that bay, out on the high sea.’
‘Correct,’ said my brother. ‘But we will get there long before then.’ His gaze strayed across Céleste and then myself and when he continued it seem that he was speaking mainly at us. ‘We have to be like the Gommier tree, our roots intertwined. No matter what, we stick together. That’s how the Gommier stay strong and survive, standing and growing, even when the hurricane blow. Now, unless anyone has a question, we should get out of here.’
He threw more charcoal onto the fire to keep it burning. Chevallier helped Angélique and Marigot to their feet and the rest began to gather up their gear in haste. At the sight of everyone getting ready to leave, old Choisie became anxious and confused.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
Emile walked over to him.
‘Listen, Choisie. We’re going for a walk but we must be quiet. You can’t go jumping on our backs and shrieking, kompwan?’
The old man nodded his head.