Sugar Money

by Jane Harris

  ‘Tousuit,’ she replied.

  The doctor lingered there smoking and the heavy scent of his segar soon drifted down below the boards. After a while, he began to sniff the air and glance about the veranda, a look of disgust on his face. I worried that the stink of my clothing might have reach his nostrils but, thankfully, he simply went back inside. When the girl had finish picking beans, she too entered the house and, in time, cooking smells and the clatter of cutlery on china denoted that they had begun to eat. After the meal, they retire for another siesta and the house fell silent.

  Presently, night crept out of the shadows to surround the house. As soon as all fell dark for true I crawl to the hole in the veranda and listened. Only when I felt certain that Zabette and the doctor were asleep did I wriggle out into the garden, behind the screen of hollyhock. No light showed at the windows, thus I crept to the barrel and took a long drink. The water tasted green and warm. I grabbed a hand of banana from one of the trees then limp down the path and across the High Road into the forest.

  There, in the darkness neath the branches, I pause long enough to slonk down some fruit. Few cloud that night, the stars silver-bright points of light in the vault of the violet sky. Having hidden the banana peels, I crept uphill to where I could survey the hospital. A few light showed in the réfectoire but all seem quiet in the sick rooms. The hospital slave cabins on the side of the hill still gave every appearance of being abandon: no smut-lamps or fires, no movement, not a soul to be seen. I waited for a short time but nothing changed: the huts were deserted. Unsure what conclusion to draw from this, I set off for my next place of destination: the plantation village. My plan was to creep close enough to talk to someone or, at least, have a look and see what could be seen.

  Taking a traverse route up the slope of Hospital Hill, I pick my way through the undergrowth, hobbling along, step by stealthy step. In this painful manner, I soon reach the summit. Not a whisker of any soldier up there but I made sure to avoid the redoubt nonetheless and cross the spine of the hill, well beyond the battery. Thereafter, still on the slant, I continue down the other side to the campèche thicket where Emile and I had paused on the day we arrived on the island. From that spot, I could survey the valley laid out below me in the light of the moon.

  First thing I notice was the bridge that span the river: someone had fix flambeaux on posts all along the rails. Two Glasgow Grey musketeer stood watch, one at either end. New torches big as bonfires also burned around the village. To the south, I could see at least four Greys on patrol and no doubt there were more men posted beyond the torchlight, somewheres out there in the dark. If I tried to cross the bridge they would challenge me. Even if I walked up to the ford and came sneaking back down through the cane on the far side of the river I would get nowhere near the quarters with all those flambeaux and men on guard.

  I could see a few children running around the yard. Then another movement caught my eyes: a woman shuffling along beneath one of the flambeaux. Her short steps and hesitant movement made me think she must be in shackles. My pulse began to race. Could that be Céleste, in fetters? Howsomever, she moved out of view before I could be sure. After that, I saw nobody else. No sign of Emile or anyone who resembled him.

  For a brief spell, I just stood dumbly on the spot, hoping that the musketeers might disperse, but in my gut I knew they would be there all night. I began to consider the long wait until dawn when I could at least spy on the field hand as they set out to work – until I remembered that the next day was St Stephen. Now, on account of the escape, it was out of the question that any hand from the estate would be given a ticket to go a-visiting for Christmas. Nonetheless, you might lay hard money that Addison Bell would demand his day of rest. I could only suppute that everyone would be confine to quarters, kept under guard all through St Stephen and overnight until the next morning.

  That was too long to wait. I had to find out about Emile, wherever he might be. If I could be sure he were still on the loose then I would head inland and try to find him, though I little relish the prospect of those louring mountains and the Maroon. But for aught I knew, he was down there with the other captives in the field hand quarters. Only way to find out was to speak to Thérèse. She might even know the names of any runaways who had escaped. Thus, I crept back over the hill and began to make my way down toward Fort Royal.

  I tell you, my heart was like ice.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  I retrace my step back to the High Road, where the Maillard place still lay in darkness. Further down, I passed another isolated house and three yapping-snapping pot-lickers tore out and followed me. They would have liked a piece of my ankle no doubt and might have taken it had I not menace them with a stick. Eventually, they tired of barking and scamper back up the hill leaving me to continue my descent. By some miracle, those penny-dogs were the only creatures I met on the way down and I manage to reach Rue de l’Hôpital without encountering a single human soul. There must have been a soirée at one of the big houses nearby for I could hear the polite screech of violin. Most people would be at home with their family. Nonetheless, I kept alert as a four-eye fish. If Grenada were like Martinique at Christmas time then there would be one bacchanal in the place as night progressed, especially once all the house-slave and the like were release from their duties, with people of all sorts masquerading through the streets in outlandish fancy dress and paint. As I pass the parsonage, an old bacon-face clergyman came out of the garden. My inners took a leap but he waddled off downhill without a glance at me. Almost at once, a well-dress couple emerge from the churchyard – not long off the Béké-boat, by the look of their ghost-white faces – but they were too bound up in each other to pay me much heed. As they turn down toward the carenage, I stepped into the grounds of the church to allow them to walk ahead.

  In plus, there was a part of me wanted to see the grave of Damien Pillon. I wandered along the path. Moon and starlight made the tombstones glow like pewter but the light was too dim to read any inscription. The Pestle would have to wait. I return to the entrance. An urn of trumpet-like flowers had been laid on one of the graves just inside the gate. All at once, I recall that Emile had found a way to talk with LeJeune by pretending to be a suitor bearing a posy. Not much of a disguisement, for true, but the ruse had work for him and might for me. Fortunately, no need to rob the dead of their floral tributes since all sorts of plant and tree grew around the graves. In haste, I snatched a few spray of blossom and foliage then crept out of the churchyard and carried on down to the corner of Rue Gouvernement.

  To my relief, all seem quiet along there. The street was lined with gardens behind which stood a number of official building and the residences of Viscounts and Honourables. Most of the mansion appear to be empty, the windows dark. Perhaps the inhabitants had gone to some party elsewhere in town and no doubt many of the house-slave would be visiting up the island with their Christmas ticket. From what I could remember hearing as a child, each successive Governor occupied the same great mansion on the street and a big flag always flew from the porch. Sure enough, about halfway along, I found a place with a huge King Jack hoist above the veranda. The house stood well back from the road beneath large trees. A carriage drive curved up through well-tended gardens with lawns and shrub. I peered through the fence for a closer look. At the back, to one side, I could make out a stables and, on the other, what look like an out-kitchen. Although the mansion lay in darkness, the kitchen door stood open and light spilled out from behind the jalousie.

  With my posy clutched in front of me as a talisman, I walked up the drive, trembling like a newborn goat. At every step, I expected a dog to come charging around the corner of the building or some butler to appear and turn me off the property. However, I made the out-kitchen sans incident. I only wished Emile had been there to see what I had done. No doubt, he would be proud of me.

  Peeking through the open doorway, I obtained a partial view of the lamplit interior. And there sat Thérèse, plucking a pigeon.
I almost cried out at the sight of her familiar face but then an old house-slave appeared at the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at me down her nose.

  ‘What do you want, boy?’

  ‘Miss Thérèse – I’m here to see her.’

  At the sound of my voice, Thérèse glanced up with a start and leapt to her feet.

  ‘Jésis-Maïa!’ She slung the half-pluck bird on the table then hurried over, feathers flying tout partout. ‘If you please, Josephine, let me speak to this boy alone.’

  The old woman glared at me, suspicious.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Just a boy,’ said Thérèse.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Josephine, still glaring. ‘How old are you, child?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ I replied.

  She gave a snort of disbelief.

  ‘Give me a little while,’ said Thérèse. ‘I just need to talk to him.’

  The house-slave threw her a warning look.

  ‘Governor will be back soon.’

  ‘Please,’ Thérèse pleaded. ‘Just go over to the dining room, set the table.’

  Sucking her teeth, the old woman set off toward the main house. Thérèse drag me inside the kitchen and shut the door.

  ‘Did anyone see you come up here?’

  ‘No,’ I said, handing her the flowers. ‘Don’t fret. I was going to be your suitor.’

  ‘Yes – well …’ She sighed. ‘You might be too young for me. What do you want? Be quick. We can’t hide you.’

  ‘I know. I just want to know what you’ve heard.’

  ‘Not much.’ She sighed. ‘Just that they sent soldiers to Petit Havre and most everybody got caught.’

  She told me that the redcoats had been keeping an eye on any boat in Petit Havre and The Daisy had caught their notice. When the bigger sloop dropped anchor in the bay, they sent word to town. As soon as the escape from the plantation was discovered, someone had put two and two together and troops were despatched at once. A number of slave were still on the loose but Chevallier, Angélique Le Vieux and Léontine had all been captured.

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘The Governor told me because they are family. Everyone is being kept down on the plantation, field hand and hospital slave alike.’

  ‘How many got away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he mention Emile? And Céleste? Were they caught?’

  ‘He only told me about my family. Nobody else. I’m sorry.’

  On an instant, my thoughts became a blur. Thérèse reached into her apron and gave me a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes.

  ‘Not crying,’ I told her. ‘It’s just smoky in here. That oven – the lamps.’

  ‘Mm-hmm. Look, Emile and Céleste might still be free. All I know is, there’s to be an inquiry. They’ve been questioning the slaves. The Governor wants it all done by the turn of the year.’

  I thought for a moment.

  ‘What time are you expecting him?’

  ‘Soon. But you can’t see him. He would have you arrested.’

  ‘I know – but you could speak to him. Tell him the truth.’

  Her eyes flash with sudden fear.

  ‘Tell him Emile was only carrying out orders,’ I continued. ‘The Fathers, they hired him. He had no choice.’

  ‘But – I’m not suppose to know. I had to pretend I knew nothing about the escape, else I’d be over there on that plantation with the rest.’

  We stared at each other. Something snuffed out inside me like a spent wick.

  ‘If I were you, I’d leave town, right now,’ said Thérèse. ‘Go up to Sauteurs or somewhere. Stay out of sight. Try to get back to Martinique.’

  ‘Not until I find Emile.’

  She gave me a grim look.

  ‘If you had any sense, you’d go. Where have you been hiding?’

  ‘Up at the Maillard place, under the veranda.’

  She looked alarmed.

  ‘Does he know you’re there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Zabette?’

  ‘The girl? No. I’m keeping quiet.’

  She sighed again.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  She cut open a few avocato, spooned out the stones then gave me the fruit.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Lips pursed, she watch me as I ate.

  ‘Look,’ she said, at last. ‘If you want to help your brother, you should get Cléophas to come back here and speak for him. Get word to him in Martinique.’

  ‘How am I suppose to do that?’

  ‘Someone going on a boat could take a message. The Governor might listen to Cléophas. He’s a monk. A white man.’

  She open the door and stood at the threshold, pretending to shake feathers out of her apron but in fact checking to ensure that all was quiet. Then she came back in.

  ‘Go now. Take the footpath down this side. Not the drive.’

  She pause for an instant, a sad smile on her face. I could tell she was torn at having to send me away.

  ‘Never mind,’ I told her. ‘I’d be a fool to hide here.’

  ‘For true – but where will you go?’

  ‘Back to the veranda, until I know what to do. I’ll let you know if I move.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t come back here.’

  ‘Well, if you hear anything about Emile, will you let me know? Send a message?’

  ‘I’ll try. What about Zabette?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You ought to ask her for help. She might know someone with a boat. Or she could get someone to tell some person going to Martinique to take a message to Cléophas.’

  ‘That’s a slim plan. Ask this one to tell that one …’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s about the only plan you’ve got. That girl owes me a favour. You tell her I said she should help you, any way she can. Tell her if she doesn’t, she will have me to answer to.’ Thérèse thrust more avocato at me and I shove them in my pockets. ‘Now, be careful, Lucien. Bon chanse.’

  Then she gave me a little shove toward the threshold. I step past her into the night and slipped away down the shadowy side path, holding my breath until I was on the street. From there I went haring up Rue de l’Hôpital and back to the Maillard place as fast as my bad foot would allow. Zabette and the doctor must have been asleep for the house lay in darkness. I was up the path and under the porch so quick I forgot to take water with me again. Down in town, those Béké violin were still screeching and now – from a plantation across the bay, near the old town lake – came the rhythmic sound of tambour, clapping and singing; some slaves permitted to fé la fèt for a few hour because of Christmas. They were playing one of those Congo dances and the boisterous drums on top of the shrieking violins in town made a strange music, discordant and unsettling.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Next morning I started awake, sore in every bone, my head befuddle, my mouth dry. Heavy rain splattered off the foliage all around the house. My head ached from thirst. If Maillard and Zabette had been still a-bed I might have risked a dash to the water-barrel but I could tell – from the nutty scent of coffee that drifted down through the floorboards – that they were up and about, right above my head, in fact, on the veranda. Unable even to eat my avocato for fear of being heard, I lay there listening to the doctor turn the pages of his blasted newspapers that came all the way from La Fwance. Since St Stephen is a day for visiting, I hoped that – sooner or later – they would quit the house, allowing me to visit the barrel. Soon, a rattle and bang of pots and pans told me that Zabette had gone inside to cook. I turn my head and stared out between the cracks in the boards, beyond which I could see the falling rain. If only I could crawl outside and part my lips, let the water from the heavens trickle down my throat – but I dare not move.

  In time, Zabette emerged and they began to eat at the veranda table, their conversation desultory with no mention of the runaways. As t
hey finish their meal, the rain grew lighter, then stopped altogether. The sun began to shine. Maillard smoked a segar. Presently, I heard the scrape of chair legs and his boot-heels striking the floorboards as he strode inside. I did not detect the girl, her light step flitting across the porch; only saw her through the cracks as she went down into the garden and passed out of sight. She reappeared with a hoe a moment later, wandering among the damp rows of beans, tilling the earth here and there. Soon, Maillard came back out and stood at the top of the steps. I heard him inform Zabette that he was going up to the hospital. When she asked if he wished her to make him a supper, he replied, shortly:

  ‘Oui.’

  Then he went inside the house again and, after a short interval, the building shook as the front door bang shut.

  The girl continue to poke her hoe among the beans, glancing every otherwhile toward the road, a scornful expression on her face. Presently, she stop work and stepped a few pace across the garden. Shading her eyes with her hand, she stared into the distance, and I surmise she was watching the doctor walk up the road. Eventually, she must have been satisfied that he had truly gone. She threw down her hoe and went inside the house. Not long after, I heard the creak of the bedstead. It would seem she had decided to snatch her siesta.

  I waited for as long as it might take her to fall asleep. Then, desperate to slake my thirst, I crept to the end-piece and squirmed out into the hollyhock, waiting again until sure that the coast was clear. At last, I hurried to the barrel and dip my hands in, again and again, gulping down the warm, green-tasting water – until a voice behind me said:

  ‘You must be thirsty.’

  I span around to see Zabette on the veranda.

  ‘Wondered where you were hiding,’ she continued. ‘I saw you from the window last night, sneaking up the path.’