Sugar Money

by Jane Harris

  ‘Remember to bring back my things,’ said Zabette. ‘Put them under the porch. But only at night. You must never come back here in the daytime. You hear me?’

  ‘Yes. Well – goodbye then.’

  I set off across the garden and was about to step through the gate when she came trotting up behind me and grab my arm.

  ‘Tjenbé rèd, little one,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘Tjenbé rèd. Pa moli.’

  Then she race back down the path.

  Full of trepidation, I set off for Fort Royal. There was so much to remember, such as taking small step, lowering my gaze like a girl and only glancing up on occasion to check my progress. The tree-frog peeped their heads off as usual and the air was perfume with a mix of burnt charcoal and night-scented flowers. I found it strange that the world could be so ordinary when such devilish events were taking place: my brother locked up like a criminal and me mincing it along the highway in a bonnet and frock.

  Few light showed in town. Everything seem quiet and lonely until I reached Rue Gouvernement. The Governor must have been holding a soirée, for his mansion all lit up. Perhaps Thérèse was somewhere in those rooms, serving guest. As I drew near, a group of raucous gentlemen left the house and began to stroll down the carriage drive. To avoid them, I hurried on to the corner. Just ahead a stretch stood the guardhouse and the entrance to the fort so I dived quick and fast around onto Young Street. To my dismay, I practically bumped into a boy about my own age, some kind of a simple-hearted French soul, his whey-face just visible in the dark. He began to toddle longside me, brandishing his arms, talking earnest gibberage and generally making a racket. My plan had been to take a look at the jail, glide past no fuss or bother, but this noodle would draw the attention of any clod within a mile.

  I chanced an urgent whisper:

  ‘Allez!’

  Probably, most people taunted such a boy or gave him a shove to be rid of him but it was not in me to harm him. Perhaps that was why he stuck to me like a wart, or maybe he took me for a kin spirit: an ugly misfortunate with a strange, mincing gait. Alas, we were getting close to the jail. Hoping he would go away if I heard him out, I stopped at the corner to let him finish his pistle, whatever it might have been (for I altogether fail to follow the story). When at last he fell silent, I patted his shoulder then tried to steer him up Rue Pradine, away from the prison. This only caused him to embark upon a whole other tale and so, my head fit to burst with frustration, I began to walk up Pradine myself, hoping to lose him before the carenage. Halfway down – Praise Be to Great Jehosaphat – he hirpled up a set of stairs to the first floor of what look like an eating-house and there gave me a wave before vanishing inside.

  Quick and fast, I retrace my step to the corner. From that angle, the prison lay out of sight, set back from the road behind a courtyard. A row of warehouses lined the left side of the street, deserted at that late hour, their doors shut tight. Though it were a relief to be alone again, my guts churned with anxiety. Howsomever, nothing else for it, I took a deep breath and began to make my way down Young Street, the basket prop on my hip. I pass what look like a new hotel on the right and then, all too soon, there was the courtyard and the jail, all the windows dark and barred. I could not have told you which were the cell. Several big iron cresset suspended from the roof threw flickering light across the façade. In passing, I stole a few glances at the yard. Two redcoat soldier stood guard either side of the door. I could sense them watching me as I continue down the street. Then, one of the guard commence to make a clucking sound with his tongue as though to summon me like a dog. Clearly, my disguise had fooled him: he took me for a woman. The urge to run almost overcame me. I faltered and stumbled. Both men laughed and it was a relief to reach the next building – a private dwelling with no lights at the windows – and step beyond their view. Just past the house, I came to a wide lane. It was black as a cellar up there and so I turned off the street, hoping to gather my thoughts and decide upon some course of action. My mind had gone blank with fright and I was desperate to hide, if only for a moment, to recover.

  I could have thrown myself to the ground in despair. I saw now that even to make contact with Emile might be impossible. The thought of approaching those guard chill my blood. Even if my female garb fool them for a while, as soon as I spoke, the jig would be over. At the back of my mind, I had conceive some half-bake, hare-brain scheme to hoodwink my way into the jail. But it took courage to carry out such a plan, courage I lacked entirely. In short, I was a coward. I could have spat upon myself. All at once, my stomach heaved. I had to lean against the side of the house to spew into a drain. Afterward, I stood there, my forehead pressed against the wall, wishing I could disappear into the masonry.

  The sense of my own inutility soon became too much to bear. I had to move, to shift my thoughts. At a loss, I decided to take a look behind the houses. Perhaps the lane led to the back of the jail; perhaps another entrance. Of course, any prison door would be locked or guarded, any window barred, but I was clutching at shadows. At the very least, perhaps I might call out and hear my brother reply.

  In fact, the lane ended in a yard beneath the vast mound of rock crowned by Fort Royal. From many streets in town that familiar sight is hidden by buildings but now as I turn the corner the fort came into view against the night sky and my eyes were drawn to the torchlight that blazed at intervals along its bastions. Then another glimmer at ground level cause me to lower my gaze. There, in the yard, burned a bonfire and assembled around the flames, a group of men: Glasgow Greys, about a dozen of them. The firelight flickered on their dark figures and threw shadows across the back wall of the prison. I stop short and my mouth fell open. The shock made my hand fly to my face, exactly like a girl. This may have worked in my favour and made me seem more womanish because in that moment one of the redcoat notice me and called out:

  ‘Good evening, Miss Yellow.’

  His friends laughed as he jumped up and commence to stroll toward me.

  ‘Come here, pretty,’ he said. ‘I want to show you something.’

  As he spoke, he reached inside the front of his white breeches. Without waiting to see what he might produce, I began to back off down the lane. A fresh burst of laughter came from the men in the yard. The soldier called out:

  ‘No, wait. Come here, girl.’

  I turned and fled, clutching my basket to my chest. Fortunately, he was too much of a swaggerer to run after a woman in sight of his compeers, though he followed me at a brisk pace nonetheless. On I staggered, shedding beans in my wake. At the end of the lane, I paused. A right turn led nowhere but the sea. If I headed left, I would have to pass the front of the prison again and, for aught I knew, those two guard might like naught better than to join the soldier in his chase. Across the street lay a short alley that seem to end at a steep hill behind the warehouses: a poor option but the best available. I could hear the redcoat plodding along the lane relentless and so I dodged around the corner and across the road. There, I press myself into the night-shade of the building and – after edging along the wall – darted up the vennel. Provided the shadows of the warehouse had hid me, the soldier might assume that I had fled up toward the town square.

  The alley was not much more than a channel for foul water. Now limping again, I pick my way alongside the open drain to the end. Sure enough, at the back of the building lay a short yard beyond which an area of uncleared ground rose steeply into the night. Alas, my ducking and dodging had not fool the redcoat for I could hear him now, the creak of his boots as he strode down the alley. With little choice, I began to scramble up the overgrown slope. Not quick enough, for the soldier rushed out of the dark and, grabbing me from behind, he drag me back down into the yard. Then, pulling me to him, he reached around and up inside my skirts and clamped his hand on me. What he found there must have been quite a surprise for he yelled out in revulsion and jerked away so violently that he fell to the ground on his latter end. Seizing my chance, I scrabbled up the slope without lo
oking back. How I kept a grip on the basket I have no idea, but I was reluctant to abandon it and my clothes. At the top, I found myself once more on Rue Pradine. Dragging my foot, I hirpled along fast as I could, past the road that led to the guardhouse then, at full tilt, out of town and up the High Road.

  The Maillard place lay in darkness. I knew Zabette would be a good deal disappointed if she saw my face again. Yet, I had nowhere else to go. In the bushes at the roadside, I threw off the skirts and dressed in my own clothes. After waiting awhile to be sure nobody had followed me, I crept down the garden path and – whisht as a worm in cheese – inch my way through the end-piece of the veranda. The bonnet and so forth I left next to the hole. Inside, I crawl to the furthest corner, hoping to remain unseen if Zabette poked her head in to retrieve her garments.

  There, I cowered, picturing my poor brother, chained up in some dank and gloomy cell. I hardly dared imagine how they might punish him. Had our roles been reversed, of course, Emile would have found some ingenious way to help me escape, no question. Whereas I had failed even before I began. Curled up in a miserable ball of shame, I had to press my face into my arms to muffle my sobs, all the while wondering what we had done to deserve such a life.

  PART TEN

  A Return

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Next time I open my eyes it was dark as a tomb neath the porch. The sappy racket of tree-frogs fill the night. Half asleep, I could scarce see a thing thus almost leapt out my own skin when the warm air moved and someone spoke my name, soft like a breath.

  ‘Lucien.’

  With a start, I scrabble backward. My head graze the underside of the veranda.

  ‘Zabette? Is that you?’

  The voice hiss back:

  ‘Non, se mwa.’

  My heart just about thudded through my ribs.

  ‘Emile?’

  A shadow grab my wrist and push something hard and furry into my hand. Bony claws scrape my palm.

  ‘Se mwa – Descartes.’

  The boy from Martinique. Was I dreaming?

  The boy tug my elbow.

  ‘Come,’ he whispered. ‘Annou alé.’

  My arm hurt where he had grab me. Clearly, this was no dream. Could he have paddled all the way to Grenada in his canoe? My mind swam in a fog of confusion.

  I heard him set off on hands and knees toward the end-piece, leaving me reeling, trying to make sense of how he might have track me down to this unlikely place. Weak as a newborn turtle, I floundered after him and clambered out of the veranda to find him waiting for me at the side of the house. The clouds had disappeared, leaving a clear sky. Bats swooped about like specks of soot in the chimney of the night. Behind one of the jalousie overhead, a lamp glowed. Someone inside was awake, perhaps Maillard, up late, reading his newspapers. The jaundice lamplight spill down upon the boy.

  It was him all right – Descartes.

  He pointed to the window then put one finger to his lips. Tentatively, I extended my hand into the stripes of light and saw in my palm an old rabbit foot mounted in silver; the one that Cléophas kept in his pocket for luck.

  Cléophas.

  Before this thought had even spiral through my sluggish brain, the boy grab my elbow again and pull me away from the house, only letting go once we had cross the highway. Then he set off into the forest. I stumbled after him, blindly, my heart beating out of rhythm like a bird fluttering behind the cage of my ribs. A short distance uphill, the boy came to a halt just far enough into the trees that we could talk in low voices without being heard by anyone on the road below. I open my mouth to speak but before I could question him Descartes was already talking:

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That rabbit foot. He said show it so you know it’s him.’

  I handed back the lucky charm and Descartes shoved it into his britches.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Someone wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Not here – but not far.’

  ‘He’s on this island?’

  ‘Yes. Hurry up.’

  With that, he skipped off through the undergrowth. I had to hurry after him, no time to think. We clambered uphill toward the fortifications. Soon enough, the trees cleared and we came to a wall, part of the redoubt, where someone sat, silvered in the moonlight. A man. He jump down lively as we approached. A Béké – but not Cléophas. I readied myself to flee until I recognised him: Bianco – or Mr Theobald White, whatever his name might be.

  ‘You look surprised,’ said he, in English.

  ‘But – how did you find me?’

  ‘That house-girl told us. Whatshername, works for the Governor – Thérèse. When we heard she was not among the runaways we went to see her, find out what she knows. And here we are.’

  Took a moment for this to sink in. Descartes retreated a short distance to lean against the wall. Presumably, since we spoke in English, our words were baragouin to him.

  ‘But I thought – were you not at Petit Havre, sir, with the Father, when the soldiers came?’

  ‘I was. Well, Cléophas was out in the sloop, The Alcyon. We were in The Daisy.’ He nodded at Descartes. ‘I was about to send him ashore in the skiff to start bringing you all aboard when the fireworks started. Lucky for us, there was enough breeze to take off sharpish.’

  ‘So – you never went back to Martinique …?’

  ‘No. We just sailed around the island, found a quiet bay to drop anchor. Cléophas has been lying low in case he is recognised, but me and the little fellow here have been into Fort Royal a few times.’

  ‘Sir – where is the Father?’

  ‘Just outside town – in a ravine.’

  He gestured vaguely to somewhere beyond the carenage and I saw that he had been holding his cutlass at his side all this time. The blade gleamed in the moonlight. I drag my gaze back to his face.

  ‘Please, sir, can you take me to him?’

  The Englishman gave a sniff.

  ‘That’s not the plan,’ said he. ‘You will, of course, be returning with us to Martinique, I’m sure you’re glad to hear. But first, the Father wants you to do something for him. I’m to take you to the plantation.’

  For many reasons, I did not fancy the sound of this, one bit.

  ‘Please, sir – I must speak to Father Cléophas first. It’s important.’

  White cast a disgruntle glance over at Descartes then tip back his head and gazed up at the stars. He might have been asking the gods to bear witness to his trials on this earth or perhaps he was simply calculating the hour. At any rate, in the end, he gave a sigh then lowered his gaze once again to me.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But we must be quick about it.’

  He clicked his fingers and the boy jump to his feet. I wondered who was now tending to my beasts back in St Pierre but there was no time to ask Descartes, for the Englishman was already waving his cutlass at us.

  ‘Alley-alley, veet,’ said White. ‘Venee. Eessee. This way.’

  And he turned his back on us and strode off into the trees, swinging his blade.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  We quit the redoubt and headed away from town along the forested hillside above the carenage bay. Presently, we reached a stream and followed it down to where it crossed a highway. The Englishman led us over to the other side. There, he turn to Descartes and pointed into the undergrowth.

  ‘Wait here out of sight,’ said he. ‘Attand eesee. Keep lookee-lookee. Regardee.’

  Then he beckon me to follow him further into the woodland. We kept alongside the stream, descending toward the bay. The path was overgrown and treacherous. White chopped and hacked at the undergrowth – sometimes unnecessarily, in my opinion – but he did like to swing his arm. For a while, we laboured along through the vegetation and eventually reached a place where two coco-palm had fallen across the stream. Their collapse had left an expanse of the heavens visible overhead and silver-blue starlight luminated
the bare patch on the riverbank where we stood.

  ‘Wait here,’ said the Englishman, then disappeared into the forest. Presently, I heard a machete swish-swish and then a solitary figure emerge from the undergrowth. I recognise his robes at once: it was Cléophas. At the familiar sight of him, I cried out:

  ‘Father—’

  ‘Husht,’ he whispered. ‘Keep your voice down. Now, come here, child, where it’s lighter. Let me look at you.’

  I stumbled on a tangle of roots as I approached him. He sheathed his blade then put his hand on my shoulder and gaze down into my eyes.

  ‘You’ve done well, boy,’ he said. ‘Even your brother has been caught. But not you! Lucky that you went to see Thérèse – otherwise we might never have found you. But you’re limping. You took a fall.’

  ‘Oh – that’s nothing. I was bitten.’

  ‘Confounded pot-lickers. A nuisance all over this island.’

  ‘No – not a dog, Father – if you please. Giant centipede, most likely. Father – they put Emile in jail.’

  ‘So I heard. We will talk about that. But first, I want you to tell me something.’

  Though desperate to help my brother, I knew the most sensible course was to hear him out and thereby retain his favour. Ergo, I just said:

  ‘Father. As you wish.’

  ‘Good boy. Now, I’m assuming – now that St Stephen is over – work on the hospital plantation will resume in the morning. But tell me, has the cane harvest begun?’

  ‘No, Father. On some estates – but not the hospital. They’ve been felling trees, stockpiling wood for the mill. So far as I know their harvest will begin on the second day of January.’

  ‘I suppose you know which part of the estate they are clearing.’

  ‘Yes, sir, the back of Hospital Hill.’

  ‘So if they’re sent out today it will be to fell trees there on the hillside.’

  ‘Well – I can’t be sure, Father, but that seems likely.’